#take the two and blankly say ‘well all states are bad and oppressive’ when one is very very clearly trying to reinforce weapth disparity

[marblebees]

It rlly just pains me seeing some people’s political analysis on here………i really dont wanna be mean but its time to unfollow some ppl i think

[thesightstoshowyou]

Prey in the Snow

Featuring Marigold, my Final Girl OC and Graham, my Slasher OC

Summary: An unconventional love story: Girl meets boy. Girl flirts with boy. Boy roofies girl. Boy hunts girl for sport.

Warnings: Violence, blood, gore, swearing, drugging, drinking, weapons, supernatural elements

~~

            Raucous laughter erupts near the pool tables. The match has finally ended, Jeff victorious and rubbing Derek’s loss in his face. Marigold smiles over her beer at the antics. She shrugs further in her jacket when the front door swings open, icy air pouring into the little bar along with a couple that must stomp off the snow clinging to their boots.

             His gloating now complete, Jeff asks, “Where’s Tanya and Silvie? It’s their turn.”

             “Oh, they’re trying to flirt with that guy at the bar,” Marigold motions to the bar top with her beer. Two of her friends stand giggling next to a good-looking guy in a camouflage baseball cap. He’s hunched over his beer and Marigold has yet to see him crack a smile.

             “Yeah, he’s not biting. Go and rescue them, would ya?” Jeff asks, batting his eyelashes. Marigold raises an eyebrow, fixing Jeff with a withering look, “Oh, c’mon, Goldie. You need to get laid. It’s been foreverrrr. Besides, he’s been looking at you all night.”

             Marigold is taken aback by that. She hadn’t caught him looking, but Jeff wouldn’t lie about something like that. Peering at the guy out of the corner of her eye, she must fight to keep herself from bristling with excitement. He certainly is cute…really cute.

            Marigold sighs dramatically before downing the rest of her beer and standing.

             “That’s the spirit!” Jeff shouts, clinking her empty glass with his own.

             As she makes her way toward the bar, Marigold musses her dark locks and straightens her jacket. A few butterflies flap annoyingly around in her stomach. It’s just a guy. She can talk to him, no big deal.

             “Better hurry up ladies, or Jeff’s gonna steal your turn at the table,” Marigold announces, slipping into the chair on the other side of Baseball Cap Guy.

             “Oh, he better not!” Sylive warns, grabbing Tanya’s jacket and hauling her away. Marigold suppresses a grin and nods to the bartender at the other end of the bar.

             “What’re you drinking?” Marigold’s hazel eyes meet deep green as she turns to face Baseball Cap Guy. He’s even better looking up close; tan skin, strong jaw covered in a light dusting of dark stubble, full lips, long eye lashes, shaggy chocolate colored hair. His soft, deep voice has the slightest hint of southern drawl.

             “Oh, that’s nice of you,” she replies with a smile, “Just a beer. Whatever you’re having.” The guy nods and gives the order to the bartended.

             “Was nice of you to come get your friends,” he explains, turning back to his beer and tracing a thumb along the rim of the glass. Marigold searches his profile for a hint of expression—is he annoyed, amused, interested—but his face is blank.

             “Ah, they’re not so bad. They just thought you were cute,” she teases, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She takes a sip of her beer and notices Baseball Hat Guy glance at her out of the corner of his eye. He only hums in response before sipping his own drink.

             “Not your type?” Marigold asks. She picks at a fray along the cracking leather edge of the bar top.

             “Not really,” he says. She glances up just in time to see a small smile fall from his lips.

             “What is your type?” she asks, biting her lip before taking a nervous sip from her glass. He looks over at her out of his peripheral again, this time meeting her gaze.

             “Brunettes wearing leather jackets,” he says, the small smile returning. Marigold giggles, fighting a blush. Dear god, he has dimples.

             “What’s your type?” he asks, finally turning to face her.

             She grins before replying, “Soft spoken, stoic guys wearing baseball caps.” He chuckles quietly, looking down at his muddy boots then back up to Marigold’s face.

             “I’m Graham.”

             “Marigold,” she says, taking his outstretched hand. His skin is warm against hers and his calloused palm grates pleasantly against her own, “But everyone calls me Goldie, cuz of my hair. It’s funny, you see.” She motions to her dark locks with an eyeroll. Graham smiles in response.

             “Goldie, that’s—

             “Goldie! We’re going down to O’Neil’s! Let’s goooo!” Tanya calls from across the room as the rest of her friends don their jackets and hats.

             “Guess that’s you,” Graham says, smiling wryly and leaning back in his chair. Marigold curses their timing.

             “Graham, it was nice to meet you, but if you don’t have anything else to do tonight, you know where to find me.” She winks and slides out of her chair. Giving him one final smile over her shoulder, she pulls her hood up and heads out into the chilly winter air.

             Marigold and her friends spend the rest of the evening at O’Neil’s, a sticky Irish pub with the best beer prices. She dances, she drinks, she laughs, all while keeping a close eye on the front door. Her heart leaps every time it bangs open, but there is still no sign of Graham.

             “Last call!” shouts the bartender.

             “Shots, bitches! Drink up!” Jeff returns to the table, hands full of little glasses of Patron. Everyone groans, but takes their drink anyway. Everyone but Marigold.

             “Jeff, take mine. That last beer didn’t sit very well.” Her stomach churns as she speaks, her head beginning to pound.

             “Pfft, hoe, drink your damn shot!” Tanya shouts, tossing back the burning liquid.

             “I got’chu, baby cakes” Jeff slurs, retrieving Marigold’s shot.

             “Love you. ‘M gonna go ousside for a minnet.” Marigold slips out of her chair and makes her way to the door, stumbling a bit as she goes. Her surroundings spin and blur as she pushes against the door. She hadn’t had that much to drink. What is happening?

             Outside, a blast of icy air hits her exposed skin and she stumbles, stomach dropping in anticipation of a fall. Warm hands seize her shoulders and push her upright. Blearily, Marigold glances up to find dark green eyes searching her own.

             “Oh, hey, iss…it’s you. Grahaam cracckerrr,” she slurs, “I think sommin’ was wrong wif my beeeer….”

             Graham says nothing, instead bending down and lifting Marigold off her feet, carrying her bridal style down the street and into the alley.  

             “Where…where’re goin’?” Marigold’s eyes drift shut. With difficulty, she pries them open, only to snap them closed again as the world shifts and lurches. Distantly, she hears a vehicle door slam shut, then another, then nothing at all.

***

             It is the silence that finally wakes Marigold. Before, the noisy hum of an engine and the gentle rocking motion had kept her in the surreal state between waking and sleep. Is that music? Maybe this is a dream….

             When the noise and movement suddenly stop and a vehicle door slams, Marigold cracks her eyes open. Gray cloth seats stare back at her. Turning her head, Marigold finds she is laying in the back seat of a car—or truck, she isn’t sure. Her head pounds with the movement and she must close her eyes again.

             Suddenly, the door by her feet opens. Blinding light pours into the cab and Marigold groans and throws her arm over her face. Hands grasp her ankles and pull hard. She shrieks as she is yanked from the warm interior of the vehicle and thrown to the ground.

             Her bare hands plunge into icy snow to catch herself. Hastily, she pushes up to her knees and looks furiously around for the asshole responsible for the freezing snow now buried in her jacket sleeves. Her brows furrow in confusion when she takes in her surroundings.

             Marigold finds herself in a forest, bare oak, ash, and birch trees dotting the snow-covered landscape. Fat snowflakes drift lazily down from a gray sky. Her breath curls white before her when she releases a tremulous exhale.

            Her skin prickles, and not just from the cold. The forest is quiet, oppressively so; no bird song, no wind, no noise from a nearby highway. Her surroundings do nothing to jog her memory. What is she doing here?

            The who, what, and why escape her, until she turns around and finds Graham leaning against a black pick-up, hands in his pockets. Graham, right. Last night, the bar, her friends…. Where are her friends?

            She notices Graham has changed clothes. He’s now wearing camouflage from head to toe. Marigold is instantly on her feet.

            “What’s going on?” she demands, unnerved. He watches her blankly, eyes cast in shadow under the brim of his hat. He doesn’t answer, instead strolling over to the bed of the truck. He unlatches the tail gate and lets it fall open with a noisy clank that makes Marigold jump. Graham seats himself on the open tail gate and fiddles with something inside the truck.

            Tentatively, she follows, stepping carefully around to the back of the pick-up, only to recoil in shock as Graham slides a hunting rifle out of its case and lays it across his lap.

            “What’s going on!” she shouts, eyes wide, heart hammering. Her voice is deafening in the near-silent forest. Graham glances up at her, adjusting his hat and leaning back casually against the bed of the pick-up. His expression is still unreadable.

            “Run along now, Goldie,” he says softly, turning his attention back to the .30-06 in his lap.

             Marigold gives him a blank stare. Run along? Where is she supposed to go? Why is he acting so weird? And why the fuck does he have a gun?

            “Graham, you’re really freaking me out. What are we doing here?” Her voice shakes as she speaks. She wraps her arms around herself to keep her hands from trembling. Graham ignores her. He loads a shell into the rifle, the loud click making Marigold flinch. Her already racing heart begins to beat wildly against her ribs.  

            Graham’s eyes meet hers again and he looks at her expectantly. When she doesn’t move, he looks down to his watch, tilting it against the glare from the snow.

            “I’ll give you a three-minute head start, sweetheart. You better get going.”

            “A head start, for what?” she demands, fear ebbing slightly to make way for anger. Graham sighs and reaches behind him, producing an enormous hunting knife. He cocks his arm back and chucks the blade. Marigold leaps backwards as sharp steel embeds itself in the snow where her foot had been a moment earlier.

            “Run,” Graham says firmly, sliding off the tail gate and slinging the rifle over his shoulder.

            “Jesus, fuck!” Marigold turns on her heel and flees, sprinting as fast as she can through the snow. Her mind races. The clank of the bullet sliding into the chamber replays vividly in her mind and one, morbid thought makes itself know above all the rest:

            Is that bullet…for her?    

            Marigold runs until her lungs burn, ducking behind trees and leaping over fallen branches. She has to reach a road or a house or something eventually, right? Keep going, have to keep going….

            After several minutes of hard sprinting, she slows to a jog, glancing behind her. Her breath comes in furious pants, white mist pouring from her mouth with each exhale. She can’t see the black pickup anymore, or Graham, but he will be hard to spot in all the camo. She looks down despairingly at her own clothes. Her black leather jacket and dark hair will stick out like a sore thumb against all the gray and white around her, but she can’t take off her jacket, not in this weather.

            She glances up at the sky. The sun is hidden behind silver clouds. She has no way of telling what time it is or in what direction she’s heading, but what does it matter? She doesn’t even know where she is anyway.

            Marigold suddenly skids to a halt. Her cell phone! Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Frantically, she searches her pockets, but comes up empty. Of course, he took her phone. It was ridiculous to think otherwise. She swears under her breath.

             She chews on her lip and rubs her hands on her jeans to warm them. Another thought sneaks to the forefront of her mind.

            Maybe she shouldn’t run. Maybe she should wait for Graham to find her and let him do whatever he has planned. Then he’ll see this is all pointless—

            Marigold feels the shot before she hears it. The ear-splitting crack follows the white-hot path of the bullet as it tears through the back of her shoulder, exploding out the other side and splattering the snow with scarlet gore.

            The force of the shot sends her crashing to the ground. A scream of agony tears from her throat as she rolls on her side and grasps her mutilated shoulder. Marigold sobs, pushing herself to her knees and curling in on herself. Nauseating, miserable pain wracks her entire right side and she grits her teeth, forcing herself to stay conscious.

             Hesitantly, she looks down at the bloody mess that is her shoulder. Shallow pants pass her lip as she shakes from head to toe. Marigold waits anxiously, watching her wound, praying the process will being quickly, before Graham can get another shot off.

            Slowly, her flesh begins to move. The edges of the wound gradually to knit together, muscle, bone, and sinew realigning themselves in their proper place. Her skin works itself closed. Soon, nothing remains of the bullet hole but the blood smeared across her skin.

            That psychopath shot her! He really did it! He is actually hunting her! The shock and rage send her reeling. Marigold exhales sharply and grasps her healed shoulder, bringing herself back to her senses. The pain is gone, but the memory persists. She doesn’t want to experience that again.

            Shakily, she gets to her feet and stumbles into a tree, leaning against the bark for support. She raises a bloody, trembling hand, curling it into a fist. She slowly extends her middle finger, flipping Graham the bird and glaring in the direction from which the shot originated.

            Quickly, she ducks behind the tree. Half a second later comes the deafening crack, the bullet shattering the bark of the tree right where her head was a moment earlier. Time to run again, quickly, before he can reload.

            Sprinting is much harder the second time. Marigold’s quivering legs struggle to keep up the pace. Her gait is awkward as she continues to clutch her shoulder. Graham must not know she is no longer injured, not yet.

            She takes more care to weave between trees and make herself a more difficult target. Marigold does her best to keep breathing, keep her legs pumping, but all too soon, she begins to slow. The one downside to her regenerative ability is the energy it takes to heal.

            Fatigued, chest heaving, Marigold must stop her frenzied retreat and lean against a scraggly oak. What now? She isn’t sure how much longer she can run. Maybe she can double back, sneak around to the truck…. But then what?

            Pushing away from the tree, she takes one step, two, three, still not sure of her plan, but the urge to run is too insistent to ignore. She trudges forward, feet numb from the cold, shoulders slumped, shivering from head to toe.

            One hundred yards away, Graham exhales slowly. Marigold staggers into the cross hairs. Finger steady, he pulls the trigger.

            A third crack rips through the silence of the forest. The bullet plows through Marigold’s right leg, breaking bone and shredding flesh as it bursts out the front of her thigh before coming to a halt in the trunk of an ash tree.

            Her leg is knocked out from under her and Marigold crashes to the ground a second time in a flurry of snow and blood spatter. Her anguished scream disturbs the hush around her.

            “FUCK!” she wails, jaw clenched, hands shaking uncontrollably. She grips her thigh, just above the wound as blood stains the snow around her in a near perfect circle. Her surroundings darken.

            Marigold comes to a few seconds later to find her wound healing, flesh and bone repairing themselves until all that’s left is scarlet painted skin. Panting, she lets herself fall onto her back. The putrid ache of the wound is still fresh in her mind. She can still feel the sensation of the bullet rending her thigh.

            She can’t run, not anymore. She doesn’t possess the strength There’s probably no chance of finding her way out of this god forsaken forest anyway. She’ll have to wait for Graham. What will he do when he finds her uninjured?

            She doesn’t have long to wait. All too soon, Marigold hears the unhurried crunch of boots on snow. He probably thinks she’s dead.

            With gritted teeth, she slowly pushes herself to a sitting position. Graham spits into the snow when he meets her furious gaze. Leisurely, as though he has all the time in the world, he strolls toward her, stopping a few feet away to lean against an old birch.

            “You’re one tough cookie, Goldie,” he comments nonchalantly, unsheathing his hunting knife. His head jerks up in surprise when Marigold laughs sardonically.

            “You redneck…piece of shit….” Using all her remaining strength, she stands. Graham’s expression remains blank, but his eyes narrow. Taking a handful of snow, she scrubs away the blood on her thigh, revealing smooth, unmarred flesh. She does the same to her shoulder.

            “Surprise, asshole,” she grits out, sneering. Marigold watches him closely. His face remains impassive but she can see his eyes flicking in between her shoulder and leg. She can almost hear what he must be thinking, can see the gears fighting to turn.

            Did I miss? No, there’s blood everywhere, I definitely hit her, but where are the wounds? I couldn’t have just grazed her, not with that much blood. How is she standing?

            A beat passes between them. Neither looks away from the other. Graham taps his blade against the back of his hand. He’s thinking, deciding, but what? She almost wishes he would just do something. Her legs won’t hold her weight for much longer.

            Suddenly, Graham lurches forward. Caught off guard, Marigold staggers back and falls on her rear. In one smooth motion, he pins her on the frozen ground and buries cold steel into her neck up to the hilt.

            Shocked, eyes wide as saucers, Marigold chokes. Blood fountains up from her mouth when Graham rips the blade from her flesh. Arterial spray paints the front of them both and the surrounding snow.

            Graham sits back on his heels and watches Marigold splutter and gurgle, expression unreadable. She grips her throat, fingers searching for the wound. Panic, panic. She can’t breathe, hurry, hurry. When she feels the flesh knit together, she turns her head to the side and hacks, focusing on clearing her airway. The horrible, coppery taste in her mouth is overwhelming and she must fight the urge to vomit.

            Once she takes a few huge, gulps of freezing air, Marigold meets Graham’s incredulous gaze. His blood splattered, expressionless façade has finally cracked. Exhausted, eyes half lidded, minutes away from passing out again, the side of Marigold’s mouth quirks up in a smirk.

            “What is this?” he asks quietly, wiping the blood from her neck to make sure he is seeing what he thinks he sees. His green eyes grow wider when he finds no wound. In response, Marigold spits blood in his face. The wet smack as it lands on his cheek makes him flinch.

            “I’m unkillable, you fucking hick.”

            “I don’t…. I don’t understand.” His voice is still soft but there is an edge to it; a hint of fear. It is more satisfying than Marigold thinks possible.  

            “You can’t kill me. Nobody can kill me. This whole thing you’ve got going here is pointless—

            Graham doesn’t let her finish. He cuts her off with hands around her throat, squeezing until her mouth opens and closes in a fruitless attempt to inhale. Marigold kicks and bucks under him, adrenaline giving her strength she didn’t think she had. She reaches for his face, hoping to claw him or gouge out his eyes, but Graham merely tips his head back, avoiding her reaching fingers.

            Darkness creeps in from the edges of her vision. Blood vessels break in her eyes. Her chest burns, desperate for air. Her limbs grow heavy. Slowly, her hands fall to the ground and her legs cease their flailing. Marigold’s body stills.

*

            Graham keeps pressure on her throat for another minute, for good measure. His hands ache when he finally releases her. He stands, regarding the still body at his feet warily. He taps her leg with his boot. No response. She looks dead enough.

            He turns away, pulling handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the blood from his face. What in God’s name was that? He still doesn’t believe what he saw.

            He shakes his head. Think about it later. Go get the truck, bring it as close as he can so he doesn’t have to haul her far. The ground is too frozen to bury her here, he’ll have to find somewhere else. He begins to walk away.

            A deep gasp behind him stops him dead in his tracks.

            Rasping coughs, more gasping, and then, “Is that the best you can do?”

[bgn846]

Satum Novum Chapter 9: Moving On FFXV Gladnis

<Previous Chapter 8

Prompto stood nervously waiting in the hallway outside of the training room at the citadel.  He’d been in insomnia for barely four days and he still wasn’t sure he’d made the right choice.  He was technically homeless, unemployed, and broke.  Gladio’s phone still had no reception so he couldn’t call his friend for advice.

Ignis had thankfully recognized his housing dilemma right away once they’d returned.   He’d offered up his spare room without hesitation.  The man was also an amazing cook so he wasn’t lacking for food at least.  Noct was on strict orders from the doctor to rest and relax so Prompto was only able to see him for a few hours a day.

Ignis had been given the same orders but he seemed to be ignoring them.  Prompto tried to help out when he could.  He did the dishes and managed to wrangle the laundry basket away from Ignis at least twice already.

Now as he stood awaiting his fate he could feel his hands getting clammy.  The door to Cor’s office popped open suddenly and a glaive peered out, “You can come in now.”

His shoes squeaked as he spun around to follow the instruction.  Upon entering the office he was told to have a seat in the chair opposite Cor.  Six he was so freaked out by all of this.  Cor was reclining in his seat and there were two other soldiers in the room with him.

“Prompto, are you sure this is what you want?” Cor asked finally.

He faltered, he wasn’t sure, but he knew he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life on a fishing boat.  “I’m not really sure sir; I don’t have many options in life.”

“Not true, you could work at a restaurant, or be an office clerk.  You’ve signed up to be a soldier.  This is very different.” Cor replied.

“I know, but I want to do something good for people.  I felt useful and I want to feel like that again.”

“Fair enough.  This isn’t easy training though I hope you understand.”

Prompto nodded vigorously, “Yeah, I get that.”

“Well then, I’m happy to report your background check came back clean.” Cor paused and lifted an eyebrow, “Mostly.”  Prompto went to try and explain himself but Cor raised his hand to stop him, “It’s alright, you’ve had a rough time.  I get that.” He added smiling.

“What’s next then?”

“You get to choose your trainer.” Cor announced as he motioned for the two glaives present to step forward.

Prompto was so confused the two soldiers standing before him were both tough looking.  He had no clue who to pick, “Sir uh – which one is better for me?” he asked looking back to Cor.

The marshal grinned and pointed to the one on the left, “They are both good trainers but I think you’ll fit in well with Pelna.”  

The soldier in question crossed the distance between them and reached out his hand with a smile, “Glad you’ll be joining the ranks of the good guys.”

Cor dismissed them all and Prompto followed Pelna back towards the locker room to get his training gear.  He was scared and excited all at the same time.  He wished he could tell Gladio what he was doing.  He hoped his friend would be proud of his decision.

Pelna showed Prompto around the facilities and gave him some tips on what to expect when training started the following week.  The glaive was nice and seemed to sense his anxiety over the situation.  He told Prompto he’d do just fine and not to worry.

Each minute that passed eased his frayed nerves.   Finally when the tour was over and his locker had been assigned he left to go back to Ignis’ apartment.   The advisor didn’t live very far away so he could walk there.

When he arrived the mood was decidedly different.  Ignis had been told he wasn’t allowed to return to work until he’d been cleared by a doctor.  This only meant he was doing his work from home instead, despite several threatening visits from Clarus ordering him to stop.

Prompto looked around for Ignis and found him sitting at the kitchen table.  He was hunched over the table with his head resting on his forearms.  Suddenly worried something bad had happened he rushed over, “Ignis are you alright? Do you feel okay?” he asked.

Ignis didn’t lift his head, “No.” he mumbled.

The blond wanted to help but he didn’t know if Ignis wanted to talk about what was going on, “Uh – I’m here if you need to talk or --.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Do you  need me to call the doctor?”

“I’m not ill.” Ignis offered as he slowly sat up, “Thank you though.”

“But something happened did it?” The idea that maybe Drautos had escaped crossed his mind, “Is Drautos still in custody?”

“Hmmm, oh yes.  The crown has plenty of evidence to put him away for life.   You did a wonderful job rigging that collar.  It was instrumental in taking him down.”

Pride swelled in Prompto’s chest at the praise, but Ignis still look any better.   “If they have enough evidence does that mean Gladio is back?”

Ignis didn’t answer verbally.  He simply stared ahead blankly and nodded slowly.

“But I tried calling him earlier and his phone still went to voicemail.” Prompto stated confusedly, “Why would he do that if he was back?”

“Perhaps he wishes to be left alone.”

“No, he’s not like that.  Are you sure he’s okay?  He could be injured and we don’t kn--.”

“No Prompto, he’s not injured.” Ignis interrupted, “I’ve already talked with the glaives that he accompanied.  They said he was fine when they returned to port two days ago.”

“I don’t understand, if he’s been back for two days why the hell hasn’t he called any of us?!” Prompto asked in disbelief.

“I wish I knew.”  Ignis lamented.

This was all wrong; this was not how his friend acted.  He was a good guy.   Gladio didn’t say one thing and then do another.  “Did you call maybe he’ll pick up if he sees its you.”

Ignis finally looked at him, “I already called and texted yesterday morning.  He doesn’t want to talk me obviously.”

Prompto couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Gladio and Ignis had hit it off so well.  The blond spent the rest of the evening attempting to cheer Ignis up.  It didn’t exactly work but it made the time pass.  Tomorrow Prompto was going to try and figure out what was going on.  They deserved to know.

--

“I don’t understand why you are being like this Gladdy!” Iris shouted, “You are clearly miserable.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Gladio huffed, “I’m not leaving you like dad did.”

“I’m not a little kid anymore; I don’t need you to worry about me.  You are not allowed to use me as an excuse for doing the wrong thing.”

Gladio scrunched up his nose in disgust, “I’m not using you as an excuse!” he growled.

“Don’t give me that crap. Ever since you got back two days ago you’ve been a giant stick in the mud!” Iris yelled as she stormed around their aunt’s kitchen, “I don’t know exactly what happened but if you don’t fix it I’m going to get dad involved.”

“NO!  That’s not fair.  Don’t turn dad into some savior when he’s not been there for us.  That’s a low blow Iris.”

“Then figure your shit out!”

“Language!” Gladio hissed, “See this is the stuff that happens when I’m not here.”

“No its not!  I told you to stop making me part of your excuse.”

“I’m not doing that!” Gladio bellowed.  Six he was fucking sick of this.   Why couldn’t this be easy?  “I’m not leaving you alone.” he finished with a fire in his eyes.

“I’ll move into the city with you then.  I won’t be alone and you can stop using me as an ex--.”

“Iris --.” Gladio threatened, “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to be around you if you’re going to be like this.” Iris added with tears in her eyes, “You said you’d look after us and this is not how you do it.” Sniffling she turned and ran from the room.

His head was throbbing with a migraine now and Gladio still didn’t know what to do.  He couldn’t abandon his sister that was not an option.  He wasn’t going to uproot her life just so he could go do as he pleased.   The air in the room suddenly felt oppressive, he needed to get out of the house.

Storming out into the yard he took off down one of the well-worn paths that led to the sea.  His head was awash with thoughts of Ignis and what his sister had just said to him.  

Their aunt lived in a well-appointed cottage near the sea just outside of Altissia.  The place was peaceful and quiet and work wasn’t a distraction when he was there with Iris.   Or at least it used to be that way.  Now he wasn’t sure what his future held if he stayed.  Iris seemed pretty upset and he didn’t want to see what his sister would do if pushed any further.  Time was running out he couldn’t keep avoiding Ignis.  He owed him an answer.  

Gladio stayed out for nearly an hour.  The walk helped his headache but did nothing for the conflict in his mind.  Deciding to turn back he trudged up the hill back to the house.  When he was still a good distance away he spotted a car in the driveway.  It was an official crown vehicle.

Panic took over as he ran up to the house.  Had something happened?  Taking the front steps two and a time he threw the door open.  Iris was there talking to their surprise guests, his father and Prompto. They both looked like somebody had died.  Shit this wasn’t good.  

Without waiting for an explanation he looked at his friend, “Are Ignis and Noct alright?” he asked in between breaths.

Prompto nodded solemnly but didn’t say anything.

“Are you alright?” he asked remembering that Prompto wasn’t always forthcoming with news like that.

The blond nodded again.

“Thank the six.” he muttered.

Clarus spoke next, “Son, I think we need to talk.”

“Not you too!” He exclaimed, “Iris already lit into me dad, I don’t have the patience to hear any more.”

“Prompto, Iris, do you think I could have a moment alone with Gladio.”

Gladio watched them go through to the next room.  He couldn’t believe he was going to have to put up with getting yelled at twice in one day.

--

Ignis couldn’t figure out why Prompto was acting so strange.  His training was starting soon so it must have been nerves.  Maybe Prompto coming home the other night and finding him in such a state of distress over Gladio had affected him.   Ignis still didn’t have any news and he was starting to think he never would.

Gladio had gone off to think about his life and it seemed it didn’t include Ignis.  That idea was depressing but he couldn’t force another person to like him.  The pain of it all was a dull ache; Ignis hoped it would go away eventually.   Though he wasn’t sure it would.

Resigned to reviewing reports at his small kitchen table Ignis was surprised when a notification dinged on his phone.  He’d still been unable to go to work officially; the doctor had refused to clear him.  Ignis suspected the king was to blame for this.   He knew they all wanted him to rest, but didn’t they understand? Work allowed his brain a reprieve from thinking about Gladio.

Tapping his phone awake he saw that it was a calendar invite, for training of all things.  The description was useless as he opened the message.   The appointment was set for that very afternoon.   Maybe they wanted to have him take a physical, so he could prove he was healthy enough to go back to work.   Finally maybe he could get back to normal!  

Having to wait the three hours for his appointment was nearly impossible.  Deciding to go early he grabbed his gym bag and left for the citadel.   The short walk there did little to clear his head.   Taking a deep breath once he reached the entrance to the citadel Ignis began calmly walking to the training room.  He needed to at least appear normal.

As he approached the training hall he was sure he could hear people talking.  No it that wasn’t it, he could hear laughter. Worrying slightly he crept up to the door.  If he was going to be evaluated were people laughing at him before he’d even arrived?   Stopping just outside the door he waited and listened.  The laughter had died down and had been replaced by the low muffle of indistinguishable voices.  

The unique bubbly laugh of Prompto reached his ears suddenly.  He was very confused as to what this training appointment entailed.  He was about to push the door open when another deeper voice rang out.  It was Gladio he was sure of it!

Ignis froze in place waiting to hear his voice once more.  He needed to make sure it was real.  Sure enough a moment later Gladio’s comforting voice filtered out into the hallway.  The gym bag he’d been holding slipped from his shaking hands.  Still stuck in place Ignis tried to force his body to move.  The fear that Gladio might not be there to see him crippled his resolve.

After what felt like an eternity he took a step forward and gently pushed the door open.

The room had a few other occupants as he looked around.  Noct was sitting on a pile of mats along the wall with Prompto next to him.  A younger girl Ignis didn’t recognize was sitting next to Prompto.  The three of them were cheering on Gladio, who at the moment had his back to Ignis.

Ignis didn’t dare to believe what he was seeing was real.  Gladio was wearing a crownsguard uniform and wielding a broadsword.   It appeared Noct was giving him instructions on how to summon it from the armiger.

If the prince had given Gladio access to the armiger that could only mean one thing.

He was thoroughly distracted watching Gladio and he didn’t realize he’d been spotted.   Prompto’s voice announced his entrance a second later, “Hey big guy, Ignis is here.”

Gladio spun around quickly and looked at him with wide eyes.  He then looked back to the sword he was holding, “Noct!  Make it go away!” he demanded.

“Just let go.” Noct urged.

Turning back to Ignis he took a few steps towards him and then paused to look at the sword again.  With an unpracticed move of his arm he finally released the weapon and it vanished into the armiger.  Running the remaining distance he stopped short of Ignis, “I’m so sorry I didn’t call.” He blurted.

Ignis went to respond but Gladio kept on talking.

“I know you’re probably really upset about that and I don’t want mess this up a second time.  Please can we start again?” He asked hopeful.

Unable to come up with anything poignant to say Ignis simply nodded and smiled.  Gladio grinned like he’d just won the lottery.  Without hesitation he crossed the remaining three feet between them and engulfed Ignis in a hug.

Any remaining worry or unease faded instantly when Gladio’s arms were around him.  This felt so good and Ignis never wanted to be deprived of this sensation again.  “I missed you.” He whispered in the small space between them.

“Even though we only apart for a week I was a wreck without you around, just ask my sister.”

Ignis realized the younger girl in their company must be Iris. He’d not seen her in many years, but as he peered over Gladio’s shoulder he could clearly see the resemblance.  “Are you staying?” he asked softly.

“Yes, I’m going to be Noct’s shield so I’m not going anywhere.” Gladio offered with shy smile.

“Are you technically already a member of the crownsguard?”

Gladio nodded, “Cor got me prepared for this last year in case I decided to take the oath.  I’m ready and willing.”

Ignis leaned in to hug Gladio tighter if that was even possible.  He was so happy he could hardly handle the surge of emotions that he was experiencing.

“I’m here to make your job easier remember.” Gladio supplied as he gazed down with vibrant amber eyes.

Their friends it appeared could no longer stay silent. A steady but clear chant was starting to grow from the side of the room.  Looking over Ignis could see Prompto and Iris cheering for a kiss.  Noct was fake retching.  Two out of three was enough for Ignis to act, “I believe they want us to kiss.”

Gladio raised his eyebrow and smirked, “Well I don’t think we should disappoint them.”

Ignis stood on his tip toes as he tilted his head up towards Gladio’s handsome face.  The future shield wrapped his arms around his waist and hoisted Ignis up the remaining distance.  The moment their lips connected Ignis forgot where he was.   The heat from Gladio’s body seemed to be the only thing anchoring him to this world.

Gladio didn’t put him down until he was lightheaded and weak in the knees, “Wanna meet my sister?”  he asked with a grin.

“Of course.” Ignis agreed as he worked to catch his breath.

When they turned to walk back over Ignis clutched Gladio’s arm for support. He was overwhelmed, but in a good way.  Gladio barely stopped walking as he spun around and swept Ignis off his feet, “I missed doing this too.”  

Ignis could feel his face turning red but he didn’t care he was happy.  Once they reached the mats in the corner Gladio deposited Ignis next to Noct.  The prince leaned over and hugged his advisor, “I’m really happy everything worked out.  I don’t like to see you sad.”

“I appreciate the sentiment highness.   Though I am sorry your fishing trip got ruined by this whole mess.”

“It’s okay we can plan another one right?  I mean I’ve got my own personal shield now.” Noct enthused.

“Your personal shield also owns a fishing boat with lots of room for big fish.” Gladio added with a wink.

Noct’s eyes lit up as he turned to Ignis with a huge smile, “Okay we are planning another trip as soon as the doctor clears us both.”

Ignis groaned and flopped back into the mats.  Now he wished he could never go back to work.  Anything he could do to avoid another fishing trip would be acceptable.

“Hey Ignis, it’s alright I’ll be there and so will Prompto.”  Gladio announced, “Come on it will be fun.”

Feigning his dismay Ignis waved his arms around dramatically.  He really didn’t mind, Gladio had a good point they would be together this time.  Turning his head Ignis locked eyes with Gladio.  Reaching out they took each other hands and squeezed.  The sounds of excited chatter planning the trip faded away as Ignis focused on Gladio.

He was so relieved that Gladio had decided to become Noct’s shield. They all made such a good team and he was excited for the adventures they would go on together.

>Epilogue

[the-magnus-archives-archiver]

Desecrated Host

Case: 0113005-B

Name: Father Edwin Burroughs Subject: His claimed demonic possession Date: May 30th, 2011 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

It was the first time I had experienced anything like that. By this point I was starting to suspect that I may have been having hallucinations of some sort, but I had never before felt a... a presence within myself, inside my being. It was a feeling so utterly awful it’s hard to put it into words. Like a reflex reaction, your muscles moving without any instruction from your mind, but rather than a quick twitch of the leg, it’s a slow movement of your jaw, your lips, forming your mouth into words. Worse things were to come, of course, but I don’t think any of them were so profoundly unsettling as that feeling.

I only got a few streets away from Hill Top Road before I was no longer able to maintain my equilibrium and fell to the floor, violently throwing up. I could not deny then that there was something inside me, and I believed that whatever it was had entered me from Bethany O’Connor. I tried to pray, tried to cast my mind to G– I couldn’t. As I tried, my throat closed and I struggled to breathe. I lay on the side of the pavement, and I wept. Wiping my eyes, I took out my Bible, and looked desperately within it for comfort but when I opened it, though the page was within the Gospel of Luke, the words were from Genesis: “Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me.”

Around that passage the writing morphed and swam before my eyes. And wherever there were words that might give me comfort, I found them obscured by dark stains. The bile began to rise within my throat again, and I desperately wanted to hurl the book away from me. I held it, though, for just a moment before I placed the small volume once again in my jacket. It took more willpower than I could have believed, but I kept it. I stood up shakily, and staggered back to the presbytery.

I slept for a long time, and missed morning Mass, saying I was feeling unwell. It wasn’t a lie, of course; I just lay there for hours. There seemed a safety in stillness, as though inaction could do no harm. It was the first good decision I had made, and there isn’t day goes by I don’t curse myself for ever rising from that bed. Nobody bothered me – I think word had gotten round that I was having a difficult time and they were almost certainly trying to decide who would be best to talk to me, or even whether to ask the Bishop to intervene.

I decided that I needed to talk to Father Singh. I didn’t think that he would be able to help me, but he was at least familiar with Bethany O’Connor’s case. Perhaps he might have some insight into what was happening. I tried to find him quickly – the faces on each crucifix and painting I passed seemed to twist and sneer at me as I walked and my head was throbbing. The painted blood glistened as though still wet. I’m glad I didn’t encounter anyone, for I was staggering so much they would likely have thought I was drunk.

Finally I found Father Singh in the small chapel. He seemed surprised to see me and as I approached, his face fell and he backed away ever so slightly. I can’t imagine how bad I must have looked to get such a reaction from him, but I sat next to him anyway. I began to talk, to tell him everything that had happened. He remained silent as I spoke, until I began to talk about the exorcism I had tried to perform on Bethany. He held up his hand, and asked if I’d prefer to speak about it in confession. I was momentarily confused, and asked him what sin he felt I had committed. He looked at me, and I swear there was almost a smile on his face when he spoke. “Spiritual pride,” he said, “that has led to quite a fall.”

Unsettled though I was at his attitude, I could not deny that he was right. I agreed, and we left the chapel. Soon I was giving my account as a full confession, and I could not keep from crying as I described what happened when I attempted to lay a blessing upon that house on Hill Top Road. I finished my account, and waited for Father Singh to speak of my penance or absolution. Instead, he paused for a few moments, then said, “No, your sins are deeper than that.” And he began to list them.

Every transgression I had made since I was six years old. The disabled child I had bullied in primary school, the time I stole money from my mother’s purse to buy cigarettes, the indiscretions I had had at the seminary. All of them. I had confessed them each before and been absolved, but not to Father Singh, and to hear them thrown back in my face as such a stark list of wickedness rattled me deeply. I noticed something else as he spoke: Father Singh only emigrated from Jaipur a decade or so before I met him, and he had always had quite a strong accent but the voice that spoke now to read my litany of wrongdoing had no trace of it. It was a clipped and crisp RP accent, though in tone it seemed to match that of my friend.

I leapt to my feet and ran from the room, and towards the front door. I needed to get out, to get somewhere I could breathe. In the hallway I ran past two other priests, who looked more worried than ever. One of them was Father Singh.

It was dark when I left the presbytery. I had no idea where I was going or why; I just had the desperate need to be somewhere else. The streets of Oxford should have been full of drunken students at that time on a Sunday night, at least, I thought it was Sunday, but they were almost deserted. Occasionally, I would see figures standing or walking at the end of the narrow streets, but they were shadowy, silhouetted against what little light there was, and were always gone when I approached. I tried once again to pray but the words died on my tongue. I have never felt despair on the sheer scale I did at that moment.

The streets of Oxford are winding, and speak to the age of the place, but I had lived there for no small amount of time and knew them well. That night, though, it was as though I had never walked them before. I saw roads that I had travelled a hundred times, but they seemed different, my eyes focusing on details I had never before marked, and at each turn I found I did not know where I was going or what place it would take me to. The world I knew had become alien to me, and I simply didn’t know what to do.

Finally, I found myself in front of The Oratory on Woodstock Road. The church’s large round window shifted as I watched, as though it were a tremendous eye that were turning to focus upon me. The door was open and from within, a warm light spilled out. Even in the depths of my – I suppose you could call it mania – there was something comforting about that light. A man appeared at the door. He was tall and pale, and dressed as an altar server.

I walked up to him. My vision was blurred, though I could not tell you whether it was my state of mind at the time or simply that I was crying. I should have known that something was wrong. I did know that something was wrong, but it didn’t matter. I had no fight left within me, so when he told me that it was time for Mass, I simply nodded and followed.

He led me through the church. It was bright, so bright. Candles covered every surface, each glowing so powerfully that I could barely look directly at them. The layout was how I remembered, but the pews were all empty, and I could see none of the statues or crosses that I expected. The man led me unresisting into the vestry, where I found my cassock and stole laid out in front of me. The stole was not green as I would have expected for a normal Sunday mass, nor was it violet or red or any other liturgical colour. Instead it was a pale, sickly yellow. I felt the eyes of the altar server upon my back, and dressed quickly.

At that moment the bell rang to mark the start of the mass. It was a single, jarring tone that cut through the air and made me almost double over in pain, so badly did it pierce into my pounding skull. I regained myself, gripping the thin, bony arm of the altar server, and walked out into the church. The pews were full now. Row upon row of people, far more than had ever before attended a mass that I had said. Each was dressed in black from head to toe, and their skin was fevered, jaundiced yellow. The eyes of every man, woman and child stared blankly forward, and their mouths hung open, wide and smiling, like their jaws had locked in silent rictus.

I could have left. I know that now. I know that my will and my actions were my own, and even at the time I knew that what I was seeing was so wrong. So very wrong but... it didn’t feel like at the time I could have made any other choice. Even in that strange place, stared at by hellish parishioners I must have known weren’t really there. G–... Forgive me, even then, I thought to find some comfort in the liturgy. The odd smelling incense swirled about me from the altar server’s brazier and my head swam with a scent that felt so familiar, yet so foreign.

Finally, I stood before the altar and began the mass. I was surprised as I spoke, and the holy names slipped from my mouth without hesitation, but the congregation I addressed were quiet, and each pause for a response was met with only that oppressive, wide-mouthed silence, a jarring void that tightened the fear I felt gripping my soul. When the Liturgy of the Word began, I watched in silent dread as the altar server stepped to the pulpit to deliver the first reading. He stood there, dark eyes scanning the open bible, before he raised his head and looked up as though to speak, but all that came from his throat was the single tolling sound of that bell, and my head pulsed in pain. The same thing happened for the second reading, that long, drawn out chime.

Then came the reading of the Gospel. I walked to the pulpit myself, and saw the passage indicated was Mark, chapter 9, verses 14-19. I began to try and read it, but my voice was gone and from my own mouth came the sound of that bell. I fell to the floor, but no-one moved to help me.

Eventually I was able to stand again, and a dull panic began to rise within me as I realised that next came the Liturgy of the Eucharist. The thought of these people, these things, taking the body of J– taking the sacrament of Holy Communion felt like the direst of blasphemies. I didn’t stop, though. I didn’t know what else to do, and my mind was swimming with the sound of the bell and the collective horror of all the things that I had seen and felt.

The altar server brought me the communion wafers and the wine, and I took them. My hands felt strange and clammy as I held them, but I brought them to the altar and began to speak. This time my words came out crisp and clear, and as I said them I noticed fewer and fewer of the parishioners seemed to be in the pews. Hope began to rise within me as it seemed the words would work to banish these jaundiced watchers and I pressed on. Finally, the pews were empty, and my heart soared as I turned towards the tabernacle to retrieve the rest of the Host.

It was strange, the rich cloth curtain that covered that ornate metal box seemed stuck, so I pulled and pulled and eventually it came free. I opened the door and retrieved the Host, returning it to the altar. Then I... I lifted it to my mouth, and I ate. It did not taste as I expected.

I’m sure you’ve guessed the reality of what it was I was eating. I don’t even know where I was, some dingy basement from what it seemed when the light fell from my eyes and I returned to reality. At least, I assume this is reality. I dream, sometimes, that perhaps this is the illusion – my arrest and imprisonment merely a hallucination. That I’m not a murdering cannibal.

It doesn’t matter. At that moment, seeing those bound corpses before me, I made the decision to take no action ever again. I will not commit the further sin of ending my life, but I sat there until the police came. I pled guilty to all the charges they laid before me, and now here I am, doubting everything I see and hear. I do worry about the state of my soul, of course, but there is little to be done. My old colleagues have come by on occasion, and even the Bishop once, but it doesn’t help. Whatever they may be actually be saying, all I can hear is the sound of the bell.

Thank you for your time.

Archivist Notes:

As it turns out the second part of this statement was simply misfiled in the next folder, which was useful, although it does beg the question of who was reading it last? Martin is still absent, but Tim and Sasha both swear they haven’t seen it before. Was my predecessor reading it at some point? That seems unlikely given the state of the place; I find it hard to credit the idea that Gertrude Robinson actually read any of these files. Still, it’s hardly our biggest concern.

It’s difficult to know where to begin with a statement like this. If the person giving their testimony is unable to distinguish the real and the unreal, that doesn’t usually bode well for anyone trying to find evidence. Let us begin with Bethany O’Connor. From what Sasha could find in the records of St. Hugh’s College, she was indeed a student with them, studying archaeology, matriculating in 2008. Everything Father Burroughs says about her faith, her hospitalisation and her death appears to match up with official records. However, college records appear to list her as one of the students living in halls during her second year, rather than in an off-campus house, and it was a porter who she attacked with a kitchen knife, rather than a housemate. In fact, according to the letting agent, there was no-one living at 89 Bullingdon Road that year, so whatever Bethany was doing in that house, it wasn’t living there legally. 

Father Burroughs’ old colleagues from the Church certainly remember his falling apart following the failed exorcism. They were apparently in the process of talking to the Bishop to get him some help when the ‘culminating incident’ occurred that led to his incarceration. Prior to meeting Bethany O’Connor, none of them had anything but the highest praise for the man. 

As for the incident itself, Father Burroughs was found in one of the back rooms of 89 Bullingdon Road. He was wearing a butcher’s apron and sat in front of two students, Christopher Bilham and James Mann. They were both tied to chairs and quite dead. Cause of death was listed as blood loss from multiple lacerations all over their legs and torso, as well as removal of both their faces with a sharp blade, possibly a scalpel. The face of James Mann was found to have been partially eaten by Father Burroughs. He pled guilty to all charges brought before him and is currently serving two life sentences at Wakefield Prison, though HMPS refused our request for a follow-up interview. 

What interests me is the paralleling of Father Burroughs’ climactic hallucination with reality, and the fact that at no point did he perform any actions that might be analogous with the binding and actual murder of the students. Also, it strikes me that the altar server he described seems out of place with most of his other delusions, in that he appeared to have active agency, which is uncharacteristic for these visions the priest describes. Finally, there is the small detail mentioned in the police report that none of the tools used to kill or mutilate the victims were found at the scene. This all leads me to believe that there may have been a second person there that night, although from talking with the police, I get the impression that there is little appetite for re-opening the case, considering how successful the initial prosecution was. 

There’s one other detail Tim uncovered that sticks out to me. It’s a name I recognise, though I have no idea what it could mean. The Oratory was obviously not the actual scene of Father Burroughs’ crimes, but there was one strange thing that happened a few days prior. They received delivery of a pale yellow stole, which apparently vanished less than a day after they signed for it. This would be unusual, but not necessarily noteworthy, if it wasn’t for fact that one of the deacons recalled the package was handed to them by a company called Breekon and Hope Deliveries.

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 20 Desecrated Host)