#the laughter in call was vile it was hours of actually struggling to breathe and see

[artuurle]

I was able to make 2 whole normal images in call last night before the normal men invaded the canvases of me and @sootnuki 's art programs. here's more of them lol

Bonus of the actual description i gave to my sibling of the last image as we progressively made it worse under the cut.

[angellissy]

Hey :) I’ve never requested anything before so I’m sorry if i do it wrong hahah

But could I request something where instead of ward faking his death it’s rafe who has to do it and none of the pouges know about your relationship until it’s you crying in the dock instead of Sarah. And when you and the piggies go on the “rescue” mission to get Sarah off of the boat you see rafe and eventually end up staying with him and leaving your friends

I’m sorry if this is really long xx thank you for taking the time to read my request

R E A C H I N G  F O R  T H E  S U R F A C E

SEASON TWO SPOILERS!

rafe Cameron x Reader

warnings: angst with a big a, canon rafe (maybe a bit softer), toxic relationship, rafe playing the victim card, death and talks of suicide.

a/n: I feel like it is of importance that I tell you all that I have done everything in my power not to romanticize the rafe cameron character and if I have then please kindly let me know because sometimes it can be hard. However I still need to say that I am writing through the eyes of the “reader” who very much still cares for this boy, which also means that the way the reader deals with things might not have been your way. If any more warnings should be included in the beginning, feel free to let me know. I hope you enjoy this fic which I am actually very proud of. A big thanks to @snkkat​ who is my proof reading buddy. Also thanks for sending in the request, I LOVED writing it! <3

They say that when you die your life flashes before your eyes, but how about when you watch someone else die? For as you watched him die, the life and moments the two of you had shared flashed before your eyes like a string of reminders of a life and love lost. It felt as if there was no air for you to breathe, you weren’t even sure how long it had been since you managed to take a full breath. Your mind was running in circles, trying to grasp what had just occurred, replaying the scene over and over again until you were not even sure what reality you were in. With a hammering heart and a split soul, you were kneeling on the dock, just minutes after watching your first love take his own life. You could not even remember how you had gotten out here in the first place, you just wished that you would have stayed behind as all your friends rushed toward a disaster in waiting. Perhaps that would have spared you some of the heartbreak, spared you from hearing him scream that he loved you one last time, spared you from seeing his boat go up in flames. But no, you were sure that for as long as you lived, you would see that blazing inferno whenever you closed your eyes.

There were arms around you, an attempt to soothe your shaking body, it only made you feel more trapped in a memory you would never escape. Those arms lifted you up and suddenly you were walking, mixed in all the anger and sadness there was a surprise that your body was even able to function. It felt as if you were outside of your body watching everything occur, you watched as Kiara and JJ helped you sit down on a sofa and as they draped a blanket over your shoulders. You watched it unfold, but you couldn’t feel it and there was no way that you would be able to respond to their worried questions. Instead, you were stuck in a mind that replayed everything Rafe had ever said or done to you as if that somehow could manifest him back to life. That stuck-up boy with the golden hair had been your first boyfriend, complicated as the relationship may have been, it had been the first time you ever experienced something close to love. Just days ago you had stood before him, tears in your eyes and heart in your throat as you called the relationship off. For a very long time, he had not been the boy you fell for, but rather a ghost of who he once was. Where he had once been sweet and tender with you, there had only been cold stares and words sharp enough to cut through ice. You were not oblivious to the fact that he struggled with issues you could never comprehend, but you refused to be an accomplice in his undoing. Time after time you had tried to be the person he could cling to when the world sat heavily upon his shoulders, but you soon realized that love and affection could not solve all problems. Oh, and you had loved him so much that you would have done anything for him to smile at you the way he had when he uttered those big three words for the first time. He had watched you with eyes that held so much adoration that you thought that they would never dim, that they would shine brighter for each time his eyes found yours. But eventually, they had dulled, and so you had realized that you would not sacrifice yourself no matter how much you cared for him. It did not matter that you had called things off with him or that you had decided to leave him in order to save yourself, for the knowledge that he was actually gone made it feel like someone was clawing at your heart and trying to rip it apart. It felt like no time in the world would be able to heal the pain in your chest or dry the tears falling from your eyes.

Time was indeed a funny thing, how seconds turned into minutes and how then those minutes became hours. Hours that you spent reminiscing over a life you thought you had given up before it was lost forever. You clung to the memories of him as if they were the lifebuoy keeping an anchor from pulling you down in a sea made up of your own sorrow. You knew that you were staying in your own made-up memories of a relationship with more bad times than good, but a part of you felt that you could not grieve the person he had become. For he had been vile and horrid, and if you acknowledged that, you would feel guilty for the sadness overwhelming you. So yes, you stayed in your made-up reality and wept for the boy that could have been. As hours turned into days, your friends made every effort to comfort you and try to get you out of the room that had become your place of mourning. Their tries aggravated you, for they did not understand the feelings rushing through your body at such speed it made you lightheaded. Each one of them had hated Rafe Cameron with at least one bone in their body and you knew how some of them had looked the day he died as if they were content that he was finally gone. Relieved that he could no longer plague them with taunts and threats that might have become reality was it not for his passing. You might have understood this, had it not been for the grief and guilt plaguing every bone in your body.

As days turned into weeks, you eventually came to appreciate their efforts to help you. It was like your vision was starting to clear and you could finally start trying to live your life again, and the first step to doing that was always to surround yourself with people that made you roar with laughter. Their ventures to try and find the Cross of Santo Domingo, were helpful, to say the least. Those adventures were as distracting as they were terrifying since the outcome was never given. Your mixed friend group of pogues and kooks had actually found that damn cross as well. Who would have thought that a bunch of high school kids would be able to find a historic relic? The answer would have been no one, and that is why you don’t underestimate kids with no limits. The cross had been in your grasp until a greedy and manipulative Ward Cameron came along and grabbed it. Ever since that particular happening, things started going south fast and it all ended up with Sarah being kidnapped by her own guardians. It also ended up with the rest of you stowed away like cargo on the ship she was on. While John B and Pope carried out their plan to find Sarah and the famous cross, you, JJ, and Kie sweated from every pore as you waited to hear from them. You had zoned out, staring mindlessly into one of the walls of the container, in the background you could hear your two friends talk about their dreams for the future. Something about going on several surfing trips at various destinations with each other, and that part made your heart ache. Sure, after everything he had done, a future with Rafe had not been one of your dreams. Still, as you listened to your friends talk, you could only remember a time where he had been everything you wanted in life. You pressed your palms upon your face as if you somehow could force every memory of him to remain in that little part of your brain where you were hoping they would become forgotten. A loud clank dragged you out of your thoughts and you looked up just in time to see Pope and John B climb in through that small window opening, followed by a woman you had never ever seen. Shortly after that, problems started to arise and soon all of you were scrambling out of the container in hopes of not being detected by the workers on the boat. They were in obvious search of all of you, which made you sweat even more than you had done inside the container. All of you received different plans on how to tackle the situation, yours was to act as a lookout for John B as he searched for Sarah.

You followed him down to what you could only assume was the boiler room since steam was thick in the air and you took your place by the door as he ventured further down. His desperate cries for Sarah echoed through the room and you dearly wished for a response to be heard, but there was nothing except the sound of his shoes against the floor. Thump, thump, thump and then utter silence until John B utters a name that made it feel as if the floor was pulled away from under your feet.

“Rafe.”

One of your hands finds the doorframe, a poor attempt to steady yourself as you try to figure out if this is a trick played by your grieving mind. You take a few breaths and as the silence is once again interrupted by two raised voices, you follow John B’s path down into the room. The heart in your chest is beating so hard that it feels like you are going to throw up, and it only gets worse the nearer you come. At first, you only see your friend, but then you look past him

and

your

heart

stops.

Rafe Cameron had died in front of your very eyes, so either the gods were playing a nasty cruel joke or you had lost the battle with your mind. You shut your eyes just to open them again, and no matter how many times you did it, he still remained. What happened next was a bit peculiar to you, for weeks you had drowned in grief where sadness was the constant emotion, but as you looked him in the eye and saw that he was very much alive, rage and anger crushed into you with the force of a thousand waves. You stepped toward him, only for an arm to shoot out to stop you, and John B added to his gesture by saying “Don’t”. Laughter bubbled in your throat, for who was he to tell you what you could or could not say to your “dead” ex-boyfriend who seemed to never stop causing you grief.

“Find Sarah.” John B hesitated for a few moments before following your unspoken order to leave you and Rafe alone. It wasn’t surprising considering that his worry for Sarah would always overpower anything else. Once again you looked into Rafe’s blue eyes, remembering a time when you used to stare in them for so long you would see specks of green and grey. Had you searched for those colors now, you would probably have found them. However, you were trying to decipher whatever feeling that was shining in them, was it anger? No, his other features were too soft for that and the hand holding his weapon had gone slack as he watched you. Maybe it was relief? No that was not it either, for why would he be relieved to see you? You were not the one who had died and left the other behind. You stepped even closer to him, the simmering anger inside of your veins made your hands shake and he looked at them briefly as if he wanted to take them in his. Your hands clenched into fists and you watched as his shoulders dropped the tiniest bit, and suddenly you knew exactly what was shining in his eyes.

Love, and sadness. Your heart started to speed up again, and you knew that once you opened your mouth, the anger and grief that had become part of you, would tumble out in words that you would never be able to take back. But he had done something much worse, so he would listen, you would make sure of it. Your lips parted slightly and he must have seen it for his words came first.

“I- fuck I am sorry okay? But I had to do it, you wouldn’t understand but I had to do it, it was the best for everyone.” As he says this you can’t help the sound that slips through your lips, it was supposed to be a laugh but it sounds more like a sob. His eyes flicker between you and everything else in the room as if there was anything in here that could save him for this conversation. You move your hands toward your chest and his eyes watch as you press them hard against your chest, against the heart that won’t stop breaking.

“Best for everyone?” Your voice is the combination of a whisper and a ragged breath “Did you have my best interest in mind when you let me believe you had blown yourself up?” He winces and makes an attempt to say something but you hold up a hand to stop him. “Did it ever occur to you how your little stunt would affect the one person who still, despite everything, loved you?” This time, your voice has started to rise towards something like a scream, and how could you not scream when there is so much sadness inside of you that it felt like just looking at him would turn your body into a pool of water.

“You broke up with me, so don’t start acting like a victim where you aren’t one.” His features are starting to morph into those he carries when anger overcomes him, but you will not back away from this. Your hands are in your hair, pulling at it as if that would help you make sense of this situation. “You broke my heart long before I broke yours.” You can’t help the way your voice breaks or the tears that start falling from your eyes.“You needed and still need help and until you receive that help, you are prone to hurt anyone in your vicinity.” Now it is his turn to drag his hands through his hair and his breaths come faster and faster until you realize that he is starting to hyperventilate. He sinks to the floor and you follow, not sure how to help when it feels like his state is mirroring your own. With cautious movements, you place your hands on his shoulders, and the shaking of his body sends trembles throughout yours. For a while nothing happens, you just sit there with your hands on his body and watch him fall apart. Perhaps you should have been glad that he was suffering, after everything he had done to you he deserved it. But you couldn’t feel anything other than anguish and as a sob escaped his body every restraint you had kept on yourself broke and you hugged him towards your chest. You could never save him, but he clung to you as if you had the power to undo every wrong he had ever done. After a while, he looks up at your tear-streaked face and one of his hands reaches up to cup it. You want to look away because you can see everything in those eyes of his, every regret and every wish he has ever had. His forehead leans towards you and you feel his hot breath against your skin. As you breathe in the scent of cologne and feel his skin against yours, you feel overwhelmed by the fact that he is actually here. You notice that his lips part and for a second you are scared that he is going to kiss you, but he must know that there is a limit to your patience with him so he just whispers words with the promise of what could have been. “I wanted to be good for you.” A small smile takes place on your lips and you close your eyes as you try to restrain the well of emotions inside of you. “I know Rafe, I know.” He breathes out a little, almost as if he is relieved that you are aware that he tried in a world and with a mind constantly working against him. You knew, but you also knew that there was someone else out there for you. Someone who would love you in a way that Rafe would never be able to, in a way that would not send the two of you to the bottom of the ocean. Whoever was out there would make you swim. For so long you had wanted to believe that Rafe was the one, despite all his flaws you would have given anything for him to be your future. It was a relief to know that you could and deserved to have more. But you also knew that you needed to do something before that could happen.

“I will stay-.” Before you could even finish your sentence he whipped his head up to look at you with such hope you never wanted to continue talking. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to go on. “I will stay with you just to make sure you receive the help you need.” His whole body deflated and you had to bite your lip in order not to cry again. Eventually, he nodded and you closed your eyes in relief. You knew that this had to be the right move, no one else would listen to him or make sure he got help, so you needed to be the one to did. Just enough so that you finally could start swimming towards the surface.

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter Twelve): Evil Comes In Disguise

Notes: This one is shorter than others but it felt like it took me so much longer, I blame Cyberpunk 2077 for stealing my one braincell for a while. Also, I have a tendency that the longer it takes me to write something, the more insecure I feel about it, so I ended up cutting this chapter a bit shorter than I originally intended. But I think it works and I hope you enjoy!~

Word Count: 8686

Chapter Warnings: Talk of physical assault, hospitals, POV switches, Joseph visions, me trying to write police investigations/interrogations to minimal success and struggling to write Jerome for the first time properly. 

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

And the clock ticks and ticks and ticks and ticks. Every second feels like an eternity. Every moment of silence seeming to stretch on for hours. Her nerves fray with each one, worry blooming like a flower in her chest. The tension palpable as the three deputies and Sheriff wait to hear what will become of the town pastor. Dahlia’s mouth starts running before she can stop it; to distract herself or her distraught friends, she doesn’t know. 

“How long have you all known Pastor Jerome?” 

“Oh, Jerome’s been in Hope for…fifteen years or so,” Whitehorse tells her, thinking a minute over the exact timeline. 

“He took over the Falls End church when I was thirteen,” Hudson adds, “so yeah, fifteen years.” 

“Wow,” Dahlia can’t help but exclaim, astounded by just how long they’ve all known the pastor, he’s been with the county for more than half of Hudson and Pratt’s lives. 

“St-,” Pratt swallows his words then starts again, stuttering, “still remember my mom making me give my first confession to him…I was terrified I was gonna go to hell, get kicked out of church, break my mom’s heart.” 

“What did you do?” 

“His mom caught him looking at porno mags,” Hudson rats him out, laughing. Whitehorse cracking a smile and Dahlia snickering. 

“I was eleven, shut up,” he tries to defend himself through his own laughter, “yeah, Jerome thought it was funny too, told me everything was okay and then it was.” 

Rook can just imagine it, Pratt as a kid, terrified that god’s going to smote him for looking at a tit. There’s a bittersweet quality to the four smiling and laughing at the memory; the anxiety and fear still looming but it’s a little easier to breathe. The weight crushing down on them is a little lighter than it was before. 

“If he makes it out of this, we need to go back to church,” Hudson tells Pratt after a beat of silence. 

“We do, don’t we?” 

“Officers?” A man in a doctor’s coat calls out to them, the same one who stitched her head back together before. 

“Is he okay?” 

“We stabilized him; we got the bleeding under control and it looks like we won’t have to transfer him after all, he should be fine to recover here. We’re still monitoring him, but things are looking up.” 

There’s a sigh of relief; maybe just from Whitehorse, maybe from all of them. She can’t even tell. Things are looking up, Jerome is likely to live and none of them will lose someone who clearly means so much to them. 

“What exactly is it that happened, doctor?” 

“Someone out in the valley called 911; the heard scratching at the door and when they looked he was collapsed on their front step. That’s all we know at this point, but as I told you, this was clearly an assault. The bruises, the bleeding, it all matches with brute force assault and with the severity we do believe it was multiple people who attacked him.” 

“Who the fuck would wanna hurt Jerome?” Hudson asks, more to herself than anyone else. 

“You’re all free to stay in his room, so you can question him when he wakes up, but I don’t know how reliable his memory will be with what he’s been through.” 

“Thank you, doctor.” 

 The four go into the hospital room and Dahlia clenches her jaw when she sees him. Bruises mottle and color the friendly face she’s seen around the county; a myriad of red and purples across him. One eye swollen, stitches and bandages in places where the skin broke. They were trying to kill him; that’s all Dahlia can think. This was an attempted murder, his body is hidden under a hospital gown and blankets, but she can see from his arms that the damage extends over his body. A IV gives him a steady drip of fluids to keep him stable, a heart and oxygen monitor letting the staff know he’s staying that way. 

“Jesus fuck…” Pratt whispers under his breath. 

Hospital coffee and more stories of the pastor pass the time as the four settle in; the time Jerome comforted an emotional fourteen year old Hudson when she spilled communion grape juice on her white dress. Whitehorse talks about how often he’s visited the church to talk with Jerome. 

Hours pass of the four talking, Dahlia downing five or more paper cups of coffee across the time. And then a cough sound rings out, a shift of fabric, the pastor slowly waking up. Whitehorse calls out for the nurses; the deputies shifting in their seats as he comes to. 

The nurses flood in, checking on Jerome’s vitals, ensuring he can comfortably sit up in his bed. He’s an older man, not as old as Whitehorse, but probably as old as Jacob or Joseph. Mid to late forties. With short dark textured hair and a dark beard.

“What the hell happened?” Whitehorse asks when the nurses are done checking on the Pastor. 

“John Seed,” The pastor begins, and Dahlia clenches her jaw, “he and members of Eden’s Gate kidnapped me, he tried to force a confession from me and when I didn’t comply; they beat me and left me in the woods. I tried to get help the best way I knew how, but I passed out before I could speak to anyone.” 

Dahlia doesn’t have time to think, to ruminate on what this means, what might be going on; Whitehorse telling her to grab the evidence collection kit he brought in. There’s not much to be collected, but their best bet of getting any conclusive evidence is swabbing Jerome’s fingernails. There’s nothing to get fingerprints off of, no weapon, no duct tape, no bindings. No bodily fluids exchanged, thankfully for Jerome’s sake. But, if he fought back, grabbed at his attackers, there’s a chance the blood under his fingernails could belong to them. That he managed to gouge their skin deep enough to leave a trace. 

“Sorry, this might hurt a bit,” Dahlia gives a gentle warning when she sees the broken and bloodied state of his nails, gently swabbing blood from under them, making sure to collect from each finger before dropping it into a vile. 

“I think I’ll make it,” he manages to say, a slightly dry laugh, his voice deep and resonant.

“I know you will, but still don’t wanna add to it.” 

“Jerome, you said John Seed, did you recognize anyone else?” 

“Lonny, Theodore, and Patrick were the only ones I know I saw…The way John talked he was doing it because of Joseph, that he ordered it… Eden’s Gate is getting worse every day.” 

“Don’t worry, Jerome, we’re gonna do everything we can, Hudson, take the sample back to the station to see if we can match it to anything already in our database.  Pratt, Rook, want you to start pulling the peggies in for questioning and getting DNA. Start with Lonny Stevenson, Theodore Rossi, and Patrick Michaelson. No arrests, not yet, just questioning. We’ll handle the Seeds later, alright?” 

“Understood.” 

There’s a heavy tension in the cruiser as Pratt and Dahlia climb into it. Jerome is alive,  there’s a weight to what he’s told them and to their duty to get justice for him. Pratt’s knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel, jaw clenched, and shoulders wrought with tension. Pastor Jerome has been an important figure in his life. She can’t imagine how hard this must be for him. She thinks of how much worse she might feel if it were Lloyd or Whitehorse in that hospital bed, someone she were close to. Dahlia squeezes Pratt’s shoulder as they drive, hoping her empathy shows through the touch. Even as strangers, her stomach is in knots, though it may be because of her…connection to the accused. 

Despite their constant encroachment on boundaries, stepping on the line but never quite over it, Dahlia had maintained her hope that the Seeds and their flock were good at their core. That’s why she turned Cassie into their hands, but everyday there’s something new. And this is the worst yet. If they’ve truly done this, if they’re ordering full out assaults on people, that does a lot more than just cross the line. 

One of their three main suspects, outside of the two youngest Seed brothers, works at the Green-Busch Fertilizer Plant, an Eden’s Gate owned business. And for possibly the first time since she began working in Hope County, Dahlia is the one leading the charge as they get out of the cruiser, Pratt not trusting his own voice. 

“Patrick Michaelson,” she calls out and a man steps out, “we need to have a word with you down at the station.” 

He’s generic by Eden’s Gate standards, too long hair and a scraggly beard. His arms are covered, so she can’t check for scratches or bruises along them. 

“I in any trouble, deputies?” 

“Just need to ask some questions; Theodore Rossi or Lonny Stevenson here? We need a word with them as well.” 

“No, but I could ring ‘em for you?” 

“We’ll chat first, then you can call them from the station, alright?” 

“Whatever you say, officers.” 

The last thing she wants is for them to have a chance to put together a story and alibi before they start questioning them. They allow Patrick into the back of the cruiser, he seems to be maintaining his cool. And the tension in the car only strengthens as they take him back to the station. Dahlia watches him in the mirror along the way, waiting for some sign of anything to peek through, for a sleeve to ride up and to see scratches from Jerome’s nails, something. But nothing of the sort happens. 

Dahlia has never actually had to interrogate or question anyone, she realizes once they’re at the station and having Patrick take a seat. She doubts he’ll give them much information. If he’s innocent, he won’t have anything of interest to tell. If he’s guilty, he won’t want to tell them much of anything. Getting a DNA sample is what’s going to be the most important thing, if they get some conclusive evidence, something that links one of the Eden’s Gate members to Jerome’s assault the rest will come much easier. 

“Coffee?” She offers, as she pours black coffee into three paper cups.

Patrick murmurs a small thanks before he drinks from the cup before they start asking him questions. Hours pass of trying to ask the same questions in slightly different ways or tones. Dahlia trying to stay friendlier in her tone while Pratt is terser, due to his personal connection. But getting more than a ‘I was at home, last night,’ is like trying to get blood from a turnip. He refuses to give a DNA sample as well. 

“We about done here?” Patrick asks with a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

“Fine,” Pratt grumbles, “I’ll walk you out and you can ring Lonny and Theodore for us.” 

Dahlia taps her fingers against the table as the two men walk out, breathing a sigh of relief when Patrick leaves his coffee cup. It takes a few minutes and then Pratt comes back, he collapses into his chair and groans, she can feel the stress radiating off of him. 

“Well, that was a waste of fucking time,” he grumbles. 

“How you figure?” 

“How you figure anything else?’ He looks at her incredulously, like she’s grown a second head and breathed fire. 

“Left his cup,” Dahlia pokes at the little Styrofoam cup, “our property, we wanna swab it for DNA, our business and don’t need anyone’s consent for it.” 

“I’ll run it down to evidence, you brew another pot for the next two.” 

“On it.” 

Pratt runs that down, the cup bagged and labeled with Patrick’s name, she’s sure. Lonny and Theodore aren’t far behind. And their questioning goes much the same. They don’t give particularly direct answers and refuse to give DNA samples. Theodore avoids talking as much as he can, mostly opting to glare at the deputies after his first insistence that he has no idea why he’s here and has no obligation or desire to talk. But, he does at some point break his sourpuss expression to take a drink of coffee. Lonny is cockier, more aggressive, making snide comments but he drinks coffee at some point too; so that’s all that matters.

By the end of it all, three cups are sent down to evidence to be swabbed for DNA to be tested against the DNA found under Jerome’s fingernails. If it’s from any of them, they’ll know by hopefully the end of the day. Evidence based cases are rare around here, so the forensic team stated they can fast track it, hopefully

Pratt and Dahlia rest in the bullpen office, Hudson joining them. There’s a somber air to the entire office. Hudson’s leg bounces with nervous or angry energy, Dahlia isn’t sure which. Meanwhile, Pratt is wringing his hands until the skin rubs raw. Their worry is palpable as they wait for either more information or direction. The oppressive silence has started to weigh on Dahlia’s shoulders, she’s tapping her fingers against a table. 

“You know,” Dahlia says after too long, “you guys can go see Jerome if you want, I’ll call if any info comes in.” 

She knows they’re worried about him and want to be there to check on him. There’s no reason for them to sit here and suffer when she can just let them know when the analysis comes in. 

“We’re not gonna leave you to man the station by yourself,” Pratt dismisses her out of hand, as if the idea that she can be left alone is ridiculous. 

“I think I can manage for an evening, anything happens, I know how to reach you all.” 

“I’m going,” Hudson declares, “I trust Rook and I’m driving myself crazy here.” 

“Thank you, Hudson…” Dahlia says with soft smile, Hudson actually trusts her and isn’t acting like she’s a child. 

“You coming?” Hudson asks Pratt, looking at him expectantly. 

“I’m not leaving Rook here alone.” 

“I’m an adult, you know that, right?” 

“If Eden’s Gate was willing to attack Jerome, who knows what else they’ll do. And you’re already on their radar, were before this.” 

“What, you think they’re gonna storm the station?” 

“Who knows anymore.” 

“I don’t have time to listen to you two bicker, I’m leaving,” Hudson tells them before walking out of the station. 

Dahlia chews her lip once she’s left with Pratt. This is already a stressful day and not the time to let her wounded ego guide her behavior. But it is wounded. She’s not a child, young sure, but not a child and by no means incapable. Pratt has been coddling her and trying to limit what she does since the beginning of her job, she thought it was lessening, but… Does Pratt seriously not think she’s competent enough to be left alone for a few hours? Is she that unreliable? Incapable? Does he think that little of her? 

She doesn’t lend a voice to these insecurities or anger; not the time or place. 

“Don’t pout,” Pratt says after a few minutes.

“I’m not.” 

“You are, I can physically see you pouting.” 

“Even if I was, it’s not important.” 

“Seriously, Rook? You wanna be a brat right now?” 

“Seriously, Pratt? You wanna be a patronizing dick right now!?” Her voice is harsher than she intended. 

“Deputies?” A voice calls out, one of the workers in their piddly little forensic department poking their head into the open office. 

“Yeah?” 

“We got a match for the DNA found under Jerome’s fingernails.” 

“Who’s our guy?” 

“Patrick’s matched, we couldn’t find any traces of Lonny or Theodore’s.”

“I’ll call Whitehorse,” Pratt says before getting out his cellphone, “figure out what we’re doing next.” 

Dahlia only nods, not trusting herself after her outburst. Her fingers still tap tapping against a desk as Pratt speaks to the sheriff. She can only hear Pratt’s side of the conversation as he explains what they were just told and agrees to whatever Whitehorse is telling him, before he hangs up. 

“So, what’s our next move?” Dahlia asks, voice cracking more than she’d like. 

“Arresting Patrick and questioning the Seeds. He wants a lighter touch with John and Joseph, his words, not mine.” 

“Lighter touch meaning…?” 

“They can be questioned together if they want, given a day and the chance to come in on their own terms. Whitehorse doesn’t want us ruffling their feathers unless we get something conclusive on them.’ 

“I’ll never get why he wants to walk on eggshells around them.” 

“Because they’re nuts and got a good hundred or more people who’ll fight for them.” 

Dahlia shrugs, she gets that, she guesses. But its still hard for her to wrap her head around that the men she’s met could order an assault on someone else. A part of her is still holding onto the hope that Patrick just acted on his own, that John and Joseph had no idea. But, Jerome says John was there. And John’s not exactly a face he could confuse with someone else… 

“C’mon, let's go get Patrick.” 

He’s at his house at this late hour, knocking in the door of his little farmhouse. Patrick answers the door, face souring the moment he sees the officer. His lips are sealed, not speaking a word to the deputies as they read him his rights and bring him into the station. He refuses to speak for a long while, even as they book him and try to ask him a few more questions. 

“I wanna call my lawyer.” Is all he says after an entirely too long drag of silence. 

“John, your lawyer?” Pratt asks. 

“What of it?’ 

“We need to have a chat with him too,” Dahlia informs him, “so we’ll be happy to call him for you.” 

“Fine.” 

Dahlia stretches out her back as her and Pratt leave the interrogation room, this day has been her longest yet, but they seem to be getting somewhere. She looks over to Pratt. 

“Want me to call up John or you wanna do the honor?” 

“I will, they like you too much.” 

“Have zero idea what you mean by that, but alright.” 

Pratt grabs the station phone and rings up John’s number. Dahlia chews her fingernails as she waits, biting away at them and chipping her nail polish in the process. When she runs out of nail that goes past her fingertips, she chews at the skin. Mind racing as Pratt talks to John, she feels like her thoughts and feelings are tearing into two directions. What she wants to be true and what evidence supports. The older deputy hangs up the phone and Dahlia looks up at Pratt expectantly. 

“John says him and Joseph can be here in a few hours, chances are Jacob will be with them.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Anytime either of them have been questioned, Jacob’s there, just to look mean I guess.” 

She nods, thinking of what she read so far in the Book of Joseph, of the abuse in the Seed family. It doesn’t shock her at all that Jacob has a protective streak, that he wouldn’t want his younger brother’s far out of sight. She does find herself wondering why Faith isn’t following alongside her siblings as well. Her fellow deputies didn’t seem to know much of her at all, Hudson not even knowing what she looks like. Hell, the youngest sister hasn’t even been mentioned yet in the Book of Joseph. Though given the hefty age difference, perhaps she wasn’t born yet during the memory Joseph chose to open it with? 

Dahlia takes a seat while they wait for the Seed brothers, graciously accepting the cup of coffee that Pratt offers her. Her leg taps as she drinks at it, listening to the clock tick away as she waits for the Seeds. Her fellow deputy sits next to her and she can tell the day has been wearing on him. She doesn’t know why, what it is that pushes the impulse forward, but she thumps her head onto his shoulder. A soft form of contact, comfort, whether it’s an offering to him or a selfish desire of her own, she isn’t sure. 

But Pratt responds by leaning his head towards her, over top of her own. His hair tickling at her skin and his scruff scratching at her skin. She can’t help but smile and press in a little closer, just appreciating his presence in this quiet moment after such a drawn-out day. 

“Shit!” 

Pratt’s sudden yell jolts Dahlia awake, her skull knocking against his. She blinks sleep from her eyes, when did she even drift off? How long was she sleeping against his shoulder? Her hands and the bottom of her jeans are wet; the cup of coffee and it’s contents now on the floor as well as her shoes. 

“Fuck,” she curses under her breath, she must have dropped it when she fell asleep, “sorry.” 

Dahlia goes and gathers up paper towels, cleaning up the mess. She didn’t even realize she was that tired. 

“Don’t sweat it, shit has been crazy around here lately, I nearly dozed off myself.” 

“You telling me this ain’t typical.” 

“God, no, county’s usually more boring than watching paint dry. Lately, feels like county’s gone nuts.” 

“Eh,  I prefer the crazy, keeps things interesting at least.”

“Deputies,” the on shift desk worker pops their head into the room, “the Seed brothers are here.” 

“We’ll be there in a second.” 

Dahlia finishes cleaning up the mess and sighs, that weight back on her shoulders. It’s way past their usual shift hours and the day as a whole has been a lot. But they may finally be getting to the root of what happened. They’re getting some justice for Jerome, Patrick is a damn near guaranteed arrest. They just need to get to the bottom of John and Joseph’s involvement. She took this job to help people and that’s what she’s doing, Jerome has a right to feel safe in this county and as much as she hopes the Seeds are good, if they’re hurting others, it needs to be shut down and now. 

Mess cleaned; Dahlia and Pratt go out to the waiting room to greet the Seeds. John and Joseph look relatively cleaned up. Though John always looks some version of prim and proper. She’s positive she’s never seen the youngest sibling in a shirt that wasn’t a collard button up and she’s certainly never seen his hair in any state other than slicked back. His shirt of choice today is purple, no vest or trench coat, just the buttons left undone to show the sin marked across his chest and the sleeves rolled up to show the tattoos across his forearms. 

Joseph is wearing a shirt which is an accomplishment for him, a stiff white button up done up to his throat and a black blazer over it, nearly overkill in the heat of August. Perhaps he only wears clothing in extremes, either half naked or completely covered. His greasy dark hair is pulled back as usual and despite the late hour, his yellow aviators are on. 

And then there’s Jacob, black tee and jeans with his typical camo shirt tied around his waist. Dog tags, key, and rabbit’s foot hanging from a chain around his neck as they always do. 

They’re superficial observations, what the brothers wear, but she can’t help but take in the stark contrasts of the brothers. Joseph trying to look more put together and less crazy, John in that same state but every day, and Jacob genuinely not seeming to give any sort of a fuck. 

“Deputies,” John is the one to greet them, grinning and Dahlia folds her hands behind her back, trying to still her body and straighten her back to present a confident front. 

“John,” Pratt returns the acknowledgement with a nod, “I-“

“It seems you have one of our flock members contained on the bas-“  John cuts off Pratt. 

“We actually would rather speak with you and Joseph before we discuss that case,” Dahlia cuts the youngest brother off in turn, not letting him dominate the conversation or set the tone for this. 

“Is that so?” 

“Yes, I assume, you’re both comfortable with answering some questions for us?” She cocks her head to the side, trying to stay nonthreatening, not that her five feet of being could ever be threatening. 

“Of course, that would be no problem at all,” Joseph is the one to speak next, giving her a smile, eyes soft despite the circumstances. 

“Actually,” Pratt cuts in, a twitch in his jaw, “I’ll be asking those questions alone.” 

“You’ll what?” Dahlia levels a glare at her partner, ready to throw him through a window, but unable to do so. He’s pushing it, he keeps pushing it. 

“I think it’ll be best if I conduct the interrogation alone.” 

“Oh, do you?” 

“You girls need a minute, or can we get this shitshow on the road,” Jacob says, the deep rasp of his voice cutting through the spat. And she doesn’t miss the clench in Pratt’s jaw at the emasculating choice of words. 

“Come on back; sorry for the trouble,” Dahlia says, a tight lipped smile as she leads the Seed brothers to the interrogation room. She’ll deal with Pratt and his overprotective bullshit later. It’s a quick walk down the hall and she politely opens the doors for them, she thinks she sees Jacob rolling his eyes. 

“Go ahead and take a seat, we’ll be just a moment,” Dahlia tells them, giving a small nod when Joseph thanks her. She lets the door shut behind the Seeds and turns her gaze back on Pratt. 

“Rook-”

“What the actual fuck, Pratt?” She keeps her voice low, but her tone is terse, how could he try to strong arm her out of the interrogation. 

“Look, you’ve spent a lot of time with them, regardless of if you’ve wanted too or not. They’re fixated on you and you’re just too close to them to be interrogating them.” 

“You’ve known them longer than me! You’ve known them for years! This is a rural county, it’d take me longer to meet all the cows here than it would the people!” 

She wants to wring his neck, he’s entirely too protective of her and for no real reason. More now than ever she realizes she made the right call not telling anyone about the mute “angel” Eden’s Gate member who swung on her or the vandalism of her trailer. Pratt already barely wants to let her handle ticketing people and now he doesn’t want her interrogating suspects. It’s ridiculous. She’s a grown adult woman, she needs to be allowed to do her fucking job. 

Dahlia is done listening to this nonsense, she decides, and makes a beeline back to the interrogation room. Pratt isn’t going to stop her from doing her damn job. She opens the door, her coworker trailing behind her, as she steps into the interrogation room.

The Seed brothers are sat at the table. Jacob’s legs open wide, sat relaxed in his chair, completely disinterested by most appearances but he still watches the deputies from the corner of his eye. She’s reminded of a predator lulling prey into a false sense of security before it strikes. 

Joseph sits between his elder and younger sibling. His elbows on the table, hands politely folded, not a hint of anxiety in him either. Seemingly calm, but his gaze is intense on the young deputy as she enters, never straying away from her.  He never looks over at Pratt, the other deputy’s warning that they’re fixated on her ring through her mind. 

John is sitting back in his chair and his gaze is just as intense, but there’s more manic energy behind it. In him in general. Perhaps he’d look calmer, more serene like his brothers, if not for the constant bouncing of his leg, the movement starting to  shake the rickety table. 

“Sorry about that,” Dahlia starts before Pratt can find a way to force her out of the room, “would either of you like any coffee or anything before we chat?” 

“No, thank you. We’ve done this song and dance before, deputy, you can’t sneak dna off of us,” John dismisses her off with a sneer. 

“Okay then, no coffee, understood,” she rescinds her off  as she sits down at the table across from them, Pratt sitting next to her. 

“Look, let's cut the bullshit,” Pratt speaks up, “a person was attacked, beaten badly. We got evidence, won’t say what, that connects one of your church members to the attack. And its being alleged that he did so on Joseph’s order with John supervising the whole thing, and...you’re just hear for window dressing I guess.”  He gives a dismissive look to Jacob at that last part, no doubt his attempt to give a little revenge jab for his comment earlier. 

“Why I’m here ain’t any of your concern, princess.” Jacob says, voice low and the threat within it not subtle. 

“Okay…” Dahlia cuts in with a clap of her hands when she sees the way Jacob and Pratt are glaring at each other, this is an interrogation not a pissing contest, the last thing they need is Pratt trying to fight Jacob and getting his ass kicked, “this is already going off the rails, good job everyone. Now, while his wording was...abrupt, uh that is the reality of the situation. There are some heavy accusations being levied at you two, so we were hoping to ask you a few questions.” 

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” John responds, rolling his eyes, “these are completely baseless accusations.”

“We do have evidence linking one of the men, a member of your church, to the assault. Our witness and survivor is credible. At this point we have no reason to believe they’d lie about what occurred.” 

“They persecute us the same as they did the prophets before us, the faithful handed over to courts and councils, sheep sent out amongst wolves,” Joseph speaks sudden, voice intense as he stares into Dahlia’s eyes, a chill rolls up her spine, a tension pulling in her shoulders that she can’t quite shake. 

“Seriously,” Pratt scoffs and for the first time Joseph’s eyes leave Dahlia, harsher and colder at the older officer, “you really think this is about your church, that someone would make this shit up just to get at you, think they beat the shit out of themselves too just to spite you?” 

“Of course not,” John speaks next and she can’t help but notice the jolt in his body language, “I’ve yet to speak to our flock member you’ve find evidence of. But even if he’s done what he’s accused of, surely, you can’t expect us to be held responsible for the actions of every member of our church. We have hundreds of followers, you cannot reasonably expect us to be accountable for any of them who may stray from our ways.” 

“The witness specified you were there, John. Not just accountable, but physically present for assault.” 

“And there’s no evidence of that, you said so yourself, and as I’ve told you before, there are many in this county who aren’t above taking any chance to sully mine and my family’s name. Who’s to say, they didn’t see their assault as an opportunity to bring down our entire church.” 

“May I ask where you were last night?” 

“Had dinner with my family, as I always do, and stayed in for the night. Rather boring, I’m afraid.” 

“Anyone who can confirm this story?” Pratt asks and Dahlia tries not to roll her eyes; his family would be the ones who can confirm it and ...they’re mostly here and biased. 

“My brothers who are sitting right here, my sister if you feel the need to ruin her night as well.” 

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” 

“Then are we done here?” 

“This isn’t a formal arrest or detainment,” they don’t have anywhere near the evidence or that, “so,  you’re free to leave if you so please. Though, there’s still the issue of Patrick who requested counsel with you.” 

The brothers have made it clear they want to leave and that the deputies won’t be prying any more information from them. So, Dahlia escorts them out. 

“You two can go on home,” John tells his brothers, “I’ll call someone to get me once I’ve sorted this out.” 

“We couldn’t possibly leave you behind, we’ll wait,” Joseph squeezes John’s shoulder than looks to Dahlia, “assuming that would be okay.” 

“Of course, don’t expect you to ditch your brother.” 

“It is tempting sometimes,” Jacob mumbles under his breath, a smirk pulling at his lips when John glares at him. Rook has to press her hand to her mouth to avoid laughing at the brotherly teasing. 

“Jacob…” Joseph gently chides. 

“Regardless, you two are welcome to sit out in the waiting room, there's a vending machine if you need anything or if you’re not interested in that I’m sure Nancy can get you set up with coffee or food from our break room.” 

“Thank you, deputy.” 

“I’ll be out, shortly,” John says the final word pointedly as his brothers go to the waiting room, then turns to the deputies, “which room is my client in?” 

“Room 103, I’ll be right in, go on and get settled,” Pratt tells him and John leaves down to the room where Patrick is being held. Dahlia holds her tongue until the youngest Seed brother is out of hearing range. 

“Think we can get anything else out of them?” 

“Fuck no, he’s going to tell Patrick to keep his mouth shut, insist that there’s another explanation. Like getting blood from a turnip, we’re just going to have to deal with what we have. DNA should be enough to convict Patrick, as for the rest, we’ll have to see if Whitehorse feels we got enough to do a full investigation. But, we don’t have much.” 

“The evidence against Patrick might be enough to subpoena Joseph’s sermons, get warrants to search the church and houses?” 

“Maybe,fuck,” Pratt rubs a hand down his face, he looks exhausted and she’s sure she’s not much better, “what time is it?” 

“Nearly four in the morning.” 

“Fucks sake, okay, their foul mood makes a bit more sense.” 

“Yeah, I can take care of the talk with John and Patrick, like you said won’t be getting much from them, so you can head home or check on Jerome.” 

“No, no, absolutely not. I’ll take care of this, you go home and get some sleep.” 

“Pratt-” 

“Rook, you were the one passing out on top of me. Go home and sleep.” 

“I-” 

“Please, for once in your life, just listen to me.” 

“Okay, just this once,” she bows her head, feeling like a scolded child, “but we do need to have a serious conversation about you babying me, you know that right?” 

“I don’t baby you.” 

She blinks and widens her eyes, has he heard a single word he’s said to her all day. Refusing to let her stay at the station alone, not wanting her to call John, and not even wanting her to be involved in the interrogation. And that today alone, she can’t count the amount of times he’s told her not to be the one to issue tickets, to stay in the car during calls. She knows they’ve lost an officer in the line of duty. And she knows she’s a lot younger than Pratt or Hudson. But this is her job as much as it is theirs. 

“Okay,” Pratt scratches at the back of his neck at the incredulous look, then gently puts his hands on Dahlia’s shoulders, “serious conversations can wait until we’ve both slept, alright?” 

“Fine, I’ll go home and crash, get yourself some sleep when you finish up here, okay?” 

“Okay, will do.” 

He drops his hands from her shoulders and gives a small pat to her arm as she turns to leave. As much as she’d rather Pratt be the one going home to get some much needed sleep, she can’t say she won’t be thankful for a chance to crash. 

“And Rook,” Pratt calls out before she can get through to the waiting room, she turns to look at him, “stay away from the Seeds, please.” 

“Don’t push it.” She rolls her eyes, overprotective ass, she pushes through the doors to the waiting room. 

Dahlia gives a friendly nod of acknowledgement to Joseph and Jacob as she moves past them, looking towards Nancy. 

“I’m gonna go home and crash for the night, any news comes in, don’t hesitate to call me, alright?”  She explains to dispatch, not fully trusting Pratt to let her know if it’s up to him, throwing on her leather jacket and already searching for her pack of cigarettes. She’ll catch a smoke break before she rides home, her nerves needing the nicotine fix. 

“Alright, dear. Drive safe.” 

Dahlia waves a quick bye to both Nancy and the Seed brothers before she leaves the building. The air is cold, temperatures drop quick at night out here,  a start contrast to the hot muggy days. A dark sky hangs above her except where stars breach the abyss. Goosebumps prickle up along her neck where the air hits, she put a cigarette between her lips and lights it, breathing nicotine deep into her lungs. She tilts her head back, blowing smoke from her mouth, white billowing around her. 

“Deputy,” Joseph’s voice calls out and chills run along her spine, “you know, smoking is really a terrible habit.” 

“We all got our vices,” she says, shrugging her shoulders, making sure to blow the smoke away from Joseph. 

“That is true, I know that better than most…” 

She nods when he trails off a bit, his church seems to focus a lot on sins and vices, overcoming them she assumes. Sins marked across the skin of so many of its members. Silence falls across the two, for once Joseph breaking eye contact, a rare moment for him. 

“Is there something you wanted…? Can’t imagine you’d rather wait out here in the cold.”

“Yes, actually, I think there’s a lot we need to discuss. Faith told me you have concerns about your friend, Cassandra.” 

“Cassie, yeah,” she corrects, not sure why it bugs her so much to hear them using Cassie’s full name. 

“Yes, John always was wishing to speak with you regarding the orchard and… I’d hate for this… incident to color your opinion of me and my family.”

“I understand and I’d love to talk all this out with you, but-” 

“It’s four in the morning.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” she frowns, feeling bad about it, “its been a rough day and I just am ready to crash, I’m sure you must be exhausted too.” 

“Of course, I understand, which is why I’d like to invite you to have dinner with me and my family.” 

“Uh, what?” 

Dahlia blinks and coughs on cigarette smoke, taken aback by the sudden invitation. He’s here for an investigation, she just interrogated him, and he’s concerned with inviting her to dinner to… preserve some sort of good image? While a formal investigation isn’t opened on him or John yet, needing warrants and authority to do anything more, but one is right around the corner. 

“We try to have dinner as a family, my brothers, sister, and I, as often as possible. A luxury we couldn’t indulge in for so much of our lives, I think it’d be a wonderful opportunity for us all to speak and for you to know my family separate from church or police interrogations. So, would you like to join us for dinner tomorrow night?” 

“Uh…” 

This could be her only chance to talk to him about Cassie before a formal investigation is launched and it becomes a conflict. 

But it could already be a conflict, since they are hopefully not far away from launching that investigating. 

But, she could use it as a chance to probe around, see if she can unearth anymore evidence in the Jerome case. 

But, anything procured without a warrant wouldn’t be admittable, so the most she could do is see it and then know what to go back for once they secure a warrant. 

But, even just getting a chance to ask questions without the environment of an interrogation room, might get some truths out. As well a chance to ask about some of the other strange things going on in the county. From roadblocks to the issue of the weird “angel” that assaulted her. 

But, they could be dangerous, if they do have anything to do with Jerome’s injuries… 

But, she’s not weak and it’s not like she's looking to antagonize them. She can ask her questions and be polite. 

But, Pratt would kill her. He literally warned her to stay away from the Seed family five fucking seconds ago. 

“Sure, I’d love to,” she tells him, ultimately unable to say no to his earnest little smile. 

“That’s wonderful, our dinners are at John’s ranch house, I’m not sure I have anything to write the number down on…” 

“I can use the memo app on my phone, what is it?” 

“Oh.” He seems taken aback for a moment when she gets out her phone, but recovers to prattle off the address, Dahlia typing it in. 

“Did I get it right?” She asks, moving to stand closer to Joseph’s side, so he can see the phone screen.

“Uh, yes, that’s,” he reaches out to touch her phone and accidentally closes the memo app, pulling his hand away like it burned him, “oh.” 

Dahlia can’t help but laugh, watching the older man fumble to deal with tech. He’s older, sure, but he’s not pushing his sixties or anything. He ducks his head and she can see a very subtle flush of red flare up his cheekbones. Its the most human he’s ever seemed to her, just an older man who hates phones, embarrassed that he has no idea how to use one. 

“Don’t worry,  it saved,” she explains, pulling it back up. 

“Yes, that’s correct.” 

“Alright, see you and your family tomorrow.” 

She tucks her phone back in her pocket and waves bye again, getting on her motorcycle. Dahlia slides her helmet on and starts the journey back home, mind racing and heart heavy with the events of the day. 

Joseph sits in the passenger side of the truck, Jacob driving and John sitting in the back, as they leave the police station. It's late, nearly early enough for him to be waking up. John made a grave mistake, trying to punish Pastor Jerome for leading people astray, away from Eden. A noble intention, but he did it out of wrath and anger, letting someone else’s sin fuel his own. His impulses placed them back in the sight line of the police. They can recover from this easily enough, as frustrating as it is. The bigger issue is once again working to reign John in and working to change the junior deputy’s view of them. 

The Lamb plays a vital role in the collapse, she was chosen to be the one who brings about the end, how exactly she will do so remains to be seen. But, he’d rather she do it alongside them stepping into New Eden by their side after she helped cleanse the world, rather than doing so in spite of them with no understanding of the gift she was given. 

“What the hell were you thinking?”  Jacob scolds their younger brother, always protective of the project and them being found out by law enforcement, he’s more than a little irate about John’s mistake. 

“Jacob…” Joseph still chides him for cursing, a nasty habit his eldest brother struggles most to break. If Joseph’s being completely honest, he’s not certain Jacob is trying to break it all. 

“Pastor Jerome is a fraud, he is leading people astray and spreading lies about The Project, he had to be taught a lesson.” 

“Who cares? His people abandoned him for us, John. He can talk all he wants, no ones fuckin’ listening.” 

“Oh, so suddenly you’re above corporal punishment, are you going soft on me, Jacob? Do you allow your soldiers to say whatever they please, reward them for their insolence?” 

“Jerome’s not a soldier and unlike you, when I teach outsiders a lesson, I’m not dumb enough to let them walk away from it.” 

“Brothers, stop,” Joseph speaks over them, not yelling, but his tone stern enough to end their incessant arguing, he makes eye contact with his youngest brother through the rearview mirror “Jacob is right, John.” 

“But Joseph-” 

“You endangered The Project, our mission, our family; for the sake of satisfying your own wrath. You put all of us at risk and for what? So, you could indulge in your sins?” 

“He was spreading lies, telling people you were dangerous-” 

“And that made you angry, it made you wrathful. And so you lashed out to make yourself feel better, instead of speaking to me, instead of seeking out the word and confronting the sin inside of yourself, you sought to quell your anger through violence.” 

“I’m sorry, Joseph.” 

“I know. Righteous anger and swift justice has its place. There will be times to cut off the hands that wrong us, but this was not one of them.” 

“I understand… I already spoke with our flock members in the station, they’ll dispose of the evidence and secure Patrick’s freedom. Without it, the investigation will end and he won’t be punished for my mistakes.” 

“I knew you’d take care of it in the end,” he tells him, watching the relief flood John with the smallest amount of praise after being scolded, “I invited the junior deputy to dinner.” 

Jacob slams on the brakes on a thankfully deserted back road, causing Joseph to jerk against the seatbelt and John to slam his face against the seat in front of him. John yells out from the sudden impact and Joseph turns to look at his eldest brother in confusion. 

“God damn it, Jacob!” 

“John!” Joseph scolds when his baby brother takes the lords name in vain, he can see a bruise forming on John’s forehead already. 

“He tried to kill me!” 

“Am I the only one who understands that we’re criminals?!” 

“In the eyes of man, perhaps, but in the eye of -” 

“Eyes of man are the ones that matter, right now, Joseph! You’re inviting a fuckin’ cop into our lives, into John’s house. A cop who just interrogated us less than a fucking hour ago and you want to feed her for her trouble.” 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were scared, brother. Jacob Seed, scared of a little girl.” 

“Well, its a damn good thing you know better, or that shiner would be the least of your problems, brother,” Jacob nearly spits the word brother, glaring daggers at John. 

“Jacob,” Joseph gets his older brother’s attention, Jacob has always been the strongest willed, has always asserted his opinions even if he’d do anything for the family, “are you doubting me?” 

“No, of course not, I just don’t understand why you’re doing this?” 

“We have cops within our flock, Jacob.”

“Yes, converted cops who benefit us. This deputy can’t walk into a church without puking her guts up, she’s a problem waiting to happen.” 

“She has been making a problem out of herself, trying to keep me from purchasing the orchard, enabling the greed of this county.” 

“Look, I know it can be difficult to understand, you’ve not heard what I’ve heard. The Voice hasn’t spoken to you, as it has to me, my decisions are not without reason. Reasons that will be revealed in time, the junior deputy is important, bringing her into our flock is a priority. Understood?” 

“Of course, understood, Father,” John concedes, using Joseph’s formal title. Joseph looks to his eldest brother, who’s scarred jaw is still clenched tight. 

“Understood?” He repeats himself, he knows Jacob wouldn’t go against him, but his willful nature… something Joseph was envious of in childhood now leads to the occasional butting of heads. 

“Understood.” 

Jacob starts the car back up, driving Joseph and John back to their homes. John to his ranch house and Joseph up to his church, where he has a cot in the back of it. The sun is starting to come up when Jacob drops him off at the church compound, before driving back to Saint Francis. 

Eyelids heavy with exhaustion, Joseph is quick to return to his quarters, a headache starting to creep up along his temples. He changes for bed, then kneels before his bed, bowing his head for prayer and folding his hands together. Hands pressed together tightly, his rosary pressing into his skin. 

And he prays. 

He prays for John to find his way, to battle his sin and win the fight. 

He prays for Jacob to one day fully let go and accept the word. 

He prays for Faith not to stray from the path. 

He prays for his flock and family, he prays for their faith not to wane, he prays for them to be strong enough to weather the collapse, he prays for the persecution of his family to end, and he prays that he can save more souls; specifically the junior deputy. That he can find a way to reach her heart, help her see her gift, and learn the importance of her role before it’s too late. 

Then a sharp pain shoots from his temple across the rest of his head, like lightning shooting through his skull. The darkness of his closed eyes fades away into a new world, a vision of New Eden, a paradise he’s been shown and promised so many times he knows the sight of it by heart. The bright blooming pink flowers and modest homemade homes of a commune, a return to nature, to innocence. 

His family and flock there, older versions of themselves, dressed in more rustic handmade clothes. Less clear and less certain than last time. But he sees John, Jacob, and Faith with children clinging and playing around them. And he can’t explain the feeling, that they’re all his children but his siblings as well. 

The five year old boy with a head of dark curls and blue eyes that looks so much like Joseph as a child, the boy who called him papa. 

A girl around three with bright ginger hair, a face covered in freckles. She grins and blinks, sun in her eyes. She reminds him so much of Jacob, head held high with a crown of red. 

Maybe a year younger, another girl has straight dark brown hair and big wide blue eyes. Eyes that remind him so entirely of the young baby brother he cooed at as a child. 

The oldest of them, clings to an older Faith’s skirt. A young boy of ten maybe tweleve, so much older than the smaller children. Hair dark as pitch, olive skin, and green eyes setting him apart. He looks different from the others, perhaps his family tie not one forged by blood. 

His family, those he has now and those he will gain, the family he will be gifted. But, there’s something missing…. Pieces of the puzzle not yet in place. 

Weak clumsy fingers grab onto his bed as his vision subsides, the reality of the world he’s still in returning to him. His head pounds and throbs, agony radiating throughout it, as the collapse draws closer his visions are getting more and more frequent. He can only hope as he falls into bed that he’s keeping himself and his family on the right path to find paradise.

[mimiswitchywrites]

Not A Burden: Chapter 12

TW: SH references, S*x**l a****lt near the beginning

Period typical h***ph**ia and internalised, alcohol mentions?

Master list or read on AO3

5.8k words (I'm so sorry, it wasn't meant to be this long)

If you want to be tagged for updates, message me or comment!

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The sun was beginning to fall behind the tree line, and she still hadn’t found the tavern, electing to ask a passing guard. He looked her up and down for a minute, before pointing down the path and saying to take a right at the cart with the cabbages.

She arrived, mind still looping. The tavern was humming with chatter inside – hopefully good chatter – and the street glowed from the light of the candles. It was quite beautiful, she thought.

She stepped forward to open the door, hopped back as a large man stormed out - scowling - and then dashed inside before the door slammed shut again.

There was a long work top spanning half the room, with two men and a grinning maiden behind serving out tankards. Tables lined the walls with long benches, all covered with various states of intoxicated patrons.

Miriam approached the bar, eyes locked on a greenish tile behind the maiden – not wanting to interact with any of the drunk men brawling on the table closest to her. She hopped on one of the stools, feet dangling. She smiled at the lady as she came over to serve her, head darting around the room at a loud crash behind her. “Hey there, love, what can I do you for?” The woman – slightly taller than Miriam – asked with a sympathetic tone. Her eyes were soft, sensing Miriam’s discomfort at the chaotic crowd.

“A tankard of your strongest stuff, please.”

The maiden nodded in response, finding a mug, and wiping the inside with the apron tied around her waist. She dropped the mug into a bucket of liquid and dried the edges, placing it in front of Miriam with another curt bow of the head.

Miriam hummed her thanks, hands gripping the tankard. The liquid was brown and smelt putrid, but she smiled at her reflection on the surface. It tasted vile, she noted with a grimace, but, as the warmth spread through her body, she knew it would do the trick.

She had her head tipped back, fishing for the last drops of the ale when he sat next to her. He was a big, burly man, with the bottom of his hairy stomach peering out from under his sained shirt. He smelt terrible – Miriam could practically taste his aroma, even with her drink so close to her nose – but he didn’t seem to care. He lent forward in his seat, elbows on knees, barely a hands length from Miriam. She placed her empty tankard on the bar in front of her and turned to him. He smiled, teeth crooked and blackened. She could see a string of meat stuck in between his front two.

“’ello bird.” He sneered – smiled? At her, hand landing on her thigh.

She shuffled sideways as much as she could, face concealing her immense discomfort.

“Good evening, sir.”

“I ain’t no ‘sir’.” He stood, arms coming to either side of her – trapping her in her seat. “But,” a grimy finger came up to her cheek, “I could preten’ to be, if tha’s what you’re after?”

She lent as far back into the bar as she could, arms pulling around her chest in a feeble attempt at protection.

A hand – a clean one, this time – landed on the fat man’s shoulder. He was pulled round to face the newcomer, shoulders squaring in preparation.

“Hands off the lass.” Miriam recognised the gravely voice, struggling to place it. Her eyes were too blurred with tears to put together his face.

“Or what? You paid for her already?” Miriam hated the way her skin crawled as his hand found the inside of her thigh. With a deep breath – shaking – she pushed it away and slid off the stool.

He swung round, face ablaze.

The new man grabbed his forearm before he could touch her again and pinned it behind his back. He pushed the man against the worktop – breath knocked out of him. “Or I’ll report you to the King. Hand’s off, by order of Sir Gwaine: Knight of Camelot.”

Miriam’s eye’s cleared long enough to see the vile mans face drop, blood draining. Sir Gwaine let him go and watched as he backed out of the Tavern, fear struck. Gwaine tossed a coin onto the bar, waving one of the male servers down, “Two ales please, Henry.”

The server – Henry – nodded, face drawn in concern for the knight that was swaying slightly. He placed the drinks down in front of them and turned to a patron calling him from the other end of the bar.

Gwaine took his tankard, downing half of it in one gulp before looking at Miriam. She was shaking, eyes glossy, but analysing him. “Gwaine. I was with Merlin when we found you.” Her mouth dropped, eyes widening in realisation. She let out a soft “oh” in acknowledgment.

With hesitation, she lifted herself back onto the stool and sat forward again. She took a sip of the ale, made a bitter face, and took another.

“Are you alright? Would you like me to walk you home?” He was facing her again, face shrouded in empathy with a slight haze from the drinking. She shook her head, nodding to her tankard.

“I just need to drink, preferably without anymore creeps interrupting.” He barked a laugh at that, throwing his drink back again, and she felt her face warm. “So, Sir Gwaine: Knight of Camelot,” he rolled his eyes, chuckling, “may I ask what brings you here tonight.”

“Aye, you can, but whether or not I’ll answer is something entirely different,” He stood, reaching out a hand to her, “but first, would you care to dance?” There was a group of men and two women at the back of the tavern creating music. They were singing, one man had a crumhorn, another a lute, and the last two were tapping on the wood of the chairs beneath them. The women’s voices carried across the whole room in beautiful harmony. They danced together, skirts billowing around them, and, one by one, others from the crowd joined in. Men and women, sons and daughters, strangers, all took each other’s arms and span and laughed and sang together. Smile working its way onto her face, Miriam nodded, taking Gwaine’s extended hand.

She didn’t consider herself much of a dancer – never really having the opportunity to learn – but here, dancing with this man she hardly knew, she felt right. They stumbled and fell against each other, stopping their spins every so often as they got too dizzy, and they laughed. Oh, how they laughed. Years of sadness lifted from both their faces, leaving them youthful once again.

By the time they stopped – music slowing down too much for their liking – they were red faced and the world continued spinning without them. They stumbled over to one of the cushioned seats at the side of the room – a large table in front of it – and sprawled onto it, in hysterics. Their drinks (fresh ones they had picked up from Henry before wading through the room) spilled onto the table slightly, prompting another burst of laughter.

After a few gasped attempts at calming down, they shuffled so they were sat up, leaning against each other for support. Gwaine’s hair fell across his face, stuck to the sweat on his forehead and neck. Miriam’s was still tied from work but falling from its leather string in segments.

“You know,” Miriam’s words were more slurred than she had expected; Gwaine snorted at her shocked expression which resulted in him receiving a gentle slap on the shoulder, “When we first met, I dreamt about you.”

His brows shot up, mind too fuzzy to decide between making a sexual remark and asking for more info and so he just sat, expressions rotating over his face until she continued. “Your hair, specifically.” She leant forward, peeling it from his face and running her hands through the tangles. He turned away from her to give her easier access. “I dreamt I was plaiting daisies into it. You have beautiful hair, Sir Gwaine.”

He turned his head to talk to her, “You know, you don’t actually have to call me Sir each time. ‘Gwaine’ is okay.”

Her mouth dropped open at this revelation; he laughed again and turned back to the front.

“Do you frequently dream of plaiting strangers’ hair?” He was genuinely curious but chuckled as he asked.

She shook her head, realised he couldn’t see, and then replied, “No, not often. But you do have very nice hair.” She nodded to herself and took a deep swig of her drink, spluttering slightly at the taste. Gwaine copied, only barely grimacing.

--

Gwaine enjoyed the feel of the girl’s fingers running through his hair. They sat like that for another twenty minutes at least – exchanging odd thoughts every so often but generally just enjoying the others company. He wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing, head too tingly to place where each strand of hair was going, but it was relaxing, and he could feel his eyelids growing heavy.

He finished his drink, waving Henry over for another, and went back to sipping on the ale. The Rising Sun was by far the best Inn in Camelot, but they had truly vile alcohol. It did the job though, and that was all the Knight was after. Until Miriam came along, anyhow.

She was really quite lovely, he had noticed. He knew she was something special when they had found her – the way she bantered, even when half alive, was enough to warm even his painfully cold heart – but he hadn’t expected to enjoy her company quite so much. He wasn’t attracted to her but she was kind and funny and he could see so much of himself in her and, for some reason, that made him care for her. Granted, they had only been speaking for half an hour now (two hours? Time was a funny thing) and they had both knocked a few back, but he was sure that, if she wanted, they could maintain a friendship. For Gwaine, the man that only had Merlin as a friend for years and none before that, this was quite the realisation.

He sniffled, taking another swig and blaming the lump in his throat on the brown liquid this establishment classed as a ‘drink’.

“There,” she patted his head, “you’re all done.” She spun him round – his eyes widening as he tried to save his tankard from spilling – and she checked out her handy work from the front. Her lips parted in, what was it, awe? “Pretty…” she muttered to herself. He felt his cheeks flush, already red from the drinking, and he giggled (though he would deny it if anyone asked).

She shook her head, eyes closing tightly and then opening again, “Not that you weren’t pretty before, that is. You have a very nice,” she gestured to his face and he bit his knuckle to prevent himself from bursting out in a laugh, “face?” She tilted her head to the side, going over what she said with confusion.

“Aye, well thank you for that lass.” He nodded to her, lifting his tankard and waiting for her to do the same, “To pretty faces!” He toasted. Their drinks sloshed into each other and they tipped them back, wiping mouths on the backs of hands.

They sat in silence for some time, watching the crowd in front of them. There was a particularly beautiful maiden in a red dress that was strutting across the room to a lean man with black hair and a rugged beard. She had a stern look on her face and walked with such vigour that not even the king would have been able to stop her. Gwaine wondered what the man had done, and Miriam just stared at her, warmth pooling at the bottom of her stomach.

The woman stopped in front of the man who had terror in his eyes that Gwaine could see from the other side of the room and slapped him. The sound rang out, silencing the crowd for a second. Gwaine turned to Miriam next to him, hearing her gasp and, curiously, her cheeks stain red. He smiled at that, potential reasons circling his mind.

The crowd ended up blocking the couple from Gwaine and Miriam’s view (much to both their dismay) and their attention returned to the other. Bringing a hand up to her mouth, Miriam stifled a yawn, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

“You’re tired.” She shook her head but her heavy eye’s betrayed her, “I should get you back to your room. It would be improper to keep you out so long, or something.” He wasn’t entirely sure if it did count as improper or if he would usually care, but he had no desire to have Lancelot, Merlin and Arthur on his back for keeping the new girl out for so long. He was sure they would spin some tale about him sleeping with her (not that he could dispute it, given his reputation) and Lancelot had looked hurt enough these last few days that he was sure the noble knight would snap. It would not be a pretty sight.

Something best avoided, he supposed.

“Yeah, you are, come on now lass, best us getting going before some twat starts a fight anyhow.” She snorted at this and resigned, standing up. The pair shuffled their way out from behind the table and headed out with a quick wave to Henry before the ducked through the door.

They walked through the lower town slowly, Miriam leaning against him for support and him doing his best not to sway too much. The inn became a distant echo, leaving them in their own little world. They were basked in the soft glow of dying candles and moonlight.

“What’s wrong with you?” She stopped, thinking over her phrasing before adding: “Merlin say’s you’ve been off since you found me in the woods. I think he’s worried.”

Gwaine clenched his jaw, forearms tingling. He took a deep breath before tacking on his jovial persona. “Nothing’s wrong, he’s just an old fart that doesn’t understand the point of a fun night down the Inn.”

She stayed in her spot - even as he took a few more steps towards the inner city - and watched him. She saw her own mannerisms in the way he moved. The clenched fists and jaw, the way he kept his wrists close to his body and his back and shoulders were tensed. “You’re lying.” She sang, feeling the effects of her drink.

His eye’s bulged at her bluntness but a part of him respected her for it. He was tired of the others tiptoeing around him and whatever they assumed was wrong, it was refreshing to have someone get to the point, even if it were a point he didn’t like.

He sighed, calculating the amount of information he could give away without exposing himself or how weak he truly was. He turned back to face her. “Not entirely, Merlin really is an old fart that doesn’t understand the joy one can have with a bucket of ale and a good brawl.” She squinted at him, doing her best to show how little she believed his façade.

He groaned, hand running through hair. “Fine. Yes, my mind has been doing all sort of stupid things since I saw you – not like that, you’re a fair maiden but not…” He sighed again as he massaged his temples, sober thoughts and it’s accompanied headache returning.

“You’re like me?” Her voice was soft, eye’s gentle as if she was worried the question would break him. If hadn’t spent the night out with her, it probably would have. He felt water fill his treacherous eyes – the golden lights in the street blurring in a wet mosaic. He watched her wobbling silhouette approach and place a soft hand on his cheek. His heart was racing, ocean in his ears, and he couldn’t tell if his stomach was doing flips due to the time in The Rising Sun or because, holy shit, someone knows.

“Hey,” came her gentle voice, bringing him back to reality. She moved her fingers softly against his skin and he felt himself lean into her hand. “I’ve never met someone else like me.” Despite the fear and hurt and anger, he smiled. She looked so innocent: stood on the tips of her toes to reach his face, cheeks flushed and tears welling in her own eyes. He opened his mouth, not yet sure what he wanted to say, just as the heavens above opened.

Rain poured down, soaking them both in seconds. Her hair stuck to her face and her thin shirt turned see through. He pulled off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders, before taking her hand. “Let’s get inside.” He called over the rain, thunder rumbling in the distance. She had a large, beautiful, grin on her face as she nodded, blowing a wet strand of hair from her eyes.

She gripped his hand, and they ran. They ran past couples hiding under canvas, past children staying out far too late dancing in the rain, past drunkards emptying their stomachs in the hay. They ran all the way up to the castle, free hands on sides to ease stiches.

By the time they pulled to a stop, hiding under the roof at the top of the entrance stairs and looking out at the courtyard, they were wheezing with laughter and creating puddles at their feet.

“Well,” Miriam panted, “That woke me up some.” Gwaine snorted and shook his hair like a dog, spraying Miriam who squealed in response. She shoved him, trying to get her own back, but slipped and fell. He caught her by the forearms but quickly let go as he noticed her grimace in pain. She ended sprawled on the floor, eyes watering but laughing still. His face fell in concern and he knelt next to her.

“Shit, Miriam, I’m sorry.” She shook her head, waving him off but she cradled her arms to her chest still. “Should we go to Gaius or Merlin? I’m sure—” She butt in, eyes wide.

“No, no, not Merlin. I’m fine, really Gwaine.”

“What’s wrong with Merlin?” He tried not to get defensive but drinking always made him more affectionate for his friends, even when they weren’t there.

She sighed, bringing her legs up to her chest and dropping her head on her knees. “I fucked up with Gwen and now everyone hates me and then I did something even worse this morning.” Her voice was muffled but Gwaine caught it all, mouth dropping slightly. He sat down properly, slotting himself next to her and gently wrapping and arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sure they don’t hate you—”

“They do, and if they didn’t already, what I did this morning certainly confirmed it. By the looks I was getting in the Kitchens this morning, everyone knows. Wouldn’t be surprised if Arthur sends me away tomorrow.” Her voice cracked and she nuzzled herself into Gwaine’s side. He pulled his arm tighter around her and she let out a content sigh.

“What could you have done that was so bad, eh? You threaten Princess or something?” he nudged her gently, in jest, but she lifted her head and stared at him with such sad eyes that his heart broke for her. “How about we get warmed up in my chambers and talk about this? Does that sound alright?” She sniffled, nodding. He stood first and extended his hand for her. The walk to the Knights quarters was quiet – just the patting of their feet and the sound of distant rain – but both their minds were reeling.

Miriam still didn’t quite understand what she had done wrong in the first place and so explaining it to Gwaine was going to be a mammoth task, and then she would also have to explain what her and Juliana had done that morning and what would he even think of that? Would he be disgusted? She couldn’t blame him but if he were, what would she do next? She had had a good night with him, and she knew she could get him to talk of his own issues eventually which would make Merlin happy, so she really wasn’t fond of the idea of loosing him so soon after befriending him. Befriending? Were they truly friends now or had they just happened to have gotten drunk together?

Oh bother, it was all far too much for her hazy mind to comprehend.

Gwaine opened a heavy oak door and stood to the side, waving her in. She bowed her head and obeyed – might as well do as he says so these last few hours of being his friend go as smoothly as possible.

She lit the fire as Gwaine gathered blankets and pillows for them to sit on. Once it was roaring, she leant sat on one of the pillows and stretched her feet out to warm them.

“I have spare clothes you could wear, if you would like? You should get out of your wet clothes, at least.” Face blank – her thoughts were too fast for her to convey emotion anymore – she nodded and pulled her shirt and trousers off, leaving her in just a damp chemise. She pulled a blanket round her shoulders and another over her arms.

Gwaine caught a brief look of what she was covering and had to close his eyes, trying to stop his mind from going down the dark path yet again.

He removed his own clothes, pulling on his night trousers and covering himself in a similar manner to her. They sat, watching the fire dance, and basked in the others presence.

“If it matters any,” he began, taking a deep breath, “I don’t think you could do anything to disgust me. I have explored nearly all the lands of Isles, partaken in most endeavours, so I struggle to imagine you could say something I haven’t seen or experienced myself already.” He kept his head forward, allowing her the space to process his words. He didn’t know what Miriam could have done to elicit such fear in herself, but he meant every word of what he had said. Bar threatening or hurting someone, he couldn’t think of anything she could have done wrong.

She bit her lip, puling the blanket tighter around her and picked at an exposed red stripe on her wrist. She had taken the bandages off after work – they had got covered in so much food that they were more harm than good – and hadn’t wrapped them again. They had scabbed over nicely, according to Gaius, but that made the temptation to scratch at them far worse than before. Especially now, with such an uncomfortable conversation approaching.

“Women sleeping with other women. I know it’s wrong, I know it is against the gods and all that is natural,” If she turned her head, she would have seen the confusion on Gwaine’s face, “And yet, no matter how many times I’ve tried to force out such disgusting temptations, it is something I do.” Gwaine sighed a breath of relief, and then his brows furrowed in concern as he fully processed what she said.

“Forced them out? Of yourself?” He turned towards her, shuffling closer. She allowed herself a moment to glance at his face, before turning back to the fire. She didn’t understand the look he wore. It wasn’t quite anger, nor was it agreement.

“Yes. Sleeping with men, letting them have their way with me, you understand.”

He cocked his head at that, even more confused. “I’m not sure I do, Miriam.”

She turned to face him properly now, crossing her legs to keep distance between them. He mimicked her and let his knees brush hers. “Supposedly you sleep with any woman that will allow you, is that not because you want to avoid something? To change something in yourself?” Judging by the way he averted his eyes, she was right.

“But it never changes anything.” His voice was hoarse, and he kept his eyes on the floor.

“No, no it doesn’t.

There was another pause. Gwaine stood, blanket still covering his arms, and made his way to a cupboard in the corner. He returned with a large ceramic jar and a fruit cake, setting both down next to his seat. He took a large swig from the jar – a home brewed spirit – coughed slightly and passed it to Miriam who did the same.

“So, what did you do wrong?” He thought it a simple enough question and yet the look she made at him suggested otherwise.

After mulling her answer over and taking another swig, she began, “Well, other than the obvious crime—“ she ignored his attempt to interrupt, “I was talking to Gwen. About Lancelot and I. And then she said how she felt there was no man made for her. And then I, hopeful, I suppose, asked if she had explored the prospect of women. And I know that that was wrong of me and I shouldn’t have said it and I apologised as such but the way she looked at me, the way she held such disappointment in those truly beautiful eyes… I fucked up.” She stopped, taking a shaky breath and a piece of the cake.

Once she had finished chewing, he nodded for her to continue. “And then Merlin and I were in my new rooms – talking about you, actually – and she asked for me and I tried to apologise again but I think I did it wrong because she stormed off and Merlin not long followed and—” she cut herself off with a frustrated groan, hands racking through her hair. The blanket fell from her arms, exposing the harsh lines coating them.

Gwaine took another drink.

“And you say you did something worse this morning?”

Her cheeks flushed at that, “Depends who you ask but yes, much worse. Though, Juliana enjoyed it if I do say so myself.” It took him a second, but he caught on with an ‘oh? Oh.’ And she nodded in response.

“But Gwen saw, I am certain of it. Not the whole thing, mind, but the way Juliana was talking to me, and then us going into the storeroom at the back and… I have truly fucked up, Gwaine.” She fell back, staring at the ceiling. He lay down next to her, eyes tracing patterns in the beams running across his room.

He liked to think he knew Merlin and Gwen well - well enough to judge their reactions - and he was sure Miriam was missing something important. Namely that same sex relations such as the ones she mentioned were not a crime in Camelot. Sure, they weren’t the norm, but Arthur, the King himself, partook in them and so the common people were quickly allowing themselves to give into such temptations. Supposedly, even Uther wasn’t that harsh on those found doing such things, although it was never something reported that he did himself. He was also sure that she was leaving out that she had feelings for Gwen and was beating herself up the attraction. Not that he blamed her for liking her – he had tried to pursue her when he had first arrived in Camelot too. She was something special, even the blind could see that.

He turned on his side to face her and waited for her to do the same. “What do you know about Camelot? About it’s attitudes to such things?” Her face scrunched up as she thought about it.

Really, she hadn’t heard anything about what Camelot thought about it. She never intended to end up here – she had gone from town to town for work and the forest she was found in was two days ride away from the citedale. She had intented to make her way as far north as north could go but never had any specific town in her head. She knew that Merlin and Arthur were handsy with each other and she had seen the way they slept together after Merlin had given her his role mat that night, but she assumed that was just something royals did with their servants. Same as they would with a woman.

And yet, with the line of questioning Gwaine was going down, she could sense that she was wrong somewhere along the line. “I don’t know anything about Camelot, save for Uther having been King here a few years past and everyone knows about him. But I have seen how Arthur and Merlin are and I expect you are asking because Merlin isn’t just a body to warm the Princesses bed?”

Gwaine laughed at that, happy she still referred to Arthur as that. “You’d be right there. Why are you so against people like that? People like yourself?” This time she looked angry and, if Gwaine looked close enough, scared. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

She nodded, chewing her lip and scratching her wrists again. He took her hands in his, keeping them still.

“May I ask you something now, Gwaine?” He nodded slowly. “Could I see you? What you’ve done to yourself?” He sat up, dropping her hands. The blanket fell away but all she could see was his back from where she lay.

“I’m sorry. I just,” she sat up, not looking at him so he could have some privacy, “I want to know what it’s like for other people. And you’re a knight, you’re brave and yet you still did it and I just…” she grew quiet, water welling in her eyes once more, “I always thought myself a coward but maybe I’m not.”

She heard him sigh from next to her.

“I don’t think I’m all that brave, lass. Sometimes I think about joining those troops that go round preforming for lords and ladies. Gwaine the Freak. I’m sure I could draw in a pretty penny.” He laughed but there was no humour in it.

Slowly, he turned to face Miriam, and she followed suit. They locked eyes, her trying to show trust and him trying to confirm it, and then he dropped his blanket.

She couldn’t help the way she leant forward, hands itching to draw over his body. His chest and arms were littered in scars – some from fights and brawls, others from himself. There were a few burn marks, likely from run ins with magical beings. She met his eyes again, asking for permission, before she gave into temptation and traced the patterns marring his skin. She started over his chest, tracing over his heart, down to his ribs and then past a particularly nasty white mound by his naval. She then took his hand in her own, placing it on her knee. She began at his hand, tickling swirls over his palm which made him smile despite himself, and then, slowly, she worked her way up. There were fresh red streaks over the blue streams under his skin. They got less calculated the further up his forearm she got: more erratic, more angry, more hurt. He averted his eyes as she gently trailed her fingers over the fresh ones, not wanting her to see the tears slipping through his lashes. She found the circular scar at his shoulder where he had been skewered by a spear – that one still caused him pain in the winter. Finally, her hands trailed up his neck and cupped his jaw. She pulled his face to look at her again, thumb wiping away a stray tear.

“You’re beautiful, Sir Gwaine.” Her voice was light, genuine, and it broke him. He tried to snort, to play it off like it was nothing, but he couldn’t. Those traitorous tears broke the banks and came pouring down. She brought his head down to meet hers, foreheads resting on each other, and he shook. He distantly felt her arms wrap around him, and soft whispers near his ear, but he couldn’t be sure. You’re beautiful, Sir Gwaine. And he knew she meant it, he could see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. She didn’t strike him as the kind of girl to dish words like that out and somehow, that made it so much worse. He felt as if he had let her down by being like this, despite knowing being like this was why she was drawn to him. He had never had anyone care for him before (bar Merlin), not truly, and even Merlin hid things from him. He wasn’t stupid, no matter how the other Knights joked: he could see that Merlin had a secret and he was almost certain it was to do with magic, but Merlin didn’t trust him with that, and he could feel the wedge that drove between them. But here was Miriam. A stranger, practically. And here was Miriam, sharing a secret with him that had practically killed her just days before, and here was Miriam, taking him in her arms and making his heart warm in ways it hadn’t since his father had died all those years ago. And here was Miriam, caring. Something so simple, and yet, so rare for him that he no longer knew what to do but cry.

He felt disgusting, snot dripping down his face like a child, and body growing hot sat so close to the fire, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He sighed, tears slowing, and sank deeper against Miriam. She moved her head, resting it on his shoulder and bringing him closer to her. He listened to their heart beats – both still beating wildly from their run and subsequent outbursts.

They stayed that way for what felt like hours but was only a quarter of one. The fire was growing low, desperate for more wood. When they pulled apart from each other, a tangle of sweaty limbs, they stayed silent, basking in the loving atmosphere. Gwaine leant forward, throwing two more logs onto the embers, and sat back again.

Gently, he brought one of his calloused hands to her cheek – just as she had with his – and smiled. It was one of the most genuine smiles he had ever pulled, and he knew she could sense that. “Thank you.” It was barely a whisper, but she nodded, hearing it still.

They ended up working their way through the cake and the spirit, trading stories from the lands they had lived in, and ignoring what had happened before. They were both appreciative for the interaction, but neither was emotionally prepared to dive back into it and so they focused their energy on stuffing their guts.

The sun was beginning to rise by the time they passed out.

[fandomfanfics12]

For Blue, Blue Skies-Part 2

Title: For Blue, Blue Skies Pairings: Steve x tony Part: 2/5 Warnings: swearing, bullying, abuse (physical and verbal), blood, angst, fluff. Summary: Steve was sure he’d aced his latest test in his forensics class but as it turns out, Professor Fury failed almost everyone. In order to get extra credit Steve and his friends join a program that Fury called The Avengers to deal with a bullying problem at the nearby high school. Hidden behind the glitz and glamour of his father’s money, most people can’t see that Tony Stark’s life is a nightmare. All Tony wants is to get out of this hellish school as quickly as possible and get as far away from his abusive father as soon as possible. A/N: This is based off of a nonnie’s request, hope you enjoy.

Part 1

Tony took note of all of the college kids over the next couple of days, it seemed like they were everywhere. Most kids glared at him though, the rumours grew worse with each passing day. Tony continued to sleep at the park, not daring come home. He wondered what would happen if he went home, how bad the beating would be. But he couldn’t wear these clothes anymore. He didn’t want the other students to know he was homeless, to figure out that he couldn’t go home. They’d just hang that over his head, he’d never live it down. So he stood on his driveway, staring up at the big house and heart racing in his chest. The principal had just told him to wait outside of the school counsellor’s office. After explaining the situation he had just been sent to the library, promising they’d deal with the situation.

By lunch the whole school was talking about it, whispering about him and glaring as he walked passed. Tony didn’t want it to get to him, didn’t want it to sting as much as it did, but he struggled to understand why everyone hated him. Genuinely, what had he done wrong? had he been born wrong or something? Even the college kid had hated him upon first meeting. They all did, always. He wished his mom was still alive, apart from the obvious of wanting your mother to be alive, Tony wanted her to answer the questions he had. He wanted to know if things would get easier, if he’d figure out his shit and that he’d find his people. That someone would one day love him, accept him.

“Just gotta rip it off like a band aid and go in. he’s probably not even home.” Tony said aloud, hoping that it would be more convincing. But the lights were on inside and his heart was racing. Maybe Howard wouldn’t notice, maybe he wouldn’t care. Tony took a deep breath and moved forward, nerves rattling through his bones with each and every step closer to that wretched house. He shoved his key into the lock and turned it with ease, then the door was opening and he was crossing the threshold. He held his breath, waited for a reaction or a response-there wasn’t one. He shut the door behind him, stashed the key in his pocket and hesitated before moving any further. Was he making a mistake?

“Anthony?” and there was Howard’s voice. It wasn’t too late, he could turn around and dash out the door before any real consequences could happen. He could easily leave, vanish like he’d never been there at all. But then Howard was in the hallway, his eyes scrutinising over every detail and Tony was frozen, his feet practically glued to the floor. The breath rushed out of him, leaving him in nothing but suffocating panic. This was a mistake. He realised but he couldn’t run, Howard wouldn’t let him run.

“Sir?” his voice trembled and he hated himself for it. he didn’t want Howard to know how scared he was.

“Why don’t we start with where the fuck you’ve been lately?” Howard cocked his head, every muscle tense and poised, a serpent ready to strike at a moments notice.

“I was sleeping at a friend’s house, sir.” Tony said and Howard rose a brow.

“And who was this friend you were supposedly staying with?” Tony’s brain panicked, he didn’t have friends and Howard knew that. With a shuddering breath, Tony spat out the first name that came to his mind.

“Bruce Banner sir.” The name surprised him as much as it did Howard, but it was out in the world now and Tony couldn’t take it back.

“Why don’t you invite Mr Banner over for dinner, I’m sure it’s the least we could do since you stayed with him.” Howard said and Tony’s hands began to trembled. He was screwed, he should run, he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Anything to get out of what would inevitably come next.

“He’s busy, maybe some other time sir.” Tony said and Howard took a step closer.

“So there won’t be any company tonight then?” a cruel wicked smile was creeping onto Howard’s face, distorting features into something vile. Tony gulped and nodded, his stomach knotting and twisting and churning. The hallway was dim, impeccably clean and spectacularly decorated. But Howard didn’t care, his arm lashed out and his hand wrapped around the back of Tony’s neck, forcing him down.

“then you’re coming with me boy.”

-

Steve flopped down onto the old shitty couch, the springs digging into his ribs and groaned.

“Go take a shower, you stink.” Nat threw a pillow and it bounced off the back of Steve’s head, but Steve wasn’t sure he could move. Bucky really kicked his ass in the gym this afternoon and Steve was debating just dying on the couch.

“Is he being a baby?” Bucky asked and in response Steve gave him the finger. Bucky’s sweet laughter filled the room and Natasha’s joined it.

“This avengers program is way harder than I thought it would be.” Natasha admitted once the laughter had died off.

“I got stuck with an actual bully, and this kid is awful.” Bucky said and Steve slowly say up.

“My kid’s good, I think he’s being bullied by your kid.” Steve admitted and Bucky nodded.

“Is it true you had to escort someone to the office today?” Nat asked and Steve nodded, thinking once again about the handsome yet troubled teen who was taking on more than he should be.

“Tony Stark, exploded at a girl who suggested that he’d killed his mom.” Steve murmured and Nat actually looked taken aback. It was very rare to catch her offguard.

“That’s hectic.” Steve nodded.

“Isn’t that the kid who broke Justin’s nose?” Bucky asked and Steve nodded his head once more.

“There’s a lot of anger there, but from what I can tell he’s just another snobby rich kid.” The other two shared a look and then shrugged. Steve chose to ignore it.

“Maybe this Tony kid is at the core of all the bullying in the school, maybe if we sought him out-“ Steve shook his head, cutting off Bucky’s words.

“He’s just arrogant, acts like he’s got it worse than he does.”

“Maybe it is worse than it seems.” Nat said and Steve shook his head.

“Nope, he’s just another arrogant rich kid in another arrogant rich school. Those kids wouldn’t know what its like to work a day in their whole damn life.” At that, Bucky and Nat nodded.

“true.” The three of them looked around at their crappy and worn down apartment, they had to work their asses off to make sure that they could live there and pay for school, but it was worth it. the hours were hard and shitty and long, but it was worth it. This small space that could give Steve privacy and freedom was worth it, he’d never give this up.

“I’m going to take a shower, you two start dinner?” Steve asked as he slowly rose from the couch, every muscle protested against the movement.

“Sure.” Bucky said and Steve nodded, exiting the small room.

-

The hours dragged by, filled with nothing but Tony’s piercing screams. But in their overly large house, no one heard him. Tony lay on the bathroom floor, the door locked and Howard’s fists pounding on the other side.

“Open the fucking door!” he roared, Tony was just curled up in a ball, sobbing and wishing for silence. Wishing he could be anywhere in the world other than where he was.

“It’ll be alright, he’ll leave soon.” Tony’s voice sounded so broken as he made an attempt to soothe himself.

“Open this door right now or so help me God!” Howard roared and Tony’s body flinched, a sob being ripped out of him from the movement.

-

Steve was sitting in the library, trying and failing to do his forensics homework. He dropped his head down onto the desk and took a deep breath. He could feel a headache coming on and the eeriness of the library was not helping.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked and Steve looked up, Bruce’s chin was propped up on his palm and he stared at Steve like he was a problem he could solve.

“homework. Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Justin?” Steve asked and Bruce nodded.

“No need to get closer to him than necessary. Plus, Justin’s vendetta isn’t against me anymore.” They looked across the library to where a scrawny lanky Tony Stark sat, head on his arms and Justin’s voice taunting him.

“Where the hell is Bucky?” Steve wondered and looked around. Then Bucky sat emerged from the shelves, sitting down next to Justin and looking pretty pissed off. When Steve turned back Bruce was looking over his homework.

“It’s actually not as hard as you think.” Bruce said after several long and silent moments passed between them.

“Really? Because it seems pretty hard to me.” Steve grumbled and Bruce nodded, then pulled out a pencil and began to scribble all over Steve’s homework.

“Hey!” Steve hissed but it didn’t deter Bruce. When he handed back the sheet of paper, Steve checked and found that Bruce had gone through and solved each and every question perfectly.

“I can tutor you after school sometime, explain?” if it had come from anyone other than Bruce, Steve would have thought that they were mocking him. But Bruce was sincere and just wanted to help, and Steve needed the help. He needed to pass this class.

“Alright, would you be able to help out a couple of buddies of mine too?” Bruce nodded, smiling softly.

“Yeah, we can do like a big study session. What about after school?” Steve nodded his head, smiling.

“Yeah, that works.” Bruce nodded and returned back to his own work.

-

Tony was just trying to get through the hour without screaming. But Justin Hammer was making it pretty damn difficult. The college kid that was supposed to babysit kept needing breaks because Justin was so insufferable. But finally, at long last, Justin fell silent. Tony lifted his head and recognised Steve, standing next to him.

“what’s up?” the other college kid asked and Steve smiled hesitantly.

“Any plans you had later are cancelled, we’ve got a study group.” Steve said and the other kid nodded.

“okay Stevie.” He turned back to Justin who had a raised eyebrow and a smirk on his lips.

“Are you like gay or something?” Justin sounded smug, Tony was just stunned.

“Why are you such an asshole?” Tony asked and the attention slid to him then. Maybe his better judgement vanished when he was in a pain-soaked haze.

“Oh so you’re talking now? I thought you were taking a vow of silence?” justin asked and Tony rolled his eyes, this was the last thing he needed today. Steve gave Tony the once over before nodding to his friend and leaving them alone. Tony put his head back down on the desk and the college guy began to lecture Justin, Tony just did his best to drown them out. Eventually the bell rang, signalling the end of the hour and the start of lunch. Kids were practically running out of the library, Tony wasn’t sure that he was ready to move just yet. Justin and his babysitter practically teleported they moved out of there so quickly and soon enough the library was practically empty. Tony let his eyes flutter shut, body sagging and then there was a tap on his shoulder. excruciating agony rolled through Tony’s body and he had to bite down on his fist to stop himself from screaming. Once the pain passed he slowly sat up and turned, Bruce stood before him.

“Bruce?” he rose a brow and noted that Steve was there too, hanging back and out of earshot, but still watching should Tony explode.

“Your dad called my parents last night.” Tony squeezed his eyes shut. shit.

“And what did he have to say?” Tony was trying to come up with a plan. Maybe he’d just be better off running. Getting the hell out of new York and disappearing forever. He could change his name, he was smart enough to figure out how to survive, he’d never have to see Howard ever again.

“Apparently you told him that you’d been staying with my family for a couple nights?” Tony opened his eyes and saw concern on Bruce’s face. How the fuck would he explain this?

“sorry Bruce, just needed a cover story.” Tony said and Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“then where were you?” why did Bruce even care? No one cared about Tony, the world had made that pretty fucking clear to him.

“it doesn’t matter where I was, what did your parents say?” if they covered for him, then he was fine. If not he’d have to skip town, it was the only option left for him.

“They told him that they had no idea as to who you were. They called you out on your lie.” Of course they had. If there was a god out there, Tony knew that it would be laughing at him.

“Well, thanks for the heads up.” Tony grumbled and began to rise but Bruce blocked him.

“are you okay?” he asked and Tony met his eyes.

“Why?”

“You just don’t look right, like you’re ill.” Tony shrugged, he needed to eat or he was pretty sure he’d pass out soon. Getting through the day had been hard enough already.

“So what if I am? Why would you care?” Bruce looked irritated and Steve looked just about ready to step in.

“What are you doing after school?” Was Bruce asking if Tony wanted to hang out?

“Nothing. Why?” his heart pounded in his chest and Bruce smiled nervously, returning to the timid kid that Tony knew.

“I’m sort of doing this study group and I figured you’d maybe like to come along? It’d only be a couple hours but-“

“I’m in.” Tony said before Bruce could finish. Bruce’s brows shot up in surprise and he nodded, stepping back and out of Tony’s way.

“Okay great, it’s at that new shwarma place?” Tony nodded his head, he’d walked passed the place a couple times when looking for a suitable park to sleep in.

“Okay, I’ll meet you there.” Tony was aware that Bruce could just be setting him up for a prank, but if it kept him out of the house, out of Howard’s way, he’d do just about anything.

[dothwrites]

15.03 coda--weights on my ankles

You will find that it necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles.--C Joybell C

Castiel drives for eight hours before the truck runs out of gas. He leaves its carcass abandoned on the side of a dusty highway and starts walking towards the dim horizon. At his back, the sun struggles to break free of the clinging fog of night, but Castiel keeps his eyes on the darkness ahead of him. 

After two hours of walking, his body starts to feel the beginnings of fatigue. His feet throb, his head spins, and his muscles scream in protest with every step he takes. Still, he keeps walking. He can’t stop. If he stops, then he’ll think, then he’ll feel the loss of the past days crash down like the weight of centuries on his shoulders--

Castiel keeps walking. 

The sun beats down on the back of his neck. A trickle of sweat slides down the back of his neck and underneath his shirt collar. His coat is stifling. Castiel tugs at the collar, trying to readjust it before he stops. 

Why does it seem like that thing’s always you? 

Dean’s words are a still seeping wound, one that he won’t recover from. 

With thoughtless motions, Castiel shrugs out of his coat. He leaves it on the side of the road, a crumpled mess. Let someone else find it. Let the small animals, the hares and possums, the deer and foxes, use it for shelter, for warmth. 

Castiel keeps walking. 

He comes to a small town on the Montana state line. He finds a motel which says Vacancy on the outside and walks into the office. His white shirt has turned a light brown from the dust and sweat. His shoes are covered in a fine patina of dirt. He still has a split lip. 

The cashier barely glances up at him. He asks her for one room. When asked how long his stay will be, he thinks. “One week,” he finally decides. After a moment’s thought, she rattles off a number. Castiel fishes into his wallet and hands her a wad of bills without counting. He takes the proffered key and walks away. 

Underneath the shower spray, Castiel finally allows himself to stop. 

He’d thought that Dean would stop him. 

He plays it out in his mind, there in the shower--Dean running after him, a hand on his shoulder, tugging him around. Dean’s eyes, snapping fierce on his. Dean, demanding an explanation, Dean demanding that he stay. 

Castiel doesn’t know if he would have, but it would have been nice to have been offered the choice. 

Instead, Dean had watched him go, wordless, soundless, careless. Beautiful. Cruel. Human. Castiel had dashed himself to pieces on the jagged edges of Dean Winchester until finally, there were no more pieces to pick up. 

Heat prickles behind his eyes. Water, not from the shower, falls down his face. 

Angels don’t cry. 

---

He sleeps that night. 

He hadn’t been lying when he said his powers were failing. He can still feel his grace, but it’s weak and erratic. He doesn’t have enough to heal the split in his lip and so he keeps tonguing it as he drifts off, just so he can feel the bright pulse of pain. 

He dreams, when he sleeps. He dreams of happier times, of meals spent in the bunker, of Jack’s laughter echoing from the walls. He dreams of the times after hunts when Dean would turn to him, the hope in his eyes hidden almost but not quite and say You wanna come and have a beer real quick? And Castiel, to keep up appearances, would pretend to think and consider, and say I suppose that I can, and then Dean would smile, bright and sunny. 

He dreams of his hand against Jack’s forehead, of pouring his grace into that body until it shriveled into nothingness before his eyes. Of his boy’s voice, tiny and afraid, saying Cas please, of Jack in the graveyard, I want to love you but I can’t, of Dean biting out You’re dead to me, of the charred skeleton he left in Hell. 

Castiel wakes, shivering, shaking. He doesn’t recognize the feeling in his stomach until bile pours out of his mouth, hot and sour. It dribbles down his chin and onto the blankets. The stench surrounds him and the taste fills his mouth. He swallows to try and chase it away, but it remains, vile and so very, very mortal. 

He brings a shaking hand to his forehead to try and wipe away the clammy sweat gathered there, then he remembers how his hand looked splayed out over Jack’s head and he retches again. 

---

It takes Sam three days to call. 

In that time Castiel found a small shopping center where he used the last of his cash to purchase new clothes. Gone is the last vestiges of Jimmy’s suit. In its place he has several pairs of jeans, sensible boots, and a few sensible shirts. In the store, he’d seen several plaid shirts and he’d gravitated towards them, out of a need for the familiar. His fingers had brushed the sleeve of one--soft, warm. The feel of Dean’s arm against the back of his neck. 

Castiel jerked away like he’d been burned. 

His phone rings, shrill in his pocket. Castiel pulls it out and answers, already knowing who is on the other end. 

“Cas.” There’s relief in Sam’s voice, but it’s only a shred. The rest is carefully blank. Any nuance is lost over miles of phone lines. “For a second I thought you weren’t going to answer.” 

Castiel doesn’t reply. He listens for a few moments to the quiet sounds of Sam breathing. There’s a hollowness on the other end of the line which tells him that Sam is in the bunker. He wonders where Dean is--in his room? At the shooting range? At a bar? A surge of hot something curls through Castiel’s stomach, and he dismisses it. 

Finally realizing that Castiel has no intention of speaking, Sam sighs. “Look, I guess you know why I’m calling.” Again, he pauses, inviting Castiel into the conversation. Again, Castiel remains silent. He’d meant it when he’d said that there wasn’t anything else to say. 

“Cas,” Sam says again, this time quieter. Honest. “Look, I know that you said that you were leaving but...” 

“Are you asking me to come back?” Castiel finally asks. He doesn’t know whether or not he’s angry at Sam. While Sam exhibited none of Dean’s petty cruelties, he certainly didn’t restrain his brother. 

“I don’t...Are you ok?” There’s something bleak and hopeless in Sam’s voice. He lost Rowena. Castiel understands. 

“I’m fine.” Castiel looks out over the small park. Children play in the grass while adults jog around the path. Several geese root through the grass. It’s all so beautiful. 

“I just...I’m sorry, all right? I know that Dean and you...I know what he said, he told me--” 

“That all your problems have been my fault?” 

Castiel can’t help the snap in his voice, mostly because in some part, it’s true. If he hadn’t opened Purgatory, if he hadn’t released the Leviathan...how many tragedies could have been averted? If he’d managed to see through Metatron’s lies, how many of his brothers and sisters would still be alive? If he hadn’t said yes to Lucifer, how many lives might have been spared? 

“Cas, you know...” Sam sighs. The sound is defeated. “You know he didn’t mean that, right?”

Yes he did. Castiel might not have the full force of his grace, but he has enough, enough to see the surface of Dean’s soul. He meant every word. 

“What’s done is done,” Castiel says instead. Whatever faith Sam has left in his brother, Castiel doesn’t want to destroy it. “The apocalypse is over. You and Dean have no more need of me.” 

A small, frustrated noise winds its way through the phone. “Cas, you know that we...It’s not about what we need.” 

Isn’t it though, Cas wants to ask. Isn’t it about what he can do for the Winchesters, how he can help them. The few times that he’s asked for their help, they came begrudgingly or not at all. Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters. 

Castiel has bled. Castiel has died. And even that wasn’t enough. 

“Sam. You know that I value our time together.” Castiel doesn’t say friendship. There’s too much hurt on his side and too little emotion on Sam’s side for that word to come through. Though Sam never said anything, Castiel senses--Sam blames him as well. He might be better at hiding it than Dean, but deep down, deep enough that maybe Sam doesn’t even know it’s there...he blames Castiel. 

“But it’s time for me to...” Castiel trails off. He doesn’t know what it is exactly, that he wants to do. All he knows is that whatever it is, it can’t happen with Sam and Dean. 

“You know that if you ever need anything, you just have to call right?” 

“Of course,” Castiel murmurs. 

“Right.” Sam’s voice sounds dissatisfied, but he doesn’t try to stop Castiel, doesn’t beg him to come back. “Ok. Um...Good luck. I guess.” 

“Goodbye Sam,” Castiel says. 

After hanging up the phone, he stares at the small piece of plastic and metal in his hands. He thumbs through his contact list. The list of names is pitifully small. Worse when he considers how few of those he can actually call. 

Rowena is dead. Ketch is dead. Jack is...Jack is...Sam is better off without him. And Dean. 

With one movement, Castiel breaks the phone in half. Tiny glass shards embed themselves in the pad of his thumb, but he ignores the pain as he tosses the two halves in the trash can, before walking away from the park. 

---

Read the rest on ao3! 

[i-woke-into-a-nightmare]

17 and hungry - Gu Dong Mae ff

Another long ass drabble cause I’ve been wondering what happened to Dong Mae between that childhood palanquin meeting and that fateful reunion. 

Dong Mae fought hard against himself, trying to damp down the swell of anger he felt. Yujo and Fuma were at it again. This bickering over who won more matches during the afternoon sparring practice had become a regular post-dinner event. And it was quickly fraying at young Dong Mae’s already fragile nerves. At 17, he had little patience to spare. 

As he sat in the corner of their shared room, looking at them argue, he blew out a quick breath. Don’t have fucking time for this. He turned his attention back to the notes in front of him. For the last half hour, Dong Mae had been staring at the same 24 Korean characters he carefully noted on his borrowed parchment. Frustration drew his brows into one rigid line above his dark eyes. It wasn’t coming to him quite as easily as he assumed it would. 

His mind had always been quick and sharp. When he still lived in Joseon, he’d been able to recognize certain letters, despite being a butcher’s son and denied even the basic education of commoners. But that was five long years ago. 

Ever since the young lady had her servants drop him off at the town’s border, he wandered the countryside outside of Hanseong. But the stink of a butcher clung to him. Even the common bumpkins in the outlying villages thought Dong Mae was beneath them. They beat him constantly. Spat on him. Called him the same names he once heard that vile woman scream at his mother. After nearly a week of this, he’d had enough. They were close enough to Jemulpo’s port that he didn’t need to follow them for scraps of food. 

On his fifth night with the singing beggars, after everyone had drunkenly drifted to sleep, he grabbed the last of the stale bread, an extra set of rags, and a small, rusty dagger he noticed the ringleader tucked away in his shoes. For good measure he took the flask that someone left loosely belted to the rickshaw he had stolen for them. He wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to get on a boat out of Joseon and piss wine was better than nothing. 

He arrived at the port the next day. But it took three more days before he was able to stow away amongst a noble family’s luggage. He spent days, maybe the better part of a week, in the bowels of the ship. Above him, there was the sound of laughter and the unhurried footsteps of people with far too much time on their hands. The sun, he didn’t see at all for that time. 

To pass the time, Dong Mae carefully searched through the boxes he slept next to. Luckily, he found several wrapped containers with dried persimmon. He briefly considered thanking the heavens for this good fortune. Then laughed at himself cause he forgot where he was in that short moment. Dong Mae ate the dried fruit without much worry. He would be long gone before the idiot nobles realized what happened. So he sat, and ate, and planned. To be safe, he took a dark green skirt out of someone’s package and fashioned that into a little knapsack to carry his things. He slept whenever he could but never deeply. His eye was always trained on the one doorway out of here and his mind never quite forgot the kind face who spoke so seriously about Confucius. 

Eventually, a hard intake sent him flying across the aisle he was napping in. His arm got caught on a nail sticking out from a poorly constructed crate, and the shock had him crying out. Too late, Dong Mae realized his mistake and tried to take cover. Some workers had heard him cry out though and were attempting to come in and search the room. Instinct kicked in. Grasping the dagger tucked in his waistband, he settled into a crouch, adjusted the knapsack on his back, and waited. 

As soon as the door opened, he leapt. Head-butted the first man in the nuts, used him as leverage to jump up and kick the second man square in the jaw. Took that momentum and charged straight for the third man, knocking him down and slamming his head against the railing. Then Dong Mae ran. Up the stairs, down the hallway, and up again onto the balcony. Straight into a sea of people waiting to disembark the ship. 

Clean, pale, white faces stared at him. Some in confusion, most with horror and disgust. He imagined he was quite the sight and smell. Then a scream.

Dong Mae looked over his shoulder. The woman was blonde and blue-eyed. She was babbling incoherently, gesturing wildly at him. Speaking a language he vaguely recognized as English. He didn’t understand what she screamed but from her gestures, it quickly became clear. She was the owner of the skirt he borrowed. 

Turning, Dong Mae started to dash off in the other direction but he hesitated a little too long. Several pairs of hands grabbed onto him. They were all yelling something. At him or at someone else, he didn’t know. He only knew to fight. Fight hard. With a shout, Dong Mae pulled his arms free. Then just started kicking. Many grunts of pain sounded out. But one man didn’t know to let go. Dong Mae twisted around, grabbing onto the man’s neck with one hand to pull himself up, and with the other, plunged the dagger right above his collarbone. The man screamed in pain and let go. Dong Mae made a break for it but came to another stop. 

A tall, dark, ugly Japanese man in a red yukata stood in front of him. Two long swords hung neatly at his side. His long black hair swung straight down his back, perfectly parted in the middle. Dong Mae stared at him warily. The other people on the boat were still scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Many had retreated to their rooms, others were moving to the ends of the boat so they could get the hell off. From the corner of his eye, Dong Mae saw some guards approaching. But none dared to come close. Dong Mae and the man in the red yukata continued to stare at each other. Then the man smiled. His teeth were faintly yellow and crooked but otherwise seemed healthy and strong. Dong Mae gave a grimace in response. 

The man said something. In Japanese? Dong Mae thought. He shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand, still glancing at the guards to make sure they didn’t come any closer. 

Again, the man smiled. Then said in broken Korean “You got good knife skills. Want to come work for me kid?” 

Dong Mae blinked. He looked at the man in red for another beat. And then back at the fool he stabbed in the chest, still bleeding out on the floor surrounded by a small crowd of people. Dong Mae turned back and smiled, said, “Yes,” and together they calmly walked to the bow of the ship, across the unfolded bridge, and onto the streets of Japan toward his new home.

“Arrrrrgh!”

Lost in his memories, young Dong Mae didn’t notice that Yujo and Fuma’s bickering had turned into an actual fight. Wrestling now, hands grabbing at each other, they ended up near Dong Mae - still sitting cross legged in the corner with his notes. He scrambled to collect his notes and move them to safety. But a well timed push by Yujo sent Fuma flying into Dong Mae, and the papers scattered. Yujo stepped on some notes as he rushed forward, eager to keep the advantage. Dong Mae saw red. He kicked Fuma to the side and caught Yujo by the lapels of his yukata as he slammed into him. If they wanted a fight, Dong Mae was now rearing for one. 

Suddenly, their door slid open. One of the generals shouted “Sho Ishida!”

All three boys looked up, their fists suspended in the air. 

“Ishida, Ryukai wants to see you. Now.” Dong Mae nodded, grudgingly letting Yujo go without a punch. And the general slid the door shut again. 

Dong Mae shoved Yujo to the ground. “We’ll finish this later,” he said as he wiped blood from his mouth and left the room. Hurrying down the hallway, he struggled to straighten his hair tie and robes. Ryukai didn’t tolerate messy appearances. Once he reached the master’s room, he took a deep breath, ran his hand down his robe again to smooth out the last of the wrinkles and knocked. 

“Come in.” 

Entering, he made sure to keep his head down, walking quickly before making a deep bow. Then he straightened and looked Ryukai in the eyes. Ryukai smiled fondly. The same ugly, crooked, pleased smile on that boat five years ago. He still wore his signature red. Brings out the brown flecks in my eyes, he liked to say. But his long mane of hair was now cut short and already showing signs of gray. Makes me look young, he always told Dong Mae. 

“How’s your studying?” Ryukai asked in Japanese.

Dong Mae paused. He considered bending the truth. But this man was like a father. A good one at that. “Slower than I anticipated.” Ryukai raised his brows. 

“But I’ll finish before the month’s up,” Dong Mae continued. 

Ryukai laughed. “That’s what I like to hear.” 

They continued to talk. About his progress with learning Japanese and Korean (”I’ll get there”), about his sparring average in the dojo (”No one can match me”), about rooming with Yujo and Fuma (”They’re idiots”) and about his master’s upcoming yearly trip back to Hanseong. By this point they’ve switched to Korean. After a brief lull in the conversation, they both stop to take a sip of their tea and Dong Mae says “Your Korean skills are still shit.” 

Ryukai chokes on his tea and says laughing, “You’re the piece of shit. Go to sleep, get out of my sight.” Dong Mae gives a slight mocking nod of his head and starts to head out. 

“One more thing,” Ryukai waves him back in. 

Dong Mae waits. 

“Next year, when I go to Hanseong,” he pauses, looking for Dong Mae’s reaction. “I want you to come with me. Be my unofficial second. My shadow. Do you understand?” 

The weight of the responsibility bore down on Dong Mae’s shoulders. He understood what it meant. His heart swelled with the trust his master was putting in him. With his shoulders squared, Dong Mae set himself a little taller and answered as solemnly as he could, “I understand.” The thank you hung unspoken between them. 

As he made his way back to his room, Dong Mae thought of all the work ahead. It fueled him. The responsibility, the power, the control. It could be his. He just had to work a little bit harder, a little bit longer. Thoughts of his time in Joseon sprang back to his mind. Of the villagers spilling hate with their hands and mouths; of the drunken beggars and their stupid, senseless singing. But also of the young lady in the palanquin - her gaze soft and clear on his. 

I’ll be back, he whispered into the darkness. Wait for me. 

---

check out my series of gu dong mae ff here

[ol-razzle-dazazzle]

Your title says fic requests are open? More Oguri would be nice. I read some of your stuff on AO3 and I thought it was good! I'd prefer something non-shippy though. If not, it's perfectly fine. :) Thank you, and have a nice day!

Heyo anon!!! I’m very sorry it has taken me a while to get to you, I’ve had Trials for my final exams. You have excellent taste in characters, Ogurin is one of my favourites. I’ve been Jojo trash for a while, so please enjoy this secret killer…and a friend he finds along the way…

The eclipse of late night convenience stores upon dark moonlit nights was a common sight to Oguri, avoiding detection was of utmost importance, especially considering his new job. Thankfully, the blood didn’t get on his suit this time, though he did lack some grocery essentials, and thus spent time hurting his eyes at the glare of bright storefronts and neon lit signs.

It never particularly occurred to him that he was staying at a house for such a long time- home was never a term that could find meaning within him. To avoid patterns he stayed in different regions and hotels, and everything was cleaner that way.

So he was leaning from one side to the next and fingers cramping from holding shopping bags, as well as the former ache of a cold metal and the recoil of a gun. But irregardless, he is now but a normal citizen, roaming the streets, stopping at every bench or so because damn, is milk really /that/ heavy?

Paranoid eyes glanced at any lurking shadows, ghostly witnesses to potential crimes, maybe reapers making their own crimes- in this side of Yokohama a glance the wrong way could take one down a dark, dark path. He sighed, resting his back against a brick wall of some backstreet.

It’s the one part of the job he can’t stand. The one thing he never is suited for. The panic, the heartbeat, the adrenaline and anxiety. Eyes swirling and head cluttered full of thoughts. He beckons them forth, and smooth ghostly figures come to his hands. Oguri sighs, yes- everything is perfect. Perfect and transient and never going to plague him. The smooth, vapourish texture calms himself, as the ghosts roll around to his pats with ethereal forms smiling in delight.

A small squeak disperses them instantly at reflex. A weak noise of breathing, hacking for air. He looks around, the noises draw nearer but he hears nothing. Fear always makes one see better in the dark, and when Oguri’s heart rate quickens he swear he can see a splatter of blood, or is it water?

His knuckles are paling, plastic stretched thin as he sets them down carefully, without a rustle or sound, hand warming itself within a suit pocket gripping his gun for the second time that night.

Another hiss, and he cocks the pistol around the corner, teeth gritting. Distant shouts of ‘the Boss’ this and ‘come on man, you can’t just leave them here’. He puts the gun away, cackling.

“Amateurs. Pure, filthy amateurs.” He enjoys not talking for such a long time but the curling of his lips can’t help but break the silence in hushed stifles of laughter. “A killing in their own home, evidence everywhere- and the loudmouths can’t help but yell it around for all to see? Pathetic, utterly pathetic.” He murmurs, unheard, but can’t say it out loud for the possibility of the Devil calling. ‘Such atrociously haphazard work can only be done by minimal gangs or Port Mafia scum.’

He continues furthering his mental critique until a weight makes itself known against his ankle, the sensation making him crouch down and retrieve the gun, gasping. Oguri’s eyes scan the vicinity, nerves tested at the utmost when the sensation coils around his leg, moving. His eyes flicker downward, and his gun clatters to the floor.

A furry little tail roped around his pant leg, as whiskers twitch at his clamouring state.

A kitten. Just a kitten.

An adorable, most likely excellent at assassination kitten.

The clatter made it’s ears perk up, hugging closer to Oguri’s leg, a scared mewl emanating from its throat, croaky.  

Oguri’s instinct is to hiss and kick it off it’s leg, but he steadies and steels himself. Just nerves, just nerves and fluff and my goodness that cat is adorable.

He can’t bring himself to loathe the creature, even with its aspects. Sharp needle-like claws that have most likely pulled a seam on his pant leg, dusty fur that’s scattered dust and fluffy evidence on his shoes which he /just/ shined 30 minutes ago, and mews that would draw attention and adoration of anyone like a siren.

He scoops it up, getting a further look at it, his fingers sinking into soft winter fluff. The kitten blinks slowly, ears back, but not baring it’s teeth. Oguri sighs, moving his arm under it to support and…cradle the kitten, leaving his suit in minuscule ruin. There’s patches of dry blood on its underbelly, and the cat looks up with him with pleading eyes, before hacking a little- garnering extra pity points.

Look. He’s a perfect criminal. Oguri never leaves any evidence behind, even without his ability. No possibility for discovery. There’s some further shouts from inexperienced mafia men and the kitten buries itself further into Oguri’s suit. He’s covered in evidence. A menial thing as cat hair is still a thing, menial as it may be.

The ghostly creatures beckon at his call again, though hesitantly and confused. They float among Oguri’s body, staring at the intruding strands with a smile. One even /pats/ the damn fluff maker. It shivers in his arms, but glances over, trying to lick the form in the air.

Great, even /they’re/ for the cat.

Well…if it would’ve been potential evidence, they would’ve erased it, right?

It’s just snivelling and curling up here.

…Well, he is a murderer, a criminal, a monster, a rat, an assassin and mercenary. A job that requires no intimate attachment to anything, human or feline.

…But even he can’t resist such manipulation.

Though the mater comes, of how to carry the kitten, and without suspicion. The bags are too thin and might get scratched, he certainly can’t hold the thing in his arms.

It curls up, purring. Like it has no idea there’s a gun right beside it.

Wait a second…no, he isn’t really doing this.

Oguri takes out the gun from his jacket pocket, burying it under the plastic bags and food.

The suit is ruined anyway, right?

The kitten resists the movement, meowing. It’s about the right size… he sets it in his jacket pocket, stroking the kitten’s cheek to sooth it.

There’s a moving bulge in his suit, but it’s fine- it’s night, no one would notice such things…

If the infernal thing would stop meowing already!

It’s fine. It’s fine.

And for the second time that night Oguri experienced paranoia and panic, surprisingly not due to the gun in his bag, but the kitten in his pocket. He shudders, hoping that at least the kitten didn’t have any fresh wounds.

Actually come to think of it, stealing a cat is a crime, so it wouldn’t be too bad to clean…but there wasn’t any response from his ability. That doesn’t mean…

Oguri summons them again, quickly- as he nears his apartment. He really should get something better- a house by the sea, with only china cutlery, yes- that will be his next demand for his next employer.

The ghosts emerge, but only bury themselves in his coat, not attempting to clean any of the fluff.

It’s a stray, that would be the best situation. Otherwise…

Well no matter, he struggles to open the door with the rustling in his pocket. The good thing with no cleaning also means that pets are allowed in here.

Now he’s getting ahead of himself. It’s just a cat. He just wants to clean it up a bit.

…Two hours later, the feline is perfectly groomed, shining and fed only the highest quality of sushi (such scent-heavy food as tuna were potential obstacles and evidence…as well as being a picky eater.) To his surprise, the kitten didn’t cower in the water, instead purring and enjoying the bath…it was almost worth it for the awful texture on Oguri’s hands.

The kitten pads around the room, Oguri peers over it. Is it going to go to the futon? 

It paws at the blankets, before turning away.

No.

Oh god no. 

It jumps on the couch, a vile tiny scratch. 

Are you serious, it can’t be going…

The kitten curls up on the suit. Said suit’s worth is most likely in the four digit figures of American dollars.

But the way that kitten curls up to it, makes it’s value increase ten fold.

Oguri sighs, looking down at the cat hair and scratch on his pant cuff. It’s made a hole on the edge. This is despicable. 

He grabs some scissors, sitting next to the kitten, as he snips carefully around the hem of his pants, taking the strips of cloth to a sewing machine. 

The kittens ears prick up at the noise, before mewing at Oguri’s return. It struggles a bit, feeling something against it’s neck- fluffy paws pushing on Oguri’s hand.

It has been complete. The kitten peers down, pawing at the little bow wrapped around it. 

“Mi…”

“What about Emi?” The cat brushes itself against Oguri’s hand.

“Emi it is.”

[lotornomiko]

The Sacrificial Maiden Overhauled Edition Chapter One (Slightly not safe for work due to implied acts of violence.)

Rufus Alicia pairing. Her name is Alana, and just as she thought she was about to die, he appeared to save her. He says that he loves her and calls her by a different name, holding her prisoner in his home, waiting for the day that she will remember her past life with him.

A complete reworking of an old RuAli fic of mine, rating will go up eventually...Years have passed since Alicia's sacrifice, and though he has tried his best to stay away, other forces are at work, reuniting Rufus with the reincarnation of his lost love...

  Her breath matched pace with her steps, every exaggerated rasp for air a reminder of just how out of shape she was. Her legs, while long and limber, had never had such need before, the young woman running as though the hounds of Hel were after her. With that forward momentum, with the rough forest outskirts abrading the tender flesh of her bare feet, Alana could only squeeze out a whimper, trying to ignore the way her entire body hurt. It screamed with that pain, forced its demands to stop upon her, and still she kept running.

She wasn’t the only one. In the pandemonium that had beset her quiet little community, there was screams and there was howls, a panicked people scurrying. Seeking a safety that wasn’t there, the village Coriander far removed from their neighbors, from the cities with their heavy guard, nothing but farmland and forest for miles to see. This once peaceful landscape made for easy pickings to the group who had besieged the townsfolk, food, drink and women aplenty for the voracious hungers of the men on the prowl.

There wasn’t much else to be had. Coriander wasn’t a rich village in the traditional sense. They and Alana had all lived a modest but happy life, the community one of farmers, merchants, and herbalists. They lived off the land, reap the blessings of a fertile earth, and were rich not in money but in friendship and family. A close knit group, the people were the type who smiled first, and offered help immediately after, no problem too big for them to solve together. Until THEY came, that small but sizable army of marauders, men on horseback and on foot, with steel blade and ice in their veins.

Robbers, killers and rapists, they should have been a rag tag bunch. Gathered together as they were, lawless and driven by their own selfish desires, somehow they had organized as a united front, unleashing chaos and devastation upon the village. Already some men had been killed, the upheaval such that Alana didn’t know if any of her family had yet been spared that fate. She prayed for them all the same, for her father and her brothers, but also for that of her neighbors. For their safety and their souls, the young woman not sure which was needed more.

She might have even spared a moment to pray for herself, Alana low on a long list of priorities. The young woman kept on running, kept on remembering other people that needed a blessing more than her. Completely selfless in the moment, with the very breath burning in her lungs, with it escaping out in wheezing pants that actually HURT, Alana ran and prayed for a salvation that wasn’t coming. With the ground itself against her, twigs and branches lacerating open her foot, Alana cried out as she fell to her knees.

“GO!” She cried out, to the young girl who had stopped besides her. “Save yourself!”

The indecision played out on the girl’s face, the fright alive in her sky blue colored eyes, but there was slivers of concern mixed into her expression, sweet soul that she was stubbornly shaking her head no. “I won’t leave you, Alana!”

Frustration boiled inside her, but there was also a relief, selfish though that was, Alana not wanting to face their pursuers alone. It was because chief among all her emotions, was that of fear, the young woman frightened, scared witless at the thought of the fate that would surely befall her. The terror in her blood, she still tried to make the other girl leave, Alana not about to let the sister of one of her dearest friends be raped or worse.

“Go!” She shouted, trying to give a much needed push. “I will catch up with you soon enough!” The lie was desperate, Alana knowing that lame as she now was, there would be little walking, let alone running, in her near future. Not with her foot bleeding, the ankle possible twisted, Alana at that last of her pained reserves. Her chest heaved with her panting breaths, a chill upon her skin from the night’s cold air mixing with the sweat of her exertions. She wasn’t dressed to be outside, none of them were, the marauders having arrived in the dead of the night.

With shouts and with that wickedly cruel laughter, they had descended on Coriander. They hadn’t even tried to be subtle or quiet, kicking in doors, grabbing at women, slicing up any and all who tried to interfere. Alana’s house would have suffered the same if not for the fact it had been deep enough in the village, for her entire family to rouse at the screams from the outskirts. Those shrill sounds and abrasive howls, had set them on alert, they and some of their neighbors rushing out of their homes straight into the worst kind of nightmare.

Women carried off, men slain, houses burning, Alana had done as her father had ordered, taking off for the woods. Fast as she and those that accompanied her tried to be, their bare feet were no match for the riders on horseback. Even now they were baring down on them, Alana again giving her friend’s sister a much needed push. “GO!”

The young girl whimpered with that awful indecision, and then the dog—a wolf from the looks of it, tackled her to the ground. There was a scream from both Alana and the child, the wolf holding the girl down, teeth bared and growling. Alana didn’t know what to do, what to say, a helpless sound escaping her, and then another wolf was on top of her. She couldn’t even gasp, couldn’t even cry out, her eyes going impossibly large. The yellow gleam of the wolf’s eyes stared into hers, the animal baring it’s teeth with a growl. It left Alana holding absolutely still, the wolf settling its full weight atop her. Past her ran men, and horses, and even more wolves, no one stopping to check on the pinned females.

“Alana...” Came the whispered whimper. “I’m...”

“It’s all right, Sybilline...Just stay still and it won’t hurt you...” Alana tried to be reassuring, hearing the way the young girl broke out into sobs. She wanted to cry herself, so scared and so frightened, so hurting and above all so tired. She’d outright faint from exhaustion, if not for the fear pumping adrenaline through her, Alana keeping a helpless eye on the wolf who growled each time she so much as dared THINK about moving.

Alana and Sybilline would lay there, pinned by those fierce beasts for hours on end. Until at last the dark midnight sky started to give way to the first rosy hue hints of morning. Those wolves never lost their resolve, keeping a watchful eye on their quarry. The tension in those creatures’ bodies wouldn’t leave until a whistle sounded, the wolf’s ears pricking upward at hearing it. The change that came over them was almost immediate, a kind of relaxed energy to them as they slowly sauntered free of their prey. It was not an end to the nightmare, not by any bit, hands then grabbing at the two girls. Sybilline shrieked wildly, and Alana was ashamed to admit she didn’t do much better, struggling as best she could, while crying out for help of any kind.

There was a slap to the face in answer to that. Alana stunned and seeing stars. She was practically dead weight, as she was hauled up off the forested ground, the young woman screaming again in protest as the pain flared up from her foot. She couldn’t stand, she could barely even walk, Alana slumping over to the sound of a man’s cursing. The vile words made her ears ring, her pale skin turning a mottled red as she was suddenly uprooted and hung upside down across the man’s back. From that dizzying vantage, she could see another, that of the man dragging young Sybilline by the arm. The girl was openly weeping, terrified and that much closer to hyperventilating. Alana tried, she really did, to think of something comforting to say, something that would calm the worst of the child’s fears but at the first strangled word, a hand slapped hard against her body’s bottom. Such a stinging attack, stole the words from her, an indignant squeak all Alana was capable of.

Fight literally slapped out of her, Alana could only hang there and listen. These men didn’t say much, to her or to each other, but there were other sounds to be heard. That of the village burning, the flames crackling, the shouts and the jeers, and above all the women sobbing. Such was their predicament, that Alana wasn’t so sure it was a mercy to still be alive in this situation. She felt terrible for that thought, but the young woman was so afraid, nearly all her bravado gone to the fear of whatever nightmarish fate awaited her, awaited them all.

Drowning in her fear, Alana was unceremoniously dumped, young Sybilline being thrown down as well. Immediate was the touch, the two huddling together, but there was other touches on them, gentle and soothing, that of the other captured women from Coriander. There was the miller’s daughter, and the twins Evelyn and Serena, Jacob’s wife, and elderly Mr. Plum’s niece. Syblline was the youngest, while the oldest of this group wasn’t past thirty. They were all young women, some more ripe than others, but all fresh face and golden haired. Alana realized that last with a start, seeing that only the blue eyed, blondes of her village had been gathered here.

The why was on her tongue, the sight of all those different shades of gold stirring an unrest inside her. An uneasy feeling that only grew worse by the minute, Alana looking from face to face, spying the downtrodden look in their blue eyes.

“What is the meaning of this…?” She finally whispered. Helpless shrugs and fitful shakes of their heads no, was the only response Alana got. Either they had no answers, or the truth was too horrible to speak out loud. They were oppressed by it all the same, the innate fear that was instilled in all women born of all men alive. The threat, the violence, and it crackled in the air, on everyone’s mind, both captive and captor alike. The men leered at them but from a distance, lewd jeering erupting as another woman was brought forth, the last of Coriander’s young blondes.

She was crying, great big, ugly tears, hiccuping, practically choking on her sobs as she welcomed into the fold of the terrified group. Sybilynne crawled onto her lap, and wrapped thin arms around her voluptuous sister’s neck. Her nightgown was torn in places, once comely fleshed covered with bruises and cuts. She had no words, none of them did, the village women only able to cling to each other for the only comfort offered them. That was how they passed the time, the excruciating long minutes elapsing into an hour, when at last a man rode up to the make shift encampment.

Off of his horse, he was even more impressive, one of the largest of all the men that Alana had thus far seen. His long black hair was streaked with silver, his cruel eyes a reddish brown color that was as unusual as it was unnatural, hinting at a less than human creature. He had sharp cheekbones that left his face almost gaunt looking, and a thin hook of a nose. Unlike so many of this rag tag group of marauders, this invader wore a full suit of cobalt shaded armor. His blood soaked and tattered cape flared out behind him, and where the man walked, the crowd parted, until at last he stood before the group of terrified women.

“Get up! Get up!” A shrill voice urged, and again hands were on her, pulling her free of the group. She wasn’t the only one, each captured Coriander held by a man, their foul breath and perversions pressed against them, as the man, the leader, began walking along the row. He’d stop and consider each of the ladies offered before him, sometimes going so far as to catch them by the chin, and force them to look this way and that way, and Alana knew enough to know this monster of a man was looking for something specific. Something that went beyond the blonde hair and blue eyes, a sinister need there that went beyond rape, to something just as chilling.

She began to shiver, to shake and tremble long before the long haired man stood before her. Alana stared at him, and couldn’t even make a show at defiance, cowering as his hand reached out for her chin. Her bottom lip quivered, the wet sheen of tears in her eyes. She was so afraid of being picked, and yet equally terrified of NOT, the women that had proven a disappointment tossed aside to his men. The sounds that followed, the sexual frenzy that fell upon those women, not something she could block out, the screams and the lustful grunts, the sobbing and the moans.

Near sick from the sounds, from the reality of what was continuing to happen, Alana stared at the monster before her, and thought his eyes went full crimson. Whatever the color, they stared at her, not just at the physical surface, but to what was beneath, unwrapping the many layers of her heart and her soul, until at last, weak kneed and half swooning, she saw him give a grim nod.

Little more than a rag doll at this point, Alana found herself thrown over and tied to the back of the horse’s saddle. She bounced and was jostled for every galloping step the great war steed took, made sick from the motion, and the cold air that caressed her, this journey she was forced on a long one. Through the forest, and past the mountain, to deep down in the valley, where the old remains of a once glorious temple still lingered, Alana was treated as nothing more than a mere after thought, and rendered half dead from the experience.

Out of the shadows of the rocky remains, came other crimson eyed figures. She was too far gone to truly recoil, dizzy and sick, and wondering if she hadn’t gone mad in the process, undead beings all around her. Touching her, pulling on her hair, staring into the blue of her eyes, each one wanting their own confirmation. Each one getting it, a cheer erupting from the crowd, Alana pulled off the horse, and  quite literally dragged into the forgotten temple.

She could barely take in the details, the one time grandeur of this place lost to the weathered time of nature and neglect. Grass and limbs broke through the marbled floor, trees extending their branches to cover over the once ornate murals made of hundreds of once brightly colored tiles. There was a musky smell here, animals and their droppings, their kills and their leavings, the creatures padding about as curious witnesses to the twisted procession.

Ever deeper into the bowels of this ramshackle temple, Alana could hear the steady trickle of water growing louder, until they stood before a veritable flood of it. Not even that stopped her tormentors, the  young woman dragged through that freezing liquid. It soaked her clothes, and left her shaken to the bone, Alana sputtering and gasping, till at last she was laid out on an altar.

She must have faded in and out of conscience. Each time that she opened her eyes, something more horrific stood before her. Whispering words in a foreign and strangely accented tongue. Painting her exposed skin with blood and oils, and always watching her with those crimson colored eyes. There was a keen anticipation in the air, a lust for something beyond her flesh, Alana sensing the rising need for violence. Hands seem to morph, the tips of fingers becoming wickedly sharp claws, an eager excitement overtaking the group.

Their whispers became outright chanting, growing louder and louder until the deafening roar broke to the advent of claws around her throat. Alana had a moment to realize that this was how she was going to die, her throat crushed by that monster’s paws, her last sight not of anything human, but instead that of the undead who had laid waste to her village. She couldn’t even muster up the strength needed for a true hysteria, the young woman already so tired and defeated. Long having given up, those blue eyes that had helped mark her as special, began to close, Alana’s one real regret that of not knowing if any of her friends and her family had somehow survived.

To Be Continued….

And so begins a massive revamping of my “The Sacrificial Maiden” story. A lot of things happen over the years, some unpleasantness from overeager fans of the RuAli pairing, that I don’t want to get into except to say it killed off my desire to work on this fic for YEARS. That unpleasantness has me nervous about dipping my toes back into the RuAli waters, but...I’ve always wanted to work on this story again.

But as you may or may not know from my other recent works, I’m really unhappy with my older writings. Not necessarily the ideas, so much as the execution. I like to hope and think I got better as a writer since what was the original fic done in...I don’t even remember, but at least a decade has probably gone by!

So I have been looking over the original..and some things stood out to me...I changed the opening of just who/what was trying to sacrifice Alana/Alicia, and how she was chosen. This veers into some spoilers, but basically I am imagining the demonic forces of Nifleheim want to lure the Lord God Creator to a realm where they can capture, possibly even kill him. So they came looking for Alicia’s reincarnation, to use as bait for their trap. This attempt is clearly not going to work out in their favor! XD

There’s more I decide to revise revamp, but some of it is major spoilers I don’t want to give up just yet. I will say one of the big changes is to the nature of the deal Rufus and Alana/Alicia strike, and how it will affect the end game of the story.

I am in the middle of moving, and soon won’t have the internet until November...trying to get some chapters done for this and other fics in the meantime.

Later!

---Michelle

[sidrisa-blog]

Power and Magic

Pairings: Loki x Reader and the lightest Sif X Thor

Chapter: 6/104 Hard Truth

Warnings: the usual: sex, death, and violence with light smatterings of misogynoir

Summary: The princes come with their exalted Father arriving amidst a hail of pomp and pageantry all parties would rather forgo. This is war, where men die, their blood purchasing land and peace until it’s time for more men and more blood. But your mother adheres to the old rules of hearth and hospitality. The Lords of Asgard must be given their due despite the grim business precipitating their arrival. It is too bad they don’t deserve it. There is nothing to recommend him, Loki, Prince of Asgard. He is rude and cold and childish. You try to find some merit in him. You find none. Exactly none. But maybe, after trial and tribulation,

You will.

The first scream stole the breath from you, too much breath for you to scream again so you wheeze with a thin and reedy whine that sends Loki into a fit of laughter.

“You even sound like a horse!”

You puff air from your throat, trying to make a new sound with your mouth. “H--ha…”

“Oh? Laughing at your own expense?”

He’s off the chair and hovering over you, his face inches from yours. His hand alights on your forehead and your cheek. He’s checking for fever but his touch stings, you groan and strain to move away from him, repeating the sound “Ha-- ah.”

You squirm away from him as he assesses you with his magic, his hands on both sides of your face to keep you still. “Ha!”

“I don’t speak horse. In fact, according to legend you should. Common or hold your tongue girl, I’m only trying to help you.”

“Hava!” You bite out. “Where?”

“Who?”

“Hava!” Her name comes easier with every repetition, so you make it a mantra, a prayer. “Havahavahavahava!”

“Silence!”

His shout is laced with magic, it takes your voice. Your lips move, the air leaves your chest but your throat doesn’t vibrate with sound. Your good hand, the one you pulled away from Loki, clutches at your silent throat. Tears slip free from your eyes sliding into your nest of thick, kinky hair.

You are mute but your mouth keeps moving, making the shape of Hava’s name with your lips. You speak it like a spell, hoping that if you say it enough times you can summon her back.

His eyes and your eyes are locked and focused. He can't shut you up, he's already done that. But he can't pull his gaze away from the desperate agony in your eyes and he hears you without hearing you.

You change the shape of your mouth and add a new word. Suddenly your voice returns and you plea rends apart the quiet.

“Please! Hava! Please!”

He feels something stab at him, something that feels like lingering grief. The woman in the spell.

“Hava is the woman who was holding you in that ditch?”

You nod so hard you think your neck breaks. It certainly hurts enough for you to believe you have.

Loki takes an involuntary step back, convinced you'll die on the spot if he reveals the truth.

“Please…”

You gurgle on tears and pain instead of blood, it compels the answer from him.

“She’s dead. Long dead.” He chooses to keep to himself the part where he’s the one who banishes her spirit away, who breaks apart her spell that protected you.

Your eyes close squeezing a river of tears free. Your lips stop moving aside from their trembling.

You cry making very little sound as it hurts so much in the body and the heart.

“Cease your blubbering little princess. It won’t bring her back and you needn’t die of dehydration so soon after waking.”

You don't hear his cruel sympathy. You don't want to. It's unreasonable to believe he killed Hava but you settle on that verdict anyway. To do anything else would require you to acknowledge your guilt and your fault.

Unable to turn your face away from him, you keep your eyes closed but both know you aren't asleep.

“Horse girl?” He calls, but you remain still crying through closed eyes.

“Little princess?” He calls again, insistent. He wants to tell you something but you refuse to acknowledge him.

Loki throws his hands. “Fine!” He leaves your uncle’s letter on the chest at the foot of your sickbed before storming out. Outside, he finds the nurse he dismissed over an hour ago.

“You! Why are you still here, I told you to leave!”

She’s curled in a little sleepy ball by the door, almost crushed when Loki throws it open. She untangles herself from the floor and manages to fold herself into a polite bow. “I...I can’t go back m’lord. I’ll get in trouble. I’m supposed to…”

“I don’t care! Attend to the princess. Do whatever you’re supposed to do for her.” The Prince turns on his heel to stalk off to his wing of the palace, he’s a good five paces away before he turns and marches straight back to seize the nurse by the shoulders. “You will attend to her every need. Every. One. And if I find you’ve gone to sleep on her, I’ll ensure you never have a peaceful night’s rest again. Do you understand me?” He shakes her a bit to lend credence to his very real threat.

“Y-y-yes!”

**

It doesn’t feel like you slept. Your eyes were closed as you cried for Hava and when you opened them again sunlight was pouring through the tall window on the opposite end of the room. There was a pallid and sickly looking woman hovering over your bed, eyes dark ringed and bleary. It looks like she kept vigil over you all night, but she had to hold her eyes open with her fingers to do it.

“My lady…” she slurs. “Do you...need...any...thing?”

“No.”

Your voice still works, good. And you’ve restored another word to your spoken vocabulary.

“Okay.” She answers dumbly but you suspect her exhaustion has a hand in that. The nurse startles awake with a little squeak like a crushed mouse when the door opens, a woman with straw gold hair clad in flowing silver silks floating in.

Despite the kindness in her face, the woman holds herself like a statue, stony and aloof. A bit of that stone fractures when her pale silver eyes find yours and smile.

“You are awake child. I am glad to see this. Nurse, how long has she been awake?”

“She...uh...I don’t know, Lady Frigga.”

Your eyes widen, you know this name. You shift in your sheets, willing obedience into your limbs but finding them stubbornly ignoring your orders to move. You should not greet the Lady of Asgard on your back.

“Calm yourself child. No need to pay respects when you’re like this. But I take it, since you react this way to my name, you know who I am?”

You nod, your neck still feels like it’s broken and you groan with the movement. Frigga’s hands are on your neck instantly, a tingling sensation imparted to your skin at the touch. The pain subsides, slides off you. You sigh and sink a bit into the bed.

“Better?”

“Yes.” You croak. “Thank...you-- -y la-y.” The words flicker in and out, and it’s exhausting speaking the sentence whole.

“It is nothing child, I am merely glad you are awake and well.”

Frigga spends the next few moments passing her magic hands over your body, making note of your progress and how far you’ve yet to go.

“I suspect with you being asleep for so long, it will be a good while before your strength returns. Rest well and take your time. You could undo all your recovery with too much exertion too soon. And I know my son Loki would hate to see his work wasted.”

You bristle at the mention of his name and Frigga notices. “Oh Heavens, has he mistreated you? Tell me true?”

“I’ve done no such thing to the horse girl! In fact she should be grovelling at my feet for all my charitable efforts!”

Frigga sighs and casts a withering stare at her younger son before it softens into a smile. “I told you your magic would improve. Did I not?”

Never one to acknowledge an obvious ‘mother knows best’ moment, the emerald prince shrugged.

Loki comes into your view looking as vile as he did when he left you the night before. There’s guilt needling in your heart. You shouldn’t hate him, he saved your life. But your useless body and your hate are about all you have left to you that’s your own now. So you keep it, satisfied with how the sneer you make for him feels on your face.

A sneer that deepens when a new voice sounds. “Brother, mother, I heard the princess is awake. Is this true? Hogan will owe me coin if it is!”

“She is awake yes.”

Thor fills her vision, squeezing out Loki and his mother. “She looks ghastly.”

“The alternative to being an actual ghost.”

“Silence my idiot sons, have either of you any manners?”

Loki and Thor both laugh, the answer incredibly plain.

Frigga gently pushes some hair from your face, her fingers getting a bit tangled in the unkempt poofy mess of your hair. Her nail snags on a nap and you wince. “I’m sorry child, the nurses didn’t seem to know what to do with your hair.”

Most don’t, you remember, Hava knew though. So did your mother.

“Has anyone told her what’s happened?”

“Can she even remember? Princess,” Thor calls. “Do you who you are?”

“Of course she knows you oaf!”

“Loki please.”

“Yes.” You answer, straining on the word.

“Do you know where you are?” Frigga, with a glare, directs her oldest son away.

“As-ard.”

Thor and Frigga take turns asking you establishing questions. Your name. Your favorite food. It’s exhausting, you’re not simple. You start struggling with the questions, too impatient to answer them, anxious to make them understand that your mind works just fine when Loki--who has been silent observer up until now--asks the important one.

“Do you remember what happened to you?”

Your eyes widen, they light up, you nod vigorously despite the pain it causes you. The words bubble in your throat before they spill all over.

“My Uncle...attacked.”

You remember everything clear as the diamonds on Lady Frigga’s neck. How could you forget, you dream it every night and have since it happened. You tell them of the ambush. Of the dead servants and the murderous guards men. You tell them in broken and half formed sentences of your confrontation with your uncle and your cousin’s betrayal.

You move your hand to your ribs, you can feel the scar there even through the heavy cotton of the dressing gown you’re wearing.

“Here.”

Your hand moves higher up your chest. “Here.”

Down to your side above your hip, the scar feels exceptionally nasty, bumpy and rigid flesh under your fingers. “Here.”

You run your fingers over your ruined flesh, Fa’Rey’s blade there is the last thing you remember aside from a shout.

“N’ara!”

After that, nothing. You shake your head, now at the end of your recollection.

Loki steps in to fill in the missing gap of your memory. “Your woman got you out of the palace. Used a protection and a teleportation spell. Very powerful. The effort, combined with the injuries we found on her, is likely what killed her.”

Your chest expands with a gasp. You knew he didn’t kill her no matter how much you wanted to believe, but you had no idea that it was directly because of you that Hava died.

“Hava…” You whisper brokenly.

“Who was she child?” Frigga dabs your eyes with her sleeve. You turn your face from her, unworthy of the gesture. “Nursemaid. All my life.”

“She took care of you.” Frigga finishes and you nod.

Thor stands mutes, uncomfortable with the strained silence. Loki mimics him, but keeps his distance. It’s not a complete lie that Hava died expending her last to protect you. But perhaps, had he not been--Loki--the part of her she left behind may have lingered. To comfort you. Maybe make all this a little easier for you. He knows what it’s like to be alone, isolated, hurt, and hated. Now you will too.

“Do you know what’s happened to your mother?” Frigga asks stony face hardening for another hard truth to deliver.

“Dead.” You answer, but your face sparks again, you move, try to sit up. “How? Where?”

“Ah!” Thor jumps at the new opportunity. “Now this I can help with! Your mother died in a hail of glory, battle cry on her lips as she--!”

“Enough, Thor!” Loki’s scorn shreds Thor’s enthusiastic retelling. “I’m the Prince of Lies here and yet I can't stomach the tale you mean to tell.”

“I was trying to lift her spirits! To let her know that her mother died gloriously!”

“There’s nothing glorious about death! Ask any of the heroes in your tales, dig their bones, I would think they’d prefer life to death no matter how gloriously ended.”

Loki grabs the letter he left behind, crushing it in his hand before your face. “Your mother died in mud, crushed under her horse. Our lines were fractured. The enemy, those barbarous bastards, gave us more trouble than they were ever worth.”

You listen to him unflinching, your body is weak but it can handle the brutal truth he wields. You’re grateful for it.

“Loki, perhaps it is better if she’s--”

He cuts off his mother. “Do you want the truth? With all it’s ugliness?”

You nod, it hurts, it shakes more tears from your eyes but you keep nodding.

He waves a hand over your face and your eyes close. You imagine the scene as his words take hold. Then you dream. Then you live it.

It’s dark, the sky splits open with Thunder and Lightning, proof that the Thunder Prince of Asgard has taken the field. Rain falls but you don’t feel it. It passes through you.

“Sister!”

You discover you can move after you’ve already started to reach for a sword or your halberd or a dagger, anything to run your uncle through the neck. But you have no weapons, and he runs through you, still screaming.

“Sister! It’s a bloody rout. There’s no way we could have prepared for the surprise attack! Odin gives too much away in strategy. They could see us coming for miles! We walked right into their trap.

“That doesn’t matter!”

Your mother is covered in grime and blood you hope isn’t hers, but her face is clean of dirt or fear.

“We must win this battle or the whole of the low countries will be open to attack and pillage. Ours foremost among them! If we lose, Odin will retreat to Asgard to recover and call for reinforcements from farther across the realm. The only reason why he didn’t do that first was because he came to us!”

“And we foolishly answered!”

“We answered the way honor demands we must! So we must not lose. Rally the guard, defend this position, I can break them with a charge.”

“Sister, you left the Royal Cavalry at home!”

“For good reason! Still, we are who we are yes! As long as we can sit a horse we will not lose. A charge will break them.”

“And you with it you madwoman!”

You watch your mother’s face fall. “Aye.

“No! Manmae no!” You cry for her, scream, beg her to change her mind.

But you’re not there. And you have no power here. This is not a dream, this is a memory.

“Prince Loki.” Your mother looks beyond you to the pale man equally splattered in gore. His staff is red from the blade down to the grip, blood drips over his hands, staining his fingers. He looks exhausted and annoyed. It was Odin’s punishment for his display in that strategy meeting that he assist with the Horse Lord’s vanguard. “Tell your father what I mean to do. If he fills the hole I intend to make with his troops, we can win this day yet.”

He doesn’t acknowledge what he heard, instead he turns to you.

“Thor was not wrong. Your mother was very brave. I watched her lead her charge into the heart of the enemy formation. They cut down half of the riders with her first pass. Then half of that with the second. And...well you get the idea. But it worked. They were so worn out that when we arrived they couldn’t mount a defense fast enough. We slaughtered as many as we could find.”

The scene shifts, shimmering like the illusion of water on a hot horizon. The Asgard Lords are vicious as they hammer and sword and magic their enemies to death. Not all fall. Some flee. But Odin’s forces are exhausted almost to ruin and don’t have the numbers or strength to give chase. It is a victory in name only.

“Some soldiers find her later with your Uncle crouched over her dying body. I am not with her when she dies so I cannot share with you her last words.”

You already know them. You don’t think your uncle was lying to you about what she said.

“Goodbye katkat. Manmae is sorry she has to leave you alone. Hava will take care of you, not that you need. Not that you don’t.

The scene changes again and you see your mother’s body, born away a stretcher attended by your uncle.

“The Horse Queen is a fool!” You hear Loki hiss to his father once the body passes. “She should have allowed the princess to bring her Royal Cavalry. They would have been enough.”

“And.” Odin finally speaks. “It would be the Princess’s body on that bier.”

“Or not, if she’s as good as they say, they could have routed the beasts with little casualty.”

“Loki, what about this day suggests ‘little casualty’? Do not be so quick to second guess a mother’s judgement….Or her love.”

**

Your eyes open but they are surprisingly dry. The knowledge that you could have prevented your mother’s death and that you caused Hava’s own strips the soul from you leaving you blank and empty. Numb.

“Thank you Prince Loki. Prince Thor. Lady Frigga. I am tired now. May I rest?”

They leave one-by-one with Lady Frigga promising to check in on your in a few hours.

Loki remains.

tragic things happening to parents? my jam

[myvoice2020]

Learning to find my voice..

It's unreal right? You think the world is your oyster.. everything is going GREAT then BAMM.. you're right back at the start again. I like to think I have my shit together, that nothing in this world effects me.. but who am I kidding? The sad reality is the bad has changed my whole vision on the big wide world and all the beauty that can be. At the age of 25 i've felt so much heartache, so much pain and enough emotion to last a life time.. I like to think I'm a good person, with a pure heart. But each and everytime I feel I'm achieving something BAMM right back to the start I go. Childhood will always remain with me.. not for the family holidays, or the picnics in the park. Or not even the walks and laughter; but because it's made me the cold hearted bitch I sometimes can be. I love my mother and father, they did there best.. together, as a unit.. married; unfortunately due to reasons we've never been told.. they separated, went separate ways and become extremely hateful towards one another. As the years went by, we were children.. from a broken home, seeing mum Monday-Friday. And dad Friday-Sunday, the fun was no more. We never did anything TOGETHER. Dad found a new partner, and she was OK.. but I hated the fact she was with him; I cannot explain why..? Maybe she replaced where my mum once stood..? She became his reason to smile and laugh again, that my mum once did. I have no idea why I disliked her so much.. but all I know, I did. She didn't last long, the relationship died out and they both went separate ways.. but as they walked away from each other. My mum found someone, he seemed lovely, I wasn't a huge fan.. but me and my brother learnt to keep our options to ourselves, as we felt responsible for the break up between my dad and his now ex partner. We gave him his due, welcomed him into the home & treated him with the upmost respect... the good soon turned into horror, this 'nice' man soon turned into a absolute MONSTER. It started with stupid things.. but back then caused alot of upset. He'd blame me and my brother for stupid things, for forgetting to do certain things. Or we'd do our chores like mum had asked, and he'd come and make a mess again.. so it looked like we'd not done anything.. we got grounded, told off and sent to our rooms. Because our mum couldnt see beyond his betrayal. We told her and told her, but she was too blind. As I grew older, I grew wiser. And learnt to do things when my mum was present.. if we has something to eat and it left crumbs on the side.. it would instantly have to be cleaned... toys instantly put away as soon as the room looked a mess. Which unfortunately effect me in adult-hood.. I constantly have to clean the toy room, because the mess drives me insane.. or is it fear because we knew the consequences if we didn't listen? .. as we grew older, we watched and heard the most horrific things.. our mother, the women who birthed up and raised us. Would get beat, I'm not on about a slap.. I mean black eyes, broken ribs, bust noses. The amount of blood would send cold shivers down your spine. But she never left?? Why?? She stayed and carried on living the same routine, as soon as alcohol became involved.. all hell would be welcomed into our home. As I grew older i left, I moved in with my dad. Life was good, normality was good. Mum lived across the way, so I seen her often. But everytime something was good, the bad would soon follow. I wont discuss my whole childhood, because it's gone. It's the past and honestly, I hate it. Somethings aren't worth discussing and can be left untold in a past full of heartache. I grew up.. obviously! But unlike most teens. I held onto secrets from my past, from my childhood. I guess I didn't come to terms with certain things.. or didn't learn how to express them, so I turned to drugs and alcohol. I blocked the bad with drugs, and steered clear of the good.. because as soon as good happened, bad quickly followed. It's part of my life I definitely try to forget about.. getting into pointless fights.. why? Pain.. pain made me feel alive! Pain is all I ever knew. I made bad decisions, nothing shocking. But shitty choices, I fell pregnant with my beautiful daughter aged 16.. still a child myself, with a head full of shit and hate.. so I told myself, this child will either be the making or ending of me. I watched my bump grow and grow.. full of questions, what kind of mother would I be? Would I cope? How do I deal with a crying baby? .. aged 17, I gave birth to the most beautiful.. tiny.. human, she was beyond anything I could of ever imagined.. absolutely perfection. As the weeks past, I struggled.. silently, because we grew in a house hold where we didn't talk.. we didn't share our emotions, we kept everything locked away.. because you'd just be laughed at or called stupid. Midwives and health visitors told me I had post natal depression.. but I was in denial, absolutely not! I was a young mum, learning my place in the world with a tiny human.. I wasn't depressed! But actually I was. Stupidly depressed. I cried. For hours, locked myself away from the world.. and refused to bond with this tiny human.. I used to think she was nothing to do with me.. when she cried, I'd just stare and hope she'd go back to sleep.. I couldnt cope. After finally admitting it was PND I dealt with it.. learnt again, took baby steps. And learnt this little baby was mine.. this precious little girl was mine, to love.. to cherish and to keep away from bad. I went on to have another beautiful boyo, who was so big chubby and beautiful! Again I'm not getting into the whole story.. I'd write a book if I started! So I met a man.. someone I 'thought' was lovely.. things went pretty fast.. seemed good.. We moved to a new home,.away from the area.. he was adamant we couldn't stay local.. and wanted a 'fresh start'.. no he wanted to remove me away from.people i loved.. which at the time I wasn't aware of. The first few months in our new home, went well. But then the secrets soon started to appear. He was a alcoholic.. and I never knew?.HOW? I lived with this man, and never knew he had a problem.. WOW. I should of walked. But I didn't, stupidly I didn't. In time his true course appeared, he'd message other girls behind my back.. meet them and the rest I'm sure you can think of without me getting into it. But that would apparently be my fault?.. why.? I do not know! But I stupidly still stayed, because he'd be adamant he did nothing wrong and I believed him!! Stupid women.. should of ran.. and ran and not stopped! I found out I was pregnant, I was absolutely heartbroken.. I DID NOT want this baby, how could I bring a baby into this?? How would it be fair? My older children were already suffering because of this knob.. I refused to bring another child into the mess!!! I booked an abortion, the last resort. But I had to do this.. he didn't agree, like most other things. But this had to be done.. the hours turned into days.. and the days turned into two weeks later, the morning of the abortion.. full of emotions I can never explain. I set myself to have this done, I knew it was the answer.. I went to leave, but the car had gone? He'd taken my car so I couldnt attended my appointment. So as you're be aware, the abortion didn't take place. I was pregnant, with a baby by a man who I hated. But as the months went by; I came to terms with 'it's my baby's regardless of the outcome I will be the best mum to my unborn child and love s/he unconditionally! The pregnancy was dreadful, he was constantly drunk.. vile, the names he used to call me were absolutely degrading.. the names he'd call my children were disgusting. As soon as he picked up a tinie I knew, I was in for a night full of nastyness. Was history repeating itself?? Was I turning into the empty shell my mother once was? I kept it away from people.. kept it to myself, because I thought things would get better.. but they grew worse.. the nightmare soon begun, that I do not wish to talk about, not now or again for that matter. October came.. and I gave birth to my beautiful baby BOY. He was perfect. The relationship remain the same.. but I didn't walk, I didn't want another child going through a broken home, I get the heartache. But he did the unthinkable, harmed my baby.. his own flesh and blood. Then refused to hold his hands up and suffer the consequences. He made me look as bad as him in a court room, I was held in the pool of perpetrators like him.. because he refused to admit it!!! This was his last chance of having control, he had me right where he needed me.. and was still in control. He knew the longer he kept the secret away from the public eye and court.. he still had CONTROL, I'd be treated as terrible as him.. but fortunately I wasnt. They knew i didn't do this, and just needed him to admit the wrong doing.. which he FINALLY DID!!!!! Even with a court order he'd still make my life miserable.. still TRY and be in control... but I wasn't her anymore, i started finding my inner strength. This man causes absolute heartache, ripped my family away from me and still thought he'd control me.. still thought I was under his spell.. but I grew stronger.. wiser and more clever, he lost! For once i was starting to win. Every single day, I fight battles inside my own mind. That I cannot even put into words, I'm still learning and coming to terms with life. Because when you learn to lower your guard, good things DO happpen.. but I most learn not every good follows a bad, and not every person drinking alcohol are bad people. Not everyone who talk badly to you will forever do it.. But I also must remember I'm still learning.. still adapting. But I'm alive, and so long as I have breath in my body.. I'll carry on fighting the demons, because I'm a mother.. a partner, a friend and someones daughter. And for that reason, I'll put my brave face on.. and just remember the reasons I never gave up.. I do not want my children to grow around hate and anger.. I want them to feel nothing but love and commitment and know, I will love them forever! And as there mother, I will do my upmost to love and care for you. And as a partner.. I'm learning, learning not everyone is the same.. but always remember, you are my reason to smile. And your helping me every day.. without even talking, you instantly put me at ease. I'm ready, to deal with the past. Because I hate the way that shit makes me feel.. I've got this!

[eg0161]

23/03/17 - BKK Arrival: Embracing New Experiences.

My previous holiday experiences have basically involved me clinging onto my partner’s leg, reluctant to leave her side if only for a short trip to the shop. I am a sociable person with very little desire to ever be alone and cursed with a starvation for attention, it really is a bit boring laughing at your own jokes when the punchline is created by yourself. 

‘You’ll be fine!’ they said. ‘You’ll make loads of friends!’ they said. The thing is, I don’t want to. Thank you. In the nicest way possible, I have decided to do this to take some time out after a bad year and repair the remnants of a self inflicted midlife crisis, on my own. I want to experience brand new things and finally, source some independence for myself. Well really, I am simply running away from the mess and chaos I have created. My desire to be alone does not have anything to do with the fact my idea of torture, everything evil, sorcery, hell a distasteful experience, is sat in a youth hostel with people drinking Chang, wearing hareem pants, sandals made from Cambodian tyres whilst repeating the same old stories about the golden triangle, the best pad thai in Asia or finding themselves at the full moon party. I really honestly would rather find 33 beetles, crunch them up in my mouth, spit it out, roll it into a ball, pull my eyeball out, put the beetle ball in my eye socket and then roll around in a farm littered with live grenades.

New Experience #1

So March 23rd comes and I set off for 3 months of travel alone. I am strong, I am brave and I am independent. I am of course, with my Mother who I have roped into taking a Thai holiday as ha, think I am flying alone? I do not think so. The stopover in Dubai brings sickness and anxiety through a hatred of flying and a vile lack of rest that battles with my body’s lifelong reluctance to nap or sleep in public places. I take a sleeping tablet and a glass of wine and within minutes of boarding I am passed out. I wake up and I feel groggy, I take a few minutes to work out where I actually am and look around. It is there I see it, the most beautiful and unique sight of my whole 29 years and ten months on this Earth. As I peer out of the window I see the majestic aeroplane wing, posed wonderfully upon the most admirable runway of my life. It is sat there so elegantly and so rightfully accomplished after a successful journey with no deaths or any need to replicate those ridiculous cartoons on the safety form that are smiling as they plummet to their deaths.

I did it. And for the first time in my life, I napped. And I have slept through a full flight and I have arrived at my destination with no nerve wracking in-flight panic or turbulence. No counting down hours that seem like decades or struggling with 16 trips to the toilet that involve climbing over weird and selfish bastards that have the power to simply fall sleep when they wish. Okay, I have missed out on free booze, food and a binge session of Friends, but it’s okay. Because I tell you what, cross it off the bucket list: ELLEN SLEPT ON A PLANE.

Orrrrrrr there was just a delay and we have been grounded on the runway in Dubai for 2.5 hours, we are yet to even take off and I have a whole 7 hour flight ahead of me and I am going to kill myself. And the 3 children sat behind me kicking my back. :-)

Anyway, 9 gin and tonics later, cod in rat juice tomato sauce, Monica and Chandler’s affair in London to Rachel getting off the plane, I finally arrive in Bangkok. I bid farewell to Mother who is off to the Islands and here I go. It is time. Time to finally do this. Time to be brave and embrace this crazy City alone. But first I must go and meet my friend of 9 years who I have roped into flying out to be with me for my first four days as, well, hello? Surely you can’t expect me to start this independent lady thing IMMEDIATELY. 

The excitement of friends reunited bring a two day binge of singha, sangsom, cheap cocktails, hotel room gin with 7-11 mixer and some, but VERY little food. At the time it is great, our stomachs ache from laughter and we are drunk the whole time. The third day however, things are not so great and a violent hangover is mixed a ghastly case of food poisoning. OOOh must have been that absolutely NOTHING I ate.

New Experience #2

I spend the morning either sat on the toilet, or bent over it. Either way, everything stinks. I try a 7-11 toastie as it is the mother of all cures, but I can barely keep water in or down, let alone ham made from pig arse hole. Four gruelling hours later, I feel alive and ready to rise from the pit. Charlotte however, would clearly like to punish me for every wrong doing in my life and instead of throwing me to the tigers or forcing me drink the putrid Bangkok river water, she does the worst thing possible and drags me to Siam Paragon Mall. 

A  MALL. 

I have spent a lot of time in Thailand but I am yet to visit a mall. No reason in particular except I would rather put my breasts on a barbeque. Still, as I said, my quest here is to step out of my comfort zone and embrace as many new experiences in my life as possible and surprisingly, the most unique experience of my entire existence is about to occur on the BTS train on the way to the shopping centre.

Still feeling a bit ropey, I board the train. It is rush hour and it is like a cattle market on on here and I start to think I have done something to really piss Charlotte off. I let out a sigh that is accompanied by an exhaled breath that hits the Thai lady in front of me dead on her face. It rebounds from her cheek and all I can smell is stomach bile and a dead homeless man’s balls. She fumbles around in her pockets and immediately fixes a mask normally used to be shielded from pollution onto her face. :-)

Anyway, we are nearly at our stop when I need to burp. I am hoping I am not going to vomit at the same time the burp fizzles down into my stomach and I am the owner of a little bit of gas. I think about this, the people around me and the level of damage an odour could omit. But, I clench my stomach and decide it is a small pump and is destined for minor repercussions that my physical need to release outweigh. Just a little pump. A little pumpy, that will come and go, silently with little offence to anybody. Just a little pump, that is the slow friend arriving late to my food poisoning party that will pop it’s head in, smile and leave, causing nobody any trouble. Because of course, it is just, a little, pump. 

I HAVE SHIT MYSELF.

I HAVE SHIT MYSELF ON A FUCKING TRAIN.

I AM ON A TRAIN.

AND I HAVE SHIT MYSELF.

I AM 30 YEARS OLD. I AM ON A TRAIN. AND I HAVE SHIT MYSELF.

I AM IN THAILAND. I HAVEN’T CLEANED ELEPHANTS, OR LIVED WITH A HILL TRIBE. I HAVEN’T DRANK SNAKE BLOOD, DONE A BUNGEE JUMP OR PETTED A TIGER.

BUT HERE I AM. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NEWEST AND MOST FOREIGN EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE.

I AM ON A TRAIN. 

AND I HAVE SHIT MYSELF.

I HAVE SHIT MYSELF ON A TRAIN. 

So, there you have it. Remember all you globe trotters, wanderlusters and those nobs who call themselves ‘Global Citizens’. New experiences are infront of you all the time, so be ready relish them and always carry a camera and some toilet paper. 

(Unique experience #3 - burying my soiled knickers in a sanitary towel bin)