#story tag: the path of the living and the dead

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 2: To Judge The Living And The Dead]

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 5.7k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

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Here is the story of Saint Agatha of Sicily.

Born in the time of the Roman Empire, when Christians were still being burned alive and fed to lions in the Colosseum, Agatha rejected the suitors she attracted as a beautiful daughter of a wealthy family. Instead, she pledged herself to Christ: a life of simplicity and service, a vow of chastity. No man could sway Agatha from her chosen path, not even the Roman governor Quintianus, who aspired to take the fifteen-year-old maiden as his wife. So Quintianus endeavored to change her mind.

First, Quintianus threatened Agatha with torture and death. When that proved ineffective, he had her put to work in a brothel. Yet after a full month of violations, Agatha was no closer to surrendering; on the contrary, her faith only seemed to grow stronger. She prayed to the Lord for courage; she proclaimed that to be His servant was the greatest possible freedom.

Quintianus was running out of ideas. He imprisoned Agatha and ordered his torturers to devise new and terrifying forms of punishment. Bloody and mutilated, Agatha was thrown back into her cell without food or medical attention, but the Lord did not abandon her: Saint Peter, Christ’s apostle and the first pope of the Church, appeared to comfort Agatha and miraculously healed her wounds.

Four days later when the torture resumed, Agatha knew that her short time on earth was ending. She prayed aloud: Lord, my Creator, you have always protected me from the cradle. You have taken me from the love of the world and given me patience to suffer. Now receive my soul. She died in prison in the year 251.

Long venerated as a martyr and a saint in her native Sicily, Agatha was officially canonized by Pope Gregory I in the 590s. Her feast day is celebrated on February 5th. She is invoked against a myriad of horrors; among them are volcanic eruptions.

~~~~~~~~~~

“But you don’t really believe that, do you?” he says on the beach at dusk. Your parents keep telling you it’s time to go back to the hotel, and you ask for five more minutes which turn into ten which turn into twenty. You are showing Aemond your rosary, red glass beads, a sterling silver chain; he is sitting behind you, his arms reaching around so he can study the artefact with his own fingertips, his chin resting on your shoulder. When the wind blows, his blonde hair tickles your cheek and your throat; when you shiver because the sun is vanishing, he pulls you in closer. “That there was some magical guy who could heal people and walk on water and then came back from the dead? I mean, Mother’s a Catholic, and she’s always trying to get us to ride the ferry over to Rhodes for Sunday Mass. But even when I go, I can’t take it seriously.”

“I guess I don’t care if it’s true,” you decide. “I just like how it makes me feel. I like being protected, I like how simple everything is. Be kind, be humble, help others, that’s it. And I think all the different saints are neat. There’s always someone to pray to, no matter what problem I have.”

Aemond snorts. “They only added them to get the pagans to convert.”

“What are pagans?”

“People who worshipped trees and rocks and stuff. Like the Vikings.”

He thinks I’m stupid, you think, and you’re already sensitive about this; Aemond is older, taller, more clever, more sophisticated, more strong. You don’t want him to think you’re some naïve kid who does whatever your parents tell you to. You really don’t; they find your conviction just as baffling, far beyond their middle-class, tangentially-Catholic expectations: a weekly appearance at Mass with a frilly dress and tidy hair, Mum having a yarn with the neighborhood wives afterwards, sometimes Sunday roast, back to real life by bedtime.

“But, you know, maybe you’re onto something,” Aemond says, backtracking. “If it makes you happy, that’s what matters. Maybe I’ll give it another shot. Next time Mother drags me to Rhodes I’ll try to listen a little bit instead of reading a Stephen King novel the whole time.”

“Do you think I’m a drongo?” you ask timidly.

He laughs. “A what?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No, I don’t,” Aemond promises. “I think you care about something. And that takes courage.”

He’s still inspecting your rosary, running the smooth red beads through his fingers. “Do you want it? I’m getting a new one for Christmas. I already found it in my parents’ closet.”

“Sure,” he says, perhaps just to be polite. But when he takes the rosary in his own hands, he’s smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~

“We should have a pond like this at home,” Rhaena says as she helps you cast palmfuls of pellets that smell like the ocean—fish and brine shrimp and spirulina—into clear rippling water. Because the temperature is around 12 degrees Celsius, the koi are only somewhat active, skimming around the algae-covered stones at the bottom and nibbling halfheartedly at the food pellets.

Home. Here is what she means: a convent on the quiet northside of Sydney, Mass each morning, prayers before bed each night, sprawling fruit and vegetable gardens, a colony of stray cats you’ve adopted, offices where you take prayer requests and calls from desperate people in need of help, a shelter the sisters operate for survivors of domestic violence and human trafficking, cooking meals together, singing songs, lighting candles, playing games, watching rugby and cricket on a massive tube tv from the 90s, book clubs, knitting circles, hosting visitors from other convents, always decorating for the next holiday. This is why you became a nun. As a child, you were never as close with your sisters as you wanted to be—your interests were too divergent, your temperaments mismatched—and then as they dissolved away into their boyfriends and their unis, you felt like the house was suddenly so empty. But to be a nun is to have a perpetual sisterhood, and they love the Faith as much as you do.

You tell Rhaena: “Let’s talk to Mother Maureen about a koi pond. Maybe we can get funds and pay our guests in the shelter to help us build it.”

“Just like we did with the gardens.”

“Righto.”

“I’m kind of obsessed with these habits, too,” Rhaena says, spinning around in her loose white wool. The Sisters of Charity of Australia have been wearing modest yet casual clothes since the 1980s. You each have a white habit or two stowed away for formal occasions...but here in the Vatican, expectations are very traditional.

You chuckle and shake your head. “Yeah nah, I’m not helping you with that. I miss my Levi’s.” You point at the koi pond. “Check the corners, make sure I haven’t killed another one.”

Rhaena darts around the perimeter, peeking through bushes of red chrysanthemums. “I’ve been praying all morning. I’m so worried about Sister Augustina.”

“Why? She’s the person who needs your prayers the least. She’s with our Lord and Savior. She is at peace, she is home.”

Rhaena looks at you grimly. “Is she?”

You burst out laughing. “It takes more than getting a bit aggro to be damned to Hell.” You don’t believe Hell exists at all, but you keep this to yourself. Rhaena is rather dogmatic. Nonetheless she smiles to herself, reassured.

You glance around the Vatican Gardens, knowing exactly who you’re looking for; but you don’t see Aemond. There are other cardinals walking the tuff pebble pathways, red planets revolving around the ancient gravity of this place—first Neolithic settlements ten thousand years ago, then kings and a republic and back to kings again, and finally the Church rose up from the ashes of the empire to grow like dauntless ivy into the hearts of over one billion souls—some contemplative and alone, others entangled in weighty discussions. Cardinal Seaborn is rushing around frenetically, his scarlet cassock blowing in the wind. Cardinal Bogdi Marcu, he of the prehistoric age himself, is clinging to Sister Nuru’s arm as she patiently accompanies him through the gardens.

You spot Lucky talking to Cardinal Gideon Saati of South Sudan, a large but soft-spoken man who is ideologically moderate and therefore a possible consensus candidate if neither the conservatives or liberals can win the vote; and this makes him dangerous to Aemond. Cardinal Saati is nodding and dabbing at his eyes with a white handkerchief, Lucky has a hand resting gently on his shoulder. They are rarities here, and they understand each other. They both know the pain of having a homeland that is no longer a country: no functioning government, no reliable infrastructure, inescapable violence, war zones where faith feels so powerless.

Rhaena says: “Do you think we’ll be back home by Christmas?”

“Oh, sure thing. No conclave in the past two hundred years has taken more than a few days.”

“Beautiful. We can’t miss the singing and presents. I know how much you love Christmas music.”

“One conclave in the 1830s took a month and a half.”

“Nah, yeah?!”

“Deadset, mate.”

“Wow.” Rhaena blinks. “I wouldn’t trust this lot to not resort to bloodshed by then.”

Now you see them strolling towards the koi pond, disrupting sand-colored tuff pebbles with each step: Aemond, Lando, and Kazi, who is puffing on a square-shaped vape, white and red, the colors of the Polish flag. You realize that you’re smiling as Aemond approaches, then force yourself not to. You’re supposed to be somber; you’re supposed to be sad. Still, you cannot look away from him. You gaze at the destruction on the left half of his face—ropes of scar tissue, the frayed ruins of his eyelids stitched together to close the emptied socket—and you wonder what that must have been like, waking up in his hospital bed half-blind and with clamoring journalists filling up the lobby downstairs, bouquets of flowers arriving from Alpha TV, Mega Channel, the Hellenic Broadcasting Corporation, CNN, BBC, Deutsche Welle.

“Dead nun, dead pope.” Kazi sucks on his vape bleakly. “Inauspicious.”

Lando is pained and crosses himself. “Kazi, please.” Then he turns to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, I am so very sorry for your loss. Sister Augustina is with God now, let that serve as some consolation. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

You bow your head. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“We didn’t really know her that well,” Rhaena says.

“Will they have a funeral here?” Aemond asks you, like he’s trying to find an excuse to make conversation. Rhaena is gawking at him, wonderstruck; Aemond gives her a polite smile.

You answer: “No, Sister Penny told us she’s being sent back to Germany. I guess there’s a cemetery near her hometown she wished to be buried in. A plot beside a child’s.”

Lando and Kazi nod and murmur sympathetically, an acknowledgement of the life Sister Augustina had before she took her vows, forever shrouded in mystery, only shadows glimpsed through the veil; Aemond peers into the koi pond, his expression distant and troubled.

Lucky arrives, trudging across the volcanic pebbles that clatter under his red leather shoes. “Saati says he doesn’t want it.”

Kazi rolls his eyes. “Every cardinal says they don’t want it. And yet when the time comes, he’s out on that balcony waving to the crowds.”

“I think he’s sincere,” Lucky says, lighting a cigar and drawing in a mouthful of smoke. “He’s telling his supporters to look elsewhere.”

“To Aemo?” Kazi asks hopefully.

Lucky hesitates. “Saati is impressed that Jake lost four fingers in the service of our Lord.”

Kazi waves at Aemond. “He lost an eye!”

Lucky chuckles in a deep, gruff rumble. “Becoming pope is not a contest of misfortune, my friend. Otherwise more of them would be Haitians.”

Cam comes jogging over; being in his mid-forties, his knees are still good. He announces excitedly: “We have Micallef and Barraza!” Here’s who he means: Cardinal Xandru Micallef of Malta and Cardinal Juan Barraza of El Salvador, both pilfered from the dwindling pool of moderates.

Lucky exhales smoke. “I thought we already had Barraza. He’s on the Dicastery for Promoting Integral Human Development with me and Aemo.”

“He told me he was considering Saati.”

“Saati doesn’t want it.”

Cam is confused. “Doesn’t everyone say that?”

“Okay, so who’s going to talk to Jake and figure out if he’s willing to steer his votes our way?” Kazi says between vape hits, and then, when Lucky raises his eyebrows at him: “It can’t be me. He hates me.”

The others groan. “What did you do?” Aemond asks, grinning.

Kazi is reluctant to share. “It was nothing.” He vapes as the others stare at him, waiting. “I asked if he was going to get a robot hand like Darth Vader.”

“Jake is very committed to his mission in Iran,” Lando muses softly. “I have a hard time believing he’d want to leave it.”

“Yeah, he does a lot of orphanage stuff, right?” Kazi says. “Lando, you should talk to him.”

“I’ll try,” Lando agrees, then looks to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, once again, I am so sorry for your loss and I will be praying for you and Sister Augustina.” He starts down the pathway and soon vanishes behind a row of tall laurel hedges.

Now Cam is relaying gossip he’s heard about the conservative faction: cardinals shifting from do Carmo to Jahoda, anxiety surrounding Aemond’s growing support. Your gaze catches on Aemond again, and you can’t look away. He keeps stealing glimpses of you too. Surely he could have had a plastic surgeon do a scar revision to make it less noticeable, and open the wound so he could insert a prosthetic eye; but of course Aemond would not want that. No one can see him without remembering what he did on Nea Kameni. He wears the proof of his miracle on his face.

You notice that Lucky is watching you as he smokes his cigar, his dark eyes kind yet intrigued, and then they rove to Aemond. You avert your attention elsewhere. On one of the narrow paved roads that wind through Vatican City, you see a white Fiat Panda zoom by on the other side of the foliage, employees running some errand.

“If I have a heart attack or choke on a fish bone or something, wait for the ambulance, don’t put me in one of those,” Kazi says. “They’re fire traps.”

“We’ll just throw you down the nearest manhole,” Cam assures him.

“Cardinal Targaryen!” a voice booms—ostensibly friendly, undeniably threatening—and it is Cardinal Jahoda, passing by with his ever-present companions Cardinal Auclair and Cardinal Ferrari. Across the gardens, red-swathed men stand up straighter and observe intently. “You enjoy the company of women so much, perhaps you have chosen the wrong vocation.”

Aemond smirks tauntingly. “Well, the celibacy requirement might soon be done away with, as you know. One of so few ways in which Cardinal Auclair has proven himself a progressive.”

Auclair scoffs. “Are there even any Catholics in Greece?”

“There are more than there were three years ago.”

“Cardinal Nowak,” Jahoda says to Kazi. “You are a Slav. Poland still lives under the gloom of Russia’s shadow. It disappoints me more than I could ever express, seeing you standing here with men who wish to usher in disorder, degeneracy, alliances with despots.”

Kazi sighs. “Brothers, not everything is communism.”

“Ah, you are too young. You do not remember what it was like.”

Auclair’s cold blue eyes skate over Cam and Lucky. “Mongolia. Haiti. Who would wish to follow the examples of your countries?”

Lucky explodes: “Why don’t you atone for what France did to my people?!”

“The prime minister acknowledged that the independence debt was an injustice—”

“And where is the apology? Where are the reparations?!”

“Still begging for money two hundred years later,” Auclair sneers. “Still sniffing for scraps like dogs. Perhaps it is time to look inwards and interrogate your own behavior. It is not a shortage of funds that ails Haiti, but a deficit of morals.”

Lucky drops his cigar and lunges for Auclair, but his friends stop him: Kazi and Cam fill the space between them, Aemond throws an arm across Lucky’s shoulders and whispers something to him as Cardinal Jahoda and his companions continue on through the gardens. Auclair looks back once and gives you a critical, probing glare. Kazi trots after Cardinal Ferrari making race car noises: vroom vroom vroom.

Cam mutters as he cleans his eyeglasses: “Mongolia is on the rise. It’s a capitalist democracy.”

“They’re not white, so it doesn’t count,” Lucky says, collecting himself. Then he checks his watch, a small face with a simple leather band. “The next general congregation is beginning soon.” He starts to leave with Kazi and Cam in tow, but not Aemond. Lucky turns around. “Aemo?”

“I’ll catch up to you,” Aemond replies. Lucky nods; but now when he looks at you, his interest has turned to trepidation.

Aemond shouldn’t be talking to me, you think, you know. But perhaps he is willing to risk it. Perhaps he believes he is invincible.

Now the two of you are alone except for Rhaena, who is gaping at Aemond as if still trying to convince herself he’s real and not a celebrity entrapped in a photograph, a screen, a myth.

“You must be very busy with your responsibilities here, Sister Rhaena,” Aemond says.

“Oh yeah, it’s hard yakka.” Then she realizes he’s waiting for her to leave. “Have a good one!” she calls over her shoulder as she hurries away, doubtlessly in great anticipation of all the stories you’ll tell her later. But you won’t share everything.

“Should we walk?” Aemond asks, his hands behind his back, his large gold cross gleaming on its chain, a whisper of a smile on his lips. Of course you should; you follow him, the tuff pebbles crunching under your shoes. And when he speaks to you now, he is not stony like he is sometimes around the other cardinals, or barbed or coiled or sharp. He is that boy from the beach again. He listens, he cares. “Are you really alright?”

“Yeah. I only knew Sister Augustina for a week. It was a shock to find her like that, and now Sister Penny is under the pump trying to take over for her, but we’ll manage.”

Aemond is studying the marble statues you pass as you wander together: Saint Rita, the patron saint of impossible causes and suffering women, Saint Catherine who freed herself from the breaking wheel, Saint Lawrence who was roasted alive. Fountains trickle and evergreen shrubs rock in the brisk December breeze: boxwood, rosemary, myrtle, oleander, holly with vivid blood drops of berries. Aemond stops when he finds a statue of Saint Agatha and gestures to a nearby stone bench. Once you sit down, he joins you.

“It’s your saint,” Aemond says. He reaches into one of the pockets of his cassock and produces a lighter and a pack of Karelia cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“No wukkas. Half the nuns in my convent smoke.”

Aemond smiles to himself as he lights his cigarette. “No wukkas,” he echoes, amused.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Of course.”

“What led you to the Church?” you say. “Now that all the memories are coming back, I recall you being...skeptical.” That’s a gentle word for it. You imagine him: a boy, sullen and convinced he is too smart for religion, dragged to the cathedral by his Mother, flipping through a copy of Cujo or The Shining or Pet Sematary.

“Once I opened my mind to Catholicism, I found it sort of inspiring. The Church sponsored Michelangelo and da Vinci, founded the first universities in Europe, shaped the political landscape of the world. And for people without other routes to safety and status, it provided that. I never really felt seen by my parents. The Church gave me a new family.”

He didn’t say he loves the Faith. Saint Agatha gazes impassively down at you, her arms crossed protectively over her own chest, so young, so vulnerable. “Do you ever regret becoming a priest?”

Aemond shrugs, like he’s wrestled with the question so many times it no longer interests him. “The more conversations you have, the more confessions you hear...the more you realize that everyone regrets things. Mothers regret their children. Childless women regret adoptions and abortions. Married people regret the cage that vows begin to feel like after the novelty has worn off, single people regret their loneliness, the poor regret not selling their souls and the rich regret not defying greed to become artists or musicians or actors. There is no escape from regret. You must learn to feel at home in whatever cage you’ve built around yourself.”

You smooth the white wool of your habit so you have something to preoccupy your hands with. “I wasn’t entirely truthful about my reasons for being here.”

Aemond furrows his brow. “You’re assisting with the conclave.”

“Yes and no.”

He takes a drag and tilts his head to the side as he waits for you to continue. He does this a lot when you’re alone with him, always curious, always silently working things out, and you are struck by an abrupt and violent attachment to him—every gesture, every word, the blue of his eye, a lungful of smoke—and you think nonsensically: What if we had never left that beach?

You admit: “I’ve been having doubts.”

“About the Church?”

“About being a nun.”

Aemond is watching you, an intense sort of focus, like the Second Coming and the resurrection of the dead are over and you’re the last two people on earth. “You’re thinking of leaving?”

“I’ve heard this is the hardest time,” you say, smiling a little ruefully. “When you’re young like Rhaena, everything is new and exciting, and you’re so relieved to have all the answers to life’s questions that you don’t really feel the opportunity costs. And then when you’re in your fifties or sixties, you’re settled down and complacent, and you’re not interested in abandoning your work and the friendships you’ve made. But I’m thirty-eight...and that’s kind of my last chance to start over, isn’t it? At least when it comes to...certain things.”

Aemond is trying to understand, but he seems bewildered, maybe even alarmed. His cigarette has burned down to ashes, but he hasn’t noticed yet; when it singes his fingers, he flicks the end of it away. “Do you feel called to be a mother?”

“Not exactly, I just...I feel...” You pause to decide how to explain it. “I have this sense that there is something else out there for me. Someone else, I guess. And it wasn’t like this for a lot of years. I thought I was at peace with never being married. I used to see couples or families walking around and not feel anything but joy for them. But now there’s...there’s yearning, I think.” Then you chuckle nervously. “And I don’t just mean the physical aspect. That’s part of it, of course. But what I’m really missing is the...the emotional closeness, the bond that’s shared between romantic partners. All the sudden there’s an absence I wasn’t aware of before. And the only time I’ve ever experienced a pull like this was when I knew I wanted to be a nun, so I’m not sure what to do with it.”

Now Aemond’s hands are knitted together, tense and rigid, as if he is trying to resist wringing them. There is pink in his cheeks, a faint gory bloom, a rare disclosure of his mortality. He’s made of blood, not stone, not light, not predestination. “I suppose there is always some...temptation in the unknown.”

“Oh no, I’m not...” Again, you laugh. “I didn’t take my vows until my twenties. I had jobs, I took classes at the TAFE, I’ve dated, I’ve been to clubs, I’ve downed more pornstar martinis than I could possibly count. I’m not innocent.”

He seems relieved and relaxes a bit. “Then we had a similar path.”

“Because I wanted to...you know...I wanted to be sure I was alright with giving up that part of my life. I liked those blokes, and we had fun together, but I never felt it was something I couldn’t live without.” You stop for a moment; your next sentence comes out in a rush. “And then I had a bad experience with a boyfriend, and after that I was positive I could give it up, so.”

“A bad experience?” Aemond waits for you to elaborate. You don’t. His eye flicks from your face to your medallion, to the nearby statue of Saint Agatha, back to your face. He isn’t just searching. There’s a low, arcane wrath like chambers of magma scorching beneath the earth.

“Anyway, back in Sydney I confided in Mother Maureen about how I was feeling, and when the Holy Father passed she suggested I come to the Vatican. She said that if being here at the heart of the Church during such a joyous time—seeing the rituals, meeting the cardinals, witnessing the inauguration of the next pope—didn’t renew my commitment to my vows, then I would know it was the right decision to leave.”

Aemond is still distracted. “And has God spoken to you?”

“Oh, He’s saying something. But I’m not sure what yet.”

There is the sound of harried footsteps on the pebbles, and Sister Penny sprints into view. Strands of frizzy red hair have escaped from her veil; her pale freckled face is flushed. “Sister!” she cries, gasping for air. You leap up off the bench and rush to her.

“Sister Penny?”

“Where on earth did Sister Augustina keep the laundry detergent? I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find it, and I have a million other things to do, and I’m going absolutely mad—”

“I know where it is,” you say. “It’s in one of the cabinets in the kitchenette. I know, it’s odd, I’m not sure why she put it there. Here, I’ll help you.”

“And Cardinal Kelly lost his room key, so I gave him my copy but he forgot to return it and I don’t know where the spares are—”

“Shh. She’ll be right, mate.” You’re rubbing her shoulder. Sister Penny is in her fifties, very kind, very sensitive, not a particularly gifted administrator. But she has the most seniority after Sister Augustina, and so she has inherited her responsibilities whether she likes it or not.

You return with Sister Penny to the Domus Sanctae Marthae, but first you peer back at Aemond and give him a wave, subtle enough that Sister Penny will not notice. You aren’t supposed to be friends with a cardinal; that’s like a mouse befriending a lion. Aemond, now standing, waves back. But on his scarred face is something you rarely see from him, a doubt that is bone-deep and powerless.

Soon you’re sweeping through the cardinals’ rooms with Rhaena, tidying things up, making beds, wiping down bathrooms, beard hairs clogging the sinks and stray piss drops on the floor. But Aemond’s room is immaculate. You send Rhaena into the bathroom to see if he needs more shampoo or conditioner or toothpaste, and in the few seconds she’s gone you lean down over Aemond’s bed and breathe him in: smoke and cologne, vanilla and amber and cinnamon, and salt too, like something made him sweat through his clothes.

The stomach is an elastic organ—the more you eat, the more it wants—and lust is the same way, so you try not to feed it. On the rare occasions you find yourself too...distracted, that is easily remedied: a detachable showerhead, a hand slipped under the elastic waistband of your pajama pants. But now it all comes pouring back in, fifteen chaste years’ worth of longing, perhaps a lifetime’s worth, and you try not to imagine his hands covering you: a white veil gliding over your hair, sand on wet skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night, and you are in Saint Peter’s Basilica, closed to the public until the conclave has concluded. You are here because the acoustics are good: you can hear the crowds out in the square singing The First Noel as they hold their candles and their handmade signs—God bless the Holy Father, Miracles are real, Pro-life and proud, Cardinal Targaryen for Pope—and you close your eyes as you listen. You love Christmas music, and without phones or radios, this is the only way you can get it.

The vaulted stucco ceiling is plated with gold. The floor is made of white marble and sand-colored travertine and crimson porphyry, red like lust or wrath or pride. Here is a fountain held up by cherubs, there is a basin taken from Emperor Hadrian’s tomb, there is monument to Pope Alexander VII adorned with the personified virtues of Truth and Love. And everywhere are depictions of keys; Saint Peter is the keeper of the keys of heaven, given to him by Christ. The leadership of the Church changes hands again and again, but the mission lives on, eternal, divine, pure despite the complexities and failures of mankind.

Occasionally, you hear the shuffling footsteps of cardinals as they pace the echoing corridors seeking God’s guidance. Cardinal Marcu, stooped and shaky, stopped to have a yarn with you perhaps half an hour ago; he seemed to be under the impression that Barack Obama is still the president of the United States. You are grateful that cardinals aged eighty and older are not permitted to vote in the conclave.

Your eyes are still closed when someone brushes up against you, a hand grazing across your hip, too light a touch to be intentional. You instinctively gasp and flinch away.

Aemond steps back, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says uncertainly.

You laugh when you see it’s him, pressing a palm to your pounding heart. “No, I’m sorry, I just startle really easily.”

He’s still bewildered. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I thought I barely—”

“No, really, it’s alright. I just...when people touch me and I can’t see it coming, it just freaks me out. But I’m fine now.”

His eye travels down to your medallion—Saint Agatha carved into plain, unprecious iron—and then he turns fierce. He moves towards you, drops his voice, demands as he stands so close his smoke and cologne seeps into your lungs: “Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter, Aemond.”

“It does. What was his name?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know.”

“So you can have him murdered?” you mock, and Aemond sighs and rubs his scarred forehead. “You aren’t asking for honorable reasons.”

He shakes his head and stares at the wall, centuries-old marble and gold, hot blood in his face, rage pulsing in his carotids and his jugulars.

Your voice is calm, because this is a truth you’ve lived with for fifteen years; it’s a part of your mental scenery, something you know happened but not something you feel anymore, aside from primeval muscle memories that never seem to die. “It wasn’t something I could have proved in court. He said if I told anyone, he would kill me. And then he got pulled over for drunk driving, and when they searched the car they found unregistered guns, and while he was in jail I packed my things and moved down to Sydney and showed up on the doorstep of the convent. And everything was okay after that.”

“He should have suffered,” Aemond seethes.

“I moved on. I had to. And that saved me, having a life that was mine. That I chose, that I had always wanted. The Lord tells us: Refrain from anger, abandon wrath. Do not be provoked, it brings only harm. And that’s true.”

“But what if you didn’t join the Church for the right reasons? What if it was just an escape for you, or some sort of trauma response—?”

“Why did you join the Church, Aemond?” you say. “So a billion people would love you?” He turns away, exasperated, but he doesn’t object. “You don’t get to question my motivations. Not when I have felt called to the Faith since I was a child.”

He breathes deeply, touches his palm to the gold cross that hangs from his neck, and looks at you again. “If I was the pope, I would help people. Lucky knows that. They all know that.”

“But that’s not why you want it.”

Several long hushed moments slip by like sand through your fingers. From outside, you can hear the crowds are now singing O Come, All Ye Faithful. Aemond says softly: “I shouldn’t have left you.”

He can’t mean that. It’s preposterous. “What, when you were twelve?”

He doesn’t respond.

Now your words are gentle. “I’m alright, Aemond. Really. You just caught me by surprise, I’m fine now. I’m not afraid of you or anything. Here, look.”

You reach out and take his hand, and instantly you know it was a mistake. There is a blazing light that fills your skull, a burning martyr, a revelation: you can feel him pulling you in and the heat of his face beneath your fingerprints, soft lips, rough scar, his palms circling your waist, your white veil falling away as he pulls the pins from your hair, the thirty-three buttons of his cassock unfastened and then—

But before any of this can happen, you jolt away from each other, Aemond clasping his hands behind his back and you clinging to your iron medallion. On it are engraved Saint Agatha’s words to God: I am your sheep, make me worthy to overcome the devil. And from across the space between you, a few footsteps that might as well be twenty-nine years, you and Aemond gaze at each other with terror, with wonder.

You don’t feel too old to start over.

You feel like your life is just beginning.

[anthony-does-art]

Oc-tober day 6: Symbol

"They say a cardinal is the spirit of a loved one who has passed"

Prompts:

[wereh0gz]

It's oc posting time

Rue has vivid revenge fantasies. Extremely violent ones about the many ways they'd kill Nox if they ever got their paws on him. Crushing his exoskeleton under their bare paws, tearing him apart limb for limb, ripping his guts out and eating his heart while he's still alive- you name it, they've probably thought about it

These thoughts *terrify* her. It proves what Nox has always told her right, that she is a hopeless, violent, uncontrollable *monster*. That the reason she became a beast in the first place is because she is truly evil at heart, just like him

(In actuality, it's just a symptom of their PTSD, but going to therapy and actually unpacking all of that isn't an option to them. They'd rather die than actually talk abt their struggles)

So the thoughts fester in her mind for years. She thinks about it daily. It becomes like an obsession. An impulse. A need. And she begins to think that the only way to free herself from that torment is to do it. To kill him. Even if it proves Nox right

Even if it proves *her* right

So they hunt him down, trying to kill him every time they encounter each other. And every time, Nox gets away, and he taunts them. And the thoughts, the want, the *hunger* for vengeance grows stronger

The cycle continues. The thoughts never cease. She never finds peace

(At least, she *thinks* she will never find peace, but she does. Eventually. After Nox dies from his own hubris lol)

[teenyjellyfishy]

From @captainofthetidesbreath

I think what the “well the gods could just leave” position is missing is the people who care about and worship and draw solace and strength from the gods who are not allowed a voice in this. It is a horror that they are not considered.

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter I

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

Spoiler-Free Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. Both have taken vows that make sure their paths may never cross. Until they do.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x F!Vestal!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 37k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn(ish), Injry, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, More tags to be added

AO3 I Series Masterlist I Masterlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

guys, where do we even start. i can't live with his end so i am rewriting it. enjoy <3

vestal (vigins) - priestesses of vesta, virgin goddess of Rome's sacred flame (details will be explained later in the story) dulcissima - sweetest (fond nickname) domus - a roman house posticum - a servant's entrance cubiculas - roman bedrooms

You didn't think it would lead to this.

A beloved General, a just man, kneeling in front of his opponent in the sand that covers the arena floor, the cloud of its dust settling onto the two men facing each other. The particles glisten in the scorching heat of the relentless sun above you, just as violent as the battle you have just witnessed.

It is not something you have ever truly enjoyed, hearing the last gasp of a dying man, seeing the moment a blade enters his stomach. Watching the winner shout with glee. Watching the dead body be dragged away.

But sitting in the specifically reserved area near the Emperors is good custom. Custom keeps one alive.

Custom is also hard to uphold when the man your heart is set on is fighting to keep his life mere feet below you.

You see Acacius’s lips move, see the pleading look in his eyes.

And then a soft thud echoes through the Colosseum as Lucius drops his sword and falls to his knees across from the General.

You wipe your hands furiously on your white gown, trying to keep your hands from sweating as your heart pumps wildly in your chest. You wonder what would happen to it if the sword would've found Acacius’s torso instead. Or his neck. Maybe it would've just given out, unwilling to beat any longer if his was not doing the same.

“No! Kill him! Soldiers!” The Emperor's cries reach you even through the uproar of the crowd, which is unwilling to accept any match that doesn't end with death. Rome always wants death.

“Archers!” He yells and you hold your breath as they draw their bows in unison, tips pointed right into the middle of the arena where the two men are still kneeling.

“Move,” you whisper under your breath, almost as if you believe Acacius can hear you. But he doesn't. He stays on his knees, upright, seemingly waiting for the arrows to hit. An archer to your left releases his arrow with a slight tremor in his arm–and misses by inches. It hits the sand behind Lucius instead, a small cloud of dust rising around it. But your eyes are drawn to the gentle movement of the General as he raises his arm.

“Hold.”

He doesn't have to scream the command. But his deep voice still travels throughout the Colosseum with urgency. The voice of a man who knows how to instruct his soldiers, how to make himself heard even on the battlefield, in the face of death. Even if it's his own that is imminent.

His reminder rings out in your head.

“How many of them will be loyal to you?” – “All of them.”

The archers hold their fire, no arrows following the first one. You turn your head to catch a glimpse of the twin Emperors, both practically jumping up and down with fury as they yell at the archers, at the guards, at anyone who will listen. “We'll have his head! We'll have the General's head for this! How dare he defy us–”

The bows are lowered as soldiers march into the arena, roughly placing cuffs around both men's hands. Acacius doesn't try to intervene with their orders this time, slowly rising to his feet and letting them lead him back towards the gate, though you don't miss the small stagger in his step. It makes a wave of worry wash over you.

“We’ll have your head, General! You will not live to see another battle! You will not even live to see another sunrise!”

Your blood runs cold at that and you stand up abruptly, your head bowed as your feet carry you back into the outer corridor of the Colosseum, a light breeze greeting you as the angry yells and curses from inside the arena grow more quiet.

You have given everything for Rome. Your vows, your service. You will not give him.

***

The moon is hiding away behind a large cloud when you slip out of the house and onto Via Nova, the sounds of cicadas and the occasional bark of a dog filling the night. Having fulfilled your duties for the evening and claimed that the scene at the Colosseum gave you a dull headache, you retired early. When the sounds of the other women in the house died down, you took your chance.

It isn't far to the domus Acacius and Lucilla reside in, your own quarters located just below Palatine Hill. On a clear day, you can see the stone walls of his house from the garden you use to grow herbs.

After about fifty feet, you turn, following down a more narrow path that allows you to travel in the shadows. A few minutes later, it leads you to the posticum of the noble home, an entrance off to the side, used mainly by the servants–or visitors unwilling to be seen. Acacius has taken to keeping it unlocked whenever he knows you are coming. You pray that it still is.

A light push against the wooden door is all it needs to swing open with a small creak, making you hold your breath as you place one careful foot in front of the other. The last thing you need is to alert any guards to your nightly visit.

But you’ve learned how to walk in the shadows and which streets to avoid. You know that the second step from the bottom creaks if you put too much weight on it. It feels like the stone walls of his house are silent witnesses to the amount of time you have spent tip-toeing to his quarters after everyone else has retired for the night.

You distantly wonder if they have allowed him the comfort of his own bed as you enter the atrium, already turning right towards the cubiculas–and pause when your gaze flickers around the open space.

Acacius is hunched over on a chair, a thick metal cuff sneaking around his ankle, the chain fastened securely around one of the columns that line each side of the open room. Your breath catches in your throat as you notice that he is wearing nothing but his red tunic, the gold details on the edges already worn and fading. He shivers in the cold night air, his arms wrapped protectively around himself. He looks so different from how he did in the arena just mere hours earlier. Smaller, somehow.

When you step forward, his head turns, eyes widening as you step into the dim light and recognition flickers over his face. “Dulcissima.”

You try to give him a smile but you're sure it fails miserably. Instead, you lessen the distance between you, passing the fountain in the center. “Acacius–”

“By the gods, what are you doing here?” He whispers, his soft brown eyes looking up at you. He sounds scared, his voice quiet but rough. Up close, you find that not only have they left him chained up in his own atrium but they have also not tended to his wounds. Caked blood and dirt decorate his skin, a part of his hair matted down with something that you hope is the latter.

You ignore his question. “They sentenced you to death.” No matter how hard you try, you can't keep your voice from shaking.

“They sentenced me to death the moment they learned about the plot,” Acacius mumbles quietly. “You know this. It was always going to end this way.”

“Where is Lucilla?” You ask quietly, casting a quick glance around yourself, almost expecting her to step forward from behind one of the columns. Even if you know you have nothing to fear from her. In fact, she may be the only person who understands what you are currently feeling.

“She is with two of the men. On their way to Lucius,” he admits, turning his body a bit more into your direction, which immediately forces a small grunt out of him. You suck in a sharp breath, though you're not sure whether it's in response to his injury or to what you just learned.

“He may already be dead.”

Acacius glances up at you with a look you can't quite place. Then he nods. “He may be.” He shakes his head ever so slightly. “But he has friends in the Colosseum. You forget whose son he is.” The General pauses again, his eyes searching your face as his whisper becomes more urgent. “Why are you here?”

A small sigh escapes you as you take two more steps towards Acacius. “Because you forgot who I am.”

It takes a few moments before recognition flickers in his eyes–and he understands. That as a Vestal, you may pardon with a touch of your hand. Even slaves. Even those sentenced to death.

He has seen you do it, once or twice. When prisoners called out to you as you passed by them with the jug of holy water. Begged you to place your palm on their head, to allow them to live. And they did. But this? This is different.

“No.”

“Marcus,” you say softly. “It’s the power they have given me, the role they have cursed me with. I may as well use it for good.”

“Dulcissima, they will know,” he protests, wincing slightly as he shifts his weight onto his legs and stands up. “They will know about us. They do not even need proof to put you on trial.”

“I do not care if they put me on trial,” you blurt out, taking a step forward just as he takes two back.

“Do not lay your hand on me,” he warns, raising his hand not unlike the way he did in the Colosseum earlier.

“Marcus. Please.” You’re begging more than asking. You don't think you could take it. A Rome without him.

His back hits the marble column and he curses under his breath just as you reach him. The chains meant to keep him from escaping turn into chains that make sure you can save him. Even if he does not want saving.

The tremor that has been a constant in your hands since seeing Acacius fall to his knees in the arena has disappeared, your fingers stretching slightly as you stand on tiptoes to reach for his head.

Soft, dark curls greet the tips of your fingers and you sigh in relief, mumbling a prayer as your hand comes to rest on his head like a crown. A shuddering breath leaves him, his eyes cast downward. Tension bleeds from his body, his shoulders sagging. A softness his soldiers never get to see.

It is a reminder of the nights you’ve spent together, always hidden and always too short. With whispered promises and silent prayers to Vesta to forgive you for loving him. You do not know how not to. And you don't ever want to find out.

But the way you bend upward, lips meeting his forehead–it simply comes more naturally than it should.

notes: thank you for reading! feel free to follow me on here or twitter/ao3 for updates on the next chapters! also, i would love to hear yalls thoughts so feel very free to leave a comment <3

! when commenting or reblogging, please make sure to hide spoilers from others !

[grudgecollector]

hii dear, you think you could write something with daryl and reader who has a really curly and volumous hair and one day daryl get home and see her straightening a few parts of her hair and he gets sad cause he really likes her curly hair and thinks that she is gonna straighten all of it, but in reality she is just doing that for a hairstyle that wanted to try, sorry if its sound silly but i never see something for curly haired girlies😔

Curled Around You | Daryl Dixon x Reader

Words: 2k

Tags: Season 2 Daryl, not proofread before uploading (sorry), slight angst but not really, fluff.

A/N: Hai nonny, thank you so much for your request. I had a lot of fun writing this, and honestly I'm surprised I was able to crank it out as quickly as I did.

And it doesn't sound silly at all! Everyone deserves to be able to read stories where you can immerse yourself, and that's what I'm here to do as a writer. I hope this story lives up to your expectations 💖

I decided to do season 2 Daryl because I'm still on my rewatch after almost eight years of not picking the show back up (it's Negan's fault). Hence why this won't take place in Alexandria, cause I don't remember any of the people from that place etc etc.

This went a little bit off from the initial requests path in order to pad it with a small plot, but still has the idea in mind.

Also I was not expecting this to be as long as it turned out to be. Post apocalyptic settings really get my gears turning, I guess.

The inside of Hershel’s bathroom was a little stuffy, even with the door open. You were so used to open spaces after all these months on the road, so used to it that now the closed off room made you feel claustrophobic. But you knew there was a sense of safety you couldn’t take for granted. 

Hershel had been kind enough to take in your group. Permitting a temporary stay on his beautiful farm while Carl recovered from his gunshot wound. It was a tragedy blanketed by a miracle. Plus it gave everyone more time to scout the surrounding areas for Carol’s lost daughter, Sophia. 

The Greene family was kind, humble, a man taking care of his family. You felt drawn to them, especially after a particularly nice conversation you had with Maggie. She had asked you about your relationship with the group, more particularly Daryl Dixon. 

The man you had stuck beside ever since he found you inside that convenient store. You were surrounded by dozens of biters. You didn’t think you would make it out alive. This was just a few weeks after everything fell. And not long after Daryl, Merle, and you found a group of survivors camped out around an RV. 

The both of you were practically stuck together ever since, your tent always next to his, then when your tent got badly damaged during a storm you had moved into his. He tried to keep his distance at first, practically pressing his body up against the flimsy fabric wall. You didn’t push him, not wanting to breach some unspoken boundary he had set up. 

“Aren’t you scared?” Maggie had asked during your conversation, “Of losing him?” 

“I’d be lyin’ if I said no.” You said quietly, head bowed down as the mere thought of him being bit graced your mind. 

It sickened you in all honesty, even if you had only known him for just a few months, you cared for him deeply. That much was obvious with how you had freaked out on Andrea for almost killing him. You still felt ashamed of your outburst, but you were terrified. If she had just been a better shot at that moment, Daryl would be dead. 

The hair straightener in your hand sizzled quietly as you slowly brought it down another small chunk of your usually curly hair. You looked at your hair with a small huff, hoping that it would stay straight for at least a few hours. With this humidity, though, you knew that wasn’t likely, but you still wanted to try. 

You were so busy fiddling with your hair that you almost missed the sound of footsteps coming up to the door. Dazzling blue eyes met yours in the mirror, Daryl raised an eyebrow as he watched you. He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching your movements carefully as you went to pick up the straightener again.

"You ain't doing that to your whole head, are you?" He asked gruffly. 

“Would it make you sad if I did?” You teased, smirking a little as he let out a scoff. 

He shook his head and looked down at his boots for just a second, “Just like the curls is all. It’s pretty on you.” He cleared his throat suddenly. 

He looked at the back of your head instead of meeting your eyes in the mirror again, nervously chewing on the inside of his lip. Daryl always had a funny way of carrying himself around you, at some points he almost seemed timid. 

You suspected the thought of intimacy scared him, and you couldn’t blame him. Seeing how his brother and him interacted, you assumed he probably didn’t have much time in his life for romance. He already had enough to deal with when it came to blood, why throw another thing into that messed up mixing pot? 

“You don’t gotta worry about it, I’m just testing somethin’ out.” You smiled at him sweetly. 

“A’right.” He nodded, pushing himself off of the door frame. 

You turned towards the man a little more, “Did you need somethin’, Daryl?” Your voice was soft as you spoke, hand coming down to rest on your hip. 

“Rick just told me you’d be here. Thought I’d come check on you.” He swayed a little, “And I found somethin’ for you on my run.” 

That perked you up a little, intrigued at what he could have possibly found. It could be anything when it came to him, he always had a knack for surprising you. Gifting you things that reminded him of you. The last time it was a small porcelain cat, impractical in the world you lived in now, but cherished by you nonetheless. 

Daryl didn’t give you time to reply before he started walking back towards the living room. His boots echoing through the empty house, followed by the creaking of the screen door that leads to the porch. 

You were quick to finish with your hair, tying it up to match the picture in a magazine you found inside an abandoned salon. You glanced down at the picture sitting on the counter, then back up to the mirror with a shrug. 

“Close enough.” You muttered before unplugging the straightener. 

During the end of the world you figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least try and experiment. There were no bystanders to be insecure about anymore, and you doubt the group would so much as try and put you down for doing something so harmless. 

“Well, look at you.” Shane said as you walked past him in the hallway, “Got a hot date or somethin’? What’chu all spiffied up for?” 

“Just wanted to try somethin’ new, Shane.” You were short with your answer, his lingering gaze making your skin crawl as the days went on. 

While you knew it wasn’t you he was truly after, that didn’t stop you from being uncomfortable around him. He was losing his grip, being irrational, that trip he went on with Otis really messed with his head. It stirred him more than any other death in your group, you wanted to be suspicious, but you chalked it up as just being pessimistic. 

“You seen Daryl?” You asked after a beat of silence. 

“He was out by the RV last time I saw him.” Shane glanced over your shoulder towards the front door, “Was talking about going out to look for the girl tomorrow morning.” 

You sighed softly, heading towards the front door. It didn’t surprise you one bit, Daryl has really stepped up over the past few months, truly making his place amongst the group. He didn’t want to lose anyone else, especially someone as vulnerable as a child. 

The wind brushed through your curls gently, making them tickle against your exposed shoulders. You glanced down at the torn fabric on your blue tank top, you’d have to sew it up sooner or later. 

“So what’d you find for me?” You asked while walking up behind Daryl, he was crouched down next to the RV, carefully examining the squirrels he caught to make sure they were good enough to eat. 

“It’s in my tent.” He replied before standing back up. 

Daryl stopped once he turned around to see you, his eyes scanning over your face and hair. He was quiet, swallowing and nodding towards his tent. You took that as a sign to lead the way. Your shared tent wasn’t far from the rest of the group, but far enough to where Daryl didn’t feel smothered. He liked his space, and apparently he only liked when you were in it. 

“Close your eyes.” Daryl said over his shoulder, unzipping his tent. 

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, “Seriously?” You questioned, unable to resist the urge to laugh a little. But you obeyed anyway, your eyelids sliding closed.  

The man moved the flimsy flaps aside and fished through his backpack for a few seconds before standing up with his hands behind his back. 

“Figured you’d like something like this.” Daryl said, watching as you opened your eyes, “Can you guess what it is?” There was a smirk ghosting his lips, oh how you hated when he did this.

“Come on, Daryl.” You groaned, “How the hell am I supposed to guess?” 

This was a usual game Daryl liked to play with you. A guessing game for your gift, even though he usually always gave it to you whether or not you got it right. 

You started to strain your mind for any possible thing it could be, small enough to hold behind his back, maybe another porcelain cat? No, he wouldn’t be that predictable. Possibly a new hair brush? If it was that he would have just given it to you. It must have some sort of sentimental value for him to-

“You wanna hint?” Daryl chuckled quietly, shifting from one foot to the other subtly. 

“Please.” 

“Remember that conversation we had back in Atlanta?” He asked, softer this time, reminiscing on that late night discussion by the fire, just the two of you brushed against each other while sharing meat from a successful hunt. 

The warmth soaked into your skin, willing away the late night chill that had settled over you inside your tent. The wood inside the makeshift fire pit cracked and popped loudly, embers rising haphazardly into the night sky before fading. 

“What d’you miss? About your life before all this.” Daryl asked quietly, trying not to disturb the peace that had settled over the both of you. 

You thought about it for a second. Of course you missed your family, your friends, hell you even missed your job a little. That sense of normalcy that your day to day life brought. A routine. There was a hell of a lot to miss about life before shit hit the fan. 

“Hmm…” You pondered the question, mulling it over in your mind, “I used to take photos with my aunt. Nature scenes all over Georgia. Used to be the family photographer right after my aunt passed, weddings, birthday parties, all that mess.” You recalled those memories fondly, with a tinge of sadness coating your throat as you resisted the urge to cry. “There was this one place in Helen I went to once, god it was so beautiful. Some of the best pictures I ever took.” 

“You still got your album?” He asked after a second of silence. 

“I lost it when my house burned up.” You bit the inside of your wobbling lip, “So many memories lost.” 

Your eyes widened once you fully processed what he said. That conversation was ever present in the back of your mind, the first time you ever opened up to Daryl emotionally, it was a meaningful memory to you. A brief moment like that was meant to be cherished. 

“You didn’t…” 

“I might have.” Daryl smirked, finally revealing a polaroid camera that was hidden behind his back. 

The tears were pooling in your eyes quickly, “Oh Daryl…” A quiet hiccup came from your mouth, your hands coming up to grab the camera from him. 

“That’s not it, also got this too.” He revealed the second item hidden behind his back, a small photo album. 

If you had any doubts about loving the man in front of you before, this moment right here solidified your feelings. 

You loved him. You loved how he cared. How he listened. Clung onto your words and remembered the small details. But you figured it must not have been small to him if he went out of his way to grab it for you. 

Gently, you sat the two gifts down on a turned over log before throwing your arms around Daryl’s shoulders. He wound his arms around you instinctively, not entirely used to the touch, but accepting it anyway. 

“You have no idea… No idea how much this means to me.” Your voice was muffled against his flannel shirt, tears soaking into the fabric. 

He guided you back a little and softly brushed his thumb against your wettened cheek, a smile found its way to Daryl’s handsome features. His eyes looking over you tenderly. His fingers found their way to your curls, softly weaving through the coils. 

“You did good with your hair, sweetheart.” He complimented, making your stomach flip, the close proximity between the two of you could almost be perceived as two lovers holding each other. And you guessed that in a world like this, you practically were.

[xylatox]

January 2025 Fic Recommendations!!

a/n: my first fic recommendation list for the year!! All these fics I have read and I have loved every single one of them; please show your love to the authors by reblogging, liking and even sharing your thoughts with them :). To the authors, I'm sorry for the tag!

Key - ☆ -series ♡ -one-shot

Tomorrow X Together

☆ Between Twilight Skies | @jjunbug ~ ongoing

wc - 7.5k+

pairing - choi yeonjun x 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, huening kai x 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾r

synopsis - in a world that's on its dying breath, the once green and lush landscapes get buried in more and more layers of ash. the once flourishing streets that were full of magic are now a dull hum. yet, there is still hope—and it lies in the hands of you and kai, the last people to possess magic. suddenly, you remember the story of a forest that watches, and a well of life that lies deep within. you're determined to save your bleak world in any way that you can, yet, you weren't expecting to end up in a brand new world entirely.

♡ Bloodbound | @beomiracles

w.c - 2.5k

pairing - vampire!taehyun x human!reader

synopsis - Oh, you. So pretty, young and alive. Blood flows within your veins, carrying all the way to your beating heart, the one he can hear from miles away. Your breath hitches when his sharp fangs brush against your neck, your eyes flutter before they widen in fear. — God it drove him insane

♡ The Scientist | @dawngyu

w.c - 21k

pairing - popular hueningkai x deaf fem!reader

synopsis - Kai, who thrived in sound. Loud noise, vibrant conversations, the hum of life. And the quiet girl that sits prettily by the window—had begun to haunt his mind—stirring his heart the way only music ever had.

There must be some scientific explanation for this... right?

♡ The Last Safe Space | @dawngyu

w.c - 30k

pairing - idol!beomgyu x fem!soldier reader

synopsis - The world didn’t end with a bang. It ended with a whisper, a deadly virus creeping through the streets, turning the living into something… monstrous.

It was supposed to be a mission. Get in. Get out. Rescue the five a-list boys holed up deep in the city of Seoul. But nothing in this new, broken world is simple anymore.

The dead don’t scare you as much as his starry eyes do—deep brown eyes that make you question if you’re the one who needs saving, after all.

♡ When The Reaper Weeps | @gyu-tori

w.c - 12.4k

pairing - grim reaper!taehyun x fem mortal!reader

synopsis - The afterlife, where death waits in shadow, Taehyun walks the line between humanity and duty, a grim reaper bound by unyielding rules and a heart he has long denied. Cold and distant, he collects souls with precision—until one last wish changes everything.  

Y/N’s days are numbered, given seven days before the after life welcomes her. Her final mission is simple: mend the broken ties of her past.

As the days slip away, Taehyun’s carefully constructed world unravels. Y/N’s determination forces him to confront the emptiness in his existence. When choices arise—between rules, rebellion, and a love neither is prepared for—Taehyun must face the cost of defiance.  

Will he remain the Reaper, bound to his duty, or will he weep for the first time in centuries?

☆ Supermarket Flowers | @yunverie ~ ongoing

w.c - 15.5k+

pairing - taehyun x reader

synopsis - In the quiet corners of a bustling campus, Taehyun, a once-passionate artist, finds himself at odds with the canvas. Each brushstroke feels heavier, every color muted by the weight of personal battles he keeps locked away. Across the hall lives someone just as adrift— you, a musician whose melodies have grown somber since a breakup that shattered your rhythm and dimmed your spark. Two souls, dulled by life, separated by a thin wall but worlds apart in their own silence.

Fate weaves their paths together in an unassuming art supply room, where their individual searches for solace lead to an unexpected companionship. Amidst the scent of paint and the soft strum of guitar strings, they begin to fill the gaps in each other’s lives without even realizing it. Conversations spark over spilled paints and improvised melodies, and laughter starts to echo where silence once lingered. Slowly, they start to see colors they had forgotten and hear music they thought they'd lost.

And as life begins to take on new hues, they realize that perhaps, just perhaps, love might be worth taking a chance on again.

☆ To Someone From A Warm Climate | @hyukascampfire ~ ongoing

w.c - 93.3k+

pairing - faerie!taehyun x reader, faerie!yeonjun x reader

synopsis - a life lived as a human among the fae is one hard-earned. the folk are built of indescribable beauty, and of debauchery and mischief. for some, a life lived subservient to the folk is just fine; but to those who dream of something more, they would spend their lives clawing and biting to make it happen.

you, looking for a way to escape a life as a faerie’s human servant, put a new foot forward thinking that any life could be better than that. but, when your first assignment as a king’s spy is alongside a brooding, icy faerie man, you begin to wonder what your place in this foreign world really could be.

♡ Letters of Yesterday | @gyu-tori

w.c - 9.1k

pairing - cursed writer!hueningkai x fem artist!reader

synopsis - When love is as fragile as memory, Kai is cursed to forget everything—and everyone—he loves. No matter how deeply he feels, the magic erases him, leaving only blank pages where once there were memories. But Y/N refuses to give up, even when every day brings a new heartbreak. As she clings to the fleeting moments of their time together, she fights to keep their love alive, knowing that each day could be the last he remembers her.

In a cycle of forgotten smiles and vanished kisses, can love survive when memories are fleeting? Or will the price of holding on to Kai’s love be more than she can be

Seventeen

♡ Baby | @sailorsoons

w.c - 29k

pairing - Soongyoung x f. reader

synopsis - Soonyoung had been in your life for as long as you can remember. You haven’t spoken since your wedding to someone who isn’t him, but when you uncover your husband’s plans to turn against your family, you don’t know who else to call.  

♡ Cherry Picker | @gyuswhore

w.c - 19k

pairing - Hockey player! Seungcheol x figure skater! reader

synopsis - [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone.

There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.

♡ agrodolce | @amourcheol

w.c - 27.5k

pairing - dessert chef! mc x dessert chef! seungkwan

synopsis - one would expect being a dessert chef to be a life filled with sugary goodness, but nothing is sweet when working alongside boo seungkwan. when the two of you are forced to create a special dessert for the winter menu together, you think the restaurant will burn down. late night planning, shopping mall snooping, and a simple dessert might just save you from your expectations.

♡ Full Throttle pt1 - pt2 | @diamonddaze01

w.c - 20.6k + 16.7k

pairing - ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader

synopsis - jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.

♡ between you and me | @haologram

w.c - 40.4k

pairing - lee chan x fem!reader

synopsis - everything you've ever done, chan has been by your side - either egging you on or talking you off the ledge. after a rough year of studying, failed relationships and having chan be the insistent angel on your shoulder, the holidays roll around - and let's just say you're not too happy about it.

Enhypen

♡ Faking It | @shy2-29

w.c - 12.5k

pairing - lee heeseung x reader

synopsis - You had never liked Heeseung, and he had never liked you either. Over the three years, both you and Heeseung had become the most popular student in the university. You barely spoke to each other, just exchanged the occasional spiteful look in the hallways. You had sworn never to speak to Heeseung again—until one day, he unexpectedly asked you to be his fake girlfriend.

♡ cross the line | @heegyukeluv

w.c - 14.5k

pairing - heeseung x afab!reader

synopsis - “How do you know if someone is flirting with you?”  It was Heeseung’s question to you, and you were left with no option other than to show how you do it.

♡ Falling Alone | @babeyun

w.c - 39.5k

pairing - lieutenant!lee heeseung x therapist!housewife!reader

synopsis - cold cases were heeseung’s specialty, and he cracked every single one. cold hearts were your specialty, and you have yet to make a single chip in your husband’s.

♡ grocery store receipts | @paarksunghoon

w.c - 31.5k

pairing - sunghoon x reader

synopsis - your hot neighbor seems to have everything you don’t: charm, confidence, and a sense of direction in life. you’ve managed to keep to yourself in the time you’ve lived across from his apartment but the holiday season brings brings out unresolved feelings, and you find that the best present of all has always been standing right in front of you.

♡ do you think I'm fragile? | @just-nc-tea

w.c - 30k

pairing - hockey player heeseung x coach's daughter Y/N

synopsis - A car accident has turned your life upside down, leaving you with a knee and ankle that ache like they belong to someone three times your age. Navigating college with these setbacks is hard enough, but when your overprotective dad insists you take an internship with the men’s hockey team, you’re thrust back into the world you’ve spent years avoiding. The rink represents everything you’ve lost—and then there’s Heeseung, the captain whom you somehow cannot stop thinking about.

♡ iced americano season | @just-nc-tea

w.c - 39k

pairing - hockey player jay x radio host x influencer & barista Y/N

synopsis - A simple iced americano is about to ruin Jay’s entire season. Falling for the cute barista at his favorite café means free coffee, but it also comes with unexpected complications. Between her overprotective best friend stirring up drama and the internet’s relentless spotlight on his personal life, Jay quickly learns that some risks are worth taking—even if it means skating into uncharted territory. He regrets nothing

[novaursa]

I have a request! Reader is the younger sister of Daenerys! When Jon first visits Dragonstone, he mildly admires her from afar as she is her sister’s right hand advisor. But Davos warns him of the treachery and terror people tell about her. It can be a flashback, but I was thinking about instead of the Khalasar kidnapping Dany, they instead kidnapped her sister. She was the one to burn all of the Khalasar and gained the massive army for her and her sister. However rumors spread as Davos mentions her as The One who Brings Death. Jon however can’t really comprehend and is in awe of it all. He doesn’t seem turned off by it all by nonetheless is wary about the reader’s reputation. When he’s on Dragonstone’s bridge, he meets the reader and they talk. The reader is more open than her sister, wanting to maintain peace in all between the two parties. She tells him alittle bit about her story growing up and it makes Jon emphasize with her. They bond over the few days he stays on Dragonstone and he eventually convinces her to talk to Dany about joining their alliance. reader can also be bonded either to Viserion or Rhaegal.

The Death Bringer and The Wolf

Requests are closed!

- Summary: You meet Jon on the shores of Dragonstone, and he learns how wolves and dragons are the same side of the coin.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jon Snow

- Note: The reader is Daenerys' sister and is bonded to Viserion.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The salty breeze of Dragonstone whips through your hair as you stand at your sister's side, eyes fixed on the men approaching from the distant shore. Jon Snow—the King in the North—walks with purpose, his face hardened like the Northern winter. His loyal advisor, Ser Davos Seaworth, follows close behind, ever watchful.

You sense Jon's gaze drift toward you. You’ve felt eyes on you before, countless times, but his feels different—curious, not hostile. As Daenerys speaks with Tyrion, you notice his eyes linger on you, his brow furrowed ever so slightly. There's admiration there, hidden beneath the caution. He knows what you are to your sister: her most trusted, her shadow, her sword. A part of him seems drawn to that, though he hides it well beneath his stoic expression.

Jon’s thoughts are interrupted by Davos, who murmurs low enough that only he can hear, "Be careful around her, my lord. They call her 'The One Who Brings Death' for a reason."

Jon glances at him, brow raised.

"They say she burned an entire khalasar to the ground after she was captured," Davos continues, voice grim. "No mercy, no hesitation. It wasn't just dragons that won Daenerys her army; it was her sister's fire. The people say she commands death like others command swords."

Jon’s eyes flick back to you. You stand tall beside your sister, regal and composed, as if the rumors have no hold on you. He tries to reconcile the idea of the calm woman before him with the tales of destruction Davos speaks of.

The air was thick with smoke that day, the smell of burning flesh heavy in your nose.

You had been bound and beaten, the khals laughing as they paraded you around like a prize. They thought they could break you, like they did with others who crossed their path. But they didn’t know you. They didn’t know the fire that lived within your blood.

When you finally broke free, the heat of Viserion’s presence burning in the distance, something primal surged through you. They thought they could crush you with fear and chains, but you were Targaryen—a dragon, not a lamb. You had given the signal, and Viserion’s fire rained down upon the khalasar like judgment from the gods. One by one, they fell, engulfed in flames.

You showed no mercy as they screamed, no pity as they burned. You had stood at the heart of it all, flames casting your shadow long over the dead and dying. When it was over, what remained of the khalasar bent the knee to you and your sister, not out of loyalty, but out of fear. The fear of the woman who had turned fire into her weapon, who had scorched the mightiest men of the Dothraki to ash.

The stories spread like wildfire, growing darker with each retelling. Some called you a savior; others whispered of a demon in human skin. But they all said the same thing in the end—you were The One Who Brings Death.

The flash of memory passes, and you’re brought back to the present. Jon is still watching you, though more carefully now. He’s heard the stories, you’re certain, but you don’t care. What they say doesn’t matter. Only the loyalty of your sister, the strength of your dragons, and the fire in your blood hold any weight.

Jon doesn’t seem repelled by the tales. If anything, there’s a glint of awe in his eyes. He doesn’t understand, not yet. But he will.

You move with grace as you approach him, meeting his gaze fully now. "Jon Snow," you greet, your voice soft, calm, betraying none of the fire that lies beneath. "Welcome to Dragonstone. My sister is eager to meet with you."

He nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "Thank you," he replies, though there’s a pause, as if he’s about to say more, but Davos clears his throat, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand.

As you and Jon begin to walk toward the long stone bridge that connects the shore to Dragonstone, the sound of the crashing waves fills the silence between you. Davos lingers behind with Tyrion, giving the two of you some space, though you sense that his eyes never leave Jon’s back.

You turn to Jon, noticing the tension in his posture. "You don’t need to be so guarded," you say, your voice softer than before. "I know what they say about me, and I imagine Ser Davos has already filled your ears with those tales."

Jon’s eyes flicker toward you, a hint of uncertainty crossing his face. "He did mention a few things," he admits, his voice low, as if reluctant to offend.

You smile gently. "No doubt they paint me as some bringer of doom, a monster in human skin." You glance out at the sea, the horizon dark and endless. "But it’s not entirely true, you know. I did what I had to, for my sister... and for myself."

Jon studies you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. "It’s hard to imagine. You don’t seem like the kind of person who—" He stops, clearly unsure of how to finish the sentence without sounding harsh.

"Who burns people alive?" you offer, a dry chuckle escaping your lips. "You’re not the first to struggle with that. But I assure you, Jon, war changes people. My sister and I didn’t have the luxury of growing up in peaceful times. We were hunted from the day we were born."

Jon frowns at that, his gaze softening. "I’ve heard some of your story. I know you were forced to flee when you were young."

You nod, the memories flickering in your mind. "I was barely old enough to understand what was happening when we fled. We lost everything—our home, our family, even our names, for a while. It was just Viserys, Daenerys and me, hiding in foreign lands, never knowing who to trust, never feeling truly safe." Your eyes meet his, and you see the understanding in his expression.

"I know something of what that’s like," Jon says, his voice quieter now. "I grew up as a Stark in Winterfell, but I never really belonged there. My father was honorable, my family good to me, but... I was always an outsider, the bastard."

You watch him closely, feeling a pang of empathy. "It’s a cruel thing, being kept on the outside of your own family. I’ve spent most of my life trying to prove myself, not just for my sister’s sake, but for mine. I didn’t want to be a shadow forever."

He nods, seeming to find a shared pain in your words. "It makes you do things you never thought you’d be capable of," he murmurs.

You look ahead at the imposing figure of Dragonstone looming in the distance, its sharp edges cutting into the sky. "I didn’t want war, Jon. I wanted peace, for my sister and for her people. But every time we tried to build something, it was ripped away from us. The khalasar... that was one of the darkest moments of my life, but it won us an army. It won us power."

Jon is silent for a long moment before he speaks again. "I can see why people follow you. You and your sister."

"I don’t want them to follow me out of fear," you say softly. "But I know that’s what some of them do."

Jon turns his head slightly, his eyes searching yours. "And what do you want, then?"

The question lingers in the air, heavier than the wind. "I want peace, Jon. I want this to end without more bloodshed. I’ve seen enough fire and death for a lifetime."

His gaze softens as he watches you. "You sound different from your sister."

You smile, but it’s tinged with sadness. "Daenerys and I are alike in many ways, but we’ve had different paths. She’s always carried the burden of the throne on her shoulders. I’ve always been the one fighting in the shadows, making sure she gets there."

"Maybe it’s time for her to listen to you," Jon suggests quietly.

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. "You think she’ll listen?"

"I think she trusts you. And if you talk to her about working with us, about standing together against the real threat... she might listen."

You study him for a moment. Jon Snow, the King in the North, is nothing like the lords and kings you’ve met before. He carries the weight of the world, much like Daenerys does, but there’s no arrogance, no hunger for power in his eyes. Only duty.

"I’ll talk to her," you say after a pause, your voice quiet but resolute. "I’ll try to make her see that this alliance could save more lives than we’ll ever know."

Jon nods, relief flashing across his face. "Thank you."

The two of you continue your walk toward the castle, a sense of quiet understanding settling between you. Over the next few days, you find yourself drawn to Jon more and more. There’s something calming about him, something honest. He’s not like the others you’ve had to manipulate, to outmaneuver in order to protect your sister. With Jon, you can speak freely, and that’s a rare thing in your world.

In those few days, Jon’s presence becomes almost familiar. You exchange stories of your pasts, the scars you both carry, and the hope that something better is possible. It’s a fragile hope, but it’s there, flickering between the two of you like a small flame in the dark.

And when the time comes, you do talk to Daenerys. You speak of the threat in the North, the army of the dead, and the value of Jon Snow as an ally. You remind her that the war for the throne means nothing if they all die in the coming winter.

It takes time, but eventually, Daenerys agrees. You can see the spark of something in her eyes, something that wasn’t there before, and you know Jon’s presence has shifted something within her as well.

As you stand beside your sister, watching Jon prepare to leave, you feel a strange sense of both relief and uncertainty. He has changed something in you, too—made you see the world a little differently. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure what that means.

[7smiles]

people who fuck and suck on Zero Day but hate Elephant are probably the most media illiterate people you'll ever come across.

I feel like if you cant grasp that Elephant was an artistic telling of how many lives are affected by one person's actions (Two people since Alex orchestrated Eric to help), you just miss the entire point of the film and have no right to judge it.

Zero Day and Elephant shouldnt even be compared bc truly, they tell different stories even if its on the same topic. Zero Day tells the lives of Andre and Calvin in a way that makes you understand their actions and SHOWS why they were disliked and how socially outcasted they were, even if Cal was more liked than Andre.

Elephant gives you glimpses of Eric and Alex but its enough to paint the picture that Alex was privileged with a seemingly nice family and that his actions were only justified to himself by how he was bullied in class by the jocks he hates. He killed people indiscriminately and he lacks room for redemption, where I think it'd be possible to find pity in Cal and Andre.

To juxtapose him against Johnny, who very clearly has a difficult home life, but good friends in school is SO so important in telling Alex's character. Elephant is a film where you have to inference what the themes are, its not directly shown to you like in Zero Day- That is why it is more of an artistic piece. - Johnny, even with a difficult home life, still tries to save and warn people and is even shown to STILL be looking after his drunkard father during the shit thats going down! The focus on the students is absolutely necessary and dragging out the scenes where they all cross paths just shows how many personal timelines are affected. Johnny comes out unscathed but within the window of 20 minutes, the Elias he had JUST spoken to is already presumed dead. Someone entirely wiped away from Johnny's life at the hands of Alex's selfishness and naivety.

Zero Day is a great film and it is dear to me, but it only really gets into Calvin and Andre's mind's and barely their personal life. It tracks their thought processes and their personal relationship, it shows you how involved they are with one another and really sells that even in death, they are all they have. Elephant is probably the polar opposite of Zero Day, and thinking critically about Elephant is sooo important. Im really tired of seeing people in the Elephant tag shit on it in favor of Zero Day as if they are near the same story. They didn't out-do each other, both films did an amazing job at telling stories of teenage tragedy.

Thanks for reading, i love these movies + i think theyre super important pieces of media !!

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 26 - I Care Not To Repeat

Summary: Arthur’s unexpected act of kindness sets the stage for a fragile alliance between two men shaped by loss and loyalty. Upon returning to camp, they must work quickly to prepare for yet another journey.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: I really enjoyed writing this chapter, I can't wait for you guys to meet Eagle Flies. 10.7k words, lot's of feels and dialogue. Enjoy!

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw  @yallgotkik @sawendel

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Eagle Flies strained against the ropes binding his wrists to the wagon wheel, the coarse fibers digging deep into his skin. His arms ached from the unnatural angle, muscles screaming as they fought against the restraints. The bindings stretched his chest taut, leaving him exposed and unable to twist away from the brutal blows. Each punch and kick jarred his body, the pain carving fiery paths through his nerves. But he swallowed it, crushed it, and turned it inward. His pain was fuel. His anger, the fire it stoked. 

He would not give these men the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

Rage simmered beneath the surface, dark and seething. These men—these white men—thought they could break him as easily as they had broken the land, the rivers, the trees, and his people. They came with their laws, their machines, and their greed, carving scars deep into the earth and tearing apart lives without a second thought. His hatred for them burned as hot as the sun over the plains, scorching and absolute.

A fleeting pang of guilt pierced through his fury, unwelcome and bitter. What would his father think? No—what would his father do when he found his son’s broken body, lifeless and abandoned? There would be no surviving this.  

The two men who had come with him—boys, really, no older than Eagle Flies. Were dead already. Their youthful pride and reckless defiance had crumbled under the weight of reality. They had believed, like him, that they could strike a blow for their people, that their small acts of resistance could echo louder than the roar of a train engine or the bark of a rifle. They had died for that belief, their lives snuffed out like embers.  

And now, he was left alone to face the consequences of his own pride. He had thought himself strong enough to fight back, to make these invaders pay for what they had done. For the children left starving, for the elders forced to watch their homes burn. For the rivers choked with filth and the sacred grounds trampled beneath boots. 

Someone had to fight back. Something had to be done.

His father’s endless talks of peace felt hollow to him, a dream clinging desperately to a world that no longer existed. The People had tried peace, and what had it brought? More death. More land stolen. More humiliation.  

Another fist connected with his chin, snapping his head to the side. Pain shot through him, but Eagle Flies spat a mouthful of blood onto the man’s boots, glaring up at his captor with a defiance sharper than any blade. The man said something, mocking and cruel, but Eagle Flies didn’t bother to listen. The words were muffled under the ringing in his ears, and even if he could hear them clearly, he wouldn’t care. 

English was their language—an ugly, foreign thing forced down his throat in his youth. His father had insisted he learn it, calling it a necessity in a changing world. But to Eagle Flies, it was a language of lies and theft, of broken treaties and empty promises. It didn’t belong to him, and it never would.

The two men who had been beating him paused their assault, muttering to each other in low voices. They thought he was hiding something—an ambush, a larger group of savages lying in wait. The thought made him laugh. The sound was hollow, like dry thunder across a dark sky. If only that were true. If only there were more of his people ready to strike back. If only they had more warriors. But there weren’t. He was alone, the last of his group. A pitiful excuse for a warrior who had let his anger carry him too far from home.

One less mouth to feed. Eagle Flies thought with resentment, already bartering with what would come of his pointless death. 

His father would never know the truth of his death. Rain Falls thought his son was off seeking the spirit world’s guidance, healing from the wounds of his soul. Instead, Eagle Flies would die here, tied to a wagon wheel, far from the burial grounds of his ancestors. His bones would be left to the vultures and scavengers.

And his soul would be condemned to wander this earth, alone—untethered, for all eternity.

When his tormentors finally left, replaced by two guards who barely spared him a glance, Eagle Flies slumped against the wagon wheel, his body betraying his rage by giving in to exhaustion. The smell of roasted meat wafted through the camp, his stomach growling in rebellion. A cruel reminder of the basic needs that tethered him to life, even as his spirit burned with the weight of despair.

He refused to let himself slip into unconsciousness. Pain and anger anchored him, a stubborn refusal to succumb to the humiliation these men sought to inflict. Just as his head began to droop, he noticed movement by the firelit tent. A shadow slipped inside, barely discernible in the flickering glow. Moments later, the muffled sounds of a struggle reached his ears—fists meeting flesh, air being stolen from lungs. 

Death had come calling. 

The sounds were all too familiar. He strained to listen, each nerve alive despite the ache in his body. The scuffle ended abruptly, and silence hung heavy in its wake, broken only by the crackle of the campfire.

Before he could process what he had heard, a low whisper shattered the stillness behind him. Eagle Flies flinched, instinctively yanking at the ropes.

“Easy, kid,” a deep, calm voice murmured. “M’gonna cut you loose. Once I do, you get those horses ready while I deal with the guards. Understand?”

Eagle Flies froze. The accent was unmistakably white, but the tone carried no venom. Suspicion flared in his chest, but he nodded stiffly. A moment later, he felt the cold bite of a blade slicing through the ropes. As the bindings fell away, he rolled his wrists, wincing at the painful rush of blood back into his numb hands. When he turned to look at his rescuer, the man was already gone, swallowed by the shadows.

Staggering to his feet, Eagle Flies forced his battered body toward the horses. His movements were fueled by nothing but adrenaline and sheer defiance. Fumbling with the saddles, his hands trembled from exhaustion, but the rhythmic task gave him a sliver of focus amidst the chaos in his mind.

The faint sounds of a fight echoed nearby—grunts, the dull impact of blows. A new surge of anger roared within him, hot and volatile. Part of him yearned to join in, to finish what the stranger had started and exact vengeance on the men who had brutalized him. But his legs wobbled beneath him, his strength already stretched thin. He would only be a liability. With his clenched jaw, and swallowing his frustration, he tightened the final strap on the saddle. 

Footsteps crunched behind him. Instinct took over. Gripping a knife he had pulled from the saddlebag, Eagle Flies spun around, his arm raised to strike.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growled sharply, despite the exhaustion weighing it down.

The figure stopped, raising both hands in a gesture of peace. The man stepped into the dim moonlight, and Eagle Flies studied him. Strong, rugged, a man who looked like he could wrestle a bear and win. Yet his eyes carried no malice—only a calm sincerity that gave Eagle Flies pause. He replied slowly, as if speaking to an animal prone to startling. “S’alright now. Those men are gone, I took care of it.” 

“Who are you?” Eagle Flies demanded, his tone wary. “Why did you free me?”

“Arthur.” The man sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as if the weight of the world rested there. “Name’s Arthur Morgan,” he said. “You’re Rain Fall’s boy, ain’t ya?”

Eagle Flies stiffened, shame and anger bubbling beneath his bruised skin. “Did my father send you?”

Arthur shook his head, stepping closer to take the reins of one of the horses. “No, he didn’t. But I’m guessin’ he don’t know you’re here, does he?”

Eagle Flies glared, his pride refusing to let him answer. Pulling himself into the saddle with a wince, he felt Arthur’s steady gaze on him, unyielding but not unkind.

“Your father asked me to help with the peace talks,” Arthur continued, voice calm but firm. “He’s tryin’ to stop Cornwall from takin’ more of your land.”

“I remember you now,” Eagle Flies scoffed, his bitterness spilling over like a dam breaking. “Father thinks you can stop a man like Cornwall? A man who burns our homes and kills our people like it's some kind of sport?”

Arthur shrugged as he mounted his own horse. “Don’t know. Maybe not. But I do know dyin’ out here, tied to that wagon wheel, won’t help him none. You alright?”

“Sure,” Eagle Flies replied bitterly. “I enjoy being tortured. Clears the mind.”

Arthur let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as his horse shifted beneath him. “Well, you’ve still got your tongue. That’s somethin’.”  

Eagle Flies frowned, spurring his horse to follow as Arthur turned toward the shadows of the forest. His body ached, every movement a reminder of how close he had come to death, but his mind was sharper now, hyper-focused on the man leading him away. The man who saved his life.

Arthur Morgan. He’d heard that name before. He and his father met with this man some weeks ago, when they were trying to renounce the new oil rig on their land. After pleading with the mayor of Saint Denis at his garden party. It struck him how he didn’t recognize him sooner, though the darkness and his swollen eyes made that nearly impossible. There was something different about the man he encountered tonight. There was something in the way Arthur carried himself, a weight to his words that hinted at a deeper story.  

“You don’t look like the kind of man who sits at peace talks,” Eagle Flies said after a stretch of silence. His voice was edged, testing.  

Arthur didn’t turn, his broad shoulders framed by the faint glow of the moon. “I don’t. But your father asked, and I reckon he deserves someone listenin’ to him.”  

Eagle Flies narrowed his eyes. “Why? What do you owe him?”  

Arthur glanced back briefly, his face unreadable. “Nothin’. But he’s fightin’ for his people, not just himself. That’s rare these days.”  

The young warrior mulled that over, his thoughts tangling with his anger. This man, this stranger, didn’t sound like the others Eagle Flies had encountered. There was no patronizing tone, no false sympathy laced with disdain. But there was something else—a quiet fury, buried but unmistakable. 

It was in the way Arthur carried himself; the tense set of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched when he spoke, as though keeping a dam from breaking. That anger wasn’t directed at Eagle Flies, but it lingered like smoke around a fire that refused to die. This was a man who had fought battles, more than one, Eagle Flies could tell. He had carried the weight of those fights long after they were over. He recognized it because he felt it in himself: the simmering frustration of a world that seemed to grind down anyone who dared to stand against it.  

That anger, though, was different from the reckless fury Eagle Flies often saw in his own reflection. Arthur’s wasn’t the kind of rage that exploded outward in wild defiance; it was sharper, tempered, like steel forged in a relentless fire. And yet, Eagle Flies couldn’t ignore the fresh bloodstains on Arthur’s hands, the faint tremor in his breath that spoke to the violence he’d unleashed moments ago. This was a man who had killed with purpose, not for glory but because he had no other choice. Eagle Flies didn’t need to ask how Arthur killed those men back there—he could see it in the haunted look buried deep in the older man’s eyes. 

Whatever Arthur Morgan was shouldering, it was more than just the bodies left behind. There was a pain too, a grief bound so tightly to his anger that it had become inseparable. And for reasons Eagle Flies didn’t yet understand, that made him trust this stranger just a little more.

“You’re angry,” Eagle Flies said bluntly, watching for a reaction.  

Arthur glanced over his shoulder again, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What makes you think that?”  

“Because I know what it looks like,” Eagle Flies replied. “What it feels like,” he explained. “I saw it back there. It’s in the way you carry yourself. Like you’re always holding it back.”  

Arthur was silent for a moment, guiding his horse through the underbrush. When he spoke, his voice was deep, and deliberate. “Maybe I am. But anger’s a dangerous thing, kid. It’ll burn you up inside if you’re not careful.”  

Eagle Flies bristled at the comment. “You think I don’t know that? I have nothing left to lose, my anger’s all I’ve got. It’s the only thing that keeps me fighting.”  

Arthur sighed, “I reckon you got much more to lose than that,” he muttered. His posture slumped slightly in the saddle. “Listen, I get it, kid. But fightin’ just for the sake of fightin’ doesn’t always get you what you’re after.”  

Eagle Flies clenched his fists, the reins biting into his palms. “And what would you know about it? You’re not the one losing your home, your people—” He caught himself, his voice thick with emotion, and looked away, ashamed at the crack in his defiance.  

Arthur slowed his horse, turning to face him fully. “You’re right,” he said simply. “I’m not. But I’ve lost plenty. And I know the kinda pain you’re carryin’. It ain’t gonna go away, no matter how many people you kill or fights you win.”  

The sincerity in Arthur’s voice threw Eagle Flies off balance. He studied the older man again, searching for something, anything, that would betray insincerity. But all he saw was exhaustion, a heaviness in Arthur that mirrored his own.  

“We’re not far now,” Arthur said, breaking the silence. “Come back to my camp. We got good people there. They’ll help you get cleaned up, get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out how to get you back to Wapiti.”  

Eagle Flies hesitated, his pride warring with his fatigue. He hated needing help, hated being vulnerable in front of a man he barely knew. But the promise of rest, of even a brief reprieve from the weight on his shoulders, was too tempting to ignore.  

“Fine,” he muttered, keeping his tone clipped. “But don’t think this means I trust you.”  

Arthur smirked faintly, nudging his horse forward. “Wouldn’t expect you to. But maybe you’ll change your mind after you’ve had somethin’ to eat that ain’t your own tongue.”  

Despite himself, Eagle Flies almost smiled at the dry remark. He followed Arthur into the night, his thoughts still clouded by anger but now tinged with something else—curiosity. For the first time in a long while, he wondered if he’d met someone who might actually understand his pain.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As Eagle Flies followed Arthur down a narrow path, the oppressive darkness of the bayou pressed in around them. Branches clawed at his legs and snagged on his clothes, while the undergrowth brushed against his knees, damp with dew. The air was thick and heavy with the tang of earth and decay, each breath feeling more like a drink of swamp water than air. He could barely make out the figure in front of him, relying instead on the steady squelch of Arthur’s horse’s hooves in the mud and the occasional clink of tack. The bayou was alive with sound—frogs croaking in the distance, the buzz of insects too close for comfort, and the occasional rustle that hinted at unseen creatures moving through the murk. 

True to Arthur’s word, the camp wasn’t far.  

The faint light of a campfire came into view, flickering weakly through the tangled trees, its dim orange glow struggling against the overwhelming dark. Arthur glanced back briefly, muttering that it was late and most of his gang would be asleep. He would take the lead so as not to startle them. 

Along the way, Arthur spoke sparingly, revealing glimpses of himself. A bandit, an outlaw, a murderer—on the run from the law. I ain’t a good man, he’d said plainly, his voice rough with something between regret and resignation. Eagle Flies hadn’t offered judgment; he understood what it meant to take a life, to spill blood for survival, justice, or rage. 

Whether in defiance or desperation, they both knew this world’s truth: it was eat or be eaten.  

As they approached the camp, two figures emerged from the shadows, their voices cutting sharply through the night.  

“Stop right there!” a woman barked, her gun aimed squarely at them.  

“Who are you?” demanded a man, his voice steady and firm.  

“It’s Arthur,” the cowboy called back evenly, his tone calm and familiar.  

The tension melted almost instantly. Relief swept over the pair as they lowered their weapons and rushed toward him. Arthur dismounted with a grunt, and Eagle Flies, now able to see more clearly, studied the two strangers. The man had long black hair and dark brown skin, clearly one of his people, though his expression was softened with relief rather than suspicion. He clasped Arthur in a tight embrace, patting his back with a mix of joy and disbelief, while the woman—a fierce-looking figure with determined eyes—spoke rapidly about thinking he was dead.  

Eagle Flies slid off the horse, his legs nearly buckling as he hit the ground with a dull thud. He grimaced, unable to stifle a pained grunt, and the sound instantly drew their attention. The native man, Charles, took a cautious step forward, his brows furrowing as though he recognized Eagle Flies.  

“Arthur, is that—?” Charles began, tinged with surprise and concern.  

Arthur raised a hand to cut him off, sighing heavily. “Yeah. Charles, this is Eagle Flies. Chief Rain Falls son.” He turned to the younger warrior, nodding toward the others. “Eagle Flies, this here is my friend Charles. And this,” he gestured to the woman who still regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, “is Mrs. Adler.”  

Eagle Flies straightened as best he could, taking in their faces. There was something grounding about Charles’ presence, a quiet reassurance in his steady gaze. The woman, Mrs. Adler, radiated a sharp intensity that made him wary but also curious. These weren’t just Arthur’s companions. 

They were his people. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur felt a wave of relief crash over him as he caught sight of Charles and Sadie, their presence grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. They were still here—alive—at this battered little camp they’d been calling home for the time being. He had no idea if any of the others had made it back, but just seeing their familiar faces eased some of the tension coiled in his chest. His heart pounded as his thoughts drifted to Kate, asleep in one of the cabins. She was safe, and for now, that was enough to keep him steady.   

He’d been through hell to get here, but he’d walk through that fire a million times if only to see her again. 

Charles looked between him and Eagle Flies, his brow creased with concern. Arthur could already feel the questions burning in his mind, but he got to the most pressing one first. “Found the kid tied to a military wagon,” he said briefly  

“Were there others?” Charles asked, his tone sharp and urgent. His dark eyes flicked to Eagle Flies, searching for an answer.  

Arthur hesitated, glancing at the young man. Eagle Flies gave a slight nod, the weight of it speaking louder than words. Arthur shook his head. “Just bodies.”  

Charles sighed and looked at the ground, “I’m so sorry.” He said quietly. 

The air grew heavy, the unspoken horrors filling the silence. Sadie cleared her throat, breaking the tension with a softer tone. “Looks like Arthur caught you at the right place at the right time. He’s good at showin’ up like that, when folks need him.”  

Eagle Flies shifted uneasily, his jaw tight as he scanned the faces around him. He didn’t speak, but his reluctance was written in the way his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched at his sides.  

Charles stepped closer, his voice gentler now. “Eagle Flies, I know this isn’t easy, but we need to know what happened. Where were they keeping you? How many soldiers were there?”  

There was a heavy pause before Eagle Flies finally spoke, his voice rough and barely above a whisper, “Near the river. West of here. There were more when they captured me... but only four on duty when Arthur came.”

His words hung in the air, the weight of them like the dampness of the bayou, thick and suffocating. Charles turned to Arthur, his gaze sharp with unease, the question lingering with all the dangers they had faced to get here. “Were you followed?”

Arthur shook his head, weariness etched into his every movement. “Not unless the dead start walkin’,” he said, carrying the faintest edge of dark humor.

“Good,” Charles said flatly, though his tone carried the kind of finality that didn’t invite further reassurance.

Sadie stepped forward, her voice like sunlight breaking through a storm. “Well, you’re here now,” she said, her smile warm but deliberate. “Let’s get you somethin’ to eat and cleaned up. You’ll feel a damn sight better after that.” 

Arthur nodded toward the fire, his tone softer. “She’s right. Go with Mrs. Adler, kid. She’ll fix you up somethin’ proper.”  

Eagle Flies hesitated, his eyes flickering between Arthur and Charles, as if gauging whether this was another trap or a rare moment of genuine kindness. Finally, he gave a small nod. Sadie motioned for him to follow, her steps and voice were steady as she coaxed him away from the smoldering tension of the conversation.

When the sound of their footsteps faded, Charles turned to Arthur, his eyes narrowing as he searched the man’s face. Arthur felt the scrutiny like a weight pressing into his chest.

“What happened back there?” Charles asked in a low voice, careful, but tinged with an urgency that betrayed the steady calm he was trying to maintain.

He hesitated, his gaze catching on the hollowness under Arthur’s eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders carried an unbearable weight. “Arthur, are you okay?”

Arthur exhaled shakily, his gaze darting away as he nodded, though they both knew it was a lie. “Hosea’s gone. Lenny too,” he said abruptly, the words cracking the air like dry lightning.

He cleared his throat, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice, but there was no masking the way the grief clawed at his neck, choking him from the inside.

It struck him how casually the words had left his mouth, like spitting venom that burned on its way out. The weight of them wrapped around him, suffocating, as their faces flickered in his mind; Hosea’s fatherly wisdom, Lenny’s fierce loyalty. Their final moments haunted him like ghosts clinging to his battered soul. 

How could he face Kate now? How could he ever explain to her that it was all because of him—because of his failure—that her life had been put in danger, that Hosea and Lenny were dead? He had promised her safety, promised her that they would survive together, but instead, he had dragged her into a war she never asked for. He had been the one to bring danger to their doorstep, to shatter whatever peace they might have had. And now, as the weight of their deaths settled like a stone in his chest, he couldn’t help but feel the crushing truth: He had failed them all. He couldn’t face Kate, not like this. 

What words could he possibly say to her? How could he break the news of the ones they had lost, when he couldn’t even face it himself? Arthur’s mind raced with the questions, but there were no answers. Only comforting lies to offer her. He was the reason they were gone, the reason she had been imprisoned. His failures cut deeper than any mortal wound. 

Arthur’s heart ached for her, knowing the hurt she would feel, the fear she might have when she found out the truth about what had happened on that boat. How could he look her in the eye and tell her that he had failed to protect the people he loved most, that his poor choices had led to so much loss? In that moment, Arthur felt like nothing more than a shadow of the man he used to be—broken, hollowed out by his own mistakes.

Undeserving of the woman he risked everything for. 

“Dutch was givin’ ’em hell by the time I took off,” Arthur said in a rush, his words tumbling out as if trying to outrun the grief. “Think he must’ve made it into a building or a boat or somethin’. Heard the law was still lookin’ for him when I high-tailed it.” His shoulders sagged under the weight of his words, his exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

Charles closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the news. The implications for the gang settled heavily between them like a stone dropped into a still pond, rippling outward. “And Milton? Is he alive?”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, his voice heavy with fatigue. “Don’t know. Didn’t look back after I left Saint Denis. Been tryin’ to get here in one piece. That’s when I found the kid. Those soldiers were ready to kill him.”

Charles nodded solemnly, his voice was steady but laced with quiet conviction. “You did the right thing, Arthur. Rain Falls will be grateful for your help.”

Arthur swallowed hard, the words like a bitter pill. Rain Falls’ gratitude wouldn’t erase the losses or the guilt that churned in his chest. Eagle Flies was alive, but Hosea and Lenny were gone, and nothing could ever make that right.

After a moment of silence, Arthur turned his gaze toward the cabins, his trembling voice barely audible over the sound of the chirping night frogs and humming cicadas. “Kate,” he murmured. “Is she—?”

Charles’ expression softened, sensing the unspoken fear in the question. “She’s okay. The girls took care of her. She’s asleep in your cabin.”

"Thank you, Charles," Arthur whispered, his voice wavering as he let out a shaky breath. 

The relief that flooded him was like a warm wave breaking against the shore, but still, his feet felt heavy, as though bound to the earth itself. His heart, a drum in his chest, screamed for him to move, to run, but his body refused to obey. His pulse was a frantic, disjointed rhythm, a sharp contrast to the stillness that seemed to envelop him. 

Would she look at him with eyes full of sorrow, with disappointment? Would she be ashamed of him, afraid of the man he’d become? The thought gnawed at him—those quiet moments when their lips had met, when he'd held her close and whispered promises of a future together. Could she still see the man she had loved in him, or had he destroyed that too? The questions, each a shard of doubt, raked through his mind, pulling him deeper into a sea of self-torment.

"Go to her," Charles' voice cut through the turmoil, gentle, like the caress of a summer breeze. "She needs you, Arthur." 

The words were the key that unlocked something inside him—something raw and aching, pulling him from his paralysis. With a quiet, desperate breath, Arthur turned, his body moving almost of its own accord, his steps slow but sure. Each movement was laden with the weight of his sins, each stride heavy with the burden of loss, yet still, his heart surged with an undeniable need. 

I need her. The thought clung to him like a lover’s whisper, a mantra he couldn’t escape. No matter how much he resisted temptation, he would always lose. 

I need her. The world outside was cold and unforgiving, but the thought of her—the warmth of her smile, the softness of her touch. Was all that kept him from breaking entirely. 

I need her. And so, with that single, desperate prayer, he walked toward the cabin, toward the one thing in this world that still felt like home.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The voices outside stirred Kate from her restless sleep. The stiffness in her limbs protested as she sat up, the worn cot creaking beneath her. She winced as she stretched, her body heavy with exhaustion despite the hours she had spent lying still. The first rays of morning filtered through the cracked wooden walls, mingling with the bitter, familiar scent of coffee drifting through the camp. Her stomach growled in response, a harsh reminder of how little she had eaten.  

Swinging her legs over the side of the cot, Kate stood, but the world tilted sharply around her, forcing her back down onto the blankets. She pressed a hand to her temple, willing the spinning to stop. Anemia, weak blood, whatever they called it. This sickness made her feel like she was moving through quicksand. No matter how much she rested, her strength never seemed to return. The weight of it all pressed down on her as she glanced at the blankets where Arthur’s journal rested, its leather cover worn and familiar. The sight sent tears pricking at her eyes, but she blinked them away, dragging herself upright. 

The gang needed everyone's strength right now—she wouldn’t let this weakness consume her.  

The blinding light outside the cabin made her squint as she adjusted to the day. Her gaze swept over the weathered camp, the leaning cabins half-swallowed by the swamp’s creeping vegetation, and the rancid smell of decay hanging in the air. She spotted Charles in the distance, her lips parting to greet him, but the figure standing beside him rooted her to the spot.  

Her heart leapt into her throat. "Arthur?" she called, trembling with disbelief. Her lover turned towards the sound of his name, his figure draped in sunlight like he was an angel sent to whisk her away. She didn’t wait for a response, her feet carrying her forward in a rush.  

“Arthur!” The cry broke free from her lips as she threw herself into his arms. His embrace enveloped her, strong and steady despite the weariness she could feel in him. She clung to him, her hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt as if he might disappear if she let go.  

Arthur buried his face in the crook of her neck, the rasp of his breath against her skin a sound that made her chest ache with both relief and longing. “I missed you Kate,” he murmured, heavy with emotion. 

He pulled back just enough to brush kisses against her cheeks, his calloused hands cradling her body. Deep blue eyes roamed over her as though he was trying to memorize every detail, though her pallor and dark circles gnawed at him. Even so, she was still the most breathtaking sight he’d ever seen.  

“Look at you,” he said softly, his lips quirking into a tender smile. “Still as pretty as a magnolia in May.”  

Kate flushed, the warmth of his words wrapping around her like sunshine. When he finally set her back on her feet, she bombarded him with questions, her hands running over his shoulders, his chest, searching for injuries. “How—how did you make it out? I thought Milton was going to—” Her words faltered as her eyes caught the dried blood on his shirt and the red crusted into the cracks of his hands. “Arthur, are you hurt?”  

Arthur chuckled softly, a weary sound that held a trace of his usual charm. “I’m alright, darlin’,” he said, taking her smaller hands in his. His thumbs brushed over her knuckles before lifting them to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Just a little rough around the edges, that’s all.”  

“When did you get back? Are the others with you?” Kate glanced around, her eyes scanning the camp for signs of new arrivals.  

Arthur hesitated, the question he’d been dreading hanging heavy in the air. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. “I made it back last night,” he said finally.  

Her brow furrowed, a flicker of hurt crossing her features. “Last night? Oh, Arthur… why didn’t you wake me?”  

The crack in her voice struck him harder than he anticipated. Oh god, how was he ever going to tell her the truth now. He opened his mouth, searching for the words, but they felt lodged in his throat. “You needed the rest sweetheart,” he said softly, though his voice was rough with guilt. “I didn’t want to wake ya… didn’t want to trouble you with all this, not after everything you’ve already been through.”  

Little did Kate know, Arthur had gone to her last night. Every fiber of his being ached to climb into the cot beside her, to feel her steady breathing against his chest and let the storm inside him settle, even if just for a moment. But when he had stepped into the cabin, the sight of her had stopped him cold. She lay there, her features softened in sleep, her mouth slightly parted, disheveled waves of hair spilling over his old blue button-down that wrapped her body in a way that felt like a claim he wasn’t sure he had the right to make anymore. His journal was tucked protectively under her arm, as though even in her sleep, she clung to him.  

It was a picture-perfect moment, one he felt certain would shatter under the weight of his touch. Everything he had ever loved, everything he had ever cared for, seemed to crumble in his hands. His chest tightened as the thought crept in like poison: maybe her illness was his fault, too. He should have been there for her more, done more to provide for her, to protect her. Keeping her safe was the one thing he had vowed to do, and Christ, he had failed even at that.  

Arthur’s hand had lingered on the edge of the cot, fingers itching to reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. But instead, he had withdrawn, retreating like a coward. He had spent the night perched on an overturned crate, keeping vigil as she slept. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the faint flicker of her eyelids as she dreamed. And as the hours dragged on, his mind wandered to darker places, weighed down by the ghosts of his failures and the ever-growing burden of his sins.  

Now, as they stood face to face, the weight of her scrutiny felt heavier than any bullet wound. Kate frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly, unconvinced by his vague answers. “Trouble me with what, Arthur?” she pressed, cautious but insistent.  

Before he could muster a response, Charles, who had been standing nearby with the patience of a saint, cleared his throat softly. The sound was a polite interruption, but it still made Arthur flinch. As if on cue, Sadie and a young man stepped out from one of the nearby cabins and joined their circle.  

Kate’s gaze shifted to the newcomer, her brows knitting together in surprise. The bruises mottling his face made her wince inwardly, but what struck her most was how utterly out of place he looked amidst the ragtag group of outlaws.  

“Kate,” Charles began evenly, his calm voice breaking through the tension, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”  

Arthur placed a hand on the small of her back, a grounding touch for both of them, and gestured toward the young man. “This is Eagle Flies,” he introduced, as if they were old friends. “I met him and his father, Rain Falls, some weeks back. After the mayor’s party,” he added, his explanation brief but pointed.  

Kate’s lips parted slightly as she processed the introduction. “Eagle Flies,” she repeated, testing the name as though committing it to memory. A small smile touched her lips, warm but weary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard much about your father,” she said, offering her hand.  

The young man accepted her handshake with a single, firm shake before stepping back. His eyes, dark and restless, flitted between Arthur and Charles before settling back on her. 

“What brings you this deep into the bayou?” Kate asked, though she wanted to know how he got the bruises on his face. Something in her heart told her she already knew. She could see something flicker there—shame, perhaps, or embarrassment—but it was gone as quickly as it had come.  

“We were sending a message to those men in uniform,” Eagle Flies said evenly. His tone was steady, betraying neither pride nor anger, but there was a subtle tension in his voice. “But we didn’t—” he hesitated. “There were too many of them…” His jaw was tightening as he searched for the right words. “Arthur… he saved my life last night.”  

The words hung in the air, heavy and final, as if any further discussion on the matter would only deepen the wounds of what had transpired.  Kate’s eyes darted back to Arthur, her heart twisting at the sight of the exhaustion etched into his features. The tension in his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes, the way his body seemed to sag with an invisible weight—it was all there, plain as day. She reached out instinctively, her hand brushing against his arm. Something happened last night that he wasn’t telling her. 

“What is the military doing this far south?” Kate asked, filled with unease as her eyes scanned the familiar faces of her friends. She wasn’t expecting an answer, but the silence that followed only heightened her anxiety.  

Sadie, always the first to speak her mind, leaned on her rifle with a scowl. “Been wonderin’ that myself. There’s Pinkertons crawlin’ around the muck too. I reckon they’re workin’ together.”  

Kate felt a flutter of panic in her chest, her heart beating faster as her thoughts spiraled. “Good Lord, for what reason do the Pinkertons need to get the military involved?” Her voice pitched higher, the concern clear in her tone.  

Arthur exhaled heavily, a sound that seemed to press down on his soul. “Sweetheart,” he said, low but firm, “we just made a mess of that jailhouse. Took a fortune from a bank that don’t much like partin’ with its gold. And that cavalry out there? Well—they ain’t here for the scenery. We’re the reason.”  

Kate’s stomach twisted at the blunt truth of his words, but before she could respond, Eagle Flies stepped forward, his voice laced with quiet anger. “That’s not the whole of it,” he interjected. “Since Cornwall turned his back on my father’s treaty, he’s had soldiers planting their flags all across the counties. He’s doing all he can to leave my people with nowhere to run and nothing but the wind to call home.”  

Sadie let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humor. “That goddamn velvet-vested plutocrat. Ain’t nothin’ noble about a man who climbs to the top by steppin’ on necks,” she muttered before spitting in the dirt, her disdain evident.  

Charles nodded, his face somber. “Which is exactly why you need to leave.”  

The words struck Kate like an arrow, and she blinked, momentarily stunned. “Leave? Charles, wouldn’t that just draw more attention? The military ain’t gonna turn a blind eye to a caravan, especially if they’re watching the borders.”  

She was so caught up in her concern for the camp’s safety that she didn’t immediately notice the word you. Arthur wrapped an arm around her, his thumb brushing soothing circles against her arm. His touch was gentle, comforting her in the midst of her growing panic. 

“He means the three of us,” he said quietly.  

Kate turned to him, her wide eyes filled with worry. Arthur could see the gravity of the situation racing through her mind, the weight of what this meant for her and for them. “We… have to leave? But where would we go?”  

“Wapiti,” Eagle Flies answered confidently. “You’ll be welcome among my people. I can promise that.”  

Kate stammered, voice wavering with desperation. “B-but the camp, the girls… what if the others come back? What if someone attacks while we’re gone?” Her words tumbled over each other, already imagining the dangers of the journey ahead.  

Charles stepped closer. “Dutch and the others are still out there, and we’ve no way of knowing when they’ll ride back. Sadie and I will keep watch here, but things are getting too hot for the three of you. The law’s breathing down our necks, and the military’s not far behind. It’s best you head up to Wapiti, let the dust settle some. Couple weeks should do it.”  

A couple weeks? The thought screamed in Kate’s mind, sending a fresh wave of anxiety crashing over her. She couldn’t deny that a reprieve from the chaos was needed, desperately so. But the journey terrified her. She was a wanted woman now, traveling with two men who were just as hunted as she was. A million things could go wrong, and her heart wasn’t sure it could take any more heartbreak. Not after the hours she had spent believing Arthur was gone for good.  

“We’ll ride out tonight, when the moon’s high,” Arthur said gently, but resolute. “We’ll make for Annesburg, rest for the night, then head west come the first light. Eagle Flies knows the way—the trails are old, no soldier’s foot has touched ’em in years. We’ll be out of their reach before they even know we’re gone.”  

Kate’s body trembled slightly against him, and Arthur’s heart clenched at the sight. He rubbed small circles into her back, hoping the motion would ease her nerves. It hurt to see her like this, afraid and uncertain, but there was no other choice. Charles was right—they weren’t safe here anymore. And Eagle Flies wouldn’t make it there alive on his own.

Sadie had told him about the Pinkertons’ movements while he was gone, and he could feel the snare tightening around their camp. Ready to strike at a moment's notice. He hated to push Kate like this, but it was the only way to keep her safe. The road ahead would be hard—harder than she probably realized. But once they reached Wapiti, he harbored a faint, fragile hope that the peace of the reservation might help her heal.  

And maybe it would provide the time and space Arthur needed to muster the courage to tell her the truth of what happened that night that led to this mess. 

Kate’s voice was soft, hesitant. “Do you really think it’ll be safe there?”  

Arthur cupped her cheek, tilting her face toward his. His blue eyes, tired but unwavering, met hers. “I’ll make sure of it,” he promised, heavy with conviction.  

Kate searched his face, finding something in his expression that steadied her. A flicker of trust, fragile but enough. Yet there was something else there, something he was shouldering alone. The hollow look in his eyes told a story of their own. She nodded, though her heart still raced. “Alright,” she whispered. “I’ll be ready, Arthur.”  

Arthur pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering for just a moment before pulling back. “Thank you,” he said softly. And though his words were quiet, they carried a world of meaning and relief.

The night ahead stretched like an uncharted canvas, painted with shadows of danger and uncertainty, yet amidst the darkness, a fragile ember of hope flickered within her heart. A hope that somewhere along this perilous path, they might discover not just safety but a bond so unwavering it would entwine their souls. An unbreakable thread destined to endure beyond the tricks of time.

Perhaps Arthur was finally ready to leave his outlaw life behind.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The fire flickered weakly in the still air, casting soft shadows on the girls who sat around it, their spirits as dim as the fading embers. The stew Pearson had prepared for dinner, a questionable concoction of swampy fish and muddled flavors, sat untouched before them. Kate pushed her bowl aside with a quiet sigh, her stomach in knots. The stench of the stew mixed with the dank earthiness of the swamp, but starving seemed a less miserable option than swallowing another spoonful. 

“I’m really going to miss you girls,” Kate’s voice broke the silence, gentle yet heavy with all the unsaid things. 

Abigail, her face drawn and pale, looked up briefly but said nothing. Jack was curled in her lap, small and peaceful in his sleep, the weight of her grief tucked quietly in the lines of her face. Kate could see the toll it had taken on her—she had barely left Jack’s side since their arrival, and though Abigail was always a tough one, it was clear her sorrow ran deeper than words could ever express. Kate felt a pang of guilt twist in her chest. Arthur had come back, and yet Abigail's husband still hadn't. That familiar ache—a never-ending cycle of worry, of waiting for someone who may never return. Was one Kate knew all too well. 

Tilly, ever the optimist, cleared her throat and gave a small, strained smile. “Ain’t gonna be long. We’ll be back together gossiping over a wash bin before you even know it.” Her attempt to lighten the mood was feeble, but Kate appreciated it nonetheless. “Ain’t that right, Mary-Beth?”

Mary-Beth nodded, but her smile was empty, her eyes hollow with the weariness of their uncertain lives. “Sure, can’t wait for things to go back to normal,” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words, but even that felt like a defense mechanism she couldn’t quite control. 

Kate could see the struggle in her—Mary-Beth was holding on by a thread. They all were. The days had blurred together, grief mixing with fatigue, and the weight of uncertainty was beginning to feel unbearable. Kate’s thoughts strayed briefly to Kieran, the empty space he left behind, and the relentless ache it caused. 

“I’m so sorry, Mary-Beth... for everything,” Kate said softly, voice betraying the helplessness she felt. She could apologize all she wanted, but the damage was done, and apologies couldn't heal the wounds time had carved. 

Mary-Beth sighed, her gaze distant, as she put her bowl down and wiped her hands on her skirt. “S’not your fault. Things are just changin’,” she said, her words a weak attempt at reassurance. Without another word, she stood and made her way to her cabin, “I’m turnin’ in ladies. I wish you all the best Kate.” 

Kate’s heart sank as Mary-Beth disappeared into the shadows. It was hard to ignore the feeling that their bond was slipping away, as if the very fabric of their family was unraveling. Mary-Beth’s words somehow felt final. Did they think she wasn’t going to come back? She looked around at the others, her eyes searching for some sense of comfort, but it only deepened her sense of isolation. They were all so different now. The carefree days of laughter and camaraderie felt like a lifetime ago, replaced by the cold weight of their fractured lives. And now, she was leaving too.

“Has anyone seen Molly?” Kate asked, looking between the remaining girls around the fire. 

Abigail and Tilly exchanged worried glances before shaking their heads. “She wasn’t with us when we moved,” Tilly explained. 

Kate’s heart lurched. “What?” Her voice caught in disbelief. 

Molly, always so unpredictable, so caught up in her own turmoil, had vanished. Kate’s mind chased the unanswered question—had she truly ran away? 

Karen, sitting off to the side, her eyes half-lidded from too much alcohol, let out a slurred chuckle. “That poor bird probably took off soon as Dutch left her sight. That kind of love will drive a woman mad.”

Kate’s stomach turned at Karen’s words, but there was a bitter truth in them. Molly and Dutch had been at odds for as long as Kate could remember. No matter how hard she tried to help, it had always felt like she was fighting a losing battle. But still, a part of her hoped that Molly had found some peace, even if it meant leaving them all behind.

After a long stretch of tense silence, Kate spoke again, barely a whisper. “When Dutch and Hosea come back, they’ll know what to do,” she murmured, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew they were just a half-hearted attempt at comforting herself. 

Karen’s laughter cut through the quiet like a predator, harsh and unforgiving. “They ain’t comin’ back, sweetie,” she mocked, loose and shaky from the alcohol. 

Kate froze, her heart pounding in her chest. “Why wouldn’t they come back?” she asked, though a sinking feeling in her gut already told her the answer. 

“Arthur didn’t tell ya?” Karen asked, dripping with something close to malice only exacerbated by the liquor.

Tilly shot her a sharp look, hissing under her breath, “Karen, don’t. He’ll tell her when she’s ready.”

But Karen wasn’t done. She leaned forward, her face contorting with drunken bitterness. “Katie’s a big girl, she deserves to know!” she practically yelled.

Kate’s pulse raced as the truth hit her like a tidal wave. “Know what?”

“Dutch is gone, probably took off with the money.” Karen’s words were venomous. “And poor old Hosea and Lenny are dead.”

The world went still, Kate’s breath caught in her throat, as if the air itself had been stolen from her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, only stare at the woman who had just shattered her reality. “N-no… they can’t… wh-why would Arthur keep something like that from me?” Her mouth was dry like it was filled with cotton. Voice cracking with the sob she’d been holding back finally breaking free.

Karen gave a lazy shrug, her movements sloppy. "Don’t ask me," she muttered, slurred with liquor. "But I’ll tell ya, he ain’t nowhere near as dumb as he seems. Draggin' you outta this mess and runnin' off to play nice with the Indians. Ain’t that somethin’?" Her words hung heavy with bitterness, the sourness in her tone clear as day.

Abigail, her tired face filled with shock, snapped, “That’s enough, Karen!”

Kate’s legs wobbled beneath her, and her vision blurred with tears. She stood abruptly, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was. “I’m so sorry.”

Without waiting for anyone to stop her, she turned and fled into the night, the weight of grief, confusion, and heartache pressing down on her with each step. The darkness swallowed her whole, but she couldn’t escape the pain gnawing at her from the inside out. This wasn’t how she wanted her last moments with her sisters to be. But as she wandered into the swamp, she sought refuge in the one thing she could always count on.

Lorena. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The task Arthur had given Eagle Flies was simple enough: prepare the horses for the journey to Annesburg. Yet, to Eagle Flies, every small duty carried weight. Even if only to take his mind off his throbbing bruises, though these wounds were not the worst he’s faced. He approached the task with the same reverence as if he were preparing for a hunt or a battle. Arthur’s white Arabian, Belle, would carry him and Kate on the trail ahead, as she was too weak to ride alone. That left Eagle Flies to choose his own steed from the herd.  

Arthur’s trust in him was a quiet honor, though unspoken. And Eagle Flies did not take such things lightly.  

The horses were tethered to withered fence posts in the clearing, a rare dry patch amidst the swamp’s endless muck. His moccasins sank with every step, the mud seeping in like cold hands gripping his soles. He glanced down, scowling at the state of his footwear. When he returned to Wapiti, he would ask Quick Buffalo to make him a new pair. The elder’s skill with leather was unmatched.  

With the saddle slung over his shoulder, Eagle Flies surveyed the herd. Shadows and moonlight painted their shapes in the clearing, their coats glinting faintly in the silvery glow. Most horses shuffled away as he approached, wary of the unfamiliar. A few stood their ground, indifferent to his presence. But one caught his eye—a black Hungarian mare, standing apart from the others, untethered and proud.  

She had a presence about her that was undeniable. Her midnight coat seemed to drink in the darkness, and her stance radiated strength and defiance. There was something spiritual about her, as if she were an echo of the wild itself.  

Eagle Flies felt his breath catch. Horses were sacred to his people, their spirits intertwined with their own. But this mare wasn’t just a beast of burden. She was a spirit in her own right.  

“Hinhanni wašte, good evening friend,” he murmured, low and soothing. He extended a hand, letting her catch his scent. “Taku eniciyapi he? What is your name?”  

The mare’s ears flicked forward, her dark eyes fixing on him as if she understood the question. Eagle Flies felt a pang of bitter doubt. Was she stolen from his people? Her presence stirred something familiar in his chest. It was not unheard of for their horses to be taken in raids. The thought made him hesitate, his hand faltering mid-air.  

But the mare didn’t flinch. She leaned forward, her warm breath brushing against his fingers. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.  

He set the saddle down on a nearby post, pulling a brush from its bag. As he worked, he let his thoughts drift. Arthur had saved his life—a debt Eagle Flies couldn’t repay with words alone. He had doubted the white man at first, but Arthur had proven himself to be different. Perhaps this was meant to be, the world guiding him toward a path he didn’t yet understand.  

A flicker of movement on the far side of the mare snapped his focus back to the present. A voice followed, soft and unexpected.  

“Lorena emaciyapi. Her name is Lorena.”  

Eagle Flies straightened, nearly slipping in the mud. He steadied himself against the mare’s sturdy frame, his eyes narrowing as he peered around her. Kate stood on the other side, her figure shadowed but unmistakable.  

“You startled me,” he admitted, his tone a mix of wariness and curiosity.  

Kate stepped closer, her boots squelching in the mud. Her pale face was streaked with tears, her eyes rimmed red. She looked fragile, as if the swamp’s weight had pressed on her more than anyone else’s. Yet, there was something in her voice, in the way she’d spoken Lakota, that caught him off guard.  

“Owakahnige sni,” he said, his disbelief evident. “I don’t understand. You speak my people’s language?”  

“Eya. A little,” Kate replied, her voice rasping with exhaustion.  

Eagle Flies tilted his head, studying her. Her accent was smooth, practiced, nothing like the clumsy attempts of others. There was history here, though he couldn’t piece it together yet.  

“Lena nithawa thasunke? Is she your horse?” he ventured, more curious than before.  

Kate nodded, wiping at her cheeks with a trembling hand. “Hiya. Yes.”  

He ran a hand along Lorena’s back, rounding the mare to stand face-to-face with Kate. Up close, he could see her fatigue more clearly. It wasn’t just physical, her pain clung to her like a heavy fog.  

“Lorena is owanyang wašte. Beautiful,” he offered gently. He wasn’t sure why he said it, but it felt like the right thing to do.  

Kate managed a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sdodwaye. I know.”  

Eagle Flies hesitated, his brush pausing mid-stroke. There was something about her that drew him in, a quiet strength beneath the sorrow. He realized, in that moment, that perhaps his path wasn’t only meant to cross Arthur’s kindness.  

“Toniktuka hwo makha? Are you okay?” he asked softly, filled with genuine concern that betrayed his usual behavior. 

Kate’s silence lingered, her gaze fixed on the ground as if the swamp mud held answers she couldn’t find elsewhere. Eagle Flies didn’t press her. Silence was familiar to him, and often more telling than words. He resumed brushing Lorena, his strokes steady and deliberate, giving her space to speak if she chose it.  

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said finally, her voice was thin and unconvincing. She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers clutching at her sleeves like they were the only things holding her together. “Wicakha. I’m fine.” 

Eagle Flies glanced at her, his hand stilling for a moment. “I don’t believe you.”  

Kate’s head lifted, startled by his bluntness. Her brows furrowed under the scrutiny, but when she met his eyes, there was no accusation in them, only calm sincerity. He shrugged lightly, resuming his task.  

“I meant no offense. You just don’t look like someone who’s fine.” Eagle Flies added after a moment. 

Kate let out a weak laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “You’re very observant.” 

“Not hard to see,” he replied gently. Gesturing subtly towards Lorena. “Even the strongest horses stumble when the weight is too heavy.”  

For a while, neither spoke. The swamp buzzed with the hum of insects, the faint rustle of leaves carried on the breeze. Moonlight turned the world to silver and shadow, and Eagle Flies thought of his home—the clean mountain air, the sparkling rivers, and the resilience of his people. It felt entirely far away now. 

It was once a place of laughter, stories, and unbroken connections to the land, unlike this swamp, where the earth itself felt weary under the weight of what had been taken. Much like the people who were staying here. Their fear and uncertainty was a familiar feeling, something he saw in his own tribe every day. Their suffering was the oil to his flame. He felt his anger burning bright again, like it always did when he thought of his family slaughtered, the rivers choked with filth, and the sacred places desecrated. They had taken so much, leaving scars on the land and in his heart, yet still, they always wanted more.  

His gaze shifted to Kate, and the fire softened. Her sorrow was like the sickness in her body—clinging and fierce, draining her spirit as surely as the swamp water threatened to swallow him whole. She carried her burden silently, her exhaustion as plain as the tremor in her hands.

Yet, something about her reminded him of home, perhaps it was how easily she had spoken his native language. Or how she had sought comfort in her horse, during her time of need. He could not erase her pain, but he could offer what his people had always taught him: helping each other was the greatest form of strength. 

Eagle Flies finally broke the quiet. “We have a medicine woman on the reservation,” he said, conversational and purposeful. “Her name is White Dove. She knows how to heal the wounds we can’t always see.”  

Kate’s brow softened, “thank you,” she gave a small shake of her head. “But, I don’t think she could heal this.”  

Eagle Flies knew she was referring to her grief. He shrugged a reply, “sometimes it’s something you have to decide yourself. ”  

Something flicked in her expression. It wasn’t confusion, but rather the curiosity of someone who had lost touch with such an idea—or perhaps hadn’t heard it in a very long time. She studied his face, looking at him with a new sense of familiarity.

Eagle Flies studied her face in return. Her features were hardened over the years yet softened by weariness, her pale complexion a stark contrast to the women he knew back home. She didn’t look like someone who belonged to this kind of life. Constant danger at every turn, hiding in the shadows like cornered animals.  

“Are you close to her?” Kate asked after a moment, her voice cautious. Changing the subject.   

“To White Dove?” He smiled faintly. “She’s like my grandmother. Right now, she’d be scolding me for walking in this swamp and ruining her good leather,” Eagle Flies gestured to his tattered, muddy shirt. “She would try to make me a new one, and then laugh when I tried to refuse it.”  

Kate smiled at that, though it didn’t quite chase the shadows from her face. “She sounds very kind.”  

“She is,” Eagle Flies agreed. “She’s helped a lot of people with their pain.”  

Kate blinked, slightly taken aback by his observation and insinuation. “Eagle Flies, I’m fine. Just a little stressed about the journey. That’s all.” She replied, almost pleading. Trying to hide her weakness behind a show of strength.  

“I know what I see,” he said simply. “You carry something heavy, but you don’t let it break you. You remind me of a warrior.”  

For a moment, she looked as if she might cry again, but the tears seemed to dry as soon as they came. Instead, she let out a soft laugh, followed by a warm smile that genuinely surprised him.  

“You remind me of someone,” she admitted, warmth coloring her tone. “He was a warrior too.” 

“Really?” Eagle Flies raised a brow. “What was he like?”  

She sighed. “There was never a right way to describe him.” Kate hesitated. “He was... angry, the kind that came from a deep sadness. But he taught me everything about strength and surviving.” She spoke of him like he was no longer in her life.

A faint shadow crossed Eagle Flies’ face, his jaw tightening for a brief moment before he nodded. “I’m angry too,” he said honestly. “The world gives me plenty of reasons to be. It’s why I fight so hard for my people.”  

Kate met his gaze, her expression softening as she saw the truth in his words. While also taking in the extent of his wounds and what it had cost him.

“I lost two men because of my anger,” he continued. “But we’ll lose hundreds more if we don’t fight back.” Eagle Flies' mind thought back to last night, remembering the faces of those who are now long gone. A fate that was nearly his own. “I owe Arthur a great debt for saving my life.”  

Kate said nothing, but her eyes glistened in the moonlight. Like the mention of Arthur’s name brought her turmoil to the surface again. Whatever she was facing, it was hard for her to ignore. She wiped at them quickly, turning her attention back to Lorena.  

“And I owe you,” he added with a faint smile, attempting to lighten her mood. “For letting me borrow your beautiful horse.” 

Kate chuckled softly and Eagle Flies didn’t push her further. He knew that trust wasn’t built in a single conversation, but some burdens could be lifted by words alone. A distant voice called out to them, approaching from the cabins. Arthur was asking if the horses were ready. 

With one last brush to Lorena’s coat, Eagle Flies then slung the saddle onto her back with practiced ease. “She’s ready,” he said softly. “Are you?” 

Kate nodded, taking Belle’s reins as she followed him out of the muck and into the firelight.

Eagle Flies watched her for a moment longer, then turned to lead his own horse, Lorena. They had a long night ahead of them, and even more traveling after that. But he felt more confident with his new friends, the anxiety and fear eased momentarily. 

Kate’s voice was a whisper behind him, “Pilamaya, Eagle Flies. Thank you.” 

AN: AHH I've been waiting for soooo long to write about Eagle Flies. I can't believe it took me 26 damn chapters to get here. But I'm really excited to get into the Wapiti plot. We're so close! I was going to include the journey to Annesburg in this one, but it felt long enough already.

I hope people don't mind the use of Lakota language. I fell into a rabbit hole while doing my research and I tried not to make it too excessive. There's also not a lot of phrases that I would use, so my options were limited.

Hope you all had a great holiday, thanks for reading! <3

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Physical Graffiti

Author: entropic_saudade

Artist: BasketcaseBetty

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Endgame Dean Winchester/Castiel, Brief Dean Winchester/Ash, Brief Dean Winchester/Max Banes, John Winchester/Kate Milligan, Past John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Past Dean Winchester/Lee Webb, Past Dean Winchester/Cassie Robinson, Past Dean Winchester/Others, Past Castiel/Others, Implied Bobby Singer/Rufus Turner, Past Bobby Singer/Karen Singer, Harper Sayles/Vance, Edward Carrigan/Madge Carrigan, Jenny Sorenson/OMC, Larry Pike/Joanie Pike, Background Max/Stacy.

Length: 75000

Warnings: Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. Additional Content Warnings: Self Harm, Alcohol Use Disorder, Recreational Drug Use, Child Abuse, Past Non-Con, Past Underage, Past Drug Addiction, Minor Character Death, Mental Health Issues

Tags: Case Fic, Murder Mystery, Horror Elements, Slow Burn, Journalist Dean Winchester, Detective Cas, Eventual Hopeful Ending, Families of Choice

Posting Date: November 4, 2024

Summary: The only ghosts and demons are the ones inside his head.  Fresh from a prematurely-ended stint at an inpatient psychiatric facility, ‘former’ self-harmer and functional alcoholic Dean Winchester returns to Sioux Falls, where he works as a crime journalist. His editor, Bobby Singer, sends him back home to Lawrence to gather the story on the murder of a teen boy and the recent disappearance of another. Painful memories from growing up resurface as the missing boy turns up horrifically dead and another goes missing.  The investigation is further complicated by the town’s gossipy tight-knit nature, Dad’s judgment, and botched attempts at making inroads with his estranged half-family, Kate and Adam Milligan.  Dean crosses paths with Castiel Novak, a renegade detective from Kansas City with a troubled past of his own. As they work together, they slip past each other’s defenses, unearthing each other’s secrets and digging for the truth.  As it turns out, monsters just might be real—and they just might live at home.  A Sharp Objects-inspired AU.

Excerpt: A dumpy parking lot, leaning against Baby’s hood, looking to the stars—it reminds Dean of doing the same with the football jocks. The way he’d smuggle stolen beer cans in Dad’s jacket pocket, turning him from ‘homo’ to ‘hero’ in their eyes. Stupidly, it reminds him of Lee.  Dean sneaks a glance over at Cas’ profile, tracing the angle of his jaw as he tilts his head up. The same stupid butterflies flap in his stomach. He suffocates them with a few swigs. “So, our arrangement. I’ll answer a question for each one you answer,” Cas offers, his adam’s apple bobbing.  “Deal.”  “What was it like growing up in Lawrence?” Dean whistles. “Starting with hardballs, huh? You don’t pull any punches.”  “Would you rather I ask for your favorite color?” Cas teases.  He groans. “No, none of that grade school shit. Gimme the real scoop.” Cas raises a pointed brow. You first. “Alright, Lawrence.” He sighs, bracing himself. “Mom had… my brother when I was four.” His voice wavers slightly when he brings up Sammy.  “Adam is much younger, though, isn’t he?”  “Different brother, Kate’s my stepmom. Me and Sam, we’re our Mom’s. She died when Sam was six months old. House fire.” Cas’ eyes sadden, but he doesn’t say anything. “But, as far as growing up—normal, I guess. Went to the school district nearby, was in wrestling for a little bit. I wasn’t some prodigy but I did okay, grades-wise.” “I bet you were Mr. Popular.” Dean barks a laugh. “Uh, no. Sorta depends on who you ask.” Depends on what year. “After graduation, I left for college.” Dean skips over the rest of the highlight reel.  “And Sam?” “Hey, you gotta answer at least one question first,” Dean pokes him. “Why is a detective from Kansas City down in Lawrence?”  “My supervisor likes to send me out on solo cases for assists. I don’t exactly work well with others.”  “Well, you and I make a pretty good team—a little chaotic, maybe, but at least we ruled two suspects off your list.”  “That we did. It’s a shame you’re not a detective.” “Reporters are detectives of sorts. We both look for narrative, just in different ways.” Cas gives a thoughtful hum. “My turn again. What happened to Sam?” Dean’s throat convulses. “He died. We were in our teens.” “What happened?” “He was sick all the time. One day, he just… kept getting worse. His body couldn’t take it.” Sammy’s ghost observed them, sadly, flickering in an in-between state.  “I’m sorry, Dean.”  They sit in silence for a few moments. Panic builds in Dean’s chest, and he worries that he’s ruined whatever rapport they’d been building.  “I’ll tell you something if you swear to not tell another soul?”  Dean nods, relief settling over him. He eats secrets for breakfast.  “The real reason I work Homicide is because it’s better than what I used to do.”  “What’s so bad that working Homicide is better?” Cas looked down and didn’t answer.

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

[anthony-does-art]

Oc-tober day 2: New OC

The prompts:

[theatercatklio]

OC Intro - Klio

(click image for better quality)

"I'll change this world for the better. Doesn't everyone want to live in a fairytale?"

RARITY: ✦✦✦✦✦

⭒♬ Titles/Aliases⭒› Lady of the Theater, High Court Magician, Patron of Heros

⭒𝄞 Path⭒› Emanator of Enigmatia

⭒♫ Faction⭒› The Grand Promethean Theater

⭒♬ Combat Info⭒› 5 Star, Fire/Harmony

⭒𝄞 Species⭒› Grimalkin (species info to be added)

⭒♫ Planet⭒› Bacharach - Laurel Wreath Galaxy (planet info to be added)

@miscellaneouslibrary @raven-starlight hope you don't mind me tagging you two, but you both seemed interested in knowing more about her :D

COMBAT:

pretend XX is a number I'm too lazy to figure out what it would realistically be T-T

⭒𝄞 Basic ATK⭒› Cutting Words

Deals Fire DMG equal to 50% of Klio’s ATK.

⭒♫ Skill⭒› Lights, Curtains, Action!

Increases the ATK of a single ally equal to XX% of Klio’s ATK for two turns. At the same time, Advance Forward the targeted ally’s action by 20%

⭒♬ Ult⭒› Final Bow in a Full House

Creates a field that lasts for two turns, decreasing by one at the start of Klio’s turn. While the field is active, increase DMG done by allies by XX%. Additionally, while an ally’s energy is full inside the field, gain Patronage, lasting until the Ult is cast. Ults cast while Patronage is active use up less energy and deal increased damage.

⭒𝄞 Talent⭒› A Tough Act to Follow

After a character uses their Ult, their next attack deals XX% more DMG 

⭒♫ Technique⭒› Shifting Stargazer

....I'll figure it out later its late and I'm tired

LORE

Introduction

A playwright and Emanator of Enigmata who wants to make the world more like one of her shows (really taking the phrase "all the world's a stage" literally huh) She's revered for her storytelling and her status in high society as a patron of heros.

Personality

Eccentric and dramatic, Klio usually follows her heart over her head. She's very emotional and rarely seen being calm or serious. At worst, she's childish with a dangerous amount of power at her fingertips. At best, she's playful and happily uses her status to uplift others.

Character Stories

(to be added)

Voicelines

Voice Claim - ok imagine Furina's voice but 1) slightly deeper/mature and 2) slightly Italian boom done

First Meeting: "I've been keeping up on your journey, Trailblazer. If you ever want a stage adaptation, you must let me know at once!"

Greeting: "I've been running into you a lot...hey, this isn't a ploy to get free tickets, huh?

Parting: "Leaving already? Well, if you must leave so soon, make sure you come to see my next show!"

About Self - Book and Pen: "The book records and the pen rewrites- it's simple enough."

Chat - Intelligentsia Guild: "While the Genius Society is too busy to focus on me, and the IPC likes me enough to leave me alone, some members of the Guild have nothing better to do than bother a lady on her rest days- the day they stop messing with me will be the day I keel over dead!"

Annoyances: "Too often I have to wake up early for events- why can't they set them for later in the day, when people aren't asleep?"

Hobbies: "In addition to writing the scripts, I compose the music for my plays as well. It's rather relaxing, you should try it sometimes."

About Mr. Reca: "We disagree on some points, but I can always count on him to give me good feedback- that's why he always gets the first invite to my premieres."

About Dr. Ratio: "What was it he called me? Ah, yes- "a hedonistic fool who delights in obscuring the truth." Well, I was made an Emanator, and he hasn't gotten so much as a glance- let me ask, which one of us is the true fool?"

About Duke Bellerophon: "How he can manage to be that calm all the time is beyond me. If I had to sit through that many useless meetings I'd go insane!"

About Duke Bellerophon (2): "He's rather quiet, but I guess anyone would be considered quiet when compared to me, hehe."

Trivia/Fun Facts

⭒› She was originally designed to be a Masked Fool who was Elio's sister, and her first design was purple and black instead of red, white, and gold

⭒› VERY picky with her food, she's very gourmet and dislikes processed food. Her favorite food is sweet crêpes, she likes how versatile they are.

⭒› Despite being powerful magically, she's a coward, squeamish, and bad at most kinds of physical combat. No wonder she gets other people to fight for her!

⭒› Her last name is Vittorio, meaning winner or conqueror. She picked it out for herself after seeing it on the inside cover of her book.

⭒› Her and her planet are based on the Baroque period, specifically Baroque Italy/Rome, France, and Germany.

[galway-girlatwork]

Of Death and Butterflies

Fandom: Game of Thrones-This is all AU.

Okay...It's here. It took a while because I wanted it just right. I played around with a lot of mythology on this. If this is not your shot of whisky, scroll on by. As a talented, wise woman has said, “I write for me and share with you.”

Rating: Mature-There is angst, angst, smut, teeny tiny fluff.

WARNING: Talk of death and blood.

Central Characters: Oberyn, Lilith and Death

Central Relationship: Oberyn and Lilith (Original Female Character)

Word Count: 7,979

AO3

Please do not copy my work. If you liked it, please re-blog and tag me. Please do not steal the mood board, it was a gift by the lovely Freya. Stealing is just WRONG. I do not give permission to copy, translate, or post my work to any other platform.

This is for Freya’s Let’s Get Angsty writing challenge.

Freya, I had such a gut-wrenching time writing this. Thank you for letting me partake. I utterly adore you.

Jana, Thank you for your encouragement and telling me you loved it when it was just a baby.

Bre, Ryan and Carole, thank you for the support.

Love you guys

Music Inspiration:

I Will Find You-The Phantoms

Love The Way You Lie-Rihanna

Rescue-Lauren Daigle

River-Bishop Briggs

Whispers In the Dark-Skillet

Summary:

Everyone’s heard the stories of Lilith. Of how she came to be. But are the stories true? Is she really a demon or something else? She was not born of angels but created by Death himself. To walk between the land of the living and dead. But what happens when The Fates intervene and present her soulmate? Countless lives and re-incarnations have been lived and lost. Will Oberyn remember before another life slips between their fingers like sand?

Standing at the doorway, tracing the infinity tattoo on her wrist, the bright yellow glow a sharp contrast to pale skin. Remembering her father telling her that it was a symbol of her refusal to let go of him, the deep ache settling in her chest as she watched the man who didn’t remember her.

Time stood still as she remembered her past, his always elusive. She’d been hidden in a small town, unlike anyone else, skin pale as moonlight, with eyes that saw both past and future, she had moved through her life with an unsettling grace. Rumors always swirled around her, like the mists at midnight. Whispers of how she was the daughter of death but those were merely tales, weren’t they? Surely, she had to have been adopted, a stray taken in by Death, out of pity perhaps or some twisted dark humor. Suspend reality for a moment, how could Death have a daughter?

Truth be told, she couldn’t remember any of her earlier years. All she knew was that Death himself had raised her, taught her to read from ancient books and walk silently across any surface. He had shown her kindnesses too, in his own dark way. On birthdays, there would be a single black rose waiting by her bedside. On difficult nights, he would wrap his cloak around her like the world’s heaviest blanket, dark but oddly comforting.

He never behaved like other parents. He was distant but watchful, a presence that filled rooms even when he stood outside them, his scythe never far, for he was both a guardian and a reminder of what she was, of what she could become. Until him. Until his soul called to her darkness, his vibrancy a contradiction to her darkness. Of course she made her decision known to her father, wanting to claim humanity for this man. Oh but there would be consequences to this.

“Some things,” he murmured, “are better left unknown, child.”

“What would they be Father?”

“Once you know, there’s no going back. Knowledge is a door; once you open it, you cannot close it.”

She felt a shiver creep down her spine but nodded, unwavering. “I know this.”

Death took a slow breath, though he didn’t need to breathe, as if gathering his thoughts.

“You are my own,” he finally said. “But if you choose this path to humanity, he will never remember you when he passes and is reborn. You will be destined to live with him and then without him until you find him again. Until he can fully remember, without any of your powers, this is how it will be.”

“What? Why would you give such conditions? That is torture Father, harsh, even for you.” 

“You were born from a fragment of my own essence, a piece of my soul given life. I carved you from the fabric of eternity itself. You are…my legacy, my beginning, and my end.”

His words filled her with awe and dread. She was not just Death’s child; she was a part of Death himself, as eternal and unyielding as he was. She was made from the very stuff that shaped the boundaries of life and death.

Death watched her closely, his gaze softer now, almost…human. “It will not be an easy existence, but it is yours. It’s my hope,” he added, “that one day, you will understand the power and the burden that comes with it and forget him.”

For the first time in her existence, she hated him. She understood her destiny but she desperately wanted to bend and create her own. Belonging to both the world of the living and the domain of the dead, a bridge between the realms, was a treacherous path, one she was unsure she could navigate. But then she looked up, seeing him step into the room, sharp features illuminated by golden light, spilling in from the high windows, devastatingly handsome as he had always been in every life before this that she could remember. His roguish smile, combined with a piercing gaze, she knew she had no choice. To him, she was a stranger, just another woman who had stepped into his world. A woman who’d been looking for years to find him.

“You’ve been watching me,” his voice smooth but edged with curiosity. A tilt to his head, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Do I know you?”

Her heart clenched, her father’s cruel conditions, leaving her stranded in this moment, faced with the impossible task of rekindling memories buried by the sands of time. She forced a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not yet,” she replied, her voice soft but steady.

Stepping closer, movements deliberate, predatory. “Then tell me, why do you look at me as if we share a history?”

Because we do, she wanted to scream. Instead, fists were clenched, nails biting into her palms. The succubus living inside her soul surged within her, whispering of the easy path—seduce him, ensnare him, make him yours, but she couldn’t. Oberyn deserved more than manipulation; he deserved to remember on his own.

“Perhaps it’s just curiosity,” she said instead, voice laced with a false confidence she’d mastered over centuries.

“Curiosity can be dangerous,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “Especially with someone like me.”

“And yet,” she said, stepping closer, “I find myself drawn to the danger.”

For a fleeting moment, she saw something in his gaze—a flicker of recognition, a shadow of the man he had been, but it vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving her with only the ghost of hope.

That night, sitting by the fire in her chambers, mind replaying every interaction she had with him that day. She had tried to spark something, anything, that might awaken his memories, but it was as if the thread of their past had been severed beyond repair. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, his cryptic warning: He will not remember, and it is up to you to make him.

“Why?” she whispered into the silence. The infinity tattoo burned on her wrist, the pain a cruel reminder of her fate. She had been destined for greatness, her father had said, not to be tied to a man. But what was greatness without love? Without him? Without the other half of her soul?

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts, wiping her face, she moved to open it, finding him on the other side, his expression unreadable.

“You haunt me,” he said simply, his voice raw. “I do not know why, but I cannot stop thinking of you.” When they had parted ways earlier in the day, he assumed she would be like every other woman that crossed his path, a body to use, she refused him, someone that was just a passing desire but he found that her presence lingered in the recesses of his mind, causing him to seek her out.

“Perhaps it’s destiny,” she offered, voice trembling slightly.

“Destiny,” he echoed, stepping closer, a hand brushing hers, and for a moment, the yellow glow of her tattoo illuminated his face, eyes widening, a flicker of something deeper sparking within them. “What are you to me?”

Swallowing hard, resolve crumbling. “Everything.”

Brows furrowed as he looked at her, his usual confidence wavering. “Why does it feel like I’ve heard those words before? As if they’re a whisper in the back of my mind, something I cannot quite grasp.”

“Because they are,” stepping back, wrapping her arms around herself, voice barely audible. “You don’t remember me, but I remember you. I remember everything.”

“Then tell me,” He urged, tone more desperate now. “Tell me who you are, who I was to you.”

She wanted to tell him, wanted to spill every memory, every detail of the love they had shared, of every life before this but she knew it wouldn’t be enough. Words alone couldn’t reignite the fire that burned between them in every time before this.

“It doesn’t work that way,” she whispered. “You have to remember on your own.”

His frustration was palpable, reaching out, cupping her face in his hands. “Then help me. Show me. I can feel it—this pull toward you. It’s maddening, like I’ve lost something vital and you’re the key to finding it.”

She could feel tears welling in her eyes, delicate hands wrapping around his wrists. “It’s not fair, that I remember and you can’t” she said, voice shaking. “This task is mine alone. One day, in another lifetime, you will remember, I swear.”

His thumb brushed away a tear that slipped down her cheek, bringing it to his mouth, he could taste the salt in it but there was something more, something tugging at him, like his soul wanting his mind to remember. “Then let us make new memories,” he said softly. “If I cannot reclaim the past, then give me the present. Give me you.”

“You don’t understand. If you don’t remember, we’ll never truly be whole. I can’t… I can’t lose you again.”

“Again?” His gaze hardened with determination. “I do not understand but I will remember. Even if it takes a lifetime, I will find the pieces. But you must promise me one thing.”

“What?” she asked.

“Don’t leave,” he said. “Whatever it takes, stay here with me. Let me prove to you that I’m worth remembering.”

She hesitated, the weight of her father’s warning heavy on her shoulders but as she looked into his eyes, she saw a spark of the man she had loved, the man she still loved, would always love.

“I will stay,” she said at last, voice firm despite the turmoil in her heart. “But you have to promise me something too.”

“Anything butterfly,” he said.

She gasped as he called her by the pet name he’d given her two lifetimes ago. She’d found it humorous since anyone who came near her felt nothing but darkness. “Promise me you’ll fight. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how much it hurts.”

He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist, where the infinity tattoo glowed brighter than ever. “Always.”

Days turned to weeks, Lilith staying by his side, trying to guide him through the labyrinth of forgotten memories. Some nights, he would wake in a cold sweat, fragments of their past flashing through his dreams. Other nights, they would sit under the stars, her voice weaving stories of the life they had shared but just as he would remember, they would slip through his fingers like sand. Then there were nights she was above and below him, the sex so incredible, he swore he saw colors but when dawn came, some fragments stayed, others vanishing like the stars but he knew she clung to hope, like a life line, praying he would remember not just who she was but what they were together.

“When the sun rises tomorrow,” he said, his voice thick with determination, “I will announce our union to the court.”

“Oberyn, they will not accept me. I am nothing to them.”

“But you are everything to me.”

A hand gently cupped his cheek, palm brushing against the prickly stubble of his beard, as strong arms enveloped her. “As you are to me, love. But tread carefully and remember your promise”

She knew what was going to happen before it did but she could not warn him, it would go against the rules just as the succubus within was demanding she claim him, forcing him to remember. It was primal, tearing at her, knowing when he died, they’d have to wait another lifetime to find him.

The next day, she awoke to chaos. Screams and shouts, piercing and echoing off stone walls, one of the maids bursting into their chambers, telling her to hurry. He had been found lifeless in the palace gardens and upon seeing his body, throat slit from ear to ear, it felt as if she was being flayed alive. Being the daughter of Death, revenge was swift and oh so sweet, finding those that would take him from her, their blood soaking her skin as the ferryman approached, hand outstretched for payment. “You will get no payment from me nor them. Let them wander the shores, I care not.”

Returning home, devastated once more, her path a wake of destruction, she found her father, sharpening his scythe, the click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disapproval.

“Father why has this happened, you need to fix this, now. It is the closest I’ve been to him remembering. I can’t take this constant crushing hurt. We were so close.”

“I cannot. You know this. All the lives you’ve led with him will end the same, until he remembers. My child, you wanted your humanity for this man, this is the price you must pay for it.”

He watched his child collapse on the cold stone floor, great sobs wrenched from her soul, hating to see her in this kind of pain. Enveloping her within the folds of his cloak, shielding her from prying eyes, trying to give comfort as best he could. “Lilith, I must ask, is this man worth what you have gone through? What you will continue to go through?”

“Always father.”

Centuries later, the hum of modern London filled her ears as she sat in her corner office, typing away, stopping mid-sentence to adjust the cuffs of the blazer she was wearing. Modern clothes were so restrictive and quite frankly hideous. She missed the days of wearing flowing gowns, of feeling a breeze tease the fabric against her legs. Now the only time she wore them was on weekends. She would never understand the modern world and all the rules but she followed them like a bitch in heat, strung at the end of a leash.

Finger tips absently running over the tattoo, the soft yellow glow vibrating with her pulse. She knew he was here, his company on the cusp of going public. Sighing, pinching the bridge of her nose, knowing that they would have to start all over in this life. So many lifetimes that she’d almost lost count. Almost. In everyone they always got close but then he would be taken and she’d have to start over. In all the centuries his soul had started over in, none had come as close as the fourth one, when he had remembered the nickname, he’d given her. The butterfly, wings of vibrant yellow and earthy browns, decorated her other wrist, her father displeased with the defiance.

The intercom buzzed. “Miss Scott, Mr. Martel is here to discuss the merger.”

“Send him in.”

She rose, smoothing the black skirt, walking around her desk, nerves making her edgy and temperamental. As the door opened, he entered, his presence still commanding and familiar. For a moment, neither spoke but the handshake they shared felt electric, a jolt that sent flashes of another life racing through their minds. She let the handshake linger for another second or two, seeing the flash of recognition before it was gone. Her succubus, recognizing his soul, roared to life, clawing at heart and lungs, wanting to consume him. Inhaling a deep breath, holding for a count of five before slowly releasing it, she motioned to the chair in front of her desk.

“Mr. Martel, please have a seat.”

He had no idea what had just happened, the whole thing throwing him off balance. When they shook hands, flashes of memories, seared themselves into his sub-conscious. He saw her in a simple gown, smile radiant beneath the sun. Of endless nights beneath the brightness of stars. Of limbs and tongues tangled together, whispered words of love and lust, vibrant colors exploding behind eyelids as she came, his cock buried deep within her body.

“Do I know you?” His voice unsteady.

“Not yet.”

He’d heard those words before. More than once. He was so sure of it but it couldn’t be, could it?

She wanted to scream, let lose all of the rage and frustration. She wanted to rip her father apart for the endless loop of her life. Of finding him only to lose him again. She swore his determination at this game was more of a test than anything. Sitting down, fists clenched in her lap, those nails biting into her palms, forcing herself to remain composed when she actually wanted to slaughter the world. The weight of lifetimes pressed against her heart as she looked down. “So, let’s discuss the merger of your company with the one you are looking to buy.”

She could see the confusion etched into his features, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lips parted as if he was about to say something more. But the conversation never switched from business to personal. Two hours later, all papers were signed and documented. “Well Mr. Martel, now that everything is in order,” Sliding a business card across her desk, a single black nail tapping the paper, “Should you need anything else before next week, please let me know.” Standing, she rounded the corner of the barrier between them and went to open the door. Suddenly large warm hands, wrapped around her upper arms, pinning her to the wall.

“I cannot shake this feeling that I know you but I don’t. I’ve never met you before today…” The urge to kiss her, to bury himself within her depths was primal, almost animalistic, mind flooding with images from somewhere in his sub-conscious. Her name rolled off his lips before he kissed her, mind and body coming alive almost as if they had been reanimated, the heat between them so intense, it could scorch the earth.

She was the one who broke the kiss, despite the desperate screams of the succubus, needing to breath. He was always so consuming when passion flared between them. “Oberyn.” She could hear her father’s voice, echoing in her mind, a cruel reminder of their fate.  

“My name from you sounds as if you have said a thousand times before today.”

“Because I have.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her with a mix of curiosity and wariness. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” she replied, taking a step back.

Before he could respond, she turned and walked back to her side of the desk, heart heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead. She couldn’t stop the cycle, couldn’t break free of it—not without him. But the question that haunted her more than any other was simple: Would this time be different?

“Good day Mr. Martel.” She was dismissing him, as if the kiss had never happened, knowing it would only be a matter of time before he found her. He was nothing if not persistent. This time, it only took two days.

The heavy wooden door rattled under his fist as he pounded against it again. The narrow street, cloaked in twilight, leaving the small village bathed in shadow. His chest heaved with barely contained anger and confusion as he stared at the intricate carvings on the door—symbols he didn’t recognize but felt unnervingly familiar. When the door creaked open, she stood there, eyes widening slightly before narrowing in a mixture of sorrow and resignation, the flowing black robe clinging to her frame like shadows, tattoo glowing faintly against the dusky light.

“Oberyn,” she said, voice a careful balance of warmth and caution.

“You knew it was me, didn’t you?” he growled, stepping forward until he was close enough to see the faint pulse at her neck, noticing that she didn’t flinch. “I need answers. Why do I keep dreaming of you? Of us? I’ve seen things—a life I can’t remember but feel like I lived. Tell me the truth.”

She sighed, stepping aside, gesturing for him to enter. Her home was small, dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of hydrangea’s and something darker, more ancient. Candles flickered on every available surface, their flames casting shadows across the walls. Here, in this place, she didn’t have to hide behind a façade, didn’t have to pretend to blend in with the modernness around her.

“You always were persistent,” she murmured, closing the door behind him, turning to face him, her expression softer now but tinged with a subtle anguish. “There are rules, Oberyn. Rules I cannot break.”

He stepped closer, dark eyes blazing. “Enough with the riddles. You’ve been in my head. Faces, places, emotions I can’t explain, you’re always there. Why?”

Lips pressed into a thin line as she turned away, walking to the small table in the corner, fingers tracing its edge. “Because you’re meant to remember, all I can tell you are stories of the lives we’ve shared, the love we had. The memories of them, the feelings behind them? It’s all inside you but you have to unlock it yourself. That was the deal.”

“What deal? With who?”

“My father.”

 “Your father? This makes no sense Lilith. You speak in such riddles.”

“Frustrating, isn’t it? I can tell you everything,” she said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “But if I force the memories, the cycle will never end.”

He stared at her, the weight of her words crashing down on him. “The cycle?”

She nodded, expression grim. “We’ve been here before, Oberyn. Many, many times. Each life, I find you. Each life, you remember too late, or not at all. And then…” Hesitating, voice breaking. “Then we’re torn apart again.”

“And what happens if I do remember? If I break this… cycle?”

Her gaze bored into his, fierce and unyielding. “Then we’re free. You and I. Free of the cycle that binds us. But the risk is yours to take. I cannot guide you, Oberyn. I can only share and hope.”

Stepping closer, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “I don’t care about rules or deals or your father. I care about you when I know I shouldn’t. I’m not leaving until I understand everything.”

Lips curved into a sad smile. “You’ve always been so stubborn, persistent, demanding. Things I love most about you. But this path, it’s yours to walk.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the air thick with unspoken words, before he reached out, fingers twinning with hers. “If you remember everything, then tell me one thing only I would know.”

Hesitating, before leaning closer, voice a soft murmur against his ear. “You once told me that the stars reminded you of me. Because no matter how far away they seemed, they were always there, lighting your way.”

His breath hitched as the memory, dim and distant, flickered to life in his mind. A warm night, a sea of stars, and her laughter blending with the wind. His grip on her hand tightened for just a second or two before he let her go.  

She saw it, the flicker of something in his eyes, pupils dilating, the pause in breath. “Do you know how hard it is to have hope after so many centuries? I want to believe, to have faith but I don’t know if I can.”

“Te amo, Lilith.” Those words escaping his lips, without hesitation, without pause. It felt as normal for him to say it as breathing.

“And I you.” Those words had been spoken so many times, in so many different languages, Spanish being the last one.

The blackout curtains in her room blurred the line between night and day, casting the space in a perpetual twilight that made time feel irrelevant. Leaning against the headboard, the cool wood grounding him as his gaze stayed fixed on her, her breath, soft and steady, he couldn’t help but replay every moment they had shared. The weight of what had unfolded between them settled deep in his chest, equal parts exhilaration and disbelief.

When their lips met, it was more than a kiss, it was a spark igniting something primal and consuming within them. The intensity of it coursed through his veins, a heady rush that felt like fire and ecstasy all at once. She wasn’t just a fleeting distraction; she was an addiction, a pull so strong he doubted he’d ever be free of it. Laying back down, he gently traced her features with his fingertips, memorizing every detail, as if she might disappear the moment he looked away. The soft glow of the infinity symbol on her wrist, mesmerizing.

“Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude to stare?” Eyes blinking open, his face inches from hers.

“Is it staring or admiring beauty?”

“I swear you have the tongue of a viper.”

“I am not being deceitful; I am being truthful.”

Moving, body now covering his, bare breasts crushed against the warmth of his skin. “Such a way with words. Tis no wonder woman threw themselves at you.” There wasn’t any hint of jealousy in her voice when she spoke, knowing there had been so many before she found him.

“Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere, I care not where, just as long as it is you and I.”

“Oberyn we can’t just run away.” Although she was wondering why they couldn’t. The job she had? A façade because she knew he would be here, in this time and place.

“It is really running away or is it wanting to be together?”

“How can I argue with such logic?”

“You can’t but first.” Flipping her over so that she was now beneath him, hands spread thighs apart, lips tracing a path down her neck, over the skin of a shoulder, feeling her shiver as his mouth suckled at the skin just above her breast before they wrapped around a nipple, teeth pulling at it until he could feel the hardness against his tongue.

A loud moan bubbled out of her as her back arched off the bed, enjoying the sensations that coursed through her. The demon within roared to life with the promise of him, needing the high only his soul could give them. He always left her breathless, needing more. Reaching down between them, she wrapped fingers around the hardness of him, feeling the warmth of his cock, using long strokes to tease him, feeling the vibration of his groan against her skin, hips thrusting into her hand. With each stroke, she could feel him growing harder and more eager. Increasing the pace, using faster strokes to bring him closer to release and just when it seemed like he was about to explode, she slowed down, teasing him with gentle touches that left him gasping for breath.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of foreplay, he pushed inside her with one swift motion, filling her completely with hard thick flesh, holding himself still for a moment, feeling her cunt spasm around him. Strokes were slow at first, wanting to drag out the pleasure for both of them but the way she gripped him, limbs wrapped his body, his pace became deeper and harder until her cries of pleasure echoed in his head.

Their bodies moved together in perfect sync, each thrust pushing them closer to release. Sweat dripped from his brows onto the sheets below, hearts pounding to the same rhythm. In end it wasn't possible tell whose moans were louder, whose body shook more violently but didn't matter because both knew exactly what other needed. She could feel the pad of his thumb brush against her clit, the orgasm so intense it threatened to drown them both as it fed her succubus, who would never get enough of the man above her. Power seeped from her pores as he came, seed scalding her womb, walls clenching around his cock, as he covered her with his body, warmth and weight seeping into her skin.

He didn’t know how long they laid that way before he rolled off of her, gathering her close, lips at her ear. “Such passion butterfly.”

Sitting up, she looked down at him, eyes wide before she leaned in, brushing her lips along his, body curling around him.

“What is wrong?”

“The nickname…Butterfly. You’ve said it before.”

“There is still something about you I cannot place, something that feels…ancient. It is something that tickled at the back of my mind. Is that why you have the tattoo on your wrist?”

Nodding against his chest, unable to form words, eyes drifting shut, remembering the past times he’s uttered the name. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take, of losing him, finding him. How many more lifetimes would she put herself through this before she simply gave up and claimed her birthright, heart heavy with the weight of truths. Wouldn’t it just be easier to simply let him go? She was tired, so very tired of the crushing pain every time he was ripped away from her.

Fingers found the hollow of jawbone beneath her chin, tilting her head back, seeing cheeks wet, he kissed the tip of her nose. “Where did you go butterfly?”

Shaking her head, she got up, wrapping silk around her, belt knotted tightly at her waist. “It matters not. If you want to go somewhere then let’s go. Anywhere. Spain, Italy, France.” She could feel it, the darkness edging around them, letting her know his time was coming. It could be weeks, could be months but however long they had, she didn’t want it to be here.

They’d been together two weeks, racing across Europe, desperately trying to shove as many memories into this life time as they could. Standing at the edge of the cliff, sun setting on the horizon, the edge of darkness was closing in faster than she wanted, knowing there was nothing she could do. Her father would soon come for him, the details, something she didn’t want to know. Be it natural or taken by force, his death would be her undoing and she would bath in blood, letting it soak her skin as she grieved yet another lifetime. Again, she wondered how many lives she could go through, how many times would she mourn before she stopped, finally letting him go.

Feeling the warmth of him against her back, arms winding their way around her waist, a faint smile given despite the crushing weight of what was to come.

“Hello lil butterfly. Where is your mind?”

“Everywhere.” Turning within his embrace, a palm resting on his chest. “Oberyn perhaps it is time for me to stop. To stop chasing something I shouldn’t have. It’s not fair to you. To constantly have my presence in your life. If I just let go, perhaps your soul could find peace instead of being tormented.” She could feel muscles tense beneath her hand, the way his expression darkened, feeling the shift of power between them. She’d been selfish, thinking she could be what she was and have some type of humanity but watching him die, over and over, with the hint of what could be, wasn’t fair to him. “Fate could give you what I cannot.”

The arm encircling her waist tightened as fingers curled possessively against the small of her back, his free hand came up to cradle her chin, tilting her face up so her gaze could meet his. “Do you think fate holds sway over me, Lilith?” voice low and steady. “Do you really believe that anyone could offer me something greater than you? You speak as if I am the victim but you, giving up, I do believe that would be the cruelest twist of said fate.” Thumb brushed against her jaw as he stepped closer, bodies almost flush, lips curled into a faint smirk. “You’ve told yourself a thousand times, haven’t you? That you are unworthy of what we are? You want to speak of everywhere? That is where you are. In my thoughts, dreams, every heartbeat.”

She hesitated for a moment, warmth spreading from her touch. “I love you more than my existence. It’s why I need to let you go. Human life is so much shorter. You need to live a full life, one where you grow to be a hundred, to have babies, to have all the things that are always taken from you because of me.”

“Lilith, none of that matters if it is not with you. Why can you not you understand that? I would rather go through a thousand lifetimes with glimpses of you, than one in which I never feel the way I do right now. I love you more than my soul. I care not how much time I have in any life as long as you are in it.”

As he slept that night, she grew restless, slipping from the bed, trying not to wake him, she opened door of their room and stepped into another that was foreign to her. Shock rooted her to the spot, and when she turned to go back, the doorway was gone. True she walked the land of the dead and the living but ending up someplace else…Yea that was new. The room was impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that stole your breath and in front of her was a spinning loom, threads weaving images of lives long gone and those yet to come. An almost ethereal figure sat at the loom, she was neither young nor old, eyes shining with smile.

“Come closer child.”

“I think I am fine where I am thank you.”

“Do you know why you are here? It is because Death thought himself clever but even, he cannot rewrite the destiny of another without consequence.”

“You’re one of the fates, aren’t you? What do you mean by consequence?”

“Such a clever child.” Hands hovered over the loom, tugging at a golden thread that pulsed, tangled with one that was inky black. “His soul is tethered to yours, always has been. But your father, severed his memories to spare you the constant pain of loss when in reality, your pain cries out to the old gods when he is taken from you. It was not Death’s choice to make.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he do such a thing? Why take from me what is mine?”

“Because Oberyn’s love for you would bind you to the mortal realm and you have a destiny far greater than being his lover, his wife. You are meant to take your fathers place when the time comes.”

Stepping forward, voice laced with determination. “That is not my choice nor my path.”

The Fate, shook her head, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “It has always been your path my child but we are not without mercy. There is a way to restore all to Oberyn, every life, every love, every moment shared with you but it comes with a price.”

“Doesn’t everything?”

“True. When Oberyn passes in this lifetime, you will have to be the one to guide him to the afterlife. Then you will take your father’s place as Death itself. You will become all that he is. The ferryman, the reaper, the shepherd of souls and you will no longer walk among the living. It is of course your choice to make. Just know that if you choose a different path, the cycle will never be broken. The bond between you both will weaken and eventually his soul will be lost to you forever.”

The weight of Fate’s words carved their way into her heart. “What if I just let it all go now, what would come to pass?”

“His soul would be taken, never to come back into a body. We are offering you this life, children to be born of the union. Children that were taken from you both, many lives ago. Human children that were destined for great things. Hence the knot of threads.”

She thought about every life they’d had together. How his was always cut so short because of her. How every time he passed, it destroyed a little piece of her. Now? They could have a full life. Together. They could chase every sunrise, exist under the stars and never have the fear of that darkness edging around their lives. Voice steady despite the storm raging inside her at what would come to pass after. "Do it. Give him his memories back. And when the time comes, I’ll take my father’s place."

The Fate nodded; her expression inscrutable. "So, mote it be."

She watched in awe as with a wave of her hand, the loom began to turn, the golden thread untangling and rejoining the black strands.

“When he awakens, he will remember all. Past and present. The mark on your wrist will fade by morning. That is when you must face Death. Love fierce and free my child.”

As Fate disappeared, the weight of her decision settled over her. The darkness that was edging around them now gone from her sight and on the morrow, they could begin anew.

She was jerked awake by the dream she’d had. It had to have been a dream, right? In all the years of her existence, she’d never met any of the Fates, remembering that there were those who believed they were even more powerful than the Gods themselves, at least that is what she’d been told. Shaking her head, cursing imagination gone wild, she got up, the robe wrapped around her, she stepped out onto the balcony that joined their room, watching oranges blend into blues as the sun rose over the ocean.

The dreams were relentless, like a montage of things from lives that belonged to him but didn’t. Chambers were bathed in soft orange light from a dawn so many lives ago, its vividness lingering like the scent of flowers after a storm. Silk sheets were pooled at his waist and he could see her, Lilith, eyes focused on him, her laugh soft but lethal, teasing the edges of his mind. Her touch was warm like the sun, setting his skin on fire when he touched her, always yearning for her. But the dreams weren’t what unnerved him the most, it was the memories that flooded him of them. He had been a Prince, she’d been nothing. She’d been a scholar, he’d been passing through the land, seeking shelter. He’d been a bloodied warrior; she’d been his bride. In every life, she’d found him, memories now cascading over him like an unrelenting tide but each one ended the same. Pain, loss, the ache of separation. Over and over, their fates intertwined, his memories, long buried under layers of mortal existence, came rushing back. Waking with a sharp inhale of breath, heart pounding like war drums echoing in his chest, he looked to the empty space next to him, panic causing him to scramble from bed, her name called out. “Lilith?”

Stepping back into the room, seeing him standing there, brows knitted together in fear. “I’m here,” she said quietly, voice a gentle balm against his panic. Walking towards him, she palmed his cheek, eyes searching his. “What’s wrong?”

“I remember.”

“What?”

“I remember. All of it. Spain. That was the last time before now. Every life, you find me. Every life you lose me. How could you endure it?” Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close. “Butterfly, I do not understand but I remember everything.”

Voice barely a whisper, knees almost giving out at the shock. “It was real. All of it. I thought it a dream.”

“What dream?”

Stepping out of his embrace, she sat on the edge of the bed and told him about the Fates, the loom, the yellow and black threads, the tangled mess they had weaved. How The Allotter had been angry for her father defying them, making his own destiny for her, that they would grant them mercy and allow him to remember. However, she left out the choice she’d made, that when this life was over, she would become what she was meant to be and he would, again, never remember her. She’d decided in that moment, to never let him know, that it would be her secret to keep. She watched as he came to his knees in front of her, arms wrapping around her waist. She didn’t realize she was shaking with the implications of what had actually happened. Heart pounding behind bone. Doubt, like vines, creeped through ribs, threatening to strangle. “Tell me something you remember.”

“A palace. A night beneath the stars. You told me stories of other lives before that one. A knight. A traveler. I was a Prince; you said you were nothing. Egypt. Italy. Spain. I remember all.” He held her close as he stood, nose rubbing against the skin below her ear, feeling the erratic pulse against her throat. “Do not question the how or the why, Butterfly. Just exist in this moment with me.” Lips dragged along the column of her throat, before teeth nipped at her earlobe. “I love you.”

The glow of the infinity tattoo had drawn Death himself to their moment of clarity, and as Oberyn and Lilith stood entwined, the air grew cold, shadows creeping around them until the room was plunged into darkness, words whispered against his lips before she turned, hand holding his. “Do not let go, no matter what.”

A figure emerged from the void—tall, imposing, and cloaked in an aura of eternal stillness.

Death’s presence was undeniable, commanding reverence and fear, yet she held her ground.

“Father,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her heart.

Death’s hollow eyes, void of emotion, turned to her. “You’ve defied me, Lilith.” His voice was like the rustling of ancient leaves, cold and unrelenting. “You’ve chosen to squander your destiny for a fleeting mortal love.”

Stepping forward, shielding Oberyn as if her defiance could protect them both. “It’s not fleeting, Father. You know this. Have known this. For hundreds of years. Oberyn was my destiny. You kept it from me.”

“Because you were meant for greater things,” Death replied, his tone sharp. “The daughter of Death is not meant to linger in humanity’s frailty. You are power, Lilith, eternal and untouchable. Yet you throw it away for him.” He cast an icy glance at Oberyn, who stood firm, unbowed, his gaze boring into Oberyn, as though weighing the mortal’s soul. “He cannot fathom it. I could unmake him with a thought.”

“The Fates will not allow it and you know this. How many children, human children were lost to us? Human children, Father. The Allotter told me everything. They were destined for great things but you took them from me. From us. You had no right.”

For a long moment, Death said nothing. The silence oppressive, heavy with the weight of millennia. Finally, he took his child’s hand. “You disappoint me,” he said quietly, though the words cut deeper than any shout. “You’ve chosen humanity, knowing it will strip you of what you are. You will age, weaken, and die, like all mortals. And yet, you stand here, unrepentant.”

Lifting her chin, tears brimming in her eyes, holding tight to both hands. One tethering her to her past, the other anchoring to her future.  “I choose this because he is the other half of my soul. The soul you gifted to me when you created me. You made me what I am, someone who could walk both worlds. It is my choice.”

Death’s form seemed to flicker, the edges of his presence blurring. For the first time, a glimmer of something softer passed through his eternal visage—regret, perhaps, or sorrow.

“So be it,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “From this day forward, you are no longer my daughter. You are mortal, bound to the same laws of time and death as the man you’ve chosen.”

The tattoo dimmed completely, fading into her skin until it was no more. She felt the shift instantly—her powers, the divine connection she’d always known, slipped away like sand through her fingers. “I will see you again, Father,” she said softly, watching as he simply vanished, leaving them alone, the heat of the rising sun bringing warmth and light back to the room. Turning to Oberyn, a now mortal heart racing in her chest, head tilted slightly, waiting for something, judgement perhaps, fear but his features showed none of it. Instead, he cupped her face, his lips pressing against her forehead. Eyes closed as she let out a shuddering breath before pressing herself to him, needing to feel, to have him close, wanting to climb into his skin and curl up beneath his heart, knowing they would only have this one last lifetime together. “I love you.”

“And I you Butterfly.”

Turning her, pressing his front to her back, lips finding the muscle of her shoulder, he pushed her forward, until she fell onto the bed, positioning himself on top of her. Fingers finding their way to her clit, gently pressing against it, already feeling her wetness, while a hand slipped around her throat, grip firm but not constricting, feeling her press against the raging hard on he had. “So beautiful.”

His weight was like the sun, warmth sinking into her skin, settling deep in the marrow of her bones. She could feel the orgasm already building, feeling his hardness against her folds, sent shivers down her spine, causing her to arc her back slightly, a silent plea for him to continue. His hand around her throat only added to the intensity of the moment, a gentle reminder that she was surrendering control to him. His movements were slow, deliberate, fingers teasing every ounce of pleasure from her, soft moans muffled by the pillow, his grip tightened slightly. She could feel herself getting closer and closer and when the orgasm ripped through her, he buried himself within her, cock twitching as she clenched around him.

“Beautiful butterfly, coming apart underneath me.” God she was so tight, her slick soaking the sheets as she rode out her orgasm around her. It took every ounce of strength he had to not come, as he kissed along her shoulder, feeling how supple she was, he pulled out just until the head of him was inside before he drove his hips forward. He could feel deep connection he had with her. This wasn’t just about the physical act, it was how trusting she was of him, of how she laid her self vulnerable to him. How her soul had claimed his. Movements became harder, faster, needing to feel her again, an edge of desperation seeping from him.

His name came from slightly parted lips as she came again, feeling the flutter of her walls as he drove into one more time before she felt the pulsing of his cock as he came, his heart pounding against her back, teeth finding her shoulder, the pressure of the hand around her throat, instantly slack, holding her to him. Despite the choice she made, knowing that when this life was over, she’d have to let him go, she knew she was exactly where she wanted to be-under him, surrounded by his strength, his love and his passion.

Rolling to his side, taking her with him, bodies still connected, tongue soothed the spot where he bit her, feeling the indentations of teeth marks. “Forgive me. Tis a sin to mare such beauty.” He groaned when she moved, feeling himself, somehow still semi-hard, leave the warmth of her body. Her lips were at the base of his throat, kissing and suckling at sweaty skin. “Marry me, Butterfly. Then we will go anywhere you choose. Just tell me where, where would you like to go?”

Slightly pulling back, head tilted up, eyes finding his. “Everywhere.”

@almostfoxglove @guiltyasdave @604to647 @morallyinept @tinyglamdramaqueen @pedgito @whocaresstillthelouvre @ease-out-the-clutch @littlemisspascal @jolapeno @kittyfox1107

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

[veryace-ficrecs]

The Pitt Fic Recs Part 1

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

This Is The Day In Chaos by NameStartsWithN - Rated G

As the Pitt descends into its usual chaos, Dr Robby brings coffee and encouragement to his beleaguered team. Samira Mohan and Dennis Whittaker bond, while Mel King finally makes a joke -- intentionally!

The Dead Don’t Answer by NameStartsWithN - Rated G

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch learned a long time ago that death isn’t quiet—it’s a symphony of chaos, a brutal soundtrack of screaming monitors, cracking ribs, and the rush of hands fighting the inevitable. At Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital, there are always calls for help. Because the dead don’t answer. But the living don’t have a choice.

The Aftermath by AGirlHasNoName20 - Rated T

Two weeks after Pittfest, Robby is presented with a choice. Or: The one in which Robby starts therapy. Don't read unless you've watched the entire season 1.

Rules of Law by jumpfall - Rated G

The night Robby signed his attending contract, he was introduced to the Laws According to Adamson. He likes to hope that if he leaves his trainees with nothing else, it'll be the Addendums According to Robby. - Alternatively, is it really a fandom until there's a five things fic?

To Be A Doctor by mossterious -Rated G

Four student doctors. Four paths to get there. Four points of view. One hospital. — Aka I need to get used to writing different character povs SO HAVE SOME TINY CHARACTER STUDIES I GUESS?!

people come and go on the breeze by sweetmuses - Rated M

Redemption is a hard, long journey. She knows this probably better than most people. You have to keep yourself afloat amongst the madness, being acutely aware of tipping back into the ether. It’s easier to live within the boundless ocean of guilt than to take accountability - because to take accountability means that you’re willing to work for it, and there’s no way of knowing when you’ll slip up and fall.

Or: A reflection on the in-betweens of life, ghosts, and the human condition, through the eyes of Cassie McKay.

In Memoriam by fundotperiod - Rated G

How Robby has grieved and remembered his mentor.

Reflection by ZHH123 - Rated G

She thinks back on all the moments she almost couldn’t bear. The moments that prompted her to question if she belonged in the pitt. Then she thinks of her triumphs.

Last Call by jumpfall - Rated T

“Sorry if I woke you,” Robby says. Jack shrugs. “Middle of the day in my time zone.” He waits a beat, and then asks, “You want to talk?” “No.” “You want a drink?” “You'd allow that?” “No,” Jack says. “Just lets me gauge how concerned I should be.” – 1x15 episode tag.

The Pitt Crew! by megas217 - Rated G

Welcome to the Pitt Crew a story about the doctors and nurses who work in the Pitt.

Sursum Corda by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing) - Rated M

A few hours after Pittfest, Langdon returns to the ED.

The Way, Way Back by jumpfall - Rated T

Robby, post 1x13.

And I Said Nothing by elpopooley66 - Rated T

Trinity Santos is not okay. She’s never really been okay. But she’s held herself together this long — on caffeine, adrenaline, and silence sharp enough to cut. The Pitt sees it. Langdon sees it. And for once, maybe she lets herself be seen. They don’t fix her. They just don’t leave. Sometimes, that’s enough. Featuring: unresolved trauma, a lobster named Greb, a borrowed hoodie, and the terrifying prospect of letting someone care. Or: the one where she stops pretending she’s fine — and someone finally calls her bluff.

what a weight to live under by shirelings - Rated T

Mel’s convinced she’s made it to the door without anyone noticing her before a voice stops her dead in her tracks. “Dr. King.” It’s said in that sort of way that’s not really a question even if someone else would frame it like that, and Mel lets her shoulders rise up a little towards her ears as she slowly turns. Oh, boy. - Mel does, in fact, talk to Abbot at the end of the day.

Change of Watch by jumpfall - Rated T

When Robby's phone vibrated twenty minutes ago, he'd been dealing with a critical GSW to the adbomen and unable to answer. Now there's a voicemail from Jake.

Even Grouches Need to Go to the Hospital by lolathatch - Rated T

Trinity Santos finds a video of Doctor Robby from his younger days and makes it everyone's problem.

singing in unison by dotsayers - Rated M

Leah's sick the night before Pittfest. Robby gets his ticket back.

just a drop of water in an endless sea by evening_spirit - Rated G

Robby’s going to be fine, a rational part of Frank’s mind says. You’re the last person Robby needs right now, says another part, the one that hates himself. But Frank saw the look in Robby’s eyes and he knows that Robby is not fine. Not this time. And no one else will help. But should it be him? Maybe he should go get Dana? Abbot? Damn, if at least Collins was here. But Collins is not here, Dana doesn’t have anything more to give and Abbot is a pragmatic, a doer, not someone who would comfort another. Then again, neither is Frank. Or--a 1x13 coda where Frank and Robby talk, but it doesn't really solve anything.

Aftershocks by jumpfall - Rated T

Ways they are (and aren't) coping with the mass casualty incident.

living weighs heavier by Antumbra - Rated T

Maybe none of them were ever meant to be alright, not once they’d chosen to devote themselves to this career that could only tear them down and break them apart. Or: an alternate take where Jack finds Robby after his breakdown.

[lurkingshan]

Thank you for leaving these tags @pharawee! Without getting into any speculation about how Dead Friend Forever will actually end, I do want to address your question and talk about why most of us want to see severe consequences for these boys. The short answer: it's about genre expectations and the psychological catharsis of a good revenge narrative.

To get down to the really basic point: people who love revenge thrillers love them because they are a fantasy construct in which good people survive and bad people get what they deserve. In a world where bad things happen and we rarely have any control, a good revenge story can be exhilarating, giving you the feeling that justice prevailed, villains received appropriate comeuppance for their wrongs, and the protagonist seized control back and experienced much needed catharsis for their suffering. Real life is very much not like this, which is why it's such an appealing genre of fiction.

So how do we calibrate what "appropriate comeuppance" means? This is where genre expectations become really important, because the genre the revenge narrative plays out in sets the terms for where that bar sits. In The Glory, a recent world class revenge drama, we were in the psychological thriller genre, so revenge came in the form of Dong Eun playing mind games with her bullies until they destroyed their own lives. No murder necessary. Dead Friend Forever, however, is in the horror genre, and specifically began its story by planting itself in the slasher subgenre, giving us a masked killer and setting up expectations that these boys are being hunted. When you watch a slasher, you come in with the mindset that most of the characters are going to die and begin rooting for it and looking for reasons why they "deserve" it. And typically, in a slasher, it takes very little for a character to "deserve" a death--you often see people die for the tiniest infractions, like making a rude comment, telling a bad joke, or having sex. But DFF went much farther than that and gave us a multi episode flashback in which we got a detailed accounting of every wrong this group of boys committed against Non, increasing the audience's bloodlust and conviction that these boys needed to pay.

So why do so many of us want the bullies to die? Because the genre demands it, and the story set the audience up to expect it from the outset. I have seen some discussion of the way the show is blending different horror subgenres and not sticking strictly to typical slasher conventions, and that's true, and expected. Slashers are usually two hours max, and this show needed to fill 10+ hours of content, so it's doing a really interesting blend of slasher, mystery, psychological thriller, and other horror subgenres. But the bones of the story still hold, and despite the storytelling choice to give the villains some nuance and fleshed out motivations for their behavior, they are still villains who destroyed Non's life. If you're feeling overly sympathetic to any of these boys at present, I encourage you to go back and remind yourself how they behaved in the early episodes of this story, which took place after the events of the flashbacks. These are not genuinely remorseful kids who made minor mistakes and then got their acts together and became upstanding citizens; they just want to move on and avoid blame and accountability for what they did, while Non's entire family was irrevocably destroyed by their actions.

If this story ends without Por, Tee, Top, Fluke, Jin, and Phee suffering genre appropriate consequences for their choices that harmed and betrayed Non, it will be a letdown and many will feel unsatisfied. In real life, we may believe that forgiveness is the right path, and we know that Buddhism teaches unconditional forgiveness. But this is not real life. This is a fantasy genre that is specifically meant to provide an escape from the constraints of real life morality and obligations. No one wants to show up to a fantasy party only to receive a moral scolding. The most disappointing thing a revenge narrative can do is wimp out on delivering the actual revenge.