#some translations use miles or feet or inches

[aparticularbandit]

Based on this post, I just want to pop off a little bit on translation. Specifically in reference to Bible translation.

Because like - the reason you see so many Bible translations comes down to whether the translators are word-for-word or whether they're going for translating the idea (which can come with a lot of bias based on what they think the idea is supposed to be, although word choice in a word-for-word can also be biased). And there's a wide spectrum of this, right? So some people will read segments across multiple translations to understand what's being said better.

And like you can run into footnotes that explain things!

I'm gonna pick on a specific instance because I've been in John 12 recently and this helped me a lot (now that I've actually, you know, the math of the thing).

So - in John 12:3, Mary annoints Jesus feet with "a pound of fragrant oil—pure and expensive nard" (HCSB). In John 12:4, Judas asks why she didn't sell it for 300 denarii, and the note says that a denarii is equal to a day's wage for a common laborer. Another states that 300 denarii is about a year's wages.

And like. I'd read the first note and think that's 300 days of work and then the second and if I was paying attention (I have not been, apparently), that's a year's worth of work. And it flies over my head.

But like.

The federal minimum wage is $7.25. Think of that as the base, the lowest we can get legally. (I know there are people who are paid less. I'm still using this as my base.) I don't know how much higher on the totem pole a common laborer would be, but so like - again, that's a base. It could be more! It also could be less. We're estimating here.

Assuming 52 weeks a year. 5 days a week. 8 hours a day. For a full year.

$7.25 × 8 hrs = $58 a day.

$58 × 5 days = $290 a week.

$290 × 52 weeks = $15,080 a year.

(That's before taxes and also 7 days a week over 52 weeks is only 364 days. But you get the point.)

Mary did what now.

Mary annointed Jesus' feet with oil that cost how much.

And this is like me making an estimate, please don't take my estimate as Scripture (when translating I tend to word-to-word for mental health reasons because I don't want to feel like I'm changing Scripture, you know).

But like - that's the difference between word-to-word and footnotes and localization.

And it is really about - what's the point of your translation? If its point is to help your reader have the greatest understanding of what's being written, how do you do that? How do you help your reader understand, to the greatest extent, what is going on here? What's its purpose?

And when translating Scripture, it's really hard to say what the best way of doing that is, particularly if you're wanting to avoid bias in a translation. Word-to-word might be better for that, but it can be rough to understand. As a reader, what are you sacrificing, what are you losing? Etc.

Anyway.

Thoughts.

[gayarograce]

OK, I keep seeing people get this wrong, and it really irks me, so I'm making this post:

Kinder Surprise Eggs are banned in the United States. A lot of you probably knew this already, and this fact is indeed true. What is not true is the assumption I see almost everyone then take: that we did it intentionally, i.e. we banned Kinder Surprise after they were invented due to safety concerns. This is then (anecdotally, I admit) usually followed by some claim that either American children are too stupid to keep themselves from choking on the toy inside or that adults are simply too worried about children potentially choking and decided to then ban them. (Bonus points if the person also mentions our lack of gun control or school shootings in the same breath!)

Except, the second part of that claim, that we intentionally banned Kinder Surprise after they came out, is simply false.

The Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act (FFDCA) of 1938 bans confectionery that "has partially or completely imbedded therein any nonnutritive object" (21 U.S.C. § 342(d)(1)). You will note, as stated above, that the FFDCA was passed in 1938. Kinder Surprise was released by Ferrero in 1974. Kinder Surprise came 36 years after the FFDCA. I don't think it's much of a stretch to say that the small toy inside Kinder Surprise Eggs isn't nutritive, and therefore when they were launched, they were already by default banned by the FFDCA.

So no, we don't have some sort of special vendetta out for Kinder Surprise Eggs, they were simply already illegal in the US from the start. There is, however, a country which has specifically targeted Kinder Surprise Eggs since they've released:

Chile, in 2016, banned Kinder Surprise, along with a multitude of other sugary foods in an effort to curb Chile's rapidly growing childhood obesity rate. Their specific issue with Kinder Surprise was that the toy is, as they called it, a "promotional gadget" (source). According to Ley 20606, "La venta de alimentos especialmente destinados a menores no podrá efectuarse mediante ganchos comerciales... como regalos, concursos, juegos u otro elemento de atracción infantil" (Ley 20606, Artículo 6, Párrafo 3, source in Spanish). Or, as a rough translation, "The sale of food specifically intended for children may not be carried out through the means of commercial hooks... such as gifts, contests, games, or other elements intended to attract children."

I'm not really sure how I want to end this post. I guess the main thing to take away is whenever you come across any claims similar to the one I addressed in this post, maybe do some research into why what they're making fun of is the case. (Another example I could talk about is how lots of people just assume someone randomly decided there should be 5,280 feet in a mile through the means of, in the words of one notable Tumblr post, "a drunk mathematician rolling dice." The short answer to this is there's 5,280 feet in a mile for the same reason there's exactly 2.54 centimeters in an inch.)

I think that's about it. End post.

[aberrantlexicon]

No idea if you were looking for actual explanations for these, but I'm going to give some anyways! For anyone who doesn't feel like reading the whole thing, it mostly comes down to "these units were chosen arbitrarily based on what was convenient/important for people to measure and only standardized later, and also you can blame (England's conquest by and later obsession with) the Romans." There's also the added layer of US customary units vs. British imperial units; both use mostly the same names for everything (inches and feet and miles and pounds and gallons and so on), but the exact values of those units and even how those units combine/are subdivided can be different between the two systems, because having just one set of these units isn't messy enough. Anyways, list of longer explanations is under the cut:

The advantage to using sixteenths is that you can divide an inch (or other unit) into sixteenths by successively halving it, and "divide this amount into two equal parts" is an operation which is can be done pretty easily and precisely without having to resort to a lot of numerical computation. You do lose out on some decimal/percentage convenience, but considering that a lot of the imperial/customary units (including inches, feet, and miles) are derived from ancient Roman units, and ancient Rome very famously did not have a decimal place-value system for expressing numbers, this was not really a concern when these units were getting developed and standardized.

As far as I'm aware, they're just called "sixteenths of an inch," which is fine if a bit lacking in creativity. But if we want to come up with a metric-style name for them, I'm partial to borrowing some music terminology for interval divisions and calling them "semi-inches" (cf. semiquaver, a sixteenth note).

We do have smaller divisions! Sort of. They don't always appear on rulers/tape measures unless it's one that's designed for higher precision, but there are thirty-second and sixty-fourth inches, which are pretty commonly used when specifying hardware dimensions (particularly things like screw and/or driver diameters). There's also thousandths of an inch, usually called "mils" (at least in the US) for when you need something decimalized or more precise. Again though, these are used less for everyday measurements and more for things like measuring manufacturing tolerances.

Once again, you can blame the Romans for these. Inches derive from the uncia, literally "one twelfth (of a Roman foot)". Miles are also a formerly Roman unit; the Roman mile was defined as exactly 1000 paces (the word "mile" comes from the Latin "mille passus", and I bet you can guess what that translates as), which works out to 5000 Roman feet once a "pace" gets standardized by Agrippa. That's also how the British imperial system defined their mile, but fast-forward a millennia and change and England decides to shorten the length of their foot. You'd think this would shorten the mile as well, except England had also defined a mile as being 8 furlongs (an length unit based on how far an ox could drive a plow, but that's a story for another time) and they really didn't want to shorten the length of a furlong (for tax reasons). So they kept the length of the mile unchanged, which meant that an extra 280 of the now-shorter feet were needed to make the same distance.

A Tablespoon (the measurement unit, but this also somewhat applies to the cutlery) is three times the volume of a teaspoon, so I don't know if I'd call them basically the same. This might be a case of getting spoon sizes confused, because as far as I can tell the two standard cutlery set spoon sizes (at least in the US, not sure about other locations) aren't tablespoon and teaspoon, but tablespoon (large) and dessert spoon (slightly smaller). This image (from the Wikipedia article on teaspoons) shows a pretty good comparison of the cutlery. The tablespoon is second from the left, and the teaspoon is on the far right. As for why we have so many different spoon sizes? I don't know, blame the intricate culture and etiquette of tea sets I guess.

Same as above, it's mostly just a cultural thing that special tiny spoons were used to serve/stir tea with.

Sort of? What probably happened is that we had all of these common utensils and vessels lying around (spoons, cups, etc.) that were really convenient to sue for measuring out ingredients when cooking or baking. And while there wasn't a precisely standardized size of spoon or cup at first, they'd all be pretty close to the same size because that's what was comfortable for people to use. Fast forward to the point where these rough estimate amounts get used not only for sharing recipes but for selling quantities of ingredients and the (English, in this case) government decides that they need to get standardized into proper measurement units.

Interestingly enough, the word "ounce" also derives from the Latin uncia, this time by re-borrowing the Middle French unce. Rather than a twelfth of a Roman foot, this time uncia refers to a twelfth of a Roman pound, also called a "libra." Meanwhile, the abbreviation "oz" for ounce comes from the Italian onza, which is also cognate with uncia.

Since US customary units are derived from British imperial units, and Britain was using pounds and pence as their currency, having a separate abbreviation for weight-pounds absolutely would have helped avoid confusion. Would we be better off changing the abbreviation to something more intuitive, at least in the US? Maybe, but I think there are also better measurement reforms we could try and get the US onboard with instead.

Pounds as a unit of money are actually derived from pounds as a unit of weight, not the other way around. British pounds were originally defined as the value of a pound (weight/mass) of sterling silver. In fact, the currency symbol for British pounds (₤) also comes from abbreviating "libra."

That depends on which gallon you're talking about. The original English system of units had a handful of different gallons for slightly different uses, but the most relevant one is the standardized wine gallon, which is equal to 231 cubic inches. This is also how the US customary system defines its gallon, with quarts, pints, and fluid ounces being certain fractions of that volume (1/4, 1/8, and 1/128 respectively). Meanwhile, the British Imperial system uses a very metric-like definition of a gallon as the volume taken up by 10 pounds of pure water (at 62℉), and then divides down so that an imperial fluid ounce is the volume of one weight-ounce of water. This has the annoying side effect giving the units in each system different conversion relationships; an imperial pint is 20 imperial ounces, while a customary pint is only 16 customary ounces. This also means that the customary ounce is slightly larger than its imperial counterpart but the customary gallon is almost a liter smaller.

As mentioned above, the imperial/customary units have some amount of measurement transference, though not as much as metric. Imperial volumes and masses are related but those definitions don't incorporate the length units unlike with kilograms/liters/cubic centimeters. Meanwhile the customary volume units are technically based on a certain amount of cubic inches, but 231 isn't a very convenient number to work with unless you like thirds, sevenths, or elevenths so that correspondence usually gets ignored unless you're calculating a precise volume capacity.

Yeah, let's maybe save Fahrenheit for another day.

Truer words have never been spoken.

Things about the metric system that confuse me

Why are there 16 parts to an inch. Like yeah it's divisible by 4 but decimals and percentages on a system based on 100 are so much easier to calculate than fractions.

What are those little sixteenths called

Why don't you have millimeters. What happens if you need to measure something smaller than 1/16th of an inch. Why is your smallest area measurement the length of my fucking thumb

BECAUSE of your dumb inches and sixteenth and fractions, nothing else makes any fucking sense to remember. What's an inch? 16 little notches. What's a foot? 12 inches. What's a mile? 5,280. How the FUCK does anyone remember that. You know what's easy to remember? 10 millimeters are 1 centimeter. Do you know what centimeter means? 1/100th of a meter. You know how many of them are in a meter? 100. Easy shit

Okay this one is at Imperial but whose tablespoon is a tablespoon based off. Why are tablespoons and teaspoons both distinct measurements, they're fucking spoons. They're almost the fucking same. Like if you had "inches" and "binches" and binches were for no reason at all 1/42nd smaller and you only used them for measuring sawdust. Fuck completely off

Okay actually still looking at Imperial and speaking of Teaspoons and Tablespoons, the names don't indicate anything. How would ANYONE simply deduce by name which is bigger or smaller. Why would a spoon for food be bigger than a spoon for a drink. They both gotta fit in your fucking mouth don't they

Did we all standardize our fucking spoon volumes before we standardized our math? And CUPS? Who in the cholera factory was using scientific standard measurements to quality control your cutlery for any of this to be at all reliable for anyone following recipes

Alright back to you Metric WHAT DOES OUNCE MEAN AND WHY IS IT ABBREVIATED AS OZ

WHY IS POUND ABBREVIATED AS LB FOR LIBRA LIKE SCALES LIKE A CRYPTIC ASS ILLUMINATI SECRET MESSAGE WHEN "P" IS PERFECTLY AVAILABLE. YALL AINT PAYING MONEY IN POUNDS AND PENCE SO WHATS THE CONFUSION

Okay also why the hell would the British using Pounds to mean money run away to make America and start using Pounds to mean weight instead. Do I weigh a hundred dollars? Does Chadley at the gym bench press a thousand cents? I hate you

What is a gallon for. What does it mean. You know what's easy to convert to milliliters? Liters. What the hell is an ounce to a gallon

On top of that, what's your measurement transference? We have grams for weight, liters for liquid, meters for distance, and they're all like 1:100:1000 and shit. What do you DO to like. Show how many square inches of mass a gallon has or whatever

Oh shit I ain't even got into Fahrenheit yet

Actually fuck all of us, the end

[queerworldtravelers]

Sutomore, Montenegro

42°08'20" N, 19°02'28" E

Check out the trains and some incredible video editing:

With a few weeks left before returning to the Schengen we looked at our options. We could have flown to Istanbul, but Kotor is really far away from a reasonable airport. Albania could have been an option if an entire day on a bus sounded fun. A bus to Sutomore, only a few hours down the coast, sounded like a grand adventure. For the record, bus trips through Montenegro should be on your list of do this once in your life. The buses are hand-me-downs from possibly Germany, the drivers don’t wear seatbelts, and the bus will leave when the driver is done with a smoke break and that might be BEFORE the scheduled time. We hoped to take the ferry from Bar, Montenegro (just down the road from Sutomore) to Bari, Italy and as it turns out one of things Covid erased was this ferry. What is one to do? Enjoy the apocalyptically-empty beach town on the Adriatic for a few weeks before a ridiculous flight adventure back to Sicily. That is exactly what we did! We arrived in Sutomore and wondered if it was an actual ghost town. Thankfully our host picked us up at the bus stop and gave us a ride to the mostly empty Stalinist architecture apartment building with a view of the Adriatic Sea. 

We spent many hours watching the Belgrade to Bar Railway cars as they passed on the mountain side several times every day. According to the train expert The Man in Seat 61 the Bar to Belgrade line “is a marvel of engineering, with 254 tunnels and 435 bridges on the 296-mile journey from the Serbian capital to the Adriatic.” We watched carefully and noted that the trains did run every single day and almost exactly on time. Just on the other side of a sizable mountain is the largest lake in Europe: Skadar Lake. On a sunny day wedged between the days filled with the fierce and sustained gusts of katabatic Bora winds we ventured to the train with the goal of checking out Skadar Lake. Accessibility is a hallmark of sustained funding and infrastructure, of which Montenegro has neither. As we waited for the train an elderly woman with two crutches approached us and began pleading in what we deduced to be Bosnian. Frantically, Krystal began typing words into Google translate (which has limited support for Bosnian) and pieced together “men are no good” and “broken feet.” Ah, she needed help getting ON to the train! Mind you, getting “on” the train in Montenegro requires one to adventure across the railroad tracks, up on cement blocks, and the actual train access is similar to climbing a giant metal ladder that is only stationary for two minutes. After a mad dash across the tracks (you never know which track the train will pull up on) we hoisted our new friend up on the train. Mary pulled her arms and Krystal pushed her butt. We got her all the way to a seat and counted our lucky stars that we all made it in one piece. 

Skadar Lake is stunning and we recommend adding it to a Balkan adventure should you ever find yourself in this part of the world. It is a haven for migratory birds and you can venture around on a boat, bike, or hike with epic views everywhere you turn. The train is also an absolute must. In fact, fly to Belgrade and take the train to Montenegro destinations.

In August of 2022 Montenegro experienced a vote of no confidence in their Prime Minister. Much like the United States, the country is equally divided between two ideologies. During our time in the country elections were in process for a new Prime Minister and our proximity to Podgorica, the capital, highlighted the intensity. The country was plastered in political ads. There also seemed to be an air of apocalypse. We have noticed that some places revived during Covid and some died. April in Sutomore was dead and each day brought more and more life as summer inched closer. 

After a few more bouts of Bora winds we venture to Podgorica on the train. The ride is about an hour from Sutomore and we were excited to spend a little time in the city. Podgorica was fascinating! Spared no lack of bombing in WWII, most of the architecture was constructed after liberation and represents Socialist Yugoslavia. Upon rounding a corner on our way to the river we noted a UN flag flying adjacent to a Russian flag. A little investigation revealed the UN headquarters in Montenegro and their neighbors, Srpska kuća, a Serbian news and radio outlet. A true representation of the two factions in Montenegro.  

We ventured about and enjoyed good food and drinks. To round out our adventure Mary eagerly awaited a coffee from her favorite, a vending machine. She pushed the buttons and we waited in anticipation for the vending magic. Lots of gurgles and whirls and then we saw the coffee dispense directly into the waste tray! The machine was out of cups. So sad! A train arrived going in the direction we anticipated was towards home and we boarded. We noticed another train pull up and checked the schedule. North and south bound trains were scheduled to leave within minutes of each other. We had to be on the right one. Then we watched as the other train left the station in the direction of Sutomore! We missed our train, but realized our mistake fast enough to get off of the wrong train before it departed. 

Thankfully we only had to wait an hour. When we boarded the next south-bound train it became clear why we had to miss the last one. The train we did catch consisted of Montenegrin compartment cars and they were epic! The seats were like armchairs and we had a whole compartment to ourselves for most of the ride. We opened the window and watched as we passed the Lesendro fortress of 1843 and Skadar Lake. 

On our train adventures we met many folks and the most interesting was Jürgen, a surveyor on holiday from Berlin. Jürgen’s main mission is to climb mountains and Sutomore is the perfect place to be if that is one’s mission. We saw him a few times and on our last day, which also happened to be the Serbian Orthodox Easter, we climbed to Crkva Sveta Petka Trnova, a small orthodox church on the top of a hill. He shared with us stories of his time in Ethiopia and Yemen helping survey archeological sites. Later on as it started to rain just a little we met up for a beer, a Nikšičko to be exact and this is a beer we hope to find out in the world someday because it was amazing! Mary ordered a shot of rakia, or fruit brandy, and the owners loved us so much they brought a free round of their home-brewed rakia. Much like the home-brewed limoncello, this stuff is made to help you forget the world around you. We bid good night to our new friend committing to sending postcards to each other from different corners of the world. 

The next day we woke before the sun and took a taxi to Podgorica, a flight to Zagreb, a delayed flight to Rome, another flight to Palermo, a train to the city, and walked 40 minutes to get back to our home in the Ballarò.

[theycallmebecca]

18+ Drabble: Hey There, Cowboy

Y'all know I love me some cowboy!Ari and I've had this idea swirling in my head for the last week or so... and I even though I should be putting my home office back together after getting a new-to-me-desk... but I got the bug to write this... so let's give it a go.

Title: Hey There, Cowboy

Pairing: cowboy!Ari Levinson x female reader

Rating: R

Warnings: language, semi-graphic sex & oral sex (male receiving), exhibitionist themes

Disclaimer: This work of fiction is not to be reposted, used or translated without my permission.

18+ Disclaimer: This work contains sexual material that is for those over the age of 18. By clicking the keep reading link below, you are agreeing that you are over the age of 18 and are not offended by sexual content.

Usage Disclaimer: This work is for fans only. This author does not give permission for it to be shared, spoken of, referred to in any public manner (podcast, tv, online, etc.) that wants to either make a celebrity uncomfortable, mock fan fiction/fandom in any way, or the author themselves. Requests can be made, but it is unlikely the author will change their mind. If no response is given to a request then the answer is a solid no, not interested and the work cannot be shared, spoken of or even referred to, regardless of the manner or context. 

After spending a good six hours under the hot sun checking the fence line with his ranch hands, the dappled shade of the grove felt amazing to Ari as he spread out an old blanket.

Normally, he and his crew would have worked until dinner time, but it was too fucking hot and he'd sent them home after lunch.

Instead of riding back with them in one of the trucks, he'd had them drop him off at the grove and he'd walked the half mile in to where a small river ran through his land.

Dirty from the day's work, he pulled off his clothes and then waded into the river to both cool off and wash away some of the dirt.

Once the water was up to his knees, he lowered himself fully into the slow moving water, dunking his head under to clean his face.

He stayed in the river for a few minutes before he climbed out and made his way to his blanket. He laid down on it and stretched his limbs out, letting the warmth of the day dry him off.

The sound of an engine caught his ear, a little later, and he smirked. He knew that you'd come looking for him after seeing the ranch hands leaving for the day.

"Hey there, cowboy," you voice said, a few minutes later, as you stepped out from the path that led to the river's edge.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Ari grinned up at you as you made your way to the blanket in nothing but your boots and a summer dress.

You smiled down at him, taking in every inch of him and spending a heart beat longer some certain parts of his anatomy.

"Fancy a swim?" he asked, nodding his head towards the river.

"Maybe later," you replied, playing with the hem of your dress.

"Lay down with me then?" he suggested.

"Help me with my boots?" you countered.

Upon learning that Ari had gone to the river, you had taken your panties off back at the ranch house before getting into the old farm truck.

Ari sat up and offered you to support yourself as he helped remove your boots.

It was as you were shifting your weight from one foot to the other that he caught a glance up your dress and saw what was missing.

"Fuck, darlin'," he groaned.

"See something you like?" you teased.

He tugged your second boot off more aggressively than was necessary and tossed it to the side.

Once you were standing on both feet evenly, though slightly parted, he snaked his hand up under you dress and brushed his thumb against your clit. Then he slid his hand back, feeling for himself just how excited you were with the situation.

"Damn, darlin'," he groaned as he lowered his hand and licked your juices from his fingers. "You're already ready for me, aren't you?"

You nodded your head then lowered yourself to your knees, pushing him back onto the blanket in the process.

"But you aren't quite ready for me yet," you said, seductively as positioned yourself between his legs.

Biting your lower lip, you reached out and touched him, caressing his torso and his thighs.

"Don't tease, darlin'," he bemoaned.

"You like it when I tease," you replied, looking up at him as your hand found the shaft of his quickly hardening cock.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could get it out, you kissed the head of his cock, silencing him.

After the only sounds that came from his lips were mumbled encouragements and groans as you used your mouth and your hands on his cock and balls.

"Darlin'. Darlin'. You' gotta stop," he managed to spit out. "Fuck. I don't want to come in your mouth. Not right now."

Letting go of his cock, you licked your lips and then turned your back to him. "Help with the zipper?" you asked.

You could hear his labored breathing as he pulled the zipper down. Then you heard the sharp intake of breath as he realized for the first time that you weren't wearing a bra under the dress either.

"Fuck me, darlin'," he moaned. He pressed a kiss to your bare back as he pushed the straps of your dress down your arms, letting the material pool around your waist.

His hands moved around your front and cupped your breasts, squeezing and fondling them. He tweaked your nipples, sending spikes of pleasure through your body.

You soon found yourself laying on the blanket while he hovered over you, your dress tucked under you head for more cushion.

"I could stare at you all day every day, darlin', and never get tired of this view," he said as he slipped between your legs.

He lifted one of your legs up onto his waist and the he slid his cock into your sex, fully seating himself in one fluid motion that made you both moan in pleasure.

Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead against yours before he kissed you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and slipped your tongue between his lips, letting your tongues mingle as your bodies moved together.

As the pleasure built between you, you wrapped both legs around his legs, pulling him deeper into you.

"Fuck, darlin'," he groaned against your lips as your body met his thrust for thrust.

Leaving one arm to support his weight above you, he reached between your bodies and found your clit, using the pad of his thumb to help encourage your release.

"ARI!" you cried out as his touch pushed you over the edge.

He grunted above you and you felt his body spasm against yours as he came, buried deep inside of you.

After slipping from between your legs, Ari laid down next to you on the blanket and pulled you into his arms.

The sounds of nature surrounding you slowly coming back as the two of you recovered.

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hi! What are your thoughts on using modern scales of measurement (kg, meters...) in fantasy works?

Weights and Measures in Fantasy

When writing fantasy, especially in non-Earth settings, we can probably assume that the characters aren't actually speaking an Earth language or using Earth measurements, but we use them anyway and chalk it up to "translation convention."

"Translation convention" mainly refers to when the characters in a story appear to be speaking the language of the reader, but because the story doesn't take place on Earth, the characters wouldn't actually be speaking that language. For example, the "Common Tongue of the Andals" in A Song of Ice and Fire is the native tongue of the Seven Kingdoms and is spoken as a trade language by many outside of the Seven Kingdoms. Okay, it's English--because the story was written in English--but it's not actually supposed to be English because England doesn't exist in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. This is the magic of "translation convention."

Much the same thing occurs in Markus Zusak's The Book Thief which takes place in Germany during World War II, featuring German characters. Once again, the book was written in English, so therefore the narrator and characters speak English, but they're supposed to be speaking German. In this case, Zusak incorporated German words and slang where appropriate, to give the sense that the characters were speaking German even though their dialogue was written in English.

We leave things up to "translation convention" a lot in fantasy and don't even think twice about it. Because Earth languages don't exist in most fantasy worlds, neither would the words for everyday objects like chair, book, mug, or sword. For some reason, though, fantasy writers don't worry that those everyday Earth words will take the reader out of the story, but we do worry about things like weights, measures, days of the week, money, etc.

So, what's the solution? There are a few options:

Invented Measurements: Invent your own system of measurement that is distinct to your story's world, but the problem with that is it's one more thing for the reader to learn and it can be annoying and cause confusion.

Familiar Objects: Use something known both in your world and ours, like a barrel, as measurement. "It was five barrels high..." or "ten stallions long." Even fingers, hands, and feet work as smaller measures of distance. For larger ones, such as to cover journeys, you can look at time: "three sunsets from now..." "it's half a day's ride..."

Obsolete and Archaic Measurements: There are lots of obsolete and archaic measurements that sound like they belong in fantasy, and either the reader has a general understanding of them or can easily look them up. This would be things like cubit, furlong, league...

Modern Measurements: There's also nothing wrong with just going with normal, everyday measurements. Whether that's feet, meters, miles, or kilometers. If it works in your story, go for it, because once again, this is something that can be chalked up to "translation convention." Sure, the characters are talking about inches and miles, but we can assume they have different words for those same measurements in whatever language they're actually speaking.

The bottom line is you have to do what works best for you and your story, because every reader has their own preference so it's impossible to please everyone.

Good luck with your story!

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[drafty-castle]

Omgomgomgomg. THIS!!!!!

Yes to the time blindness, obviously. But calculating in my head the approximation of other measurements? Also broken!

This effects my driving in particular as while I have binocular vision and therefore depth perception, fuck me if I can translate what I see into useful information. If I’m trying to pull out of a side street and see a car coming along the street I’m turning onto, I cannot tell how far away it is OR how fast it is coming at me. This has lead to one (1) crash with my little compact vs a metro bus because I genuinely thought it was farther away than it was. Since then, I err on the side of caution and give myself probably WAY more room than “normal” people need, but I’m not dead, so I’ll take the win. (This does tend to annoy any passengers with me or cars stuck behind me but not dead yet, so still a win.)

I’ve also had some weird issues with my proprioception (the brain’s sense of where your body is in relation to the world and how it it moving). I dunno if it’s a processing error or what but I have NEVER been able to tell where my body parts are in relation to the world around me with as keen a sense as seems to be expected. As a child (and an adult), this has lead to me being incredibly “clumsy” as I bump into and knock over things I had no I idea I was even near. When I was little, I was constantly running into furniture and stubbing my toes on things (as an aside, I’ve got tiny little toes on big honking feet and I always joke that they stopped growing out of self preservation when I was a kid because of how often I was jamming them into furniture). My parents kept telling me to “look up! look ahead to see where you are going!” Except that always did the opposite of help. What worked, and what they kept telling me to not do, was looking down - at my feet - actively watching where they were as I walked. A table leg comes into view? Then I can then move around it, placing my feet where I know are empty spots on the floor. All looking/facing forward did for me was ensure I hit every piece of furniture I tried to walk around as I couldn’t calculate where they ended and I began when I wasn’t directly looking at them.

Still true today. I have permanent bruises on my forearms from hitting the doorknobs of every door in the hallway in my house, every time I walk down the hall, every-damn-day. I know they are there, and I generally try to walk in the middle of the hall away from the walls, but unless I am 100% actively paying attention and have my eyes scanning the walls for the protruding knobs like land mines on a battlefield, I will inevitably run into one (and often flinch away from it, knocking into its diabolical brother on the opposite wall with my other arm).

I also knock shit off tables and counters more than our cats do, even while not realizing I was within touching distance of the table in question. I’m so glad I never got into sports because my dad tried to get me to sign up for soccer/football and that just sounds like a nightmare of hilarious pratfalls and kicking teammates in the head.

Also? Whenever I see a description of someone’s height said in a way that is supposed to help identify them (like descriptions in ‘wanted for questioning’ bulletins on the news), I was always like yeah? And? How is knowing the guy is 6’1” supposed to be an identifier? It took me years to realize that other people…. Can actually approximate others heights just by looking at them (to greater or lesser accuracy)? Best I can do is a comparison: is this guy taller or shorter than Aundre the Giant? Shorter? Ok!

I still use the middle section of my pointer finger to approximate an inch and the length of my pinky nail for a centimeters in a pinch. Can’t figure out a yard since I hit puberty and it no longer lands on a distinct place on my body. “Somewhere between my ribs and my hip” is not helpful.

Trying to guess distances is a craps shoot. A mile? What’s that? Asking me how far away something is is like one of those math problems: Well, I started in Pallet Town and was going back roads at about 45 mph for most of it, except for when I got stuck behind that mail man for a while, but then I got onto the interstate out of Vermilion City and got up to 70mph for the rest of the trip to Cerulean City. I was listening to my best bombastic playlist during the whole thing and got half way through when I arrived. The entire playlist is 3 hours and 19 minutes long. So it’s about an hour and a half away? (No, time is not a form of distance measurement, yes I will answer that question in time instead.)

Fun to know all this bullshit could very well be ADHD related and not just me being 🤪.

A lot of us with ADHD are familiar with the concept of time blindness, but for anyone who isn't: it's a neurological inability to have a consistent sense of the passage of time. If you put me in an empty room, gave me a button and told me to press it when I think it's been 15 minutes, I might press it after..... idk, anywhere between 3 minutes and 2 hours? And if we repeated it the next day the result would probably be wildly different!

But something I've only seen mentioned in one (1) Reddit post, which took some extensive digging to find, is the same effect extending to ALL things measured in numbers. Distance, weight, length, height, amount, space, volume, percentage... For me, small numbers are a bit easier, I could approximate a centimetre probably, but a metre would be much harder and 10 or 100 would likely miss the mark by a lot. Also, anything that can't be easily measured with a ruler or a measuring tape (like weight or volume) is even harder since I don't encounter reference points (like a 1kg hand weight) for those as frequently as I see visual representations of specific lengths.

It's not dyscalculia or anything like that, I'm decent at math (and the OP of the Reddit post was a math major) and I have no other difficulties with numbers, it's just a disconnect in translating real life experiences like sensory input into numbers (and possibly also inconsistent processing of sensory input? Like how the same sound volume is okay one day but hurts my ears the next?), which I think is basically the same thing as what happens with time blindness. For now I've been calling it "measurement blindness" since I've never seen a name for it anywhere, but maybe "quantity blindness" could also work?

I've talked to other people with time blindness to see if they experience this too, but so far none of them have known what I'm talking about. I'd really like to know how many of us are out there and if anyone knows literally anything actually scientific about this very inconvenient phenomenon!

Tl;dr: bc I am wordy:

It's like time blindness but for all things measured in numbers

Not dyscalculia or caused by it

Pretty much never seen it talked about anywhere

Please tell me if it sounds familiar and/or you know something about it, thank

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Chapter 16 - Stage Two.

Summary: The storm breaks and it all comes crashing down...

Warnings: Angst, whump, hurt/comfort, blood, red mist of rage, graphic violence, explicit language

---

The resounding thumps of Karn's boots pulse rhythmically through your chest as you charge after him across the bridge, each step drumming along to the beat of your heart until you can hardly tell whether it's the organ that thunders in your ears, or the youngling's footsteps.

Even the heavens themselves seem to be urging you along. A snarl from the storm-laden clouds chases you towards Tri Stone with icy pellets of rain nipping at your heels. Every breath leaves you harshly and raggedly, and were it not for the steady presence of Death at your back, you might be tempted to slow down and surrender to your burning lungs.

To say that you're afraid would be the biggest understatement this side of a century. With every boom and crash you hear from the village, the pit opening up in your stomach grows wider and wider until it feels as though your heart has plummeted straight down inside it, lost amongst your roiling guts.

Teeth grit, you push yourself to run on, clumsily leaping over cracks and fissures that now litter the weathered stone underfoot. It would seem that hardly an inch of the bridge has been left intact after bearing the full weight of a rampaging guardian.

Large segments of the structure break off and your ears pick up the telltale rush of air as they whoosh down into the endless chasm far below you. It'll be a miracle if you all manage to make it to the other side before the whole thing collapses out from under your feet, but the bridge's stability, though certainly a worry, is hardly at the forefront of your priorities right now.

'The makers have to be okay,' you tell yourself, feeling not even the slightest bit reassured by your own thoughts, 'They have to be.'

They're good people.

They're your friends.

Christ, when you really think about it, they're probably the closest thing you've got to -

- A sudden bolt of lightening streaks across the sky like a whip-crack and illuminates Tri Stone's outer wall, and the thought that had lingered just beyond the reaches of your mind is flung haphazardly out of the proverbial window when you spot the mountainous figure looming at the far end of the bridge.

“Warden!” you cry out, swiping rainwater from your eyes.

The mighty construct gives no indication that he's heard you, nor does he look your way even when you all stampede onto the grassy plateau. He's collapsed onto one knee before the Makers' Forge, his blue gaze fixed upon the door as he clutches at an arm that looks as though it's just lost a fight with a wrecking ball. More disturbingly, his gargantuan slab of a shoulder is almost entirely gone – smashed into oblivion, leaving chunks of stone scattered about in the grass all around him.

Karn is the first to reach him, and you can tell that he's just as perturbed by the old construct's condition as you are.

Ears pinned back against his head, the youngling staggers to a halt and gapes in abject horror at the fragments of dust and stones that cascade down from the Warden's jaw when he opens it to speak. 

“I could not stop him,” he rumbles dazedly, more to himself than to any of you, “I could not even slow him...”

Sliding up beside the maker, you absently cover your mouth with a hand and take stock of the construct's injuries.

“Oh... Warden..” you breathe and blindly stretch your arm out sideways until your fingers find the strap of Karn's boot and wrap around it, keeping you upright even when your legs threaten to buckle out from underneath you.

The construct's heart stone sits dimly inside his chest, its once dazzling, blue light now barely visible through the rain. 

If Death hadn't heard him speaking aloud, he would have marked the giant as... inactive.

At your side, Karn stares up at the Warden for another few seconds before he lowers his eyes and glares hard at the ground, his hands curling into tight fists. “I...This is... is...” he tries, but falls silent, unable to think of anything more substantial to say. Instead, he swallows thickly and shakes his head. Then, without another word, the youngling whirls around, and the motion pulls his boot from your grasp as he kicks up his heels and stomps hurriedly towards the Forge, taking the steps three at a time until he reaches the doors and throws them open, thundering inside.

Wringing your hands over one another, you tear your eyes off Karn and return your focus to the Warden, taking a slow step towards the colossal figure. However, before you can take another, you find yourself tugged to a stop by cold fingers that suddenly fall upon your shoulder, startling your focus to the Horseman who appears next to you, silent as a ghost. “Come,” he utters, nudging you away with no real force, “There's nothing we can do for him now.”

“But, Death, he's hurt,” you argue, gesturing up at the Warden and pulling out of the cold grip.

The Nephilim's scowl darkens behind the sockets of his mask and he aims to say something reassuring, but misses by a mile. “He's a construct. It'll take a lot more damage than this to put him down.”

Well... He certainly doesn't miss the disapproving frown that turns your expression sour like curdled milk.

You manage to swallow down any retort you might have summoned and shake your head at him as you start picking your way around the remnants of the construct's shoulder until you reach his shin.

Without really thinking, you rap your knuckles against the stone to get his attention, only to immediately regret your hasty action when bone strikes the hard surface and a jolt of pain goes lancing up through your hand. “Ah! Shit,” you curse, flapping your wrist about to lessen the ache. Undeterred for long, however, you use your other hand to place a firm pat against his leg instead, raising your voice and calling out, “Hey! Hey, Warden! Down here!”

You can't begin to imagine whether or not he'd even felt your touch, yet the construct surprises you by finally dragging his azure gaze off Tri Stone's walls and turning his head down towards you, his eyes flickering several times until they at last turn strong and solid, brightening with recognition as he's pulled from whatever state of shock he'd been ensnared in.

“Little ones?” he rumbles, his voice beset with a breathlessness that stone shouldn't possess, “You are alive?”

“Despite best efforts,” you chuckle without a trace of humour, your expression wan, “Are you okay?”

In response, the construct groans and raises an arm to his face to inspect the missing chunk as pieces of detritus fall from the limb and into the grass around you.

“I will.. recover... But, the makers...” Trailing off, he lowers his arm and twists his head towards the Forge, silent.

He doesn't have to say anything further to make it clear that he's worried. You can already imagine how helpless he must have felt to see the Guardian tear through Tri Stone and know that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

It wasn't so long ago that you'd watched a colossal, bat-like demon smash through the roof of Father's Michael's church to get at your fellow humans sheltering inside whilst you watched from the Horseman's shoulder, helpless to help.

Lips pressing into a thin line, you raise a hand once again and pat the Warden's shin, far more gently this time, for your own sake, if not his. You hope the gesture of comfort translates across the mile-wide species gap - and it must, because he soon gazes down at you, his jaw somehow raising into the stiff rendition of a smile.

“You just... sit tight, okay, big guy? We'll go and make sure they're all right,” you tell him softly.

Behind you, Death silently observes the interlude with his head tilted and his eyes transfixed on the hand that you've rested against the Warden's stone, as though you really believe your fingers might hold just the right sort of power to stick his broken pieces back together.

However, his skepticism is quashed when he lifts his gaze up to the construct's pulsing heart stone and finds it shining clear and bright through the gloomy rain.

Hadn't it... been much duller only moments ago?

He's pulled from his ruminations when a sudden weight lands on his shoulder and something dark and feathered squawks miserably next to his ear. Turning his head, Death casts an eye lazily over the sopping-wet crow, who's beak is pointed very deliberately towards the forge doors and the promise of dry warmth beyond them. The Horseman grunts and faces you again, belatedly realising that you too, are utterly soaked to the skin. So, with a soft huff, he strides up behind you again and this time, his hand is firmer as it lands upon your shoulder, more insistent.

Once your eyes find his, he jerks his head towards the forge and vehemently resists the niggling tickle of relief when you nod at him, giving the Warden a final, parting wave and then allowing yourself to be pushed across the plateau, up the slippery steps and through the wide, stone doors.

It would've probably perturbed Death if he ever realised that it hadn't once occurred to him to simply leave you out in the rain.

------

As soon as you set foot inside the makers' forge, your skin is hit by a wave of comforting warmth that emanates from the nearby fireplace and chases away your goosebumps, returning some feeling to your tingling fingertips.

Grateful for the brief respite from nature's wrath, you gather up a section of your top and wring it out, following Death towards the raised dais where you can hear a familiar maker complaining. Loudly.

“Ach! Away with you both! It's not as bad as it looks.”

Alya...

Although she sounds far from happy, you can't bring yourself to care, not when her complaints indicate that she's alive.

Relief seems to plough right into the backs of your knees, causing you to stagger forwards, earning a swift and searching glance from Death.

“M'fine,” you mumble, straightening up again and forging ahead.

Dust flaps off the Horseman's shoulder as you brush past him on the steps up to the dais, just in time to see Alya shoving herself out from underneath her brother's steadying hand.

Karn is already there with them too, but he, perhaps wisely, is keeping his distance, eyeing Alya's wrist.

All three makers are standing around the anvil. Valus is wringing his hands and uttering soft, indecipherable sounds from under his visor, earning a glare from his sister, who's arm, you note with no small degree of alarm, is clutched protectively to her chest.

“Alya!” you call out, breathless, “Valus! Are you two okay?!”

As one, the makers' heads snap down to face you.

“There you are!” the forge sister exclaims, her taught expression collapsing under the weight of relief, “We've been worried sick! When we heard the Guardian wake up, we feared the worst!”

You open your mouth to ask about her wrist, but you never get the chance. Valus is upon you in seconds and you let out an embarrassing squeak of alarm as you're promptly swept up off the ground by one of his gigantic, soot-stained hands.

“Oh put 'er down, you big baby,” Alya scolds him, “You can see she's fine.”

Evidently, Valus disagrees.

He ignores his sister's words and instead lifts you up to his visor, beneath which you spot the flash of a soft, green eye as he begins to inspect you for injuries, turning you this way and that, deaf to your squawks of protest and Karn whinging for him to be careful with you.

Rolling his eyes, Death turns away from the fussing maker and gestures to Alya's arm. “What happened?”

She scowls down at the offending wrist, giving it an experimental roll. “Piece o' the ceiling broke loose when the Guardian passed over. Damn boulder struck my arm as it fell. S'just a bruise but-” She pauses to huff, jerking her chin at Valus. “-You try tellin' him that... He's been on edge all day since you three left for the Foundry.”

Her brother snorts indignantly at the accusing tone but he does relent in subjecting you to his scrutiny and places you gingerly back on the ground once he deems you unharmed, but not before giving the top of your head the gentlest of pats, his armoured shoulders clanking as he slumps forwards, relieved.

Frazzled, you readjust your skirt and offer him an exasperated smile. “Yeah. Good to see you in one piece too, Valus.”

“Where are the others?” Death presses.

Lowering her eyes back down to him, Alya drops her scowl and replies, “Muria and Thane are still out in the village. Everythin' happened so fast – I... I don't know even know if they're okay yet!”

“Meet me outside! I'll go and see to the Shaman,” Karn announces suddenly, turning on his heel to march for the village-facing entrance. Alya and Valus are, for the most part, unharmed, and with everyone in the forge accounted for, he's anxious to determine the fates of the others for himself.

“...And Eideard?” you ask, dragging your gaze from Karn's retreating backpack and returning it to the forge sister, compelled by a knot of concern that winds tighter and tighter in your belly and only grows worse when she glances down at you and pulls her lips into a thin, troubled line.

“Don't know. He's not in here, and if he's not outside... then, m'afraid he may have gone after the Guardian by himself.”

A rush of air is sucked out of you and you sway slightly on your feet, having to widen your stance to prevent an unnecessary fall. “But if he does that, then he...” Hesitating, you reach up and card your nails roughly through your hair. “- Oh god, he's gonna get himself killed!”

Unbeknownst to you, the Horseman's eyes are glued to your overwrought expression, his own, as always, unreadable beneath his mask. You look as though you're teetering right on the verge of tears.

Death isn't quite sure why, but no matter how badly he wants to hold onto the comforting familiarity of apathy, he strangely finds that he just... can't.

Inwardly, he recoils and growls a swift warning to himself.

'Not. One. Step. Deeper.'

He's just... frustrated that he'd been wrong about the corrupted heart stones. That's where the disquiet in his chest is stemming from. The fact that he just so happened to feel disquieted as soon as he spotted the glossy sheen over your eyes is sheer coincidence.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Without a word, the Horseman turns on his heel and stalks between the makers, heading down the steps in a bee line for the entrance.

Alya doesn't bother to stop him, but the very second you try to follow, you suddenly find a large, brown boot slammed down in your path, causing you to jerk backwards with a gasp. “Wha-! Alya!?”

“You're not goin' after him!” Alya barks, backed up by Valus, who shakes his head in aggressive concurrence, “It was bad enough Eideard let you go to the Foundry. Now with the Guardian's runnin' wild, it's not safe outside the village!”

“Not like it's really safe inside the village either,” you retort, flicking your gaze pointedly to her arm.

The maker's jaw snaps shut and she narrows her eyes at you, whilst her brother emits another, unhappy hum from underneath his visor.

“Look. I only want to check on Muria and Thane,” you urge, clasping your palms together, “I promise, I won't leave Tri Stone.”

The makers don't look convinced. They share a knowing glance, Alya's eyebrow raised in question, and although you can't see Valus's expression, you can only imagine that it mirrors his sister's perfectly.

Finally, Alya heaves a sigh and turns her head to scrutinise you, one eye squinted shut. “You swear it?” she demands.

You open your mouth and hesitate for a second before you manage to say, “O-of course, I swear.”

To you, the falter is glaringly obvious, but Alya and her brother don't seem to notice.

The next solemn look that passes between her amber gaze and Valus's invisible stare is brief, but after a minute or two, they both break eye contact again and Alya reluctantly lifts her boot from your path and steps back, still clutching her wrist. “All right. Go on with you now, we'll stay here a bit. Holler if you need us, aye? We have to start reinforcin' this forge in case the Guardian decides to come back and.... and finish the job.”

Hearing it said like that, your stomach clenches with the need to purge. Swallowing hard, you send the twins a quick smile of thanks, then shoot off after the Horseman, barely slipping through the door as it swings shut behind him.

------

Another booming growl of thunder greets you when you burst out into Tri Stone and come to an abrupt stop, very nearly swallowing your own tongue at the sight that you find yourself so cruelly faced with.

Though the rain obscures a little of your vision, it does nothing to hide a scene that's so, entirely familiar that it thrusts you violently back in time to the home you'd left behind, and there isn't so much as a second to prepare yourself for the onslaught of images that flash through your mind's eye like an awful, traumatic slideshow.

Buildings crushed and left as smoking ruins, the pavement underfoot torn up by an impactful force that it was never meant to withstand, the stench of blood in your nostrils, an inescapable fog of dust that you're certain will choke you with its density, and the... the screaming -

You can barely even hear the monotonous drone of your parents' answering machine above the people howling like animals as they're torn apart just metres away from the alley you've ducked into.

'We're sorry we aren't here to take your call right now. Please leave a-'

Click! You try again....

'We're sorry we aren't here to take your call right now-'

Click! Again...

'We're sorry-'

“Y/N!”

Fingers of ice suddenly latch onto your shoulder and jolt you back to the present.

“Stay here!” a voice barks into your ear and you flinch, whipping your head sideways to see Death's bone-white mask mere inches from your face.

“W..wha...?” How did he know that your mind had wandered elsewhere?

“Keep your promise to the makers,” he says gruffly, “Stay here, in the village!”

There's an unspoken 'or else,' tacked on to the end of his command as the fingers on your shoulder clamp down even harder, their pressure increasing the the point where you almost wince, but not quite. You recognise the gesture for what it is – a warning, the promise of consequence simmering in his hostile glare.

He waits for your shaky nod, and after a further sliver of a second passes, his grip at last disappears, leaving pinpricks of cold in the wake of his fingernails where they'd dug lightly into your skin.

“But, where are you going?” you blurt out.

The Horseman's reply is to turn his head towards the end of the village, past the destroyed walls and over the cliffs where a flash of lightening illuminates the distant silhouette of the towering Guardian as it moves away from Tri Stone.

He glances back at you, his eyes cold as steel despite how they burn with the colour of smouldering embers.

His intent immediately becomes clear.

He's going after it.

Squinting up at him through the pouring rain, you shake your head, incredulous. “Okay, Death! I know you've pulled off some pretty insane stunts so far,” you protest, stepping after him as he pulls away and begins to stalk across the lower courtyard, “But this is – It's just -  Death!”

The Nephilim doesn't stop.

“Wait a second! Will you listen to me!”

He ignores you outright, at least until you jog up next to him and slide your hand around his elbow, trying to tug him to a halt. But Death doesn't allow you to hold onto him for long.

Giving his arm a jerk, he rips himself out of your grasp so viciously, you stumble forwards and barely manage to find your footing again before you hit the ground.

Meanwhile, his step never once falters. “Stay with the makers,” he growls out dangerously through clenched teeth.

The sound of your footsteps splashing after him slow, then die, and once he reaches Thane's arena, the compulsion to glance back grows overpowering and although he soon wishes he hadn't, he twists his head around to catch a glimpse of you over his shoulder.

Death has seen many a sad sight in his long un-life. He's seen demons blubber and beg for mercy on the tip of his scythe. He's seen angels cry out for a Creator who will never save them.

But nothing has ever gnawed at the old bones in his chest like the sight of you staring after him in the midst of a torrential downpour.

Straggles of hair lay plastered to your face, your flimsy clothes are already soaked through with rain and there's a slight tremble that begins in your arms and ends in your legs, no doubt from the cold, stinging water that beats mercilessly down on top of you. He makes his second mistake then, of looking you in the eye, and he lets a redundant breath slip from beneath his mask at what he finds.

The old Horseman wracks his brain, trying to remember when, if ever, he's been looked at like that before – like he's unfathomably important, like whatever happens to him matters to you greatly. He hopes you'll never look at him like that again, even if the softest whisper at the back of his mind insists that it isn't as bad as he'd like to think it is.

With a rapid shake of his head, Death tears his eyes off the soggy human behind him and breaks into a run, making for the boundary of the village.

Yet again, you watch the Horseman leave, frustrated and anxious that this routine of being left behind is starting to become more and more repetitive, of late. As he dashes up the steps to Tri Stone's entrance and out of sight, your heart – which has already sunk as low as your shoes – falls right out the soles of your feet and into the ground below, disappearing so rudely as to leave you feeling empty and hollow, but most of all afraid.

All of a sudden, a mass of ebony feathers fills your peripheral and the sharp bark of a crow rings in your ear.

Startled, you twist to the side just as Dust lands heavily on your shoulder.

“O-oh... Hey,” you sniff, reaching up to run a knuckle down the front of his breastbone. You keep still whilst he settles, fluffing himself up and regarding you carefully with one, beady eye. Sniffling again, you blink back at him, casting your gaze over his glistening, black feathers and the water droplets that drip from the tip of his beak. His throat trembles as he emits a low, gentle warble.

Then, without warning, the bird promptly presses the side of his sooty head against your cheek, rubbing against it a few times before he swiftly launches himself into the dismal sky once more, offering you a final, parting squawk.

Bewildered, you silently watch him disappear after the Horseman.

Although you're still weighed down by the unshakeable heaviness of dread, the crow's gesture of affection is appreciated, and you allow yourself a long, slow inhale, holding the breath within your lungs until they start to burn.

It feels good when you exhale, like you're trying to parody the sensation of relief.

“Okay.” Your jaw sets and you begin to cast your gaze around the village, forcing your eyes see it as Tri Stone and not... not home. Turning to the right, you take in the vast gazebo that had served so faithfully as Valus and Alya's forge has been knocked down by some, mighty force and half of its domed roof has collapsed inwards and filled the space with rubble and dust.

A glance up the stairs to Muria's garden shows you that Karn has already made it to the Shaman, and he's leading her by the arm down the steps, her trusty staff seeming to be nowhere in sight. Seconds later and your heart squeezes sympathetically when you notice that the youngling is carrying what remains of it, splintered into pieces so small and numerous, it looks like it could only be used for kindling.

Still, you're glad to see that the Shaman is alive.

Trailing your gaze past them, you could weep anew as you take in the ruins of her gazebo, now utterly destroyed beyond recognition, her garden and plants and herbs lost somewhere beneath rubble and immense piles of stone.

Feeling nauseous, you tear your eyes away and face north.

Half-dazed by the destruction around you, you find that your feet have begun to carry you forwards of their own accord down the length of the village towards Thane's arena whilst you continue to sweep your eyes across the path ahead, anxious to catch sight of Eideard.

You can only pray that Alya had been wrong and he hasn't gone after the Guardian alone.

It isn't just Death whose safety you're concerned about, after all.

“Fleshling?”

You almost trip over your own feet at the sound of your name being called by a familiar, gravelly voice.

Squinting against the rain, it takes you a moment to find the source, and once you do, you wonder how far out of your own head you must have been to miss the figure melting from the long, dark shadows of the arena walls.

“B-Blackroot?” you sputter, letting your jaw hang shamelessly to the ground.

Against all odds, the old, moss-coated construct is indeed here, in Tri-Stone, stumbling towards you on stumpy and unsteady legs that still don't seem used to the motions being asked of them.

Giving him a quick once over, you soon determine that whilst he certainly looks startled, he's otherwise unscathed.

You just can't stop yourself.

With staggering urgency, you lurch into a run and close the distance between yourself and Blackroot in a matter of seconds, clinging to the modicum of good news like a mollusc clings to oceanic rocks.

The construct suddenly freezes as he's struck in the torso by a human-shaped bullet. His luminous eyes flicker and he drops his chin to peer down at the top of your head, surprised to find that soft, fleshy arms have been thrown as far as they can reach around the lumpy boulder that serves as his waist. You hardly even seem to care about the rainwater cascading down the crevasses in his rocky body and pouring onto your head.

There is, however, something strikingly familiar about having the warmth of another body pressed against him, something so achingly known and yet, when he tries to grasp the memory, it slips away from him like smoke through his blocky fingers.

A curious part of him wonders what might happen if he reciprocates, if he returns your gesture, and then he wonders whether he's even supposed to. Ultimately though, his hesitancy costs him that answer, because moments after his hands begin inching towards your back, your grip on his waist goes slack as you withdraw your arms and step away to peer up at him, squinting heavily through the falling rain.

“You're here!” you blurt out, perhaps a touch needlessly given that he's standing right in front of you, “How – I... How?”

The construct's lower jaw lifts into what you recognise is a smile and he wordlessly curls his hand around an object dangling from his belt and lifts it loose, holding it out to you in an upturned palm.

Two familiar, button eyes peer back at you.

“Eideard,” you chuckle wetly, reaching up to brush your fingers down the patch of white felt that has been stitched into a beard for the doll.

“My master,” Blackroot nods, “He was sad that he had not returned for me sooner. He thought I was lost to Corruption but I was just happy to see him again. He found me. He said you told him where I was, and he found me.” Stopping to peer at you thoughtfully for a moment, the construct's jaw lifts even further and he abruptly declares, “You are very kind.”

Flustered, you wave his compliment aside and reply, “Oh, well I don't know about that. I'm not the one who got you out of that fjord, Eideard is.”

“But he would never have found me, were it not for you, fleshling.”

Somehow, despite his eyes being little more than a pair of glow-stones set inside his skull, Blackroot manages to look utterly start-struck.

“Well, I, Um...” More than a little bashful, you clear your throat and step back, throwing your hands out towards his feet in the hopes that a distraction will stop him from staring at you like you're some kind of hero. “Hey! You're walking! Your roots - They're gone!”

The yellow lights of his eyes blink once and he shifts forwards to look down at himself, the tree on his back creaking ominously as he does. “Ah! Yes. The magic my master used to free me was very old and powerful. It did not even hurt when he severed my roots and sealed the cuts so my life force would not leak out.”

“Well, whatever he did and... however he did it. I'm just glad you're here now. And that the Guardian didn't... well. You know.”

The construct fiddles with his belt for a while before he manages to fasten the Eideard doll back to it. When he returns his gaze to you, it's filled with gratitude. “I am glad as well.”

You return his clumsy smile, until your eyes start to wander and you find yourself glancing anxiously around the arena behind him. “So, uh, have you like, seen Eideard? A-Around here, maybe?”

Slowly, the construct's rocky brows scrape together and a soft gust of air shoots out from the gap in his jaw.

His answer, when it comes, is the one you'd been dreading. “He has gone. He left to follow that monster out into the valley.”

Your stomach begins to tie itself into knots all over again and what little elation you'd regained from seeing Blackroot swiftly evaporates. Licking your lips, you try to keep the shaking from your voice and ask, “What... what about Thane? Have you seen Thane?”

As though summoned by the mere mention of his name, a rough voice calls out, “Over here, Lass.”

Under your feet, the ground shudders with the familiar and unmistakable footfalls of an approaching maker. Craning your head around Blackroot's side, you cast your gaze towards the back of the arena, only to blanch and slap a hand over your mouth at the sight that emerges from the shadows.

The old warrior hobbles eagerly towards you, dragging one leg behind him as though it's nothing but a hunk of useless, dead flesh sitting inside his boot. Belatedly, he hopes you'll assume that the water trickling down his face is merely from the incessant rainfall and not from his eyes watering thanks to the sodding, great bruise that's already sprouted across the bridge of his nose. Yet, in spite of the blurry vision and the aggravated pain in his fractured shinbone, Thane's relief at just knowing you're alive temporarily overrides the agony from his injuries... 

...Injuries he forgets to hide until he sees your hand fly up to your mouth.

Wincing at the frozen, wide-eyed stare you’ve locked him in, Thane lets out a strained grunt and forces himself to walk a little straighter, placing the weight back onto his wounded leg and plastering on a smile that hardly makes the rivers of blood that pour down his face any less noticeable. 

Blackroot moves further aside to make room for the warrior, who at last staggers to a halt and collapses heavily onto his good knee in front of you, his sturdy chest heaving.

“You're alive,” he sighs wearily, more for his own reassurance than yours, “You're alive... The others... are they...?”

Trembling, you lower your hands from your mouth, determined not to make him wait for the answer. “E-everyone's alive, Thane,” you tell him with your eyes glued to the bruise blossoming over his nose, “A little beaten up, but... they'll be fine.”

Bowing his head, the maker lets out the enormous breath he'd been holding onto. “Thank the Stone... When the Guardian ploughed through the village, I.... I thought, you might've been...” Trailing off, he averts his gaze to emit a low grumble from the back of his throat before he looks at you again, causing you to gulp when something fearsome and chilling sparks to life in his stormy eyes. “That stone bastard didn't hurt you, did 'e?” the warrior growls.

Lightening flashes above you and you stare up at his glowering face in a daze, the world around you cold and quiet whilst crimson rivulets trickle steadily and relentlessly out of a gash in his temple, pushed by every pulse of his immense heart. 

Not even the rain can wash the blood away fast enough.

You have to squeeze your eyes shut after a few seconds, fighting to regain your composure when the coppery stench permeates your nostrils and conjures up memories of crimson streets utterly saturated with life's most precious liquid.

Thane notices that you've begun to sway on your feet and, without thinking too hard about it, he reaches out a hand, curling his fingertips around your torso and effectively propping you upright. His heart-rate spikes in the meantime, now more concerned than ever that you've suffered in some, unseen way. Before he can bare his tusks and promise to tear the Guardian limb from limb however, your eyes flicker open again and you swallow thickly, glad that the rain is disguising your tears.

“No, no,” you sniff, wiping at your eyes to banish the terrible memories vying for your attention, “The Guardian... he didn't hurt me.”

The hand that isn’t holding you upright moves to his chest and he splays his fingers out over it, mumbling, “Stone be praised...” 

“But – shit, Thane – Look what he did to you!” you continue, pressing your hands earnestly to his glove.

“What, this?” The warrior glances down at himself and gives you a tusky smirk. “Ach, nothin' wrong with a few more battle scars. Ain't like they'll make this mug any uglier, eh?”

He allows a glimmer of satisfaction to ignite in his chest when the attempt at humour is rewarded by your weak, wet bark of laughter, although the humour fades almost as swiftly as it had come and you suck down a hitching breath, turning away from him and looking towards the intact staircase.

“Eideard and Death...” you begin hesitantly, “They'll need help.”

Following your gaze, Thane's face drops and he shifts uneasily. 

Though it's a loathsome thing for the proud warrior to admit out loud, he grits his teeth and gruffly says, “I'm in no fit state to assist. Reckon I'd only get in the way n' give the old man somethin' else to worry about.”

Your only response is to let out an evasive hum whilst you continue staring at the path ahead. 

You never said that it needed be Thane who went to help.

Gradually, your brows knit together until they form a hard, determined line.

The old warrior casts glances between you and the direction your eyes are pointed, his expression becoming more and more incredulous with every turn of his head. He doesn't like stormy cloud that's growing on your face. It's similar to the look Karn gets whenever the youngling is about to make a stupid decision.

“Lass,” Thane growls warningly, “Whatever’s goin’ through that head of yours, knock it off. You’ve done enough...”

Have you? 

If it weren’t for you and Death, the Guardian wouldn’t have even woken up to wreak this havoc on Tri Stone and the makers. If you’d have just stood your ground and stopped the Horseman from putting that damn corrupted heart stone into the construct, nobody would be in this mess. You could have found another way... 

Huh... Is this your fault?

‘Well,’ you say to yourself, eyeing the blood oozing from Thane’s nostrils, ‘I’ve certainly done enough to make things go wrong... Maybe it’s time I helped do something right.’

You take a breath and begin sidestepping around him, shaking your head apologetically. “I'm sorry, please don't be mad. But I – I have to go!”

At once, the maker’s face grows several shades paler. He’d been so sure that you had the sense to avoid the Guardian now that you’ve seen the damage it can do to a village full of adult makers.

Evidently, he's overestimated the intelligence of humans. 

“You don't have to do a bloody thing!” he barks, swiping a hand out after you and growling when you deftly slip around his reaching fingers, “Damn it, girl! Get back here! Don't you dare leave this village! You hear me!?” 

He's too late in shoving himself up off the ground and hobbling after you. On any other day, he'd manage to catch you in just a few, short strides, but with the injury to his leg, he doesn't have a chance of keeping up. The first step he takes is too sudden, too vicious on his battered limb and he stumbles immediately, throwing a hand out to catch himself on the training dummy nearby. He raises his head and his expression contorts, eyes growing wide when he sees that you're almost at the top of the steps.

Huffing like a frantic bull and woefully out of options, he tries for rage instead, hoping that he could frighten you into returning. 

So, sucking down a lungful of air, he roars, “HUMAN!” and uses the dummy to desperately drag himself upright. However, when you still don't turn around, and instead hop over the lip of the staircase, he peels his lips back, bares his teeth and all but howls, “Y/N!”

......

Sadly, his efforts prove to be in vain.

You don't return to the steps, you don't even turn around, you simply break into a jog and vanish inside the waiting tunnel, followed by a foreboding snarl of thunder.

---------

Frigid winds hit the bare skin on your arms and face as soon as you burst out into the Stonefather's vale like a bullet shot from a gun. Your lungs are on fire, burning up every ounce of oxygen that you manage to suck down a swiftly-closing throat.

You've pushed yourself – are still pushing yourself – to your limit, and the wear and tear is beginning to show in the way you trip over your feet every few steps, the bruise from your run-in with Karkinos throbbing to a loathsome beat that threatens to bully you into giving up and turning back to Tri Stone.

But your threshold for pain, whilst certainly nothing to brag about, is at least high enough to keep your feet pointed defiantly on the path ahead, despite your brain screeching in protest.

The soles of your boots hit the sodden grass underfoot and you raise a hand to shield your eyes against the pouring rain, focused entirely on the figure standing in your path up ahead.

Death's pale back is to you, but his awareness of your presence is more than obvious, given that his head twitches in your direction and his hands snap into vice-like fists when you slow to a stop several metres behind him. He’d had an inkling - given your track-record - that you would find a way to return to his side eventually, despite his best efforts in trying to keep you at arm's length.

“Oh, well isn't this a surprise!” he scoffs, “And there was me hoping you'd have learned your lesson by now.”

You wonder how much more upset he'd be if he realises you haven't even paid attention to a word he'd just said.

As it is, you manage to remain relatively undaunted by the Horseman's animosity, namely due to being faced with something far, far more terrifying than his ire.

Further down the valley, towering like a living monolith into the storm-blackened sky, is the Guardian, its heart stones aglow with that same, putrid, yellow light shared by the gigantic eyeball swivelling manically behind it.

Just then, a flash of lightening brightens the dark valley and your eyes drop to the ground next to the Guardian's cylindrical feet.

Of its own accord, a strangled gasp leaps out of your throat. “NO!”

Eideard stands close – much, much too close – to the behemoth, with his arm raised high above his head and a blue brilliance radiating from the tip of the staff he has clutched in his powerful grip.

Even after all you've seen, the visible presence of magic still sends a rush of goosebumps along your arms. There's no time to marvel over magic's existence though, because all of a sudden, the Guardian shifts, drawing your gaze up to it once more, and in an instant, your heart takes a flying leap into your mouth.

“EIDEARD!” you scream, darting forwards, though for what reason, you couldn't really say. The old maker is halfway across the valley, and the impossibly immense pommel of the construct's hammer is hurtling down on top of him with enough force to split the earth in two.

Even Death takes an involuntary step towards the old maker, stretching out his hand and shouting, “NO!” over a particularly vicious thunder clap.

But it's too late.

You can already tell that it's far too late.

Nothing that you or the Horseman do could ever stop the fall of that terrible hammer.

The blunt end of the weapon's handle comes down on top of Eideard just as you collapse to your knees and unleash a shrill scream that cuts clear across the valley, hair gripped tightly between your clenched fists.

This can't be happening.

This cannot be happening!

You know without a shadow of a doubt that you won't be able to keep going if you lose Eideard. Not on top of every other loss you've already suffered.

Not him.

“Please,” you hear yourself gasp, “Please, god, don't. He's not – He can't be...!”

You really don't want to look, too afraid to lay eyes upon his mangled corpse laying there in the dirt, but you can't tear your eyes off the spot he'd disappeared behind a plume of debris and dust kicked up by the hammer's impact. It feels as though fingers have closed around your throat and cut off the air supply to your lungs. All you can do is let your mouth flop open around a silent, horrified scream.

Unstirred by your anguish, the Guardian grips its hammer in one, colossal fist and gives it a vicious twist.

You're waiting for it to hit you, for your mind to catch up with the world around it and send you spiralling down into a bottomless pit. In fact, you're certain you can already feel it happening. Grief rushes towards you, a tidal wave that crests high above your head, but just as it threatens to come crashing down and drown you under its overwhelming pressure, the Guardian lifts its hammer.

Through a steady mixture of rain and tears that blur your vision, you manage to catch sight of a real impossibility.

Somehow, through force of will or magic or just plain old luck, Eideard is standing upright in the spot where the Guardian's hammer had slammed down on top of him, and curved above his head like a transparent shield is a dome of shimmering, blue light.

The air that rams back into you tastes like mana from heaven.

“He's alive!?” you croak.

The Guardian seems far less pleased by Eideard's survival.

Its stone jaw drops open and although entirely solid, the construct manages to pull its rocky features to form a deep scowl as it roars indignantly, rearing back and this time swinging its hammer up over a shoulder, egged on by the murderous corruption guiding its hand. It brings the weapon's head down on Eideard again.

And again, the magic shield flares angrily in response to its vicious assault, but although you almost swallow your tongue when the hammer crashes to the earth a second time, you soon feel the ember of hope rekindling to see Eideard's forcefield still in place once the gigantic hammer is removed and its wielder steps back, evidently perplexed by its small, yet mighty opponent.

Wincing, Eideard shakes his head, flicking away the droplets of blood that have begun to trickle from his nose and mouth. Magic, for all its uses, can often be just as much of a hinderance as it can be a help. Using too much isn't unlike overexercising a muscle. Continuous strain can eventually lead to injury – predominantly of the mind, and many a delver into the mystical arts has fallen victim to exertion by trying to accomplish feats of magic that are far more powerful than their bodies can withstand. Feats such as blocking two, devastating blows from a four-hundred foot construct, for example.

“Maker's bones...” the Old One pants, staggering backwards on unsteady legs, “...that hurt.”

Frustration crawls up his spine at the prospect of having to back down from this fight. He has a home to protect, after all, and a family. It goes against every fibre of his being to stand aside. However... he wouldn't have survived to be so old if he hadn't learned how and when to pick his fights.

If his magic alone is not enough to subdue the Guardian, then perhaps the raw, unbridled power of a Nephilim will have to suffice. The old maker had heard Death's shout, had wondered what in the world he'd done to earn the Horseman's concern, and then, he'd heard a smaller and shriller voice, one that subsequently sent his heart into a dizzying frenzy, wailing out like some wild, distressed animal.

What in Stone's name do you think you're doing here!?

Exhausted, yet determined, Eideard raises his staff and focuses his mind, drawing on the subtle magics that are woven into the very air around him, feeling the atoms in his body resonate and tremble in kind. Comforting, blue light seeps from the end of his staff, swelling and growing in size and intensity until the old one's eyes snap wide open and then, with just a single thought, an explosion of energy erupts from the staff and ripples outwards through the vale, an after-effect of the sudden displacement of an entire maker. One moment, Eideard is standing directly in the path of the rampaging Guardian, then next, he's disappearing into thin air, earning a bewildered hum from the construct, who lowers the hammer it had drawn back in preparation for a third strike.

Meanwhile, you're nearly hysterical as you whip your head around in search of the old maker, dropping your mouth open to blurt out, “Wh-where did he-!?”

All of a sudden, you're interrupted by a blinding flash of light.

Before the spots have even faded from your vision, you find yourself wrapped in a firm but gentle grip and you let out an embarrassing yelp as you're lifted off the ground. 

Startled, you even call out for Death, though after another few moments pass, you start to recognise the fur trim of a sleeve and the angular, protruding knuckles that belong to the hand clasping you against a heaving chest.

“Eideard!” you gasp, wriggling yourself around in his grip and getting nothing but a face full of white beard for the trouble.

When the maker speaks, his voice booms all around you. “He's beyond my help, Horseman!” he calls, keeping his gaze trained on the Guardian as he retreats backwards towards the tunnel's entrance, “Do your worst...”

It shouldn't have surprised you to hear Eideard's voice lined with bitter regret. You'd almost forgotten that the Guardian isn't just another naturally occurring phenomenon in this mystical, ever-changing realm. For all intents and purposes, the beast is man-made. Well, maker-made. And one of those makers is currently having to witness his creation destroying the very home it was built to protect.

Bracing your hands against his thumb, you lean back to peer up at the old one, perturbed by the way his head drops in defeat. Another blink, and suddenly, you let a horrified cry pierce the air.

His face... It's a mess.

Worse than even Thane's had been.

Blood – a lot of the stuff – streams from the maker's nostrils and dribbles onto his lips, staining the ivory beard around his mouth red. His eyes too, are blood-shot and sunken, older, wearier than you've ever seen them before, like all the life has been sucked out of them and left deep, dark shadows underneath.

All it takes is one glimpse at the old one's stricken face, and you find yourself wishing your shoulders were even half as wide as his so that you could take the weight of at least some of his grief.

You're pulled from your thoughts as the rain stops falling on you, and suddenly, a chilling realisation occurs as you're carried backwards into the tunnel; Eideard is leaving Death to fight this battle alone.

You find yourself torn between relief that that the old maker isn't putting himself in harm's way anymore, and distress that Death is facing down a construct the size of Big Ben. Grunting with the effort of twisting about in such a protective grip, you strain your neck to see over Eideard's fingers, your focus zeroing in on the billowing, green mist that heralds Despair's arrival.

At least the Horseman won't be tackling the Guardian on foot.

Though that's of little comfort, from where you're standing.

Helplessness once again rears its head and sinks its teeth into your stomach.

“Eideard!” you wriggle impatiently in his grasp, “You have to put me down! Death needs help!”

The maker's immediate silence unnerves you, but you're pleasantly surprised when he lowers himself onto a knee and places you carefully back on your feet, his once patient gaze now frantic with worry as he inspects you for injuries, his fingertips lingering bare inches from your shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” he exclaims, taking one of your arms between his massive fingers and lifting it from your side, regarding your face for any sign that the motion causes you discomfort. You, on the other hand, are far too preoccupied with his own, very visible injuries. With the maker looming so close, you can see the blood welling up inside his mouth as it begins to ooze out from between his tusks and teeth, spilling down into the dip of his chin.

“Eideard...” Hesitant, you reach a hand up and touch your fingers gingerly against his cheeks.

Shaking his head, the maker wheezes, “Are you hurt?” The insistent desperation in his tone catches you off guard and you find yourself shakily replying, “Uh I – I'm okay! I'm okay, Eideard!”

Your confirmation seems to knock all the air out of him at once and he sags forwards, releasing your arm with a sigh. “And... Karn?” he asks after another moment.

“Karn's okay, too. He's taking care of Muria and the others,” you assure him.

He nods slowly, taking in a lungful of air as your words finally start to sink in. You're okay. His makers are okay. Things could have easily turned out so much worse... So much worse. Shakily, he pushes himself back onto his feet and sways a little before he manages to plant his staff on the ground, clinging to it with a white-knuckled grip as he frowns down at you and prepares to give you a stern lecture for frightening the life out of him. “You should not be here,” he starts, drawing himself up to his full height, “I am glad to see you unharmed, but I must insist that you return to Tri Stone at once.”

“But - The Guardian!” you protest, “There has to be something I can do to help!”

“You can help me by returning to the village and staying there.”

Picking anxiously at a fingernail, you avert your gaze from Eideard and peer out across the valley, your eyes landing on the Horseman, just a speck of grey facing off against a mountain of stone and rage. “But... What about Death?”

“Y/n, please...”  The maker pauses to expel a hot breath, his frown softening before he continues, “The Horseman has faced great odds before. It's my makers who need you now. Karn will be beside himself once he realises you are gone, and I'm not sure how much more stress Valus can take, the poor lad.”

You don't... not want to return to the village. There are so many ways you think you can help the other makers, and your heart gives a guilty twist for breaking your promise to Alya and Valus.

And yet...

You can't bring yourself to tear yourself away from the valley.

-----

Despair rears back onto his hind legs and Death swings himself gracefully into the saddle with the practiced ease that only a millennia will teach, unwittingly baring his teeth at the roaring Guardian and noting that its attention has shifted down and landed upon him now that he's the only idiot still foolish enough to be in the vale.

Sharp talons squeeze into his shoulder and Dust aims a particularly jarring squawk right in Death's ear.

“Thank you for that,” he drawls, giving the crow a filthy look, “You know, I was so hoping to go into this battle deaf, as well as out-sized.”

The ground trembles when the Guardian takes a very deliberate step across the valley and heaves its weapon into both hands, causing Dust to flap madly back into the sky with a caw that could have meant 'it's been nice knowing you,' or, 'good luck!'

Just this once, Death decides not to call the bird out on his cowardice.

At least Despair has managed to retain the proper amount of dignity.

The Horseman's fingers lower to brush against the snorting animal's muscular neck. “Easy, old friend,” he murmurs, scanning the Guardian's bulk.

There has to be something that will play to his advantage, though admittedly, his odds are underwhelming.

But then... when has that ever stopped him before?

A bitter smirk tugs at the Horseman's lips and in response to some, unspoken command that's felt rather than heard, Despair rears back onto his powerful hind legs before surging forwards into a headlong gallop, ears pricked forwards in anticipation of the upcoming battle.

Obviously, size and strength are not going to be tools in Death's arsenal, so they'll have to rely on the horse's speed to keep the distance between themselves and the Guardian whilst he searches for an opening.

Gritting his teeth, he twitches the reins and Despair reacts less than half a second later, turning his nose to the left and letting his body follow suit, galloping in a wide arc around the construct. Death almost breathes a sigh. In spite of the astronomically impossible odds, there's little to no denying that he's always felt better going into a fight astride his trusted companion. Despair's powerful hoofbeats pound with a sure and solid rhythm against the ground, an adequate stand-in for the beat of a heart, and it's in moments such as these that Death feels at his most 'alive.'

The Guardian's challenging roar is quick to bring his mind back to the coming battle.

With slow, unhurried movements, it swings itself about to keep the comparatively tiny creatures in its line of sight.

Death's teeth grind together as he pushes the horse into a wider arc that takes them both further down the valley's Eastern side, drawing the enormous construct from Tri Stone and allowing for a larger window of time to think of a battle plan.

The goal itself is clear: Sever corruption from its host by removing the heart stones. That should cause enough damage to put the Guardian out of commission, even if only for a little while.

The execution of such a plan, however, will not be as easy in practice as it is in theory.

Death exhales, and through an understanding built on a sturdy foundation of trust, Despair responds without missing a stride.

Skidding to a stop in the slick mud, he rears up and twists himself about all in the same move before bombing forwards into a break-neck gallop, heading straight for the Guardian.

Emitting a thundering growl, the construct raises its hammer high into the air, so high that the head nearly disappears into some of the lower-hanging rainclouds. Seconds later, the weapon abruptly begins to fall.

Despair suddenly lurches to the right mere moments before the pommel comes crashing down into the mud.

Even from halfway up the valley, you can feel the ground shudder violently from the impact.

When the horse stumbles trying to gallop over the shockwaves, your heart leaps up into your throat and almost falls out of your mouth as Death stands up in the saddle right as his steed dashes between the Guardian's legs.

“What the Hell is he doing!?” you blurt out.

Seconds later, you get your answer.

Just as the duo pass directly beneath the construct, Death springs from Despair's saddle and throws himself at one of the towering pillars of stone, latching onto it determinedly.

Despair – now riderless – bursts out on the other side of the construct and gallops around and away from it in a wide arc, leaving a trail of green wisps in his wake.

Unfortunately, though you assumed that the Guardian's attention would remain on the horse, you soon realise that the corruption driving it must have some semblance of a brain after all, because it abruptly tips its head down and the searing, yellow gaze flashes dangerously when it peers past the hefty bulk of its torso and catches sight of the Horseman clinging to its ankle.

Palpable indignation explodes from the construct in a terrible roar and it wastes no time in raising its leg and stomping it hard on the ground in an attempt to jar the Nephilim loose.

But the Guardian's efforts fail to dislodge its unwarranted passenger, and Death starts to climb, and climb, and climb, hauling himself up the mountain of stone, inch by nail-biting inch.

“He's climbing it!?” you blurt out suddenly, gripping your hair when the Horseman narrowly avoids getting crushed by a gargantuan swipe of the construct's hand, “Has he got an effing screw loose!?”

At your side, Eideard's brows are so furrowed, they nearly form a neat, fluffy line across his forehead. “He has to reach the stones,” he calls over another earth-shattering bellow, “Unless he can remove them from their casings, Corruption will never relinquish its hold of the Guardian!”

As he speaks, Death's ascent takes him up to the construct's hip, where he disappears from view for a moment behind the stone thigh guard.

Your stomach sinks as you fully comprehend how much of a climb ahead he has ahead of him.

Outraged, the construct tries to twist its immense body around and as it does, it bends one of its arms backwards to try and swat the Horseman off.

It's only by doing so that you happen to chance upon a blessedly familiar sight.

Corruption has stretched like a dark blanket all along the underside of its host's arm, oily tendrils holding the limb fast to an immense shoulder socket like a terrible, oozing spiderweb.

But spread about inside the writhing blackness, hidden deep between the strands of corruption, are faint, golden flecks of light, each glowing just enough that you can spot them through the gloom and rain.

“Shadow bombs,” you breathe.

Whatever hand is guiding your fate has apparently got a thing for explosions...

----

Death is fairly confident that he'll have no fingernails after this.

Flattening himself against the rock, he barely avoids the Guardian's wall of a hand as it passes by him, close enough that even the ensuing rush of air buffeting him is enough to have him jamming his fingers and the toes of his boots into the slippery, wet stone.

Scaling a rampaging Guardian is difficult enough. Frankly, he could do without the rain adding to his troubles.

Casting a heated glance up at the sky, Death braces his feet and prepares to launch himself another few metres up the torso.

Another bolt of lightening takes a stab at the valley, the Horseman kicks off, swinging an arm overhead to grab a segment of rock above him and the Guardian's colossal fist rushes towards him once more...

He could have sworn he'd had the timing spot on...

Death is hit from the side by a force so great, his vision goes white upon impact and his world turns upside down as he's knocked out of the sky by the construct's blow, thousands of receptors screaming in pain even though he bites down hard on his tongue and refuses to utter a sound.

Well... at least the fall is short...

Far sooner than he expects to, the Horseman collides with the soggy ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him and he rolls over and over through the mud until eventually coming to a halt on his back about a hundred yards away from the Guardian's feet. Stunned and staring stiffly up at the cloudy sky overhead, he blinks against the raindrops that manage to pelt his eyelids through the sockets of his mask.

Somewhere far away from his ringing ears, he picks up the trace of a scream, dimly registering how familiar the sound is.

“Death! Please, get up!”

Yes, he will. Of course he will. He doesn't need a distant voice to tell him that laying motionless in the mud is a terrible idea.

Curling his fingers until they're squeezed into tight fists, the Horseman pushes himself into a sitting position and gives his head a shake, his senses returning to him all at once.

That had been your voice. For an unsettling second, he pictures you doing something stupid – like running out into the valley towards him.

“Human!?” he rasps, throwing his gaze about wildly until he at last spies you still standing in the entrance to Tri Stone’s tunnel.

He only refrains from heaving a sigh of relief through sheer willpower alone.

Moving his head to the right, he catches sight of Despair galloping madly in his direction, hoofbeats swallowed up by the thunderous, booming footsteps of the Guardian as it approaches Death's flank.

The Horseman is on his feet in a flash and takes several, loping strides towards his steed, who doesn't slow for a single beat, not even as he tears past Death's side, confident that his rider will be safely back in his saddle with hardly a crumb of effort.

And of course, a pale hand shoots out as the horse passes, snagging the saddle horn and Death hauls himself up and onto Despair's back as though they'd practiced it a thousand times.

Which, upon the insistence of a figure from their past, they have.

“Now then,” the Horseman grumbles, snatching up the reins and turning his steed in another wide arc, intent on coming at the Guardian from another angle, “Let's try that again, shall we?”

------

“He's not seriously gonna try that again, is he?” Watching the spectral duo thunder towards a now increasingly belligerent construct, you clap a hand to your forehead, staring out from underneath it with your mouth agape. “Oh my god, he is.”

“Tenacity is sometimes one of the only tactics that will work,” Eideard puts sagely.

Letting out an incredulous scoff, you squint an eye shut and gape sideways at the Old one. “Tenacity? What the Hell does he think will happen if he -!....Wait a minute....” Suddenly, you cut yourself off, frowning hard at the grass by your feet. “...Tactics...”

The gears in your head grind faster and faster as you try to recall a far-off memory, holding up your hand to hush the maker when he draws a breath to speak. “Wait, wait, wait. What about... Yeah, what about uh, if we use the Hammer and Anvil?” Snapping your fingers together, you raise your head again and shoot Eideard an eager look.

He, on the other hand, appears entirely lost, turning to peer over his shoulder in the direction of the village for a moment before he returns his gaze to you, one eyebrow raised. “A hammer and anvil? What use would those be in this fight?”

“No, no, it's the, um... the name of a military tactic!” you explain, chewing your lip anxiously, “So, I took History for GCSE, and I think, I think, I remember learning about it there. So, one group, or I guess, one person, is the anvil, right? They pin down an enemy, and then somebody else – the hammer - moves around to the flank and -” You firmly thump your fist into the palm of your opposite hand for emphasis.

In spite of himself, Eideard's eyes gleam with barely-concealed pride at your insight. He hadn't realised you'd once been a Historian. Seconds later, he gives his head a firm shake to dispel the fog of intrigue.

“I remember it because it sounded cool,” you say wistfully, “And I was going through my phase of wanting to be a blacksmith to make swords and stuff at the time...”

The Old one raises his eyebrows in surprise and you chuckle wanly, adding, “Yeah, I know. Don't tell Thane. Think it might break his heart.”

Eideard is inclined to agree. It would certainly pain the warrior to know that he might potentially 'lose' you to Alya, who has a very likely chance of combusting on the spot if she learns about your interest in her profession.

Blinking, the maker looks down at you and realises that you're still peering back at him expectantly, and it takes him a further moment to work out that you're actually waiting for him to offer approval for your plan. “Well... Whilst it may certainly be a useful strategy, in theory,” he enunciates, subjecting you to a pointed stare, “have you taken into consideration the size of the enemy in this fight? How could a construct so large ever be pinned down long enough for the Horseman to reach the heart stones?”

You fall silent beside him, and at first, Eideard assumes that you don't have an answer for him, when in truth, your focus has simply returned to the underside of the Guardian's dominant arm.

You know precisely how you can pin the construct down.

All it will take is a well-placed shot... and every last ounce of courage you have left in reserve.

Heaving out a shaky sigh, you tug the little handgun from your waistband and thumb the cylinder's release latch, swinging it open and peering down at the chambers.

Three cartridges left.

Three empty chambers... One for the demon general you'd slain to save Death.

One for the demon in the graveyard...

...And one for the gun's original owner.

A shudder prickles up your spine at the memory of the dead man staring at you with wide, terrified, but unseeing eyes as you pried his means of salvation right out of his hands.

Then, the moment passes and you shove his expression to the back of your mind, flicking the cylinder into place with a purposeful snap.

You have to do this. The Guardian has to be destroyed, even if it means you've come all this way for nothing, and the Corruption blocking your path to the Tree of Life will remain where it is.

You'll just... have to find another way through.

There's always another way.

When you look up towards Death, you see that he's circled Despair away from the Guardian again and they're skirting dangerously close to the swollen, yellow eyeball that tracks their journey across the valley.

“I'll be the anvil...” You take a step forwards, your voice soft, though not soft enough that it goes unnoticed by Eideard.

The old maker tears his gaze from the construct currently hammering holes into his valley and fixes you with a suspicious glare. There are certain instincts that elders tend to accumulate after a near-eternity spent just being alive, none of which are more potent than the instinct to simply know when a youngling is busy concocting some terrible, ill-judged and outright dangerous scheme in their heads.

Striking before the seed can take true root, Eideard lifts his staff and plants its narrow end on the ground right in front of you, a less-than-subtle barrier that both breaks you from your thoughts and stops you from making further advancement towards the tunnel opening.

Understandably, you're startled by the sudden shaft of solid metal appearing in your path and you whip your head up to shoot a glare at the old giant, only to find that he's giving you his own, similarly stern look.

Holding your gaze for a few moments, he eventually expels a sigh and lets his expression ease into a more solemn frown. “Not this time, little one,” he utters.

“Not this time?” Your hands ball slowly into fists. “What do you mean 'not this time?'”

He opens his mouth to tell you, to explain every, complex thought that's been on his mind since you followed Death into the Foundry. He wants to tell you exactly why he can't bear to watch you run into danger again – that his old heart aches to see Muria wring her hands so much more often these days, or Valus pacing anxiously back and forth across the forge while his sister tries to coax him into crafting something that might take his mind off you. It had even hurt more than he'd care to admit to hear Thane explode at him after the warrior learned that you'd gone inside the Foundry.

Likewise, Eideard had hardly been able to think straight for worrying whether you'd come back out again...

His soul, of late, seems as though it's pulling itself in two, very different directions. One half of him knows that you're your own person - an adult, so far as humans are concerned – who is more than capable of making decisions without needing the input of an interfering old maker. But then, there's the other half of him - the half that has spent eons being a teacher, a leader and a protector. 

That half wants nothing more than to keep you safe and nurtured, to see what you could become as a human among makers.

How can he possibly make you understand that watching you run out into the valley would be the final nail in his coffin?

However, he doesn't get the chance to even try and explain as you misinterpret his pensive silence for surrender and you press, “It could work! You know it could! I could be the anvil, if I can just... get close enough to-”

“-Absolutely not,” he interrupts, his eyebrows pinched with concern, “It's far too dangerous.”

You aren't entirely sure where your sudden spark of irritation comes from, but it's there before you can think to extinguish it. “What, so this is too dangerous, but you let me go into the Foundry?”

“Against my better judgement, yes, I did,” he retorts, “And the Drench Fort, and the Cauldron. Time and again, I have stood by and allowed you to follow the Horseman into danger-” 

“You've allowed me?” you scoff, recoiling.

“-But I'm afraid that this is where my leniency ends,” he continues as his voice steadily grows louder with every passing moment, “This is where I have to draw the line, if not for your sake, then for the sake of the others. They've suffered enough loss to last them a lifetime, and I will not allow them to lose another friend!” Breathing hard, he swallows down a painful cough and rasps, “I will not lose another friend!”

If only you were ten feet taller, you'd grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into the sentimental old giant.

“If Death doesn't manage to beat that thing, you're gonna lose a whole hell of a lot more than just a friend!” you argue, hardly noticing that the maker's knuckles have turned bone-white around the handle of his staff, “Eideard, I am trying to help Death save this place! You can't stop me from helping!”

The soft-eyed maker's gaze narrows to something uncharacteristically sharp and he replies, “I can. For your own good!”

You wrinkle your nose as indignation rises through your chest like smoke from the fire in your belly, swelling into a ball of heat and anger. “My own g-!? You're not my dad, Eideard-!”

“- I AM TRYING TO BE!”

The force of Eideard's shout punches through your chest like a gunshot and you stagger back a few steps, your eyes growing wide with alarm. You aren't sure what's more disconcerting, what he'd shouted, or the fact that he'd shouted at all. It's the first time you've ever heard him raise his voice at you...

Staring up at the old maker, you slowly draw your hands close to your chest, clasping them together and pulling in a hitched breath.“...What?” you utter, voice small and uncertain.

Just like that, the giant blinks and his eyebrows twitch out of their frown as the realisation of what he'd just admitted aloud catches up with him. A pit in his stomach opens up and everything above it drops.

He stares back at you in muted horror that he tries desperately to disguise as stern sincerity.

Stone's breath... He swore he'd never... You've only just lost your family, and now here he is behaving as though he intends to replace one of the most critical figures in your life. He has no right. No right at all...

Even beneath the ivory beard, you can see his jaw clench after he snaps his mouth shut.

Not even the rain that cascades from overhead is loud enough to drown out the rigorous pounding of your heart.

"Little one,” Eideard croaks, fumbling over his words for the first time in centuries, “I-”

Suddenly, from across the valley, the Guardian unleashes a triumphant bellow and your eyes rip away from the maker for all of a second, just long enough to see Death take a hit.

Just like that, the whole world grinds to a screeching halt.

---------

Despair is in the middle of a charge, heading straight for the Guardian's legs, no doubt intending to bring his rider in close so that he can make another attempt at climbing his way up to the infected heart stones.

The construct, however, doesn't move to meet them as they expect it to. Instead, the colossal beast takes a few, booming steps backwards, seeming as if it’s on the retreat to the valley's eastern cliffs.

Seconds later, Death realises its intent.

The mile-high hammer that it grips in its fist has a reach that practically extends halfway across the valley, and only by putting some significant distance between itself and a target does the Guardian stand any chance of landing a devastating blow.

And Death has just galloped directly into the firing line.

As the hammer begins its downward swing, Despair lets out a whinny that's carried off on the wind until it reaches your ears, filling them with the sound of shrill, animalistic fear and you turn your body around to stare out at the valley just in time to see the Horseman fling his steed's head to the side with a brutal tug on the reins. Obediently, Despair follows his lead, hoping to escape underneath the side of the rapidly-descending hammer.

You know in your heart of hearts they'll never make it.

You can hardly bear to watch.

Then, at the very last second, right when the hammer's shadow utterly engulfs both horse and rider, you notice that Death's hand lifts from the reins and he does a wild gesture and before you can make sense of what it means, without warning, Despair's solid outline seems to collapse in on itself and the horse erupts into a cloud of sickly, green mist.

Bellowing out a final, lingering scream of righteous indignation that's soon lost to the wind, he disappears completely and his rider falls to the ground, tucking himself forwards into a haphazard roll.

Not half a second later, the monolithic face of the hammer connects with the dirt just inches behind him.

Another flash of lightening coincides poetically with the impact, burning an image into your mind's eye – of mud and rocks exploding outwards in every direction, a seismic shockwave that flings Death away from the epicentre. He lands hard in the wet earth and tumbles for several metres before he finally comes to a stop, face down against the grass, unmoving.

You barely even register that you've ducked beneath the maker's staff and hurled yourself into a clumsy sprint until you emerge from the tunnel and your face is suddenly struck by ice-cold rain. At your back, Eideard shouts something frenzied, crossing the line into panic, but his words are drowned out by another clap of thunder. You don't see the desperate horror sweep across the old maker's face. You don't see his eyes illuminate with the ensuing lightening strike. You don't see the Guardian peeling its hammer from the earth and slowly turning towards you.

All you can see, all you care about right now, is the Horseman in front of you.

Shaking off his daze, Death pushes himself onto his hands and knees and immediately becomes irked by the rainwater dripping in through the sockets of his mask again. He gives a few, hard blinks and twists his gaze to one side, trailing it all the way up the Guardian's legs columns.

The great beast flares the plates around its neck and a low, rumbling growl trickles from its throat and travels all the way down into the ground, causing Death's teeth to rattle in his head.

Dimly, his eyes rove up to the hammer, now raised once more into the sky high above the construct's head.

“Damn you,” he hisses at it through a clenched jaw.

If he hadn't banished Despair when he had, the horse may well have had its hind legs crushed. He'd felt his steed's rage once it realised what he planned to do, but frankly, he'd rather deal with an angry Despair than see the stubborn beast get hurt.

He's in the midst of heaving himself up onto one knee when all of a sudden, from across the valley, there comes a familiar cry that would have turned his blood to ice, should his veins carry any.

“Death!”

The Horseman jerks his head over one shoulder, eyes widening when he sees you haring across the valley towards him. “No,” he growls, voice rising into a ragged shout, “NO! Stay back, you fool!”

However, rather than heed his warning, you very nearly end up crashing into him as you hit the brakes and skid to a halt in the sodden grass just in time to avoid a collision. 

Somewhere unbeknownst to the Horseman, a wild and familiar presence rears its sleepy head.

Meanwhile, with all the grace of a bungling drunk, you wrestle your pistol from your skirt's hem and aim it at the clustered web of corruption that stretches across the construct's raised forearm.

The Guardian is so vast, each movement carries with it the illusion that time has slowed right down to a crawl.

Gripping the handle of your gun between two, quivering hands, you don't even spare a second to think or to worry about what'll happen if you don't make this shot.

You only have this chance. There will not be another.

There's a storm raging around you, a giant hammer rising above you, Death's incoherent bellow rings in your head and Eideard's distressed calls tug at your heartstrings.

You've never been more terrified in all your life.

But you still take aim.

And with blood and wind howling in your ears, you draw in one, deep breath...

… and pull the trigger.

It's strange, you realise with a blink, that until now, you've never really put much thought into whether the dice of life rolls in your favour. You wouldn't say that you're especially lucky, nor would you claim to be naturally unlucky either.

At this moment however, when the tiny bullet from your pistol sails straight and true towards its target, you finally begin to consider the scope of your luck. Then, the bullet hits its mark and you feel like the heavens have just aligned in your favour.

The shadow bomb explodes, setting off a chain reaction among the other bombs embedded in the webbing. Each of them erupts in rapid succession of the one before it, and the Guardian is instantly thrown off balance by the ricochets, roaring in pain and staggering back a step as its entire arm is quite suddenly blown sideways and asunder.

Whatever elation you might have garnered from the success is short-lived though, because Death is abruptly towering over you and snatching you up by the arms, holding you so that your feet dangle several inches from the ground.

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!?” he bellows, shaking you for good measure.

You open your mouth to reply, but just then, a dark shadow falls across Death's mask, prompting you both to whip your heads back and look to the sky.

It appears that while the explosion has blown the Guardian's arm to smithereens, some of those 'smithereens' are still absolutely enormous and haven't been blasted quite far enough to render you safe should they come crashing down to the ground.

Which is, of course, precisely what they do.

The familiar presence that had awoken deep inside the Horseman's psyche suddenly starts to go bezerk.

Barrelling down towards you at a rate of knots is a stone slab the size of a bus.

Instinctively, you fling your arms over your head and slam your eyes tight shut, hardly caring when Death drops you onto your backside and you topple over, your skull cushioned by the wet earth.

Pressed your spine into the grass, you brace yourself for impact and spare the last second of existence cursing at how bitterly unfair it is that you can do something right and still have everything go so wrong.

The slab falls, the air grows cold and still. And then...

WHAM!

The sound is loud enough to blow out your eardrums and smack your heart up against your sternum. It's deafening, it's terrifying... But it isn't painful.

'Why isn't it painful?.... Am I dead?' The rain seems to have stopped falling on you, at least.

Bewildered, you peel open an eye and tentatively lower your arms a little to peer up at a dark, shadowy mass looming over you.

Two, empty eye sockets stare right back at you, pinpricks of light sitting at the centre of each as a rattling breath as cold as winter washes over your face.

“Death?” you utter in a tremulous whisper.

The monstrous form of the Reaper towers above you, its exposed ribcage heaving up and down in the face of its agitation. Long, skeletal arms are raised above its head and when you roll your eyes past the indigo hood, you let out a gasp to find that the creature is holding the gigantic, stone slab aloft, keeping it from crushing you flat.

How a beast with no visible muscle can be so strong is utterly beyond you.

The Reaper stares down at you for a moment longer with an unreadable expression before its arms suddenly flex and it lets out a soft wheeze as it hurls the enormous slab sideways and out of the way.

The stone hasn't even rolled to a stop before the gigantic skull is lowering down towards you.

Sprawled out on your rear and immensely mindful of the beast's fangs, you lift your arms up and hold them out in front of its approaching face.

“Woah – wait a second! I – I know you're mad, but I just!-”

You're interrupted when the Reaper's nose bumps into your palm and continues to advance, despite the meagre resistance you try to put up. For one, horrible second, you grow sick at the thought that the beast's teeth are so close to your vulnerable hands.

But then, with a gentleness that contradicts its size, the skeleton forces its skull through your raised arms and, to your astonishment, pushes its nasal bone firmly into your chest and stomach – as though it isn't supposed to be a monstrous reflection of the fabled Grim Reaper, as though there isn't a stone giant gathering its wits behind it.

Too startled to react, you close your eyes and raise your chin away from the beast, unable to swallow a whimper as it nuzzles gently into your torso with a warbling croon.

'It's only Death,' you have to remind yourself, 'Death won't hurt me.'

Your fingers twitch and you gulp, hesitating for another second before you finally gather the nerve to press your palms flat against the skull's cheekbones, earning a gush of frigid air against your belly in response. Cracking an eye open, you find yourself blinking straight into one of the Reaper's softly glowing pupils. It surprises you with a sudden, insistent nudge to the stomach, like it's trying to push a sound out of you. Hardly daring to disappoint, you swallow around your dry tongue and breathlessly stammer out, “Hah, yeah, I'm... I'm all right.”

The vertebrae on the beast's neck clack together when a croak rattles up from somewhere deep inside its chest.

It almost sounds relieved.

A little more boldly, you sweep your trembling fingers underneath the curve of its cheekbones and try not to ponder on how utterly absurd it is that you're talking to a creature that wasn't even supposed to exist this time last week. Regardless, it's a hard truth to deny when said creature currently has its skull pressed up against you.

After another moment, it gives you a second bunt to the stomach, this one short and sharp and accompanied by a whuff of air through its nasal cavity as the malleable bone above its eye sockets draw together to resemble something vaguely displeased. You're beginning to recognise more and more of Death in its expressions.

The Horseman is still in there somewhere, and it takes you a moment to register that your plan, as foolish and risky as it was, had actually worked. You don't even care that an angry monstrosity's fangs are sitting flushed to your abdomen.

“Hey. I'm glad you're okay too,” you mutter weakly, trailing your fingers down a sturdy mandible.

It's ensuing rumble of contentment is interrupted by a sudden, booming roar that rips the sky apart and you jump, feeling the Reaper's teeth scrape against your belly as it lets out a furious growl and draws back at the sound.

Using one hand to shield your eyes from the rain, you squint up at the Guardian.

It would appear the the colossal juggernaut has already mourned the loss of its arm and is now raring for vengeance.

It tears its gaze off the rubble scattered around its feet and aims a furious growl down at you and the Reaper, the promise of retribution evident in the corrupted tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, whilst its heart stones shine through the gloom like terrible beacons of fetid yellow.

“Wait.. .The heart stones!” you realise aloud.

Skeletal fingers suddenly cut you off as they snatch you up by the collar and hoist you onto your feet, and then you're rudely shoved in the direction of Tri Stone by a snarling Reaper.

Stumbling backwards, you stare after it as it whips around and puts its back to you, flapping its bony wings menacingly up at the Guardian - as if anything it does could deter a construct that size.

The corrupted behemoth takes a threatening step forwards, bringing it far too close for comfort. In response, the Reaper's wings flare even wider across its back and it issues another hiss.

“Death! The Heart Stones!” you cry out again, “We have to destroy them now!”

Your gaze travels to what's left of its shattered arm that lays in the grass like the ruins of an ancient building. There, sitting unassumingly amongst the debris, is a familiar, pulsing glow.

Your hand curls around the grip of your sword.

Without wasting another second, you burst into a break-neck sprint and hurtle towards the first heart stone, immediately hearing the alarmed hiss of the Reaper behind you. Throwing your head over one shoulder, you point frantically at the Guardian's head and shout, “I'll try and deal with the one on the ground! You have to deal with the other two!”

The Reaper's half-buried instinct to snatch you up out of danger and bundle you away somewhere quiet and safe is almost overpowering, but there's just enough of Death lingering below the wild and primal nature of the beast that it recognises the sense in your words.

Eliminate the heart stones, eliminate the Guardian, eliminate the threat.

...Threat.

The Reaper snarls, its spinal column quivering as it finally cuts through the haze of protective anger and focuses on the solution. 

Eliminate the Guardian, and you'll be safe.

The goal is clear.

Teeth snap together in a warning and the Reaper gives its wings a tremendous beat, soaring into the storm-choked sky and making a bee line for the Guardian's left shoulder where the second heart stone lays in wait.

Responding instantly, the construct roars its defiance with the force and volume of a thunderclap as it raises its remaining arm, aiming to swat the Reaper out of the air like a bothersome gnat.

But whilst the Guardian's size might have leant to its advantage on the ground, it proves a hinderance to a creature as adept at flying as Death's spectral counterpart.

Swift and nebulous like a shadow, the Reaper flits higher and higher, skirting close to the construct's arm and either diving or spinning easily out of the way if it swings too close for comfort. By the time it reaches the heart stone, you've slid to a halt beside the one on the ground.

Whipping your sword from its scabbard, you barely hesitate to catch your breath before ramming the tip of the blade underneath the stone's edge.

“Oh, I hope this sword is stronger than I am!” you worry aloud, taking a firm hold of the weapon's grip and heaving backwards with all your might, your feet slipping in the mud underneath you. Something gives and the blade sinks a little deeper, and you're struck by a renewed burst of desperate urgency. “Come on!” you gasp, shaking rainwater from your eyes and readjusting your grip before throwing yourself backwards again, and again, and again, each time levering the sword a little further underneath the stone.

You're only lucky that the heart stone had fallen at the angle it had: tipped forwards towards the ground. There's no chance you'd be able to dislodge a stone so large without a lot of help from gravity.

The relentless downpour causes your feet to nearly slide out from under you, but step by agonising step, you manage to haul yourself backwards, never once giving back an inch of what you take in the way of progress.

Overhead, the Reaper hovers just above the second heart stone.

A flash of lightening illuminates the sky behind it so that for just a second, a gigantic shadow is projected onto the Guardian's body, ominous and foreboding, a billowing cloak and skeletal wings contrasted in black against the pale, sandy stone.

Then, the spectre draws its scythe.

The curved blade gleams as it's raised over the Reaper's shoulder, and with a startling ferocity, it brings the weapon down hard, driving the pointed end deep into the stone like a knife through butter before heaving its scythe back again, wrenching the stone from its place in the Guardian's shoulder and allowing it to fall into the mud far below with a wet, unpleasant 'thwump!'

You miss it hitting the ground, because right as it does, you throw yourself at your sword's hilt with everything you've got, one, final time. There's a moment of resistance, and then suddenly, you're toppling face-first into the mud as well when the heart stone finally comes loose and thumps down just inches away from where you’d been standing.

There's no time to celebrate though.

Scrabbling up onto your feet again, you immediately have to clap both hands over your ears when the construct throws its head back and howls, the terrible cacophony of noise mingling with Corruption's wretched screeching.

The inky substance, separated from its source of power, withdraws like an octopus whose tentacles have been burned by fire. The tendrils tear themselves away from the construct’s stone body and in doing so, they leave every slab without an adhesive to keep it all together.

The resulting carnage isn't unlike witnessing a building being demolished.

First, the hammer is dropped to the ground as its fingers fall apart one after the other, followed swiftly by its entire hand and before long, both of the Guardian's arms are laying strewn about in pieces on the ground, the heavier pieces sinking into slick mud.

All that remains now, is the third and final heart stone.

High over your head, the Reaper rolls its shoulders in satisfaction and turns in the air, scanning the ground below for any sign of the human. It finds you soon enough, a speck of colour almost hidden amongst the rubble, waving your arms madly at something behind it. Cocking its head to one side, the Reaper spins about again and looks up, its eye sockets growing wide.

With two heart stones down, the Corruption's hold over its colossal host has weakened significantly. One leg tries to take a step forwards, but with nothing to keep its stones adhered to one another, the entire construct begins to collapse underneath its own weight, its legs buckling and breaking and its enormous torso teetering forwards...

… It's only once the sky above you is blocked out by falling debris that the Reaper realises why the construct's collapse is not necessarily a good thing.

You're standing directly underneath it.

It seems to register your predicament at the same time as you do, and the valley is suddenly ringing with the sound of its feral shriek.

Angling itself straight down in your direction, the Reaper raises its wings and is just about to break the sound barrier with a single flap, when all of a sudden, a dome of familiar, azure light arches over you like a cresting wave.

In the throes of alarm, it had clean forgotten that there is another in the valley who's protective instincts are just as strong as its own.

You yelp, not even noticing that there's a shimmering barrier that has appeared over your head.

Throwing yourself forwards into the mud again, you curl into a ball and shake as the Guardian's detritus slams down all around you. The din is ear-splitting, drowning out your screams.

Hours seem to pass before the noise finally dies down.

It takes you longer than you'd care to admit to realise you haven't become a stain on the valley floor.

It feels as though you need a crowbar to pry your arms from their position over your head, yet somehow, you manage without and push yourself up onto your rear, mouth dropping open once you spot the destruction all around you. Small stones and dust skitter down the side of an invisible force arching over your head, washed away by the pouring rain as you twist yourself about in a daze.

Suddenly, your eyes land on a familiar figure standing just beyond the Guardian's remains.

“E-Eideard?” you cough.

Blood trickles in a steady stream from the maker's nose and his mighty chest rises and falls with every, spasmodic breath he takes. Rolling your eyes up, you notice the crackling staff that's pointed in your direction and then the hazy wall of shimmering, blue light that stands between you and him, and at last, the pieces click together in your brain.

The old maker had just saved your life.

Only when he sees you moving does he exhale the rigidity from his spine and lower his staff, effectively dispelling the magical barrier from over your head. Deep in his chest, the maker's heart finally stops thrashing like a wild beast.

You're still alive.

He meant what he'd said in the tunnels. He won't lose you, not so long as there's still life in his old bones.

But what relief Eideard feels is abruptly superseded by dread when the rubble before him starts to shudder.

His gaze snaps up, travelling past you and zeroing in on the Guardian's head that has landed in the grass just metres away from you, and he blanches when swirling, yellow light bursts to life in its eye sockets.

A gust of rancid air nearly bowls you over and invades your nostrils, threatening to drown you under the stench of sulphur and decaying flesh.

Whirling your head around, you let out a cry and try to slide backwards through the mud when, from the Guardian's mouth, a writhing, squealing mass of tentacles spews forth, each one as black as night and all flailing wildly for just a moment before they whip out in every direction and begin to snatch up the fallen pieces of their host's body.

Every tendril, that is, except for one.

A single appendage remains poised above your head whilst you stare up at it, incapable of tearing your eyes away as it sways hypnotically from side to side, like a snake waiting to strike.

Behind you, Eideard hurries to raise his staff again.

But it's too late.

The Corrupted tendril snaps forwards, lightening flashes in the sky and renders you momentarily blind, there's a loud, metalling 'shing!'...

… And suddenly, the Reaper is just... there, hovering between you and the Guardian like a protective wall of enraged bones and prickling wings. Peering around its cloak, you can make out a severed portion of the tentacle flopping around uselessly in the grass.

For a brief instant, everything is silent.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

The Guardian's disembodied jaw splits open wide and Corruption screams its outrage for all the realm to hear.

Around you, all of the stones that had once made up the construct's body start to roll across the valley towards its head, drawn by whatever hateful power still exists within the last heart stone.

“It's trying to repair itself!” you cry, feeling your chest hitch when fear cups your heart in its icy fist.

At the sound of your voice, the Reaper snaps its skull to one side, focusing a soft, white pupil on your form, huddled on the ground, shivering, afraid.

Its enormous fingers tighten around Harvester until its grip is crushing.

Eliminate the threat. Keep you safe.

The mantra surges to the forefront of its mind and it squares its shoulders, returning its attention to the Guardian's head. The air is alive with dark, oppressive magic that spills from the heart stone like a physical current, and as if by invisible strings, the head is pulled up into the air like a marionette, its neck plates slotting back into place underneath its jaw.

All too soon, it's staring hatefully down at both you and your skeletal guard and emitting a low growl as it waits for the rest of its body to arrive.

With all the viciousness it can muster, the Reaper hurtles towards the heart stone and draws its weapon back, gliding effortlessly to a halt just before the construct's skull, scythe drawn high over its shoulders where, using the momentum of its flight, it hurls the blade forwards, and rams the tip straight into the centre of the stone.

Corruption's screeches turn to wails of terror.

It's a satisfying sound to the Reaper's nonexistent ears.

With a grip like iron on its weapon, the beast braces itself and lurches away, pulling the third and final stone from its casing.

The result is instantaneous.

A howl explodes from the Guardian's gaping maw, loud enough to rival the tempest raging all around you and causing the whole valley to shudder with the force of it.

Letting out a scream, you slap your hands over your ears and grit your teeth so they stop rattling inside your skull.

After several, long, deafening moments, the lights in the construct's eyes begin to flicker weakly until finally, they're extinguished altogether, and its parted jaw thuds shut, no longer pried open by corruption. Without a source through which to power their host, the flailing tendrils slip uselessly down through the construct's mouth until they fall to the grass below and start to sink, still squirming about in the slick mud like fat, overgrown worms.

Your eyes land on one that doesn't seem to be dissolving quite as rapidly as its brethren, and with a sudden rush of horror, you realise that it's wriggling its way towards you, as if it had a sinister goal in mind, as if it had a mind at all.

You try to scrabble backwards on your rear, kicking out, but find no traction in the mud, and instead, you're helpless except to look on in horror as the vile tentacle closes the distance in seconds, until there are only a few, pitiful metres between you and it. Trembling arms wrench the sword from your side and swing it up to point at your adversary.

You almost needn't have bothered. You should have known that with the Reaper nearby, Corruption would have a hard time getting at you.

The colossal spectre drops from the sky out of nowhere and hits the ground in front of you, wings hoisted high over its skull and its scythe gripped between two, bandage-wrapped hands.

At once, the tendril draws back and gives a violent shudder. Without a host, it is dying, fast, and the monster hovering over it menacingly is far from a suitable replacement. Too dead. Too cold. It longs for the tiny speck of warmth the lays sprawled out on the grass just a few, tantalising feet away. Perhaps, if it had been faster...

A low hiss crawls out of the Reaper's hood and it raises its weapon, braced to slice the last tangle of corruption asunder. But, if there ever was a master puppeteer driving the putrid tendril towards you, they must have decided to cut the strings, so to speak, as one might sever an infected limb. The tendril stiffens and goes utterly still, poised like a cobra on the verge of striking.

Cautious, the Reaper narrows it eye sockets at the tendril. Waiting...

Then, slowly, almost anticlimactically, it starts to... melt. Thick, oozing globules fall from its body, splattering to the ground and dissolving into nothing more than dark stains on the grass, and those too, are soon washed clean by the torrential downpour.

Only once every trace of the corruption is gone and all that remains are the pieces of construct that lay scattered about the valley, does the Reaper lower its scythe.

Resonant footsteps pound through the earth below the spot where you sit, and for a gut-wrenching moment, you're certain that the Guardian has once again started to pull itself together.

A hasty glance over your shoulder soon puts that fear to rest.

Emerging from the haze of mist and rain, steps a vast figure, neither his stilted gait nor his age detracting from the staggering power with which he lumbers towards you, pale eyes wide and swirling with agitation.

You can't tell which expression suits him worse – his current one, or the look of hurt he'd worn in the tunnel.

Worry or pain... Somehow, you'd managed to put both of them on his face.

You don't think you deserve his concern.

Twisting yourself about to face the maker properly, you begin pushing yourself up onto your feet.

But just when you get your trembling legs in order, a shadow falls over you and you're suddenly bowled onto your hands and knees again, splashing mud up into your face and cutting off a panicked bleat that makes its way up your throat.

Like a hulking, hissing shield, the Reaper all but throws itself on top of you and smashes its bony fists into the ground between you and Eideard, warding the maker off, its jaw dropped open in the most vicious snarl that such a rigid skull could possibly achieve.

Some, faded voice deep inside its head tells it that the maker is familiar. But in the wake of the Guardian's threat, there's a red mist that has descended over the Reaper's eyes, clouding its ability to reason and blinding it to everything except the little human nestled underneath its ribcage.

The Old one promptly stops in his tracks.

Peeling yourself up out of the sticky mud, you try to stand again, but the spectre is bent so low to the dirt, your head bumps into its sternum before you can even get onto your knees.

Its pupils are just a millimetre away from being nonexistent as it snaps at the maker and curls its phalanges loosely around you.

Horrified, you barely even register that you've reached up and grabbed a fistful of the billowing, indigo cloak, yanking on it sharply and crying out, “Death! Stop! It's Eideard!”

The Reaper's hood buffets against you, thrown by the thunderstorm that still howls through the valley.

Slowly, the maker ahead of you raises one hand into the air, fingers splayed, whilst the other remains wrapped around his staff to maintain his balance. “Easy, Horseman,” he wheezes gently, blood trickling down into his mouth and staining his tusks red, “You've done well. The Guardian is destroyed. The girl is safe.”

As though it had just blinked, the colossal spectre's pupils flicker, softly blooming to larger pinpoints of light, though a low, continuous growl still rattles the bones above you.

Eideard doesn't miss the change, and he slowly bows his head to the Reaper, reassuring, deferring. “She is safe,” he repeats.

Gradually, a low hiss slips out of the phantom's hood and you can feel its pressure lift from your back, the suffocating aura receding until you're able to sit up properly without bashing into a heaving ribcage. As soon as it retreats, you whirl yourself over onto your backside and lock eyes with the beast, your heart pumping a mile a minute.

It's only once you're facing it that the Reaper takes in the state of you.

Muddy. Shaking.

Frightened?

It roves its gaze down to the deep furrows that it had clawed into the grass just metres in front of you. Had it... done that?

Its pupils dilate, and just like that, the rest mist lifts and it can suddenly think beyond its basest instincts.

Hesitant, it backs away a little further and feels it’s control of the ghastly form slipping as its Nephilim counterpart begins to press forward with an insistence that borders on desperate.

Then, right before your eyes, the Reaper's corporeal forms starts to collapse in on itself, indigo mist spilling from its eye-sockets, nasal cavity and parted jaw, a billowing smokescreen that swiftly conceals the enormous skeleton's bulk. In no time at all, you're staring up at the familiar, bone-white mask of Death.

With that amber gaze trained on you, his shoulders quiver once before he straightens up, his eyes trailing from your head all the way down to your toes and back up again.

It occurs to you that he's checking for injuries.

He must have found nothing too untoward however, for he soon averts his gaze and glares off at a piece of the construct's shoulder. “Are you... still in one piece?” he pants gruffly.

Uttering a scoff of disbelief, you reply, “I'm fine. It's Eideard you should be checking on.” You fling one hand up and out of the mud, gesturing wildly in the maker's direction. “I mean, look at him, Death! Christ, I thought you were gonna kill him!”

To the maker's credit, he doesn't take offence to your vague comment on his condition. You are correct, after all. He probably looks about as terrible as he currently feels. But neither you nor Death need to know that...

He catches the Nephilim's gaze and holds it, patient and calm. There isn't an ounce of blame in the old maker's face.

He knows not to expect an apology, which suits Death just fine.

The Horseman doesn't plan to offer one.

Grounding out a rough sigh, Eideard closes the distance to you and stops, taking a brief moment to watch with a mixture of fondness and exasperation as you attempt to pick yourself up off the ground once more, only to slip and collapse back into the mud with a 'splat,' utterly spent.

All too readily, the maker's exasperation draws back a little and he reaches down, circling your waist with his thumb and forefinger and lifting you back onto your feet.

“You, my young friend,” he begins with a huff, gently dusting you off with the pads of his fingers, “are getting far too bold for my heart to withstand. Reckless, I might even venture to say.” His piercing glare seems to bore straight through you like a diamond drill. “Of all things, a human running towards the Guardian at full-tilt, armed with nothing but a sword and a pistol! Why, that has to be one of the most harebrained things I think I've ever witnessed.”

Your throat bobs at his scolding and you drop your eyes to the ground, shame-faced.

All of a sudden though, you find yourself flinching when the rough pad of Eideard's forefinger slips beneath your chin and tilts your head back up, coaxing you to look at him again.

Startled, you blink into the maker's gentle face, noticing that his glare has softened to something far less disdainful and there's even a smile that pushes at the wrinkled corners around his eyes. “..And I could not be more proud of you if I tried.”

The valley, the remnants of the Guardian, even Death all fall away for the briefest few seconds as the weight of Eideard's words slugs you right in the chest.

He's proud of you?...

For what?!

For shouting at him? Disobeying him? For scaring him?

He should be angry, frustrated, annoyed. He should be outraged at worst and disappointed at best. He should be anything! But not proud!

Shamefully inelegant, you sputter, “Huh!? But.. but I-”

“-You were willing to face down the Guardian to protect your friend and save my home, and you’re both still alive,” he interrupts, smiling down at you with a tender gaze, “How could I be anything but proud?”

Baffled, you find it harder and harder to meet the sincerity radiating from his face, so you cast your eyes about instead like a coward, taking in the rubble surrounding you. “I.. I'm sorry -”

'Say it.'

“-a-about the Guardian,” you utter hastily, giving yourself a vicious, mental kick as punishment. There are so many things you want to say, but you don't quite know how to yet with Death lingering behind you watchfully. And you are sorry about the Guardian. In spite of the destruction it had wreaked across Tri Stone, it was undeniably a magnificent beast. But there are certain apologies that are meant for the maker's ears alone. You want to ask him about what he'd said in the tunnel, but more than that, you want to say you're sorry for what you'd done to provoke his admission in the first place, and then... 

God, you just don't know. How could you possibly begin to tell the giant that his words had inadvertently wrapped your heart up in warmth and safety and made you feel wanted again, even after you'd been so cantankerous with him?

Right then and there, standing in the rain before the remnants of his greatest creation, you make a silent promise to the maker that you will tell him, just as soon as this whole ordeal is over and you're all safely back in Tri Stone.

Forcing yourself to meet Eideard's gaze, you stiffen your upper lip and try your best to convey the intent of that promise in just a look, hoping that he'll glean an understanding from two, simple words uttered by a sheepish human. “I'm sorry,” you whisper again.

Perhaps it's only your imagination, but you almost think you see Eideard's gentle smile widen as he offers you an understanding nod. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Somehow, he gives you the impression that he's referring to more than just the Guardian.

Awkwardly, you start to fidget with your hands and twist yourself about to look back at the skull of the construct behind you. “So... what happens now?” The whole point of awakening the Guardian had been to let it destroy the Corrupted mass that guards the path to the Tree of Life. “Without the Guardian, how will Death get to that tree?”

Eideard is silent for several seconds, but his expression could not be broadcasting his intentions any louder. His pale eyes meet the Horseman's fiery gaze and he sighs tiredly, a sad smile forming underneath his moustache.

In your peripheral vision, you see Death stiffen.

“What?” you ask, turning your head between them, unable to catch either of their attention, “What is it?”

Wordlessly, the maker steps past you, moving closer to the Guardian's head where he stops just in front of it and raises a withered hand, placing his palm fondly against the construct's intact jaw. Then, turning slightly to peer at you over one shoulder, he answers, and his words send a jolt of panic up through your spine.

“I have no choice but to bring him back...”

A beat passes in silence.

Then, the soundlessness is broken as you blurt out, “What!?” whilst at the same time, Death scoffs, “How many times would you have me kill him?”

“Corruption fled from the heart stones,” the old one explains, peering down at his wrinkled hand and closing it into a fist, “But the makers' souls within should still be intact... I can put them back.”

“I-I don't understand, the Guardian's destroyed,” you pipe up as your hands knead firmly into the hem of your shirt, “How can you put them back if there's nowhere for them to... go...?”

Eideard turns a little to face you and tries to give you his most reassuring smile, one that doesn't quite touch his eyes.

You can see right through it.

It looks...

..sad.

At your side, Death's brows knit together beneath his mask and he scowls accusingly up at the maker. “You intend to rebuild it yourself.”

Silent, the Old one turns away, prompting the Horseman to growl, “You understand that's suicide, don't you?”

Deep in your stomach, a pit of dread opens up into a chasm and you feel your heart plummet straight down inside it. “What!?” you cry again.

“The restoration of a beast that size will consume more magic than he has,” Death explains, never once shifting his glare off the Old one, “Maker magic is inextricably bound to their hearts. The amount of power required will quite literally burn straight through his.”

Thinking hard, you clench your hands into such tight fists, the nails pierce the skin of your palms. “Well then. He... He just won't do it. Will you, Eideard?”

The maker still maintains his lonely silence, whilst overhead, the sky rumbles ominously.

“No.” You shake your head defiantly from side to side. “No! I mean, there's another way, right? We could...  we could go and get the other makers? They can help-”

“-When we built the Guardian,” Eideard interrupts, “construction was slow. Even with all our efforts, the process took nearly a year until it reached completion.”

“So we wait a year!” you blurt out. The idea sits wrongly in your gut, yet if it means Eideard doesn't have to do anything rash, you can be patient. Rationality has long since departed from your head.

Sighing, the maker heaves himself around to face you and Death. “We do not have the luxury of time, little one,” he rumbles with a patience that serves to infuriate rather than reassure you, “Every day, we lose more of our home to Corruption. I will not wait for it to claim another of my people. I-” He stops to take a shuddering breath and his knees begin to buckle, yet his grip on the staff remains strong, keeping him standing upright in spite of his old bones. When he looks to you again, his face is set but calm. Accepting.

It's that acceptance that frightens you the most.

“I cannot,” he utters softly.

Then, to your horror, he turns back to the Guardian's head and raises his voice to be heard over the storm. “Both of you, stay back!” To himself, he adds, “This will require more than a small effort.”

“Eideard!” you cry out, starting forwards.

Inevitably though, Death's long fingers curl into the back of your shirt and he roughly spins you away from the maker and into his torso, grasping one of your forearms with his free hand. Blunted fingernails dig into your skin as you try to wrench yourself unsuccessfully from his grip.

“Let. Me. Go!” Desperate, you beat your fists against his pale, broad chest and strain with all your might to reach Eideard, but you may as well be trying to shift an osmium statue. Not even redoubling your efforts causes Death to sway. Like a boulder in the wind, he remains utterly still and steadfast, looking over your head at the old maker.

Eideard's staff is raised high into the air and held between both hands, striking the very posture that bears an eerie resemblance to a headsman, poised to bring his axe down on the neck of his latest victim.

What cruel irony, the Horseman thinks with a bitter sneer to the Universe, that the victim is to be his own executioner.

With a strength that contradicts his gentler nature, Eideard hammers the pommel of his staff down on the ground, producing a tremor that must have rivalled even the Guardian's earth-shattering footsteps. From the point of contact, old magics explode outwards in a whirlwind of blinding, blue light that forces you to slam your eyes firmly shut, your retinas stinging against the onslaught. The air whips up all around the valley and crashes into you with enough force to send you staggering backwards until your skull connects with Death's broad chest. Wincing behind gritted teeth, you pry your eyes open, your free arm thrown up as a shield to help dull the brilliant intensity of Eideard's power and through squinted eyelids, you see the maker hold unsteady ground against his own magics as they erupt relentlessly from the ground to form a perfect circle of roaring, azure flames all around him.

You're suddenly alerted by movement to your right and you throw your head sideways, struggling to see through the coagulation of icy rain and biting wind that endeavour to force your eyes shut again. You probably shouldn't have worried about trying to see– there's no way in Hell you could missed the house-sized boulder that rolls past just metres from where you stand, making a clumsy bee-line for the Guardian's skull.

The grip on your shoulders suddenly tightens when an immense shadow cloaks both you and Death in an eerie darkness. Craning your neck back tentatively, you can't help but duck further underneath the shelter of Death's chest as the Guardian's detached hand sails over your head, raining dust and slops of mud down on top of you and the Horseman. Mouth agape, you watch on in awed horror as the gargantuan piece continues its journey through the air until it joins several other clusters of stone anatomy, all twisting about and slamming together like pieces of the realm's largest and most terrifying jigsaw puzzle.

And below it all, his head bowed against the storm, tusks bared and legs seconds away from giving out, stands Eideard.

With every part of the Guardian that fits back into place, his hands slip further down the staff, his shoulders drop another inch and every ounce of the powerful maker seems to disappear, replaced with someone desperately fighting to keep himself upright.

“Death! Help him!”you cry, whipping around to face the Horseman and meeting his glare at the same moment as a lightening bolt stabs a line across his blazing retinas,“You have to do something! Please!”

He glances down, peering at the tears that mingle perfectly with the rain streaming down your face.

You look downright terrified.

Ignoring the thunderous growl overhead, Death's brows start to draw together, his gaze staying firmly anchored to yours until he pauses, and then lowers his eyes to the ground at your feet.

It's a silent, solemn and damning admission.

There's nothing he can do.

Death's quiet confession hits you harder than a slap to the face. In fact, you almost wish he'd done the latter, it might have stung less.

“No...” You shake your head in disbelief. If not even Death can do anything, then...

With one wrist still clenched in the Horseman's hand, you can do little more than give it a sharp tug and hurl yourself away from him, stretching out your free arm towards the maker and pulling against Death's hold with all your might. “Eideard, NO!”

You don't expect him to react to you, weak as he is, blood clinging to his eyelashes and staining his teeth crimson. But he does. Somehow, he manages to turn his head over a shoulder to look you right in the eye, the corners of his own crinkling around their edges, and it takes you a moment to realise that he's smiling at you. 

It's that gentle smile of his that shows more through the eyes than the mouth, reassuring and comforting - the kind of smile that tries to convey without words that everything will be okay.

That you'll be okay.

But the old maker is wrong.

“STOP!” you beg through sobs, growing only more desperate when his eyes slip shut and he turns away, “NO-NO-NO! DON'T LEAVE ME!”

Still fiercely contesting his fate, you yell his name over the deafening collisions of stone limbs and ligaments fitting together, but your scream is stolen from you, cut short by a large, bandaged hand that suddenly appears in front of you and slides around the top of your face, so large that it covers both your eyes and nose. Startled, you shout in protest and try to push at the Horseman's wrist, only to find yourself spun about and yanked painfully into him, locked against his chest by two, sinewy arms.

The split halves of the last heart stone reach the apex of their height, hovering before their original home in the Guardian's skull. Eideard's pinched eyes burst open wide, wisps of blue magic swirling out of them like dancing smoke and he draws in a breath, focusing every last inch of willpower into the heart stone floating high above him.

The pieces shimmer with that familiar blue light, standing stark against the blackened sky.

With not a second to spare, Death curls himself over you and ducks his mask into your hair, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The valley around you goes eerily quiet for little more than a beat of your clamouring heart.

Then, all of a sudden...

'W H U M PH!'

Even from behind Death's hand, the light that explodes from Eideard's staff is damn near blinding, searing across the vale as if the suns had just tumbled out of the sky. You feel the Horseman brace himself just milliseconds before a wall of air slams into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs and sends both of you sliding several steps backwards through the mud. Were it not for Death's preternatural weight, you fear you might actually get blown right off your feet.

Then, as promptly as the squall had arrived, it just...

...stops.

The wind suddenly dies down to a far less suffocating strength and the rain no longer stings when it hits your skin.

Cautiously, Death cracks his eyes open and raises his head to look around, letting the hand around your face fall to his side once more. As soon as the Horseman's formidable presence no longer boxes you in, you fling your eyes open and this time, he allows you to pull yourself free from his grasp and turn towards Eideard.

Your searching gaze immediately lands upon the maker and your heart stills as though it were just a rock in your chest.

The colossal, old giant has collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving up and down like a vast ship bobbing lazily on a choppy sea.

“Eideard!” you gasp, wading over churned-up ground towards him.

It doesn't even occur to you to notice that the rain has let up somewhat as the storm that carried it here begins moving north.

Sticky mud clings to your boots and weighs you down, making each step feel as though it might be the one that saps the last of your strength and brings you to your knees, yet you keep going at an awkward and clumsy run, followed closely by Death, who seems to glide effortlessly over the destroyed terrain.

You all but collide with the maker's head when your foot slips out from underneath you and you're forced to catch yourself on his shoulder, all the while uttering, “No, no, please! No – fuck!”

Your rain-slicked hands hover over his face and you try to take in the extent of the damage, your eyes darting between the blood gushing from his nose and the milky white gaze that rolls towards you. Standing so close, you can make out the even paler pupils as they attempt to focus, eventually landing on you and dilating with recognition.

“Y/n...” Your name topples off his lips in a breathless whisper and if you weren't right beside him, you doubt you'd have even heard it.

“I'm here!” you tell him urgently, placing one hand on his cheek and sliding the other frantically underneath his heavy beard to the flesh of his neck in search of a pulse. You suddenly wish you'd asked Karn a bit about maker biology, because you have no idea whether you'll even find a pulse. You know they have hearts – you've heard those beat close enough to your head to be sure – so it stands to reason that the giants should have pulses.

….There!

It turns out to be rather difficult to miss. As you probe around underneath his jawline, your fingertips and rocked by a fluttering beat and you feel your own heart jump in response.

It's definitely a pulse, but oh so terrifyingly weak. Not at all one that should belong to a giant.

He's fading.

Fast.

The knowledge settles like a weight in your chest, as though someone has tied a cement block around your heart and it's dragging you down, threatening to pull you onto your knees unless you keep them locked tight.

“No!” you whisper. Then, clenching your jaw, you firmly repeat, “No.”

Eideard's misty eyes follow you as you pull away from his face and turn towards his shoulder instead, wasting no time in throwing your hands over the lip of the leather pauldron and hauling yourself up onto his shoulder.

Amidst the chaos, none of you notice that high overhead, the newly-rebuilt Guardian's eyes slowly flicker to life.

Behind you, Death gives a start and calls your name, but you ignore him, crawling onto Eideard's vast chest and bloodying his beard with your hands as you lean forwards over his face, your right knee resting directly above a fluttering heart.

Raindrops fall from the ends of your hair and splatter onto his lip, and every breath he exhales washes over you and warms the chill in your bones.

“You-you're gonna be okay!” you reaffirm, shuffling back and placing one hand on top of the other, linking your fingers together to press the heel of your palm over the giant's sternum. You've never performed CPR in your life, at least, not on anything that wasn't a crash-test dummy, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the method is never going to work on someone as large as a maker.

Death knows it too.

He knows that one human simply isn't strong enough to keep the blood flowing around Eideard's body, you'll never be able to do it fast enough or for long enough to get blood to his brain and keep it there....

But Creator, you plan on trying, don't you? Because in your addled state, you can't help but to fall back on what you know, even though you also know that this can't possibly work.

It's an awful contradiction, another facet of humanity, to try and change the unchangeable, to challenge an immutable fact. 'What's the point?' he wonders, 'of prolonging a lie, just because you're afraid to accept the truth?'

Eideard will die. No amount of human persistence will change that.

The old Reaper watches in silence, a mellow resignation haunting his gaze. Several raindrops gather at the bottom of his masks's eye socket before they eventually spill over the edge and trickle down his bone-white mask.

If you'd have chosen that moment to look at him, you might have done a double-take, thinking perhaps that it wasn't rain falling down the Horseman's mask at all.

But you don't look at him.

Your eyes are instead fixated on your own hands as they shove uselessly at Eideard's chest. “One! Two! Three!” Numbers fall from your lips in rhythmic succession. “One! Two! Thr-!”

But movement suddenly cuts you off as Eideard's enormous hand slides weakly up his side until his fingertips press into your ribcage ever-so gently. 

Blinded by tears, your gaze snaps to the hand, then to the maker's face and you squeeze your eyes open and shut several times, determined to see him clearly.

“It's all right,” he whispers in a gentle breath, as though it's taking everything in him just to summon his voice.

Gritting your teeth, you untangle your fingers from one another and slip them tightly around handfuls of the maker's robes, croaking, “No! No, it's not all right! You're-! You can't just-!”

You freeze when Eideard's arm shifts again and he raises his thumb towards your blotchy cheek.

There, with the utmost tenderness, he sweeps the digit beneath your streaming eye, a fruitless endeavour to brush away the tears rolling down your face. Blurting out a wet sob, you suddenly reach up with both arms and grab the maker's thumb, holding it against you even as the rest of his hand falls heavily against your back.

Makers, as a species, are seldom known to shed a tear, and those that do are careful to conceal it from their fellows, if only to avoid the inevitable gossip that would follow. If a maker is known to have cried, the general understanding would be that something utterly and immeasurably cataclysmic must have happened to them, and that's if their tears are ever witnessed.

Now, here you are, not only crying, but doing so openly, in front of an audience.

“You're crying...?” he breathes, awed. It breaks his ancient heart to realise that he's your cataclysmic event. Yet there's also something so, incredibly moving about it, that he means enough to you that you're willing to bare your heart so readily in front of both he and a Horseman.

Amidst frigid pellets of rain, he can still pick out the warmth of your tears against his clavicle.

He wonders if this is how humans let each other know that they're loved.

You cling to his thumb even harder, as if letting it go will be what kills him. “Of course I'm crying,” you choke, “look at you. Why did you do that! You're dying!”

But Eideard can't look at himself. And even if he could, he wouldn't, because you're here, so why in the world would he want to look anywhere else?

A blissful smile blooms across the maker's lips and he exhales, emptying his lungs of air even as his heart swells with affection and pride for the little human on his chest. From the edges of his vision, the valley around him begins to fade into brilliant, golden light, but he still gazes at you while it does, and in a single breath, he manages to utter, “A small price to pay... to protect my... family.”

For you, the valley remains dark and dour, a perfect reflection for the state of your sorry soul.

Something brushes past you... No... through you... something that you mistake for another of Eideard's warm and steady breaths.

Using the back of your arm, you make a vain attempt to scrub the frustrated tears out of your eyes. How can he even think that he's worth sacrificing? A very raw sort of ache claws at your throat and it only hurts more when you try to swallow past it. Sniffing hard, you shake your head, hands curling until your fingernails bite into the skin of your palms.

“Your life is not a small price to pay! You think the other makers would want this!? You can't just – just do something like this, Eideard! You sure as shit can't do this to them!” you plead with him, hitting a fist repeatedly against his chest, as if for a second you truly believe that such an ineffective force could somehow bully his stuttering heartbeat back to its former strength, “They're your family! You don't leave your family, Eideard! You don't offer them a home an-and then just.. just leave!”

The maker doesn't respond, and the rain on your eyelashes makes it hard to see his face as the thumb you're still clinging to begins falling from your grasp with the rest of his hand, sliding off your back and trying to fall to his side once more.

Realising that holding on will only drag you down with it, you reluctantly let it go and the appendage lands on the ground again with a dull, wet squelch.

He must be weaker than you realised.

“Everything will be fine, okay? You saved my life, now I'm gonna save yours! They need you, they need you.” Babbling deliriously to the maker, you're completely unaware of the Horseman calling out your name behind you.

Slowly, as though he's trying not to spook a wild animal, Death approaches Eideard, stopping next to the Old one's neck and reaching up towards you. “Come now, you're soaked through,” he murmurs, gentler than the usual gruff and surly timbre, “Let's -”

“Get away!” you bellow, reeling your arm back and whipping about to face him with a sudden ferocity that raises the Horseman's eyebrows, “He's just gonna leave them! It's not fair, Death! It's not fair, he can't leave me, not like everyone else has! He can't!”

“He already has.”

Death's detached reply cuts cold and swift as a blade across your chest.

“Wh..? No, he hasn't.” You shake your head, your voice so, unjustly small, barely audible.

The Horseman falls silent.

He doesn't need to say anything further. He can see the realisation sweeping across your face, wiping away any semblance of a human expression and replacing it with a blank-faced stare, as expressionless as his own mask. He knows that look all too well. You're trying to go numb. Perhaps in preparation for what you'll see as you slowly twist your neck back towards the old maker's face.

Eideard's gentle, white eyes peer straight through you, unblinking even though the wind tugs at his wispy eyelashes. His lips are parted and tilted at their corners ever so slightly, just enough that he could be smiling at you, and yet, though you wait in utter silence and stillness, not a trace of warmth slips between his tusks to chase away the cold on your skin.

Wordlessly, Death watches you inhale and let the breath out again slowly, never once looking away from Eideard's face.

Only when the silence grows heavier than stone, you utter, “Oh,” nodding once, pretending to acknowledge what you can't bring yourself to believe, “Oh, I... I didn't realise -”

From the ground, Death has a perfect view of your face when your jaw sets..

And then, sooner than he expects, he sees it utterly and completely crumble.

Your lips and brows twist up and you suck down a shaky breath that only catches in your throat.

“I think I forgot to say goodbye...,” you bleat, lifting your arms in a useless shrug before you look over at the Horseman and offer him a tragically delirious little laugh. Stoic, he watches you in silence as your hand flies up to clamp over your mouth, muffling the rattled sob that works its way up your throat.

Behind trembling fingers, you wheeze, “Oh my god.. I didn't – I didn't even say.. I didn't say goodbye, Death! I didn't even say goodbye!”

… Just like you hadn't said goodbye to your mum and dad, or the rest of your family, nor to your friends.

You've never really thought about how important that one, simple word could be, as less of a statement, and more of a means to gain closure.

Looking back... had you even bade farewell to Father Michael?

It's happening all over again, but what's worse now is that you'd actually had the time and a chance to say goodbye to Eideard, but you just... hadn't. And now, some of the last words you said to him had been impatient and unkind, a fact which you know in your heart of hearts will haunt you for the rest of your sorry life.

Sitting back onto your haunches, you fight to keep your face neutral, but the seconds that tick by are interspersed with moments where you allow ugly, angry sounds to burst between your gritted teeth. Not quite sobs, not quite screams.

You're unaware that you've dropped your hands into your lap, fingers tightening around fistfuls of skirt as you're promptly struck by an urge to squeeze something so tightly that your arms begin to shake with the effort.

It feels...

...relieving, actually, to expend some of the pressure building behind your eyes and in your chest.

High overhead, through the clouds, a ray of sunlight bursts through and makes the valley glow marginally brighter. Somehow, that one ray of light feels so much like a betrayal. 'Where has the storm gone?' you wonder bleakly, 'It should still be raging? Eideard is dead! Why the fuck is the rain moving on!? The sky should be mourning!'

What you really want is for it all to stop, for the world and everything in it to just pause for a while, long enough for you to get yourself together and come to terms with grief until you're eventually ready to move forwards once more.

But sadly, the world is rarely so generous.

On the ground beside Eideard, Death kneels and leans over his head. Something comes over him, pushing him to lift his hand towards the maker's eyelids in the same way that he's seen humans do to one another in the past, on battlefields and in the wilderness when their clothes were crafted predominantly from the pelts of animals. He always thought it a strange thing to do, but now, he finds something inherently unsettling about seeing Eideard with his eyes open, staring up into nothingness. In a rare moment of indulgence, Death takes the time to pass his palm over each of the maker's eyes, sliding them shut before pulling away once more and heaving a sigh.

'You're getting soft,' someone tells him, perhaps the voice of one of his siblings, perhaps his own subconscious. But whether it's his or not, he's swift to vehemently tell it that it's wrong.

All of a sudden, a deafening cacophony of stone grinding against stone ruptures the air and Death is on his feet again in seconds, instinctively drawing his scythes and whipping about to face the gargantuan construct with a low growl.

He'll never admit to losing focus, not for all the riches in Heaven, but he can certainly reprimand himself with an internal barrage of curses that would make a demon blush. Amidst the shock of losing Eideard and witnessing the distress of his human charge, Death had entirely forgotten that the Guardian was even there.

Hidden beneath his mask, he peels his lips back and his hackles shoot up when it turns its baby-blue gaze onto you.

'Wait...' Pausing, he blinks and looks again. 'Blue!'

It's eye-sockets are indeed filled with a blessedly familiar, cerulean blue light, just like the light shining out of the three heart stones embedded within its shoulders and head. There's not a trace of yellow to be seen.

It's bending down slowly and – to Death's surprise – hesitantly, a far cry from how it was conducting itself only minutes ago. Tilting its head like a curious child, the beast continues to lower itself until one of its colossal knees hits the ground and sends a quake rumbling across the valley.

“Y/n,” he hisses at you through his teeth, flaring his scythes like terrible wings to his left and right. He isn't taking any chances. “Come down and get behind me. Now.”

You barely even raise your head to acknowledge his command.

The valley around you falls silent, and it's peaceful, in a way. Now that the storm has moved on, there's no sound save for the Guardian's stone joints that creak and groan as it bends its torso a little nearer to you and lets out a rumble that sends even more shockwaves out across the vale, felt more than heard. For a beast so vast, it exhibits a surprising degree of hesitancy as it shifts its arm and reaches out for you and Eideard, causing Death to plant one boot firmly in the mud, braced to launch himself towards you at a moment's notice.

He's not about to leave the makers with two corpses to mourn.

On some, unbidden instinct, the muscles across his back and shoulders tense and bulge before he registers with a jolt how absurd it is to try and appear larger to this particular threat, especially given that, as of right now, it hardly seems to pose much of a threat at all.

As the Guardian's hand draws closer and its shadow passes over Eideard's face, you finally lift your heavy head and roll your neck back to watch the gigantic appendage descend, not unlike witnessing a meteorite come barreling down on top of you.

And yet, for a reason that you're sure Eideard would gently admonish you for, you don't flinch, you don't even move. Wholly unafraid of whatever fate might befall you, you just sit there on the maker's chest, waiting until the appendage slows down and comes to rest just beside you and your old friend.

Even if you live to be a hundred, you don't think you'll ever be able to explain where your terror of the beast had fled to, especially when it had been so prevalent before. Its hand, longer than a boxcar, hovers so close. A few hours ago, you'd probably have fainted on the spot. Now, you almost want to peer curiously inside your own soul to see if you can discover the whereabouts of any trepidation.

Using the very tip of one, enormous finger, the construct nudges the maker's shoulder, jostling you both slightly before it pulls its hand back and waits, staring down at its unresponsive creator with bright, expectant eyes.

You register a tug at your heart strings to see those eyes dim as the seconds tick by without a response.  

There's a sound that could have been a whine, or perhaps the simple passing of air through the gaps in its gargantuan jaw, and though its head doesn't move, you can feel the moment when its eyes rove from the elder to you, no doubt seeking some kind of explanation.

“I'm sorry,” you choke, throat too tight to produce a more substantial sound, “He's... He didn't make it.”

There's no doubt that it must understand you, because the slabs that make up its eyebrows shift and slide towards the centre of its forehead and it glances at the hammer clenched in its grasp. An agitated groan rolls across the valley and suddenly, the construct's gaze darts to you once more, its features squeezed together somehow, so much so that it looks to be in pain. Something about the expression drags a tiny flicker of compassion out of your obtunding heart and you feebly reach your hand out in a mollifying gesture. When the behemoth looks from you to its hammer again, then to Eideard and back only to repeat the strange cycle, you start to realise that it's trying to convey an urgent and desperate question.

“It's... okay...” you say slowly, watching the construct grow very still and focus its attention on you, “You didn't do this...”

It would be so easy to lay the blame of Eideard's death at the Guardian's feet.

Easy, yes. But you're still somehow lucid enough to know that it would also be wrong and unfair.

The poor beast never asked to be corrupted, just like you'd never asked to be here.

“It wasn't your fault,” you tell the Guardian as it slowly rocks back onto its stone struts, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the writhing, black hillock behind it. At the sight, one of your eyelids gives a brief and imperceptible twitch. “It wasn't your fault...”

Death, playing his part as the silent observer, stands astounded by one of the most unusual exchanges he's ever witnessed.

Angelic scholars would forever attest that humans are, and always have been, ruled by one, core instinct - that being fear.

Death would have been labelled an outlier had he ever bothered to say that he disagreed.

He would have attested that there are two.

Fear, most definitely, is the first. It's a strong instinct, one that has kept your ancestors alive and safe from danger for billions of years. The other, in his opinion, is compassion.

Fear might do well to keep an individual human alive, but it was compassion for their fellow man that ensured the continued survival of communities.

However, even if, several days ago, someone had asked the Horseman which of the two he believed would always, always trounce the other in a life or death situation, he'd have bet his scythes that it would be fear.

So it's tremendously baffling, if not a little refreshing, for Death to discover that fear can be quite easily overridden by something so unorthodox as concern for another.

To think that you, a little human, are offering genuine reassurance to a Guardian who could crush you flat with the tip of its finger, Death can't help but feel begrudgingly impressed. Even in spite of all you've faced these past few days, the beast should have been the ultimate symbol for everything that scares and horrifies you. Your fear of the monstrosity should have absolutely crippled you. It posed, by far, the largest threat.

That you're instead communing with the very construct that had been trying to kill both you and the Horseman only minutes ago is... frankly, nothing short of astounding.

In spite of himself, Death lets his expression turn a little less sharp underneath his mask.

He wonders whether humanity would be proud to have someone like you representing them as a whole. Were he a human, shuddersome as the thought may be, he thinks... he would be proud.

Which makes it all the more jarring when, seconds later, you remind the Horseman that for all the soft-heartedness you've demonstrated, you're still descended from the same species who used to tear one another to pieces for sport, for fun, for a concept or a king.

Your gaze slides around the Guardian's bulk and your eyes lock with a sudden fierce and startling intensity onto the corrupted mound behind it. Death had forgotten, after several days spent watching you stitch your heart firmly to your sleeve, why other species are so quick to label humans 'savage.'

As you stare up at the corruption, the Nephilim looks hard into your eyes and sees all the rage and hatred and depravity of your ancestors boiling like a supernova inside them, as though each eye is a star on the very brink of exploding and casting all that dark matter out into the world around you, wiping out everything in its path.

Thousands of years and billions of souls' worth of wrath packed into one, single look.

What choice does Death have but to balk?

Distantly, he hears himself muse, 'By The Creator... War and Fury are going to love this human.'

Drawing in a shuddering breath, you peel yourself away from Eideard's chest and push yourself off him, dropping to the ground noiselessly and taking a step towards the corruption with the most hateful sneer you can muster. “It's that fucking stuff's fault!” you hiss, pointing a shaky finger at the eyeball glaring back down at you. Raising your voice to be heard, you squint up towards the Guardian's head and shout, “You hear me!? That's what killed Eideard! That! The corruption! Right there!”

You feel as if you're egging on a dog, trying to get it to attack, to bite.

The Guardian half turns to look behind itself before swivelling back to you once more, something low and sonorous rolling up from its chest and falling out of its parted maw.

There's a searing heat in your belly that hurts like you've swallowed burning coals, compelling you to turn your murderous glare back onto the eyeball. You meet that terrible gaze and find yourself unafraid for the first time, because how could there be any room for fear when absolutely every single last inch of you is consumed by an unquenchable thirst for revenge? 

You don't care that the Grim Reaper is watching, you don't care that the construct's swirling, blue gaze is fixed upon you either. There is nothing consolable about you now. All you are - all you know – is frustration and pain and rage. Rage that you wield like a sword, pointed out towards the world around you, but most specifically, at the writhing mass of corruption that still blocks your path to the Tree.

You hardly recognise your own voice as you drop open your jaw and unleash a shout so loud and haunting, even Death is caught off guard by the force.

“KILL IT!”

At once, the Guardian throws its arms back, raises its chin to the heavens and, just as you had, bellows out a gut-churning, earth-trembling roar that shakes the very mountains around you, only this time, you don't feel as though you're going to tumble off your feet. In fact, you've never felt steadier.

“KILL THAT THING! FUCK IT UP!” you holler, spittle flying from your lips. Although your voice breaks and hurts to scream so loudly, you hurl your fist out at the corruption like you're throwing a punch, “FUCK YOU! FUCK! YOU!”

Fuelled by anguish that's barely its own, the Guardian slams its hammer into its free hand and hauls itself around to face the mass behind it. Your furious screams might as well be a powerful set of bellows that feed all that hatred and fury into the Guardian's soul, turning the fire there into a raging inferno, swelling and surging through its body like lava trying to burst from a volcano.

There's the immeasurable power of three, ancient makers' souls thrumming through the air, accompanied by the raw, physical strength of the Guardian, and Death is almost certain that he sees the swollen, yellow eyeball grow wide, its pupil shrinking with alarm.

How satisfying.

The Guardian reels its arm back and you feel your heart give an approving jolt when the enormous beast suddenly launches its hammer forward and down, driving it straight into the eye's squelching centre and pulling forth the most blood-curdling shriek you've ever heard. It's near enough deafening, but you don't cover your ears this time, instead letting the sound fill you up and thrum through the blood in your veins.

You're glad the corruption is screaming. You've never wanted something to suffer so much in your life.

The Guardian draws its hammer back again and reveals the eyeball, now resembling little more than a concave pustule on the inky wall of undulating, oozing filth.

Blackened spatters of ooze spurt from the wound like a disgusting rain and shower the grass around the cliffs, and a closer look reveals the tendrils that had made up the eyelids have been decimated and lay still and unresponsive, unlike the rest of the mass, sadly.

When the Guardian tries to bring its hammer down for another blow, several, gigantic tentacles suddenly shoot out and adhere themselves firmly around its arms whilst a fatter, larger one collides with the construct's chest, blasting out a large segment of stone as its smaller counterparts shove their slimy, wriggling tips as deep underneath the armoured plating as they can go.

Incensed, the construct tries to reel back, tugging uselessly on the insidious vines and belting out a roar of outrage that drowns out your own.

Blinded by hot tears and inconsolable with rage, you start forwards until Death has the presence of mind to march after you and pull you to a stop, his fingernails biting into the bare skin on your arm as you viciously snatch it back. However, you still reluctantly draw to a halt, never once taking your eyes off the battle ahead.

Beneath your feet, another quake rolls across the earth as the Guardian is brought crashing to its knees. Corruption, like the parasite it is, has its slimy grasp wholly and unshakeably fastened to the construct, stabbing its knife-like tentacles into the vulnerable heart stones and pouring its wicked intent into each of them.

For a gut-wrenching instance, something inside Death sinks at the sight of a sickly, yellow glow encompassing the stones, chasing away the soft blue light they'd once emitted.

Corruption is attempting to take control again.

But the Guardian, still hanging onto the final, lingering threads that tie it to sanity, will not go down without a fight.

Summoning the last of its vehemence and contempt for the force that destroyed its home and its creator, the construct braces its neck and pulls back as far as the tendrils will allow it to before they go taut and keep it from retreating further. Amidst the chaos of Corruption's thrashing appendages, the Guardian unexpectedly goes very still and there's an awful second where horror stabs through the red mist in front of your eyes.

No.. No, it can't be corrupted again, surely! That isn't fair! Eideard can't have died in vain! He can't have!

Just like that, your hatred returns in full and with a heaving chest, you scrunch up your face and open your jaw wide.

But just before you can unleash whatever terrible scream is working its way up your throat, the Guardian abruptly raises its head.

From your angle, all you and Death can see is a brilliant, blue light blossoming into existence from the construct's central heart stone, causing your own heart to roar triumphantly at the sight of it. It's magic. But more than that, it's that wonderful, familiar magic that you'll forever associate with Eideard.

The fact may well be that all makers' magic is the same shade, but you don't care.

He'd rebuilt the Guardian with his very essence, literally pouring his own life-force into purifying those heart stones.

There isn't a doubt in your mind.

That's Eideard up there.

Like a flower unfurling its petals, the light swells into a halo of magic that surrounds the Guardian's head and although its hands are still restrained by Corruption, the beast is far from unarmed.

In one, last show of might, it reels back, the plates around its neck shivering and flaring as it glares down at what remains of the corrupted eyeball. Then suddenly, like a colossal, living siege engine, it throws its head forwards into a death-dealing headbutt, smashing its heart stone into the corruption's shrieking core.

Within less than a second, the squirming mass begins to sizzle and hiss like skin under sulfuric acid as the magic encompasses it. The Guardian howls, and you realise that the corrupted tendrils are still tearing it to pieces, even as they dissolve right in front of your eyes until entire waves of it are cascading down to the valley floor alongside great swathes of the construct's stone. The cliffs to the North begin crumbling as well, losing structure as the webs of corruption woven deep inside their foundations melt and die.

The explosion of magic grows bright enough to encompass the entire valley and though the intensity stings your eyes, it doesn't otherwise hurt you. Instead, it lifts the tiny hairs all over your body, dancing and popping across your skin. And it's so warm. 

Warm like Eideard...

As the last remaining strands of Corruption bleed away, you let that tight coil in your belly unwind, collapsing onto your knees as if it had been anger alone that had kept you standing all this time.

In the same moment, the Guardian too falls apart for the last time. Like its creator before it, it had used up all the magic residing in its heart stones, pouring everything it had into one, last spell to save its home.

The magic spend, its body collapses in on itself and implodes like a star, leaving its scattered remains in front of the entrance to a once-obstructed canyon pass. Through the settling dust, you can make out a passage devoid of lushness or frondescence. Only flimsy wisps of grass grow further back, away from the acres of ground that corruption had poisoned.

Your gaze drops to the grass soaking your knees, catching a glimpse of red where your fingers rest against the material of your skirt and you let out a quiet hiss of breath, deflating into something small and tired and very fragile.

“Human?” Death's voice is uncharacteristically gentle, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he speaks too loudly.

Funny. He might be onto something.

You don't answer, not until his shadow falls over you and he tries your name instead. “Y/n?”

This time, you offer up a grunt in response, hardly more than a huff, really. You're spent.

You're done.

For the living embodiment of death, the Horseman behind you isn't sure how best to get you up onto your feet again. He knows grief well, encounters it in almost every aspect of his journeys. It's more of a companion to him than he ever wanted it to be. But for all his experience with grief and the grieving, he still doesn't know how to ease it with words.

'I'm sorry,' he could say. You seem to say it all the time, how difficult can it be?

Apparently very difficult, he finds upon opening his mouth, only to let it click shut again moments later. But then, why should he be sorry? He's not the one who killed Eideard. The old maker made that decision for himself. Death has nothing to be sorry for, so why say it?

He can practically hear your disapproving reply. 'That's not the point.'

Despite usually being such a fan of silence, for Death, every second that ticks by without a word from you feels empty and wrong, somehow. He chooses not to dwell on how quickly he's becoming used to the sound of your voice. Redirecting his thoughts away from that treacherous area, he stubbornly ponders over how much he despises not knowing what to say. Words, as well as weapons, have pride of place in his arsenal.

So he takes a step back, refocuses on what's ahead. And ahead, he knows, is the Tree of Life, and his brother.

Forwards then, to what he knows.

Looking down at you once more, the Horseman clears his throat. Maybe he can't offer you words of comfort, but he can offer you a distraction. “The way is clear,” he promptly observes, tipping his chin towards the canyon but keeping an eye trained on you, watching for a reaction. After a few seconds, he finally gets one.

“Is that all you have to say?” you wheeze through half-gritted teeth, “The way is clear? What about Eideard?”

Raising a brow, Death twists around to look back at the deceased old one and lets out a sigh. It is always a shame to lose the ancients. All that knowledge and experience lost. “What about him? He's dead.” He hadn't meant it callously, merely as a sad reminder of events. There's nothing either of you need to do. The makers will deal with Eideard's body once they find it.

When you suddenly lurch up onto your feet and round on Death, spitting like a cat, he realises he may have interpreted your question a little differently.

“I know he's dead!” you seethe, swiping away the snot that has gathered above your upper lip, “You're happy to just leave him there? Alone? Dead in the dirt?”`

Death pauses, then cocks his head to the side. “Is that not what one usually does with a corpse?”

His brother, Strife, had once informed him that he had a poor sense of timing.

For a long while, you just stare back at him, a faraway and incredulous look adorning your features. Eventually though, you lick your lips and give a small, dry laugh .”Huh.”

He can't help but ask, “What?”

“I've been hearing you say it all this time,” you admit, shaking your head from side to side, “All this 'I have no heart! I have no soul!'... I never used to agree with you.” Your shoulders droop and you fix the Horseman with a defeated glare that lacks any real bite. “Now, I think I finally see it. Anyone with a heart wouldn't just... leave a friend in the muck for his family to find. A person with a heart wouldn't do that. They'd never do that...”

Perhaps he had been too uncouth, but the Nephilim still bridles at your tone. “I told you,” he mutters darkly, “I don't have a -”

“-Yeah, save it,” you snap at him, cold as ice, turning your back and taking a step towards Tri Stone, “I'm going to tell the others what happened. Why don't you do us a favour and just... just go.”

He almost calls out to you. This parting feels... unresolved.

A flicker of anticipation ignites in his chest when you abruptly stop and twist your head around lightly, peering back at him from the corner of your eye.

“You know something?” you ask softly, “I think, if you'd've listened to me in the first place and didn't put that corrupted stone in the Guardian, then Eideard would be alive right now.”

And without another word, you force your trembling legs to carry you on the long trek back into town, leaving Death to stare after you in the silence he wishes he'd never broken.

[shepard-ram]

Hello I'm light anon and i bring you the first chapter of an au i started awhile ago with the help of Ender anon (hi love you/p) , the supernatural au named Abnormalities and its very long

Abnormalities

Chapter One - Phasmophobia 2.5k words

:readmore:

“Prove it then.” 

Of course, Sap and Dream’s arguments always lead to some sort of challenge. Ever since you met them in middle school, it’s been like that. Sap would say something, Dream would fire back because Sap was clearly wrong in his eyes, and it would spiral from there. Today’s topic of debate: The existence of the paranormal. Specifically, ghosts.

What sparked it? A cheesy horror film you picked out for the monthly movie night. Your stereotypical ghost film with lazy jump scares with bad effects and acting.you only bought it so you four could laugh at it. You Guys laud sprawled on the couch while Sap took up the floor. All was well, Until Sap proclaimed that real ghosts wouldn’t be that shitty. Dream, heavily disagreed that ghosts even existed. George didn’t take a side but you backed Sap up. The world is to weird not to have ghosts in it.

”Oh absolutely.” Sap nodded, agreeing with your assessment.

Dream rolled his eyes “Sure, sure, just how are you going to prove me wrong? There isn’t a ‘haunted building’ anywhere in town.”

 At that moment George decided to speak up “What about the old willbeck farm?, the one a couple miles out of town. I always heard it was haunted by a kid or something.”

“That stupid place?  Those were just stories are parents told us to keep us from trespassing.”

You shrugged. “It’s a start.”

Next thing you know, you and sap blew your paychecks on ghost hunting equipment. You ordered the basics, an EMF meter, a good camera, a thermometer, you even bought a ‘Spirit box’ and some smudge sticks, all too spite Dream who complained that you were being scammed. 

You both ended up begging George to use his car to load up your equipment as he was the only one to have a large enough car for your equipment. He relented after a day of relentless begging. 

The Willbeck farm was a 40 minute drive from your home, which left a lot of room for discussion.

“You three are idiots.” 

You leaned forward to poke your head over the passenger seat. “You didn’t have to come, you know. You could have stayed back and do boring things like dressing up patches or something.”

He turned his head with narrowed eyes. “And make sure you guys didn’t fake your ‘proof?’ Not a chance.”

You laugh. “You’ll be the first one we feed to the ghosts.”

You bickered back and forth until George announced that they had finally made it. Not even seconds after he pulled into the clearing in front of the property, you and Sap practically kept out of the car and rushed to the trunk to get your gear. After distributing equipment amounts your group you took your first look at the house

The Farmhouse was much larger than you remembered reading about. It was a huge two story red building with a faded white trim. The word around it looked like it had been rotting for years and it definitely smelt like rot. AMany of the windows were broken in, and the glass was a gross brown color. The roof had some holes in it and the gutters had been ripped from the roof and laid scattered around the outside. A large barn was off to the side and had the same kind of wear to it. The entire property was surrounded by a torn up wire fencing, which had a lot of crows perched, eyeing you intensely. The Erie feeling the house gave off was intensified by the soft sound of the wind and the loud crow caws. 

If houses had a criteria to be haunted, this one checked off all the boxes

Sap let out a low whistle before lightly nudging your arm “Dude, this place makes your home look tiny!”

You scoffed at that. Sure your rented home was small, but was cheap enough to pay for while you worked your way through community college. A one bedroom, one bath, a combined kitchen/living space, all on top of a double garage was all you needed. 

It was a slow walk to the porch, all of you hesitant to actually set foot in the run down building. The steps creaked under you, and the wooden boards sunk slightly. You were at the head of the group, so you were the first one inside, taking a couple steps in the large foyer. It was full of outdated furniture, something you’d see out of the early 90’s. A large staircase sat to the left, hugging the wall as it pushed into the upstairs.  There was a door to your right, leading into what you believe was the kitchen.

You held the camera up and you got a good shot of the room, if there were no ghosts you’d at least have some cool photos.

The four of you spread out into  the room observing every corner of it. Sapnap was the one armed with the EMF reader. He waved the hand held device trying to get something, anything to read. He did manage to get one, honing onto a stuffed cow that was nestled into the couch.

It was dusty, like everything else in the room. Otherwise it was in semi good condition. It was... cute. Too cute to just be sitting in this old farmhouse for the rest of time. Dream had other opinions.

“That means nothing. It’s just a cow.” 

To be fair, it was the first time either of you had used this kind of equipment. You decided to put it in your bag, hoping to study it later. It could be a fluke, but you guys couldn’t bow down now!  The hunt has only just begun.

Every room on the first floor was subject to an EMF and Temperature checks. Dream and George fucked around while you and Sap scanned for anything that could be more than a fluke, the only thing that could be found was in the kitchen. A small carved statue of a crow.

It gave off the same readings as the cow plush, so perhaps it wasn’t a fluke. You found it sitting on the open windowsill, it was so life-like you almost mistake it for a living crow. Something was telling you that it was probably the oldest thing in the house. You gently placed it in your bag with the cow, another piece to your growing collection.

You took a moment to glance out the window. There were way too many crows sitting on the wire fence to be normal. It was the beginning of summer, so crows even migrate?

With the first floor cleared, you lead the charge upstairs. The floor boards only got louder with every step. You quietly asked whatever prime deity was watching that neither of your group would fall through the floor. The whole house felt unstable.

The top of the stairs lead you to a Hallway. It was small and only had two doors and at the end of it stood a large magnificent bookshelf.

You took the first door on the left accompanied by George while Sap and Dream opted to poke around in the hallway, formally splitting the group for the first time.

The room wasn’t very Large, nor could you tell what it was supposed to be used for as pretty much everything was covered with sheets of some kind. There were a couple of uncovered boxes laying on top of things, so it wasn’t completely boring. A couple of minutes of scavenging later, George called for your attention.

“Look at this” George presented you a beautiful lute from one of the few uncovered boxes. It was crafted out of a dark wood and had what you thought was engravings of fish along the sides. How old was this thing? Was it even usable?

“Let me see!” You asked, setting down the camera before making a grabby motion towards the lute, which was met with a questioning look from the Brit. “I want to see if it’s in tune.” 

He decided that it was a good enough answer before handing over the old thing. You strummed the strings, and it sounded surprisingly good, despite the cloud of dust that came off it. You paused for a brief moment before playing a quick melody, just a song you played back in middle school for a recital. You hummed along until yelps from outside and many thumps. 

You quickly set the Lute down and follow George out the door, fearing that something had gotten your two friends. However, instead of a gory mess, you saw Dream standing holding a book, while a whole pile of them at his feet, a few inches away from the bookshelf. 

“The shelves just collapsed on themselves.” He quietly said. The look on his face was puzzled, like he was still trying to figure out what had happened. 

“Or maybe,” Sap started. “The ghost doesn’t like you touching his stuff.”

“I’m keeping it then, the ghost doesn’t need it.” 

“What’s the title of it?” You asked as you fake over to view the damage. Dream opened the book and flipped through it. 

“It’s old, There isn’t a title nor is it in English, old English I think.”

What was such an old book doing in a relatively modern house? You shake the thought away and motioned for Dream to give it to you. “I’ll hold onto it, I want to see if I can get it translated.” Another treasure for your growing collection.

You turned back to check on George, he wasn’t next to you, instead he was messing with the final door, seeming to unjam the lock and push into the room. You decided to grab the lute and take it as a keepsake.

Picking it up again made your head feel... loud. You couldn’t tell which thoughts were yours and which were intruding. A pair of eyes were watching you somehow but the room was empty. Panic rose in your chest, your heart was beating so so loud. A cold hand touched your shoulders, yet you couldn’t tell if it meant you harm or not.

“Hey... are you okay?”

And it stopped. Everything was clear again. You turned your head to look back seeing Sap poke his head through the door. “You’ve been standing here for a while.”

You nod, “Yeah yeah... we should- we should stop splitting up.”

You’d only find out later that the Lute has the same effects that the other two objects did.

The house search was a bit of a bust. The only ‘Supernatural’ experience you had was the EMF meter going off and the strange experience with the lute which you opted not to tell your friends about, writing off as the Erie nature of the house getting to you.

Finding nothing else interesting, you took one last look at the entrance room before stepping out. You feel a weird sense of longing, something pulling at you not to go. You tried to shake off the feeling and you walked back to the car, just to put all your goodies away in the trunk. 

All that was left on your to-do list was to check the outside area and the barn. Being the person that you are, you went straight to the barn. They boys could handle the rest of the property alone. alone  The building had no doors you waltzed right though the entryway. Despite never actually being in a barn, it looked right to you.

It was devoid of any livestock, but there was Hay everywhere. Light shined through the holes in the ceiling, making the room clear enough. The soft blue liquid that was spread across the hay-

Wait. What?

Doing a second take revealed that the whole barn has some weird blue goo smeared everywhere. It looked too Fresh to be painted, it looked wet. There didn’t seem to be a set trail, just pools of it. You found most of it by a ladder that led up to a new section of the barn.

The blue substance was dripping from the loft of the barn. 

It had to be.

And you were right! Sort of. Finally dragging yourself up the old latter not really minding the blue that now stained your clothes, you found the source.

He was standing- floating?- there, as if waiting for someone. The man was tall, taller than you or any of their friends, absolutely towering over you. His entire pallet was muted, his skin was fucking Grey. His attire was strange too. Something out of a renaissance fair. What was the strangest was that he was translucent and bleeding? Out of a cut on his chest. That blue substance oozing out of his stomach onto the floor boards.

He smiled.

“You found me, little songbird.”

The temperature drop had you shivering, but that also could have been from the absolute terror of seeing a real ghost.

That loud feeling returned in full force, directing your attention onto him.. You had to go. But it was like you were frozen place. He moved to cup your face, cooing as he looked you over.

“It’s not polite to touch things that aren’t yours, yet you handle them with so much care... I don’t mind.”

He wasn’t acting out of malice, thank prime, but It didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. He was too close.

“.... pretty songbird. My pretty songbird.”

A beat past before you could hear your friends calling for you. Your head cleared for a moment so you took it and ran. Practically flying down the ladder and hurting yourself in the fall. Ignoring the pain you booked it to the car right past Dream and Sap, who were standing by the entrance to the barn.

“We- We have to go. Now. Please we need to... to...” you couldn’t really tell what you were saying, everything was moving too fast. Great Prime, that was a real ghost. You- You were talking to a ghost. A Ghost called you a Song bird. 

A Ghost.

That ended your hunt right there and then. You weren’t in a fit state to keep going. Especially not when you’re covered in... whatever this blue stuff is. You’d come to find later that you had a blue hand print on your face, right where the man had cradled your face.

You’re so out of it, you don’t realize when your friends are guiding you up the stairs to your home. One of them says something about leaving the loot in your garage, but you don’t really care. This is a future problem. You give a small thank you and a swift goodbye before passing out the second you feel your pillow under you.

So deep in sleep you don’t realize that your tiny home has a few new residents wandering about. 

Or the fact that one of them watched over you as you slept

-----------

I AM SIMPLY ASHAMED OF HOW LONG IVE BEEN PUTTING THIS OFF IT WAS A CRINE TO NOT LET Y'ALL SEE THIS EARLIER. LIGHT YOU'VE DONE A FANTASTIC JOB AAUAUGGG

[ansixilus]

Fact check time:

✅️ 9,500 sounds about right.

✅️ Yes, they do sleep that much on average.

✅️ Talkeetna, Alaska is an unincorporated community, so laws are pretty lax. His name was Stubbs, since he was a Manx cat with a stub tail. He was orange.

✅️ 48 inches? I believe it and am not bothering to look it up.

❌️ The thing about ancient Egyptians is totally false. They liked cats, and had a couple cat gods and mummified some number of pet cats, but they did not like them enough to shave eyebrows in mourning, nor to levy the death penalty on a cat's killer.

✅️ 🤔 You say that as if humans don't share 90% DNA similarity to cats, and 94% to dogs. We're 98% similar to chimps, gods forgive us, but it's not hard to see how different we are. Quaint trivia, technically true, but sounds a bit misleading.

✅️ The thing about cat, giraffe and camel gait is called the pacing gait. They move both right feet, then both left feet when they walk. Most animals go right left, right left. It is indeed rare in the animal kingdom.

❌️ Isaac Newton did not invent the cat door. He had two in a door, but they predate even Chaucer by enough that he referenced one in his writings and didn't explain it more than any other thing he mentioned.

✅️ The space cat was a stray from Paris named Félicette (which I'm pretty sure translates as Miss Kitty). She went up on October 3rd, 1963 by the French space program. She was white with black patches. Thus far she's the only cat to have gone up.

✅️ 30 miles per hour is two mph faster than Usain Bolt, and yes, that's house cat top speed. Varies by breed, health and build of course.

✅️ Creme Puff was 38 years and 3 days when she died. She lived in Texas, and was white with brown patches.

❌️ Richest cat title belongs to Nala Cat, with a net worth of $100 million. She has an Instagram page with +4.4 million followers, and a brand of premium cat food. She's a Siamese Tabby mix, gray with dark stripes and a flat-ish face. The runner up is Taylor Swift's cat Olivia Benson, worth $97 million.

Friday April 14.

Stop: time for kitty cat facts.

Stop! Arrêtez! Hou op! Спри се! Halt! Pare! Detener! 停止! रुकें!  중지! Dur! やめる! توقف! תפסיק! Imani! Itigil! Kwụsị! Prohibere!

You get the idea. It is of the utmost importance that you stop right there—because it's Friday, and times are tough and friends are few. So, we thought we would both complement and/or remedy this situation with a prescription that goes down smooth every single time: an assortment of the finest kitty #cats combed from the dashboard's discerning cat fandom, as well as a series of fascinating cat facts with which you can show off next time the need arises. Impressing friends? Check. Games night? Check. Dinner party? Check. The International Conference For Interesting Cat Facts (ICFICF)? Check. For all things four-legged, fascinating, and feline, you've come to the right place. We like to think this post has found you for a reason, in fact.

The oldest known pet cat existed 9,500 years ago

Cats spend 70% of their lives sleeping

A cat was the Mayor of an Alaskan town for 20 years

The record for the longest cat ever is 48.5 inches

Ancient Egyptians would shave off their eyebrows when their cats died

House cats share 95.6% of their genetic makeup with tigers

Cats walk like camels and giraffes

Isaac Newton invented the cat door

In 1963 a cat went to space

A house cat can reach speeds of up to 30mph

The oldest cat in the world was 38 years old

The richest cat in the world had * seven million dollars *

That, as they say, is that. Call us The Post—because we promised cat facts and we delivered. And then some. We will now bid you on your merry way towards not just the Friday you need, but the Friday you deserve. With some #cats.

[tomasorban]

Giants Build the Ancient Pyramids of Egypt

The world has always been asking, “who built the great pyramids of Egypt.” Most people believe it was the Egyptians, however, there is some debate on when the actual pyramids were built. Some archaeologists say after carbon dating it seems to be around 7,000-10,000 years ago. However, other debate this and say that they are only a few thousand years old and Egyptians only came around about 3,000 years ago, so it couldn’t be older then that.What if the Egyptians did build some of the smaller ones, but not the great pyramid. What if they found it and decided to use them and construct more. Which then confused scientists after so many years. This might be why we see three great large pyramids next to three small ones which don’t seem as magnificent next to the great ones.  So the question is… who built them first? Before the skeptics begin to roll their eyes, lets look into history. In Genesis it is said that the Giants (Nephilim) are ”sons of God” and the “daughters of men.” The most memorial story of course is the Giant Goliath who fights David.  Also found in Egypt are drawings of smaller humans fighting against larger humans. Almost every culture has names or drawings of Giants from different eras in history.

Here is a comment from user tollan23 who is an actual archaeologist:“I’m an archaeologist (who has worked at the pyramids) and I have to admit that we’re all admitted into a secret society where we’re told to hide the secrets of the giants from all, under threat of death. Now that I have let you all know the truth my life is in danger. At least the truth is out there now but I will live the rest of my life in hiding.”On his youtube account he has a number of archaeology videos at the site of Bu Maher Fort, Bahrain.Gery Nelson has a wonderful and great article on this subject with references and pictures. In his article Nelson says:“I have tried to keep this within the realm of my own experiences. 

There is so much more to this. Like the 64 pound sledge hammer found in a 3500 year old copper mine near the town of Llandudno in North Wales. Giant axes unearthed in Iran, Giant swords, etc.You could read for weeks on the subject of giants and if your mind is anything like mine enjoy every minute of it. I would suggest googeling Solomon Island giants, red haired giants, Arizona giants, California giants, Ohio giants, Peruvian giants.”A few years ago I would have never believed that Giant built the pyramids, thought it was absurd. However, in recent years I have found that the actual truth, maybe stranger then fiction.According to Author Brad Steiger, who has written over 168 books with over 17 million copies in print. He says in his book “World’s Before Our Own,”“There have been excavations in the United States that have produced the remains of primitive men and women over seven feet tall; hominids with horns; giants with double rows of teeth; prehistoric people with sharply slanting foreheads and fanged jaws…In July 1895, a party of miners working near Bridal Veil Falls, California, found the tomb of woman whose skeletal remains were six-feet-eight inches in length.”So what happen to these giants? Why don’t we see anymore today? One theory could be that they died during the great flood, caught diseases or even mated with normal humans, which could explain gigantism syndrome. 

The 15 in. long finger which would make the owner about 15 feet tall. Photo by Gregor Spörri from 1988.

 Also just recently published, but taken in 1988 on the German website BILD.De, are photos taken by Gregor Spörri. Translated from the article is reads:“In 1988, on the last day of his private investigation trip, he contacted an old man from a grave robber dynasty. The meeting was took place in a farm-house in Bir Hooker, 100 kilometers northeast of Cairo.After paying, $ 300 Spörri had a look at the grave robber unsold treasure. Wrapped in old rags was the bone and dermis.Spörri told BILD.de: “It was an oblong package, smelled musty. I was totally flabbergasted when I saw the dark brown giant finger.I was allowed to take it in hand and also to take pictures; a bill was put next to it to get a size comparison. “The bent finger was split open and covered with dried mold.”It was surprisingly easy, maybe a few hundred grams My heart was up to his neck. That was incredible. In size to a matching body should have been about 15 feet tall”The grave robber also showed the Swiss certificate of authenticity and an X-ray image. Both are from the 60s.”

The question is, why would Governments around the world hide this from the people? To answer this question I turn to Darwin, which takes you to a dead end if you follow this path. Right now scientists are trying to make the world believe we descended from apes, however, Giants were never part of that theory.  Add Giants to the mix and what is of Darwin?  If the world knew Giants existed and built the pyramids, (which would explain how huge heavy stones were transported 100′s of miles away. And would also display who actually built Stonehenge) then all kinds of questions would arise, like:  Where did they come from? Did we descend from Giants?  Does Darwin’s actually stand for anything? Have we been here for actually millions of years but not know? What else did they build? Stonehenge? Easter Island? Were they part of Atlantis?The human mind would become so curious that we would then be asking the Governments of the world: “What else are you hiding from us? 

[moonflowerlesbians]

“choose your battles wisely”

Un-beta’d and written after surgery, so please take with a grain of salt. I’ll reblog with the AO3 link in the morning!

Rated T, ~4.1k. Fluffy, Hurt/Comfort

~~~

Jamie is an idiot.

Or, to be more specific, she is an absolute goddamn buffoon of the utmost clownery.

This is, more or less, Dani’s internal monologue as she follows the sound of pained grunts to a somewhat obscured section of the sprawling statue garden, where she comes across a rather disgruntled gardener lying flat on her back in the mud. Her oilskin hat has fallen to one side, and Jamie stares, bleary-eyed, at the grey England sky overhead. There is a decently sized marble sculpture on the ground beside her.  

“You alright, there?” Dani calls, after only a brief moment of amused silence.

“Jesus!” Jamie swears, her entire body twitching, which causes her outburst to dissolve into a groan. “Christ, Poppins, wear a bloody bell,” she grumbles.

Dani rolls her eyes. “You alright?” she repeats, quieter this time.

“Oh, who, me? Yeah, ‘course. Just, you know, enjoying some ‘me time.’” She moves to raise her arm in a weak attempt at waving Dani off, but the limb makes it mere inches off the ground before flopping unceremoniously into the dirt. “Taking in the views...”

“Some view,” Dani notes, with a playful, sardonic lilt to her voice. A pause. “Owen made sandwiches if you’d like to come in for lunch.”

“Be right there,” Jamie replies halfheartedly. She does not stir, her gaze still fixed on the dreary cloud cover, a firm set to her jaw. “Don’t wait up.”

“We might as well walk back together.” Dani crosses her arms. “That is, assuming you’re almost done with your ‘me time.’”

“Almost done. Right. Yeah.”

Dani watches the deep inhale as Jamie steels herself, the muscles of Jamie’s stomach flexing with effort. With a sharp gasp, Jamie pushes herself onto her elbows, but she only lasts a quick second before she’s once again lying prone, muttered curses falling from her lips.

Dani winces sympathetically. “Oh, baby, don’t hurt yourself.”

“Bit late for that.”

“What did you do?” She kneels at Jamie’s side, moist soil dampening her jeans, and brushes wispy brown hairs from her face.

“Picked a fight with the wrong woman.” Jamie nods at the overturned statue. “Credit where credit’s due, she’s stronger than she looks. Heavier, too.”

“So, you decided you were going to move a marble statue, on your own, after a rainstorm, which resulted in you, what, throwing out your back?” Dani translates. “And you thought this was a good idea because…?”

“Never said it was a good idea.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Right, well,” Jamie sighs, “we’ve established I’m not the sharpest knife in the block.” Her eyes meet Dani’s, defeated. “If you would be so kind as to lend me a hand, I’d rather not like to die like this.”

“All you had to do was ask, sweetheart.” She thinks she catches a fleeting smile before it is replaced with a grimace.

Gingerly, Dani wedges her arm between Jamie’s shoulders and the earth below, murmuring gentle apologies at each indication of discomfort. She offers her other hand for Jamie to grab. Together, they work her into a sitting position. Jamie’s chest heaves, and her face is a ghostly shade of white.

They stay like that for a minute. While Jamie catches her breath, Dani’s fingers rub what she hopes are soothing circles into her back. How long has she been out here?

“Are you okay to walk?” Dani asks.

“Suppose we’ll find out,” Jamie says in a tone not at all reassuring.

Dani braces herself and takes both of Jamie’s hands in her own, digging her heels into the dirt. “One...two…”

On three, she pulls, and Jamie staggers to her feet, with Dani catching the majority of her weight as she topples forward and the air goes out of her.

“JesusshitfuckingChristfuckshittinghellgoddamnit-”

“Okay, you’re okay,” Dani says, trying to angle herself to best support the woman about to get herself excommunicated for blasphemy. She can feel the tension radiating off of Jamie in waves.

“I’m fine, I’m good,” Jamie promises, very much not fine and very much not good. “Nothing’s broken, I don’t think. Just, ah, a little crooked, s’all.” Her breathing is labored as they take a few tentative steps.

“Look, you just rest here, and I’ll run back and get Owen--”

“No, absolutely not,” Jamie cuts her off. “If that man finds out, I’ll never hear the end of it. Little shit still brings up the Rosebush Incident of Eighty-five whenever I break out the pruning shears.” Her arm drapes heavy around Dani’s neck as they round a corner.

“What--”

“Don’t,” Jamie wheezes, “ask.”

“You realize how dumb that is, right? And I’m definitely going to ask,” Dani says, guiding them toward the front door. Jamie stops short.

“Side door,” she explains, “servants’ hall. Won’t go past the kitchen. Can use one of the empty rooms until I sort myself out.”

“You might want to get your head checked if you think I’m leaving you alone like this.”

Dani readjusts her grip, while Jamie nimbly flips through a massive ring of keys Dani swears she’s never seen before, yet Jamie handles with the expertise of someone who does this daily. Which, Dani realizes, feeling rather stupid, she probably does.

“Fuck,” Jamie says under her breath as the door opens, revealing a hallway Dani has yet to explore. Dani sees the problem. She looks at Jamie. She looks at the narrow staircase. She evaluates her upper body strength.

Then, Jamie is making a rather undignified noise as Dani lifts her without warning, and Dani would be lying if she said the look on Jamie’s face isn’t extraordinarily satisfying. Something about seeing her stoic, mulish girlfriend, gone limp in her arms, looking at her, a little awestruck, well… it’s a sight Dani intends to cherish. And definitely not for the potential blackmail purposes.

Only after Dani gingerly deposits her on the blue quilt in Dani’s room does Jamie say, deadly serious, “We never speak of this again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dani says, “take these.” She plops two pills and a cup of water in Jamie’s hand and disappears into the adjacent bathroom.

“That’s the spirit, Poppins,” she calls after her.

“Come on,” Dani says, reappearing in the doorway. “We need to get you out of these wet clothes before you catch a cold.”

“I’m fine,” Jamie scoffs, visibly shivering.

“The mud stain on my duvet says otherwise. Come on. Up you get. The bath is filling.”

“I can’t ask you to let me use your bath.”

“Good thing you’re not asking, then.”

The half-formed rebuke dies on Jamie’s lips, and she nods as if to say, touché, but Dani is certain she will not be hearing the end of this. She beckons Jamie up and pulls her into the other room, leaning her against the countertop. Without thinking, she begins undoing the buttons on Jamie’s top.

“Blimey,” Jamie remarks, not pushing Dani away, but stilling her movements.

Dani can feel the heat rise in her cheeks. She backpedals. “I, um, I didn’t-- I’m so sorry.”

Jamie just laughs, “Only teasing, love. But, ah, I can probably take it from here, yeah?”

“Um, yeah. I’ll just… be in the bedroom. If you need me.”

Dani slumps against the door as it closes behind her. The sound of the water running mimics the rush of blood in her ears. They’ve only been doing... whatever this is between them for a month. Not long at all. Certainly not long enough to be undressing her in the middle of the day with people in the house while she’s in pain. Dani hadn’t meant it in an erotic way but, Jesus, Dani, show some restraint.

She exhales. Right. Organize. Jamie will need a towel. She’ll need dry clothes. Maybe tea? A warm compress. Or ice? What do people put on sore muscles? A massage? Dani swallows thickly and shakes off the thought of Jamie’s smooth skin beneath her fingertips, tightness dissipating as Dani works the knots away. She absolutely does not imagine Jamie melting into the mattress or the moans that might escape through her lips, and she decidedly does not dwell upon the rare sight of Jamie, pliant and entirely relaxed.

Absolutely not. Shove that into a box and come back to it later. It’s worked well enough in the past.

Right then.

Dani sets about making the necessary rearrangements, shuffling her boots into the closet, digging out appropriately loose clothes for laying about, and swiping a plate of sandwiches from the kitchen, making some excuse about Jamie being too busy to come in, but she sends her thanks. Owen raises an eyebrow at this, but apparently does not feel the need to comment. Hannah, however, takes one look at Dani’s muddy knees and frowns.

“Miss Clayton, you had better not be tracking mud through my house.”

“Yes, Miss Clayton, or else you will have to mop up the mess just like Miles!” Flora states, intently focused on the cucumber and cream cheese sandwich on her plate.

“I told you it wasn’t me!” Miles objects loudly, his drinking glass making contact with the table with a bit more force than necessary.

“It’s in the past,” Dani dismisses, before the situation can get out of hand. She turns to Hannah, and, in her best I’m-setting-an-example-please-go-with-it voice, says, “Of course, Mrs. Grose, I made sure to wipe my feet at the door, but I will clean up any messes I made because it is very important that we all clean up our own messes.”

“Right you are, dear.”

“Could I get a cup of tea to take to Jamie as well? I’d make it but…”

“Say no more,” Owen rises from his seat at the table. “Wouldn’t want to poison poor Jamie, now would we?” Then, with a chuckle, “She’s got you properly whipped, hasn’t she? Trekking lunch out to whatever corner of the grounds she’s wound up in.”

“Why’s Jamie whipping Miss Clayton?” Flora pipes up.

Dani feels her face flush. “Oh, sweetie, she’s, um, that’s not--”

“What Owen means to say, is it’s very nice of Miss Clayton to deliver a meal to Jamie while she’s working,” Hannah says pointedly.

Owen coughs. “Ah, yeah, to-tea-lly leaf-ly of her to help out.”

“Hannah, I was thinking of taking my lunch with Jamie. Would you mind keeping an eye on these two for a little while?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Hannah chaffs, “They’re an awful lot of trouble, these two.”

“You think,” Owen chimes in, “they’d behave if I told them I could use a hand baking biscuits this afternoon?”

“I suppose that might do it,” Hannah says, an expression of faux pensivity creasing her forehead. “What do you think, children?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Grose, that would be perfectly splendid!”

“Can we make snickerdoodles?”

“Don’t see why not,” Owen says. He hands a teacup to Dani. “Off with you. Go find your knight in mud and dungarees.”

Dani shoots them a grateful smile and heads back upstairs, delicately balancing the cup with the plate of food. She knocks thrice.

“Yeah.” Jamie’s voice comes muffled through the heavy wooden door as Dani cautiously turns the knob.

Dani lets out a moderately embarrassing squeak and immediately averts her eyes, intent on looking anywhere except at a very wet, towel-clad Jamie. “Oh, um, good. Y-you found the towel.”

“That I did. I, ah, wasn’t sure if these were for me,” she gestures to the neatly folded stack of clothes on the bed, “didn’t want to assume.”

“They’re, um, they’re for you.” There’s a fascinating crack in the floor Dani has never noticed before. It’s about four inches long and almost invisible.

“Hey, Dani, you can look.” Jamie sounds almost concerned. ‘S’okay. It’s not like you haven’t seen it all before.” She grins wryly.

“No, no, yeah, I know. It just, I don’t know, feels different when it’s not for that reason.”

“Dani Clayton, not a fan of casual nudity. Noted,” Jamie teases.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t a fan.” Dani places the tea and sandwiches on the bedside table, stepping into Jamie’s space.

“That so?”

“Mhm,” Dani hums, “and I’m going to stop this runaway train right here. You’re injured.”

Jamie huffs. “Bloody rude.”

“How’s your back?”

“Feels fine. Right as rain. I’ll just get dressed and go back out--”

“You most certainly will not. You are going to get dressed and get in this bed and you are going to rest.”

“But I’ve still got to finish in the statuary, and Hannah’s brought up a crack she wants me to fix, and--”

“--and all of those things can wait. I’ve taken care of enough idiotic teenage sports injuries to know that straining it will only make it worse. So, put these on, and get into bed.” She leaves no room for disagreement.

“I can’t believe you just used your teacher voice on me.”

“I can’t believe you’re being this obstinate.”

“I’m fine!”

“Why won’t you let me take care of you?” It is not aggressive. It comes out softly, a hint of confusion combined with an ounce of desperation.

Jamie freezes. “I don’t…”

“You only took a bath after I practically forced you--”

“I wouldn’t--”

“You could’ve really hurt yourself.”

“I know, but--”

“How long would you have laid out there in the mud before calling for help?”

“Dani,” Jamie interrupts, an appeasing thumb running along the inside of Dani’s wrist, “look, I just…” she sighs. “It’s not that easy.”

“It is, though,” Dani insists.

“No, love, it’s not. Not when you’ve been… well, not when you’re me.” She pauses, sits on the bed, and nudges Dani down next to her. “I don’t like feeling useless, s’all. People look at you, see you laying about, they see weakness. Someone to be pitied or someone to be taken advantage of. Just once is all it takes for them to get the idea you can’t stand on your own two feet.”

She seems a million miles away, a decade, even, and Dani waits. Jamie will continue if she wants to.

“I don’t like being pitied. And I know that’s not...that’s not what you’re trying to do.” She chooses her words carefully, as if walking through a minefield. Dani stands on the other side. “No need to give me the talk about everybody needing help. ‘Cause, in theory, yeah, that’s true, but when you’ve always been the one doing the helping... it… it’s not all that easy to be on the receiving end.” The last sentence is rushed, and Jamie finishes with a humorless snort of laughter. Her thumb has halted its caress of Dani’s skin.

Dani is silent for a moment. Coddling would be met with rejection. Not outright, no, but Dani knows better. Jamie has lain bare this piece of her soul, held out a fragment of her identity in tender hands, and trusts Dani to take it under her care, treasure it. Jamie had woven the tale of her life under the moonlight, and Dani has spent the past month trying to unravel the threads, to understand. Now, Jamie has given her a new string to follow, but she cannot pull too hard, lest it fall apart.

Dani speaks, quiet, but firm. “We’ll just have to practice then, won’t we.”

A flicker of confusion passes over Jamie’s face as she processes. Then, she softens. Her thumb resumes its rhythmic movement.

There will be other times, Dani has said, and I will stay and I will be here for you because you aren’t alone anymore.

And that seems to be enough.

Jamie exhales through her nose.

“Bit nippy in here. Might, ah, might want to put on some clothes.”

Right. Yes. Of course. Jamie is still in a towel. Gooseflesh has risen along her legs, and she shivers.

“Oh, oh, yeah,” Dani stammers, “I’ll just--” She mimes turning around and is met with a chuckle.

“You weren’t this shy the other night, if memory serves.”

“That,” Dani reiterates, “that was different.” She makes a show of fussing with the corner of the duvet, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles.

Jamie makes a noncommittal noise low in her throat. “I’m decent.”

Dani had picked the clothes, sure, but for a woman who prides herself on preparedness, actually seeing Jamie in Dani’s old elementary school t-shirt and loose-fitting, flannel trousers causes the circuits in her brain to fry.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” she says dumbly. “I didn’t make it,” she adds, noting Jamie’s look of skepticism. Apparently satisfied with that answer, Jamie sips at her beverage and slides under the covers, gesturing for Dani to join her. She shakes her head. “I still need to clean myself up. Hannah’s watching the kids for now, but I really should get back to them.”

“A tragedy of Shakespearen proportions.”

“You need anything else before I shower?”

“No, thank you, love.” Modest affection shines on Jamie’s face, and she speaks so genuinely Dani’s heart aches. She smiles.

“Get some rest, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jamie gives a mock salute, at which Dani can only roll her eyes before exiting  into the bathroom with an extra towel and a change of clothes.

When she returns, wringing her hair out, she finds Jamie soundly asleep. The teacup has been placed on the table, next to the plate now missing a sandwich, and Jamie is curled on her side, puffing slow, measured breaths.

Chamomile tea. Who knew?

Dani makes sure to close the door quietly, and she does her best to herd the children away from that side of the house.

It’s about time for supper when Dani makes her way back to her room. When Jamie does not answer her knocks, Dani opens the door, praying the hinges will not squeak for once. Jamie is still nestled in Dani’s bed. She’s rolled over, though, facing the door, and Dani can see her bangs billowing slightly with every breath. Jamie’s nose twitches where the hair tickles it.

This isn’t the first time Dani has seen Jamie in her bed, and she certainly hopes it won’t be the last, but this, this casual intimacy, is something so precious to her. She wants it to last.

Dani perches on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to remove the offending strand of hair from Jamie’s face, and Jamie stirs.

“Hey,” Dani whispers, and Jamie cracks an eye. She presses a hand to her forehead. One of her shirtsleeves has fallen to the side, revealing pale collarbones.

“Hey.” Her voice is gravelly, sleep-laden, in a way that makes Dani’s stomach turn over itself. “Time s’it?”

“Around six, I think?” That grabs Jamie’s attention. Before Dani can stop her, she’s scrambling to sit up, completely forgetting that’s a terrible idea and acting surprised when she topples back onto the pillows with a grunt.

“Easy, easy…” Dani scolds sweetly, as Jamie gasps. “You’re okay. Just lay back. That’s it.”

“Christ.”

“Forgot why you ended up here in the first place, huh?”

“I can’t believe you let me sleep all day,” Jamie says, when the stab of pain fades. “Thought you’d at least wake me up after an hour or so. Had things to do.”

“We said they could wait.”

“You said they could wait.”

“You can’t seriously be mad at me for making you take care of yourself.”

“Feel like I wasted a day, s’all.”

“Well, you didn’t. Taking care of yourself is never a waste,” Dani says, effectively ending the argument. “Do you want to come down for dinner, or do you want me to bring it up to you?” Jamie opens her mouth, but Dani continues, “Before you answer, I want you to think about whether you’re making this decision based on what’s easiest for me, or what you actually feel capable of doing.”

Jamie’s brows raise. “Someone’s feeling bold this evening.”

Dani resists the urge to shirk away, to cave. She knows Jamie would drop it instantly, reassuring Dani that she hasn’t actually overstepped. Instead, Dani says, quietly, sincerely, “You don’t have to put your needs aside to make my life easier.” She considers, leans down so that she’s laying next to Jamie on the bed. “Besides, I like taking care of you.”

Jamie studies her. Whether she’s looking for the lie or for Dani to pull back and say, “just kidding!” Dani doesn’t know. Jamie presses a gentle kiss to her lips, a kiss that speaks the words she cannot. A kiss that says, I’m working on it.

Dani stays close when they break apart, their foreheads touching. “So, dinner?”

“Should probably make an appearance.”

Dani gives her a pointed look. “‘Should’ or ‘want to.’”

“Want to,” Jamie assures, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“You know,” Dani says, helping Jamie sit up slowly, “we should probably tell them how you hurt yourself, or they’ll assume it was from less, hm, virtuous activities.”

“Dirty bird.” Jamie swats her arm. “Owen, maybe, but not our good, Christian Hannah.”

“But do you really want to deal with the comments at the table?”

“Fine. We tell them I fell, and that’s it.”

“Right, so I shouldn’t mention your incredibly stupid idea to move a heavy marble statue without help?”

“Not ideally, no.”

Dani pouts. “Do I at least get to ask about the Rosebush Incident of Eighty-five?”

“You’re not gonna let that one go, are you?” Jamie sighs. “Fine. Ask Owen, then. Suppose you’ll find out about it eventually.” Dani places a gleeful kiss on her cheek.

“Come on, let’s get some food into you.”

The few hours of bedrest appear to have paid off, Dani thinks smugly, as Jamie is perfectly capable of walking herself down the hall. Jamie, however, seems to be rather content to use this as an excuse to lean into Dani, and Dani can’t say she minds all that much. She stands on her own as they near the kitchen and moves with only a slight limp and a wince Dani only catches because she’s looking for it.

At another time, she’ll wonder how often Jamie has hidden her pain.

“There she is!” Owen exclaims when they take their unassigned, assigned seats at the table.

“What happened, dear?” Hannah says simultaneously, as Owen does a double take, clearly trying to figure out what he’s missing. It dawns on him a moment later.

“Fell. ‘M fine,” Jamie shrugs.

“Must’ve been some fall,” Owen remarks, with a smirk that has Dani wary.

“Hm?” Jamie does not look up from the roll she’s buttering.

“You’re wearing Miss Clayton’s clothes,” Flora observes helpfully. Dani chokes on her water. Shit. How could she have missed that?

To her credit, Jamie continues without faltering. “Tripped, landed in a mud puddle, and I didn’t have a change of clothes in the truck. Miss Clayton was nice enough to loan me hers.”

Well, the first part, at least, is true. Dani pinches herself for not asking if Jamie had her own clothes to change into. Even if she does look divine in the free t-shirt they gave Dani when she started teaching.

Owen seems skeptical, but, blessedly, he drops the subject in favor of animatedly recounting the story of their baking adventures that afternoon.

Hannah catches them after dinner, just as Dani is preparing to send the children to bed. “Will you be staying the night, Jamie? In the unfortunate event your injury acts up, of course,” she says with a mirthful wink.

Jamie looks to Dani for an answer, her mouth moving but no words coming out.

“Yes,” Dani decides for them.

“I’m assuming I won’t need to make up the guest bedroom for you?”

“Oh, um, no, thanks. That won’t be necessary.” Dani isn’t sure why she’s blushing. It’s not as if the whole manor doesn’t know about them. They’d tried hiding at first, sneaking about and slipping into dark corners like teenagers. They were not very good at it.

Later, with Miles and Flora safely asleep and Owen and Hannah having taken their leave for the evening, Jamie returns to Dani’s bed, this time with Dani sliding in behind her. Dani nuzzles into her back, careful not to touch any sore areas.

“I know I was an idiot,” Jamie’s voice cuts nervously through the darkness, “but, ah, just wanted to say thanks. For caring about me. Not really...not really used to that.”

Dani can feel her entire body tense. She presses tender kisses along Jamie’s back. “Of course,” she murmurs, and she hopes her conviction comes across. “Always.” She hesitates. “You’re not wrong about being an idiot, though,” Dani giggles.

“You like it.” It’s not meant to be a question, though Jamie’s voice wavers.

“I do,” Dani confirms affectionately, “I do.”

Jamie relaxes against her.

[xtruss]

Cypress trees have towered over the Three Sisters swamp in North Carolina’s Black River for more than 2,600 years. Photograph: Charlie Peek

The Oldest Tree in Eastern US Survived Millennia – But Rising Seas Could Kill It

A 2,624-year-old bald cypress could teach us how to fight climate change – if it doesn’t get destroyed first

— Ayurella Horn-Muller | Sunday, 01 August 2021 | The Guardian USA

A wizened eastern bald cypress dwells in an expanse of North Carolina’s wetlands.

It lives among a cluster of eastern bald cypress trees in the state’s Black River, some with origins dating back a millennium. But this singular tree has witnessed more than its comrades; a 2019 study found it’s been alive since at least 605BCE. It’s the oldest-known living tree in eastern North America and the fifth-oldest living non-clonal tree species in the world.

If these ancient trees could talk, they might wail a warning – a message about the coalescing threats to their continued survival. What we can learn from a 2,624-year-old bald cypress may help piece together how humanity can best mitigate and adapt to the unprecedented impacts of the climate crisis.

“They have personality,” said Julie Moore, a retired botanist and former coordinator at the US Fish and Wildlife service. “I’ve mapped wetlands for years, so every big swamp in the United States in the south, I’ve seen. But when I see these trees, I know they’re different.”

Back in 1985, Moore introduced David Stahle to the Black River’s bald cypress stand. A dendrochronologist, Stahle began using tree ring mapping and radiocarbon dating on the trees, leading to his discovery of “Methuselah”, a bald cypress dating back to 364AD.

It would take another quarter of a century for Stahle to return to the site, a maze-like waterway navigable only by small watercraft. This trip would lead him farther into the Black River, to the Three Sisters swamp. After coring hundreds of old trees, he identified the 2,624-year-old cypress – nearly a thousand years older than Methuselah.

Dendrochronologist Dave Stahle, left, has been able to visit these cypress trees thanks to Charles Robbins, right, who runs a boating service in the area. Photograph: Unknown

Stahle and his team have since continued their Black River research, reconstructing rainfall patterns and mapping the ancient forest. But climate change is a dangerous foe. Intensifying heatwaves, storms, flooding and droughts compound with warming temperatures to produce problems for plant growth, resilience and reproduction.

“The principal threat to our forests is people and human activity. One consequence of human activity is climate change,” Stahle said.

A little over six feet of elevation stands between the oldest-known cypress and the Atlantic Ocean. While sea level rise is increasing by two inches a decade now, it’s accelerating at a rapid pace. Sea levels are “all but certain” to rise by at least 20ft over the next 100 to 200 years. In a worst-case scenario, the world’s oldest bald cypress may already be underwater by 2080.

“With those bald cypress only two meters above sea level, that’s a really serious threat,” said Harvard Forest’s senior ecologist, Neil Pederson. “I see sea level rise as a train alarm, on a really long, overloaded train. And it’s going to take a long time to slow that train down.”

Pederson is one of the researchers behind a 2016 study that found that increasing drought conditions and extreme events of the past – which led to unusually high tree mortality rates – could be a forecast for the future.

“Even though our forests seem to change slowly over time, every once in a while these things, like black swans, these unprecedented or unforeseen events, come and change an ecosystem,” he said.

Carbon, Biodiversity and Coastal Barriers

A 2020 study found that even though older trees can adapt to stresses and migrate as conditions change, it’s unlikely that these characteristics will be enough to ensure their survival.

Nate McDowell, earth scientist at Pacific Northwest National Laboratory and the lead author of that study, describes trees as functionally “sweating” because of warming temperatures, reducing plant productivity.

The world lost more than a third of its old-growth forests from 1900 to 2015. “All the models, all the projections, everything points in the same direction: that we’re going to lose trees,” McDowell said.

His prediction is supported by the years of recently documented increases in the mortality of older trees, which researchers are identifying across the globe. Last year, more than 10% of all mature giant sequoias were killed.

When trees die, entire ecosystems are disrupted. “Once you have changes in the plant community, which is really the foundation for the whole forest, you in turn see changes in rodents, birds, even large mammals,” said plant ecophysiologist Angelica Patterson.

A 2018 study found that tree loss in the Pacific north-west can even negatively affect the climate in the eastern US. Old-growth forests act as carbon sinks, meaning they sequester and store carbon emissions, steadily accumulating carbon for centuries. If they die, that carbon is released back into the atmosphere, creating a vicious cycle that further perpetuates climate change.

Forest loss even translates to the disappearance of natural coastal barriers during storms.

A Future of Flooding

Locals living along North Carolina’s Black River know all about the immemorial trees. “We’re just amazed that those trees are here. The time we first heard about it, they were saying they were over 2,000 years old. And I said, “Well, they were here when Jesus was on Earth,’” said Dwight Horrell.

These cypress trees are accessible only via a ride on small boats through a maze-like swamp. Photograph: Charlie Peek

At 76, Horrell has called Ivanhoe, a rural town off the Black River, home his entire life. Climate change isn’t something he’s concerned about. Yet, dotted along a nearby shoreline are signs that suggest he should be.

Across the coastal wetlands of North Carolina, a new study found that climate change-driven sea level rise and saltwater intrusion have been killing large swaths of trees. In some cases, these “ghost forests” have even expanded inland. More than 10% of forested wetland was lost over the last 35 years in one wildlife refuge.

Charles Robbins, owner of the boating service Cape Fear River Adventures, has led Stahle through the Black River’s charcoal-colored waters for the past decade. He’s also seen first-hand how extreme flood events disrupt ecosystems and livelihoods. “There was a full foot of water on the ground and 15ft of water in the swamp,” Robbins said. “People’s houses were underwater.”

He was describing the aftermath of Hurricane Matthew – which in 2016 flooded Horrell’s parents’ house so severely they didn’t even try to rebuild. “My parents’ house was in an area that had never been flooded,” said Horrell. “The first time it flooded, it got up to about three feet off the floor. The last time, it got up to the ceiling,” he said.

Two years later, Hurricane Florence swept through, leaving a submerged town in its wake. The lowest-lying side was inundated with up to 36 inches of rain and record floods.

Everyone has since moved to higher ground, but the waterlogged shells of a few broken homes remain. “I’m telling you, it just looks morbid in that place,” said Horrell.

‘No Black River State Park’

The chance of dangerous flash flooding increases with intensifying storms; by 2050 North Carolina’s inland flooding events are projected to rise by 40%.

Even so, Horrell isn’t bothered by severe floods looming ahead. What he’s most concerned about is strangers disrupting his way of life. “You see how isolated this is down here? I enjoy the quietness,” he said.

In 2017, a legislative motion for a Black River state park, intended to boost tourism, caused an uproar. The following year, the North Carolina parks and recreation division recommended the state not move forward after four town halls and a petition made up of 1,300 signatures communicated the same message: those living closest to the Black River were overwhelmingly opposed.

Conservationists are split on the efforts to establish a Black River state park. It could invite more tourism and, in turn, pollution – but it could also fund conservation efforts. Photograph: Charlie Peek

Three years later, signs still frame a building bordering one of Ivanhoe’s river boat ramps; the bolded words ‘NO BLACK RIVER STATE PARK’ serving as a veiled promise.

Conservationists like Moore agree with the protesting community. It’s not climate change imperiling the survival of the oldest cypress tree she’s nervous about, but state-managed recreation, which opens the door to increased pollution, depletion of natural resources and ecosystem disturbance.

But Hervey McIver, a land protection specialist at the North Carolina chapter of the Nature Conservancy, attended those state park meetings to garner community support for the initiative. His point is simple: establishing a state park could fund and amplify conservation efforts.

“The most vocal ones were against it. There were some people who were open to it, maybe in favor of it, but not against it. But they were quiet,” McIver said. He’s optimistic that the state legislature will eventually reconsider. “Even these rural, conservative, Republican folks, they see it. They understand it, and they don’t – they know they can’t fight it.”

The Nature Conservancy has invested in the preservation of the Black River since 1989. Today, the nonprofit, alongside state conservation agencies and the NC Coastal Land Trust, owns 17,960 acres along the 66-mile Black River and its upstream tributaries, including the Three Sisters swamp.

McIver says the conservancy protects the ancient trees by acquiring the land surrounding them, which then minimizes human activity. But he isn’t sure what more can be done.

“What can you do? I’ll be long dead before the water gets that high,” McIver said, emphasizing how sea level rise is a global problem, one that requires large-scale solutions like cutting greenhouse gas emissions. “But then, you can’t stop it. I mean, if it’s going to rise, it’s going to rise.”

Environmental archaeologist Katharine Napora holding a cross section of a cypress tree. Photograph: Craig Jacobs

Looking Back to Move Forward

Some believe that question can be answered by using thousand-year-old windows into the past.

Environmental archaeologist Katharine Napora analyzed deceased eastern bald cypress trees along the Georgia coast, ranging from 65 to 1,078 years old, whose preserved remains date back to 3161BCE.

“From these ancient trees, we see that even very long-lived cypress trees in the ancient past can be killed very fast with either rising sea levels or the storm surge from hurricanes,” Napora said.

Solutions to fortifying wetlands and preserving old-growth forests, beyond curbing emissions, include creating living shorelines that act as a buffer for ecosystems from storm surges, sustainably harvesting coastal resources, lobbying for stricter regulations on companies emitting pollutants into the environment and even introducing marsh plants that double as salination sponges.

Napora believes we need to do everything in our power to preserve the Black River’s treasure trove of climate insight.

She compares the loss of old-growth forests to the burning of the Library of Alexandria, one of the greatest archives of all time. “These forests are like libraries informing us about the ancient past,” she said. “Just picture the huge amount of knowledge that would be lost if these forests no longer survive.”

[minyoongiest]

Positions || KNJ (M)

• pairing: Namjoon x reader

• rating: MA/18+

• type/genre: smut, fluff, multichapter, idol!au, established relationship, nurse!reader/single mom!reader/stylist!reader

• word count: 5.7k

• summary: After a long day working at the hospital in Seoul, you’re ready to spend some alone time with your man, and since your daughter is staying with her aunt for the night, Namjoon has some ideas for how to work off the stress of your day.

• contains: explicit language, explicit sexual content, oral (both receiving, not simultaneously), vaginal sex, multiple sex positions, multiple orgasms, creampie

• note: a commission for K. Thank you so much! I loved doing this, and I hope you like it!

(translations are at the end)

|| ao3 ||

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

As soon as I shut the door to my car, I let out a sigh of relief. I like my job. (I like more that it pays my bills.) But no matter how much I like it, being on my feet all day and trying to do a million things at once so patients are taken care of and the doctors and my supervisors are happy is exhausting. I am so glad to be off and that I don’t have another shift for forty-eight hours because I need a break.

Checking my face in the sun visor mirror, I’m pleased to find my eye makeup is still intact. I was pretty sure by this time I’d look like as haggard as I feel, but my eyeliner is still perfectly winged, and my mascara isn’t even smudged. Tilting the mirror, I turn my neck to check my hair. It’s in a tied back for function, but practicality doesn’t trump style. Not for me, which is why it’s sleek and straight rather than just haphazardly thrown into a ponytail.

“Time to go home and get out of these scrubs,” I murmur, starting my car.

My phone rings as I’m pulling out of the parking garage, and my heart flutters when I see his name on my car screen. I use the button on the steering wheel to answer.

“Hey, I’m just leaving the hospital.”

“Oh, good. Are you on your way to pick up my angel?”

“Actually, I have two days off, so my sister is picking her up and keeping her for the night.”

His angel is my daughter from a previous relationship. Her dad split before she was born, so it was just me and her until Namjoon and I randomly matched on Tinder. At first, I wasn’t actually sure it was really, truly him because Namjoon being Namjoon it seemed like it was definitely a hoax, but I agreed to meet up with him just to see, and what was supposed to be a hookup turned into a fancy dinner date followed by a casual lunch date and then drinks at his apartment after work which turned into a naked sleepover…

That sort of went on for a few months, in which I introduced him to my daughter through pictures and stories, and then they met in person, which was exciting and nerve-wracking for me, but she adores him, and he adores her. So on the night of our sixth month anniversary when he asked how I felt about us moving in with him, there wasn’t much for me to think about.

“Oh,” he says softly. “So, we’re alone for the night?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t have to be up for work?”

“No.” I bite my lip as I stop at a red light and flip on my turn signal. “I do have to go get her before noon though, so I can’t be in bed all day.”

“That’s okay,” he answers quickly. “I have a schedule before that, so I’ll be up.”

“Are you still at the studio?”

“Yeah. I want to get a few more things recorded before I head home. Do you want me to pick up takeout on my way?”

“That would be great. I have some stuff to do around the house, and I had an email about a styling job I want to look into, so that works for me.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at home. Later, baby.”

“Bye.”

He hangs up, and my phone switches to a Spotify playlist. As I drive the last few miles, I do a mental rundown of the things I need to get done before he gets home. In addition to looking into the styling contract, I want to get the dishes in the sink washed first and then cut up the fresh fruit in the fridge for my girl’s lunches next week, and if I have time go ahead and fold some of the clean laundry sitting in the basket in the laundry room.

The actual first thing I do when I walk into the apartment is take off my scrubs and hop into she shower to wash off my day, literally, since I work in healthcare. When I get out, I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top before I go to the kitchen to start loading the dishwasher. While it’s running, I do the fruit which isn’t my favorite thing to do since it gets boring, but it’s so much easier to pack lunches when the fruit is done and ready to grab from the fridge.

Finally, I settle down on the couch with a glass of champagne and my computer to go over the details of the styling job. Since I already knew it would require the most of my time I have before Namjoon gets home, I saved it for last. After I skim the entire email, I take another sip of my drink before setting my glass aside and scrolling back up to the details that pique my interest—what designers their looking for, what the concept of the style is, and how soon they need it done. If those things work for me, the next thing I’ll look at is compensation, but I have to be interested enough to want the job first.

“Gucci…Balenciaga…Dior…” I mutter to myself as I make notes in a separate window on my computer.

As I look slowly through the email again, I’m thinking of what connections I have with which designers and if I can put something together. Before I had my kid and went back to school to be a nurse to support her, this is what I did. During that time, I met a lot of people in the industry, so I know someone pretty much everywhere.

“Oh, if that’s the concept…” I close my eyes for a second to picture different pieces from different collections.

“Dior.”

As soon as I say it, my phone starts to ring, making me jump. I see my daughter’s face on the screen and realize how late it is. She must be going to bed.

“Hey babe,” I answer, closing my laptop and setting it aside.

“Hi, Mommy.”

“Are you having fun at your sleepover?”

“Yes, Mommy. We made cookies and then we went outside and then we had pizza and played games and then we watched Rapunzel and had ice cream.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of things.”

And a lot of sugar. I’m not mad at my sister. She can spoil her if she wants. I’m just surprised she’d do that to herself knowing my kid is going to be bouncing off the walls until she crashes.

“Mommy, when are you coming to get me?”

I sigh and ignore the way my heart gets all soft. “Tomorrow at lunch time.”

“Okay, Mommy…” I can hear her frown, and I hate it.

“Do you have your pillow?” I stand and start to check her bedroom. If she doesn’t have it, she won’t sleep, and as much as I want a night to myself, I also need my kid to sleep.

“Yes, Mommy, and my pajamas.”

“Oh good.”

I start to ask her another question when I hear the door open, and I turn to look as Namjoon comes in holding a paper sack with our takeout order.

“Hey, baby,” he says quietly, his stupidly pretty face splitting into a grin.

Fuck. Those damn dimples. I can’t.

I see his eyes go to the phone in my hand before he asks, “Who are you talking to?”

“JOONIE!”

I jerk the phone away from my ear as my daughter shrieks into it.

“Oh, let me talk to her,” he says as he rushes to put the food down on the bar top and hurries over to me.

I hand him the phone and watch as he lifts it to his ear.

“How’s my angel tonight?” he asks gently, sitting down on the arm of the couch. “Oh really? … Well that’s good. Did you have fun at school?”

I press my lips together as I wander over to the food and start pulling things out of the bag.

“Well, maybe Monday it’ll be easier,” he says quietly. “Okay?”

He laughs softly, and I can’t help but look over at him. God, he really loves my baby.

“Goodnight, angel,” he whispers. “Do you want to tell your mom goodnight? … Okay, I’ll tell her.”

He hangs up, and I pretend I wasn’t spying as I set out the rest of the food.

“She said she misses you,” his low voice rumbles into my ear as he comes up behind me, his arm sliding around my waist.

“She’ll be okay.”

“She also told me to kiss you goodnight for her,” he says softer.

“Oh yeah?” I tilt my head back to look at him.

“Mmhmm.” He leans down a few inches and his lips brush mine, a pleasant shiver running down my spine.

Damn those soft lips. Why do they feel so good?

“I don’t think that’s the goodnight kiss she meant,” I whisper.

“Oh, you want another one?”

He smirks and leans down to kiss my cheek, his arms squeezing tight around my stomach.

“Quit. Quit!” I pull away. “We need to eat still.”

“Hmm. Okay, but I’m coming back to this later.”

“Sounds good to me,” I mumble as he walks around the counter to the fridge where he grabs a beer.

“What do you want to drink?” He glances over his shoulder at me.

I sort of finished the champagne already, so I shrug and say, “I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Cool. Do you want your own or some of mine?”

“Some of yours is fine.”

He nods, and I wait for him to grab his food and head to the couch before I follow him, setting mine on the coffee table while I get comfortable before I reach for it again.

Namjoon talks to me while he eats. About anything. About everything. He tells me about work (at least vaguely), about what memes the members are talking about in the group chat, about changing his hair color… Aside from the occasional comment, I eat and listen to him. I could say more, but just listening to him talk makes me happy.

When we’re finished, he gathers up our trash and then decides to take the bag out because it’s too full to close the trash can. While he’s gone, I go to empty the dishwasher. I mean, normally, I would leave it especially since we’re alone for the night which is rare and usually means something very naughty and very fun is going to happen, but the cabinet has literally no plates or cups in it, and I don’t want to forget and have to rush to do them later. Plus, I have a bunch of nervous energy, and I need to do something until he gets back.

The top rack is empty and I’m halfway through the bottom rack when Joon comes into the kitchen.

“I figured you’d be in the bedroom,” he says in a low tone.

“I was killing time.” I shrug. “And now that I started I might as well finish.”

“Let me help you.”

He reaches down and grabs the rest of the plates and moves behind me, reaching over my head toward the cabinet, so close his chest touches my back.

Which is when I feel it.

Feel him.

Thick and hard and pressed against my ass.

I suck in a breath and bite my lip.

“Baby, you okay?”

“Fuck the dishes,” I whisper.

“What?”

Turning around carefully, still pinned between him and the counter, I look up at him, while at the same time sliding my hand down between us, cupping his firm bulge.

He winces, and I see his eyes flash.

“I want this,” I murmur as I give it the faintest squeeze.

He grits his teeth and grabs onto the counter next to my hip.

“Shit,” he mutters.

I start to ask what that means when suddenly he grabs my waist and lifts me onto the counter.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“You started this,” he says roughly as his eyes darken with arousal and he steps between my thighs, reaching for the waistband of my pants.

“Wait, right now?” My voice gets higher, and I bite my lip.

“I’m starting right now.”

I don’t get to ask what that means because his hands start pulling on my sweats and I almost slide off the counter before I reach back and push up on my wrists so they’ll slide off.

My panties go with them.

Oh God. My bare ass is on my kitchen counter. And Namjoon is between my knees. Cool air glides over my exposed pussy and I bite my lip, fighting a whimper.

“Mmm.” Namjoon’s eyes travel over me, landing on the now-pulsing place between my thighs.

Instinctively, I try to close my legs, but his hips are in the way.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says softly, his fingers trailing over my skin, from my knee toward my hip, along my inner thigh. I stop breathing as the edge of his fingertip traces the outside of my lower lips.

He leans closer, bending so his face is right there. My hands grip the edge of the counter tightly as a rush of wet saturates between my legs.

“I think I want dessert now,” Namjoon says softly as he straightens.

“What?” I blink.

I—He just—I thought we were going to—

All of the sudden he drops to his knees, and my spine goes rigid. He moves closer to the counter, his large hands on my legs, his eyes on my pussy. He pauses, and my eyelids flutter closed. I try not to moan as he exhales, a warm stream of air hitting directly against wet slit.

“Joon…” I swallow. “What are you–”

“Eating,” he rumbles, his mouth brushing against me as he says it.

My back arches instantly as his tongue dips in between my lips and runs the length of me.

“Namjoon,” I gasp as his large hands slide under my thighs, lifting them, pulling them apart as he tilts his head and plants a gentle kiss right there.

He kisses again. Harder.

And then he starts sucking.

First on one side. Then the other. And slowly from the front to the back. My back arches, forcing me further into his mouth, and I moan loudly. Without missing a beat, he tilts his head and sucks deep, his tongue darting out again, teasing me. I swear under my breath and one of my hands slides down into his hair.

His eyes lift to mine, and I feel the heat of them where his thumbs are slowly pulling me open. He smirks, and I feel it in my nipples, which tighten painfully right before he lowers his head again, his soft lips rubbing over my throbbing ones before the flat of his tongue laps them, the tip flicking across my clit.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper.

He laughs against me, and I swear I almost come. Except he stops.

“Namjoon, what are you waiting–”

I choke on my question when he suddenly sucks hard, his teeth grazing my lips before his fingers pull me open and he tongue drives inside.

I swallow a scream as my head flies back as he fucks me with his mouth. Sucking and licking and his tongue moving in and out of me. He quickly adds two of his long ass fingers, which only makes me crazier. My hand on the edge of the counter is holding on so tight it might be cutting into my palm. The other is fisting his hair, my thighs clamped around his face as he devours me.

He grunts against me, and I whimper at the sensation. I’m so close I could cry.

“Joon,” I plead softly. “I want… I want to–”

One of his thumbs rolls over my swollen clit at the same time his tongue and fingers thrust deep. I come instantly, exploding in his mouth as I fall back on my elbows, moaning his name. His hands move to my ass, pulling it off the edge of the counter and against his face as he continues to suck and lick my wildly spasming pussy. When I come down, his tongue runs along my slit one last time before he puts my bare ass back on the counter and climbs to his feet.

“I can’t feel my legs,” I whisper as he rests his hand by my hip, leaning in to kiss me.

“Mmm.” He smirks against my mouth, and I realize I can taste myself on his lips.

I get wet instantly at the thought, and reach up to put my hands on his shoulders.

“I guess that means you’ll have to carry me to the bedroom,” I murmur.

He makes a low growling sound as his large hands yank my hips against his, my trembling legs instantly locking around his ass, as he lifts me off the counter and starts down the hall. My lips land on his neck (because how can I resist?), and I suck gently as my hands slide over his massive pecs down over his abs, toward his—

“Ah!” I gasp as my back hits the wall.

“You just came in my mouth,” he grunts into my ear as my hands pull at his belt. “And you’re still this horny?”

I can’t answer because his lips land on mine, pushing my head back against the wall, distracting me completely from unbuttoning his pants. I nip at his plump lower lip, and he grunts, taking control of the kiss. My lips part in surprise, and I whimper as his tongue slides over mine. My arm curls around the side of his neck, one of my hands driving into his messy hair. His fingers dig into my ass as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss even more.

He presses forward, pinning me completely to the wall, before his hands let me go. I let out a small scream, tearing my mouth from his, my hands going to his shoulders to keep from falling.

“Namjoon, what are you doing now?”

“Clothes,” he curses.

His fingers curl into the hem of my top, and I jerk as he yanks it over my head, leaving me completely naked.

“Better,” he whispers, his eyes traveling over my exposed skin with awe.

“The bedroom is so close,” I remind him, looping my arms around his neck and teasing the curve of his ear with my tongue.

He grunts and his hands return to my ass, lifting me higher, causing my boobs to bounce. I moan softly when my nipple grazes his lips.

“Bedroom,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” I tilt my head down and kiss the side of his jaw. “The faster the better.”

His soft lips press against my neck, and I quit breathing for a second as he moves us out of the living area. My eyes flutter closed as he begins sucking on my skin. Gently at first and then harder. My hand moves down again, over his chest and abs, zeroing in on his fly. I’m already naked, so my first priority is to even the playing field.

I get his zipper down and his teeth sink into my neck in surprise when my fingers brush against the feverish lump behind it.

“Shit,” he groans. “Let me get to the bed first,” he grunts. “If you keep that up, I’ll drop you.”

“Don’t you dare.”

I try to sound threatening, but it’s hard when his fingers are clenching at my bare ass, holding me tight to his hips, the bulge of his erection grazing against me. Instead it sounds weak and desperate. Which is exactly how I feel right now.

“Mm.”

He moves faster, his lips abandoning my neck as he pushes into the bedroom and throws me on the bed. A small cry leaves my throat, and I whirl around on all fours to look at him.

“What the hell, Namjoon?”

“’Bouta come in my pants,” he swears softly, reaching over his head to pull his shirt off with one hand.

“What?” I blink.

“Nothing,” he says as he swallows, tossing the shirt aside. “Come here.”

He stalks toward the bed, and I scrambled backward.

“Hey, whoa, slow down.”

“Slow down?” He stops at the edge of the mattress and raises a single eyebrow.

A jolt goes through my pussy, and I feel hot all over.

“You were all about going fast two seconds ago,” he says in a low tone.

“Well, yes, but you’re being really…”

“Horny?”

“Aggressive,” I whisper.

Fuck. It’s so hot.

Both his eyebrows rise, and I bite my lip.

“You want me to stop?”

“N-no…” I slide off my side of the bed and walk around the foot.

His eyes follow me, and then his body as he turns to face me when I stop in front of him.

“What are you doing?” He frowns in confusion.

“I just was thinking…” I reach down and unto the button of his pants. “You got dessert on the kitchen counter…”

A throb hits between my legs as I say it, and I clench my thighs together.

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, what about me?” I look up at him as I edge my fingers into the waistband of his pants. “I don’t get some?”

He opens his mouth and I slide my hands into his underwear, my fingertips instantly finding burning, turgid skin.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands reaching out to grab my wrists. “Hold on.”

“I want to blow you,” I whisper.

“I guessed that.”

His face twists in pain, and for a second, I almost feel guilty.

“Let me sit down first.”

I pull my hands out and wait while he shoves his pants down and off and reaches for his underwear.

“I want to do that,” I pipe up, putting my hand on his shoulder.

“Oh?” His eyes flick up to mine, and I gently push his torso, urging him to sit.

His fine ass lowers to the mattress, and I slide my hands down his chest and abs and over his thighs as I get on my knees in front of him.

I reach for the band of his underwear and tug, squirming as his mammoth cock springs free. He hisses and his hand on the bed fists the sheets.

The longer I look at it the wetter I get. It’s not just big, it’s angry. Red with veins everywhere, the thickest one running up the underside. I swear I can see it throbbing. The head is visibly swollen with precum glistening at the slit. I’m a little surprised his zipper didn’t bust open trying to contain it.

I reach out to touch it, and he tenses.

“I’m not going to bite it,” I mumble.

He makes a low sound, and I put one hand on his thigh as I reach out with my other one and run my fingers from top to bottom.

God, it’s on fire.

The heat of it shoots straight from my fingertips to the aching spot between my legs.

“Ppalli-ga,” he grunts, and I know I have to move faster.

From  how hard he is, I can tell he’s already close. It won’t take much for him to blow.

Moving closer, I bend my head and lick up one side. One of his hands lands on my head, and I immediately repeat the motion. His grip tightens, and I begin licking everywhere. It doesn’t take long before he’s ready. (Not to mention he’s leaking precum like crazy.) When I’m done licking him, I sit back to catch my breath.

Fuck, it’s thick. I always forget how sore my jaw is after I blow him. Probably because I enjoy it so much that I don’t care.

“Goddammit, baby, suck me,” he groans, and I look up to see his head thrown back and the veins in his neck popping.

Wetness floods between my legs, and I gasp, gripping his thigh tighter.

His hips come off the bed, and I jerk back to avoid being smacked in the face with his dick.

“Okay,” I murmur. “I’m starting.”

He nods, or rather, jerks his chin forward, and I lower head, the bulbous tip sliding between my lips.

“Oh my God,” he groans.

I suck slowly at first and then harder as I move up and down. I use my fingers to toy with his balls and to tease the base until I’m ready to take all of it.

I hold my breath as I tilt my head and open my mouth as wide as I can, forcing his massive length between my lips. My jaw pops, and I wince.

His fingers slide into my hair and grip tight as I start to slide up and all the way down again.

“What are you doing?” he grunts suddenly. “Stop. Stop.”

I do but only because he sounds worried.

“I want to do this,” I tell him instantly. “Don’t make me stop now.”

“I’m hurting you. I can feel it,” he murmurs, letting me go.

“Well stop feeling it.” I frown at him, straightening my spine. “All you should feel is orgasmic.”

“Baby–”

“Let me deep throat you, Namjoon. I want to make you feel good.”

He sighs, and I lick the tip of his cock again.

“It does feel good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “It feels fucking amazing.”

“Then don’t stop me, okay?”

“Fine.” He leans back, presenting his big dick to me again. “Go ahead.”

Before he even has the whole word out, I have him in my mouth again. I have to figure out my breathing as I go, making sure to suck deep and not graze him with my teeth. I move faster and suck harder with every entrance, ignoring the way his tip feels ramming into the back of my throat.

He starts swearing softly. And then louder. And then all at once in a mixture of Korean and English. His hand goes back to my hair and holds tight as his hips start bucking into me.

He’s going to come soon. I’m certain of it. Bracing for his load, I continue to suck and lick at his thrusting cock.

Suddenly he pulls out, practically standing as he fists my hair and holds my head still where I can’t get my mouth on him.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, his raspy voice sending small vibrations through my whole body.

“Okay, so?” I ask hoarsely. “Let me swallow it.”

“Don’t wanna wait to get hard again,” he explains gruffly. “I want to come inside you but not in your mouth.”

“You have a long refractory period,” I remind him. “You could still fuck me even after I suck you dry.”

“Not this time,” he shakes his head, the veins in his neck still popping. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, and I have things I want to do before I come.”

“Can you last that long?” I ask softly, my eyebrows rising as I glance back at his swollen, wet cock.

I’ve gotten him off enough to know he’s at his absolute limit right now.

“I just need a minute to come down a little,” he says breathlessly. “Then I can keep going.”

“Mmm…okay.”

“Get up on the bed.”

I climb off of my knees slowly, ignoring the tiny bursts of pain in my knees as I crawl onto the mattress. He stands next to the bed, and I watch him inhale and exhale slowly as he regains control over his urge to come.

“Namjoon, if you need to finish, I can–”

“I got it,” he interrupts gruffly. “Lie down on you back for me.”

I blink as he starts to climb on the bed.

“Now, baby. Spread your legs.”

He’s still close, I realize, but he wants to do this anyway, that’s why he’s in such a hurry.

Quickly moving up the bed, I turn onto my back with my head in the pillows like he said. Before I can breathe, he’s on top of me, his giant pecs in my face, his fucking huge biceps on either side of my head.

“You ready for me?” he grunts softly, his fingers dragging through the wet between my legs even as he asks it.

I gasp instead of answering.

“Mm.” He nods, biting his lip. “That’s a yes.”

“Joon…”

“This is going to be rough,” he says quietly. “Can you handle that?”

“Yeah. I can handle—ah!”

My words dissolve into a sharp cry as he suddenly drives into me. My legs lock tight around his hips as I feel it—the fat tip, the thick shaft, his balls against my lips. All of it hot and pulsing and stretching me wide. My pussy squeezes around it, and I hiss his name like a swear word as my back bows off the bed.

“Fuck, your pussy is a miracle,” he groans.

“You’re so thick,” I moan at him. “A little warning next–”

He moves again. Pulling out and thrusting back in. I choke on my sentence and grab onto his broad shoulders. He keeps going, fast, rough just like he said, pounding into me.  One of his hands slides around my thigh under my ass to hold me steady. His other slides inside to the front of my slit, his large thumb zeroing in on my clit which he begins rubbing furiously.

“Namjoon!”

I don’t even feel it building before I’m coming as he continues to growl and jerk against me. I’m not done when he pulls out.

“Wha-what are you–”

“Next position,” he gasps as he grabs my legs and flips me onto my belly.

“I’m still coming, Joon. Wait–”

He doesn’t. Instead, he hooks an arm under my hips and pulls them up, forcing my knees open with his own before he puts a hand on my back and gently pushes my cheek into the pillows.

“Oh God,” I whisper.

His other hand rests on my ass squeezing lightly before I feel him pushing into me again.

“Oh God!”

He slams back into my still-coming pussy, and I whimper into the pillow. It feels so good and so deep—even deeper than before.

“You okay?” he leans over me, his hand coming up to cup my breast. “Too much?”

“Don’t stop,” I murmur. “It’s too good.”

I hear him laugh in surprise, and I feel it in my nipples, which he’s doing a fabulous job toying with. Suddenly, he grabs my whole boob in his hand and starts rutting into me. My knees spread wider on their own and I grab onto the pillow with both hands, my mouth parted in a silent moan.

“Baby?”

“I’m coming,” I hiss. “Again. Harder this time.”

I squeal when he sits up suddenly taking me with him. I’m still full of him, straddling his thighs, which are resting on his heels as he continues to jerk into me, his hands on my chest holding me to him. I grab his wrists with both my hands without thinking. My head falls back on his shoulder, and I press my lips to his neck. My body feels exhausted and overstimulated and like I’ll never stop orgasming.

He grunts sharply, and I feel his hips tense.

“Come with me,” he whispers, his lips landing on my shoulder.

“I can’t,” I choke.

Or I am. I can’t even tell now.

“Just one more,” he bites out. “Now. Now!”

He drives up into me as he comes. My walls spasm at the hot fluid spurting inside me, and I gasp as I another orgasm hits below my belly, racing up my  spine, down my aching legs and up into my nipples. He buries his face in my shoulder, and I struggle to catch my breath as I finally come down. He’s still coming even after I’m finished, probably because he kept bringing himself so close to an orgasm only to delay it again and again. When he finally relaxes, he lifts me off of him slowly, and I lie down on my stomach in the bed next to him.

“I need to clean up,” he says gruffly. “Clean you up too.”

I nod because I’m so exhausted I’m not sure I can speak. When he comes back with a rag, I roll onto my side and wince at the ache in my legs.

“What?” He frowns instantly. “Did I hurt you? I was too rough, wasn’t I? Fuck.”

“No.” I shake my head at him. “I really liked that.”

“Oh…” He blinks. “You did?”

“I came like four times or something,” I remind him. “I definitely liked it.”

“Well…good.”

He runs the rag between my legs and over my thighs, and when he walks away, I grab his pillow and pull it under my cheek.

“Are you going to sleep now?” he asks softly when he comes back.

“Mmm. I don’t know,” I whisper. “I could. You wore me out.”

“I was hoping to watch a little TV first.”

“Okay,” I mumble, “but body is a puddle, so, if we’re going to cuddle, you’re going to have to pick me up.”

He yanks on some sweat pants and climbs in bed beside me.

“I can read if you want to just go to sleep now,” he says quietly.

“Mm.”

“You have to sit up though while I put this shirt on you.”

“Why?” I yawn. “I can sleep naked.”

He clears his throat, and I watch his eyes skim over my body.

“Trust me,” he says hoarsely, “you need to put on this shirt.”

I bite my lip as he reaches over to help me into the oversized FG shirt. I collapse into his pillow again as soon as it’s on, the warm, soft fabric that smells like him making me even sleepier.

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmurs as he reaches over me to grab his book off the nightstand.

“Goodnight, Namjoon.”

My eyes flutter closed as I feel his soft lips press against my temple, and then I fall into a blissful, post-orgasmic sleep.

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

Translations:

Ppalli-ga - go fast

[awyeahitssam]

I wrote a “Stiles is transformed into a girl” AU earlier, but it turned out to be just smut.  So here’s this - the same universe in snippets. 

“Goddamn!” Stiles shouted, kicking the examine table hard enough to leave his miniaturized foot aching. 

“Wow, looks like she’s already PMSing.” 

While any comment like Isaac’s not-so-quiet mutter was in poor taste, it was especially so considering the news that had caused Stiles’ outburst.

“You and your misplaced judgement can fuck off, because I was just told that I will never be my parents son again.”

“Wow, hate women much, Stilinski?” Jackson sneered.

“Oh, fuck off!” Stiles snapped. “I like and respect women plenty. That doesn’t mean I’m cool with suddenly turning into one.”

“‘Like’ and ‘respect,’” Erica mimicked. “That sounded a little sexist, Batman.”

Stiles stared at her, openly disbelieving. He glanced around, but nobody seemed like they were about to step in and rebut that particular sentiment. So he took a deep, settling breath and did what he did best, because, as always, nobody else was going to.

“How would you feel if you traded in your breasts and vagina for a dick?”

Erica blinked, taken aback. After a beat she opened her mouth, but Stiles continued before she could respond.

“Sure, maybe it’d be cool at first, but after a few hours or days that novelty would wear off, and you’d want your own body back. Y’know, the body you’ve lived in for eighteen years, and grown a little fond of.” 

Erica was flushed, but that could’ve been caused by anything from remorse to indignation at being chided in front of the entire pack. It wasn’t like he could smell her emotions; if she wanted him to stop, she would have to use her words. Anyway, it had been a long couple of days and he needed to vent a little. 

“Calling me sexist, of all things, because I want to have the body I was born in back is ignorant and just plain stupid. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find somebody with an explanation beyond ‘it’s irreversible’.”

Stiles snatched the taser from his purse and waved it threateningly. “Back the fuck off, dude. You’ve never been interested in me before, so I’m going to go ahead and assume this is more of a ‘I’d like to get my dick wet’ scenario than a ‘wow, Stiles, you have such a great personality, let’s date!’ sorta thing. Not that I’d be interested in the latter, but still.”

If anything, Isaac looked more amused. He stepped forward, and Stiles fought the instinct to pull back. He was smaller than he should’ve been; he’d never been shorter than Isaac before. Still, Stiles had stood up to bullies that were bigger and stronger than him all his life. This wasn’t the same, but it wasn’t so different, either.

Though the fact that Stiles now had to worry about his so-called packmate ignoring what he said and trying to get into his pants regardless pissed him off immeasurably.

“It’s just sex, Stilinski. What, are you still a virgin or something?”

Like Isaac hadn’t been a virgin himself before Derek bit him.

What a douche.

“Seriously dude, fuck off.”

Isaac’s face twisted into something bemused, like he couldn’t understand the word no. Which, seriously? Stiles had always thought Isaac was an asshole who believed he could get away with anything if he pulled out his traumatic childhood membership card, but this was a little extreme. 

“Are you seriously turning down a chance to test out your new parts? What kind of guy are you?”

“I’m starting to wonder what kind of guy you are, Lahey. No means no. I’m not having sex with you, so drop it and move out of my goddamn way.” 

For a moment Isaac went unnaturally still. Predator still. Stiles tensed, preparing to use both the taser and aerosolized wolfsbane Allison had given him. If he took even one step closer, Stiles wouldn’t hesitate.

Perhaps he smelled the violence rising in the air, or maybe Isaac had just decided to take no for an answer. Either way the werewolf gave Stiles a lingering glance, turned on his heel, and slunk back into the preserve, presumably off to practice his wolfy abilities with the others.

“My, my, you really do enjoy facing down predators, Stiles.”

Stiles turned, unsurprised to find Peter leaning against one of the house support beams. He frowned.

“Yeah, apparently a bunny predator and a sexual predator. Thanks for stepping in, there, zombiewolf.” 

Peter shrugged. “You had it handled.”

Stiles sighed, rolling his shoulders and stuffing the taser back in his bag. “I can deal with Lahey if I have to. And apparently having boobs means I’ll have to.” 

Peter met his eyes when Stiles looked up from scowling at his breasts. The man seemed faintly amused, but there was something beyond that.

It seemed the hungry gleam in Peter’s eyes remained whether Stiles was male or female. At least one person didn’t change the way they looked at him, but in his current state the gaze made him feel vaguely vulnerable. And god damn, did he hate that.

Stiles had long since been aware of his comparative weakness to the wolves he ran with, but knowing and seeing were different things. He was several inches shorter and about twenty pounds lighter than he had been, his coordination thrown even more out of wack by his newly proportioned limbs. His reach was less than it had been, his gait wasn’t right, and when he tested swinging his baseball bat his breasts did some uncomfortable swinging as well. Apparently, he needed a bra.

Lydia takes him shopping first thing Friday, because of course she does. Stiles only allows it because it seems he’s going to be in this body a while, until he can prove Deaton wrong, so he might as well buy some pants he doesn’t have to hold up by a belt without enough notches.

“That skirt is just, like, deliberately short!” 

He ends up with three pairs of jeans, a pair of sweats, some cargo shorts (because apparently those are the only kind that don’t stop mid-thigh), a couple of hoodies, and four tank tops. 

He considers throwing his favorite red lacrosse sweatshirt over it like he normally does, but it’s been getting hotter and he’s seen plenty of women jog in sports bras. At this point, it’s whatever. Stiles just needs to get some of this energy out before he shakes to death or something. 

So naturally when he’s taking a break to catch his breath on mile three, Peter materializes at his side, nursing a cup of coffee with a book tucked under his arm.

And he raises a brow, as if to comment on Stiles’ poor endurance, because of course he does. Dick.

“Are you really coming to the woods to read?” he asks, slowly straightening out. His side is still cramping, but he doesn’t want to be in the perfect position for Peter to peer into his bra, even if the man had yet to look away from his face.

“Yes, I enjoy my coffee exclusively with woodland creatures,” Peter sasses back. Stiles smiles, just a bit, because for the first time in days somebody is treating him normally. Even if it is Peter, and his brand of normal is often a bit creepy. “What are you doing in the woods, Stiles? The big bad wolf might find you.” 

It wasn’t a new joke, but--”I’m not Little Red.” 

“No,” Peter sighs dramatically, “You’ve done away with your hoodie. I suppose I’ll have to find another young man to coax away from grandmother’s house.” 

Man. Young man.

Stiles lets out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding and walks forward, shoving at Peter’s arm. It doesn’t budge, holding the coffee stead, and Peter looks surprised at the casual touch. “Replacing me so easily? Thank god.”

Clever lips curl. “I could never,” the werewolf replies, before waving him on. “Enjoy your run, Stiles.”

Stiles grins back, quick but genuine. “Enjoy your book, dude. Later!” 

And he’s off.

Stiles looks down at the sundress laid across his bed and feels the air stutter from his lungs. This dress had been reserved for the long summer days of his childhood, before sickness had taken his mother. He remembers balancing on her feet as she spun them around the living room, both singing at the top of their lungs. He remembers her kissing the shirt over his heart and telling him that he was her favorite person in the world. He remembers trying to swing higher than her and failing in the nearby park, and how she had always laughed at his pout and said, “It isn’t a competition if I don’t try, Mischief!” 

Stiles had forgotten he had stashed it in the back of his closet when his father had been gathering all Claudia’s things to donate or store in the attic. 

“Stiles?” Scott called, knocking on the door. “Dude, you alright in there?” 

“I—” Stiles took a deep breath, tearing his eyes from the dress and going to his closet. “Yeah, I’m… I’m good. Just give me a few minutes to change.”

“There’s sex reassignment surgery,” Lydia mentions one day, five weeks in. Stiles is in the middle of reading over the translated Latin she’d just handed him, and only makes a vague sound of comprehension.

“Stiles!” 

“What?” Stiles snaps, glaring up at her. He blinks a few times, processing what she’d said, and shakes his head. “No, Lydia, I - I want my body. Besides, that's not something I could ever afford, not with the debt we’re in.” 

“I have money, Stiles,” she says nonchalantly, and it’s probably unreasonable, how that makes him want to break things.

He takes a deep breath and looks her in the eyes. “I’m getting my body back, Lydia, and I’m not taking your money.”

“Stiles, you need to stop. I hate to say this, but you need to hear it, okay? You’re never going to be a guy again. Deaton said as much, and it was okay at first, you trying to prove him wrong, but this is getting out of control. You’re skipping classes, talking to Peter, and playing around with some seriously dangerous stuff. Stuff Allison’s dad would probably put a bullet through you for! Stiles, you’re going to be in a girl’s body for the rest of your life. I just don’t want you making all these shitty choices to go along with this shitty thing that happened to you. I care about you, man… you’re like my - my sister. So please stop. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” 

“Your sister?” Stiles snarled. “I’m not a fucking girl, Scott, female body or not. My mind is still male--”

Sorry to leave off there, but it’s all I’ve got. Stiles definitely shuts Scott down with his rant, though.

[introvert-no-chameleon]

A Familiar Face

Did y’all really think I wouldn’t at least write some Portal Pines AU? In my Tumblr? Haha. I wrote this in like three days between work, so hopefully, there aren’t too many glaring typos. 

I like how this short fic came out, so I hope y’all enjoy it. Many thanks to @3hobbitsinatrenchcoat for providing a Portal Mabel design that helped me get an idea of how she’d look as an adult being stuck between dimensions. 

Update 8/20/20: Fixed some typos and cleaned it up a little.

*

As Ford Pines scrambled through the busy streets of the marketplace, he found himself wondering how in the multiverse Bill managed to hire so many bounty hunters at the rate that he did. Currently, he had a humanoid, multi-armed, incredibly strong pursuer hot on his trail, effortlessly knocking civilians and objects out of her way. Yesterday, it had been a set of siblings from a race of lizard creatures that breathed fire and were capable of climbing walls. Assuming he would survive this encounter, he imagined tomorrow’s hunters would be equally, if not more, challenging to deal with. (He could still feel the raw skin on his shoulder rub against his bandages as he ran, a souvenir from the aforementioned lizardfolk).

Usually, in these circumstances, Ford wouId activate his interdimensional translator and escape, but it took time he currently did not have. That, and he still had business in this dimension, materials he needed to collect some material for the Quantum Destabilizer that he wasn’t sure he could find elsewhere. There would be no telling where he would end up next, and that was a risk he couldn’t afford taking right now. 

In a last-ditch attempt, Ford slid into the nearest alleyway, ducking in between some large baskets that smelled vaguely of a mix of oranges and limes (a hybrid of Earth citruses, perhaps?) and stayed, hunched over in the shadows.

A moment later, he felt the cold press of a blaster on the back of his neck. He lifted his hands up, dropping his own gun. It clattered on the concrete.

“Finally got you. I gotta hand it to you, Stanford Pines. You are very difficult to catch.” He didn’t have to see the bounty hunter behind him to know that she was smirking at him.

“Whatever Bill offered you,” he said, “I assure you, it will not be worth making a deal with him.”

She shoved him to his knees, then pushed him on his stomach with her boot. Three of her four arms held him down, shoving his cheek against the grimy floor. “Maybe not for you, human.”

He opened his mouth to reply, to give himself more time to try and find a way out, when he saw a small, circular object bounce towards him and landed inches away from his face. Upon closer inspection, it was a bright pink orb with a red blinking light.

A bomb.

Fuck.

The bounty hunter thought the same, because she yelped, releasing Ford and jumping back just as it went off. To his surprise, he had not blown to bits. He was, however, engulfed in a glittery pink puff of smoke. Tiny bits of glitter coating his throat.  He coughed out the glimmering purple particles.

What in the multiverse?

The bounty hunter screamed behind him. She began cursing in her native tongue, a language he, unfortunately, hadn’t studied (yet) so he couldn’t make out what she was saying, aside from the fact that she was very upset. He ducked his head when he heard her firing off her weapon.

He heard another pair of boots hit the ground followed by an enthusiastic whoop!, the bounty hunter grunt, a body smacking against a nearby dumpster, then silence.

A hand pulled him to his feet. He whirled around, fists raised, ready to deal with yet another creature after the bounty on his head, but instead was shocked to find another human face staring at him.

The woman was at least in her mid-forties, judging by the wrinkles around her mouth. Short, curly brown hair surrounded her face. Her eyes were concealed by goggles much like his, yet he could feel her staring right at him, her unwavering attention all directed at Ford. She grinned at him, apparently unperturbed by the fact that she had just gotten shot at by one of the most notorious bounty hunters in the multiverse. If anything, she seemed to be buzzing with excitement.

“Hope I didn’t startle you too hard,” She gave him his gun. “Oh, and don’t worry, the glitter is edible. It’s just for show.”

He snatched it away before she could try and use it against him. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The stranger seemed unbothered by his harsh tone. Thin eyebrows shot up over her goggles. “It’s impolite not to introduce yourself before asking somebody’s name. Especially when that someone just saved your ass.”

He glared at her. Something about her attitude felt very familiar, and not in a way that comforted him. “I have wanted posters all over this city, I doubt you don’t already know.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “So do I, but you don’t know my name.”

He began glancing around the alley. They were alone, for now, but he knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long. “There’s no time for this. I have to catch the next spaceship out of here…”

“…To get away from the bounty hunters Bill Cipher sent after you?”

He stiffened. In a smooth gesture, he pointed his gun at her face. “Are you with him?”

She furrowed her brows, more indignant than alarmed, mouth pressed into a tight frown. She raised her hands so that he could see her empty palms. “No, I’m trying to stop him!”

“Show me your eyes!” His grip on the gun tightened, the leather gloves creaking.

“Oh! Right, right,” she said. She began moving her scarf down along with her eyewear.

A pair of brown eyes looked at him expectantly. She had rather round cheeks and Ford wasn’t sure if it was the face, or the twinkle of mischief in her eyes, but he felt a wave of deja-vu, crash into him like a freight train. Ford had to shake his head, partially to ground himself, but also to remind himself that he had no time to be thinking about him.

“Can you point your gun away now? I already proved that the two-dimensional monster isn’t with me.”

He lowered his weapon, caught by surprise at the sudden iciness of her tone, and even more so at the way she talked about Bill.

“What do you know about Bill Cipher?”

“Way too much.” She didn’t even appear to be afraid. If anything, there was a fiery determination in her gaze, one that promised a vengeance fueled by years and years of resentment that he recognized wholeheartedly. “I helped you because I heard that lady mention that triangle jerk.” She jutted her thumb at the unconscious bounty hunter, who had a large, red boot-shaped mark on her cheek. “I haven’t met anybody who’s lasted as long against Bill as I have, so I wanted to see if it was true for myself.”

“Huh,” he said. 

Ever since he’d arrived in the multi-verse, even those who despised the demon were too afraid to even mention his name, let alone try and go against him. Yet this woman had just admitted, to a complete stranger, that she was working against him.

“You’re also being hunted by Bill?”

“Yup!” The cold fury melted away so quickly Ford almost though he’d imagined it. She was back to her chipper attitude as if they weren’t currently in the middle of a dangerous situation. “I’ve been hopping the multiverse trying to find a way to stop him for years. I thought I was the only one, too…”

A large group of people were yelling a few alleys away. Cursing himself for allowing himself to be so distracted, he holstered his weapon. “We’ve been here too long.”

“Yup, and that’s ship leaving,” she said, holding up a strange, flat watch with some numbers blinking over an image of a cartoonish pink cat. “We’d better catch it!”

Ford scowled. “We? I haven’t agreed to anything—”

She rolled her eyes as if Ford was the one being difficult in this situation. “Uh, I just met somebody who can help me out, I’m not just gonna not take that kind of an opportunity.”

“I travel alone. I assure you, whatever your situation is with Bill, it will only get worse if you follow me.”

“All I’m hearing is, ‘I’m a sad, lonely grumpyass who needs a friend, I’d be happy to have somebody like you tag along, Mabel.’ That’s my name, by the way, since you didn’t ask.”

The footsteps got closer, and Ford let out an exasperated grunt. “We won’t be able to catch the ship in time. We’ll need to lay low for now and wait for the next one.” He glanced at her long skirt. “That attire is unsuited for running. I would cut the skirt in order to escape more efficiently.”

Mabel smirked as if glad he’d finally brought up her clothing preferences. “This isn’t just a fashionable skirt, silly. It’s also a special cowl I made myself. Watch and learn.”

He was about to argue that while he himself had never followed fashion trends, he doubted that was in style in any universe, but was interrupted by her untying the long cloth from her waist, revealing more exercise-appropriate long pants. With a theatrical flourish, she put the cloth over her head and vanished in thin air.

Ford gaped at the spot where she’d stood, scanning the area to see if perhaps she’d teleported around him, but there was no sign of her. Then he felt a finger bop the tip of his nose, and he jerked back, instinctively reaching for his weapon.

“Relax, jumpy, it’s still me. I’m invisible! Neat trick, Eh?”

Her voice was inches from his face. He felt her wrap an arm around his waist, and just as he was about to protest and say that he did not appreciate physical contact, especially not from a stranger, he heard her shift next to him.

“Grappling hook!” Her voice boomed with boundless enthusiasm. He wondered how someone who had just gotten into a fight and supposedly followed his enemy on foot for at least a few miles could still manage to be so energetic.

He wasn’t able to wonder for long. Ford only had time to see the string of a grappling hook connect with an aircraft overhead before he was lifted into the air with a startled yelp. Had the woman not kept a strong grip on his side, he surely would’ve fallen. As it was, he was able to peer downwards and see the search party that had came after him continue down the streets, clueless to his presence overhead.

The wind whipped at his hair and clothes, as well as his companion’s. Her hood had fallen away, revealing her grin as she kept her gaze upwards, towards the ship they were latched onto. “I’m going to pull us up, so hold on!”

They came flying towards the ship at an alarming speed. He braced himself, tensing his body. For a moment, after the hook finished retracting, he thought they would fall for sure. But just as quickly, Mabel grabbed the edge of the latch that had begun to close with the ship’s ascent.

He also held on to it for dear life. With a grunt, he pulled himself over the edge, slipping inside.

Mabel managed to get in just as the hatch closed, engulfing them in darkness.

He rummaged his pocket for the orb he was looking for, shook it, and let if hover over him, illuminating his surroundings. Ford allowed himself to catch his breath now that he was finally aboard the ship. He’d spent a good hour running, and he hadn’t been able to catch a break until this point.

Mabel sat down with a deep sigh, wiping her brow. “That was close.”

“Indeed,” he said. He cleared his throat. “It seems I owe you a thanks.”

She waved it off. “Don’t mention it. Bill’s gonna be pissed, and that’s all the thanks I need.”

“That’s an…admirable, if not foolish mindset to have, but I share the sentiment.”

She raised her eyebrows, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “But, you could tell me your name, at least. I have to call you something.”

I was Ford’s turn to raise his eyebrow. A part of him said that he shouldn’t risk speaking to this stranger, but something else, perhaps his instincts, told him he could trust her. At the very least, he saw the benefit of an ally that was capable of fending for themselves, and one that had a common goal.

“…Stanford.” He made to extend his hand so that she could shake it, but hesitated. He hadn’t seen another, non-hostile human in years. He was aware how people felt about his six fingers, and while he still wasn’t sure how he felt about this woman, he also didn’t want to risk spooking off a potential ally, assuming she was truthful about her intentions.

Apparently, he needed have worried. She gripped his hand and gave it a firm shake of her own (the woman had quite the grip). When she did look down at his hand, she didn’t skip a beat when she said: “Whoa, a six-finger handshake? It’s a full finger friendlier than normal.”

He sat there, stunned, as she pulled away and settled against a storage bin. “So, Stanford. Wanna trade cool outlaw stories while we wait to get to the next planet?” Her tone remained as light and casual as it’d been the entire time, as if Ford was an acquaintance she was taking the time to catch up with.

He laughed, something he hadn’t done in months. Mabel didn’t care. She didn’t say anything about him being a freak, despite clearly being from some version of Earth. She held no trace of malicious intent towards him at all.

Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be a bad idea after all.