#the moment he mentioned the pomegranates i almost died

[handweavers]

reading a book rn where the main character is struggling because he wants to make art that matters but he can't stop writing cheugy persian diaspora poetry about cutting open pomegranates instead of making work that actually reflects his agonies or whatever and he keeps having tantrums whenever people bring this up and it's killing me

[plush-rabbit]

Playmate

Warnings: Smut

Word Count: 3.2K

A/N: First time writing Twice so,,, sorry

The day Jin got to measure you was probably the best day of his life. He can measure people fairly fast, get all their measurement in a quick moment, but with you- he wanted it to last long, wanted to make sure that he took advantage of the time he got to spend with. He took his time with you, letting his fingers trace down your arm up to each individual finger, letting his hands slip and curve around your waist, putting his hand on the small of your back to straighten you up, his hand leaving phantom traces as they slide up your leg and faded away when they reached mid-thigh. It was the only day he got to be so close to you, able to smell the pomegranate shampoo that you used, the matching body wash that lingered on your skin; he was able to take his time and let his hands roam throughout your body, the claim of it being needed for his quirk to be accurate was the excuse and while you hummed at the mention of it, you didn’t jerk away from his touch, only the traces of raising hairs and goose bumps gave away that his touch was doing something to you. And there was an added benefit- he got to listen to your voice, make conversation with him that wasn’t forced and dealt with the mission of the group, hear you laugh at his jokes and vice versa, and afterwards, you had even invited him to go and grab a quick dinner. You spent the day with him and wow- it felt really good and later that night, he fell asleep with a smile and a faint blush of his face.

He knows that the clones he makes have their own free-will, they have the memories and it’s like they are them- an exact copy. When he fights alongside your clone it hits different- he’s hyper vigilant that you don’t sustain any serious injuries but when you inevitability melt, he’s shock, he can feel all breath leave his lungs and he holds the goo substance in his hands, cradling it as if you had just died. When he sees you again, he’s holding you tight to his chest, arms threatening to crack your ribs until you soothe over his worries and tell him that he did a good job while affectionately rubbing his head, feeling the soft hair that resides under his mask. Your words and touches hold him together even as he spits insults and sweet words in the same breath, your touch on him never falters and never becomes anything more than rough.

Jin knows that you don’t feel the same for him that he does to you. How could you ever? You’re perfect in his eyes- caring, beautiful, and charming, a smile that makes him ache with want and it’s all too painful for him; painful for him to sit in the same room with unreturned feelings. So he does the next best thing. It’s shameful, but it pacifies him, quells the ache and want in him for just a moment. He creates a clone of you and you’re there smiling and cheerful and you listen to him when he tells you to keep your voice down, a confused smile on your face but you listen to him nonetheless. It’s innocent at first, cuddles and shared kisses, his hands interlocking with yours, nuzzling his face into your chest and pecks full of love given to him without resistance and sometimes he forgets that it’s not really you there, just a version that he made. But like all things in his life, reality begins to blur and he slips. After a meeting, he gives you a kiss on the cheek, and he goes rigid- you laugh it off, holding your face tenderly and telling him you didn’t mind while he stumbles over his words and he walks away, going to his room and locking the door, going into your arms to seek comfort. He’s in a vulnerable state, and naturally, you comfort him, and sweet, innocent kisses of love turn to something more passionate dripped in lust and clothes are peeled and he has to sink his teeth into you to prevent from screaming. He spends the next couple of hours in your grasp while you purr under him, letting your hands roam his body and lips against his, while he pumps himself inside of you, wondering if the real you is just as soft and giving in bed.

He swears that he never wanted to do anything shameful to your clone, never wanted to see what you held under your clothing, only made another one of you to just dull the pain but it twisted into something else, something primal and raw where he couldn’t get enough once he heard you gasp and mutter his name in a sinful tone that makes his hips shudder and cock leak in you.

It’s a secret that he guards with his life, making sure that you disappear right afterwards so all evidence is lost. If he has to leave the base for a few days to get rid of all the urges that he has, so be it. He’s always back. He always comes back to the real version of you who may not love him but still smiles when you see him, jumping out of your seat and wrapping your arms around him, pulling him down to sit with you while you talk about the things he missed.

It’s nice. It feels almost domestic.

-

He’s hidden away. Went to the confines of his own place, found himself a nice little hidden place and he’s made it a home- or rather a place where he can live out his fantasies with you- with your clone. He gets to indulge himself in you. Gets to act as if you are here with him and maybe it’s sleazy, but you would never do this with him. You would never like him like how he likes you. You’re you, perfect in every single way and he’s him- literally coming undone by the stitches and one too many voices that are too loud- only silencing and in agreement when you’re involved.

He’s on his bed, clothes off and sporting an erection that is buried in the clone’s mouth. Your- The clone’s mouth is as close to heaven that he can get to- something sweet and welcoming. He has a hand fisted into your hair- he’s never rough with you, can’t bring himself to hurt you and not even a clone- he just holds it there to guide you, to steady himself on you. It’s a lazy dragging of your mouth on him, tongue flat on his underside and his breathing is deep and ragged, too focused on you to hear the squeaky door of the room open.

“You know,” Jin feels his muscles tense and his eyes go wide, “I have to say seeing me with a dick in my mouth is pretty freaky, but it’s also kind of hot.” He hears a low giggle and the door closes shut. There’s soft clicking of your shoes as you move towards the bed and next to him the bed dips under your weight. “Come on Jin,” your hand weave through his hair, smoothing out stray strands and curving your hand to the back of his head, holding him up, “keep going. It’s hot.”

He shakes his head no, swallowing tightly, apple bobbing in his throat and he thinks he’s going to die. “I can’t,” he whispers, voice tight and choked up.

“Why not?” Your tone takes on something gentler, and your other hands places itself on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. He makes a pained noise and shuts his eyes. “Why not Jin? Are you not enjoying it?”

“I am,” he hisses.

“Then? Do you not want me here? I can go—”

“No,” his voice croaks and he reaches for the hand on his chest, gripping it firmly and holding it closer to him. “No,” he says in a softer voice, “stay.”

“Do you want me to replace-” your eyes glance to the you who sits there patiently- “me?” You nuzzle into the side of his face and he can feel your smile stretched wide, teeth exposed and the hands on him, curling and fist his hair and scratch lightly at his skin. “Do you want both of us? Tell me what you want Jin,” you kiss his jaw, “and I’ll do it,” you give a kitten lick on his neck, “I promise,” you blow on his neck and he feels shivers run through his body. When you look up at him, your eyes hold no disgust, only clouded by lust with a coquettish smile.

“Fuck,” he curses, eyes darting to your lips and with a sudden burst of courage, he lets go of the hand that was knotted in your- in the clone’s hair and bringing it to your face, pulling you close to him, lips molding into each other’s while the clone version of you resumes its bobbing. He moans into your mouth and deepens the kiss when you part your lips.

A clear strand connecting and breaking apart when you pull away makes him lean closer to you, lips shining and parting. He lets out a whine and his brows furrow. You smile at him and tilt your head and he wants nothing more than return to your lips. Even as the clone version of you isn’t enough, an exact copy, perfect in every single way from the way your mouth feels and your voice, but even then it doesn’t compare to the real thing, doesn’t leave him wanting and whimpering like you do.

“What do you want me to do?” Your hands cup his face and he’s twitching into your touch, breathing ragged as the clone version of you continues to move their head on him.

“Can you ride my face?” His mouth pulls into a line. “Please.”

“Well,” you push lightly on his chest and he falls with a larger force than was given to him, plopping onto the bed with a light thump, and star-stricken face, “lay down.” You tilt your head and he turns his head to watch you strip, watching the clothes slip off your skin and it’s a much better view than watching your clone. Same body, but different tactics- your clone is always eager, but you there’s a bit of jump in your step, a bit of slower movements where your fingers hook onto your clothing and let it fall into a heap on the floor.

You sex is above his face and he tilts himself towards you, and the clone of you, gagging around him as the tip of his length hits farther down their throat, and he hisses in pleasure, mouth parted open and you lower your face onto him, muffling a moan with your hand when his tongue flashes out and swipes your slit.

He takes it all back- you on his mouth and his mouth on you is the literal heaven. He’s been on your clone before, mimicked and tasted you but it doesn’t come close to the real thing. You’re much sweeter, softer and warmer on him, and his lips latch on quickly to your clits, the hands on his side, resting on your bare waist and his pressing you down on him. He moans in you, the vibrations shocking your clit and you jerk your hips, he repeats the sound, softer but more intense as his teeth graze you, hearing your desperate whines above him. Barely even touched and you’re pulsating, leaking onto his face while your hands cover your breasts, nipples pinched in between fingers. Your hips move and forth above him, a hand hooking in front and a calloused thumb pressed against your twitching clit, rubbing harsh circles on it while his tongue plunges into your soft walls, tracing the entrance with the tip of his tongue, moving deeper and tasting the sweet nectar that resides in you and slips into his mouth in syrupy strands.

On his shaft, you’re eager, suckling him deeper in your mouth, tears shining in your eyes when he hits a bit too deep in your throat, your muscles constricting and threatening to tighten as you take him deeper- always so eager to please and swallow his load. He twitches in your mouth and the mental image of you on his face and his cock is bringing him close. His hips jerk, thrusting upwards and hearing the sweet cry of your choke, makes his muscles tighten. Your mouth lowers, taking all of him inside, bits of drool sliding past your lips and onto his package. A hand fumbles and grabs at him, massaging and rolling him around in your palms, while you nurse on his cock, lips sliding off and giving kitten licks to his slit, peppering kisses down his thickness and swallowing him again.

Hearing your cute little moans is music to Jin’s ears. He never once thought that you’d actually be into him and- he stops. He taps your thighs and you look down at him with a flushed face and he makes a motion to get off of his face. You scurry off, sitting on the empty side next to him, sex exposed and mixed with his spit and your arousal. Even the mouth around him stops and pulls away, watching the scene with careful eyes.

“You okay?” You breathe out, licking your lips and you nervously cross your arms over your chest.

“Is this a joke to you?” He asks, eyes narrowing and chests rising and falling in deep breaths.

“A joke? I- What do you mean?” You pull your knees up to your chest and your eyes dart to the meet your eyes who only shrugs in response.

“Why the fuck are you doing this?”

Your eyes soften and you let your hand rest on the bed, palm upturned. “Jin, I came here because you kept disappearing after you would talk to me. I found out why- I think- and I wanted to join in. That’s—”

“Why would you even want to?” His voice is tight and eyes start to twitch, tears burning in the corners of them.

“Jin,” you say his name softly and when you crawl towards him he flinches, you stop in your movements and hold your hands up in mock surrender. “You might find it hard to believe but I like you. You’re fun, you’re really nice and I don’t know, you’re cute too.” When he remains silent you continue. “Jin can I touch you? Would that be okay?” His eyes meet yours for a brief second and he gives you a curt nod. He recoils when you hold his face in your hands and melts at how soft you feel against him and his stubble. Your thumbs rub at his cheeks and the pads of your fingers press gently on him. “I like you Jin. I think you’re great. And if all you have is- er- sexual feelings toward me, that’s okay. I wanted to join in because I wanted to.”

“You like me,” he repeats under his breath.

“Yeah, I do.” You peck his lips and your tongue peeks out to swipe at the residue left. “Do you like me?”

He nods tightly. “A lot. You’re just- You’re really nice and pretty. Like smokin’,” he says, leaning further into your touch.

You laugh and it’s rich and makes him break into a smile. “Not to ruin the moment but,” your eyes flicker to your sex and he nods.

“Come sit down baby- we can talk feelings after I taste you.”

You grin wickedly and sit on him with eagerness, leaning over to grab his hair in your hands and you moan sweet words to him. “Fuck Jin, you feel so good. You’re so good, so- fuck!” You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. “Like that Jin- again, please.” Your hands knot in his hair and the other you continues to move on his mouth, urging him to spill down their throat. Your hips jerk and you stutter on his hips, more of your arousal leaking onto him, your breasts swinging gently with every rocking motion, eager to find your high.

He mumbles into your sex and the vibrations make your back arch and hands fist tighter. Your walls tighten around his pink muscle and he growls at the act, wondering how it would feel to be buried in your sweet cunt, to feel how tightly you’d wrap around him and cry, your nails digging into his back and leaving bright, red lines in their wake. He’s fucked you clone, held them in positions that made everything feel so much deeper, felt the tight clench of you on him, filled you with his seed until his spilling blanks. All he wants to do right now is fill you up, make you feel full and watch his cum drip out of your leaking, aching cunt.

He eats you feverishly, mouth clicking and your sex leaking onto him, he’s greedy, finally has you- the actual you- on him, willing and moaning, writhing and twitching above, begging for him to continue,  rocking your hips on him.

You reach your high first. You gasp and his name is chanted like a mantra on your tongue, whispered and moaned, broken and full of vigor while your orgasm washes over you, sending your body rigid and clenching around his tongue. He holds you down, mouth unrelenting while he makes your toes curl and tummy feel tight. The fistfuls of hair you have on him are let go and you tell him how handsome he is, legs shaking while your sensitivity makes you tingle as his suckles gently on your twitching clit.

You sit on him, chest heaving, and the other you, gags around him. You slip off of him and he clicks his tongue, hands falling from your hips and you come to cuck gently on his neck, hand running to his chest and rubbing a pert nipple between your fingers. It’s the final push he needed as his legs go still and tense, dick twitching in your mouth, and his ejaculate spilling down your throat. You work him through his orgasm, pressing kisses across his neck, leaving bits of skin red and bitten, soothed over with cool breath while his chest is pinched between your fingers.

When he comes down from his high and sees you watching him with a soft grin, he thinks he might cry.

“That was fun,” you smile cheekily.

He nods. “Yeah- no, it was really- best one if I’m being honest,” he says in a jumbled mess of words, mind silent and clear.

“We’re going to do that again right? I’m fine if you want to add the clone, but uh, I’d like a try at your cock next time.” You brush back his hair and twirl a short strand around your finger.

“Trust me, there’s going to be a next time, baby.” He grins at you and you press a kiss near his scar, it’s quick and leaves his skin prickling. It’s a nice feeling.

You pull away from him and he frowns slightly. “So, uh,” your voice is hesitant and he turns to look at you, “how do we get rid of clone me?” You point a finger at the clone who simply tilts their head and sends a nervous wave.

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

Always (or Dani, the collector of souls falls in love and Miles keeps passing out during the entire story)

If you were, hypothetically, of course, to visit a place in England called Bly Manor, you would most likely meet an odd group of people. You would see two children, one an absolute angel, the other a teenage, snarky brat of a boy, who are probably being supervised by a stern, yet extremely capable looking woman. You would probably be shown around the house by the sweetest housekeeper in the world, probably be offered lemon cakes by a tall man who looks at the aforementioned housekeeper with all the stars in his eyes. And maybe, just maybe in the middle of it all, you might glance outside and see a woman standing by herself in the garden. At first you would think she’s just moving casually, maybe dancing on her own; and then you would see that her movement has a pattern. It almost seems as though.... no, it couldn’t be.  

“Is that woman,” you would ask, hesitantly, not wishing to offend these people and some potential strange ritual of theirs, “talking to herself?”

The housekeeper (Hannah, you think she’s called) glances outside and chuckles. “Oh, that,” she says. “That’s just Jamie. Jaime’s the gardener. She’s just talking to her girlfriend.”

You would resist the urge to rub at your eyes. “Her.... her girlfriend?”

“Well, technically Dani hasn’t asked her yet,” the cook cuts in, smiling. “But it’s on the way, I assure you.”

You would look from the strange, solitary woman, to their frank, open faces, and then back to the solitary woman again, and you would think.

You would think Why, these people are absolutely fucking bonkers.

*****

(They’re really not)

*****

The first time Jamie saw the woman, it was from across the grounds, which is why it took her crossing halfway the distance to realize that she was breakdancing.

Then again, she had also got other things on her mind. Peter Fucking Quint had to go and fall off the parapet while attempting to rob the Wingraves of their old jewelry the night before last, and between helping Hannah communicate with the police, ensuring Owen received an adequate number of head pats every hour to calm him down, and offering Rebecca a listening ear for both murderous rants and angry tears, she had her hands completely full. And that wasn’t even including the kids, although they seemed to be doing fairly alright. Thankfully they had not seen the body. However, that didn’t deter Miles, who was currently going through a bit of a Hannibal phase, from popping up at random intervals to ask her what broken bones looked like, or if the blood had frozen overnight.

All in all, pretty exhausting.

Which is why the sight of the children standing in front of a breakdancing woman didn’t register at first. She was pulling out the weeds, sun high in the sky, sweat tracing an uncomfortable path down her back when something made her look up. One double take, and she was scrambling in their direction.

She reached them, panting, raised her head after her breath was a little more even and looked right at the woman, who was currently doing the robot. “Um,” she started, unsure of where to go from there. “Are — are you quite alright?”

The woman stopped abruptly, her mouth falling open. “You can see me?”

Okay, this woman was clearly mental. “Yes?”

The woman looked even more astounded. “You really can?” she turned to Flora next. “You too?”

Flora blinked. “Yes, we can.”

“But that’s impossible! You shouldn’t be able to see me. In fact—”

“Jaime, darling,” Miles cut in the middle of what seemed to be the beginning of a rapidly delivered monologue. “Could you escort this.... clearly insane lady outside?”

Jaime thwack-ed the side of his head gently. “Wanna try that again? Nicely?”

He looked sheepish. Not really a bad kid, that one, she thought. Just annoying.

“But you really shouldn’t be able to see me. By all calculations, it’s completely—”

“Well, why not?” Miles asked, now having warmed to the idea of possibly talking to someone who was crazy.

The woman brightened up. “Well, because,” she said, “this, I guess.”

And then she snapped her fingers, disappeared and reappeared on the other side of the lake, where she waved at them excitedly.

Flora is the only one who waved back. Jamie was too busy supporting the weight of a now-collapsed Miles.

*****

Jamie thought it was patently unfair that the reaper of souls was just so damn cute.

(They weren’t supposed to be cute! They were supposed to look gaunt and hollow, and angry and sad, not like sunshine wrapped up in a very human looking package. They weren’t supposed to be walking around with bright, blue, gorgeous eyes, and faces that seemed to have been sculpted by some divine power up there, and a voice that was sweet and soothing enough to put Jamie right to sleep.)

“It’s amazing how all of you can see me,” the reaper of souls, or Dani, as she had introduced herself, said, looking wide-eyed at all of them. Rebecca and a recently awakened Miles were the only ones who looked actively concerned, standing in the corner. Owen and Hannah were, as ever, polite and pleasant, if a little curious. Flora was already settled in next to Dani, asking her questions a mile a minute. And Jamie was—

(Very fucking annoyed at how pretty Dani was)

—completely alright.

“And you’re here to get Peter?” Owen asked her, with a sideways look in Rebecca’s direction.

“Oh yes,” Dani replied. “And boy, was that man a pain. Really whiny. Went all Boohoo I can’t be dead, I’m supposed to do so many things, I’m so cool and awesome and. Ugh. Annoying is what he was. I mean, the list says Peter Quint — died while trying to steal from Bly Manor; what am I supposed to do?”

They all nodded, a little dazed.

“And then I saw the kids and I was bored and I thought they couldn’t see me anyways so,” she continued, and then looked down, suddenly a little shy. “I really am sorry about the.... you know, breakdancing. I honestly thought nobody could see me.”

“It’s okay, it was cute,” Jamie found herself saying before she had time to process, and then wanted to stab herself with the fork lying on the table. If that didn’t work, bang her head on the surface until she bled to death. Or—

“Thank you,” Dani said, equally as quiet.

Jamie closed her eyes, willed her body to fall dead right then and there.

(It didn't work, unfortunately)

“Would you like to stay for supper?” he heard Owen ask their guest.

“Supper?” Dani asked. “Wait, is it already that late?”

Jamie looked up a moment later, when she heard everybody scream and then she opened her eyes to see a stranger standing right near the stove.

“Viola!” Dani said, alarmed. “I thought I sent a message I was gonna be late.”

The woman looked very haughty, very angry and (this is something she hated to admit, again, but) very fucking hot. Seriously. What was with these underworld people and ridiculously angelic skin? Her gaze moved past all of them, came to rest on Dani.

“I got your message alright,” she announced, blithely. “Just couldn’t figure out why you were still here.”

Dani chuckled, nervously. “So, funny story, but as it turns out — these people can — uh, see us?”

Viola tilted her head, regarded her. “Are you sure?”

“Hello,” Hannah said, ever the gracious host. “Welcome to Bly Manor.”

Viola looked flabbergasted now, doing a double take to look at all of them more carefully.

“They can see us?”

Dani nodded, gingerly.

“Seriously?”

Another nod.

“But that can’t be—”

“—Viola, I know, but—”

“—it simply cannot be allowed—”

“—absolutely not I know what you’re thinki—”

“—We have to end them!”

There was another whoosh right next to Jamie’s ear, and she took her time, turning around, only to see another pissed-off, hot woman, standing in the kitchen, her arms crossed.

“I didn’t even say kill!” Viola protested.

“You implied it!”

Their standoff was interrupted by a violent, abrupt thud. It seemed Miles had fainted again.

*****

Jamie walked into the greenhouse, paused and smiled.

“You cannot surprise me,” she said, aloud.

There was movement behind her, and then Dani walked into view.

“How do you always know I’m here?”

Jamie stayed quiet. There wasn’t a good, less-embarrassing way to say The air dances when you’re around, or I can feel your presence in the back of my neck, in the way my heart starts skipping steps on whatever treadmill it is currently running on.  

“Let me keep my secrets,” she answered.

Dani stayed beside her, as she started on the rose plants, a safe distance away, safe enough for Jamie to not feel like she would combust. “I got you something.”

“You’ve already given me so many things,” Jamie told her, hand rubbing at the back of her neck. It was true. Every time Dani had dropped in the past month, she’d brought little trinkets from her travels all over the world.  

(Travels was an excellent way of describing the action of harvesting the grumpy souls of the dead)

One time there had been crepes from Paris, courtesy the tourist guide who passed of a heart attack in a café. Another time it was one of Cerberus’ treats, because Jamie was eternally curious as to what hell dogs actually ate. The bone had been framed and now lay on one of her shelves back at home. One day, she had gotten macarons that Owen had scarfed down before Dani could get around to telling him they were filled with the eternal cries of the dead.

(He’d spent the entire day walking around convinced he was going to die. The doctor said it was indigestion)

She opened the neatly wrapped box and picked up the pomegranate. Turned it around in her hand, examined it.

“Aren’t these supposed to tie me down to the Underworld forever?” she asked, only half-serious.

“Gosh, no,” Dani said, nervously chuckling. “These are not that kind.”

Jamie waited.

“Um, so these,” Dani went on, “these seeds are kind of multi-purpose things? So basically you can eat them, but these seeds, when planted, they can grow any plant in the world. Doesn’t matter what soil they’re on. I mean, I heard you mention that flower you’ve always wanted to grow, but England doesn’t have the climate suited to it and — well. This would work.”

If Jamie could speak, this is what she would have said: I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t know why you’re here, why you give me so much of your precious time, time that you could be walking around the whole world in. I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m around me, how to breathe, how to look, and I’m an utter godforsaken mess, but I’m eternally grateful you barged into our lives a while ago. I don’t know what I was doing before you came. I hope you never leave.

She would have said I know you collect souls, but there’s at least one heart lying in that bag of yours, and there’s a good chance it’s mine.

As it is, all she did was grab onto Dani’s hand, and squeeze.

*****

“You have got to stop doing that!” Owen gasped, hand on his heart.

Dani shrugged from on where she was now perched on top of the table, sitting directly in front of an open-mouthed Miles. “Hannah always knows when I’m here.”

“That’s because I really do have eyes everywhere,” Hannah turned around, smiled brightly at Dani. “Spaghetti?”

“I’ve been asking you for the past five minutes!” Jamie said, indignantly.

“Well, now we know who’s her favorite,” Dani shoots an infuriatingly smug grin in her direction, and pats the top of her head and—

Jamie would feel annoyed if her heart wasn’t racing and there wasn’t a blush fighting to make its way up her cheeks. This love thing was annoying.

(Not that it was love, of course. Certainly not)

“As charming as that sounds, Hannah darling,” Dani continued, “I actually came for a purpose.”

“Is it to set murderers on us again?”

“No, Miles,” Dani replied, patiently. “Plus, Viola and Perdita wouldn’t really have.... killed you. Maimed you, at best.”

Rebecca shuddered delicately on the other side of the table.

“Remember when you said you’d had a bit of a dinosaur phase when you were a kid?” Dani directed this towards Jamie.

“... yes?”

“Well,” Dani snapped her fingers, and to their extreme horror, a parrot sized creature appeared next to her, “meet Battery!”

“—completely house trained,” she heard Dani explaining to Hannah, while she extended a hand towards (what was he called? Right) Battery. He opened his mouth, stepped closer, licked the entire length of her finger with a long, slimy tongue, and then immediately nipped at her nail.

(Jamie may or may not be helplessly charmed)

Before she could say anything, however, Miles fell from his chair onto the kitchen floor.

Rebecca sighed, got up from her chair. “You guys know there’s going to be permanent brain damage if he keeps doing that.”

*****

About three things went wrong the day Jamie decided she was finally going to tell Dani she was in love with her.

The first thing was that she needed to get drunk, and decided to trust Owen and Hannah to deliver. The second was that Battery wasn’t adequately educated in the intricacies of human weirdness and tended to panic at the first sign of strange behavior. Third, lakes weren’t the most romantic places to confess your love, but apparently nobody had told Jamie this.

So when she found herself flailing for breath after having somehow made her way to the middle of the lake in a makeshift lifeboat and then having upturned it in the process, she only had herself to blame.

“What,” Dani started, looking absolutely furious, hair all over the place as she held Jamie up, “the fuck were you doing in the middle of the lake?”

“Hey!” Jamie sang, because the alcohol was making her feel very sing-song-y, “You shouldn’t be here yet! It’s not time!”

“Battery panicked and summoned me,” Dani explained. “Are — are you drunk?”

“No, she’s not!” Hannah called out from where she and Owen had just reached the lake. “We gave her loads of strong bitter soda and convinced her it was watered down whiskey.”

(Now that she was thinking about it, the whiskey had seemed pretty fizzy for her liking)

“Oh,” she Jamie, now sobered up. “But I was drowning.”

“Yeah, in about five feet of water.”

Well, that was anticlimactic.

*****

At midnight, she sat by the lake, covered in a warm, fuzzy blanket Dani had draped all over her. Dani sat beside her, Battery on her lap, smiling at her from time to time.

“You’re such an idiot,” she said, out of nowhere, and Jamie didn’t have the heart to disagree. “What am I even going to do with you?”

“You could,” Jamie started, ponderously, like she hadn’t spent three months of her life thinking this over, like her heart wasn’t an over-excited ping-pong in her chest right now, “you could always take me out on a date, you know?”

“Really?” Dani murmured. “Well, that’s a novel idea.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Depends. Would you be okay dating someone who is almost constantly grumpy from carrying around beleaguered souls all day?”  

Jamie pretended to think. “I think so, yes.”

“Someone who regularly hangs out with a murder-friendly woman?”

“.... maybe?”

“How about someone who may have to keep going away for lengths of time?”

Jamie turned to her. “Would that someone come back to me, though?”

Dani’s eyes were shiny and hopeful, and she felt her breath get stuck in her throat like a lovesick little fool. “Always,” Dani whispered.

“Well, then,” Jamie whispered back to her, and then leaned in for the most picture-perfect happy ending of all time.

[lifeofroos]

Part 30: Good news guys! This fic got nominated for the Solangelo fic awards 2021! I have no idea which one of you it was, but… thank you so, so much. Of course I would appreciate it if you voted for this fic. You can vote not for just mine, but for many more lovely fics on @solange-lol. 

In short: Nico gets therapy from Dionysus. In this chapter, Persephone asks for a talk. The other chapters can be found on FanFiction.net, AO3 and in Tumblr tags like Nico Di Angelo, Trials of Apollo, Dionysus etc. 

This Might Be Crazy: Chapter 30: Persephone’s Spring Peach Juice

‘Oh, ma’am, good morning…’

‘Yes, good morning, Nico.’ Persephone gave me the side eye, while she kept walking. 

‘Eh…’

‘Hades is in the study.’ My father has a study?

‘Okay. Thank you.’ I turned to the direction opposite to hers, hoping my fathers’ aforementioned study was that way. 

‘Dad?’

‘Nico!’ 

‘Hey, hello.’ He looked happy for a few moments, before a nervous shadow fell over his face. ‘What is it?’

‘Do I… do I have to hug you now?’

I tried not to laugh (And failed). ‘No, dad. That was just… Dionysus was just as confused as you are, I think.’ 

‘Hm.’ He shrugged, but at the same time he looked relieved. ‘Oh, eh, Persephone’s here.’

‘Yes, I know, I already saw her.’ I leaned against the doorframe. ‘Why… why aren’t you with her? Or something? After, you know, six months of...’ 

‘Well, eh… I wanted to give you the chance to talk to her.’ You what? ‘Because then… you have some time to talk with each other?’ 

The man meant it so well. ‘Eh… okay, I’ll… I’ll see, and I’ll see you in…  a few hours then?’

‘Yes, sure.’ He turned back to whatever it was that he was doing. I spun around and walked back into the hallway. 

No way in hell was I going to… 

‘Nico?’ 

I immediately turned around one-eighty degrees. Persephone was standing behind me in the hallway. ‘Can you come with me? I promise I won’t change you into a dandelion. Or something like that.’ 

People can promise a lot without meaning it, but I decided to go along with her.

 She led me to a salon, from which we could see her bedazzled garden. The shine of the prunes hurt my eyes. 

Persephone sat down in a chair that looked more like a throne. I decided to sit on a small couch next to the hearth. 

She slowly ran a hand through her hair. ‘My husband told me that you have been seeing a therapist.’ 

Did he also tell you who that therapist was? ‘Yes, that is correct, ma’am.’

She slowly pursed her lips. ‘Did you talk about me?’ 

‘Not a lot. But eh… I did mention the dandelion incident.’

‘Well… sure.’ 

‘And… eh…’ I looked at the ground. It was true that I had not said a lot about Persephone. But what I had said had not been very nice. 

I heard Persephone sigh. ‘According to my husband, you are often the one who has something to say. But today I want to give you my two cents.’ She straightened her back. 

‘Eh… okay.’ Although I am not always the person who knows just what to say. That is just the impression my dad has of the therapy sessions. 

‘Hm. Today you obviously don’t.’ Spot on. She shook her hair back. ‘From what Hades said, I understood that you came to the Underworld quite often in the past year.’

I waited until she continued, but then I realised that she wanted me to answer. ‘Eh, yes.’ 

‘And I have also understood that that is not going to stop during the autumn and winter months. That means the three of us, and Zeus knows whoever else joins, will have to get along.’ 

Ma’am, I don’t think Zeus knows… anything really. I didn’t say that out loud. Instead I just nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Now I am going to be upfront: I don’t really like you. Not because of who you are, you’re pretty fine. But I… Although I can live with it, I don’t really like my husbands’ affairs. I mean, I get it. I fall in love with a handsome mortal every now and then as well. But still.’ 

I nodded again. 

‘Yet, I also think that… you should still be allowed to come here. Because Hades is your father. And I understand how important a parent can be, most of all if the other one is… not there for whatever reason.’ 

She looked at me. ‘Yes.’

‘So, if it is up to me, you can still come here. However, at least at the beginning, I am not going to be involved much. Because as of now, I do not want to have anything to do with you.’ She nodded a single time, as if she was proud of herself for saying it. 

I sat on the couch and watched the trees in the garden outside. ‘...okay.’

‘Is that all you have to say about it?’

‘Eh...’ I put my hands into the pockets of my aviator jacket and got out two cans, which I had initially gotten for me and my father. ‘Well, I want to thank you for being so upfront. I don’t think a lot of gods would have taken the time to talk to a demigod like this.’

She shrugged. ‘Oh well. I thought, I better get my intentions clear. What is that?’

I looked at the two cans. ‘Eh… Persephone’s peach juice.’ I got a little red. ‘I didn’t really think about it. I needed something to drink and it was on sale in the camp store.’ 

‘Hm.’ She picked up one of the cans, opened it and took a sip. ‘Tastes good. You took it here yourself,  so you should drink some of it as well.’ 

I took the second can off the table and pulled off the tab. 

Persephone sighed again. ‘Now that we are here talking anyway, and you are taking it so well, I also want to say that… eh, I think I’ll never want to be a mother figure to you.’

I was getting a little confused. I wanted to say that I didn’t even want her to be that, but I decided to be civil about it. ‘That is understandable…’

‘That is partly because I don’t want to take the place of your actual mother.’ She got a sour look on her face. ‘I have to give it to you, she… certainly was something special. Once she punched Hades in the face, because at first he wanted to leave the three of you in Italy, even though Mussolini’s intentions were clear.’ She took another sip of peach juice. ‘Not that I like her, but she was respectable.’ 

I kind of wanted to ask her if she could blame my mother for falling in love with Hades, but I decided that now was not the time. 

I took a deep breath and a sip of juice. ‘Lady Persephone, if I can be totally honest, I agree with that. I don’t think you can take the place of my mother. Because you’ll never be her. Not, eh…’ suddenly, I got a small lump in my throat. ‘Not that I really remember what my mother was like. My memory of her is… it has almost faded. And I don’t really know why.’ I looked at my can. I didn’t know what had suddenly made me say that.

Persephone gave me a concerned look. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. She seemed to go back and forth a few times, before sighing and taking a few big gulps. ‘Nico, I… I cannot help you with that today. You should talk about that with your therapist. And I think it is better if you leave now.’ She looked out the window, at her trees. 

‘Yes, okay. Thanks again for taking the time to talk to me.’ I got up and quickly got out. 

It was a lot to think about, but I could only appreciate Persephone for acting the way she did. 

I knocked on my fathers’ study, before pulling open the door. ‘Dad…’

‘Nico!’

He jumped up and almost ran towards me. ‘Did you talk to her? How did it go?’

‘She was the one to come to me. And eh, not to be the bringer of bad news, but she told me she doesn't really want to interact with me right now. However, she also said that she would not stop us from doing things together. I even think she believes that to be a good thing.’ 

‘Oh. Ah. Eh, alright then.’ 

‘Maybe it is better if you talk to her as well.’

‘I did!’

‘Again. And maybe again after that. Be crazy, make it a habit.’ 

‘...hm.’

I laughed a little. ‘But I think I want to go back to camp half-blood now. It is a lot.’

 He looked a little confused, but he nodded. ‘Okay. Bye, then?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, bye.’ 

I turned around and walked away. It was not just Persephone. Our talk had jogged a memory about my mother. I truly did not remember her, now that I thought about it. That should be impossible. What even happened?

A/N: I did not want to have Persephone drink pomegranate juice. That is just too symbolic and I don’t think she’d want it. 

Imagine taking forever to write a chapter about Maria and then thinking the chapter about Persephone that preludes it is better…

In The Last Olympian, or in The Battle of The labyrinth, or both, Nico says he does not remember his mother. Hades does tell him something, but I think it still irks him. Anyway that is for next chapter. 

[snidgetsafan]

Whom the Gods Love Die Young

Rating: G (for the moment)

Summary: The bride bit into the shiny red apple as everyone cheered around her, the wedding ceremony ending with this ritual gesture. The clapping and hurrahs soon turned to screams of horror as Snow dropped the apple, choking and clutching her throat as she fell in her groom’s arms, a last I love you leaving her lips before she died, David’s screams the loudest of all.

David and Emma travel to the Underworld to claim back Snow after her untimely death. In order to do so, they're going to have to face the dark and mysterious God of the Underworld and complete his challenges.

Seems simple enough until you add magic, divine quarrels, and the worst thing of all: feelings.

Notes: And here it is! The first chapter of my @cssns​! Thanks to the lovely ladies who organized this second edition! I took inspiration from both the Hades/Persephone and Orpheus/Eurydice myths, which I hope you’ll enjoy. I’d like to thank @shireness-says​ for betaing for me (at such short notice too!) and for cheering me one. Thanks darling, you’re a gem! I’d also like to thank @distant-rose​, who helped me with the mythological aspect of my fic when I was plotting it. She is a font of knowledge, people! All mistakes are mine, however. I’d also like to thank all the lovely ladies at the CSSNS Discord, who helped me when I needed it, and who always encouraged me when I needed it. Love you guys! And last but not least, I’d like to thank @tennant-the-tigger​ for the fantastic art she made for this fic, and which you can see at the top of this post. Thank you so, so much! (Go give her some love!)

Word count: 3.6k (on AO3)

The bride bit into the shiny red apple as everyone cheered around her, the wedding ceremony ending with this ritual gesture. The clapping and hurrahs soon turned to screams of horror as Snow dropped the apple, choking and clutching her throat as she fell in her groom’s arms, a last I love you leaving her lips before she died, David’s screams the loudest of all.

Emma’s eyes follow David as he paces back and forth in the dark room, not unlike a lion in its cage. They’d been asked (well, asked was not quite the right word; almost physically pushed in would be more accurate) to stay in this waiting room until the King of the Underworld could receive them, but Emma isn’t fooled. There are no windows in the room – probably because they’re deep under the hill the palace is built against – and Emma is pretty sure at least one person is standing on the other side of the only door. They’ve managed to travel to the realm of the dead quite easily, but Emma fears it will take a lot more to get out.

It had been surprisingly easy to get this far. After David had convinced her to accompany him on his mad trip to reclaim his murdered bride, Emma had sought the counsel of Elsa, Hecate’s High Priestess and Emma’s mentor within the temple. Prayers to the goddess had resulted in the appearance of two golden boughs on the altar, which the young priestess understood to be Hecate’s blessing.

(The strange dreams which plagued her that night must have been another gift - visions of boats, three sets of glowing eyes in the dark, pomegranates, and whispers of a word. She has no idea what "Killian” means, but she feels that it's essential to their quest.)

The legends about the whereabouts of the entrance to the Underworld were surprisingly accurate, and showing the golden boughs had allowed them to cross the Styx on Charon’s boat. The sedative-laced meat that David had brought took care of the three-headed hound guarding the gates of Hades (hadn’t that been a frightening explanation for the glowing eyes), and they had soon arrived at the doors of the dark palace.

But that’s where it had gotten more complicated. The guards they had come upon apparently weren’t used to having to deal with living people, as David had barely been able to explain why they were there before they had been shoved into this room, were they had been waiting for what felt like hours, leading to David’s pacing. Emma, for her part, was trying to keep a calm façade in case they were being watched (they were, she just knew it, could feel eyes on her, had been able to since they had stepped into the Underworld).

Waiting for such a length of time is not beneficial to Emma’s nerves. Ever since Snow’s death, David – and Emma by extension – hadn’t stopped moving and acting. Emma knows that for her brother, this is a way to avoid confronting the memory of his bride ( wife , she can hear David’s voice insist in her mind) dying in his arms during their wedding ceremony. Grooms traditionally give an apple to their bride to symbolize their ability to provide for their future household, and the bride’s eating of the apple signifies her acceptance of her husband, the final act of the wedding ceremony (well, before the very last act of consummation of course, but that was not something done in public, nor something Emma wants to think about in relation with her brother. Ever). Except that this time, the apple had been poisoned by Snow’s witch of a stepmother in an unthinkable desecration of the wedding ritual and a blasphemy against Hera, and only a single bite had been enough to kill Snow in mere seconds.

The witch had been immediately smote, her heart giving out even before Snow had taken her last breath. Her corpse had been found on the steps of Eris’ temple, where she had probably been trying to seek refuge. Seems like not even the goddess of revenge can protect you from Hera’s wrath. She’d probably gotten a straight ticket to Tartarus, Emma thinks grimly.

Good riddance.

But David hadn’t let misery take hold of him, and had instead gone straight into anger, arguing that Snow should have been protected by the goddess of marriage during her own wedding, that it wasn’t fair, and that the gods help him (or not, Emma couldn’t help but think), he was going to find his wife and bring her back. Emma had followed him, mostly so he wouldn’t end up dead too, but also because Snow was her friend. She could still see her collapse into David’s arms every time she closed her eyes.

The young priestess’ thoughts are interrupted by the door opening and a mousy little man wearing a red Phrygian hat comes in, looking surprisingly… ordinary. David stops pacing too, coming to stand next to his sister as they watch the man approach them, followed by a tall helmed guard.

“Good evening, Emma and David, my name is Smee. I was told you’d like to speak to his Highness?” the little man says, looking at them expectantly.

Emma blinks, jarred. The man – Smee – looks so out of place, with his colorful hat and affable manners, stepping into this dark stone room in the heart of a hill which is itself in the heart of the Underworld. The siblings have both been gearing themselves to meet with opposition and hostility, not… politeness.

“Er,” she says eloquently, looking at David, who looks as flabbergasted as she feels.

“This way?” Smee continues as if nothing is amiss, gesturing towards the door before exiting into the hall.

David leads the way out of the door, before slowing down to let Emma step up beside him as they walk down the corridor, sandwiched between Smee and the guard. David steps closer to her, allowing the folds of their chitons to conceal the frantic way he grabs Emma’s hand, the strength of his grip betraying his anxiety at the meeting to come. Emma doesn’t mind, as she’s grabbing onto her brother’s hand as tightly as he is, although perhaps not for the same reasons. David’s only goal is to get Snow back; he isn’t thinking about anything else. Emma can see the bigger picture, and that bigger picture is that they’re going to be face to face with the freaking God of the Dead .

Very little is known about the God of the Underworld. Emma knows he is the brother of Liam, God of the Seas and of Arthur, God of Thunder and King of Mount Olympus, that he was given the Realm of the Dead to govern, and that he rarely leaves his kingdom. So little is known about him that mortals don’t even know his name, forcing them to use one of several monikers when referring to him such as King of the Underworld, Lord of the Dead, or even simply Hades, as if the god were equal to the realm he rules. Despite all these names, the god is rarely mentioned in the mortal world. His very role of Agesander , the soul carrier, makes him the most terrifying figure in the Pantheon to most people.

Emma can still feel eyes on her, even more intensely than before. Her shoulder blades itch from the uncanny sensation of being watched, but she refrains from squirming, not wanting to show any discomfort to their escorts. She has to stay strong, she repeats to herself as a mantra. David’s sanity and Snow’s life (and their own, too, she guesses) are at stake here.

What feels like hours later, but is probably only minutes (five flights of stairs, though; she had no idea coming to the Underworld would be so physical), they arrive in another, more airy part of the palace. There are actually windows here, and she can feel a breeze ruffling her hair and the edges of her clothes. While made of dark stone, the palace didn’t seem as gloomy as she had expected, Emma notes with some surprise. Light streams into the halls, making the floors gleam, and a glimpse out of the window affords her a view of what seems to be an orchard and rolling fields beyond that.

Soon after they enter the hall, their guides stop in front of two massive basalt doors. The portal opens soundlessly in front of them, revealing a grand throne room beyond. Smee and the guard in front step in, heading towards the throne at the other end of the room, and David and Emma follow, taking a deep breath to center themselves.

A man – no, a god – sits on a high-backed throne on a grand dais, seemingly bored, if his slumped position can be believed. His lavish black clothes and spiky crown clearly designate him as the ruler of this place yet something feels… odd. Emma frowns but says nothing as she approaches with David. After all, it’s not like she has anything to compare the situation with. While becoming a priestess of Hecate has afforded her easier contact with her goddess, she hasn’t met her. Not even Elsa has had that privilege, and she is the High Priestess of their temple. Still… this doesn’t feel right .

“So, you dare trespass on my kingdom?” the god’s voice booms in the cavernous hall as soon as they are in speaking distance.

David steps forward, dropping on one knee at the foot of the dais and bowing his head in deference, Emma demurely following his lead.

“We’re sorry, my Lord,” David begins, his eyes still lowered to the floor. “I merely wished for an audience to beg a request of you.”

“A favor, eh? I have temples for that, why didn’t you use the traditional method?”

“Because you must get these kinds of prayers every day, and I wanted to be sure you’d listen to mine. My bride – my wife was killed during our wedding, and I’m here to beg you to let her come back home.”

“You’re right, I do get prayers every day. What gives you the idea that you are any different from all of these people?”

Emma frowns as David tries to justify his plea. Hecate has gifted her with the ability to detect lies, and that is what she feels coming from the god right now. Can her power even work on a deity? Is it a blasphemy to even presume it can? And yet… something’ s not right. Keeping her eyes downcast, Emma nonetheless focuses all her senses on what the seated god is saying. The feeling doesn’t go away; on the contrary, it amplifies as he goes on. What’s going on?

“Please, my Lord,” David is pleading, desperate to sway the being in front of him. “I’d do anything to get her back.”

“I can’t give you your bride back,” the god says. True . “Can you imagine what would happen if people heard that the Lord of Hades lets people go? The kingdom would be swamped with people wanting their lovers, children, or evencats back.”

Emma decides to intervene, seeing her brother flounder in his desperation, and wanting to test a theory.

“The only way we were able to get to you, your Highness, was because Hecate helped us. I feel that if she deigned to assist us, it’s because she feels our quest is justified.”

“Help from Hecate?” the god asks suddenly, straightening on his throne, a move echoed by Smee and the guard still standing behind Emma. “What are you talking about, mortal?”

“The goddess gifted us with these boughs to pay the ferryman,” Emma answers, prompting David to open his satchel to show the glimmering branches. “And she gave me… instructions,” she finishes a little lamely, not knowing how to explain her dreams.

The god is silent, gazing over Emma’s shoulder, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Emma watches him, waiting for his decision.

Which is not the one she hoped for.

“Nonetheless,” he says, slouching back onto his throne, “a death is a death. I might be the Lord of the Underworld, but there are certain lengths I won’t go to, and this is one of them.”

Lie . A big, fat, blaring lie that sets all of Emma’s senses aflame as she takes a surprised breath.

“No, you’re not,” she blurts out, staring at him incredulously now. What’s going on? Who is this man – no, not a man, divinity definitely oozes from him, he is a god… but not the god of this place.

“What did you just say.” the god rumbles, David’s hissed “ Emma!” drowned by the sound echoing all around them. Everything is still in the room – deathly so, she thinks a little hysterically as she realizes she has become the center of attention. The stares from the men in the room, as well as the invisible eyes which have been following her every move, weigh on her like so many lead weights. And yet…

“You may be a God, my Lord, but you are not the ruler of this place,” she repeats a little more assuredly, ignoring David’s attempts to shush her. The more she thinks about it, the more Emma’s sure of herself. And the angrier she grows. They’re here to beg for Snow’s life; David is slowly going mad with pain, she’s grieving for her friend as well, and these gods (because the Lord Hades has to be part of this masquerade, he has to) are playing games with them.

“Quite presumptuous of you to make such a claim.”

“I know when someone is lying. And you are,” Emma answers calmly, knowing there’s a chance those could be her last words.

“You have some gall, mortal. I like it. Well, this was fun while it lasted,” the god says as he rises, his solemn demeanor dissolving into nonchalance as he descends from the dais, walking towards them. “They’re all yours, pal, have fun with them,” he says as he passes them without stopping, clapping the guard behind Emma on the shoulder before sauntering out of the room.

Emma and David turn as one man towards the guard, both having the same thought. Had the actual God of the Underworld been with them the whole time? How had they not noticed ? Because now that they look at him, the same powerful aura that had emanated from the pseudo-Hades also seeps from the guard’s skin, clearly betraying his divine nature.

The guard sighs, looking to the ceiling, before he unclasps his helmet and takes it off, looking at the siblings exasperatedly. Stepping in front of them, he throws the helmet to Smee before crossing his arms, his clothes changing right in front of their eyes from a soldier’s garb to a black himation revealing one of his strong shoulders as well as part of his chest.

“Cat’s out of the bag, then.”

Emma tries to keep her cool. It would serve no purpose at all for her to berate a god.

David has no such qualms, however, his temper getting the best of him. “You… you mean all of this was just a joke? Who was that?”

“That, as you so eloquently put it, mortal, was Hermes, messenger of the gods. Before you put voice to the thoughts I can so clearly see on your face, may I remind you that he is my nephew, and you are in my domain?”

David swallows nervously before chancing a look at Emma, who surreptitiously nods. All true, even the threat. Especially the threat. Hermes had been all talk; his uncle will not hesitate to put action to word.

“No, your Highness,” David mutters apologetically.

“Good. Now, let’s be quick about this: I cannot help you on your quest. Your fiancée has died, and dead she shall remain.”

David’s face crumples as he hears the god deal his judgement in such a final tone, before he steels himself once more, straightening his spine and raising his head.

“But it’s not fair! She was killed during our wedding ceremony! She should have been protected by Hera!”

At this, the god perks up, looking more closely at David. “Your fiancée is Snow Leukḗ?”

“Yes!” David exclaims, his hope renewing at the god’s recognition. “You’ve heard of her?”

“I’ve heard of her killer,” the god corrects, sneaking a glance at Emma. “It’s not often we get new guests in Tartarus.”

So Regina had been sent to Tartarus to endure eternal torment, then. Emma doesn’t feel as satisfied as she had been earlier, but she can’t feel any pity for the woman either. She had gotten what was coming to her. Taking a look at her brother, Emma is surprised not to see a smile on his face at the news. The gods know he had ranted and raved about what he’d do to Regina since Snow had died and they had embarked on their quest, but now that he knows she’s suffering far worse than anything he could have come up with, he just looks… grimly resigned. Which shouldn’t really surprise Emma anyway; her brother is a just and fair man who would never do ill on any other soul, despite his words.

“So you agree that Snow’s death was unfair, then?” David tries to press his advantage.

“My role is to care for dead souls, not to pass judgement on their lives or deaths,” the god answers shortly, clearly growing tired of this conversation. “Now, I’ll kindly ask you to leave my kingdom, unless you want to be made permanent residents of it sooner than you expected.”

David isn’t budging. “But, the goddess Hecate – “

“Hecate gave you two trinkets and a dream and what, I should indulge your desires? You think you’re the only one who’s ever gotten a god’s favor to come down here? Orpheus did, and Orpheus failed. This is my kingdom, my realm, and I will rule it as I see fit, whether or not it pleases you, your sister, or bloody Hecate!” the god shouts in anger, getting closer and closer to David until their noses are practically touching.

Emma watches all of this, thinking furiously. When put in this light, Hecate’s gifts did help them get here, but now if looks like they’re on their own. Are they, though? Every step of their quest, every difficulty had been thwarted by a hint or a boon from the goddess. Why not this one too? Emma thinks about her dream. She doesn’t see how pomegranates could help her in this situation, which leaves her with…

“Killian,” she says, looking up at the god, who freezes as soon as the three syllables pass her lips before whirling to look at her, completely ignoring David and an agape Smee.

“What did you just say?” he growls, stalking towards her, his blue eyes flashing.

This is the first time she has the full attention of the god, and it is… intense. It feels like being under a hundred gazes at the same time, watching her from all angles. Actually, she has felt like that several times since arriving in the Underworld, even though the feeling hadn’t been that strong then. Was that the god’s eyes she had felt? Had he been watching them since the gates? If he had known about them, then why hadn’t he come to them earlier?

“I said ‘Killian,’ your Highness... That’s your name, isn’t it?” she realizes, seeing him react once more to the word.

“Who told you?” he demands, now towering over her and ignoring her question.

“I– it was in my dream?” Her answer sounds more like a question, the god’s proximity and the fire in his eyes rattling her and making her lose control of her voice. “I told you, Hecate sent me a dream, and that was– “

“Yes yes, that was part of it, right,” the god – Killian – interrupts as he once again whirls around, pacing agitatedly in front of the two siblings. In the distance, a dog barks (there are dogs in the Underworld? Are there other animals?) and the god stops walking, his back to them. Dragging his hand heavily over his face, he sigh   s as he goes to slouch on his throne , mutters of “bloody meddling hag ” reaching Emma and David before the god speaks up, sounding as if each word is a chore to utter.

“Very well. I agree to give you a chance to reclaim your fiancée. But!” he hurries to say, before David and Emma can get their hopes up too much, “in order to be allowed to leave the Underworld with her alive, you must accomplish three tasks for me to prove your worth and devotion. If you can complete them, then I’ll give Snow Leukḗ back to you, and the three of you will be able to leave freely. If you fail one of those… you’ll be taken out of the realm, and only allowed back in after your death. Are we clear on this?”

David seems about to burst with joy and hope, barely daring to believe this reversal of fortune. Overcome with emotion, he nods enthusiastically before thanking the god profusely. Emma too feels fit to burst with relief, bowing to the god before looking up, catching his eyes scrutinizing her before he turns away, his himation swinging about his legs as he walks towards his throne.

Emma has no idea what pushed the god to change his mind so suddenly, but she knows it has something to do with his name. No one knows his name in the living world, so she understands that it has at least some importance that Hecate chose to reveal it to her. But why did Had– Killian fold so quickly?

Three tasks to get Snow back. Seemed reasonable. If Herakles could manage twelve, Emma and David could manage a quarter of that, right?

Right? Tag list (tell me if you want to be added or removed!): @hollyethecurious, @shireness-says, @gingerchangeling, @slow-smiles, @wingedlioness, @branlovesouat, @snowbellewells, @kmomof4

[author-morgan]

Phobia ☤ Alexios

seven - welcome to athens

masterlist

“Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this.”

Fate decrees two kindred souls from two different empires will find one another, and the spear shall be made whole again.

"-AND INVITE AN outsider instead? They don't need another reason to hate me." Irene only hears the last of what Perikles is saying when she steps up into the Pynx. Judging by the strained tone of the statesman and the misthios' stance, the discussions are not going the way Herodotus initially hoped. Perikles' symposiums were known for their exclusivity, after all.

She grips onto Alexios' arm. It would be a shame for him to have come all this way for nothing, especially for such a virtuous cause. "Then allow me to bring him as my guest," the princess offers with a delicate smile, surprising all three men with her sudden appearance. Athens' leader regards Irene's appearance –stunned to find there are no visible bruises or cuts on her exposed skin this time.

"Very well," Perikles concedes with a sigh, trusting her and Herodotus' judgment against his own. His focus returns to the Eagle Bearer. "I would still ask that you aid my friends, misthios."

Alexios nods –Herakles had completed twelve tasks. Three wouldn't be a problem. "Consider it done," he replies, willing to play the part if it meant gaining intel on his mother's whereabouts.

Perikles retreats from the square with Herodotus trailing behind him. Alexios' gaze follows the two men until they cannot be distinguished from the crowd, but the princess' focus is on another, less savory character. Kleon the Everyman glances between her and the misthios, takes a step toward them. Irene glares at the politician –eyes filled with abhorrence. "Come, Alexios-" she tugs gently on his arm, urging him away from the remainder of the assembly and Kleon "-it is growing late and we have traveled far."

Alexios follows Irene, keeping in stride with the princess and keeping tally of the dubious looks people cast in his direction. "You didn't mention you know Perikles," he accuses in a lighthearted tone as they pass through a small agora to the east of the Pynx.

"I thought I had no reason to," she comments, quickly glancing over each stall and vendor. Herodotus was meant to handle negotiations. "Though I am glad to be of assistance." The princess pauses at a vendor selling fresh pomegranates, she fetches two silver obols from a concealed coin purse in exchange for two ripe and heavy fruits.

He glimpses her from the corner of his eye. She wears a pale green peplos with a Tyrian purple himation draped over her shoulder. Her hair falls in loose curls, adorned only with a ribbon dyed the same Tyrian purple. It doesn't occur to him they have stopped moving again until he pulls his gaze away from her.

"This is where you live?" He asks, looking at the house sitting on a small hill. The more he learns about the princess, the more questions he has. She flushes, never having been one to flaunt wealth as some of the other elites. It is not as large as Perikles villa, nor as extravagant as those belonging to esteemed playwrights and sophists in the city but it stands impressive, nonetheless.

"Hydarnes was well respected," she explains leading him into the open courtyard at the villa's center. Despite being Persian the old general had the reputation of an honorable and nobleman. Perikles held him in high regard and had taken both she and her brother under his wing. "My brother, Zephyr, was loved by many in the city too." Zephyr had grown into an Athenian easily enough and in time Irene did as well.

Alexios cannot imagine what strange desires led her to leave and go down the path of a castigator. "Why would you ever leave?" He asks. Almost anyone would choose a life of comfort and wealth over being an itinerant. It is but another enigma surrounding the princess.

There is a longing, distant look her eyes –one that had not been there before arriving in Athens. Her composure falters. "Even a songbird eventually tires of its cage," she tells him, sorrow seeping into her voice.

While he does not know the exact feeling she speaks of he shares the sentiments. Alexios always dreamt of the day he'd finally be able to leave Kephallonia. "And your brother?" He questions, glancing around the empty villa.

Irene pushes down the lump in her throat. Zephyr's death still plagues her dreams and memories. "Murdered by bandits," she tells him –unable to look anywhere else but the stone beneath her feet.

IRENE FINDS SHE cannot sleep –after sleeping in caves and along beaches, the bed in her chambers is too soft. It is a common struggle she experiences when coming back to Athens. Comfort and memories often haunt her until she leaves the confines of the city walls. She goes to the roof terrace of the villa.

"Can't sleep either?" Alexios asks as soon as he catches sight of her from the steps leading up to the roof.

The princess spares a moment's glance over her shoulder at the misthios, focus quickly turning to the acropolis. "This place feels hollow after-" she can't bring herself to finish the sentence, but Alexios understands the meaning well enough –this place no longer feels like a home.

He sits next to her and follows her unfocused gaze to the Parthenon. It is the grandest temple he has seen in his travels –dedicated to the patron goddess of Athens, Athena. Now the white marble is bathed in moonlight and appears as a beacon of light rising high above the city.

"Where does the mighty Alexios hail from?" Irene asks, emphasizing the epithet Barnabas often uses. It causes him to roll his eyes even if it does bring an amused smile to his lips.

"Kephallonia," he answers. At times, he misses the simplicity of Kephallonian life –tending to Markos' problems and keeping Phoibe out of trouble. The worst thing he had to worry about was when the Cyclops and his miscreants decided to show their faces. There wasn't a war or a Cult seeking domination or a Persian princess.

"What's it like?" Irene wonders aloud. She's never gone so far west before and has only just met someone who could call the island home.

"A shithole," he remarks, but it is not an answer capable of pacifying Irene. "Mount Ainos makes up for most of it," the Eagle Bearer continues. At the peak of the mountain was Zeus' likeness hewn from stone –standing tall over the island with a thunderbolt poised to strike. The statue was impressive, yet it was the sweeping views of the sea Alexios liked best. He cannot come up with the words to describe it, though.

"What is Athens like?" He asks in turn. It is different than Kephallonia or Sparta, but it is clear the banal rumors of a puritanical society are mostly unfounded.

"A shithole," she quips, the corner of her lips quirk upward. Alexios shakes his head, laughing under his breath. "It's better than most places," she says in earnest. Many small villages and poleis were plagued by corruption and sickness. Irene would not deny Athens had the same issues, but here people did not walk the streets as living corpses in quiet fear. "Perikles has done great things for the city and its people." With Spartan encampments just outside the city walls and rumors of a Cult, Athens still thrived even with the unrest being stirred by the likes of Kleon.

Irene shifts and looks over the misthios. He doesn't have the look of a traditional Spartan, nor does he bear the delicate features of many Athenians. Steeped in moonlight and cloaked in shadows, he is both Ares and Adonis –she doesn't know why it has taken her this long to decide he is handsome.

"What were you doing on Samos?" His question draws the princess away from her thoughts –catches her off-guard.

"I-" she pauses, unsure which lie is best to craft this time but when Irene's eyes dart up to meet his, she is compelled to speak the truth. "Ever since Zephyr died, I've been hunting down bandits," she admits. Irene has lost count of how many bandits she has sent to the underworld, but each death feels as though she is avenging her brother. It feels like justice. But where does seeking justice end, and seeking vengeance begin?

[felidaeix]

Greek Gods Au

——————————————————————————

You’d think being the goddess of the underworld would be living the life, but for Beverly Marsh, aka Hades, it was anything but. For starters, the poor girl was stuck underground for a good majority of the time. When she did come to the surface of the earth, it was only to collect the souls of the deceased every now and then when they couldn’t find their way to an entrance.

On this particular day, the goddess of the underworld planned to visit to steal some pomegranate seeds to plant a garden and make her dark city more colorful.

The girl ordered her servants to ready her carriage and watched as the skeletons rushed to do so. Knowing that her beloved Cerberus would listen to only her, she rose from her throne and made her way outside. Walking into the dark courtyard, Beverly was greeted by skeletons and spirits rushing about getting her carriage ready. She crossed to the black object and rested her hand against the side. She looked inside and admired the cherry red interior before turning away and raising her hand to her mouth, whistling.

In a matter of seconds, the ground was rumbling as Beverly’s pets came running. She grinned as three giant dogs ran up to her, butting their heads against her and happily barking.

“Yeah, yeah. I missed you too Cerberus.” She laughed as she pet the beasts. “Wanna go for a run boy?” When the dogs let out a loud excited howl, she giggled and patted each of their heads. “Alright, then fuse and let’s go, baby!”

With a bark, the three dogs pressed together and began melting into each other. To a normal person, this would be a disgusting sight. But being, the goddess of the underworld Beverly saw disgusting shit every day. She turned back to her carriage and waited for a servant to open the door. Once one did, she climbed inside and sat on the velvet seat.

“Thank you, Reginald.” She dipped her head and smiled when the spirit bowed and shut the door. She rested her elbow against the window sill, then jumped when a minute later the carriage lurched forward and began to move.

While the carriage traveled to the nearest exit from the underworld, the goddess busied herself with brushing dirt and dust off of her black and plum colored dress. Had to be presentable to the mortals after all.

Beverly knew she was close to the surface when she heard the growling of Cerberus and felt the carriage rumbling as the earth opened around them.

As the chariot emerged, light flooded into the interior. The goddess shaded her eyes with her arm and squinted, annoyed immediately. Her eyes needed time to adjust gradually, not be thrown immediately into sunlight.

With a groan, she lowered her arm and allowed her eyesight to adjust. She watched the countryside whizz by out of the carriage window. She knew the route they took would be marked with death until Demeter, or Mike, came and took the same path, healing the dead spots with his magic.

She began to lose herself in thought until she felt the carriage slow and eventually stop. She rose from her seat, opening the carriage door for herself and stepping down onto the rung, then onto the ground. The moment her feet touched the ground, the grass wilted and died. Bones from things that had died began to rise from the ground. A deer skeleton pulled itself from the dirt and reassembled, walking forward and bowing its head.

Beverly reached up and rested her hand on the creatures forehead between its antlers. She gave a soft smile and removed her hand before focusing back on the task at hand. As she left and walked towards Cerberus, the skeletal deer followed as well as a few skeletal rabbits and other various small creatures. She pet the three headed dog and kissed his nose.

“Stay, I’ll return in a minute and we can go back home.” The giant beast barked and laid down, wagging his tail. At that, she began walking towards a grove nearby where she spotted pomegranates hanging from the trees, as well as red apples. As the goddess neared the grove, she noticed the trees would wilt only for a second before returning lush and green only a mere moment later.

Beverly was amazed by this, usually only experiencing death. She traveled deeper into the grove, gray-green eyes wide with amazement as she touched plants and watched them spring to life. The girl stopped when she reached a clearing in the grove.

Light filtered down through the tree leaves, casting speckled shadows upon the ground and a figure that stood at the end of the clearing, underneath a large apple tree. Their back was turned to the goddess, and she sensed no danger from the being.

The girl was content observing the figure until she felt something raking up and down her back. She yelped loudly, lunging forward and whipping around. She was greeted by the skeleton deer from before, as it had decided to follow her. The ginger glared, prepared to send the creature back into the dirt until she felt something wrap around her wrist.

She quickly tugged, finding a leafy vine had sprouted from the dirt and bound her. She turned, a small ball of blue flame forming in her palm.

“You better let me go right-“ The words died in her throat when she was greeted by the sight of her captor. She was expecting either some stupidly brave mortal or an angry god/goddess, but she was greeted by probably the most scared looking human she had ever seen.

“You’re Hades...!” They cried, the vine vanishing almost immediately afterwards. Beverly extinguished her flame and rubbed her wrist.

“Yes? And what of it?” She glared.

The being came closer, cautiously. Their movements and habits at the moment were reminding Beverly of a frightened deer. It was kind of adorable, if she was being truthful.

“My friend.. Mother? Mom friend, told me of you.” They finally stopped at at least an arms length away and Bev nearly melted at how cute they were. They were short, chubby, and wearing a toga and a flower crown. She couldn’t help but feel completely safe around them immediately.

“Oh? I hope it was good things.” She gave a half smile and watched as the other shuffled their feet, almost bashfully.

“Well... They didn’t mention a few things but other than that, good things were said, yes.”

“Well I’m glad. What is your name?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My... Mortal name or my ... God name?” They asked, blinking and furrowing their eyebrows.

“God? You’re a god?” Zeus blessed her upon this day. She had never met a god she didn’t want to kill immediately upon them opening their mouth, much less them walking up to her. So meeting a god and immediately having her chest be filled with warmth and her stomach be filled with skeletal butterflies was something new and welcomed into her life.

“Yes. I’m Persephone.” He smiled proudly, and Beverly swore she could feel the air warm up and the sun brighten.

“Persephone... Perseph- Mike’s friend?!” Beverly blinked, her jaw dropping. She had never paid attention to when Mike / Demeter would run his mouth about how proud of his friend he was and how he “couldn’t wait for everyone to meet him!” And now she regretted it.

“You know his mortal name?” Persephone looked amazed.

“I know everyone’s mortal names, it’s a bonus of being close to Bill.” She laughed, but stopped when she felt the other gods eyes on her. “Are you staring because you didn’t know Zeus’s mortal name or...?”

Persephone shook his head and hid his burning red face. “Oh! Yeah, sorry... Mike doesn’t really call anyone by their mortal names.”

“He’s an old fashioned dork, that much can be said.” The pair shared a chuckle, and Persephone nodded in agreement.

“That’s true. I think he still herds his sheep himself.”

I’m just gonna do a quick time skip and come back my brain don’t wanna write this part anymore

As Beverly climbed into her carriage, she froze when she heard Persephone yell from behind her.

“Wait! Hades!” The goddess stepped down off the rung and turned, smiling softly to herself as she saw the god running towards her. When he reached her, she crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

“And what might you need, Persephone?” She asked.

“I want to come with you.”

His response caught her so off guard that her arms dropped to her sides, as well as her jaw.

“You what?”

“I want to come with you, I want to see the underworld.” Persephone gave a shy smile. “I never get to explore and see everything very often, and it’s not every day you meet the goddess of the underworld. I just... I’m tired of being-“

“Okay.” Beverly didn’t need to hear anymore. Truthfully, she’d accept any excuse to spend more time with Persephone.

“Stuck with Mike all da- Wait what you’ll... You’ll let me come?” The god was dumbfounded.

“Yeah, sure. Why not? I’m nothing if not generous.” She laughed, kidding. “Besides, having your company for a bit longer might not be so bad.”

Persephone flushed red at this, giving a smile. “Thank you.”

Beverly beamed and held her hand out for the other to take so she could help him into the carriage.

“Beauty before the Beast.” She said, giving him a playful wink.

When he tripped, she began laughing, and laughing hard.

[fairyscribbles]

Pomegranates and Decay (Shh, I’m just braiding your hair, TAO) [Gods!AU]

This is something I’ve been working on since November, and I’ve finally finished it! I have no idea how it got so big tbh ^^’’ I just fell in love with the greek!gods and I will be writing more with them! I hope you enjoy Hades!Tao!

Warning: Multiple mentions of a brutal killing, major character death (you), use of knives (but not in self-harm). If topics like these don’t sit with you, DO NOT READ THIS, PLEASE.

-

You couldn’t have been more confused. A few moments ago, you were walking down the street, minding your business, and then, you felt the soft sway of a boat floating down a body of water.

It felt almost surreal, as if you didn’t have a body, but when you were able to command your eyes to open, you were surprised to find the ceiling starless and dark. It made a bit more sense when your eyes caught the soft echo of water dripping down the walls.

Were you in a cave?

“Where…am I?” you murmured to yourself. You knew something was wrong when you didn’t jump in surprise at the sudden voice, being the scaredy-cat you were.

“Have you heard of the river Styx?” you turned your head to the source of the voice, and found an unnaturally tall figure shrouded in black, steering the gondola.

Of course you had heard of the river Styx. But that would mean…

“So I’m dead?” you said almost jokingly, but when the figure didn’t reply, you took the silence as an affirmative.

There was no way you could’ve been dead, right?

But then, how did you get here? And how did you get into these clothes? Gone were your jeans and pink leather jacket. You were dressed in a pure white gown, pooling all the way down to your ankles. When you ran your hands over it, it felt as if you were touching virgin snow, cool to the touch, feeling as if the dress would crumble away if you grabbed it in a fist.

The torso of the dress however, was striking red. It dripped down from your neckline to your stomach, branching out in fluid patterns that seemed almost impossible to recreate a second time.

Your feet were bare, and your skin did have an unnaturally pale hue, as if someone was left outside in the cold for too long or…

“How did I die?” by now, you weren’t surprised when the ferryman lifted a hand to point at the ceiling, and instead of flesh, you saw the striking white of a bone: nevertheless, you followed where he was pointing to, and you were met with the dramatic scene of your death. Even though the scene was created from fumes that shaped into things oddly similar to human bodies, you could immediately realize that one of the was yourself, walking.

The other hovered behind your specter before it rushed out at you, grabbing you from behind. It took mere seconds to slit your throat with the knife concealed in his jacket sleeve and you were falling, hands uselessly trying to stop the blood flowing down your neck and somehow close up the gaping hole in your throat so you could take another breath.

You watched as you took your last breath on that dirty sidewalk, while the figure loomed above you, grabbed your purse, and ran into nothingness. You watched as the fog image of yourself tried to stop the blood flowing from your open throat, when you ran your hand over the skin of your neck. You could feel the slight lumps of scar tissue.

“I’m dead.” You told to no one, and yet the gondolier still hummed in acknowledgement.

The discovery was more anticlimactic than you thought. So the pattern on your dress…

“Everyone has a different one,” the man said, as if reading your thoughts. A bony finger pointed over to the further away shore, where another woman stood. She wore the same kind of gown you did, but instead of the vivid red all over her torso, she had four pools of the size of coffee saucers on her chest, and two in her legs.

“Shooting. Tried to protect her children.” The hallowed look in her eyes told you she maybe wasn’t successful in that. But then again, your own emotions were fuddled, and you thought there wouldn’t be a scenario that would bring a tear to your eyes.

“Your emotions will come back,” the voice behind you spoke up.

“It takes a while for them to return, as your soul has departed your body.”

“That makes sense,” you replied, staring back at the woman looking longingly at the lime green river. Only now you’ve realized that it’s filled with eyeless faces, mouths opened in what could be yells or begging.

“Her children survived the attack. If they hadn’t, she would be reunited with them. Lord would make it so.”

“And where am I going?”

“To meet the Lord. You died on the anniversary of his queen’s reincarnation, and thus you will take her place by his side.”

“He chose me to be his wife?”

“Tao saw your departure that ripped you from the living. You intrigued him.”

“And what if I don’t want to be his wife?” you asked and you looked onward once the woman disappeared from sight.

“That is up to him to decide. I am taking you to him right now.”

-

The undertaker’s servant took you into the gardens. The flowers were grotesque versions of their earthly selves, their stalks a horrible shade of bleak dark green and the petals an ashen black, blood red, or plum purple. Tao was in the midst of these, tall and stoic in the black robe covering his whole body. His arms were bare, covered only by a sheen, see-through fabric that revealed the black tattoos sliding up and down the firm muscle, accentuating the possible danger they posed.

He wasn’t looking your way, his gaze on the tree in the center of the garden, his feline eyes holding an unexplainable emotion.

“She is here, my Lord,” and with that, the two unreadable orbs turned their attention to you. If you had your feelings back at that moment, you would’ve gasped, because the Lord of the Underworld was one of the most handsome men, in this world or the living. Even through his sharp features, there was an aspect of softness to them, a slight vulnerability of the dark circles under his eyes.

You expected to find a cruel and heartless Lord, but were met with a soul filled with emotions.

He stepped out towards you, reaching an arm out in invitation. When you grabbed it and moved over to him, he offered a slightly wry smile.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” he voiced his condolences silently and you almost laughed. You knew you would’ve heard this phrase sometime in your life, but you never expected to hear it in regard to yourself.

Instead of answering, because you knew you would’ve said something dumb in reply, you shook your head. You will come to mourn your passing.

“I am sure Sooman had already told you…”

“That I am to be your bride, yes?” you supplied after a longer pause from your spouse. The smile Tao offered you almost seem to rival the beauty of the garden.

“If you will have me,” Tao added to your statement, finally drawing the hand he had behind his back into view, barely able to hold the ripe pomegranate fruit that was cut open. The red pieces glittered like gems, the skin straining over the undoubtedly sweet juices inside.

“If you eat this, you agree to become my queen,” Tao told you as you stared down at the fruit.

“And if I don’t?”

“Sooman will take you further into Elysium to live out eternity with the gods.”

That did sound tempting, live out eternity with Gods. You had heard about Elysium during your life as well – the place where pain is unknown and people feast and drink. It goes without question that if you rejected this man, you would move onto eternal happiness. Nobody told you what waited for you here.

And yet as you stared at the man before you, the decision wasn’t as clear as one would think. This man with feline dangerous eyes holding nothing but soft vulnerability, arms designed to kill but yearning to hold…made you change your decision.

And without breaking eye contact, you grabbed a handful of the fruit, and brought it to your lips.

And in that moment, you could feel again.

-

The emotions that returned hit you like a sudden wave. The information about your passing has now been affected by your emotions, and you spent the majority of your time crying in your chambers, attempting to muffle your wails into the pillows.

Your body also seemed to have suffered from your death, judging by the way you seem to react to certain actions.

For example, you can’t stand the realization of someone having a chance of sneaking up behind you. You preferred to find places where you could sit with your back to the wall, and if that wasn’t possible, you turned around more often than hunted prey, making sure nobody dangerous was behind you – it did seem a bit silly, taking into account that you were already dead. This fact still didn’t change anything, and you flinched away from any touch that came from behind and you weren’t aware of it, no matter who was the source.

Not even the emperor of the dead, Tao, had the luxury of you not being affected by his touches.

When your emotions returned and you thought back on your arrangement, fear seeped into every pore of your body, uncomfortably tensing your muscles and keeping you up at night, even though it seemed a bit pointless.

Tao has been nothing but considerate in regards of your trauma, making sure never to come up behind you unannounced or breathing down your neck. What he didn’t let you do, however, is wallow in your chambers for whole eternity. He made sure that you ate enough (pomegranates seemed to be your favorite, and he made sure he had at least a bow every few days ready for you, already cleaned and washed, looking more like rubies than fruit) and that you accompany him on his daily strolls through the garden.

The walks were usually silent, the only sound being the soft footsteps of the two of you, or the occasional soft wail in the distance. Those you tried to ignore.

This time, however, the Lord of Death broke the silence.

“My lady,” he called to catch your attention, hands grasped behind his back.

“Yes, my Lord?” you answered back, already familiar with the protocol Sooman introduced you to.

With being the bride of the King of Death came royal etiquette.

“There is something that has burdened my mind for a while now…” he started off, his body angling slightly towards yours.

“Yes?” you bid him to continue, watching his thoughtful face.

“You are my bride, and yet up until now… I have not learnt the reason of your passing.” If you had any more flowing blood in your veins, it would’ve frozen at that moment. And yet you hoped that he hadn’t noticed.

You kept staring right in front of you, and Tao seemed to be doing the same.

“Are you not capable to find out yourself, my Lord?”

You could already hear Sooman’s groan at your evident breach of etiquette, but you hoped he would be able to forgive your rudeness at the moment.

“I do, but I would like to hear it from you. I…” he paused temporarily, stopping his walk as well.

“If you wish not to tell me now, I respect your decision.” He clicked his tongue in annoyance, but you couldn’t help but be surprised when you realized his annoyance was aimed at himself.

“You have just had your emotions back, of course you don’t want to discuss this…” he turned away from you, evidently disgusted by himself. If you had not known it from his body language, the low but clear “stupid Zitao” was evidence enough.

“I…” your voice stopped him. Turning, the golden orbs bore into yours, almost hanging on your response.

“I was…I was killed.” He didn’t say anything, and you still had the need to correct yourself.

“I mean, of course I was killed, I’m dead, I just…” with a deep sigh, you tried to ward away the tears that were already building up. Licking your front teeth and stepping from one foot to the other, you continued.

“By…by my boyfriend.” You didn’t look at him, so you didn’t know if this piece of information somehow resonated with your husband. If you had expected a dramatic response, you would’ve been disappointed.

“Apparently…he was low on cash, and had debts.” The tears were now freely rolling down your cheeks, but your hands, balled at your sides, didn’t rise to wipe them away.

“And he knew that…t-that I just got a…paycheck.” Your reply was now more a sob than anything else, but you felt that if you told him this, it would help you too, in the end. It was too much of a burden to carry on the too slender shoulders you had.

“What he didn’t know was, that I sent it to my friend. We were to go on vacation together.” You barked out a wet laugh, looking at your hands.

“He killed me for 10$.”

Silence rang through the garden, not even the wind dared to move to disturb the deafening roar of stillness. After a moment, which felt like eternity, soft footsteps nearing you alerted you of the presence of your husband, yet you still dared not to lift your gaze up to meet him.

“It was wrong of me to ask so soon, my lady…” his voice was low, calming your distressed soul.

“…I apologize for prying, and causing you such hurt.”

“___.” For the first time, you looked up and into those deep eyes. Right now, you caused them to have surprise flicker over.

“I’m sorry?”

“When we’re alone like this…” brushing away the tears from your cheeks, you tried to smile at him.

“I’d prefer if you called me by my name, my Lord.” Tao smiled.

“Only if you do so as well, ___.” Your name was delicately pronounced, as if uttering it in the wrong way could cause a catastrophe. You returned the smile gently, rubbing at your tears before stepping away from Tao.

“If you’d excuse me…I’d like to freshen up before our dinner.” Your husband just outstretched his arm in the direction of your chambers, and you followed it with a slight bow.

Only when you were walking away did Tao frown.

“Sooman?” he asked to the darkness, and his servant appeared as if he sat by his feet the whole time.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“I want her killer found. Find him, mess with his head. And when he is at his lowest, let me know.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Sooman disappeared as stealthily as he came, leaving the Lord of the underworld staring broodily at the trees abundant with death fruit.  

-

“___?” hearing your name ripped you from your thoughts, and your head sprang up from where your gaze was focused on the food piling on your plate. Your husband was looking at you with a small smile.

“Is the food to your liking?” immediate guilt filled your entire body. Tao must have noticed that ever since you told him of your death, your well-being seemed to fall behind once more. It was harder to find you roaming your kingdom, as you thought it was better protection to just stay in bed as much as possible.

That has not been the best choice either, as your killer found his way into your dreams as well, tearing you from sleep with terrified screams just as the knife slid across your neck…

And here he is, the Lord of Undeath, trying his best to make you feel good once more, filling the entire dining room table with a vast amount of various meals, some familiar to you from your life before, others completely foreign. Exactly in front of you were various seafood dishes, and even though they looked very appetizing, you shied away from them.

“All of this…” you tried to look for words that could capture how much you appreciated your husband’s effort, but your mind went blank. Were there even words to express your gratitude?

You hoped to show him your thankfulness by eating all of the deliciousness that was in front of you, but your stomach betrayed you. You felt so stuffed after only a few bites, that you worried that eating more could make you feel sick. And so, in fear of ruining your dinner, you stuck to lighter foods and made sure to drink enough water to balance everything out.

“I can’t even start to describe how delicious everything looks, Tao.” You finally settled for an answer, one that seemed to please your husband by the look on his face.

“I am glad to hear that, ___.” He replied, taking another bite from his own meal.

“If I could recommend, the Sea Cucumber is a meal you should try.” You appreciated your husband’s recommendation, but even the name itself stopped you from eating it. You eyed the brown sea cucumber bouncing in sauce with what you hoped was very well masked distain.

“Ah, those…” you smiled, pushing the plate slightly away from you.

“I’m sorry, I…sea food doesn’t sit that well for me. It makes me a bit sick…”

“Oh! I’m…I’m sorry, I did not know of that! If I had known…”

“Oh no, Tao! It’s not that! You like it, so of course it should be here! I mean, I should even learn how to make it, so I can make it for you someday…” your voice trailed off at the sudden domestic offer you made. After thinking about it, it sounded silly. Tao had hordes of servants answering his every whim, of course he must have chefs that were specialized making all of his favorite dishes, and here you are, some nobody, offering to make his dinner.

“I’m…sorry…” you needed to say something into the silence that settled over the dining room.

“What are you apologizing for, ___?” Tao’s low voice was soothing your anxious nerves.

“It just seemed silly…me, cooking for you, the…the God of…”

“Death?” he supplied with a grim chuckle, and if your cheeks could’ve heated with a blush, they would have.

“Well, yes! I mean, I couldn’t even cook an omelet on bad days, and you must have one of the best chefs that walked the earth cooking for you! It’s just…silly, to think…that…ah, you’d want to eat something I prepared.” Tao watched your attempt to explain yourself with a smile.

“Would it be as silly as seeing the God of Death attempt to cook for his distressed bride?” he questioned you with a slight smile, popping a piece of the sea cucumber in his mouth. At his comment, your jaws slacked in awe. Eyes flickered from the food on the table to your husband and back.

“This…you…”

“Not all of it, of course. Only the seafood.” The seafood he so ardently recommended to you, you realized with a pang, and almost frantically, you reached over to put some on your plate. As if sensing you would do that, Tao chuckled, moving the dishes from your vicinity.

“You don’t have to force yourself to eat something you do not want, my queen,” he told you with a soft smile, and if there was any more blood left in your body, you were sure it would rush to your cheeks at this moment.

“Tao, all of this…”

“Is an attempt to apologize for halting your journey to well-being.” He offered to complete the sentence for you, and he covered your hand briefly with his. The touch was electric, and all the nerve endings on the skin of your hand seemed to come alive with his brush of his fingertips over your knuckles.

“This is all very new to you, and I might have asked questions that could’ve been saved for later. My impatience brought you pain, for which I apologize. This is my way of saying I was stupid, and I hope I will never put you in such distress again.”

An emotion you have thought you would never feel in the underworld burst in your chest. The onslaught of admiration and adoration bloomed, spreading warmth over you in lulling waves, waves that brought one of the most loving smiles on your face. A loving smile you presented to your husband.

Words were useless in a situation like this, and with a soft nod of your head, you returned to your dish, a completely new feeling overcoming you and making you enjoy your meal in a way you haven’t before.

-

“Can I ask you a question?” flew from your lips before you were able to stop it, crashing the silent stroll through the kingdom’s gardens. Your husband did not seem to mind your interruption in the slightest, turning to you with a soft smile adorning his features.

“Of course you may, ___. What’s on your mind?”

As you suspected, your following question made the gentle smile slide off his face almost instantly.

“Your servant told me I died on the anniversary of your first wife’s death…” where he would usually bid you to continue, now he stayed silent. You did not let that deter you from finding out more about Tao.

“Is that true?”

Tao looked away from you, staring right ahead. There was a small crease between his eyebrows, the frown only accentuating the handsome somberness of his face. You realized you have opened a can of worms with your question, but it has been burning you from the inside for quite some time now, and you felt it was only fair to know more about your husband as well.

“It is true, ___. You have arrived here on the anniversary of her departure from here…her departure from being by my side.”

His response was fertile ground for new questions to sprout deep within you. Who was she? How did she get to the underworld? And most importantly, why did she leave?

“You must know at least something about her, ___.” Tao’s voice cut through your thoughts. You frowned slightly as you looked at him with a tilted head, confusion blooming across your features.

“Her name was Persephone, and she was the daughter of the Goddess of Harvest.”

You have heard of that myth before. Of the Lord of the Undead stealing Spring’s daughter, causing Demeter so much sorrow, no crops grew while she was with her husband.

But as you’re looking at your husband right now, you cannot imagine him stealing away someone’s daughter, much less raping her and bounding her to his kingdom. Tao seemed to sense the inner turmoil within you, as the corner of his mouth lifted upwards in a smile.

“Humans seemed to have altered the story a bit more to their liking, judging by your look. I have not stolen my bride, nor have I forced myself upon her.” He paused at a sudden realization that came to him, laughing out loud. “Actually, she more or less forced herself on me.”

Raising your brows in question, Tao continued.

“We met at a gathering. As you can imagine, being the God of Death does not make me the most sought out party guest, and so most of the time I was left on my own. I did not mind it though,” he added with a small smile as he saw your deepening frown.

“I was about to leave anyways, when she came by, curiousness in her eyes and fearless step as she neared me. She was the first person that had shown interest in the underworld for a different reason than an extremely morbid one.” He looked over to the vastness of the orchards that spread before you.

"She asked me if there is sunlight in my domain. If I could make flowers grow. Questions that I myself at that time didn’t have an answer for. When I told her just that, she pursed her lips and bowed, turning on her heel and left. And I thought that it would be our last encounter." with another chuckle, Tao looked down at his shoes, shaking his head.

"How wrong I was. It couldn’t have even been a week when Sooman came after me and told me with the biggest confusion on his face that there was some deity there to meet me. Not just somebody, it was her.

She came with arms filled with different types of seeds and a smile that made the absence of the sun redundant in a place like this. Without the slightest fear, Persephone took it upon herself to change the underworld to be as it is now, not only for the sake of ones who come here after death, but also for my sake."

"Nobody cared about me like that before." his words had you gripping his hand tight, as you bid him with a nod of your head to continue.

"Her disappearance from Earth was not ignored. Demeter has scoured every inch of it before she came to realize she forgot to check one last place. But she had been too late. By the time she arrived, the garden was not the only thing that was in full bloom. Persephone and I had married before her mother could oppose, and even through the wrath of the entire Pantheon, we were happy."

"Is this how the seasons were created?" you gently asked when Tao stopped for a moment. He looked over at you, a small smile gracing his features. However, it could not overshadow the flicker of pain that appeared in his eyes.

 "How I wish that were the case, ___. The myth version states that Demeter had been so sad about the marriage that she wept every time Persephone was with me in the underworld, causing the plants to wither and the days to get colder. The moment she would return to the living world, things would go back to normal." Tao gripped your hand tighter, the bitter smile on his face straining.

"How I wish that were true. Persephone...she..." after he cut himself off again, a great sigh left his chest.

"The living, no matter if deity or not, do not belong in the underworld, ___." you returned his tight hold at the words, your breath stuck in your throat.

"Persephone wasn’t used to this world. Wasn’t used to not hearing the birds chirping, or watching the sun rise every morning. Unable to swim in the river and pet the deer. And even if we were able to bloom the orchards that you walk through daily, it was not enough."

"And just like the world withered when Persephone was away, she herself began to wilt while she was by my side. Her skin grew paler, eyes dimmed...strength was leaving her every moment she spent in my domain. And even if she would rejuvenate back when she was with her mother, her stay with me turned from happiness into suffering, not only for her, but for me as well."

You were sure that if they could, Tao’s eyes would weld up with tears at this moment. Your heart clenched by the obvious pain your husband was going through.

"I couldn’t watch her do that to herself anymore. Even though she was stubborn and told me she wouldn’t leave my side, I couldn’t let her do this to herself, and I..."

"I banished her. I forbade her from ever stepping foot into my domain again, and I saved her life."

Everything stilled. Never before had the absence of wind and life been so evident than now. You yourself couldn’t offer a single word, and you just stared at Tao as he very evidently twisted knife he plunged into his own heart millennia ago.

"As she recovered, Persephone tried to rekindle contact with me, but I wouldn’t let her. I knew the moment I would let her speak to me again, the whole resolve of saving her would crumble and that time, the stay in hell would kill her." His hard glare was sent towards the pomegranate trees.

"After a while, she gave up, for which I was glad. I almost got a taste of my own medicine, and my own powers almost took away the one I loved the most. And from that time on, I have decided not to let anyone get so close to me as the daughter of spring did." He glanced over at you, and you could see the gradual return of something warm in his eyes. You didn’t even realize when the two of you stopped walking, only noticing when he bid you to start again.

"Do you still love her?" you blurted out the only thing that you thought of at that moment, and Tao paused in thought.

"No," he decided after a moment. "It has been ages ago, and I have not seen her since. Thinking about it now, it has been better, for the both of us in the end." He looked up at the murky darkness hanging above the two of you, a smile gracing his face.

"The daughter of spring no longer has the heart of the King of Death. But I feel as if there is someone else who might."

-

It was a few days after that fateful dinner when the safety you’ve felt in your husband’s kingdom crashed down like a ceiling, suffocating you under the rubble. The day began normally, with you eating with your husband before parting ways, Tao resuming his duties as the Lord of the underworld, and you resuming your walks around his kingdom, making yourself acquainted with the area.

You never wandered too close to the river. It was something to be expected, as the poisonous hue of green revealed only thousands of tortured souls on their way to eternal torture for the sins they have committed in their past life. Tao revealed to you that only people who have done very bad things during their living days are condemned to take the journey in the river of agony before they are deposited to the only division in Tao’s army you would hope to never meet- the demons of agony. Under their reign, these damned souls are to forever repeat meaningless tasks of immense difficulty and pain, never to be relieved from their new duty.

Understandably, these souls knew their destination, and their faces were morphed into grotesque grimaces of eternal screams, mute pleadings and evident anger, anger directed to all their actions that have brought them to this exact place. This is why none of the souls are pleasing to look at, and the first time you have peered over the edge, you were haunted with bad dreams. Growing tired of all those negative emotions taking control of your body, you made it your task to peer into the river on a daily basis, to get used to the souls that are finally being judged justly for all their crimes.

What you would have never anticipated in a million years, however, was to one day peer over the edge and find your boyfriend’s face in the mass of sinners, wide, crazed eyes peering straight into yours.

And your breathing shallowed as you scrambled away from the edge, not caring about your white silken dress being dragged across the ashen black ground. You could feel your heart being squeezed in your chest by indescribable fear, all your muscles tightened in the flight or fight response that still has not kicked into gear.

The only thing that was set into motion was your stomach, and you barely had enough time to turn your head away and empty your stomach contents all over the dark floor. It almost immediately seeped into the ground, leaving no trace behind of your sickness, only deep inside you as you visibly started to shake.

After all you’ve been through, you thought you were rid of him. After all that pain, after all that recovering, you thought you wouldn’t need to see him ever again. You entertained the only single option of seeing him again after many years of living as the queen of undeath, and by that, you would rise to meet him fearlessly, giving him only slight taste of what he put you through all those years back.

But not now. Not so soon.

And as a sob ripped through your throat, you stood on shaky legs, running to the only place you deemed safe. As you ripped open the doors to your chambers, you saw your husband pacing the room nervously, waiting for your arrival. His presence stopped you in your escape to safety, and you faced him with tears streaming down your face, pinched eyebrows and immense pain and fear in your eyes.

The second Tao saw you, he understood completely.

“He’s here.” You sobbed out as you let go of the door, stepping closer to your husband.

“I know,” he replied, nearing you.

“How do you know?” grabbing onto the arms that were reaching out for you, you couldn’t help but to grasp his forearms in a tighter grip than you should have. Your husband didn’t seem to mind.

“I brought him here.” Came the silent confession from your husband, one that had another sob rip from your body.

“Why?” was your only response, closing your eyes, unable to look at the guilt and pain pooling in Tao’s expression.

“After what he did to you…___, I couldn’t…I couldn’t let him live.” Tao grit through his teeth, his palms turning upwards to grab at your elbows, anchoring you.

“I couldn’t let him do that. I had to…” he cut himself off for a second, looking off to the side with clenched jaws.

“I wiped him off the Earth’s surface myself. Made sure he suffered more than anyone else ever has, before I took him out like the trash he is.” Slowly, giving you every opportunity to move away, his hand reached up to gently cup your face in his palm. You couldn’t help but to nuzzle into the hand of the man who just confessed to killing someone. It was as if that information wasn’t even important to you.

Tao killed. Tao killed for you.

“How…how long will he be here?” you asked after a few moments of silent breathing, trying to get yourself under control.

“He is already with the overseers. He will stay in the pits until I step away from the throne, and he is condemned to forever try to stitch his ripped up throat. His thread will break every time, and he will be forced to start again. He is condemned to relive the pain he has inflicted until I see fit.” The eyes that you’ve known to hold only softness blazed with determination and anger.

And that’s when you for the first time saw the side to Tao that was known to everyone but you. Because at that moment, it wasn’t your husband that stood before you. It was the Undertaker, the Lord of Darkness, the Bringer of Death.

The person who had done all that to protect you.

-

Your recovery from meeting your killer was a slow, yet steady one. Knowing that his place was far away from you, locked in by endless torment, you had the courage to walk outside with your husband as company.

The two of you did not near the river, however. Tao did not ask you to do so, and you both knew why you didn't want to go there.

Tao made sure you are busy enough during the day- showing you the further reaches of his realm, giving you tours of the parts in the palace you have not seen before. He even showed you the Undertakers Library, a vast room filled with countless tomes.

"Where do you think books go after they are burned, ___?" Tao asked you with a risen eyebrow and your jaw slacked in astonishment. Are all the books that were ever burned in here, you thought to yourself as you looked away from your husband and to the vastness of hidden knowledge before you. Are the books from the Tower of Babylon here? The Alexandrian Library? Th-

Your thoughts were interrupted by a snort sounding from your side, and you turned just in time to witness your husband's facade crack as he resolved into giggles.

"Please tell me you didn't believe that, wife," he managed to stutter through his giggles. The only reply he got was a punch to his shoulder.

Your next days were spent either in the library, burrowing through countless books written in forgotten languages (Tao's first kiss he'd ever given you held the gift of knowledge, and as his lips pressed against your forehead you gained the ability to comprehend languages that were not even known to the brightest of scholars) or tending to your own little sapling of a pomegranate tree that you've decided to grow.

That did not prevent your killer from returning to your dreams. Before, you dreamt of him rarely - scarce nights spread over a too long period of time to be very concerned over it, honestly. But now, there were nights when he did not flow down the river into purgatory. There were nights when he stood from his lime green grave, covered with his own blood and lust for it in his eyes as he chased you through your home and killed you on your husband's throne, fury personified as he tore you limb from limb. Other nights, he would grab at your ankle as you were to turn away from him and pull you into the murky green waters of the river Styx, where he would hold you down until your dead lungs filled with the substance, eternally drowning you without giving you the sweet release of death.

Both of these dreams had you waking up with a scream on the tip of your tongue and your husband bursting through your door, eyes bewildered and body ready to protect you from whatever harm that threatened you. He would then gather you in his arms, holding you tight and whispering apologies into your hair until you blacked out from a mixture of exhaustion and fear.

Tao knew he couldn't leave it be like this.  

 -

After one of the more severe nightmares you’ve experienced, the morning was slow. It passed by like molasses, time stretching slowly as you woke your body up, reveling in the feeling of safety your bed finally offered. Was it because of Tao’s lingering scent and the shirt he slipped over your head when yours became too soaked with tears? Even you yourself didn’t know.

What you were sure of however, was that only you and your husband were allowed into your chambers.

And you were pretty sure your husband didn’t bark.

You frowned in confusion, eyes still unwilling to open. The bark sounded again, followed by your husband’s reprimanding shush. It seemed effective, because instead of another bark a whine sounded softly from the still unknown source.

"___?" Your husbands soft voice carried through the morning lull, and you turned your head towards him, eyes still stubbornly resting closed. Instead of replying with words like a human being, you settled for a softer hum. The end of your bed dipped with a weight placed on top of it. At first you thought it was Tao sitting down, but a huff and movement that could in no way come from your husband proved you wrong.

You opened your eyes just in time to be attacked by a flurry of midnight black and fire red, three small tongues and happy paws digging into your chest. Unexpectedly, you flinched away with a forced laugh out of your throat, trying to wake up, sit up and press away the too happy bundle of joy all at the same time.

"T-Tao-! What?" When your back was finally settled against the headboard and your eyes somewhat opened, you were met with a sight that would later on become the source of a smile on your face. Your husband, sitting on the edge of your bed, looking oh so tired but oh so smitten, watching the small puppy attempt to wiggle its way from your arms so it could attack you again with dog kisses.

And the puppy itself. When you read about the hell hound, you had envisioned something so scary, it could stop the hearts of people trying to break into hell. Something so dangerous, only one bite from one head would deem fatal, not even mentioning the other two sets of scary sharp teeth. But as you looked down at the bundle of warmth in your arms, you could not find anything of the sort. The puppy whined silently when you didn’t let him come close, but it was understandable, as you saw that the red stripes that mixed in with the black were made out of molten fire, the fur moving softly in an imitation of lava. Tao must have seen your apprehension because he smiled, scooting up closer to snatch the struggling puppy from your arms, making sure you saw that he grabbed onto the red part of its fur.

"It doesn’t hurt, ___," he reassured you with a smile, settling it down back on your legs.

"But...what is he...how did you get him?"

"I thought that if you had someone to guard you while I have to tend to duties would make you feel better, especially at night. Maybe having Coal with you will make you feel protected when I cannot."

Hearing your husband’s words, you almost teared up, arms limply stretched in front of you so your new puppy could excitedly lick up your forearms before nuzzling into your lap, making sure it was comfortable enough to make a home. You have told your husband of a puppy you owned while you were alive, a rottweiler who made you feel so safe even though you were sure if there was an intruder breaking into your house, they would be only attacked by tens of pounds of excited fluff hoping to meet a new person. You told him how dogs made you feel calm.

"I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him sooner, dear," Tao started to explain himself, deciding to look down at Coal.

"I didn’t want him to part from his mother sooner than he should - Sooman told me it would be better for both of them to stay in contact until the puppy is grown enough to start eating solid food and-" his speech was cut off by you sliding into his lap and engulfing him in an embrace, face hidden in the crook of your neck, his somewhat strained behavior soothed by fingers gliding through his hair. You felt his arms hover above your body for the slightest of moments, unsure, before they gripped at your sides and pulled you closer.

"Thank you," you whispered, able to ignore the hell hound pawing at your thigh with a soft whine. Tao’s muscles visibly relaxed, and the Lord of the Undead rested his head against your shoulder. The sigh that lifted tons off his chest was audible in the silence of your bed chambers.

You wished you could tell him more, but those two simple words carried all that you felt at that moment and more. Thinking back on it, there was anyone even during your living phase so doting and caring as this man you were currently embracing, a person who is depicted everywhere as the personification of evil itself, as someone sinister you needed to watch out for.

That was not your husband. That was not your Tao, able to cover up his emotions so well but still overflowing with them. The pride in his eyes when he looks over his garden, the satisfactory smirk when you compliment the sweetness of fruits he gifts you. The pain when he must receive a soul of a young child, ripped away from life by unspeakable aggression.

"I just want you to feel safe, ___..." he murmured into the crook of your neck, plush lips gently brushing against the part of your body you thought you would never let anyone else get close to.

And even though you didn’t reply by words, you knew he understood as you hugged him a bit closer. Pressed your lips up against the crown of his head in the wordless "I feel safe when I’m with you."

-

You wished you could feel better with Coal by your side, but it seemed that even the small cindered puppy bumbling around your ankles did not lift the uncomfortable feeling of being watched and judged by many eyes in the room.

Tonight was the first official dinner in the underworld with you as Tao's bride. The realm of the underworld was wider than you had thought, and many of the spirits of former nobles flocked to Tao's palace to see the first bride the Undertaker has taken in centuries. The high noses and pinched eyebrows shown that they had high expectations.

What they did not expect in the slightest was an anxious mess as yourself, feet wobbly in the high heels, hands nervously sliding over the soft fabric of your black dress, hair itching in the elaborate hairdo done by the very nice, albeit sorrowful banshee that came to help you prepare just before the event itself.

You wanted to make a good impression. You wanted to be someone your husband could be proud of, someone who he could show off comfortably, a person who could show that the ruler can still make good decisions and therefore rule in the same manner.

It was hard to hold it up when there were so many and so disfigured people in your vicinity. Undeath did not suit many of the nobles that were present, and there was only so much you could ignore. You were quite sure your nervous smile would not fool the old baron with the unhinged jawline that made his speech incomprehensible, if the empty eye sockets that were peering up at you were capable of seeing.

What did not help at all was the fact that you overheard the critique by the countess Bathory, a beautiful yet cruel woman that eyed you with a blood-red gaze.

"Our Lord could choose whichever beauty that has walked the earth, and yet he decided for her?" It was the first reminder for you to straighten your posture and try to appease the guests once more.

It failed once dinner began and food started to be served. You were looking forward to it, as you helped Tao with creating the menu for one of the most important nights in your life after dying. You were glad that the food was being called for and the guests were bid to sit- your feet began to hurt, as you weren't used to wearing them. Letting a deep breath out and leaning down to scratch over Coal one more time, you hoped it would be only smooth sailing since there.

What you completely forgot about was the fact that waiters are quite literally ghosts, and when you saw from your right periphery a pale hand reach over you, hand filled with a plate abundant with your favorite food, your whole body seized up in a panic.

 The yell you let out physically hurt your chest, and you curled into a small ball, knees knocking up against the table and knocking over the closest wine glasses, their red substance seeping into the white sheets. The arm was almost as shocked as you were, because the plate slipped from between the phantasmal fingers, dirtying the pristinely set table. Your hands circled around your neck, protecting it from every possible attack, your scar burning under your fingertips.

And yet the sudden panic left as quick as it came, and all it left behind was the deafening quiet. The numerous judging eyes and eye sockets looking at you.

Your husbands furrowed brows and tight lips. And you couldn't take it anymore.

Standing up, you ignored as you knocked into the table one more time, bowing towards it (Sooman didn't even mention bowing to you, was it a cultural thing in the underworld?) and you rushed from the large dining hall, the clicking of your heels and the pitter-patter of your puppy trailing behind you the only sound you heard up until you got to the door.

The single word heard from the Baroness made the tears of shame overflow.

"Pathetic."

-

Tao's anger vibrated, expanded out of his chest as he tried to calm himself down. He was on edge the whole night, could feel his wife's discomfort and wished he could end it all, but tradition was tradition, and the introduction of his new bride was not only a showcase for the others but also a warning not to mess with the new addition to the palace. If he would not introduce you formally as his consort, some nobles could have gotten it in their heads that you were only a mere concubine to warm his bed before you continued to your eternal destination.

He tried to make it as painless as possible, but the most important ones were the biggest pain in the ass, as always. Ever since he heard the Baroness talk to you with a scoff in her voice and a glance she would reserve only for the lowest of the low, he knew the best way to save you was to start dinner.

What he did not anticipate was your reaction to the food being served. Maybe it was just a buildup from all the stress that you had harbored the past days. Maybe it was the unexpected waiter that spooked you. But he would not expect your reaction in any scenario.

Tao's heart clenched when he saw the pain and embarrassment in your eyes once you realized what had happened. All he wanted to do was rush over and comfort you, but everything about your posture yelled about apprehension of being near people and he already anticipated your escape to your room.

What made him explode, however, was the sneer from the Baroness as she sipped on her wine some more.

"Pathetic." she said.

Pathetic, she called his consort.

Pathetic, she called the only source of happiness Tao had had in millennia.

And the King of the Underworld exploded, dark power radiating from his body and sweeping the table clean. The tattoos on his arms started moving like snakes, coiling around in preparation of attack.

 "Out." he growled, sure that all could hear him in the silence of the hall.

"OUT, I TELL YOU!" and with another swish, he sent a surge of his power over the noble guests, disintegrating them to dust. There would be a moment in the future he might regret his literal outburst, but the only thing he cared about at that moment was to get to you and learn what happened and how he can help to make it all better.

Tao had expected to hear sobs all the way down the hall, and he was left surprised when the hallway leading to your chambers was as dead as a grave. The only sound that he could hear over the thudding heartbeat in his ears were Coal’s soft whines as he tried to get into your chambers. It seemed that the tiny puppy wasn’t quick enough to make it into the room with you. It made his approach to the door that much cautious, as he had no idea what he would encounter behind it. You and the hell hound were most of the time closely together and knowing that you were so distressed that you left him behind was a bad omen.

Taking one more deep breath, he raised his hand, knocking on the wood what he hoped could be interpreted as softly.

There was no reply, and in a moment, he knocked once more.

"___? It's me...can I come in?" Tao spoke up gently. He sighed, stepping that much closer and resting his forehead against the door when he heard your reply.

"I deeply apologize, my Lord, for causing a scene. I...I understand if you wish to return to the guests." He hasn't heard your voice like that in a very long time. The last time you sounded so...small, was when you saw your dead boyfriend in the river.

To learn that all the progress you had gone through was gone with one word made Tao's soul fill with acidic anger.

"They are all gone, ___. I sent them home." it might have been his voice, gone all too hard at the thought of the sneering, decaying baroness, but the hitch in your throat was recognizable anywhere.

"Oh...Oh. I'm...I'm so sorry I ruined dinner, my Lord..."

"Please let me come in, ___." It wasn't usual for the Undertaker, but Tao was ready to beg his way into the room to face you and make sure you were alright.

"I just want to make sure you're okay, I promise. I'll leave once my soul is sated and you wish so, but please...let me make sure you are well."

The other side of the door was silent, contemplation thick in the air. With each passing second Tao's heart was clenched by something ice cold and iron hard, until you made it go away by opening the door.

Looking at you made Tao's heart ache. The smile he came to look forward to on a daily basis, all gone, the proud posture fit for a Queen of Death shriveled into hunched shoulders fitting for prey. And your eyes. Oh, your eyes which were always so honest and open with him, suddenly guarded, as if you were still not sure about letting him in.

Scared, as if you were not sure if he would lay his hand on you in a different way than in comfort.

 "___," passed his lips brokenly, and the hands that were resting against the door fell to his sides, not daring to put any energy into them in fear of his arms surging out and grabbing you in a safe embrace.

"It's okay." were the only words that could come to his mind.

"You did nothing wrong."

Silence.

Silence, before the mask you carefully hid your face behind cracked, and you threw yourself into his arms.

Tao's arms held you tight, grip so strong one might think that you were about to be whisked away from him at any moment. One of his palms trailed upward to cup the back of your head, fingers carding through the carefully prepared curls in comfort, as you wailed into your husband's shirt.

You kept blubbering out apologies, words mumbled and almost incoherent, and Tao kept hushing you, rubbing up and down your back every time the hitch in your throat made you cough. You stood there for what seemed like hours but could have easily been seconds. The adrenaline rush and fear, paired with the relief that your husband was not going to punish you for ruining such a special night left you drained, and it was clear in the way your grip on him loosened, your head lolling over onto his shoulder.

"Are you okay, my love?" Tao whispered quietly, the pet name rolling off his tongue so naturally one might think this was the millionth time he called you so. If there was any more running blood in your veins, you would have blushed as if it's your first time hearing it, rightfully so.

"I'm...I'm so t-tired..." you were barely able to mumble out, and without any hesitation, you husband scooped you up into his arms and brought you over to your bed, laying you gently on the soft surface.

"Should I leave?" he murmured into the sleepy air, and you shook your head with furrowed brows. Your hands had just enough strength to pull at his clothes and into the haven that was your bed. Tao went apprehensively, hoping he was not crossing any boundaries that might shoot up once the two of you wake up.

"Are you sure, ___? I don't want to force you...you need your rest." he cut himself off in the middle, not knowing how to deal with the situation.

"Please, just..." you sighed, burrowing into his chest once you got him where you wanted him.

"I don't sleep well alone. Please, just stay."

Tao relaxed into the bedsheets, kicking off the shoes that were biting into his feet at this point. Curling an arm under you, he scooped you much closer to him, making sure you melded into his side and were able to rest your head on his chest.

Just as you were straying away, Tao started moving again. Having closed your eyes already and being in no mood to open them again, you voiced your dislike in the movement by groaning gently. Your husband shushed you.

"I know, I know, let me just get this one up." and with one arm, he reached over the edge of the bed and returned with a handful of sizzling puppy, who licked at your face twice, just to make sure you were okay. After that, it headed to the end of the bed, twirled around a few times before deciding about the best sleeping place, and dozing off.

It was quiet in the Hold of the Underkeeper.

-

Days passed since the cursed dinner. Tao had forced the bloody baroness back into his hold with her proud head hung in shame, as the murderer of hundreds of young girls bowed and voiced her apology. You knew deep down that it was more of a survival move than her genuine feelings, as Tao would probably have her hung by the entrance to the Keep as warning to others who would insult his wife, but the fact that she did at least that was enough. You wanted to forget the night as quickly as possible.

You also finally opened up to your husband about your chronic fear of somebody standing behind you or appearing there suddenly, without your knowledge. It wasn't the waiter's fault that it did not know of your panic, and that was the reason he escaped punishment. Instead of revenge, you wanted to focus on healing, and you hoped your husband would think the same way.

Tao agreed with you wholeheartedly. He felt bad for all the times he thought his sneaking up upon you was just playful banter of two married people, when it was genuine terror that instilled in you instead of mirth. Holding your hands so gently, he asked if you had any ideas of how to work on your fear.

The only time your whole body wasn't seizing up in fear while someone was behind you was when Tao's arms were wrapped around your waist, brining your back to rest gently against his chest. Tao back hugging you was calming instead of anxiety-inducing.

Ever since then, Tao had made it his personal mission to envelop you in his arms every time he could. In the beginning he would announce his presence, asking you for consent as he uttered "can I hug you?" in the gentlest voice he possessed, gathering you into his embrace only after you allowed him so. The hugs would last anywhere from a minute to the whole night, as the two of you shared lights strokes of the fingertips and gentle nuzzles of the tips of your noses, talking about each other's day.

Gradually, Tao did not have to ask for approval anymore. It took a while, and there were hiccups along the way, but one day, he did not need to let himself be known to you before touching you, and the gentle touch of his fingertips on your sides did not make you jump. Servants and other guests in the Hold still made you queasy and you made sure to keep your eyes on them, but unsuspecting back hugs from your husband became more dear to you each day.

-

When you first woke up and looked out of the window, you thought your eyes were deceiving you. The usual darkness of the underworld was replaced by a whiteness you only remember from the time you were alive. Could it be...?

You gently slid from your husband's arms, grateful that Tao literally slept like the dead. Groaning, he rolled over into the heat you left behind on the bed, before stilling once more. The granite floor was cold under your bare feet, but you did not care in the slightest. You walked, enchanted, to the window and could not believe your eyes.

The underworld changed completely. The darkness and sky-less above were replaced by thick clouds, moving slowly in the breezeless air. From them heavy snowflakes fell, big, fluffy and beautiful in every way, gently landing on the blighted floor and turning it into a sheet of innocence. The air was crisp and there was no sound echoing through the underworld, which meant you could hear the fall of every snowflake.

Impossible. It couldn't have been. How would the clouds find their way into the underworld?

Fingers brushed your hair back gently, making you flinch at the sudden touch.

"Shhh..." Tao's voice was still rough from sleep, the rusty feeling to his voice very welcoming.

"I'm just braiding your hair."

"Tao, this..."

"Hmm..."

"Is this normal? It didn't happen last winter, nor when I came here."

"This is not normal." Tao concluded, gently entwining the strands of your hair with one another.

"Does it mean it's bad?" his chuckle had you calming down.

"No, it's good. It's a gift, of sorts."

"A gift?" Another hum sounded from behind you.

"From the gods." When you felt that he has finished with the braid, you hoped to turn and face him, but Tao had different plans, his arms winding around your waist and brining you flush against him, his chin hooking over your shoulder. The two of you gazed out your realm and you still struggled to understand what your husband was saying.

As you two silently stood in the window, you caught a glimpse of someone walking towards the snow. Uncertain, unstable steps of someone who had never seen snow before. The child approached apprehensively, but when it realized that the snow posed no danger, it ran back from where it came from, returning with two other children, copying his actions from before. When they saw their friend gathering handfuls of snow and throwing it in the air with an airy giggle, they did not hesitate to join him in the fun.

“A new era awaits the Underworld,” Tao has finally spoken with a soft sigh, as he gently turned you to gaze upon you. Your hands reached up to cradle his face almost naturally by now.

“It does?” you asked with a smile, and your husband nodded.

“It has been a while since the Undertaker had his heart stolen.” A chuckle bubbled from your throat and you shook your head at your husband’s teasing tone. Instead of replying, you had chosen to steal something else as well, your lips pressing against Tao’s plush ones in a soft, yet deep kiss.

If anyone had told you that your life would end prematurely, and you would become the Queen of Undeath, you would’ve run from the lunatic. But now, being held in the arms of your Love, all the pain and suffering you had gone through seemed worth it.

And for the first time in eons, twinkling laughter and the feeling of love spread through the Realm of Death.

[burningyetbeautifuldaydreams]

Host Of The Toast

Capitulo Dos

Warnings- Cursing/Swearing, a lot of facts about Crofters

Summary- Thankfully the crazy unknown voice isn’t an asshole and gives Logan some choice on how to run today’s episode and the show is actually a talk show for once

Authors Note- Welp this was uh, well I want to inform all the facts that were used was all taken from the official Crofter's website, yes that's an actual website and it's quite the treasure, it had information that I thought only logan, a die-hard lover of crofters will memorize. But the thing of Logan saying he wasn't a huge fan of pomegranate was just a personal headcanon. I am not a huge fan of pomegranate. I encourage you to check out the Crofter's Official website, (Not sponsored).

Logan sat patiently in his chair, glasses illuminating against the spotlight, a cup of sweet coffee in his hand,  his legs crossed comfortably, as he wore a purple necktie today. His signature shirt freshly cleaned with the scent of blueberries.

Welcome to Host of the Toast!

The speaker announces loudly, as the lights illuminated the stage to brighten the sight of Logan who had the same focused smile on his face, the dull brown eyes showed a sign of fear as his seat shifted toward where the audience would be. The paper that once said Game! is replaced by a whole script mentioning crofters a bit too many times, speaking of the delicious jelly (not sponsored) a whole box of it sat on his desk all neatly placed. The refreshing jelly that only belonged in Logan's belly gave Logan a certainty of no more madness, but hey were in episode two, we are not gonna stop the madness here.

With our host Logan who is alone today!!

for now.

"Greetings, I'm logan sanders, your host for the day and this show was thankfully made after our recent crofters' sponsorship." his eyes glimmered after taking a sip of his coffee, the new energy driving through his veins every sip, gives his dull robotic eyes a bit of emotion in them. Isn't our host so lively this morning, you can see him as bright as gold! Well, today I have decided to let the man run the show instead, just for today though. Logan sighs a breath of relief as he hears the unknown voice grant him free from the madness for now. Keyword, for now. He decides to cherish this moment with a spoon of crofters, a spoon meaning the whole entire thing.

"Well now, lets finally make this show a talk show," his eyes glimmered with an idea in his mind. One he used to do all the time with roman, in the mind palace after they discovered they both have some common ground. "Perhaps we shall talk about the greatest jelly in the world," his eyes brighten up again, as he takes another sip, still in the same position as before. I hope you guys are ready for a bore fest! the voice teased, as Logan scoffed, there is nothing boring about crofters.

As he took a spoon of crofters, his eyes lit up thrilled with excitable energy as the logical trait glanced at the pile of papers filled with writing, "how should I begin? perhaps with the smooth yet sweet texture, its a nice combination. Sweet and Thrilling, compared to the normal texture of jam, rugged and smooth. The small bitter aftertaste.." This was just the beginning.

Logan Sanders couldn't stop himself from speaking more about his one true love, crofters. The comment from the speaker didn't process through Logan's head as he began on talking about the process of how the jam was made. Oh was he in love with the jam? he is probably gay for crofters. What am I saying? He is totally gay for crofters. Yup, he is gay for crofters, as the man went high in depth on how the jelly was made.  

"The company carefully selects their fruit to make sure the jam has a splendid taste. One example of this is the Strawberry, there is a flattering variety. The Camarosa is a Medium-sized firmer berry with a strong and powerful aroma, Its dark pink hue contributes to its Jams color quite well. The taste is strongly sweet, which is one of the main reasons why the flavor is so wonderful. The Camarosa strawberry originated from Turkey. The Wild Blueberry is one of the only fruits grown in Canada as the others originate in Europe and one grows in Brazil"- the logical trait smiled eagerly, as his eyes sparkled energized by the crofters he just finished, grabbing another one, it was coincidentally Wild Blueberry-" The wild Blueberry only grows naturally where nature places them, so the Boreal forest and the climate of Quebec is the perfect place for these little berries to thrive. These little berries are filled with antioxidants as its flavor is sweet yet mild. A perfect balance of flavor if you ask me" The jam-loving man spun his black chair as he took a few more spoon fulls of Wild blueberry, as his eyes dazzled again, full of energy as if his worries vanished as he focused on one of his favorite things in the world. But if you look at it closely. his eyes still showed some worries, as he never moved out of his seat, not once at all while he talked. He must be suspicious that the narrator wasn't telling the truth, after last episode's traumatic experience. This is absolutely boring the narrator yawned.  Logan grabbed another crofter's jam.

 "Up next on fruit, The Cacanska Bestrna Blackberries come from Serbia, where many wonderful fruits have grown for hundreds of years. In the Crofters website, it is described to have an out-of-the-world taste and they are proud to say they also allow families to continue living happily in the Rolling South Serbian mountains, but they also describe the taste to be Tartly sweet. Truly a new kind of taste certainly, but I had tried them before and they're taste was a thrill to taste, truly a great fruit for a jam." The man with glasses stopped his little ramble as he had finished yet another jam, his chair squeaked as he leaned to grab another jam, the Organic Black Currant jam with a vibrant green lid. The man opened the jar hearing a nice little pop as he licked his lips ready to eat this jam. "The Black Currant, coming from Poland, It is often mistaken for grapes yet their flavors are very distinct to one another, this fruit leans more to tartly sweet. Their taste is quite new, and I'm personally not a big fan but it is quite good. Black Currants are known to be quite healthy as they offer antioxidants, Anthocyanins, and they are an excellent source of fiber and Vitamin C." Logan spoke out firmly, his face was a little messy to be fair, he did just eat four crofters in a row, while he talked. Ah for being the logical trait, that wasn't really smart at all. He licked off the lips, feeling some crofters on his face, he grabs a white handkerchief with a light blue heart on it. He uses the handkerchief to wipe off the jam around his face. Now his face slightly clean, he goes to eat another jam this one being, Concord Grape.

"The Concord Grape, a classic fruit known by most people. This fruit originates in America, first developed in Concord, MA about 160 years ago, its popularity grew quickly. Over 400,000 tons are harvested every year, this fruit hits the flavor of the jam well, and is a great bright sweet flavor and it gives the jam its luscious purple color." Logan informed as he was still at half of the jam, preparing to speak more he hears some bouncy footsteps behind him, he averts his attention behind him. There stands a familiar friend of his, curly purple dyed hair as some of his brown roots are still there, as his black round glasses were almost identical to Logan, he wore a gray cat onesie given by the logical trait, even though it was afternoon.

"Hi, Lolo!" Patton giggled, swaying his arms around, his blue eyes glimmered with faked innocence. "Hey Patton," Logan sighed relieved that it wasn't a trick from the narrator it was just Patton. All sides can come into the show whenever they please it is a part of the mind palace after all.  "What brings you here?" He asked looking at the moral side, as he smiled warmingly at the logical trait, swaying his arms around and around. His presence definitely gave the area a warm and comfortable feeling. "I heard you were talking about Crofters, so I just wanted to stop by and I made your favorite" Patton sang as he revealed, a small basket of jelly stuffed cookies, all having a messy design of the famous Crofters bear. Logan made a quiet surprised gasp as the bag was shown to him,  his eyes practically light up as constellations glow on his cheeks. His excitement about this surprise has seemed to summon his dotted adorable freckles. They illuminated brightly as Patton giggled placing the small basket in Logan's pale hands, as his excitement showed greatly.

Soon the excited boy noticed he was out of his serious stance, he cleared his throat as his constellation freckles lost their bright light, "Thank you, Patton." He said firmly, trying to calm his excitement but his freckles still shone on his face. His dull eyes still had some sparkles but they slowly died. "No problemo," Patton giggled, his blue adorable eyes were wide as he was a little hesitant to ask, "Say, Can I hear some of your knowledge 'bout Crofters?" Logan looked a little surprised, at Patton's question but then smiled warmly. "Of Course," he said sincerely as Patton smiled eagerly, he wasn't sure what terms he had with Logan anymore, but he seemed to be kinder to usual.  

"Yay!" Patton giggled, skipping closer to Logan as he leaned his head on the chair Logan sat. He smiled warmly at Logan letting him know he's ready to listen. So then Logan smiled hesitantly back and started to talk more about his one true love, Crofters. Both looked happy around each other's company, as Patton listened patiently to Logan's rambles, even if he did a mistake or two on the facts, he just smiled and admired the logical trait.

------------------------------------------

END

Welp this was uh, well I want to inform all the facts that were used was all taken from the official Crofter's website, yes that's an actual website and it's quite the treasure, it had information that I thought only logan, a die-hard lover of crofters will memorize. But the thing of Logan saying he wasn't a huge fan of pomegranate was just a personal headcanon. I am not a huge fan of pomegranate. I encourage you to check out the Crofter's Official website, (Not sponsored).

[uselessnocturnal]

For Your Eyes Only

olivarry week 2018 | day one | supernatural

summary; Oliver’s dishes are pristinely positioned in a neat pile on the counter beside the sink. There’s actual food in the fridge. Not the five minute plastic microwavable food but proper ham and cheese sandwiches (his favourite kind) that someone has premade. His clothes are folded corner to corner arranged by colour in his drawers and he knows for a fact he hadn’t done that. Hell, he hadn’t even washed them.

“Maybe it’s a ghost,” Thea jokes, “you could do with some friends…even if they might be dead.”

Oliver shoots her the classic eyebrow raised, unamused expression and holds back a sigh, “Thanks, Speedy, but ghosts don’t exist.”

-

Upon Oliver’s return from the dead after five years on Lian Yu, he buys an apartment to hide from his family and friends. Maybe it’s luck but it just so happens that this particular flat is haunted by his very own Barry the Friendly Ghost

notes; This is the first time I've participated in olivarry week and I'm already a couple of hours late oops. The fic doesn't exactly follow season one of Arrow. Generally Barry can touch anything if he thinks about it, so if something is thrown at him suddenly, it'll go straight through him (unless he's in a physical form) idk just give me the benefit of the doubt please. Hope you enjoy!

read on ao3 here

Oliver’s sparse dishes are pristinely positioned in a neat pile on the counter beside the sink. There’s actual food in the fridge. Not the five minute plastic microwavable food but proper smoked salmon sandwiches (his favourite kind – a luxury he couldn’t enjoy on Lian Yu) that someone has premade. His clothes are folded corner to corner in his drawers (boxers left untouched and sprawled around his underwear drawer, he notes)

At first he figured he must have been so exhausted from running around in a green hood that he must have forgotten he’d done it. Ridiculous considering Oliver really isn’t that meticulous. Then he decided Moira must’ve hired a housekeeper for him – someone to keep an eye on him. Oliver nearly rolls his eyes at the thought, it sounded like something that his mother would do; pretend to understand Oliver’s request for privacy and yet send someone to be his hidden babysitter. He was just lucky he kept his operation away from home.

When he confronts Thea about it in Verdant, she insists that No, Mom hasn’t sent anyone – though their mother had been tempted to install security cameras to which Walter had thankfully steered her away from.

“Maybe it’s a ghost,” Thea jokes, sliding her finger along the rim of her pomegranate martini, “you could do with some friends…even if they might be dead.” 

Oliver shoots her the Queen classic eyebrow raised, unamused expression and holds back a sigh, “Thanks, Speedy, but ghosts don’t exist.”

She gives a cryptic shrug, “Your flat is clean, you never see who does it, and there’s nothing on the security cameras you installed.” He rolls his eyes what kind of person did you think he was not to install cameras.

“Face it, Ollie, you’re being haunted.”

It’s almost stupid that, as he rides his motorbike back to his flat, he actually considers Thea’s suggestion. He knows she was joking – there was no way she believed in ghosts. Not unless she’d seen what he had lived on the island.

As time passes, as more dishes are done, more meals prepared and Oliver is sure no one else has been in his flat, he finds himself mumbling quiet thanks to the air. Sure, it feels a bit idiotic at first but if there were someone with him, they at least deserve some appreciation, especially since sometimes he finds his bloodied Hood suit cleaned and returned to its hiding spot without any officers crashing down his doors. Unless he wanted to be thrown into Arkham Asylum, there wasn’t much to say about the situation to anyone else. Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t need the extra help.

Barry can barely believe it. Oliver-Freaking-Queen is living in his apartment. A man – who basically came back from the dead – is now living in Barry’s apartment. Well, technically it’s Oliver’s apartment since Barry’s dead but it wasn’t like Barry could leave the area anyway 

He hadn’t left the confines of these same dull walls in…he couldn’t exactly remember when he died. Or where he died. He couldn’t remember anything about his death for that matter. Not much stuck in his head from his life either.

When he’d first found himself in the bare apartment in a panic all he knew was his name. Over time, though, bits and pieces had been coming back in fragments. My name is Barry Allen. When I was eleven years old, my mother was murdered and my father was arrested (or framed). I moved in with Joe and Iris. She was my best friend and she had brown eyes and a nice smile and was…was…

It was a mantra he had recited almost every day since he had died and memories started returning. His recollection would only go so far and sometimes he’d find himself struggling to remember things like his parents’ names, the sound of Joe’s voice or even what he himself looked like. Up until the return of Oliver Queen, Barry had led a lonely existence.

Somehow, as soon as Oliver stepped foot into the apartment, Barry just knew instantly who he was to the public. The Queen’s Gambit…no survivors…Oliver Queen…billionaire…presumed dead… The fact that he was back after five years amazed Barry. It was impossible to come back from the dead as far as he knew. Yet, Barry found himself believing the impossible a lot more easily than he had thought he would.

And so, with this newfound fascination in the man who had strengthened his belief, Barry Allen helped Oliver Queen with the housework. He hadn’t been completely sure of his ghostly capabilities but as of right now, he knows that he can move small objects without much difficulty and, unless he concentrated, he was invisible to the rest of the world (and all he could really do was flicker in front of the mirror for a couple of seconds).

Ghosts didn’t sleep much but Barry liked to give his roommate privacy, taking the time to wander around the apartment for the hundredth time that day. He learned a lot from cleaning the flat whenever he was out. Oliver still has plenty of suits that he wears to visit his sister and turns up at Queen Consolidated in. Oliver Queen is a vigilante that murders (if Barry ever spoke to Oliver, oh, he would have a word). Oliver doesn’t watch movies much but he does sometimes like to quietly play 80s music. There’s never anyone else in the house and he only occasionally goes out to actually meet his family.

Oliver Queen is lonely. And maybe he’d like a friend.

Even if potential friend is meant to be dead and has been through Oliver’s underwear drawer before.

It was Barry’s idea to start leaving notes. Knowing that Oliver felt ridiculous talking to himself, he figured they might as well start communicating and confirm Barry’s existence. It’s almost the biggest decision he’s ever made (it definitely is in this part of his afterlife anyway). Why risk this relationship for scaring Oliver off because his apartment is haunted? Barry doesn’t want to be alone again. But he also wants to actually communicate with man he lives with.

His gaze lingers on the doorway where he’s sure Oliver is about to return from lunch with Thea any moment now and flickers back to the paper on the table and the pen wavering in his hand. Footsteps that are distinctly Oliver’s echo in the hallway and Barry panics and settle on a simple scrawl

Hi :)

He wants to take back the smiley face almost immediately but Oliver strides into the room and Barry steps away from the table like a guilty child even though he knows in his heart that Oliver can’t even see him.

For his part, Oliver – hyperaware of his surroundings as always – notices the yellow sticky note immediately and picks it up, letting a small smile grace his face. Barry, still lingering like a nervous butterfly, releases a little sigh of a relief at the positive response. He ignores the slight skip in his heart at how beautiful Oliver looks when he smiles, telling himself that he’s just happy that Oliver hadn’t run out screaming (Oliver would probably be more collected than that and get his bow and arrows out – Barry wasn’t sure which was worse)

Barry barely has time to bask in his success when Oliver picks up the previously discarded pen and writes in smaller slightly messy letters below his message.

Thanks.

Out loud, Oliver asks thin air, “What’s your name?” He can almost sense Barry’s mad dash for the pen and his scrabble towards the post-it. It’s fascinating to watch the pen move by itself, controlled by an invisible being, finally revealing his roommate poltergeist’s name.

Barry

Barry. Somehow it fits. Oliver can’t exactly place a name to face but at least he can place it with actions and so far he has a pretty good impression of the man.

It takes time but they work out a routine. Barry leaves notes in the morning for Oliver, Oliver comes home and tells Barry about his day, about Diggle, Laurel, Felicity, Thea and Barry soaks in all the information from the outside world. Barry’s there for Oliver through his heartbreak with Laurel. He’s there for Oliver’s nightmares and night terrors. No matter what happens, Oliver knows Barry will always be there to listen to him; hell he can barely stop thinking about him.

“You’re smiling more.” Thea points out one afternoon in Big Belly Burger jarring Oliver from his thoughts, “Anyone in your life I should know about?”

Previously mentioned smile returns just as easily and affectionately, “No, no one. I’m just…happy to be spending time with you.”

Thea beams, a grin that lights up her entire face, “We’re happy you’re back, Ollie.”

Oliver’s learned a lot about Barry. From his favourite ice cream flavour to the musicals he watches when he’s sad. If a set of musicals just so happened to appear in the apartment, it’s because Oliver likes them too. He knows that Barry babbles to himself a lot (‘You’re lucky you can’t hear me, I’d probably talk your ear off’ a statement to which Oliver politely objects to) and that he likes dancing when he’s happy. Thanks to his heightened senses, generally he can more or less figure out where exactly Barry is and pretend to make eye contact with the ghost.

Just as Barry’s there for him, Oliver helps Barry remember. It takes an investment in an actual computer and a lot of research but they manage to piece together his life. Still, there’s nothing about Barry’s death.

Neither of them bring it up but there’s an unspoken silence (literally on Barry’s part) that if they find out what happened to Barry, he’d move on. Oliver isn’t familiar with the afterlife and paranormal but it seems like quite a universal concept that when ghosts got closure, they’d fade from this world and into the actual afterlife. It is a universal concept that both of them are reluctant to face.

Oliver’s not entirely sure when in his life it became normal for him to walk into an empty kitchen in the morning with the TV depicting the most recent Game of Thrones episode (a show Barry insists he watched when he was alive) and a floating frying pan of pancakes. Or when it became natural to just talk to Barry without seeing him and wait for his responses. Or the times when a balled up note with a smiley face drawn on it hits his cheek with surprising aim. It’s at these moments that Oliver feels that he can be himself and is truly happy. It’s where Oliver and the Arrow aren’t conflicting personalities but instead it’s just Oliver. Oliver and his own friendly ghost who somehow wormed his way into Oliver’s closed off heart and made a home for himself.

It’s a cause for celebration when Barry announces (read: writes in frantic capital letters) that he’s been able to leave the flat. Sure, it’s for a couple of hours until he’s zapped back to their flat but it’s still an incredible achievement, especially since he hasn’t completely mastered the technique of being seen. Their flat is decorated in Barry’s handwriting on notes. Some are fun messages for Oliver, others about his life before. Either way, Oliver doesn’t invite people over very often and that’s just how they like it.

They’ve become close over time, inevitable considering they practically live together but close in the sense that when he’s not in the flat, Oliver can’t get Barry out of his mind. Whenever something happens, whether it is good or bad, his first thought is Barry and how he’s going to tell him. Sometimes he catches himself getting distracted and longing to go back home so that he could spend time with Barry.

His affections weren’t exactly unrequited because it soon became Barry’s favourite hobby to make Oliver smile. There were three different smiles Barry was most familiar with. The small tiny quirk up of the lips when Oliver would return home to a cheeky note on the coffee table. There was the smile where Oliver’s lips would be pressed together in an effort not to smile but his eyes would be brighter with a mirth that wasn’t there before. Personally, Barry’s favourite smile was the one where Oliver smiled with his teeth. It was a rarer occurrence than the other two and Barry would pull the most ridiculous of actions to coax it out. Every time Oliver’s toothy grin does emerge though, Barry can feel a warmth that shouldn’t be there blossom in his chest and a yearning to just wrap his arms around the man.

That is the moment he realises that he’s falling for Oliver Queen.

Barry’s not quite sure what to do after reaching this conclusion. There are so many obstacles in the way. Oliver’s sexuality was not a problem because both men had confessed that they were bisexual, Oliver even going so far as to reveal that when he was younger he’d had a few flings with boys that his parents covered up with money (a fact that had infuriated Barry to no end). 

The real, blindingly obvious problem here: Barry’s dead.

Even if Barry had the courage to confess his crush (what was he, twelve?) to Oliver, there was no way Oliver would want to date a dead man. There was no point in even trying because the relationship just wouldn’t work.

There was no way of overcoming death as far as Barry knows and so, he concludes, this is a secret he’ll take to the grave.  

On March 14th, Oliver takes Barry out for a drink. For two main reasons, the first that it’s Barry’s birthday (a fact both had only found out a couple of weeks ago) and the second because “You’ve done so much for me, Barr, it’s my treat.” And Barry is so incredibly grateful Oliver can’t see him because all he’d find would be a blushing, stammering mess.

I’m only 25 and my drinking days are already over :(

The note brings one of those small smiles to Oliver’s face as he shakes his head affectionately. “Barry, I’ve seen you drink half a carton of orange juice before. I’m pretty sure you can handle your alcohol.” 

There’s a moment where nothing moves and Oliver takes it that Barry’s spluttering with laughter until the pen floats again and he scrawls an Oops? :p God, Oliver wished he could see Barry or even just hear him. There was nothing more that Oliver wanted but to hear Barry laugh. Something told him that it would be the most beautiful sound in the world.

Drinks goes…surprisingly well and relatively uninterrupted. Oliver has an earpiece obviously displayed so he can talk to Barry without any unwanted attention. Although, Barry argues playfully, every time Oliver drives someone away from where Barry is ‘sitting’, he still gets some weird looks.

The bartender barely gives Oliver a second look when he asks for two bottles of beer and leaves them to it. Barry and Oliver make good conversation; Barry communicating sometimes by brief touches on Oliver’s arm or writing out a message. That night they find out that a) ghosts can get drunk and b) Barry was probably a lightweight when he was alive. 

During the night, they slowly forget about being subtle – Barry occasionally swinging his bottle around and freaking out nearby patrons which just sends them both into another bout of laughter.

“In all my life,” Oliver starts between laughs, “I never did think that I’d be sitting in a bar talking to my roommate ghost.”

Barry’s heart flutters (he knows, he’s dead, clearly love does strange things to anybody) and a grin comes easily to his face as he squeezes the man’s hand.

Well, our lives’ aren’t exactly normal.

A softer smile, without teeth but just as bright, lights up Oliver’s face, “No, they’re not,” he agrees, “It’s hard sometimes…but at least it’s full.”

To life not being normal.

Barry writes the words down, staring into Oliver’s beautiful blue eyes and offers his floating bottle in a toast.

Rather than a verbal response, Oliver picks up the pen and writes underneath in his neat letters:

To life being full.

He raises his bottle to meet Barry’s and together, they drink

part two coming soon!

[obsidiancorner]

Tag Meme

I was tagged by the stellar @astroshorts. Thanks for the tag, my lovely. xoxo

The last…

Drink: Pomegranate Seltzer Water

Phone call: I missed a phone call from my boyfriend earlier when he was at the store. The last person I actually talked to, though, was my beloved little sister (I don’t care if I’m only a minute older. She’s the only little sister I get dammit.)

Text message: Also my sister

Song you listened to: Semi Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind

Time you cried: two words: Story Core. That shit had me in tears.

Have you ever…

Dated someone twice: I have, in fact, dated Rob twice. 

Kissed someone and regretted it: yep.

Been cheated on: Yep

Lost someone special: Yes. Both grandparents on my mom’s side were incredibly special people and I miss them both dearly. 

Been depressed: short answer- yes

Gotten drunk and thrown up: Yep. In my early-mid twenties, I was friends with a functioning alcoholic and she would always con me into trying to keep up with her... because I was stupid, I tried. It never ended well. DO NOT DO IT. Your liver will thank you. 

Three favorite colors: Blue, purple, and green

In the last year have you…

Made new friends: I joined Tumblr this year, so all my mutuals count (I think?) but I’m especially close to a few of them. 

Laughed until you cried: In this house and/or with the sister I have? Absolutely. There is a lot of laughter in this house, despite the chronic depression that my entire family is plagued with. 

Met someone who changed you: Yes. They didn’t make me. They just inspired me to be better and I changed for the better as a result. 

Found out who your friends are: the ones who constantly support me and push me on, despite my insecurities. 

Kissed someone on your facebook list: Aside from Rob (because duh), no. 

Do you have any pets: A beautiful dilute torbie (cat) named Kokomo and a Shi-chon named Sadie. 

Do you want to change your name: My last name eventually... maybe? I don’t know if Rob and I will ever marry... but aside from that? No. 

What did you do for your last birthday: Sat at home, probably perusing Tumblr.

What time did you wake up: I’m a parent of a child on the Spectrum who keeps absurd sleeping hours... I couldn’t even begin to tell you. It was still dark and I hadn’t had my coffee yet so brain functions were at a bare-minimum, so there’s that. 

What were you doing last night at midnight: Watching That 70′s Show with Rob before bed.

Name something you can’t wait for: the day I can get my drawing tablet

When was the last time you saw your mom: I live with her because Rob and I need help with Jenna. She requires constant supervision and is usually a two adults to one kid ratio requirement. 

What are you listening to rn: Rob is watching Season 2 of The Walking Dead right now so lots of screaming and zombie gurgles?... it’s just kind of on in the background. So is the home screen tinkling of the PS4, the occasional popping of the carbonation in my seltzer water, and the clickity-clack of my typing. 

Have you ever talked to someone named Tom: There were several “Thomas” boys in my school growing up... So occasionally from elementary school up until high school graduation. 

Something that gets on your nerves: people that bully others online.     -> this was astroshorts’ answer and I’m leaving it there because I’m the one who argues for or helps support the one being bullied. Anon posters get argued for because they probably won’t come out to defend themselves... hence anon to begin with... but if it’s someone who will fight back on their own? I just give support. 

Most visited website: Tumblr, my Google Drive, and my Redbubble store after I’ve posted anything about it. AO3, as well, when I post stuff. What can I say? I’m addicted to the sinking feeling when a piddly amount of views come in... That’s a lie. I’m usually painfully optimistic only to have that optimism squashed. lol *shrug* oh well. 

Hair Color: a medium brown.... It’s my natural color. 

Long or short hair: I usually keep my hair long. an inch or two below the shoulders at a minimum. Usually it’s around the small of my back. 

Do you have a crush on someone: Rob, I guess? Does it count if you’re in a committed relationship with the person? 

What do you like about yourself: I’m opinionated... And whichever person hit my inbox with that comment about loving reading my opinions on stuff, I freakin’ love you. Your Anon comment made me cry. 

Blood type: A Negative. 

Nickname: Beccaboo. Got it in band in high school and it’s just sorta stuck. 

Relationship status: Long-term committed relationship 

Zodiac: Cancer sun, with Mercury and Gemini heavily influencing my whol chart. 

Prounouns: she/her

Favorite tv shows: iZombie, The Walking Dead (and Talking Dead), That 70′s Show, 

Tattoos: 4- A gemini sign (gemini/cancer cusp but mercury is heavy enough an influence that my cancer sun doesn’t show much) on my right shoulder, a star pattern on the small of my back, an autism one on my left side, and a locked heart on my left wrist.  

Right or left-handed: depends on what I’m doing. For writing, right. For almost everything else, left.-> oddly enough, astroshorts, same. 

Surgery: Tonsils when I was 6. 

Sport: Horseback riding and Marching Band. Anyone who says people who march don’t have any athleticism, I call bullshit. Marching Band members put in long hours of constant marching and playing through a week. They work not only arms and legs, but lung capacity as well. It takes an incredible amount of effort to be a good marching band. That means keeping up top lung performance at the 7:59 time mark as you did before the first minute of an 8-minute show is through. I can promise you that after having marched, sometimes with ungodly spiteful step size, for that long, even a football player would be saying that what band members do takes athleticism. Fact. We had several football players in our band who had to skip their halftime talk with their coach to march with the band. And that’s not even mentioning constant playing through parade routes that can range anywhere from one to three miles in length on average. Marching Band is a goddamn sport. 

Vacation: I’ve been to Australia, the Continental Divide in Colorado, all over Ohio, Washington D.C., North Carolina, New York City, Illinois, Lake Huron in Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, and the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. I want to go to Greece though.  

Pair of shoes: My Converse sneakers. They have a nifty design on them. I also have a super-comfy pair of stilettos that I love dearly. 

Eating: what about it? I used to not and was in the “target weight range” but looked sickly because of malnourishment. Now I do eat and am somewhat overweight but look and feel much healthier. For clarity, it wasn’t really an eating disorder. I ate when I was hungry but was always stressed so I almost never ate. I would go days without eating before realizing I hadn’t eaten in forever and would eat a bowl of cereal or a couple slices of pizza. 

Drinking: only on select nights when I “wine and write”... alcoholism runs in my family so I definitely don’t make a habit of drinking too much. In my youth it was something to do with the crew... now it’s just me and my characters every so often. Never to handle a problem. that’s a slippery slope I have no business being on. 

I’m about to: go to bed, probably. it’s 10:58 pm at this moment. 

Waiting for: the day I can get a better computer for art and my drawing tablet. 

Want: the drawing tablet, in the most immediate sense. In the long term, though, it is to know that Jenna will eventually be able to make on her own. Rob and I won’t be around forever and I worry about what will happen to her when we are gone. If we can’t get her current path altered to one better suited for her needs, I’m terrified of what will happen to her if something were to happen to me and Rob prematurely... even more so when we are all older. 

Get married: Maybe someday but Rob and I are in no rush to even get engaged. We love each other deeply and are in a committed relationship and that is good enough for us. 

Career: Right now I’m a stay-at-home mom. But I would love to get an art career to take off... though the odds of that are slim to none. 

Which is better:

Hugs or kisses: hugs. I’m picky about who touches me at all... so I’m especially picky about who is kissing me. 

Lips or eyes: eyes

Shorter or taller: I’m 4 feet 10 inches tall (1.47 meters for my metric friends) so take a guess... I need someone taller to help me reach shit.

Older or younger: older

Nice arms or stomach: arms. Dear god, arms. 

Hook up or relationship: relationship

Troublemaker or hesitant: Hesitant... I guess? I tend to keep my nose pretty clean. 

Have you…

Kissed a stranger: No

Drunken hard liquor: I’m 29...

Lost glasses/contact lenses: I don’t have either... though I probably should... It’s getting harder to see some things clearly. White lettering on a tv’s guide screen? difficult from too far away. Digital clocks? tough to decipher from too far away. I used to be able to read that stuff from another room. 

Turned someone down: Yes

Sex on the first date: Yes.... but we had been friends for years so it wasn’t exactly the same as, say, a blind date that ended in a one-night stand. (No judgement. You all do you... just make sure you’re protected.)

Broke someone’s heart: Yes. Bonus points for me for two people breaking each other’s hearts simultaneously. I’m an over achiever and he was too. But I miss him, even though it could never have been... both of them, actually. timing is a bitch sometimes. 

Had a broken heart: Yes... see above

Been arrested: Nope but I did grow up in a small town and worked as a third shift server at a local restaurant so they let me sit in the back of their cop car while they chatted with me while I was on break once. They were fun cops... went to high school with one. 

Cried when someone died: yes... isn’t that fairly commonplace when someone who is close to you or you love dies?

Fallen for a friend: Rob was a friend for years before we started dating. I’ve known him for almost 15 years and we’ve been together for 10. Other than Rob, though, a couple times. See mutual heartbreak comment a few bulletpoints above.  

Do you believe in:

Yourself: No

Miracles: I believe stuff happens that has no viable explanation at present. That doesn’t necessarily equate to a miracle though. It just means it can’t be explained right now. 

Love at first sight: No

Santa claus: Who made this meme?

Kiss on the first date: Of course.

I’m going to be a fun-sucker and not tag anyone else because my primary circle is in the Dragon Age fandom and I know most of them have already done it. If anyone WANTS to do this, of course, feel free and say I tagged you so I can see your answers! <3

[corvacorvidae]

The Consulting Killer

CHAPTER TWO

September 10th, 2014 - Late Evening

John

John Watson was sitting in the hall outside the surgical suite. Beside him was a haggard looking Greg Lestrade, bent over a long-cold cup of coffee. Mycroft Holmes- usually the picture of impeccability- paced next to their bench, shoes clicking on the tile and hand running through his hair at a rate of approximately once every thirty-two seconds.

Though it was heavily dampened by thick, sterile white walls and heavy swinging doors, all three men could hear the sharp beep-beep-beep of a pulse oximetry, just as all three men could vividly remember the several minutes during which the beeping had stopped- becoming instead a constant, a flat line, as Sherlock’s heart stopped for the first time.

That time had been the longest, followed by four more occurrences lasting, cumulatively, no more than forty-five seconds each before the best surgeons and perioperative nurses in the UK succeeded in their near-constant struggle to keep Sherlock’s heart beating.

During those moments, but none more so than the first, John had felt such a keen sense of desperation and helplessness, of loss and utter despair. He was sure that his two companions felt similarly although- selfishly- he thought that perhaps they felt it to a lesser degree than he must.

John’s eyes had closed, and he had almost drifted off to sleep, lulled by the mechanical beeping when a nurse, still wearing her surgical scrubs, hairnet, and mask, appeared. “Mr. Holmes?” She asked.

John couldn’t help but notice the blood that splattered her blue shirt and the skin of her upper arms where her gloves wouldn’t have reached.

“Yes.” Mycroft responded, vainly attempting to smooth the wrinkles that now decorated his suit. At her indication, he followed the nurse a few paces away from the other men. She spoke to him in a low tone, but both John and Greg could hear the odd phrase and word, like “collapsed lung”, “unstable”, “internal hemorrhaging”, and “poor outlook”, leaving them stuck wishing she would’ve spoken both louder and softer- so they could hear all of it or not at all.

With Mycroft’s sharp nod, the nurse retreated back into the operating room, leaving a solitary drop of blood where she had stood. John stared at it blankly.

Mycroft said nothing, but he chose to sit down next to Greg instead of resume his pacing. Greg gave a curious glance in his direction but, seeing the way Mycroft sunk his head into his hands, quickly decided it best not to ask any questions.

Once again, they were left only to listen to the steady beep-beep-beep and the occasional whirl of surgical machinery.

John, the adrenaline and worry giving way to unfiltered exhaustion, slipped into sleep. This time when he woke it was not to the sound of an anxious nurse but to the smell of fresh coffee. Mycroft was holding a cup, fresh tendrils rising from its surface, though his still-rumpled suit and throw-away Styrofoam of the container indicated a trip to the cafeteria rather than a trip home.

“He’ll be out of surgery any minute.” Greg commented, his face impassive. “They think they’ve gotten all the bullet fragments, but it’s too dangerous to keep him under any longer.”

At John’s questioning glance, Mycroft clarified.

“His previous,” he cleared his throat, “addiction weakened his heart. The anesthesiologist is concerned that if they continue, he’ll become irretrievable. They have managed to repair the hemorrhage, remove what they believe are all the bullet fragments, and place a chest tube to relieve the internal pressure of the collapsed lung.

“They have made plans to continue reparative surgery later in the week, given he survives until then.”

John nodded blankly. For once, he wished he lacked a medical degree. His brain was a flurry of statistics- the likelihood that an overlooked shard of shrapnel would migrate into Sherlock’s heart before the next surgery, the chance that a clogged chest tube would lead to respiratory arrest, the near inevitability that the hemorrhage would recur and-

“Hey.” Greg interrupted, placing a wide palm on John’s shoulder. “He may not be out of the woods yet, but it’s Sherlock. He’s nothing if not a stubborn bastard.”

 September 11th, 2014 - Early Morning

Greg

By the time Sherlock was moved to his room- private, of course, and courtesy of Mycroft- the sun was just beginning to soften the night sky into an orange-tinted gray.

Mycroft had left, citing an emergency of international import, and John had taken watch at Sherlock’s bedside, leaving Greg to wander down to the cafeteria in search of breakfast.

He had to wonder if a hospital cafeteria wasn’t the loneliest place to be at 5:43 in the morning; if there was a place lonelier Greg hoped desperately he never found it.

The tables- white- and the tile floor- off white- were just as empty and sterile as the rest of the building, most lacking any evidence that they had been used since the night cleaning crew swept through hours earlier. One table, closest to the twin pots of coffee- one marked decaf, almost full, while the other dwindled towards empty- had a few napkins strewn about it, indicating it as the one night-shift doctors, ambulance drivers, and the lonely parents of hospitalized children used.

Greg, being none of the above, made his way to the clean table directly opposite. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, he waited for the clock to announce 6 and, with it, the readiness of the cafeteria’s staff for breakfast.

“Mind if I join you?” A voice- feminine with a thick cockney accent- asked.

He simply gestured to the seat in front of him, not looking up from his cup.

He could hear the swish of polyester as whoever had spoken moved to take the proffered seat with a heavy thud and an equally heavy sigh.

“Long night?” The accented voice spoke again.

Greg looked up to find himself seated across from a rather petite woman. Pomegranate-colored hair was tied up in a tight bun, angular shoulders swamped by a thick forest-green paramedic’s coat. A faint scattering of freckles clouded her pointy nose and pale cheeks as she watched him carefully, appraisingly, with sharp gray-blue eyes.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, you?”

She merely nodded, plunking a tea bag into a cup of hot water with a tired nonchalance.

They sat in silence for a moment, Greg trying to consume his coffee as quickly as he could in the hopes that the caffeine would jolt him awake, but burning his tongue and having to slow his pace.

“You’re a policeman, yeah?” The woman asked, taking a sip of her tea.

Greg nodded, a bit confused as to how she could tell. She motioned to his hip. He hadn’t noticed before, but his gun was still half-drawn from his holster, peeking out from underneath his coat. Quickly, he readjusted it, and settled his jacket so as to cover both his gun and his badge. “Detective inspector, actually.”

“Here for the gunshot victim, then?”

Greg nodded again.

“I was part of the ambulance team that helped stabilize him at the scene. One of the nurses told me he had pulled through. I’m surprised, you know. With the rate he was losing blood, and the damage he sustained- well, I’m sure you’ve seen enough to know how bad he was.”

Greg stayed silent, which the woman took as a sign to continue.

“You can almost always tell the shooter’s intent from the wound itself, you know.” She took a gulp of her tea. “Sometimes, we’ll transport people who’ve shot themselves in the foot or something, you know, from messing around. And sometimes we’ll get people who’ve been shot by a jealous spouse or a raging friend- someone who doesn’t really want to kill them, but wants them to hurt. They’ll maybe get them in the shoulder or the leg, maybe the abdomen if they’re really pissed off.

“But that one,” She leant forward conspiratorially. “That one was right next to the heart, it was. Whoever shot him meant it. I mean, he near enough died when he was in the back with us. I certainly don’t envy the surgical team that had to work on him- I heard his heart stopped three times while he was on the table.”

“Five times, actually.” Greg corrected.

The woman ignored the irritation in his tone, and emitted a low whistle of amazement. “Who shot him then? I’m guessing it wasn’t a drug hit- those guys usually come in with more than one bullet stuck in them- but he does look a bit like the junkie type. Did he piss off his dealer?”

“He’s a friend, actually.” Greg stated, meeting the woman’s eyes with a hard glare.

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Sorry, guess that was rude of me.”

Greg hummed, still glaring and desperately hoping she would move tables.

“He a policeman too then?”

Greg closed his eyes, sighing. “No. He’s a consulting detective.”

“What’s that? Like a, what are they called,” she tapped her finger, “private detective?”

“A bit.”

“Sounds like this bloke one of my friends over at St. Bart’s is always going on about. Always asking her to borrow bits and pieces of corpses for experiments or something freaky like that. But she’s got a bit of a crush on the wanker so,”

“I should be going.” Greg stood, abruptly cutting her off.

“Weren’t you waiting for breakfast? The café will open any minute now. I mean, the hash browns are far too greasy, but the eggs aren’t half bad.”

Greg was already tossing his coffee into the bin and striding quickly towards the door.

“Before you go, Gregory,” The cockney accent had suddenly dropped from her voice. At the mention of his voice, Greg slowed. He hadn’t recalled introducing himself. “Do remember that whoever shot Sherlock, shot to kill. He was not meant to survive this. And he still mightn’t.”

Hearing Sherlock’s name- which he was sure he hadn’t mentioned- had Greg spinning back to face the table he had abandoned in a rush just moments before. But in the half-second it took for him to do so, the woman had already disappeared, leaving behind only her still-steaming cup of tea.

 September 11th, 2014 - Slightly Later Morning

Seraphin

Running into Greg Lestrade had been largely coincidental but quite fortuitous. Seraphin had always wanted to introduce herself to the man, one she considered to have an underestimated intellect and the presumed patience of a saint- having put up with Sherlock for so many years.

Running into Mycroft Holmes was also coincidental, but not quite as fortuitous.

“And just what are you doing here, sister mine?”

Seraphin met Mycroft’s calculating gaze with her own. “I could ask the same, brother dear.”

“Well, I’m not parading around as a paramedic.” He answered, eyes glancing coldly at the uniform she still wore. She had discovered it in the breakroom after she had tried and failed to locate a doctor’s coat and scrubs.

“Yes, you never could pull off green.”

Mycroft’s lips tightened. “Let’s drop the charade, shall we?”

“It’s hardly any fun without it.”

“Seraphin.”

The two looked at each other intently, each waiting for the other to crack first.

Usually, Seraphin would win this game. Though the youngest of the Holmes’, she was by far the most stubborn- if not to a near fatal fault. But she was also the least patient, and her patience was already worn thin.

“Fine, Myc.” She acquiesced, though not without throwing out the endearment that Mycroft so thoroughly despised. “I’m here to visit Sherlock.”

“Sentiment, Seraphin?” Mycroft scoffed. “Never did I expect you to admit to it so freely.”

“And yet, you’re here,” Seraphin observed, “even after I hacked into your system and sent a rather raunchy email to the Bulgarian prime minister from your address- something certainly deserving of your direct intervention.”

Mycroft’s jaw clenched so tightly she was sure she could hear his teeth squeak in protest. “Yes, thank you for that.”

Seraphin smirked. “So I suppose we’ve both become rather sentimental, haven’t we.”

She began to walk around him, but a hand around her upper arm quickly stopped her.

“Why are you really here, Seraphin?” Mycroft whispered, leaning in close. “While I know that you care for Sherlock, you also have a rather demanding job- one I sent you only two days back, if you’ll recall- and you’re hardly fool enough to waste your time coming to see a comatose man.”

“What does that say about you then, brother mine?”

“Would it be too much for you to answer me honestly, if only just this once?”

Seraphin pulled her arm away from her brother’s grip, before taking a moment to closely examine the man.

His suit was wrinkled- indicating that he had not been home in at least twenty hours. His coat pocket lacked the subtle bulge of the protein bar Mycroft never left home without, meaning he had not eaten a meal within the last fifteen. His eyes were tired and somewhat sunken, showing both sleeplessness- he had been up all night then- and dehydration- stressed. Finally, he had chosen to remain at the hospital, rather than return to work to make reparations with Bulgaria. Conclusion, Mycroft was genuinely worried about Sherlock.

That gave Seraphin pause. She racked her brain, searching for another moment in which Mycroft had showed such genuine concern for either herself or his younger brother, and came up only with moments that had occurred deep into Sherlock’s drug addicted years. Years in which overdoses, periods of self harm and self-endangerment, and suicidal efforts were hardly a rarity. Years in which both the youngest and the oldest of the Holmes siblings had truly wondered whether or not the middle one would survive.

Secondary conclusion, Sherlock’s condition was more serious than his admittance report had indicated.

The most appropriate course of action, she decided, was to indulge her brother- if only just this once.

“I’m here to visit Sherlock’s shooter.” She said, a steel edge in her voice. Mycroft’s eyebrows furrowed, prompting Seraphin to roll her eyes. “Honestly, Mycroft if you, yourself, reviewed the footage you so meticulously take of our brother instead of having some halfwit staffer do so, you’d know who that is, just the same as I do.” She couldn’t indulge him too much, after all.

She then reached up and undid her tight bun, letting her red curls fall around her shoulders, discarding the paramedic’s jacket as she did so. Beneath it was a gray woolen sweater- grossly oversized, as were all the sweaters she owned.

“Seraphin-”

“Now, now, Mycroft,” she grinned. “It’s not fair for you to have all the fun.”

She turned, wool swishing in the way she so enjoyed, and with a final wave she disappeared around the corner, leaving a tired and frustrated Mycroft in her wake.

[asksabhaniblog]

Saadat Hasan Manto, the family man

Sixty-three years after his death, Saadat Hasan Manto’s grandson revisits his brilliant but troubled legacy—and the effect he had on his loved ones

Mohammad Farooq

Saadat Hasan Manto with wife Safia (left) and sister-in-law Zakia Hamid Jalal in Bombay. Photographs courtesy the Manto family

On the foggy morning of 18 January 1955, Saadat Hasan Manto, one of the scions of modern Urdu literature, died in an apartment located off Hall Road in Lahore. Apart from the echoes of his turbulent life, his wife Safia and daughters Nighat, Nuzhat and Nusrat, were left with little else that day. His death, however, was no surprise. A penchant for drinking, which led to alcoholism, paved the way for Manto’s untimely demise.

Sixty-three years after his death, Manto’s legacy still shines on. His stories resonated with the reality of his time, portrayed the struggles of the common people, the discrimination and miseries they suffered. His penmanship was undeniably sharp, it breathed fire and caused a furore among those who couldn’t digest too much reality.

For many of his contemporaries, Manto was a source of inspiration, as well as discontent and restlessness, someone who stood by the intellectual superiority of his being. Even though he faced hardships, persecution, court cases and the scorn of his peer group, he rose above these challenges valiantly, refusing to remain suppressed.

Anyone who has read Manto will attest to his sensitivity as a writer, but behind it all was a human being who detested falsehood vehemently and stood by those honest virtues that distinguished him from his peers. But did Manto play his part as a husband fully? Was he able to provide support for his daughters?

His Lahore-based middle daughter and my mother, Nuzhat, whom he called Jujiyajee, remembers, “Abajaan used to tell Ameejaan that he had written so much, she would live comfortably for the rest of her life. Unfortunately, the publishers were very harsh and hardly paid any royalties.”

“He could see his own traits in me, the naughtiness and bluntness that formed part of Manto’s personality,” she adds. “The way he drank was suicidal, and this is my grievance against him.”

She also recalls moments of fatherly affection. “I remember when we would return home from school, he would be waiting with a plateful of pomegranate seeds. Children from the neighbourhood would be invited to join in.” Nuzhat was almost seven years old when Manto died. She didn’t get enough time with him and his absence left a void in her life.

Zakia Hamid Jalal, Safia’s sister, reportedly said in a conversation in the early 1990s, “He always made fun that his wife’s sister was half-owner of the house and everything in it.” Manto used to say, she added, that “if all of you sisters decided to exercise that right, I would find myself living on the footpath.”

Manto with wife Safia (left), sister-in-law Zakia Hamid Jalal and baby Nighat in Mumbai.

Manto’s eldest daughter, Nighat, also based in Lahore, in a conversation around the same time, remembered him affectionately. “We were very young, but we remember we would all jump on his bed first thing in the morning and he would make us sit on his stomach and talk to us and play games with us.”

“Our mother had very simple habits,” she added. “Our father would help her do her hair, iron her clothes and cook. His speciality was making pakoras.”

Manto was profoundly jolted by the death of his firstborn, Arif, in Delhi in the early 1940s. It afflicted him with paranoia and obsession, which lingered on for some years. He wrote a short story, Khaled Mian, which was an actual depiction of Arif’s early demise and the impact it had on him as a father. Ironically, he changed the names of the protagonists in this story, which wasn’t a very Mantoesque characteristic.

When asked about Arif and his death, Nuzhat says, “Our mother never mentioned or talked about Arif. She remained quiet and never expressed her sentiments regarding the colossal loss of her son.”

Manto migrated from India to Pakistan post-Partition in January 1948. He moved from Bombay (now Mumbai) to Lahore, where his family was settled, when Safia was pregnant with their second daughter, Nuzhat. In an interesting disclosure, Jalal said two years ago to me, “It was our mother’s decision to migrate to Pakistan, as she clearly told Bhai Saadat that her daughters won’t remain there in Bombay, due to the violence that was ablaze across the country.”

Making ends meet in Lahore in those days was tough for a writer, especially for one who had earned a reasonable income working in Bombay’s film industry. Lahore’s film industry, in comparison, was in a shambles after Partition. Opportunities were rare, financiers who once thronged the city migrated to India due to reasons of stability and to avoid the turbulence that had engulfed the region in those years.

Financially strapped, Manto took to drinking even more heavily as opportunities remained limited and publishers were afraid to engage with such a volatile personality, who they deemed “controversial”. But this was also a period of intellectual renaissance for Manto, who, despite his financial woes, was able to produce stories that were not only eye-openers but also masterpieces.

But the opposition against his writing grew fiercer, as some of his contemporaries became his sworn enemies and the Progressive Writers’ Movement openly voiced discontent against his stories. “He was cornered from all sides; his source of livelihood was solely writing, and he was deprived of it,” says Nuzhat. “Court cases, societal aversion and stiff opposition from every corner made his life a living hell.”

Manto’s alcoholism was also exploited by publishers and newspapers alike. He sold his writings at throwaway prices, just to get a bottle of liquor, in which he drowned his frustrations. As his financial woes worsened, he drank harder, effectively driving himself to the brink of suicide.

His mind retained the same old sharpness, though. According to writer-musician Shahid Ahmad Dehlvi, in 1953, even as alcoholism began to take a toll on Manto, his speech remained bold and frank: “Every word was steeped in sincerity, free from artifice. In his mind and ideas, there was no holding back, no deceptive covers. He had no desire to impress or be impressed. He had no fear of calling good good and bad bad.”

In a late 1950s sketch titled Uncle Manto, Hamid Jalal, the writer’s nephew, wrote, “He distressed the family even more than his addiction to the bottle. He began borrowing money indiscriminately. He touched relatives, friends, neighbours, and I would say even strangers, for he could not resist borrowing even from fans who came only to pay their respects to him.”

The breaking point came when Nighat was afflicted with typhoid and the money borrowed to procure medication for her treatment was spent to buy a bottle of alcohol. Jalal adds in his sketch: “He must have been full of remorse and self-condemnation, for he tried to make-up by demonstrating his love for the stricken child. Despite his wife’s protests he sat unsteadily on the bed, his long hair falling all over his face, and tried to lift the child on to his lap and overwhelm her with paternal affection. When his wife dragged him away from the bed, he was enraged; he was determined to exercise his paternal right even if it meant resorting to violence.”

As time passed, the situation only exacerbated and led to a diagnosis of cirrhosis of the liver. Safia must have endured severe trauma and anguish during those dark days as Manto struggled with his addiction. But her steadfastness and resolve knew no bounds. In spite of her own prolonged frustration, she remained a bastion of strength for her daughters, says Nuzhat.

“Irrespective of Abajaan’s death, our mother and immediate family provided us all the warmth and affection we needed, so the void of our father wasn’t felt as such,” as Nuzhat puts it. “My two sisters and I had a happy childhood, despite Abajaan’s absence.”

Mohammad Farooq is a senior sub-editor at the business desk for Profit by Pakistan Today.

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Eddard

Lord Arryn's death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord," Grand Maester Pycelle said. "I would be more than happy to tell you what I can of the manner of his passing. Do be seated. Would you care for refreshments? Some dates, perhaps? I have some very fine persimmons as well. Wine no longer agrees with my digestion, I fear, but I can offer you a cup of iced milk, sweetened with honey. I find it most refreshing in this heat." There was no denying the heat; Ned could feel the silk tunic clinging to his chest. Thick, moist air covered the city like a damp woolen blanket, and the riverside had grown unruly as the poor fled their hot, airless warrens to jostle for sleeping places near the water, where the only breath of wind was to be found. "That would be most kind," Ned said, seating himself. Pycelle lifted a tiny silver bell with thumb and forefinger and tinkled it gently. A slender young serving girl hurried into the solar. "Iced milk for the King's Hand and myself, if you would be so kind, child. Well sweetened." As the girl went to fetch their drinks, the Grand Maester knotted his fingers together and rested his hands on his stomach. "The smallfolk say that the last year of summer is always the hottest. It is not so, yet ofttimes it feels that way, does it not? On days like this, I envy you northerners your summer snows." The heavy jeweled chain around the old man's neck chinked softly as he shifted in his seat. "To be sure, King Maekar's summer was hotter than this one, and near as long. There were fools, even in the Citadel, who took that to mean that the Great Summer had come at last, the summer that never ends, but in the seventh year it broke suddenly, and we had a short autumn and a terrible long winter. Still, the heat was fierce while it lasted. Oldtown steamed and sweltered by day and came alive only by night. We would walk in the gardens by the river and argue about the gods. I remember the smells of those nights, my lord—perfume and sweat, melons ripe to bursting, peaches and pomegranates, nightshade and moonbloom. I was a young man then, still forging my chain. The heat did not exhaust me as it does now." Pycelle's eyes were so heavily lidded he looked half-asleep. "My pardons, Lord Eddard. You did not come to hear foolish meanderings of a summer forgotten before your father was born. Forgive an old man his wanderings, if you would. Minds are like swords, I do fear. The old ones go to rust. Ah, and here is our milk." The serving girl placed the tray between them, and Pycelle gave her a smile. "Sweet child." He lifted a cup, tasted, nodded. "Thank you. You may go." When the girl had taken her leave, Pycelle peered at Ned through pale, rheumy eyes. "Now where were we? Oh, yes. You asked about Lord Arryn . . . " "I did." Ned sipped politely at the iced milk. It was pleasantly cold, but oversweet to his taste. "If truth be told, the Hand had not seemed quite himself for some time," Pycelle said. "We had sat together on council many a year, he and I, and the signs were there to read, but I put them down to the great burdens he had borne so faithfully for so long. Those broad shoulders were weighed down by all the cares of the realm, and more besides. His son was ever sickly, and his lady wife so anxious that she would scarcely let the boy out of her sight. It was enough to weary even a strong man, and the Lord Jon was not young. Small wonder if he seemed melancholy and tired. Or so I thought at the time. Yet now I am less certain." He gave a ponderous shake of his head. "What can you tell me of his final illness?" The Grand Maester spread his hands in a gesture of helpless sorrow. "He came to me one day asking after a certain book, as hale and healthy as ever, though it did seem to me that something was troubling him deeply. The next morning he was twisted over in pain, too sick to rise from bed. Maester Colemon thought it was a chill on the stomach. The weather had been hot, and the Hand often iced his wine, which can upset the digestion. When Lord Jon continued to weaken, I went to him myself, but the gods did not grant me the power to save him." "I have heard that you sent Maester Colemon away." The Grand Maester's nod was as slow and deliberate as a glacier. "I did, and I fear the Lady Lysa will never forgive me that. Maybe I was wrong, but at the time I thought it best. Maester Colemon is like a son to me, and I yield to none in my esteem for his abilities, but he is young, and the young ofttimes do not comprehend the frailty of an older body. He was purging Lord Arryn with wasting potions and pepper juice, and I feared he might kill him." "Did Lord Arryn say anything to you during his final hours?" Pycelle wrinkled his brow. "In the last stage of his fever, the Hand called out the name Robert several times, but whether he was asking for his son or for the king I could not say. Lady Lysa would not permit the boy to enter the sickroom, for fear that he too might be taken ill. The king did come, and he sat beside the bed for hours, talking and joking of times long past in hopes of raising Lord Jon's spirits. His love was fierce to see." "Was there nothing else? No final words?" "When I saw that all hope had fled, I gave the Hand the milk of the poppy, so he should not suffer. Just before he closed his eyes for the last time, he whispered something to the king and his lady wife, a blessing for his son. The seed is strong, he said. At the end, his speech was too slurred to comprehend. Death did not come until the next morning, but Lord Jon was at peace after that. He never spoke again." Ned took another swallow of milk, trying not to gag on the sweetness of it. "Did it seem to you that there was anything unnatural about Lord Arryn's death?" "Unnatural?" The aged maester's voice was thin as a whisper. "No, I could not say so. Sad, for a certainty. Yet in its own way, death is the most natural thing of all, Lord Eddard. Jon Arryn rests easy now, his burdens lifted at last." "This illness that took him," said Ned. "Had you ever seen its like before, in other men?" "Near forty years I have been Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms," Pycelle replied. "Under our good King Robert, and Aerys Targaryen before him, and his father Jaehaerys the Second before him, and even for a few short months under Jaehaerys's father, Aegon the Fortunate, the Fifth of His Name. I have seen more of illness than I care to remember, my lord. I will tell you this: Every case is different, and every case is alike. Lord Jon's death was no stranger than any other." "His wife thought otherwise." The Grand Maester nodded. "I recall now, the widow is sister to your own noble wife. If an old man may be forgiven his blunt speech, let me say that grief can derange even the strongest and most disciplined of minds, and the Lady Lysa was never that. Since her last stillbirth, she has seen enemies in every shadow, and the death of her lord husband left her shattered and lost." "So you are quite certain that Jon Arryn died of a sudden illness?" "I am," Pycelle replied gravely. "If not illness, my good lord, what else could it be?" "Poison," Ned suggested quietly. Pycelle's sleepy eyes flicked open. The aged maester shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "A disturbing thought. We are not the Free Cities, where such things are common. Grand Maester Aethelmure wrote that all men carry murder in their hearts, yet even so, the poisoner is beneath contempt." He fell silent for a moment, his eyes lost in thought. "What you suggest is possible, my lord, yet I do not think it likely. Every hedge maester knows the common poisons, and Lord Arryn displayed none of the signs. And the Hand was loved by all. What sort of monster in man's flesh would dare to murder such a noble lord?" "I have heard it said that poison is a woman's weapon." Pycelle stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It is said. Women, cravens . . . and eunuchs." He cleared his throat and spat a thick glob of phelm onto the rushes. Above them, a raven cawed loudly in the rookery. "The Lord Varys was born a slave in Lys, did you know? Put not your trust in spiders, my lord." That was scarcely anything Ned needed to be told; there was something about Varys that made his flesh crawl. "I will remember that, Maester. And I thank you for your help. I have taken enough of your time." He stood. Grand Maester Pycelle pushed himself up from his chair slowly and escorted Ned to the door. "I hope I have helped in some small way to put your mind at ease. If there is any other service I might perform, you need only ask." "One thing," Ned told him. "I should be curious to examine the book that you lent Jon the day before he fell ill." "I fear you would find it of little interest," Pycelle said. "It was a ponderous tome by Grand Maester Malleon on the lineages of the great houses." "Still, I should like to see it." The old man opened the door. "As you wish. I have it here somewhere. When I find it, I shall have it sent to your chambers straightaway." "You have been most courteous," Ned told him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, "One last question, if you would be so kind. You mentioned that the king was at Lord Arryn's bedside when he died. I wonder, was the queen with him?" "Why, no," Pycelle said. "She and the children were making the journey to Casterly Rock, in company with her father. Lord Tywin had brought a retinue to the city for the tourney on Prince Joffrey's name day, no doubt hoping to see his son Jaime win the champion's crown. In that he was sadly disappointed. It fell to me to send the queen word of Lord Arryn's sudden death. Never have I sent off a bird with a heavier heart." "Dark wings, dark words," Ned murmured. It was a proverb Old Nan had taught him as a boy. "So the fishwives say," Grand Maester Pycelle agreed, "but we know it is not always so. When Maester Luwin's bird brought the word about your Bran, the message lifted every true heart in the castle, did it not?" "As you say, Maester." "The gods are merciful." Pycelle bowed his head. "Come to me as often as you like, Lord Eddard. I am here to serve." Yes, Ned thought as the door swung shut, but whom? On the way back to his chambers, he came upon his daughter Arya on the winding steps of the Tower of the Hand, windmilling her arms as she struggled to balance on one leg. The rough stone had scuffed her bare feet. Ned stopped and looked at her. "Arya, what are you doing?" "Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours." Her hands flailed at the air to steady herself. Ned had to smile. "Which toe?" he teased. "Any toe," Arya said, exasperated with the question. She hopped from her right leg to her left, swaying dangerously before she regained her balance. "Must you do your standing here?" he asked. "It's a long hard fall down these steps." "Syrio says a water dancer never falls." She lowered her leg to stand on two feet. "Father, will Bran come and live with us now?" "Not for a long time, sweet one," he told her. "He needs to win his strength back." Arya bit her lip. "What will Bran do when he's of age?" Ned knelt beside her. "He has years to find that answer, Arya. For now, it is enough to know that he will live." The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling." "He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?" "No," Ned said. He saw no use in lying to her. "Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king's council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the SunsetSea, or enter your mother's Faith and become the High Septon." But he will never run beside his wolf again, he thought with a sadness too deep for words, or lie with a woman, or hold his own son in his arms. Arya cocked her head to one side. "Can I be a king's councillor and build castles and become the High Septon?" "You," Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, "will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon." Arya screwed up her face. "No," she said, "that's Sansa." She folded up her right leg and resumed her balancing. Ned sighed and left her there. Inside his chambers, he stripped off his sweat-stained silks and sluiced cold water over his head from the basin beside the bed. Alyn entered as he was drying his face. "My lord," he said, "Lord Baelish is without and begs audience." "Escort him to my solar," Ned said, reaching for a fresh tunic, the lightest linen he could find. "I'll see him at once." Littlefinger was perched on the window seat when Ned entered, watching the knights of the Kingsguard practice at swords in the yard below. "If only old Selmy's mind were as nimble as his blade," he said wistfully, "our council meetings would be a good deal livelier." "Ser Barristan is as valiant and honorable as any man in King's Landing." Ned had come to have a deep respect for the aged, white-haired Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "And as tiresome," Littlefinger added, "though I daresay he should do well in the tourney. Last year he unhorsed the Hound, and it was only four years ago that he was champion." The question of who might win the tourney interested Eddard Stark not in the least. "Is there a reason for this visit, Lord Petyr, or are you here simply to enjoy the view from my window?" Littlefinger smiled. "I promised Cat I would help you in your inquiries, and so I have." That took Ned aback. Promise or no promise, he could not find it in him to trust Lord Petyr Baelish, who struck him as too clever by half. "You have something for me?" "Someone," Littlefinger corrected. "Four someones, if truth be told. Had you thought to question the Hand's servants?" Ned frowned. "Would that I could. Lady Arryn took her household back to the Eyrie." Lysa had done him no favor in that regard. All those who had stood closest to her husband had gone with her when she fled: Jon's maester, his steward, the captain of his guard, his knights and retainers. "Most of her household," Littlefinger said, "not all. A few remain. A pregnant kitchen girl hastily wed to one of Lord Renly's grooms, a stablehand who joined the City Watch, a potboy discharged from service for theft, and Lord Arryn's squire." "His squire?" Ned was pleasantly surprised. A man's squire often knew a great deal of his comings and goings. "Ser Hugh of the Vale," Littlefinger named him. "The king knighted the boy after Lord Arryn's death." "I shall send for him," Ned said. "And the others." Littlefinger winced. "My lord, step over here to the window, if you would be so kind." "Why?" "Come, and I'll show you, my lord." Frowning, Ned crossed to the window. Petyr Baelish made a casual gesture. "There, across the yard, at the door of the armory, do you see the boy squatting by the steps honing a sword with an oilstone?" "What of him?" "He reports to Varys. The Spider has taken a great interest in you and all your doings." He shifted in the window seat. "Now glance at the wall. Farther west, above the stables. The guardsman leaning on the ramparts?" Ned saw the man. "Another of the eunuch's whisperers?" "No, this one belongs to the queen. Notice that he enjoys a fine view of the door to this tower, the better to note who calls on you. There are others, many unknown even to me. The Red Keep is full of eyes. Why do you think I hid Cat in a brothel?" Eddard Stark had no taste for these intrigues. "Seven hells," he swore. It did seem as though the man on the walls was watching him. Suddenly uncomfortable, Ned moved away from the window. "Is everyone someone's informer in this cursed city?" "Scarcely," said Littlefinger. He counted on the fingers on his hand. "Why, there's me, you, the king . . . although, come to think on it, the king tells the queen much too much, and I'm less than certain about you." He stood up. "Is there a man in your service that you trust utterly and completely?" "Yes," said Ned. "In that case, I have a delightful palace in Valyria that I would dearly love to sell you," Littlefinger said with a mocking smile. "The wiser answer was no, my lord, but be that as it may. Send this paragon of yours to Ser Hugh and the others. Your own comings and goings will be noted, but even Varys the Spider cannot watch every man in your service every hour of the day." He started for the door. "Lord Petyr," Ned called after him. "I . . . am grateful for your help. Perhaps I was wrong to distrust you." Littlefinger fingered his small pointed beard. "You are slow to learn, Lord Eddard. Distrusting me was the wisest thing you've done since you climbed down off your horse."