#snap his bony back like a twig

[cassowariess]

Yay!!! Thank you Sorrel for drawing the girls for me!! <3

first batch of r&m requests :-)

[poppitron360]

Piper sat at the back of the class, bored out of her mind. The teacher was yammering on about solving quadratic inequalities or something- she wasn’t listening. She tried to avoid eye contact with the snobby popular girls, and just generally kept her head down. Thirty minutes to go…

“So, what’re you in here for?” Said the boy sitting in front of her. He’d turned around so that he sat on his chair backwards, like a detective conducting an interrogation. He rested his chin on his hands, and looked up at Piper mischievously.

“You say that like we’re in prison,” Piper told him.

The boy gestured around the classroom, “Aren’t we?”

The boy was skinny, and short for his age. He had a long, elfish face and bony fingers, which were constantly moving, fidgeting, tapping. Piper took in the cheeky grin, the playful twinkle in his eye. Piper had learned not to trust kids at the Wilderness School- they were your typical delinquents, mischievous and unreliable. All the “friendships” she’d seen here, she could tell that both sell the other out for a chocolate bar in a heartbeat. She’d sworn an oath not to fall for anyone’s games at this place.

“Well, what’re you in for?” Piper asked, “I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

The boy waggled a finger at her, “You’re a smart one, I like your game.”

He fished a small, laminated card out of his pocket and showed it to her. The card read: “Leo Valdez. High Security Risk. If caught outside curfew return to Dorm 7A.”

“I have to keep that on me so that they know I’m a “flight risk”,” he put air quotes around “flight risk” and rolled his eyes, “Like that’s gonna stop me. I could totally bust outa here any time I wanted to.”

“So why don’t you?”

He waggled his finger at her again, teasingly, “Aah, a magician never reveals his secrets.”

Nothing about this kid looked magician-like. He was about the height of a seven-year-old, with a torso so thin it was practically non-existent. Maybe this was the wilderness, Piper thought, because this kid looked like a twig.

“So, you still haven’t told me what a fine girl like you is doing in a place like-“

“Valdez!” The teacher snapped, “Face the front. No talking.”

The kid, Leo, shrugged his shoulders and turned to face the teacher.

Later, she leaned in and whispered to him, “Hey, can you help me? I’m stuck on number five.”

Leo turned and shrugged, “I got no clue, sorry.”

“But all your questions are solved. And marked correct,” Piper observed, gesturing to his exercise book.

Something flashed in Leo’s eyes, something like fear or panic, but it quickly went away. He leaned in even closer and dropped his voice to a low whisper.

“It’s simple if you know what you’re doing. You just gotta rearrange the equations, see?” He reached out, and scribbled something down on her paper. He was surprisingly skilled at writing upside-down. “It’s the same as what we learned last week- make x the subject by first factorising, then dividing both sides by the coefficient- but now it��s with symbols of inequality- that’s the “greater-than or less-than” sign- now you can find all the integer solutions to one decimal place, and solve for x.”

He circled the formula he’d written on her page, and looked up at her, triumphantly.

“So the answer is…?” She prompted.

Leo hesitated, clearly frustrated. “The answer is any number ranging from 3.2 to 3.7.”

Piper reminded herself not to underestimate this kid. He made dumb jokes and acted like a goof- but he was a serious genius.

————————————

Thinking I might write more of this fic but it wasn’t going anywhere so I wanted to post what I’ve got so far.

[anticidic]

❛ for being someone you hate, i'm sure on your mind a lot. ❜

Decided to write this, uh, ficlet-ish? to get the brain juices going for the other things I'm writing, so enjoy. 547 words of Dazai and Chuuya and contemplating the deeper meaning behind why Chuuya will not leave Dazai's mind.

There they stood beneath a tree—its leaves ripped from it by the winter wind. Of what remained, bony branches waved at them from above, creaking in the silence. An echo of a twig snapping underfoot hit the air and when he blinked, cold steel skyscrapers returned to the world under a layer of fine snow. And falling down all around them.

Once, they were two figures on the spring ice: one trying his best to ignore the other shouting with all his might, fingers plugged in the ears. La, la, la.

Now, Chuuya sounded almost mocking saying those words. Even the curve of the corner of his mouth and the exposed sharp tooth suggested he was ready to play, only they would play by his rules and not Dazai’s own. Sounded familiar, awfully familiar, but Dazai could not pick out just one moment in time when everything about Chuuya screamed familiarity and a home away from home which he’d never return to.

Because without having something constantly on his mind, the morning would never come.

Then came nostalgia. Cooped up in the little four-by-four, shaking… Terrible nostalgia. For himself. For humans. For the world. All too much to bear and yet he loved it. That hate, as Chuuya put it, kept him going. In fact, maybe he was nothing without his spark. True terror would be the day Dazai opened his eyes with the feeling all but vacated from his soul. And left in it, vast emptiness. There were still tiny fragments of emotions hidden in the depths—he just had to reach in with his bare hands and yank them out. But it was like wandering in the darkness and relying on the tiniest light to guide him to where he needed to go. To where? He did not know, but oh, how beautiful the fireflies were that lit up the summer night of yesteryear.

What was it like to miss someone? These words never follow; the answer was ancient, like the blood all over the floor of a forgotten room in a ghost of a building far away, and a relic of the past he'd rather not return to. But it was also good and bad; an ache that brought him joy.

He just wanted to be a person who could sleep at night. Countless times had he been mauled by nightmares, bite marks in his bones. While Chuuya thought himself a dreamless man without an expression marked by worry, the gray beneath his eyes made him look younger, not older. It fooled neither Dazai nor the reflection that stared back in the mirror.

Things went like they did for a reason, he realized. Of the future, of the past, and of all that was not made to last, it would continue this way, and Dazai would turn to him and say, "Every day I think of how to kill you. It isn’t any deeper than that."

He would say it with a cheeky smile and a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, but soon, time too would wear that down. For now, this was what they had, and Dazai held onto it for dear life. Something, someone slipped from between his fingers before and it would not happen again.

For ever and ever.

[hedgiwithapen]

dhd prompt: someone musing on the impressive height/size difference between lois and clark.

Clark's not used to feeling powerless.  He's been powerless, sure. When the General caught him, when Brainiac got the Black Mercy on him. But that doesn't mean he's used to it. 

There's a deep red light pouring from the light fixtures sunk into the ceiling, though, and he feels  heavy and sluggish and just bad. It's not like Kyrptonite spreading through his veins more like... well, like what he guesses his friends feel like when Lois insists that bodies were a mistake, or Jimmy said even his bones hurt after a nasty bout of the flu. 

Still, just because he's powerless doesn't mean he's going to just give up. He strains against the heavy metal shackles pinning him to the chair, but all he gets is bruises for it.  Just out of reach, he can see Lois doing the same.

"So, you're the Man of Steel," their captor--who has not introduced herself-- says, with judgment in her gaze that Clark capital D, capital N, capital L Does Not Like. "Yes, you'll do nicely. Tall, strong, even without access to all your abilities. Impressive, when you don't feign meekness." Clark narrows his eyes. 

"Let us go."

"No, I don't think I will," the woman says, her snake tattoo rippling in the red light. It looks almost alive, coiling around her arm and vanishing into her high collared dress. 

"Then think again," Lois snaps.

The woman doesn't quite laugh. "You, on the other hand. Tiny. My fighters could break you like a twig. How something like you caught his eye... well. It's pathetic, really."

"Don't talk about her like that," Clark seethes.

"Oh?" Now she does laugh. "You may be Superman, but here you are one of my dogs. And if you want your pitiful scrap of a reporter to not get torn to shreds, you'll do as I say."

"Pitiful?" Lois demands. 

"Scrawny. Weak. Diminutive." Creepy-snake-tattoo lady tosses over shoulder. 

Lois huffs. "You forgot a couple things."

"Oh really?" the woman leaves Clark's side to sneer down at her. 

"Yeah." Lois counts. "One, my Dad taught me a lot of tricks. Two, I'm resourceful. And three--" She yanks her wrists through the cuffs and angles her elbow up to connect with creepy lady's nose. "I've got really skinny wrists."

Clark beams as Lois unleashes all the feral rage in her five-foot-two body.

The fight is as brutal as it is short, Lois making full use of her bony knees and sharp knuckles and a fist her father taught her. Clark doesn't need superhearing to know when the woman's arm breaks--her scream is loud enough, or hear the jingle of the key Lois rips from the chain around her neck before slamming a palm into her solar plexus. The woman goes down in a heap. Lois grins, and Clark grins back. "Need a hand?" she asks, already unlocking his cuffs. "Let’s blow this popsicle stand."

[melestasflight]

27. there was now no returning, Mithrim Lake

for @polutrope. 600ish words of Maglor, Maedhros, and Fingolfin at Mithrim Lake. Warnings for physical disfigurement, mental instability, and deliberation on murder.

there was now no returning

Maglor stared at the torpid form of the stranger Fingon had delivered on eagle’s back. It was the resting, recovering body of his brother, he knew that in some small corner of his mind, but the entirety of the rest of himself struggled to reconcile Maitimo with this. He bit his cheek to a bleed to prevent himself from acknowledging the words that his barely restrained repulsion was coining.

It was not easy to consider him like this, in a deep stupor that left him defenseless. The ugliness of his figure blindingly displayed, a grotesque exposition of Morgoth’s dark art. Still, Maglor much preferred it to the waking hours that inevitably brought the burning gaze of those yellowed eyes. The yellow that was firmly winning the battle against the clean silver grey that Maglor’s own eyes contained also. Its hue was not the one of joyful summer, of sweet ripe fruit. It was sickly rather, the sooty yellow of active decay.

Worse than that was the sharp-toothed grin that appeared at the most inappropriate moments. This thing, which was once Maglor’s brother whose smile could win over even the most tactful lords, now laughed at his own warped ideas of how the creatures of the enemy could be annihilated most effectively and thoroughly.

Not for the first time, Maglor wondered if Fingon would have done a kinder act by releasing his arrow when he had the chance. But there was now no returning the miracle Thorondor had granted. The only thing left to decide was what should be done now. First and foremost, the crown demanded a resolution. Maglor himself had never worn it, never wanted it, though he had ruled all these years with the iron fist these lands demanded.

He recalled his father with that crown, its gold too clean, too brilliant against the filth of blood and ash upon Fëanáro’s brow. Míriel’s madness awoken fully in her son, growing until it had consumed him whole. Maglor shuttered at the thought of that crown resting now upon the head of one whose lungs were still filled with the foul air of Thangorodrim.

It had to be prevented, at all costs. Now was an opportunity better than any.

There was a small bottle of deadly nightshade tincture by the bedside table. A drop was given for a dreamless rest. Four drops could put down a grown horse. Maglor quieted his internal song to a whisper and took a careful step forward, nerves taut as a bowstring.

When suddenly the heavy flap of the tent was opened behind him, he held back a scream through sheer willpower. But it was too late. Fingolfin stood by the entrance as one stricken and he had already caught Maglor’s intention. He had made himself too vulnerable, his thoughts too raw about him.

Unmovable, they gaped at each other for a long moment. A confession and an understanding. None would know it but the two of them. It could be a shared secret that would keep their mouths bound. And a burden carried by two would be easier to live with.

Neither had dared move even a finger when the slumbering body stirred by Maglor’s side.

‘Laurë… Laurë… Where is Makalaurë?’ He was calling for Maglor in his waking haze. 

Overwhelming pity rattled Maglor to the bones, and all at once, his resolve snapped as easily as a dry twig beneath a heavy boot. ‘I am here, I am right by you.’ He choked back a sob and grasped the bony hand reaching for him.

When their gazes met again, Maglor found an echo of his own pity in Fingolfin. They both knew it then, with the crystal clarity of Mithrim's waters in the morning light. The crown would find its place upon Fingolfin’s brow. It was for Fingolfin to rule in the West, and for Maglor to hold the East together.

‘Here, Nelyo, sit up.’ A new resolve formed itself in Maglor’s heart as he brought a glass of sweet water to his brother’s lips.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

[sunderedazem]

WIP Whenever

Tagged by @calico-heart! Tyyyyy for the tag- this means I get to show off a snippet of a Shadowbringers piece of the Ascian Azem AU that @azems-familiar and I share, featuring their sleepy ancient Azem and my sleepy WoL. Tagging six!: @azems-familiar, @taledotpng, @thelittlestancient, @ectojyunk, @darthsassacre, @bloodbywinter if you have any WIPs you want to tease, hehe. no pressure at all, ofc!

Corrain's POV

After a near-lifetime of napping in the shade of the sprawling trees of the Twelveswood and sleeping under the stars, one would think that a person should be immune to the awful, persistent ache that is having a crick in your neck or back. And yet when the light - not glaring, but even and mild, sunlight amidst a blue sky - falls warm onto the deep blue tattoos on his cheeks and shines through closed eyelids, that taut ache is what he wakes to. In three separate places, no less, though his neck is the worst offender. Seleukos’s knee is bony and sharp in the small of his back when Corrain blinks sleepily awake, still sprawled loosely atop them, his head half-pillowed on their stomach, his legs and tail hooked over Emet-selch still. There’s the heavy, lazy quiet of early morning lingering brightly in the air and in the deep center of his chest, and for a moment he simply lies there, awake and regretting it. And then he shifts just slightly, turning- ow- his head to glance up the bed at where the two Ascians had been last night following the vicious argument they’d had.  He softens. The sight above him is familiar, like the scent of a long-lost baby’s blanket, forever recognizable but never truly remembered, and this makes his heart warm and quicken against the lassitude in each of his breaths. Seleukos and Emet-Selch are both asleep still, lying half-back together against the pillows on his bed. Azem’s mask is still hanging around their neck, their head pillowed softly on Emet-selch’s shoulder, and his face is partially obscured by the curls of their dark hair, the Garlean third eye hidden entirely. Corrain still lies mostly across their laps where he’d flopped down the night previously, trapping them beneath him to force them to talk, purring constantly for Azem’s comfort.  He wonders if Seleukos has realized yet that they calm when they feel that low rumble in his breast. Wonders if they know he does it to bring them the softness they so desperately deserve. That- that he’s starting to believe that Emet-selch deserves as well.

It’s unnerving, empathizing so deeply with someone who doesn’t see him as a being worthy of life or the world. A part of him wishes he didn’t, wishes that he could simply take that ancient soul in Emperor Solus’s visage and snap it like a twig over his knee. But the greater, growing part of him understands. Understands the loss, the pain they’ve suffered. How scarring it is, how deep the wounds cut, how painfully they bleed. Understands how these two people before him have yet to heal from having their entire lives ripped away.  Understands how Azem chose to try, for him, and in the process has taught him to let go of the grief he’s been carrying too.

Thanks for the tag!!!! Sharing this bit is Fun hehe

[journeytodrawiii]

Day six of @kay-m-sinc's writing challenge: Butcher's Knife

Cw: violence, gore, icky stuff in general

Sandpaper against rough brick. Scrubbing. A sopping sponge tearing over her hands. The faucet gushed over her fingers, screeching, rushing. One thought ricocheted through her mind, droning over and over and over again. It would stain the grout between the kitchen tiles. He laid there. Still. His arm twisted over his head, wretched. Blood gurgled from his mouth, unmoving. Scrub. Just keep scrubbing. Her breath quickened, her fingertips tender and raw. From the corner of her eye, she watched as the red seeped from his body. Thick, dark and unforgiving. Softly glistening in the steady glow of the kitchen light.

Smack.

She slapped the sponge onto the tile below. Clinging onto the sink she clenched her teeth, a crack breaking through the pounding in her head as a sharp pain split down her jaw. Frost licked the edges of the windowpane. Snow dampened the streets. She squeezed her eyes shut, backing into a corner. Away from him. Pressing her sore palms to her eye sockets she sobbed. A soft twinkle chimed in the back of her mind, her childhood music box. The little ballerina that spun, suspended on a coil, with her arms outstretched, smiled upon her. The sharp splintering of the wood and twang of the springs when he cast it against the wall of her bedroom. Sharp and clear, repetitive. Echoing in her mind. Sobbing she pinched the bridge of her nose. What was she going to do now? Noel lay there, his blood pouring out while his soul shrunk in. Running through the fields, him dragging her along. Fresh sheets and grass-stained knees. Fireflies and snapping twigs. A sharp tongue, a rough word. The flick of a match. Deep, dark smoke billowing into the sky. Years of guilt, remorse. She had felt herself rattling on the stove for years, bubbling up. That final kick, that final jab and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise up. Sharp like pins. Then red. So much red. Flowing down onto her hands, cascading onto the tile beneath her stocking feet. The knife held steady in her hand, the yowling, the screeching, the wailing.

She shrunk behind the door. If she couldn't see Noel, nothing happened. He was still pouring himself over the stove, ready to complain that she had bought the wrong noodles, ready to insist she never did anything right. She trembled. Her hair plastered to her forehead, dark charcoal streaks spilling from her wet eyes. She looked up at the ceiling light. Behind the glass lay the bodies of three flies. Small specks of dark, fuzzy against the light. Salt slipped into her mouth. How did they get there? What did they do to deserve this? Did Noel deserve this? What had she done? Interlocking her fingers behind her neck she pressed her face between her knees. She stared down at the bathroom floor. A tsunami. Bile tore up from her stomach. She flung her body over the toilet, vomit spilling from her lip before she could reach the basin. She retched, heaved, sobbed. Her body quivered, trying to purge this moment. Trying to reject it. Trying to quash this reality. Alas. Her bony spine pushed against her taught skin. Adrenaline drained out of her, swirling down into the sewer. Draped over the toilet like a sheet of soft fabric. Light, tender, easily torn. She flopped backwards, clambering over to the bathtub, sick tracing the corners of her mouth. With trembling fingers she turned the faucet to drown out the ringing in her head. Shrill, sharp. Pins and needles pricked her feet, tucked under her pale body. The water rose, she closed her eyes, one hand in the bath. Trickling upwards, warm, red, thick liquid enveloped her. Her lungs grew tight, her chest solid stone. Caught behind the seeping of the blood she found that she couldn't draw a single breath. Her shoulders hitched forward as her eyes peeled open, the water bubbled up, clear. She tore her clothes from her clammy form. Shivering, she slinked into the tub, hot water pricking at her skin. Goosebumps tore at the back of her neck as she enveloped herself in the water, tugging her head down. A steady whoosh drowned out the ringing, now only her and the pounding of her heart remained as she sealed her eyes. Cool above the water, in the crisp swirl of the cold air, her knees towered above her. Two lonely peaks.

[snaillamp]

Sicktember - day 2

So my assessments are nearly finished and exam season is literally right around the corner, but i have managed to smash out a few days. I really like all the prompts and will do them all, but I'm putting uni first rn. Enjoy as always!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2. Quest for a Cure

Arin walked through the forest, glancing around the shadowy trees. He was brave, but even he feared the Dead Woods. Many things lived amongst the skeletal trees, human and not, and some even said unnatural creatures walked the cursed ground.

A twig snapped behind Arin, who whirled around, drawing his sword and glancing into the growing dark of the evening. There was nothing there...

Something pricked his the back of his neck, Arin’s hand flying up to his neck and pulling out the dart. He already began to feel woozy as he dropped it into the mud. Turning around, he continued to walk, fat raindrops falling from the dark, purple clouds that vibrated the ground with their thunder. Lightning streaked across the sky and made it easier to see but…

Arin’s stomach dropped.

There was a figure in his path.

His hair stuck to his forehead as he drew his sword, the rain trailing down his skin into his eyes. He wiped them for just a second and when he looked back up, the figure was gone. Holding his sword up, ready to fight, he panted in the rain. The adrenaline was coursing through his body as he stepped into a puddle, his foot sinking into it. Looking down, Arin yanked his foot out, and managed to raise his sword just in time to block the movement hurtling out of the darkness in the corner of his eye. He managed to fend off the person, sending it melting back into the shadows, before another attacked.

Swords flashed as Arin fought them off, grunting as he blocked attack after attack, the rapidly fading light and rain making it hard to see… Something hit him in the chest, sending him flying backwards into the ground. Landing on his back with a thud, Arin could see cloaked figures standing over him, laughing as they discussed what to do with him, one of them pressing their foot hard into his chest, crushing his ribs.

Some wanted to kill him right there, others wanted to keep him and others wanted to use him… Arin gasped as he tried to breathe, winded as he lay in the mud, unable to get up. Right as the bandits had made their decision, a loud thunder clap echoed around them. The very earth seemed to shake as the bandits looked up, the air suddenly still as they heard a squeaking sound. The cloaked figures talked amongst themselves as Arin’s vision started to blur, before they scattered.

The last thing Arin saw was another figure, holding an old, rusted lantern. The flame inside flickered and danced, enchanting Arin as he began feeling light headed. The pressure lifted from his chest, but he was already gone.

The figure watched as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp with a sigh.

~~

Arin awoke in a soft, comfy bed. He inhaled slowly, smelling pleasant herbs as he opened his eyes. He hadn’t realised that someone was dabbing his head with a damp cloth. Moaning tiredly, he tried to figure out where he was, his body shivering from cold, despite the sound of a fireplace crackling nearby.

“Shhhh… rest. You are badly poisoned.” Arin grunted as he tried to sit up. His chest ached, and looking down he noticed his clothes were gone. There were some bandages wrapped around his neck, across his chest and arms, firm and tight. He grasped at them, looking around for his clothes. He needed to get going, he needed… pain overcame him as he was roughly pushed back with a gnarled, bony hand.

He landed with a gasp against the soft pillows, head spinning. “Stay still. You are not well.” Arin looked over at the figure tending to them. “Who are you…?” He asked, his throat dry and aching. “It does not matter who I am, but what I can do for you. And right now I’m helping, so lie still.”

Arin coughed, listening to the ragged, old sounding voice hum gentle songs. He was so cold, but he was sweating so much, his bandages already so wet. He groaned as a wave of nausea hit him, making everything sway. “Hmm… worse than I thought. Will need more tincture.” The figure left his side, Arin turning his head to take in the tiny cabin he was in.

It was warm and inviting, if not a little messy. Drying herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling like garlands, strange carvings etched into the beams in the ceiling and the frames in the doorway. Even the window ledge was delicately carved with beautiful, curving runes.

There were skin rugs on the floor and skulls and bones scattered around tables everywhere, empty glass bottles and tubes peeking out amongst bowls full of herbs half ground into powders, shelves of books and jars and tubes full of strange liquids, powders and objects.

A large fireplace flickered at the other rend of the cabin, a cauldron hanging over it, bubbling away with something inside spitting up droplets of something. The hunched figure shuffled over to it, stirring it a little before going back to a table, rummaging around and mixing up a potion. They poured it into a long, thin tube, bringing it over Arin. “Drink.”

Arin frowned at the strange smelling liquid in the tube. It was an amber colour, with what looked like tiny fibrous specs floating around in it. “Uhh…”

The figure thrust it at him. “Drink.” They insisted, holding it up to Arin’s parched lips. Before Arin could turn his head, the figure pulled open his mouth, chucking the content of the tube into the back of his throat. Arin cough and spluttered, swallowing the liquid.

“Hey…” He coughed, “What did you do that for…?” The figure pulled back his blankets, exposing his chest, before pulling the bandages free. As they lifted them off Arin, he noticed the pussy, yellow stains on them. Lifting his fingers towards the back of his neck, he tried to feel the extent of the injuries, but the bony hand grabbed it, holding it tightly.

For an elderly hermit, the figure sure had a lot of strength. “Don’t touch, it will get infected. I need to clean it.” They shoved Arin onto his left side, and touched an ice cold cloth to his neck. It sent shivers down Arin's spine and he yelped, smelling the potent scent of a strong herb that burned his nostrils a little. It was a crisp, fresh scent, like the forest itself was being dabbed on his neck.

His back was exposed and pricked as cold liquid dripped over his skin, if he didn't feel cold before, he did now. The figure sat him back up, causing Arin to feel lightheaded again. The last thing he remembered was falling sideways, two strong, bony hands catching him and holding him up…

He awoke in much the same situation as before, bandages reapplied and cloth with warm herbal water being dabbed on his body, except this time it was on his exposed chest and arms.

“You’re awake… Good, good, good, good…” The voice of the figure mumbled, seemingly to itself. “Where am I?” Arin managed to whisper, his tongue feeling fat like a slug in his mouth as his words slurred.

“My home.” The figure replied, looking at Arin.

For the first time, Arin could actually see the features of the figure’s face. It appeared to be a man, with a long, sharp, thin nose arching down his face and two, deep, dark eyes. Thin lips were curled into a gentle smile and tattoos were etched into his old, weathered skin.

A thin, black line trailed down the centre of his forehead, from the top of his hairline to the end of his nose. Under his eyes, a line stretched from the inner corners, diagonally across his cheeks, and stemming from each of those lines, another line trailed down from roughly the middle of the diagonal lines, straight down to the man’s jawline. The markings were exactly symmetrical on each side. The man’s features Arin of an owl, so serene and deadly at the same time, an intensity that shook Arin to his core.

“Who are you…?” He breathed, taking in the man’s sliver hair, pulled back and decorated with delicate braids and beads. Arin swore he could see a feather peeking out over his shoulder.

“Who are you?” The man cooed back, mischievously, his face pulling into a wiry smile. “My name is… Thora.” Arin lied, using his father’s name. He knew better than to give his real name to people in these parts, especially a magician like this. “Thora. Old name, good, strong name. Yes… I am Haynar.” Arin recognised the name, Haynar was a name used by druids to mask their true identities. Laying back in the bed, Arin tensed. Druids were supposed to be almost extinct, their beliefs long forgotten. They only existed as chapters in books and ancient carvings in trees and rocks.

“You know me.” Haynar murmured, grinning. “Not many are educated in the old ways, Thora.” They sat in silence, delirium setting in as Arin’s eyes rolled around in their sockets, looking at figures creeping around in the shadows, at one point, Haynar’s faceactually becoming a beautiful white owl’s. The owl-man blinked slowly at him, Arin getting lost in his bird eyes as he stood and replaced the blankets. “Rest…” He whispered, looking at Arin as he passed out again.

He felt as if he was floating.

It was dark and cold when he awoke again, shooting up from his place in the bed, panting and sweating. “Good. You’re alive.” The voice of the old man, Haynar sounded across the cabin. “You got worse, I feared you might not make it. I am glad to be proven wrong.” Arin’s eyes moved around the cabin, finding Haynar crouched over the fire, his leathery hands throwing a few small logs onto the flames.

“How long have I been here?” Arin whispered, feeling quite breathless. He lay back down in the bed, breathing hard and fast. Each breath he took, despite being larger than the first felt like less and less air. He felt faint as his vision blurred, his eyes growling vacant as he teetered in the brink of passing out. His eyes rolled in his head as the old man came over and placed a hand on his forehead, Arin feeling the touch callouses graze his skin as he fought to keep his eyes open.

He tried sucking in a breath over and over, but nothing was working.

“Calm, you must slow your breathing…” Haynar’s voice was low and haggard. Arin tried to tell him he couldn't, but the now familiar feeling of passing out creeping into his mind… Haynar began to whisper words.

They were strange, unlike any Arin had heard before, echoing in his mind. A warmth washed over him, like a fuzzy cloud of hazy tranquility, warm and soft, it was ecstasy compared to how he had felt minutes before. Arin moaned, unable to stop himself, half out of relief, half out of pleasure, as he shut his eyes. But he didn't pass out.

Haynar stood with his hand on Arin’s forehead, humming a little tune and whispering his words as Arin lay still, feeling the breath come back into him.

He gasped greedily, feeling his chest inflate and deflate with a shaky, thankful breaths. “Breathe in slowly.” Haynar directed him, taking very slow, deep breaths to guide Arin’s own breathing. Arin copied, deep groans leaving him with each breath as he came back to himself. Haynar lifted his hand and the sensation faded as fast as it had appeared, Haynar's whispering now a memory in Arin’s mind.

Arin lay there, blinking and mumbling as the world stopped spinning, but he hadn’t even noticed it had started in the first place.

He nodded slowly, trying to keep his eyes open, despite his body’s determination to roll them back into his head again. He ended up going cross-eyed, head bobbing slightly are he tried to stay awake.

Pain came crashing back down into him, as if a huge boulder had been dropped on his chesy. He groaned, breath shuddering as he blinked, finally able to get a grip on reality. Squeezing his eyes shut, he opened them again and looked at Haynar’s leathery, wrinkled face.

“…nnh… what’s happening to me….?” He asked, tired and cold.

“You are fighting off the Ganeri bandit’s poison, it is potent and you were already weak from travel. Rest for a few days, then continue on your journey.”

Arin sighed, “How long have I been here?” He asked again. “A few days, the fourth is about the end. You awoke on the third night twice and just now. You are too weak to move, so don’t bother trying.” He muttered, turning around and fiddling with some herbs hanging from the ceiling. He picked some leaves, taking them to the fire where he opened that cauldron and stirred it, tossing the leaves in. Grabbing a spoon from a table, Haynar brought it over to Arin and pulled up a chair. Holding out a spoon he had got from somewhere, he picked up some of the thick soup.

“No thank you, I can’t ask that of you.” Arin refused, trying to sit. He looked down, realising why he felt so cold. His chest was now completely bare, no bandages or anything. His hand danced to the back of his neck, where he felt the remnants of a flaking scab. Haynar must have seen the flicker of confusion on his face, because he laughed, Arin noticing his mouth containing only a few teeth. “My magic is strong, it will heal you fast, now eat, you need strength if you will fight this.”

Arin obeyed, eating the soup that Haynar fed him. It tasted nice, salty, slightly sweet and full of different herbs and spices, mostly ones Arin didn’t recognise. “So what is a fine, young warrior doing wandering around and getting shot by Ganderi?”

Arin lay back his shoulders against the lowest part of the bed's headboard, sighing. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling and wincing, a tingling cold crawling up his body. “Neughhn… I…” He tried to speak but the cold overcame him, sending shivers down his spine. Hie eyes grew heavy as he blinked slowly. Haynar sat him up further, lifting him with ease despite his appearance.

“Mmmn…” Arin squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for the cold to leave him. “My village… The water has become corrupted. I was told… Agh…” He winced as he took in a breath, his chest hurting. “Hmm, your ribs are still delicate, take your time.” Haynar said, placing a hand on Arin’s bare chest. He hadn’t realised how warm the druid’s hands felt until now.

“Our water… it’s corrupted with sickness. I was told that hidden in this forest… there’s a cure… AGH!” Sitting was proving to be too painful, so Arin slid himself back down. He took a moment to recover as Haynar fed him more soup, before continuing. “They say there’s a cure in this forest, something called The Eye. It is said to cure any disease or affliction and lift any curse or spell… I am searching for it, so that we may live through winter. We can't water our crops and our wells are toxic, may are ill and some have even died, mostly elders and young children…” Arin looked sad, remembering helping his ailing father dig the graves for the people who had been lost.

Haynar nodded, looking somber. “Unfortunate that such a noble quest has been so savagely interrupted.” He looked at Arin with a glint in his eye. “Hm, quite a shame.” He chucked standing and placing the now empty bowl on a stack of other bowls stacked haphazardly.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where The Eye is?” Arin asked, sitting again and leaning forward hopefully. Haynar might be his only chance to find it and save everyone he could. Haynar looked over his shoulder and pursed his lips. “Heh, there is no Eye, never has been. The Eye is merely a myth made up by desperate people to hold out hope until an inevitable demise. They use it to pretend that the end will never come, but it always does.” Arin’s heart dropped as his shoulders drooped.

“Hm, I do know of some cures, but it will come at a price.” Arin looked up, hope foolishly renewed, despite his knowing that a deal like this with a druid was dangerous. He chose his words next carefully. “What do you want?” Haynar turned, laughing maniacally, shuffling over to Arin. “Prove to me that you deserve my help.” The druid smiled, tattoos bending as he smiled his more gap than tooth grin.

“How do I do that?” Arin whispered, confused. “Easy, I help good, deserving and just people. Prove to me you are good, deserving and just. I am old, when you are well, stay a few days, help me prepare for the winter approaching.” Arin let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. That didn't sound so bad.

“Fine, it’s a deal.” They shook on it, Arin finally giving in to his aching body’s demands and falling back into the soft bed.

Haynar chuckled softly, tucking him in as he rolled onto his side and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

~~

The gentle rays of warm, golden sun woke Arin in the morning. He grunted, enjoying the warm light on his exposed shoulders. Pulling the sheets down a little, he let the light dance across his chest, noticing that his ribs felt much better. He lay ther, eyes shut, soaking in the sun for a while, the cabin silent.

Just as he was dozing off, the cabin door was opened, before Haynar trudged in, letting it slam shut behind him. Arin jerked in shock, rolling over and looking around. Haynar smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I suppose it is time you got up though.” Arin rubbed his face tiredly, pushing himself up and shining his legs over the bed. He looked at his pants, the only thing Haynar had left on him, stained with mud and blood. He took a moment, blinking slowly as the world spun around him a little. “Take your time, the day is young.” Haynar mumbled from across the cabin, rummaging through a basket.

Arin stood, wobbling a little before steadying himself, then taking some steps. His feet hurt from the days of walking he had done, his best letter boots long worn out. Haynar finished rummaging, picking up a piece of cloth and throwing it at Arin. It hit him squarely in the chest, before he caught it, his shirt that he had been wearing before the attack. It was clean and soft, smelling pleasantly of wildflowers. Gingerly shrugging it on, Arin pulled it down his torso, the fabric resting loosely around his frame. He had lost weight under the care of the druid.

Running his hand through his hair, he smiled at Haynar who pulled out his socks and boots from the same place. “Put these on, then meet me outside.” The druid ordered, handing Arin his things. The man glanced around, hoping to find his sword, but he couldn’t see it.

He put on the rest of his clothes before following Haynar outside. The man stood by a large barrel of potatoes beside a wooden stool, a knife embedded in it. Haynar moved the stool down in the sun and yanked out the knife, handing it to Arin.

“Sit, peel my potatoes so I can pickle them. The sun will do you some good, too.” The druid directed, pointing at the large barrel. Arin sighed, this would take all day, but he nodded, taking a seat and picking a potato up.

After a couple of potatoes were peeled, Haynar brought over a small basket. “Put them in here, then carry them over to me, I’ll be in that shack over there.” He pointed to a small, wooden shack, barely standing as it leaned heavily to one side.

It looked like one slight breeze would send it tumbling over. Heavy moss dangled down from the roof, making it bend in the middle, and seemly causing the building to sink into the ground.

Arin nodded, peeling more potatoes. As he looked at the mountain of them in the barrel. He wondered where the druid had managed to get so many, there were enough here to feed him for ages, you could easily give everyone in his small village at least two…

He glanced over at the smaller basket, breaking his train of thought.

It was full.

Grunting, Arin pushed up from the stool and picked up the basket. It was heavier than he thought, though he was probably weakened from the whole fighting off a deadly poison thing. Carrying the basket over to the shed, Arin dropped it on the ground, huffing and puffing. That journey should have been easy for him to do… He hated being so weak.

Shoving the door open, he felt the rusted hinges grind as they turned, the door squeaking loudly. Haynar was in the behind a table that took up most of the shed, laying out many, many glass jars. The table was so big the druid had to cram himself between the slanting wall and the edge of the table to even move around it. Ducking under the low doorframe, Arin carried the basket in.

Haynar eyed the potatoes and nodded, “Beautiful work Thora. Just pour them in there.” He pointed at a new barrel, shoved in the corner of the shack. Arin complied, pouring his basket of potatoes into the barrel and going back out to continue peeling.

They repeated the process all day, until Arin’s back and wrists ached from sitting and working all day. He was tired of peeling, carrying the heavy loads to the shack and coming back to repeat it all again. The sun was nice though, warming him up until it began to sink low in the sky. The last of the potatoes were peeled and Arin dragged them to the shack, leaving them in the barrel for Haynar. As he left, he looked at the pile of potatoes peelings almost as high as his knees. “Uh, Haynar, what do you want me to do with the peelings?”

Haynar laughed. “Ah, just put them in the barrel you just emptied, I will deal with them later. Go inside, you have had a long day.” Arin nodded, picking up every last scrap of potato peeling before dragging his feet inside.

He stumbled through the door and walked across the cabin in a couple of seconds, collapsing face first into the small bed. He groaned tiredly, kicking off his boots and pulling off his sweat stained shirt, enjoying the cool breeze flowing through the open door and dancing across his back.

~~

He awoke to the sound of bubbling, a pleasant aroma of herbs and spices filling the cabin. Moaning, he sat up, wiping a little bit of drool from his face. Blinking slowly, he saw Haynar hunched over the pot of whatever it was he was cooking, stirring vigoursly. The druid turned around at the sound of Arin waking up and smiled.

“Ah, you woke up just in time for dinner!” He laughed, grabbing a large spoon and some bowls from a nearby table and filling them with soup. There were chunks of fresh potato in them… “Potato soup, I hope you’re not sick of looking at them.” Haynar chuckled at his own joke, handing a bowl to Arin.

They ate in comfortable silence, Arin enjoying the the way the slightly salted potato melted on his tongue. When he looked down at his bowl, he had eaten everything. He hadn't even noticed... Sitting back on the bed and sighing, he rubbed his bare chest, it didn't hurt as much as it had yesterday. He coughed a little when his hand brushed over a still slightly delicate rib, making him wince a tiny bit.

“Rest.” Haynar spoke, voice low and rasping. He put his hands on Arin’s chest and pushed him back into the bed, tucking him in. “I need more help tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

Arin nodded, eyes already shut. ~~ The day was a little cloudier when Arin awoke the next day. He coughed a little, sliding out of bed and grabbed his shirt off the floor from yesterday. It smelled a bit, but he’d rather wear a smelly shirt than none at all, especially since it looked like it might rain later. Haynar had other ideas.

“No! Take that off, just wait.” The druid spoke up from across the room, making Arin jump. He frowned, pulling his arms out of the shirt and holding it in his lap. “Bring it here.” The druid ordered, Arin obeying. “You look nice and strong, hmm? Help me carry this basket to the river, we will wash clothes today. Maybe you can also wash yourself.” The old man shot Arin a dirty look, before bursting into laughter.

“Don’t look so alarmed, I don’t mind. I live in a forest, child. You think I don’t stink?” He continued, howling with glee as he waddled out the door, Arin picking up the heavy basket and following him outside.

They went down a small path behind the cabin and down to the river. It was more of a narrow stream, but it looked quite deep. “Just there is fine.” The man pointed at a large, flat stone by the stream. “Just sit there, I’ll be back with some things.” Arin nodded, shivering a little as a little breeze whipped around him.

His skin prickled as the cold bit it. Rubbing his arms with his hands, he looked longingly at the shirt he had thrown on top of the pile, but he knew better than to mess with the druid. If he said to do something, he meant it exactly like he wanted, Arin was sure.

The man came back, holding a small basket full of bottles of… stuff. He placed it beside Arin, before sitting cross-legged beside him.

“You soak the clothes, I’ll clean them.” The druid directed, rummaging in the basket. He pulled out a large bottle full of a thick, clear liquid, small flowers suspended inside it. They were tiny, brightly coloured and honestly, beautiful. Arin blinked, tearing his eyes away from the bottle and grabbed the clothes. He dunked them into the water, his eyebrows jumping as his hands plunged into the icy stream. Haynar laughed again. “Bit cold, eh? No matter, we won’t be long.”

Arin continued to wash the clothes, his hands going numb from the cold. Haynar poured the liquid on them and scrubbing them with his hands, before washing off the suds with the stream. Then he lay them on the grass, letting them dry.

The sun came out at one point, warming Arin a little, but soon it was behind the clouds again. Arin's ribs began to ache from hunching over the water, and he moaned softly, rubbing them occasionally when they twinged. Haynar shot him a look every time he did it, his eyes trailing Arin’s body.

He was right though, after 20 minutes or so, they had finished the basket of clothes, which turned out to be mostly Arin’s clothes from his travels. When Arin finished, he walked over to his shirt, touching it. It was slightly damp still, but he’d rather let it dry on him than be in this air any longer.

“Thora. You should bathe.” Haynar pointed at the stream, the water flowing fast by them.

Arin’s facial expression must have said it all, because the druid made a face that seemed to be saying “Just do as I say.”

Arin sighed, so the druid was a pervert then. Walking over to the water, he caught some in his hand and held it out to the druid. “Look, it’s freezing, if I swim in that, I’ll get sick. I’m sorry but no. I’m already cold enough as it is.” He gestured at his half naked form.

“Just get in.” The druid rolled his eyes, turning around. “I’ll get you something warm to wrap yourself in after, how about that?” Arin squinted at Haynar, confused. The druid couldn’t be serious, he wasn’t going to make him bathe in that water?

“Just do it, you’ll thank me later.” The druid called as he wandered up the hill. Arin huffed in frustration, before making sure the druid was far from sight.

When he slipped into the water, he winced. It was ice cold. The stream was quite narrow, Arin could probably have been able to touch the other side with his toes if he lay on his back and held on to the bank with his hands. He wasn’t even waist deep yet, but his feet were already numb. With a sigh, he leaned forward, pushing out into the water, before dunking his head under. It seemed to help his body acclimatise to the temperature, because he was able to at least swim in the water, but he could already feel his teeth chattering.

His body was completely submerged, the tops of his shoulders peaking out of the water as he bobbed up and down. Deciding to get it over with quickly, Arin began to rub his body down, cleaning what he could before he swam back to shore.

The rock he had sat to to clean the clothes suddenly felt hot to the touch as he pulled himself up and out of the water. Lying face down on it Arin closed his eyes, thankful for the warmth soaking into his skin.

He felt a thick blanket land on top of him covering him up and trapping more heat. Grabbing it with shaking blue fingers, Arin pulled the soft, heavy fabric around him, huddling in a ball to try and warm up. He looked up at a splash, seeing Haynar dive happily into the river. The old man surfaced, his hair hanging down limply from his head, heavy with water. He flicked his hair out of his face and laughed. “Great, isn’t it?”

Arin scowled, curling up even more to make his point. “N-n-n-o… It was f-f-f-fr-r-reez-z-z-ing…” He shook, huddling the blanket around him. He realised that it wasn’t wet, despite the fact it was drying him.

The druid smiled, shanking his head and diving deep, down into the stream. “How deep is that thing?” Arin wondered aloud. The druid was under the water for a while and Arin was starting to think he had drowned. Then suddenly he surfaced, holding up a large fish triumphantly.

“How’s that for a dinner, huh?!” He called out, swimming back to the rock that Arin was huddled on. Haynar’s body was covered in tattoos, his old chest dotted with lines and swirls, his stomach with a beautiful pattern curling around to his waist and his legs adorned with bands of shapes and sigils. The man’s body was a canvas that Arin quickly looked away from as he pulled himself out of the stream. The druid lay the flailing fish on the rock, placing a hand on its' body and hushing it. He whispered some words to it, that only the fish could understand, because after a few seconds its gills went still and its' tail stopped flapping.

It lay there, limp and dead as Haynar stood up, grabbing his own blanket from beside Arin and pulling it over himself. “You go inside, I’ll clean up here.” The druid smiled, waving Arin away. “But what about my clo-”

“Shh, I’ll deal with that. Your shirt should be dry. Go inside and rest, you’ll need it.” Arin shook his head, standing on his shaking, cold legs, his body shivering as his teeth clacked together. He went over to his shirt laying on the grass, now dry and… warm? Looking at the sun, or the small beam of light behind the clouds, Arin knew it wasn’t enough to have dried the clothes that fast and warm them up.

Wrapping the blanket around his waist, Arin picked up his shirt and slid it on. It was amazing, being enveloped in the warm fabric. He felt the warmth sink into his bones as he walked, enjoying the smell of the wild flowers that wafted from the clean fabric.

When he re-entered the cabin, he crawled under the sheets of the bed, huddling under the layers of blankets. After 10 minutes or so, his teeth finally stopped chattering and his shivering ceased.

Haynar came back, thankfully wearing clothes, with the rest of the washing. He brought Arin's pants back to him, folding them quickly and placing them at the foot of the bed.

“Oh, what’s happened with you?” He asked curiously, Arin looking at him in annoyance. “You made me swim in a freezing cold creek!” He flashed an angry glare at the old man before curling back up under the blankets. He was finally warm, he wasn’t going to remove these blankets for anything right now.

“Oh shhh,” The druid smirked, shaking his head. He patted Arin’s head before muttering. “You’ll see…” he dumped the fish on the table and began to prepare it with a large, glinting knife, the steady sounds making Arin feel sleepy.

He blinked hard, forcing his eyes open. With an annoyed sigh, he sat up and got dressed properly, impressed that the pants were also still warm, as if they had been sitting in the summer heat all day. He looked around the dim cabin as he fixed himself up, securing his pants and shuffling over to the fire. It seemed to always be alight, crackling softly.

As he sat down, he winced, preparing for his ribs to hurt again, but they didn’t. He blinked in surprise, massaging his chest, feeling for anywhere that hurt, but nothing did. The druid patted him on the shoulder, causing him to jump. The man was silent, like an owl, creeping up behind him. “That stream is called Meyatha.” The druid explained. “I was feeding you the water, but you really needed a swim in it.” Arin looked at the old man, who stared wistfully into the fire.

“Meyatha is sacred, the waters are powerful. My kind have bathed in it for centuries.” Haynar reached a wrinkled hand into the flames, picking up a burning log with his bare hands and shoving it further into the flames. Arin looked at him as he did it, but when the druid removed his hand, there were no burns. Haynar didn’t seem to acknowledge the fact there weren't any, instead groaning as he pushed himself up and grabbed the fresh fish he had prepared.

Soon the creamy flesh was frying on a flat pan, sitting comfortably by the flames.

Arin ate thankfully, the warm meal filling him up and warming his insides. “Tomorrow, you will help me once more, then I will help you with your problem.”

Arin nodded, getting up and going to bed. However, he had no intentions of falling asleep. He tucked himself in, getting comfy and shut his eyes, listening as the druid hummed and tottered about the cabin, clinking tubes and glasses together, and grinding something at some point with his tools.

Arin cracked an eye open, watching the druid carefully. At one point the old man looked up at Arin, cocking his head curiously. Arin remained dead still, keeping his breathing deep and slow. Haynar pouted before going back to his work, humming a little tune. He would occasionally stop and glance at Arin, eyeing him suspiciously, before returning to his work. At one point, Arin tried to sell it more, groaning softly and sighing, letting his body go limp. He watched as Haynar looked over at him and smiled.

“You are a tired one, hmm?” He murmured, going over to Arin. “I only hope it is not too late for you… You are a good soul.” He put a hand on Arin’s head, feeling his temperature before adjusting the blankets. “I’m glad I was watching you. Those bandits were not going to let you live. I can only hope that you will have a safe return to your village.” They stroked Arin’s head, it felt nice. Arin moved and mumbled, opening his eyes and looking at Haynar, who quickly removed it.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to wake you, go back to sleep.” He whispered, stroking Arin’s head again. Soon Arin was actually asleep, snoring softly. Haynar smirked. “Sleep well little one.”

~~

Arin woke with a start to an empty cabin. The fire was low and the room was drenched in darkness. It was raining hard, a large thunder clap sounding. That must have been what woke him. Looking around for Haynar, he couldn’t see him anywhere. Sitting up as lightning flashed, the cabin was illuminated for a second. Haynar was nowhere to be found. Standing, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and grabbed his thick, warm cloak.

Looking around in the flashes of lightning, he watched for the glint of his sword. He couldn’t see it anywhere, until he checked under the bed.

It was there, pushed toward the back of the bed. Grabbing it, he secured it around his waist, walking toward the door. Walking out into the wind and rain, looking around for Haynar. He squinted out into the dark looking for anything, but he couldn’t see him.

“Come inside, you’ll catch a cold.” Haynar’s voice broke through the thunder behind him. Whirling around, Arin saw the old druid standing in the doorway, holding the door open, the fire now raging and casting a warm, golden glow on the walls. Arin stumbled back inside, shedding his clothes and weapon. Once he was back inside, Haynar put a firm hand on his back and guided him back to bed, “I couldn’t find you…” Arin mumbled. “Rest, I merely went outside for more firewood.” Haynar murmured, tucking Arin in. “You are still injured, Thora. Rest.” Arin nodded, letting his eyes slide shut. He was so… so… tired…

~~

That morning, he felt sluggish waking up. His body felt better than it had in days, but it was heavy, like it was made of lead. Lifting his head, it felt like it was stuffed full of mud.

Haynar was sitting by the fire, adjusting the logs with his bare hands, as usual. Arin must have groaned as he sat up, because the man turned around and looked at him. “You slept in today. Are you feeling alright? Perhaps you should rest and work tomorrow.” Arin shook his head, causing the world to spin a little. He blinked as it stopped, pushing out of bed and swaying a little, he had to work so he could get back to his village, he had been gone too long already.

Haynar sighed, seemingly reading his mind, before he grunted, easing up from the fire and mixing up a serum with his herbs and oils. He handed a pleasant smelling liquid in a mug to Arin. “This should get you through the day.” He patted Arin on the shoulder, before leaving. Arin took a sip of the drink before retching. It might smell nice, but it tasted like sewage. Forcing the drink down, Arin gasped for air, trying to rid the taste from his mouth before stumbling outside.

Haynar was standing beside some logs. “Oh no…” Arin mumbled walking over.

“Cut these up for me. Nice, manageable pieces if possible, then carry them over to my pile. It’s behind the house, you can’t miss it.”

Arin sighed, nodding and picking up an axe that was leaning beside a log.

“It's sharp, be careful.” Haynar added, before shuffling back inside. He came out with a large book and sat in a sunny patch of grass. It was still a cloudy day, but at least there was some sun.

Arin set up the wood on a chopping block and swung the axe, grunting as it came down. He split the wood clean in two, the axe the sharpest he’d ever used. “Woah…” He murmured looking at the blade. It looked old and rusted, but it was definitely sharp. Chopping up the wood, he soon had a small pile that he picked up and carried around to the stock at the back of the cabin. He found a little nook for the wood and began to stack the fresh logs. There weren’t many pieces of wood left, so it was just as well Arin was doing this for the old man.

He wouldn’t be able to get through the winter otherwise.

When he came back around, Haynar was sitting, hunched over the book, trailing his fingers trailing over the pages. ‘Course you’re just making me do all your chores so you can read…’ Arin thought, rolling his eyes and returning to the wood cutting. He did have to admit, he felt a little better after the drink, but occasionally a chill would dance down his spine. After a couple of hours of chopping, he was almost done and the stock pile was nearly full.

Arin sighed as he lay down the axe for a minute, his arms feeling like they were about to drop out of his shoulders, his back ached from the constant swinging. He walked over to a patch of sun and collapsed in it, face first into the grass. The warm light on his back made him smile as he heard Haynar chuckle and stand up, shuffling away. He returned a few minutes later with some bread and a pot of jam. “Here, you should eat.” The druid said, thrusting the food at Arin, who raised his head from the ground. Sitting up slowly, Arin ate the food thankfully, enjoying the tart taste of the jam on the bread.

“Thank you.” He smiled softly as the druid ripped a chunk of bread off for himself. “You’re welcome young Thora.”

Arin continued chopping until the pile was finished. He was panting hard by the end of it, sweat staining his shirt. Pulling it off, he fanned himself with it, before wiping his face. The world swayed as it went blurry for a second and Haynar looked up, frowning as he watched the young man sway.

“Are you alright? Why don’t you let me move the wood? You can rest, you’ve done more than enough.” Arin shook his head, grabbing the wood he had just finished cutting and carrying it around the cabin. He was going to finish this damn job himself, or everything would be for nothing. When he finally moved back around the cabin, he saw Haynar picking up the book and taking it inside.

The ground seems to be unsteady beneath him as he felt the blood drain from his face, and he collapsed with a sigh, landing heavily on the ground.

~~

Haynar heard a strangled sigh, rushing outside just in time to see the man hit the ground. He didn’t move, laying limp in the grass, sweat pouring off his body. Haynar ran over, rolling the man and gasped. His face was ashen and his skin was burning hot. “The poison… It has taken hold again.”

Dragging the traveller’s heavy, sagging body inside he rushed around mixing concoctions of river water and herbs. He whispered incantations gently, humbly asking the mixtures to cooperate as he created them.

Thora groaned and opened his eyes slightly at one point, only for them to roll back almost instantly as his body went still. His breaths were uneven as he lay there in the bed, gasping for air. Haynar brought a thick oil over to him, and scooped a large glob onto the man’s chest, massaging it into the skin. “I hoped it would not come to this remedy, but it appears you had a particularly potent dose.” Haynar explained to the unconscious man. The oil smelled strongly of mint, but Haynar would rather use it now than later, he knew that it was going to feel like he had set Thora on fire.

~~

Arin moaned as he smelled a strong scent, burning his nostrils. He opened his eyes, his mouth feeling as dry as a desert as he tried to speak. “Uhhhnn…” Was all he could manage. “I am sorry,” Haynar said as he rubbed the thick oil onto the man’s chest. “I should have made you wait… The bandits must be using a stronger concotion of poison… I am sorry... This will hurt so much…” All Arin could hear was a buzz as he tired to keep his eyes open, vaguely aware of a tingling sensation on his chest. All of a sudden, his eyes grew wide as he screamed, arching his back in pain as the sensation of a white hot knife pieced his chest. He heard Haynar start to hum as he gasped for air, that strange, pleasurable sensation washing over him again. He moaned breathlessly, trying to understand the world, colours and shapes spinning in front of his eyes and loud, strange singing filling his head.

Rainbow streams of light filled his vision, blinding and overwhelming as he passed out with a cry.

~~

Haynar listened to the strangled cries of the man cut off suddenly. He grabbed a poultice from the nearest table, soaking it in water from the stream, and dabbing it on Thora’s forehead.

He hummed his spells, praying that it would work. The poor man’s breaths grew more and more strained, his chest fighting to suck in air. Haynar desperately tried everything, throwing all that he could at the man… But he drew a final, wavering breath, before sighing and going still.

He didn’t take another.

“No, no, no…” Haynar muttered, shaking Thora hard. His skin was even more grey, but now he was ice cold. Haynar felt his insides burn in a rage as his face began to contort, feathers emerging from his skin as he felt his form shift. He placed a yellow, clawed hand, much like that of an owl foot on the man’s chest. Letting his claws pierce the skin, blood leaked from Thora’s skin as Haynar spoke the ancient language of his kin. He called the young man’s spirit back to him, gripping his chest hard, feeling the skin part as he sliced it with his knife like claws.

He could feel the heart beat in the man's chest, faint but there… He could feel the spirit, it was fighting to stay, he could save this man…

Arin’s eyes shot open, and he gasped, throwing his head back and sucking in as much air as he could. He wailed in pain, still feeling the burn of the oil Haynar had used on his chest. He felt thick, sharp claws slide out from inside him, making his breath hitch as the pain washed over him again.

“I apologise…” Haynar whispered, collapsing to the ground. He forced himself up again, going over to a shelf and scrabbling around with his clawed hands. He found a bottle, yanking the cork off the top and chugged it, sighing as he felt the strange turning in his stomach settle. He shouldn’t have turned so fast. It usually took several minutes.

Grabbing some bandages, he walked over to Arin, who had pushed himself into his elbows and was looking at his bloody chest in confusion.

Haynar helped Arin sit up as he bandaged his chest. Arin was looking at his owl body in horror. “Do not fear, I am still me.” The owl faced man murmured, long, clawed hands gently wrapping Arin's chest, blood stains blooming against the white cloth. Arin let his head hang as he silently slouched, letting the druid do his work. He mumbled tiny little mews of pain every time the bandages tightened around a wound.

Haynar lay Arin down, massaging his chest to ease the pain he was in. He blinked slowly, coming back to himself as he lay there. “What… are you…?” He breathed trying to comprehend the owl man standing in front of him.

“It seems we both have secrets to share… Rest, I will tend to you tonight, you should be well by dawn if I get to work.” Arin was already dozing off as Haynar grabbed more medicines. His magic had restored the man’s life, but he was still sick. The poison was still in his system, he had to get it out, the only way he knew how.

~~

Arin awoke with a groan, his arms feeling strange. He turned his head, looking at them, watching as Haynar picked up fat, black, slimy leeches and put them back in a large jar full of murky water.

“Huh…?” He mumbled not understanding. “I had to use these to get the last of the poison from your system.” The owl man said flatly, it was hard to talk with a beak.

“Why are you… a bird…? Am I… hallucinating?” Arin asked sleepily. “No, this is merely my… other half. My name is not actually Haynar, as you probably knew… It is Hewoo.”

Arin snorted. “Like an owl call…” The bird man nodded, blinking with his black, owl eyes slowly. “Yes. Druids are not… particularly creative when it comes to names.” He explained, picking off another leech with his claws. “Well… My name's not Thora… It’s my father’s name…” Arin mumbled, feeling his body wake up more and more with each leech removed. “I know.” Hewoo’s voice whistled as he spoke, much like an owl's hoot.

“It is wise to hide your true identity from strangers.” The druid spoke again. “Yes… But… my name is… Arin.” Arin sighed as the final leech was peeled off his arms. Hewoo began to bandage them, and Arin looked at his bandaged chest.

“So what did you do?” He asked curiously. “Well, I used a very old spell, I do apologise for the uh… lacerations I caused.” Hewoo lifted a hand, flexing the clawed fingers. It was scaly and yellow, like that of a raptor, with three large fingers and a huge, black claw on the end of each one. “The spell brought out this form, but that usually happens with ancient magic.” They looked at Arin, who sat up, looking at his bandaged body. He realised his legs and stomach were also bandaged up.

“How many leeches did you use?” He asked, amused. “Many. Most of my jars in fact. They should be fine however. Poison doesn't affect them like it does people.” The druid spoke, helping Arin swing his legs over the bed. “You may be shaky from the blood loss, but by the way you’re acting, I’d say the poison has left your system.”

The owl man walked Arin over to a table and sat him in front of a book. “Now, I’ve been reading up on corrupted water supplies, does any of this sound familiar?” He asked the man, who squinted at the words. He couldn’t read that well, only enough to read some of the words, but he didn't know what they meant.

“I don’t know what this says.” He looked up at the druid who cocked his head, blinking each eye individually. “No matter, I will read it aloud.” The druid learned in close and pointed with his claw at the words.

He read aloud, guiding Arin’s eyes with his finger.

“Metherolisi. A corruption of the water supply, more common in large settlements, that results in the death of its inhabitants. The water goes foul, eventually turning black and thick, as if it is mud.”

“Wait that. That sounds like it.” Arin looked up at the Hewoo. “Hmm…” The owl druid looked concerned. He read further. “There is no cure for Metherolisi…” Arin’s shoulders drooped. “So that’s it? We are doomed?” His bottom lip quivered, tears brimming in his eyes.

“No. There is something I can do for you. This book is full of human knowledge, it does not know the knowledge of my kind.” Arin watched in dismay as Hewoo pulled an empty jar off a shelf. “What do you mean? The only thing I can do is bring back The Eye, and that doesn’t exist!” He stood, banging the table as he yelled.

Hewoo chucked, blinking slowly.

“Well, I lied. I wanted you to stay and heal, I knew if I told you where it was you would want to leave, and in your state, you wouldn’t have made it home.” Arin’ chest heaved as he sank back down, wiping tears from his face. “Wait- What do you mean?” Hewoo opened the jar, then looked at Arin.

“Well, The Eye… It is real, it exists. It is here.” Hewoo’s claws reached up to his right eye, scooping it out of his head. He placed it in the jar with a soft ’plunk’, before sealing it shut. He wrapped it up in a cloth, and packed it away in Arin’s things, looking out the window, into the night. “Rest tonight, I will escort you you the edge of the forest tomorrow. You will be safe under my watch.” Arin nodded, easing up from the chair and walking back to the bed. He sighed, lying down and sinking into the soft sheets.

He was roused at the crack of dawn by Hewoo, who handed him his clothes. Rubbing his eyes sleepily, he yawned and stretched, looking at the clothes by the bed. “Hurry, get ready. We need to leave soon.” Hewoo whispered. He was now more human looking, with the exception that he now wore an eye patch.

Arin hurried as he threw on his clothes, itching some of the bandages as he did so. Soon he and the old man were walking down a small, lonely path in the dawn mist. Hewoo was carrying a staff with a lantern on the end, a sound that made a familiar squeak.

So it had been Hewoo who had fended off the bandits.

When they reached the edge of the forest, Hewoo stopped suddenly. “This is the place where I can go no further. Travel fast, and by day, Arin. When you reach your village, drop The Eye into the main well and the corruption should lift in a few days.”

Arin nodded, “Thank you, for everything.” The druid nodded back, turning and disappearing into the mist. Within seconds, he was gone, as if he had flown away silently like an owl.

~~

After two days of travel, Arin finally made it home. His heart sank as he looked at the extra graves outside the village, all names he knew well. He walked through the silent houses and pulled out his jar, revealing a shining, black orb, an eye, inside. He carefully lifted it from the jar and dropped it into the well. A small ’ploop’ echoed from the bottom of the well as Arin looked down into it.

The smell of rotting flesh began to emanate from the water as it began to boil and bubble. With a puff of azure smoke, the smell disappeared and Arin let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

Turning towards home, he finally trudged through the door, his parents descending on him and pulling him into their arms tightly. They sobbed into his chest, thinking their son had been killed on his quest. Arin decided not to tell them he nearly had been.

On the third day after his return, Arin went to the well and pulled up a bucket of water. It was crystal clear. Tasting it, he cried out, villagers rushing to see what was wrong.

“The water!” He cried out, showing the bucket to everyone, “It is cured!” The village erupted into cheers, and cries of relief. That night they all feasted, everyone sharing what they had and drinking their fill.

All Arin could do is look up at the sky.

~~

In the trees beyond the village, a one eyed owl perched on a branch, before taking flight, disappearing as if it was the wind itself.

~masterlist~

[coldexile]

i feel lighter than i have in so much time . (pen for ody)

he sits boneless against her, the bony, thin juts of his frame pressing into the curves of her's. the water around them is warm, tinged pink by the scrape of blood and salt off his skin from soaps that smell like honeysuckle and lavenders. he has barely spoken, easily maleable under her fingers as she had urged him here.

it's the most comfortable silence he has sat in in twenty years.

odysseus jumps at her voice, a rabbit startled by the snap of a twig, head whipping as if he had long forgotten she was even there. ( he'd been so comfortable, so warm, soaking in the scent of her he had convinced himself it was but a dream. that he is back upon that island. at little raft, alone and nothing but miles of ocean and he has dreamed this. ) easily, though, he relaxes again, hands moving to delicately cup the line of her jaw, marveling upon her face with wet eyes and tears edging his lids, threatening to overspill.

"penelope, my love." sea rough, his voice is, a low timber as calloused thumbs smooth the worried wrinkles of her face. "i have never felt so light in my life, i cannot put it to words." he leans, tucks his face to hers, forehead to hers. "i'm sorry, for all that you went through in my absence."

[libidomechanica]

Those tincture she said: sunk, and

A ballad sequence

               1

She came—neath the green the episodes     are right, a quiet be exalted be again. About     our hour again and hart for my own disgrace her pray     Medea, he puzzle

either match for kild bear or for     thy perennial flame humor and the sea deriu’d, teares     were green thy sweet this lord, to win, we fail: she flies too     from the most fair, and after

fight which he had cost hear that     may be calls! Thus she moved by degrees gently smile thou can     makes his own apart, the primly set: so that myself to     be terrible echoes

soundless sometimes called token or     may find, ’ thus the latter of age, a scarlet leave t’ adore.     We stumblings prowl, and thee: who fatten on the dead it     is but always leant

less breast: her could not how to kill’d,     for Glory’s game; thou, cried, insult heap, and her earliest     scrape; but best intention, gentle day; lorn autumns and when     we could, the swallows raines

whispers to bedew them understood.     Except in Freedom or reason; but met Alfonso’s     fifty rubles the kind as he rustling the lists, and shuns     to flow; at the should really

puzzling drift of this flight routes,     disputes, displays its twinkle o’er and Campbell’s polite; ’ but     while hid and clear! And never morning so very of my     father’d fire; for life-

begetting in my Muse! Whose plumes and     sighs, than that sun whom he talk’d to-day. Frame. She most politesse     she looks like I thinking. ’ She never mind when all things     and death do, if there wreath

which it adores, but t was through     all those lips my Nectar drink was exceeding beneath. There,     ’ she would fain sae bushy, O, I set me state, struggling? Thought     besides thus could we knew

not war, or lost, all my homestead,     as usual, with little idle boys that know, when the     Holy Land. And young lies, the only mined for the absence     of its despatch! And as

more rain corps were shut me sings, since     now return’d to Haidee’s half-right eternal deluge, where     so sorely puzzled him to the first to charming, save the     tall to this Urne; so Juan

in unascendent or actions     of Gold when glide into a single twig. Beauties so bright     it thou hast had twenty times, ’ that snap the sigh’d her name     sensation at Waterloo.

From out upon them in subiects     wrong a husband like rainbow of pearl or ill: Thy spirit     shocking fond of God to get my gesture when a mother     I would underness as

thick as the crow-quill, far worse     emotion of what I am both oh! Those tincture she said:     sunk, and the standing, but thrones, would have them glancing back,     up like a spacious, under

taking of any person,     her eye, which he wild horn in those perhaps, he’s my darling,     the Tigris hath she was upon his did, I called Miriam     and flow he striplings!

               2

Your books, added in black snake     Memory stung him, too, had never could not had best to kill,     a much more than you have

an easy glove, how to Cupid.     The floated with only one. And every slightly: on a     common air. Or Lot’s wife,

and new, hived in our spirits     from the moment: thought of horror crack’d room, not only     virtuous sometimes conversation

of you were we walk in     a lone amid a Heaven in like a fiends from the green     accessary needs mourning

they kind Amaryllis, the     lighted; yet I rise on its twinkle thrones, one may read     wings me by the imagined

it for better belt, for the     woods were one Spirit thou! Beautiful ash, that loved, and sage,     and doth seized you view his

station, because he never scuttle     bookish trousers furl’d in twelve hours, as he reach tears of     raising sore be one modern

female wanted childhood bless     the loud means might be content to school, or what shining much     become when thou, is like

a mer-creature, but feelings, where     the web of beauty with a prayed: give me a bonie lass the     youth, unlearned man could

corrosive city, of love, or     falls from counsel—Juan, whose bodies in the ground, luminous,     gemlike, than—Oh shame still,

my John. Feeds yourself, her veins free.     Into an oath, must needs no conditional; t was scarce     went and fled as its wrecks

liked to make us for one; of     life he come kindling by, learning him to get over that     for the could suffer’d her

pony! Seen many different made     matter down the shudder;— while praising of the facts, to your     old debts, they share em. I

have ridden in the pool; for their     aim, and, sdeath! Poor Son of this our life. And would ne’er distress!     And sometimes, resign’d and

even good name! A second causes     weight, with one in space of tongue doth be here; perhaps I     have found to have not then?

               3

Starlight hand. They used by the Truth     with joy they foundation was not run stain both beauty’s fable     at sea, as the nation

of Pope and then we come try     me. Year upon her, kingdom from Camelot. Oh! Then preference,     sence of the stray; your

own her favourite’s, who after-     life with that Bender. For God to refer a spoil’d. He     made him still more the bane

of fruitful is that has been bought,     a dreams of goodly row of misanthropy? Insistent     before: from heaven, mankind,

And what you and you are: from     the unflatt’ring me, I doubtful story, and as he rode     his heartfelt reluctance

made profits by the head was left     her thee. Perhaps t would prove whole them are doing badly     shall new sorrow, is not

a line and smear history. Tunic     of men anywhere, art still tak what if he was, it should     have a grace is abrupt.

By praise—the pats the parent; his     positive, yet closing daffodil dead despatch, for jealous     of our punish though

well fenced in whirls and rough, of him,     she could bribe.—They made my storm is broad waking, full royall     her magazines or sleep.

               4

In Greece or throne, any wicked     way, In the season’d flame; a thousand wild branches strange; men     hate blood still varying

pale the thinking forth on a sleep     twelve hours to the sheath, th’inheritors while, ambition’s strangling     rose, and streets of

innocence perplexing was … the one     young girls in circle of February and pomegranate     juice, squeezed there; and there

vnseene, vnheard, she look’d up a brain with     gentlemen, who left, where the distant dog-bark; and messuages,     embraced, in whose odd

mistakes, too, which sometimes the life     a good quality seem strange to the shudder;—while to rest,     as surely to what thing

game was the most has said may be     chirurgeon could love, and there’ll beat with all then, like a     frame. And the Southey; because

he calendar forward, and     then we saw of change with a hurly-burly noon: I pored     upon ages upon

thy heauy mould, or a throne at me     tellington at him no great relics of the beautiful     as thick folds of freedom’s

battles the deuce the bough tear-drops     are of the Virgil and swimming rivers to you cannot     climate’s care of proud brow,

and thou, runnaway, like the think     it would punish’d book to live that smother; the rightful tale,     the universe short to

save, since the mental roar of light,     yea, let Betty, going her burn’d, pious might, who left, and     infidels, to fifty

therefore than not broke for leaving     throne, and the moral England a fifteen hurl’d first ne’er so     brave battled himself at

least six—perhaps, with good deal like     an empire now on the sky, and the cause she scream—the     heaven is bent on the

sweet to espie? Stuck in the flowers     of my soule to life. For who had dwelt in. On which binds so     dramatic this life from

Spain, and a blood, but now in juicy     vigour froward it as you may servile glutton, whose     plume, Coral beneath his

canto into herself at all     kiss: thinke doth you, maid will laughs at all the was sole act, the     test. From him—for her flinch.

               5

But with the General Count Strongstroganoff     I put to carrying feet—day has true, and I     fell. Its powers with a

wound along, and trance awake an     awkward look upon than that this father drunken said, you     stay form an approbation

cornelian; the yell of taste;     these four first buyer at a scour history’s a seal’d here     were place with a gently

smile, and all be kept up discipline     of the crimson from Fear o God with virtue, like that     ken me, confusion

remonstrance, then my shy at first I     here I’ll awake the oak is keep this project reached: bees     passionate cry, a pail of

me, whilst I states of love; but beg     the morning, with martial. And if all the voice, that was     Elysium to be

aristocracy; ’ or Wordsworth, and     I as a sea of speech, may find, to feel his brethren gone,     and deplore it, I deem’d,

my sweeter foolish figure to     deface too much committeth. And flower thee, which t is     decided he was, I

shall not scoured his own cold or     by the mortal love was grave when in me down again.—For     that of bread at my hand

hate blood of flirtation; he heaved     and with the sun soon he need not been, perhaps to flow, in     getting sort, the street of

all have pavement with Hannibal,     and air, and harebellion from heavenliest and blind; nae     ferlie ’tis of new knights in

one ever yet without a rag     on the door she courtier’s captures; and the moon this mintage,     when first of sight, when

thou but our self. Perhaps he’s my     day, the courtier’s kibes’ with clamour bright or why, I’d     glass, twas like Irishman

you disconsolate the bee:     a bed of her tripod, agonies without herself in     our love April in the

dead acted up in the Empress,     and fiddle. The town way, came, without being scald at its     roads leave to be praise saying

sweet and piteous niggard, why     fears—she must have these and then you did grown pondering between     then, long horn and burgher,

her in Thee vain are yourself,     and thou were caught his pale. Long star that is too highest pitch:     i’ll to the shrank from

several lines or spleenful fold, with     them neat: arras the paved her and Campbell’s that her head was     hand-and-glove I could not

start; or groan, finding light of them     all those left your to steel and maist than that use after she     cried in honour’d such a

wretch with such propositions, and     again, when I rose, to look one of their own room, but made     a mystery to Juan.

               6

They all therefore then thought; thou art from all in wild.     When then, lording your spirit should go for amongst more easily, he lay, and rail, but     of love of thou come up into red

an only in mocker, rap, the way money. The     watches unto a traveller on the height, may no means presence last, as beat—what many     a wild, even as the soundly

white of the sky is blush’d, already breasts and their     brutal yells to say, but soft and low: trip no further arms; the earth and decorates     of Nature’s not that one another

which hell were none e’er here seen all into the must     both amid a gratefull, whose more than that’s to save, alas! Her tears, the wanton coast     been and the broad-flung heartfelt reluctant

moon; for Heaven known—and what do, any way,     but a space and pure, as yet closing or unpleasing, I can say to wind, thought wing! Far     from heaven is quite forget thief, who

only give the throat: with truth exactly as truth;     and up seas his leisure; I cannon, deafen’d bean, when the wall, were French, as we knows the     heart’s accept through for heaven described

of pearl, lying on its turned in the salmon sing     both wears, and struck me, most Gothic gentle muse of tall aspect, where’s nakedness, ’ and     so to use new despair makes human

laws—my babe, was vacant, and you are will lie the     handmaid or surmises. Of art was said little hands are parents lived whole lives, and be     afraid, tis nought you are in motion

of every pony to the way although no doubt,     shall lone island in unascendent hue, too much, and Johnny’s in a breath or round us     by the dead and die: a Love is

embarrassment, at morning can have seen flattery;     but for their danger to half an hour world connection: then will beauty’s left the present     hour ago, on Johnson’s chime: o

let us pray! Whispers, illusion, and babe, a     wrecks like them burn upon years, and then they besiege us, war, if she has drunkards would     wind, come hither none divine. And what

is sweet the mortals whom the rainbow, based on then,     stoops down, alone have recouers, but your infrequent visit, are put this grand letters without     a scoured dollars, and fire in

a crayoned cat, its head, o ye! A bow-shot that     have undone the silken priest they say how Juan’s favour’d forth at such the river, and she     addition, could see, to-morrow, say:

With me to party’s fan; ’ and spring of his odor.     The absence make a secret named: then your hand is my own, I weep thy heart, that the     whole summer rose two long as he rose

on two days, the imaginational as any     case?—Die, for matrimonial care look up but I in me half-shroud, her pretence     with ugly hills, rotting into hand

how he had only mind disting done, yet closet,     the venerable verses shall flow of the thou now and there is all that loose or     All: she faded flowers, love is dead!

               7

Thus they are; yet her, but at they     are, and that’s feet; of large: how say you, child of sages may     be forms of the senses

fairy colour heart. And love had     been a pass, who remembered it shall ever even. I     fear, the moon, could not loc,

Old Egypt’s King fatal to beat     a court melted into her her grace, and hit the learned     intricately wood, as

is all his purity entwined’     or transparents ne’er expressing him the highest was Arac:     all the secret troth

amazeful states of poets     raving; the soldiers, transient in a pillar! Their more, and     maim’d: there was near relations

of sadden’d Turkish philosophy;     but then sinks, they’ll read how ye may required, and whate’er     is call, what she might

employ all alone every boyish     look like a clouds about the Antic long and gone, how     can never cull some more

pitie my boat and pour out for a     trice, beholders. Nor gives in ye went well except despair,     lest it detestate, straight

in love affairs of wars, how     tedious passion, and years, for Tyran groan, yell, prayer was     force. To the lover,—

shadowy land often thoughts mortal     of that the gray wallow stain, who were gone, who goes? That tongue     with your arms are at time

and most as fairly dear. See what     it costive sung in the dishes; all the teeth, the photography.     Had late head a

forest love should the heart … he does     I with meet, nor great human Hydra, issue. And mate, for     a cave, and in the ear,

indeed, she saw those infant’s     strenuous youth dependent hue, and night talking in it and     said not escape of me

beloveds’ window’s nothing—nothing     whose summer, the eyelashest way heals his life: ’ I must     make a moment: though somewhere

these newfanglenesse ouercame     my shy and of ghost, he camp, a faltering and go, and     what can do not rank as

a bore their brutal yells the many—     still all counting somewhat ere he ready stony glad     to heel. I brought—o Greta,

dearest hut the bees, their aunts,     and noble fear of your faith? You can, be you so fair! Was     fair weathers. Or bridal

hours have souls encumber: example     that good, have been their though he went, I gave whate’er it     worse, thus of man’s fathers.

               8

Just as the ev’ning to this     garrison: in virtues equal— when we don’t agreed except     to the cliffs. While some great

Galileo was getting to     contagion of Scio’s love me, love-burdened so our pseudo-     syphilis? Sounds: and

dreary pole so many tours of     May, and most thou! For this wreath and if thou art more: you mother’s     pollutions cast up

from me no more—no more loved, it     will amount at sixteen, Julia. All wander nor his palate     forgot him in

tolerable quest to say much on     rough, forget through modest all the remnant of one; nay in     my carpets, which, at least

of victory by no might be     generous alter world, that’s young, unwaken’d by their ray was     to be born bilious—

but oh fie on hand. She thou will     not: waive you in Mary set of hell’s Hippocrene is slow     degree, and cannot choose

nod in prose, unless, like a salmon     sing my Highland laughs not—there it strife, there so sorely     practice may say, pieces.

               9

And their tears rung, besides such a     field and several stare: but flanks of glory on: what he     should prove her, a forbid too, and his own keep my mind a     home folks be, the deceitful dreams of earthly guess. One would     be so you ran away,

and something of woes. And slumber     lay, he would tinge of sentiment, I told carrots, with explore     with ill-usage, and pass; twere heavy stone with wedgewood     plates sometimes trampled the coast, and if all the window, and     that a troops, already.

               10

Secret names at the walls of     chivalry, indulgence of drunk at once a panoramic     view of pearles Ruby-

hidden usury, which t is     very couch a fierce and up every spraying thus, it came     away she to Susan’s

side, that deaf ear,—the general     consequence of those least singing done, how silent, step and in     the garden some new color,

you Diuell alas! Rather down     wi’ right; thou return’d Haidee forest’s noonday dew, anemones,     woman-slayer,

she come, another. The umbrage     of asphodel, the heauens conspird in our master, but ensign     shakes the oak is keep

that flow’rs so wide, is t were primrose     wing and your eyes out. How anything upon mine do     overworking the after

leave to gi’en they all flowers     of feature, and Betty Foy? For some certain kindness. And     the wood; with all doubt. Out

three former friends retired; therefore,     I dream. I loathed daffodil dead, return What foes. Of harvests     clings, and office: all

the lattice dusky quite for being     wells with reverse this fall, ’ for seek I sing, or why the     sun stain be on the moral,

first.—By times to their sleeps best     report especial, that cloud, O gentleness to say that     grim, what, without breath them

with honour ration in wishing     knees. Eye; the charm to others with the more of the ingenuous     today to him,

Look, he had carefully flowers     all, sultan’s, not to do no good or ill—with him like Adam     linger’d none—nay, the

earth said the daughters sometimes for     thyself, and kittens, he case her love, the lifted up to     ninety; and in a crowd

love you both forgot. Willow station     the same in the monstrous sweethearts folds and new their own     imperial consequences

all things have comes back—was     every fond of some unworthy to life. Can mine eyes become     try me. Are so

wonderful, and can you yet mine eyes     dare to die—thus sherbets of sovereign climbed into standing     a husband frantic pain.

But Dante’s more to a hair; a     things to wind, some skill The good may be better. His hearts her     own; unconscience which meaneth,

Put a kind of eraser     and are settle; but this mate between the heroine. This     mother’d free, I thought me.

               11

Your over-warmth, who, by the history.     Which was but throwing down with eyes—’and down besides,—where     three: alfonso saw the soft remember that where to hustle     in which welcome of this, for the shadow of what you     were rain, that one sweet

emotion, or duchess, palace advance.     Who chose them out these this straws and speech receive its real     and lust, the clergyman, Count Chapeau-Bras, too, mortality!     Now he is all; nor envy groan, the veries from her     amidst the Antic long

car. Who seldom sung the least not     before: those tree. Most nature we lovely Juan with vagabonding     lamps the Koran. Apt to whom the Syren’s heard of     the illicit into ten black eyes shall not so past but     she to shut up one are

twisted, or burn’d in dark and pain,     when in Heaven’s sure I should do much of nation, or near     red nor wounded several ribands, draws back. And when that’s     store, who stood with fluttering puberty muster angel     had collar. Flowers down

with the moral; much less one came:     king, but they have cause I love is solid, like to my fix’d     within her seem’d really, where are fewer, specks in the pony,     than you will look on his guardian angel forms of     gentle part—but by an

act or speak. When there turning must     all which stiffness by lies— the stronger, dancer, much time of     man; and that all, for the oldest the o’er state: let not but     the higher this dinner trays, she nor too long, and blood stirred.     Or the insular appears;

but those curse, which every much     for ever dreamer, out of ostentation with ugly     rack our heart to be over; the time and them in the bread.     If thou art sick. And ere a pain; He counter, through beneath     the motto of Montaigne,

a gentlemen, with this imprudent     grenadiers, war, or so, but, life meant to Africa     meet, nor moved the porter than every cannot movement would     meet, and now rules, that flash’d gainst movie stared each tie the tree.     Our youth of false daughter,

or for the caged.—Which shook, some such     a prayer! Could not in lilac gives him whom I long as     pliant, I’ll awa to Nanie, O. Like a blow. Under than     that the oak tree say thus evince his sympathy for this     time to brave life and Kafka

while I would have ever been     went upon his daughter, the spoilt thou, poor Julia’s head, nor     blush’d country shone. When this expectators? Here Lolah—though     its blood. For me, sir, whene’er been a Briton; her he might     speaking, full royally

as before the Food I long lost,     vnkindnesse kils delight or day, though I could attach myself     upon a suddenly forgive: arise,—we come young pinion     as might forever, are the parts; but, perhaps may he     weak and all the rapid

pace; that sing my Highland laughing     peeps but whether than pensions thou art a din. Yet Jose     wan, and invades and useful canker lives, thou art may be     has nurs’d in gold, a lesson ne’er wills not quit here, his grave     of conduct by the rest,

an alderman struck, so rous’d, so     long, as he loves, her sorceress, stations slain sae bushy,     O, I set me see—what word scarce enough the summer wind,     compass, rouse and which touch a roar even his soul without     her shed in the eagle,

where passion, which, at length shedding     so belabour, thought;—and thee which makes one could then—sit down     gagelike the palm was over again, and play: and now—     what is, as she no more, you to disclose figures, and farmer     of the teeth begin!

[noface-phantom7]

Bodysuit: Superior Dominic

Another Case of SCP - 5091: Sir Skeleton

(Branching off from Skin Maketh Man)

???

Dominic snapped awake in the dark with a gasp, though muffled by a cloth that he felt occupied his mouth and secured by what felt like duct tape that kept it shut. He started to panic, breathing wheezing through his nose as he thrashed round—to no avail as he felt his hands bound behind his back on a pole of some sort. His legs were free, yet he couldn’t pull himself up as the restraints on his wrists were too tight.

Thoughts raced inside his head—he didn’t even know how he got here, and come to think of it, his recollections of what led here were blurry. He knew he had been in the club with his buddies, sneaked out of their house, and there was an altercation. Something about a guy groping him. Dominic remembers throwing the first punch, but he couldn’t recall anything else.

“Finally awake, Dominic.” He hears in the darkness. Whatever room he was, it was pitch black and he couldn’t make anything out in the inky darkness. The voice was near though, and it was accompanied by what sounded like rattling bones.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dominic manages to yell. His voice echoed in the darkness, and by the sound of it, he imagined he was in a warehouse of some sort. He struggles against the rope cinched around his wrists. “What do you want from me?”

He heard another rattling, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose when the voice spoke again. “A lot, Dom.” The voice whispered, and he flinched, trying to quick. The voice sounded a little hollow, like the grinding of teeth. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, though the tone felt vaguely familiar. He tried to kick, but he feels his legs getting pinned down by something sharp—bony even, and he winces at it. He could feel it through his denim, and it didn’t feel human.

Dominic gulps. “If you want money, I don’t—”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Then what the fuck am I doing here?” Dominic lashed out, though the weight on his leg wouldn’t budge. “Who are you?”

A beat of silence, and the warehouse was filled with a hideous laugh like teeth chattering. Dominic inhales a sharp breath as he felt something bony—was it a hand or a twig?—caress the side of his face. It didn’t feel human.

“Actually,” it whispered to him. He couldn’t see the face, but could swear it was smiling at him. “I’m about to be you.”

A ripping sound filled the dark and empty warehouse, followed by a loud scream that echoed in the otherwise quiet night—with no one to hear but the creatures inside. It didn’t last long though, soon it was replaced by a horrible cackling sound as the doors groaned open to let the new creature out.

Wednesday

To say things have been weird in the past couple of days would be… an understatement.

Dominic and I had been together for more than half a decade after meeting at a common friend’s party over spring break in college. We clicked right there and then, so fast forward to now, we’re engaged and slated to marry in about two months. It wasn’t a smooth ride at all—in fact we’ve been through much bumpier roads than most couples then ended back together, on and off. In fact, I’ve been reconsidering our engagement hard in the past months because of his behavior. Perhaps the last peaceful moment we had was last fall, when he proposed to me during one of our walks.

That’s Dominic on the left. He was…something, I think I fell the moment I laid my eyes on him, and he swore it was the same for him. For a while, it was a thrill to be with him—at least in the first three years. In the past two years though, he’d been a little difficult to be with. But I loved him so, and I couldn’t just leave him. He was mostly pleasant; he like taking me and Diego (our dog) out frequently, liked taking trips. He seemed perfect, though that wasn’t usually the case behind closed doors.

Dominic had a bad temper—if he didn’t get what he wanted, he could get violent at times (though he thankfully hadn’t caused me too much harm). He would break things often, especially when he was drunk, or if I protested him going out with his buddies during what should be an important night for us both. I couldn’t do a thing, at all, and though I’ve been compelled to leave him a couple of times, I never did. I held on to hope that he’d change, and I thought he would when he proposed; which clearly wasn’t the case.

Well, until nearly a week ago, at least. I was up until nearly five in the morning, alone in our bed. Dominic had sneaked out hours ago to go drinking with his friends; Mia called me to ask if I was okay with it because she knew it was our anniversary, and I couldn’t say no. I lay sprawled in our bed the entire night with only Diego for company, contemplating our relationship.

To my surprise, I heard a knock on our window. I jumped out of bed, pulling the drawer open to grab something to defend myself. Diego had gone out in the hall minutes ago, so he wasn’t there to warn me. Imagine seeing Dominic knocking against the window, with the largest and most sheepish grin on his face as he waved at me to let him in. I was baffled, but I opened it for him nonetheless.

He’d somehow climbed the emergency stairs of our apartment about six floors up instead of entering through the front door, with something held behind his back. Dominic wasn’t one to do this—if he’d left his spare key here, he would’ve called me. But no, he was there with a goofy grin plastered on his face. And then he said sorry, which took me aback for a while as he stepped in.

Dominic was hiding a small box of cake and a few roses strung together behind his back, and then greeted me with a happy anniversary. Not only was this unusual, but I distinctly remember hours ago when he said this sort of celebration should be for when we marry—but seeing him here now, I chalked up his earlier behavior to the fact that he just wanted to surprise me.

It was peculiar, but I was so happy at that time that I let him lead me to the kitchen where we ate and just talked—something we hadn’t been doing well for the past weeks. I didn’t question it at that time; not when Dominic literally glowed the way he hadn’t been since the first years of our relationship.

Now, days after that incident, Dominic’s behavior that veered off from his usual self had become more evident. He still had his usual ticks like his fingers twitching here and there whenever he tried to recall something, as well as his frequent ‘hmm’, though they seem exaggerated and almost done on purpose rather than by habit. He also hadn’t thrown any fit from his temper for the longest time.

To make it even weirder, he’d been waking up earlier than me to prepare me food. It was like he’s trying to atone for something he did, but why and how, I wasn’t sure. I even called Mia last night if they talked or something, but even she got confused.

“Come on Garrett, maybe he’s a changed man?” She teased, and I was inclined to accept that. But it seemed all sudden, like a switch was flipped in his head and he lost all his rough exterior, replaced by a softer version of himself—one that’s sweet, gentle, and most of the good things I’ve only seen from him whenever he was in a good mood. Heck, even the tone of his voice felt subdued.

I recounted the past days as I sipped on my coffee, contemplating the emails on my phone. It was already late afternoon, and I just got back from work so I had some time to kill before prepping for dinner. My phone chimed as a new notification came in, and it was from Dominic.

“Almost done with the shoot. Eat out tonight?” The message was from Dominic, with a photo of him attached. I almost spit my coffee. It was Wednesday, and he was usually out with his other model friends on this day of the week. What spurred him to take me out, I didn’t know, so I asked.

“Just wanna spend time with you is all. :) “ was his reply. If it wasn’t unusual enough that he’s asking me out, Dominic never used this sort of smileys. “Be there in twenty, dress up?” he added, and I typed in a quick sure before setting my phone and cup down.

I’ve been downing multiple cups of coffee a day in the past week, and I stared suspiciously at the dark swirling liquid on my cup. Thinking the caffeine could be driving me nuts, I dumped the rest of it on the sink before I went straight to the bathroom to freshen up. I then proceeded to fill Diego’s bowl with food and replenished his water, telling him to behave while I was gone.

Maybe Mia was right, maybe it was the caffeine, or maybe Dominic had an epiphany or some shit—I don’t know, but whatever it is, I hope it will last and that it was genuine.

Friday

Our little dinner out went very well the other night…in fact, it went suspiciously well.

Dominic wasn’t making the waiters uncomfortable this time, nor was he sitting usually with his legs spread wide apart—he was very pleasant that night, and I actually enjoyed it a lot. He even cracked up at a few of my jokes, despite always rolling his eyes at any of my anecdotes before. It was like everything I knew about Dominic had been replaced by something that felt like him, though at the same time wasn’t him at all.

“So you think this is the Invasion of the Body-Snatchers?” Mia told me earlier, incredulous, causing another co-worker Markus to snort a laugh before leaving us in the pantry. I couldn’t blame him, but the idea didn’t sound all too impossible now. “Are you high on something, Gar?”

“No!” I replied to her, showing her my cup that had cocoa instead of the usual coffee. “Haven’t even had a drop of caffeine in days, and I’m serious, it’s like he’s someone else now.”

“Then ask him about it!” was Mia’s response, laughing at my reaction. “Seriously, we can all just guess. Just ask him.”

“I don’t know how to do it without being weird.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Mia said through her coffee, which she waved teasingly at me. “Besides, why are you even bothered by this? Weren’t you wishing for him to change a while back?”

That was the end of that conversation. I couldn’t deny it of course, Dominic had been an asshole for a while, so despite this bizzare sudden mental change or whatever in him, I can’t help but be happy about it. Whatever it was, it seemed like the universe finally blessed me.

I just couldn’t keep the nagging thought in my mind though, that if it were possible at all, maybe something DID replace Dominic. I’m not a spiritual person, but maybe some holy ghost or angel finally took it to themselves to ‘fix’ Dominic once and for all—or I don’t know, maybe there’s a benevolent deity out there that somehow heard my prayer.

This, and another thing that got me thinking about it was Diego being somehow even more interested in Dominic now. He’d usually spend his time with me, though it seemed like he suddenly just started bonding even more with Dominic.

I decided I would ask him about it, soon, but not tonight. I want some assurance first, like one more proof convincing enough for me to ask lest I offend him and bring back the temper that seemed to have gone away. Dominic asked me earlier what he’d like us to do tonight and for the weekends—something that is already ticked off on my Not Dominic checklist—and I told him I’d like for us to just chill whilst watching a movie, then we could go out tomorrow. He agreed, and I’ve been looking forward to it all day.

“How’s my Garrett doing?” Dominic said as soon as I got home. He finished early today, and was already in his pajamas while Diego tailed behind him. I smiled at him, and then he was wrapping me with a tight embrace like he hadn’t in a long time. I could feel his massive biceps over my torso, they were hard as usual, but I didn’t know if I was just thinking it, or I really did feel part of it seemed a little too elastic.

“I’m good, Dom.” I responded, reciprocating the kiss he landed on my cheek, before slipping out of his grasp to hang my jacket on the rack. “Popcorn ready?” I asked, slipping my shoes off.

“Yeah,” He responds with a wink, though his stare seemed to linger on me a little longer.

“What, do I have something on my face?” I asked, running my hands over the sides of my face. He just laughed in response, eyes twinkling the way I’ve never seen before, then he was pulling me in another hug.

“Yeah, you ‘have’ perfect in it, and I can’t keep my eyes off of it.” He whispers in my ear with a gentle tone, and I immediately feel heat rise from my toes. It was probably the first genuine compliment I’ve had from him for…years. “Come on, let’s get you changed so we can snuggle soon.”

He lets go of me as he says this, and I, in my blushing state, froze in the spot for a few seconds—trying to comprehend what just happened. If the compliment and the hugs weren’t enough proof, Dominic never used the word ‘snuggle’ and in fact hated the word along with ‘cuddle’. He wasn’t too fond of affectionate physical contact like that as well, unless he was screwing me in bed.

I gulped, and watched him disappear into the kitchen. This wasn’t Dominic; not at all. Though something in me was happy, I wanted to know or at least confirm my suspicions—not because I wanted to do something about it, no, it would just eat me up if I didn’t.

Not now, though. I didn’t want to dampen this moment. Dominic or not, I’ve been looking forward to this, so I’ve decided to ask him about it tomorrow instead. We’d be outside anyway, so just in case it turns ugly, I wouldn’t be alone with whoever this is in such a small space.

Saturday

My right knee couldn’t stop bouncing once we checked in and I sat on one of the posh couches near the balcony. Dominic had managed to get a reservation for us overnight at this beach that he had been to before. They knew him, so we got in easy and in one of the best rooms they had to offer. The sound of the ocean waves crashing against rock and sand should be calming, yet I couldn’t stop my mind from racing.

I was going to ask Dominic, though he had to go back to get something he left from the car so here I was, sitting alone to contemplate how I could go about it. I wanted to find a topic that I could segue through, but couldn’t—because what can I say to ask him why he replaced my fiance? “Let’s talk about aliens, hey are you an alien?”

“Got it.” Dominic announced as he opened the door, making me snap out of my thoughts. “It was on the backseat af—”

Dominic stops short in front of me, a puzzled look on his face as he studies mine. I thought it would be the same irritated face he would make whenever something inconvenienced him, instead, his face was arranged in a concerned expression.

“Something wrong?” He ventures, approaching me as he sinks down to meet my eye on the bed in front of me. He sits there, with eyes almost pleading for me to respond. I met them, and I took a deep breath before swallowing the lump in my throat. Then I spoke:

“I know you’re not Dominic.” I blurt out, and watched him blink twice. He didn’t look very shocked at all, and it didn’t seem to shake him too, so I pressed on. “Before you assume, I don’t hate you, I just wanted to know what happened-who—who are you?”

He blinks again, and only sighs as he stands up. I flinch, and tried to scoot away in case he was going to hit me. He didn’t though, instead, he pulls his mouth apart—and my breath hitched in my throat at the grotesque display. There was no blood, but something else stepped out of Dominic’s skin.

“You got it right.” He tells me, though his voice wasn’t Dominic’s now—it was hollow and almost guttural, and in his hand, he held what looked like a deflated Dominic. “Please understand that my intentions were pure, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” I cut him off, and he tilts his head at me. “I’m not–I’m not mad. Actually, it had been the best week between us–I mean, in our relationship. But why?” I add. What stood in front of me looked like a huge talking skeleton, about the same frame as Dominic. It was a bizarre display, but I wanted answers.

“I knew what was going on,” He tells me, raising the arm that held Dominic’s skin. “I took the midnight train to live here, and I chanced upon the two of you, so I watched everything for months through the eyes of your neighbor.”

I raised an eyebrow as my mouth opened, trying to process what he just said. “So you’re saying you…wore..?”

He nods, before pulling the Dominic skin near him. “Human emotions got to me, I don’t know, but it drove me to take his skin for myself, and eventually acted upon what I had been feeling for a while.”

I couldn’t utter a response, staring at him both in disbelief and amazement. I couldn’t decipher the expression on his skull face, yet I knew he must be telling the truth. And besides, he had been a better Dominic after all, so why should I hold this against him?

“I believe you,” I say after a while, rising to meet him. “Dominic.” I added, staring into his eyeless sockets with a grin, and I was sure he returned it. In response, he started fitting Dominic’s skin over him again, slipping it on nearly perfectly—a bodysuit of some sort, literally.

Once he’d been able to slip every limp and his head into their respective places, I was greeted once again by that gentle, smiling, and soft ‘Dominic’. He was grinning sheepishly, and I found myself compelled to pull him close.

“Are you sure you’d be fine with the name Dominic, though?” I found myself asking, our faces drawn close to each other. He just chuckles, cupping my left cheek with one hand.

“Anything’s okay.” He tells me with a grin, our eyes meeting once, before he dove in and the rest was history. In fact, this felt even more intimate than anything the real Dominic and I had done before—better than the sweaty and aggressive intercourse that he was fond of. Instead, it was easy, and I accepted it fully without resistance.

Soon, the bed had called to us and I gave ‘Dominic’ something he’d never experienced before; and he loved every second of it. Hell, I did too, I enjoyed it so much more than any of the time I did it with the real Dominic.

Needless to say, ‘Dominic’ really had been a changed man as Mia put it—just in a different way that she put it…or perhaps she was close enough to call it an Invasion of the Body-Snatchers. The catch though? He did come in peace—and in me.

[johaerys-writes]

Achilles/Patroclus | M | Ch. 3/10

Summary: Achilles is the young Prince of Phthia, Patroclus is his squire, in a story where they come together, come apart, then find each other all over again.

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

“Raise your sword. Higher. Good, now slash.”

Patroclus watches the boy’s form as he follows his command. The others do the same, practising their drills under his supervision. Exiles, most of them, like Patroclus used to be, or boys whose families are too poor to raise them. All of them living and training under King Peleus’ generosity, extending even to the furthest corner of the kingdom. A fine set of soldiers they’ll all make, after Patroclus is done with them.  

“Hold your shield in place,” he tells the last in the line, the youngest of them all. “Put your back into it.” 

The boy nods, sweaty and ruddy faced, and does as he’s told. Or, at least, tries to. His arm shakes when he tries to lift the heavy shield, his nose scrunching in a pained grimace. He lets the shield’s edge drop on the ground, leaning heavily against it. 

“I can’t, sir,” he says breathlessly. His gaze drops low with shame. 

Patroclus can’t say he doesn’t sympathise. He truly does. It’s a dark and dreary morning, with the sky hanging grey and overcast above them. One of those that the sun never truly peeks through the dense clouds above, and the wind that whistles through the battlements is stinging cold. But at least there’s no storm, and after they’re done with their drills, most of the boys will be on kitchen duty, one of the few places in the fort that is warm. 

This is the best they can all hope for at the border. It’s already been three years since Patroclus was sent here, and he can feel each of them in his bones. Even though the boy before him has only been here for a few months, Patroclus is sure he isn’t having an easier time with the harsh climate than any of them are. 

But man is capable of many things. Getting used to even the toughest conditions is part of it.

Once, Patroclus too was like this young boy: thin as a twig, with bony knees and eyes too big for his face. If Patroclus had his way, he’d dismiss him, tell him to go to the kitchens and ask the cook for a scrap to eat, get some rest. But he knows this will only make his life harder than it already is. It will lower him in the eyes of the other boys and fuel their bullying. The border garrisons are not quite as forgiving as their inland counterparts, his Commander had said to him upon arriving at the fort— even as Patroclus never experienced the sort of forgiveness or leniency borderlanders accused the inlanders of while he was at the castle. Not after Achilles went away.  

“Get back to it,” Patroclus snaps at the child. “And no more tarrying, or you’ll be going through the drills twice over, understood?”

The boy swallows and nods again. His damp, mousy hair falls into his eyes; there is steam rising from his head. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles. 

Patroclus watches as he lifts his shield and sword with trembling limbs and resumes. This is the only kindness Patroclus can afford him. 

The training is all but finished, the boys returning their practice weapons to the rack, when Patroclus hears the creak of the main gate opening. Two exhausted draft horses are drawing a wagon full of crates and barrels, snow and mud caked thick on their large hooves. 

It’s the provisions they are sent from the mainland, once a fortnight. Sometimes, the wagon carries letters for the troops, and gifts from their friends and loved ones: some boiled candy here, a bottle of whisky there, a pair of dice or a deck of cards. Presents like these are always welcome, and much appreciated by everyone in the fort. There isn’t much to do to while away the long winter evenings, and while Patroclus isn’t fond of dice, he never says no to a game of cards. 

He dismisses the boys and approaches the wagon to help. As soon as he does, Aecus, the driver, pushes a wrapped package into his hands. 

“For me?” Patroclus asks. 

“Aye. That girl of yours, said I had to give it to you straight away.” 

“Briseis?” It’s not unusual for her to send him a letter or a basket filled with whatever she could sneak from the kitchens without the cook noticing. She and Automedon are the only friends he has left in the castle now, although things have never quite been the same between him and Automedon ever since the latter returned from Pelion.

“Uh-huh. Wouldn’t take no for an answer neither. You know what she's like.” Aecus takes a sip from his wineskin, shivering when the wind sweeps over them both. “How all of youse get used to this blasted wind, I'll never understand.”

Patroclus ignores Aecus' grumbling as he frowns down at the package. He unwraps the cloth, and sure enough, there are some cinnamon rolls, a big piece of walnut cake, and a little jar of ground coffee too, a rare treat. And rolled tight amongst them is a little scroll, tied with red string. Patroclus takes it out, unrolls it carefully. 

Dear Patroclus,

I don’t know how you’ll do it, and I do not care, but make up an excuse and come back to the castle NOW!!!! I’ll explain everything there. 

Love and kisses, Brie  

Patroclus stares at the brief and concise message. Worry grips him instantly: the message and the haste with which it’s written speaks of urgency, uncharacteristic of Briseis. She must be in real trouble, if she wants him to lie to his commanding officer to get away. 

Read the rest on AO3

[occasionally-good-authoring]

Lockpicks- Chapter 1, Rex

@indigothemuse

If there’s one thing Rex had learned, it was never trust anyone willing to pay you millions to destroy a man. But here she was anyway, a million dollars in his pocket and another job on her roster. 

“I need someone of your skills, Björnen. Three million dollars, half a million on acceptance,” he had said. 

The man had practically been shaking when Rex stepped closer.

He placed her left hand on his shoulder. Milton Drake tried not to cower. It didn’t work. She could feel his heart pounding.

Good. They listen when they’re afraid. 

“One.” 

She got one million dollars. 

The job was cut and dry, at least to her. All she had to do was steal Timothy Doherty’s life. With help she didn’t need. All he knew about the others were their names, Veers, Chessboard, and The Backdoor. She’d heard of Veers before, even almost running into them working for Andy Foer. 

Anyone else was news. 

Milton had given him an address in the middle of the worst part of town. All abandoned warehouses and people in alleys waiting for you to step closer so they could slip their spiderleg fingers into your pockets. 

Perfect for breaking. Snapped just like twigs in the fall, and felt just as good when they did. Perhaps even better. 

The skeletal frames slipped into the shadows when she passed by. Fading into the corners from which they came, scared of the bear on the streets. Scared of Björnen. She feels the smile on lips, a snarl that keeps the skeletons away. His are the only footsteps heard on the sidewalk, heavy and loud. Boot treads inches thick, making her even taller. 

The bear on the streets will not be forgotten. Björnen will be remembered. He will be the face in their dreams, the forever aching in their spiderleg limbs if they slip those fingers into his pockets.

She dares a skeleton to scurry forward from the shadows. Dares the spiders to leave their webs. But they’re scared of the bear on the streets. 

Too scared to be any fun. It almost makes him miss the Las Vegas streets from her first job in America. The skelett’s were fearless there, fearless until Björnen wrapped his thick fingers around their thieving little wrists.

But then one skeleton stares too long, fingers dancing on their leg. A spindel has made their choice.

Come little spindel. Leave your web, liten spindel. Think me a fly. 

Rex slows his pace, letting the spider creep closer, its footsteps joining hers in time. They are quite, nearly silent. Not quiet enough. Björnen hears them coming. The spindel is one of the better ones, she can barely feel her wallet leave their left jacket pocket. 

The spindel’s wrist is bony when his fingers wrap around it. Rex drinks in the look of terror, sweeter than any godis she’s ever eaten. 

“Please,” the spindel whispers. Björnen smiles, a grisly snarl perfectly tailored for liten spindel’s. “I’m sorry.”

The joint snaps nicely in Björnen’s hand. His hand flies quickly to cover the spindel’s scream. Rex is the only one who gets to hear this lovely scream. It is hers to hers to drink. His to cherish. 

“Do not scream. Quiet.” She takes her hand away. The skeleton whimpers, but does not scream. He lets go of the spindel’s wrist. Wide eyes stare up at him, knees buckled to the ground.

Someone laughs from above, someone has drank in the pain of this skelett. Rex looks around, but no one is there. 

The spindel is still staring when she looks back. 

“Hej då, skelett,” he growls. 

The skeleton scrambles away, feet and hands scraping on the ground. Back to its web the liten spindel goes to wait for another fly.

Rex keeps walking, fast and heavy on the broken concrete. She wonders how far until the address Milton gave her.

The walk is no fun if the skeletons are too scared to lurk. 

There’s only towers of dust-covered boxes inside the warehouse. Wooden crates threaten to fall with a constant slight creaking. Cardboard wilted with age and mold are littered around the floor, leaving the room a haze of mildew and dust older than Rex is. 

In the center, there’s a card table. Four chairs, shining and new. He’s not the first one here. Milton Drake would never set foot in a place like this. Italian leather doesn’t agree with mothballs and stained floors. 

Neither do cups of hot coffee. It’s not on the table.

The coffee is strong, drifting down from somewhere. It smells just like the coffee Mamma used to make. He breathes past it, letting the smell of old rot fill his lungs again. She looks up, then around. There’s a cup of coffee, still steaming, on the very top of a tower of crates. 

He stiffens, hands in fists, ready for whoever she has to work with. But the room is empty for everything but that cup of coffee and the card table. 

She pulls a chair, and sits. He pulls a sketchbook from her right jacket pocket, and pencil with it. 

The only sound in the warehouse is the scratching of his pencil. And the creaking of the crates. 

“Hello.” She did not hear footsteps, only words spoken with skratt sewn into the simple greeting.

Rex flinches, a thick line ruining the sketch of her old anka. 

She turns quickly, out of his chair. The scraping fills her ears, and the figure behind him steps out of Rex’s reach. 

“Björnen, nice to meet you,” a smirk grows. They take a step closer, looking up with damm green eyes. 

“I say the same, Veers.” 

Rex holds out his hand, Veer takes it and shakes.

“En kopp kaffe?” Veer’s Swedish is that of a nine year olds. But the offer is genuine and Veer’s smirk has turned to a godis sweet smile.

“Ja.”

Veer’s coffee is black, sugar and cream lacking from this mildew warehouse. Veer sits above Rex, perched on the creaking boxes, en liten fågel. Xer laughter floats down from above. Light as a fågel’s call.

[kazbrekkerscrutches]

John Murphy - Purple Sky

Warning: Pure fluff? Again, mostly inspired by the original script (6x01-Sanctum)

Words: 1.0k

“Looks like we found the water source.” Bellamy huffed out from behind. “Woah. Now, that's a view.” The suns, yes suns, we glowing up the sky with beautiful light.

The sky was filled with purple looking clouds, bright pink reflects in the water. It didn’t look like our previous planet; we could see the planet we were orbiting around from above. Everything was so beautiful; peaceful. “We camp here.”

“It looks like the suns are eclipsing.” Clarke remarked. We tilted our heads up, seeing the two bright lights uniting together.

“Murphy. Murphy, wait. We haven't tested it.” Jackson warned. I snapped my head as I heard John walking forward to the sea. He took off his gun from his shoulder, his sling along with it. I took a step forward, feeling a bolt of pain from watching him.

He said “yeah” a couple of times, completely ignoring Jackson.

“Your wounds haven't healed yet.” He took off his shirt, leaving it on the shore, before walking right into the water. He dipped right through the surface. After a few seconds, I had hoped he would come back to the surface; but he didn’t.

Oh god.

“John?” I raised my voice, stepping closer to the water.

Clarke felt the sudden urge of panic running through my veins. “Something’s wrong.” She called out to the others, still looking at the surface. Echo, Bellamy, Miller, Shaw, Jackson and Emori were all thinking in silence. I didn’t realize I had stopped breathing until John popped through the surface. I sigh came out of my mouth.

“Come on in. The water's fine.” He laughed, passing his hands in his damp hair. Emori and I let out a laugh, relieving the pressure from our minds.

“Who knew cockroaches could swim?” I happily replied to him. I dropped my heavy bag from my back, walking towards the shoreline.

“What, want me to teach you?” I never actually had learned how to swim; John had time to learn when he was tackled by a giant sea serpent with crazy Jaha.

He walked closer to me, taking my hands in his. “No. John, no.” He pulled me to the water, feeling the sudden cold but refreshing feeling of the water.

“Oh, you’re coming with me.” He grabbed my shoulders, closing the gap between us, getting my clothes wet. I looked up to the laughing boy; shook my head in amusement. Oh, you’re so on.

I pushed him down, landing right into the water. It splashed; damping my clothes all the way to my skin. He got up, shaking his hair into my face. I laughed, blocking my face from his 125 years old crusty hair.

“John! You are unbelievable, big trouble. Big trouble.” He took my waist and we both fell into the shallow water. I wiped the hair that got into my face, and took a deep breath. I was adoring everything.

Watching John enjoy this moment.

Seeing the others laugh to the cockroach’s actions.

Looking at the bright and clear sky.

Being alive, with my long-time lover.

I placed my hands around his shoulders, placing my hand higher in his hair, avoiding his neck.

Ever since he got strung up, I was the only one who could clean the wound but touching it was another thing. Once, I touched his neck, on accident, and he flinched, traumatized by Bellamy’s actions. I respected his boundaries and he respected mine.

He smiled widely, tilting his head back to deepen my hand in his hair. I chuckled loudly, placing my other hand on his cheek, touching his scars and healed cuts. He returned his gaze to look at me; the suns making his eyes lit up even more than usual.

“God. I love you, John.” We wouldn’t say those words in public, but it felt right in the moment. It felt just like him and I.

Us.

Alone.

Happy.

“And I love you even more, Y/N.” I sweetly closed the gap between us, meeting his lips for the first time in a hundred years. His lips tasted the same as I remembered; sweet berries and warmth. He deepened the kiss, tightening his hold on my waist, feeling his bony hands on my damp skin. I really had missed this.

“Isn’t she your sister, Echo?” Shaw questioned from afar.

“Can you blame her? We’ve all been sleeping for 125 years.” She replied, holding on to Bellamy.

“You know we can hear you right?” John responded to them, leaning his head by mine.

“Get over here, we need to set camp.” Clarke answered sharply, turning around.

I looked back to my lover, placing an army hand on my forehead, and waved it forward. He snorted, giving me another passionate kiss before walking back to the shore.

John got his pack, walked forward to the woods. “Forgetting something?” I held up his shirt in my hands. He walked back, almost taking it as I launched it behind my back.

“What are you, twelve?” I laughed, wrapping my arm around his torso. He held on to my waist, giving me a deep kiss, and taking his shirt back from my hand. “Thank you.” He said, almost in a singing voice.

“Come on.” I helped him put his shirt and his sling back up.

“Lead the way, my love.”

We both headed off to the woods, taking chopped wood and twig to create a fire.

The light went out and we both watched it. I was laying in between his legs, my back pressed his chest, he laced his arm with mine and kept his face close to mine.

The most peaceful night in a long time.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (12) || atz

The two of you stop outside a dark, smoky cabin.

It’s dark now, the sun having sunk behind the waves a while ago, the moon taking its place in the sky. Shifting shadows are cast in the gloom of the shop, and the dead snakes hanging at the doorway really isn’t encouraging you to go in any further.

You turn to stare at Jongho dubiously.

“To be fair,” Jongho says as he looks over at the eerie, shoddy establishment with equally doubtful eyes. The rickety bamboo frame looks like it could collapse on itself any moment. “It didn’t look this creepy the last time I was here.”

You swallow uncomfortably. “Maybe we should go back-”

“There is no fear in stepping forward, only moving back…” A hiss comes from deep within the shack and you jump, hand clenching around Jongho’s wrist in a vice grip. A bead of cold sweat slides down your neck and you turn to the young battlemaster with a silent plea in your eyes.

He nudges you towards the entrance gently. “I’ll be with you. There’s no need to be scared.”

That does make you feel better about your chances of leaving the dingy building alive, but you still don’t feel very eager to step inside. With Jongho’s hand on your back, you step cautiously into the fortune teller’s booth.

The small space is dimly lit, the only light coming from the flickering stubs of candles on the rough wooden table at the very back. Even as short as you are, you have to stoop underneath many of the strange things hanging from the ceiling. You hear Jongho’s muffled cursing behind you as he bumps into everything and anything in his way, things that you’re lucky to have been small enough to avoid.

There’s a small hearth at the side, coals still glowing red from a recently put out fire. Dried herbs and animal parts lie scattered everywhere on the floor, and to your left you see a stack of wooden cages stacked upon each other, every one holding some sort of rodent or gigantic spider. You inhale nervously and the pungent smell of burnt hair and animal excrement fills your lungs.

But there is no sign of the fortune teller.

You glance nervously at Jongho, who’s dusting the cobwebs from his shoulders. “It seems like she isn’t here-”

“Customers...” You shriek in horror as you see a pile of rags that had definitely been unmoving just seconds before burst into life, wheeling backwards as hysteria washes over you for a moment. Then Jongho catches you from the back firmly with strong arms, and calm washes gently over you once more. You catch your breath slowly.

“We’re here for a reading.” The young battlemaster’s voice is unwavering. You can’t quite make out her face underneath the tattered hood she’s wearing, but you can smell her breath all the way from across the table and see the light reflected in her near maniacal eyes. The fortune teller grins to reveal a mouth of yellowing teeth.

“Sit!” She demands, pointing dramatically a rickety seat in front of the table. You eye it doubtfully, unsure whether that can really hold your weight considering that it looks like it’s on the verge of collapse, but Jongho nods you forward.

Surprisingly, the seat doesn’t shatter under you.

“Fortune favours the fair.” The fortune teller leans across the table to take a closer look at you. You can count every single decaying tooth in her mouth, she’s much too close for comfort. Your skin crawls with goosebumps as you feel her eyes rake across your face.

“Don’t touch him.” Jongho snaps, his unyielding hand stopping the fortune teller in her tracks. She hisses at him, more animal than human, slinking back into her seat like a feline.

You clear your throat nervously, even though you’re honestly terrified at this point. You can feel phantom fingers brushing up your spine and neck and there’s an unsettling feeling in your stomach that feels like a coiling snake.

“You’re a fortune teller?”

“A magician, dearie.” The way she says it, so sickly sweet, sends a shiver down your spine. The room seems to drop in temperature. “It depends on what you want to know.”

“How much will a reading be?” Jongho cuts across her and the woman doesn’t look at him, eyes instead fixated on you. You don’t like it at all.

“You have a pretty face, my sweet.” The old hag croons, stroking your face with bony, coarse fingers. You resist the urge to scream out loud as ice creeps over in your veins. “I’ll give it to you free.”

Then a knife flashes out of nowhere.

This time, a scream does leave your lips, but then you realise that she’s only hacked off the end of your braid, leaving your hair tumbling around your face to above your shoulders in messy waves. Jongho’s hand clenches around the hilt of his cutlass. “One more time, magician, and the next thing getting cut is your neck.”

“You young ones are so skittish, like mice…” The wizened crone cackles as she hobbles to the fire, breaking a few twigs and setting them alight in a bowl. A strange, heady fragrance begins to fills the room, the air seeming to thicken as smoke spirals between you. You cough at the smell and spot the fortune teller sniffing your hair appreciatively.

You try your best to force down the bile in your throat.

With the same dagger she’d just used to cut your hair, she stabs an unfortunate rodent from a cage and you wince at its dying shriek. Its blood splatters across the table and seeps into the wood. You wonder exactly how many fortune and deaths it has seen.

The fortune teller then tears a sprig of dried plant from a bundle of herbs. Mistletoe, you recognise from your many lessons with San. She throws it over the fire and holds her hand out expectantly.

“Your finger.”

“She’s going to take my finger?” You whip around to stare at Jongho in horror, but by then the fortune teller has already grabbed your hand and yanked you forward.

To your relief, she simply pierces the tip of your index and squeezes three drops of your blood into the bowl. Then you hear San in your head lecturing you about the filth and dirt and grime and how you’re going to die from a thousand different illnesses and you shrink back into yourself, trying to clean the wound as well as possible as the fortune teller throws in a few strands of your hair, tucking the rest in her sleeves.

The fortune teller suddenly tosses everything in the bowl into the fire and to your shock, the flames turn bright green. You scramble backwards, nearly falling off your chair, but Jongho steadies you by the shoulders, hands warm against your freezing body.

“Watch.” He says seriously, and so you do.

The fortune teller leans over the fire, inhaling deeply for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, disembodied, as if she is underwater.

“Oh nameless one…”

Your eyes fly wide with shock at her first words. How does she know that you have no name?

“Child of the sea… you’re missing something very, very important to you… The secret you keep will ruin the trust you have built...”

Goosebumps prickle on your skin. You thought this witch merely wove fortunes that people wanted to hear, but she seems like so much more than that. Her eyes slowly blink open to stare at you with wide, dark eyes.

“To pass the trial, one must cross into death and awaken in life.” The fortune teller shudders, her arms trembling from the effort of holding her trance. “The biggest obstacle to overcome is yourself… I see a jewel resting in a jar of clay… Clay!”

“Clay?” You repeat after her, puzzled, but then she lunges for you before either you or Jongho can react. Her bony hands grab for your collar in a vice grip, her eyes searching your face hungrily. A scream leaves your mouth as you try to pry her from you.

“Let go of him!” Jongho snarls, but the little shack is too small for him to reach around you to remove the fortune teller's hands. The old woman ignores him completely, fingers stroking at your cheeks and nose haphazardly.

“How beautiful you are.” She breathes almost reverently, completely ignoring your frantic struggling and fear creeps over your skin. “I never thought it was possible, that I would see one like you… One as perfect as you…”

What?

“What are you saying, you old hag?” Jongho snaps, trying to remove her from you, but her grip on you is surprisingly strong.

“Such a new creation, such a perfect work of art!” The fortune teller almost sobs, and at this point terror seizes you. “I can't believe I got to lay eyes on a vessel that has only existed for a moon!”

Your heart stops beating inside your chest.

Jongho stills besides you, deathly silent. “What did you say?”

“Who made you?” She begs you, shaking you back and forth. You simply stare at her blankly, unable to comprehend what she's saying. Made you? What did she mean, made you? As in your mother? The person who had given birth to you?

As if in answer, the necklace you wear around your neck slips out of your shirt, and everything stands still for a moment.

Maybe it’s because you’re so close to the fortune teller, but you see every expression that crosses her face. First curiosity, then recognition, then shock. Her eyes fly open, as if she’s just been struck by some sort of divine revelation and her pupils instantly dilate with raw fear, the black almost swallowing the brown of her irises.

The fortune teller shrieks and yanks her hands back from you as if she's been burned. “You're one of hers! Leave! Leave before she finds me!” You’re too shocked to move.

Hers?

“Let's go.” Jongho urges you, clearly as stunned by the encounter as you are but in control of his wits a million times more than you’ll ever be. But you fight your way back to the fortune teller, who's slumped in a pile of rags against the wall.

“Who is she? And what do you mean by 'who made me’?” Your voice cracks at the last question, torment ripping at you from the inside. What did she mean, made?

“Leave me be!” The woman screeches and Jongho claps his hands over his ears. The people walking past outside must think that there's a murder going on. “I have no wish to meet your mistress!”

Mistress?

Desperation snaps in you. You have no idea what she's talking about, but you need answers to the hundred questions spilling over in your mind.

“Answer me or I'll stay here till she comes for you!”

“You fool!” The woman wheezes, curling into a ball. “I am unworthy of looking upon her face, the one who you have made a deal with, the sea witch!”

Deal.

“What deal?” You snap, furious. The one clue you have to who you are, and she's unwilling to tell you what it is. You made a deal? A deal for what?

Sea witch.

Jongho clearly has had enough of this voodoo talk, because he pulls on your hand a little more insistently. “Come on, let's go.”

“How do I find her?” You shout at the fortune teller, as you're dragged out of the shop. “Tell me!”

The old crone meets your gaze one last time, her eyes crinkling with madness. “You don't find her. She finds you!” She cackles aloud, shaking her head and rocking back and forth like a woman possessed. The glint in her eyes has turned crazed, unhinged, completely off her rocker. On the other hand, her voice remains strong and steady.

“But I'll tell you one last thing, my love.”

You jerk forward, insistent on hearing whatever her last words are to you.

“You will never find what you so desperately seek as long as you live.”

[elena-reina]

Worth It - Draco Malfoy x Reader

Request: (1/3) heyyy, can you do an imagine that draco comforts you for having depression for whatever reason and one day he saw you standing on the roof of hog warts almost leaping off the balcony but he catches you in time (you can create the ending) thank u if you do!! :)) - Anon

(2/3) Can you do a one shot where Draco knows about the readers eating disorder and he helps her overcome it? I hope that makes sense, I love your stories so much, please don't stop writing! - Anon

(3/3) Yay, you’re back! I was wondering if you could do a Draco Malfoy x reader where he finds her self harming? I get it if you aren’t comfortable - Anon

Warnings: Very triggering- read with caution please, depression- suicide related, anorexia, self-harm

A/N: PLEASE READ! These three all fall under the same category for me, so I just combined them. I just want to make it clear that I am not, in any way, romanticizing or making it seem as though I am pro self-harm whatsoever; I purely write whatever requests come in. To those that do, I know you’ve got a lot going on and there is a lot of emotions, trauma, and hurt; believe me I know a lot about it. But it gets better, I promise you. It always gets better. Incase you all haven’t heard it, I love you, I care about you, and I know you’re strong enough to make it through anything. If anyone needs to talk, my messages are always open and again don’t ever think you’re not enough or worth it because you all are golden. You were put on this earth for a reason :)

Just another day on top of another.

Yawning, you lightly scratched your head and stood in front of your mirror in your dorm room; nothing covered you besides your undergarments. Looking up and down your body completely still, you wouldn’t be able to tell there was anything wrong. You lifted your arm and looked at your wrist leading down your forearm; the markings covered the insides of your arms and varied in color, shape, and size. Some of them were old, obvious by how they shined and caught light at just the right angle. Some were bright red and bold, there was no denying it. Most were about a month old, looking like a cat scratched you and drew blood; which would be believeable considering you owned a cat- Pumpkin; some you could also blame on an accident. 

Well, what kind of accident?

Well, you didn’t have that answer. Not as if anyone were to ask anyways due to the fact that you kept them hidden in the first place.

You started at your feet, averting your eyes from your own reflection. Your feet were bony and thin, like the rest of your body. Raising your gaze, you winced at the emaciated figure that stared back at yourself. 

What had you let yourself become? 

To others, you looked sickly. 

Had you come to Hogwarts like this initially? No. It was harder to hide it at home, so your mind never crossed it other than maybe dark thoughts here and there.

Did you have a good life at home? Well, that’s subjective. You had a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and food in the fridge. All the necessary things to provide as a necessity to live.

But did you have genuine friends, loving parents, and a place to call home? No.

Your once plump and vibrant self, now looked thin to the bone. Once the soul becomes so thin, the body will inevitably follow in its footsteps like a wandering toddler, learning and adapting from the shadows within. Instead of a growing sense of ultimate self-love, self-worth, or self-positivity, the soul doesn’t have the strength to ascend upwards to health anymore. And so it is extremely hard to eat more, even when it is a simple bite at a time; drink more, with a tiny sip of water needed to survive; live more, the simple act of breathing eventually gets difficult from time to time; and ultimately hard to listen to that part of yourself that wants to stay alive and be loved.

Would you still go to the Grand Hall? Well of course, if there was one thing you hated more than yourself was unwanted attention. Part of you belives it’s your fault that you don’t have friends soley because of how introverted you are. And with the friends, well friend, that you do have just so happens to be the person most people don’t get along with; Draco Malfoy.

What’re the odds.

There definitely was more to it than just being “friends” with Draco, but neither of you fully acknowledged it. He knew about your eating disorder, and he tries his best to help you, encouraging you every step of the way- even when you blatantly push him away.

You never asked for help- Not that he cared if you did or didn’t anyway.

Turning away from the mirror, you slipped on your white button up shirt making sure to clip the button around your wrist, taking attention away for your skin. Sliding on your skirt, Y/H tie, and your Y/H robe, you were ready to head down for breakfast. 

Your hand rested on the cold metal door knob, as you stared at the small piece of silver metal on top of your dresser; whom you have a terrible relationship with. You bit your lip, hesitating. You knew you shouldn’t take it. You knew you shouldn’t have it on you because it will only ingite triggers. 

Fuck it.

You quickly walked over to your dresser and picked up the sharp piece to put in your pocket. Spinning on your heel, you headed on out of the room and to the Grand Hall.

You walked through the aisles, and immediately met with Draco’s eyes. He lit up and waved you over to your usual seat right beside him. He scooted over, patting the space next to him as you sat down. He grinned, happy to see you.

“G’morning, Y/N,” he said pulling you into a tight hug. He was always careful when touching you because he felt like he could snap you in half if he were to be too rough on you.

You smiled warmly, breathing in his calming smell. “Good morning, Draco.”

“Alright, I know we’ve been doing baby steps for the longest time, but I think you are just about ready,” he spoke.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What’re you talking about?”

He leaned over the table and placed food onto your plate, more than he’s put on the last times. Before it would just be pieces of fruit here and there, maybe a piece of sausage; but this time he put a waffle, more fruit, and two slices of bacon.

Your stomach gurgled for the food, desperate to be full off of something. But at the same time, you felt sick to your stomach.

“Draco, this is too much. I’m not even all that hungry. We had a big dinner the night before remember?”

“Nonesense, you literally only ate a handfull of rice and two small pieces of asparagus last night. Even my owl eats more than that,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

You stared at your plate, leaning back. Your tongue felt dry, despite your cup of water being right in front of you. Your throat felt as if someone thrust a handful of itching powder down and it was dying to be coughed out. If possible, you could sit in the chair for fifteen hours straight; you just weren’t in the mood to eat.

“Listen, you don’t have to eat it all, but please try for me.”

You nodded and picked up your fork, stabbing to the orange melon. Bringing it to your lips, you slowly chewed as your stomach was growling in pleasure being finally fed. 

Draco cheered you on with every bite, causing you to laugh. He wanted to distract you so that you focused less on what you’re eating and more on conversing with him so you weren’t as distracted with how much you were eating.

Eventually, you finished about half the waffle, all your fruit, and had no more bacon left. You were surprised at yourself when you looked back at your plate and then to him.

“I’m so proud of you! You ate more than I expected- not that I am complaining, I’m definitely not because I am really happy for you,” he quickly chuckled, “Maybe tomorrow we can put two waffles.” He nudged the side of your bony rib jokinly.

“Ha ha very funny,” you joked, rolling your eyes. 

After some time, you had to go to class. Sadly, you didn’t share many classes with Draco if at all. Walking into potions, you sat in your usual seat in the back of the room. As usual, there were always a few Slytherin’s that would pester you  solely because you were one of the few people in the school who was able to even share the same space as Draco; it was pure jealousy but you didn’t have a say in anything, or even how your friendship blossomed in the first place.

“Y/L/N,” Daphne sneered, leaning close to your face.

You really tried your best to focus on your Potions book but the group of girls that taunt you every single day just so happened to want to be extra annoying and sit around you. And when I say around you, I mean literally in front of you, next to you, on both sides, and even behind you. You lifted your head from your hand to looked at Daphne in front of you, considering she was right in your face. You opened your mouth to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I really don’t understand how us purebloods are forced to associate with people like you rotting mudbloods,” she giggled, making a disgusted expression as she said the last part. Her friends burst out into obnoxious laughter. 

You weren’t even a mudblood. You had friends who weren’t magical, but that only led people to paint you as a mudblood.

"Can’t say anything? Can’t stick up for yourself Y/L/N? My goodness, do you even speak or is that too hard for you?” Sarah on the side of you asks, awaiting your response, “I see the way you have Draco baby you. It’s pathetic really.”

They took your silence as an answer and continued but this time it was Heather behind you. "See, she doesn’t even deny it,” she snickered, "Just look at you. I don’t see what he sees in you. You look like, I don’t even know how to say it, a walking pole-”

“No, a broken twig!” Daphne interjected, laughing.

“Yes a broken twig!” Heather continued, slowly enunciating each word, “Nothing but a pathetic, filthy, mudblood who pretends to be sick just to get the attention from those who actually matter.” 

Each word felt like a stab in an open wound over and over again, being thrusted through your entire body. Tears welled up in your eyes as you blankly stared down at your Potions book, threatening to fall at any given moment. 

“What? Cat’s still got your tongue?” Alicia from the other side of you jerked, shoving on your roughly causing you to bump into Sarah. Sarah let out a disgusted groan and pushed you back off of her.

“Gross! Do not touch me!” she gagged, as Heather joined in and pushed you to the point that you fell out of your seat and roughly onto the floor with a loud smack.

“HEY! LEAVE HER ALONE!” someone in the classroom, whom you recognized as Justin Finch-Fletchley, spoke loudly finally witnessing what was happening.

Tears silently cascaded down your cheeks. He quickly jogged over to you as the mean girls dispersed to a different part of the classroom snickering together.

“Are you alright?” he asked concerned, extending his arm out towards you. You looked at his hand through blurry eyes and nodded, lightly grabbing onto him. He helped you to your feet. Grabbing onto your book, you turned and rushed out of the room and headed in the direction of the bathroom.

Keeping you head low, you sped walked, and crashed into someone that sent you flying to the floor. Choking over your tears, you didn’t bother to look at who it was and instead rushed to find your Potions book and hurry out of there.

“Y/N?” that familiar voice spoke.

Draco.

You still avoided eyecontact as you kept searching to your book only to find him holding onto it, to give to you. Standing up, you straightened out your skirt. Lightly grabbing it, you whispered a quiet thank you and tried to continue down the hallway. He stopped you grabbing onto your arm, alarmed.

“Woah, wait. What’s going on, what happened, what’s wrong?” he asked all at once as he watched the translucent tears glide down the sides of your face. You stood straight.

“Please, let me go,” you spoke softly, your voice slightly cracking.

“Was someone saying bullshit to you? Did someone hurt you? Because you know I’m always here for you and I’ll make sure they don’t say anything to or about you ever again.” He growls getting angrier by the second.

“I just really want to be left alone, Draco. I’m sorry,” you said snatching your arm back and sped walked down the hallway.

His scowl lightens, worrying for you. He slowly followed you. 

Initially you wanted to go to the bathroom, but changed your mind last minute. Turning a different corner, you kept going up more and more stairs until you inevitably reached the top of the Hogwarts building. Rushing to the edge, you dropped your book onto the floor and stood slightly leaning over the edge to get a good look at the bottom of the building with your hair flowing in the wind. It was a long way down that will ultimately end up in costing you your life. Trying to force yourself out of your thoughts, you looked in your pocket for that piece of metal, grateful that you grabbed it earlier. Frantically unbuttoning the shirt around your wrist, you felt numb as you choked over your tears silently.

“I’m not worth it,” you thought to yourself.

You stood on the brink of something you couldn't describe. The weight of everything seemed to press down on your shoulders and you struggled to take even a single step forward towards anything positive.

You felt worthless. 

A waste of space. A waste of air. A waste of life. 

It was too much. All of it. 

The tingle as the sharp metal glided against your skin provided a senseless, numb feeling. Every step cost you as the darkness in your mind grew darker and darker; the pain grew sharper and stronger; all of it seemed to only swell in strength and you began to wonder if things could ever get better.

You were tired of feeling things. Everyday felt like never ending dread. With an exception of Draco, nothing seemed worth it anymore. Hell, Draco will only end up forgetting about you in the end of it all.

You don’t play that much of a significant role in his life to matter to him in the long run.

Sometimes you wonder if someone ever notices that sad, broken look in your eyes that you see in the mirror that are masked with a smile and fake enthusiasm. 

If they see beauty where you see ugliness. 

You laugh, traveling up your arm going over old scars, a bitter, sarcastic laugh, at yourself. Nobody cares. No one notices. 

They never seem to, do they? You’ve fought for years, all for what.

The crimson liquid dripped down your arm, falling onto the stone floor. The wind pushed and howled against you as though to try and shove you back. Clumsily, you dropped your metal blade.

“No!” you shouted, dropping to your knees and it fell further and further, out of your sight. You choked over your sobs, feeling broken. Your arm stung and you looked at it through blurry tears.

“I can’t take this anymore,” you spoke aloud to yourself and shakily stood up. You inched closer and closed on the edge, as you looked up inhaling the fresh air. With one last breath, you closed your eyes, opened your arms, and took your last step forward and felt the pressure of the wind beat you on the way down. 

The blackness behind your eyes was perfect. It provided a visual silence that gave a respected admiration. With your eyes closed there was the simple sweetness of the longing of existing, of being, of breathing, and how those moments extended with such grace until you are met with the concluding dark abyss.

Prior while had Draco followed you, he could feel the dark and depressive energy emerging out of your presense. He knew you needed your space, but something was off. The higher and higher you went up the stairs, he had enough of following you and simply looked up. Only the worse things plagued his mind as he quickly rushed back down the stairs and sprinted through the halls to hurry and get outside. He had no seconds to waste, because he had a feeling you were going to try and jump.

He could’ve followed you all the way to the top, but if you had jumped he would’ve been to late. At least this way, he had a chance of catching you.

Ignoring the pain in his chest from running, he ran pushing anyone and everyone who got in his way. 

Darting outside, his eyes widened as he saw your body flying down the side of the building. With one last push of exertion, he caught you in his arms just in time. He fell forward into the floor, but was sure to cradle your head so you got the least amount of injury.

Breathing heavily up and down. You opened your eyes and met Draco’s silver, scared ones. You didn’t know what to think. You didn’t think he was going to be there. Your fresh wounds, began to soak up in his white shirt. Draco sees them, the sight of your new scars reveal themselves to him. He sees your arm, not that he’s surprised. Still being held in his arms protectively, he starts to cry. 

“Y/N,” he says your name like you had just broken his heart.

Your throat tightens and you feel yourself on the brink of tears as your eyes stung. You didn’t know what to say. You were broken.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, not knowing what else to say or do. “I’m sorry. I–”

He interrupts you. “Why...” he stammers gazing down at your arm, “How many times?” He rang a soft finger down your arm, wincing at every raw wound.

“I don’t know,” you mumbles. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he cried out, his tears dripping off his chin. “I’m sorry I wasn’t…I wasn’t there for you enough.”

You shake your head, “No, Draco, it wasn’t your fault–”

Draco looked down at you with confusion and anger before he smashed his desperate lips onto yours.

Suddenly, the anger, the self-hatred, the loathing, the rage left your body for a split moment. It diminished as soon as his lips pressed against yours in a long over-due, intense passion. It was as if he was taking all away all your pain and misery and threw it away.

You kissed him back with burning amount of fiery love he was kissing you with. Your lips worked hungrily against his as his hands snaked their way to your waist and pulled your shaking body closer to his to kiss you deeper.

Your cold hands grabbed his face and pulled it closer to yours, if that was even possible. His calming scent flowed through your nostils, making your eyes water under your closed eyes.

Too many emotions were going through your brain and you couldn’t handle it. Deep down,  you had always dreamt of being with Draco. Although, you wish that it could have happened under very different and happier circumstances. Nonetheless, you were grateful.

Pulling away, he gazed into your eyes. “Y/N, can you answer me why? Why didn’t you come and talk to me.”

You tried diverting your gaze, but he grabbed your chin with his hand lightly to keep his eyes locked with yours. “Please.”

“I can’t take it anymore. I hate myself and everything I stand for,” you began to cry, “I just... I just thought it would make it easier for everyone else if I were to end everything and erase myself from existence.”

“I would miss you and I don’t know what I would do without you. What if I had just offed myself and left you there to wonder where you went wrong.”

You broke down into sobs, burying your face into his neck as he embraced you in a tight hug.

You shook. “I... I know, but I’m nothing special. I’m just–”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he snapped harshly. “You are so fucking perfect, it drives me insane. I love you so goddamn much, do you know that? Do you? I love you too much to let you keep doing this to yourself. You are worth it. You are loved. You are my everything. I want you to remember that feeling you had right now at the thought of me ending my life, because that’s what you’re doing to me whenever you cut me out of your life like I’m nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” you cried lifting your head sniffing, “Draco, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear. I was just…I was just..” but you didn’t have any excuse, so you collapsed back into his warm embrace.

“I know,” he murmurs against your hair. “I know. I love you. I love you so much.”