#scene to make me keen like a wounded animal

[etaindelaserna]

Hello again....Do you mind if I ask your top 5 (or top 10) favorite moments from any media that you love (can books, anime/manga, tv series, movies, games, etc)? Thanks if you want to answer. Sorry if I ask too much or if I accidentally send this ask twice.....

Hello! Don't worry! I'm always appreciative when I see one of your asks pop up. So. Here. We. Go. As always in no particular order:

Gandalf talks to Frodo in Moria about Gollum (The Fellowship of the Ring)

There is something about that dialogue that always struck me as true, as something that touches our very essence. Not passing judgment too hastly, but also that our life is full of opportunities and each day we are confronted with the question what to do with this day. Nothing is lost. It just hasn't happened yet. We can choose whether we want to succeed or fail, whether we want to be good or bad.

Naruto confronts Zabuza about Haku (Naruto)

That moment never fails to make me tear up. Until that moment I didn't even consider Zabuza to be capable of having emotions but Naruto tore his armor away and revealed the deep connection he shared with Haku. I felt sad watching them die and yet it taught me and Naruto a lot about the shinobi lifestyle.

The truth about Itachi is revealed (Naruto)

Yeah, that one was a shock. I always wanted to believe that there was more to Itachi's story other than that he killed his whole clan because he "wanted to test his strength". Especially because he always tried to avoid a fight with Konoha shinobis and definitely didn't seem keen on killing them. But that Itachi sacrificed everything except Sasuke for the village -- that was a punch.

Luffy fights Arlong for Nami (One Piece)

Everything came together in that moment. I knew from the moment Nami couldn't let Zoro drown that something was up and when Arlong showed her that he will never ever let her or her village go, her desperation and fragility accumulated into pure epicness: asking Luffy to help her, Luffy trusting her with his hat and the boys just ready to beat the shit out of Arlong and his crew.

Theoden's speech at the Pelennor Fields (Return of the King)

Goosebumps. Every single time. The words. The music. Everything that leads up to it was pure desperation and then the riders arrive and god damn it. They came. They showed up to fight against the evils of Mordor. I was 13 when I saw this scene for the first time and I wanted to ride with them into battle.

Mufasa's ghost (The Lion King)

Mufasa's death must be something that has been ingrained into every millenials DNA. Just thinking about this scene, the music, Mufasa's desperation to save his son, his face when Scar betrays him, Simba's fear and sadness when he discovers that his father is dead ... it's a tragedy that speaks to one of our deepest fears: the loss of a parent or a loved one. And then ... he comes back to guide Simba, to remind him of his responsibility. It hits home.

Jon Snow's resurrection (Game of Thrones)

Jon was easily one of my favourite characters of the show. When he was killed I didn't want to accept it. It just wasn't possible that this was the end. This was all it amounted to: dead, because he did the right thing. Just like Ned and Robb. So when he was brought back to life I felt alive, too. It gave me hope that after all this something good would come out of it ... but yeah, then season 7 and 8 happened.

Vader saves Luke from the Emperor (The Return of the Jedi)

Another moment that just touched something within me. Luke's love for his father made him turn back to the light side. I've known Star Wars since I can remember but it still makes me cheer. It restores hope.

Morgain brings Arthur to Avalon (The Mists of Avalon)

I always felt that Arthur and Morgain were meant to be, but destiny made them half siblings. And when after all their hardships and years of separation, even after Morgain tried to dethrone Arthur and after he killed Mordred, she still seeked him out, only to find him mortally wounded from the battle -- and Arthur accepted her, was glad to see her one last time and asked her to bring him to Avalon. I felt the tragedy and sadness of their story. I also always felt that Arthur truly loved Morgain but knew that it could never be. So her kidness at the end, promising him, that she wasn't going to leave again, was at least some closure for me.

Harry learns the real truth about Sirius (The Prisoner of Azkaban)

This twist, that Sirius wasn't the one who betrayed Liliy and James, was such a surprise. But what sold the moment for me was the relief Harry felt when after years of abuse and neglect by the Dursleys, he would be able to live with Sirius. I loved that moment. It was so easy to imagine how happy Harry must have felt in that moment.

[terramythos]

TAYLOR READS 2023: A STUDY IN SCARLET BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

Title: A Study in Scarlet (1887)

Author: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Genre/Tags: Fiction, Mystery, Murder Mystery, Western, First-Person, Third-Person

Rating: 6/10

Date Began: 01/28/2023

Date Finished: 03/04/2023

Returning from war in the Middle East, Dr. Watson finds himself in search of a roommate in London. He makes the acquaintance of a man named Sherlock Holmes, an eccentric private detective with a bold new approach to investigating crime. The duo soon find themselves at the center of a bizarre murder; a corpse with no visible wounds in an abandoned house, and the word “RACHE” written on the wall in someone else’s blood. Through his keen deductive reasoning, Holmes begins to unravel the mystery surrounding the murder— but not before a second body is found, and the culprit’s complicated past takes center stage.

There is no satisfaction in vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that strikes him, and why retribution has come upon him.

For live reading notes, check the reblogs (warning for spoilers of... a book published in 1887).

Content warnings and review (spoiler-free and spoiler versions) under the cut.

Content Warnings: Depicted — Self-harm, drug use, death, murder, animal death, stalking/harassment, terrorism, misogyny, racism, forced marriage, terminal illness. Mentioned — Warfare, traumatic injury, colonialism, sexual harassment, sexual slavery/kidnapping, suicide.

**SPOILER FREE REVIEW**

Some disclaimers before I jump into the review. This is the first Sherlock Holmes story I’ve read, and my exposure to it in pop culture boils down to (1) about a season of Elementary and (2) the Guy Ritchie movies, of all things. Thankfully I avoided the terrible BBC show during its peak hype, so it didn’t sour me on the whole concept. While I know some of the unavoidable tropes, the stories themselves are mostly unknown to me. Second, A Study in Scarlet is actually the first Sherlock Holmes story ever published. This was a coincidence; I have a couple books I picked up at a second-hand store and grabbed this one at random. Part of me wishes I’d started with a later book, but oh well.

The first half of A Study in Scarlet, which is the bulk of the murder mystery, is an entertaining read. I genuinely enjoyed thinking over the evidence and trying to piece together the mystery, a central appeal to Sherlock Holmes. There’s a revenge narrative toward the end, and while it’s no Count of Monte Cristo, I did enjoy the themes and observations about human nature this introduced to the story. Doyle’s prose is serviceable, and there’s several lines and descriptions that really stuck out to me. A Study in Scarlet is an early work, so I’m interested to see how he develops as a writer in the later stories.

Characterization is hit or miss. Holmes is solid. Much of A Study in Scarlet is told from Watson’s perspective, and he meets Holmes for the first time in this story. As a result, both characters feel multidimensional; we get Watson’s honest impressions of Holmes (good and bad), and as a result learn about Watson’s own personality and opinions. The culprit, when revealed, is well-developed for Spoiler Reasons. Beyond that, I found the rest of the cast forgettable. Not every character needs to be deep and nuanced, but some really needed more development, or even a noteworthy trait. I didn’t get that from most.

There are some small details that made me laugh, like Holmes saying he wants his name to be famous. Mission accomplished, buddy. He creates what’s basically luminol in his introductory scene, in a book published decades before it was invented. As someone who mostly reads speculative fiction, I see this kind of thing in scifi, but to see it in a murder mystery is a fun surprise.

Obviously being written in 1887, there’s some aspects of the story that didn’t age well.  Mostly this shows in racism, colonialism, and related terminology. This isn’t a huge surprise coming from a British author in the late 19th century. For what it’s worth, there’s one footnote in this entire story, which Doyle uses to make a snarky comment about sexism. So I guess he gets a brownie point there?

Overall, the book is okay, but not amazing. I have some major criticisms of the story, but they mostly fall into the spoiler section of the review.

**SPOILER REVIEW**

So, the mystery. I was under the impression, before reading this, that Sherlock Holmes stories are fair mysteries, aka it’s possible for the reader to figure everything out on their own based on the clues provided in the story. Unfortunately A Study in Scarlet is only partially fair; you can glean the means of the crime, but not the perpetrator or their motive. During the grand reveal at the end of the story, we learn Holmes had access to information that the reader did not, and that’s how he figured out who committed the two murders. This honestly soured the whole thing for me. It might seem like a small thing, but the problem-solving aspect is what I was looking forward to most with these stories, so knowing I never had a chance makes it feel a little pointless.

My second major issue with A Study in Scarlet is its structure. The story is split into two parts. The first half is pretty much what one would expect— Holmes and Watson meet in London for the first time, we learn a little about their characters, a mysterious murder happens, and we follow the cast around as more clues present themselves. This was by far the strongest part of the story for me. So it was a little jarring when Holmes apprehends the murderer at the end of Part One, with an entire half of the novel to go.

The story then jumps back in time by around thirty years, in the United States, following a new set of characters. From here the story switches from a murder mystery to what I can only describe as a thriller Western. I guess Doyle really wanted to write a Western? Or maybe dunk on Mormonism for a while (fair enough)? To be clear, I love narrative shifts, genre muddling, and time jumps, the more experimental the better, but they have to be done well. This one is not; it feels out of place with Part One, and what it accomplishes narratively could have been done better in other ways.

It’s pretty clear from the start that Part Two exists to establish back-story for Jefferson Hope (the culprit) and why he killed Drebber and Stangerson. But Doyle spends way too long on two characters— Hope’s love interest Lucy and her adoptive father Ferrier— who only exist to get killed off. Despite them being the “focus” for several chapters, their development and personality are lacking, mostly told to the reader instead of demonstrated. “Show, don’t tell” is obviously not a hard rule, but it was much needed in this case. It takes a long time for Hope to enter this part of the story, which is a problem if he’s the protagonist. I admit it’s pretty wild to have actual real Mormons be the antagonists of a freaking Sherlock Holmes story, but other than the novelty and historical context, I didn’t find them to be compelling villains.

Maybe this leap into the past would work better if integrated into the main mystery story, or if it was pared down substantially, or even if the whole thing was told from Hope’s perspective. When Hope describes how he committed the murders toward the end, we do get his perspective… and it’s great! It made me wish all of Part Two had been told in this matter; it’s way more fascinating than what we got.

In all, A Study in Scarlet wasn’t bad, just mediocre. Had it not been attached to the most iconic character in Western canon, I doubt it would still be published and read today. But I’m sure future entries refine and improve upon the formula; I can cut a lot of slack considering this was Doyle’s first attempt at a Holmes story, and they’ve withstood the test of time for a reason. I plan to read a few later stories in the series to see how they compare to this first entry.

[the-slasher-files]

SLASHER FILES' BLOOD FEST: WEEK FOUR

DRAGON'S LAIR

DOMINIK KULOKOV

Prompts: MASK(S), VEMON, KNIFE/KNIVES, WAR

Keywords: ENLIVEN. RAW

Hazy and glossy eyes opened. Head swimming as the industrial machines around screamed. It was a warehouse, something hot and gritty with coal lingering heavily within the air. Sweat slowly mixed with the blood dripping down the man's temple, curled hair sticky against the wound when his consciousness regained. Squinting, trying to make out the exact scene around him. It had to be a dream. A gruesome and unspeakable nightmare, only possible in a dream world. But it was all too real.

Bodies shook like a fish out of water on their last breath, in pools of bodily fluids, grasping and heaving on the floor. Some were unmoving in paralysis mirroring the dead that laid beside them.

And a man sat in the center of horrific brutalism. Veiled in black with a hood up, he gazed down upon some kind of a homemade weapon—metal with interlocking blades to move as if it were a dragon's tail naturally hanging down to mean the floor.

"Guess you did not want me to ... enliven your night, so to speak," the man spoke, almost unimpressed by the whole situation and the gore he caused as if it was not his problem nor his doing.

With disgust, he pulled away his boot from one of the victims that began to claw at him, begging with slurred words. Turning his head with intrigue, a gloved hand reached into a compartment on his vest, fishing out a vile and a small hook blade. The metal glinted in dim glow from a furnace to the left that radiated a hellish heat.

"You fucking dealers whine more than your animals ever do, fuck," His Russian accent was heavier with ire as he drew his combat boot to the man's neck.

With precise and easy action, the hooded man cut his victims tongue in two, mimicking that of a snake's. And before he was done, the vile was screwed open, and a thick, sticky liquid was poured out into a pryed open blood-filled mouth. Kicking the man easily away as he screamed and writhed, the killer sighed, rising from his chair and pocketing the blade.

"Most of your "friends" won't die here today," Keen eyes that were once ice blue looked black, eating the chained up man whole. "Most of the poisons and vemons will just leave them with nightmares... most, at least. Komodo dragon saliva will cause him a pretty nasty infection," he motioned over to the man that just had his tongue cut "hopefully he just finds a hospital fast enough for that to be all."

The details of his person were revealed as he stridded forward, dragon tail whip in hand. Sharp eyes hardened, he was young, merely in his twenties. A black half face mask lined the bottom of his face, and white hair cascaded down the pale skin of his forehead. The chained man began to twist, kick fight against the restraints, he recognized him. A trade gone wrong they called it, a man injured all the people involved and the animals were stolen. This one only had a broken leg and a scorpion stinger in his ear, an easy warning compared to the others.

"Ahh, so you do remember me... I was hoping so," He smirked behind the mask, observing the way his prey rubbed his wrists raw in pinching metal chains.

With a grunt, the masked man lured back, strength whipping the homemade weapon around his victims neck. Sharp blades twisting and drawing hot blood, cartilage tearing with every squirm.

Closing in, only inches from each others face, the Russian man growled through gritted teeth. "A greedy bastard never learns, huh?!"

His anger was seething, a boy ripping apart as he tried to control it, and he pushed back, dragging the whip with him and watching the flesh part. He breathed deeply, blue eyes focused on the pouring crimson breaking in even streams —lost in it, he forced himself to look away with hunger in his stomach.

"This will help..." The masked man took another vile from his pocket and poured it into one of the man's wounds. "A few moments with Banded Krait vemon and I will meet you in hell" He promised, observing every last moment of this man's life.

[that-angry-noldo]

Oooh, yeah Finrod reveal option one is fluffier by a lot. But from what you've written, is Finrod's transformation ever that gentle? Option two is where the good chewy ANGST is.

I'm just imagining Mae's wolf getting visibly twitchy and Odd with a capital O and it's making everyone nervous, and Maglor went around Mae's back and sent a letter to Fingon that was like six pages but boils down to MAEDHROS WON'T LISTEN TO ME, COME BE A VOICE OF REASON HE WILL LISTEN TO!!!

So he comes. And is very reasonable. Gentle about it, but reasonable. *sad mae is sad*

So Mae puts his wolf in a cell. With some of the blankets taken off his bed bc if he has to do this he will try and make it as comfortable as possible. He doesn't know if it helps (it totally helps).

And he's down there delivering food and water dishes and not thinking about having to end things-

Blood and cracking BONES and twisting flesh, and SCREAMING that goes from the high keening of a wounded canine, to the equally high but viscerally different keening of an ELF-

Mae and Maglor and Fingon are never EVER gonna forget it.

At the end there's Finrod and he's skinny and scarred and INKED, horrifically so, but he's BREATHING. He's THERE. He's ALIVE.

They carry him back up to Mae's room wrapped in the blankets he's brought down for the wolf.

(Heck. I may have gotten a little carried away, but dang that's a fun scene to envision.)

DEAR TUMBLR USER ANISEANDSPEARMINT I AM KNEELING BEFORE YOU how does it feel to spare me crumbs of my own au

khghkgh maedhros leaving werefinrod blankets. KJHGHKJGHAJDHHJK I AM UNWELL

to be fair i planned this to be maedhros's own decision. he's aware that things from angband can do more harm than good, and in his mind werefinrod is still that - just a werewolf, just an animal. no matter how much he loves him, he can't trade the lives of his subjects for a life of his pet. (did i mention that the fact that he kept reffering to his cousin as a "pet" for long months messes him up a bit afterwards? because it totally does.) so he does the right thing and puts finrod in a cell. he doesn't want to do this, it doesn't feel right, but he does anyways.

Also yes maglor definitely sends rants to fingon which is convenient because it finally persuades fingon to visit. he leaves his errands either to his wife (if i decide he's married in this one) or to his council and goes on a journey

...maedhros thinking about having to end finrod. sjkjkajskljakjs. KHJHAHSKKH. I HAVE LITERALLY NO WORDS I'M TAKING THIS AND RUNNING WITH IT. PAIN TORMENT AGONY

you know what i'm gonna say it. by the time fingon and maedhros arrive to the cell maglor is already inside. he's already trying to either stop this thing or somehow help it. (finrod would pretty much appreciate if they stopped trying to touch him, but oh well.) and. yeah. none of them expects the creature to be finrod. they don't even recognize him at first - it's the eyes that give him out, and they are horrified because what in the actual hell

thank you so much for this i'm gonna brainrot over it while i go to sleep. i've got another ask from you but it's late so i'll answer it tomorrow :D

[sloggervlogger]

Massive New Injury As Jambo The Hairless Chimp Lost A Toe Sadly, Jambo has a new massive injury as he lost a toe and some calf injury as well. He still keeps going, hooting and kicking. As you can imagine there is a huge wound to his foot, so if you would like to skip this part it starts at 0:31:03 - 0:46:20. I blurred the main injury on the really close-up as it is quite horrific. The reason behind me not totally deleting that scene is because as you can see no matter what happens he still holds his food with that foot. Jambo is outside, he's skipping through the grass with his food in his hand. He just healed from his last injuries and now this. I really don't know how much more he can take. I dread every time I go and see him now because he seems to have new injuries all the time. I really don't know what the best for him would be and trust the Twycross zoo staff to make appropriate decisions. I know he's probably on strong painkillers, but to have such an injury and still be able to skip through the grass just shows you how pain-resistant chimps really are. They just keep going. I don't know who has done this to him. If it was his rival Kibali, or maybe they tried to put both groups of chimps together. I was unable to find out more. I can't really see his rival Kibali doing this as he's been very quiet lately keeping out of his way. Jambo was outside gathering his food. He climbs up to go inside. There he sits down and gets up again. Even with that injury he still manages to hold on to his leek. He starts to hoot just before he goes into the tunnel, there it sounds like he's kicking the wall. He eats some more when he's back out of the tunnel. Twycross zoo did write an article a while ago when the younger male Kibali was joining the group, but it's still quite relevant now. They wrote: "What’s happening with the TZ chimpanzees? Some of the younger females in the group are changing their allegiance to one of our young virile males, Kibali. This attention is giving Kibali more confidence and a keen interest in mating. Jambo is not in favour of this and as a leader of the group tries to control the situation, which sometimes leads to clashes between the two males. Challenges for power, although completely natural, are not for the faint-hearted. It involves the challenging chimp working to ensure he has his backup in place (lots of bond forming with his chimpanzee pals) and then displaying aggressive behaviour toward the dominant male. The extent of this can vary from lots of loud screaming and chasing around to the use of their strong arms and teeth to prove their power, which may create some injuries. Recently Kibali and Jambo have been entering into this type of combat, with Jambo receiving some nasty-looking wounds. Up until now Kibali has been unable to gain control of the group but he might decide to try his luck again in the future. This is causing tension within the group from time to time while they are transitioning through a time of unrest at the top. What do we do? It is important that our chimpanzees are given the space and freedom to live as close to a wild situation as possible. This means foods they have to forage for, space to climb up and along, high places to sleep, freedom of choice to go outside, stay inside, to be seen by the public or not and most importantly to create their own hierarchy. If we were to get too involved in this process it could mean potentially training the chimpanzees to rely on human intervention or it could even elongate the issue. We have an amazing keeper team to take care of our animals, knowing when to intervene or not, and a very well-trained on-site vet team, who monitor and treat injuries as required. Chimpanzees heal very quickly; we don’t rush in to treat injuries (which would require a full general anaesthetic) unless absolutely necessary but tend to let the wounds heal themselves where possible. So in general – we allow our chimpanzees to be chimpanzees!" #SloggerVlogger #chimps #chimpanzees Jambo was born at the Twycross Zoo in England. He has alopecia, a form of hair loss he had since his youth. He was born on the 9th of June 1982. Jambo started to lose his ear in November 2018, which the staff believes happened accidentally, it got ripped by his mum in a group fight. Twycross zoo tried to glue it back on with skin glue, but unfortunately, as time went past he picked on it so much that he lost all of it. In 2018 The chimpanzees got their new "Chimpanzee Eden" habitat. A 1,160sqm area with two seven-meter-high indoor spaces which are linked to a large outdoor area complete with huge climbing frames and huts. SloggerVlogger

[gingerteaonthetardis]

it's "i think i may have loved you, but i—i just need to let it go. so that's it, i guess. i hope you're good, i want you to be good, and... okay. so. goodbye" o'clock

[idontmeantosoundrudebut]

From what I’ve heard, Zoro has yet to say Sanji’s name. And when he does, it has to be a big deal, like a scene that makes the reader/viewer gasp, makes them suffer from shellshock, makes every Zosan Shipper lose. their. god. damn. mind

Here are two examples that I have cooked up, please feel free to add you own hah lol bruh -

-- N . 1 --

An epic battle is at its climax. The foe is awfully strong and Zoro is losing, god, he’s dying. He’s hurt and bleeding and fucking dying but he doesn’t stop, he can’t, wouldn’t even if he wanted to. Everything he loves is at stake. He can’t lose. But he can’t win. It’s like Kuma all over again, but Kuma had the decency to take his offer, take his head, take his life, in exchange for Luffy’s. This foe is not human, nor are they a beast. Even animals know mercy. 

The other’s are not here, except Curly. They bickered for a time, but Zoro made it clear that this was his fight and no one else’s. The cook understands and only watches from a safe distance, unseen by the enemy. Fuck, it is Thriller Bark all over again. Zoro promised the crew that he’d kill their foe, swore it, and they trust him, they believe him. He’s going to lose and he’s going to die and his dream, Kuina’s dream, will die and he promised them, promised her. Everything is breaking from his bones to his dreams to his promises. 

Zoro is kneeling in soil damp from his blood. He’s dripping it, fuck, he’s choking on it. He feels the broken bones in his left arm grate against each as he tries to lift Enma but the weight, the pain, is too much. He drops her to the wet dirt. His teeth are cracked, tight around Wado, he feels a few of them move loosely. Everything hurts. Moving, breathing, living hurts. Kuma had been kinder. 

The foe looms over him like a mountain, a God, a thing. Their weapon is high in the air and they grin with victory in their lusting eyes. 

He can’t move. 

Zoro, for the first time perhaps ever, is full of terror. He is so afraid tears flood his eye and his busted lips wobble and Wado falls from his quivering mouth, his whimpering and keening and bleeding mouth. His heart screams in his chest. He has never been afraid to die before, dying is easy. 

But he doesn’t want to die like this, not like this. He’s going to die a failure who is hurt and afraid and alone-

Cook. Curly. Dart-brow. Pervert. Blondie. Shit-cook. Moron. Noodle-

“SANJI!”

It’s a scream that is wet with blood and fear and desperation. He hasn’t screamed since Kuma. It echoes into the sky, a prayer. It tears his throat and the blood from his mouth mixes with the tears and the snot. God, help me. Sanji, help me. 

Sanji saves him, all fire and black legs and cigarette smoke. And Zoro watches, still trembling from agony and terror because he's still afraid. Sanji will die and it was Zoro who called him, begged him, to his grave. But then its quiet and there's a corpse too big to be Sanji’s lying on the ground, sautéed and tenderized. 

A gold eye and a blue eye meet. 

“We’re alive, Zoro,”

Zoro grunts, nods, then passes out.

-- N . 2 ---

Zoro is tired. All of them are. But that Cook, stupid Baka-cook, looks dead. It’s been a hard few days. Three days ago they’d gone through something that was similar to fighting Thriller Bark and Arlong Park and Water 7 and every other shit thing within the span of 24 hours. Curly suffered the most, physically and mentally, that shit-cook suffered bad. The other’s are knocked out on the gentle grass on Sunny’s deck, wounds bandaged and sleep dreamless. Though the cook is bandaged, his sleep hasn’t been dreamless. Zoro has heard him at night, a whispered name, begging not to die and a symphony of unintelligible agonized sounds. It was awful what happened, it was awful to see the cook beg a dead person to wake up.

Dart-board is in his kitchen, his home, his solace. Zoro stands in the doorway, arm in a sling and torso gauzed up. Cook is, well, cooking. But he shouldn’t be. Chopper prescribed a high dose of medication that needs to be partnered with bed rest, not zipping around making some sort of stew. Zipping, more like limping. Ero-cook should be on crutches for his injured legs, muscles and bones strained from the damn-near fatal battle they fought in. He’s got burns on his calves too. Chopper has cried and begged and that noodle fuck tells him he can’t cook properly if he’s on the crutches. Stubborn and cruel and stupid.

Zoro should shout at him, order him and fight with him till he goes to bed or uses those damn crutches but he’s too fucking tired, too fucking hurt. Plus, despite probably being tired like hell, the last thing the cook wants to do is sleep. Sleep means nightmares, memories. So, Zoro watches over his back.

His hands must of been shaking too much from the medication. The knife slips as he pulls it from it’s sheath and there is a splash of blood and a panicked yell. Zoro is there instantly, grabbing hold of his injured hand. Its a deep, neat gash going across his palm. Blood pours like red water. Zoro looks at Cook’s face and his blue eye is dilatated and darting around wildly, fucking Hell, he’s barely lucid on all these fucking pain meds. He’s cooking on auto pilot. The shadows beneath his eyes are awfully dark and his lips are chapped and his skin is pale like death and God, is this a corpse?

He guides Curly to the table and they sit there with fresh gauze. Chopper will kill him, but Zoro removes his fractured arm from his sling and professionally wraps the cut palm. He’ll take him to Chopper when he wakes up, he’ll need stitches. When all is done, they just sit. 

It’s quiet like a graveyard. 

Cook is staring with his white, mad eye at his gauzed hand like its something dreadful. It is, to Curly though, his hands are his everything, more important than his legs. His drugged up head is probably fucking with him and he can see it in the tremors that rack his bruised body and the faint moving of his peeling lips, like he’s muttering a word, a name.

Zoro, fed up with all of this pain and sadness, cradles Cook’s cut hand with both of his. The trembling stops and the lips cease to move and Dart-brow looks at him with that wide eye of his. Zoro holds his gaze.

“Sanji,”

Sanji nods, as if remembering that is his name.

“Zoro,”

Zoro nods too. They say the names like an answer to an unasked question.

“You’re alive,”

“You’re alive too,”

----------------- ----------------- ----------------- ----------------- ----------------- -----------------

THESE ARE JUST MY STUPID IDEAS! I LIKE THEM YOU DO NOT HAVE TO! I WROTE THESE AT 2 AM! HAHA LOL BRUH!

[alwaysananxiousmess]

Idea

Techno’s voices (chat) are genetic, and the “blood for the blood god” thing is too. He got them from Phil, who also can hear chat. They think the gene skipped over both Wilbur and Tommy. (Spoiler alert, it didn’t).

Techno probably started hearing them at about sixteen or so. Phil helped him through it because he figured out pretty quickly why Techno kept zoning out, having nightmares, and clamping his hands on his ears to try and drown them out.

Wilbur starts hearing them right before he presses the button. When Phil kills him and he comes back as Ghostbur, chat is gone and he doesn’t remember ever hearing them. 

Tommy starts hearing chat during exile. He’s confused at first. The voices mostly chant about how Dream is lying, Dream is manipulating him. Chat calls for Dream’s blood. He doesn’t know what the voices are yet, as Phil and Techno probably never told him. He thinks he’s going crazy and distances himself from Dream. This makes Dream angry and he’s a lot more openly violent and hostile towards Tommy. 

His exile still plays out the same. The chat pleads with him to not jump in the lava, to swim up when he wakes up drowning etc. etc. 

Dream blows up his stuff, and Tommy goes to Techno’s to take shelter there. 

When Techno eventually finds him, shortly after the attempted execution, he doesn’t really think too hard about Tommy’s odd behavior. The way Tommy’s hands shake and he smacks himself on the head every now and then, muttering incomprehensible things to himself.

Techno wakes in the middle of the night one night to the sound of someone fighting outside. He obviously goes to investigate, and he finds Tommy drenched in monster gore, holding a sword, and he’s muttering things to himself again.

Techno doesn’t know what to do about this, so he calls Phil (who’s still under house arrest at this point). Techno still doesn’t know what’s going on at this point, so he just relays what he knows to Phil: Tommy’s been talking to himself lately and he’s standing outside with a sword covered in blood.

Phil knows immediately what’s up, and tries to sneak out of L’manburg to get to Techno. He’s caught by Tubbo.

Tubbo tries to be threatening, but it doesn’t take long for Phil to snap and say something along the lines of “Tommy could be in danger and you’re stopping me from leaving to go save him”.

Tubbo still thinks Tommy is dead, so he just demands that Phil take him with him to find Tommy. Eventually, Phil concedes because he didn’t have time to argue with Tubbo about this.

They make it to Techno’s house, where Tommy hasn’t moved except to kill more mobs when they get too close to him. Techno notices that when he does kill monsters, his movements are more erratic and brutal than usual. This is what finally tells him what’s happening.

Tubbo is in shock because Tommy’s alive and not dead like he thought. Phil’s trying to keep him back, and Techno’s arguing with Phil about how “i have lives to spare, if he lashes out and kills any of us, it’s gotta be me, even as much as i hate the president over there”.

Techno wins the argument and approaches Tommy, who hasn’t moved even though he’s in earshot of them and should be able to hear them. 

Once Techno’s about ten feet away, Tommy whips around and tries to swipe at Techno, but pauses mid swing.

For visual’s sake, I like to imagine that Tommy’s eyes are red when the bloodlust takes over like this. Techno’s eyes are normally dark brown, but also turn red during bloodlust. Phil’s eyes turn red too. 

I’m actually gonna write this next scene because I had inspiration to:

———

Tommy was trembling from head to toe, but his grip on the sword was firm. His normally sky blue eyes had turned a bright, glowing red. The same color that Techno’s own eyes turned when the voices got to be too much. 

“They’re so loud,” Tommy rasped, sword pointed directly for Techno’s heart. Techno realized, uncomfortably, that he wasn’t currently wearing his armor. Just a jerk of Tommy’s arm will send him into respawn. “They’re so loud.”

“I know,” Techno said softly. His own voices had gone uncharacteristically silent, other than the quietest Technosupport and Technobro every now and then. “I know they are, Toms. What are they saying to you?”

Tommy’s eyes were blown wide, and the bags beneath his eyes were prominent as he responded. “They demand blood.”

“What else do they say?” Techno took a step forward, and Tommy took a step back, his bright red eyes darkening for a moment before returning to the color of blood.

“Dadza,” Tommy whispered, so faint and so scratchy. “Dadza. Dadza. Your Tubbo. Technobro. Dream lying. Dream liar. Kill. Kill Dream. Technobro. Technosupport. Blood for the Blood God. Kill Dream. Technobro. Your Tubbo. Blood for the Blood God.”

The way Tommy said it made Techno feel as if he was just repeating what the voices said exactly. 

The fact that Tommy was able to actually hold a conversation on his first loss of control was promising. He was strong. Much stronger than Techno had been at his age. 

“Tommy,” Techno said softly, gently, as if coaxing a wounded animal. He pressed his hand against the flat of Tommy’s sword, pushing it slightly to the side and away from him. Tommy’s blood red eyes dimmed again, but didn’t completely fade as he let Techno do this. “I need you to calm down, yeah? You’ve spilt a lot of blood. Are the voices satisfied yet?”

“They’re so loud,” Tommy said instead of answering, eyes unfocused and glazed slightly. Even though he was looking at him, Techno was pretty sure that his little brother wasn’t actually seeing him properly.

It was somewhat of a good sign. It meant that the voices weren’t lusting for blood as strongly as before. 

Techno stepped forward once more, and pulled his little brother into an awkward hug. Tommy was rigid against him, but didn’t pull away or try to attack him. Another good sign. 

After a few moments, Techno heard the soft crunching of snow, and then Tommy melted into the hug. 

Tommy made a high pitched keening noise, hands having dropped his sword and coming around to clutch at Techno tightly. His face buried into Techno’s shoulder, and his shirt started to get wet as Tommy sobbed.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispered frantically. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. They- they were so loud. I couldn’t ignore them anymore. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Techno reassured him. “It’s okay. I wish you would have told me sooner that you were hearing them. I could’ve helped you control them.”

Tommy didn’t seem to be listening, just hiccuping and squeezing Techno tighter as tears soaked into the older man’s shirt. 

———

Anyway. Tommy and Tubbo reunite with some (a lot) of tears. Techno and Phil help Tommy manage the voices better. 

I want to play around with this more, like Dream threatens Tubbo and Tommy goes apeshit bloodlust on him and fucking tears Dream to pieces or something. I think that’d be cool. c!Dream deserves it, the prick.

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 127: Out of the Fire

At first James thought the concussive, ear-splitting shrieking noise was coming from him. He knew he wanted to scream, but the air felt lodged in his throat now, because he couldn't see Sirius! Had he been vanished into an unknown abyss for dying in this future!?

They were in a very dark room and something massive was moving about, a sunset was forcing painful light into their eyes from cracks around the edges of heavy curtains only illuminating movement but no distinct shape. The rank smell of several unidentifiable things left him gasping and wheezing and he just kept flailing madly around, he wouldn't stop until he found him!

Something painfully tight latched onto his neck and forced him to bend over double, he shrieked in fury, trying to pull away and blindly going for his wand, but he couldn't find it! He must have dropped it when he landed-

"Prongs, stop, moving," Remus hissed in his ear with more stress than he ever would have believed him capable of, hand probably white-knuckled on his neck, he was holding so tight and suffocating him a bit, but it was obvious Moony didn't dare let up.

Heart still thudding, the maddening scene of Voldemort murdering his brother slowly ebbed from his eyes to really take in their surroundings.

Buckbeak finally began to calm now that all racket had deceased, but he was still clicking his beak in fury even as all of them edged as far away as they could bent double. He was standing much taller than usual, and James's eyes finally adjusted to see him perched on a bed. There was fresh hay and sawdust all around, plus a bag of dead rats sitting where the pillows should, leaning against a wooden frame like a mock bag of feed. There were deep scratches in the posts, ruining whatever design had once been inlaid, like Buckbeak often rubbed his sharp beak against it. The real problem of why he didn't go back to his meal came apparent when they saw all the blood around him wasn't from his food, but a deep cut in his front leg.

Sirius finally came into view, and James breathed in relief and tried to move towards him, but Remus kept him in the forced bow with bruising force as Padfoot began gently, "hey there buddy, wow that looks like a problem. I bet it hurts, how'd you manage that huh? Come here Buckbeak, come on, I promise I'll summon up whatever your favorite is if you let me have a look."

Maybe it was the gentle tone, maybe it was the familiarity of the person even if he was several years younger, in Remus's opinion it was just Sirius's innate ability to soothe anyone if he wanted to with that natural charisma when he unleashed it and nobody could resist. Regardless, Buckbeak finally folded his wings and made a pitiful cooing noise as he nudged his head against his shoulder and shuffled forward on three legs while Sirius kept up his inane chatter and carefully climbed up beside him, never moving to fast.

There were already some bandages and cotton balls waiting open and ready at the foot of the king sized bed, Sirius ruddy hoped someone was up here helping the poor thing out. He could now only wish it was himself though, it would be the most useful thing he'd ever done in his life at this point instead of- nope! He was doing it now, taking every care to keep chatting with the hippogriff as he cleaned the wound and wrapped it up tight. He didn't dare draw his wand to try anything else, these beasts were notoriously shy about magic in their presence.

The others began cautiously rising back to normal, and Buckbeak allowed it as Sirius began hand-feeding him from the bag of rats. His tail was still thrashing, binocular vision able to track everything on both sides of his head, but he remained at Sirius's side standing on the bed rather than trying to chase them off, which would do no good, he'd already seen Evans try the door out of the corner of his eye.

James tried edging forward, but Buckbeak spat a dead rat in his face, tearing up his bedding with his good claw as he heavily pawed the ground. Sirius reached up and pat his beak while catching James's eye with the most comforting smile he could offer. "Relax Prongs," his tone was still more honeyed than it had ever been speaking to his best mate, he usually reserved such a thing for teachers he was trying to flatter out of detention. It never worked on anyone but this hippogriff before. "I'm, I'm fine-"

He couldn't keep lying, his voice shook and his fingers began to tremble and the restless animal easily sensed his distress and began ruffling his feathers in unease. Sirius quieted himself and began running his hand along the gray feathers now, stopping to scratch in between the shoulder blades and the back of the neck, those hard-to-reach places that had him almost cooing with content and finally relaxing into him.

No, he was not fine. Of all the trouble he'd ever caused his friends, this was by far the most grievous one yet, now with Harry added to the mix! His godson, his poor godson forced to see this, live Voldemort's pleasure of murdering him! All because he couldn't do one stupid thing right and suck it up in this house. Perhaps he should take a page out of Wormtail's book and start distancing himself from them, give them all a break from his never ending catastrophes!

They watched in distress as Sirius worked himself up to a silent storm, he was clearly making the animal ill at ease as well no matter the affection given, so when Smith grabbed the book up off the ground and began reading, both startled badly yet again. Buckbeak threw his wings to their full extent and shrieked at her while Sirius flinched and had no time to duck, earning the retaliation of being thrown into the heavy curtains and sent them all on top of him, throwing the rest of the room into sharp relief.

Out of the Fire, into the frying pan, Remus finished in his head as he and James rushed forward to help untangle him while the powerful horse legs kicked wildly at the wall, sending a splintering noise in the very foundation while the bellowing shrieks began again.

Alice dropped the book and immediately bowed in apology, mildly appeasing the hippogriff enough he didn't lunge off the bed to attack her at least. He still didn't seem able to settle though, making a keening noise of longing and clicking his beak as he began pacing restlessly on the bed.

It was the most splendid thing in here. The midnight walls had silvery threads in the design up to the ceiling like veins that seemed to seep right down to the canopy that was torn to shreds, but the grandeur ended there. Regulus had only been in here once to even know such a thing was in his parents' room, otherwise it was unrecognizable as all of their things had vanished. They were forbidden from entering, but obviously that hadn't stopped Sirius's purge of the house, which of course made perfect sense why Sirius had put his ruddy pet up here.

His brother smiled, just a bit when his mates got him back on his feet and he realized the same of his own destruction. Regulus longed to throw at him it was doing shit like this why he brought so much of his own troubles on himself, he'd never really tried to make peace with mum and dad. Instead he seemed to go out of his way to do things they dislike just to complain that they hated him.

Regulus cringed at the idea of going back and attempting the same. He'd never be so blatant and in their face at it as his brother, but he didn't much like the idea of them shouting at him the way they did Sirius if he told them he had other plans for his life. He still longed for some kind of peaceful balance.

Potter and Lupin both seemed reluctant to let him back out of arm's length, but the creature refused to settle until Sirius got back on the bed with him and snapped dangerously at anyone who tried to join him. Sirius offered him another rodent carcass and waited until he'd gnashed away at it before nodding back at Smith with that calm aloof air once more he was so familiar with, it was impossible to tell what he was really thinking when he shut down like that, just how they were raised. Mother may actually be proud of him at that moment.

Now his idiot brother was going to die because he'd been in this house too long and refused to listen to anyone, but at least he'd have someone around to notice like Harry and Lupin. The shock of it all felt like an insulting blow to his world view. Sirius was going to be murdered for doing the opposite of what he'd done, was there really no right answer?

She began again in an attempt at a soothing tone like his, and though the bird head was tossed in agitation, he didn't throw his companion aside again but allowed the noise as it did him no harm and her voice was very soft, with fear. She read with dread of poor Harry's panic as he tore off for the Hospital Wing for McGonagall, who wasn't there. She'd been transferred to St. Mungo's.

Harry only had Snape to turn to for help, and that idea didn't seem to be occurring to him as his friends caught up and he had to explain the whole maddening concept to them.

Regulus listened with pity for Harry having to live through this, but something else was ebbing to the surface as he watched the Potter in here. Envy. Sirius kept looking to him, offering him that carefree smile as he kept patting at the beast and even winking at Lupin like this was some joke, making silly faces and even starting to hum a tune under his breath as he continued scratching at the animal, and when he wasn't doing that he was just the haughty Black heir. For all anyone could tell his godson was out having a picnic with him. It was a very good farce a lesser person would have fallen for.

Sirius didn't even look at him. Not to gloat this was the proper way to go against the Dark Lord, not to sneer and mock him for being up in this room he shouldn't be or even to have a laugh about it. He'd known for a very long time now James Potter was his brother's equal in a way he never could be, but this hadn't felt quite so insulting until this very moment where he clearly wasn't even going to be a passing blip as his brother was probably over there pondering what his last thoughts would be.

Frank had his hands on Alice's waist as she read, holding her close as her voice trembled for Harry's pain. They didn't even know Sirius, not really, they felt they had a better understanding of the man he'd become through Harry than the teenager who seemed so determined to ignore the proceedings.

Their aching sympathy though didn't dim their downright confusion at the circumstances. He caught Lily's eyes and saw the same confused expression as she watched him, Hermione's pertinent questions that had no effect on Harry had the three of them very worried something about this wasn't feeling right.

Sirius shouldn't have been leaving this home for this plan to be possible, but this was the same man who'd broken out of Azkaban, that part wasn't so unbelievable no matter who told him what. Why would You-Know-Who need him to get this weapon though? That was a very stumping question, and one they hoped they weren't privy to. If Harry dipped back into the other's mind and heard, the answer would give no relief to these transgressions.

Ron's answer was, plausible, but one look at Regulus didn't make it hold much weight. He'd been killed very soon after his entrance, it seemed laughable he'd even been in You-Know-Who's presence, let alone had some key of knowledge.

Ginny and Luna arriving stopped the impending argument, Harry was so desperate with anger by now that it was a miracle a plan was agreed by all to use Umbridge's fireplace to check this out.

The only one he spoke to for his troubles was Kreacher, laughing about the entire painful situation. Sirius really wasn't there, and now they may get a live version of hearing the great and mighty Black turn out like them if he was tortured while Harry was forced to watch. Neville now being in the very room with them nearly made reality splinter before their eyes.

Lily finally dragged her eyes off of James Potter's white face and buried her own away in her hands so she didn't have to see his reaction when Harry finally remembered Severus Snape was a member of the Order. She didn't even believe anymore he would have helped Harry, she didn't believe much of anything anymore. Here she was, nearly crying in sorrow for these two and only able to imagine her poor son losing someone again, and hating her best friend, what on Earth was this future? How could it be possible something like this could exist?

Something in her sparked traitorously as she looked back up when she heard him lying to Umbridge. Veritaserum was far from the only truth serum, and for him to pretend he wouldn't have any others was laughable. She turned mechanically back to Potter to see his silent screaming was still in full blast, but his wand was in Lupin's hand and he didn't even seem to care. Even the simple fact that he hadn't a reaction for Severus and only had eyes for his best friend felt right to her. If he'd gone about insulting him now, at a time like this, she'd know he was heartless. Instead she was now reasonably confident, almost hopeful again that Severus really was still in the Order for Dumbledore's secret reason rather than any plot of You-Know-Who's. Sev had no reason to lie to Umbridge and help Sirius anymore than he would Harry, but that's exactly what he was doing.

Harry seemed to miss this revelation, he watched his potions teacher go with the purest loathing once more, and she couldn't blame him, after everything Snape had done to her boy. She wrapped her arms around herself as if torn in two. Was this just another false wish then? She still wanted to see in him that childhood friend? It didn't excuse what he'd called her, but maybe if he really saved Sirius Black's life it would show he wanted to change...

Alice nearly shrieked and wanted to throw the book away from herself when Umbridge's next solution was to use the torture curse on Harry. Buckbeak was still no calmer in the heavy environment and glowered at her, but Sirius was quick to keep his attention, a murmuring promise of more spoils for him as soon as he could. He was starting to lose his composure though, they could all see the cracks now. He wasn't even looking at his best mate anymore, his fingers were trembling in the soft texture and his hair was covering most of his face.

The two had once been each other's salvation in escaping Hogwarts, Sirius fought the mad desire to try so now. Throw open that window and ride off into the sunset on the back of the hippogriff, maybe animals could come and go from this nightmare.

He knew he couldn't though, he felt like a coward for even thinking it. His friends might be better off without him, but damn it all, even Hermione was coming up with quite the story to Umbridge's face and got Harry out of that situation, the three of them heading off to the Forbidden Forest! If that girl, who hadn't even wanted to help him moments ago, thinking Harry was having some nightmare, could manage that, he'd suck it up and be there for them any way they wanted him.

[jengajives]

Needed some emotionals so I rewrote Beleg’s death scene

A gathering thunderstorm was perfect weather for a rescue. Nice and dark, with the distant rumble in the sky drowning out any less-than-stealthy noises. Gwindor was very much less-than-stealthy, but Beleg couldn’t really blame him, and a well-trained elf’s poor stealth was still much quieter than anything a Man could manage- or, Valar forbid, a dwarf.

And it wasn’t Gwindor’s fault he walked with a very loud limp, and no one was near enough to hear them anyway.

The orc-camp was still, with the sentinels dead and all the soldiers passed out in varying states of inebriation.

The two elves crept to the far side of camp uninterrupted, and at last Beleg got to look on Túrin’s face again.

The Man’s face was stark and hollow, his skin clammy as he lay there limp against the withered tree trunk he’d been chained to with black iron. He still wore the simple clothing he’d had on that night so long ago on Amon Rûdh. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since then, all of searching, desperate and nearly hopeless, and yet here Beleg knelt, with Túrin alive and whole before him.

“Túrin,” he said softly, reaching up a hand to brush the tangles of dark hair from his motionless face. “Melethen. Can you hear me?”

He tried not to look at the blades stuck into the cracked wood around where Túrin slumped, or the bruises and blood smeared across the Man’s face, or the grey at the sides of his unkempt beard. He didn’t want to imagine how Túrin had suffered alone.

Beleg tried again. Túrin’s face was feverishly hot when he took it into his hands and raised it.

“Melethen, wake up.”

Just behind him, Gwindor cowered at a sudden crack of thunder. His dark eyes darted, terrified, back to the pile of snoozing orcs not too far away.

“Cúthalion,” he whimpered. “They won’t stay asleep forever...”

“He’s sick.” Beleg pressed a hand to Túrin’s forehead and muttered some simple mantra he’d heard Luthien using once. The only reaction was a slight stirring beneath the eyelids, but that was all. Túrin remained limp and unresponsive, and his breathing came slow but steady. Beleg turned his attention to the chains.

“You’ll have to help me carry him,” he said softly, drawing Anglachel from its sheath as quietly as he could. The black blade seemed to flash in the night darkness, stars wheeling upon its blade. No doubt it would be sharp enough to cut through.

The wind lifted, washing the scent of rain over the camp. As Beleg pried at the chain wrapped around the tree trunk, and slowly the metal began to bend.

Gwindor looked up again, panicked, when one of the guards snorted. His icy fingers gripped Beleg’s sleeve.

“We need to go now.”

“We aren’t leaving without him.”

Finally the first chain snapped and rattled lifelessly to the ground, but there was still the matter of the cords around Túrin’s wrists and ankles. Beleg was stooping to begin cutting these when at last, the long-threatened rain began to fall.

Gwindor let out a sound like a punctured bellows and gripped tighter.

“Cúthalion...”

Beleg didn’t provide a direct answer, because he was too busy getting his arms around Túrin’s torso to try and lift him.

“Get his legs.”

Despite the way he was trembling, Gwindor did so, and together the two of them hefted the unconscious man and started the short trek out of camp. The hills were not so steep here, but still it was difficult to get far in the slick of rain, carrying such a burden; despite his captivity thinning him considerably, Túrin was still quite dense and very heavy. They couldn’t have carried him long even in the best conditions.

Still, Gwindor gave a terrified hiss when Beleg stopped at the top of the nearest foothill and lowered Túrin gently to the ground.

“This isn’t far enough! They’ll find us, and they’ll take us back to Him-“

“Gwindor,” Beleg said in his warmest, calmest voice. He met Gwindor’s wavering brown eyes with a simple confidence. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

For a moment in the rain there was stillness, and Gwindor’s face slowly softened as the warmth of those eyes filled him.

Then, on the ground at their feet, Túrin made a sound like a light moan of agony, and Beleg’s calming gaze immediately snapped downward.

“We cannot bear him further,” he mumbled, distracted now, as, he dropped to his knees and, again, tried his hardest to rouse the Man. “If I can wake him, he might have the strength to follow us beyond the foothills. That’s our best hope.”

“Hurry,” Gwindor said, glancing over his shoulder again. Beleg didn’t respond. He pressed a hand to Túrin’s cheek, a horrible mix of relief and fear twisting gleefully in his stomach. Túrin was alive and safe, but if he didn’t wake up, Beleg might not be able to keep him that way, and the three of them could all very well be dragged to Angband and broken. What was Beleg supposed to do then? If he led these two poor souls back to torment, he wouldn’t ever forgive himself.

Again, Beleg reached up and grasped Anglachel’s hilt, drawing the sword carefully from his back. He lifted Túrin’s bound wrists and very cautiously began to slide the blade through the thick cords holding him, cursing himself now for want of a dagger.

As soon as his wrists were free, Beleg moved down and put a hand on his calf, holding it gently in place as he brought his sword around, a nervousness settling into his belly, because the idea that Túrin wouldn’t wake up at all had just crossed his mind.

He wiped the rainwater from his eyes and mumbled, more to reassure himself than Túrin.

“Don’t worry, melethen. I’ll take care of you... You’re going to be fine.”

Thunder rumbled across the sky like the toll of an awful bell. Gwindor covered his ears and threw himself to the ground as the deafening crackle broke over their heads.

Beleg’s hand slipped, just a bit, as Anglachel came through the cords, so it caught skin on the way out.

A little gash on Túrin’s ankle, already beginning to drip a watery pink.

The blade seemed to flash with some unseen light as Beleg cursed softly, pushing the cut bonds aside so he could get a better look at what he’d done, but before he got too far, he felt a distinctive shift beneath his hand.

Túrin was moving.

A delight flooded Beleg’s mind so quickly it made him dizzy.

The images of the two of them going south again, finding safe and familiar woods, played eagerly before his eyes. Beleg tending to his sweetheart until Túrin’s strength returned and his torment was forgotten. Returning to Menegroth together, and Túrin reclaiming what he’d abandoned, and becoming an honored and beloved prince again. Beleg properly asking Thingol for his foster son’s hand.

The two of them living the life they were meant to live, defying the shadow.

There was a giddy smile on his face when he turned towards Túrin. It was easy for him to see through the gloom, but his companion might not be able to, so Beleg reached down to touch Túrin’s face and reassure him with a familiar touch.

Only, the expression he saw through the darkness was a mask of terror and rage, and before his smile even had time to soften, Túrin had grabbed him, same remarkable strength in his hands even after all this time, and pushed him into the muddy ground, holding him there as fingers grasped madly for the sword in Beleg’s hand.

He could not recognize Túrin’s face.

The sword was wrenched from him, but he followed and caught wrist, and a weird sort of panic set in when he saw the mania in those black eyes. The rage of someone who thought he was defending his life against some awful foe.

The panic and the pity swirled around together in his head. Imagining the pain Túrin must have endured to look as feral as he did now, thoughtless to anything but his own defense. It was only surprise in his voice though, when he finally got a word from his faltering throat.

“Túri-“

Abruptly then, there was no more space for air in his lungs, and his brain alerted lazily to a pain in his chest that it didn’t seem too keen on processing.

The panicked, frenzied breathing overhead did not slow, but Beleg heard a rather strange gurgle from his own throat, and then the pain twisted inside him, and the ability to make any sound at all left him.

Túrin knelt over him, heaving with the effort of breath, clutching Anglachel’s hilt. The blade passed directly through Beleg’s heart, with the tip buried six inches into the mud beneath his back.

Such madness in those familiar eyes. A snarl where a loving smile ought to be.

Beleg’s chest made an odd crackling when he tried to breathe, and when he tried to raise a hand to Túrin’s face, it only made his fingers twitch weirdly.

He realized he was dying only when he found he could no longer close his eyes.

He could not recognize Túrin’s face.

But he saw the terror squirming in his eyes like rot, and he understood, before the end, and he forgave.

When the flash of lightning came at last, Gwindor already knew Beleg was dead, because he’d heard the last breath leave through mangled lungs, and nothing else return.

He didn’t want to see what the body actually looked like because he didn’t think he’d be able to look death in the eyes again, and he also did not want the Man to see and kill him too.

But when the white light came, Gwindor did carefully raise his head, though when he saw the expression on Túrin’s face, he wished he hadn’t.

Beleg had said quite a lot about Húrin’s son since he first found Gwindor and roused him from his despair. He’d heard of the courageous and hardy companion-in-arms, and the careful strategist, and the lover, kind and gentle as could be.

But in that moment Gwindor saw only an animal wounded and afraid, and a Man who had committed the unspeakable.

The gaunt, horrified look on his face was probably the most horrible thing Gwindor had ever seen outside of Angband. The slow dread of looking down at Beleg’s face and realizing he had done this and there was no going back, no changing it, and the horror of that realization would not leave his eyes, nor would the rage with himself, with his imagined foes, or the terror planted there in the root of him as the orcs howled far below, but no expression could make more headway than that of pure despair.

It was so awful than Gwindor lowered his head again and tucked his arms over it to try and block out whatever he could.

He didn’t know where to go without Beleg. What to do. There wasn’t a chance for them alone with all those orcs searching- soon enough they’d both end up dead, and all of Gwindor’s suffering would be for naught.

He waited until his heartbeat was somewhat steady, then he slowly lifted his head just enough to see if Túrin had run off in his madness yet.

He hadn’t. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all. His face had barely shifted.

“Túrin,” Gwindor breathed, cautiously reaching out a trembling hand until a lightning strike made him hastily pull it back.

The hills lit up stark white. Far below, orcs were swarming about themselves like terrified insects. The sight made his stomach crawl.

“Túrin, we need to move,” he whimpered, and this time he did properly reach out and touch the Man’s shoulder as gently as he could manage. “They’ll find us here...”

There was no reaction. Túrin hadn’t turned from Beleg. When Gwindor chanced a glance down at the body, he saw a bloody hand resting against Beleg’s cheek, and the thumb slowly stroking back and forth, methodical. The soft green eyes were wide open and stared up at the thunderclouds darkening the sky.

When he looked very closely, Gwindor could see Túrin’s eyes darting to and from different parts of the dead elf’s face, searching desperately for something he wouldn’t find.

Gwindor tightened his grip and gave the shoulder a pull.

“We need to go!”

Still Túrin didn’t stir. He hadn’t even acknowledged yet that Gwindor was there.

For a brief moment, Gwindor considered fleeing up into the highlands alone, but the idea disintegrated when he looked down again at Beleg.

The first face to show him kindness in who-knew-how many years- kindness he didn’t even deserve. The hands that had carefully lifted the net of despair from his mind and returned him to hope- hope for this Man, who Cúthalion had treasured above all else.

Gwindor couldn’t leave him here like this. He couldn’t leave Beleg, nor could he leave Túrin, for Beleg’s sake.

The last thing Cúthalion wanted to do was keep Túrin safe, so Gwindor would be the one to do it.

If he could never really feel clean touching the hands that took Beleg Cúthalion from this world, then so be it.

Slowly he got to his feet and limped to the edge of the dell so he could keep a better eye on the orcs down below.

Behind him, Beleg and Túrin were still as two statues in the downpour.

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

Werewolf Thomas x Merman Sammy.

This might end up taking multiple chapters, in addition to me digging in too deep, this ship in general just gives off a petty enemies, to reluctant allies due to supernatural circumstances, to ‘hey you’re not as bad as I thought.’, to friends, to lovers vibe.

Occam's razor indicates that the simplest explanation to a scenario is also the most likely scenario to be the true one.

For example: when an animation studio suddenly closes down and gets condemned, people who are on the outside looking in are much more likely to blame the studio's poor money management than go look for some extraordinary truth. That, paired with the workers of the said studio also coming out to site the terrible conditions of the place as an added cause for the studio's demise. When people have to work long hours with little pay to show for it in a dingy, gloomy, constantly-falling-apart studio that clearly wasn't going anywhere except six feet under or lower, they aren't exactly motivated to work hard or happy.

The Hunger was intense, growing beyond mere gnawing and was now consuming the cursed mechanic. The first change he felt was his teeth, the Curse deciding it was easier to make them all fall out at once so his new ones would grow in. He cut up his own tongue on the newly-made fangs. Call it an act of mercy or an act of mockery, but the tongue followed the teeth's example, falling out altogether so that the tongue of a wolf could grow in.

No one batted an eye when a majority of the studio's former workers left with some of them being untraceable, the lucky ones moved on to greener and happier pastures, others simply got a change in scenery, and sadly, accidents happen all the time in such an unsafe studio, people got severely injured in there all the time, so it was gut-wrenching for many, but not a shock to discover that it was common for unlucky people to lose their lives in the Dancing Demon's domain.

His entire body burned on the inside and outside, taking off his clothes did nothing for him as his new, thick coat grew in, a coat that was the same pitch black as his hair, at least, most of it was. The change did not hurt as much as he thought it would. As painful as it sounded when his bones became a crackling choir that reminded him of fireworks, it was not pure agony, he was sore, afraid, and so, very, very, hungry, but he was physically fine.

No one suspected anything like somebody intentionally sabotaging the many pipes that pumped ink through the entire building, that would just be silly! It was more than obvious that the pipes got the same treatment as the rotting wooden walls: they were ignored until it was too late. With all the wood, paper, flammable ink, candles, no windows, and avid smokers in that place, it was only a matter of time before that place went up in flames.

Colors began to dim and fade out leaving him with vision that could only see black, white, and the several shades of gray inbetween them. The trade off with his senses made itself clear as his sense of smell and hearing both grew stronger, he could barely think as the smells and sounds his human self had been blind to came to him at full force, overwhelming the mechanic. He held back the urge to scream and call for help, he knew none would come, unless it was the dogcatcher at this point. However he would not hold back the urge to whine, whimper and cry, as pathetic as he looked and sounded, he would at least give himself that mercy, even if he didn't deserve it.

No one thought the ink machine was anything more but an expensive and stupid project that definitely sped up the studio's already fast decline, but only with it's mere presence. Honestly, a machine that made models out of ink, wouldn't it be cheaper and easier to make a statue of your beloved mascots out of plastic or something like that?

Thomas yelped in surprise when the tail grew in, it felt like somebody gave his spine a good sharp yank. He was furious, scared, even remorseful as he knew he was responsible for this happening to himself and possibly others knowing Mr. Drew, and by god, did he want to sink his teeth into something.

No one except for crazy cross-clutching worrywarts who want to spoil every one else's fun and or conspiracy theorists would assume that the Little devil darling who graced the comics and silver screens for at least a decade would have literal satanic magic going on behind the scenes, no matter how screwy the man in charge seemed.

He was starving all day ever since the ritual, but now that the changes were over, he felt hungrier than ever before, like his stomach was a black hole that would make him consume everything in his path.

No one would ever seriously suggest that magic was real and led to being the studio's final nail in the coffin instead of becoming its savior like it's founder had wanted it to.

In the moment, Thomas Conner believed that Occam's razor was bullshit.

The mechanic knew what he'd seen, he knew to an extent what he took part in, he saw what happened to some of the unluckier members of the "Missing" studio workers, and most importantly of all, he experienced what he just went through. There was no 'simple' or 'normal' explanation for it; the ritual failed and as a result, he and a handful of other people had gotten cursed.

Here the new wolf was, squeezing his now much larger body underneath his bed to do nothing but cower like a frighted animal while trying to convince himself not to panic or to eat his pet snake. Keeping his human mind at the moment was both a blessing and a cur- -some extra salt to rub into his fresh wounds.

On one hand, the fact he was still smart enough to know better than to jump out the window and follow his nose for food like his instincts were telling him to was a lifesaver that kept him safe from animal control. On the other hand; if he was a beast in mind, he would at least be doing something more productive than sulking in his apartment thinking about anything else other than how badly he got fucked over, how his life was in shatters and how he had nobody but himself to blame for it (Well, aside from Joey, but that wasn't the point).

While far from ideal, his current plan was to remain under that bed, try his best to go to sleep, and occasionally chew its legs to stop himself from going on a rampage. He might not be the most supernaturally informed person, but he had seen enough werewolf horror flicks to know that nothing good would come if he gave into his hunger or if he tried to leave. Best case scenario; he'd become as sick as a dog after eating something he found in the garbage. Worst case scenario; Somebody decides that he'd make a great living room rug and BANG!

And then, his ears perked up as he heard the song.

It was a simple, repetitive tune, made with a music box maybe? It was the first time he heard it yet it felt familiar to him. The song itself was muffled, used a lot of ambiance in its melody, and if he strained his ears enough, he could almost pick up the sound of a voice singing along with it, but it was far too faint for him to tell who or what was singing, let alone what the lyrics to the song were. It sounded nice in spite of it's strangeness, but it gave him goosebumps. He knew it wasn't playing from the radio, he only kept it on when he was fixing something at home.

The curious wolf struggled to push a window open with his snout to figure out where it was coming from. He was making progress, the song did sound slightly less muffled now that he was poking his head out the window. Was it just him, or did the tune become faster? And it was also louder and more frantic, and he swore that the constantly repeating motif sounded like something he knew. The mechanic never considered himself to be a man with a keen ear for music, but he knew he heard it before.

Three short notes, three slightly longer notes, three more short notes, again and again and again repeating endlessly...---...Wait a minute. Thomas didn't recognize that pattern from a song, he recognized that that was a call for help!

"Don't do it..." He grumbled to himself as he put his paws up on the windowsill. "You don't know what'll happen, or if you'll even get there in time. Just go back inside and you'll figure out what to do with yourself in the morning."

The song, almost as if it was aware he was trying to ignore it like he was ignoring his hunger, grew louder and faster.

"Don't give in..." The wolf turned back. "You can't help anyone like this anyway, you'll only end up hurting yourself."

It... started to die down, back to its regular, chilling melody and grew even softer. Flickering away like a candlelight in the cold.

"Don't..." The wolf let out a very tired sigh as he looked out the window. "Oh fuck me."

Thomas leapt out the window and sped towards the source of the song, not caring who or what saw him in the city that never sleeps, he bolted directly into the forest. He tried to block out the new sounds of various creatures he couldn't hear before as well as the new smells of the earth underneath his paws and the plants all around him.

Strange marks were on the ground, they looked like someone dragging themselves through the dirt and the marks themselves smelled vaguely of fish and ink.

The song, while faint was very close, he was hot on the mysterious caller's trail! In fact, the wolf's new sense of smell started to become useful as he picked up some familiar scents in the woods; the smell of ink, smoke from a fire, and the smell of cologne- Wait, he recognized that specific cologne, it was that fancy European brand that the "missing" hot-headed music director used to keep himself from smelling like cigar smoke, vomit, and despair.

And the voice of the singer in the distress call 'song' did sound like him now that he was close enough to hear it. He felt a pit of dread in his stomach that almost made him forget his hunger. He knew that the musician was far too prideful to call for help for anyone unless this was his very last option and his will to live made the difficult task of overpowering his ego.

Squelch.

Almost confirming his fears and adding a new one that he was too late, the mechanic made the mistake of looking down and saw that he stepped on a severed leg. A black, tar-like substance that smelled like ink and rotten meat was squeezed out of the part of the thigh that should've been attached to a person.

"...Mr. Lawrence?" He hesitantly called out, thankfully getting him an exhausted groan in response. "Lawrence, where are you?"

"Here." A hoarse yet relieved sounding voice answered. "Look down."

The wolf looked down into a shallow pool to see what had become of the musician. If he was being honest with himself, he wouldn't deny that the music director was always easy on the eyes, and while the curse effected him drastically, that fact about him didn't change.

The water was clear enough to show off the musician's jet black, fish-like tail which glistened in the moonlight, the still human half of his body went through some changes as well; his hands were webbed and clawed, unlikely to properly hold any instrument, let alone use it, his torso, arms, and neck had patches of black scales scattered about haphazardly like splashes of paint on a canvas. Aside from the siren's new set of teeth (which looked like they could haunt anyone's nightmares), waist-long hair when it was previously shoulder length hair, and glassier eyes, the man's head seemed relatively unchanged.

"Could you stop gawking!?" Sammy re-positioned himself to keep his tail out of sight, or at least he tried to, the damn thing was two thirds of his body and he didn't exactly have something to cover himself up with. "I'm not exactly 'thrilled’ about this... Change, for lack of a better term."

"That's one way to put it." The mechanic almost let out a sympathetic chuckle. "I’d never thought I’d be saying this, but it’s great to see you haven’t died yet.”

“Why thank you.” The merman sarcastically responded. “That’s exactly why I went through all the trouble of literally singing my fucking lungs out!” He exclaimed while gesturing to a pair of charcoal-black things that the wolf previously thought were rocks. “To hear you tell me that ‘it’s great I haven’t died yet’.”

The wolf rolled his eyes.

“So why did you go through all the trouble for summoning me here then? Aside from the whole ...fish thing, you seem perfectly fine.”

“It... wasn't intentional.” The fish-man begrudgingly admitted, his voice sounded bitter, but his eyes shone with fear. “I wasn’t thinking about who or what would hear me or come at the moment. My body was falling apart before my eyes and all that was on my mind during it was; ‘Oh god, I’m going to die here, aren’t I?! And if not, my life will be ruined beyond repair!’. And when I sang out as a panicked response, you became the first to show up. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The siren swam to the other side of his aquatic prison and sighed resignedly.

Tom’s ears folded back in guilt, It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the musician was cursed by the failed ritual HE played a giant part in. As strongly as he disliked the musician, it didn’t feel right to leave him like this; alone, scared, and immobile in a place that could even spell out his death if he was unlucky enough.

He walked over to the other side of the pool and laid down beside the edge of it.

“Hey, you don’t need water to breathe, right?”

The siren looked confused.

“I’ve been breathing air just fine, in fact, I think one of the few advantages to this new body is that it replaced my old lungs with healthier ones. Why are you asking?”

“Climb on my back and I’ll take you out of here, granted, I don’t know where we’re gonna go, but where ever it is, it’ll be better than sitting around waiting for your pool to dry up.”

The merman, while hesitant, did climb up on the wolf man’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck to keep him from falling off, the wolf stood up and ran deeper into the woods.

[emachinescat]

Knock

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 10 - “I’m sorry, I didn’t know”

Summary: It is common knowledge in Camelot that one should never, under any circumstances, enter Sir Owen’s chambers without knocking.  Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell Prince Arthur’s new servant.

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Sir Owen (OC)

Words: 4,618

TW: PTSD episode/flashback

Note: Early days for our boys. :)

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, pease consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this!

Everyone in Camelot knew about Sir Owen, and everyone who had met him loved him.  He was an old warrior, a man of honor and valor with a keen sense for battle and a veritable treasure trove of wisdom.  He was old and gray now, and limped from the festering aches of old battle wounds, but he always had a smile and time to chat with anyone he met, nobles and servants alike.  After he had retired from knighthood, Uther had awarded him quarters in the castle and a life of luxury.   

The kind old man received regular visitors to his spacious rooms and always gladly welcomed them.  Lady Morgana brought him a vase of flowers every week, new knights would often visit for advice and encouragement, many of the maids would stop for quick chats between chores, and Gaius brought him his medicine for his old battle wounds and nightmares every evening before bed.  Once or twice the king himself had been seen visiting his old friend, and he too always departed with a smile. 

There was something that every one of Sir Owen’s many admirers and visitors knew, however, and honored without compromise: Never, under any circumstances, should you enter Sir Owen’s chambers without knocking. 

More specifically, no one should enter his chambers without loudly and clearly announcing themselves first – a light, polite knock wouldn’t do, especially not now that he had lost all his hearing in one ear, with the other ear quickly following suit.  You had to knock loudly and aggressively, and if he still didn’t hear you, then you had to proclaim yourself as loudly as possible when you eased the door open to peek in.  Ultimately, the last thing anyone wanted to do was to sneak up on the beloved Sir Owen, because if he was taken off guard, if he thought he was being ambushed, he became a completely different person. 

Sir Owen had fought valiantly for Camelot for many decades, and in that time he saw horrors of battle and the worst of humanity.  He’d been gravely injured protecting his fellow knights on no less than three occasions, the final of which had forced him to hang up his chainmail for good.  And though he was a perfectly pleasant gentleman when he was in his right mind, in those moments of fear and panic – like when he thought he was being snuck up on or ambushed – he shifted back into the fearsome warrior who had felled scores of Camelot’s enemy’s over the years.  And though he was old, he was still strong for his age, and crafty, and his confusion only fueled the desperate strength within him.   

Sadly, his moments of lucidity had declined rapidly in recent days, and sometimes he struggled to remember who was his enemy and who was his friend during normal, mundane conversations.  He only became violent when he was scared or surprised, however, which was what made announcing one’s presence of the utmost importance when calling upon him. 

Every servant in Camelot knew this, as did all the knights and nobles who paid him regular visits.  Well – all of the servants except for Merlin, Prince Arthur’s new manservant, who had just been ordered by his prince to go to Sir Owens’ chambers to escort the man to the training grounds.  Arthur had asked him to oversee the newest recruits on this crisp autumn morning, and to his delight, the old knight, who had been staying in more often than not, had agreed to do just that.  Merlin was happy to have a job other than hefting all of Arthur’s heavy equipment to the training grounds on his own (and all in one go, because Arthur was too impatient to allow Merlin to make multiple trips and very clearly cared nothing for Merlin’s well being in the slightest). 

Merlin had never met Sir Owen before but knew that he was a bit of a legend around the castle.  He’d heard whispers of some of the brave deeds and epic battles the man had fought in Camelot’s first days.  He also knew Morgana brought him flowers to brighten up his chambers, and that he was supposed to be a very kind man with great advice and a smile that would brighten every room.  Sir Owen sounded a positive delight, and Merlin had jumped at the opportunity to fetch him for Arthur so that he could meet this amazing man for himself. He sounded like a breath of fresh air in the stuffy citadel – but then again, most anyone who wasn't the prince of Camelot could claim that title, in Merlin's book.  

Although Merlin had never been good at the niceties of court when dealing with Arthur, he did make it a priority to remember to knock if he were at anyone else’s door – as Gaius had told him on many occasions, if he just barged into the wrong person’s chambers, he could be in trouble so deep that even Gaius couldn’t bail him out.  And so, when he reached the old knight’s chamber door, Merlin made a point to reach out his fist and give a few hearty knocks on the door. 

No answer.   

Merlin waited a short time before knocking again, but again, no one answered.  Pressing his ear against intricately carved wood, he thought could hear something from inside of the room – a faint shuffling, as if someone were moving around.  The warlock shifted anxiously on his feet, warning bells clanging in his head.  If someone was in the room, why didn’t they answer the door?  At the very least, why did the person not call out?  Merlin could only think of two possibilities: Either the person in the room could not answer, or was not supposed to be there.  Either way, something was off, and Merlin had to check and make sure the old man he was meant to fetch was okay. 

Merlin tried the door – locked – and, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, directed a pointed stare at the lock, felt the heat of magic swell within him, and heard the rewarding clunk as the door unlocked itself.  Quietly, Merlin eased the door open and peered inside, looking for any sign of trouble.  “Sir Owen?”  His calm, quiet voice contradicted the furious beat of his heart, that instinct that warned him of danger.   

No one seemed to be in the room that the wary servant could see, so Merlin inched his way further inside, taking in the elegant but sparse furnishings, the headless training dummy in old old but obviously well-cared for armor, and the weapon rack mounted on the wall that seemed to be missing its occupant.  “Sir Owen?” Merlin called again, this time a little louder. 

He didn’t even have time to turn when he heard the quiet rush of footsteps from behind.  The next thing he knew, Merlin was facedown on the warm woolen rug that spanned much of the stone floor, the breath completely knocked out of him.  Pain lanced through his upper back, sparking like lightning between his shoulder blades.  Something had hit him – hard – and Merlin’s instincts warned him that whoever it was that had attacked him wasn’t done.   

Only sheer force of will allowed the warlock to heave himself over on his back just in time to see Sir Owen himself, with his normally friendly, laugh-lined face twisted into a ferocious mockery of itself, gray hair come loose from its tie, and a hefty longsword, dulled with age but still deadly, brandished in his right hand.  Merlin noticed that the sword, and the hand that held it, shook slightly moments before the old man – still in incredible shape for his age, as Merlin’s screaming back proved clearly! – lunged again, this time with the point of the blade and not the flat. 

Merlin rolled to the side, lungs still heaving for air after being winded by Owen’s first hit, and the point of the sword cut a frayed line in the rug right where Merlin’s head had been.  Struggling to his feet, the disoriented servant tried to appeal to the knight’s sensibilities; he gasped, “Sir Owen!  I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to frighten you.”  Another swing of the sword, and Merlin ducked out of the way in the nick of time.  “I did knock!” he insisted. 

Sir Owen’s eyes, Merlin noticed, were clouded, and when the man spoke, it became obvious that he was seeing a completely different scene than what was actually going on around him.  Somehow, it seemed, he thought he was back on the battlefield, fighting a deadly opponent, instead of cornering a frightened servant who had done nothing to harm him.  “I won’t let you do it!” the man roared, and his voice cracked under the pressure of the rage and sorrow.  “You killed my men – you take no one else!” 

He advanced again, this time slowly, methodically, and Merlin backed away at the same pace, all too aware of the corner he was trapping himself in but afraid to bolt and frighten his confused aggressor into doing something he’d later regret.  Raising his hands, Merlin spoke like he was addressing a small animal or a frightened child, “Sir Owen, my name is Merlin.  I’m Prince Arthur’s servant.  He sent me here to fetch you for the –” 

He was cut off as Owen slashed forward with the sword unexpectedly, and this time Merlin wasn’t quite fast enough.  Even the dulled edge was enough to slice through Merlin’s shirt and into his upper arm, and fire erupted in the wound.  Blood, warm and sticky, oozed from the cut and meandered down his arm.  He ignored it, more focused on staying alive. 

“Liar!  Traitor!  Murderer!”   

Merlin didn’t want to use magic on Sir Owen – from what he’d heard, the man was a genuinely good person, though something seemed very wrong with him now.  On top of that, if he realized that his opponent had used magic after the fact, Merlin would be killed anyway.  But the idea of being run through with a dull sword was so unpleasant that Merlin decided to take the risk.  He turned to run from the next attack, allowed his eyes to flash gold, and heard his pursuer curse as his weapon somehow tumbled from his hands and skittered across the room.  Hopefully, if he remembered this at all, he would put it down to losing his grip. 

Now that the sword was out of the picture, Merlin felt a bit safer, but he couldn’t decide if he should try to help Sir Owen himself or run to get someone else instead.  His choice was taken away from him, though, because he hesitated a second too long – in the time that Merlin had been debating his next course of action, the keen knight had made up his mind and charged bravely into battle.  Sir Owen was the kind of warrior who would continue to fight with his bare hands against an entire heavily armed battalion until the very end.  He never gave up, never let a little thing like losing a sword stop him. 

And so he charged.   

To Merlin, it was like Arthur’s prized steed had barreled straight into him, such was the force with which Sir Owen slammed against him.  For the second time in ten minutes, the wind was driven out of him from the force of the blow, and he sprawled, stunned, on the chamber floor, his head rapping painfully against the stone.

Bright lights flickered in his field of vision and he tried desperately to get his body to move, but his arms and legs weren’t listening.  He watched as the old knight, fury in his dark eyes, approached him, having abandoned the sword all together now that his enemy lay helpless at his feet.  Merlin should have been glad that he wasn’t using the sword, but he had a very unpleasant feeling that Owen did not need a weapon to kill. 

Seconds later, his unprotected side exploded in agony as Sir Owen drove his boot forward in a merciless kick.  Afraid to use his magic again, forgetting everything but his basest instincts to survive, Merlin curled in on himself, nearly crying out at the pain the movement caused him.  Another kick, this one to his back, and Merlin rolled away the best he could, panting in pain.  Halfway to his feet, on hands and knees, almost there – 

Another kick, this one to his gut, and he gagged, falling forward, face-first onto the floor.  Blood welled up in his mouth – he must have bitten his tongue. 

Merlin scrabbled for purchase on the cold stone, trying to regain his bearings even as every part of his body rebelled against him.  He felt the man’s toe beneath his torso and sucked in a painful breath, but this time, all Owen did was flip him over.  Merlin lay on his back, breath wheezing from his chest, and he was sure he had a broken rib, maybe more.  Slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world at his disposal, the old man knelt next to his fallen foe and leaned in close.  Merlin could smell breakfast on his breath – the stink of aged cheese mingled with the sweetness of fruit – as he man hissed, “You’ll die for this – sorcerer!” 

Fear crescendoed, overshadowing the symphony of pain, as Merlin realized that somehow, Sir Owen had figured out what he had done, what he was.  Helplessness took hold of the warlock.  It didn’t matter if he survived this encounter – which was looking less likely by the second, unless he used his magic again – his life in Camelot was over.  Might as well use his magic to escape.  The giant lizard was wrong, then.  It couldn't be his destiny to serve Arthur and bring magic and peace to Albion.  He would be on the run for the rest of his life. 

Merlin focused on his magic through the pain and felt it rise within him.  It slipped out of his grasp as something latched onto his hair and dragged his head up.  Merlin got a single look up close at Sir Owen’s eyes, filled with the kind of suffering no sword could inflict, brimming with regrets and hatred and death, before the man slammed the back of Merlin’s head into the ground.  A flash of white light – intense pain, swirling darkness.   

Merlin may have blacked out for a few seconds, but it couldn’t have been long, because when he regained a semblance of awareness – he couldn’t move, so much pain, vision blurred, he was going to be sick – Sir Owen had retrieved his sword and had it poised over his helpless victim’s heart.  “Rot in hell, sorcerer,” he spat, and Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, partly against the pain, mostly in preparation for death. 

A voice sounded from somewhere close by, first annoyed, then panicked: “What the hell is taking so long Merlin?  I– what – NO!” 

The fear in the last word, unexpected and guttural as it was, was enough to convince Merlin to open his eyes.  Through the haze his vision had become, he saw a red and gold blur tackle Sir Owen, heard through ringing ears the sound of a brief struggle and the angry accusation “Sorcerer!” and then there was someone kneeling over him again, and Merlin struggled to sit up, to get away.  He managed to turn over just in time to vomit all over Prince Arthur’s clean boots. 

To his surprise, the prince didn’t yell or order him to scrub them again, right then and there.  Instead, with surprisingly gentle hands, the man eased his servant back onto the ground and began checking him for injuries. 

“You idiot,” Arthur said as he probed the back of Merlin’s head, eliciting a cry of pain and frowning at the blood staining his fingertips.  He moved on to check Merlin’s ribs (“Three broken, at the very least, but we’ll have Gaius look at you.”) and arm.  “It’s fairly shallow,” he said, and Merlin thought he must have been giddy with pain and exertion at this point, because it sounded like the prince was actually relieved.  Arthur stood, stepped out of his boots with a grimace, and ordered, “Stay there.  I mean it – don’t move.  I’ve subdued Sir Owen for the moment, but he needs Gaius.”  A deep crevice between his brows, the prince added, “And so do you.  You’re a mess.” 

Merlin didn’t hear if Arthur said anything else after that.  He didn’t even see the prince leave the room.  The darkness had claimed him by then, wrapping its welcoming arms of comfort around him and staving off, if only for a little while, the pain and the fear of what was to come. 

***

When he awoke, it was in his own bed, in his room, and he was alone.  Merlin’s head hurt more than he could ever remember it doing before – even more than the time he and Will had climbed on top of his roof and he’d fallen through the thatch.  He’d smacked his head on the kitchen table when he’d landed on it, but the pain he’d been in had been nothing compared to his mother’s wrath.  Now, though, it was not an ache or even bursts of sharp pains – it was like a drum, and every beat increased the agony he felt.  It was the kind of headache that turned your stomach against you, too, and made the world around you lose its crisp edges and stole your ability to concentrate on even the most simple of tasks.  His arm, now bandaged, stung fiercely, and the gnawing ache in his ribs turned into a cacophonous mass of torment any time he thought of moving. 

So he didn’t move.  He lay there, head pounding, body hurting like he had been run over by a horse, and allowed his mind to wander, though with the headache he had, he really did not have much control over the direction of his thoughts, anyway.  In the end, every wandering pathway of his consciousness, every thought and question and memory, all led back to the terrifying realization that Sir Owen had seen his magic – somehow – and had probably already told Arthur and the king.  Any moment now, guards would barge into his room and throw him into a cold, dark cell.  Or maybe they’d skip the cell all together and toss him on a pyre.  They wouldn’t even have to tie him to it.  He was too weak to move. 

The door opened, and Merlin jumped in a mixture of surprise and terror.  Even the small movement caused all of his injuries to flare up and he slumped back, face beaded with sweat, panting in exhaustion and pain, waiting for the inevitable and wondering if he should try to fight back with magic since his secret was already out anyway. 

It was good that he didn’t, because it was Arthur who entered, and he was alone, and there was a strange look on his face – if Merlin didn’t know better, he would have said it was somewhere between worried and guilty, with a healthy dose of discomfort sprinkled in for good measure.  “Merlin,” the prince said in surprise, and it occurred to Merlin that he hadn’t expected his servant to be awake yet.  Arthur  stayed in the doorway, uncertainty rolling off of him in waves.  “I – Gaius stepped out for a moment, to check up on Sir Owen.  He’s been in quite a state, really disoriented and worried that he hurt you badly.” 

Merlin frowned, and even that hurt.  “Gaius?” 

Arthur stared at Merlin like he’d grown another head.  “No, you moron.  Sir Owen.  He feels terrible about what happened.” 

Perhaps it was the head injury, but Merlin found himself thoroughly confused.  “So… you’re not here to arrest me?”  He could hear the slur in his own words and realized that he probably looked as bad as – if not worse than – he sounded.  Arthur appeared to be as baffled as Merlin.  He finally moved beyond the arch of the door and into the room, awkwardly taking a seat in Merlin’s chair, near the bed. 

“Why would I be here to arrest you?”  His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “What did you do this time?” 

“Uh, Sir Owen, he said…”  Merlin’s thoughts were as fuzzy as his sight, and he felt that distinctive curdling in his stomach that told him he was going to be decorating Arthur’s shoes again very shortly.  Arthur must have seen that tell-tale paling of the face and whitening of the knuckles, because moments later, a bucket had been shoved under his nose and he threw up into it, vaguely surprised that there was anything left to expel.  Arthur had produced a cup of water from somewhere, and when Merlin finished, the prince helped him take a sip.  The water was bliss, cooling his raw throat and chasing away the sour taste in his mouth.   

Nausea under control for the moment, Merlin cleared his throat uncomfortably, not meeting Arthur’s eye after the strangely intimate moment (if he had been looking, he would have seen Arthur studiously avoiding his gaze as well).  Merlin picked up where he’d left off, his voice cracked and timid.  “Sir Owen called me a sorcerer.”  Arthur did look at him now, Merlin felt his eyes, but the warlock didn’t reciprocate.  Instead, in a rush, he said, “If he told you that, you have to understand–” 

“Merlin.”  Arthur’s voice held no malice, only concern and a heaviness that the servant did not understand.  “You don’t have to explain to me that you’re not a sorcerer.  Yes, Sir Owen said something about it when I was pulling him off of you, but I know he was confused.” 

Cautiously, Merlin pressed, “How do you know?” 

Arthur laughed, a harsh, clipped sound.  “Are you saying that you are a sorcerer?” 

Merlin’s stomach flipped over on itself.  “No,” he lied, not sure why he had even mentioned Sir Owen’s accusation in the first place.  He was making himself look more suspicious; it was just hard to control what came out of his mouth – harder than usual, anyway.  “I just want to know why you believe me over a respected former knight.”  There.  That was reasonable, right?  Merlin’s head ached, and he just wanted to go back to sleep, but he had to know, had to have some kind of concrete assurance before he could rest. 

Arthur sighed.  That same weight tugged at the next words he said: “Sir Owen… he was a great knight, and incredibly brave and strong – still is, for that matter–”

“You can say that again,” Merlin muttered, wincing.

Arthur glared at him, daring him to interrupt again, and continued, “But he has seen some horrible things on the field of battle.  And if he thinks he’s being attacked, he lashes out.  Gaius says that he somehow finds himself back in the middle of a war, fighting off his worst enemies and watching his men die around him.  It’s like he’s reliving the worst days of his life.  And that’s why he attacked you – he thought you were trying to ambush and kill him.” 

“But that doesn’t explain–”

“I’m getting there, Merlin.  For someone who looks half-dead, you sure can run your mouth like usual.”  Merlin grinned, despite himself.  “Oh, don’t look so proud,” Arthur ordered irritably.  “It’s incredibly irritating.”  But his own mouth had stretched into a half–smile as well.

“Anyway – the last battle, the one that ended his career… A sorcerer who was fighting against Camelot nearly crippled him.  He lay there, helpless, and had to watch as the sorcerer killed at least a dozen of his men.  One of them was his only son.”

A grim silence settled over master and servant, and a sick pit had formed in Merlin’s stomach.  It was the kind of hollowness that could only exist in misery and pain, and he found himself wishing for the nausea to return.

“He thought I was that sorcerer,” Merlin clarified, heart aching for the man that had nearly killed him.  “I didn’t know”

“How could you?” Arthur asked.  Then he added, his voice taking on more of the guilt that Merlin had thought he’d heard earlier, “And I – well, it’s my fault,” he hedged lamely.  “That you got hurt.  Because I didn’t even think to warn you to knock before you entered the room.  I was so focused on getting to the training field that it didn’t cross my mind that you didn’t know about Sir Owen’s flashbacks, as Gaius calls them.”

Merlin’s eyelids were heavy, and everything hurt, and he could feel sleep calling to him, but he insisted stubbornly, “I did knock.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “Wonders never cease.  But,” he clarified, “if he doesn’t hear you knocking and doesn’t know you’re coming, then it doesn’t even matter if you did knock.  I should have told you to announce yourself, or had someone go with you that knew what to do.”  

Somewhere in the other room, a door opened and closed.  

“That’ll be Gaius,” said Arthur, standing up.  He looked down at his battered servant, hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then said, “Sir Owen sends his apologies, and he hopes to meet you under better circumstances once you’re both feeling up to it.”  In a rush, he added, “And, for what it’s worth, I – I’m sorry too.”  

Merlin blinked in surprise, knowing how hard it had to have been for Arthur to admit he had made a mistake, let alone apologize for it.  And even though the servant truly didn’t think the prince had anything to apologize for (after all, Merlin forgot important things all the time), it was touching, and he could tell that despite his discomfort that Arthur really meant it and needed to know that all was well.

Arthur leaned over, gave Merlin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze – even that sent bolts of agony through Merlin’s body, but the gesture was appreciated, even cherished.  “You did… surprisingly well in holding him off until I found you,” he admitted as Gaius’s footsteps were heard ascending the short set of stairs behind him. 

“He beat me to a pulp and nearly sliced me in half,” Merlin deadpanned.  

“Yes, but you’re still alive, and that in itself is almost impressive,” Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't tell if the prince was serious or not.  “Anyway,” he said, backing away and making room for Gaius, who was puttering into the small room balancing a tray of medicines and broth.  “I need to get to training.  Gaius, make sure he’s back to work the moment he’s well enough, but… also, not a moment before he’s ready.”

Gaius nodded, patted Arthur on the shoulder in thanks, and began to treat his patient.  Merlin watched Arthur leave, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest that had nothing to do with the broken ribs.  He barely even heard Gaius’s lecture about propriety and taking care of himself and knowing all the facts before he walked in on a situation.  His wandering, aching mind was too busy thinking about the prince. 

When he’d first come to Camelot, Arthur never would have apologized for anything.  Already, amazingly, Merlin was beginning to see a change in the other man, a spark of something that made Merlin the tiniest bit proud to know him.  And it may have been the head injury talking, but right now, despite the irritation he so commonly felt toward his new master, the idea of this destiny the dragon had prophesied suddenly didn’t seem too terrible after all.

Maybe Arthur wasn’t so bad, either.

[screechthemighty]

@bittybonbon So this isn’t QUITE what you prompted, but the original thing I wrote got deleted T W I C E so I’m gonna just. Assume that idea is cursed and write this instead. This is actually a scene I was thinking of putting in future fics (I swear I won’t just be leaving that Laufey fic at one chapter), but for funsies I’m gonna write it from Kratos’s perspective instead of Faye’s. Hope you like it!

He wasn’t sure what the burrowing creatures were called, and he didn’t care to know. He only knew that they were irritanting, and he wasn’t keen on engaging them. He might have walked away had they been attacking an animal, but…

No, that was no animal. He recognized the hair immediately. It was the woman from before, the one who had nearly put an arrow in him. He couldn’t remember her name, but between the hair and the axe…no, that was definitely her.

That was her, and she was in trouble. She was doing a valiant job holding her own, but the creatures were quick, and there was more than one, and it looked as if she were injured already. Had it been anyone else, he might have considered walking away, or perhaps waiting until he was sure they would not be able to hold their own, but…

She had been kind to him. She’d had no reason to be, but she had. And the memory of that overrode his self-preservation and his desire to avoid more violence.

By the time he reached her, she had managed to kill one, and was engaged with a second. The third one was starting to burrow into the ground, likely trying to flank her. This was the one Kratos rushed to, grabbing it by the tail and dragging it free of its tunnel.

A few good slams. That was all it took. A part of him felt sick at the sound, but he could at least say he stopped when he heard its skull crack. No more force than necessary.

“Look out!”

Kratos turned around in time to see the one the woman had been engaged with leaping for him. He was barely able to throw it back, allowing her to throw her axe into it. The blade cut deep into its throat, sending it sprawling to the ground. It lay there twitching, trembling, until the woman recalled the axe and dealt a killing blow.

Silence fell over the forest. Kratos thought about running, especially when he turned and saw her staring at him, eyes wide, as if she were seeing a ghost. “…oh,” she said. “Hello again.”

That was when her leg gave out. Kratos barely made it in time to catch her. To his surprise, she didn’t flinch away from his touch. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she did; this was only their second meeting, after all, and the first one had only barely ended well. “Son of a bitch,” the woman hissed. When Kratos looked down, he saw her leg was bleeding. “Well, this is embarrassing.”

Again, his instinct kicked in. He’d had run-ins with those creatures before, and while their bite had not been fatal to him, they had been more painful than he’d anticipated. Some kind of venom, if he had to guess. She would need to act quickly to treat the injury. “Is your home far?” he asked.

“Yeah…” The woman grimaced. “I have a poultice, I just need somewhere to sit down…”

“I’m…”

Was he really about to say this?

“…I have bandages. Clean water. If you…” Kratos paused and cleared his throat. “I still owe you for the venison.”

The woman hesitated, looking at him in quiet confusion. He expected her to turn him down, but instead she straightened up slightly and said, “That would be helpful. Thank you.”

Part of him thought this was a mistake. That he should take the offer back. But instinct returned, and he started walking the both of them back to his encampment.

As they walked, he struggled to remember her name. She had given it, he was sure, but that day had been long, exhausting. Faye, he remembered after some thought. Her name was Faye, and she was nearly as tall as he was. Her red hair was starting to come out of its braids. A splatter of blood crossed her nose, accenting its slight crookedness and the scar that marked it. Kratos was starting to wonder if she was in the habit of getting into fights. That or she had terrible luck. “Lucky you found me when you did,” said Faye, trying to sound cheerful despite the obvious pain in her voice. “I thought you were just passing through?”

Had he told her that? He really didn’t remember. “Here seemed as good a place to stop as any,” he said, perhaps more honest than he should have been. “At least there’s water.”

“That’s true. And it’s beautiful if you can avoid the tatzelwurms.”

“Is that what they’re called?”

“Sometimes. You hear great fucking annoyance more often.”

Kratos almost smiled at the comment. Almost. “That does seem more accurate, yes.”

His reservations only grew stronger as they grew closer, but he forced himself through them and kept walking. He did owe her. If he helped her with this, the debt would be repaid, and he wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore. (It certainly wasn’t because he was worried about her. He barely knew her. Kindness or not, what reason would he have to be worried?) He had to be careful leading her down to the cave; the ground sloped, and she nearly lost her footing once. She had to hold onto him to stay upright. “Sorry,” she said. “Oh…”

It didn’t occur to him then how the cave might look to an outsider. When he’d chosen it, he’d only been thinking of the fact that it was hidden, not immediately within the line of sight of any pathways, partially obscured by vegetation, out of the way enough that he could hide in peace. He had never stopped to consider how bleak it must have looked—not until then, at least. “It’s dry inside,” he said, unsure of what else to say.

“That’s…good. That’s…ow, damn it all…”

Her hiss of pain killed any potential conversation about his living conditions. Kratos lead her inside and carefully helped her sit down. He passed her water and bandages and stood back to let her tend to the wound, making sure not to stand in between her and the mouth of the cave.  The injury was already red and inflamed when she took off her boot and peeled back her torn pants to start applying her poultice. “Will that help?” he asked clumsily

“It will draw the venom out, yes…and I think the little bastard only nipped me.” Kratos had to run what she said in his mind, making sure he understood her meaning. He was reasonably proficient in the local tongue, but she spoke very quickly and fluidly, and he still wasn’t used to conversation. “I’ll be all right. Just hurts.”

He felt an ache of sympathy for her. Brief as the feeling was, it was enough to startle him. He barely knew the woman. Yes, she had been kind to him, but…

Soft, said a disparaging voice in the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure who that was supposed to be anymore; sometimes it reminded him of his father, other times Ares, sometimes Athena. Today it felt like all of them at once, mocking him for latching in to the first person to show him any kind of kindness. If she knew what you truly were…

He heard Faye curse quietly to herself. She had been able to clean the wound and apply the poultice, albeit somewhat messily, but her hands were shaking too badly from the pain for her to bandage it properly. At least she seemed more annoyed by her pain than distressed. It reassured him that she would likely live.

“Do you…” Kratos froze. No, why had he offered? She would never agree. She barely…

“Actually, do you mind? I think I’m still a bit rattled, and…” She held out one trembling hand. “Usually get the shakes before things get better.”

No backing out now.

Kratos hummed quietly and knelt next to her. He was careful to put as much space between them as possible while still being able to work. “This has happened before?” he guessed.

“Yeah, got me in the foot. That was worse, I think. I mean…I won’t have an easy time walking either way, but have you ever put weight on a foot injury?” She laughed awkwardly. “Don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of pain, but whatever it is, I am sincerely sorry.”

Kratos only hummed in response and focused on bandaging her wound as quickly as possible. His one solace was that she seemed more at ease than he felt, though he couldn’t imagine why. He may not have been trying to harm her last time, but he could have, and he was sure she knew that.

And yet, there she was, letting him bandage her wounded leg as though this were nothing out of the ordinary. She must be desperate.

Kratos moved back once the wound was bandaged, allowing Faye to start re-lacing her boots. She was still trembling, but didn’t seem on the verge of death. He would have to trust that she would be all right.

Still.

“You can stay a moment, if…if you wish,” Kratos said clumsily. “Until you’ve caught your breath.”

She seemed surprised by the offer. He expected more fear in her eyes, more apprehension, but instead she looked…surprised. Grateful. “If you don’t mind…”

He shook his head. “As I said. I owe you for the venison.”

It was the first meal he’d eaten in some time. He hadn’t forgotten.

Faye smiled, remarkably gently. “Thank you,” she said. “Hey, I don’t think I ever got your name?”

This time, when Kratos froze, there was no pushing past it. He wasn’t sure why that was suddenly too far. There was certainly no way she’d know who he was. But he couldn’t introduce himself. He didn’t want her to know. Better to be the strange man who lived in a cave in the woods than...

Monster. Monster.

“It’s all right,” Faye said quickly, interrupting his thoughts. “You don’t have to tell me, just…funny that we’ve run into each other twice now, isn’t it?”

“Hmm. Yes.”

He was just grateful the circumstances of this second meeting were different. Less harmful. That he was able to repay her kindness, even in part.

What he didn’t know how he felt about was the possibility that they might run into each other again. It seemed, after all, that the woods were not as large as he once thought.

[divineluce]

An Impasse || Solomon & Luce

Timing: November 13th

Location: The Outskirts

Tagging: @shroomsbysolomon & @divineluce

Description: Solomon and Luce officially meet for the first time. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

For the third night in a row, Luce laced up her shoes and exited the Vural home. Her homecoming had been… rocky at best. A shitshow at worse. And, what with all of the bullshit she’d found out regarding Nadia, Remmy giving her shit for leaving, and the goddamn menagerie of animals in her room, sleeping was pretty much out of the question. Which left her with two options-- hit up Soul and risk running into frankly Frank again, or go for a run. It was a no-brainer. Jogging into the woods, she made her way through the familiar trails that wound their way behind Bea’s home. She’d run them so often that, even after spending a month out of town, she still remembered every curve and turn in the path. It was easy, it was simple, it was going through the motions. She could do that, right? And then, once she could do that, maybe things would get better. As she ran, Luce noticed a figure off the path, illuminated in the waning moonlight and she slowed to a stop. “You lost there?” She asked, squinting through the darkness.

Solomon had a bad habit of losing himself in whatever he was doing, hyper-focusing to the point that he’d forget the world around him until something demanded his attention. In this case, it was an unexpected voice, jarring him out of whatever reverie he’d fallen into and urging him to whip around, clasping his hands behind his back to hide their wooden appearance as he stammered and stalled. “Oh! No, I, uhh…” His struggle to find the right words seemed to lose importance as he took in the visage of the woman on the trail, and something inside of him got all twisted up. It took a few beats for him to be able to place the sudden rush of emotion, not knowing who she was or why he should suddenly feel… fear? But then it came to him, and all at once, that fear was intermingling with anger. “You,” he grumbled, standing up from his crouch and taking a step toward her. He’d seen what she had done in the forest… and the only reason she still stood was because he had also witnessed her pitiful attempt at making amends. It was enough to stay his hand, but the bitter tang of resentment never left his tongue. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, burning the woods like you did.” His typically soft voice was harsher now, still low in volume, but it carried a distinct edge. “I’m still trying to repair the landscape. What’s your problem?”

As the man stammered for a moment, Luce rested her hands on her hips, waiting for him to finish his sentence. It was a bit too dark for her to get a good look at him, but she could tell he wasn’t some lost hiker. For one, no one came hiking around here, not at this time of night. For another, if he wasn’t dressed like one. No backpack, no water bottles, nothing like that. But, then he rose and took a step towards her. Instinctively, Luce’s hands curled at her side, the flames that danced in her blood ready to be called at a moment’s notice. “What the fuck is your problem?” She shot back, startled. Burning the woods? For one thing, how did he know about that? For another, which time was he talking about? One of the many rainy nights when she’d hiked out into the middle of nowhere, to practice her flames? Or when she and Anita had run from the shitty moose creature and she’d lit the brush aflame to escape? Or was it the time she’d razed the ground around her and Adam in the wake of Bea’s death? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Luce lied smoothly.

“Ooohhh, yes you do,” Solomon snapped, his dark eyes narrowing. “I saw you… fleeing the scene, leaving the poor forest in such a state…” It made his heart ache as he recalled the pain he’d felt that night, the sorrow that rose from the ground as it mixed with ash and embers. He was so in tune with the familiar landscape, so very much a part of it, that any damage it suffered bled over to him. It’s why most things never escaped his knowledge, and why he’d had to bloody his hands over the centuries, stopping men from cutting deeper and spreading further. What he couldn’t mention was how his fear had held him back for the first time — seeing that the woman was controlling the fire and not merely setting it free had stopped him in his tracks. If he died, who knew what would happen to the woods? It was too risky, and the damage had been done, so he’d decided to let her go and tend to the charred earth. Letting out a shaky sigh, Solomon appeared to be trying to calm himself, eyes closing while he regained his composure. “But… I saw you trying to make amends, too, so… I suppose it’s a start.” Peering at her once again, the disguised Leshy lifted a finger to point it at her. “Got my eye on you, though…”

As the man glared daggers at her, Luce kept her gaze level. She didn’t give a shit who this guy thought he was, she’d make his night real fucking bad if he decided to try and pull something. But, when he started yelling at her about fleeing the scene, she blinked in confusion. Was he talking about when she’d blown up the Ring with Erin months ago? Or when she’d tried to blow up the shitty mime restaurant? Christ. She really needed to narrow down her arson attempts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And, even if I did, you’re gonna have to narrow it down.” She said with a shake of her head. The man seemed to be… restraining himself? Like he wanted to move against her? Which would be a bad idea on his part for sure. “What the fuck are you talking about? Are you some kind of stalker? Because you picked the wrong girl for that.”

Stalker? Oh. Solomon drew another weary breath, shaking his head as he pushed his anger aside. “The specifics don’t matter, what does matter is your lack of care when it comes to this place.” He gestured vaguely at the trees that surrounded them, letting his gaze slide away from her for the quickest of moments. “Look, I’m just… all I’m asking is for you to please stop burning it down with your fire… hands.” Whatever you’d call that, he wasn’t sure. He’d never really encountered anything like it before, and he didn’t exactly want to make a habit of it, either. “Lot of things live around here, you know, myself included… and we’re not exactly keen on having our home scorched on the regular.” Truth be told, it was something that half the damn town seemed to need to hear, given their track record. It was exhausting work, trying to keep up with every new threat.

“Uh, it sure fucking does if you’ve been following me around like some kind of creep.” Luce said as she continued to stare at the stranger. As he waved around at the forest and then mentioned her firehands, her eyes narrowed. Had he seen her use her magic before? No, he couldn’t have. For one thing, she covered her bases pretty fucking well. And even if he had, why the fuck was he only just now stopping her. “My fire hands? I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, dude.” She said, shaking her head as though he was speaking nonsense. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done or what you think you saw, but you’re mistaken.” She replied. She wasn’t sure what this guy’s deal was, but it was easier to deny this than to deal with the repercussions that came with someone finding out she was magically inclined.

“I’m not following you, I live here,” Solomon grumbled in return. “I see most things that happen, whether folks want me to or not.” Her continued rebuttals only made him growl in frustration, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You make fire. I don’t know how, but you do it in a way that… normal people cannot. Your denial does not change this fact.” He considered for a moment that perhaps she was like him—inclined to keep that aspect of herself secret. “And personally, I’ve nothing to gain from knowing that, I would just like to formally ask you to please stop setting fire to my forest. Take your flames someplace else.” Exasperation radiated off of him, but his gaze was steady. A hundred and fifty years ago, he’d have just slain her on the spot. But… he was trying to be a little kinder about it in this case, especially since she’d come back later to plant seeds. The gesture warranted recognition. 

He lived here? In the fucking woods? Because that was any less creepy than the fact he’d watched her here. Luce bristled a little as he continued to speak. He’d seen her conjure the flames. How? She’d had run-ins with people before, but she’d always been careful to make sure there was nothing that could ever tie her to the blazes she started. People could look for the ignition point, search for the match or the lighter that didn’t exist because she was the spark. And yet, this fucker seemed to know exactly what she could do. “Let’s say I can do what you say I can do.” She said before gesturing around to them. “Where else would I do shit? If I could make fire, I’m not exactly going to just light up the Common.” She said, though the corner of her mouth turned at the idea. That would be funny, if only for the irritation it would no doubt cause her mother. 

Solomon was, by every account, a very calm and level headed creature. That being said, there was one thing he had almost no patience for, and that was the petulance of a young firestarter.  His entire existence revolved around a singular purpose, and he could only bargain for so long with people like her. His anger flared at her casual, careless remark, dark eyes widening slightly in disbelief. “Anywhere else, girl. Have some respect for the natural world — you’d be dead without it.” He’d taken another step toward her by this point, and something in his body language had changed. He moved less like a man, and more like… well, it was hard to say in the dark of night. “Stop killing things and find a way to be useful with your talents, won’t you? You came back to plant seeds, so I know you must feel some amount of remorse. Hold on to that, remember that, and do not light another blaze in these woods ever again. Do you understand me?” He was being rather generous, he thought, but if she pushed him further still, he couldn’t see himself keeping his composure.

At the sound of the word “girl,” Luce’s eyes narrowed. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? Folding her arms across her chest, she felt the heat of her body begin to grow and rise with her increasing anger. “Respect for the natural world? You think I don’t have respect for it?” She said with a growl. “Fire is just as natural as anything else here. What happens to a forest that’s overgrown with brush and shrubs? What happens to the trees when they get overcrowded and parasites begin to take over? Overgrowth saps the life right out of the soil just as much as my fire does.” She said before shoving her hand into the soil beneath their feet. Pulling up a handful of loamy soil, she let it sprinkle from her fingers back on the ground. “Ash feeds the forest, makes space for new things to grow. I planted those seeds because it was what should have happened. Death. Rebirth. Life. And death again.” She spat.

“Fire may be natural, but you are not,” Solomon snapped in return. “Forest fires at the hands of humans are anything but natural.” His relationship with humans had been… a bit tumultuous, over the years. While he found them to be an interesting sort, it was true that they had, time and time again, shown him that they cared not for the earth that had so lovingly lifted them from their evolutionary cradle and taught them how to walk. “It is not for you to decide when that cycle will happen, purely because you have no place else to play with your magic. Insolent… insolent, the lot of you!” His voice had raised in volume and boomed unnaturally around them, anger rushing to the forefront as he relived the countless times he’d seen the land ravaged by humans. All across the continent, as he moved from home to home, he’d encountered ones like her. Or at least, the picture of her that was piecing together in his mind’s eye. He’d slaughtered a whole village for poisoning the nearby river, and while that level of unhinged rage was rare for him, it was far from impossible. His glamour flickered, his focus waning as he became more irate with the woman standing before him. “Humans have been nothing but a blight on this world—you’re parasites, feeding off the land while you expand your rotten towns and cities, razing whole forests to the ground without care! That is not the life of someone who has respect for it.”

Unnatural. Yes, because she was unnatural. Who was he to say these things anyways? Obviously not human, but what was he? “You think I play with magic?” Luce said, temper flaring once more. Magic wasn’t a game, it wasn’t some toy to be played with, something casual to be used and forgotten. “Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong about that.” Magic lived in her, it breathed in her, it was a grounding tether of power that challenged her and demanded her to rise to that challenge. His voice rang through the woods, but Luce held her ground. This man-- no, not exactly man, obviously not. Whatever he was, he yelled at her and she resisted the urge to let her flames ignite. It would be so easy, so, so easy to let the blue flames lick the ground and spread. But. It would only be proving him right. Watching him, Luce caught the shimmer to his appearance, saw it shudder and caught a glimpse of what looked like… mushrooms? She couldn’t be sure, because the image disappeared almost as soon as she saw it. “If I’m a parasite, then what does that make you? If I’m so beneath you, what are you?” She asked, goading him on. What did he think he was, some kind of god?

Upset as he’d become, it didn’t matter to Solomon whether or not he’d accurately judged her entire character; he’d seen what he’d seen, and she seemed to think that setting his wood ablaze was a perfectly acceptable way to kill time, so he had no further words for her. His gaze was fixed steadily on her, eyes narrowed into slits as he stared her down furiously. It wasn’t until she called him out, questioning the authenticity of his appearance, that he faltered. Well, it wasn’t so much that she’d seen something—that was happening increasingly often, as of late—but it was her question that had him tripping over his own tongue. “I don’t—that doesn’t matter,” he growled. He didn’t rightly know, since he’d been forced to live alone as little more than a sapling and had never met another of his kind. “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you…. and how you really ought to find a better hobby.”

Quirking her eyebrow, Luce heard the misstep in his voice, the falter in his words. “It doesn’t matter?” She repeated, incredulity mixing with venom in her voice. “Oh, so you can dish it but you can’t take it? You can go around, accusing me of being unnatural, calling me out for ‘playing with magic’ but when it gets turned back around, suddenly it doesn’t matter?” She said, nodding. “Well, now, we’re talking about you. Who made you holier than thou? Who crowned you king of the forest? You don’t know anything about what I am, who I am, or what I’m capable of. Because, if you think that me coming out into the forest and setting fire in the middle of thunderstorms is a hobby, you don’t know me as well as you think. Fucking creepy forest stalker or not, you don’t know me.” She shot back. 

Frustration was coming off Solomon in waves, brought to life by both his anger with the individual yelling at him, and his own personal battle of not knowing who—or what—he truly was. He always told himself it didn’t matter, but in situations like these, it certainly seemed to. She was right, he didn’t know anything about her, and he’d never allowed himself the patience to try and change that before judging someone. Perhaps… perhaps he ought to give it a try. New millennium, new Solomon, and all that. Waiting until she was done, his gaze averted for the first time since their heated exchange had begun, Solomon interjected with a wavering voice. “If I had a word for it, I’d tell you,” he muttered, the defeat in his tone barely masked by indignation. “All I do know is that I’ve been alive for almost a thousand years, and I’ve always felt compelled to protect my home and my innocent neighbors from people like you.” On the last, accusatory word, Solomon flicked his dark eyes back toward the woman, brow furrowed. “So tell me… why shouldn’t I see you as a threat to the forest? Why should I give you a pass, when I’ve cut others down for smaller offenses?”

“Sounds to me like you should figure your shit out before you go around throwing words like “unnatural” around.” Luce fired back, not giving up any ground in this verbal sparring match. She really didn’t give a fuck who-- or what-- this guy was. She was tired of being used as someone else’s punching bag. She was tired of being the who had to make amends, who had to apologize, who was wrong. “A thousand years? Well, it seems you’re hardly a judge of character if you’ve been around this fucking long and can’t tell the difference between a pyromaniac and someone who gives a shit about this place. Because, this is probably really fucking surprising to you, but I do. I actually do give a shit about this town and this forest and the people who live here. I know these woods, I know the forest, I know the animals who call it home. Maybe not the way you do, but I know them.” She held up her hands, an innocent gesture. “I owned my shit. You saw me plant those seeds, you said it yourself. I destroyed that part of the forest the night that--” She caught herself. This person, creature, whatever. He didn’t need to know why she’d burnt the forest down. Why it had been grief and fear and sorrow that had turned her flames blue, that kept her flames blue.  “It happened. And that wasn’t right. So, I went back to make it better as well as I could.”

She was a persistent one, and Solomon could feel that it was wearing him down. This conversation was exhausting, and not doing much more than running in circles, so he caved. Deflating, the fae brought a hand to his forehead and let himself slump against the tree behind him. “Fine. Fine,” he muttered in annoyance, shaking his head. “While I can’t imagine that something would ever drive me to hurt this place like you did, I suppose I’ll have to just accept that fact and deal with it. Just… try to refrain from doing it again in the future, alright? It really does take a lot out of me, trying to fix messes like that.” Heaving a sigh, Solomon waved his free hand in the direction she’d been running when they first encountered one another without looking up at her. “Get out of here, go finish your run. You’ve given me a headache.”

“Yeah, you can’t. And, honestly? I hope you never do.” Luce said, remembering the grief that had overwhelmed her that night, when she’d thrown herself into the forest and done her best to run away from the reality of her situation. She’d started running that day and she’d never really stopped, not even now, when it was over. But, it wasn’t over, was it? Shaking her head, Luce focused her attention on the man who was waving her away. While she was glad that this guy was at least giving up with the whole “protector of the forest” act, she wasn’t a fan of the fact that he was telling her what she should do. Hands still up in the air, she flipped him off, the triangle tattoos on her knuckles a nice added touch of irony. “I’m not in the business of making promises to people. I do what I want. But,” She lowered her hands, and offered a single nod, “noted.” With that, Luce turned and continued on her run, not caring what he thought of their encounter. As far as she was concerned, all this meant was she’d discovered a new self-righteous neighbor.

[thebluelemontree]

Hey, sorry to be a bother but do you know any metas about Driftwood and the mythological significance of have Stranger called such? If not, could you please help me find any metas about the importance of Stranger (the horse and the god) to Sandor's future? Thank you!!

It’s no bother at all.  I love talking about this stuff.  I don’t recall any other metas specifically on that topic, but I do go into the meaning of Driftwood/Stranger in Part VI of my Winds prediction essay for Sandor.  I’m staying narrowly focused on your question here, but mythological significance branches out much farther and features heavily throughout each section of that essay if you have any further interest.     

And the seventh face … the Stranger was neither male nor female, yet both, ever the outcast, the wanderer from far places, less and more than human, unknown and unknowable. Here the face was a black oval, a shadow with stars for eyes. It made Catelyn uneasy. –  Catelyn IV, ACOK.  

Of the Seven, the Stranger is the one most regarded with fear for his/her association with death and the unknown.  He/she’s either depicted as a shrouded half-human, half-animal, or with a blacked-out void for a face.  Sandor has that thematic aesthetic going on with his hound’s head helm, which gives him the appearance of being both a man and a beast.  That is a reflection of the duality of his identity between Sandor and the Hound.  He frequently enters a scene by stepping out from the shadows, so he also fits with the shadowy figure version.  Sandor also isn’t one to allow others to know his true self, at least until Sansa, Arya, and the Elder Brother.  Rarely does any worshipper pray to the Stranger as few are eager to invite death itself in, of course.  It’s no wonder that the outcasts of society might identify with that lonely aspect of being an unwelcome presence and having nowhere to belong.  

For Sandor to give his horse such a blasphemous name, it’s because he views himself as someone who is feared and misunderstood, and as an outsider who stands on the outside looking in at the world.  This is especially true as he is immersed in the culture of knighthood but emphatically rebels against it.  There is much of ordinary life that is closed off to Sandor, and it’s not all due to his trauma response and poor coping skills alienating him from other people.  A lot of it is just unfair.  His perceived ugliness in a society that overwhelmingly favors physically beautiful people and despises disability or disfigurement has hindered his ability to create meaningful connections with others.  That resentment has only built up throughout his life.  He’s a second son who is forced to make his own way in the world since Gregor is the sole beneficiary of the Clegane lands and incomes.  It’s Gregor that got the home and wife (three to be exact), which is the domestic life that would normally ground a man, giving him a sense of purpose and satisfying his emotional needs.  Gregor doesn’t care for any of that, but there is a hint that Sandor feels this is something that has been denied him.  Since many people fail to distinguish Sandor as different from his brother, Gregor’s infamy and the rumors surrounding the deaths of his wives and family members really don’t help either.  After the BotBW, Sandor is really cut adrift from society by his desertion.  He’s unfairly marked as a craven, and then in a tragic case of mistaken identity is wanted for the rape and massacre of the Saltpans.  That’s about as hated and reviled as one can get.  

Like other instances of named horses being a reflection of their riders, Stranger’s nature says a lot about Sandor’s.  He’s proficient in battle, brave, disciplined, but extremely ill-tempered, and dangerous; however, with gentle handling from a master that has earned his trust, he’s able to respond in kind.

The horse was a heavy courser, almost as big as a destrier but much faster. Stranger, the Hound called him. Arya had tried to steal him once, when Clegane was taking a piss against a tree, thinking she could ride off before he could catch her. Stranger had almost bitten her face off. He was gentle as an old gelding with his master, but otherwise he had a temper as black as he was. She had never known a horse so quick to bite or kick.

There’s a bond there.  The horse isn’t just a tool or weapon to be used.  Sandor cares for this big, scary boy that no one else can get close to.  After rescuing Sansa from the riot, his next thought is to go back to find his horse in the chaos and fire.  Because Sandor gave him the name, it shows that he has the self-awareness of how his issues and anti-social behavior have only served to increase his sense of isolation and cement other people’s negative opinions.  The only reason an animal would so readily bite or kick indiscriminately is that it’s in constant fear of being hurt by people (*sob*).  It’s possible Sandor recognized a warhorse that was trained with brutal methods, not unlike his own childhood and adolescence.  One can imagine how much patience, kindness, and courage it took to bring such an ornery beast to the point where he can trust and reciprocate.            

People are more complicated than animals, of course; however, this is definitely meant to mirror his relationship with Sansa and her gentleness, compassion, and courage in the face of his anger issues.  Though not many are not keen on giving attention to the Stranger in their prayers, Sansa does pray for Sandor’s safety and well-being.  The Stranger is the last deity people turn to for comfort, and yet Sansa views Sandor as her protector and ally.  She wishes for his presence at times, even after seeing him at his worst.  And I love, love, love this line from Cersei about Sansa, who is deep into the unkiss rabbit hole at this point:

“… but before I am done with her, I promise you, she will be singing to the Stranger, begging for his kiss.“ – Cersei IV, AFFC.

So that brings us to Stranger’s renaming to Driftwood, but first, we need to ask what exactly is the Quiet Isle?  Quoting from Part IV of my essay:

“The Quiet Isle is also a place to cross over into the afterlife in more than one way.  Sometimes the dead and dying wash up on the shores, as did the Elder Brother.  Sometimes they are brought there like the Hound or the people of the Saltpans after the massacre to die or be healed.  The metaphoric and most common way is for penitents to abandon their old lives to be reborn in a new monastic life.  In a sense, the brothers on the isle are dead to the outside world.  They don’t speak with few exceptions.  Many cover their faces as well, obscuring their past identity.  Their brown robes and cowls are like the dead driftwood that washes up there, but even driftwood gets reborn as beautiful polished furniture and cups.  If you want to come on the Quiet Isle, you need Elder Brother’s or one of his proctor’s permission.  There’s a ferry to the isle which is evocative of Charon.  So that makes Elder Brother, like Garth Greenhand, a psychopomp.  He’s a gatekeeper between life and death, literal and metaphoric, and can also return people to the world of the living.  The imagery is evocative of the Elysian Fields and especially Avalon, where King Arthur was taken to recover from wounds sustained against Mordred at the Battle of Camlann and is destined to return from. ”  

Driftwood was dead and washed up, but then it is collected, reshaped and polished into something beautiful with a new purpose in its second life.  Driftwood in this context is a metaphor for healing and redemption.    

“The furnishings were strange but simple; a long table, a settle, a chest, several tall cases full of books, and chairs. All were made from driftwood, oddly shaped pieces cunningly joined together and polished till they shone a deep gold in the candlelight.” – Brienne VI, AFFC.

Amazing Grace, How sweet the soundThat saved a wretch like meI once was lost, but now am foundT'was blind but now I see

I zero doubts that Sandor’s character is undergoing a radical and profound transformation on the Quiet Isle.  He was broken down enough to be open to it when the Elder Brother picked him up from the shore of the Trident.  Also kinda miraculous that Stranger must have allowed himself to be led by another person while Sandor was incapacitated; however, it’s obvious Stranger is never going to spend the rest of his days as a plowhorse.  

Brother Narbert sighed. “The Seven send us blessings, and the Seven send us trials. Handsome he may be, but Driftwood was surely whelped in hell. When we sought to harness him to a plow he kicked Brother Rawney and broke his shinbone in two places. We had hoped gelding might improve the beast’s ill temper, but … Brother Gillam, will you show them?”

Brother Gillam lowered his cowl. Underneath he had a mop of blond hair, a tonsured scalp, and a bloodstained bandage where he should have had an ear. – Brienne VI, AFFC.  

This makes me laugh because although I believe Sandor has learned to have a healthier mindset through humble service and meaningful penance, he probably has been a veritable pill through the process.  As Stranger kicks and rebels, we should definitely conclude that Sandor’s time with the holy brothers is not permanent.  Especially considering that the horse adamantly refuses to be gelded, Sandor will not be submitting to the celibate life of a monk.  The new name likely won’t stick, because Sandor didn’t so much need a whole new identity, but to restore his original one.  The Hound is dead, but Sandor Clegane lives, polished and remade with a new purpose to his life.               

[concussed-to-pieces]

Stay Safe Playlist

YouTube Playlist for Stay Safe Found Here

(Alternatively, if the link doesn't work: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtGKUohVH5zUp6uaQkDTx7T8VNCVjrccq )

I present the soundtrack/score/playlist for Stay Safe! While I was writing, I had the idea to ‘score’ it like it was a visual media byproduct. Music is incredibly helpful for me when I need to visualize different things or instill certain emotions.

Beneath the cut you will find a full breakdown of the individual songs chapter by chapter, as well as the YouTube links to each of them! There will be spoilers for all chapters of Stay Safe, of course.

Enjoy!

Part One: Should Have Known Better

Intro--Carpenter Brut

So here we have our introductory piece! Something to channel a little danger, a little suspicion, that sense of unease from waking up bleary-eyed in a new place. Throughout it weaves the old school sci-fi motif to set our scene, with heavy synth use and electronic instruments.

Launch--Daniel L.K. Caldwell

We lean heavily on the electronic once more, evoking a sense of weightlessness as we head through hyperspace to the dulcet tones of deep synth, querying brass and lonely, wordless vocalizations. Our protagonist finds themselves managing the care of a strange child in a new environment. They are weary and sore but their charge is an easy burden to bear, all things considered. When they eventually bed down for some well-deserved rest, they find they can sleep peacefully.

...x…

Part Two: Tranquil Turmoil

Star-Stealing Girl--Chrono Cross Original Soundtrack

This piece is inquisitive and lilting, and fits well with Sorgan. Through it you can hear soft, high vocalizations like a child's singing. The village radiates safety and comfort, invoking an aching sense of nostalgia for things that our protagonist may have once had.

The Countess Cathleen/The Women of Sidhe--Riverdance

Near and dear to the heart, this piece is twofold. We carry on the gentle, idyllic motif of the previous piece with some crooning pipes, but of course our group is in this village for a very specific reason. The second half of this track morphs into something determined, made of sterner stuff than its gauzy counterparts. This perfectly accompanies the implied training montage of the villagers and our protagonist under the watchful tutelage of a shock trooper and a Mandalorian.

...x…

Part Three: Vibroblade Mettle

Facing Fears--Ivan Torrent

At last, we come to our big fight! We start out soft, our protagonist calming the children in the hut before they themselves are attacked. There's the uptick in tempo, the shift of music where they grit their teeth down harmonized by beautiful vocalizations. The whole piece has a certain panicky cadence until around the halfway mark, where it briefly flattens out before building back up to a triumphant crescendo. Our protagonist will let nothing and no one past them.

Good Night--Undertale Soundtrack

Thoroughly exhausted and incapacitated by the fighting, our protagonist drops where they stand. They are safe, and they sleep like a rock in the comfort of that knowledge. This piece is short and soothing, perfect to loop over and over again to lull you into slumber.

The Rage Of The Shadow Warriors--Star Wars: Republic Commando Soundtrack

The children are taught a very important song and dance by the Mandalorian, which they then perform in front of their parents.

...x…

Part Four: Reaching Out

Cosmos--Hazy

This piece is contemplative, soft piano with ethereal, twinkling electronic notes. There is an airy quality to it that lends itself to reflection. We find our protagonist sitting sulky and disgruntled on Tattooine. At first, their resentment is sharp and crisp, but as one day turns into two, they begin to worry and their resentment thaws gently.

Sixty Seconds To What?--Ennio Morricone

Our gunslinging attack! We prelude with light chimes, instilling a false sense of security as Calican dandles the child on his knee. Then, the guitar picks up when our protagonist discovers the truth behind Toro's motives. Organ and horn blast to highlight Calican's villainous gloating and sneering at the Mandalorian, contrasting sharply with the light chimes once again to close the piece out as Calican falls.

America Online--The Midnight

The song that gave this chapter its title! This track invokes a sense of longing, with its worn-out cassette sound and quiet electronic pipe trills. Through it all weaves the tentative, heavily-filtered vocals with the query that our protagonist will soon find on the tip of their tongue.

...x…

Part Five: Dark Past

Lighting The Fuse--The Magnificent Seven Soundtrack

Our protagonist finds themselves in a tense spot, surrounded by unfamiliar ne'er-do-wells. There is unease in the air; we are at the slow build to an inevitable explosion. Grudging alliances are forged, undoubtedly for the sole purpose of gleefully breaking them.

Animal In Me--Solence

Our protagonist is separated from the Mandalorian once again and there is no way to truly know what transpired in the prison beneath their feet. However, his mental and physical state when he returns suggests that something unsavory has occurred. Our protagonist, for all of their good intentions, knows precious little about the armored man's grisly past.

Dream A Little Dream Of Me (Instrumental)--Yiruma

The Mandalorian, delirious, asks our protagonist to sing him the lullaby they sing for the child. They oblige, assisting him in obtaining peaceful rest.

...x…

Part Six: Go Alone

Bat Out Of Hell--Meat Loaf

Something lighthearted and fun! Meat Loaf songs are always a joy to belt out when you think no one else is listening, and this one is no exception. Our protagonist is unwittingly observed by the armored man, another nail driven in the coffin of eventual reveal.

The Savage Divide--Fallout 76 Soundtrack 

We come to our protagonist moping around. They mourn being left behind once more, but they understand the reasoning behind it. This piece is wistful, with keening strings that lead nowhere but are lovely in their looping futility.

...x…

Part Seven: Like A Ghost

Is This Love--Whitesnake

The song that started it all! If this was a movie in the eighties, you can bet this would be the song playing during our important scene. The scene where the stoic Mandalorian finally bears his heart to our protagonist. It's a song that seems like it should be delighted, but it sounds more like heartache. Love is no simple thing, as we will soon find out.

Stay--Smash Into Pieces

The song that gave this chapter its name! Pleading agony given vocals. The Mandalorian doesn't know what to say and that appears to be his downfall as our protagonist leaves him to ruminate on his behavior.

Adieu--The Seatbelts

Our protagonist scolds themselves roundly for their doe-eyed optimism with this gentle jazz piece in the background. Whisper-soft vocals chiding over idyllic ideas of love, not so much sad as disappointed. The piece is steeped in callous awareness, though shrouded in piano and delicate guitar.

...x…

Part Eight: Savior At High Noon

Let It Never Be--Terrane

Our protagonist departs the Razor Crest alone and begins their walk back to the town. Soft, hazy vocals paint a picture of defeated, mechanical steps, emotions pushed to the side in favor of putting distance between our protagonist and the subject of their affections.

I'll Never See Him Again--Pocahontas Soundtrack

A throwback! Our protagonist finally makes it to the town and is ultimately struck by the crushing realization that they will no doubt never see the Mandalorian again. In a fit of exhausted grief and perhaps a touch of self pity, they cry themselves out. This piece never fails to elicit an emotional response, with the tender, pained violin playing that familiar theme.

Holdout--Two Steps From Hell

Our high noon showdown! We start strong, drums hammering like thunder as our protagonist all but throws themselves into the fray. The rattle of cymbals mimics the cacophony of beskar, loaning the scene a sense of despairing grandeur.

You Saved Me--Piotr Wojtowicz

Our protagonist, unmoved by intelligence or self-preservation, storms the proverbial beaches to aid the mortally wounded Mandalorian. Visual media would make this miles more glamorous, with gratuitous slow motion and competent lighting. We start out soft, but there's nothing quite like the breath-taking hitch of gentle piano that swells to female vocalization and fierce drum beats!

...x…

Part Nine: Swan Song

Mandalorian Funeral Chant--Star Wars: Republic Commando Soundtrack

The Mandalorian sings IG-11 off, paying tribute to the reformed droid in the only way that he knows how.

Sacrifice--Transformers: The Last Knight Soundtrack

It's time for agony! We have a somber piece, strings circling round and round to a build as our protagonist slowly loses consciousness. There is an urgency and fear here, as well as weary resignation. Our protagonist is so, so tired.

Melancholy--Alex Kosenko

The long walk home. The two weeks in the bacta tank. The uncertainty of our protagonist's fate, and how heavily it weighs on the Mandalorian who now finds himself alone again. This piece is lonely, it's sadness and longing all in one. A contemplative doldrum.

...x…

Interlude: How He Sees The World

Star Wars: The Mandalorian Suite--Samuel Kim

This composer is exceptionally talented! They've taken the score for this series and woven in motifs from the original scores, giving the whole piece a beautifully layered depth. A suite track for the retread installment, where we view the entire tale through the visor of the Mandalorian.

...x…

Part Ten: Shereshoy

One Summer's Day--Joe Hisaishi

Our protagonist wakes in the Nevarro medbay, disoriented from their time in the bacta. The piano shines here, with searching orchestrations occasionally gaining center stage. There is a feeling of loss, of nostalgia and most importantly, a sense that things need to be put to rights.

So Small--Thomas Bergersen

The reunion! This track starts off quiet, gentle. Apprehensive and yet, cautiously hopeful. Our protagonist has found their way back to the Mandalorian and, as the music swells in that oh-so-familiar old romantic motif, all is forgiven. The strings build in tandem with the brass and choir, triumphantly declaring everything that is affection and reconciliation before tapering off. However, if we wanted to go for something a bit more eighties...

The Outfield (The Midnight Remix)--The Night Game

The alternate/bonus track for their reunion! This remix has boosted synth and extra canned drums, lending itself better to the sci-fi vibes. Another crooning, eighties-style power ballad to have everything fade to black right before we get that salacious X rating, and the proverbial credits begin to roll.

Dream A Little Dream Of Me--Jacklyn Lovey

Finally, a vocal rendition of Dream A Little Dream Of Me. A modern cover with a gentler tone overall, and the perfect way to round this score out. 

The curtain closes on our tale, and I would like to thank you all for reading, listening and enjoying! Stay safe, my friends!