#sand wash basin

[ofhoovesandheart]

“midnight blue” sand wash basin stallion 🌪️

[whywishesarehorses]

BLM Mustang for Sale - sand wash basin mare

oh lawd she comin

Girl has some kind of metabolic issue

16 YEAR OLD GRULLA FEMALE HORSE (8852) 15hh "Ellie"

She is apparently a notorious hunk, even when the other horses are skin and bones, as far back as 2013.

[swkrullimaging]

Major Milestone

I just wanted to drop a quick post announcing the acquisition of an ISBN for Thundering Hooves. I successfully uploaded the manuscript to Amazon and ordered a proof copy, which should be arriving Monday! Of course I’ve already decided upon a couple minor changes, it was inevitable. However I’m certain it’s nothing that will affect the planned publication date, which I have now set to be November…

[tearlessrain]

just came across some post describing Picasso as "the only tricolor mustang to ever be found" and I.

guys he was a bay overo. yes he was a very striking overo, but he was genetically an incredibly average horse. why do people always do this. can an animal not be worthy of appreciation without being "rare" or whatever bullshit. he wasn't the only anything, there are literally other bay overos in sand wash basin.

[rorja]

tw. mention of blood and scars, change of pov. not proofread.

gladiator!suguru geto is a sight to behold in the arena. he wielded his weapons with hunger and a controlled fury that he cultivated each day. as long as a life was lost in the magnificent, arched walls of the colosseum, he would never stop. because gladiator!suguru didn't fight for the freedom the emperor could grant him— no, he did so to avenge all the people he called family between the shared dirty corners of that imprisonment.

gladiator!suguru doesn't belong in the arena, and it's a thought that has been plaguing your mind ever since you attended his first game. you can clearly picture it, with the finest silks and gold ornaments on his arms; where a spatha would lose all the meanings men would sang about, belonging less and less to his hands than any scroll would, even in such moments where human emotions prevailed over his reason.

and yet, gladiator!suguru seems to lead a dance only he can hear the sweet sound of. his opponents are quick, strong, muscles all flexed but it's noticeable how they lack in wits. and so, his weapon becomes a melodious lyre telling the gut wrenching tales of all those who got lost in front of his eyes. tales of far away lands he fervently wishes to return to. not under the scorching sun that favors the capital, not the endlessly thundering of his name every time his feet blessed the sand of the colosseum— but the home he was forced to leave behind.

but a starved one could not quell its ceaseless hunger for revenge, for he was no god. and so, how much longer could he last before meeting his ultimate defeat? the silent worry clinging to your question found its answer in the gladius of his enemy. the cheering abruptly ended when gladiator!suguru got brought down to his knees, the blade of his opponent sinking deeper in his thigh. you were quick to react, standing up like the many men and women gasping and praying on the benches made out stone. and your heart sunk perhaps lower than that blade as your eyes eventually caught only a glimpse of that fury residing deep in the gladiator's chest.

it was a blur. you really had no memories of how you happened to be walking the deserted hallways where the gladiators jails were dig in hard stone, with water leaking through the cracks after the twentieth spectacle still going that week. but as hilarious as it could get, you knew each turn of that nearest hell like it was engraved in the palm of your hand. gladiator!suguru's jail came into view soon after and you felt your heart leap in your ribcage. of the wound suffered a week ago, only a scar was what remained. adorning his thigh with yet another triumph.

his muscles stiffened, sweat and dried blood carefully washed away by the cloth held tightly in your hand. a shiver found path from his exposed neckline to the bare signs of survival on his back and beyond. gladiator!suguru knew the effect he had on you, he could sense it amidst the religious silence that accompanied your gentle actions: how your fingers occasionally trembled when touching his skin by mistake, how your eyes lingered on him when you thought he was not looking, how your cheeks would grow red when damping the cloth on the provided basin. he wondered.

how long until your absence got noticed? you were a noble man's precious daughter after all, yet to be married and with a future as one of rome's well-known domina. often gladiator!suguru had wondered why. why would you get down the prisons he was held in like a rabid dog and waste your time on him? and at the very beginning he was tense and wary, wondering if you sought nothing else than a sick, twisted sense of entertainment in treating him this way. but your emotions were sincere, he quickly discovered, and your care honest unlike the men that mended his broken skin just to throw him to that hell once again.

gladiator!suguru was a sight to behold in the arena. he wielded his weapons with hunger and a controlled fury that he cultivated each day. and yet there were moments where his fury would subdue, the screams in his head becoming whispers easier to silence. your hands were a balm over the many burning scars adorning his vulnerable skin, and for a second he felt something akin to relief in seeing his hands clean from the blood he had to spill. you kneeled in front of him once again, his eyes now following closely every movement, unmoving, even when you wasted your kisses on his brightly reddened knuckles.

"you did good" another kiss, "you made me proud once again".

[horsesarecreatures]

Sand Wash Basin Oda as seen through the lens of WilsonAxpe PhotoAdvocacy

[lola-writes]

One-Eye & the Dreamer

Part 5

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x O.C Aylana Velaryon

Word Count: 1,8k

Themes & Warnings: slow burn, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, violence, blood, targcest, sexual themes, tension, drama, angst, fix-it of sorts, eventual smut, sexual inexperience, forbidden love, high valyrian, dance of dragons, POV first person

Summary: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

More chapters

– AYLANA –

in the aftermath, she shines.

blue fire in her palms; bloody roses in her hair.

she rises out of the sea.

nothing burns as bright as she.

The heat was a relentless beast, even in the absence of the sun, clawing at me with its suffocating breath. Sleep remained stubbornly out of reach. I tossed and turned like a ship in a storm until I got a crick in my neck, the sheets twisting into a tangled prison. 

Finally, I heaved myself out of bed and stumbled towards the basin, splashing myself with its tepid water. It offered me a fleeting reprieve, but a blessed oblivion seemed miles away.

Resigned, I got dressed, twisted my hair into a messy braid, and approached the wall in the back corner of my chamber. My hands rummaged across the familiar nooks and crannies of its rocky facade. If my memory did not fail me, this is where …

The wall suddenly shuddered in protest as it ground open into a gaping maw of darkness.

Maegor’s tunnels.

I grinned with satisfaction and threw one look over my shoulder before I vanished into its jaws, the heavy stone door groaning shut behind me.

My ancestor, King Maegor Targaryen, had them built as a secret escape route, a spider’s web spun beneath the Red Keep itself. Legends whispered of treacherous passageways, some so narrow they forced grown men to crawl, some booby-trapped with deadly cunning. Some coursed right outside the royal apartments, allowing a hidden person to unravel the darkest secrets.

The darkness pressed against me, thick and alive with possibility. Wind wailed through unseen cracks and rats skittered across the floors. The oil lanterns, flickering like trapped souls on the rough-hewn walls, cast long, distorted shadows that danced at the edge of my vision. They grew scarcer the further I went. 

The lower I delved, the cooler the air became – a welcome change. Though, the rats appeared to grow larger down here. Or was my mind playing tricks on me?

I took a right turn, then a left turn, continued ahead forty paces, then turned left again, just as I remembered. It would not bode well to get lost in here.

After what felt like an eternity of wandering the ancient tunnels, a sliver of grey pierced the oppressive darkness. Relief surged through me, and I quickened my pace. The passage widened, and with a final heave, I pushed myself through the opening. 

The warm night air washed over me again as I exited onto a rocky ledge overlooking the Blackwater. Moonlight painted a shimmering path across its surface, the sereneness only disturbed by the pulse of King’s Landing’s unseen heart. The distant sounds of laughter, the clatter of carts, and drunken brawls drifted from above. 

I started down the stairs, raising my skirts as I went. The lapping waves whispered promises of cool relief, carrying a breeze in toward the land. The water - the singular antidote for my tenacious perspiration – looked so inviting I did not linger to shed my dress, allowing it to pool down my slicked body. The ground turned from rocks to sand beneath my feet, then, the seawater embraced me like a long-lost friend, its coolness seeping into my bones, washing away all the grime, tension and vigil that stained me. My arms churned, propelling me into the moonlit body of the Blackwater with long strokes. The Red Keep, a hulking silhouette against the star-dappled sky, receded with each powerful kick. Its lit windows like eyes, watching me full of judgement. But in that moment beneath the vast expanse of the night, my naked body submerged beneath the water, I was descended into pure, unadulterated freedom. I doused myself in the cool seawater and exhaled with relief. 

For the briefest second – no, rather five, I thought life as a common-born would be preferable to this gilded cage I was living.

A low rumble, like a distant drumbeat, sounded across the Blackwater. Thunder? I cast my gaze to the star-dusted canvas, unencumbered by clouds. It would be impossible. It rumbled anew, closer this time, a tremor that sent shivers down my spine and iced my veins. 

Then, a massive silhouette descended from the heavens, blotting out the moon with its immensity. My pulse leapt into my throat.

Vhagar.

Her great, tattered leather, stretched taut like sails, beat the air with a thunderous rhythm, propelling her colossal form towards the city. In the ethereal, silver-lit night she was a nightmare made real, a monstrous beauty, a morbid fascination that would’ve held me captive if it weren’t for the plaguing question at hand,

Was she carrying her rider? I wondered. The idea was disconcerting. Though, a strange quiver bubbled through my core as I watched her draw closer. 

And closer. 

Closer still.

Taking a deep breath, I submerged myself fully beneath the dark, counting seconds, listening to the eerie silence of the depths, until I watched Vhagar’s blurry form pass overhead through the water’s surface. 

Once I could no longer feel her thunder, I surfaced, filling my lungs.

The encounter left me adrift in a sea of uncertainty. The cool allure of the water now felt distant, replaced by a chilling dread.

Had Aemond seen me? The question hammered in my skull, a relentless beating that drowned out any remaining peace, leaving me perturbed.

Would that if he was mounted at all? Vhagar might have just been flying all by herself. 

But if she wasn’t, what would bring him out at such a time? It was well into the hour of the wolf. 

Questions spun endlessly in my mind as I got myself to shore, not ceasing as I made my way into the tunnels. 

I decided I would not care whether or not I’d been exposed. 

I am the princess, I thought, a feeble attempt to anchor myself. Soon to be the heir to the Iron Throne. I can do what I like. Yet, the words tasted like ash in my mouth.

I could’ve relished the defiance of being seen, a secret rebellion against the court’s watchful eyes. But the consequences were too dire. A single word from Aemond to his mother, and the gossip would erupt into a wildfire, consuming my mother’s claim and scorching my legitimacy. 

Shame burned hot in my throat. The risk I had taken, the foolish yearning for a sliver of freedom, suddenly felt reckless.

Stupid fucking girl. My thoughts echoed in the silent tunnels. Why don’t you think twice?

But defiance flickered once again, a stubborn ember I liked to breathe life into.

It doesn’t matter what people think. 

The internal battle raged on, mirroring the fight for control in my shaking limbs. Twice, I nearly lost my way, the darkness reflecting the turmoil within me.

Reaching the upper levels, I ghosted past identical doors, taking great care in choosing the one to my apartments.

The silence, only momentarily interrupted by my breathing, took a sudden turn when I passed one of the doors.

“Pass me that, would you?”

A muffled voice came from behind it, and I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Without thinking, I pressed against the cool stone, trying to discern its owner.

“You’ve had enough.” Another voice, laced with vexation.

“Not nearly.”

A tremor of recognition shot through me, and nerves played beneath my skin.

“You drink more than a Braavosi Sealord.” Aemond’s voice was undeniable, a hint of resignation colouring his tone, a concession to his elder brother’s legendary indulge. 

Words or gestures were exchanged beyond my hearing.

“Don’t be a twat,” muttered Aegon, “You haven’t even touched your cup.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Suit yourself.” 

The sounds that followed painted a vivid picture: the scrape of a chair, a cup being drained with a heavy sigh, then a collapse back down.

“This Arbor gold has gone sour.”

“Dornish red,” Aemond corrected dryly.

Aegon scoffed. “Figures. Speaking of which, I’ve been told the so-called prince of Dorne graced us with his presence.”

“Indeed,” Aemond replied curtly.

“Cunt. Why is he here, anyway?” Aegon pressed.

“Private business, I believe.”

Aegon groaned theatrically. “Go on, brother, you always know more than that.” A playful edge crept into Aegon’s voice as he creaked in his chair.

“Find another source of gossip,” snapped Aemond.

Aegon groaned loudly.

“Mayhaps an abstemious habit might grant you access to firsthand information.”

Aegon mimicked him with slurred fraternal mockery, but Aemond did not retaliate, though the disdain that oozed from him was tangible.

“That’s why I have you,” said Aegon finally.

“Hmmph.”

“Not to worry, dear brother. I shall remain sober enough to mess with the Strong children.” Aegon rubbed his hands together vindictively, a grin in his voice. “The eldest one looked…”

My breath caught in my throat.

“Exceptionally tasty,” said Aegon salaciously.

Bile crept up my throat to his words, and my revolt was so strong I nearly retreated back into the tunnels, but a prickle of defiance held me rooted. Later, I’d curse that defiance.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” Aegon drawled, a cruel amusement in his voice, “I am merely reflecting your own… prior interest.” 

“You are mistaken.”

“To even think is to covet, dear brother.”

Venom poured into Aemond’s voice, “Aylana is as significant to me as a whisper in the Dragonpit.”

A strange ache bloomed in my chest.

“An illegitimate bastard styling herself as Velaryon,” he sneered. 

I could not bear to hear anymore. I pushed myself off the wall and continued my path forward, a curious emptiness hollowing me, a sticking feeling behind my eyelids. Aemond’s words, an endless echo in my mind, consumed me, to the point that I must have dissociated, for I could not recall how I reached my chambers. I had collapsed onto my bed, the emptiness and a bitter taste of betrayal warring within me, until blessed oblivion finally claimed me.

The press of bodies surrounded me endlessly, a pulsating mass that swayed to the relentless beat of the drums. As I filtered through their celebration, I found myself standing in front of the Iron Throne. Its jagged edges, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, seemed to drip with dark history.

“Your refreshment, princess.” Prince Marius Martell materialized beside me, offering me a goblet of emerald crystal, adorned with gold filigree. His dark gaze remained fixed on me as he took two large gulps of his wine. As I placed the rim to my lips, a choke tore from his throat. 

A crimson tide spilled from his mouth, and his eyes wept blood. Panic clawed at my throat. The goblet slipped from my grasp, clattering on the stone floor. Prince Marius crumpled into my arms, and I watched his slow, tremoring demise, infarctions webbing the veins of his throat, his eyes, wide and vacant, staring sightlessly through empty space as his body went still.

I awoke with a heart-wrenching gasp, clawing at my sheets desperately. The morning sun was pouring through the window like liquid gold and birds sang their performances. 

As my ragged breath calmed in my chest and reality dawned upon me, terror lingered, its cold, icy hands gripping my heart.

A shiver coiled down my spine. As much as I did not want to believe it, it would be foolish to ignore my heart’s indisputable warning. They had not come to me in years, yet this night I knew it to be true.         

It was a Dream – as clear as this room, as clear as my own name.

Something terrible was going to happen.

More chapters

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter One: Find Your Place Previous: Prologue Next Chapter: II Summary: You try to adjust to your new life with Arthur's gang, and learn some information about his past. Meanwhile, Arthur opens up to the only one who will really listen. Word Count: ~7,300 Warnings: Mature Themes, sexual harassment, language

The steam envelops your face as you pour the hot water from a wooden pail into a wash basin. You hold your breath a minute, as the heat mists your face, and once the water is poured out, you set the pail onto the ground. 

You then look at the pile of dishes beside you on the table and after swishing the suds around, you take a handful of stew plates and dip them in. 

Kitchen duty, nothing that you aren't a stranger to. This used to be second nature. After all, a waitress doesn’t just wait on tables. 

Wow. It’s been a long time since you’ve thought back that far. You were so very young, then. Eighteen. Working as a waitress since you were orphaned at 16. You had companions in Bethy, the sassy middle-aged woman who you looked up to,  Clarence, the cook who you thought of as a brother, and Joe, the soft-hearted boss with a sand-paper exterior. They were like family in their own way. 

Oh, it’s been years. 

“Once you’re done with all those, I’ll have you wash the stew pot,” Pearson, the swashbuckling personal chef of the gang, tells you as he walks behind you. “It’s been due for a good cleanin’ and your fine work has got me inspired.”

He isn’t rude to you, by any means, and you’re grateful, but you still feel so out of place. It’s only been four days since you’ve, for lack of a better word, joined, the gang, but you feel more of a stranger now than when Arthur was telling you stories about all of them. 

Arthur. You miss him. Every moment he’s out of your sight you long for him. He’s all you know. 

He’s gone off with Hosea on a job. You question the pairing of people when Dutch sends his boys off. John and Bill, the rising stars, with their brazenness and energy as they run off and come back as they were bid. Arthur and Hosea, the two fading lights, who are suspected to take longer and to keep sounding off their hums of dissent or supposed doubt. 

You can’t help but feel protective. Hosea stood up for you and already knowing enough about him, you trust him, just like Arthur does. 

Whenever he comes back from a job or a hunting trip, you are the first to race out into the field, baby in your arms. You always find yourself stopping short of ramming into Boadicea and standing awkwardly while he dismounts and then takes Alice from you to hold her. 

He has hardly touched you or even kissed you. It almost seems impolite, to dare in the presence of the other men and women. You’re back in that limbo again…just like you were years ago…just right after Isaac was born. 

You lift your head to keep an eye on your son. He’s close by, on some flattened grass, keeping an eye on his baby sister as she soaks in some sunshine. You have her laying on her tummy and will soon put her back in the fabric carrier you had fashioned years ago for when you gardened with Isaac. You’ve always liked working with your hands free and have grown to be quite creative over the years. 

“I knew a cook once,” you start to say, but then realize that Simon probably doesn’t want to hear your stories. You exhale sharply and rinse off the plate before setting it down on a nearby towel. 

“Well, are you gonna keep me in suspense?” Pearson’s raspy chortle startles you and you stand straight and look over your shoulder. He brings down a meat cleaver on some deer leg, looking at you expectantly. “Was he a navy man?”

Still stunned, you softly shake your head. “No…” You swallow. “We worked together at a restaurant. Back in what is now Utah.”

His eyebrows lift, his forehead moving his balding scalp. “Utah, huh?” He points the blade of his cleaver in the direction of where Arthur and Hosea left four hours ago. “I thought here is where, uh, you and him met?”

He’s curious? You don’t know enough of the deeper dynamics of the gang to know if he’s a vocal piece for everyone else’s inner thoughts, but you don’t see any harm in answering his question. “It isn’t. He came to the restaurant one day.” You look down and smile, the memory painting a picture in your head. You were so captivated by the tall figure sitting at the table, his dark hat shading his eyes. Your small frame was frozen until Bethy shoved you in his direction. “Wanted some pie.”

Pearson chuckles. “Didn’t think him the type. Always seems to gnaw on jerky all the time.”

You manage a smile as you speak with a soft, but prideful tone. “Not my cooking. He’ll lick the plate clean.” Your eyes widen at your sudden openness as your face loses its color. “Erm…”

But Pearson doesn’t seem to mind, laughing heartily at the thought of Arthur actually doing that. “I find that hard to believe…!”

Not pushing your luck, you decide to drop it. “Anyway, Clarence, our cook, he always had better ideas and recipes than our boss did. He wanted to save enough to open his own restaurant someday.” You lift your eyes. “I hope he made it.”

Pearson sees the thoughtful look on your face. He knows that you are like a fish out of water here, or rather, a mermaid out of the sea. He studies your long, chestnut tresses, the sun-kissed face, and freckles that scatter across your cheeks. If you were resting on a rock near the cape, all bare and singing, he could very well mistake you for a siren. He shakes it out of his mind. While it is not crystal clear, there is something between you and the newly outcast enforcer. “Do you know any of his recipes?” He asks, hoping to remove his thoughts. 

You nod, completely oblivious to his musings. “I remember how he cooked turkey and a couple of stew recipes. They were delicious.”

Pearson smiles. “Maybe you could write them down for me sometime.”

You turn to meet his gaze. “Maybe.”

You continue with the dishes in silence, listening to Pearson as he chops more of the deer leg and disposes of the bone. You hear Isaac giggle as he plays with his sister, talking nonsense to her as she tries to look around. She’s already starting to hold up her head, and her smile is one of the few things that bring joy to you, outside of Arthur’s homecoming each day.

After finishing the dishes and putting them back in the chuck wagon, you go over to your children before moving on to your next chore. Chores are something to help keep you busy when you aren’t reading to Isaac or feeding your daughter.

Isaac sees your shadow cast over him and his sister and he lifts his head as he lays on the grass. He smiles at you. “Hi, Mommy.”

You beam. “Hi, darling.”

He looks back at Alice. “I think she wants to talk.”

You decide to pause and enjoy this moment with them, so you motion to sit down. “She’s too young to say words, but she does try.”

Isaac doesn’t seem too concerned. “What was my first word?”

You pause to think about it. You had been much to busy to record every milestone. It wasn’t until two years ago that you started writing in a journal. You wish that you had done it much sooner.

“It was Mama, I think.”

He almost seems to frown, but it is clear that he tries to hide it. “Not Daddy?”

You aren’t sure how that would be possible. He was only ever around every few months. Isaac was too little to discern the difference between coming and going. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.” You reach a hand and card your fingers through Isaac’s hair. “Your hair is getting longer, I’ll have to get out the scissors and trim it.”

Isaac shakes his head. “No, I like it like this.” His hair sweeps over his eyes and he giggles. “See?”

“I think the problem is that you can’t.” You chuckle and reach over to pick up your baby. Alice squirms in your arms, batting her tiny hands at the air with a gurgle of delight. The sun in the sky, warm against your back, makes the red in your hair reveal itself, and in its light, you see it cast a similar shade in your daughter's fine wisps. “You have my hair,” you say softly and you bring her close to kiss the top of her head. You love the smell of her skin, her sweetness, and how she has hardly given you any grief. 

Isaac gets up and leans against you, watching his little sister. “She likes it here.”

You can’t help but pinch your brow, do you really want to hear your son say that? “Is it because Daddy is here?”

He pauses before answering. “I don’t know.” The melancholy in his answer gives away a hint that that is the reason why and before you can ask him to clarify, he walks away, the distant call of a coyote mixing with the rustling of grass in each of his steps.

In the waves of the grass, you turn your head, scanning the horizon where the sky meets the earth in a line so thin it almost slices the world in two. You imagine yourself like a doe with her fawn, exposed to anything and anyone that could be hiding beneath the grassy waves. Your heart tightens with a pang of worry for Isaac. His small figure seems so vulnerable against the vast, untamed wilderness.

“Eliza?”

You nearly jump and notice the shadow over you. Looking up, you see the soft, round face of Annabelle. You feel yourself relax, but your hold on your baby doesn’t lessen.

She must sense your unease and so she crouches down to your level. “Isaac is following Susan around. She doesn’t mind.”

You look back at your daughter and she coos with a gummy smile. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Annabelle clicks her tongue. “No one's a burden here, Eliza. This is family, this is what we do. We look out for each other.” Her voice holds a firm conviction that soothes you momentarily. She looks over your shoulder, her eyes tracing the path Isaac took. “He’s just curious, and Susan loves the company.”

Your gaze doesn’t lift from your daughter, and you let her words sink in. “I thought this was a gang of outlaws. A family hardly seems to fit in around here.”

Annabelle could reply quickly to that, but what you need is a guiding hand. Patience. She has faith that you will come around, as she did when she met Dutch. She looks at your baby and wrestles with whether or not to share something in the hopes of removing some of your doubts. “I…I had a child…once.”

You lift your eyes and look at her, dumbfounded. “Was Dutch…?”

She shakes her head softly. “No. I was…in bad circumstances.” Annabelle looks away, eyeing Isaac as he tries to grip onto Susan’s skirt. She quickly turns around, chuckling, and gives chase as he tries to flee from her. Their laughter carries over to them. Annabelle continues, “I had lost my husband and baby to cholera. I was a widow, trying my best to make ends meet.” Her green eyes look back into yours. “When I met Dutch, I had hope again.”

You shake your head. “I wanted to come here, once, like in a fairytale storybook.” You chortle bitterly. “I guess I got what I wished for.”

Annabelle, unsure how you feel about her, takes the risk to put her hand on your shoulder. You don’t flinch and with a feeling of relief, she offers some thought-provoking words. “Is it truly all bad? Being with the one you love so dearly?” Your eyes widen and you feel your face grow hot. And she smiles. “It’s only been a few days, but I see the way you look at him.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of her words hanging heavily between you. You glance back at your daughter, her bright eyes oblivious to the complexities swirling around her. You swallow hard, the reality of your situation pressing in. "It's not him, Annabelle. It’s this life... this uncertainty.” You haven’t cried in days, and you wanted to make a habit of it, but now you feel them well up in your eyes. “I had a home. A place of my own.” You tuck your chin and let Alice grab your finger as she lays against your bent knees. “I’ve ruined things for Arthur, just being here.”

Annabelle’s lips flatten to a thin line. She can’t deny things are bad between Arthur and Dutch right now, even Hosea. But they are the dynamic trio, the old guard. About 15 years they’ve been together, surely things will work themselves out. She rubs your shoulder with her thumb in compassionate sweeps. “Don’t worry, Eliza. things have a way of resolving themselves. You’ve not ruined anything. Believe it or not, we are as close to family as Arthur has ever had, and families fight. They also face hardships, but they endure. It’s what makes them a family.” Her voice is soft yet firm, carrying a certainty that you desperately want to believe. And seeing her words sink in, she rises to her feet. “Let Isaac explore a little. He’s got more people to watch him, now.”

After what happened four days ago, you have been more cautious than ever, but you so desperately want to relax. You want to go a few minutes without looking over your shoulder. You nod at Annabelle with a feigned smile and she turns to leave you with your daughter.

***

Arthur pulls back on the reins and Boadicea skids to a stop on the top of the hill. He hears Hosea and Silver Dollar slide up beside them.

Down below into a grassy valley is a herd of antelope. Food. Another way to help his family not starve.

Dutch is being petty, bitter. Not letting him go on bigger jobs to bring in money, so he isn’t deserving of any praise at all. Sure, food keeps bellies full, but there’s nothing like the shine of coin to stir Dutch’s heart.

Arthur knows that it isn’t like the old days, when they took gold bars from banks and offered them to the poor and orphaned. Since that first clipping, the stakes have been higher and the money box needed to be kept full.

Even so, he knows that it isn’t Hosea’s way. Hosea has always taken on tasks that involve little to no violence. Just some good fun to keep things interesting. Arthur has begun to like those jobs more. It makes him use his brain, though he would never say that out loud.

“Just look at them,” Hosea sighs. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Arthur nods softly, his mind still somewhere else. “Shoah.”

“What’s say we take down a couple? If we get decent enough pelts, we could sell ‘em, or have Pearson craft something.”

Now, that is a thought. He could craft a gift. A gift for you, perhaps?

Hosea sees the soft smile on his son’s face and forms a glint in his own eye. “I see that look. You thinkin’ of something good?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t begrudge an old man his pleasures, what is it?”

Arthur turns to look at his mentor and father figure, and leans back. “Old? I’d hardly think at your age you’d be callin’ yourself old.”

Hosea shakes his head. “Never stick with flattery when you do con work, son,” he chuckles. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Arthur lets out a low laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders as they both look down at the valley again. The antelope graze peacefully, unaware of the hungry eyes scrutinizing them from above.

"Alright," Arthur finally says, his voice firm yet still carrying a hint of warmth from the exchange. "Let's do this.” and he readies himself to spur Boadicea on.

But Hosea stops him. “No, not just yet!” And he takes Arthur’s wrist. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

This has been the most conversant Arthur has seen of Hosea since Bessie died. Something has changed, or healed, for him to want to talk at all. There isn’t a bottle in his hand and he is actually smiling for once. He didn’t quite feel as guilty for wanting to leave the gang and go to you and Isaac, but now, he feels the pang of it. What would Hosea have done if he wasn’t there to support him? It seems that nobody cares about Bessie anymore, or they’re so quick to pack up and go, that they have begun to do that with their feelings, too.

Hosea can feel his eyes intensely looking at him. “What is it?”

Arthur shrugs. “How do I begin?”

Hosea grins. “From the beginning, of course.”

Arthur chuckles. “That could take forever.”

Hosea pats Arthur’s wrist before letting it go. “So, get started.” But he then decides to offer a little help. “Tell me about Eliza.”

Oh, that. That’s what he wants to know. But if he were to tell anyone, it would be Hosea. Arthur swallows. “Well, she’s a waitress I met.”

And Hosea seems to be ready with questions, he isn’t about to let Arthur leave out any details. “Where?”

“A settlement in Utah.”

Hosea thinks on this, and remembers that they had been out that way. He thinks of you, your face, your hair, and suddenly he remembers.

That thin, young lady with the pencil and tablet, taking down orders of flapjacks and coffee. Dutch sat beside him.

“Ah,” Hosea sighs. “I remember now.” And he smiles. “She was a young thing, wasn’t she?”

Arthur nods. “She was eighteen when I met her.”

Hosea nudges Arthur’s arm. “And a strapping buck like you somehow swept her off her feet?”

Arthur feels his face grow hot. “Not exactly.”

“What, got too fresh?” Hosea teases.

Arthur leans back. “No!”

“What then?”

Arthur begins to feel embarrassed talking about this. He only ever had written thoughts like these in his journal. He pauses, searching for the right words. "It... it weren’t like that. She was different, Hosea. Sweet, but curious about everythin’. She always talked about Rome and her eyes always…just…” He runs a hand over his face to cloak his bashfulness. “Not just a girl to pass the time with. She... she mattered."

Hosea's teasing smile softens into something more understanding. "I can see that," he says gently. "Tell me when you knew she did.”

He blinks, thinking it through. “When…when someone else saw it, too.”

Hosea furrows his brow. “Who?”

The memories begin to flood back to that time. When he had heard a ruckus at the edge of town. It was dark, and he was going to scope out new leads, as usually all towns have their dark crevices to look into. That’s when he heard the low tones, the sheepish threats.

It was trouble.

With each calculated step, Arthur closes in on the source of the commotion, carefully avoiding the bright lights and staying hidden in the shadows. He sees you, the waitress from earlier today, pressed against the bank wall with a man looming over you like a predator ready to strike. The man's back is turned towards Arthur, but his expression is unmistakable - one of sadistic pleasure.

"Why do you always try to run from me?" The man taunts, his hand reaching out towards your face. But before he can touch you, you slap it away with a fierce strength that even surprises you.

The man, now revealed as Willy, takes a step closer and snarls,"Oh, the little doe fights back, huh?" He then leans in close to your trembling form. 

"Leave me alone, Willy," you manage to choke out in a feeble attempt at defiance.

Willy tilts his head and leers,"And why would I do that?" His eyes gleam with malice as he prepares to unleash his full intent on you.

Arthur's patience snaps like a brittle twig. Without hesitation, his hand instinctively reaches for his gleaming revolver, fingers wrapping tightly around the grip as he takes determined steps toward the glowing light on the ground.

You desperately try to scare off Willy with another empty threat, but your voice quivers with fear. "If you lay a finger on me, I-I'll scream."

Willy's response is slick and slimy, dripping with wicked intentions. "That's what I was hoping for." His hand inches closer to your face, leering at you as his mind continues to wander, his eyes traveling your body with hunger.

But before he can touch you, Arthur's gun is out and aimed at him, his arm extending into the light while his face remains shrouded in darkness. He speaks through gritted teeth, a low growl of warning. "Touch her and you're dead." The tension in the air is palpable as both men stare each other down, ready for a deadly showdown.

As you turn your head, you catch a glimpse of him and your eyes narrow with suspicion. But when you try to follow your gaze, all you see is darkness. Willy slowly lowers his hands, a sly smirk spreading across his face. "We were just having a little fun," he says with a shrug, his tone dripping with suggestions. “Heck, you could’ve—”

But Arthur takes a step closer, staying hidden in the shadows cast by the street lantern. "How about I end you before you finish that sentence?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

Willy's expression turns from smug to contemptuous. It is clear to Arthur that this chump doesn't understand the meaning of no. "You wouldn't dare," he spits out defiantly, but there is a hint of fear in his eyes.

With a cold, calculated movement, Arthur closes the distance between them until the barrel of his revolver is pressed firmly against Willy's temple. He relishes in the sound of the hammer being pulled back, a satisfying click that echoes through the tense air.

"Try me," he challenges with a deadly calmness. 

Like a coward, Willy raises his hands in surrender. But as he begins to back away, he makes one last desperate move, reaching for your face. You instinctively turn your head just in time to narrowly avoid his grasping fingers. With a smirk of false bravado, Willy taunts, "Catch you later, doe." But there's a hint of fear in his voice that betrays his false confidence.

You quickly avert your gaze, feeling your chest tighten as you inhale sharply. Willy doesn't even acknowledge the shadowy figure who saved you, instead disappearing into the darkness behind the partially constructed bank.

Silence envelopes the two of you for a moment, broken only by your heavy panting and the frantic beating of Arthur's heart. He slowly holsters his gun and approaches you, his voice gentle and concerned. "Are you alright?"

You nod, still in shock from the adrenaline rush. Your eyes flicker with recognition, but it’s clear to him that you try to play it cool.

But Arthur can see through your facade and he steps into the light, revealing those piercing marine eyes that seem to hold all the secrets of the ocean. As soon as you see him fully, your breath catches in your throat. "It's you!" you gasp.

A soft smile spreads across his face as he takes in the sight of you. "Hi, brown eyes."

“And so I walked her home,” Arthur's voice carries on the gentle breeze as he finishes his story. The graceful antelope have moved on, but both men remain seated, still captivated by the conversation unfolding between them.

Hosea nods, content with the tale he has just heard. He knows it a privilege to hear much more than he ever would have gotten if he wasn’t sitting here on his mount beside Arthur. "And the rest is simply history?" he asks inquisitively.

Arthur's boisterous laughter echoes through the open plain. Far from it, but he’ll keep that to himself for now. “I guess so.”

***

It won’t be long before you have to put Alice down for bed. She will be awake in the middle of the night for a feeding, and the sooner that gets started, the more sleep later into the night you and Arthur will get.

Alice is in the wrap you fashioned as you feed the four chickens that the gang appears to own. You’re grateful for a little piece that reminds you of home. Aside from Farm Boy, you didn’t get the opportunity to take Little Maid, your dairy cow, with you. You miss her, as cumbersome and stubborn as she was. If anything, she got you to get outside when you didn’t feel up to it. Lord knows, you needed fresh air.

“It’s nice having someone who knows how to work.”

You turn your body to see Susan Grimshaw approach you. She hasn’t spoken much to you, but you can tell she has some holding power on the gang. When Dutch and the leading men aren’t around, most seem to respect and listen to her. Arthur hasn’t spoken to you much on her history, and it really isn’t your business.

But by golly, if you aren’t curious.

“Yes,” you say, then remembering what she was just talking about. “I mean, I am certainly trying.”

Susan crosses her arms and studies you. “Arthur said you had a homestead?”

“Yes, we did.” You rarely have ever included Arthur in that topic, given that you are the one who had done all the work yourself, but it only seems fit and proper to include him for the sake of showing his worth and accomplishments. Maybe, eventually, they will reach Dutch’s ear just like everything else around here. “He’s good at building things.”

Susan doesn’t seem too enthralled, as she crosses her arms. “Uh-huh.” And she goes quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Does…uh…Isaac take after his daddy?”

You narrow your eyes, your brown eyes piercing. “Of course, he does.” You only hope that she asked out of curiosity, not in the spirit of the Spanish Inquisition. Arthur is the only man you’ve had, or ever will have, and you aren’t about to encourage rumors being spread about anything otherwise. "Alice does, too. I don’t doubt that she has his eyes.”

Susan looks at you long and hard, almost sizing you up. You remain still, your expression unflinching as you toss out another handful of corn. Her gaze lingers a bit longer before she nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. Then, just as quickly as the moment of tension had arrived, it dissipates as she turns her attention to the chickens pecking at the ground.

"Well," Susan starts, shifting her stance slightly, "it's good to have young ones around again. Keeps everyone on their toes, and gives us all something to fight for." Her voice softens just a touch, a rare hint of warmth in the typically stern woman.

“Again?” you ask.

Susan actually lets out a smile. “Well, Arthur and John weren’t as young as your little ones, but they could sure keep me, Dutch, and Hosea on our toes.” She looks at Alice, contently pressed to your breast in her wrap. “Like yours do, no doubt.”

You nod, feeling the tightness in your shoulders loosen slightly. "They certainly do."

The moment of understanding between you and Susan is cut short by a distant thunder of hooves. Susan's head snaps up, her eyes narrowing as she peers into the distance. “Riders,” she mutters, her voice hardening.

You feel your heart skip a beat. Riders could mean trouble—bandits, lawmen, or…

Instinctively, you set the pail of feed on a lone tree branch, and hoist your skirts as you break into a jog, careful not to jostle your baby too much.

You hear Isaac calling out to you, clearly aware of the oncoming sound. “Mommy…!”

Your curiosity lets you stick your neck out most times, and with this chance, you are rewarded.

It’s Arthur, riding in with Hosea.

They have several ducks tied to their saddles, the corpses dangling near Boadicea and Silver Dollar’s legs.

Your heart beats even faster, and not for the short jog. Arthur stops his horse near the others that are grazing, and they seem unperturbed. He dismounts, leaving the ducks tied to the saddle, and walks in your direction. 

You stand there motionless, your eyes never leaving his as he draws closer and closer to you. 

Suddenly, something brushes up past your skirt and you look down to see Isaac running in the space between you and his father, arms outstretched. “Daddy…!”

He wears a warm smile at his son, and that makes you happy.  Arthur sweeps Isaac into his arms, lifting him high above his head before setting him down with a gentle roughness that only a father possesses. He then looks over at you, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Miss me?" he asks, a playful tilt to his voice that you hadn't realized how much you'd missed until now. His presence, strong and reassuring, washes over you like the first rains after a long drought.

"Yes," you reply, your own voice a mix of relief and nervousness. "But what about those ducks? Looks like trouble followed you home."

Arthur's smile grows at your tease and he nods toward Hosea. “Ask him.”

Hosea dismounts and waggles a finger. “Don’t you go blaming me, son. We would have had those antelope if you didn’t stop to chat.”

Arthur whips around, scoffing. “Me? You talked my ear off the whole ride.”

You haven’t seen Arthur this happy in a good while.

The light-hearted banter fades as the dust settles behind the returned riders. Hosea slaps Arthur on the back, then walks over to join you. His eyebrows knit together under the brim of his hat, casting his eyes in shadow. "We need to talk," he says quietly, just loud enough for you to hear.

Hosea? Talk to you? Why on earth for? You look for Arthur to return his gaze at you once he sets Isaac down. He does and seeing your confused gaze, he only shrugs his shoulders.

Well, that isn’t much help.

“Keep an eye on Isaac. Dinner will be done soon.” You turn and follow Hosea as he walks to a more secluded spot on the other side of camp. You fold your arms and feel the silence unbearable. Is he going to bear the bad news? Dutch has finally decided to kick you and your children out?

You need to prepare yourself for the worst.

So, you give yourself the opportunity to say something first. “Hosea, before you say anything, I just want to—”

“Please, Eliza, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have something very important to say.”

You blink, caught off guard by his forwardness. But if you thought about it longer, it wouldn’t really be that surprising. “Oh.”

He takes off his hat, his blonde turning silver hair shining like wheat in the fall, and he looks softly in your eyes. “I know who you are.”

Your brows pinch, trying to read his calm expression. “I wasn’t hiding anything.”

Hosea then lets out a smile. “Of course not, but I know where I’ve seen you before.” He lets there be a pause before saying it, “The restaurant. Joe’s Place.”

You let out an exhale and nod. “Yes. You and Dutch came for breakfast.”

Hosea nods, letting out a chuckle. “Did you buy into our stories? No doubt Arthur told you we were gold prospectors.”

You nod. “Yes, but he acted like he was alone.”

Hosea’s smile falls. “I could see why. He wanted you all to himself.”

This untoward comment shocks you. “What?!”

Hosea quickly raises his hands. “Oh! Please don’t mistake me, Eliza. I only mean that he didn’t want anyone to know you. It is clear to me that he did that for good reason…on account of Mary and all.”

Your eyes widen and you feel your heart plummets to your stomach. Mary? You’ve never heard that name before. Ever. 

As you struggle to process this new information, Hosea sees the fear in your widened eyes and senses the tightening of your chest. He realizes his grave error, but it's too late to take back his words now. His voice trembles as he speaks again, "He never told you about her, did he?"

Your response is sharp and cold, laced with betrayal, "No."

He tries to reassure you, his voice hesitant and filled with longing. But deep down, he hopes that Arthur will be the one to tell you. It isn't his place to speak of something so personal and heartbreaking from his past. “It was a long time ago, before he met you. We…we knew it wouldn’t end well.”

Now your curiosity is piqued. You can't help but wonder why this news has suddenly come to light. If you had been with another man, you would have told Arthur without hesitation. You were always open and honest with him about everything that mattered, at least in your mind.  

You fold your arms, hoping to shield yourself from the feelings welling up inside you. “Oh…”

Hosea touches your arm. “Let him tell you. I’m sure he has healed by now.”

Was it all a convenient coincidence? Had he been pining for Mary while out at camp, only to return to you when it was convenient? Were you just a temporary escape for him when you first met years ago? Just a naive young girl, easily charmed by a knight in shining armor? The thought makes your brow furrow and your breaths come sharp with anger and hurt. 

“Eliza?” Hosea asks, concern in his voice. Your gaze hardens, steeling against the churn of betrayal and confusion. "I’m fine," you say, your voice barely above a whisper but slicing through the tense air like a knife.

Hosea hesitates before speaking again, his eyes darting left and right as if searching for a way to salvage this moment. "He told me how you met.” And then his eyes return to yours. “Back in Utah.”

You snort. “I’m sure he did.” It seems he will tell everyone about himself except you. Most of it you had to figure out on your own.

He shakes his head. “It was also what he thought of you.”

You find the intensity in your eyes lessening, and your desire to know daring to push out your hurt, if but for just a moment. “What did he say?”

Hosea smiles again, sensing his chance to make things better again. “He said that you mattered.”

You feel conflicted at this. Love was what you were looking for, and while you normally would have settled for such vague, empty words, you aren’t sure you’re willing to buy into it this time. “I’ve mattered for the last five years.” And you motion to walk away. “But that isn’t good enough anymore.”

You begin to head back into camp and Hosea calls out to you. “Eliza!” You stop, looking over your shoulder. “He’s only a man and you’re only a woman. You both have a place with each other, even if you don’t see that.”

You feel your heart soaking in his words. You feel yourself leaning into them, but just as quickly as the feeling appears, it leaves, the bitterness cloaking it all.

You walk away.

***

After dishes are cleaned and put back into the chuck wagon once again, everyone beside those on guard duty retires for the night. Dutch had been quiet all evening, and only chose to talk to those who were in his good graces for the time being. The charismatic savior that Arthur praised in his stories looks less than the heroes in the fables you read to your son. Fictional, unreal. You can't make sense of him, and you aren’t sure you want to.

You finish tucking in Alice after feeding and changing her and you begin to hum the melody of the Scout’s Lament. You used it with Isaac when he was fussy of has had a nightmare, and it still seems to work on her.

You hear the tent flap open, and turning, you see Arthur come in. For the past four days, he has continued to sleep on the ground beside the cot, and now, after what Hosea told you, you aren’t sure how you feel about it. On one hand, you still desire him, need him, his presence a mere symbol of safety and care. On the other, you want to push him back, resist the temptations that you have wrestled with, and snuff out the flames for good. Your focus should be on your son and daughter. If anything, you can keep the peace for them.

Arthur regards your position as you kneel beside the cradle. You’re in your nightgown, your figure hidden beneath the straight cotton and ruffled cuffs. Your hair is in a loose braid, and it drapes over your right shoulder like a long rope. He wants to touch it, maybe lure you closer to him.

The look in your eyes when he came home, it brought a heat into his belly. Maybe he can tell you now, now that some things have settled. He can tell you the reason why he had come back that day, and why he’s carried a small box in his pocket for the last month.

He smiles at you. “Hey.”

You don’t look up at him as you reply. “Hi.”

Instantly he feels something is wrong. Your words, the sound that came from your lips, was a dullness without any feeling at all. Your hand is in the cradle, Alice clutching onto your forefinger. He swallows and decides to try to lighten your mood. “Pearson said you helped cook the supper tonight. Shoulda known, it was too good.”

You don’t smile.

Then, he decides to not beat around it. “What’s wrong?”

And you, still looking at Alice, speak three words that cause him to freeze. “Who is Mary?”

His eyes search you, his heart beginning to thrum. “Who told you?”

“Why shouldn’t I know?”

His voice tenses up. He doesn’t want you to be concerned over something that has nothing to do with you. “‘Cause it was a long time ago. It don’t matter no more.”

That’s when you turn to look at him. From the lantern hanging, he can see the shine in your eyes. “It matters to me.”

His nose wrinkles and his brow pinches. “Why? She ain’t here now, is she?”

“Would she have been?”

His breath hitches. Would Mary have been here if things went how he had planned? If she did agree to marry him and run away with the gang? Would her lavish ways and upstanding manners have lasted, or would she have adapted and grown to love the wind in her hair, and the sound of a firing gun? How does he answer that?

And since he doesn’t answer, you ask another hard question. “Did you love her?” You blink. “Be honest.”

Hell, you had to ask that question.

He shifts on his feet, the dead grass crunching under the weight of his hesitation. His gaze drifts away from yours, out toward the flickering shadows cast by the small lantern. "Yeah," he admits, the word barely more than a whisper. "Yeah, I did. Once."

Your eyes narrow slightly, and he can see the hurt flicker across your face, quick as a prairie storm. "And now?" you ask, your voice steady but low, carrying a weight that makes his stomach twist.

He turns back to you, sees Alice's small hand in yours, and feels the crushing weight of his past decisions.

But I love you, he thinks. Say it, you fool!

But he can’t find the words. Just like last time. Like a fool. How long can this go on? “I don’t anymore. Mary…Mary’s just a ghost from my past.”

The room goes quiet aside from the steady breathing of your two children. Two living examples of something that was more real to you than anything else. And now, a stranger, a name, has entered in it, and Arthur’s answer has only made it more concrete. You look away. “Okay.”

What? That’s it? The tears? The quivering lips? And all you can say is okay?

Arthur doesn’t want it to be like this. If you are mad, say it. Do it. Tell him why.

“That ain’t just it.”

Your voice is still calm and you rock the cradle absentmindedly. “It is.”

“Eliza—”

“It’s fine, Arthur.” And you won’t let him say anything more. Not tonight. “We should get to bed.”

Like this? No.

Hastily, Arthur bends over, reaching below his cot to grab his sleeping roll. He makes his way out of the tent. “I have guard duty in a couple hours. Don’t wanna wake you.”

And he leaves you alone with the children.

The wind picks up outside, howling like a lone wolf on the prairie, shivering its way through the canvas of the tent. Arthur quickly glances back to make sure the flap is secure, and satisfied that you’re safe, he continues on, tucking the roll under his arm. 

He makes his way to the edge of camp, to one of the few scattered trees. Standing a few feet away from the tree is John, gun ready and eyes watching. 

“My turn, Marston,” Arthur states, holding out his hand for the gun. “Go now.”

John, not realizing who was behind him, whips around. “Arthur?” And in the moonlight, he sees the gloomy expression on his brother’s face. “What’s eatin’ you?”

Arthur takes the gun right out of John’s hands and points back to camp with the barrel. “Go now.”

John knows things are uneasy right now, and while they haven’t always gotten along, they always seem to be there for each other. John has never admitted it, but he’s looked up to Arthur, the closest to a brother he’s ever known. He’s never made above-and-beyond attempts to get sentimental, but knowing now that Arthur has the capacity to father and love children, he’s been questioning what else is Arthur holding out on?

“Arthur,” John begins, unable to remove the raspiness from his voice, but managing a softness that shows compassion. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Except I found out a heart can be broken twice. 

But that isn’t what he says. He lowers his head to where the brim of his hat covers his eyes. “Go to sleep, John.”

John, realizing that his attempt to be open is futile, quietly leaves Arthur to the howling wind and moon. 

Alone, you sit in the tent, the weight of the conversation anchoring your heart to the cold ground. Alice stirs slightly in her sleep, and you gently rub her tummy, soothing her into sleep.

If only Arthur's presence could soothe the turmoil churning inside you as easily. But even if he were next to you, you know it wouldn’t be so. It’s better this way, he’s out there now, under the vast expanse of starlit sky, wrestling his own demons in the silence of the night.

You don’t know his thoughts, and he doesn’t know yours. That’s the trouble. If only you both could just get over the fear of losing one another and speak what you ought to have said, maybe things would be better. 

But just like Hosea said, you both have a place with one another, even though you don’t see it. 

Thank you so much for reading! Leave a like if you want the next chapter!

Tag Requests:

@photo1030

[fifty-two-blue]

Searching...

>Query: "Ocean" = ?

>System Response: A continuous body of salt water that is contained in an enormous basin on a planet's surface.

>He took me there, once. He sat on a rock on the shore and watched the waves pull in.

>It was the first time I've seen him so quiet. His heartbeat slowed and his breath deepened, the lines of his face washing away like footprints in the sand.

>I thought he wouldn't come back. That he would stay there on that rock, a lighthouse forever gazing out into the darkened waters but never able to leave.

>Input: Grief. Melancholy.

>He did, for a while. The sand never left. Even here, it is a few scant grains amongst trillions. A handful of stars in a vast universe.

>Query:

>I would like that very much. Thank you.

[asimplearchivist]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓝𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍, 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐃𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ] [ AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST ] summary ✨ ⤏ eliana gets a special case of whiplash. the future isn't what she remembered. pairing(s) ✨ [tba] word count ✨ 3.6k a/n ✨ [header credit] | [divider credit] ⤏ this is another filler chapter, and there might be a couple more while I slowly hedge eliana and dusknoir together without her throwing a tantrum. gotta take it slow, y'know? ✨ MASTERPOST ✨ ✨ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ ✨ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER [TBA] ✨

Eliana woke out of habit rather than by the sounds of Lu shifting in his bed or by the warm morning sunlight streaming in through the bluff’s gaping maw. The lack of windows in the guest room didn’t allow any indication of the time, and she couldn’t hear any of the local bird Pokémon from so far down, but her body was accustomed to rising with Lu (since he was, unfortunately for her night-Noctowl tendencies an early-bird). She cracked her eyes open to look for him, frowning. When her groggy mind processed the cozy burrow, she remembered that she was by herself.

That’s right. She was in the future. Her true home, she supposed idly, stretching her limbs and arching her crackling spine with a gaping yawn. How could she have forgotten?

Her eyelids and legs felt unbearably heavy as she padded silently across the mat to drink from the basin in hopes it would rouse herself better. The fire in the hearth had burned down to coals at some point during the night, so the air was a bit chilly. It was almost unbearably quiet, save the trickle of the water and the rasp of her own breathing.

Eliana sat back on her haunches to wash her face. Although she never would’ve imagined it as a human, grooming was unexplainably soothing. She’d found the concept alien, at first, even without her memories, upon first being transformed into an Eevee. Lu had long-sufferingly shown her the highlights since she hadn’t been born with the innate knowledge of how to keep herself clean—because they lived on the coast and traveled almost every day, they often had sand or dust work its way into their pelts. It became a nightly routine soon after they became apprentices, and Lu often helped her—once she had gotten the hang of it, she’d returned the favor. It was a comfort she couldn’t describe, having him close and knowing she was safest even when he fussed at her for fidgeting.

She missed showering, sure, even if she could visit the hot springs outside of Treasure Town—and she still thought it a bit strange to have someone else tongue-bathe her (and Lu would likely remain the only person whom she would allow to perform such a personal, if slightly embarrassing, task upon her)…but, in some ways, maintaining her pelt was far easier than having to futz around with soaps or the plethora of products that had comprised her hair and skin care regimine—a lot cheaper, too.

Once finished, a cursory glance at her reflection in the glassy surface of the basin showed that she’d managed to smooth down her fur to look halfway presentable. The leafs adorning her forehead and framing the ends of her ears had wilted just slightly during the night, which wasn’t unusual. Perhaps not even having ambient moonlight available to photosynthesize made it a tad worse, but it wasn’t anything that wouldn’t rectify itself after a bit of time outside.

Eliana left her things where Lu had placed them, uncertain of whether she’d need them. The Treasure Bag was ill-suited for her to carry, regardless, since Lu usually had with his better stature. She nudged the door open and picked her way through the narrow corridor, brushing past the vines that grew from the eeks of sunlight that spilled in from the grate at the Guild’s entrance. She passed the open doorway that led to the Guild’s library and paused, peering into its darkened depths. Even without the sconces lit, she knew where the bookshelves were, as well as the massive table against the wall that served as a desk.

“…You needn’t stay so late for my sake, you know. I am more predisposed to remain awake during the night than you are.”

“Yeah, but then who would keep you company? Lu certainly can’t handle being up past his bedtime, but I have a hard time falling asleep most of the time. He says I’m allergic to it.”

A low chuckle, resounding like distant thunder. A glowing glance towards the slumbering pup curled up in the crook of a bulky, cradling arm. “Certainly…but he is working hard, just as you are. I greatly appreciate your assistance. Your attention to detail makes seeking out answers regarding the Time Gears’ potential locations far easier than it would be if I were researching alone.” A pause. “And…your company makes the process far less tedious.”

“I’m glad that my excessive ramblings can be of service.”

“I dislike working in silence, anyway—I find that I prefer companionship over solitude. But it is refreshing to hear knowledge over that which I am unfamiliar, so, please…do not stop on account of anyone in the past telling you to refrain from it.”

“So my musings on the hypothetical reasons for the utilization of Unown runes as apposed to Footprint runes in the texts weren’t boring you?”

“Quite the opposite, actually—I was enthralled.”

“Would you like for me to continue?”

“Please do.”

Eliana’s tail lashed sharply against the side of the wall, accidentally slicing one of the leaves off of the vine and sending it fluttering to the ground. The fur lining her spine rose as she went stiff, lowering her head with a scoff and shook it sharply to dislodge the lingering, insistent memory (even if it still brought undeniable senses of comfort, affection, and assuredness from stolen moments before everything fell apart, despite her best efforts to suppress any recollections from that time—and no, the irony did not escape her). 

She climbed up the steep incline to the next floor up, ears perking forward as the familiar sound of the daily address filtered in through the mouth of the tunnel.

“…One! Don’t shirk work! Two! Run away and pay! Three! Smiles go for miles!”

“Okay, Pokémon! Get to work!”

“Hoo—”

“Hold on for a moment, everyone—there’s one more matter I’d like to discuss before the lot of you get started for the day.”

The crowd of curious eyes rounded as Lu spoke up from behind Chatot. The music note Pokémon hopped aside with an enthusiastic flutter of his wings to allow him to stand before them directly.

“As I’m certain you’ve all overheard from the commotion yesterday,” Lu began, glancing towards the warren from which Eliana had tentatively emerged, “we have a very special visitor who will be staying with us until further notice. I want each one of you to treat her with as much respect and charity as you would myself or anyone else in the Guild, seeing as she’s a graduate herself—as well as my old exploration team leader.”

A soft gasp preluded the swell of interested murmurs, and Eliana’s fur prickled as their collective gaze locked onto her. At Lu’s beckoning, she apprehensively picked her way across the scuffed floor and stood, reticent, at his side.

“Eliana is one of our brightest pupils—as well as a remarkably successful graduate—just like the Guildmaster, and she’s spread the pride of the Guild’s name far and wide!” Chatot boasted, plumage fluffing out along his chest as he rocked from side to side.

“Please,” she said, ears twisting back, “I consider myself adequate at best. I just try to complete my job to the best of my ability.”

Lu cleared his throat to smother a knowing chuckle. “Nevertheless, the stories of your accomplishments precede you, so please forgive their enthusiasm. These are all of our apprentices: Kirlia and Togetic of Team Serenity, Magby and Elekid of Team Spark, Vibrava and Shelgon of Team Freefall, and Eevee and Shinx of Team Hailstorm.”

Her eyes passed over the group with intrigue, lingering on her near kinsman in the same spot where she used to stand behind Lu every morning—except that the younger girl was a shiny Pokémon, which greatly surprised Eliana because she couldn’t recall ever seeing any before. All of their eyes were shining with varying degrees of awe or fascination.

“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” Eliana offered, flashing her teeth in a smile. “You seem like very pleasant Pokémon to be around, and promising explorers to boot with all that boundless energy. Make sure to always work really hard, and you’ll accomplish anything you set your minds to.”

“Can we get your autograph?” Magby piped up.

Elekid nodded enthusiastically. “I wasn’t expecting you to look so much younger than the Guildmaster.”

“Oh, don’t be a nuisance, boys!” Chatot scolded, feathers ruffling. “How embarrassing!”

“It’s not every day that we get to meet a world-famous explorer, though,” murmured Shelgon bashfully, tucking her face further within her carapace. Vibrava rested atop her back, patting her shell with his feet reassuringly.

“A real-life celebrity!” breathed Kirlia, her hands clasped together as her eyes sparkled. “And it’s the great Eliana, to boot! I never would have thought I’d get to see one up close!”

Eliana cast a wry smile towards Chatot, even while her stomach sank as inexplicable discomfort—a sort of deja vu thankfully unrelated to the Dimensional Scream—coiled cold and curdled there. “I don’t mind at all. I don’t think I’ve done anything noteworthy to garner that much attention, but…if anyone wants advice, I can try my best to be helpful.”

“Guildmaster Lucario said that you’re just as knowledgeable as Mister Dusknoir from Team Sunrise, and that you all worked together before!” remarked Eevee, her tail wagging fiercely with the effort it took to remain still. “Is that true?”

“…Oh.” Eliana glanced at Lu, watching his expression tighten with an apology plainly written in his eyes. “I…don’t know if I would say that, but…I have studied for quite some time. And I am…familiar with him, yes, but…I, uh…I know Grovyle far better.”

“I’ve heard a lot of stories about you all saving the world,” added Shinx excitedly, “can you tell us what it was like? Did you two really fight Dialga all by yourselves as first-forms?”

“And did Mister Grovyle and Mister Dusknoir really used to hate each other?” inquired Togetic. “They get along so well, even if they bicker a whole lot!”

“Miss Celebi told me once that you were the one that decided to fix the planet’s paralysis—how did you know that there was something wrong to start with if it was all you’d ever known?” pointed out Vibrava, evidently trying to be respectful despite the somewhat invasive nature of his question.

Eliana swallowed roughly, her skin prickling beneath her fur as she fought the sudden urge to flee. She hadn’t exactly anticipated getting interrogated by a bunch of children, even if they only meant well. (It didn’t help that she realized, in that moment, why she was feeling deja vu so strongly.)

“I don’t even know how you lot know half of those things,” Lu spoke up, projecting his voice over their cacophony and effectively silencing them, “but any questions regarding our career can be directed towards me. If you want general advice, I am certain that Eliana would be more than happy to entertain you. Please respect her decision if she elects not to answer any personal questions you may have for her, however—is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!” they chorused. Most of them had the decency to appear contrite for letting their curiosity get the better of them.

“Good. Now—” Lu gave them a shooing gesture. “—get to work!”

“Hooray!”

Eliana shrank back into Lu’s flank as Chatot flapped his wings at them to get their attention so he could divvy out their duties for the day. Lu placed a paw between her shoulder blades and stepped back out of earshot, closer to the door of his office.

“I am sorry, El,” he murmured, frowning. “I didn’t have enough time to warn them before you arrived. I didn’t mean for them to overwhelm you—they’re a little blunt at times and I may have shared some stories about you in the past.”

Eliana sat and patted his hip. “It’s alright, Lu. I’m just not used to being…looked up to like that, I guess. Or being considered old.” She tilted her head with a small smirk in an attempt to disguise her lingering discomfort—even if he could see right through her, she could at least pretend for her own sake. “Am I really that famous?”

Lu gave her a flat look. “Never mind the fact that you played a key hand in shaping their world as they know it, hmm?”

“I may have dabbled in it, sure.” She glanced towards the group as Chatot dismissed them and they all filed for the stairwell, chattering amongst themselves all the while. “They seem like good kids.”

“Some of the best. I’m rather fond of them.” He chuckled. “They remind me of the good old days.”

“What exactly do they know about…you know,” Eliana queried, looking back up to him. “They seem to hold…Team Sunrise in high regard.”

“The three of them arrived before most of them were old enough to conduct their own business, and they moved into town once they established themselves as an exploration team. I offered them the bluff to stay in since I had moved back into the Guild—for good, this time—and hated to see the space go to waste. The children grew up around them. And, since those three don’t seem to know how to rest, they’ve done something for most of them personally by now. They’ve gotten quite popular with the rest of the townspeople.” Lu hesitated, then folded his arms over his chest as his mouth pursed. “Particularly Dusknoir.”

Eliana gritted her teeth, but tried to speak clearly so that she might sound halfway sincere. She wasn’t certain how she felt about Lu forfeiting the home that they’d made their own for so many years, but…c’est la vie, she supposed. At least it gave Grovyle and Celebi somewhere to shield their heads. “Why is that?”

Lu’s brow rose and she knew that he’d picked up on that, too. “He’s developed a soft spot for children, and he nurtures them when he can—even if it’s just in passing since he keeps himself so busy. I think he and the others have even ended up babysitting a couple of times when the kids’ parents have been in dire straits. He’s a menace when it comes to giving them candy while their parents aren’t looking—or so I’ve heard.”

Eliana frowned. “Does no one remember…?”

“Those that were around during that time do, of course, but many of them have retired and traveled elsewhere or have experienced Dusknoir’s change of heart firsthand and have allowed bygones to be bygones since his past actions didn’t particularly have a direct impact on them.” Upon Eliana’s grunt of disbelief, Lu huffed wryly. “I know. The planet’s paralysis would have effected everyone, but…they didn’t fully realize that since they didn’t see it like we did. He’s redeemed himself in everyone’s eyes by now—and it certainly helps that most of them only know the new him. He’s respected, and I’d venture to say that it’s well-earned.”

“That’s…good,” she offered lamely. She’d have to see it to believe it—and, even then, she suspected that it would be extremely difficult to accept it still. “Good for him.”

Lu studied her for a moment in that unsettlingly soul-searching way that never failed to make Eliana fidget. He was an open book to her, certainly, and couldn’t lie to save his life—but that was a two-way street when he could literally read her emotions (in color).

“Let me show you around town,” he said finally, carefully neutral in his invitation. “I’m sure you’d like to see how everything’s changed.”

Eliana let out a tight breath and tried to give him a smile. “Lead the way, Guildmaster.”

Fortunately, the fame-induced kerfuffle for the day seemed to have been done, as no one bothered either of them while Lu gave her a tour of the ever-growing Treasure Town. 

More tents dotted the available spaces, crowded amongst the biggest trees for shelter against the capricious whims of coastal weather. Like she had already seen, Toxicroak and Chimecho had moved their businesses to the corners adjacent to the steppe that led up to the Guild. Lu told her that Spinda had expanded the café to accommodate the increased clientele, and the traveling bazaar had set up permanent shops within it, as well. Some of the familiar faces around town had changed—gotten older, evolved, gotten jobs or joined teams or made their own—and it was the slowest sort of whiplash she’d ever experienced.

The Keckleon brothers had moved elsewhere, so they’d placed their twin nieces there instead. Kangaskhan’s child was significantly older; Xatu had an apprentice, Natu, who would replace him; Marowak had his son Cubone helping out with the Dojo; the Elekid who was Lu’s apprentice was Electivire’s grandson; Chansey had evolved into Blissey and had a Happiny assistant, and Duskull had evolved into Dusclops.

…That was a bit of a readjustment. The teller had greeted her as warmly and as ominously as ever, but the sight of his hands had put Eliana a bit on edge. Despite his pleasure in informing her that her account had accrued quite a bit of interest in her absence, she’d only been able to offer him a thin smile and quiet thanks in return.

Lu stayed close, keeping his voice low. They didn’t move past the town square, and even though she actively tried to avoid the thought while they conversed with some passers by, she glanced along the path that led towards the bluff.

“They’ll likely be gone for a day or two,” Lu told her as the Ursaring couple bade them good day and moved on with a giggling Teddiursa in tow between them. “They told me they’re going north of Amp Plains to the ravines there. The terrain will slow their progress.”

Eliana frowned. Dusknoir would have no trouble, given his inborn ability to levitate, plus Celebi’s ability to fly (although she would have to rest at some point) would help her, but Grovyle wasn’t necessarily built for that. He could climb trees all day long, sure, but mountains? He’d surely get tired, and quickly at that.

“They’ll be fine,” Lu told her, no doubt sensing her worry. “They’re professionals at this by now, and they work well together…when they don’t bicker, anyway, but I think that’s mostly for show. Or maybe Celebi finds it funny, so she starts arguments to sit back and watch. I haven’t really figured that out yet.” Lu placed a palm between her shoulder blades and turns to guide her back towards the Guild. “They’re a tight-knit team, and they’ve never come back empty-handed. You don’t have to fret about them.”

“That’s…good to know,” Eliana responded quietly, following his lead. Her tail and ears drooped slightly in spite of herself. “I’m…glad they’re so proficient at this.”

“You ought to be proud of them.” Lu flashed her a grin—or at least his closest approximation to one, since he’d never seen one. It was always a little too toothy, but Eliana found it sweet and arguably more sincere than the carefully maintained smiles others used. “I know I am. They stay just as busy as we used to.”

Used to. You don’t have to fret over them. Eliana swallowed and tried to return the gesture, as superfluous as it was. “Is there anything I can help you with back at the Guild?”

Lu blinked, expression tightening at her change in tone, but he dropped the subject. “Quite a bit, actually. Those kids keep Chatot and me on our toes all the time, so some of the general maintenance slips away from us. Let’s eat some lunch and I’ll go over it in more detail.”

The list contained mostly monotonous work. The tunnel needed to be weeded (to which she could attest). Although the stands for Chimecho and Toxicroak’s businesses had been taken down and replaced with furniture, they needed to order some rugs from Keckleons’ to keep the dust down. The library’s collection needed to be recategorised.

“I know it all seems a bit silly, and I hate to ask you to do things so tedious,” Lu began, rubbing the back of his neck while his claws worried the skin of a pecha berry in his free paw, “but I don’t really have anyone else I can ask since the graduates are generally preoccupied with their own jobs—”

“Lu, it’s fine,” Eliana told him gently, digging through the basket to find a pinap—her favorite, after Spinda had introduced her to their tangy, sweet flavor in a smoothie once shortly after their expedition. “You know I enjoy mindless chores. It gets my brain to stop running all the time. Gives me the chance to catch back up.”

He relaxed, watched her for a long moment, then let out a soft chuckle and shook his had. “I do know. It’s still just…a readjustment. I sure could’ve used your help through all of this, but…I’m sure glad to have you back now.” He smiled again, ears twisting back. “I hope you slept all right.”

She hadn’t, but that wouldn’t change anything. “Yeah. The bed was very comfortable.”

“Good. I had some down added in so you might be a little warmer down there.” Lu leaned back where he sat, finally biting into the weeping berry. “I have some things I need to do after this, so are you okay for me to leave for a while?”

“Yeah.” Eliana bit the inside of her cheek as she failed to find a pinap in the heap. She settled for a sitrus; it wasn’t quite the same, but it would do. “I’ll be fine holding down the fort.”

[ofhoovesandheart]

“meteor” sand wash basin stallion ☀️

[whywishesarehorses]

BLM Mustangs for Auction - Sand Wash Basin Mares Round 2

These girls did not go the first time around, so they will be up again in May 2023. Different post style to save me time xoxo

8596 Cahuilla

8630 Stardust

8643 - unidentified

8783 Rosatelle

8803 - unidentified

8813 - unidentified

8861 - unidentified

8868 Te Anau

8874

8877 - unidentified

8879 - unidentified

8896 - unidentified

8898 - unidentified

8914 - unidentified

8939 - unidentified

8942 - Tuscalia

8950 - unidentified

8951 - Maddie

8954 - unidentified

8969 Gem

8977 - unidentified

8979 - unidentified

8994 - unidentified

8999 - Lyric

9002 - unidentified

9015 - unidentified

[swkrullimaging]

Thundering Hooves Cover

I’m pleased to present my official temporary cover for my upcoming book, Thundering Horses, this time with real horses instead of the cartoon ones generated by Photoshop. Unfortunately our latest photo trip was pretty much a shutout. None of the animals we hoped to photograph came out to play. However, and perhaps out of sheer boredom, there were some horses grazing in the high desert that…

[tixdixl]

Happy Birthday, Kingsley! - Room Relaxation

Vignette Part 3

The next morning…

[Diasomnia Dorm - Kingsley’s Room]

Kingsley wordlessly gets up. He checks his phone to see what time it is, puts the phone in his pocket, and grabs the mesh hygiene bag. He takes his skull off his nightstand and slips out into the hallway.

[Diasomnia Dorm- Hallway]

Kingsley: … I hear someone from down the hall… sounds like Lilia–

Lilia, muffled: Gloomerai take left flank, DPS… I need someone to heal me- Yes, now. He’s got his proxy up. Fuhuhu~

Kingsley pulls out his phone.

Kingsley: …05:05… I don’t think Sir Vanrouge has actually gone to sleep yet… I knew that the Unseelie struggled with diurnal scheduling, but it doesn’t sound like he’s even tried…

Kingsley clicks his tongue against his teeth.

Kingsley: …truly irresponsible.

[Diasomnia Dorm - Washroom]

Kingsley: …let’s get this done.

With two fingers, he swipes across the bottom of one of the sink basins.

Kingsley: …this is dry enough.

He sets his skull down on the table in front of the basin.

He pulls out a towel and sets it to the side. Kingsley then turns on the faucet, and hot water begins to come out of the nozzle. He carefully puts his head under the running water for approximately 3 seconds. He lets out a single hiss from the heat as he quickly pulls his head out from the running water.

Kingsley lets out a huff as he partially dries his hair with a towel, keeping it still damp but not sopping wet. As he finishes drying off his face, he turns off the faucet entirely.

Kingsley: …should fix this. Wasting water from letting it drip…

Kingsley sets the towel on a nearby rung. As he lets it hang, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a comb and a tin of hair cement. Once he combs his hair back, he directly puts a small glob of hair cement into his hair and combs it through. The ease of which he does this sort of demonstrates how routinely he does this, and frankly, probably how long he has done this every morning.

Once he washes the excess product off his comb and his hands, he grabs the skull. For a moment, he hesitates, staring down at it.

Kingsley: …I wonder what it must feel like… knowing your body still lives on, yet it’s carried around day to day in a school… every day, passing by the welps who know nothing of war… know nothing of serving a community, let alone an entire nation… happy to live a life oblivious to the hardship of navigating multiple worlds, multiple lives, multiple cultures…

Kingsley: Surely, you must find their comfort deplorable… not when you gave your life to make sure your children’s child- my forefathers had a place to live, food on their tables, and clothes on their backs… Pitiful, really… and all the while I drag you along with me. At least… you are with me as I walk these halls.

Kingsley: Perhaps you’d think an apology necessary. But from the way I see it, how could you possibly see how the world has devolved without bearing witness to it yourself. Really, you should thank me.

Kingsley: …

Kingsley: I hear footsteps. Let’s get going.

The freshman takes the skull and places it with extreme care and precision on his face. He slings the bag and towel over his shoulder as he leaves the washroom.

[Diasomnia Dorm - Kingsley’s Room]

Kingsley: …06:00…

He approaches the curtains and opens them, allowing himself to see the first rays of daylight as they peek over the horizon.

He immediately turns, grabbing his things and heads out the door once again.

[Diasomnia Dorm - Hallway]

Once again, he hears the sounds of gaming coming from down the hallway. He pauses, mulling over his decision. His tongue passes over the front of his teeth in mild frustration as he opts to do nothing.

Kingsley: …a man of his age should understand the consequences of his actions by now. It’s only fitting that he suffer them proper.

As he continues to walk down the hallway, he hears the sounds of squeaking, echoing down the stone corridors.

Kingsley stares at the ground.

Kingsley: Sand…? Again? …those Scarabia ingrates know better than to track their filth all over our floors. It’s not like we have air currents to sweep for us.

Kingsley side steps to the closest broom closet. He turns the knob, opening the door, and with a snap of his gloved fingers, the broom jolts awake, snapping upright.

The broom waddles out into the hallway and begins to sweep the sand over to the dust pan, of which Kingsley held.

Once the broom finishes its sweeping, it waddles back into the closet and rests back in its place.

Kingsley closes the door, and with his hands clasped behind his back, he strides down the corridor, heading toward the dorm exit.

[Night Raven College - Main Street]

Copper: Oh, look! There he is! KINGSLEY!!!

Kingsley looks over to the trio, Gia, Jack, and Copper are heading towards him. Copper is fully sprinting. Jack and Gia are keeping pace behind him.

Copper: KINGSLEEEEY!!!

Kingsley: Good morning, Captain Benoit. Yugo. Howl.

Jack: Good morning, Kingsley. Ah- and Happy Birthday!

Kingsley: …

Gia: Copper told him.

Copper: Uh, yeah. And? He tried to get around it and not have a birthday. The least I could do is make him work for it.

Jack: …when you put it that way, I’m not sure I blame him.

Kingsley: …

Gia: Heh.

Kingsley: It’s January 14th, nothing more, nothing less. And we will all be late for our classes if we don’t head to the main building.

Copper, sighing: …One of these days, you’ll be less of a stick in the mud. I swear it to the Seven.

Jack: He is right though. We should go.

FIN.

---

A/N: At this point in the fic, Kingsley really said "You want a monologue? Fine." But I feel like this was finally an opportunity to unviel a bit of what's going on behind the scenes. He does in fact believe he is speaking with the spirit btw.

Second, another thanks to Gar and Cy for letting me borrow your beans. Means a lot. 💚

Part 1

Part 2

Tag list: @ramshacklerumble @the-trinket-witch @elenauaurs @rainesol @boopshoops

@cyanide-latte @winterweary @inmateofthemind @theleechyskrunkly @thehollowwriter

@lumdays @twstinginthewind @twistedwonderlandshenanigans

Lmk if you want added/removed

[crow-mortis]

Read on AO3!

“Birdie, you’ll catch your death out here.”

Her hands were cold, covered in water and soap suds as she stared out at the Gorkhon. She was frozen – her mind far away. She hadn’t noticed how cold it was, despite the occasional gust of wind that swept along the river. 

The voice brought her back to her body once more, and she turned her green eyes upward to meet the gaze of Lara Ravel – her best friend. The woman was standing with a basket propped on her hip, and she used it to nudge Violet gently in the shoulder as she passed. She pulled a knitted shawl from where it was tied about her waist and draped it gingerly over Violet’s shoulders. 

“I hadn’t realized…” Violet mused as she looked down to her hands in the wash bucket again. The bloodless sky reflected in the soapy water – gray and dull against the brown ridges of the steppe. It was September, and she could smell twyre on the breeze as it kicked up again. It was chilly for the season, uncharacteristically so. She hoped it would not be an omen of things to come.

Violet focused on her washing again as Lara took each garment and pinned them to the line. Fabric rustled in the wind, and the first shiver of the morning raced down Violet’s back. Once the washing was done, she stood and hauled the basin to the edge of the Gorkhon. She gingerly poured the remnants of the soapy water into the river and watched as the suds floated along with the current. 

“Would you mind refreshing the guest room in the east wing?” Lara called to her as she pinned a white blouse to the line, “Bee in the foyer this morning.”

Lara said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, and Violet gave a light chuckle. The other girl favored old wives tales, and Violet often found herself freshening up the sheets in the guest suite any time there was a sign of a future visitor. She would love to say that she didn’t believe in any of it, that they were just simply that: old wives tales. 

But Lara had never been wrong.

She popped a hip out to support the wash basin and headed back for the large house, giving Lara’s hair a playful tug as she passed, “Hopefully our guest appreciates the thrice-washed linen.” 

Lara giggled and swatted a hand at her, but only smiled knowingly as she returned to her work.

Violet entered the manor through the kitchen, depositing the wash basin into a linen closet as she pulled a fresh set of cotton sheets and a duvet cover from the shelf.

Violet had been working as a live-in housekeeper for Lara since Artemy left. It had felt odd to remain in Isidor’s home without him. The light had been drained from the space, and after the sand plague outbreak five years before, something had changed in Isidor. It was like a cold hand had reached into his chest and wrapped his heart in ice. 

Violet rarely saw him now, unless she was bringing him extras from their small garden or selling him some herbs for his tinctures. He saw patients in his home, but often she would see him about the town with a gaggle of children at his heels. Some thought it odd, but Violet hoped that the sudden affection the children showed him would bring a little warmth back to his eyes. 

They hadn’t talked much since the quarantine of the Crude Sprawl. Secretly, Violet harbored a small piece of resentment in her heart for him, for that . How could she not? He had made orphans of a number of children with one decision; though she always came back to how many he had saved.

They rarely spoke; Isidor would offer a few hums of acknowledgement here and there when she would drop by, but he was always in his clinic, buried in his work. Whenever she saw him like that she could almost swear this dark cloud hung around his neck and shoulders. 

She tried not to think about it too much, but she did worry for him. For all his faults, Isidor had become a surrogate father for her. She knew the children that followed him around thought the same. She had asked one of the kids why they liked Isidor:

“He talks to us like we’re people. He needs us, and we need him.”

That had been the end of the conversation, and the child had trotted off after the rest of the crowd of kids. Violet decided then to put a pin in the thought for later, but later never really came around.

She ascended the stairs with bedding clutched in her arms. The wooden steps creaked under her boots as she went, the only noise in the stillness of the manor. Well, besides the ticking of the grandfather clock near Lara’s office. 

It had previously been her father’s office, but since his recent passing Lara had taken up residence there. Sometimes she would sleep on the sofa near his old desk, and Violet would creep in and drape a blanket over her shoulders. She was grieving, and if Violet couldn’t shoulder her pain, she could at least lighten its weight a bit.

She pulled the stale sheets off the queen-sized bed methodically, tossing them into the linen hamper nearby to await wash. No one had slept in them, but this wing of the house was empty; Lara took to only living in one half of the manor, Violet as well. 

Violet was the only one of them to venture to this side of the estate. She dusted and fluffed throw pillows and washed curtains and swept floors that would likely never be used. Lara told her once not to bother with it, to just leave it as it was, but she couldn’t do that. What if Lara wanted to visit that end of the house? Violet couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing her childhood home in a state of decay and neglect. So, Violet made a point to maintain this half of the manor in the same way she did the other half.

Once the sheets were on the bed and the pillows fluffed and the duvet changed, Violet retrieved the linen hamper and headed back down the stairs. 

There was a tall, arched window in the wall of the landing.  She paused there, skirts dusting over her boots as she did. She stared out at the gray September sky, her mind wandering back to Artemy, as it often did. Their final moments on that platform had replayed time and time again in her memory. 

In the years he’d been gone, she’d written to him many times. After the first few letters were sent with no reply, she kept writing anyway. Something in her chest told her that he was reading them, that he was too busy with his studies to reply. She would write about the weather and about the locals. She would share tales of Grief and his gang of misfits. She would remind him that he had a home – somewhere he could come back to – in her. 

She never got a reply, but they were also never returned. That was good enough for her, at least for now. 

Sometimes she wondered how life would be different if Artemy had been allowed to follow the path of his father, but she knew it did no good. Artemy was ambitious with a mind full of new and innovative ideas. Sharp as a razor and eager to learn and experience everything the world had to offer him.

The painful thought was that this life was too boring for him now, that she was boring. He just didn’t want to waste ink and paper to write back to a childhood friend he hadn’t spoken to in so many years. That’s why he never wrote back, never came home to visit.

She wasn’t too proud to admit she missed him, but her feelings had been buried so long now that it seemed such a difficult task to unpack them again. She would take care of Lara, check up on Isidor, patch up Grief’s knuckles, trade books with Rubin, and she would occupy herself with a laundry list of things to do to keep those feelings tightly packed away. 

A sudden, loud thud against the glass made her jump, and she dropped the linen basket and it went tumbling down the stairs. She looked up to the window just in time to see what had made the noise. 

A second thud – a mass of black feathers fell out of view. 

She rushed down the stairs, careful not to trip on the dropped basket as she made her way through the foyer and outside. Under the window in the grass lay two crows; one was still, its body not stirring at all as she approached. The other…

Its neck twisted sharply at a right angle, its wings spread and trembled as its beak opened and closed, pitifully gasping for air. Panic rose in her as she tried to think of some way to help the poor creature, but as she reached out toward it, the bird let out a pitiful croak of a caw and began thrashing about in the grass; droplets of blood flew from its nostrils and stained her blouse.

After a moment the creature grew still, the small rising and falling of its chest the only indication of life. She watched it for a long time, until the last breath whispered out of its parted beak. 

The cold wind whipped through the yard and she shivered. She could hear Lara’s footsteps approaching, and then felt her friend’s warm hand on her shoulder. Violet glanced up at her, and Lara shook her head.

The steppe traditions would not allow them to dig a grave; Violet carefully disposed of them near the fork of the river. 

When she had begun her long walk through town to the Factory district, the sky had been gray and cold above her – it threatened rain. Unsurprisingly as she entered the Backbone, rain began to fall. She opened her umbrella above her and pulled her cardigan tighter around her frame. 

She hated the September rain. It always brought a chill with it that sank heavily into her bones and weighed down her body. The damp air also brought sickness, and the memories of the outbreak five years before were still fresh in her mind. 

Though she knew her mother’s blood made her one of the Kin, it was difficult for her to really relate to them. She hadn’t lived among them like her mother had – at least not before Violet moved to the Town. She saw them everywhere, despite the unrest between themselves and the townspeople. 

Most were friendly enough, and they always greeted her with a smile. She knew she looked like them – the dark hair and features that so resembled her mother. A few of them had recognized her by this alone, and they told her about her mother – they were often pleasant stories about her childhood. It helped Violet feel close to her again. 

She passed by an herb bride as she walked – the woman turning for a moment to meet Violet’s gaze as she went. She recognized the bride, though she didn’t know her name. She would often sit for long periods beneath the large tree near the Shelter. The scent of twyre and swevery followed her – nearby the wind picked up and the soft twinkling of windchimes broke the stillness. 

Violet paused and turned to look back at the woman, only to find the street empty. 

She adjusted the weight on the basket of goods she carried. She hooked her opposite arm under the handle and settled the weight on her hip. She had a few things for Grief. 

The small garden she kept was nearly wrapping up for the year, but she ended up with a lot of extras, and she knew Grief loved pickled foods. She had a few jars of pickled cucumbers and radishes, and she had even prepped some squash and cabbage. Though, she knew his favorite of the bunch would be the candied tomatoes. 

With the war, supply chains were having trouble keeping up, and she found herself very fortunate to have such a productive garden this year. So, she had decided to surprise Grief with his favorites. 

The rain drummed steadily against Violet’s umbrella. The streets were slick with mud, the shallow puddles reflecting the dim glow of a pale gray sky. 

The scent of wet stone and rust clung to the air, sharp and metallic, intermingling with the acrid smoke that spewed endlessly from chimneys scattered across the horizon. Somewhere in the distance, a machine groaned and hissed, its labor unending.

As she approached the warehouse where Bad Grief had carved out his dominion, the environment shifted. The streets became narrower, their paths uneven and treacherous. Broken crates and discarded scraps littered the ground, merging with pools of rainwater that caught and refracted the dull light of occasional lamps. The buildings leaned in closer here, their facades weathered and crumbling, their windows darkened by grime or shattered entirely. 

Violet paused at the edge of an alley, her green eyes scanning her surroundings with practiced caution. She spotted a pair of Grief’s men lounging near the warehouse entrance, their postures casual but their watchfulness unmistakable. One of them, a lanky young man with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, straightened slightly as he caught sight of her. The faint glow of the ember at the tip of his cigarette lit up his face, pale and sharp-edged.

“Birdie,” he greeted, his voice rough from smoke and the ever-present dampness of the district. “Grief’s been waiting for you.”

She returned his nod, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just bringing him some things,” she replied, her tone light but measured.

The other man, stockier and older, leaned against the doorframe, his eyes narrowing as he looked her over. “You’re brave, walking through this muck alone,” he remarked, his voice a mix of admiration and mild reproach. “Not everyone out here’s as friendly as us.”

“I’ll take my chances,” She said with a chuckle as she stepped into the warehouse behind them. The door creaked as it swung closed behind her, the sound muffled by the ambient hum of voices and faint rustling within.

Inside, the air was thick and stale, saturated with the mingling scents of mildew, tobacco, and spilled alcohol. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by lanterns hung haphazardly from wooden beams that creaked ominously with the weight of age. Crates and barrels were stacked along the perimeter, their contents hidden beneath oil-stained tarps. Makeshift seating had been arranged near the center of the space—worn chairs and overturned crates serving as impromptu chairs for Grief’s associates.

Bad Grief himself sat at a table near the back, his imposing frame hunched over a deck of cards spread loosely before him. His sharp features, angular and weathered, were partially obscured by a thin haze of smoke curling up from the cigarette resting in the ashtray at his side. He looked up as Violet approached, a grin breaking across his face that softened his otherwise sharp demeanor. His eyes, however, retained their usual glint of cunning.

“Birdie,” he drawled, his voice carrying easily over the low murmur of conversation. “What’ve you brought me this time?”

She set the basket down on the table, careful to avoid knocking over the cards. Unpacking the jars one by one, she began to list them off. “Pickled cucumbers, radishes, squash, cabbage, and…candied tomatoes. I thought you could use some of the harvest.”

Grief leaned forward, the warm light of the lanterns catching on his face as he inspected the offerings. He let out an approving hum, his fingers brushing against one of the jars. “You spoil me,” His tone was light, almost teasing, but Violet caught the subtle undertone of gratitude. He picked up the jar of candied tomatoes, holding it up as though it were a rare jewel. “The tomatoes, though…those are a treat.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Violet’s lips, though it barely lingered. “I figured you’d like them,” she said simply, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.

Grief snapped his fingers and the man who was seated at the table with him got up and disappeared into the shadows of the warehouse. Grief gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit a moment,” he said, leaning back with an ease that seemed both practiced and deliberate. “Tell me, how’s life treating you?”

Violet hesitated briefly before lowering herself into the chair, the empty basket resting on the floor beside her. The faint murmur of conversation around them faded into a low hum as she met Grief’s gaze.

“It’s been quiet,” she replied after a moment, her voice steady but guarded. “Or as quiet as it ever gets.”

Grief chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for his cigarette. “Quiet’s just the calm before the storm in this town,” he said, the cigarette bobbing between his fingers. 

Violet didn’t respond, her thoughts too occupied with the weight of his words and the creeping unease that had followed her all day. She let her eyes wander briefly over the warehouse’s interior, taking in the chaos of the space and the shadows that seemed to gather in the corners like restless spirits.

Grief watched her in silence for a moment before speaking again. “Anything new from Isidor?” he asked, his tone casual but his interest evident. “Still burying himself in his work?”

Violet’s hand tightened slightly on the edge of the table. “He’s busy,” she replied, her voice quieter now. “I don’t see him much these days.”

Grief snorted, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “No surprise there. That man will work himself to death.” He paused, taking a drag from his cigarette before exhaling slowly. “And Artemy? Any word from him?”

The question struck a nerve, the name stirring something heavy and unspoken within her. She watched as Grief tapped the excess ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. Violet shook her head, her expression carefully neutral. “No,” she said softly. “Not since he left.”

Grief tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing as if he were trying to extract meaning from the spaces between her words. He held her gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable before he leaned back, exhaling another plume of smoke. “Shame,” he said finally, his tone quieter but no less pointed. “Town misses him. Things aren’t what they used to be, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Violet asked, unable to keep the curiosity from creeping into her voice. She knew better than to bite at his bait, but the weight in his tone was impossible to ignore.

Grief’s expression darkened, the sharp lines of his face softening into something more somber. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his cigarette trailing ash over the battered wood. “The town’s changing,” he said, his voice low. “It’s not just the war. There’s something in the air—something wrong. People are on edge, more than usual. And the Kin…” He trailed off, his gaze slipping past her to the shadowy corners of the room as though searching for something hidden.

“What about the Kin?” Violet pressed, her chest tightening as she turned to look where he was staring, seeing nothing in the darkness.

Grief tapped the ash from his cigarette. “They’re spooked,” he muttered. “Talk of omens, strange happenings. You know how they are—superstitious to the bone. But this…this feels different.”

Violet leaned back in her chair, her fingers tightening around the worn armrests. She thought of the crows she had seen earlier, their bodies thudding against the window with an unnatural finality. The memory sent a shiver up her spine, and she pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. “Have you seen anything strange yourself?” she asked, her voice steady despite the unease settling deeper in her chest.

Grief studied her for a long moment, the lines of his face unreadable. Finally, he shook his head, though his movements lacked conviction. “Not yet,” he said. “But I’ve heard the stories. And you know me, Birdie—I don’t put much stock in tales. But when enough people start whispering the same things…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished, the weight of it settling between them.

She frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line as her thoughts churned. “Do you think it’s something serious?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

Grief sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his expression older in the dim light. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “What I do know is that things are tense, and tense towns break like old bones if you’re not careful.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening as it locked onto hers. “Be careful, Birdie. You’ve got a habit of poking around where it ain’t safe.”

Violet allowed herself a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I can take care of myself,” she replied, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her uncertainty.

Grief’s lips curled into a smirk, though there was no real humor in it. “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “But humor me, yeah? Keep your head low. This town’s got teeth.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment, the sound of rain on the warehouse roof filling the space between them. Violet studied him, noting the faint lines of weariness etched into his face, the way his shoulders carried a tension that seemed out of place on someone like Grief. He caught her staring and raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair as if to reclaim his usual bravado.

“What?” he asked, his voice lighter now, teasing. “Didn’t realize I was such a fascinating study.”

Violet rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched in amusement. “You just look tired,” she said. “More tired than usual.”

Grief snorted, his smirk deepening as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Tired’s the least of it,” he said. “This place’ll do that to you. But you’d know that better than most, wouldn’t you?”

Violet thought of her first few months in the town, and she glanced away, her fingers toying with the hem of her sleeve. “We all carry it differently,” she said quietly.

Grief studied her for a moment longer before shaking his head, the smirk softening into something almost genuine. “That we do,” he said. “But you’re tougher than you look, Birdie. Always have been.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in a small, reluctant smile. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Grief said with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair again. He reached for a tin to stub out his cigarette. “Anyway, you’d better keep an eye out. Things aren’t the same as when we were kids, running around the Station pretending we owned the place.”

“Maybe not,” Violet said, her smile fading slightly. “But some things don’t change. Like you still thinking you own the town.”

“Someone’s got to,” Grief said, his grin returning full force. “Might as well be me.”

Despite herself, Violet laughed, the sound soft but genuine. For a moment, the tension that had been coiling in her chest all evening seemed to ease, replaced by the faint warmth of familiarity. Whatever else was happening in the Town, Grief was still Grief, and that was something she could hold onto.

Their eyes caught in the dim light, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background—the muted murmur of voices, the patter of rain against the warehouse roof, even the faint curl of smoke that lingered between them. In Grief’s gaze, she saw a flicker of something familiar, something she had glimpsed often before. It wasn’t the sharp, calculating look he usually wore when dealing with the Town’s scheming, nor was it the casual, teasing warmth he reserved for their conversations. This was something softer, quieter. Admiration, perhaps. Or maybe something deeper.

Violet felt her chest tighten. What did Grief see when he looked at her like that? Did he think of the times they had slipped through the narrow alleys of the Backbone as children, their laughter echoing against the walls? Or of the days when his hands had been stained with oil and soot instead of blood, back when his world was small and honest.

There was a part of her—a small, stubborn part—that couldn’t help but wonder. Would things have been different if Grief had stayed a clocksmith? If he had clung to the trade that his father had taught him, instead of carving out his empire in the shadows of the Town’s underbelly? She could almost see it: a simpler life, one where the weight of the world hadn’t yet pressed its sharp edges into his shoulders. One where he might have looked at her with the same spark of admiration, but without the shadow of what he had become trailing behind it.

Would he have asked her to stay? To be a part of that life, the one he might have had? The thought was absurd, almost laughable, and yet it lingered, stubborn and unshakable. He had always been reckless, even as a boy, but there had been a time when that recklessness was tempered by hope. She wondered if he had ever thought of her as part of that hope, even fleetingly, in the quiet moments when his mind wandered.

Violet’s gaze dropped to her hands, resting lightly on the table. Her fingers brushed against the rough grain of the wood, grounding her as she fought to keep her thoughts from drifting too far. Whatever might have been was just that—an echo of something unrealized, lost to the choices they had both made. Grief’s path had taken him far from the world where such notions had a place, and hers…well, hers was still up in the air.

When she looked back up, Grief had leaned back in his chair, the flicker of vulnerability already gone from his expression. He smirked, tilting his head in that familiar, cocky way that made it impossible to tell if he was hiding something or simply didn’t care.

“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice cutting through her thoughts. “What’s on your mind?”

She gave him a faint smile, shaking her head as she straightened in her seat. “Nothing important,” she replied, her tone measured. “Just tired, I guess.”

Grief watched her for a moment longer, as though he didn’t quite believe her, but whatever he saw in her face seemed enough to convince him to let it go. 

“Don’t let Gravel work you too hard.”

She nodded, his words settling over her like a faint comfort. But even as she smiled and met his gaze, the thought lingered—faint but insistent, like the remnants of a dream she couldn’t quite shake. If things had been different, if Grief had stayed the man he might have been, what would he have seen when he looked at her like that?

And more than that: would she have looked at him the same way?

“I should go,” she said after a while, rising from her chair and adjusting the basket on her arm. “The rain’s letting up, and I don’t want to be caught after dark.”

Grief stood as well, his chair scraping against the floor as he stretched to his full height. “You need someone to walk you back?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” she said, offering him a faint smile. “Thanks for the company.”

“Anytime,” he said, his tone light but his gaze lingering. “Don’t let the boogeymen get you.” He wagged his fingers in a mock-spooky gesture, his grin wide and teasing.

It worked, pulling a soft laugh out of her despite the tension still clinging to her chest. “You’re ridiculous,” Violet said, shaking her head, though there was warmth in her voice. She adjusted the basket on her arm and took a small step back, preparing to leave.

Grief leaned against the table, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her. “Ridiculous maybe,” he replied, his smirk still in place, “but you’re smiling, so I must be doing something right.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it, letting the faint curve of her lips linger for a moment longer before it faded. The weight of their earlier conversation settled back into the silence between them, heavier now that the laughter had died away. Violet shifted her stance, her boots scraping against the warehouse floor as she glanced toward the door.

“You sure you’re alright, Birdie?” Grief asked suddenly, his voice quieter, less teasing. The sharp edge of his usual bravado had dulled, leaving something rawer in its place. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?” Violet asked, turning back to face him. Her brow furrowed slightly, her green eyes searching his for some clue as to what he meant.

“That one,” he said, gesturing vaguely at her. “Like you’re carrying more than you can hold, but you’re too stubborn to set any of it down.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words didn’t come. He wasn’t wrong—not entirely. And the fact that he had noticed, that he had seen through her attempts to mask it, left her feeling more exposed than she was comfortable with. Violet let out a soft sigh, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before she met his eyes again.

“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “Just tired, like I said.”

Grief’s expression softened, his smirk giving way to something quieter, almost tender. “Tired’s one thing, Birdie,” he said. “But you don’t have to keep pretending like you’ve got it all figured out. Not with me.”

For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Grief wasn’t the kind of person who invited vulnerability—not his own, and certainly not anyone else’s. But there was something in his tone, in the way his sharp eyes held hers, that made her feel like maybe he meant it.

“I know,” she said finally, her voice soft. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” he said with a shrug, pushing off the table and straightening. “But it helps, doesn’t it? Having someone to share the weight?”

Violet smiled faintly. “Maybe,” she admitted. “But that’s not how things work in this Town. Not for people like us.”

Grief snorted, studying her for a long moment. “Speak for yourself,” he said, his tone lighter now, though there was still a thread of seriousness beneath it. “I’ve got an empire of misfits who’d kill for me—or at least die trying. Can’t say I’m lacking in support.”

Violet shifted the basket on her arm again. She glanced toward the door, the faint sound of rain still pattering against the roof reminding her that the world outside was waiting.

“I really should go,” she said, though her voice was softer now, less hurried.

Grief nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer. “Alright,” he said. “But you know where to find me if you need anything. Or if you just want to drop off more tomatoes.”

Violet chuckled, the warmth of his teasing easing some of the tension in her chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As she turned toward the door, he called out after her. “Hey, Birdie.”

She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. His smirk had faded again, replaced by a faint smile that was almost disarming in its sincerity.

“Be careful out there,” he said, his tone quiet but firm.

“I’ll be fine,” she replied, offering him a faint smile of her own. “I always am.”

Grief didn’t argue, but the way he watched her as she stepped into the damp gray world beyond the warehouse told her he wasn’t entirely convinced. The rain had eased, but the low-hanging clouds and the strange yellow tinge to the light seemed to press down on the streets, amplifying the stillness. Violet tightened her grip on her umbrella as she made her way back toward the manor.

The shortcut through the steppe was not one Violet usually took, especially as the evening began to deepen into dusk. The Factory’s streets and the Town’s tension seemed to press in on her tonight, making her chest tighten with every step. The path near the train station, though desolate and dark, offered a quieter, swifter return to Lara’s manor. That silence, she decided, was worth the risk.

The rain had softened to a fine mist, but the ground remained treacherously slick beneath her boots. The steppe stretched out wide and restless around her, the tall grass whispering in the breeze. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and twyre, its sharp, earthy aroma tugging at old memories. Above, crows circled in the dim sky, their cries distant.

The remnants of an old fence loomed ahead, its posts weathered and leaning, marking the edge of the station’s boundary. Beyond it, the train tracks gleamed faintly under the muted light of the setting sun, rain clinging to the metal. Violet paused briefly, pulling her cardigan tighter against the wind’s sudden chill. The faint whistle of the breeze through the grass carried something else with it—a low murmur of voices.

Her steps faltered as she strained to hear more clearly. The sound wasn’t far, coming from the curve in the tracks where the horizon dipped into shadow. Crouching low, she moved toward the noise, her basket clutched tightly against her side. 

Peering through the tall grass, Violet froze. Three figures stood near the tracks, their postures tense, radiating aggression. One of them, the largest, held a knife, its dull blade catching what little light remained. His companions flanked him, their stances wide and predatory, their hands gripping crude weapons—a plank of wood and a rusted crowbar. Opposite them stood a lone man, his back to Violet.

He was tall, his broad shoulders shrouded by a weathered coat that clung to him like a second skin. His hair was damp, plastered to his head, and his posture betrayed a bone-deep exhaustion. 

“Give us the bag,” the man with the knife demanded, his voice sharp and cutting through the mist like a blade. “Hand it over, and maybe we let you walk out of here.”

The lone man didn’t reply. He shifted slightly, his weight adjusting with a deliberate slowness that seemed almost taunting. Violet held her breath, the tension coiling in her chest as the silence stretched thin.

The man with the knife sneered. “Suit yourself,” he growled, stepping forward.

What followed was a whirlwind of brutal, desperate violence. The lone man moved with a speed and precision that belied the exhaustion etched into his posture, closing the distance between himself and the first attacker in a single, deliberate stride.

The man with the knife lunged, his blade catching the lone man in the ribs with a sickening, glancing slice. A sharp grunt escaped him, his steps faltering briefly under the jolt of pain. But he didn’t crumble. His resolve, forged in something far deeper than the moment’s desperation, carried him forward. His hand shot out like a viper, seizing the attacker’s wrist in an iron grip.

With a swift, calculated motion, he twisted the man’s arm away, forcing the knife’s point away from his body. The attacker struggled, his teeth bared in a snarl, but the lone man was relentless. He pivoted, leveraging his weight to drive the blade upward and into the attacker’s ribcage with brutal precision.

The man’s eyes widened in shock, a wet, choking sound bubbling from his throat as blood spilled over his lips. The lone man’s movements were efficient, almost mechanical. As the attacker’s strength ebbed, his body sagged, and the lone man released him, letting the lifeless form collapse into the mud with a muted thud.

Rain slicked the blade now embedded in the attacker’s chest, its surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. Without hesitation, the lone man planted his boot against the man’s torso, bracing himself as he wrenched the knife free. The motion was forceful, deliberate, accompanied by the wet, nauseating sound of steel leaving flesh – grinding against bone. The man’s body jerked slightly with the motion before slumping motionless once more.

The lone man straightened, his chest heaving as blood seeped from the wound at his side, staining his shirt and mingling with the rain. He spared the fallen attacker no more than a glance, his focus already shifting to the next threat, his body coiled with readiness despite the growing threat of his injuries.

The second attacker didn’t hesitate. He charged forward, a heavy wooden plank clutched tightly in both hands. The lone man barely had time to shift his stance before the plank swung through the damp air, slamming into his shoulder with a sickening crack that echoed across the steppe.

The force of the blow sent him staggering back, the knife slipping slightly in his bloodied grip. Pain flashed across his face, his breaths coming sharp and uneven, but he pushed forward. The attacker swung again, this time aiming for his head. The lone man ducked low, the plank grazing just above him, close enough to stir the air.

He surged upward, using the momentum of his crouch to drive the knife into the attacker’s stomach with brutal precision. The blade sank deep, and the attacker froze, his mouth opening in a silent gasp. Rain streaked down his face as his knees buckled, the plank falling uselessly from his grip. With a sharp twist, the lone man wrenched the knife free, and the attacker collapsed, his body folding awkwardly at the impact.

Blood stained the ground in stark black streaks, the rain carrying it in rivulets toward the tracks. The lone man swayed slightly, his chest heaving, but he didn’t stop. He turned to the last attacker, who hesitated at the sight of his fallen comrades.

The third man, wiry and tense, gripped a rusted crowbar with both hands. His eyes darted between the bodies on the ground and the lone man standing before him. Doubt flickered across his face, but desperation quickly swallowed it. He yelled, his voice raw and guttural, before charging forward.

The crowbar swung wide, its jagged edge catching the lone man in the ribs. He staggered, a sharp cry escaping his lips as he clutched his side, blood seeping between his fingers. The attacker didn’t relent, swinging again, this time aiming lower. The metal struck just above the lone man’s knee with a hollow thud, forcing him to the ground. He dropped to one knee, the knife trembling in his grip as his blood mixed with the rain-soaked earth.

The attacker loomed over him, crowbar raised high for a final strike.

But the lone man wasn’t finished.

With a desperate surge of strength, he lunged upward, the knife flashing in a deadly arc. The blade plunged into the man’s chest just below the collarbone, stopping the crowbar mid-swing. The attacker gasped, his grip faltering, and the lone man pressed forward, wrenching the blade free and driving it across his throat in one fluid motion.

A crimson spray arced through the air, bright against the gray haze of the rain. The attacker stumbled back, his hands clawing at his throat as blood poured freely. He collapsed moments later, his body twitching once before going still.

The fight was over.

The lone man remained standing, though barely. His chest heaved with each labored breath, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of his injuries. Blood seeped from the gashes in his sides, staining his coat and dripping onto the ground below. His arm hung limply, his shoulder clearly injured, but his fingers still clung to the knife as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world.

Violet crouched lower in the grass, her entire body trembling. The scene before her was carnage—raw and unfiltered. Three bodies lay crumpled in the mud, their blood pooling in shallow streams that mingled with the rain. The sharp scent of iron hung heavy in the air, blending with the earthy dampness of the steppe.

The lone man staggered toward the tracks, his steps uneven and faltering. He dropped to his knees, his free hand pressing tightly against the fresh wound as though willing the bleeding to stop. His head hung low, his hair plastered to his face by the rain. His movements were heavy now, sluggish, as though the fight had drained every last reserve of his strength.

Then he collapsed.

The sound of his body hitting the ground was dull and final, his limbs splayed awkwardly as the rain began to pool around him. 

For a moment, Violet remained frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Her mind raced to process what she had just witnessed, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then, as though pulled by an invisible force, she rose from her hiding spot. Her legs were weak, unsteady beneath her, but she stepped forward, closer to the figure lying motionless in the mud. She dropped her basket in the mud, forgotten.

The closer she got, the heavier the air seemed to grow, thick with the scent of blood and rain. She knelt beside him, her hands trembling. Something about the way he had moved, the way he carried himself even through the brutality, stirred a faint, unsettling flicker of recognition deep within her chest.

Her hands hovered uncertainly, trembling as she debated what to do. The rain continued to fall, a cold, relentless drizzle that prickled against her skin and seeped into her bones. She couldn’t just leave him here—not like this. But she had no idea who he was or what kind of trouble he might bring.

Pushing the doubts aside, her fingers fumbled against the damp fabric of her skirt, and with a sharp tug, she tore a long strip from its hem. The sound of ripping fabric mingled with the steady rhythm of the rain.

The man remained unmoving, though his ragged, shallow breaths sent faint clouds of vapor into the chilly air. Violet pressed the cloth firmly against the wound in his side, her hands slipping on the rain-slickened fabric as she packed the makeshift dressing into place. Warmth bloomed beneath her palms— his blood, thick and hot against the cold rain—and it sent a shiver through her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the rain, though she wasn’t sure if the words were meant for him or herself. She pressed harder, wincing as more blood seeped through her makeshift bandage. 

A low groan rumbled from the man’s chest, a faint and guttural sound that made her freeze. His head shifted slightly, his hair clinging to his face. When his eyes fluttered open, they caught her off guard—a startling, piercing blue that seemed to cut through the dim light. They fixed on her with a hazy intensity, unfocused yet searching, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice shaking as she leaned closer. “Can you hear me?”

His brow furrowed as though her words were distant or muffled, his gaze flickering as he tried to process her presence. Rainwater trickled down his face, mixing with the blood that streaked his jaw. He attempted to push himself up, his arm trembling under the effort, but his strength gave out almost immediately. He slumped back into the mud with a sharp grunt.

“Don’t move,” Violet said quickly, opening her umbrella and angling it to shield his face from the rain. The effort felt almost futile—both of them were already soaked to the bone—but it was all she could think to do. “You’re hurt. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

His lips parted, as if to speak, but the only sound that escaped was a ragged exhale. She wasn’t sure if he understood her, but she pressed on, her voice steady despite the frantic pounding of her heart.

“Do you think you can walk?” she asked, leaning closer to ensure he could hear her. 

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze drifted toward the dark horizon, his breaths shallow and uneven. Then, with a faint, shaky nod, he signaled his answer.

“Alright,” Violet murmured, swallowing hard. “We’ll go slowly. I’ll help you.”

She slid an arm under his, bracing her shoulder against his ribs. The strain was immediate, his weight sagging heavily against her as she tried to lift him. He hissed in pain, his body trembling under the effort, but he didn’t resist her. Violet gritted her teeth, her boots sinking into the mud as she bore as much of his weight as she could manage.

“Come on,” she urged, her voice strained. “Just a little at a time.”

They moved in staggered, uneven steps, the journey feeling impossibly slow. The man’s legs barely held him, his knees buckling more than once. Each time, Violet pulled him back upright, her arms burning with the effort. Rain streamed down her face and the chill of the night gnawed at her,

He didn’t speak, though his shallow gasps were loud against her ear. She could feel the tremors wracking his body, the way his strength waned with every step. Her own legs ached, her muscles protesting under the weight, but she pushed forward, and after a while the distant outline of Lara’s manor finally flickered through the mist like a beacon.

“We’re almost there,” she whispered, though the words were as much for herself as for him. Her vision blurred at the edges, exhaustion pressing against her like a heavy weight, but the sight of the manor gave her just enough push to keep going.

The front steps rose before them like a salvation, but Violet’s body screamed with fatigue. With one last burst of effort, she half-carried, half-dragged the man to the door. The door burst open as she turned the handle, and she collapsed onto her knees, still trying to support the man’s weight.

“Lara!” she shouted, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Lara, please I need your help!”

The rain continued to fall, unrelenting, as Violet waited for the sound of footsteps. She glanced back at the man, his face pale and streaked with blood. His eyes were closed now, his breathing shallow and uneven, and a pang of fear struck her chest.

“Hold on,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she gripped his arm tightly.

[horsesarecreatures]

Wild Stallion, Sand Wash Basin, Colorado