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jimlingss · 4 years ago

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Ducklings & Dimples

Original / Sequel

➜ Words: 26.8k

➜ Genres: 50% Adventure, 30% Fluff, 20% Action, Historical!AU - kind of

➜ Summary: Min Yoongi is sent off to the town of Millpass to complete a quest for his mentor. But there, he’s humiliated when he gets scammed and stolen from by the same person - you. // Alternatively: They like to call you a cheat, but you like to call it business. You’ve learnt that nothing in life comes for free. Rather, there are opportunities. And when you run into a certain human fighter with blonde hair, you’ll take advantage of his protection and embark on a quest together for profits, dragons, and a blossoming romance.

➜ Notes: Inspired and set in the world of Dungeons and Dragons. However, you do not need to have prior knowledge of the game or have played in order to read the story. ((Extra Info: Dungeons and Dragons is a fantasy role-playing tabletop game set in an imaginary world based loosely on medieval myth.))

The town of Millpass is lively and welcoming to its many tourists and travelers. It’s open to creatures with all kinds of backgrounds; the wealthy are able to purchase rare spices from the marketplaces while the poor arrive here to make a new living for themselves. It’s a place of opportunity.

But Yoongi isn’t here to enjoy the town in spite of being a traveler — even if he’s observing his surroundings, taking in the warm weather, the animated atmosphere, the bustling tavern and wooden stalls lining the streets. Even if he’s feeling better after the tiresome journey getting here. You, on the other hand, are taking full advantage of what this town has to offer. “Get your potions of resistance! Made from the most experienced artificers and warlocks in the depths of Chult! Won’t get it anywhere else! Get your potions! Can’t go into battle without them!” You’re holding stoppered bottles in both hands. The one in your left is a bubbling, neon red while the other is a frothy, icy blue. There’s a sign dangling from your neck and your leather satchel is slung across your body, a bag of holding that houses the rest of the bottles. “Get your bottles!” Every time you jump, your braids bounce and dust flies onto your peasant dress and boots, but the brown shades easily hide just how dirty you are. “Excuse me, sir. Would you like one?” You stop a brute-looking Dragonborn on the street and by the look of the axes in his possession, you assume he’s a barbarian. Your neck hurts when it knocks back to look at him. His shadow looms over you like a tree providing shade on a Summer’s day. He’s well over six feet tall. “What does it do?” his voice is low and raspy, his brow lifted at the bottle. “It’s potions of resistance! This one gives you resistance on heat and this other one gives you resistance on cold damage. They last for twenty four hours.” “Twenty four? I thought it was only for an hour.” “Well these are made specially from an ancient artificer from Chult that learned from a warlock that specializes in herbalism,” you say and he seems reluctant to believe you. After years of this, you can tell he’s about to walk away, so you come closer with shining eyes. “You wouldn’t want to waste this opportunity. Better to take a risk and try than to walk away without ever knowing, right? Don’t you want to satisfy your own curiosity and doubts?” There’s a moment of silence. Your persuasion works. “How much?” “Two gold pieces.” “One,” he negotiates. You hum as if considering it. Then, you nod. “Deal.” The ruffian Dragonborn barbarian hands the gold piece over and you give him the glass container with the scarlet liquid, thanking him for doing business with you. As he walks away, you flip the gold coin up into the air with your thumb and snatch it in one hand with a grin. But there’s still nine more bottles to sell, so you quickly take your place again. “Get your potions. Get your resistance potions—!” Your attention is suddenly taken by a passing stranger with a rounded face, sleepy features and baby yellow hair shagging in front of his forehead. “Hey, you! Duckling hair!” Yoongi turns around at the shout and realizes you’re looking right at him. Duckling hair? He pinches the strands on his head, eyes flickering up, confused as all hell. “You don’t want to miss this chance!” You grin and hop over to him, pulling another bottle out of your satchel swirling with a pale, pastel yellow that matches his head. “Want a potion of resistance? It’s made from an ancient artificer in Chult who learnt from a warlock who specializes in herbalism kits!” “N—” “I bet it wouldn’t even cost you a dime.” Your eyes skim him from head to toe, eyeing his outer clothing that you know wasn’t cheap. He wears a black, ample cloak with a hood, wool shirt and a sturdy belt that holds two different swords, and brown boots like you. “You’re probably going to spend the same amount on some food or a place to stay at, so why not fork out some now? How often do you take leaps of faith? And it might be helpful for any upcoming adventures or expeditions! Very suitable for fighting beasts and creatures. You never know when you might need it and it might just save your life!” You’re persistent — your coaxing’s a talent in itself. And against all odds, Yoongi finds himself forking over a gold piece to the grinning peasant girl with glittering irises. But as he walks away, wondering why he bought one, he brings the stoppered bottle up to eye-level. Yoongi swishes it and he sighs, realizing it’s just water. Dyed water in a bottle. Feeling like an idiot, he turns around. But you’re already gone. // After a successful morning of business, you decide to satisfy the hunger in your stomach and the stout lady behind the stall seems just as ecstatic as you wolf down her boiled and fried shrimp. You pass her a silver piece as you grab another skewer of pineapple and lemon shrimp, inhaling them within seconds. Eyes pinpointed on some pepper shrimp, you fish into your bag for another silver or copper piece, but all you come up with is gold. Gold that you know you need to save. “Ca’ I ge’ one on th’ house?” you ask with your cheeks full. The plump woman glares. “No.” You’re unable to pout when you’re chewing your mouthful, but you suppose it’s fair. There’s nothing free in life. But there are opportunities. And as you swallow down your food, a man approaches the stall. At once, you recognize his tender features and the strands of his blonde hair that remind you of rubber ducklings. Yet, he doesn’t seem to pay any mind to you or recognize you from earlier. You suppose this is fair too — after all, you’re dressed in peasant clothing that’s meant to easily be overlooked and disguise you amongst the crowd of commoners. “What’s your most popular kind?” he asks the stall lady who happily smiles. “Of course, it’s our shrimp gumbo,” she answers and it’s ironically the most expensive one. “I’ll take two then.” The man with pale lemon-coloured hair takes two silver pieces out of his pocket, handing it to her and she nods, telling him that it’ll be right out. In the meanwhile, you eye his pocket and naturally shuffle over. Turning your head as if you’re looking in the other direction, your fingers dip into his open cloak pocket. But your luck is rotten this time. The man turns his head. He looks right at you. “Hey!” Your hand curls around a foreign object and you snatch it before taking off. You run, darting down the road as fast as your legs can take you. But when you turn your head, you nearly scream. He’s hot on your heels, his gentle features twisted in an intimidating scowl. He looks like he’s going to kill you and it only serves as motivation to sprint faster even if your lungs burn. He chases you, but when you turn the corner of the street, you duck behind an alley. Looking down, you cuss. It isn’t a sack full of coins. It’s a damn scroll. Opening it, you find it’s been sent by Mirla Nistar, some random lady who you’ve never heard about, and it details a quest to help this woman in the case of her missing daughter. It’s useless………..Or is it? At the same time, Yoongi heaves for air. His hands are on his hip and he cusses, having lost sight of you. In the span of one day, he’s been scammed and stolen from. The town of Millpass isn’t welcoming at all.

As much as Yoongi wants to get out of this place, he knows he can’t until tomorrow at the earliest. He still has a responsibility to fulfill here, or rather, a favour. He’s been called to help his mentor’s old friend and if he didn’t respect her so much, he would’ve already left. “Oh my goodness, you must be who Mirala sent! Come in, come in.” The tubby woman wearing three strands of pearls widens the door. He nods his head silently and makes sure to wipe off his dirty boots before he follows her inside her abode. He eyes her massive painted portrait hanging in the main room above the mantle that seems to follow him wherever he goes. The ceiling is high, golden curtains draping the large bay windows into her garden bed and a couch and two armchairs are arranged in a semi-circle. The only luminescence comes from the orange glow of the roaring fireplace and Yoongi notices a buff Dragonborn barbarian seated comfortably in one of the armchairs, staring at the flames as if entranced. Yoongi takes a seat and the Dragonborn seems to notice him, turning to stare. “Hello. My name is Yoongi.” The Dragonborn merely grunts. “Tea anyone?” the woman tottles over with a tray. Yoongi shakes his head. “I’m fine, thank you.” The woman looks over to the Dragonborn and he nods. She pours it for him and drops in two sugar cubes but he never takes a sip. Yoongi clears his throat and looks to the clock, watching the arms tick away. “Is this everyone?” he asks, not expecting he would have to take this journey with only one other person. Usually an adventure of this capacity would take four to five, but he didn’t mind. The fewer people, the more efficient and faster the quest can be completed. “I guess so.” The woman musters a smile and takes a seat. “I’m just grateful that anyone showed up to help me at all. If you don’t know my name is Sorli Stav and my….my daughter, Mina Stav, was taken by a dragon.” The Dragonborn sputters and then clears his throat. Yoongi cocks a brow but returns his attention to the woman so she can continue telling her story. “One minute we were in the middle of the forest and the next, I heard this roar and there was wind and then she was being taken! Gone! Just like that! Oh, my poor baby!” She clutches her pearls and wails ear-piercingly. “Please help her! It has to be the Dragon of the North. No one would do such a treacherous thing as to kidnap someone in broad daylight like that!” “My condolences,” Yoongi offers to console her. His hands are placed on his knees and his posture is straight. “We will try our best to rescue her, rest assured.” She nods, wiping the area beneath her eyes gingerly with her ring finger. “I have a sister in Rutherglen. Ashal Stav. She can help you. She lives close to the North. Please…” Yoongi turns to find the Dragonborn staring at the flames that flicker. He’s been strangely silent so far. But then his lips part and he speaks three words...in an odd voice, slightly muffled but reminiscent of a child trying to lower their pitch. “What’s the reward?” “What?” The woman’s head lifts and she exclaims, “Anything! I’ll do anything! You can have anything you’d like! Even my daughter’s hand in marriage.” “No. I want gold.” The Dragonborn sharply inhales and leans forward while looking around the room as if estimating how much the house is worth. “How about ten thousand gold pieces….” Yoongi nearly chokes. But he doesn’t comment — he’s met many different adventurers after all and each of them have their own motivations and quirks that are unnecessary to argue against. “That’s all I have in my vault,” she murmurs, disheartedly. “Five thousand for each of us. I think that’s fair. After all, the risk of fighting a dragon is substantially high and we’re putting our lives on the line. Unless….you don’t think your daughter is worth that much,” he mutters, clearly persuading the woman and succeeding in it. “Deal! I’ll do it!” she agrees wholeheartedly and the Dragonborn barbarian grins. “Of course, we’ll need half of the prepayment first before we can embark.” She rises to her feet immediately. “I’ll run upstairs and scrape up what I can!” Yoongi stares at the brute Dragonborn whose face glows in the fire’s crimson light. And the Dragonborn finally takes the dainty teacup to drink from it, pinky raised in the air. The moment the lady comes back and the payment of two thousand five hundred gold pieces for each of them are given out, there are a few farewells said. She pleads with them to help her daughter until the last second and both nod, reassuring her that the girl will return shortly. But the moment the door shuts and Yoongi looks to his side, the Dragonborn has vanished. He finds him down the road and quickly catches up. “Shouldn’t we discuss our plans?” “Huh? Yeah, maybe in the morning.” The Dragonborn clears his throat. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?” “Wait. I don’t know your name,” Yoongi says, coming to a realization and quickening his pace when the Dragonborn walks faster. “It’s Robert.” The Dragonborn begins to break out into a light jog, getting farther away from him. Yoongi’s brows furrow deeper, exasperated by the evasiveness of his partner. He still has countless questions, needs to set a time and place they can meet tomorrow, so he shouts, “hold on!” and Yoongi extends his hand. Except, his fingers go straight through where the Dragonborn’s shoulder should be. Like it’s an illusion. The two of them look right at each other. Yoongi’s mouth opens. His eyes are wide. He’s baffled beyond speech. But then the Dragonborn takes off without another moment to waste, sprinting down the road. And it’s déjà vu. “Hey!” Unfortunately for the Dragonborn barbarian, he’s unable to make his getaway. Not when he’s too busy paying attention to Yoongi chasing him and not straight ahead. And his body collides roughly with another. “Watch it, you!” the stranger snarls and it’s a stranger with the exact same face as his. “Wait a minute….!” Yoongi catches up and looks between the two of them in absolute bewilderment. He wonders if this is some nonsensical dream or if he’s fallen into another plane of existence when there are two duplicates of every entity. The two of them look up and down one another as if mirror reflections. They wear the exact same clothing, their faces exactly alike down to the detail, the weapons they carry the same. “Who are you?!” “W-Who are you?” But on closer inspection, Yoongi finds tiny details that make all the differences. The Dragonborn he was speaking to is shorter and visibly thinner. The other Dragonborn, on the other hand, is towering in stature and his voice booms menacingly down the night street illuminated by lamp posts. The Dragonborn Yoongi’s unfamiliar with steps forward and draws his greataxe. “I am Astrid, the Great from the Yarjerit clan! I am a descendant of the Wyrm Regent of the North, an ancient Golden Dragon from Everlund.” Yet the Dragonborn beside him doesn’t back down. “I am Robert, the Great from the Yarjerit clan! I am a descendant of the Wyrm Regent of the North, an ancient Golden Dragon from Everlund.” “Liar! You think I would not know everyone in my family?!” “You’re the liar! You think I would not know everyone in my family?!” It’s utterly ridiculous and Yoongi’s about to walk away from the sheer senselessness of the situation that’s worsening his headache. But then the Dragonborn who was with him flickers. Like the flame of a candle. Parts of his body become translucent, fading and flashing. He looks down at himself as if coming to a realization and cusses— “Shit! Fuck.” The spell ends. The claws turn to fingers, mess of ropy hair morphing into two braids, golden scales and reptilian frills to smooth skin. The hide armor alter back into a brown dress, white chemise tucked into a full brown skirt and a bodice crisscrossed over to hold the attire together. You’re fucked. Yoongi’s eyes become rounded, his expression clearly telling you that he finally recalls who you are — but there’s little to dwell on when there’s a much larger threat at hand that also recognizes you. “Wait a minute!” The real Dragonborn barbarian huffs from his nose. “I know you! You sold me that fake potion from earlier! You’re that fraud!” “I prefer the title charlatan,” you say with a tiny smile and then slide behind Yoongi for cover. Yoongi’s face twists in distaste, his mouth goes lopsided and his brows knit together as he looks at you, the conniving peasant girl who stole from him and scammed him too. But before he can move aside and let you deal with the consequences of your own actions, the Dragonborn clutches his greataxe with both hands and a battle cry tears from his throat. Yoongi sighs in exhaustion and pulls his rapier from its sheath. The Dragonborn barbarian swings. The axe hits Yoongi in his left shoulder but the blade is dull and not deep enough to make a real cut. The impact does more harm, but his grip tightens and he slashes the barbarian. It’s a critical hit, causing the Dragonborn to stumble back and Yoongi surges forward once, slicing the other male’s arm. He shouts in pain and surrenders, backing away. “I’ll find you again, thief! This isn’t over!” he swears and you peek out from hiding behind Yoongi’s frame. The Dragonborn’s eyes narrow and he turns, eventually disappearing down the dark street. Once the coast is clear, you finally breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks for that, Yoongi. You really saved me there. I thought I was going to be in trouble for a second.” You grin. It’s good to put a name to a face...or rather, a name to some hair. Calling him duckling right now wouldn’t be appropriate after all. But the man appears entirely unamused with your familiarity with him. His brow cocks and his glare is only slightly intimidating. “What’s your real name?” You hum. “Sorry, can’t tell you that.” Yoongi scoffs and extends his arm, opening up his palm. “I want my scroll back and I want a refund.” The faster he gets his belongings returned to him, the faster he can leave. “You gave me dyed water.” “I would give you back your gold piece, but I’m afraid I already spent it.” You smile brightly, hoping he doesn’t count the heavy sack of two thousand five hundred gold in your bag of holding. “And I left the scroll at Sorli Stav’s house. It’s not like you need it though, right?” His impassive expression never changes. “How about I strike you a deal?” You come closer, arms behind your back. “I was going to run away with the prepayment, but I’ll join you in your quest as a way to show my gratitude.” Your eyes flicker down, scanning the expanse of the human fighter. You have absolutely zero plans of joining him in crawling into a dragon’s lair, but he doesn’t need to know that. All that matters is that he’s proven himself capable and strong. It might just be beneficial to go along with him for a little while. He could protect you, at least until your journey to Bogsburrough. But the man never answers your offer, he merely scoffs. // It’s bright and early in the morning when you finally see a certain duckling-hair male exit the inn. He’s stretching his limbs, features still sleepy. But the process of getting the kinks out of his neck is interrupted when his eyes stray to you and he realizes you’re looking right at him. “About time.” You approach, having been leaning against a wheelbarrow across the road with your arms crossed. You need to get out of here before that Dragonborn barbarian finds you again and tries to dig that axe into your leg. “I’ve been waiting for a good hour.” “I have no plans in letting you join me,” he states in a husky timbre, already walking off. You sync your steps with his, joining his side as you tilt your head and enjoy the azure shade of the sky. “That’s too bad then, but looks like we’re going in the same direction. What a great coincidence!” As if to mock him, you grin and hold up the scroll you claimed to have lost. Yoongi glares and snatches it back. “Do whatever you want,” he mutters without looking at you and pockets the scroll. You click your tongue in annoyance, falling behind him. “Unlikable prick,” you curse in Elvish. Suddenly, Yoongi turns around, bringing you to an abrupt halt. “That’s a new one. Usually people call me moody or a cold bastard. But if you have something to say, then at least be honest with yourself and say it to my face.” You’re shocked. You can feel your face heat with embarrassment, but more than that, you’re impressed. With a newfound vigor and enthusiasm, you catch up with him and even overtake his speed. You lean close to the man, inspecting his facial features and ears closely. But he doesn’t look like an elf. “Are you a Half-Elf? How can you speak Elvish so fluently?” “No, I’m not a Half-Elf,” Yoongi sighs halfheartedly. “I was just taught the language.” Just like you. You’re curious. Maybe the two of you had more similarities than you thought. “Sorry, my bad,” you apologize in the foreign language with a cheeky smile, following along happily. Eventually, the both of you leave the town of Millpass behind with your little bags and belongings, taking the path up North. Or at least that’s what you’re assuming with the way Yoongi pulls out his map and tilts it around every so often. Part of you worries he doesn’t know where he’s going, but if he got to Millpass in the first place then you know he’ll figure it out. After all, it’s not like you’re eager to go complete this little quest of his. Payment of no payment, you don’t fuck with dragons. You’re the last person who should fight one. “I have a plan. A way I think the both of us can come to an agreement on.” “Which is?” he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, still concentrated on his little map. “What do you think of commissioning other heroes to go fight this battle for us?” you offer with glittering eyes. “We can pay them a hundred gold pieces each, which is quite a lot. And then we can go back to Sorli Stav and collect the rest of our reward. We wouldn’t profit as much, but it’s worth it and there’s no risk of danger!” Yoongi eyes you in silence. “You’re good at persuading others, aren’t you?” You scoff, lifting your chin up high. “Of course. I should be! It’s my career, after all. I’m a business woman.” “A cheat?” “A business woman,” you insist much to his amusement. From the corner of your eye, you swear Yoongi smiles. The forest is humble, lush, and blooming. Its canopy is eclipsed by willow, elm, and sycamore, their leaves and branches allow for just enough light to cascade through to the grass beds beneath. The array of common flowers adds a playful element and makes it brighter, letting you enjoy the view as you take the stone path winding through the trees. Yoongi is often quiet, you realize. Maybe he’s not one for making small conversation or he’s suspicious of you — which you wouldn’t blame him for considering the things you’ve done and the nature of your occupation. So your ears tune to the buzzing of the insects and the birds chirping overhead. Until the noises are overridden by boots and other voices in the evening. “Oh I can’t wait to get myself some pork chop and curds. I’ve been craving it for a whole month.” “No way! Our first meal is totally going to be cheese pie and onion soup! That tastes a lot better than pork chops!” “Nu-uh!” Another voice pipes up, “How about minted pea soup?” They’re a group of adventurers. You can’t see it in their weary faces, worn clothing, and weapons at their sides. And immediately you grin. The timing couldn’t be any better. “Oh!” They stop when your groups cross paths. Their excited eyes meet yours and Yoongi’s; the man is much more reluctant than you are. But you suppose he isn’t naturally enthused in the first place. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen other people! Are you travelers as well?” “Something of the sort.” You smile, arms placed behind your back and by the glare Yoongi pins to the back of your head, you know he can tell there’s an idea brewing in your head. With the sun falling over the horizon after a long day of journeying, it’s rather easy to persuade them if you and Yoongi can join them in setting up camp. They seem eager to allow you in as well as if they’ve missed seeing new faces around and you wholly take advantage of that. “This is Alvyn,” the leader gestures to the small, fey creature with a warhammer discarded by his side as he’s busy digging into a frog on a skewer. “He’s our cleric Gnome.” “Nice to meet you,” he says past a cheekful and you swear some of the food flings into Yoongi’s face, making the man glower and wipe his forehead. “This is Thunder from Bright Cliffs Clan,” the Half-Elf gestures towards the catlike humanoid. He’s slender and covered in spotted fur, a long tail flickering behind him and retractable claws that digs into his roasted chicken thigh. You look between him and Yoongi, perplexed at how much Yoongi looks like a cat as well. But you don’t voice it out when the man glares at you for staring at him for so long. “He’s our Tabaxi ranger.” “And I’m just an old man,” the old man pipes up with a hearty chuckle and thick accent you recognize from the South. “Chester’s my name, but everyone calls me Chuck.” “He’s our Druid,” the Half-Elf says with a smile. “And I’m Greg, a Half-Elf bard.” He’s as tall as Yoongi is, but with longer hair, the tips of his ears pointed and he’s much more poised. “Nice to meet you. I’m just a peasant girl.” Yoongi scoffs and it’s your turn to glare. But when he never introduces himself, you nudge him roughly, jabbing your elbow in his ribs until he relents with an enormous sigh. “Yoongi. Human. Fighter.” “Sorry, he’s unsociable.” “Not to worry!” Greg laughs. “It’s just nice to meet you all. Where were you headed?” “We’re going to Castrow,” you lie without even blinking. “My husband and I are visiting his mother.” Yoongi is sorely unimpressed. But the others nod joyfully, looking between the pair of you as if they didn’t expect you to have that kind of relationship. Though, they don’t question it as if it’s completely believable. “That’s quite a long way away,” Chuck says, “You ought to be careful around these neck of the woods, you never know what might jump out of you.” “That’s right!” Alvyn exclaims. “There might be wolves.” “It’s okay. My dearest husband will protect me.” You grin at Yoongi but his expression remains impassive and he makes no comment much to your dismay. They seem like a capable group, one that can fight a dragon off and might just be willing to do it for a hundred gold coins each. It might take some sweet-talking to convince and hire them, but you don’t think it’ll be particularly difficult. For now though, you try to get yourself acquainted with them and build some rapport. “Hey, isn’t that going to burn?” Yoongi taps you on your shoulder and you break out of your trance. He points to the mutton you have at the end of your stick that’s being roasted in the fire. You pull it out and it’s charred all around, a thin layer of black. You shrug. “I like it like that.” Yoongi watches you eat it and his face twists as if he’s biting into a lemon. The entire group is seated around the campfire and you’re sitting especially close, not worried at all by the sparks. It’s comforting and you feel a natural pull to stare at the red and orange flames, listen to the crackle and sputter of the fire, watch the smoke until you fall asleep… But you force yourself out of it when there’s an abrupt scream. The Gnome is shrieking terrifyingly, black boot upside down in hand. Then, he bursts out laughing in embarrassment. “A spider got into my boot!” “No worries.” The Tabaxi is sympathetic. “That’s happened to me more times than I can count!” “Who’s turn is it to tell a story?” Chuck says mid-chew. “It better be a good one and not like that one about the snake that gave that apple to that lady in the garden. That was terribly boring.” “It’s my turn.” Greg raises his arm and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. You and Yoongi are getting whiplash, turning your heads and trying to keep up with their fast-paced conversation. Greg clears his throat. “Back when I was in Al’bamo, I heard this wondrous tale. Many whispered his name. A boy, called Jungkook, said he made a heavier-than-air machine, that could fly without magic.” There are ooh’s and ahh’s around the campfire. You look around at them, watching the way they lean in as Greg continues, “He rode what was called ‘The Airplane’ out of a cliff, as a crowd watched him fly it into the unknown. Legend says Jungkook will one day return, giving flying machines to everyone.” Uh-oh. One of your worst fears is manifesting— They’re idiots. “Excuse me,” you raise your voice and enunciate each syllable carefully. “What adventure exactly did you just embark on?” “Why, we were sent to investigate why animals in the forest have suddenly dropped down dead and why people who have wandered inside have gone missing!” Chuck says as he strokes his white beard and the others around him nod. “We went in and got lost for a full week! Had no clue where we were going whatsoever!” “You...didn’t have a map?” Yoongi asks, interested in the story as well. “We did,” Greg says, “But then we found out no one could read it.” The old man laughs. “Anyhow, we really thought we were going to die of starvation or dehydration, whatever comes first. Then luckily, we happened to come across a pond, so we drank from it. But the water was poisonous!” The Tabaxi shivers as if he can still recall. The Half-Elf nods along. You’re listening while becoming progressively more horrified. “Then we ate some leaves and those were poisonous too!” Part of you wants to believe these are all exaggerated lies to build up the comedic effect but by each creature’s expressions, you can’t detect a single shred of deception. “What do you know, the ogre who was wreaking havoc in the forest came by and thought we were dead. So he dragged us to his cave to eat us, but right when we were put in the water, the ogre suddenly clutched his chest and fell over.” Your brows shoot up. “A heart attack?” They shrug. “Anywho, we stumbled out of there, fell down a few ditches, rolled down a few hills. Almost died again. Then this little fellow,” Chuck says as he signals to the Gnome cleric, “found us and cured us from the poison and now we’re alive!” “We defeated the ogre!” Greg declares with a giant hurrah and they high five one another. In the meanwhile, you and Yoongi exchange equally skeptical expressions. They accomplished their goal out of astronomical sheer luck — which is a talent in itself. But you can’t rely on pure fortune. Looking at them with clearer perception, you know it’ll be an impossibility for them to fight a dragon and not die trying. They’ll never be able to do your bidding for you. Night falls and there’s a little more conversation exchanged before they’ve all fallen asleep. You’re sleepy as well, knees gathered to your chest, arms wrapped around and your head beginning to bob as you stare at the blazing inferno. You’re sitting close but you’re most comfortable there where the fire is right in front of you and the flames nearly lick at your cheeks. “This is not going to work,” you murmur to Yoongi whom you still know is wide awake. He’s distrustful of others — you can tell with the way he refuses to relax around these strangers, still seated straight and his vision swooping around the darkness of the forest. “It’s not worth investing in this group.” He laughs, the sound mellifluous in your ears and above the crackle of the bonfire. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” “I’ll just go,” you exhale in exhaustion. “The reward is worth it anyways, but I can’t promise I’ll help you fight that dragon.” Yoongi hums a low note deep within his chest and shifts his gaze towards you. He finds the fire is yet to die out. If anything, it’s brighter and more blazing than before. He observes the way you poke and prod at it, as if you don’t have it in you to let it die out. “What kind of magical caster are you?” Yoongi asks. He knows full well the only ones who can disguise themselves the way you can are bards, sorcerers, or wizards. But you don’t have musical instruments with you or any magical items he’s seen either. “What do you mean?” You turn to him, blinking once. “I’m just a normal peasant girl.” He scoffs, knowing better than to believe you. And a smile forms on your features. You return to stare at the fire, listening to the soothing sputter and pop. “My name is Y/N,” you murmur and Yoongi never says anything in response. But if you turned around, you would see the way your name forms it on his lips, speaking it silently as if it’s something to remember. // The pair of you continue your journey and the group of ‘heroes’ are sad to bid you farewell, but you’re happy to get rid of them. If there was anything more than a sham than you, it was them. You can already envision them going back to town and being celebrated — without anyone actually being aware that they did absolutely nothing. They’ll reap the benefits and rewards, have feasts and be honoured. But you suppose that’s the way life is. The undeserving often are the most praised. It’s not like you mind it though, sometimes it can be good to take advantage of. You’re also glad to get rid of them considering it’s less chaotic and much quieter. You prefer it when it’s just you and Yoongi. His company is rather pleasant, even when you’re used to just traveling by yourself. “You know, we can take a shortcut to Rutherglen through Bogsburrough. Have you ever heard of it?” “I’ve heard of it.” He side-eyes you. “But it’s a detour, not a shortcut.” “It’ll be a detour that’ll be worth it.” You grin. “I’ll make sure of it.” Yoongi scoffs, about to ask you how you’ll do that — but the banter is abruptly cut short when a massive mastiff comes bounding by. It’s an impressive hound with taupe fur, big enough that a Hafling could probably ride it. You’ve only seen a mastiff once before when it was trained as a guard dog for some affluent lady. You’ve certainly never witnessed one walking itself through the forest without a care in the world. Yoongi is as bewildered as you are. But a minute later, an exhausted warrior is lurching forward, holding a leash attached to a broken collar as he tries to catch his breath. Then he stops a meter away, pathetically sobbing and wailing at the top of his lungs. He cries something akin to ‘come back!’. While Yoongi is prepared to continue walking, much to his dismay, you approach the warrior. “Is there something wrong?” you ask in spite of already having a good idea. “M-My hunting dog just ran off! He’s been...been running off for an hour! Oh, Sparks!” You hum a low note, arms crossed as you look in the distance where the mastiff went. It’s an opportunity, one that’s presented itself and you’ve made a living capitalizing on these opportunities. “Tell you what.” You turn to him, eyes already glittering. “I’ll catch that little pet of yours at a price.” He’s easily persuaded and even looks at you as if you’re his last hope. “I’ll give you all the riches I have.” And that’s how you and Yoongi end up straying off the stone path, ankle deep in the forest floor’s tickling grass while screaming, “Sparks! Sparks, where are you?!” “Come here, doggy!” Yoongi gets tired faster than you do. He was reluctant to follow your whims in the first place, but now his voice gets quieter and his arms droop to his side. You don’t blame him — he doesn’t seem to be like someone who enjoys the sweltering sun or buzzing insects trying to nip him. “Don’t give up, duckling!” you shout as encouragement, trying to boost his morale and his head cranes towards you, the most unimpressed expression etched on his features. “I don’t get why you volunteered to do this.” “What? You don’t take me as the altruistic type?” You burst out laughing when his blank face remains the same, clearly not buying your act. “He said he would give us twenty gold pieces. That’s a lot even for something like this.” It goes silent as you both venture deeper into the forest, twisting through the trees and making sure you don’t trip over any branches. But then he breaks the quietness with a question. “Why are you trying so hard to collect gold?” “Because I have a dream,” you murmur softly with a smile, stealing a glance at Yoongi to see him already staring at you intently. “I want to build a big house in the middle of nowhere, preferably a meadow. I’d read books all day, paint, garden. Anything. But it’ll be a place I can call my own. I’d get a wizard to put up a wall of force for me too, so no one could find me. My family won’t be able to find me.” Yoongi stares at you, wondering why you have such a desire, what led you to it, why you would want to hide from your family. But he supposes it’s nothing particularly strange. After all, he’s here because of his family too. Maybe it’s something the two of you have in common. “I haven’t told anyone this before,” you mutter out loud as you come to the realization and then you twirl around to face him, smiling widely. “A secret for a secret. It’s only fair.” The blonde man scoffs. “I never agreed to that.” “I only know your name. Or are you purposely trying to keep up the mysterious front? I bet you think it’s attractive, don’t you?” Your eyes mischievously sweep him up and down, and Yoongi finds your gaze oddly invasive. A sly smirk even appears on your lips. “I bet it works for you too, doesn’t it? You like it when girls wonder about you and they like wondering about you too.” “No.” “Uh-huh, skirt chaser. Listen, I won’t judge you for your strategies. If they work, then they work.” If Yoongi could expend the rest of the air in his body for the longest sigh, he would. “For your information, I am an honourable knight from the Order of the Black Sun. Mirla Nistar was my mentor and she’s taught and trained me in the Great Weapon Fighting technique for the past decade. She’s old friends with Sorli Stav and this quest is a favour I’m doing for her.” Yoongi clears his throat. “I actually come from a rather famous family—” But you’re not paying any attention. “Shush!” You’ve found the mastiff. It’s a shadow barely from the distance and before Yoongi can strategize a plan to take it, you sprint after the beast. “Sparks, you motherfucker!” Yoongi groans and then runs after you. He pulls out his rapier, the sword sharply cutting through the wind, but you turn around with a frown. “Don’t.” His brows furrow, unsure of what you mean and what your plans are. But then he watches as you hold something discreetly in your bag and murmur something beneath your breath, how you open your other palm and a giant bone appears in your hand. Yoongi pays close attention and realizes it’s not conjured. It’s an illusion. One that the mastiff fails to detect. Instead, he sees the delectable bone for what it is and you make an effort to throw it in the area you came from. “Go get it, boy!” The mastiff leaps through the forest for the illusionary bone, the same direction his owner is waiting. // Yoongi swears this is the happiest he’s ever seen you — humming with a skip in your step, throwing your heavy sack of gold pieces up and down your right hand while there’s a permanent cheery smile plastered across your cheeks. Well this might be one of several times he’s seen you in this state. He remembers you were fairly enthused when he relented and allowed you to follow him in the first place. You also seemed pretty delighted when you scammed him too. The coins clink as you toss it and Yoongi scoffs, finally tearing his eyes away from you. “I want my half.” “I know,” you sing-song. “We’re a team now and I’m fair in square, for your information.” He almost snorts. “Sure.” “What? You don’t believe me?” “I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up with all my weapons gone and my own clothing stripped.” “Hmm, that makes you smart then,” you snicker and the corner of Yoongi’s mouth curls. “We should set up camp before the sun goes down. It’s getting cold.” He pulls out his rolled map from his pocket and spreads it. “We could, but there's a tavern inn stop about half an hour away,” he says and your ears perk. “I don’t know if you want to—” Yoongi doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before you’re already running. He laughs and wonders just how much energy you have. What’s stranger is the fact that energetic people tend to drain him, yet somehow you keep him from being tired like he usually is. You spin around when you’re half-way down the path. “C’mon, old man! I’ll even treat you!” Yoongi scoffs, but his lips curl into a smile. It’s night by the time you arrive — the two of you are exhausted, feet aching with an intense need to rest them. The tavern is placed rather oddly, right on the side of the road by the forest with the candlelights inside glowing on the path. But with the noise from inside, you suppose it’s an unexpectedly good location. After all, there are countless travelers who are always searching for a rest stop like this one. Unfortunately, your beeline straight to the door is impeded by a drunk. “Hey, watch it!” you cuss at them when your shoulders collide. “Idiot.” But as you turn around, you freeze. The stranger is a Goliath monk who is eight feet tall. You can tell with his gray skin that’s littered with tiny growths akin to pebbles and darker patches. And he towers over you, glowing green eyes peering into your fragile soul. The Goliath reeks of alcohol, unsteady on his feet, but gaze unwavering. You notice the way his hands are wrapped in brass knuckles, his armor clanking. “You wanna fight?!” his voice bellows out and you immediately hide behind Yoongi. Yoongi holds in his sigh, mind already cursing you. He’s sure you’re the absolute bane of his existence and one day will get him killed, but for now, he stands tall and his chin lifts. The Goliath monk isn’t intimidated, yet he turns with narrowed eyes lingering on the pair of you. Once he’s gone, Yoongi cranes his neck and glares. “Can you try not getting us killed for once?” “Hey, it wasn’t my fault! He still bumped into me. Plus, I had it under control.” “Control, huh?” His brow cocks and he eyes you. You grin and correct yourself, “You had it under control, oh great knight from the Order of the Red Dragon and my sole protector, Yoongi.” “It’s Order of the Black Sun,” he exhales and opens the door before you can land yourself in more trouble out here. “And I never agreed to protect you.” “Yeah, but you still do anyway…” The tavern is bustling, a good amount of creatures already crowded around tables with their own drinks in hand. They’re all travelers from different kinds of places, having gathered for a night of proper rest with a roof over their heads. You and Yoongi head over to the bar, taking the menu from a busty waitress. “She your type?” you lean in close, wiggling your brows. Yoongi is unamused and you laugh. “What? Hey, I won’t judge. I understand a man’s needs. Might even help you out if you want me too — I got a way with words.” He doesn’t think you realize the implication of what you’re saying. But he shoves you away before you can feel the way his face heats unusually. You’re interrupted by the barkeep, a rough-looking dwarf standing on a wooden stool to reach the counter. “What can I do ya folks for?” The pair of you finally look over the selection, but are completely overwhelmed. There’s a hundred things and by the third page Yoongi flips, you give up on reading it all. “Surprise us.” “Sure thin’.” The barkeep goes to grab a glass and selection of bottles, fluidly flipping them back and forth and pouring different substances into it. He juggles them, but without the intent to impress — he’s simply doing his job and it’s even more remarkable. There’s a bright flash of fire at some point and you gasp, eyes glittering. Then, the barkeep slaps down a crimson shot in front of Yoongi. “Go ahead.” Yoongi, on the other hand, is much less excited than you are and skeptically stares at it. “What is it?” “Tell ya afterwards,” the barkeep answers. Yet, the man is still carefully assessing the liquid and sloshes it as if he’s worried it’ll be poisonous. You nudge him hard enough that he almost falls off the stool. “C’mon, duckling! Don’t be a wuss.” Yoongi glares at you, eyes half-lidded and he never breaks eye contact when he brings the glass to his lips, taking the entire shot in one smooth motion. The liquid burns. As you’re wondering if he makes those bedroom eyes to every female he comes into contact with and if that’s part of his mysterious moves to seduce, he tears away from you and wheezes. You burst out laughing. Yoongi feels the hot embrace of hell in his lungs. “W-What is that?!” It’s as if he drank fire itself and he feels warm from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, already breaking a sweat at his hairline. “Drink’s called a Fireball,” the barkeep grins, happy that the effect worked. “Just like the spell, eh? And you even get that cold resistance for the next thirt’ minutes.” “Did it taste good?” You lean in, eyes glittering with curiosity. “I thought I was going to die.” It’s your turn next and you watch in amazement as the barkeep makes your drink. A whole glass gets slapped in front of you afterwards instead of a shot. It’s clear with opalesque swirls with specks of glowing pink lights. It already reeks of alcohol, more than Yoongi’s did. “Made with Tiefling fire vodka, dash of pixie sugar dust, teaspoon of honey, an’ two spells. One is faerie fire and the other ain’t named, but ’s an ancient spell of warlock origin.” The spiel sounds like something you’d make up on a whim, but it’s intriguing. “Go ahead, girl.” Yoongi opens his mouth. “Wai—” But it’s too late. You’re already drinking. Then the taste explodes into your mouth. Your eyes grow wide at how amazing it is. It tastes like tropical juice, pineapple and raspberries with a kind of smokiness to it that reminds you of the charcoal of a fire or burnt crisp around meat. It’s amazing and you down the entire thing within seconds. You slap the glass to the counter in a ‘thump’, a burp leaving your stomach. You’re dazed, mind clouded, unable to think properly even when Yoongi worriedly calls your name thrice. “Drink’s called Nyssa’s Nectar,” the barkeep slurs with a ginormous grin. You feel strange, the tips of your fingers tingling and your limbs itching. It isn’t just your eyes or your imagination either. “Turns you into the opposite gender. Right down to your clothes!” Suddenly, your legs expand, your arms grow more muscular, your hair morphs into a shorter form and your dress distorts into pants and a tunic. “What?!” “Really?!” Yoongi is appalled, his jaw dropped. In the meanwhile, you’re giggling in amazement while you check your pants, gasping at what you see inside. “Don’t worry, it wears off in the mornin’,” the barkeep informs and then tottles away to serve the next customers. “Yes!” you drunkenly laugh and noisily cheer. “This is the best disguise yet!” “I can’t believe—...hey! Where are you going?!” You’ve stumbled off your stool to a table of two female elves, leaning over with a sly smirk. “Heyo, females. Wanna try a potion?” You pull two stoppered bottles out from your bag, clutching it tightly. “They’re philter of love! Get any creature you wanna charm for an hour! Don’t waste an opportunity like this—” Mid-hiccup, you turn around to see tender features and a mop of pale yellow hair reminiscent to a duckling’s fur. “Hey, Yoongi! Wanna buy one? It’ll be five hundred gold!” “I’m so sorry for her— his behaviour.” He grabs your collar and starts to pull you away while the elves giggle. But Yoongi doesn’t get a hold of you for long. Your passion for selling is big and you scramble out of his grasps to another table of adventurers with bottles overflowing your arms. It’s the last thing you remember. // There’s a deafening bang. You groan, whining Yoongi’s name and mumbling to sleep in another five minutes. But— “Get up!” The barkeep yells, loud enough to burst your eardrums. You open your eyes, wincing from the bright sunlight coming through the windows and you lift your head off the wooden table, coming face to face with the dwarf. “Ya got a duel at noon and you got fifteen minutes left. Better get goin’, eh?” “What?” You look to your side where Yoongi’s also fallen asleep, unaffected by the noise like he’s a brick and not a human. It takes a good minute for what the barkeep told you to sink in, and then you’re shaking Yoongi frantically. “What.” he grunts angrily. “Yoongi, Yoongi. Get up. I challenged someone to a duel at noon and there’s only fifteen minutes left. Oh lord, if you don’t help me, they’re going to come find me and I’m going to die!” There’s a sigh. Then he raises his head, eyes narrowed. “What?” Creatures are gathered outside the tavern on the road, most likely patrons from last night. They form a long oval, encircling both you and Yoongi in and not allowing either of you to escape. At the other end stands an eight feet tall Goliath monk — the same one you bumped into last night. But he doesn’t seem to remember you from that incident. “That scrawny boy ran like a coward!” The Goliath’s voice booms, rousing on the crowd of bored travelers who haven’t watched a proper match in ages. He’s referring to your male form and then points at Yoongi. “No matter! He was your friend, no? He was with you all night! You will fight in his place!” The Goliath’s glowing eyes pierce into Yoongi’s and you peek out from right behind him. You have no idea what you said to make the Goliath so pissed. Usually monks are fairly peaceful and they don’t drink either, but there seems to be plenty of exceptions to the rules at the moment. “I am very, very sorry, Yoongi,” you murmur in his ear. “I swear, I’ll make it up to you ten folds.” He turns his head slightly. “I am going to kill you.” You pat him on the back, ignoring his blatant threat. “Don’t worry, I’ll support you from behind.” At once, the Goliath monk runs forward and attacks Yoongi with his closed fist. The punch slams straight into his abdomen and you move out of the way, wincing. Yoongi’s air is knocked out of his lungs. He wheezes and the Goliath swings again, missing once and barely grazing Yoongi’s arm on the other. The crowd cheers like a bunch of maniacs and Yoongi draws his shortsword from his side. He swings twice, slashing against the Goliath’s chest. He surges forward, managing another slice. But the Goliath looks barely affected, merely pushed back and angered. Your jaw clenches and you reach out, hand wrapping around Yoongi’s wrist. You yank him back so he’s behind you and his eyes widen at what’s in your other hand. It’s an orb with swirling orange and blazing red — as if fire has been encapsulated into a crystal ball. It’s an arcane object. A spellcasting focus. It’s the way arcane spells can channel their power. And you let go of him in favour of pointing your finger at the Goliath. Suddenly, a bright streak flashes out of your skin towards the eight foot male, blossoming into an explosion of flames with a low roar. There are terrifying screams and shouts, the crowd dispersing and running for their lives before they’re burnt to a crisp. Yoongi looks away when the light becomes overwhelming and the Goliath shouts in pain. When the fire disperses, the Goliath is still standing and storms towards you. He lands an attack on your right shoulder, punching you enough to bruise. He frantically throws two more hits but misses both times when his movements are no longer calculated. Yoongi takes the opportunity to slice his sword twice more on the Goliath. Then you throw another fireball from your fingertips, allowing the flames to bloom and roar towards him. When the smoke dissipates, the Goliath is on the ground, unconscious. You grin, clapping your hands at the outcome of the duel in place of the audience that’s disappeared. But Yoongi looks at you, both unamused and impressed. His brow lifts. “Just a peasant girl?” You give him a cheesy smile. “With maybe a little magic.” // Bogsburrough is a town hidden in a thick swamp to avoid governments and large cities. It’s a dismal place with rotting trees and a certain stench in the air, each of your steps sinking in its mud. But many valued illegal goods are made in this area and traded, such as fatal poisons, meat of endangered species, addictive substances, and many other items treasured by outlaws. The underground market is also rich with life, a bustle in itself. Bandits dressed in black have set up stalls along with other crooks and fugitives, servicing wanderers and travelers alike. You and Yoongi are two of these people taking a look around. “Yoooongi, I’m sorry,” you whisper in his ear for the thousandth time, glued right by his side. He’s been silent so far and you know with that look on his face, he’s had enough of you. “On the bright side, you did a good job during the fight. You looked really cool. I bet you have a line up of mistresses who want to be wedded to you.” Unfortunately, your persuasion doesn’t seem to have an effect on him anymore. Your buttered words don’t change his stoic state. After a moment, Yoongi breaks his silent treatment. “Stop trying to get us killed all the time, brat.” You sulk at him, holding onto his arm. But the cute act doesn’t seem to appeal to him either — or at least he doesn’t show that it does. “It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose, duckling.” Still, Yoongi doesn’t shove you off from holding his arm, so you take it as a win. “What do you want to do here?” “I have some stuff to sell.” The magical satchel slung across your body weighs fifteen pounds, but it can hold up to five hundred pounds and is two feet in diameter and four feet deep. There’s been plenty of things you’ve been collecting that you need to get rid of and more ‘potions’ that you would like to sell. Yoongi’s brow lifts. “You can sell your things anywhere.” He isn’t wrong. A detour to Bogsburrough is completely unnecessary if the only reason is to sell. There’s a moment of contemplation and then you concede, deciding to tell him about another secret, or rather… “There’s a rumour.” The two of you slow down and your eyes meet. “They say the tapestries in the palace are forgeries. Apparently, the previous king pawned them off and the current one couldn’t find them, so they had to be replaced with some replicas. The royal family would be really grateful if they were retrieved and would probably give a very handsome reward. You know what that means, right, Yoongi? I could make my dream come true.” The struggle of scraping up with a few gold pieces at a time would end. You could finally have your house built in the middle of nowhere, hidden from civilization, isolated from all people and creatures. “So you’ve been searching for these tapestries to return them to the royal family?” he asks. “Yep, and I think it might be in Bogsburrough.” Without warning, the two of you are interrupted by a human talismonger dressed in white robes. “What a beautiful couple! I see much compatibility and fortune! I bet you’re looking to have children soon, aren’t you—” You’re flustered, your entire brain delayed as your mouth slowly opens. But Yoongi is much calmer. “No—” The talismonger doesn’t give him a chance to speak. “We have charms to increase fertility and charms for impotence. Tell you what? I’ll give it to you for five silver pieces!” He spreads his entire hand in front of your face and Yoongi’s, overwhelming you with the sheer volume of his voice. “That’s quite alright—” “Okay, okay!” Creatures passing turn their heads at the ruckus. “An impotence charm for four silver pieces!” At this point, you’re getting irritated. “We don’t need it!” you shout. “My husband does not have issues with impotence!” The two of you push past the obnoxious man, but then he loudly haggles for the entire market to hear— “FINE! Okay, sir! I’ll sell you the charm to fix your impotence for half price!” Both you and Yoongi freeze in your steps. Your necks crane around. Your intimidating glares bore into his face, Yoongi’s hands gripping his sword, and your swirling orb of fire is clutched in your hand. He squeals in fear. No one gets to cheat a cheat. “Terrible technique,” you mutter when you’ve made your way down the market. “He’s supposed to convince and persuade them, not try to embarrass the customers. Horrible business man.” The corner of Yoongi’s mouth curls and he chuckles. “Yeah? Well, you’re not any better.” “Hey, I’m so much better! I do business properly.” “You lie about the product.” “It’s called a business technique.” You look around the stalls and what’s for purchase. But once you’ve made it to the end of the market, there are no tapestries in sight. Even when you ask around, no one has any clue what you’re talking about and you know you’ve reached another dead end. “What’s your plan now?” Yoongi asks. “I don’t want the entire trip here to be a waste, so I’ll set up and sell some stuff.” You sigh. “Well, this place was a shot in the dark anyways. It was worth a try. At least I can cross it off my list. Anyway, give me an hour and I’ll be done. You can walk around or do whatever it is that you do.” Yoongi nods. In the meanwhile, you pull out a rug from your bag and dump out golden chalices and wondrous items you’ve probably stolen, and begin advertising them at outrageous prices to creatures passing by. He lets you be as you’re happily scamming and walks off with a tiny smile. “Excuse me,” he approaches a human Ranger standing by and the stranger lifts his head with suspicious eyes narrowed in on him. Yoongi had a few ideas on how to make his time worthwhile here too. “Yes?” “Do you know anything about the North Dragon?” “The North Dragon?” The Ranger shakes his head. “Sorry. Don’t. But you can probably ask Raithe. He knows a thing or two about creatures around.” The Ranger indicates a man in a black cloak sitting on a stool and staring at bystanders. Yoongi thanks him and approaches the so-called Raithe. “Excuse me.” The man looks up, revealing beady eyes and a long, red beard. “Do you know anything about the North Dragon?” The corner of the man’s mouth curls. “Who may you be?” “I’m a traveler on a quest,” Yoongi says vaguely, knowing better than to pass information about himself around or go into too much detail needlessly. Anyone could use anything against him. Raithe hums. “I know that there’s a dragon in Stoughsby Peaks. That it’s fiercely loyal. But I’m afraid any more information will have to come at a price.” He pulls out a gold coin from his pocket. “Will this be enough of a price?” “That’s more like it, young man. Do you have a map?” The greedy man smiles, snatching the payment before Yoongi pulls out his crinkled map you always make fun of. Once spread, Raithe points to a patch of grass on it in the middle of the forest that’s between this place and Rutherglen. “Here. A wise wizard can tell you all that you seek to know about the North Dragon, but he is not easy to find and he doesn’t allow just any guests inside his home.” “How do I find him then?” “You keep walking.” That’s all the man is willing to say and Yoongi keeps it in mind as he marks the map. At the same time, you’re having much success with your business. “Thanks for coming!” After getting rid of your chalices and your eyes of eagle, your sack of gold has become heavier and heavier in your pocket. You’ve managed to sell two of your stoppered bottles too, passing them on as potions of heroism when really it’s just been dyed blue and the bubbles are from the expired milk you had in them. “Get your potions of heroism! Get your potions!” You can’t wait to see the look on Yoongi’s face when you brag about how much you’ve made. “It’s a blessed spell! Gain more health before you go charging into battle! Great for adventurers and travelers who love exploring the region!” Your eyes light when a creature comes up to your rug. He’s five feet eight with reddish skin and a purple head of hair. A sulfurous odor radiates from him, but you recognize the horns, prehensile tails, and pointed teeth for him being a Tiefling and his daggers for being a rogue. “Hello sir, would you like one? It’s a rare potion you won’t find anywhere else! Take the chance while you still can!” “How much?” “Five gold pieces.” You hold in your cackle when he passes the gold to you without even bargaining. But blood drains from your face when he flicks off the cork and prepares to chug it. “Wait! Are you going to take it right now?” “If it’s good, I’ll buy the rest,” the Tiefling rogue states, solid orbs of silver for eyes looking back at you. And with that, he chugs it. You hitch your breath. Your teeth grit. After a moment, the Tiefling rogue spits the potion out. His expression twists into horror, another strange odor leaving his mouth that smells like rotten eggs left in the Summer sun. “What is that?!” “Uh….it’s…..it’s…...a potion….of heroism?” He points at you, shouting, “Fraud!” “I prefer Charlatan!” you scream and jump back before his dagger can hit you. Across the market, Yoongi hears the commotion. There are creatures moving away and murmuring, not wanting to get involved, and his blood runs cold when he realizes you’re on the other side where the clamour is. Immediately, he rushes through the crowd, but then his shoulder collides with another. “Min Yoongi?” A cold voice stops him. “Yorril.” The slender Elf is the same height as Yoongi is, long blonde hair that’s half-tied up and reaches to his ribs. His piercing green eyes are set within their sockets, having seen his enemies coiling their bodies to his shoes. He has a dignified aura that’s unfriendly as always. But Yoongi supposes that it’s only natural. The Belxiron faction has always had an air of superiority, especially over the Min faction and it has permanently been a source of strife. “What a pleasant surprise,” Yorril utters in Elvish. “I thought you ran away like a coward.” “Cowards are the ones who stand behind their family’s back to protect themselves,” Yoongi answers in a hiss. “If being a coward is making something out of yourself rather than taking the status given to you at birth, then you are worthless.” The elf’s jaw clenches as he pulls his trident to his side. “Always so righteous, Min. Always have to have the last word. But it is time I give your mother a real reason to mourn—” On the other side of the market, the Tiefling strikes you with his dagger against your left forearm. It’s enough to skim against your skin and leave a mark, but not enough to bleed. You hold your orb within your hand and hurl three rays of fire towards him. The first one barely hits him when he dodges, but the second and third make him cry out in agony as he’s burnt. “You bitch!” “That’s rude!” You’re about to persuade him to give it up, but it’s useless when he runs towards you again with newfound wrath. In the meanwhile, the Elf uses his trident and attacks, piercing Yoongi in his abdomen. The weapon digs into his leather clothing, never into his skin, but then light twirls through the trident and he feels as if lightning has shocked through his system. Yorril smirks. Yoongi pulls out his rapier but misses when he swings. “Going down so easy, Min? I expected better from someone who ran off to become a knight for the Order of the Black Sun.” Yoongi grits his teeth and swings again. This time, Yorril is pushed back, sliced in his shoulder and Yoongi surges forward once more. Then, he’s dashing to the other side of the market. There’s a shout of his name behind him, but it doesn’t matter. He breathes a sigh of relief when you come into view. Visibly intact and unharmed. “What happened?” Yoongi hyperventilates from running, eyes wide and searching your face. You muster a smile, afraid of his scolding. “Just...you know….the usual workplace risks.” The Tiefling shouts and runs forth with his dagger. He manages to nick your dress and collarbone with his blade this time, making you hiss out as blood soaks through. Yoongi retaliates in an instant, swinging at him with his rapier and he stumbles back. “Min!” There’s a shout of his name and the angered Elf comes out of the crowd silently observing and gasping. “I’m not done with you!” Your back presses against Yoongi’s as you both hold onto your weapons. “You know this guy?!” “He’s an enemy of my family,” he murmurs as he faces the Tiefling rogue and you face the Elf. “What kind of family do you have?!” You throw an evocation spell forward and a line of roaring flames thirty feet long and five feet wide emanates from you towards the stranger. The crowd disperses quickly, shuffling back before they’re hit by the fire. Unfortunately, the Elf is dexterous and manages to move back, only getting hit by half of the fire. “It’s complicated,” Yoongi says. “Get out of the way,” Yorril grunts in Elvish and attacks you with his trident, charging forth to spear you. He hits against the arm you bring out to shield your face away and as it digs into your flesh before you force it away. Yoongi hears your cry and turns around to strike him. At the same time, the Tiefling rogue fails to drive his dagger into Yoongi’s stomach. Your grasps tighten on your orb and you lob three more scorching rays of fire in your hands towards your enemies. One of them hits the Tiefling and he yells in pain before falling over, unconscious. Two of them are fired towards the Elf, one that misses and the other that gets him straight in his face. He’s burnt, not too badly that he’s become disfigured but enough that it hurts. “Damn you, whore! Stay where you belong!” Yorril swings at you, piercing you in your stomach and leaving a bleeding gash in its place that you press with your other hand to keep blood from pouring. “It’s going to have to take more than that,” you wheeze in Elvish to him and it serves to aggravate him further. Yoongi is horrified, paler than he was before and he shouts deep from his lungs. He swings at Yorril, slicing him in his back and your arm lifts. A blinding streak flares from your pointing finger and blossoms with a low roar into an explosion of flame. The Elf’s eyes are rounded in terror and he howls from deep in his stomach as he’s burnt. The fire spreads through the room, igniting the wooden stalls and rugs. Brought to his knees, Yoongi slices Yorril once more with his rapier. The Elf uses the remainder of his strength to hit Yoongi once more and manages to scrape at his knees before Yoongi strikes twice and the latter male falls over, also unconscious. It goes silent except for the sound of the two of you catching your breaths. Then you and Yoongi turn to each other. Compared to Yoongi who’s still firmly on his feet, you’re worse for wear. You’re bleeding in numerous places, nicked at your jaw and neck. But the corners of your mouth curls and you slowly reach into your pocket. You hold out a heavy sack of gold, one that isn’t your own. “L-Look what I got.” Your eyes flicker to the unconscious Tiefling who’ll eventually wake up wounded and broke. Yoongi scoffs with a tiny smile. “This is why so many people want to kill you.” “You have your fair share of enemies too, evidently,” you breathe out. “And it’s not so easy for me to die, y’know.” He comes over to shoulder you, all traces of mischief gone. “Are you okay?” “Of course I’m okay.” You muster a tender yet tired smile, leaning your weight on him. “It’s no big deal. Don’t you know….who I….am?” But then your eyes begin to droop and Yoongi opens his arms, catching your slumping body. You’re snoring, exhausted from the fight and he puts you on his back, a tiny smile etched on his features. There’s chaos around you both, people returning to their stalls to see that it’s been burnt down to a crisp and wailing at the loss, other sly creatures trying to steal what they can in the chaotic situation and others that return to their stations like nothing happened at all. A fight in Bogsburrough might not be uncommon, but Yoongi doesn’t dwell. He carries you and the two of you fade away as quick as you came, continuing on your journey. // After being bandaged, taking a long rest and downing a bunch of healing potions, you’re back in tip-top shape again. Your initial plan was to just have Yoongi protect you until you made it to Bogsburrough — a plan you never told him about — but with no other idea of what to do or where to go next, you find yourself continuing with him on his quest. Why not, right? If he defeats that dragon, you can reap the benefits and get that amazing reward. It’s certainly better than wandering on your own and having nothing to do. There’s no other reason than that. No other reason………………………... “So we’re supposed to just...keep walking?” you ask skeptically after wandering aimlessly for what seems to be an hour around this meadow. “That’s what he said.” “What if this is a trap.” “Then we’ll grab our weapons. But I don’t think it is.” It’s only fair that after Yoongi took your detour, you take his. But you’re unsure what this nonsense about a wizard is. There’s nothing here, but grass and flowers— Your forehead smacks into a wall. You stumble back, rubbing at the area while cursing. But there’s nothing there. Your brows furrow along with Yoongi’s and you put your hand out, feeling the invisible barrier placed there. “It’s a wall of force!” You grin, excited that your efforts weren’t wasted after all. “How do we get rid of it?” “We blast it!” Before he can protest and get some time to think things through, you grab your orb that allows you to channel your power and you hurl a fireball at it. The flames howl, blossoming an explosion and slamming into the barrier. The barrier ripples, revealing its spherical shape — but it doesn’t shatter or open a hole. You huff out in frustration. Yoongi steps forward. “Wait.” But you throw another fireball at it, fiercer and with more vigor. This time, it works and the barrier splits with a tiny opening, enough for you and Yoongi to push yourselves through. You grin at his bewildered expression. Of course he should be impressed with your abilities. You might not be as capable or strong as he is, but your magic often comes in handy like now. “It’s sorcerer magic.” “Yeah, well, I think we’ve already long established you aren’t a normal peasant girl.” “Nope. I’m not.” There’s a house in the middle of the meadow, placed on a tiny hill — one that was not visible outside of the invisible wall of force. Built with white stones and an oak roof with a chimney on the side, it stands tall in a fairly symmetrical pattern. The windows are large and it looks like the manor has several floors. More importantly, you swear you see the curtains shift on the left. The two of you step up on the wooden porch, facing the mahogany double doors. “Do we just….knock?” “I guess.” Yoongi’s fist raps against the surface while you brace yourself for an attack. No one who wants to hide warmly welcomes unexpected guests. Inside, in a dusty library, the male who’s levitating abruptly shuts his book at the sound. The cover is bright green, labeled ‘Halfling Histories’ and it slides back onto the empty slot of a nearby bookshelf as his small feet touch the ground once more. The sound of scattering toes on floorboards echo as he sprints to the front door. The door swings open. You hitch your breath, but an onslaught of offensive spells never happens. Instead, you see nothing. Not until you and Yoongi collectively drop your heads to discover a three feet tall Halfling in a silk, blue robe with rounded glasses perched on his nose. He is reminiscent of a child with his full, rosy cheeks, brightened eyes and stubby stature. The Halfling gives a dimpled smile and widens the door. “Welcome! Oh my goodness, I haven’t had guests in so long! Come in, come in!” The pair of you exchange expressions before stepping inside. The interior instantly takes your breath — cozy mahogany and high ceilings, mementos on a shelf near the winding staircase with a magical pull to them. The owner of this house has made it their own. You can tell each object carries its own meaning and memory, not merely for decoration or the purpose of luxury. You gander around wordlessly. Whoever this wizard is, he’s literally living your dream. Out in the middle of nowhere. A place of his own. Hidden from the rest of humanity. It’s your aspiration in the flesh. “My name is Namjoon,” the Halfling says as his dimples crease deeper, “and I am a servant to the lord of the house. May I ask who has entered the home?” “I am Min Yoongi, in search of a Great wizard said to have lived here.” “Ah, it is very nice to meet you. I’m afraid the lord is asleep upstairs. He doesn’t like to be awoken, so I fear it may be several hours until he can entertain you,” he informs and you look at Yoongi with uncertainty. The Halfling follows your movement and smiles. “And may I ask who you are, milady?” “I am merely a servant girl accompanying this man as a way to repay a favour.” You lower your head, never once stating your own name. “I see.” Namjoon smiles. “Can I ask for what reason you’re searching for my lord?” “There’s just something we want to ask,” you say quickly, stepping forward before Yoongi can spill the whole truth. “It’s about a magical item. One we’re willing to sell to him.” Namjoon hums. “Alright. I’ll let my lord know as soon as he wakes up. Would any of you care for tea? I have the best honey and sugar available!” But suddenly, Yoongi feels a heavy weight on his mind. It’s a presence pressing on his brain, probing deep and whispering around the caverns of his skull for permission to be let inside. He grips his temples with a groan and you turn to him. “Is everything okay?” Yoongi looks at you and the way your brows scrunch together. But doesn’t answer. He tries to fight it off. And he fails. Yoongi feels his thoughts being pulled, untangled, exploited and read. “Y/N—” The corner of the Namjoon’s mouth curls in genuine amusement. He looks between you and Yoongi curiously as if he knows something you don’t. Then your neck whips to the side, catching him staring at you with that smile like he knows who you are. Before you can ask him what he just did, Namjoon opens his palm. In one split second, the wooden staff you didn’t notice leaning against the grandfather clock flies into his hands. The surrounding flames are snuffed out, drawing the three of you into darkness except for the dim evening light piercing through the glass windows. Your shadows lay across the walls. Namjoon looks at Yoongi and an overwhelming gust of wind pulls him back. Yoongi shouts his name, but it’s choked inside his throat. Namjoon’s casted hold person, causing him to be frozen, paralyzed against the wall. “Yoongi!” Your eyes are wide, connected with his. You rush over, but the path is interrupted by a growing low noise and three glowing darts that strike you at once. They pummel into your body before dispersing as quick as they appeared. A kind of agony immediately shoots up your spine and causes a cry to tear from your throat. You turn yourself to Namjoon — the wizard you’ve been searching for. “What do you want from us?!” “The truth,” the halfling utters while you grip your glass orb in your hand that swirls colours of red and orange. From nothing but the magic that runs through your blood, you conjure three rays of fire and hurl them at him. One misses, but the other two burns him enough to hear his sharp inhale. Namjoon raises his arms, his curled staff lifted with the motion and you feel a necromantic energy washes over you. The spell he casts drains moisture from you, making your skin dry, your lips chapped, your lungs shrivel. You double over, wheezing as your throat becomes parched. But it’s far from over. You shout from deep within your stomach, hearing the strained call of your name behind you from your companion and a bright flash streaks from your finger, blossoming in a rumble of fire. But Namjoon counterspells it without even blinking. He snuffs out the flames before it can reach him. His feet shift and a blast of cold air erupts from his hands. It coils towards you, itching towards your body before enveloping you in frost. It nips against your skin, cracking your lips further. This is it. This is how you die. You’ve always envisioned succumbing to fire, brought down by the power inside of yourself — the greatest devastation and irony of all. You never imagined yourself to fall in the home of an unknown wizard for unknown reasons…. But as you turn your head to gaze at Yoongi once more, your eyes meeting his tender ones full of unadulterated fear and anguish, there’s a surge from within. It screams, causing you to stand straighter, for your feet to root into the floorboards. It’s instincts — And it tells you that you can’t leave him behind. Instantaneously, a fire from within you blazes. A blinding light slices through the room as you’re magically wreathed in swirling flames. It’s overwhelming, pouring from the tips of your fingers and toes, seeping out of your pores without control. A grating orange and flaring crimson. It’s ugly, the way your eyes glow like hot coals, how you feel like your skin is melting off your bones. The fire from within your blood is restless. Vengeful. You can’t see the way Yoongi forces himself to look at you past the bright flare — you don’t know he’s in awe, that he finds it absolutely magnificent. Before you can barrel forward, the Hafling drops his staff. His hands lift, surrendering, as a dimpled grin spreads into his cheeks. “I knew it! I knew it! You’re a phoenix sorcerer!” Somewhere in Yoongi’s mind, those words are familiar. He’s read them somewhere before. But the details are murky. He isn’t sure. He simply knows there’s one infamous phoenix sorcerer family in existence. The fire disperses as Yoongi’s let go from his binds, no longer pinned to the wall. “You….” You’re panting, out of your mind. “You did all that to prove a theory?!” “Well, I had a feeling you wouldn’t be honest with me if I asked.” “You fucking crazy bastard!” Namjoon laughs and then suddenly lowers himself to one knee, height no higher than your own knee. He blinks up at you with his brightened irises. “Will you marry me, Miss? Our powers combined would make for the best offsprings.” Your eye twitches. “You’re a piece of shit.” // The library is old and dusty, but the winding bookcases that reach the ceiling tells him there’s an endless amount of knowledge stowed away between these pages of parchment. It is larger than any library he has known at home in his faction or in the castles he’s been stationed at. These books radiate types of magic, each enchanted with different spells he will never know the names of. Seated at the round table, his trance is shattered without warning when there’s the ear-piercing noise of a stool scraping against the floorboard. If Yoongi didn’t know any better, he would think it was his imagination but then the short Hafling hops up on the stool to be seen and spreads the map across the wooden surface. “You wanted to know about the Dragon of the North, yes?” Yoongi nods in silence and he studies the map. Never has he seen something so extensive and detailed, all towns and rivers labeled with different kinds of terrain shown on the parchment. There are numerous roads winding on the paper, a scale for size he has no doubt is accurate. “Can I copy this map?” “You can just take it.” Namjoon grins. “I have plenty, don’t worry. I have some ancient dragon books too if you’d like.” Yoongi nods again and the Hafling bounces off his stool and tottles over to one of his bookcases. He climbs the wooden ladder but when that can’t even grab the spine of the large book he’s reaching for, he whirls his finger and it slides out for him, swooping onto the table. There’s a pile of dust that flies when Yoongi opens it, but he brushes it away and tries to read about the myths spoken about the North Dragon and Stoughsby Peaks. “It seems like this dragon isn’t as dangerous as it seems,” Namjoon comments as he pushes up his circular spectacles. “And it’s been hidden for quite a while.” “It kidnapped a girl.” Yoongi places the book down, telling him in case he can offer anything insightful. “We’re on a quest to bring her back at any costs.” But Namjoon merely hums and his eyes twinkle. “Maybe it did it for a reason.” In spite of this place behind a holder of knowledge, there isn’t much on the North Dragon aside from folktales and rumours of travelers who witnessed the creature and survived the encounter. But Yoongi makes sure to read every word, knowing that anything could be helpful. Though after a while, the sentences dull and Yoongi finds himself curious about something else. “Do you possibly have any books on phoenixes?” The Halfling wizard smiles. “I’ll happily lend you some. Perhaps one specifically on magic, human and phoenixes?” // You’re taking a long rest in one of the countless bedrooms when Yoongi enters. But despite how soft the mattress is and how warm the sheets are, different from the many nights spent on the forest floor or in dodgy inns, you aren’t comfortable in the least bit. “We need to get the fuck out of here, Yoongi,” you say immediately when the door opens and it’s duckling hair that you see. “I need to get out of here. He’s psychotic.” He smiles gently and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, allowing it to dip underneath his weight. “We’ll leave when you can stand up again.” “You can just carry me.” “And risk breaking my back? I almost did last time and you still owe me.” You pout, knowing full well he’s exaggerating. “I’m not that heavy.” It goes quiet for a moment as if he has something to say and doesn’t know how to broach the topic which is unlike him. “Hey, Y/N.” “What? And ew, don’t call me like that.” Your nose scrunches, making fun of him to lighten the mood he’s created. Yoongi grins. “Like what?” “Like I’m dying. Y/N,” you lovingly whisper, mocking him and causing him to scoff lightly. “Makes me feel like I’m your bedridden wife.” “Well, at the rate we’re going at,” he mutters and you’re not sure what he means — if you’ll end up bedridden or his wife or both. But you can’t dwell on it when he continues, “I never finished telling you about my family.” “Oh yeah.” You lean back against the headboard. “And that guy who wanted to kill us at the market?” Yoongi nods. “I’m the youngest son of the Min house, a faction in Srinas.” It’s the capital of Pegan, the largest country bordering this one. “The region is broken up into factions and a house owns each of them.” “And I’m guessing that Elf was from another faction?” He nods again. “I didn’t expect to see him there.” “Why did he want to fight you?” “Our houses are enemies,” he explains with a sigh. “No matter where I go, as long as I’m a Min, there will be preexisting enemies. The factions are different from how you’d imagine them.” It’s interesting, intriguing to hear. You aren’t someone who cares about the troubles of another, but you’ve traveled with Yoongi for so long that a part of you has always longed to know more about him, about his background, where he came from, what led him here. “What do you mean?” “There was constant backstabbing and betrayal. Your friend one day would be your enemy the next. Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Yoongi brushes it off with a stoic expression. “I got tired one day and decided to leave.” You know he left to join the Order of the Black Sun where he trained to become a knight. “And you haven’t looked back since,” you finish. The silence confirms your guess. It feels like you’re filling in the gaps of your knowledge about Yoongi, that you’re finally coming to understand the man in front of you. But you wonder why he’s telling you when he’s been so private. Why he’s voluntary letting you in his secrets without you needing to pry or whine. Perhaps he wants to know about you, but is taking the first step for you to know him. So you indulge him, taking the initiative of what you assume he’s seeking without him needing to ask. “Mine’s not any different. Well, less….backstabbing, but it’s true. I’m a phoenix sorcerer and so is the rest of my family.” You trust him. You trust Min Yoongi. “My great, great grandfather saved a phoenix and a shard of its power runs through my bloodline. My power draws from an immortal flame.” It’s a mixed blessing. Like the creature indebted to your ancestor, you can conjure its fiery energy and be able to cheat death itself. But it comes at a cost. The fire within you bristles. Always demanding to be unleashed. You find yourself thoughtlessly feeding fires, hearing them call out to you, being unable to bear them sputtering out. You uncurl your fingers and a flame ignites in your palm. Yoongi watches it dance then his eyes flicker to your face, soaking it how the fire glows against your cheeks, warming your features. “People like me make others nervous. Our magic is volatile. It can be dangerous and we have a reputation for reckless behaviour. The stereotype isn’t untrue though. Most phoenix sorcerers think the essence of the phoenix can save them, but we aren’t necessarily protected from fire. We’re as vulnerable as the next creature, the next human. All we can really do is use our powers to pull ourselves from the brink of death. But most often than not, the reliance on our destructive magic is what put us there in the first place.” You shut your eyes. The fire smothers out. “My family has tried their hardest to remove themselves from such labels and molds. Each generation is put through strict teaching and training since the moment each person is born. But my family still think of themselves as superior. They were suffocating.” Yoongi connects the dots. “So you left.” “It wasn’t a life that I wanted to lead, so three years ago, I learned how to forge fake documentation and I ran away.” For the longest time, your greatest fear was being deported. It was being brought back to that house that was more concerned about status and upholding the bloodline than your own wishes. Where your freedom was suppressed. You release your breath. The corner of your mouth pulls. “I’m sure if you turned me into officials, you’d get yourself a handsome reward, Yoongi.” Yet, Yoongi doesn’t give into your banter or playfulness. He remains solemn and sincere. “I have no plans in doing so.” The two of you gaze at one another. He doesn’t seem affected whatsoever by this new information, about the secrets you’ve held close to yourself. The both of you come from rich and dark histories, but you’ve never encountered someone who wasn’t at least a bit surprised. But the way he looks at you is familiar. As if you don’t scare him. “Get some rest, Y/N,” he says as he finally stands, turning towards the door. “Yoongi,” you call his name tenderly before he can leave. The man pauses and your teary eyes trace his backside. “Thank you.” // The second you feel well enough, you get the fuck away from Namjoon. You sprint faster than you ever did before. He waves goodbye enthusiastically, saying that the offer of marriage still stands indefinitely — clearly, the Halfling wizard finds you sorcery magic quite intriguing and even bombards you with questions until the last moment — but you don’t entertain him. You run for the hills without looking back. And finally, the two of you make it to Rutherglen. It’s built on the bottom of a snowy thicket with a woodland forest nearby, the terrain rocky presumably from the mountains seen vaguely through the clouds. The village itself is plain but humble. With its redwood rooftops and maple wood walls, Rutherglen carries an inviting atmosphere. Though right now, there seems to be a certain commotion, lanterns strung through shops, vibrant posters set against brick walls, children wearing masks running through the streets and other adults preparing stalls that line the streets. “Is there something special going on today?” “Why, tonight is the Festival of Champions!” A petite woman says as she passes by, holding a ribboned basket of bread and biscuits, and catching wind of your question to Yoongi. “You must be travelers! How exciting and great timing, really.” “What’s the Festival of Champions?” Yoongi asks, having never heard of such a thing. “A long time ago, a powerful demon was driven up from this town and now we celebrate that day that we freed! The festival only happens once a year and it’s spectacular, much needed as well considering how on edge everyone’s been from those rumours of a dragon up north.” “What?” “Anyhow, no time like the present to enjoy yourselves!” She grins. “Enjoy yourselves, travelers!” With the short-sightedness of these villagers, it’s no wonder they run into predicaments like demons and dragons attacking them. “I don’t think I can do it.” There are two young girls chatting on the street and as you pass, your ears perk, picking up their exchange. “What if he rejects me, Lirla?” “He wouldn’t. You have to confess!” At that, you turn your head, watching as the girl in the plum dress grabs the hands of her friend with a brightened, innocent smile. “You’ve been waiting for this day for months and you know what they say, if you do it tonight during the fireworks, you’ll have luck on your side.” “I don’t know…..” Such fickle emotions such as love, nervousness in wanting to declare one’s feelings, uncertainty of how the other person will respond — you never got to experience such nonsense. But you can’t help but feel envious of them. You were never allowed to have such freedoms such as love. Yoongi shifts, having overheard the conversation as well and noticing how silent you suddenly are. “Y/N?” “Hmm?” You turn to look at him, but in doing so, your focus gets captured elsewhere. “Yoongi!” It’s a red and white striped circus tent pitched in the town’s center. A six feet tall Fighter in a ripped tank top struts in a chalk ring while flexing his biceps and a Halfling wearing a top hat stands on a soap box. For being a fraction of a human’s normal size, his voice is deafening— “Test your fortitude! Test your steel strength! Kourteous the Mighty challenges you to the Terror of the Rings! Best out of three clinches wins!” “Yoongi, Yoongi! Go!” You push him forward with a ginormous grin. His tender features twist is mortification. “What? You want me to fight him?!” “All you have to do is push him out of that ring and we get prizes. C’mon! Don’t be scared!” With one last shove, Yoongi stumbles forward and the Halfling grins. “Ah! Is there a new challenger?!” Yoongi turns around, glaring daggers into your soul and you give a sheepish smile. The blonde knight sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, sure, I guess.” A crowd soon gathers to watch and Yoongi joins the circle, knees bent and hands open. Folks cheer on the Fighter and you suppose it’s fair considering Yoongi’s shorter stature and smaller body. No one expects him to win. But you know him — you know he’s carried you on his back, that he’s fought countless creatures, that he’s protected you in several instances. Yoongi is strong. Even when he doesn’t look like it. “Round one!” The Halfling slams a wooden rod into a bell, making it ring loudly. “Fight!” At once, the Fighter makes a big show. He flexes his muscles, brushes his feet against the dirt and shouts from within his belly. It makes the crowd cheer. The Fighter charges Yoongi, but he keeps a low stance and dodges easily. The taller male swoops past, nearly running out the chalk circle with his sheer speed, but stops right on his toes. It causes the whole pack of creatures around to gasp in delight, put in anticipation. The Fighter turns around with a growl and runs to grab Yoongi. But this time as he swiftly ducks, Yoongi steals the opportunity and shoves the larger male out, centering his strength on the man’s abdomen. The Halfling throws his arms out dramatically. “One to zero!” They meet each other in the circle again and he switches to an offensive strategy. The Fighter is caught off guard with Yoongi’s strength with their hands meet each other and their arms strain, trying to push the other out. Yoongi is the epitome of stability. He pushes him and the Fighter stumbles out while trying to keep balance. “Two to zero!” It’s unexpected and the crowd is going absolutely crazy. They’re hooting and hollering like it’s the middle of a tavern on a drunken night of celebration, and you feel your chest blossom with pride. “I know him!” you shout above the uproar to the Elf next to you. “He’s my partner!” During the last round, Yoongi obliterates it. He wins so hard that the Fighter is stunned and the Halfling is speechless. “C-Congratulations!” Immediately, you run to Yoongi. He catches you in his arms while your own loop around his neck. You giggle into his shoulders and he grins, squeezing you. It’s a moment that you will come to cherish. You end up asking if he can do another round once the Halfling gives you the prize money of seven silver pieces. But he nearly cries and begs you both to leave instead. “I knew you could do it!” You’re tossing the sack of silver up and down in your hand, feeling its weight and listening to the clank as you do so. It’s technically Yoongi’s but he said you could have it and you didn’t hesitate to accept the gift. “You pushed me in before you even understood what the game was.” “But I believed in you anyway,” you laugh. The both of you continue on your way while you’re humming with a light skip in your step. When you find Yoongi looking at you, you flash a bright grin at him and he scoffs. You’re starting to like this place. But you don’t make it far before something else captures your attention. This time though, it’s not a circus game or creatures trying to sell you something. You’re enraptured by a fifteen-foot statue of a woman unmarred by time. There are steady streams of seemingly clear water traveling down the woman’s eyes, but leaving no erosion there. But next to her are the shattered remains of another smaller stone statue. The feet of this smaller statue remains affixed to the ground while the rest are scattered around. It looks close enough that the body may have once held the woman’s outstretched hand. You’re close enough that you can read the silver plate of the statue. It says ‘Missing Daughter’. The statue reminds you of your mother — and you wonder passingly if any members of your family have tried employing others to find you, much like Yoongi has been sent to find Mina Stav. Or maybe they haven’t. Maybe they think your family thinks you’re dead... “Y/N?” “Hmm?” You turn away from the statue outside the sanctuary. “Where’s this person again?” Half-across Rutherglen, you and Yoongi knock on a cottage door while unsure of yourselves. It's a single floor modest home, not at all extravagant like you expected it to be. Sorli Stav, the woman who commissioned you and Yoongi on this quest, reeked of wasteful luxury after all. You expect her sister to be the same or at least have some level of similarity. “Are you sure this is her?” “I’m sure,” he says in spite of his own skepticism. The door opens a moment later and on the other side is a thin lady with long, stringy hair and a flowy skirt. “Hi, how can I help you? Are you the workers from Johnson? I told him I’d be right down for the festival. What an impatient man, he is. Really—” “No, ma’am,” Yoongi politely interrupts. “Actually, we were told you could help us. Are you Ashal Stav?” “I am.” Her sparse brows furrow. Then as if she suddenly recalls, her entire face lights up. “Are you those heroes looking to rescue my niece?! Come in, come in.” You’re guided into the cluttered home with an open living space, a kitchen and dining room. It looks like there’s only three separate rooms after that. “I’m so sorry for the mess.” “It’s quite alright,” you muster a smile as your eyes stray to the dirty stains on the wall by the bookshelf. “Oh, I should’ve really cleaned better but the festival was here and I didn’t have much time.” The older woman is rushing about, collecting her clothes off the floor to throw into another corner and clearing the table of rotting food by pushing it aside. “My younger sister sent me a letter telling me you were coming. Although she informed me it would be a young fighter and a much...bigger barbarian.” She eyes you curiously like she didn’t expect a peasant girl. You smile as your eyes glitter. “I replaced him due to some unforeseen circumstances.” “Well, thank you for your service then.” She kicks some books on the ground underneath a table between the armchairs. “I really hope you can save my niece. Mina’s a wonderful girl really. A bit outspoken and stubborn, but very pleasant.” “Actually, we were told you could help us,” Yoongi says. “You have information about this dragon?” “Information, dear? No, no. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the North dragon whatsoever. I only know you will be in grave, grave danger.” The pair of you exchange expressions. “You can feel free to stay here for as long as you’d like,” she huffs while catching her breath from the impromptu cleaning session. “I make one mean apple pie. You two look like you’re cold too! Rutherglen is practically winter all year round, so feel free to take any coats in the closet you’d like. And oh! Enjoy tonight’s festival as well!” You and Yoongi don’t know what to say, simply holding in your groan. And when you come into the room she’s offered you, you find out that you’ll have to share a bed meant for one. // “That could’ve gone a lot better.” You realize you should’ve bargained for a better reward. That woman prepared nothing for the two of you — there’s virtually nothing to go on, no help, no information. If not for Yoongi seeking out Namjoon, you wouldn’t even know how to get to that mountain. Still, it’s a death sentence. But Yoongi merely hums, stoic and unaffected. “So you’re really just going to march up that mountain?” “I suppose,” he says. You had no plans in fighting a dragon — you still don’t. But the thought of Yoongi going there alone while you wait here in this town makes you unsettled. Your stomach turns and you feel nauseous. In a split second, you can imagine him never returning. You can envision waiting for agonizing weeks until you venture up there yourself and die in the frozen wasteland before your body is covered in snow never to be found again or at the mercy of a dragon’s fire breath. Either way, the outcome won’t be good for you or him. “Yoongi—” “Fire! Fire!” There is pandemonium as people shriek, scrambling out of the Market District. Both of your heads lift, catching the rising smoke that curls in the sky and turns it gray. It’s growing fast and you exchange expressions before hurrying forward towards the inferno — Yoongi feeling an intrinsic need to investigate as an honourable knight and you with an inborn fascination for fire. With what people are shouting as they pass, you learn it’s started from a cobbler shop that put too many cobblers in the oven at one time and forgot it was in there. And by the time you get close enough to see people running in with tiny wooden pails of water, you know it’s hopeless. It’s already started to spread. You quickly tug on Yoongi’s sleeve. “Hey…” He looks at you and then follows your line of sight to the unattended market stalls filled with exotic items for sale. In one moment, he already knows you’re planning to satisfy the itch of your fingers. But before he can stop you and grab the back of your collar, you’ve already crouched down and slunk away from him. “What do you think you’re doing exactly?” There’s a sharp, husky voice and you peek over your shoulder, discovering Yoongi hunched down with you behind some wooden crates. The corner of your mouth curls at his frown. “When life gives you chances, duckling, you have to take them. There’s nothing free in life. But there are opportunities, don’t you know?” His brows lift. “You’re going to steal?” “I’m going to pick up some abandoned items at a substantial discount,” you correct, “if you’re not going to help me, then get out of my way.” Your eyes flicker in all directions. There are creatures gathered around the flames, trying to help. Once the coast is clear, you stealthily slink over to the stall. Yoongi’s hot on your heel, hiding his smile of amusement. You don’t seem to know but his hands aren’t completely clean either. With life in a faction the way it was, he was forced to steal things numerous times. He’s just never taken from innocent folks out in the world before. At the stand, your hand lifts and you swipe at a leather pouch. Peeking inside, you find five branded agates, colourful rocks that seem to be worth a good amount. You slip it into your bag. Yoongi scoffs, watching you. “What do you even plan to do with these things?” “I’ll sell it, obviously.” Unfortunately, your whispering is loud enough to catch the attention of a woman nearby who spins around. Once she looks at the stand, the burly owner notices and looks. He steps aside and immediately sees you and Yoongi murmuring to one another while squatting next to his merchandise. “Hey! What're you think you’re doing?!” You gasp, eyes wide, and you stand. Yoongi is slower to your feet as he retains a calm disposition. You steal the chance at hand and point to your companion. “I’m stopping him from stealing!” “What?” the man huffs, louder than the sputter of the fire meters away. Yoongi’s brows raise, surprised at your betrayal before his expression morphs into a glare. “I’m not,” he deadpans, calmer than ever before. “You dare take from me?!” “You’re mistaken and my friend here is only kidding. She has a terrible sense of humour, I apologize.” In the meanwhile, your hand slips behind you. Your fingers find a cool, silver surface and you nab it. Your other hand also curls around a thin piece of glass that’s heavy in your grip. With your bag of holding shifted behind you, you easily slip the objects in. The man is convinced with Yoongi’s composure, one that does not belong to a thief. “You better be kidding, boy! If I find anything missing, your head’s gonna be on the chopping block,” he grunts, turns away to address the urgent fire. Yoongi releases his held breath and glares at you. You sheepishly grin at him and the both of you walk away from the commotion. “Thanks for that. You really saved me there.” “I can’t believe you betrayed me without even needing to think about it.” His eyes narrow in on you. “But I’m not surprised.” You pout and lean into him. Your arms wrap around his body. “Aw, Yoongi. I’ll split the gold with you, promise.” He lightly scoffs and you laugh before taking a chance to look into your bag. Instantaneously, your eyes glitter when you discover it was a bottle of common wine and also a flash of alchemists’ fire, probably worth around fifty gold pieces. Day by day, you’re getting you closer to your goal, your dream. Soon enough, you'll have a house in the middle of nowhere, much like that Halfling wizard’s. Yet somehow, the taste of victory doesn’t have as much of a glorious flavour as it used to. Ever since you’ve seen your ambition in the flesh, the fantasy you dwelled on doesn’t seem to be as vibrant in your mind…. Yoongi abruptly halts on his heel and you turn to him, your own trance broken. He glances over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you put out that fire?” he asks nonchalantly and your eyes sweep the chaos, soaking in the distress etched on the villager’s features. Yoongi steals a glance at you. “Taking is also about giving back, right?” There is silence. Then, a long sigh releases from your lungs. “I never took you to be so righteous, Min Yoongi.” “I am an honourable knight.” He smirks. “I think you forget that sometimes.” “If you were so honourable, you’d turn me in,” you quip. “Let’s just say I’m more loyal than I am honourable.” Smothering it out goes against your impulse for keeping flames alive. Like you’re suddenly writing with your other hand or clasping your hands and switching which thumb folds on top of the other. Yet you still grasp your magical orb that swirls red and orange and extinguish the inferno. You stand sixty feet away beside Yoongi, hidden in the shadows as you control the flames with the movement of your palm. It smothers within five feet in one direction and the creatures around cheer, assuming the water’s finally snuffed it out. You repeat it twice more until the fire dies down enough to be stomped on. “Feel good?” Yoongi asks, accidentally catching your tiny satisfied smile as you both walk away. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s gonna take a lot more convincing for me to do charity work like that again, Yoongi.” You exhale and passingly tell him, “There’s a reason I’d rather be seen as a useless peasant girl. A lot of the time, folks would think fires like that are from people like me.” “That’s impossible. There’s too many valuables. You’d rather take them than burn it down.” You laugh, heart swelling. // The minute the sun sets over the horizon, the lanterns strung along stalls and the lights inside shops are ignited to illuminate the streets, and the humble town of Rutherglen truly comes alive. In the town square, there are bards playing flutes and fiddles, lutes and mandolins. The folk music brightens the ambiance even more and children giggle and dance together while the elderly sit by with warm mugs of cider in their laps, clapping along. Other children are running around with paper masks, playing games and couples stroll the streets with one another. It’s a beautiful, cozy atmosphere as snow sprinkles down from the sky in a gentle flurry. It collects on rooftops and crunches underneath your steps, glitters and shimmers against the warm glow of the lights. You aren’t cold at all, not with the emerald pea coat wrapped around your shoulders. Yoongi’s in a coat too, leather and long to his knees. He would look like a mercenary, if not for his rosy cheeks and tender features that says otherwise. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “No reason.” You tear your eyes away, a smile still plastered across your face. You’re glad that you came here. Opportunity like this doesn’t happen often. Having the company of someone you find pleasant doesn’t happen either. “Oh, oh! Look, Yoongi!” Immediately, you drag him over by his sleeve. Yoongi knows better than to resist your whims, especially when you get excited. So he only feigns annoyance yet still follows you diligently. The two of you come to a booth with fishes swimming inside a rectangular pool of water. Kids are huddled together with buckets while the man behind the booth is loudly advertising people to come try their luck at goldfish scooping. But even without the vendor, it’s a game you recognize well. “Should we play?!” you ask, turning to Yoongi with glittering eyes. “Where would we keep a goldfish?” You deflate, disappointed, but you know he’s right. “Never mind. It’s okay. It’s just I used to play this a lot when I was a kid,” you reminisce, not sure when the last time you went to a festival was — though it might’ve been years ago when you were still a child with your family. “But I always broke the scoop before I could get one and my dad wouldn’t let me play more than once. Did you ever hear that rumour though? Some say the goldfish are actually polymored fair-goers who were caught cheating some of the other games.” He grins. “Is that why you don’t cheat?” “Hey, I have integrity too! Business and games are two separate things. I would never cheat during a festival or carnival.” Yoongi scoffs lightly, but his eyes are still lit with mirth. “You always know how to twist your logic.” It’s not long before another game interests you and Yoongi’s following you closely behind before you lose each other in the crowd. It’s an archery competition where contestants are trying to shoot an apple off the head of a Gnome — a Gnome that was presumably forced to take on the role with the way his knees are shaking and he squeals every time someone new comes forth. The prize is an elemental gem, something you’re sure you can use to sell at a higher price. “You know I’ve only been trained in swordsmanship, right?” “Giving up already? That’s not the spirit.” You slap Yoongi on the back harshly despite his glare and you point at the frightened Gnome that looks like he’s about to sob. “Take your shot, duckling!” Yoongi sighs, but raises the bow to eye level and draws it. The tip of his tongue peeks out as one eye flutters shut and he takes aim. Holding in his breath, he releases and the arrow flies. The Gnome squeaks. Unfortunately, the arrow slams above the apple, off by a few inches. “Better luck next time,” the girl managing the booth chimes. You exhale in frustration and immediately toss a silver piece to the girl. You snatch the bow from Yoongi’s hands and snag another arrow from the basket. The Gnome’s eyes bulge as you aim for the in-between of his brows and before he can stutter out “W-W-Wait”, you’ve released. There’s a sharp whistle. The arrow spirals. The Gnome ducks with a shriek and there’s a loud thunk! The apple’s pierced through it’s core, hitting the bullseye on the target behind. “Amazing!” The girl blinks as she soaks in what transpired in a mere three seconds. But she gives you the prize as promised. “Here you go.” You slip the shiny gem in your leather bag with a smile before turning to Yoongi and finding his surprised and impressed expression. “What? Let’s go.” The next game you stop at is an arm wrestling contest. There are several beefy fighters and barbarians getting in a line to challenge one another at wooden tables and while it’s not something that particularly captures your attention, the prize makes you halt on your heels. “Fight for love! The winner receives an uncommon potion! A philter of love!” “Yoongi.” Your hand plops on his shoulder, making him stop. “Want to play?” He looks at the horde of people and then back at you. “You want to verse me?” You burst out laughing before it dies down and your expression washes over into impassivity. “I don’t think so. I don’t do arm wrestling contests. Ever.” That seems to pique Yoongi’s curiosity and his brow cocks. “Why not?” “I just don’t.” When it seems like that answer isn’t enough to satisfy him, you sigh and explain yourself further, “My older brother challenged me once and I lost so bad, I broke my wrist. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the prize is a philter of love! Don’t you know what it means? A creature who drinks it becomes charmed by another creature they see for an hour and they regard them as their true love.” “And you would need that because….” “To sell obviously. Unless.” You come closer to him, closing the distance between your bodies and a sly, playful smirk comes across your face. One that Yoongi finds both unsettling and provoking to his emotions. “...Unless you want to become charmed by me.” He scoffs. “I don’t think so.” “Because you’re already charmed, right?” You wink at him and giggle when he merely turns away and joins the lineup to play. Yoongi ends up annihilating his competitors as you expected. He wins three rounds consecutively without one loss within minutes and hands you the prize as you’re cheering him on. The fighters and barbarians around are absolutely speechless at how such a smaller looking man seemingly without muscles could be so strong and they even challenge him directly. Yoongi sticks around for two more matches, but when the crowd grows, he decides it’s time to leave. They beg him to stay, but he doesn’t even look back. “You could make a living doing that, you know.” “Playing strength games at carnivals and circuses?” He laughs and you grin, bumping into him. “You could get famous! Think about the notoriety. People coming from far lands to challenge you.” “Fame’s never interested me,” he breathes out. “Wow.” You roll your eyes at his righteousness and part of you wonders what it is he actually wants. Fame and gold doesn’t seem to affect him like it does to a normal man. “The Great Min Yoongi never gets greedy for anything, huh?” “No,” he murmurs, eyes flickering to you. “There’s definitely some things I’m greedy about.” Before you can ask what it is specifically, he walks ahead with his arms behind his back. You quickly catch up to him and the following game that the both of you stop at is actually something that interests Yoongi. It’s a pick pocketing challenge. People are given bright pieces of cloth to be put on their belt or in their pocket — and the last one who still has it wins a grand prize. “Ten gold pieces?” You sharply inhale, considering it. “That’s actually not bad.” “Want to try then?” Yoongi grins and you smile at his unexpected enthusiasm. “You really think you could beat me in this?” He merely shrugs and the two of you step up to join the round that starts at the beginning of the hour. You’re given a bright scarlet cloth while Yoongi’s given a soft hue of baby yellow that you find all too fitting. There are about ten people within a fifty feet circle, all of different ages. You won’t aim for the young kids, that’s a given. While children shouldn’t be underestimated, it’s clear they’re playing for fun and their parents who joined are just trying to humour them. Your eyes, however, pinpoint on the other participants — an elderly man, a teenage girl, a married couple and Yoongi. The Dragonborn referee blows his whistle to signify the start of the game and immediately, the teenage girl is booking for you. You dodge out of the way easily, but when you try to snatch her own cloth from her pocket, she shifts back, out of reach. The two of you stare at one another and like having mutual respect and creating an alliance, you turn away and pick different targets. The married couple is easy to eliminate. They don’t expect it when they’re too busy with one another and you sneak up to steal their strips of cloth. You’re surprised Yoongi’s made it as long as he has and when you turn around, you find he’s taken out the elderly man ruthlessly. “Not too bad, Yoongi.” The corner of his mouth curls. “You underestimate me too much sometimes, Y/N.” “We’ll see about that.” The both of you circle each other with hooded eyes and mischievous smiles. The tips of your fingers itch to unleash magic, but you hold it back to play fair and when Yoongi swiftly surges forward, you dodge enough to barely brush against him. You turn around, gaze locking with Yoongi’s. He grins a gummy smile full of victory and holds up your red piece of cloth that you didn’t even know you lost like it’s a winning flag. But then your eyes glitter and an enormous smile plasters across your cheeks. Yoongi finds his pastel yellow cloth is twisted around your finger and his heavy sack of gold pieces is in your other hand. “Player four and five eliminated!” The teenage girl ends up winning after the children forget the rules and go running out of the circle, thereby being disqualified. “Not bad, Yoongi,” you sing-song afterwards. “But I think it’s safe to say that I still win.” “I let you win. I know you’d sulk all night if you didn’t because you’re a sore loser.” “Am not!” Yoongi laughs gleefully and you can’t even feign annoyance at his teasing. You muse that there are truly few opportunities like this — where you get to spend time with someone you like as much as you like Yoongi…. The two of you soon settle down after hearing that the fireworks are beginning. If possible, the streets go into a bigger frenzy, friends coming together and families meeting in ferment. You try to go to the center of it all to watch the show, but with the crowdedness, you and Yoongi nearly lose one another. It’s not until he grabs a hold of your hand and suggests sitting somewhere farther away that you find yourselves on a hill not far from the commotion. It’s quieter, where the noises become a lull of background sounds and you can finally hear one another’s voices. You and Yoongi sit on a dry patch of grass, shoulders brushing while you gather your knees, keeping yourself warm. It starts after a countdown. Colours burst in the air, one after another. They’re vivid hues that are brightened against the darkened sky, blossoming into all sorts of patterns and reflected in your irises. Some whirl into spirals, tumble in a shower and others shatter into sparks. Your breath is stolen, put into awe. The scent of gunpowder and smokiness to the air makes the magic inside you tingle. “Do you still want to live by yourself?” Above the bang of the fireworks is Yoongi’s husky voice. You turn to him, eyes soaking in the profile of his face illuminated by the lights. “Don’t you think you’ll be lonely living in isolation where no one can find you?” “I never thought I would.” You know it’s a childish dream. You came up with it as an adolescent when you were upset with your parents and you stuck with it until now. You envisioned it in moments of defiance and frustration. You held onto it with a vice-like grip. It was your anchor. Your buoy. But you’ve been free for a long time. Ever since you left that night with your forged documents, left behind a single note and fled without looking back, you’ve had freedom in your grasps. Now all that was left in your plan is to be kept away from the world, from any human or creature…. But as you look at Yoongi, an uneasy emotion overcomes you. Maybe you will be lonely. Maybe the illusion is better than the reality. You’ve always wanted a home for yourself, but a place where there isn’t anyone like Yoongi by your side feels lonely. “I’ll make an exception,” you tell him and he turns to you, eyes locking with yours. Your mouth pulls into a smile. “You can come visit me, Yoongi. Whenever you like. It’s a one of a kind invitation.” His lips twitch, and then they spread into a gummy grin. Yoongi’s eyes crinkle slightly, but it’s not a sight you get to savour for long when he turns away to keep watching the fireworks. “Since we’re all getting it out in the open, can I ask why you keep calling me duckling?” “It’s the hair.” You observe the horizon and the burst of red that comes across the darkness before more sparks spiral upwards and explode. “It’s pale yellow like a baby duck.” You don’t notice the way Yoongi pinches the strands of his bangs. Or the way his eyes flickers up to try to see what you’re talking about. He’s never really thought about the actual shade of before — it’s always just been hair to him. It’s been the same as birth, the same as his mother’s. And while the effort to analyze the strands are futile in this darkness and he gives up, a tender smile comes across his features. Tomorrow, if all things go well, the two of you will finish your quest. The end is coming soon. Quicker than you’ve had a chance to realize. But you suppose that’s what time is. Fleeting. “I’ll miss you, Yoongi,” you murmur so softly that you’re not sure if he can hear you. But then you feel his gaze on the profile of your face and he says, “We still have to go back together. That’ll take a good week or two and even then….I don’t think I have any plans of returning to the Order.” You’re surprised, neck whipping to the side as you look at him. “Where are you going to go?” Yoongi shrugs nonchalantly. “I feel like I’ve spent enough time there. It’s why I took on this quest in the first place and agreed to do the favour for my mentor. I was trying to take the next step in my life.” The next step in life. You hum, looking at the night sky and the smoke that curls in it after the fireworks have fallen. “I’m envious….” “You don’t have to be,” he says automatically. Your gazes connect with Yoongi’s. “What do you mean?” “You could do it too.” “What would I do?” you ask, uncertain if this is an invitation to come with him, to continue your journeys together after all this is over. But Yoongi isn’t a straightforward man — that much you know. He’s blunt, though never honest with his feelings out loud. Yet in this moment, as the vivid lights are still bursting through the horizon and your eyes have met one another’s, you think you know what he means. “Anything you want,” Yoongi murmurs in a low voice and you swear his eyes flicker to your lips. You swallow hard and hold your breath. But as nervous as you feel, anticipation bubbles in the pit of your stomach and you lean forward, eyes fluttering shut. You feel his breath skim against your skin, warmth rising to your face and heating your cheeks like a furnace. You don’t know that Yoongi’s eyes are half-lidded, staring at your lashes as he tilts his head at a better angle. Your foreheads nearly graze. Your mouths are a millimeter away— “I like you!” Both you and Yoongi jolt in your spots and your eyes open in an instant. Yoongi moves away and you turn your heads at the noise, on alert. There’s a teenage couple a few feet away by some trees and they don’t see you and Yoongi sitting together on the hill. “Really?” the boy gives an awkward and nervous laugh. At the same time, Yoongi releases a sigh and looks at you with a soft smile. “We should get back. There’s a long trip in store for tomorrow.” “Y-Yeah.” You nod, getting on your feet and rushing away to try to dispel the magic spell Yoongi’s put on you that’s made your cheeks this warm. You never notice the tender smile on his face as he stares at your backside. // The two of you set off an hour after the first blush before you can change your mind about coming with Yoongi. While you had planned to stay back, you can’t bear the thought of him not returning and knowing that you could’ve been there. Yoongi’s worth any kind of danger. But it’s not like you’ll ever admit that out loud. Your pride is too much and your fear of his impassivity to your emotions is overwhelming. Neither of you speak about last night’s affair either. How the distance was almost closed, how your lips almost touched his — maybe Yoongi changed his mind, but when he doesn’t talk about it, you don’t bring it up either. So you both trek up the mountain in brooding silence, also sore from poor sleep. You shared the same room and bed, but peaceful slumber was far out of reach. Yoongi hogged the blanket and apparently you snored too loudly, making him beat you with his pillow several times through the night which woke you up and made you cuss at him. It didn’t help that the woman, Ashal, also barged in during the middle of the night to give you healing potions. She was the least helpful person on your journey so far and you’re glad to get away from her while you could. “How much longer?” “An hour. Or two.” Yoongi twists the map around and you sigh, allowing the flame in your palm to grow and flicker. One glance at your companion and you notice the way his hands are shaking as he holds the parchment. “Aren’t you cold?” “Not particularly,” he mumbles. But you pull him in anyhow, looping your arm through his and holding the fire in front of both your faces. “I’m not going to save you if you freeze to death.” The corner of Yoongi’s mouth curls. “Good to know. Are you hungry? We can take a short rest if you are or if you’re tired.” “I’m fine. The faster we move, the quicker we get there, right? Or are we lost?” “Stoughsby Peaks is over there.” He points and beyond clouds, you can see the imposing silhouette. What was a tiny shape back in the village has now taken up the entire horizon. “I know where we’re going.” “Uh-huh.” Yoongi folds up the map, places it into his pocket and buries his hands deep, finally getting them warm. You don’t miss the way he leans into your frame as well, how he comes closer to the fire dancing in your palm and you keep the flame strong so there’s some sort of heat. You wouldn’t say it — but you’re happy to keep him warm. “Are you not coming with me into the cave?” he asks, a cloud of air emitted from his mouth as he does so. “I’ll support you from outside.” “Are you scared?” his brow raises, finding such a thought surprising since it’s rather uncharacteristic of you to be. “It’s not that. It’s….” Your voice grows quieter as your eyes narrow into this distance. Yoongi’s staring at you, but when you nudge his arm, he follows your line of vision. “Yoongi….what is that?” There’s a rising shadow, an outline of a ginormous centipede but with wings, and it’s coming closer. Slowly and carefully, Yoongi pulls his rapier from his sheath while you take your orb out of your satchel. The two of you hold your breaths in your nose and your other hand comes to tug on Yoongi’s sleeve. As the seconds pass, you’re finally able to discern what’s approaching — a monster that’s forty feet, scaly body with horns and an insect-like head. It’s ice-blue in colour with a dozen legs, and its back glows red with an inner fire. “Oh fuck...oh fuck.” Both you and Yoongi scramble back but it’s too late. The monster had picked up your scents the moment you stepped onto its territory. “It’s a Remorhaz!” A monstrous beast resembling a cross between a worm and a centipede that thrives in cold environments. You’ve learnt about it back in your schooling days and learnt that it’s to be avoided, that the monster is worse than death itself. The two of you start running, though the effort is futile when you hear it shriek behind you and start chasing at an impeccable speed. You shut your eyes and channel your magic. Without hesitation, your hand slips downwards to Yoongi’s. He turns his head to you. You cast your spell and shove him away from you. “Y/N!” Yoongi’s eyes are wide and then he fades away into the snow. Gone from your sights. Yoongi looks down at himself to find that his entire body, clothing and weapons are translucent. You’ve casted an invisibility spell on him and with that fact known, he grips his sword and runs forward towards the monster. He strikes it on the back, surging forward to dig his blade in and the monster shrieks. It twists and turns. But it finds nothing in its sights. Yoongi holds in his sharp inhale. The Remorhaz’s body is hot as if it’s oozing of fire from within and feels himself burning when he comes close. “This is why I don’t want to fight a dragon,” you spit, terrified when the fire-resistant monster coils around to approach you. “Most of my magic is fire based!” You run again, but turn around to cast lightning bolt. It’s one of the few offensive spells you know the monster isn’t immune against. And a stroke of lightning forming a line a hundred feet long and five feet wide blasts towards it. The monstrous beast howls in agony and anger. At the same time, Yoongi strikes his sword twice on the Remorhaz from behind. It confuses the creature even further. Before terror can render you frozen, your palm thrusts out. A hundred twenty feet away towards the East, you stitch together an illusion. An image of another forty feet Remorhaz twitching. It seems completely real, including sounds and smells. A picture of your new worst nightmare. The real creature contorts its head around to look, ducking and dipping, unable to discern that it's fake. The Remorhaz’s attention is completely stolen, taken away from you. And it instantaneously dives towards it while you take a temporary sigh of relief. You’re thankful you’ve always liked illusion magic more than the fire magic and spells your family taught you. In the meanwhile, Yoongi takes the opportunity to strike it twice more, running his blade along its scaling back, making it move away faster in a frenzy. You cast lightning bolt once more, stealing the chance while you still have it. The creature is getting weaker. You can tell with the way it slows and slumps. But the distraction doesn’t last long. When the monster bites through the illusion and completely passes through, it turns around, bulged white eyes directed right at you. “Yoongi….Yoongi….!” He chases after it and throws one of his daggers with as much strength he can muster. The blade lodges into its back and the Remorhaz shrieks yet again. Unfortunately for you, you’re too slow. Your feet slide from the slickness of the ground and you fall on your back into the snow. The Remorhaz’s jagged teeth split. Its head snaps down to bite. You scream bloody murder. “Yoongi!” There’s a sudden pained shriek — it’s ear-piercing, making your ears buzz. And you open your eyes to see the monster’s bulging ones a few inches away. It’s frozen. And you scramble back in a whimper as it falls. Colliding to the ground. Lifeless. Yoongi’s finally visible again once your concentration has shattered. And he’s standing at the back of the Remorhaz’s neck, pulling out his rapier from the soft spot. He dives into the snow immediately to cool off his body. “Fucking hell. That….that was something alright...” You’re gasping for air, hand over your heart that’s about to give out. “Are you okay?” he asks and when you don’t respond, Yoongi stands. He dusts himself off and comes over. “I...I’m fine.” You take his outstretched hand and get back onto your feet. “I...I think I might need that short rest though.” “Okay. We can do that.” You’re reeling and your eyes peel away from the dead monster to Yoongi’s. “You...saved my life.” “This isn’t the first time, you know,” he says with a tender smile as if he’s willing to do it a hundred more times. Yoongi’s hand pats your head affectionately as he passes by you. You snap out of it quickly and join his side, getting the hell away from the large corpse as fast as your feet can take you. Yoongi doesn’t ask why you decided to save him first, why you used your invisibility spell on him and not yourself. With the way you’ve been looking at him when you think he’s not looking, he already has an inkling of the reasons. And he smiles to himself, merely glad the feelings are mutual. “W-We’re going to need a plan to fight that dragon.” “We’re? You’re coming with me?” “I think I owe it to you after that. At least to help in any way I can.” The tiny smile he’s been repressing stretches into a gummy grin. // Stoughsby Peaks is a snowy mountain in an inhibited empty void. It’s quiet, eerily so. In the patches without snow is exposed rocky terrain that’s rough against your shoes. The opening at the entrance stares right at you as you climb the steep slope. It’s a dark cavern without a lick of light, making you unable to see anything inside. But there’s another path on the left that wraps around, leading to the top. “So this is it…..” Both you and Yoongi are stuck in your spots, gawking at your inevitable demise. Had you told yourself a few weeks ago that you would be encountering a dragon with a stranger that’s no longer a stranger to you, you would’ve laughed before packing your bags and hitching a ride back to your overbearing family. As restrained as your freedom was, you were at least safe and away from danger. But as you stand here next to Yoongi, oddly enough, you don’t feel frightened. You feel….calm. Maybe Yoongi’s finally emanated his stoicness and projected his indifference onto you. But you have a feeling that even if you become consumed by your own fire or that of the dragon’s, you wouldn’t mind as long as he’s there with you. “It’ll be okay,” he says. “Yeah…” You exchange soft expressions. “I know.” The interior of the cave is damp, carrying a musty odor that makes you shudder when you sniff. But you try not to gag, instead keeping quiet as you stalk the walls. You and Yoongi are both hidden, coming inside from different points — you from the upper path while he took the main entrance. You can’t see him, but you know he’s here. The plan is to stay hidden, to channel and conjure your illusion magic as a distraction while Yoongi fights the creature — a strategy similar to the one used with the Remorhaz. So you keep yourself small, sliding behind a large boulder at a tiny plateau, a spot above the ground that makes your stomach coil when you realize you could fall to your death. It’s dark, but there’s light that comes up from the opening at the top of the mountain, a subtle beam cascading in. But as you peek out for a tiny look, your breath hitches. There’s a mountain of diamonds and other light-hued gemstones at the bottom, a horde of highly polished platinum and silver pieces, works of art that look like mirrors, all glittering like ice. More importantly, the dragon having a slumber on top of its riches isn’t red, brass or gold like you feared it to be. The sleeping, scaled beast with barbed claws and wide wings is white. It’s a white dragon — a dragon of ice. You nearly scream of delight, but you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to not be too loud. If you knew that the dragon wasn’t fire-breathing or fire resistant from the start, you would’ve marched straight in and torn this mountain apart. It’s not like a white dragon is any less fearsome, but now you know your abilities aren’t completely useless. The dragon shifts, huffing through its nostrils and you have an inkling it’ll awake soon. Time was running out — the opportunity is still at hand and so, you steal it. Before Yoongi can run in and sacrifice himself. You grip onto your swirling orb and slide out into the open. Your fingers point at the stirring beast. At once, a bright streak flashes from your flesh. It blossoms with a low roar into an explosion of flames. The fireball spreads around all corners of a twenty foot radius sphere. And the ice dragon awakes with a pained growl from deep within its stomach. Yoongi who’s been hiding behind other rocks is startled, cussing you under his breath for being a reckless brat and foiling the plan. But he takes it in stride and once the fire dissipates, he comes out and tosses the dagger. It hits — the blade dug in between the wings of the dragon. “Who. Goes. There?!” The dragon’s pained voice booms and echoes throughout the mountain, ricocheting in your ears and rumbling the ground beneath you. He is frightening, his presence calling all those to bow down to him, but you and Yoongi are unaffected. “Come. Out!” You follow its orders, but only to hurl another fireball at it. Its howl is thunderous as its heavy limbs and scales are burnt, and Yoongi uses his secondary weapon that he seldomly touches, a crossbow, to shoot it at a distance. The arrow pierces into its leg. Yet the dragon’s attention has been taken by you and in spite of its heavy limbs and scales, it moves swiftly and dexterously. The creature of great stability inhales and then exhales an icy blast centered on you. You’re able to move away, diving out of its range, but the damage has also been done. Your leg is encased in ice, but you prop yourself against the mountain’s wall and channel the magic that runs through your blood. Your hand lifts and you create a wall of fire to protect yourself from it. It’s sixty feet long, twenty feet high and a foot thick. The wall is opaque, flaring every so often and heating up your cheeks. It makes your skin feel like it’s melting off of your face, your eyeballs burn to the back of your lids. Yet the orange glow almost seduces you to come closer, to feel the true intensity of the heat. You allow the phoenix fire blazing within you to unleash — and your slumped form is magically wreathed in swirling fire. A bright light sheds from your flesh and your eyes glow like hot coals. “How. Dare. You?!” “Where is she?!” you strain your voice, allowing it to pull from your vocal cords. “Or did you already eat her?!” “Who. Do. You. Seek?!” “Sorli Stav’s daughter. Mina Stav,” you spit feverishly, barely able to recall their names as you feel yourself on the verge of burning. “You. Come. For. Mina?!” Yoongi fires another arrow and you hear the beast roar in torment. Despite the fire that you’ve stitched together to encase you, Yoongi dashes up the slide of the slope, shouting your name. At the same time, the white dragon crosses the wall of fire. It braces through the flames, taking damage and howling as it does so. But once it makes it to the other side and claws at you, the flames wrapped around your body burns it further. You don’t go unscathed either — lacerated in three different strokes from your shoulder downwards and feeling the bleeding wound go numb from the coldness of the creature. Still, your trembling hand lifts and you create three rays of fire in your palm, throwing them at the dragon with little effect. It’s over. Surrounded by your fire, at the hands of a dragon emulating ice, you can only hope your family won’t be too disappointed. You can only hope that Yoongi makes it out alive. But the man you’re thinking about, with his pastel yellow hair that you adored from the second you laid eyes on him, he rushes in front of you. His blade, drawn and shimmering in the glow of your inferno, strikes down upon the dragon. He flicks his wrist, raises his arm and slices him across his muzzle. The dragon cries and Yoongi yells deep in the pits of his stomach before surging forward, driving the sword further into its hide. “Yoongi.” Before he can grip the handle and use his body weight to tear the blade down the dragon’s front, there’s a scream of terror— “Wait!” A girl covered in a black cloak, skirt of her white dress peeking out, comes into view. She stands at the entrance of the cave, chest rising and falling as she gasps. And she pulls her hood down, revealing brunette curls and brightened eyes. “Please don’t hurt him,” she begs. Your brows furrow, having no idea who she is or where she even came from. But Yoongi seems to know her with the way he steps forward and his eyes become rounded, recognizing her from a painting he had seen. “Mina?” “Mina?!” You whip your head over and everything finally clicks. // The kidnapped girl you were sent to rescue was in fact not kidnapped. “We met when I was a child and he saved me when I was lost in the forest for days,” Mina reminisces with a tender smile, looking over at the dragon that’s polymorphed himself into a human form. He’s become an otherworldly man with long, black hair, his skin fair yet his eyes still icy blue. He doesn’t have any cuts or bruises from the earlier fight either. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was a divine being. “We became friends and...somewhere along the way, I fell in love with him.” You’re still reeling. It’s hard to comprehend what’s going on. Or wrap your mind around the fact that there’s a tunnel system underneath the mountain and they have a whole living space here. As Mina speaks, you soak in the mundane kitchen space — the glass cupboards of mugs and teacups, the cozy picture frames of flowers in a row above the sink. “We’ve been together for years, but it was only recently I decided I wanted to be with him forever without needing to hide him or myself.” She lifts her hands, placing it on top of his on the table and he smiles, turning his palm around to interlace their fingers together. “Your mother thinks you were kidnapped,” Yoongi tries to explain, “She sent us here to find you.” Mina sighs. “My mother is an...anxious woman. I left her a letter, but it seems like she still thinks I was taken against my will.” “Maybe you can write her another letter,” he offers. “We’ll deliver it and tell her our own account on how you want to stay here.” “But even then, who’s to say she won’t hire someone else to force her back?” you pipe up, turning to Yoongi. You know full well how overbearing family members can be and with the way that woman had disdainfully spoken about the Ice Dragon, there’s no way she’ll allow her daughter to be with him. That much is obvious to you. “She might just think we’re lying and get other people to repeat exactly what we did.” “You’re right.” Mina’s eyes are downcast. “If she won’t even listen to me, she would never listen to you adventurers.” “You should go back with them,” the dragon, Azer, states in a low voice. You didn’t know dragons had proper names, but you suppose in these circumstances, such a thing isn’t too strange. “No!” She turns to him immediately. “I want to be with you. I thought we talked about this.” “Yes, but I want you to be safe and free, and here, you’re not—” “But I’m happy here.” Mina smiles at him lovingly and in reassurance. “I’m happy with you.” Yet, he takes her hand and caresses it, not quite looking her in the eyes. “Even at the expense of your mother’s worries?” “She has always worried about me. If I returned, she would marry me off to some wealthy, old man. Would you be satisfied with that?” “Of course not.” “So let me be with you.” It feels like you’re intruding in on an intimate scene meant to stay between a couple. You stay quiet, trying to blend into the yellow wallpaper with Yoongi — but one glance at him and finding that he has an impassive expression, it makes your lips tickle. You never could’ve imagined an ancient ice dragon could be such a hopeless romantic. But while things of this nature would’ve made you feel unpleasant a few weeks ago, suddenly, it seems sweet. And familiar. As if you and Yoongi have had many intimate conversations like this before. As if you are no stranger to these affectionate-laced words. “Please don’t tell my mother I’m here.” Mina breaks your trance, turning to you both with a desperate expression. “I don’t want her to harm Azer anymore than she already has.” The pair of you exchange expressions and after a second, Yoongi relents. “Then we can tell her that you passed away but we defeated the dragon. We’ll need evidence for it though.” “My blood,” the dragon in human form hums. “A vial should be enough. It’s rare to come across dragon blood, so she’ll believe you.” Yoongi nods. “You should leave this place too,” you say, looking around the cozy abode that they’ve made together. It would be a shame to leave this place, but a necessity for the plan. “There might be other travelers or creatures that hike up this mountain. If they see that you’re alive, the whole rouse will be over.” They take each other’s hands, gazing at one another with warm smiles. “That’s easy enough.” “Thank you.” Mina looks at both you and Yoongi. “Truly.” But you don’t feel like you’ve accomplished anything spectacular. It wasn’t a fight, a battle, a victory. It was a compromise. One you had never expected to make during the trek here. The couple offer you spare rooms to take long rests in and afterwards, they serve warm meals to satisfy the bubbling starvation in your stomach. It’s odd to see the dragon sitting there at the table, not at all resentful or angered at how you barged into his home and started to attack him without warning. He even makes jokes to you and Yoongi to which you both stiffly laugh at. But neither of you linger for long. When you both feel well enough to make the trip back, you bid your final farewells. Though before you leave for good, there’s an urge to satisfy the curious question probing your brain. So you turn around to the girl you’ve been searching for all this time. “Won’t you ever get tired spending the rest of your life running and hiding?” Mina smiles at you, a tender way you don’t yet understand. And she looks over her shoulder to the man wiping down the table. “Maybe. But I think I found something that’s worth it.” You wonder if your own reasons are worth it. // A sigh befalls your lips as you walk down the steep mountain, leaving your footprints in the snow next to his. “Love does crazy things, huh?” Yoongi steals a glance at you and smiles. “Yeah, it does.”

The journey back to Millpass takes a week without any detours. The pair of you aren’t stoppered by ridiculous antics of other travelers nor encounter many monsters or beasts that prevent you from going forth. It’s almost ironic how smoothly and quickly things progress, how each day you make it farther than you thought was possible. Ironically sad, of course. Not that you would ever admit it for fear of exposing the rest of your brewing emotions. But you can’t help dwelling on the fact that the moment you learned to cherish Yoongi’s presence is when the inevitable end was approaching. Barreling towards you. Mercilessly. Time with him always felt like it was slipping through your fingertips. To the point where you can’t even enjoy the present moment, aware that the future will have his absence. Aware that you will someday come to miss these simple affairs, these measly spats and bantering conversations. You’ll miss him, you know that much. How painful it’ll exactly be is something you’ll still have to wait on and see. But no matter how much you brood, how much you try to preserve the mundane moments in your mind, the journey unavoidably ends. In Millpass, the two of you are welcomed back as heroes. Sorli Stav is absolutely devastated over the news that her daughter is dead, but is thankful for your vengeance in ‘defeating’ the dragon. She even takes the dragon blood vial you give her as evidence, and parades it around before placing it on her mantle, underneath her ginormous portrait, as a sick memento. The other spare dragon blood vials you have are things you sell at astronomical prices, much to Yoongi’s dismay. Although it’s not as bad in comparison when there’s a surprise celebration hosted on the streets by Sorli Stav herself. She makes sure that the whole town and their mothers know that both you and Yoongi are heroes. That you gutted that Ice Dragon to death. There’s a party. Balloons. Free drinks. A whole speech from the mayor. In reality, you and Yoongi are shams. Not heroes. But it’s actually not such a bad feeling. Real heroes are overrated anyways. “Thought I would find you here.” Yoongi scoffs lightly but still smiles as you climb the hill and plop down beside him on the verdant grass. “I just wanted a break.” “Too tired of all the ladies throwing themselves onto you?” “Half of them don’t even know my name.” The man lazily grins, sitting back and leaning his weight onto his hands. “They keep calling me Yorgo. Who the hell is Yorgo.” “Obviously the name they’re going to be screaming tonight.” Yoongi bursts out laughing and you giggle with him. “That mysterious front is going to land you into some trouble some day, Yoongi.” “Yeah?” He cocks a brow, looking at you. “Is it?” A noncommittal sound is made at the back of your throat. “People are going to fall for you left and right. What will you do then?” “Maybe you could help me.” “Don’t put the responsibility on me,” you tease. “It’s your fault. Appearing and disappearing. Not saying much. You just like making people wonder about you.” “Does it work for you too?” “Maybe.” The evening sun’s beams pierce the sky. The sunset glow has pressed itself on your cheeks, and you both watch the soft colours cascade through the horizon, allowing the laughter of the town to fall into background noise. Suddenly, your eyes light up as you remember something and you reach into your pocket. “Look how much gold I made. This isn’t even Sorli’s reward either. Just the dragon blood.” He snorts and lifts his hand to feel the heavy weight of the sack. “Not bad. Are you far from your goal?” “Halfway there,” you sing-song, “But you can keep that.” Yoongi raises his brows, surprised that you’re sharing your wealth. “Really?” “Yeah, I just figured….I’ve taken a lot from you anyways and it’s only fair if we half it. Plus, it can be my goodbye gift.” It goes silent. Yoongi holds the leather bag in his hand and focuses on it as if he’s using it to avoid his eyes straying towards you. “Are you going to look for those tapestries?” You sigh after a moment. “No.” You can feel his gaze on you and you fiddle with your fingers. “I don’t think it’s in my reach anyways. After hearing all the rumours from different places, I have a feeling the tapestries are actually lost in the castle itself and they haven’t searched hard enough for it.” “Then what are you planning to do after all this?” “I...thought about what you said, Yoongi.” You shift towards him, eyes connecting. “I’m going to go home.” “I’m tired of running away and I think it’s time I confront them and gain my legitimate freedom. I’ll fight for it. So I can come and go as I please. So I don’t have to hide under a different name.” The house that you dreamed of doesn’t need to be secluded behind a barrier in the middle of nowhere. You don’t need to go to such extremes as to cut off the rest of your family. You believe there has to be a way to have the freedom you seek and the comfort of home. “I’ll fight for it.” “You can do it,” he whispers and you look up in surprise. Yet, Yoongi only smiles. “I believe in you.” He is sincere. Earnest. And it means a lot coming from him, a man who is blunt and not necessarily encouraging. To have Yoongi’s support makes you feel like you could conquer anything. “What about you? What are you going to do?” “I should probably go back home too.” He looks off at the sunset. “It’s been a while. And there’s unfinished business I should tend to.” You hum, following his line of sight to the beautiful sky and the fading light. Suddenly, you feel a soft touch on your finger, warm skin that hesitantly meets yours. The corner of your lips quirk and while you never once look at each other, your hand interlaces with Yoongi’s. “We’ll see each other soon,” you promise aloud, not sure if you’re saying it for yourself or for him. But within a beat, Yoongi hums in agreement. Like he didn’t even need to think about it. “You still owe me that refund.” “What about that whole sack of gold?” “Doesn’t count. That’s a goodbye present. Not a refund.” You laugh, leaning into Yoongi who smiles to himself. It’s bittersweet — to know the impending yearning, but also the ultimate reunion.

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whumpeeblog · 4 years ago

Text

TW CHILD SLAVERY MENTION OF TORTURE MENTION OF DEATH PAIN WHUMP

“Don’t you touch her.”

S scrambled through the castle halls, K sprinting behind her.

“Come here you little wretch!” He grumbled as he gained on her. Nearly tripping, S rounded the corner into the throne room, where D stood, talking to a neighboring ambassador. In frantic panic, the girl ran to her master.

D’s blue eyes widened as he watched his prisoner throwing herself towards him. Shock struck him when K came trailing behind her.

S ducked behind D, squatting in a fetal position behind his tall legs, afraid to look towards the disaster she knew was on its way.

K slowed to a walk, his sword drawn.

“Come here, girl. I swear when I get my hands on you, your little body will burn with pain.”

D spoke up in order to protect his captive.

“Don’t you touch her.”

D’s deep command stopped K. However, hatred darkened in his eyes as he glared at the figure hiding behind his cousin and friend. He took a step closer, the thump of his boot causing the marred child to flinch in fear.

“K. Don’t. You. Dare. Touch. Her.” D repeated. “Now tell me what’s going on and maybe we can sort this out.” The ambassador beside him watched the scene unfold, the amusement on his face revealing his attempt not to laugh.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and D was accustomed to bringing K’s temper down while protecting S.

“She stole several items from me and it’s time the little thief learn to pay. In Galway, thieves lose their hands at best and their lives at worst,” K snarled.

“Put the sword away and I’ll deal with this.”

K placed the blade back in its sheath, yet the child still cowered in fear. She may have escaped K’s wrath, but now she needed to face the decision of her master.

“S,” Damian stated confidently. S scurried around to face Master D, as she called him, dropping to her knees and lowering her head. She knew she would be punished, but a small bit of relief crashed through her, acknowledging that D was usually much more merciful than K and wouldn’t torture her like K would. If K had caught her, he would have skinned her alive, literally. He’d done it to many others, and knew how to keep them alive as long as possible. He was the executioner, after all. He, as well as D, N, and almost every other prominent being in the small kingdom, knew how to push a victim to the brink of death, putting them in the most agonizing pain possible, yet keeping their heart beating.

“Look at me,” D commanded. S’s gaze reluctantly met his eyes, and she trembled. She searched his face for mercy; for any chance that he might not let K torture her.

She knew the rules. If a slave, prisoner, or other commoner was caught stealing from a lord, prince, or other high placed official, the king had the right to do whatever he pleased. This usually included severe torture and beheading. If a commoner was stolen from, they could take that person prisoner or slave, and do what they wished. If they were feeling generous, they could send the criminal to a local sheriff, and they would be given a “kind” death: hanging.

A chilly waterfall of horror flushed through S’s body as she searched her master’s eyes.

“Are these accusations true?” D asked sternly, concern and dominance hinted in his eyes. The girl’s face lowered as she nodded softly. She lifted her gaze, but was unable to read Damian’s face. “And may I ask as to what you stole and why you did?”

“I- it was just some food and a few weathered blankets, Master.”

“And why did you take these things when I provide you with what you need? Are you planning an escape attempt perhaps?” D interrogated the girl. Just as it wasn’t the first time she had stolen, he wouldn’t be surprised if she were plotting to run... again. She had been tormented mercilessly for many of her attempts, although there were several times he had allowed her to get away with it. S trembled and her eyes pleaded desperately for Damian to believe her.

“No, Master! I swear it wasn’t an escape attempt, Sir! Please! I was just hungry and cold...”

D questioned the child further, but he was already aware exactly why she had done it.

“If you were hungry or cold, you could have come to me or N and we would have provided you with warmth and a meal. You know this, so why didn’t you ask?” D raised an eyebrow and lifted his hand to his chin, almost as if he were deeply pondering the situation.

“I- I was afraid to ask, Master. I feared that if I became too much of a burden to you, you would take my head.” Her eyes lowered to stare at the cold, golden floor she kneeled upon. She trembled even more, one of the first signs of the panic attack she could feel rising into her heart. A tear slipped, and landed on the ground like the first raindrop of a terrifying storm.

“So you thought that by stealing from my executioner, you could get away with it. You didn’t think he would notice. After all, the less you eat, the smaller of a burden you are to me, correct?” D questioned. S nodded, still afraid to meet his eyes. “And even if you were caught, you hoped I would put you out of your misery quickly, rather than make you suffer as K here would.” D pitied the slave. She was just a teenager, and a traumatized one at that. He recognized the need to correct her habit, however.

“Let me have her, D,” K cut in. S glared at him, a cocktail of hatred and horror drowning her tears. D put up a hand to stop K as he lunged forward, fangs bared.

“Now,” D shifted his eyes to the girl between him and K, “It seems we have a problem, don’t we?”

“Yes, Master D.”

“Leave us,” D glanced at K and his ambassador. K growled resentfully, but walked toward the door. The ambassador followed, understanding that the meeting would be over for the next few hours.

It was now between the prisoner and her captor. She knew what she deserved, and she grimaced as visions of her possible punishments overcame her.

“Please have mercy, Master,” she pleaded tearfully, whimpering with tiny gasps. Thirty seconds of silence went by as D stared at S, deep in thought.

“Why were you so afraid to ask?”

S spoke up nasally, still trying to hide her sobs.

“If- if I eat too much you’ll kill me.”

D knew better. She was the spitting image of his deceased sister, and his last plan was to execute the child. Of course, if it came to the point where his only option were the sword, he’d do it, but not for a little nourishment. He still tortured her as needed. She wasn’t his sister after all. He often needed to be reminded that she was a slave, a prisoner of war and ally of the enemy.

D didn’t respond to S’s statement, proving in her mind that her fears would soon come to life. He decided that instead of severely punishing her as he had done many times before, he’d use a harmless fear tactic.

“On your feet.” His sunken tone struck fear and earned a flinch from S. She did as was told, and rose, staring up into his icy glare. “Against the wall.” Once again, S responded submissively, walking to face the wall. D sauntered to his throne, prolonging the process in order to teach a lesson of obedience. He reached for a strand of rope which hung on the wall behind the throne, part of a daunting collection of restraints and weapons.

S’s body jolted as she was forcefully shoved into the gold plated wall. Her arms were yanked behind her back. Her wrists over crossed each other, palms out. The rope brushed against soft skin, leaving a burning trail of red rash as it slithered its way around her wrists.

Fingers sliding over S’s shoulder, D turned her body and guided her forward.

Oh God he’s gonna kill me... no. worse. He’s gonna torture me.

Hyperventilation shook S’s frail body, but instead dragging her to one of the torture chambers, D pushed her towards the opposite side of the throne room. The door on that side led to a stone spiral staircase. These stairs went up to a winding maze of hallways with different suites belonging to each individual royal in the small kingdom. Each suite was like an apartment, and contained its own prison cells for the men’s prisoners. Few ever left the private dungeons. To the surprise of the child, however, D didn’t chain her to a wall in his dungeon. He didn’t beat her to a pulp with the agonizing cracks of a nine stranded whip. A harsh necklace of rope wasn't strung around her neck, nor her tendons cut to allow her to choke to death.

Instead he led her in the opposite direction and down the stairs to the section of the castle that was used as a public hangout. The lower floor was set up with a kitchen, living space, dining hall, music and entertainment room, and had a porch leading outside.

D unsheathed a knife. S only knew this thanks to the familiar metallic scrape of the object leaving its home. A shudder wracked through her, and she expected the worst. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she braced herself, but the pain never came. Instead, D’s knife sliced its way through the rope, and the broken bonds fluttered to the floor.

D walked towards the couch, and picked up a heavy wool blanket. He draped it around his terrified slave. Her body shuddered when the scratchy warm fabric danced on her skin, the only touch she was used to being some form of excruciating torture.

“Sit,” D pointed towards the couch. S timidly waddled over. She was still skeptical that he would hurt her, but D was often merciful to her too. There was no real way of knowing whether he would hurt her or not. When he did, she knew he tried to be lenient, and he only punished her when he felt he had to. Now was one of the times that he may have to, she thought.

Frightened eyes examined every detail of her master making his way about the kitchen at the other side of the room. D heated something in a pot on the stove, occasionally glancing over to assure that his prisoner hadn’t made another escape attempt. The figure huddled in the corner of the couch, afraid to move or make a sound. Even under the shadows of the blanket wrapped over her head and body, dark circles of sleep deprivation made themselves visible.

D walked over to the girl, carrying with him a tray of soup, bread, and water. He set it on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“Eat,” he instructed. S didn’t budge. D stared with concern. He cared about her, even if she was his slave. He genuinely didn’t want to hurt her, but she had been his enemy, and a prisoner. Either she was afraid that he poisoned the food, or she was trying to kill herself with starvation.

S cowered away when a steamy spoon of tomato broth met her lips.

“Open.” She did as told, but tears began to fall as she took the liquid in. Whimpers and shivering came with each spoonful.

After several spoonfuls, D seemed to have convinced the child that he hadn’t poisoned her meal. He slowly slid his way up the couch to sit behind her. Drowsiness conquered S’s frail body and she began sleep softly, laying her head across her master’s lap. D combed her brown hair with his fingers, not daring to move. The sedative had finally set in, and he didn’t need to change that.

#whump prompts #emotional whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump scenario #whump prompt #whump trope #whumper #slave #prisoner

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yandere-daydreams · 5 years ago

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A Yandere!Shoto/Yandere!Izuku/Reader piece for a very lovely, very trusting anonymous commissioner, featuring your daily dose of Dicku, for the soul. I haven’t been very kind to the Reader-Inserts, lately, but I feel like it’s fitting. Especially when they’re caught in the middle of a relationship so... *layered*.

Word Count: 2.9k

TW: Non-Con, Male!Reader, Semi-Public Sex, Groping, and Anal Sex.

Izuku didn’t want to hate Shoto.

He didn’t, he really, really didn’t. Izuku wasn’t the kind of person who could hate anyone without a good reason, and certainly not someone he’d put on such a high pedestal. He was nice, like that, a little too nice, some would say, but his patience was understandable. Shoto was a friend, after all. They’d gone through the hero-course together, graduated hand-in-hand, and spent too many nights to count training ‘till the sun rose and fighting together and being close, regardless of whatever feelings they harbored below the surface.

They’d been friends for close to ten years, now, and Izuku had known about Shoto’s crush for nine.

He’d only avoided having to acknowledge it for eight, though.

And now, as he sat on the other side of Shoto’s desk, overlooking the city through seamless, crystal-clear windows, he wasn’t able to shake the feeling of those heterochromatic eyes boring into him, unwavering and unyielding, regardless of how many nervous smiles Izuku put on during their ‘meeting’. Shoto was always cold, the quieter of the pair, and Izuku really didn’t mind. He liked being the one to fill the silence, he enjoyed it, but this was too tense, too rigid for him to fill. Luckily, Shoto seemed to sense his discomfort, taking up the mantle of conversation. Even if Izuku wasn’t exactly grateful for his choice in subject matter. “I’m not an idiot, Midoriya,” He started, bluntly. “Neither are you. We should both know why we’re here.”

Izuku forced a friendly grin, leaning back in his stiff, industrial chair. Maybe his next contract with the Todoroki Agency would include a clause that called for more comfortable furniture. “Because there’s a new group of villains planning an uprising, and we’ve got to use the power of our friendship to bring them down?”

“This is serious,” Shoto countered, but a flush was still spreading across his pale skin. As it seemed to more and more, these days. “You know about my feelings. I know you don’t feel the same way-” Lies, lies, lies. Shoto knew, but like hell he accepted it. Izuku couldn’t count on both hands how many times he’d caught Shoto gritting his teeth when he brought up a mutual friend, or how Shoto always seemed to find himself in the possession of one too many seats at a gala. Still, he let Shoto continue unimpeded. “-but you can’t do what you’re planning to with (Y/n).”

Oh, that got Izuku’s attention.

You

You’d just been one of Shoto’s sidekicks, at first, a young Support Hero just out of Shiketsu Academy. Useless in any meaningful fight, but you were good with damage control, something Shoto was desperately in need of. And yet, you were more than that, so much more. You were adorable, and caring, and so helpless, just thinking about how vulnerable you’d be in a serious fight made Izuku’s heart skip a beat. The two of you weren’t close yet, sure, but that could change, it would change as soon as Izuku got a minute alone with you. He’d tried before, catching you during your patrols and offering to walk you home (he already had your address, but it’d be nice of you to offer it willingly), but your employer always got in the way, so protective, so jealous. The latter more than the former.

Izuku huffed, slouching back. “And why is that, Todoroki?”

He averted his eyes as Shoto glared, wondering if you’d be in the office, today. “You… you can’t, what else do you need to know? He’s been working with me for less than a year, you barely know him. It’s one thing to reject me, but you can’t reject me, then turn around and go after a…” Shoto trailed off, fingertips starting to drum against the wooden surface. “It’s wrong. More established Heroes have been taken down for smaller crimes. If you cared about the Number One Hero’s reputation, you’d stop.”

Izuku didn’t want to stop. Why couldn’t anyone see that? Izuku was in love, and he found his soulmate and why couldn’t anyone be happy for him? Shoto was just being unfair, everyone was being unfair. Maybe when he got you away for all of this, from the city and the agencies and smothering office politics, things would be different. He was sure it’d be easier, after he could work past the obstacles blocking your happy ending.

But, hopeful thinking alone wouldn’t get rid of those obstacles. They were still standing tall and glaring at Izuku over a small stack of paperwork.

Luckily, Izuku was always talented when it came to overcoming adversity.

“Don’t be so negative.” His smile was renewed, the slightest hints of something genuine pulling at the corners of his lips. “It’d be a real shame if we couldn’t come to a compromise, wouldn’t it?”

You weren’t afraid to say you didn’t like being alone with Izuku.

Not to say anything against him - you had the utmost admiration for Deku. He’d been your motivation while you were going through the Hero Course, and you still couldn’t bring yourself to pass by his frequent merch releases without a lengthy consideration of the merits of a few more figurines. Sure, you worked under Shoto, and you were much closer to him than you’d ever care to be to Izuku, but you didn’t look up to him in the same way you did with Deku. You were Deku’s biggest fan, you admired Deku, you respected Deku.

But, you weren’t so fond of the man behind the mask.

He stood too close. It wasn’t the biggest problem, but it unnerved you, making you flinch as he stepped into the elevator you’d caught less than a minute ago, too busy smiling and staring to notice the metallic doors that nearly closed around his ankle. You did your best to return the gesture, stepping to the side and giving him space as you reached for the panel of buttons. He reached too, resting a hand on his shoulder, laughing as he pretended not to have noticed you were doing the same. “Todoroki’s office, right, (Y/n)?”

He used your name, too. Never your alias or your title, only the given name you never told him. You still haven’t figured out how he’d learned it. “Right,” You confirmed, politely. “I just want to make sure he doesn’t need any help before I leave for the day.”

You’d just gotten off patrol, and judging by his minimized get-up, he had too. His familiar green and black body-suit was still in-tact, but his face-guard and gloves had been left behind, his utility belt also noticeably absent. You didn’t bother asking why he was there, you didn’t want to know.

“Todoroki works his sidekicks hard, huh?” He asked, unprompted. His hand was still on your shoulder. “Maybe you should come over to my agency. A sweetheart like you would be a lot of help around the office…” He trailed off, but corrected himself quickly. “For morale, of course.”

You wondered how long this ride was going to take. “I like working here, sir.”

He chuckled, at that. Ingenuine and over-enthusiastic, the kind of laugh you wouldn’t be able to stand if it was coming from anyone else. That was another thing, everything you said was hilarious, to Izuku. “You’ve only worked here,” He whined. He was rubbing circles just above your collarbone, now, and you wished you chose a thicker uniform. Spandex worked best with your quirk, but it did little to separate the heat of Izuku’s fingers from your skin. “If you were with me, I’d make sure you know you’re appreciated.”

You took half a step back, trying to make your discomfort clear. Izuku took forward, closing the small distance you’d created easily. “I don’t want credit,” You assured him. “Todoroki’s success is enough.”

Izuku didn’t seem to like that. One moment, you were glaring at the tile, and the next you were being shoved against the mirrored wall, your back colliding harshly with the reflective surface and Izuku appearing in front of you, an arm coming up to stabilize him and its twin dropping to your waist, effectively trapping you between the elevator wall and his chest. His smile was still in place, but it was stretched, forced, his expression only growing more disturbing as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, that same fucking grin pushing against your jugular. You shifted uncomfortably, shoving at his chest, but if Izuku noticed, he didn’t seem deterred, only moving to wedge his knee between yours, keeping your feet apart. You couldn’t be sure why, but you had a feeling you wouldn’t like the explanation.

“You’re such a good boy,” Izuku said, voice steady and patronizing. He squeezed at your hip playfully, but his attention drifted quickly, fingertips brushing over your thigh before moving inward, in no particular rush to claim territory. You shuddered as he kissed your neck, sucking and biting at whatever he could get to, but your discomfort was swiftly eclipsed by the complete, all-consuming dread that flowed into your veins as Izuku’s palm ground into your crotch, pressing down for a moment before he took to tracing the outline of your cock. The sensation was stifled by layers of fabric, but unignorable, Izuku’s determination making up for any limitations he might’ve faced. “Todoroki doesn’t appreciate you, not in the way you should be appreciated. I’m gonna fix that, alright? And you’ll forget all about that creepy, sociopathic pervert by the time I’m done.”

You opened your mouth to contest, but Izuku didn’t give you the chance, forcing his lips sloppily against yours in the bastardization of a kiss. It was too forceful to be one, too rough, too insistent without any of the cautious, hesitant care a real lover would have. Meanwhile, the hand on your cock groped and squeezed carelessly, as if he was more focused on the actions themselves than the effect they had. The resulting pleasure was brutal, apathetic, frigid as it entered your system, never wavering despite your attempts to stave it off. You were hard by the time Izuku got bored, his lips moving to your shoulder and his nails digging into the fabric over your hip, latching onto your uniform and tearing, forming a jagged, uneven rip, only lengthened as he wrenched his side upward.

That was what got to you, really, the sound, the feeling of his skin on yours as he worked at shredding your clothes beyond recognition. You crumpled, slightly, letting out a small whimper as the utter misery of your reality set in, but Izuku only cooed, pecking at your jaw in a fruitless attempt to comfort you. “It’ll be alright, angel. I’ll make this good for you.”

As if on cue, the elevator doors slid open, and Izuku glanced over his shoulder absentmindedly. Shoto stepped into the small space immediately, his eyes narrowed and a grimace tugging at the corners of his mouth, but hope flooded into your chest regardless, unwilling to yield to your common sense. You shoved at Izuku, moving to call out to him, but you didn’t need to. He was already walking towards you, his hands balling into fists and latching onto Izuku’s collar as soon as he was close enough, jerking him back and…

And kissing him.

You could’ve ran. You could’ve made a break for the fire escape or thrown yourself through the nearest window, but you didn’t. Your knees buckled under your weight, your body slumping forward as you took in Shoto’s brutal form of affection. It was more shocking than anything. Confusion, about their relationship and your own, hysteria around the thought of what was going to happen next, but you were beyond the point of trying to guess. All you could do was watch as Izuku pushed at Shoto’s shoulders, separating him from his counterpart begrudgingly. “Later,” He promised, Shoto’s glare sharpening. “You already got your turn. You promised I could have (Y/n), first.”

You clenched your eyes shut, pulling your knees to your chest, but it didn’t make a difference. You were nothing compared to Izuku, compared to Deku, and your form was hauled off the floor easily, thrown over his shoulder and left to writhe and struggle as he dragged you into Shoto’s office. It was just as neat as it always was, professional and sterile, but you couldn’t find security in the suspended modern art and coffee mugs Shoto always forgot to take home. You tried to, momentarily, to lock onto something and let it absorb you, but your attempts were made futile by the clatter of pens and folders hitting the floor as Izuku cleared off Shoto’s desk with one arm, using the other to all-but throw you down, your chest hitting the tabletop with a muffled thud. Your wrists were caught behind your back in a matter of seconds, leaving you pinned and helpless under Izuku’s weight.

The tears only started as Izuku stripped you of what was left of your uniform, hooking a finger under the waistband of your compression shorts and dragging them downward, letting the fabric pool around your ankles. You heard something unzip, and Izuku’s own costume fell away, too. You might’ve been curious, a few days ago, spared a glance or two, but he wasn’t pawing at your ass a few days ago. “Lube?” He asked, talking to no one in particular. Shoto just nodded to one of the drawers under his desk, and Izuku opened it, evaluating the contents with a long, low whistle. “You’ve been stocking up for this, haven’t you?”

Shoto didn’t respond, but his eyes never left Izuku. You had a feeling they wouldn’t, anytime soon.

Izuku took his time coating two fingers with oily fluid, as if he didn’t have anything better to do. He was just as lethargic as he probed at your entrance, his movements measured, planned, Izuku drinking in your reactions as he scissored you open, pulling a ragged moan from your lips. He wasn’t aiming for your pleasure, that much was obvious, but the thought of being opened up for one of your idols, stretched apart for someone you’d admired for so long… The idea sent a sickening, begrudging stroke of electricity to your cock, and Izuku seemed to feel it too, his hips bucked impatiently against your ass.

There were so many sensations, you almost couldn’t tell when his patience gave out, his fingers pulling away and something bigger, something hotter replacing them. If he planned on acknowledging his minimal preparation, he didn’t make a show of it, thrusting into you harshly and refusing to stop until he was completely hilted. The intrusion tore a wordless, pitiful whimper from your throat, the sound short-lived but painfully audible. You tried to bite your lip, to silence yourself as Izuku started moving, but it was too late. His chest pressed against your back as he ground into you, pelvis snapping against yours in tiny, feverish ruts, as if he’d been waiting for this too long to go about it thoughtfully. He didn’t try to be delicate, he couldn’t be delicate, letting your wrist go in favor of taking your hips, his fingers burrowing into your skin in a bruising hold. The small freedom didn’t make a difference, not when the only thing you could think to do with your hands was brace them on the desk, keeping yourself stabilized despite Izuku’s attempts to topple your control. It hurt, the way he pounded into you, your occasional tear becoming an unrelenting, unfaltering onslaught of cries and sobs as he abused your hole, your prostate, everything he could get his hands on - all of it hurt. “Please… please stop,” You gasped, more out of instinct than anything. “Stop, you have to stop-”

He silenced you with a wet kiss to the nape of your neck, a hum soon strangled by a grunt. “Poor baby,” He whispered, the words stifled by your skin. “Bear with me, alright? You’ll feel good, too. My angel just has to bear with me.”

You hadn’t noticed Shoto moving, not until he was standing in front of you, less than an arm’s length away and supporting himself on the edge of the desk. There was a low whine as he entangled his unoccupied fingers in Izuku’s hair, dragging the man forward and catching him in a kiss, demanding and fervid but soft, barely there, pecks and nips that barely fazed Izuku’s pursuit to slam into you. Shoto’s goal was an affectionate one, driven by the want for attention and little else. It was innocent, in its simplicity, Something you could’ve seen yourself doing, with Shoto.

Something you used to want to see yourself doing, with Shoto.

You clenched around Izuku without thinking, your end approaching like the sudden drop of a cliffside. His cock twitched, his pace stuttering and losing rhythm, and Shoto gave him the space needed to lean against you, to keen and mummer nonsensical praises into your back. A fist closed around your cock, pumping in time with his uneven thrusts. How generous.

Your climax was a sobering one. You seized up, your body going stiff as you jolted against Izuku’s hand, hot jets of cum soon staining your stomach and Shoto’s carpet. Izuku barely lasted a second longer, filling you to the brim and refusing to pull out, letting the excess drip around his cock and onto your thighs, the sensation making you choke on whatever air was left in your lungs.

Izuku only panted, taking a deep breath before kissing your cheek. The gesture was almost loving.

Almost.

“We’re going to be so happy together.” His voice was heavy, but contented. For the moment, at least. “Me and you, just me and you. Everything’ll be perfect, once I get rid of everything trying to keep us apart.”

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flowersandskeletons526 · 4 years ago

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“Doubts” - Lumity Fanfic

This was a short drabble I banged out in a few days so please forgive me if it’s a little shaky or rushed. It has been quite a while since I finished a fanfic

----

Amity presses her thumbs together, leaning forward with her elbows on her desk. A textbook sits beside her, untouched for the past three discussion topics, and a pencil rests idly between her fingers. The abomination professor drones on at the front of the room. Were it any other day, her attention would be on him as she diligently took her notes, but not now.

To her right, Luz carefully draws more glyphs in her notepad for future use. Her tongue sticks out the corner of her mouth, and her eyebrows draw together as she finishes another. Amity thinks it’s the cutest thing she’s ever seen. She watches Luz from the corner of her eye and tries her best to make her staring look like anything else. She counts her lucky stars that the human girl is so fixated on her drawings.

“Miss Blight!” the professor barks. Amity snaps upright and drops her pencil off the side of her desk. The entire class turns to look at her, Luz included, and her face becomes hotter than the surface of the sun. “Is my lecture not interesting enough to warrant your attention?”

Amity swallows hard. “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

The teacher narrows his eyes. “See me after class.”

A chorus of oohs goes up from the class. Luz stares at her quizzically. Amity sets fire to the paper of the boy closest to her and effectively silences all of them.

She forces her eyes to stay forward for the rest of the period. While everyone else leaves, she clutches her books like a shield in front of her and goes to face the professor.

He raises an eyebrow at her. She clenches her jaw. “You haven’t been paying attention in class lately,” he says. “What is going on with you? You’re always a model student.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ve just been distracted.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed. You’re not very subtle, Miss Blight.”

Her face goes red. “Y-You have?”

“Yes, I have.” He pauses, and Amity’s stomach turns over. “You’re nervous about the exam on Friday!”

Amity feels a weight lift off her shoulders. “Right! The exam! Yes, I am very nervous about that.”

The professor laughs. “With your grades, you don’t have to be. Study like you normally do and you’ll do excellent. As long as you pay attention for the next few days, that is.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Amity spins on her heel and all but runs out of the classroom. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she lets go of a heavy breath. She can’t imagine the embarrassment if her teacher of all people had outed her crush.

She looks up and is greeted with wide brown eyes. “Amity!”

Amity squeaks and falls on her backside. “Can you stop doing that?!” she snaps.

Luz flashes a beautiful bashful smile, grabbing Amity’s scattered books and offering a hand. “Sorry about that,” she laughs. The sound lifts Amity’s heart. “I just wanted to wait for you. Getting held after class is usually my deal.”

Amity sighs. “It’s been a long day.” She reaches for her books.

Luz pulls back. “I’ll carry them for you! Sorry again for scaring you.”

Turning aside, Amity hides her red face. “It’s… fine. Thanks, Luz.”

“Of course!”

Amity starts down the hall with Luz bouncing along beside her. She keeps her head down, hiding her blush and avoiding Luz’s little glances in her direction.

“Hey, so,” Luz begins, “I was looking around some of the old parts of the library and I found a book that I think could help me with finding more glyphs. I don’t really understand some of it, so I was wondering if maybe you could help me look over it?”

“Oh, um, sure! I just need to make up an excuse for my parents.”

“Oh yeah. Owl house is forbidden. Right.” Luz stops in front of Amity, their faces inches apart. Amity’s heart jumps into her throat. “You will come over though?”

“Sure.”

You know it’s not like you hope. Why would it be?

“Awesome! I have to go meet Gus and Willow, but I’ll see you tonight!”

“Y-Yeah…”

Amity takes her books numbly and watches Luz take off down the hall. Her lips curl into a smile as her heart flutters, but the feeling only lasts for a moment. She shakes her head to clear her thoughts and heads off to her next class.

---

Sitting in her window, Amity pulls her legs to her chest and rests her head on her knees. The day had continued to crept by, and she has yet to find an excuse to sneak away to the owl house. It’s not like she can tell them she’s going to visit the wanted criminal and the human witch.

Amity takes a breath and steels her resolve. A simple illusion spell shouldn’t be too hard, just enough for her to sneak out and sneak back in unnoticed. She runs headfirst into Edric and Emira standing outside her door.

“Going somewhere, Mittens?” Edric chirps.

“Study group,” Amity says, “if you two would get out of my way.”

“Study with who?” Emira asks.

“Friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yes, friends.”

Edric grins. “It’s the human, isn’t it?”

Amity bristles, going bright red as she looks down. The twins share a look. She rubs the back of her neck and swallows her pride. “Will you two please, y’know, cover for me? I just can’t-”

“Mittens, we get it.” Emira’s smug grin softens. “If you wanted to go hang out with your girlfriend, you could’ve just said so. I mean, study group? You couldn’t come up with something better?”

“S-She’s not my girlfriend!” Amity splutters.

“With the way you two were at Grom? Could have fooled me.”

“That wasn’t, I mean, we were just… ugh, shut up! And we are studying. I’m helping her understand a textbook.” She sighs and bites the inside of her cheek. “She doesn’t know, okay? And if either of you tell her, I’m going to drown you both!”

Edric puts his hands up. “Hey, we’re not that cruel!”

Emira smirks. “And it’s not like we need to. If she hasn’t caught on by now, I don’t think she would believe us if we spelled it in twenty foot tall letters.”

“Yeah, you’re not exactly subtle.”

Amity sighs. “That’s the second time I’ve been told that today.”

If she hasn’t noticed by now, she doesn’t want to.

“We’re not surprised.” Edric ruffles her hair and nudges her down the hall. “We’ll cover.”

“Be home before nine,” Emira adds.

“Thanks, guys.”

Amity gives them a grateful smile before hurrying out of the mansion. She does her best to keep out of sight until the owl house comes into view. Thoughts of Luz pop into her head, from her cheerful grin to her sparkling eyes to her excessive affection. She thinks of Luz’s hands on her waist as she catches her and spins her around. She thinks of pressing her face to Luz’s neck as she carries her to the healer’s. Her mind conjures the thought of Luz holding onto her, hands cupping her face as her chest tightens and their lips meet and-

Amity stumbles.

You’re making a fool of yourself.

Shaking her head, she squashes her racing heart and approaches the house. She somehow manages to forget about the bird tube until it flies out of the door at her.

“Hiiii Amity! Luz is inside!”

Amity squawks and falls back. Growling, she lifts a leg to kick the stupid guardian in the face.

“Hooty! Stop it!” Luz waves him away, and he retreats back into the door. Flashing that sparkling smile, she takes Amity’s hand and pulls her to her feet. “Sorry about him.”

“I told you, I’m going to destroy it the next time it talks to me,” Amity snarls.

Luz laughs nervously and takes Amity’s hands in hers, stopping her from casting any spells. Amity’s face grows hot as she avoids those wide puppy dog eyes. “Yeah, how about we save the destruction for another day?”

“Next time you’re not stopping me.”

“Heard. Come on!”

Luz pulls her inside and leads her to her bedroom. She plops down on a mat in the middle of the floor. Amity sits beside her.

“I still don’t understand how you sleep here,” she remarks.

“It’s really not that bad,” Luz says. She opens a dusty book with a cracked cover in her lap. “I’m guessing it doesn’t compare to Blight Mansion, though.”

Amity shrugs. “You’d be surprised.”

Luz hums, drumming her fingers on the book. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Is your family the reason you work so hard to be top student?”

Amity sighs and pulls her knees up to her chest. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Yeah.” Luz bumps their shoulders together and offers a gentle smile. “I’ve got you.”

Amity smiles. “So, this is the book you wanted to show me?”

“Oh, yeah!” She brushes off the cover and opens it to a brittle yellow page marked with a folded up drawing of King. “So, I was looking it over and found all these weird drawings in it, but I can’t really understand the captions. This one sort of looks like the glyph for fire magic but it doesn’t quite fit, and this one I tried to draw but it didn’t do anything and the picture is faded so maybe I just didn’t…”

Amity can’t quite focus as Luz goes on. She finds herself staring as Luz’s eyes shine, alight with curiosity and excitement that lifts Amity’s heart. Resting her head on her knees, she watches Luz ramble, not listening in the slightest until Luz stops.

“Hey, Amity, you listening?”

“Hm? Oh! Sorry, I got distracted.”

“Man, you’re spacey today.”

“A little.”

Luz scoots closer. Amity freezes. Planting one hand behind the green haired girl, Luz leans over her shoulder and balances the book on their legs pressed together. “This is the one I couldn’t get. I tried drawing it but it didn’t do anything.”

“What does it do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going to blow yourself up. Again.”

“Maybe!”

Amity laughs and looks at the page. “I can’t really tell. Maybe try drawing in more lines?”

“I don’t know if that will work, though. I don’t think they’ll do anything if I don’t draw them exactly right.”

“How do you draw them?”

“Here! I’ll show you.” Discarding the book, she grabs her pad and pencil and places that on Amity’s knee instead. “This is the light glyph that I showed you the first time. You just draw the circle and make a few shapes, add these lines, and once it’s done, you press it.”

She taps the drawing. The paper curls up into a ball of light that rises into the air above them. Amity watches, awestruck despite the simplicity of the spell. Luz sets the pencil on her leg and draws her back in.

“You try.”

“Okay.”

Amity draws the circle and makes the shapes, adds the lines and then erases them as Luz’s correction. She presses one finger into the center of the drawing. It glows and rises between them. Luz cups the light in her hand like she’s holding the sun, right beside Amity’s heart, and lifts it up to her. It casts gentle shadows across her face.

She grins. “Magic.”

Their eyes lock. Amity’s mouth outpaces her mind and readies her tongue before she can stop it. “Hey, Luz?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever feel like you’re doing the wrong thing?”

Her grin disappears. Amity wishes she had kept her mouth shut. Luz lowers her head, but she doesn’t pull away. “I do. A lot. I… don’t really fit in, in the human world. They think I’m weird. I’m not actually supposed to be here. My mom thinks I’m at a camp that will teach me how to act normal.”

“Humans have that?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how I’m going to explain all this to her when I go back and I haven’t changed like she wants me to.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do have to go back eventually, Amity. I don’t want to, but I can’t disappear on her once the summer is over.”

Amity’s stomach drops.

You aren’t from the same world. You always forget that.

“I meant you don’t have to change.”

Luz looks up. Their faces are inches apart. Amity cages the butterflies in her stomach and takes a deep breath.

“I like you the way you are. I wouldn’t ever want you to change.”

Luz doesn’t respond. She presses her face against Amity’s shoulder and sighs. Amity wraps an arm around her shoulders. She closes her eyes and buries her face in Luz’s hair, trying to keep her composure as the human girl shifts until she’s practically laying on Amity’s chest.

“I like you, too,” Luz mumbles. “You’re my best friend.”

Ouch.

“You’re mine, too.” Amity holds her tighter. “You fit in here.”

“Amity.” Luz untangles from their embrace and lifts her head. “Do you ever feel like you’re going the wrong way?”

Amity avoids Luz’s eyes. “I go where I’m supposed to. Right or wrong doesn’t matter.”

“But what if you could choose?”

Luz catches Amity’s gaze and holds it. Everything feels too warm between them, and Amity struggles to align her thoughts. She could hardly function with Luz simply smiling at her, and now here they are, inches apart with Luz refusing to let her look away.

“I would want to come here.”

“I want that, too.”

Without warning, Luz cups Amity’s cheek and presses their lips together. Amity bristles, eyes wide and disbelieving before she finally relaxes into the kiss. Her hands find Luz’s waist as Luz tangles her fingers in her hair.

They stay close together when they break apart. Amity watches Luz with her eyes half closed as she holds her tight.

“I like you,” Luz says. “I want to stay here with you. I don’t want to go.”

Amity tilts her head. Her face burns red as she presses another gentle peck to Luz’s lips. “You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.” Luz closes her eyes. “This is a bad idea, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

She’ll only have to leave in the end.

“Do you think we can just stay here for now? No more picking where we have to go?”

You know that.

“Okay.”

You’ll only get hurt.

Amity focuses on the girl in her arms, fears and paths and goodbyes and magic set aside for the moment. Luz wraps her arms around Amity’s neck and pulls them as close together as possible. Amity’s face burns. Her heart hammers away in her chest and drowns out all the doubts in her mind. She kisses the top of Luz’s head, and the human girl giggles against her chest. She grins. She can barely hear the nagging voice in the back of her mind, but still, she closes her eyes and prays.

Please, don’t let this hurt.

#lumity #the owl house #the owl house luz #luz noceda #the owl house amity #amity blight #amityxluz #toh #edric blight #emira blight #edric and emira #first kiss #sort of angsty

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jengajives · 3 years ago

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Did a collection of defining moments for my Tolkien OCs a while ago and finally decided to post it. Got eight or nine different characters here depending on how you count.

When Agzil gasped, it brought nothing but a cold ash into his lungs. His limbs trembled. Even on all fours, they nearly didn’t have the strength to support him. An elbow buckled and he fell to a forearm instead, forehead hitting the dusty ground, flooding his eyes, nose, and mouth, with the same thick, grey soot that covered everything here. “You talk back again, maggot, and the Lieutenant won’t be so friendly!” The orc captain had a strong Lugburz accent. She was from here- the land of endless burning and choking and death. Made Agzil’s head spin. He obviously had done something wrong in his non-reaction, though, because the whip cracked across his back again with a blinding white-hot agony that dropped him flat to the earth. “Enough!” he heard Mirci crying, so distant he almost didn’t comprehend the words. “You’ve taught him your lesson, now leave him!” “You keep out of this, tinkerer!” Agzil breathed a lungful of soot so foul it made his lungs spasm. He coughed into the ground, and slowly raised himself to his forearms again. He could go no further. “You keep sticking out your neck for Gundabad trash, one day it’s going to get sliced!” the captain roared in the background. “Master may like your big metal beasts, but they done us no good! Done disrupted our ranks, made us look like fools- don’t you know we’re at war?!” When a voice spoke out from behind them all, somehow Agzil instantly knew it was not the voice of an orc. The Dark Master had Men in his armies, too, but as far as Agzil knew, Men didn’t speak the Black Tongue, and this newcomer used it with a natural and melodic lilt. Agzil wished he knew Black Speech. The captain barked something back in the same tongue, then Mirci spoke up in Common. “It wasn’t his fault, sir. It was my machine what went wild. Drive gears broke and the whole thing-“ She stopped abruptly. Agzil imagined this newcomer raising a hand in the way he’d never known a real general to do, and the fear that shot through him was icy and cold at the idea that this might be the Lieutenant of the Tower himself. Something sharp and cold tucked beneath his chin. Agzil felt a trickle of blood down his throat, and he worked to raise his head with the only strength he had left. His eyes met the empty, blank pits in a mask of iron, regarding him expressionless and still. He’d never seen Garavdúr before, but he knew what the War Wolf was meant to look like, and so of course he knew what he was faced with now. His entire body trembled, waiting, staring. Garavdúr did not speak for a long moment. Finally he lifted his sword away from Agzil’s throat and let his head fall, muttering softly as he did. “Pathetic creatures...” The heavy metal footfalls moved away. Agzil laid in the dust for a while before he raised his face again. Mirci’s head was there, coated now in black blood and ash, a few feet from where her body lay crumpled and lifeless. Agzil put his forehead in the dust again. The captain gave him another taste of lashing when he did not try to get up.

Thet wished her mother would loosen up on her hand so she could get closer to the extremely hot molten metal, but unfortunately, it seemed her parents were somewhat responsible. They were traders and always had been, and Thet had seen so many different types of places- dwarf-keeps and hobbit villages and little towns of Men- but never before had she seen metal being worked. It was stunning. “What is it going to be?” she asked eagerly, reaching out a hand as if she could touch the white-hot goop. The smith paused and flipped back the heavy iron mask to reveal fair golden hair and a beard done into neatly capped braids. Her face was smeared with soot. “Going to be a knife someday, little one,” she said in a kind and rumbling voice. “Maybe you’ll use it to cut up your dinner.” “Could you make it a necklace?” Thet asked instead, very eager. They had one necklace in the family; her father wore it at all times and she would recognize the dull reddish gold anywhere. There was a garnet set into the middle. She really liked the chain- how delicate and yet sturdy every individual link was. It was fascinating every time her father let her play with it. The smith looked at her and gave a friendly smile, then reached down with a pair of heavy clamps and broke one small section of the metal off. She twisted it into a crude spiral, bent a thin loop over the top, and then plunged it into her bucket of water. There was a hiss and a rush of steam went up from the boiling liquid. Quick as could be, the smith pulled the spiral out with another clamp and laid it on her table. She produced a length of thin leather from a pile nearby and slipped its end through the loop, and tied it off to create a loose circle. She held the trinket out in a gloved hand. “You be careful now. It’s hot.” Thet squirmed free of her mother’s grip and scurried forward on her crutch. She wrapped her hand in a length of her cloak so she could accept the gift. It was tarnished and none too shiny; just a simple lump of steel crudely wrought into a pendant of sorts, but to Thet’s young eyes it was the most astonishing gift she had ever received. Something made just for her, only for her. Never had she had anything like it. She gripped it tight, pulled it close and looked up eagerly at the tall smith turning back to her work. “I’m going to be just like you someday!” The smith smiled and rustled a hand through the young dwarf’s hair. “You’ll need a good bit of beard before that, little one. Take good care of your necklace.” And Thet never let that shoddy piece of metalwork leave her side.

There was no silence after battle. Corien could only hear the groans of the dying. Flames crackling cruelly in the grass. Huff of beasts and screams carried far away from the walls of the burning city. Orcs that were not quite dead gurgled when he vaulted past. Men that weren’t quite dead begged and choked and sang in shaking, weepy voices. All of it was blurry. Smeared. Nothing real, no sound registering to his battle-worn ears. The only things he heard were the cries of bowstrings, and a clash of steel on steel and wood on stone and metal creaking and screaming and tearing apart. “Halbarad!” he screamed into the settling night. It was lost amidst the identical calls coming up from other places on the field. Other brothers and sisters found hewn, children lifeless, friend and lover ripped apart. Everyone was out to collect their dead. The ribbon tied to the haft of his spear fluttered lightly in the breeze that swept up from the river. It had been blue this morning. It was splattered now with black and scarlet, bruised and sickly beyond repair. He threw the spear aside when he at last saw the gleam of silver against a cloak of bloodstained grey. It took both hands to roll his brother face-up. The silver star Halbarad had always worn on his cloak was shiny and clean, but it was about the only thing left recognizable. Corien’s fingers trembled uncontrollably as he pushed the earth brown hair out of his brother’s face. Blood caught on his fingers and colored his palm scarlet, so he left red smears on the eyelids when he closed those familiar ice-grey eyes. “Halbarad,” he said. His voice sounded so steady it would have surprised him, had he actually believed it was he himself speaking. There was no way it could be. No way he could form the words. “Don’t.. Don’t be dead. You can’t be dead, I- I need you. Please don’t be-“ His eyes travelled slowly to the gashes that tore his brother from jaw to belly and the words broke on a sob. He thought he might have screamed, but so many others were doing the same thing that he couldn’t pick his own voice out from the roar.

Mosco sat listening to the bees. His back rested against the thick grey bark, and his legs were up on a bough, and around his head bees danced from flower to flower in an endless choreographed routine. They were right smart, bees. His ma always said so. They talked back and forth, spoke in their own special language of waltz. Ma used to say that the Greenhands were honey farmers because they had dancing in their blood, and that they and the bees were one and the same. He’d fallen asleep tucked into the branches of his peach tree. The sun was growing low, and at this rate he’d miss his own nineteenth birthday party, but the woods of the Southfarthing were beautiful at sunset in the summer, and he thought he might go for a walk. The grass felt good on his bare feet, if a little cool. His hair hadn’t grown in all proper yet, so sometimes his toes got chilly and he had to embarrass himself wearing socks, but he just chalked that up to his being a “late bloomer,” as Ma put it. He was just out of season. He’d ripen up someday. The birches that made up the part of the forest closest to the farm soon gave way to wrinkly old pines with boughs hanging heavy and dark over their beds of needles. Mosco hummed a walking song, not at all caring for a track to follow, but wandering aimlessly and contemplating his own infinite nineteen-year-old wisdom. The smell of rot stopped him just before he put his foot into it. Beneath the overhanging crypt of the pines, a deer lay dead. Its skin was drawn thin over bones that poked halfway through, and underneath he could see a red-yellow ooze that leaked out into the forest floor. This, he guessed, was what smelled so foul and attracted the bugs. Beetles crawled in and out of the dead animal’s empty eye sockets and nostrils. Worms pitted the parts of its muscle still intact. Mosco saw eggs peppering the ragged hide like white trees in a minuscule forest. His family didn’t eat much meat. They never slaughtered it themselves if they did. He couldn’t think of a time he’d seen a real dead thing. When he got home, he declined the offer of birthday cake and went right to bed, and dreamt of squirming things that burrowed down to lay their eggs in pits beneath his flesh.

Cypress knelt next to the crime scene and tried very hard not to cry. Stuff like this didn’t happen in the Shire. It wasn’t meant to happen. A whole crowd of people looked at her with big, terrified eyes, expecting her to lead them. To tell them what to do in this moment because she was the mayor and she was meant to know. Blood had never been spilled like this. Woodhall’s history was a peaceful one and nothing like this had ever happened before. She looked at the assembled group. It was hard to seem like she wasn’t completely out of her depth, because her voice squeaked rather loudly. “We... We should bury them, yes?” At once the hobbits broke into cries and murmurs that all laid over each other into a horrific cacophony. “They took half the year’s stock!” “How did they get past the borders?” “Why didn’t we know they were coming?” “Are we going to get my honey back?” The last voice was that of Mosco Greenhand, who looked as devastated as the rest, but with an air of determination in his eyes. Cypress raised her hands to quiet the townspeople. “Look, I know this is a lot to process and we can’t understand it yet. But the first thing we ought to do is give these three brave souls who gave their lives for the good of Woodhall a proper burial, yes?” A general murmur of agreement. Cypress looked down at the fair faces she had known, the throats and bellies split by goblin blades, and it made her feel desperately ill. This horror could not be left unpunished.

Sometimes, when Astorrel went to sleep, she had a nightmare. It was always the same one, and it always came on when she decided to rest like other creatures did and actually close her eyes for hours. So, naturally, she avoided doing so. Rested on her feet and never let her guard down while she did it. She never had liked sleeping anyway. Never had any reason to do so for the better part of an age. Lina changed things, though. Lina liked it when Astorrel was there to share her night and her dawn, sleeping and waking, both together as equals. And of course, Astorrel liked to be there when Lina wanted her, and she liked to be close to her beloved, so of course whenever she could she shared Lina’s bed. Made the nightmares come back though. In the deepest hours of the night, when Lina was still and the moonlight slanted in through the window to paint her brown skin silver, Astorrel would lie stiff with her eyes open and nonseeing, and she’d tremble. She knew that in the dream- at least, in parts of it- she was her father. She carried Mirlach, but the blade was younger and the gem hadn’t yet fallen from its hilt. The whole sword always seemed darkened and scarlet-stained to her, and sometimes it dripped. She would hold the fire of the Silmaril and scream and scream as the agony of it withered her flesh away and the stench of rotting burn rose hotly to meet her nostrils, and she would see everything that Maedhros had done to hold the heirloom of his house in his hand, and how in the end, the reward of the quest became its doom. She would feel the irrepressible heat of smoldering, burning rock, and taste the earth as it pressed in, swallowed, took her and her cursed Silmaril into its throat and entombed them there forever. And the dream let her lie, suspended there in agony, the unseen gem scorching her hand to withered bone and the rock pressing in on her, for the entirety of the rest of the world. When she woke up with her hunting knife in her hand, dangerously close to Lina’s back, she decided abruptly she would not be doing this again. She left the cottage that morning before dawn. The next occasion she saw her Lina was on the day she died.

“You’re doing it again,” Léothain said, pulling Wulfrun’s focus away from the herders leading in a group of freshly adult horses to settle in the city. “You don’t really think she’s going to be there, right?” Wulfrun flushed and went back to sharpening her sword. Behind her, Léo plucked the last piece of laundry from the line and waltzed over with his basket against his hip. He stood next to Wulfrun, who sat silent on the stone step and watched young horses and rough herders pass the house by. They didn’t come into the city much; spent most of their time in the downs and the fields tending to their herds. Wulfrun had heard they were capital horsemen, and they guided the herds well enough through the winding lane of Edoras, riding without saddle on their sturdy, gleaming mounts. The horses they were leading in were meant to be ridden in battle. She could tell from the way they moved; so confident with strength and quiet grace, heads set proudly. She’d have one someday. Her fa made enough as a carpenter, but wasn’t much for travel, and they only had one horse for the three of them. The fat little thing was functional enough, but far from the mighty steed Wulfrun dreamed of. “You’re going to be really lucky if you see her again,” said Léo in an irritating sort of singsong voice. Wulfrun scowled at him. The sharpening stone swept over her worn blade again. Again. When most of the herd had passed, she finally found what she’d been seeking. At the rear of the group, riding a tall, shimmering palomino, came the girl. She looked just a little older than Wulfrun’s proud fifteen. Her face gleamed sunshine golden, and the dark hair that should have been dyed probably yellow was grown out and black down to the ears. She wore sturdy, battered clothes like the rest of the herders, but her eyes shone a brilliant black from her regal face. She saw Wulfrun looking and waved. Wulfrun wished she knew her name. She waved back.

Riston wasn’t his proper name. He didn’t know what it was. Could be Jett. Pierson. Randy. Likely he had a family name, too, though he had no guesses as to what it could be and all the Bree names he’d ever heard seemed bizarre and strangely food-centric. He didn’t want to have a real name. He just wanted to be Riston of the elves. Riston of the Havens. That was who he was. He sat on the big smooth rock on the west side of the harbor and plucked absently at his lute strings. Nothing sounded right. Nothing fit how it was supposed it. He was meant to leave in the morning. Head east and find who he actually was. He didn’t want to go. What’s a name matter? he thought as he crossed his legs and tried to let the waves paint a tempo into his mind. Anything he tried to make manifest withered away. I know who I am. This is my home. A discordant note. He tried to retune, very aggressively. Even if I find my family somehow, it’s not like my Westron is good enough to communicate with them. His fingers clenched. It’s not fair. They can’t just ask me to leave like I’m some guest who’s worn out his- One of lute strings snapped against his fingers and on a deep-gut impulse he slammed his fist into the instrument’s wooden body. A crunch, and he’d broken his most prized possession. Riston sat for a moment, slowing his breathing, taking stock of the fist-shaped hole splintering his delicate elf-made lute, the most beautiful thing he’d ever owned. Then he put his face in his hands and started to cry.

#jenga makes junk #fic #tolkien oc #agzil #garavdur #thet #corien #halbarad #mosco #cypress #astorrel #wulfrun #riston #tw gore #tw death #tw rot #i have so many ocs it is not fair

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 years ago

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Come Back: Chris

CW: Police brutality/violence, references to past noncon/violence and conditioning, blood, stimming, head banging, self-injury (largely accidental), references to murder (none occurs).

Chris wakes up to the sound of pounding on the front door.

It’s warm in the bed, curled between Jake and the wall, and at first Chris thinks the sound is part of a dream or just someone running down the stairs, but then Jake goes very still next to him, every muscle tense, and Chris understands that the sound, whatever it is, is bad.

BAM-BAM-BAM.

“Open up!”

Loud voice, deep, slightly muffled through the front door.

“Shit,” Jake whispers, a nearly-silent breath of sound, and that’s wrong, too. Jake makes bear noises when he wakes up, wordless little grunts and angry sounds as consciousness filters back in. Jake makes sleepy sounds, because he doesn’t sleep enough, and when he wakes up he has to fight off his brain from dragging him back asleep.

Chris knows everybody’s wake-up sounds, they tell him what his day will be like. Leila yawns, high-pitched, arms over her head with stretch. Antoni mumbles to himself, talks his way through his routine. Nat hums little songs she calls hymns and says have something to do with redemption. Chris knows all the sounds of good days.

Jake without bear noises means a bad day, except it’s not even day, because it’s still pitch-black outside and Chris’s head feels fuzzy with sleep. He looks at Jake’s clock - he can read numbers, if he’s careful and doesn’t think of them as words - and sees 3:45.

For a second Chris wonders, surreally, if Sir had a party run late again, if he’s woken up beside someone else’s pet and there’ll be explanations again-

“J-Jake?” That’s Leila, calling out from her room down the hall, and Jake pushes himself up on his elbows, the mattress shifting with his weight. “Jake, is everything okay?”

“What’s that sound, Jake?” Antoni, his accent slipping back in from sleepiness and worry. Chris can picture him, his fuzzy curly hair a mess of blondish-brown around his head. “What’s that sound mean?”

The pounding on the door again. BAM-BAM-BAM. BAM-BAM-BAM.

“Shit,” Jake says again, louder this time. His eyes are wide in the darkness, owl-eyes. “Fuck, this is it, isn’t it? Nine’s intel was right, we just got the date wrong.”

“Wh-what’s, what’s, what’s, um, what’s it, Jake?” Chris’s voice is weak, and small. Jake slowly turns to look down at him, the owl eyes right on his, and there’s an owl that calls outside the window sometimes, plus a mourning dove. A woman he doesn’t remember used to tell him, mourning doves are like pigeons with prettier names, baby, but he doesn’t remember her and he doesn’t remember that moment and he can’t get the parts of his brain back on the track, they’re all derailed and smoking wrecks stuck on owls and hoo-hoo-hoo and what does Jake mean, this is it?

Nat comes flying down the hall from the attic, stopping in Jake’s doorway with her housecoat thrown over her sleeping clothes, her brown hair loosely fanning around her, sweeping to the side and then falling down her shoulders again. Chris thinks about mermaids, swimming in water.

“Jake, we talked about this,” Nat says, her voice flat. Her face is calm but her eyes are wide and frightened. “We knew this could happen.” She looks over her shoulder, back down the hall. “Antoni, Leila, get out. Use the basement tunnel, it’ll bring you up by the bus stop. Take the first bus you see. I’ve called Nine, he’ll pick you up at the next stop after that. Chris will be right behind you in just a second, wait for Chris.”

Red and blue lights flash against the window in Jake’s room, and Chris stares at them, momentarily fixated. They’re not here to help us.

“Got it, Nat!” Leila calls it out and Chris can hear rustling, probably them getting dressed. Leila is throwing her long hair into a ponytail as they run down the stairs past Jake’s door, just flashes of people, barely visible in the dark. The basement door opens and shuts.

“Nat, Chris-” Jake says, softly. “He… he can’t-”

“I know he can’t,” Nat replies, slightly flat. She closes her eyes. “Leila and Antoni will help him. He’ll be fine once they get to the next shelter. We’ll be fine, Jake. As long as they don’t find the rescues, we’ll be fine, I don’t keep the records here.”

“How did they-”

BAM-BAM-BAM. A deep voice, muffled, carries right up the stairs. “This is the police, open the door!”

“Jesus fuck,” Jake whispers. “Do you think someone my classes turned us in after I brought Chris?” Guilt twists Jake’s expression into something ugly and dark. “Or, fuck, what if it was that guy I gave the literature to, I swear to God, Nat, he seemed really fucking sincere-… I, fuck, what if-… if I find out it was him, I swear to God-”

“What ifs won’t make any of us any safer,” Nat snaps. “You know our story. You know how we get them off our back. Get Chris to safety-”

BAM-BAM-BAM-CRASH.

The front door slams open, smacking into the opposite wall so loudly Chris can hear part of the wall crack with the impact.

“Too late,” Nat says, and the color drains all out of her face, blueish in the pale early-morning light. She doesn’t say anything else, just disappears. Her feet thump down the stairs, and they must be so cold on the wooden stairs, Chris’s feet are cold every day.

Jake rolls out of bed, pulling the jeans puddled on the floor up over his boxers, fumbling at the zipper and button, mumbling, “Shit shit shit shit shit shit…” to himself in a low, nearly emotionless voice.

Chris stays right where he is. Eyes wide, heart pounding, he curls his knees up to his chest and puts his arms around them, pressing against the wall of Jake’s room. Police mean go back, police mean being good in the dark again, police mean barcode scans and being called Baldur and they mean his Sir will give him the smug pleased smile that only barely curves his lips and and and-

His head drops against the wall, and he feels better, for just a second. He does it again.

Jake turns to look at him, heartbroken face grieving face did my face look like that when- but the rest is static, headaches and pain. “Chris, man, I’m sorry, but we can’t do that right now,” Jake says, keeping his voice low. Nat downstairs is talking to the police officers, barking words and answers to their questions. Chris can see her in his mind, her arms crossed in front of her, talking to them with her eyes narrowed.

Something crashes downstairs. Nat yells out, “That’s damaging my fucking property!”

There’s a sound Chris knows, then, one he knows deep in his bones, deeper than thought. The sound of an open palm against a face. Nat cries out.

Jake moves, then. He grabs Chris by both arms, grip tight enough to hurt, and drags him out of the bed trailing blankets and sheets all tangled with his legs. Chris whimpers but bites down on his lip, hearing the sounds of more things being destroyed below. Nat’s yelling means nothing, Chris can’t differentiate words from sounds any longer, it’s all just the same noise of bad panic bad wrong bad going to be hurt bad bad bad.

Jake flings open his closet door, dragging Chris into the small space after him, his hand pressing against the smooth old wood along the back wall, searchingly, his eyes scanning up and down, looking for something in nearly total darkness.

“Jake-… Jake, Jake, Jake, what are we-… what’s, what’s happening to to to to Nat, what’s, what’s happening to Nat, Jake, what’s-”

“Sssshhhh, I need you to be quiet right now, Chris,” Jake says, and his voice is low and false-calm, the way you talk to children when you tell them there’s nothing to be scared of, the way you talk to them when there are angry men with guns in the house and someone has to talk to them but it doesn’t work and the guns go off-

Chris lets out a strangled little cry at the sudden flash of pain, sparking in him along with the image of a dark-haired woman’s in a rictus of terrible fear, mouth an O, and inside the O Chris falls down into the darkness again.

“Sssshhhh, you have to be quiet, you have to be, Chris, you have to be, I’m so sorry. We, we had intel, but they… they lied on the intel, Nine thought it’d be next week, we were going to get you ready but-… shit, where is it, come on come on come on-”

Jake’s and finds a loose board, and he makes a fist and lightly punches it, knocking the board out on one side from the wall just enough for him to slip his hand underneath. He pulls on something under there and Chris flinches back as the bottom half of the closet wall swings open, inside, like a door.

Chris’s fingers twist, tap against his own side, rhythmically, a push of sensation, a hint of control. Something he can keep despite the sound of the house being destroyed downstairs.

“Chris, I need you to crawl in here and be totally silent, okay?” The whites of Jake’s eyes show all around, and Chris nods frantically, heart pounding too hard in his chest, he can’t breathe around it, gasping in jerky, shallow little breaths. Tears prick at his eyes. This is supposed to be a safe place, safer than Sir’s, where no one wants him to be good. Where he doesn’t have to be silent.

“J-Jake, Jake, I, I’m scared, I’m scared of-of-of, of, I’m scared of them, I’m scared-”

“I know, man. I know. Get on in.” Jake all but forces Chris into the closet, shoving him into a small dark space just big enough on three sides for Chris to sit with his knees bent, but it’s tall and he can stand if he wants to. “I’m scared, too.”

Jake gets scared?

“Stay in here. Do not come out, no matter what you hear.” Jake puts both hands on him, on either side of his face, and Chris nods jerkily, the tears running down. “If they don’t see you, or hear you, they can’t take you. They can’t hurt you. They can’t give you back. Just stay in here, and be as quiet as you can. When I can… when I can come back-” Jake’s voice catches, and Chris sees that his eyes are glittering, too. “Wait until it’s totally quiet out here, count to four hundred, and then come back out. We’ll-… I’ll, I’ll call somebody to come help you, okay? I, I swear. We’ll… we’ll call someone. Maybe Addie… fuck, Addie’s gonna find out about you, I just… no, it doesn’t matter now. Okay, you have to wait, Chris.”

Chris nods. “Yes, Jake, I-I-I, I can, can wait, Jake, I can wait for you-you to come back, but-but, but, but but but do you swear, do you-” His head still pounds, a woman’s voice speaking with the same urgency somewhere inside his mind.

Baby, stay right here and don’t move, they’re not here for you. They won’t hurt you.

Mom, come back!

Don’t move, honey. Just stay here. Don’t move.

M-Mom-

Don’t make a sound.

“I will come back for you,” Jake says, meeting Chris’s eyes. His jaw is set, his eyes are blazing blue fire in the dark. “Listen to me, Chris. I’m coming back.” He pulls his own shirt off over his head and shoves it at Chris, who clutches gratefully onto it, breathing in the smell of strong soap, lavender fabric softener, and Jake’s skin. “It might take a couple days, but-… but I won’t leave you here.”

“Please, Jake, I’m, I’m, I’m scared, I can’t-”

“Yeah you can, buddy. You can.” Jake grabs him into a crushing hug, holds him close, and then pushes him until his back is against the real closet wall, hidden a couple feet behind the fake one. “You’ll be okay. What did I say?”

More crashing downstairs. Jake winces, glances over his shoulder. Nat is yelling again. “Attagirl,” Jake whispers. “Buy us time, Nat, come on, buy us a little more time. Okay, Chris, what do you need to do? Tell me what you need to do now.”

“W-wait, wait, wait wait wait til, um, until it’s silent, and then count-… count to, to-to-to, can’t, m-my words are b-bad, Jake, I’m sorry-”

“It’s fine, man, your words are fine. Just tell me how high you need to count.”

“To, to, to four-four hundred, four hundred and then come out, and, and, and what then, Jake?”

“Then you wait for me. I’m coming back for you.”

“Jake-”

“Listen.” Jake whispers the words, he doesn’t sing them. “I will send out an army to find you in the middle of the darkest night, it’s true…”

“I will rescue you,” Chris half-whispers, half-hums the words.

“That’s right. I’m coming back, Chris. I’ll come back for you. Wait for me.” Jake closes the hidden door, leaving Chris in total darkness, curled up, tapping on his own skin. But the fear is bigger than his body, it fills him up and leaks out in tears and whimpers, and he has to be silent. Chris jams Jake’s shirt up against his mouth, tries to focus on the smell, comfort, home.

He can hear, outside his hiding spot Jake’s voice raised loud and deep, his scary voice he uses when people frighten Chris. He hears other voices yelling back, and crashing. It’s all too muffled to understand. But he knows what it sounds like when they throw Jake against the wall. He can feel the thud rattle through the walls of the old house. Knows what it sounds like when a body drops to the floor.

Chris holds his breath. No no no no no-

Jake yells again, and Chris exhales. Jake yelling is good, it means Jake is breathing, it means he still has a voice to yell with. Nat shouts this is fucking brutality you shits, and Chris gnaws on his lower lip, nervous. Nat doesn’t like to swear very much, but now she curses up a storm, unafraid, her voice strong. More crashing, it sounds like the house is coming down around his ears, like the walls will collapse, too, and bring Chris down to the first floor to drown in the drywall and plaster.

The tapping isn’t enough, and neither is rocking, and finally Chris bunches up Jake’s shirt and puts it up against the wall to his right and knocks his head into it, into the wall through the shirt so the sound is muffled. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Little rushes, adrenaline-soothe, reassurance. Thump. Better now. Thump. Calmer now. Thump. He can breathe now. Thump. Tears dry on his face, dried-up riverbeds down pale skin. Someone told him once that if a mourning dove calls outside the window, someone you love is going to die.

Heard a mourning dove the day before-

His head hurts too much, he can’t think about that.

Thump. Don’t die, Jake. Thump. Come back, Jake. Thump. Don’t leave, Jake. Thump. I’m scared, Jake. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Boots stomp loud up the stairs, and Chris keeps hitting his head to keep himself from making any other noises, biting down on his lower lip until he tastes copper-salt-sweet blood in his mouth, sucking on the busted spot on his lip to draw out more. Thump, thump, thump, goes his head against the wall, but the sound of the boots and the crashing is louder, and they don’t hear him at all.

He flinches back at the sudden crash of something against the wall in Jake’s room, glass breaks in a high-pitched scatter-sound. The bed is overturned, a deafening sound that makes Chris squeak and cower back, waiting and waiting for one of them to find the secret way to open the little door in the closet wall, to find him here.

Thump. Be silent. Thump. Don’t make a sound. Thump. Don’t move, Chris. Thump. Don’t move.

He doesn’t know how long they are in the house.

There are sounds that draw out forever. Crashing and destruction noises, in Jake’s room - closest to the stairs. Methodical, they search room by room, destroying everything in their path, talking to each other about the nothing they find. Chris is very good - he stays silent, he keeps Jake’s shirt between his head and the wall. He doesn’t move, just like his mom Jake says.

He understands, without knowing why, that there was a time once that he didn’t listen, that he moved, and it made everything worse.

At some point the sounds of Nat and Jake yelling fade out, and then are gone. At some point the stomping up and down the stairs stops, and there’s some talking, low voices angry that they didn’t find what they were looking for. Chris wonders if they were looking for him.

At some point, the sounds stop, and it is silent in the house, except for the creaking noises the house always makes in the wind that’s kicked up outside. Once he is sure, totally and absolutely sure, that it is silent, Chris starts counting along with the thumps of his head on the wall.

Thump. One. Thump. Two. Thump. Three. Thump. Four…

He counts to four hundred slowly, starting over and over again as his brain stutter-skips on sixty or twenty-two or one hundred and eight. He doesn’t know if he really makes it to four hundred, all he knows is that he tries, and tries, and tries again, and eventually he thinks it has been long enough.

He pushes out on the little wood door that hides him in the false-backed closet, keeping Jake’s shirt clutched in one hand. He blinks against the sudden burst of bright sunlight through the window - how long was he hidden? - and stares at Jake’s room.

They cut the mattress down the middle, the stuff from the center is spread out everywhere and box springs are poking through the slice. Jake’s lamp was the sound of broken glass, and Chris’s bare toes curl in on themselves as he slowly stands, stepping out of the closet, whining in his throat like a small dog - like Arjun, he thinks, like Addie’s dog - and looks at the clothes strewn along the floor, too. Jake’s textbooks are bashed, some of their spines broken, lying open to spots he’s marked with highlighters.

Outside the window, a bird trills. Chris looks up to stare through the slightly scratched-up old glass. There’s a red cardinal outside, sitting on the branch of the white birch tree.

Chris moves carefully, slowly, placing each step in hopes he won’t walk into glass. The hallway is a mess, too, the towels have all been pulled down from the linen closet, all the stuff from the bathroom is spread around on the floor. The other bedrooms look the same - Antoni and Leila’s tiny amount of personal things are all shattered, mashed-up, destroyed. Their clothes are in piles on the cut-up remains of their beds.

Leila’s romance novels are dumped in a corner of her room, the other bed where Krista used to sleep is all broken, too, and Chris is suddenly glad Krista moved out, that she was somewhere safe before they came.

Chris tongues at the still-sensitive open bit on his lip, staring at the way they’ve left the staircase to the attic pulled down. He climbs up it slowly, the wood cold as ice against his bare feet, and finds that Nat’s room has been destroyed, too.

Chris taps himself as he walks, twist-fingers-tap-skin, again and again, letting the little darts of touch soothe him, help him hold out against the panic that is trying to break his heart right out of his chest. He heads all the way downstairs to the first floor. He has been silent. He has been good. He stayed in the closet and he didn’t move and he didn’t make a sound.

Just like he should have the first time, when his mom told him to be quiet-

But he doesn’t have a mom. They don’t have those, anymore, after. Just owners.

Except you, you have friends.

The dishes are all broken, bits of ceramic shards spread around the kitchen floor. The coffeemaker is inexplicably intact, brewing the automatic morning pot that Jake had set up the night before, a cheery sound that draws the first sob from Chris’s throat, holding Jake’s shirt against himself, twist-fingers-tap-skin.

The door to the basement is open, and he goes down the stairs, but Antoni and Leila aren’t there. He didn’t think they would be. They had to go before they were found, too. They couldn’t wait for him. He knows where the secret door in the basement is but he doesn’t dare try it.

What if the cops are just waiting at the bus stop? What if they took Antoni and Leila and they’re scanning their barcodes now, and they’ll be sent back, and if Chris tries to get on a bus they just scan his, too?

Sir would welcome him home. But that’s not home, and Chris doesn’t want his Sir. He wants Nat, he wants Jake.

No. He has to stay here. The shelter is safe. But… he’s all alone in the house. That’s not safe at all. He’s not safe. The safe place isn’t safe anymore.

Chris moves back up the basement stairs, whimpering.

A car drives past on the road outside and Chris lets out a frightened little cry, flattening himself against the wall, until it goes past. It wasn’t here for him at all. His eyes are drawn by something wrong, on the wall, and Chris stares at the spot until he remembers Jake hitting the wall, the way it rattled up through the frame up the house until Chris could feel it in his hiding place.

There’s blood on the wall.

Jake’s blood.

Chris begins to wail, then, sliding slowly down to the floor, rocking back and forth as he cries, heaving sobs that choke and catch in his throat because he’s not supposed to be loud, now, they’ll come back and they’ll find him, they’ll take him back. He doesn’t want to be Baldur anymore, he doesn’t want to be a numbered boy, he wants to be Chris, he picked Chris for himself, Jake says he gets to make Chris but they made Jake bleed and Jake is never coming back-

“What’s that sound? Is that someone cryin’? Is somebody still inside?”

Chris’s heart stops.

No. No no no no.

There’s a face peering in through the front door, a hand held up over the eyes, squinting, looking right at him. Chris made too much noise. He was too loud, but now that he’s started he can’t stop, and he keeps bubbling up tears and sobs and snot even as he tries desperately to be silent again.

“Y’okay, darlin’?” The voice is a woman’s voice, older, getting the creaky edges along the sides that come with advanced age. “Can you let me in, sweet boy? I live right next door. Are you all alone here?”

Chris whimpers and curls up tighter, closes his eyes. Maybe if he’s very, very still, they’ll go away.

“You’re scarin’ him, Grandma,” A much younger boy’s voice says, high-pitched. “What d’you think Miss Yoder did?”

“Y’know damn well what she did, baby,” The old woman says, not quite snapping. “She did a good turn, and in our world that don’t go unpunished. Honey can you let us in? We just want to help you.”

Chris shakes his head frantically. He’s not supposed to talk to anyone, he’s not supposed to let anyone in. He wasn’t supposed to make any sounds and everyone dies when he’s not silent, everyone dies and bleeds and they take them away, they take him away.

“Pl-please,” He whispers, thumping his head on the wall, trying to calm his fluttering panic. “Please, please go away, please, please please please go away, please-”

“He’s real scared, Grandma.”

“I have eyes, baby, I can see that. Not blind yet, and I’m not deaf either. He’s prob’ly been scared a real long time. Come on, honey-… oh, the door’s not even locked.” The old woman turns the doorknob and pushes the door open. It screams along the floor, bashed right off its hinges, and Chris bangs his head even harder, trying to drown it out.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“What’s he doin’?”

“Heck if I know, Jaden. Hey, sweetheart, you don’t need to be scared of us. We saw them come in here and wreck th’ place. Is there anything we can do for you?”

“Go away,” Chris whispers. “Please, please go away, pl-please, please don’t-… please just go away…”

“Okay, baby. But we’re right next door, right here on your right side.” The woman’s voice is soft, soothing. He wants to trust her but he’s not supposed to talk to anyone without Jake or Nat and they’re not here, because they’re gone, because they made Jake bleed. “Listen, honey, y’hungry?”

Chris cracks open his eyes and watches her, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t do anything but look. His stomach growls, audible in the silence.

The old woman’s got a face that’s a mess of kind wrinkles and sparkling black eyes, textured black-and-silver hair pulled into a bun at the back of her neck. The boy next to her gives Chris a tiny smile and waves - he looks ten or eleven.

Chris whimpers and curls up tighter.

“Okay. Look, I’m about to go make breakfast for my grandbabies. If you want I can bring you by a plate?” The woman’s eyes move past him, take in the bit of the kitchen mess she can see through the open-framed doorway. “And a fork or two?”

The coffeemaker beeps. Coffee’s done, Jake will want a mug-

Chris chokes back another sob.

Jake’s not here to drink the coffee.

“I’ll bring you a plate, you decide if you want to eat it,” The old woman says, gently. “My husband got in a few of these scrapes back in the 70’s, sweetheart, it’s a lot of cleaning up but they can’t hold ‘em ‘less they found something. D’you know if they did? Was there anything to find here?”

“What did Grandpa do?” The boy blinks, tilting his head back.

“He was all in on the lib thing back then. He’d be crushed to know they’re still fightin’ for it. Come on, honey. D’you know if they found anything they can charge Natalie Yoder with?”

Chris blinks once, twice. Then, in a hoarse voice, he answers, “She, she, she, she doesn’t keep records here, um, she-she said.”

The old woman lets out a breath of relief, closing her eyes “Praise the Lord for small mercies. They got nothin’ to charge her with, then, I bet, or her young man.”

The idea that Jake is Nat’s young man makes Chris twitch the tiniest little smile, thinking of the face Jake would make if he heard that.

“It’ll be okay, darlin’,” The old woman says, then steps back out of the doorway, onto the big concrete front porch. Chris relaxes, just a little, as she puts distance between. “I’ll have my Jaden here leave the plate on the front porch for you in just a bit, how’s that sound?”

Chris opens his mouth, swallows, then says, softly, “It, it, it sounds oh-okay, thank you, ma’am, thank-thank-thank, thank you.”

“Grandma?” Jaden looks up at his grandmother, although not by much - he’ll be taller than she is when he grows up by a lot. “Why does-”

“Hush up. We’ll be back to leave the food. You take care of yourself. I’ll ask around and see if some folks can’t help you clean up this mess before your people get back for you.”

My people.

They say goodbye, and leave Chris right where they found him, curled up against the wall, close to the red spot where Jake’s head hit, he thinks, must have hit so hard…

Outside there are birds calling and the wind in the trees. Jake’s textbooks are a mess and he’s going to miss class and Chris can’t go to yoga by himself can he? And the chipmunk starts chirping outside, going a mile a minute, and Chris shudders and wonders if chipmunks are bad omens, too.

It’s deja vu, he thinks, when you think you’ve lived through something before. He feels like he’s done this before, sit on the ground next to a red spot on the wall. But the spot was bigger the first time. And it was on the floor, too.

He can’t remember why, or how.

Chris lets his head tilt back into the wall, pulls Jake’s shirt up to his nose, takes a deep, deep breath.

Soap-lavender-skin-Jake.

“Please, please, please come back,” Chris whispers, now that he is alone again. “Please come back, Jake, please, please come back, Jake-Jake, come back, come back, come, come back…” The morning is chilly and his toes feel like ice and his fingers are frozen in the fabric of Jake’s shirt.

The blood on the wall is drying brownish, now.

A bird calls.The food shows up, just like the old woman said, her grandson leaving it on the porch in a covered plate to keep it warm. Chris shovels the eggs and bacon into his mouth still curled up on the floor in a destroyed house, staring outside through the window in the living room, ducking his head below the windowsill whenever a car drives by.

Chris waits, and waits, and waits.

More food comes at lunch and then at dinner, left in silence by the boy, who waves at him through the door but doesn’t say a word.

Chris puts the dishes in the sink, and then he returns to the window, to watch.

Jake is coming back.

He promised.

So Chris waits, watching the sun go down, hoping his people will come back.

#whump #jake the shelter guy #chris the strawberry blond romantic #tw: police brutality #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: stimming #tw: stim #tw: referenced past abuse/noncon #vague references but still #tw: accidental self-injury #tw: self-injury #safehouse raid #conditioned whumpee #captured caretaker #caretaker #whumpee #tw: head banging #tw: headbanging

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yikesharringrove · 5 years ago

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Billy in a Lingerie shop kinda lost but want to buy Steve smthing pretty they can feel good in. Gets approached by staff while he's basically glaring at a pair of lacy boyshorts"sir, looking for something for your girlfriend, can I assist you?" Drops them like he was doing something bad "wha-oh uh yeah-" she smiles "what doe she look like? Does she have a favorite color?"He'd cough "uh /she/ kinda has no tits ig and slim hips, oh and ass like a peach?"Watching her brow twitch at his language

Billy was staring at the lace panties in his hands.

He had come to buy something for Steve, but had no idea how big this place is, how many options there were.

He was holding a pair of red panties, tiny ones. There was no way Steve’s dick would fit into them. He realized he didn’t know Steve’s size, just had a vague idea of things he liked to wear, definitely knew what he would like to see him in.

“Hi, can I help you?” He turned to meet the eyes of a pretty woman. She was eyeing him with an eyebrow raised. “Looking for a gift for a lady in your life?”

“Uh, yes. For my, my girlfriend.” The woman smiled genuinely now, Billy realized she was trying to see if he was just a perv.

“Great! For her birthday, or anniversary, or...?”

“Oh, um. Just ‘cause. She really likes all this, uh, stuff.” She nodded sagely.

“Tell me a bit about her and I can help you find some things. Do you know her size?”

“I don’t know her size, but, uh, she’s got pale skin. And she’s tall, got these long legs. No tits really, but got this ass.” She was trying to hide a smile. “Like just this perfect peach.” She raised an eyebrow. “She likes the real frilly stuff, like the real pretty things. She’s real pretty.” She nodded and set off deeper into the store, holding things up for Billy to eyeball the size.

He ended up leaving the place with four new outfits, about nine pairs of panties, and about fourteen pairs of stockings. She handed him the bag with a wink, telling him to say hello to his girlfriend.

“Stevie! I got you a present!” He could hear Steve’s feet plopping along the floor from their bedroom in the back of the apartment. He appeared around the corner, hair messy, in one of Billy’s shirts and a little pair of shorts. He slid up to Billy in his wool socks.

“Present?” He was looking at the bag, Billy shifted it behind his back.

“You gotta pay me for it first.” He puckered his lips,looking expectantly at Steve. Steve smiled at him, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“Okay, what’s my present?” Billy rolled his eyes but handed over the bag. Steve started ripping through it right away, wandering back to the bedroom. Billy followed, smiling at Steve’s chatter and excited little squeals. The clothes Steve was wearing was now on the floor, and Billy came into the bedroom to find Steve tugging on one of the soft babydolls, matching panties already on.

“These are so pretty, Bill.” He looked in the full length mirror resting against the wall, turned around to look at his ass. “You did good.”

“Woman at the store kept asking me about my girlfriend.” Billy tugged Steve closer to him, running his hands along his ass, squeezing it lightly.

“Oh yeah, and what’d you say about her?”

“Told her the truth. That she’s got this perfect ass, these long legs.” Billy pressed a kiss to Steve’s collar bone. “Flat little tits.”

“Did you really?”

“Oh, yeah. Said she’s real pretty.” He sucked a bruise under Steve’s jaw. Steve had one hand in his hair, the other in his back pocket.

“You gonna show your girlfriend a good time?” He quirked an eyebrow. Billy grinned at him, lifting him up easily. Steve wrapped his legs around him hooking his ankles behind his back. Billy pressed him to the bed, settling on top of him.

“Anything for my girlfriend.”

#yikes writes #harringrove #no lemons #steve harrington #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove fic #harringrove ficlet #harringrove drabble

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hiddenhistoria · 3 years ago

Text

Find the word tag VIII

Tagged by @zmlorenz and @sleepyowlwrites, thank you both! My words are: flower, friend, fragrance, fun, free/ air, break, clear, danger, and excite/ suspect, sick, safe, and solid. As always, snippets from These Cursed Paths.

Flower

She makes towards the kitchen, feet soundless, hand reaching for her gun. The parsen is still on the set table, waiting to be feasted upon. She looks away, ignoring the pang of her chest, and focuses on the task at hand. No intruders here, either. Jehona figures they must be watching the entrances.

And she is right.

Another Kairanese girl has made base in the living room, facing the front door. She doesn’t hesitate. The girl slumps much like her companion outside. Jehona sweeps through the rest of the house with the same efficiency, finding two more girls, one in each bedroom. Only the last one, a Kairanese that must have been Rumaysa’s age, is vigilant enough to sense her coming into her room and put up a fight. Jehona breaks the only flower vase she owns over the girl’s head. She makes a mental note to replace it and the wilting flowers that have fluttered to the ground before Rumaysa finds out.

Chapter 8

Friend

Another shot pings on the cobblestones. Rumaysa bites her lip to stop from making any noise. Her leg shakes from the strain and she leans against the wall of a building, moving at a crawling pace. Rounding the corner, she drags herself along the wall. Even her head fails her, her eyesight going blurry as she slides down, sitting on the road, the yielding a reprieve for her battered body. Everything hurts: her leg, her shoulder, her hands. The crutches escape her grip, clanging as they hit the ground.

“Who’s there?”

Rumaysa starts, hope blooming in her chest. She knows that voice, the cold uninterested timbre it adapts with strangers. Her eyes, which she didn’t even realize had slid closed of their own volition, fly open. “Jehona?”

And it is indeed her best friend rushing towards her, brown locks flying with the wind, voice frantic. “Rumaysa?” She crouches down in front of her, placing blessedly cool hands on her flaming cheeks. “Are you hurt? What are you even doing here?” Jehona’s eyes do a sweep of her sprawled body, the brown dark with worry and panic.

Chapter 5

Fun

“Can you even worry?” he snips back.

She shrugs. “If I try hard enough. Now, I’ll operate under the assumption that you actually got some information to share with the class—” Hideyoshi nods. “—so we’ll retreat for tonight. I doubt we’d be able to go out again, either way, what with the uproar you’ve caused.”

“That would be advisable,” the gargantuan remarks, pulling a miraculously clean kerchief from somewhere on his person to wipe at his face. “I’d also advise you against wearing that cloak next time we go in. You’ve made an enemy.”

Jehona turns on her heel, leading them back. “All in a day’s work, Hideyoshi,” she throws over her shoulder.

“Of course she’s flippant about it,” he mutters under his breath and she smirks to herself. He’ll make her life hard and, in turn, she’ll make his life hard. Thankfully, riling the gargantuan up is fun.

Chapter 10

(Hideyona, Hideyona!)

Free

“Pity,” she laments, circling again to find the girl’s fingers. “Your poor friend will have a hard time wielding a sword with nine fingers. That is, of course, if she doesn’t contract an infection first and die. I haven’t cleaned this basement in ages.”

The subject of her attention whimpers and Jehona is reminded just how much she absolutely hates her job. She drives one more proverbial knife in.

“If you want to blame someone sweetie, let it be your friend, who keeps her silence while you are threatened.” Jehona unfolds the girl’s fist gently and the girl sobs.

That seems to do the trick. “No, wait! Wait! We don’t know! We don’t know, I swear!” The leader all but screams.

Jehona circles back to meet her eyes. “You don’t know?”

“I swear on my life we don’t. That is information shared on a need-to-know basis and we don’t need to know,” the girl reasons. “For this reason exactly, if nothing else.”

She accepts the explanation with a sigh. It makes sense. These girls are just grunts come to kill her. And she doesn’t have any more time to waste with them.

Jehona sets the dagger on the floor about two meters from the girls, hilt facing them. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” She looks at the tear-faced girl. “You scared your poor friend for nothing. I have to go now. Use this—“ she points to the blade, “—to free yourselves. And do try, please. I’m not keen on coming back to four rotting corpses in my basement. Have a good day, ladies.”

With that, she walks out.

Chapter 8

Air

He smiles at the soldiers. “At ease, Wolves. Mirmengsi to all of you.”

“Section Commander, sir.” Erisa appears at his elbow and salutes. She’s a tiny woman, barely reaching his shoulder, always shrouded in an air of seriousness that he can’t disperse no matter how many stupid jokes he cracks. Even Jehona hasn’t resisted that long in her more serious moments. The two four-pointed stars on her left breast catch the morning light as she faces him.

“Major Arlet, good morning,” Klevis greets, turning on his heel and motioning her to follow. He’s aware of the eyes that closely follow their movements. There’s an ongoing rumor about the nature of his relationship with Erisa, which has now turned into wishful thinking on the Wolves’ part since neither one of them has done anything to encourage the rumor. They’re just a bunch of romantic fools, in his opinion. And they’re going to have to wait a while longer to see a romance blossom between him and her, given he’s aromantic and Erisa is done with his shit. The only pro to the rumor is watching the serious facade crack a little more each time a pair of eyebrows is wagged in their direction. Coincidentally, that is also the only con.

Chapter 11

Break + Clear

She rolls her eyes. “Not in Hideyoshi’s presence, Maysa.”

“Why not?” he protests with narrowed eyes. Jehona likes to think he can feel the jab she’s about to send his way.

“Because,” she starts slowly like she’s talking to a toddler, “in order to explain, I’d need to break the law. I fear you’d faint at such a transgression and, as you can clearly see—” Jehona gestures to the black lump in her lap, “—I can’t move fast enough to catch you, darling.”

He glowers and Maysa snorts, all worry for Klev momentarily forgotten, alongside inquires about RT’s powers. Jehona is too good at this. Hideyoshi stops in front of her chair, impossibly tall from this angle. And, honestly, every angle she can reach at 1.65m. “Even if that were the case, you couldn’t possibly carry me, chīsame no yatsu.”

She leans forward, narrowing her eyes. “Say that last bit in Lukovian, coward.”

He leans down, resting his hands on the table. They’re practically nose to nose. “E vockël.”

Jehona gasps and, from somewhere behind Hideyoshi, Rumaysa snorts. Some best friend she is, laughing when an asshole calls her ‘little one’. Even RT wears an amused smile at that. Klev really found the day to abandon her. “Why don’t I shoot you and then we’ll find out if I can or can’t carry you, you abominable shit giraffe?”

“Can an ant carry a giraffe?”

She scowls. “If the ant tears it to pieces first, it sure as fuck can.”

Hideyoshi straightens with such a saccharine smile, her teeth hurt. “Why so irritable, chīsame no yatsu?”

“Listen here, you uncivilized dickheaded gargantuan,” she starts, ready to inflict bodily harm. Luck, however, seems to favor him as the door slams open at that moment with a bang that has RT starting and Rumaysa glowering.

Chapter 12

(HIDEYONA, HIDEYONA!)

Danger

Rumaysa rolls into the bunker with a disapproving frown, ready to chide Dezi further for wandering. Until she catches sight of Kass clutching him, silently crying and Jehona by her side, smiling like an idiot. She looks from her to her cousin and her cat, then shakes her head. “Nevermind. Seems like I’m already asleep.”

Afraid not, Jehona signs.

The rumble of her wheels sends Kass’ heartbeat through the roof. Rumaysa draws nearer with the sort of look anyone with a grain of common sense wouldn’t want to be directed at them and, fine, Kass is terrified. Dezi wiggles out of her arms as if sensing danger and not wanting to be caught in the crossfire and even Jehona takes a step back when Rumaysa cranes her neck and addresses her by her full name. “Kassiani Trantis.”

Kass swallows. She is screwed.

“How dare you—“ her voice cracks and Kass sees her eyes well with tears. “How dare you not hug me after all these years—“

She doesn’t wait for Rumaysa to finish, dropping to her knees and throwing her arms around her umzadya.

“—you asshole?” Rumaysa finishes with a sob on her shoulder.

Chapter 13

Excite

They clamber to their feet slowly, stiff as Jehona pushes thoughts of an angry Rumaysa from her mind with a shudder. Up on their feet, they’re a head taller than her, all gangly limbs and awkward posture. Most probably a recent growth spurt then. With a messy head of very wet brown strands, blue eyes, and a smarting of faint freckles on their cheeks, they remind her inexplicably of a puppy. A very excited puppy.

“I’m RT,” they say, extending a hand and almost hitting her arm. “Non-binary.”

She smiles despite herself, grasping his hand and shaking twice. “Jehona. A very kind woman, as you can tell.”

They laugh at that, allowing her to place their hand on the crook of her elbow, effectively getting them out of the rain. “Thank you, Jehona. I was starting to lose hope of making it back home tonight.”

“You didn’t. It’s dawn.”

Chapter 1

Suspect

Jehona looks then and what she finds on his face stuns her. It is understanding, written plainly on the arch of his brow and the line of his lips, in the way he looks at her, all of the pieces she’d laid bare for his inspection and does not flinch or judge or hate, as she’d expected him to. “Look at what you’ve done,” he says quietly, running a hand through his hair. “How can I hate you when you’re just like me?”

Her chin trembles.

“Really, siren.” Hideyoshi smiles a small, heavy smile. “That was rather rude of you.”

An inexplicable spark warms her chest, chasing away the terrible cold. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what I did to Tomoki and Yukito.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

She snorts. “Well, yes, but I suspect if I went to apologize to them, I’d have injured them for nothing since your clan members would most definitely kill me on sight.”

Chapter 12

(HIDEYONA, HIDEYONA!)

Sick

By the time the parsen is done, the house around her is sparkling clean and orderly, their little dining table set and ready, and Jehona a mess of nerves and anxiety. She has worked herself up into a frenzy and she is sick of it. This must be how her dad felt last night. His anger makes so much more sense now.

Restless energy plagues her and she takes to pacing the length of the living room. Her injured leg throbs dully; she’s overworked herself in her measly attempts to pass time. Jehona plops on the couch, stretching her leg out, and sighs deeply. She is being ridiculous. The events of the previous night have set her on edge and she’s letting hypotheticals get to her. It won’t be long until her father comes back, whining about how he’s ravenous and all will be well. There is no good reason for them to dispatch Captain Trantis’ squad to the third district. They’re usually assigned to the sixth district and they do a damn good job of keeping order there. Whatever reason the President-General has for sending men into that district, he surely wouldn’t endanger good capable men. Not with the threat of Austeria hanging over Lukovia like an axe ready to drop. Avniel may be many things but a fool he is not.

Chapter 4

Safe

Klevis just sighs. “Now that’s out of your system, back to my genius idea. Jehona is going to live with Hide.”

“Klev, dearest, weren’t you harping on about me needing to be safe?” Jehona points at Hideyoshi’s glower. “Does that look like someone who won’t kill me the first chance he gets?”

“I am no murderer.”

“With the right incentive, everyone is.”

Hideyoshi only glares harder. “Fine, then I won’t sully my hands with your blood.”

“You sure about that?” Jehona smirks. “A hasty conclusion, given you haven’t even heard of my latest nefarious deeds.”

He narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“This is getting a little out of hand,” RT comments. “Any grownups want to intervene?”

Rumaysa snorts. “Sorry, RT. Those are in short supply around here.”

“Klevis, what did she do?”

Klev shrugs. “How am I supposed to know? Is this about those four Nonaka girls who breached your house?”

Chapter 8

Solid

She shifts in her wheelchair now, finally pulling the infernal device off of her leg and dumping it aside unceremoniously. “Not that I’m not eternally grateful to have found you two there—“ Rumaysa meets Jehona’s eyes, deciding to bite the bullet, so to speak, “—but what were you doing in the third district?”

Her best friend’s anger has always been something akin to spears of solid ice and has been used as such: with calculation and precision. And rarely has it surfaced, a trait Jehona shared with her mother. Both were too adaptable and solution-oriented to be sweeped by emotions. Except for tonight, apparently.

“We?” Jehona’s voice is a burning brand, in the way something too cold feels hot to the touch. “What were you doing there, Rumaysa? Do you think this is a fucking game? That shithead would’ve killed you!”

Rumaysa finds she doesn’t have much patience tonight. “I asked first.” She says matter-of-factly, eliciting a snort from Klevis. Rumaysa can’t quite tell if it’s from amusement or disbelief. It seems he himself can’t either.

Chapter 5

Some of these are a little too long (yes, I’m talking about the Hideyona bits) sue me. I’ll pass this on to @writingamongther0ses, @sleepy-night-child, @fictional-semantics, and anyone else who thinks they can find these words in their manuscripts: smooth, shatter, sliver and smirk.

#find the word tag #my writing #amwriting #wip: these cursed paths

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luluwquidprocrow · 4 years ago

Text

i know their names, i carry their blood too

originally posted: august 13th, 2018

word count: 19,681 words

rated: teen

beatrice snicket, lemony snicket

family, angst with a happy ending, VFD, assorted original vfd characters, assorted canon characters repeatedly mentioned, one small girl going through a lot of unpleasantness, most of the time by herself, attempted kidnapping (legit vfd recruitment in action), also one small girl trying to avoid a decent amount of trauma and loss

summary: A man has come back to the city. Beatrice Baudelaire, eight years old and miles away, is trying to find him.

opening notes:

this fic relies pretty heavily on the beatrice letters, and there are a few references and one code that will make a lot more sense if you’ve read all the wrong questions and the unauthorized autobiography!

title from the crooked kind by radical face

Beatrice learns early on, at seven and with a bare ankle because they said they don’t require the tattoo anymore, that if she turns the doorknob slowly and lifts it up at the same time, her bedroom door doesn’t stick when it opens. At eight, she learns if she stays close to the hallway wall, avoids the places where the floor groans under her feet, especially in the spot in front of the chaperone’s room, then she can make it in absolute silence to the staircase. The stairs are trickier—most of the steps have warped over time—so she wraps her hands tight around the banister and inches along the edge until she stretches out a tentative foot and finds the smooth carpet of the ground floor rug under her socks.

At almost one in the morning, everything, every overstuffed armchair and faded green wall and well-stocked pantry, is smothered in black shadows. Beatrice doesn’t mind. She can still find her way around. She had walked around for a week with her eyes closed to prove a point a few months ago. (The point was that she could tell anyone by their footsteps, which she could. The result was that she could navigate the entirety of headquarters in the middle of the night. She knows every creak in every floorboard and what everyone’s shoes sound like now.)

A proper adult might ask her if she’d like a light on so she can see a little easier at one in the morning. A proper adult would probably think she’d be afraid of the dark, after everything that happened. Then again, a proper adult would probably not have put her in this situation to begin with. She’s not entirely sure. She’s only known a few proper adults in her life, or people older and taller than her to the point she considered them adults. She hopes she’ll know at least one more.

From the report a volunteer smuggled to her during dinner in the mashed potatoes—and from the confirmation from another volunteer during dessert, waving his spoon through the air at her—and from the further confirmation from the chaperones standing in a corner with their heads together and mumbling not very quietly at all—a man was seen. Far away, on the thirteenth floor of one of the nine dreariest buildings in the city. A man they tell stories about, a man no one seems to know for sure, a man who might be a detective, or has had that printed on an office door at one point or another. A man who hasn’t been seen in a long, long time.

“That’s him,” Beatrice had said.

“How do you know?” a volunteer had asked. “You’ve never seen him either.”

Beatrice hasn’t, but she thinks she’s allowed to make an educated guess here. A niece should know her own uncle, even by rumors. And she knows him like she knows the back of her hand, or the floorboard underneath her bed she stashes the picture and the ring under, or the books she’s read in the middle of the night when she was supposed to be asleep, the ones they tried to hide from her so she couldn’t read his name. She knows.

(One of the older chaperones told her—or muttered disparagingly in her direction after Beatrice asked the same question for a whole hour one day, because no one would give her a straight answer—that she has the analytical eyes of her mother and the stubborn streak of her namesake and the brazen attitude of her uncle. Another one told her later, a little more kindly, that she looks like her father when she reads, quiet and studious. So, she knows.)

Her backpack is a heavy weight on her back as she creeps through the downstairs rooms, her shoes gripped in one hand and a letter almost crumpled tight in the other. She’d written it after dinner, tucked away in a corner of a room that no one ever looked in (the bathroom closet, of course), the typewriter across her lap and the news still fresh in her mind. She tapped her fingers against the keys. How should she address the letter? Because she’d have to send a letter. It was only polite, after all. But calling him uncle outright might be a little too much, a little too soon. Dear, she typed, for a start. Dear—physically distant relative? Closest living relative? The person she had to find, because he could help her find the people most important to her? This had to be perfect, and Beatrice knew it would be, but she still had to think—

Dear Sir, she settled on, with a small, pleased smile.

That was when she’d heard the voices from outside in the hall, filtering through the bathroom door.

“This can’t be good news,” said a chaperone Beatrice never liked. “He’s a wanted criminal, isn’t he? And I heard he was responsible for that other fire a few years ago, too. What if he comes here?”

“How can we trust someone like him?” said another one that Beatrice had almost respected until that moment.

“It’s probably not even him,” said a third voice. “There’s been too many people with his initials showing up over the years. With any luck, he’s dead and gone.”

Beatrice frowned, mostly in anger, because that was such an awful, rude thing to say about someone. She knew it was him. There was no way it couldn’t be. But the chaperones had a point about the initials, and it made her think of something else. In case the letter went astray, because the mail could be so unreliable, especially so far from the city, she should preface it with something, shouldn’t she?

I have no way of knowing if this letter will reach you, as the distance between us is so very far and so very troublesome, she’d written, proud at how professional she sounded. And even if this letter does reach you, I am not sure it will reach the right person. Perhaps you are not who I think you are.

But she’d learned one important thing here, and that was that you had to be certain, because you might be wrong. So at the end of the day, it was merely a pretense, a formality. There was nothing she didn’t know for sure, because she was certain.

My name is Beatrice Baudelaire, she typed, with a fierce determination and her head held high. I am searching for my family. Then she’d known that she was going to leave.

Beatrice squints up at the grandfather clock in the corner of the main room, trying to see the time through the shadows. If she cuts it too close she’ll run into the chaperones doing their middle-of-the-night check on the neophytes. She has to be out of the building before it comes to that. The ground floor of headquarters is silent as a grave right now, as dark as one too, and she steps close to the couch where the floor won’t talk back to her as she makes her way to the heavy ivory front door, washed grey in the dark.

She knows from experience—from carefully watching and listening—that the door is locked (silver, outdated, the kind from the old hardware manuals Beatrice has extensively studied in the dead of night) from the outside, the volunteer who locks it then running up the fire escape and back inside through an upstairs window. But the quickest way out is always the easiest way in. She puts on her shoes and takes off her backpack, unzips the latter as slow as she can, and feels around for the thin red ribbon.

She shifts her hair, shoulder-length and blonde with a curl at the very end, away from her face, and ties it back securely with the ribbon.

An older volunteer had given her a lock pick the previous week after Beatrice helped her solve a word game—there’s no way she would’ve been able to get one otherwise. The chaperones almost always seem to know when someone’s doing something they shouldn’t, considering how much else they miss. Beatrice takes it out and gets to work, moving quickly and quietly, listening for the barely audible tick when one of the tumblers releases. One of the chaperones laughs upstairs, a disembodied thing in the darkness, and Beatrice grips the tools harder so she doesn’t jump and drop them.

The lock clicks sharply, the door easing open with a heavy creak. Beatrice freezes in place, straining her ears, her breath still in her throat. She’s sure someone had to hear that.

Something creaks upstairs.

The floorboard outside the chaperone’s door.

Beatrice snatches up her bag, squeezes herself through the gap and outside, and pulls the door shut behind her. She runs down the stone steps two at a time and doesn’t look back.

Ten blocks away, when she’s sure no one is looking, Beatrice drops the folded letter into a public mailbox.

The only train out of town leaves at five in the morning. Beatrice gets to the station with plenty of time to spare, and easily memorizes the route she’ll have to take to get to the city. It’s a long one, so she sits down on one of the benches and counts out her change. She digs the ring out of her bag, the heirloom from the island Sunny had given her that Beatrice had hid from the chaperones, and tries it on different fingers until it stays and doesn’t slide. Then she waits, tracing the low ceiling beams with her eyes, swinging her legs back and forth.

She knows just what he’ll be like. Not too tall, keeps to himself, intelligent. Sensible, maybe a little tentative, a little worried. His books made it sound like he’d been through a lot, after all. But she’s not too concerned about that. He’ll talk to her, because she’s his niece, and she’s read everything he’s written, and they have a good deal in common. They both like big words, long books, and could take or leave the sea.

She has one picture of him, of the side of his back and a corner of his face and one hand, or the side of the back and the corner of a face and the one hand of a man Violet and Klaus didn’t know, but a man Beatrice knew couldn’t be anyone else. There were three other people in the photograph—the uncle she’ll never meet, and the Baudelaire parents.

Beatrice hadn’t meant to take the photograph. It was their photograph, Violet and Klaus and Sunny’s, the last thing they had of their parents. But she thought it might be the only glimpse she’d get of her uncle, especially when she’d only known about Jacques, so she would sneak it out of Klaus’s commonplace book when he wasn’t looking. She’d wonder who the other man was, since that was before she knew. And she’d meant to put it back, but—but there hadn’t been time.

Violet and Klaus told her her mother had blue eyes, and so did Jacques, and she has them too, so she knows she’ll see the same shade of blue in his eyes, another link between the two of them. Excitement flutters around inside of her like a million wonderful butterflies, and she can’t help but smile. Not only is she going to find the family she lost, she’s going to find the family she didn’t even know she still had until a few months before. Beatrice can’t think of anything luckier.

There’s not too many people on the train when it comes into the station, so Beatrice picks a windowseat all to herself, pressing herself close so she can see everything passing by. She doesn’t want to miss a single thing. She swings her legs again, heels kicking the seat, and waits for the train to start moving.

“Aren’t you a little young to be traveling alone?” the woman across the aisle asks. She lowers yesterday’s evening edition newspaper and gives Beatrice a pointed stare behind her thick-framed glasses.

“No,” Beatrice says.

“You seem a little young,” the woman continues.

“I’m short for my age,” Beatrice says.

The woman gives her another look, specifically at her feet, and then looks back up at Beatrice with a raised eyebrow. She ruffles her newspaper imperiously and disappears behind it again.

Beatrice swallows, her shoulders pulling in. She makes a point to stop swinging her legs and sits up straighter. She keeps at it, even when the woman gets off at the next station and she’s by herself on the train.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she jolts awake at a flash of light across her face. It flickers jagged on her hands, lighting up the seat beneath her, bright and blinding white. She looks around frantically, expecting to see rain and bending wood, to hear the roar of crashing waves, before she remembers she’s still on the train. There’s no lightning on a train. It’s just the sun streaming in from the window. She watches with wide eyes as it creates patterns on her arms and her dress, then tears her gaze away and stares hard at the faraway houses outside the window instead, clutching her bag in her lap. Beatrice thinks of big words (pietrisycamollaviadelrechiotemexity surely counts as a word, and she spends ten minutes testing out pronunciations), long books (Anna Karenina is long, and she can probably still read it even though she already knows the central theme), and anything but the sea, until her hands loosen and her shoulders drop and the sun is high enough that she can’t see it.

Beatrice had first found his name buried in old reports, in thirteen files jammed into the back of a drawer, down in the basement at headquarters when someone had asked her to find a flashlight. She found a bat instead, clinging to the rafters, and it blinked at her with big, black eyes. Beatrice blinked back, because she knew all about all kinds of animals, especially the ones the organization trained, and she didn’t mind bats. Then it fluttered down on top of an old filing cabinet in the corner.

Beatrice wandered over and picked out faded letters that spelled Baudelaire on the front. Eager, because no one at headquarters would talk to her about Violet or Klaus or Sunny, or answer her questions about where they might be, she yanked it open and found files and files with a distinct cursive signature ending each one—Lemony Snicket. And her stomach had twisted up tight, because she could hear Klaus like he was standing right behind her, telling her the name Kit Snicket.

Kit Snicket, Beatrice had echoed.

That’s right, Klaus had said, smiling. She was your mother.

Beatrice knew all about her mother. Violet and Klaus and Sunny had told her her mother was a good person, a volunteer, someone who had helped them, and they had helped her. That was how Beatrice was born. And she knew all about Jacques, because they’d said the same thing about him. But they’d never mentioned a Lemony. She knew better than to think he was her father, because she knew her father’s name, too. Dewey Denouement. They’d said his name only once, and she’d repeated it over and over again to herself. Beatrice didn’t know who this was.

She read through them all in the dead of night so no one would bother her, because Beatrice knew they were watching her, closer than they watched the other neophytes. She tried to find the four volumes she’d found hints at in other files, although she never managed to pin them down. But the thirteen files told her enough. They confirmed that Violet and Klaus and Sunny were still out there somewhere, just like she thought. They confirmed their stories, although with other details they hadn’t said or had relayed differently—but Beatrice had never doubted what they’d told her to begin with.

And they confirmed that Lemony Snicket was her uncle, and he was alive.

All of Beatrice’s hopes became real, became fact. There was someone else out there, someone who could help her. Someone who was family. Someone who could help her find Violet and Klaus and Sunny. Someone who knew the whole story too.

So then she just had to wait. She had to wait, and learn, and sit through someone telling her how to make a meringue when she knew full well how to make a meringue, and how to pick a lock and how to define a word and the right way to escape a burning building. She had to keep waiting until the right moment came and she could leave and try to find him, try to find them all. And Beatrice would know when it was. She was Beatrice Baudelaire, after all. She knew everything now.

Beatrice spends three weeks switching trains, eating greasy sandwiches from the vendors hanging around in the old, dingy train stations. Sunny wouldn’t like any of the sandwiches at all, but Beatrice has to make do with what she can. No one talks to her, so she doesn’t get a chance to try out any of the other things she’d thought to say after she spoke to that woman. I’m visiting a relative. I’m in a special program. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers? She’s a little bummed about that, because she practiced the perfect eyebrow raise in the hand mirror she took from one of the chaperones, but it’s really for the best. She doesn’t need to be sidetracked.

Instead, she listens to how the trains sound smoother and sleeker closer to the city, watches how the stations get more impressive. She takes pamphlets from each station until she has a neat collection detailing train mechanics, local restaurants, and sometimes, if she finds one, the smallest books she’s ever seen. Beatrice sits in the hard station seats and flips through them while she waits for her train to come in. Mostly they’re books she’s read before, but she thinks they’re cute, being so tiny. She’ll show them to Violet and Klaus and Sunny, and her uncle, too. She knows they’ll enjoy them.

A voice mumbles indistinct static over the loudspeaker. Beatrice finishes her sandwich, puts the latest brochure in her bag, and gets on the next train.

The train station in the city is enormous, bigger than headquarters. It certainly looks as old as headquarters, but a little more distinguished, with a solid white floor and an endlessly high ceiling. Beatrice would be able to appreciate it more, she thinks, if there wasn’t so many people, all bustling past in a flurry of suitcases and elbows. None of them spare her a second glance, not even when she climbs up on top of one of the curved benches for a better view of the entire station.

Whenever Violet couldn’t figure out how to fix an invention, or Klaus couldn’t figure out the meaning of a sentence, or Sunny couldn’t figure out how to change a recipe, they would take it apart and look at each individual component before continuing. The same principle works for a city, Beatrice figures. A city is just a collection of streets, one right after the other, and all of them go somewhere. It’s not too hard to find out where, especially when you have the right map.

She finally spots the map display, drops back onto the floor, and goes and grabs every single map available. She squeezes her way through the crowd mobbing around the exit and emerges out on the city street into a sudden deluge of bright lights and noise. Beatrice blinks until it all evens out, all the traffic lights and towering buildings and the people, hundreds and hundreds more of them. She swallows, presses herself against the outside wall, and takes a moment to watch everything.

It’s strange. The ocean was vast, and they rarely ran into anyone out there, and headquarters, tucked away in a small town miles from the sea, had only about twenty neophytes and a handful of teachers and chaperones. But the city is full of jostling bodies and constant sound, like the whole world rushing around her, a storm that doesn’t stop. Beatrice thinks she might be scared, if she wasn’t so systematic about it. You can’t be scared if you know everything. It’s just different, is all it is. She reminds herself to breathe and thinks it’s just different.

Beatrice spreads the maps out in the park across the street, holding the edges down with rocks so they don’t blow away when the breeze kicks up. Everything is marked on the maps, every street and building and corner store, and even the best places to see certain birds. One map includes Nine Dreary Buildings to Avoid on Your Lunch Break, which is absurdly specific but exactly what she needs, and Beatrice hunts them all down with a careful eye and a black pen. All nine buildings are within a few blocks of each other, clustered in the center of the city. She’ll have to go through all of them, just to be sure. Klaus taught her it was good to be thorough. She puts the rest of the maps away and starts looking.

The first two buildings are too short to have a thirteenth floor. The third building looks like it was condemned years ago and no one bothered to do anything with it. The fourth building has so many floors that Beatrice loses track when she stands on the sidewalk and tilts her head back to try and count, and she looks through the directory inside the doors but doesn’t see any mention of her uncle’s name (or a pseudonym, or an anagram, or even just a suspicious blank space).

The walk to the fifth building takes the longest, because Beatrice has to find a path around the construction being done on seventh street, and takes ten minutes to wrestle with the map and figure out which street she’s on when she winds up in a dark alley with a lot of cigarette butts and one very noisy pigeon who tries to steal her map. The sixth building has the suspicious blank space on the directory, but it’s on the fifteenth floor. The seventh and eighth buildings, when she manages to find them, were mislabeled and wind up being two different diners, one of them even across from a completely different train station. Beatrice admits that they’re still pretty dreary-looking and uncomfortable, especially the latter one. She certainly wouldn’t want to eat at a place called The Hemlock Tearoom and Stationary Shop. That’s just tempting fate a little too much.

The ninth building proclaims itself to be the Rhetorical Building in faded but still distinct black print on an otherwise grey building, with a tattered brown awning over the glass double doors. It’s definitely tall enough to have thirteen floors—Beatrice counts twenty rows of windows going up the side. She bites her lip and scans the directory. Her heart leaps when she spots the little card for an office on the thirteenth floor. The name scribbled out, but whoever did it used a faded black pen and didn’t do that good a job, so she can still see the very clear L at the beginning and the S somewhere in the middle. She bites her lip around a smile.

This is it. This is her uncle’s office.

Beatrice pushes the doors open and takes a cursory glance around the lobby, and finds the inside lives up to the dreary reputation too. She wouldn’t have put so much sagging grey furniture and scuffed flooring and wilted potted plants in an office building. She ducks down as she hurries past the front desk so the bored receptionist doesn’t see her, vaguely wondering what it is about the building that her uncle likes so much to have an office here, and heads up the staircase. She can ask him when she sees him. She can ask him everything when she sees him, although everything is just one single question, but it’s everything to her.

The thirteen floors pass in what feels like a matter of moments, and Beatrice breaks into a run when she gets closer to his office, bursting through the doors onto the thirteenth floor. She darts from door to door, looking for the right number, wood creaking under her shoes, and almost barrels right into a panel of old, frosted glass on a door halfway down the hall. The only writing on it says DETECTIVE in peeling letters, which is exactly what she expected. Beatrice grins and knocks a few times, bouncing on the balls of her feet. When there’s no answer right away, she tries the doorknob.

The door is unlocked.

Beatrice tries with everything she has to contain her excitement, but it still comes through in her shaking hands as she turns the doorknob. “Hello?” she calls.

She comes face to face with a cloud of dust. Beatrice coughs into her fist, waving her other hand around to disperse it, and looks up to find a cluttered, but empty office.

Beatrice frowns and walks inside. The blinds are shut tight over the windows, so she eases them open carefully, letting in just enough light to see, and the office still doesn’t have anyone else in it. She checks under the desk, and out on the fire escape, and even under the papers on the walls, but there’s no reasonably tall man with her eyes waiting for her. She huffs out a sigh, her shoulders falling, but then the papers on the wall catch her attention. She looks closer.

They aren’t just papers—there are photographs mixed in, pictures of people she’s never seen before, and pictures of places, cities, hotel rooms, at least one rental car office, an all-you-can-eat buffet, and two separate theaters, and newspaper articles and pages ripped from books, all framing a humongous map of the city and surrounding areas, bigger than any she picked up at the train station. The papers are connected by a thin red string, wound around tacks and marking pins and what looks like an old bottle cap for a soda Beatrice doesn’t think sounds very pleasing. The middle of the map has more recent ones, polaroids dated a few months back of steep, rolling hills, a note paperclipped to one, neat typewriter type proclaiming it could be possible, underlined in a smooth, even blue pen. There’s a path marked beside them, curving through a wide and unlabeled space in the map.

That must be it, she thinks, nodding to herself. He’s not here, and she could be more upset about that, but she can’t be when now she knows exactly where he went. He’s pretty obvious for a detective, which makes her smile around a laugh.

She turns to the desk, which leans a little to one side, papers and a typewriter balanced precariously. A strangely-shaped paperweight sits on top of a stack of papers, and Beatrice mentally runs through every single animal she knows but can’t find a match. It looks like a snake or a worm or an eel, only with too many teeth.

Beatrice clambers up into the chair behind the desk, settles herself, and looks at the typewriter. It’s an old model, but well-cared-for, with shiny keys and a brand new ribbon, almost like it was waiting for her. Beatrice rolls in a sheet of paper, and then runs her fingers over the keys. She’s sure he won’t mind.

Dear Sir, she types. I am writing this on the typewriter in your small, dusty office, on the thirteenth floor of one of the nine dreariest buildings of the city.

I am leaving this city, only hours after seeing it for the first time, to follow your path of yarn and pins. I am heading for the hills…

When she leaves his office and starts hunting through the bus schedules for an idea of how she’s going to get to the hills, she realizes, with an exhilarated jump of her stomach, that it’s now March 1st. She’s been nine years old for a whole day.

On her last birthday on the boat, which Violet had radically modified before leaving the island and on the journey after, Sunny made her a cake. There were no candles, because none of them ever used a candle, at least when Beatrice was looking, and Violet and Klaus read her favorite story, and everyone got icing all over their hands and faces. Beatrice can just barely hear the way they all laughed. There’s a thin fog over the rest of the memory, one that strangles the excitement out of her. She can’t quite recall what the weather was like, or what she wore, or what flavor the cake was or even what the story was and especially how close it was to the day where—

Beatrice clears her throat and looks back at the bus schedules. She doesn’t think I have to find them. She thinks I will find them.

Beatrice takes one look at the sandwich counter in the bus station and resolutely decides she’s too hungry for another sad, uncomfortably greasy sandwich, and she needs a much better option. She takes out her map and backtracks to the Rhetorical Building, because the closest diner is on that street, right across from the office, between a tailor shop and a building shaped almost like a short, squat pen. For a city that on the whole is a lot more dreary than she thought it’d be, the diner looks bright and welcoming, with soft lights in the windows and cheerful blue curtains. Klaus taught her to be aware of her surroundings, so she makes sure she looks at everything when she steps inside.

The diner isn’t very big, but it’s clean and well-kept, with tan booths against either wall, a line of square tables right down the middle, and a counter blocking most of the kitchen from view. The pictures on the walls are all framed and organized in neat rows, and Beatrice’s gaze moves quickly from the few pictures of an ocean and a group of people in front of a boat to the other ones of cityscapes, and then to a completely blank piece of paper with #47! scribbled in the lower right corner. She looks to the other side of the room and finds a tightly-packed bookshelf near the counter. She thinks Klaus would definitely approve.

She climbs up on top of one of the counter stools and smooths out her skirt, and then sees a tall man standing behind the counter, flipping an oozing sandwich on the grill. He looks at her with wide eyes, surprise clear on his face, but then he smiles, so genuine she could’ve just imagined the shock. Beatrice thinks he looks a little like a movie star, with that thick red hair and easy stance.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

“I don’t have much money,” Beatrice says, because Violet always taught her to be honest. Sunny taught her to lie, but she thinks Sunny would like this man too, if she saw that sandwich.

“Not a problem,” the man says. “It’s on the house. What do you like?”

“What are you making?”

“The best grilled cheese you’ll ever eat in your life,” he says, and he slides the sandwich onto a plate and sets it in front of her. Then he puts a napkin and a glass of water beside it and smiles expectantly.

It is the best grilled cheese she’s ever eaten in her life. It puts the millions of sandwiches she ate at all those train stations to shame. When the cheese pulls when she takes a bite out of it, she knows that Sunny would love this sandwich. It seems almost unfair to get it for free. “Are you sure it’s okay?” she asks through a mouthful of toasted bread and mozzarella and a hint of pepper.

“Tell you what,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron. “Have you read anything good lately? My friends and I are always looking for book recommendations.”

She wishes she could get everything in life with a good book recommendation, because that sounds like a great system. The last book she’d read had been back at headquarters, so that she would understand a certain code, but Beatrice liked it a lot anyway. She was told it was a classic too, and she knows lots of adults like it when you read classics. “I read a book about a girl who goes out to dinner with her family,” she says, “and cracks an egg on her forehead. Not at the dinner, in a different chapter.”

He laughs. “A friend of mine liked that one when we were kids,” he says. “She went around trying to crack an egg on her forehead too, made me go through a whole carton of eggs.”

“Did she do it?”

“She sure did. Got egg all over my aunt’s diner in the process, but she looked me right in the eye and told me it was worth it.”

Someone else sits down farther down the counter, and the man walks off in their direction, leaving Beatrice alone with the grilled cheese. But he comes back, a curious look in his eyes. “So what brings you to the city?” he asks.

She thinks this is the question where she shouldn’t be entirely honest. Beatrice sits up straighter in her seat, trying to pull the sandwich apart into smaller, more dignified bites, the cheese oozing. “I’m visiting a relative,” she says.

“A relative?”

“A relative,” she says. “That’s all.”

“Do you need any help?” he asks. “I know this city like the back of my hand, and I’d be happy to—”

“No,” Beatrice says. “I know what I’m doing.” She finishes the last of the grilled cheese and wipes her hand on the napkin. “Thank you very much.”

He frowns a little, like he wants to ask her something else, but then he settles on another smile. “If you’re ever in the area,” he says, “or you need anything, even just some good food, stop on by.”

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Jake Hix.”

“Beatrice Baudelaire.”

The only thing about the journey into the hills that Beatrice didn’t account for is all the open space.

The bus driver only takes her as far as a convenience store on the outskirts of the city, so Beatrice walks the nearby dirt roads out into the hills, stopping at the first sight of open, empty land. She grips the straps of her backpack, standing at the edge of the misty and faded earth spread out all around her, reaching on and on and on, sloping down at dangerous angles before disappearing completely in a thick haze. She swallows hard and stares even harder.

Beatrice focuses on the color. Even in late winter, it’s green, pale but distinctly green. They’re hills, not the ocean, with a horizon blurred white with fog and clouds. Nothing is a dangerous, roiling blue-black-grey, and the tall crests of the hills don’t move like waves, and nothing rushes through her ears like a scream, except the wind, which is much less thunderous than water. After all that, it’s almost silent, in the hills. It’s silent, and it’s not all that open, is it? There’s at least two scraggly little trees that she can see. Landmarks. Points of reference. She is not alone in the hills.

He’s out there, somewhere.

She starts walking.

Without the train schedules for something to keep track of, Beatrice isn’t sure how long she spends in the hills. Time passes in cool nights and cloudy days and an awful lot of grass with actually very few trees before, in a low valley in the hills, she reaches an encampment of about thirty shepherds. Beyond them, where she expects sheep, is an impressive collection of yaks. They might be the only people she runs into out here, and she’s starting to get worried, not so much that she won’t find her uncle, but that she’ll overlook him completely in all this space. The path on the map in his office was pretty vague. She’s going to have to ask them.

Beatrice approaches one of the shepherds. He looks like he’s the oldest, his wild and white beard tangling in the wind. He holds a thick, dark bell in one hand, his elbow propped against a sturdy walking stick, and watches Beatrice with startlingly cold eyes as she approaches.

“Excuse me,” Beatrice says. “Have you seen a man around here?”

“Depends,” he says. His voice rumbles like deep thunder, and it makes her flinch. “What’s he look like?”

Beatrice thinks about it. “Average height, not bald, fully clothed, answers to the initials L.S.”

“Oh,” the shepherd says, straightening up. “Him! He was here for a while. A strange one. Kept to himself most of the time. Stayed in that cave about two miles away.” He rings the bell, and the sound clunks and thunks against her ears. The yaks in the distance raise their heads and gaze in his direction. The shepherd, meanwhile, looks back at her with a raised eyebrow. “Seemed like he might have been waiting for someone, I thought.”

She feels a twinge of guilt and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She should’ve gotten here faster. “Can you take me there, please?” she asks.

“I don’t do anything for free,” he says shortly.

“I don’t have much,” she says, frowning, and it’s more true now than it was when she told it to Jake Hix. Between all the train fare and the subpar sandwiches and then the cost of the bus, Beatrice figures she has maybe seventy-five cents.

The shepherd bends down, sweeping a critical eye over Beatrice. When his gaze finds her hands, he points at the little band around one of her fingers. “That,” he says. “That would do.”

“Oh,” Beatrice says. She looks down at the ring, dull in the lack of sunlight. She’s seen it sparkle beautiful gold and red, the carving of the initial in the stone glittering brighter than anything. Something lost, something that was found again after so much time. Beatrice likes wearing it, even though she doesn’t always think about it.

But it’s not like it is a family heirloom, for her mother or her father or for Violet and Klaus and Sunny. It belonged to the Duchess of Winnipeg, and although it found its way through her family anyway, it’s certainly never really been Beatrice’s. She just thought that she’d be able to give it back to the Duchess at some point.

She slides the ring off her finger and holds it up for the shepherd. His beard parts in a smile, revealing awfully shiny teeth, and he snatches the ring up and drops it into his pocket. The yaks are closer now, and he winds his hand into the rope around one of their necks and drags it over. He climbs up onto its back and stares at Beatrice. “It’s a ride. You’d best get on.”

Beatrice pulls herself up behind him. She tracks the sun this time, over the huge shoulders of the shepherd, watching it dip through the sky as they ride.

“Did he say anything?” Beatrice asks at one point. “The man.”

The shepherd scratches at his chin. His elbow swings back as he does, jostling into Beatrice’s ear. “Something about a root beer float,” he says. “I’m in the mood for a root beer float.”

“That seems a lot to ask, in the hills,” Beatrice says, tilting her head to the side to avoid the elbow. “The closest diner is back in the city.”

“No, that’s what he said. I’m in the mood for a root beer float.”

“Oh,” Beatrice says, feeling her face flush.

“Well, there you go,” the shepherd says, some time later when he stops in front of a low but deep cave jutting awkwardly out of the earth. Beatrice thanks him, slides down off the yak, and makes her way inside.

There’s nothing much in the cave—just a few sheets of loose, stained paper, and a whole lot of bats, almost indistinguishable from the shadows. They squeak when Beatrice gets too close, so she leaves them alone in the back and focuses on the rest of the cave. A few sheets of peeling and faded flower-patterned wallpaper cling to the curved walls. A collection of wires sits near the mouth of the cave, and a lone light bulb rolls by her feet. The wind collects in the hollow at the center, making it drafty and uncomfortable. She pulls her sweater tighter around her.

From the shepherd’s words, she knew he wouldn’t be here, but it still stings to get all the way here and then find out he’s gone again, to find out she just missed him. But that just means she has to try again, try harder. That’s not a problem for her. She’s been through worse.

Beatrice rifles through the sheets of paper left behind. She picks out the least ruined one, the only mark a K by a ripped corner. She pulls out a pen and sits down.

Dear Sir, she writes. I have found you at last—but you’re not here.

She finishes her letter and folds it neatly. She didn’t bring a single envelope, and she looks around in her bag to find something else she could possibly trade for the shepherd to send her letter. She doesn’t think he’ll care for a sweater or her lock pick, and she needs them. Beatrice walks out of the cave, staring into the direction of the city. She can’t quite see it, but she’s sure it’s there, just as sure as she is that she’ll find her uncle when she gets back.

She starts to figure out how she’ll get back, because she can worry about the letter when she finds the shepherd. How long it’ll take to get out of the hills, where to catch the right bus, how she can find the diner—when one of the younger shepherds, not much older than her, trots over, tugging a yak behind him.

“The city’s a long ways away,” he says when he stops beside her, panting a little. “I think your best bet is this yak here.”

Beatrice stares at him, and then the yak. The yak yawns at her.

“He’s pretty comfortable,” the boy says, smiling. “And he’s got a good sense of direction. The best yak this side of the hills, I guarantee it.”

“What about the other side?” Beatrice asks.

The boy laughs. “No comparison at all.”

“Don’t you need him?”

He shakes his head. “I can make do without him for a while.”

He tells her he’s heard about a shortcut back to the city, through a mountain rather than the miles of rolling hills. Beatrice has never been on a mountain. When he points it out to her, an enormous shimmering outline through the fog, it’s the most amazing thing she’s ever seen in her life. It looks nothing like the ocean.

The mountain is dangerously uneven, but Beatrice has never been so high up before, and that and the yak make up for all the sudden dips and drops in the path. The yak seems to know where he’s going—she never has to keep him on track or nudge him along, and he always stops around sunset and lets her curl up against his side. Sometimes he stops in front of the occasional bush, and Beatrice makes sure she can identify the berries on them with what Klaus wrote in his commonplace book, and the two of them snack to keep up their strength, Beatrice making sure not to stain the edges of the notebook with juice fingerprints.

Sometimes she flips back, back to when Klaus was a few years older than her, to the page where she’d taken the photograph. She’d replaced when both the objects became hers. She likes reading what he wrote, the little bits of her family’s story, like he’s right beside her on this mountain even as he was trying to get through the Mortmain Mountains. Recipes Sunny put together, things Violet said, pieces of codes and books and memories.

The notebook was the last thing he gave her. He’d thrown it at her during the shipwreck, and she can still see that, plain as anything. The black clouds and the thunder and the lightning, the wood splintering up in a roaring crash under her feet, everything slick with the endless rain and the thick, dark waves, including the edge of wood keeping Beatrice afloat. Then Violet’s voice, shouting we’ll find you, I promise—

Beatrice pages through the notebook, staring at Klaus’s immaculate handwriting. “How much more mountain do you think there is?” she asks the yak.

There’s a lot more mountain, days and days of mountain. Beatrice promises herself that if she ever has to do this again, she’s bringing a calendar.

When she gets to the bottom of the mountain, the ground covered in rocks and patchy grass, still a ways out from the city but definitely closer to it than the spot where the bus had dropped her off, Beatrice isn’t sure what to do with the yak. She climbs down, dusts him off, readjusts her bag, and then watches him. The yak watches her. Then he yawns, turns, and starts meandering back in the direction of the hills. She figures he probably wouldn’t be the best yak this side of the hills if he didn’t know how to get back to the shepherd.

“Bye,” Beatrice calls.

The city is uncomfortably close when she gets back, full of a heavy, simmering summer heat. She wipes the sweat off her face and thinks she could also go for a root beer float right about now. But there's probably a lot more diners than dreary office buildings in the city, ones that will be harder to eliminate than the offices were. She's not even sure if he'll be in his office now either, after he wasn’t where he was supposed to be in the hills. The thought sits in a knot inside her, twisting up the more she thinks. She of all people should know where he is. What sort of person is she, if she doesn't know the whereabouts of her own uncle?

Beatrice winds her way carefully through the masses of people still crowding the sidewalks, as if they never left, like the same people from months ago have been standing around here all this time. She could pull out the maps, but she doesn’t see a place to put them down and look at them again. Beatrice finally comes to a halt in front of a square, stocky building, old pillars framing the tinted glass doors.

Violet and Klaus and Sunny told her about libraries. She doesn’t remember the one on the island, or the island itself, although Violet told her both were massive, and they didn’t have much of one on the boat, just a collection of books Klaus brought from the island. But Beatrice knows that a library is a sanctuary, a calm place, where someone is supposed to feel safe. She knows that her uncle considers a library all of those things too. And even if she doesn’t find anything, at least it’s probably air conditioned.

Beatrice heads inside.

The first thing she notices is that everything is so quiet. But not an unnaturally still quiet, more of a gentle, unobtrusive one, interrupted only by the occasional shuffle of paper. Beatrice understands with a rush what Violet and Klaus and Sunny meant. It’s like stepping into a whole world, one she could spend hours and hours in just reading, among the bookshelves and pale cream carpet and broad windows letting in a sunlight so serene that for the first time it doesn’t make her hands clench in fear.

Beatrice takes her time going through the library, taking it all in. She makes her way through aisle after aisle, down a staircase to the lower level. A short wall separates the little lobby near the staircase and the rest of the floor, and she follows it around where it curves to look at the room.

Her breath catches in her throat. Ten feet ahead, there’s a man standing in front of a glass case, his hands deep in the pockets of his suit jacket. Beatrice walks a little closer, staying against the wall, until she can see the plaque near the case, describing something about poetry and actresses and dedication to the theater. She can see herself in the glass, a distorted short reflection in a pale pink dress, and she smooths her hair on instinct. Beatrice looks up, and up, until she can see the sharp reflection of the man, blue eyes and dark hair and a suitcase beside him that has seen better days but still clearly proclaims the owner to have the initials L.S.

Beatrice ducks back behind the wall in her surprise, her hands gripping each other. What are you doing, she thinks frantically, her heart pounding and pounding. There he is!

But when she pushes herself away from the wall, her mouth open to call out to him, he’s gone. Her heart drops, and she rushes towards the glass case. She skims through the poem for a hint about anything, as he seemed to look at it with a great deal of concentration, but she stops at the line a word which here means “person who trains bats” because who writes a second verse with such an uneven rhythm, and there’s no way baticeer is really a word—then she hears quick footsteps thudding in the hall behind her. She turns and runs towards then.

Beatrice follows him outside, barely keeping up. He runs incredibly fast for a man of his age in this heat, whatever that age is. Beatrice knows it’s certainly much older than she is. She sees the edge of his hat, the corner of his suitcase winging around another street, and she keeps running. It’s him. She’s going to catch up with him.

She follows him to a nearby park, where she finds him yards away of her, almost collapsed on a bench, leaning to the side to examine something on the seat. Beatrice slows up. And then he’s on his feet again, strolling towards the lake. There’s something forced about his casual stance, and she picks up her pace, thinking somewhere inside that this is ridiculous. They’re both looking for each other, they’re both here, and she should just—

He bolts off, this time leaping with an unexpected agility over a patch of shrubbery, which Beatrice dodges around easily when she reaches it, tearing out of the park after him. Moments later, she sees him throwing himself into a bus one street up, disappearing completely when the doors snap shut.

Beatrice lets out a disbelieving groan, staring at the retreating bus. She can’t believe how difficult he’s being, or for what reason, or why he treats the city like a place he’s desperately trying to escape. For as much as he runs, he sure still seems to wind up back here eventually.

But now that she’s seen him, she knows exactly where he’s going. Where else would he go in the city, on this particular bus route? Beatrice has looked over all the maps, and she remembers exactly where to go. She wipes the sweat off her face, takes a breath, and keeps on going.

He still makes it to his office building before her. When Beatrice stops at the corner, clutching the nearby lamppost and gasping, the bus is already far down the street and he’s nowhere in sight. She swallows and heads for the Rhetorical Building.

The lobby is dreadfully cold and still dreadfully dreary, but she barely notices it this time. Beatrice bypasses everything and sprints right for the staircase, not even trying to hide.

It could be because she’s already run so much, but taking the staircase this time seems to take an eternity. She’s so sure she can hear him, wheezing a floor above her, and that pushes her forward when her lungs burn and her legs ache. She makes it to the thirteenth floor, flings the door open, and barrels down the hallway to his office door.

Beatrice tries the doorknob first, but it doesn’t yield. She pounds on the door for five whole minutes, and it rattles and shakes but no one opens it.

One of the doors further down the hallway opens, and a man sticks his head out. “Something I can help you with?” he calls. “I’ve never seen anyone open that door at all. Can I—”

“Thank you,” Beatrice says quickly, hoping she sounds more firm than out of breath, “but I have this under control.” The man shrugs and closes the door. Beatrice continues knocking and knocking.

Maybe you were wrong, a voice in her head whispers. Maybe it’s not him.

I’m not wrong, Beatrice tells herself. I’m not wrong.

She huffs out a sigh, drops her backpack on the floor, and pulls out the lock pick. She doesn’t want to pick the lock, but this is it, she’s not waiting anymore.

The lock springs easily. Beatrice jams the picks back into her bag, grips the doorknob, and hauls the door open.

The office is empty.

Beatrice gapes around at the office, almost incredulous. It looks different than it did before—the papers, notes, and photographs on the wall are new, linked by a thick blue yarn now. The typewriter has a sheet of paper sticking out of it, like someone was just there (and he was, he was just there, she knows he was). There’s a framed picture on the wall of a lighthouse. The curtains are different, stark white and clean and fluttering in the breeze because the window is open.

She runs over to the window, climbing out onto the fire escape. It’s distressingly empty as well. When she grips the railing and leans over to look down the rest of the stairs and into the alley below, she doesn’t find anything at all. She stands there a moment longer, just in case he reappears, her whole body coiled with anticipation. Then another moment, and another, and another after that, until the moments stretch into minutes and her expectations finally die like a doused fire. She pushes herself away from the railing, slides back inside, and slams the window shut. Beatrice glowers at it, then eases it back open. He’ll have to be able to get back in later.

She takes a look at the wall. Before, it was easy to tell where he was going. Now, Beatrice can’t figure out what any of the notes mean. They’re all scattered pictures of beach sand and close-ups of waves and an unsettling collection of curling, spindly things that look like dried seaweed. She catches a few glimpses of his handwriting, mostly just question marks, and some typewritten notes signed M. No matter how hard she tries, her eyes keep finding their way back to the pictures of the ocean, pearly blue and peppered with stark-white foam. Her jaw clenches, and she turns away sharply.

The desk has more papers on it than it did before, but no paperweight. Beatrice flips through them, but she doesn’t find her letters, or letters from anyone else. What she does find are lists of places she’s never heard of, most of them crossed off. The paper in the typewriter is completely blank, but she doesn’t feel like writing anything. She stares around the office, pointedly avoiding the wall, and tries not to feel too angry or too disappointed. It doesn’t work very well.

Beatrice walks back into the hallway and shuts the door behind her, frowning down at the floor. She follows him all this way, and she has him, they’re mere feet from each other, and then he leaves?

Maybe, she thinks, and then she stops, because she’s not wrong. It was him, it was, and despite how the decor has changed, this is the office she was in before. He was here, and then he was gone, and so there has to be a reason he’s gone now, a reason to figure out so she can track him down again. Maybe something came up, business, or an enemy, or maybe he was just hungry, or—or—

sssssssssshh.

Beatrice whirls around and wrenches his office door back open, staring desperately inside. But there’s still no one there. She shuts the door again and looks up and down the hallway. “What was that noise?” she says.

The door down the hallway opens again, and the same man sticks his head out. “Someone say something?” he asks, gazing at Beatrice.

“What was that noise?” she asks.

The man shakes his head. “I didn’t hear a noise.”

“I thought I—”

“It was nothing, probably.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Beatrice shoots back. It’s uncharacteristic of her, but she’s tired all of a sudden, and she doesn’t like how this bone-deep weariness feels. The man looks affronted, and he shuts his door with a loud bang.

She traipses downstairs, all thirteen floors. Beatrice walks past the old desk and the sad grey furniture and the limp potted plants and makes her way towards the front exit. She’ll just have to wait until he comes back, and she can do that across the street in the diner, where at least she can try to wrangle another sandwich out of Jake Hix. The grilled cheese feels like years ago, after trying to survive on the mountain.

Beatrice hears it again.

It’s a scuffle, or like a slither—the drag of a shoe, a split second brush against furniture.

Beatrice stops in the middle of the lobby, looking around. She only now notices it’s completely empty, the receptionist missing from her desk. A chill ripples down her spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioner. “If it’s nothing,” she says, “then what’s that noise?”

Something curls slowly around her left ankle, something like thin, calloused fingers, and then a hand clamps tight over her mouth. Beatrice gasps, the sound muffled by the hand. Someone heaves her up, jerking her back into a set of arms, wrenching her close to something dark blue and black. She inhales fabric softener and cotton but the color makes her think of salt and brine and she can’t breathe. She can’t breathe.

“When we drive away in secret,” rasps a woman’s voice in her ear, “you’ll be a volunteer. So don’t scream when we take you—”

Beatrice grabs at the woman’s hand with both her own. She drags it away from her mouth and manages to gasp, “The world is quiet here!”

The woman freezes. Beatrice lurches forward, tumbling out of her arms and onto the warped floor with a small shriek and a horrible thud. Beatrice feels horrible, with a red mark around her ankle and her whole body shaking as she stares up at the woman. She doesn’t understand, and that scares her almost as much as the woman. She hadn’t just learned the poem at headquarters, Violet had told her about it, it was something Violet’s parents used to say, but she didn’t—she hadn’t said—Beatrice doesn’t understand.

The woman—tall, in a thin, dark blue sweater, her hair massive and unruly and black—bends down in front of her. Beatrice inches back, trying to catch her breath.

She squints at Beatrice almost suspiciously. “Well, young lady,” she says, “have you been good to your mother?”

My mother is dead, Beatrice thinks in her panic, and then she forces herself to clear her throat and stop it. “The question is,” she pants, “has she been good to me?”

“You’re a volunteer,” the woman says.

No I’m not. “Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Beatrice Baudelaire,” Beatrice says.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Baudelaire?” she repeats, scoffing. “Beatrice Baudelaire?”

Beatrice frowns. “Yes,” she says again.

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“I do,” Beatrice says, blinking. “It’s the only name I have.” Which isn’t exactly true, but she’s never felt that Snicket suits her all that much. Beatrice Denouement, even, sounds like someone sophisticated, not a short nine-year-old girl with only a fierce determination to her name. Which is still Beatrice Baudelaire, no matter what this woman says.

The woman straightens up, her face cold, and then she seizes Beatrice’s hand and pulls her roughly to her feet. “You’re coming with me.”

Headquarters in the city is a lot different than the one Beatrice was in out in the country. The main difference is that this one is predominately underground, hidden under a two-story library on the corner of a busy street, and seems, from a cursory glance, like it’s going to be harder to sneak out of. They had to walk through a set of locked double doors in the back of the library labeled Secretarial Department, which lead to a long, tunneling hallway devoid of any typewriters, after all. It’s full of sudden dips and the occasional staircase and one long ladder that leads, when Beatrice climbs down it, to the sewers. She focuses hard on the layout, the curves of the passageways, the way the water drips, on the faded signs she can’t read hanging onto the domed walls, so that she’ll stop thinking about the churning in her stomach.

The path ends in another set of doors, framed in the darkness by flickering torches. Beatrice stumbles to a halt in front of them.

She’s sure that Violet and Klaus and Sunny, while they were on the island and on the boat, had to have used it. There were things Sunny made that could only have been made on top of something hot, even though Sunny always got that fierce, unreadable look on her face when she talked about what she could remember of fires. But Beatrice never saw it. She never saw flames jumping around each other, spitting in the darkness, smoldering orange turning into dangerous white-hot tongues.

Beatrice thinks of lightning and wet, foundering wood under her hands. She feels salt in her mouth again.

The woman shoves her through the doors.

The narrow hallways are bathed in cold, buzzing orange light, an unsettling color against the red brick walls and the hardwood floor. It’s almost claustrophobic, a maze Beatrice can’t parse even when she pays attention. They go up a set of stairs, their footsteps echoing in the silence, and then the woman steers her towards a door around the corner.

She catches a quick glimpse of the plaque on the door and its unnatural shine—vice principal—before the woman pushes her through it as well. Beatrice finds herself in a cramped, shadowy room, illuminated with one single lamp on the desk, where the outline of a tall man sits, hunched over what looks like a stack of papers.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the thin gloom hovering at the edges of the lamp. The shapes on the shelves along the walls sharpen. They look like tea sets, if tea sets were collections of just small, differently-patterned oblong jars, all topped with fragile lids, a handle on either side.

Beatrice swallows. She never saw what Esmé Squalor was so desperate to find. She wonders if one of the sugar bowls crowding the shelves around her is what she was looking for.

The man looks up and sets down his pen. “Who’s this?” he asks, his voice a low, heavy murmur.

“My name is Beatrice Baudelaire,” Beatrice says, before the woman can say anything.

The man raises an eyebrow at her, like the woman had, and then leans back in his chair. The look he gives her isn’t suspicious—it’s appraising. Beatrice shivers.

“Well,” he says.

They put her in a room down the hall and tell her firmly to stay put. It’s a windowless room with pale walls and only a few other students, all of them her age and sitting behind typewriters, and a particularly flatfooted and wrinkled old instructor, who starts sobbing when Beatrice tells him her name. He motions to a free chair with a long white handkerchief and manages to tell her that they’re writing business letters. He motions to the blackboard and tells her there’s the format. He motions to the typewriter in front of her and tells her, please, write a nice letter, and they’ll all make it through the day.

He shuffles away from her, back to the front of the room. Beatrice watches him go with a confused frown. She doesn’t have time for this—to be stuck here again, or to try and figure out what’s going on, or to try and reason what she’s supposed to say in a business letter. She drops her eyes to the typewriter. It’s not too bad, but certainly not as nice as the one in her uncle’s office. She presses a few of the keys to test them, and they stick and then stab back into the air with loud, fierce snaps, so much that she jolts back in her chair. He’d never give her a typewriter this bad.

Beatrice gets an idea.

She has to get word to him somehow. She has to survive, too, and she’s perfectly capable of doing that anywhere, although she would prefer to do it in a situation where she isn’t at risk of being accosted violently around the ankle at any given moment, among other things. It seems like her best bet to get to him is to stay here, and not wait, this time, but let them lead her to him. It won’t be too hard. This city and this organization are his. He’s here, in this room, and he’s here, in this city, and she knows she will find him if she stays here.

She gives herself a shake and rests her fingers on the keys.

Dear Sir, she types, one eye on the instructor, now leaning against the wall and wiping his face with the handkerchief. I am writing to inquire further on the matter we discussed earlier this year. I’m in my business letter writing class, which is taught by a flat-footed man so sad and unaware that I am certain he will give me an A on this assignment without reading anything but the first sentence of each paragraph. I could say anything here at all. For instance: a “baticeer” is a person who trains bats. I learned that in a poem I watched you read.

The instructor straightens up, still dabbing under his eyes, and wanders around the room, glancing periodically at the typewriters. Beatrice schools her expression into business-like thoughtfulness. When he comes by, he scans the first line of her letter, heaves an enormous sigh, and keeps walking.

After careful consideration, Beatrice continues, biting down a smile, I am pleased to enclose the following information.

The instructors confirm her identity after careful consultation with twenty different people, all of whom Beatrice has never seen before, and a series of photographs and files Beatrice isn’t allowed to see, all of them crowded in an office and staring down at her an hour and a half after Beatrice has finished her business letter.

They tell her it was very irresponsible of her to sneak out like that from the country headquarters. Beatrice does not tell them it was very irresponsible to have a lock so easy to pick and a headquarters so easy to navigate in the dark. She stares back up at them, tries to look appropriately chided, and hopes they’ll think she feels appropriately chided. What she does feel is cornered.

One of the adults standing towards the back, his face in shadows, scoffs under his breath. “Just like her uncle,” he says.

“Which one?” asks another.

“You know,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “That one.”

“The dead one?”

“Aren’t they both dead?” asks a different voice.

“No, I’m sure at least one of them is alive—didn’t you get that message?”

“You know for a fact I haven’t gotten a single olive jar in three months, since someone broke my refrigerator—”

“For the last time,” someone sighs, “I did not break your refrigerator—”

Beatrice takes the opportunity to slip unnoticed from the room and into the hallway. She takes slow steps, listening to the little click of her shoes on the tile. The adults at the country headquarters had been secretive but easy to predict. The adults here, though—

She stops. She peers down, past the hem of her dress, and lets herself look at her left ankle.

It’s not that she doesn’t like it here, with this organization. They’ve given her a place to stay, and most of the volunteers her age were kind to her at the last headquarters. Most of all, she has vague memories of Violet telling her that people who read that many books can’t be all bad, that most of them were just trying their best, that they’d been noble enough in the end. But she’d said it with a curious look on her face that Beatrice can almost picture, like there was so much more Violet wasn’t sure how to say, like she still hadn’t figured something out, and it hurt to think about it.

That silence had carved out a worry in Beatrice, a hole she feels in her stomach now. She tries to imagine a permanent mark on her ankle, a tie, an anchor, bigger than a promise to be noble enough. She knows what Violet and Klaus and Sunny told her about what happened to them, and she knows what she’s read in the thirteen files, and she knows Klaus wrote in his commonplace book that the organization was their only hope. She knows there are a good many details that maybe they hadn’t left out when they told her their story, but maybe just hadn’t gotten around to telling her at the time. Beatrice knows about the hard choices between what seems right or wrong—and she knows the iron grip that woman had on her ankle. She knows about the circumstances that killed her family, her uncle, her parents.

Because she could be wrong, she has to be certain. Beatrice doesn’t like being wrong. She looks up at the hallway, the old pictures on the walls, the lack of windows, the flickering lights casting shadows around her, and tries to feel certain that her only choice is to stay.

With the considerable amount of volunteers in the city, Beatrice figures she’ll have to share a room with someone, but one of the adults takes her to a single room, off to the side, and tells her, once again, to stay there and not make any trouble.

It’s a simple room, with a bed, a closet, a desk, two lamps, and a bookshelf (already stocked, and she stops perusing it when she finds the book about the girl and the egg and the family dinner, because her hands start to shake). No windows. The walls are all solid stone, but the floors are wood, and Beatrice turns the lights off and stands in almost total darkness—there’s still a sliver of light under the door from the hallway—and tests out the places where the floor squeaks for hours. She memorizes the room, feels with her hands for catches or knobs or secret compartments and doesn’t find a single one.

The light under the door disappears. Beatrice, standing by the bed on the opposite wall, goes completely still. She listens.

After ten seconds, the lock on the door clicks.

After a whole three minutes, the shadow under the door still hasn’t moved. Beatrice swallows and keeps watching. She knows better than to try and pick this lock. They aren’t going to make getting out easy. Finding him might not be as easy as she thought, either.

That doesn’t mean I won’t, Beatrice thinks.

She fully expects to sit through their classes again, to tell the teacher how Sunny taught her to make a meringue, to relearn the same codes she learned from Klaus’s commonplace book, to listen to someone besides Violet explain the scientific principles of the convergence and refraction of light.

She doesn’t. Instead, she finds herself in the vice principal’s office again, early in the morning, although it’s impossible to tell in all the shadows in his office. She takes a moment to wonder where the principal is, but then the vice principal starts talking.

“You strike me as a young woman with a lot on her mind,” he says. “Someone very intent on her goals. And we value that here, you know. Commitment, dedication, loyalty. I think you—and the organization—would benefit the most if we assigned you to a chaperone immediately. There’s a place for you in this world, Miss Baudelaire, and I am most anxious for you to find it.”

Beatrice almost thinks he’s being incredibly nice, if it isn’t for the way his eyes glitter and the way he leans back in his chair, so slowly she barely notices until he’s staring down at her, almost pinning her in place.

Violet did teach her to be polite, but she also taught her to stand her ground. She swallows. “Thank you very much,” she says. “Do I get to pick my chaperone?”

“I’m afraid not,” he says, and he doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “We haven’t allowed that for quite some time.” The vice principal smiles. “It lead to some unfortunate events.”

Her chaperone is a woman named Marguerite. Beatrice looks through every record available and can’t find any positive proof that Marguerite has ever had a last name. What she does find out is that Marguerite spent her own apprenticeship working with the remaining volunteer animals.

She gets a letter telling her to meet her at the aquarium on the other side of the city, with just enough for the bus fare. Beatrice checks the letter over and over again the whole way there, but she doesn’t find any other hint about what she’s supposed to do to find her chaperone.

Beatrice wanders the aquarium for a long, uneasy hour before a short woman with chin-length, curly blonde hair catches her eye by the jellyfish tank. The woman gestures at one of the jellyfish. “I always thought they looked like clouds,” she says, in a soft voice. “I like to look at them when summer is dying.”

Beatrice bites her lip. She stares at the jellyfish and tries not to see them, tries to watch the reflections in the glass instead. Summer is dying. She always thought she’d be good at codes if she had to use them, but actually hearing them out loud just makes her uncomfortable. It could just be all the water, though.

“Well,” she says carefully, “summer is over and gone. And you can see clouds any time, you just have to look for them.”

The woman smiles, a surprisingly gentle smile, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. Beatrice thinks she looks too young to have lines like that. “Marguerite,” she says, extending her hand. “You must be Beatrice.”

Beatrice shakes her hand.

“What sort of animals do you like, Beatrice?”

Beatrice looks away from the eerie blue glow of the tanks around them and says the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t think bats are all that bad.”

As it turns out, the organization’s last collection of trainable bats is in the hills. The whole trek back into the mist, Beatrice can’t help but think her timing could sure use some work.

Beatrice and Marguerite set up camp in the cave, close to the shepherds and obviously very close to the bats. They pull down the remains of the wallpaper, and between the two of them, Violet’s inventing knowledge, and another piece of wire from Marguerite’s pocket, they rig up the light bulb. It casts a dim and hollow yellow light around the cave before it sputters and flickers, drenching them in a momentary darkness before lighting back up.

Beatrice gasps out of shock. The light bulb reminds her of the lamp in the vice principal’s office, something scary and unknown in a place that’s supposed to be safe. Fear grips her chest, and she makes an excuse to Marguerite that she doesn’t even remember and gets out of the cave as quickly as possible. She sits at the mouth of the cave in the darkness with her legs stretched out in front of her, her hands in her lap. Beatrice tells herself that hugging her legs to her chest would not be very mature.

Marguerite comes over and sits down beside her, not too close but not too far away. “Some children are afraid of the dark,” she says.

“I’m not,” Beatrice says, truthfully. Klaus taught her constellations, and Sunny made up her own, and Violet made a telescope so they could see them better. Beatrice knows there are beautiful things in the darkness, and she likes the quiet.

“It’s alright if you are,” Marguerite says gently.

Beatrice knows why Marguerite says that. It’s something a lot of the chaperones think. Some of the adults themselves are probably scared of the dark, even when they haven’t lived through a storm at sea. But she’s not. She’s not scared of the dark. The afternoon was when the storm started, and the dark was when the storm stopped, when everything calmed down. She couldn’t see anything at all, not the broken wood under her fingers or how alone she was, and she could breathe. She could keep floating and imagine Violet and Klaus and Sunny were still right there, telling her she’d make it.

Too much light is what frightens her. Too much light, like a jagged streak through the sky, lightning carving the boat in two, illuminating every fractured piece and the fear on Sunny’s usually calm face. The flashlights of the volunteers who found her, combing the beach for something else, the beams cutting cold white light against the sand.

“Beatrice?”

Beatrice looks up. She uncurls her fingers, which she only now notices had clenched tight into her palms. She swallows. “I’m not afraid.”

Marguerite smiles. She reaches over and squeezes one of Beatrice’s hands, just once.

“We’re going to be training bats to deliver messages,” Marguerite says in the morning. “It’ll be useful, especially all the way out here in the hills.”

Beatrice stares at Marguerite, and she hopes her incredulity isn’t too apparent on her face. She clears her throat and tries to think about how Violet would address this. “Are bats really the best to use?” she asks. “What about telegram wires, or even just pigeons, since they could fly at any time, or—”

“Sometimes we have to send messages at night, and bats come in handy for that.” Marguerite doesn’t interrupt her, just speaks patiently, reasonably, like making a point in a casual debate. “Sometimes the easier way can be more dangerous. People expect that more than something different.”

Beatrice isn’t sure if that makes complete sense. Marguerite definitely notices her confusion, and she smiles. Marguerite smiles a lot, but it’s never condescending. “It can be a little hard to understand,” she says. “I thought it was when I was your age, too. But it’s not a volunteer’s job to question, Beatrice. It’s a volunteer’s job to know, and to trust in what they’re doing.”

Somehow, it sounds right the way Marguerite says it, with her soothing voice. It sounds right, the idea of just knowing, since Beatrice is so certain in it anyway. She has to remind herself that they started this whole conversation about the absurdity of bats being used as a messenger system to counteract that. Beatrice has seen a lot of absurd things, because Violet told her about all her inventions over the years, and Beatrice isn’t quite sure how all of them worked but she knows that they did. But training bats, especially to deliver messages, just seems to take it a little too far.

“It’ll take a bit of time before we can train them that well, though,” Marguerite says. “Have you ever held one before?”

At the very least, training bats gives Beatrice something to think about. You really have to focus, otherwise they squeak too much. It gets easy after a while, once Beatrice knows how to do it. Marguerite is impressed, but Beatrice just tells her that you can do anything as long as you know how to do it.

Marguerite isn’t very talkative, which Beatrice appreciates. What she does say doesn’t always make that much sense, but she never pushes Beatrice or pressures her. She tells Beatrice stories about her own apprenticeship, the last of the volunteer feline detectives and what Marguerite’s own chaperone told her about the eagles. It’s the kindest anyone has ever treated her since Violet and Klaus and Sunny, and that makes Beatrice feel more comfort than she has in some time.

Beatrice is hunched over a notebook while sitting at the mouth of the cave, trying to figure out how to get the bats to follow the patterns of the yaks, because she’s sure that makes at least some sense, when the young shepherd who loaned her the yak last time comes up to her. Beatrice smiles at him, but she stops when she sees how nervous he looks.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

The shepherd bites his lip, looking over his shoulder at Marguerite, who’s examining one of the yaks in the field, and then motions quickly at Beatrice. “You forgot something,” he says.

Beatrice frowns. “What?”

He reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a small circle. The weak sunlight catches on the slim gold band and the dark diamond set in the center, and Beatrice’s heart leaps when she can see the thin initial in the stone. He puts the ring in Beatrice’s hand and presses her fingers around it.

“I think you might be able to give it back to her, one of these days,” he says.

“Do you know her?” Beatrice asks, clutching the ring with both hands. “Do you know where—”

But the shepherd shakes his head, glances again at Marguerite, goes rigid when he sees the older shepherd approaching her, and then scampers away. Beatrice watches him go, until he’s a shrinking figure among the yaks and she can hear Marguerite calling her name. She lets herself wonder, for a moment, where the Duchess of Winnipeg is now, how much the shepherd knows, why no one can ever give her a clear answer. Then she reminds herself that none of that matters. She has all the answers she needs. She just has to get through this. She just has to get through this, and find her uncle, and then find her family, and she just has to get through this.

She slips the ring in her pocket.

She turns ten while they’re in the hills, which she only knows because she packed a calendar this time. She doesn’t tell Marguerite because Beatrice doesn’t want her to make a big deal out of it, because Marguerite would, and Beatrice spends that night staring up at the stars and trying to make up her own constellations. She connects lines and dots into books, wrenches, a whisk. Then, with her eyes shut tight, she tries to remember that last birthday. It was four or five years ago now, wasn’t it? And there was cake, she knows there was.

Beatrice forces her eyes open. What she remembers is Violet, tying her hair back with a ribbon as she worked on the boat; Klaus, adjusting his glasses as he read to Beatrice from a book; Sunny, talking cheerfully into the radio Violet had built. Everything else is all in pieces, a puzzle she’s losing the parts to.

I have to find them, she thinks, blinking fast. No. I will find them.

The first time Beatrice sends out a bat and it comes back, days later, with a message from one of the shepherds they’d sent out to expect it, she feels a lot more pride than she ever thought she would about training bats to be mail carriers. Marguerite laughs and sweeps Beatrice up into a tight hug, drawing her close, and Beatrice hugs her back.

In late summer, the hills still misty and chilly, they get called back to the city. Marguerite and Beatrice make their way back to the city on foot this time, through all the hills, no mountain. Beatrice sorely wishes she still had the yak.

When they get back to the city, Beatrice actually doesn’t see much of Marguerite. Marguerite tells her only that something is happening, but not exactly what. In the meantime, she tells Beatrice it’s for the best if Beatrice stays at headquarters, where she can write up the reports on training the bats. Beatrice figures someone would’ve had to write the reports at some point, so she doesn’t mind—except that someone seems to be watching her at all times, especially when she uses a typewriter.

Beatrice spends most of her time underground and growing increasingly frustrated, because it’s been months since she’s written to him, months since he’s heard from her, and he must be wondering where she is. He must be. She’s watched mail leave the city headquarters, and they never put a return address on anything. How can he write back to her if he doesn’t know where she is?

But he has to know. He’s been here. He’s in this city, and so is she, and wouldn’t he be able to figure out what happened to her, being a detective and all, or at least a man who has that printed on his door? He went through this too, he knows where she is, why does it have to take so long?

Marguerite comes back, and they go on assignments and scope out pet stores and parks and the occasional fancy restaurant, but Marguerite also lets her look in every single diner window they pass, and lets her linger on the street with the Rhetorical Building, even when the street is wildly out of their way. Then they go on less and less assignments, and she sees less and less of Marguerite, and Beatrice spends her time in so much silence that it starts to dig under her skin, a burrowing restlessness.

At night, she sneaks into the record room again. She isn’t sure what she’s looking for. Maybe the four files she couldn’t find at the country headquarters, or anything about her family, or anything about the organization. Anything at all about anything. And it’s not to find anything new, it can’t be, it’s just—it’s just to reassure her. He’s going to find her. She’s going to find him. They’re going to find her family.

In the back of the room, in a dusty filing cabinet drawer she has to pry open with two pens, she finds a thin, dark brown folder half-stuck under the back of the cabinet. Beatrice wiggles it out, flips it open, and sees the shape of a single piece of paper. She pulls out a flashlight from her pocket, steels herself, and flicks it on, squinting against the light.

It looks like a legal document, almost like a sort of deed, yellowed with age. Beatrice scans through it, and her frown deepens when she finds out it’s for a room in an office building, a room on a fourteenth floor, an office—an office in the Rhetorical Building, right above his. Beatrice grips the edges of the paper and reads further. Her heart stops dead when she sees a bold, imposing signature in red pen across the bottom of the page.

Beatrice Baudelaire.

She’s been in the building, but she’s certainly never tried to get an office there. This must be her, she realizes, reminding herself to inhale. This must be who they named her after.

Beatrice knows about Beatrice Baudelaire. She wasn’t just engaged to Beatrice’s uncle once, she was a person, a mother. She taught Klaus how to fence and how to throw a punch, and she taught Sunny how to scream, and she taught Violet how to stand her ground and be fierce and formidable. She could bake and sing and act, and she ate strawberries in the summer and danced with her husband to old records and took her family to the beach and read long books to them and did different voices for each character. Now, years later, here she is. A whisper in Beatrice’s ear, a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Beatrice Baudelaire sounds like she was a wonderful mother.

Beatrice shakes her head quickly and slips the deed into her pocket. It’s not like she thinks about her own mother a lot. Beatrice knows all about her anyway. Kit Snicket was a good person, a volunteer, someone who helped. So was Dewey Denouement. But sometimes she wonders, just a little, just for a moment, what things would be like if her mother was alive. If her father was alive. If they would’ve liked her. If they would’ve read to her, if they would’ve taught her things, if they would’ve liked strawberries or some other fruit and if they danced and if they baked and if they could act or sing. If she’d still be here, scrambling for the remains of her family. If she’d still see flashes of lightning when she closes her eyes, and the harpoon gun and fungus she’s imagined and the sandy grave at the far edges of her memory and the Baudelaires got their parents, didn’t they, if only for a while, how come she didn’t get hers, how could Violet and Klaus and Sunny do that—

Something creaks upstairs.

Beatrice slips from the records room, shuts the door, and feels her way through the darkness. Her hands find the banister of the stairs, and she creeps up them slowly, waiting for another noise.

The upstairs floor creaks for a second, and then stops. Then another creak, a little further down the hall, like someone’s taking long strides, trying to be light and quick. Beatrice heads up the rest of the stairs and sees the hazy outline of a shape in the darkness, one with short, curly hair.

“Marguerite?”

Marguerite turns, looking over her shoulder, still poised to keep going down the hallway. “Beatrice,” she breathes.

Beatrice hasn’t seen her in what feels like ages, although she knows it’s only been about a week. She walks towards Marguerite, and even in the darkness she can feel a heavy tension in the air. “Where are you going?”

Marguerite turns around all the way and bends down in front of Beatrice. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, “but I have to leave.”

Beatrice hears every word of that sentence perfectly, and somehow she still doesn’t understand it. She blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I was going to leave this with the vice principal for you,” Marguerite says. Beatrice hears a slight rustle, Marguerite digging in a pocket. She takes Beatrice’s hand and places something in it, a curved, spiral wire with a handle at the top. A corkscrew. “Something—something came up, and it’s not safe for me to be in the city anymore. I’m starting back for the hills tonight.”

“I can go with you,” Beatrice says, “I can—”

“No,” Marguerite sighs. “I can’t take you with me. I really am—so, so sorry, Beatrice.” Her voice cracks, and her hand settles on Beatrice’s shoulder. “There was so much I was looking forward to, so many things I wanted to do with you, but sometimes things don’t work out how you want them to. But you’ll be okay, I know you will. You’re brave and resourceful, and you’ll be a wonderful volunteer.”

Beatrice frowns at the slim outline of Marguerite’s face. Her fingers curl around the corkscrew, pushing it hard into her hand. She swallows and finds a lump in her throat, one she tries to breathe around. “But I—”

“Don’t worry,” Marguerite says. Her voice is still so gentle, but it doesn’t make sense with her words. Nothing about any of this makes sense. “You’ll know what to do, Beatrice. We all do. I know you will.”

“I know now,” Beatrice says quickly, “I just—”

“I have to go,” Marguerite whispers. The weight of her hand disappears from Beatrice’s shoulder, and then her face is gone, and Beatrice stands in the hall and listens to Marguerite’s progress downstairs from the distant creak of the floorboards. The sound of footsteps vanishes not long after, and Beatrice is alone. The metal of the corkscrew sits cold against her palm.

Beatrice listens, and listens, and listens, and hears nothing else.

Beatrice hasn’t cried in a long time. She knows she has—everyone does when they’re younger, and she can remember, through that fog, Sunny making faces at her to cheer her up—but it feels such a wrong thing to do now. Hot tears spill down her cheeks, her eyes squeezing shut, her mouth pressed tight so the rising whimper in her throat doesn’t escape.

It’s not as if she didn’t expect Marguerite to leave. All the chaperones do, eventually, and even if she had liked Marguerite she knew somewhere it wouldn’t last. She just didn’t think it would happen like this, so soon, that just like that she’d be gone, swept away from her. All the thoughts Beatrice tries so hard not to think come rushing into her—how much longer will this take, how much longer will she have to do this, how much longer will this feel, because she feels ten years old for the first time and so lost, still adrift in an ocean that could tear her apart as much as it could lead her somewhere safe. She wants to go home, but the only people who were ever home to her feel further away than ever. In a second, the despair and uncertainty she’s been running from overtake her like a crashing wave.

She thinks awful, vicious things. The Baudelaires are dead or they would’ve come for her by now; her uncle hates her and never wants to see her; her mother was a horrible person to die and leave her all alone like this; she’ll grow up like they all did, abandoned.

Beatrice walks back to her room, step by step. She shuts the door, and then sinks down and starts sobbing into her knees.

The vice principal calls her to his office the next morning. Beatrice sits in the chair in front of his desk, her hands in her lap. She’s shoved the memory and the uncertainty and the guilt of last night to the back of her mind, but it still flutters in her lungs, a light panic she tries to smother with each careful breath.

He seems to have acquired even more sugar bowls since the last time she was in here, and they tower above her on those whisper-thin shelves and make the office feel even tighter. A different item sits on the shelf right behind his desk, about the size of a milk bottle, and Beatrice stares at it. It stares back at her with a dark, beady eye, the long face and snout of an impossibly cruel animal, teeth bared and black. Then she notices—it’s only half of a statue, like it’s been cut down the middle, revealing a smooth, solid wood interior.

The vice principal himself looks unbothered, impassive as always. “It seems you’re without a chaperone,” he says.

Her hands tighten together involuntarily. “I’ve been without a chaperone before,” she says, and her voice only trembles a little.

He smiles. It is a thin and humorless smile, smug, and he leans slowly, too casually, back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests and his own hands folded neatly. She wishes he would stop doing that.

“You look like you want to ask me something,” he says.

Where is my family and when will I find them?

But she knows he won’t tell her. “What do you want to ask me?” she says instead.

The vice principal almost laughs. His eyes are dark and fathomless blue. “What did Marguerite leave you?”

Beatrice does not think of the corkscrew up in her room. But she has to say something, she has to show him something. She puts her hand in her pocket and finds the folded-up deed she’d stuck there last night. A deed for an office in the Rhetorical Building. A deed signed with an identical name.

She stares at the vice principal straight on. “An office,” she says. “On the fourteenth floor of the Rhetorical Building.” Beatrice pulls the paper from her pocket, unfolds it, and sets it square on his desk.

He stares at it, and then keeps staring at it, his eyes flicking over the paper as if looking for a loophole. When he doesn’t find any, his mouth thins, his jaw clenching. She’s never seen him with so much emotion on his face before.

“I’ll need a typewriter,” Beatrice says.

The next thing Beatrice does is get business cards. They say Beatrice Baudelaire, so no one will bother her about that, and then Baticeer Extraordinaire, because that’s the closest thing to an occupation she has right now, and then The Rhetorical Building, since that is the name of the building, and finally Fourteenth Floor, which is self-explanatory.

The third thing she does is go to her office. It hasn’t been used in a long time, so it’s empty and dusty and even colder than the lobby, and full of one too many spiders. Beatrice spends an afternoon cleaning the years out of it, and even repairs the radiator, Violet’s ribbon keeping her hair back from her face.

She sets her typewriter carefully on the desk, puts Klaus’s commonplace book in one of the locked drawers, puts the corkscrew in a completely different drawer, and then realizes she has very little else to put in the room. A business card taped to the door, some paper beside the typewriter. The brochures and books she collected from the train stations lined up on the little shelf on the wall. She keeps the Duchess of Winnipeg’s ring on a long chain around her neck so she always has it with her and no one else can see it.

She uses the back entrance so she doesn’t have to go through the lobby.

She stays awake in the office the first few nights, watching the window in the dark in case they try to come back for her, but Beatrice is left alone there.

Beatrice doesn’t know how old the building is exactly, but it must be old, because the wood creaks, and it creaks specifically and consistently in his office, right below hers, muffled but very distinct.

She finishes typing her most recent letter, pulls it out of the typewriter, then takes the corkscrew from her desk and sits down in the middle of the floor.

The wood parts, splitting easily into tiny spiral shavings, and Beatrice keeps twisting and twisting the corkscrew until there’s a reasonable hole in the floor and she can hear the creaking a little more clearly. It’s a small hole, not large enough to see through but large enough to put her letter through if she rolls it into a tiny tube, like she said she would. She throws the corkscrew back on her desk, grabs the letter, and starts to roll it up.

The creaking stops. Then the wood groans low, like he’s leaning on a specific spot, and she leans close and listens.

“Snicket,” says a woman’s voice.

Beatrice startles, jumping back with a slight gasp. She didn’t account for someone else, she didn’t think he knew anyone else, she didn’t think it wouldn’t be him pacing. She doesn’t know who this is.

“Did you always have that hole in your ceiling?” the woman says.

Someone replies. Beatrice can’t hear what he says, but the voice is a low murmur. That’s him, she thinks, biting her lip. That’s him

“You want me to come in here and find you buried under your ceiling one of these days?” the woman continues. “Don’t you think I deal with enough already as your editor?”

He says something else, something Beatrice still can’t hear.

The woman sighs. “If we don’t leave soon, we’re going to be late, and Cleo might just kill you.”

Beatrice waits until she hears the door close, and then sits for a few seconds in the silence, willing her heart to stop rocketing in her chest. She re-rolls the letter, looks down at the hole, and then pushes the letter through it and presses her ear against the floor. Beatrice can just barely hear it bounce off the ceiling fan, uncurl, and land open and waiting on his desk with the tiniest crinkle of the paper.

She sits back on the floor with a long sigh. She hopes she isn’t waiting too long, and Beatrice doesn’t do a very good job of squashing down the worry that she might not know how long it’ll take.

She waits a whole week and still doesn’t get a reply. No one comes to her door, no one tries to get in through the fire escape, no one leaves any secret messages anywhere, and she doesn’t hear anyone pacing in the office below her. She doesn’t hear the woman’s voice, and she doesn’t hear any sign that he’s in there at all. Everything is eerily quiet.

Beatrice goes across the street to the diner, because she figures being miserable but not hungry is better than being miserable and hungry. When she pushes the door open, Jake Hix catches sight of her from behind the counter and grins broadly. “Hey, Beatrice!”

She means to smile, but there are four people sitting at the counter, and all of them turn and look at her with interest. Two men wearing glasses who look like brothers, a sharp-eyed blonde woman in a cloche hat, and then the man in the middle, pale and staring at her with wide eyes. Beatrice looks back at him, suddenly breathless. Not just a mysterious figure she’s never seen, or one she glimpsed in the middle of a chase, but a real, physical person in front of her.

“It’s you!” she exclaims. “You’re here!”

They keep eye contact for a single, almost terrifying second—but then he clears his throat, holds up a hand, and spins around, putting his back to her.

Beatrice stands there, torn between disbelief and irritation. The other two men say something, and the woman rolls her eyes, gets up, pulls them to their feet, and herds them past Beatrice and out of the diner.

“Give him a moment,” the woman whispers to her, winking.

She doesn’t want to, she wants to go over and sit beside him and get right to things, but she picks a corner booth by the window anyway and sits down. She still has a good view of the counter from here. She swallows and tries to quell her anticipation. She wonders how long a moment is, to her uncle.

Jake walks over and gives her a smile. “What can I get you?”

Beatrice looks over his elbow at the counter, at the glass resting in front of her uncle. It occurs to her that she’s actually never had his drink of choice. She looks back up at Jake. “A root beer float.”

Jake smiles.

“And, could you please do me a favor?” she asks, unzipping her bag and digging around inside. “If I give you a message, would you give it to him?”

“Sure thing,” Jake says.

She takes out one of her business cards and turns it over.

Cocktail Time

I am sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends. I only wanted to talk to you.

The waiter agreed to bring this card with your drink. If you don’t want to meet me, rip it in half when you are done with your root beer float, and I will leave and never try to contact you again.

Ideally, she doesn’t want to say that, to give him an out, now that they’re both here, now that she’s this close, but it’s polite. She figures he’ll appreciate that.

But if you want to meet me, she continues, biting her lip, I’m the ten-year-old girl at the corner table.

Beatrice folds the card in half and hands it to Jake. She watches Jake walk back to the counter, lean in and hand her card to her uncle, watches him open it with shaking fingers. He reads it, but he doesn’t turn around and look at her yet. He takes a sip of his root beer.

Jake brings her her own root beer, and she drinks it and barely tastes it, her eyes still fixed on her uncle. She reminds herself not to swing her legs and settles for jiggling her foot against the smooth tile, a tiny little tap as she waits and waits and waits. She thinks of looking anywhere else, trying to remain sophisticated and calm, because this is it, for real, but she doesn’t want to miss a single thing. She curls her hands together in her lap, forgets about the root beer float. She counts out the seconds in her head, stops when she thinks it’s stupid, starts again when he pushes his glass away and looks at the note again.

Finally, he stands up. He refolds her business card and puts it in his pocket. Then he turns, and he faces Beatrice, coming over and stopping beside her table.

He’s just like how Beatrice imagined him, now that she can finally see him, instead of just across a crowded street or a library wing. Definitely average height, if a little bit taller, in a grey suit and tie, his hair dark, thin at the temples. He looks at her half-finished drink, and then slowly meets her eyes, and they are blue, the same blue as hers, the best color she’s ever seen, brighter than every dark and endless sea. The corners of his mouth turn up a little, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He sits down across from her and extends his hand.

“My name is Lemony Snicket,” he says, his voice deep but soft, just as she expected.

Beatrice smiles, and her face almost hurts with the force of it. She shakes his hand with both of hers. “Beatrice Baudelaire.”

Lemony Snicket takes her to the park a few streets over and buys her ice cream. She points out that they could’ve had ice cream in the diner, but he tells her that he would rather have their conversation away from where a journalist could come back at any second and faithfully record every single moment of it. Beatrice eats her vanilla with sprinkles and figures the journalist had to be the woman, with eyes like that, and then she watches her uncle. Her uncle, real and in person after all this time, after almost two long years of searching, finally beside her.

He matches her pace, which isn’t very brisk, but he looks like he could run at a moment’s notice. He keeps his hat drawn low over his eyes, his gaze lingering on shadowy trees and exits and every single discarded cigarette butt before moving away. He takes quick, economical bites of his ice cream (vanilla, caramel swirl, in a cone).

“Did you like my business card?” Beatrice asks. Her voice comes out a little louder than she intended, which probably explains why Lemony jumps.

He pulls her business card out of his pocket. “It’s very nice,” he says. “Do you like bats?”

“Well,” she says, “I think they’re cute, but that’s all. I’d rather not work with them.”

“Are you saying that you gave me a false business card?”

“You can put anything on a business card,” Beatrice says brightly, looking up at him. “Do you still have those ones that say you’re an admiral in the French navy?”

Lemony looks shocked, then embarrassed, and then takes an incriminating crunch out of his cone. He doesn’t answer.

Beatrice’s throat sticks a little when she swallows her ice cream. She ducks her head, her shoulders bunching up, and scrapes at the bottom of her cup with her spoon. He’s just a quiet person, that’s all, she tells herself, and she’d thought that before. That he doesn’t have anything else to say is just because—just because he doesn’t have anything else to say. That’s fine. They have more important things to talk about than bats and business cards.

She waits until they’ve both finished their ice cream and points out a bench for them to sit down on. She even makes sure it’s out of the way, under a tree, reasonably shady and away from prying eyes, if that’ll make him feel better. Lemony hesitates for a few seconds before he agrees, and they sit down. Beatrice’s legs dangle off the edge, and she holds her hands tight in her lap and reminds herself again not to swing her legs.

“You said you didn’t know where Violet and Klaus and Sunny were,” Beatrice says, leaning towards him, “in your research. That you didn’t know what happened to them after—” Her voice catches. “—after we, we left the island. But that was years and years ago. You have to know now.”

Lemony looks at her, and this close, Beatrice can see the lines around his eyes, etched into his face. They only seem to deepen the longer they look at each other. He folds his hands together, just like hers, and Beatrice bites down on the inside of her lip, her toes wiggling in her shoes.

“No, Beatrice,” he says. “I do not know where the Baudelaires are.”

Some of the air disappears from her lungs, and she gapes at him. “Well—then can you help me find them?”

Lemony sighs. “I have looked,” he says slowly, “but my associates and I have found very little. I do not know if—”

“But you have to know!” Beatrice exclaims. The corners of her eyes start to burn, and she can feel a sharp sting tightening her throat, because he was supposed to know, she was so certain, and he had to be too, so why? “You have to, you’re the only person I’ve got left, and I came all this way to find you, and you—you—” Everything comes tumbling out of her, everything she’s been pushing aside and burying down inside her since the shipwreck, every cruel thought and punch to the gut, every second spent waiting. She’s never talked this much in her whole life, and now she can’t stop, even with Lemony looking at her with wide, broken eyes.

“You left me all alone out there!” Beatrice shouts, her voice cracking. “I followed you for two years, all by myself, and I wrote you letters, and I followed you into the hills, and I stole office space to be close to you, and I did everything I could to find you, and you didn’t do anything!”

She wants to be angry. She wants so much to be angry, to keep yelling, to hurt him, but now she can’t stop crying. “I thought you h-hated me,” she sobs, rubbing at her eyes, tears sticking to her fingers and her cheeks. “I th-thought you never wanted to see me, ever. I thought—I thought—”

Something soft brushes against her wrist, and she lowers her hands and finds Lemony, offering her a handkerchief. “I did not, and I do not hate you,” he murmurs firmly, for a man as heartbroken as he looks. “I could never.”

Beatrice takes the handkerchief and wipes at her eyes. It doesn’t do much in the way of stopping her tears.

“This is an awful thing to say,” Lemony begins quietly, “but the horrible truth is that I did not know if it was you. I did not know if you were—someone else.”

Beatrice swallows thickly, curling her fingers around the handkerchief, clutching it in her lap. She knows what he means and it’s like a dull knife twisting inside her.

“And I know you are not her,” Lemony continues, “or my sister—although you do look remarkably like her—or an old villainess intent on exacting a stiletto-heeled revenge after all these years, or a morally grey woman for whom I still feel a great deal of sadness and guilt. I wondered, though. I think even the most rational mind will wonder in the depths of loss, even when it knows better. It is a wound that does not want to heal, or at least one that I believed could not. When I did know it was you, which I assure you was only within the last year, I—I did not know if I could help you.”

“Why not?” Beatrice asks, sniffling. She chances a look up at him, out of the corner of her eye, and catches a quick, haunted look passing over his face. He stays quiet for a little longer, as if figuring out the right words.

“I was afraid,” he whispers. “It is no excuse for what I did to you, but it is a reason. When I was a little older than you, I made a considerable amount of promises, few of which I managed to keep, and I told myself that fear didn’t matter, which was an admirable if incredibly incorrect stance to take at the time. And since then, very few things have gone right. I lost my family, my friends, the loves of my life, and everything I had, because of that fear. You can have the best of intentions, and still doubt, and still worry, and only realize much later that all you’ve ever done was wrong. I once said that people do difficult things for more or less noble reasons—but it is truly so much harder than that.”

Beatrice lets the words sink in. She thought she knew what it was like to struggle with a decision, to do something villainous to be noble. She thought she understood her uncle and her family—all of it—after everything she’d read, after Klaus saying that it took a severe lack of moral stamina to commit murder, after Sunny suggested it and the fire regardless, after Violet worried about Hal’s keys and disguising her and her siblings and all the other tricky things Beatrice remembers her worrying about.

He looks like Violet, Beatrice realizes suddenly. Not really his facial features, but his expression, just like when Violet told her the volunteers were noble enough. He looks as lost and worried about the consequences as Violet did that day. She feels that hole in her stomach again, that gaping uncertainty—that fear. Beatrice thinks of avoiding the lobby where the woman grabbed her ankle, lying to Marguerite in the hills, covering up her doubts with a vehement optimism. She thinks of every time she read about Lemony’s fear and all the things she didn’t understand until this second, all the things she still doesn’t understand, because there is still so much, so many secrets she could drown in, trying to find them all by herself.

“I put you in a great amount of danger by not stepping in,” Lemony says. He looks at her straight on, his eyes filled with tears. “I did to you the same thing for which I despised so many people, people I too was supposed to trust, because of my cowardice. I cannot apologize to you enough, and you do not have to accept it, Beatrice. I would not blame you if you didn’t.”

Beatrice sniffles again, her mouth wobbling, and watches him for a moment longer. “I don’t know,” she says carefully. She doesn’t like saying it, but it’s true and she has to say it. She takes a breath. “I don’t know.”

They sit in silence on the bench for some time. Lemony wipes his eyes at some point with the back of his hand, and Beatrice holds his handkerchief back up to him, but he shakes his head with a small, trembling smile and tells her to keep it. Beatrice runs her thumb over the handkerchief, each individual stitch along the hem, the afternoon breeze drying her face. She thinks, almost impossibly, that she feels a little less lonely. Not quite not alone, but just not as lonely.

“Although my associates and I have found very little,” Lemony says, “that isn’t to say that there is nothing to find. If you would like, I would like to help you find the Baudelaires.”

Beatrice’s head shoots up, her eyes wide. “Really?”

“Really. We can hope for the best, at least.”

“I’m good at that,” Beatrice says. “I—it can’t be impossible. Everyone thought finding you was impossible. But you’re here.” And he is, isn’t he? Despite his previous absences, here he is. It doesn’t fix everything, not immediately. But it can be enough for right now. Here he is. Here they are.

ending notes:

i went into this fanfic with a pretty clear idea of where it was going to go, and then realized i’d need to pull out the beatrice letters so i could put them in this, and then did a lot of screaming along the lines of ‘i need to put a yak in this??????????????????????????????’ and ‘good job danhan you shot a hole through my characterization AND my timeline.’ so this vibes with maybe like, 85% of the beatrice letters. i did what i could. (and then this fic gave me so much trouble when i was trying to edit it. like, so much trouble. i only hope this all like, reads okay.)

but once i thought of ‘quiet lil child knows really so little about the world and has been through so much that she adamantly and somewhat optimistically clings to what she does know and that is challenged over time,’ i was reluctant to stop writing that. babybea is definitely her own person but she’s also definitely her mother’s daughter, so that girl is gonna be pretty tightly wound up and trying her best to hide it. i didn’t really buy her constant worry that lemony wasn’t who she wanted him to be while she was writing to him. because she does still have that bright but firm optimism of her father!! and i didn’t want babybea to be as rooted in (or as dependent on) vfd as her predecessors because she has to be the character to break that cycle. she has way more important problems than unattainable worldly nobility….and training bats.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events

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of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Smokey the Bear (Reboot)

Commission for a lovely person who wishes to remain anonymous! I loved working with your ideas and character, thank you for commissioning me!

If you would like to commission me, please head to my About page, link in my blog description!

“But Bellaaa, I want to come too!” Kristopher whined, tailing his sister to her personal flight. “I can be helpful!”

Izabella sighed heavily, taking a cigar out of her box and stuffing it in the corner of her mouth. She wouldn’t light it until she landed, but it was comforting. “You have to stay, Kris,” she said firmly. “There isn’t room in the cannon. And no one is expecting me to bring a little kid.”

Kris, only four years younger than her seventeen years, hit her bicep in annoyance. Izabella smacked the top of his head with the flat of her palm. “I love you, you demon,” she said, and bent to kiss his forehead. “We still have communications, remember? And I’m counting on you to blow some stuff up, alright?” She grinned slyly, and he bounced on his toes, grinning right back. “Make Babushka proud.”

“Yeah!” Kris cheered. “I can help aim the cannon!”

“Excellent!”

Izabella packed her bag while Kris readied the cannon’s coordinates. Everything that could be vacuum-packed, was. Her gadgets either folded or were compact enough to be stacked so no space was wasted. Izabella swung on her bearskin coat, and then attached the bag to her front. After a check with Kris, Izabella slid down inside the barrel of the cannon, wiggled into position, and called, “Aim!”

The cannon turned ponderously to face the right direction. Under the cold winter moon, the landscape was grey as a charcoal sketch. Mountains, trees, brilliant stars…

The cannon adjusted height. Izabella yelled, “Fire!”

(A group of young boys who had made an illicit bonfire looked up in terror as an enormous boom shook the air. There was a small projectile ascending into the sky, twinkling like a star. The boys hastily stomped out their fire and ran home.)

“Tell us what happened,” the grizzled interviewer told the witness, with the perfect stereotypical gruffness.

The witness, the teenage heir to a tech company far too big for him, considered lying. She might come back if he lied. One glance at the interviewer shot that hope down, so he began speaking.

“She was really pretty. Red hair, blue eyes, absolutely gorgeous. She was wearing this enormous, like, fur coat? I mean, I know it’s autumn, but it wasn’t that cold.” The interviewer raised his eyebrow; the witness gulped. “She also had a cigar, a huge one, like a cartoon, y’know? It was legit scary, man. She was Russian, too.”

The interviewer’s eyes narrowed. “What did she do?” he growled.

The witness had a fleeting thought that he didn’t want to be James Bond anymore. “We were at the yacht club, there wasn’t much to do. She was drinking whiskey and smoking that huge cigar and everyone was taking turns talking to her. She was friendly enough, but… when I went to say hello, she said hi back, and while we were talking she said--well, she said I shouldn’t tell anyone…”

“We are the police, sonny.”

The witness nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir, sorry. She told me that the English monarchy was weakening. She said she was warning me, in case my dad was involved in England. Which he is. He’s anti-monarchy. I called my dad after the party--”

“Why?” the interviewer interrupted, looking even more annoyed, if that were possible. The witness rubbed his sweaty palms on his knees.

“Because I wanted him to know. If she was warning me, maybe she wanted to warn him, too. I dunno, okay?! She was nice and gave me this lighter thing--”

“What lighter thing?”

The witness fumbled in his pocket and brought out a thing shaped like an old-fashioned metal cigarette lighter. As he put it on the table, almost slamming it, the lid clicked open.

There was a bark like a small-caliber gun, and out of the lighter came--

--Silly String.

The witness screamed and fell off his chair. The interviewer jumped to his feet and tried to save his notes, but the oily surface of the rapidly-expanding foam had smudged and smeared his ink writing to illegibility.

When two other officers burst in, the witness was curled in a corner, sobbing, and the interviewer was staring into the distance with a grim expression.

“It’s that Izzy girl,” he said, with complete conviction.

(The boy was inconsolable and had to be sent home on a private jet to his mother’s house over the border. When the captain heard the interviewer’s oral report, she shook her head and said, “Red hair? It can’t have been Izzy. She’s blond, remember? With curls.”)

Izabella lit her cigar and puffed on it a few times before entering the meeting room, Kristopher at her side. They were both on their best behavior, and dressed to the nines; Izabella in her sumptuous furs, and Kristopher in a new suit in olive brown. The heels of Izabella’s shoes tapped a brisk rhythm.

“Hello, boys,” she drawled, pausing in the doorway to breathe out a cloud of smoke. She then stuck the cigar back in her mouth and swaggered over to the remaining chair at the foot of the table. Crossing her ankles neatly, her next exhale was in rings. Kris stood at attention beside her, his face emotionless.

“We are not boys for you to command, young lady,” snapped a tall man with a Portuguese accent. The Australian on his left gripped his wrist lightly.

The four other Russian men chuckled softly. “She’s in command, alright,” said Gustav, who was sent to Ukraine when he was small to escape government assassins and still had the faintest accent. “Do not worry. She will make sure we have what we need.”

Izabella smiled brightly, then took off her tall fur hat to reveal a bottle of whiskey balanced perfectly among her curls. All of the men at the table cheered, and drinks were poured for everyone, though Kris’s was watered down quite a bit. When everyone was feeling looser, Izabella said, “I have planted seeds of doubt, and heightened tensions with clever paperwork. Your way to revenge is clearing. Kris, the hologram please.”

Kris took off his watch and placed it neatly in front of her, face down. With a subtle flick of his fingernail, a beam rose and spread, to show an office building slowly rotating. The building was quite normal, except for the eighteen red squares in various strategic points.

“This is my plan,” Izabella explained, leaning forward. “I will compromise this building, after securing the information in its mainframe. And then your men can swoop into the police station while the officers are busy, and take back your mole.”

“Will this work?” asked the Australian.

Izabella smiled and raised her glass. “We shall hope so.”

(After the meeting, the Portuguese man was seen flying off into space, twinkling like a midnight star. No one asked questions.)

The teenager striding down the hall of the office building, talking on her phone loudly in accented English, caused more than one curious worker to stare, baffled.

She was slight and pretty and wore cat-eye sunglasses, her hair perfectly curled, a slinky black dress, and a fur coat that was pulled off her shoulders and bunched up on her biceps. Her brooch was a silk flower, startling in its bright pinkness.

“No, Kris, no!” she was saying as she walked straight into the CEO’s office. “I told you, Mama said to not touch the telephone! If it is the men, they will find you.” She stopped in the middle of the room, and seemed to notice the CEO and his guests for the first time. She smiled, and said, “Hello! I’ll call you back, Kris. Yes, yes, I’ll tell Papa.”

She snapped her phone shut as she pulled it away from her ear, and kept it level with her cheek as she struck a pose and asked sweetly, “Mr. Ama-zone, I presume?”

“Ah. It’s Bezos,” the CEO corrected. “Who are you?”

“Mascha. You talked to my Papa a few days ago. He asked me to come by for your answers.” The girl flipped one heavy lock of hair out of her face, then pulled a paper-wrapped gumball out of her pocket, and let the paper float to the floor when she unwrapped the sweet. Popping it in her mouth, she chewed quickly, then continued, “Papa is rather unhappy, as well. Something about overdue payments.”

The men in suits at the conference table glanced at each other, Bezos, and the girl. Bezos looked rather pale as he smiled and replied, “There must’ve been a mixup. I haven’t talked to anyone from Russia in a long time.”

The girl sighed dramatically and swaggered across the room to lean on the window, so Bezos had to turn to keep an eye on her. This also meant that he didn’t notice the other men watching the exchange with wide eyes. “Mr. Bezoss, do not play games with my Papa,” she retorted. “He will bring his men here, and your company will go poof!” She snapped her fingers for emphasis. “He wants his payment. He wants it now.” She smiled again, innocent as spring. One of the other businessmen was texting furiously; another had laid down his mobile with the mic pointing up.

Bezos cleared his throat, and pressed a button on his own mobile, under the table. The girl’s sweet smile became a smirk. Bezos’s eyebrows twitched, but he spoke strongly. “I don’t owe anyone anything. I don’t know who you are or why you keep dropping hints about a man being angry, so my staff will have to escort you away.”

Silence fell on the office.

The girl took her gum out of her mouth, tossed it into the waste basket, and took a cartoonishly large cigar out of a different pocket. A plain silver lighter was next. She lit the cigar, put the lighter back, and took a deep draw on said cigar, letting the smoke billow out of her nose.

Bezos was sweating. So were his compatriots. More of them were sending emergency texts and alerts.

“Mr. Bezoss,” the girl said kindly, “Perhaps you should check on your staff.”

Every man there jumped to their feet, and pelted for the door. Izabella trotted over and locked it, then gathered all the wallets and personal gadgetry left behind and tucked them into her coat’s inner pockets. Finally, she plugged a tiny USB into Bezos’ computer, and set it to siphon what her employer wanted. It was designed by Kristopher, and made by a Swiss watchmaker they knew. It finished in about three minutes; plenty of time for these foolish Americans to realize the entire building was now blocked from any electric communication.

When the computer binged, Izabella sighed dramatically and sat up. With four key taps in quick succession, she unleashed the virus also hidden on the USB. It began to systematically purge the computer’s data, and spread from there, attaching to every connection it could until the entire building began to shut down, and police started yelling outside the locked door.

Izabella tapped her cigar, and the ashes fell on the specially-formulated gumball, which burst into flame. She smiled at the fire, then turned and drew a glass-cutting blade from her sleeve to quickly slice out a hole in the window that was supposed to be indestructible. Just as she prepared to climb out, she drew her lighter again, and flicked it three times.

Bombs hidden throughout the building began to go off, within seconds of each other, and destroying the structure of the building. Izabella threw herself out the window, landing in the window cleaner’s hoist positioned just so to catch her, and smacked the brake on the rope. It plummeted immediately, and Izabella shrieked with glee as explosions and the rumble of crumbling concrete surrounded her.

(She escaped unharmed, somehow, covered in stone-dust and ash. Gustav and his men had fetched their mole, and when she joined them, they nodded solemnly and followed her to the vans. Later, the interviewer from Alaska (who had been reassigned to California) heard the details and told his captain that he knew it was that Izzy girl. The captain frowned and said, “Izzy? No, no, she smokes cigars constantly. This girl chewed gum.”)

“Babushka!”

Kris and Izabella flung themselves at their grandmother, who laughed warmly and hugged them back, with much kissing of their cheeks.

“Ah, so how are my two little kittens?” she asked, hauling Kris into her lap while Izabella sat on the foot stool beside the rocking chair. “How much have you brought your babushka?”

“So much!” Kris crowed. “Almost a BILLION rubles!”

“No, it’s two hundred and fifty thousand rubles, three million American dollars, half a million Lybian dinars, a few thousand in various other currencies, and five pledges of partnership from various governments,” Izabella corrected, and stuck her cigar in her mouth again.

“Ah,” Babushka sighed mournfully, shaking her head. “Ah, my kittens. When I was your age, I was blackmailing royalty and undermining continents.”

“It’s harder now, Babushka!” Izabella protested. “You were a duchess! Kris isn’t even an adult!”

“Neither are you,” Kris sniped.

Babushka shushed them both and stroked Izabella’s hair. “I was teasing, vnuk,” she said, the corners of her wise, bright eyes crinkling. “Tell me what you did to that Egyptian banker.”

“Oh, Babushka, it was amazing! Kris made these tiny microphones with nuclear batteries that I placed throughout the banker’s home, and we got results in three days! The information has been securely transferred to the Yamaguchi-gumi, who will send the final payment tomorrow.”

“If they don’t, I’ll crack into all the bank accounts the family controls,” Kris piped up.

“I used the shoulder-cannon on the man in London calling for the rejoining of Ireland under the English government,” Izabella said dreamily, blowing smoke rings. “Oh, Babushka, it was splendid. He flew up so high, he didn’t even leave a glimmer. I also dropped that pink poison-flower into the double-agent’s brandy, as instructed. He died in about twelve hours.”

Babushka shook her head. “We’ll have to have a talk with the chemists, kittens; that poison is supposed to be quicker,” she told them. “But in the meantime--let’s have some kholodets to celebrate another successful year!”

The two children cheered, and their babushka chuckled again.

(Babushka’s kholodets was made from a recipe passed down since before the Soviets, and most people who were given the honor of tasting it whispered to friends later that it was poisonous and had given them sores in their guts. All of Russia feared the Babushka and her grandchildren.)

The squadron of soldiers stood their ground, as the heavy, pink-painted tank drove toward them with complete disregard for anything else. Other soldiers had given up trying to break its track; this squad would not.

Carefully, one of them set a small, shallow, rectangular dish on the ground. It had wheels much like the tank, and an electric motor. A demolition expert gently attached a very strong bomb. An enlisted soldier brought out a radio remote.

The dish with its bomb jerked into life and whizzed across the bare field, which was scarred and streaked but mostly whole. The soldier with the remote drove the dish with her tongue poking out of her mouth, eyes flicking over the terrain and to the pink tank.

The dish and bomb swooped neatly under the tank.

“COVER!” the demolition expert roared, and everyone dropped back to the trench. She pressed a small button and dove in too.

The bomb went off, and the power of it literally blasted the tank apart at the seams. As the soldiers took deep breaths to cheer, they saw two people-shaped objects flung into the air. Somehow, their voices carried over the explosions of their tank giving way.

“I told you, Bella, I told you they would have a sneaky bomb--”

“Shut up, you’re the one who wanted to save weight with thinner plates--”

The shouting became too faint, as the figures became nothing more than glints in the sky. The soldiers looked at each other uneasily. One of them, a corporal, who used to be with the police, opened his mouth to speak.

“Wasn’t that Izabella, the spy?” whispered one of the enlisted soldiers.

“Nah,” whispered the other, “Neither of ‘em were wearing fur coats.”

The corporal turned around and started thumping his head against the earthen side of the trench in a consistent rhythm. Why. Why was everyone so stupid. Why.

(Later, the corporal was demoted for leading a ragtag group of soldiers from other squads to do something so dangerous. When he pointed out that they had actually been led by a captain, said captain shrugged and answered, “Wasn’t me.” The corporal went to his quarters and got drunk.)

Earth’s atmosphere was a boring place to be, but Izabella and Kristopher couldn’t really come down themselves; they had to wait for Gustav’s air balloon.

Izabella re-lit her cigar and puffed on it angrily. “This is your fault,” she grumbled, the thinness of the air softening her voice to a whisper.

“How is it my fault?” Kristopher snapped, throwing up his hands and immediately bringing them back down with a wince. Space always made his hands cold. “I told you there would be sneaks!”

“Then why did you make the tank so delicate?” Izabella retorted angrily. “Saving weight, saving gas, blah blah blah--Blyat! You’re worse than Anatoli.”

“Don’t you dare compare me to that labrat!”

The siblings continued bickering for several hours, floating and turning and twisting. Eventually they grabbed each other’s arms to argue at the same level, and the insults got truly vile, until Kristopher started crying. Izabella growled, but pulled him in against her and hugged her baby brother tightly.

“We’ll be fine, Kris,” she said. “Gustav is too afraid of Babushka to leave us up here forever.”

“I’m cold,” Kristopher sobbed, his tears drifting from his pale cheeks and falling into the clouds.

“I know, bubble-butt.” Izabella pressed their foreheads together. “When we get back to the ship, we’ll sit in front of the heater and watch that film you like, what is it? The Swan Princess? And we’ll drink hot cocoa and design a new tank, and you can tell me all the things I missed, and then we can paint each other’s nails. Alright?” Kristopher nodded. “Good. It’s okay.”

Not even ten minutes later, Izabella spotted the grey-blue balloon rising up to them slowly. “Ah!” she exclaimed, shaking Kristopher gently, “He’s here!”

(Returning to their base of operations on the warship, they did indeed watch The Swan Princess in front of the radiator, drinking hot cocoa. Gustav watched from the doorway for a moment, smiling softly, then walked away, leaving his children in peace.)

#crack treated seriously #original fiction #writing #writing commission #commissions open

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ughseoks · 5 years ago

Text

novaturient | 01

» pairing; prince!jungkook x reader / platonic!ot6 x reader

» genre/rating; fantasy!au / royalty!au / pg15

» word count; 6.6k

» warnings; weapons, fighting, mentions of injuries, poisoning, very slight references to dub/non-con, insults? they don’t swear but they aren’t very nice to jin either

» summary;『 Prince Seokjin of Tanbarun notices you because of your unusual hair, so you flee your home and end up meeting the prince of a neighboring kingdom, Jeon Jungkook. (Based on the anime Akagami no Shirayukihime). 』

✩ series masterlist | main masterlist | next chapter ✩

“There it is!” you grin, bending down towards the green herb at your feet. The long leaves are striped with brown, a tell-tale sign that it’s Spellamiso, the herb you’ve been looking for all morning. Gently pulling it from the ground, you place it in your satchel before standing up and stretching your arms.

The forest sings with life around you; a gentle breeze flows through the trees, and the dewdrops from the early morning mist glisten on the tops of your shoes. Birds chirp, their sweet melodies wafting through the air before settling lightly in the ears of all who will listen.

The ringing of the clock tower interrupts the peace of the morning, causing you to jump in surprise. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late opening the shop, you think to yourself, quickly closing the brown satchel and swinging it to rest on your lower back before running towards the exit of the forest.

A cool gust of wind caresses your face as you break past the treeline, the white hood covering your head flying backwards and rippling behind you as if it’s made of liquid. The terrain below you shifts into a steady decline, your feet skidding as you slid across the wet grass towards the stream below. Tendrils of your soft hair flicker across your cheeks and temples, kissing your skin wherever they touch.

Looking at the view ahead of you, your heart skips a beat. No matter how many times you gaze out at the kingdom you lived in, Tanbarun, it never ceases to amaze you with its beauty. The sunlight dances across the roofs of houses, shops, and taverns. By now, you’re almost certain that the residents are slowly filling the streets, and you can hear the quiet hum of warm greetings and small talk as if you’re already there.

There is no doubt in your mind— Tanbarun is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall….” Prince Seokjin looks down at his perfectly manicured nails, inspecting them with feigned interest as he speaks arrogantly, “Tell me, who is the fairest maiden in all of Tanbarun?”

“That isn’t a mirror, your highness. That’s the informant from town.”

Seokjin drops his hand, shooting a glare at his aide, Sakaki. “You’re no fun.” The aide gives no response, ignoring the daggers that Seokjin shoots at the side of his head. After a few moments, the prince shakes his head, returning his attention back to the informant before him.

“Informant! What information do you bring?”

“There is a girl, sir,” the man answers, keeping his gaze trained on his shoes, “She has exceptionally red hair, like an apple. She is well known amongst the townspeople, a kind herbalist who—”

“Excellent! Bring her to me.” Seokjin interrupts the informant, waving him off with a dismissive hand.

“At once, sir.”

“Thank you, miss!” the young boy grins at you before practically sprinting out the door. You give him a small wave as he does so, unable to keep the corners of your mouth from turning upwards as you prepare to help your next customer.

“What can I do for you today, Mrs. Kino?” you turn to face the wall behind you. The shelves are full of bottles and boxes holding different herbs, ointments, and medications. Ink black writing stands out against the crisp white labels, although you barely needed to look at them anymore. You love what you do, and you do it well.

“Oh, I don’t need anything today,” the old woman supplies, her response prompting you to look over your shoulder at her in confusion. “I came in to look at your beautiful hair. As silly as it sounds, seeing it brightens my day.”

“That’s awfully kind of you,” you smile, touched by her compliment. The uniqueness of your hair wasn’t lost on you. Wherever you went, you caught the attention of everyone walking past— hence the reason you often wore your white hood and cape. “But while you’re here, do you need anything else? If your back is still bothering you, I have some leftover Milkweed Root that might help—”

“I just wish your grandparents could see you now,” Mrs. Kino sniffles, your eyes growing wide with shock as tears begin to slip down her cheeks, “You’ve become such a fine pharmacist! They would be so proud!”

“O-oh, thank you,” you stutter, reaching over the counter to take her hands in yours. You run your thumbs across her knuckles, trying to soothe her as she sobs in the middle of your shop. Although it was a bit of an odd sight to walk in on, your heart flutters at the sentiment. It’s nice to know that somebody else believed that what you were doing was something your grandparents— the ones who raised you— would be proud of.

Once she calms back down, the elderly woman gives your cheek a pinch before walking out, insisting that she’ll come back tomorrow to check in on you again. You gave her a kind smile in return, reminding her that if she ever needed anything, you’ll be right here.

Not even thirty seconds later, the familiar tinkle of the bell above the door rings in your ears, alerting you of someone’s entrance to the shop. “Already back, Mrs. Kino? I still have that Milkweed Root—”

Oh.

That is not Mrs. Kino.

Standing in the doorway is a man— a very tall man— in a soldier’s outfit. He’s a soldier. Why is there a soldier in your shop? You aren’t important enough for the palace to be turning to you for medicinal reasons (they have a Royal Court Pharmacist for that), and you don’t recall breaking any laws as of recent.

“C-can I help you?” You silently curse your voice for faltering, not wanting to show any weakness.

“Ms. _____?” He inquires, voice deep and booming as he steps further into your shop. The top of his shadow brushes the tips of your toes, the door slamming shut behind him, “The Prince requires your presence at the castle.”

“M-me? Why?” What in god’s name could that idiot of a prince need from you?

“You are to be his concubine.”

“His what?” you all but shout, your jaw dropping to the floor as your eyes fly open.

“His concubine. Consort. Companion. Call it whatever you want, they’re all the same to him.”

“But I’m just a commoner.” Your mind is racing, trying to come up with any excuse to change the soldier’s mind. “I-I’d be an embarrassment to the prince.” Something inside of you— your pride, you assume— protests at that, but you shove it down. Now isn’t the time to be proud.

“The Prince has taken a liking to you,” is his only response. He’s never even met me, you huffed internally, how the hell could he have taken a liking to me? “I would dress nicely tonight while you still can.”

“But—” You’re interrupted when the soldier swiftly crosses the room to tower over you. Placing his hand on the hilt of his weapon, he glares down at you with an empty expression, flashing the slightest bit of metal sword at you while you gulp.

“Someone will be here to collect you tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

You blink.

And then he’s gone.

After a long day of pretending like everything's okay (which it most definitely isn’t) and trying to form a plan of how to avoid your so-called fate, you find yourself packing your satchel full of food, bandages, and some essential herbs.

You’re running away.

What other choice do you have? You refuse to give up your freedom just to please the prince. This was your story, and you’d be damned if you let someone else think they could write the next page.

You knew your journey wouldn’t be easy. Prince Seokjin may have been an idiotic embarrassment of a prince, but he was stubborn. When he wanted something, he took it, no matter how far he had to go.

But not you. You weren’t an object to be claimed.

Buckling your satchel closed, you took a deep breath, double checking that the bulk of medicine you’d prepared on the countertop would last everyone at least two weeks after you were gone. You weren’t the only pharmacist in Tanbarun, so you weren’t worried about your patients having to find someone new to treat them— but you wanted to make sure they had plenty of medicine just in case of an emergency.

Moonlight poured through the window behind you as you clipped your cloak around your neck, saying silent goodbyes to the shop and people of Tanbarun who you loved so dearly. When you turned, you caught sight of your reflection in the glass, your red hair still vibrant even in the pale light. You fished around in your pocket, looking for the pair of scissors you’d packed. Once you found them, you gripped them tightly with your dominant hand, holding up the end of your ribbon-tied ponytail with the other.

“It isn’t your fault,” you gently assured the lock of hair you were holding before you snipped it off, leaving it on the windowsill as a ‘gift’ for the prince. Only giving one final glance at the shop, you snuffed out the candle on the countertop and closed the door behind you.

It was time to begin a new chapter in your story.

It’s roughly two days later when you stumble upon a large white house in the woods. Although clearly aging, it’s still habitable. A cobble wall roughly nine feet tall surrounds it, and long green vines weave an intricate pattern across the worn stone. The gravel path crunches beneath your feet as you walk towards it before coming to a stop.

“It’s going to be dark soon,” you comment to yourself, taking note of the setting sun in the distance. Up until now, you’d been sleeping in the back of the horse-drawn cart you’d managed to catch a ride on. But once you’d crossed the border of Tanbarun, you’d thought it would be safer to travel on foot for the rest of your journey.

Taking a deep breath, you knock on the door three times, calling out to anyone who might be home. No answer. After a few minutes of waiting, you decide to sit to the left of the door until the owner returns. Even if the house is a little worse for wear, you don’t want to risk intruding if there happened to be permanent residents.

As the hours pass by, you feel your eyes begin to droop, the exhaustion from your journey beginning to take a toll on you. Before you know it, you’re lost to the dream world, the comforting sounds of the forest at night lulling you into a deep slumber.

Chirp!

You lazily blink your eyes open, the heat from the sun causing the hood of your cloak to warm against your cheek. A small bird sits atop your satchel, its beak poking inside the pouch of pistachio nuts you brought with you. Gently smiling at the sight, you sit up and stretch, the bird flying away due to the sudden movement.

“Hobi! Yoongi! I’m going on ahead!” A deep voice cuts through your sleep-hazed mind, your head snapping towards the wall to your right.

“Be careful, showoff, or you’ll hurt yourself!” This voice was lighter; playful, but with a hint of warning lying underneath.

“I’ll be fine, Hobi!” The first voice speaks up again, this time much closer than before. Is he running towards you? Maybe he’s the owner of the house—

Oh.

Oh, wow.

Remember when you said that Tanbarun was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen? Well, that was before you laid eyes on the beauty that was Mysterious Forest Guy.

It’s as if the world is in slow motion as he leaps over the wall with practiced ease, bright rays of sun creating a halo effect behind a mass of wavy black hair. His doe eyes sparkle with mirth, and a smug bunny-like grin is plastered on his face. Yeah. Forest Guy is definitely the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

When the two of you lock eyes, time seems to stop. Your breath catches in your throat, and if at all possible, his doe eyes grow even wider as his mouth drops open in shock. The distraction causes him to hesitate slightly in his jump. His foot catches the edge of the cobblestone, and you squeeze your eyes shut when he begins to plummet facefirst towards you.

A few moments later, your ears pick up on soft groans of pain. Eyes blinking open, you’re slightly shocked to see the boy from before clutching his forearm, dramatically hunched over on the balls of his feet. Before you can say anything, two people come sprinting around the corner, both panting and wearing worried expressions.

“I told you so, Jungkook!” Oh, so that’s Forest Boy’s name. You recognize this voice as the second one; Hobi, is it? His eyes are wide with fear as he skids to a stop in front of Jungkook, placing his hands on his knees while he frantically asks questions. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head? What’s one plus one?”

“Purple,” Jungkook grumbles, looking up slowly with a dazed look in his eyes, “Wait, what’s your name again?”

“Oh god, oh god,” Hobi mutters before yelling, “It’s me! Hoseok!”

“Oh, was that your name? I forgot.” You flicker your gaze towards a voice that you haven’t heard yet. It’s deep and smooth, the speaker’s disinterested tone floating past his lips with a small grumble. He’s much shorter than Hoseok, standing a few feet away his arms crossed. His eyes are catlike, and although his expression is schooled into one of aloofness, you can see a glint of humor in his eyes.

“Yoongi!” Hoseok whips his head towards the cat eyed man, shooting him a sharp glare, “Not helping!”

Jungkook begins to laugh, his back still towards you as his shoulders shake. It’s then that you realize— you have no idea who these people are, or if they’re dangerous. They don’t seem malicious, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Cautiously, you attempt to crawl away, hoping to remain unnoticed. However, as soon as you begin to move, Jungkook’s laugh cuts short, his sharp and analytical gaze flicking over his shoulder to make eye contact with you.

“Stop.”

You freeze.

He stands up slowly, swinging his sheathed sword around to rest on his shoulder casually despite his serious tone. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here? In the woods? All alone?”

“U-uh…” you stutter, sitting back on your behind as you subconsciously pull the hood to your cloak lower, “I-I was just coming from home. I was in a hurry, and ended up following a random road, and then I got a little lost so now I’m here—”

You’re cut off when the end of his still sheathed sword appears in your vision, just inches away from your face. Eyes widening, you hold your breath, waiting nervously for him to do something. A small frown appears on his face, eyes critical as they scan yours. Suddenly, he thrusts the tip of his sword upwards, causing your hood to be thrown backwards. You gasp as your hands scramble upwards in a futile attempt to cover your hair.

“You have unusual hair.” The statement from Jungkook is blunt, but there’s a hint of curiosity hidden beneath his words.

“So I’ve been told,” you shyly smile before suddenly noticing the purpling bruise on his forearm, “Oh! Your arm, it’s—”

“I’ve had worse,” he shrugs.

“I’m actually an herbalist,” you explain, already beginning to sift through your satchel, “I have healing poultice in my bag here that might help with the pain.”

“No thanks. You could be trying to poison me. I’m not going to fall for that trick,” he pointed his sword at you once again, the frown returning to his face, “Trust is earned, not given. We’re done here.”

“O-oh…” you sit dumbfounded, a little taken aback by the return of his bluntness.

A smirk forms on his lips, his voice almost teasing as he nods towards the path back into the forest. “Off ya go, then.”

Guess I’ll just have to convince him I’m not a threat. Taking a deep breath, you school your features, a glint of determination sparkling in your eye. Before you can think twice about it, you grab the end of the sheathed sword before twisting it and bringing it down on your own forearm, wincing at the immediate sting that follows.

“Wh…” Jungkook’s mouth drops open, a gasp coming from Hoseok behind him. He stumbles a few steps backwards in shock as you stare at the injury, pleased when a bruise already begins to form.

Pulling out the poultice that you’d been looking for before Jungkook basically told you to get lost, you slather some of the goo onto a bandage, slapping it on your arm confidently and smirking up at the trio.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t usually make a habit of carrying around poison.”

Hoseok breaks the silence with a boisterous laugh, clutching his stomach and shaking so hard you think he might collapse. Yoongi has an amused smirk on his face, and Jungkook begins to laugh with Hoseok after the initial shock wears off.

“S-she really got you there, Jungkook!” Hoseok continues to laugh, wiping a few tears from his eyes. Yoongi slaps him on the back, causing him to sputter and throw the shorter man an empty glare.

“Sorry about that,” Jungkook tosses his sword to the ground and kneels before you, resting his arms on his knees, “My name is Jungkook. Yours?”

“_____.”

“Well, _____,” he holds out his injured arm, the teasing lilt to his voice much kinder than before, “Mind helping me out? I’m pretty sure this is your fault, anyways.”

“This house is abandoned, so we spend a lot of time here,” Jungkook explains as you carefully wrap the bandage around his arm. You hum in acknowledgement, gaze flickering over to the two men playing chess in the corner when one of them groans.

“The one losing at chess over there is Hoseok, but you can call him Hobi,” Jungkook announces without even a glance over his shoulder, winking at you when the man exclaims loudly in protest, “And the one winning is Yoongi.”

“How do you know I’m losing?” Hoseok shouts, a look of betrayal plastered to his face, “You aren’t even paying attention to the game!”

“I don’t have to be paying attention to know that you’re losing.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m destroying you,” Yoongi interrupts calmly, causing Hoseok to stick out his lower lip and pout. It’s clear that the three of them share a strong bond, and you can’t help but feel a little sad that you’ve never had something like that before in your own life.

“All fixed up,” you say softly after tying the end of the bandage off with a knot. Jungkook moves his arm from your grip, flexing his fingers and admiring your handiwork.

“I’ve gotta admit, you’ve got some impressive skills, _____.”

“Let’s just say I’ve had a few years to practice,” you wink, placing the materials back into your bag, “I am an herbalist, after all.”

Jungkook grins, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Tell me, why would such a talented herbalist run away from home, hmm?”

Your freeze, a shiver running straight up your spine. For a minute, you’d almost forgotten that you’d run away— that the crown prince of Tanbarun was most likely looking for you at this very moment. It makes you nauseous.

Pushing your satchel off of your lap and to the side, you stand up abruptly. “Excuse me. I’m going to take a walk.”

Jungkook’s face immediately falls, shock and confusion evident on his features. But before he can say anything, you’re already out the door.

You’ve come to find that exploring the forest is much different with company.

After exiting the house, you’d barely made it five steps before Jungkook appeared at your side, his sword by his hip as he not-so-subtly stared at you. Rather than saying anything, the both of you have been completely silent for the entirety of the walk so far, choosing to take in the nature around you rather than attempt to hold a conversation.

“Why’d you follow me?” You break the silence, glancing over at the boy walking beside you. His hand rests on the back of his head as he looks away from you, the typically smug gesture seeming much softer on him.

“I couldn’t let an injured girl walk around these woods alone,” he explains, purposefully deepening his voice, “That would be ungentlemanly of me.”

“I can handle myself, you know,” you chastise, stopping to crouch down at the base of a tree in order to inspect a flower growing there, “I’ve spent a lot of time in the woods. Training to be an herbalist makes you quite comfortable being in places like these, after all.”

A breeze begins to flow past, the small flower swaying with the wind as your hair floats around your face. Standing back up, you lean against the tree, tilting your head to gaze up into the leaves and branches above. “I’ve always found something about the forest to be special— it’s like the time flows differently here. I actually prefer it compared to the crowded streets of the city. It makes me feel free.”

Silence for a moment, followed by a quiet “I couldn’t agree more.” Something about his tone strikes a chord of sympathy in you. There isn’t any of his underlying amusement or mirth in the statement. It’s something more akin to longing, with a hint of sadness hiding underneath.

“Well, I— Ouch!” you yelp when you feel a sharp sting on the back of your head. Jungkook quickly comes over, leaning in close to you to inspect as you flinch away from the unexpected pain.

“It looks like your hair got caught,” he mumbles, his deep voice right next to your ear, “You have a strand that’s longer than the others.”

“O-oh…” you look away, “Can you cut it for me? It doesn’t have to be straight.”

Jungkook simply hums in response, taking a few steps backwards with a smug smile on his face. “I can’t cut a lady’s hair without proper reason. If you tell me why you cut your hair, and if it had something to do with why you ran away from home, then I would feel comfortable helping you.”

“You’re a terrible person.” you seethe, glaring daggers at him while he holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering, the smirk never leaving his lips.

“You were asked to be a concubine?” Jungkook yells, jumping up from his seat next to you on the log. You shoot him a warning look, causing him to gulp and sit back down slowly, holding his tongue so you can explain.

“Yes, for a... very famous boy. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and when he heard rumors of my hair, he thought it was unusual and wanted to keep it for himself. Like some sort of trophy,” you scoff, wiggling your feet awkwardly in front of you, “If I’d agreed, it would’ve been like he was buying an apple at the market.”

“____—” Jungkook is cut off when you suddenly stand, smirking at him over your shoulder.

“And that’s when I thought I should give him at least part of what he wanted. My hair.” You gesture towards the short length. “Now he can stare at it until he gets tired of it.”

Jungkook stares at you for a few seconds before bursting out laughing, the sheer volume of his cackling startling a few birds in the trees above.

It’s adorable.

“Well, props to you for getting away from that idiot,” he manages when he finally calms down, picking up his sword and moving to stand in front of you, “It is your precious red, after all.”

“Huh?”

“Well, red is the color of fate, right?” he swings his sword to rest on his shoulder once more, gazing down at you with deep brown eyes, “And color has meaning. You might not like it now, but your red may lead you to something great when you least expect it.”

“T-that’s…” you stand there, dumbfounded, “I’ve never thought of it that way before.”

“Well, I am kind of a genius,” he winks, “Glad to know I finally earned some of your respect.”

“What’s that?” Jungkook mutters, running ahead of you to inspect the basket sitting on the front porch of the house. After finishing your conversation, you’d decided to head back, both of you more than a little hungry.

Jogging after him, you skid to a stop in front of where he stands, staring curiously at the basket. A purple cloth is covering the contents inside, and a card covered in swirling letters peeks out from the side. Your eyes flicker to where a purple ribbon is tied to the handle in a pretty bow, the golden fringe on the edges glinting in the sunlight. When you realize what it is, you shiver, feeling like a bucket of ice water has been poured over your head.

“Oh no,” you whisper, looking up at Jungkook with panic in your eyes, “That’s the ribbon I tied my hair with.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen, the basket almost slipping from his grip, causing the purple cloth to slide off of the top and reveal the contents inside.

Apples. Red apples.

“So, you’re from Tanbarun, huh?” Jungkook looks up from the card he’d been reading. He’s sitting directly across the coffee table in an armchair, the basket of apples sitting between the two of you. “I gotta admit, this guy is pretty determined. He traveled all the way to the border just to find you.”

“I guess you could say that,” you chuckle, yelping a bit when he slams his hands on the table and glares at you.

“This isn’t funny!” he barked, a dangerous glint in his eyes, “How important of a person is he for you to have crossed the border just to get away from him?”

“Very important,” you mumble, casting your gaze down to where you’re holding the ribbon tightly, “The first prince of Tanbarun.”

“Seokjin? That moron is the one who’s bothering you?” Jungkook yells, causing a grim smile to form on your features.

“Guess he’s so idiotic that even the people of neighboring countries know it,” you grumble.

“It’s a good thing you ran. I’d guarantee that he has people stationed at every border crossing trying to find you.”

“Really?” You knew he was determined, but to think he’d gone that far just to find you was almost unfathomable. Scary, even.

“When he wants something that badly, he already believes it’s his.”

Silence followed his question, tears filling your eyes. Up until now, the reality of the situation hadn’t quite hit you. It was just an adventure; a temporary absence until everything blew over. But now, you understand that you will never be able to return to your home; to Tanbarun.

“Guess my red isn’t all that lucky after all,” you whisper, a single tear slipping down your cheek. You don’t notice the sympathetic look on Jungkook’s face, or the saddened glances Yoongi and Hoseok share with each other upstairs.

Reaching out carefully, you pick up an apple from the basket, gazing at the shiny surface of it. But before you can take a bite, a large hand encirlces your wrist, your gaze traveling up the arm until you make eye contact with Jungkook. He lifts the apple in your hand towards his mouth, taking a bite while keeping his gaze focused solely on you.

“How rude.”

Jungkook jumps backwards at the sound of Hoseok’s voice, his ears turning as red as a tomato. Hobi is leaning on the banister to the stairs, and his chin propped up on his hand, causing his speech to be slightly muffled. Yoongi is sitting on the stairs behind him, calmly examining his nails while Hobi continues to tease.

“That’s her apple, Jungkook. If you wanted one, you could’ve just gotten your own.”

The man beside you begins to protest, but before any words can come out, he starts to cough, choking on the bite of your apple that he’d taken. Smirking, Hobi begins to berate him as if he was a parent talking to their child, “You should either talk or eat, Jungkookie. Don’t do both. It’s gross.”

“Nobody asked you!” Jungkook wails once he swallows the food, pointing accusingly at his companion, “Stay out of it!”

“Hey, now you’re just being rude—” Hoseok pouts, only to be cut off by Jungkook.

“_____,” the young man warned, having turned his back to Yoongi and Hoseok in order to speak to you, “Don’t eat that apple.”

“Wh— Jungkook!” you gasp as he begins to sway. Hoseok’s once playful attitude is gone in an instant, his face hardening as he jumps over the railing just in time to catch Jungkook as he falls. Yoongi is right behind him, staring down at his friend with worry and confusion.

Thinking quickly, you rub the apple frantically against the bandage on your arm before bringing it up to your nose, smelling carefully. “Ragweed oil,” you murmur to yourself, cursing under your breath before shouting, “It’s poisoned!”

“Can you help him?” Yoongi snaps his head towards you, asking the question with such ferocity you hesitate for a moment.

“L-let me see,” you drop to your knees and begin to rummage through your satchel, examining the various vials within the bag. Nothing. In your panic, you fail to hear the sound of the front door opening behind you. “It’s no use, I can’t make the antidote he needs with what I have on me—”

“How surprising….” You freeze at the familiar voice, nearly dropping the glass bottles that you were holding, “It seems that someone else has consumed the apple. My apologies, it was intended for Miss _____.”

“Who the hell are you?” Yoongi snaps, immediately grabbing his sword and pointing it at the soldier; the same one who had come into your shop three days ago to inform you of your fate.

“This certainly makes things a bit more complicated,” the soldier drawls, ignoring Yoongi’s question entirely.

“Where is the antidote?” you growl, unafraid as you march up to him and stick a finger in his face. He calmly pushes it away, throwing you a look of disinterest and exasperation.

“Calm yourself, little lady. A certain individual possesses it. I trust that you will now come with me quietly?”

“Oh, I’m so thrilled that you made it! I have to say, I’m quite surprised by just how red your hair truly is. I was almost certain that the hair you’d left behind wasn’t real.”

Prince Seokjin pauses for a moment, noticing in the outrage clearly written on your face. “It wasn’t my intention for your friend to be poisoned in your place, so don’t go giving me that look.”

“I’m here now, so will you just give him the antidote?”

The prince tuts as if admonishing a wayward child, plopping down in a chair casually. “All in good time, Miss ______. Are you aware of the disruption that your escape has caused? Ever since I graciously courted you and you ran away, I’ve become a laughing stock! Public opinion of me has never been lower... However, I can assure you that the unanimous opinion is that all of this is your fault.”

“Is that so?” you gritted out, only a few seconds away from slapping the smirk off of his face.

“It is indeed. My main concern now is clearing my name from the shame that you’ve caused me, and in order to do that, you must become my concubine!” He states cheerily, as if he’s doing you a favor, “I would never dream of causing any woman embarrassment, even a lowly commoner girl such as yourself. You can thank me for my generosity anytime now.”

“Are you kidding me?” you all but shout, gesturing wildly around you, “My friend is dying, and you want me to thank you?”

“I completely understand,” the prince pouts, “However, there isn’t much I can do for him until you give me a clear answer. If you accept my proposal, I will have the antidote delivered to him promptly. However…” he stands up from his spot, holding an apple in his right hand, “If you refuse… I can always have this delivered instead.”

He tosses the apple in the air with a chuckle, seemingly amused at his ultimatum. Was this seriously just a game to him?

“So, lovely,” he let the apple drop to the floor, leaning down to whisper his next question in your ear, “What will it be?”

Before you can answer, shouting from down outside of the door reaches your ears, causing you both to turn around in confusion. No more than a few seconds later, the doors to the large room fly open, an angry looking Jungkook making eye contact with you from where he stands in the doorway.

“I OBJECT!” he yells, pointing his still sheathed sword at Prince Seokjin. A soldier from the hallway comes rushing in, swinging his sword at Jungkook with an angry yell. Jungkook simply steps to the side, spinning around and blocking the blow with his own sword. The two dance around each other while you and Seokjin stand paralyzed with shock, unable to move until Jungkook knocks the soldier out with the hilt of his weapon.

“Will you stop spewing such utter nonsense that dirties this girl’s ears?” Jungkook hisses, each and every word practically dripping with malice. When he takes a few steps forwards, you spot Hobi and Yoongi in the hallway, the unconscious bodies of two guards laying at their feet.

“Jungkook?” you exhale, running across the room to stand before him. When his gaze lands on you, his face immediately softens, a small smile forming when he sees that you’re okay.

“Hey, _____. Mind tying this for me?” He holds up his injured arm, showing how the bandage had come untied during the fight. You nod your head feverishly, gently wrapping the loose bandage back around his forearm and tying it with a knot.

“What about the poison?” you ask, confused as to how he seems perfectly fine standing in front of you when not even an hour ago he was passed out in Hoseok’s arms.

“I’ve been building up an immunity for the past few years in case something like this ever happened—”

“Ah…” Prince Seokjin speaks up, a smug look on his face, “So you were the one who ate the poison apple! My sincerest apologies. It was intended for Miss _____, not you.”

“Why am I not surprised that it was you?” Jungkook seethes, trying his best not to roll his eyes. Seokjin stops pacing, turning to glare daggers at the man.

“Watch how you speak to me, commoner,” Seokjin scowls, “Peasants like you should learn to have more respect for royalty.”

“Ah, pardon me, First Prince of Tanbarun,” Jungkook drawls, stepping away from you to pull out his sword. He holds it horizontally to the floor, shoving the hilt near Seokjin’s face in order to show him the emblem stamped upon it. “I hate having to give formal introductions, but you’ve given me no choice.”

“Wait, I recognize that emblem…” Seokjin mutters, the gears visibly turning in his head.

“As well you should, you imbecile,” Jungkook snarls, lowering his sword back down, “I am Second Prince of Clarines, Jeon Jungkook.”

“A… prince?” you whisper to yourself, unable to believe what you’re hearing. Jungkook seemed special, yes… but a prince? The poison must be messing with him.

“Jungkook, get a hold of yourself! Is this the poison talking?” you run over to him, placing your hand on his arm, “What’s one plus one? Do you know who I am?”

“I’m not lying, _____,” he smiles down at you before returning his attention to Seokjin, “But I never thought I’d be poisoned by an idiot prince from a neighboring country. This could be seen as a declaration of war.”

“N-no!” Seokjin stutters, clearly becoming more flustered by the minute, “Y-you have no proof that I poisoned the apple! It’d be hearsay!”

“Are you sure about that?” Yoongi glares, unable to contain his scoff.

“I think an official inquiry would prove otherwise,” Hoseok provides, the same murderous glint in his eyes.

“So,” Jungkook advances forward, causing Seokjin to stumble backwards, tripping over his feet and falling to the ground, “If you don’t want your deceptive and disgusting actions to be a matter of public record, then swear you will never come near _____ again. No— you won’t even speak her name again.”

“How do you even know—” Jungkook takes another step forward, causing Seokjin to frantically crawl backwards until he bumps the wall, “Okay, okay! I swear!”

Jungkook’s shoulders relax at that, and he turns to look at you over his shoulder, giving you an encouraging smile. “I’m sure you have a few things to say to him. Now’s your chance.”

You nod confidently, walking past Jungkook to crouch in front of the prince on the floor. After a moment of consideration, you reach out, handing him the apple that he’d dropped to the floor earlier. “Give Jungkook the antidote.”

“Y-you don’t have anything else to say—”

“Now.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jungkook sets the now empty vial of antidote down on the table next to him, throwing you a confused look. “What’re you apologizing for, _____?”

“I-it’s my fault you were poisoned,” you cast your gaze to the ground, the guilt pooling in your stomach.

“It isn’t something you need to apologize for.” You’re surprised to hear Yoongi speaking, since he’d been so quiet up until now. His eyes were soft as they looked at you, a special warmth in them helping to put you at ease. “Jungkook made the decision to eat the apple himself. You didn’t force him to.”

Both Jungkook and Hoseok nod in confirmation, sending you reassuring smiles. Yoongi pauses for a moment, glancing over at Hoseok with a small quirk to his lips. “Although, Hoseok was carrying on as if it was the end of the world. He couldn’t stop crying.”

“Hey! Shut it, Yoongi!”

“It was tragic, really.”

“Okay, okay,” Jungkook places a hand on Hoseok’s chest to prevent him from responding, although a smile is playing at the corners of his mouth. “Do you remember what I said to you in the forest?”

You nod, looking up at Jungkook from where he now stands in front of you. He crouches down to your level, his voice a gentle timbre floating through the silence of the large room. “I meant every word. I believe that fate brought us together for something good.”

“Really?” He gives a firm nod in return.

“I don’t think this is the end of our story. It’s the beginning of a new chapter. Come with us.” He stands up slowly, extending his hand out towards you, “If it’s what you want, that is.”

You stare at his outstretched hand, the glow from the sunset filtering through the window and illuminating his delicate fingers. You hadn’t even known him for a day, but something deep inside of you told you he was right. Your meeting wasn’t purely by chance; it was fated. And who were you to question destiny?

You placed your hand in his.

a/n; i’m so happy i finally posted the first chapter of this series (i was so excited i posted it a day early lol)!!! and i can’t wait to post the rest!! i’m sorry that seokjin is such an asshole in this chap. i promise, he’s a redeemable villain! if you’re wondering where the rest of the boys are, just hang on tight. they’ll get here eventually! (sooner rather than later)

i would also like to mention that for simplicity, minor characters who aren’t replaced by a member of bangtan are going to keep their names from the anime.

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