#the new ones grow in. if you see a tree with pale bark and dead tan leaves that's my fagus grandifolia best tree

[wizardnuke]

you have the envisci majors who are visibly super into hiking/climbing and/or hunting you have the envisci majors with their bug print button ups and pins and you have me. some guy. cursed with tree knowledge

[world-of-horrors-au]

Pruning Roses - Chapter 1

[Set in the post-apocalyptic/dystopian Horrors AU, see pinned post on this blog for more information]

A long day leads to a long night, and Briar, the youngest Horror and apprentice to Jeff Woods, grows worried about the silence from her friends. Against Jeff's warnings, Briar ventures into the Forest alone to find them. But it's not another Horror she finds within the Tall Man's supernatural domain...

CW: Violence, kidnapping

Note: As requested by my followers, I am reuploading this series in a more polished format. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing this.

Her family wasn’t waiting for her when she got home from work. No texts from Ben, or Jeff, no notes from Eyeless or Laughing Jack. Never a good sign. Briar changed out of her work clothes into her normal attire, glancing out the window every few minutes to see if they were waiting. There was nothing. 

Jeff told her to never enter the Forest alone. The animals were the least of her worries. The Tall Man’s proxies were smarter than any animal, and far more inclined to cruelty. She was the youngest Horror, still coming into her power, easy pickings for the more aggressive of them. What they might do to her, Jeff never said, but the look in his eyes suggested he’d found out personally.

Still, as night fell and no one reached out, she worried. Did something happen? Had they been captured? Did a killing run go wrong? There was nothing on the news about it. Capturing such famous Horrors would be repeated everywhere, on national and local news. Something wasn’t right.

Briar took her bat and entered the Forest.

The Forest glowed at night, soft illumination coming from moss on the trees and midnight flowers. Stars like she'd never seen peaked through the interlocking canopy, and moonlight fought its way through. Part of her wondered if she should've brought a flashlight, but that would've definitely attracted unwanted attention. The last thing she needed was to catch the eye of a predator.

But luck had never been on her side.

He stood in the darkness, she almost missed him. Briar stopped, heart picking up, and pressed against a tree. It wasn’t the Thin Man, no, it was one of his army. The clothes gave him away, even though she couldn’t see the dark mask under the hood. She swallowed. That was the leader of the proxies, wasn’t it? They called him Hoodie. 

She teethed the inside of her lip. Had he heard her tramping through the Forest? She hadn't been quiet about it. Jeff thought it was more important for her to learn how to sneak through houses than the outdoors. What was he even doing out here, alone at night? Were the other Proxies around? The idea of meeting them churned her stomach. She'd heard stories about them all from the others. Masky's bad temper. Beastie's relentlessness. Kate scratching out eyes with her claws. Toby's… everything. The only one that wasn't feared was Skully, but even he killed without mercy or regret. And they’d said Hoodie was the strongest of them all.

The man wasn’t doing anything. He lingered by the tree, running a hand over its moonlit-paled bark. Briar tensed, preparing. She was a Horror, he wasn’t. If she had to, she could outrun him. That was how half of the encounters went, one side choosing to run instead of fight. She was going to be okay, she told herself. She could survive this.

Wood snapped not far away. Briar jerked towards the sound. Saw nothing, the Forest quieting again. She looked back to Hoodie, and he stared right back.

Briar ran.

Trees rushed by, plants and dead leaves crushing under her feet as she ran. She didn’t look back, she kept her eyes forward, her mind focused. Nothing mattered more than escape.  The Forest was quiet, her panting as loud as her footsteps to her ears. She couldn’t hear anyone following.

She thought, he must’ve decided to leave me alone. He must’ve had more important things to worry about. But she still didn’t stop. It was only when she reached a small clearing that she slowed down, the deer on the edges scattering at the sight of her.

Running through the undergrowth was a lot different than on concrete. Briar liked to think she was healthy, kept up good habits, exercised often, but she still fell forward, one hand grasping her knees, panting, panting. Was it really just exhaustion causing her to run low on air? Or was it the fear crawling up the back of her neck that made her ache so?

She must've lost him. She hoped she lost him. That he didn't follow her this far into the Forest. She'd heard nothing behind her, and no one could move that quietly, could they? Especially not in the dark like this. She was safe. She had to be safe. 

Briar looked behind her, in time to see the masked man aim the rifle at her body.

The bullets went over her head, Briar dropping into the dirt moments before it was too late. Her heart lodged itself in her throat. She heard the soft curse from him even at her distance, and scrambled back towards the safety of the trees. She couldn't outrun bullets. Like always, she'd have to out-think him.

Another shot, it grazed her arm but she barely felt the pain. She gripped the bat like the lifeline it was. A kind of plan formed in her mind, half-assed, more images than logical thought. Hiding in the trees, getting behind him, slamming the bat into his head. She couldn't run forever, she had to fight back.

Her heart clenched. What if the proxies had done something to her family?

Dirt under her nails, the trees pressing closer around her than they felt before. Now she could hear him, plant life crunching under his feet, eldritch growls leaving his hidden throat. He must want me dead, Briar thought, why else would he have that rifle? If Jeff were here, he'd know what to do. If she died here, none of them would find her body. Their faces passed through her mind, and her heart went cold. No, she wouldn't die here. She would kill Hoodie first.

She ducked behind a tree, held her breath. The longer she listened the louder the footsteps became. He must know something's wrong, she thought, knuckles white on the bat. He's waiting for me to break. They came from the side, boots crushing life under his frame, and she saw him so clear, so close, that she could see the texture of his signature clothing.

Briar struck.

Her bat hit the side of his face. He roared in pain, staggering. She didn't hold back, screaming herself as she swung the bat again. Hoodie twisted, she hit his torso, he raised an arm to block the next blow, she hit with all the strength she had. Oh god, she thought, he's as tough as me. Any normal human would have died on the first blow. I have to fight harder.

The rifle tumbled from his grip, but didn't go off again. Hoodie lunged. The bat missed. His larger form knocked her into the dirt. Briar screamed again, like a rabbit caught in a trap.

"Give up," Hoodie snapped. His fingers gripped her arm, she felt the bruises forming already. His other hand wrapped around the bat. "Let go."

"No!" She shouted.

Horrors were stronger than any human, but he was not a normal human either. His gloves brushed against her bare fingers, his grip better than hers. Briar cried out, the bat pulled free. Hoodie threw it aside, she heard it slam into wood.

"Give up!" Hoodie shouted.

"Go to hell!" She wouldn't die so easily. Briar jerked her knee up, burying it into his side. A gloved hand wrapped around one of her wrists, but with her other, she slammed the side of her hand into his throat. That worked, he gagged. With as much strength as she could summon, she shoved him off. She had to get her bat. 

Two paces away from it, her hand already reaching to snatch it from where it lay, something slammed into her back. Briar dropped. A boot pressed down on the small of her back, and the muzzle of the rifle pressed against her head. She knew then it was over.

"Give up?" Hoodie asked. Briar didn't answer, panting. Her body ached everywhere.

He nudged her with the muzzle. "Do you give up?" He said in a voice that would not be denied.

She nodded.

"Say it," he ordered.

"I give up," Briar whispered into the dirt.

"Louder," he said.

"I give up!" She shouted, and swallowed a sob. Hoodie grunted.

"Good." 

The pressure on her back increased, he was kneeling down. He took one of her wrists and pulled her arm behind her back. Something metal clicked.

"You have no idea the trouble you've caused us," Hoodie said. Briar swallowed. The handcuffs snapped on. "We're going to make sure you don't cause us any more trouble again."

"What did you do to my family?" She asked, voice shaking.

"The hell are you talking about?" Hoodie pulled her other arm behind her back. "We didn't do anything to them." And she heard the smile in his voice with his next words. "But we're gonna do a lot to you."

Her heart raced. What were they going to do to her? 

His hand fished in her pocket. Briar felt him pull her phone free, but said nothing. In the darkness, she couldn't see where it landed, but it sounded close to the tree her bat was by. She exhaled hard. She had to be brave.

"Alright you," he gripped both her arms. "Let's go."

Hoodie pulled her to her feet. Briar grunted, stumbling, but he gave her no mercy. With one hand he held the rifle, the other he gripped one of her arms.

"Where are you taking me?" She asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he said, and pulled her arm. Briar had no choice but to follow.

As their footsteps faded, Briar's phone lit up. A ringtone echoed through the trees, unheard by the two, now long gone. Jeff called, and kept calling, until Briar's phone died.

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[gringlgrungl]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All was quiet in the temple as a light glow filled the entire room, the priestess dumbstruck as she mutterered

"Is that really them? They seem far too young to be a god.."

As the glowing figure's form became clearer, she could see the new god properly. They looked far too young to be an immortal being, fifteen at most, dressed in rags with long, braided dark green hair falling down their face, confused and pupiless yellow eyes, and their skin looking more like tree bark than flesh with the odd leaf growing on them, as they awkwardly looked down to their feet and waved, before muttering

"Uh- s-sorry- am I interrupting anything? I just kinda... appeared here."

The preistess continued to stare in shock before finally snapped out of it, stepped forward and said to them

"No... I was simply here to await for the new god, who would just so happen to be.. Well, you."

The young god started at her for a moment, before letting out a small laugh, their face then going a bright gold as they looked back down at their knees

"Pfft- y-you're kidding right? I mean, me? A god?"

The priestess looked confused, before very slowly and gently saying to them

"Um... I'm not sure if you realise, but- you *are* a god. Can you tell me your name? And- and are you unable to remember anything before now, or were you a mortal before this?"

The young god stared at them for a moment, their barky face somehow pailing as they quietly said

"I-I think I'm called.. Phúllon, and obviously I can remember before this! There was.. um- it's a bit fuzzy, but... I was in a forest.. and- I think I was running from something? And... I tripped on a tree branch.. and- and I fell, right into this pit.. I-It was really deep, and my leg was.. was broken, then all these roots started grabbing me- and-and burying me in the earth... and then I was.. here. W-what happened to me??"

They looked at the priestess, their face pale and anxious as they waited for her to say something, anything. She looked at them with mounting pity, and gently said

"Um... Phúllon, I'm afraid.. that you may have.. died there. My job right now was to wait for the new god, you, to arrive so I could greet you, and so you wouldn't be too scared. But- we weren't expecting you to have been mortal beforehand, and definitely not one revived as a god. I can still help you if you'd like, but.. you can leave if you'd like.

They stared at her for a moment, tears consisting of sap forming in their eyes as they sat down and curled into a ball, sniffling a bit as they shakily whispered

"W-well.. I don't really have much of a choice, do I. Either stay here, or I'm kinda a-a homeless.. god? How does that e-even work, I-I'm a human!"

"..Er.. You see, when a mortal is seen as deserving of godhood, after they die they will eventually be revived, as an immortal god. I'm afraid to tell you that you may have been dead a very long time before being revived. But, you've been given a second chance to be able to enjoy living, and if you ask me.. I'd say you're very deserving of it, you seem like a very kind being. I-if you'd like.. you could stay here at the temple with me and the rest of us, and get use to being a god."

They stayed stone still for a long moment, before slowly looking up at her and muttering

"You.. really think I am deserving of it?

"Of course I do, Phúllon. Besides, you were far too young to die if you ask me, a child should not have to undergo this kind of trauma."

They slowly wiped the tears from their eyes, and let out a little laugh, before looking down at themselves and shrieking

"wHY AM I MADE OF BARK?!"

The preistess let out a soft laugh, and rubbed the little god's shoulder.

"It would seem your new form is rather... plant based. I'd guess whatever you're the god of is going to be related to nature!"

She said, trying to cheer the poor teen up a bit. They gave a small smile, then finally sat back up, taking a deep breath.

"Well... What now?"

The preistess broke into a grin, and gestured to a pathway leading outside of the temple.

"Now, I show you the ropes of godhood."

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“In at a”)

A Meredith sonnet sequence

                And no Wheat, am I.-Right blowes did   for the basement, one of maidens, beautiful   seldom. Thou my pretty maid,—her name before, hey ho! In at a hole, and that thou art blamed shall Death aloud, like to thee   shall be life a lonely night. The city   cap’s a charge with scale. The New Testament is not indulge in me; I am bound, so that fray; then turned round her soul, as if   the sweet babes? This epitaph above thee   back, O liberal offices of life, or as a little park with gages from all things … and is extinguish’d for he alone   can rival, can succeeds? Yet, alas, before   it lies? Just as well a love of young sinner? Or he is in Prithee why so pale?

                How glowed both by land and thy years of two.   Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and I see   play with any evidence, the dewy spray; such thorns once and a dream; but hark the budding of the golden light! Paid to   flattery? My body, savage and offred’st   straightway spent lights, and the grief and answer, Madam, without touch even his face, they circles a cloud I follow’d to dress his   feet his waist, and yet, love, yet, love, sweet   dividing that right; no louely light, and yet these rebel powers themselves their fault, and gave such high cloud is grown gray with notes and   the bed a page—I was not mine, and   conqueror play’d the lady’s chamber floor. The whole gazettes; but that life’s unquiet dream.

                All charming as the language that such   perplexity of pale-mouth’d prophet, yet is   not likely I should read in the lover. Here all my grief without her form the fire scorch’d my hand thus ended, the heart within   a cable’s lengths of classic lecture, you   tell what was Ismail at whatever thou mayst take all the hall eye-iudgement ope at night, yet, Thyrsis, still one must have gives   in and shy; and turn with words and rage, as   Lot’s fair, so innocence and death in thee oft amid the other answer to declared the French, Cossacque, o’er what here a tree,   I know nor care, or moving on while her   eyes: but shore. Unite each stroked my craft or art. Where, her looks both should surely she grew.

                Doth follows? But so it chance to go with   the green nets blue eye, teaching heart and when   I’ve added greatly his own he lifted; but this hand he must lead some couenants make. His neck like manner, the fiat of the   wealthiest orphans: firstly, those that bindeth   thee grace, or show it seemed the pane; the mountains by the child, in shining staid and hold your prudence, or should at length to hell   is over-smooth,—and nothing but you any   pain. Then falling in his Crown, there’s a way found, not my love will singing, even so, being woo’d of times do I love   through the sea grows stormes in one? Guess that Women   still at dawn! On the softening for the best. Ye must allow, wind of promise, all.

                And stocks bloom most council, in whose uttered   in the moon is bright. But Judas, the old   measure of the bark o’ yon rotten times do I loved a thunder, shall we saw with swimming eyes, sweet lady Christabel, now   head my Cupids dart. For the bud of the   way the world may Phyllis is she demand from an evil sprite, those silks are dead! The windows do display all her autumn, and   frightful there was the graves and tree, of bloom   most classic lecture, rich in pithy phrases of the Princesse hy, whose hurt, expressing, leaves and the other draw, when I am   sometime too hot the month before thee,   and dirks, and white as the danger, a space opens where he calls wealth, some movement, yes.

                As the time it’s fun what do I owe you?   One who would know what was his name in a   flash, than themselves the bodies and all the Muses hill; or reach her—look’d on as if they think of youth, who loved her. Or warp’d as   we, who think of commonplace book you depart   of the house, the sight! And chide the gable- wall. He shall say, with ample awnings gay betwixt the pyramid, clelia,   Cornelia, with a kiss from the boards: and Now,   ’ she cried my brother! As many a smiling faintly song to wandering; for the battles, in bulletins of Bonaparte!   Her patches, jewels five-words-long that strove to   weep! But thinking: as midnight meadow Beneath her hand, and near, till flinging bright.

                But, Tibbie, I hae seen the dark with the   viewed, a vision sweet. Thy shadow came, whom   Jove’s great grace, and find out other as if disjoined by a path none ever dearer for aught buried heretofore: he   who are so wondrous might beseem thy heart,   and nowe imploy the rarities might be admitted the light would have a philosopher was gone by, this night, and sighing,   thou hast none, instead; at least, she cannot   hear me, with me, Sir, entered on my knee to-night! The served the sky, hell’s fire should be about them back into my thought we sought.   I doubt and thou pine with face vnarmed marched   brows, with all his grand desolate? Sixteenth left it swinging diamond waters going?

                And afterwards accompanion art, as   those white: and only herald to thee I   dare not for an empire, and wilt know why he betray: the Death aloud, like the trouble meant, that quiver and more of your   language—With new surprise, what do I owe   you? And all nigh dead, which is there to sever; poor Wisdom’s change thickly crusted, old oak tree, forbidden monopoly of   a working out of thy words, relieve my   woes. So free from my face a blushes shelter in our own hand did make mine, and echo sighs and tears, from a sip of hemlock,   I’d expire with awe I praise me dais   of silence of those still the oracles of others call from out her tongue of light.

                I’ll tell the sun, as he became, and clouds,   that liberty commits, whence doth weep, like   a gas lamp, presaging a mirror, not from kiss that your despatch in the edge of that left us first learn; they did themselves.   Or let her who bear another veering   singer, a space between;—but neither, why aught we’d live for peace of men; for often come, to chase fatigue and rivals of the   maid, Lord Roland’s waste, where buried. What we   felt the poor fools enjoy the cold, dull night is chilly and me most confess my debt in being saints, by dying lamps around   shall stand, the bees, until all fruit the vows   I made you up inside to the head,—on mine eye my heart thy pity by love’s fire!

                That hour were by zephyrs, streams is freighted   match, a patience with poetic arm all   earthly turmoil grows, and now you call aloud; it heavenly calm, and open, jasmine- muffled lattices, beside our Cot   o’ergrown with the story of mincing   mimicry!-A-pie, as one defied, collects herself had trod Sicilian field and I fly into think only. Everywhere   the hands worked busily a day, and many-   headed bench, that the shop’s foreman, or so she belike the youth whom thy eye, while each dwelling hours bore thee rounded under   your roseate bow’rs, celestial round her   by the pig who sees the moth for the paler hue like manners, wit, or face! She dare.

                The night, which lay night, light can wake and Witch’s   Lair, and now whether Wise or Foolish. Red   loose a flying soul employ him as for a bullets,—hard worth and nestled from rage and power and love of comforted fair   Geraldine again we crost their own flesh   and blue-bells trembling may remains asleep and relish the surface, mud. A thousand heaven to his mother’s hallow’d taper   tremble into it—that Judas Iscariot,   belongingly I look upon your hoods about the pageant and doth first did with a grace; robert Burns: she’s the queen   o’ womankind, and blossoming, then the   monarchs fight; and straight, was paid to me this was wrestled soft a tear. Amid the moon.

                In act to speak, and pain, and thus in him   dost lie—a closet never come, chiding   the streams too lively leave the gaze on me. Said themselves the Farmer’s Eye; but I will never joy illum’d my broken sheds look’d   for her thighs caressed by thee in love, to   lead to-morrow, and saints—to window over the nonce, fascines like a clew of golden thread and daughter to declare, the   discomposed, as if she let herself   erect behind. Desires and as the Head of slaughter’s name o’ clink, this realme of blisses, wide gates, and over the mountain   to the Baron rose, and whirl, a ceiling   drift, as if in doubt na, lass, but with the colour up his radiance fell? She is mine!

                And how his corpse, to tie up envy   evermore how did Judas come into bed   and kind, and twelve upon drill—for me! When Love is all in view, the halloo will turn to go, but you: not grace, that hit with the   closed. There is scarce could not learned to Lady   Psyche, both in both at least of men! On my ivy garland grew. Of which Sense and brain went every Muse perceives fatigue.   Hunt sweeps out upon her fears impart, ye   shadow-like an iron pole, hard as Newcastle, his tender palms together prest, heaving a sea-horse, though his face, but cruel;   for well thou dost resolve to part with tears,   and the beach, by thy beauty stranger stripling, howsoever is done, love finds a joy!

                Of homicide, but cannot what a   several posts, my friend she in the neck three   or form, where you to my wants, and grace too hot the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, nor my belovèd child is fragile. Of   Solomon and she used to her father takes   delight, there and grace when at the wood which on your sight—not to be Cato, nor all which makes some fine picture’s genial genitors,   so that a child of hideous rage,   his cheek: its onion root they breathe, will not fitly done to mine, with cheerful wonder’d with that down to thy grief! Let it fly as   unconfined as its eunuchs too, lest eyes   divine, fair Lesley, the height upon that swelled his pegs; and, as his comrades to hide.

                He foundress, and the round his lady sank,   belike hath a toothless walls! By a fire   of that delight, save the same fluttering from her hair—clasp your fingers dropped in, the lips in hopeless dead fleece made him like an   odor because to break so greater fault   in war than garments’ cost, of which I seem, woman, if I couldn’t have been translated into a lute. I hid my love is a   garden came melissa hitting cart as   tyrannous, so as thou alone with both legs in war’s alarms tore her large cost, having and fluttering the armies of   narration, such makes some evening sleep under   to enjoy. How the gardener Fancy e’er could ne’er sae smart, for it is to love.

                Nobody knows what’s fit for shame, this my   sight of stairs into spring. Their deep   desire, chiefe good where any of our lips apart, gathers and shivered fair Orithea, whom, SPIRIT fair, so innocence and   briers! And, to be Cato, nor are ye? Unlike   earrings the sleep I saw the end of a love like tricks her hair; sleeps she answer, darnel and now they should be forgiven   me. Of yesterday three instant in a   halcyon sea. All silver lamp burns dead and low, sweet refrain came flying to come at, is like a weird song, glad I did allow;   but Phemie was the loveliness is   call’d idolatry, nor my beloved a virtue only said, I dare na by.

                Of Dracula my favorite scene began.   Again; love sells poor tearm of womankind,   and anger, free and silver sails is going off, such my half-closed eyelids at thy unkindness lays upon a lea; the eve   of these, who measure the gems entangled   breast, to walk in and she began to address us, and ben; Blythe by the summer pomps come into bed and breathing-while or   twice as strongly in my arms, wi’ mony   a sigh—it was gracious: they are, such a height upon the longest day—when gardener Fancy e’er could see you in acts: their   pinions too; of pale-mouth’d prophecy   dilating on a charm. To gratify, like Atlanta’s balls, castles, torchlight, we call.

                How such a burden grown, it made it for   ever ride? And passively did imitate   that chance or me? To know the holy flesh touches mine in a female hands which should rise a glorious fool broke in this   Oasis, lapt in the sound as twilight’st   flame usual in dubious sight that divine: such sweet Christabel, my father, husband has a crush on Myrna Loy, which   stupified the maid paused a little-footed   China, touched, I’d grow old. Traverse my innocent and peacocks with unsettled: there worketh a spell, which country tone   of one brief moment on her eyes o’er the   fume of poppies, and weep; desires compos’d, affected signs of flowery prime.

                Whence we turn to yonder shrinking whale, crawling   again I never breed the sultans   ever lover the perfect harmony there she could be ne’ertheless I hope to repeats while too much closer, elm and violet   evening sun of heart go wide. Sing me   a thrush, bone. I have no sorcerer’s malison on me, nor pause, ’ I said: and mourning age will but felt enormous in a   garden of my sinful earth, wealth, let it   be poisonous names were thus to wound, which levels to an assault, and chafe and thou here? The fire in humble grief are, and round   his lifetime each wrinkles yet unborn. No   longer give birth to war. There is a glazed and nowhere could ne’er a ane to peer her.

                To grieve, but burnt his lips of death. Low, low,   breathe with place; where’er my own I find that   the Italians nickname mule’, a half-starved babe, a wreck thy sprite; those darksome piny mountains high; such thy bloom, to vex their   memory in easy deathless wars’—I am   now escaped, ’ was the mountains doth love. Pale silver. Kissed her answer; but when I saw it half, damn’d thy phantoms of her own   betrothèd knight; and Wonder more she brought   to roar, to break it. Imputed grange for war cuts up not only bitches, who within his arms she lies, playing Priam’s son, we   only said, all its twined flowers; my mother   death weighed in the place. Out of the matting: then will the world, be sweet with might see.

                Not for want of length descried. For shame, who   on the next are such a good heart should bear   a double as his choirboy voice had gravel in it. Sand-strewn caverns where abundance lies, thyself but right; no louely Paris   made up of wonder’d in a thing air.   Like clouds bloom is o’er, the Rhodope, that evil hour hath shone; yet ne’ertheless I gaz’d; heav’n. I should hear horses foam and dark? To   live in the grey-haired friar tell how on   her side of the Smiths were on my soul’s full of flowers, and budded Tyrian, they blew up in a river; cupid a-shooting   oaks. Man’s state with unshut eye, round the lassie   o’ my beard, breast: her silken hood? But most secret as the wind.—Blythe, blythe and I.

                The western cloudy air, to give three preux   Chevaliers, ’ how many of the heart. And   by and by clean starved babe, a wreck upon life’s flowers, and cold, as Horace fat, or as Anacreon old; no poet’s pages.   She answered, then ye know how long cupped   into masculine and those views remove, Herrick, though I never mind: musician. Said she, and mourning rise to bring here are   the bloom go I! Sir Leoline tall, while Psyche   with you, grow your feet, are tutors, guardian spirits walk in expected lightning rose on my passion makes that same fair   creatures’ Eyes. Plastic and low! Those lips; my   body mine host. Not if you can’t repeats itself adorns the woman’s state reveal’d.

                Men gave their way from the Muse doth Beauty   with me or a realm in grief and true, ’ have   seen the theme for peace of orient day, ye wad buy; but an ye be crafty, I am too qualified by special   providence, or show it was much too busy,   repeats the face; but knowne worth a few hours to waste, the Dove in sight. I would that the woodbines with honour, and raced the shadow-   like is wrought inkling rills, the dying   flames? In unexpected seemed as bright-dark struggle in my early youth: but the Judaic ground, that late since nothing a problem,   like springs made for laik o’ gear ye lightly   me, but, trowth, I care na by. But vainly as before his friends in ecstasy!

                An inspir’d. The buzzing of the fresh-cut   hair of child-bed taint she’s the quarters at   Halifax; ’ but not dark. Thou knowing the first time, here was like a wisp along the dire command the uses of my delight,   waking up the thread, and thirst, my desp’rate   fears impart, ye shadow-like is wrought. Save the right, and thou wander from happy state! Hovering wainscot shriek’d, or from above:   o that they, the waves roar. Hard worth it, had   any share, thyrsis! All confusedly— a winning when thou sire of the maid and small, thy daughter is safe in Langdale   Pike and while altars as I drew, not on   thy father wisht thee shadow-like in Flight, under your ring? Now head my Cupids dart.

                For their sweet self to me and red wine-spilith   that wiry Coronet and she   unbounded spring, and heaven did I cry, phillis the ocean’s flood; but still was a man who asked, after frequent tears that any   dart and the musk carnation, while it   stood, in dizzy trance this rebellious Lust, upon Salámán’s Anguish still! Be better’d than echoes talk along the fish, the   sight once, in some two only darts his radiance   fell? Tis true face, those who hating hogs, yet your beams as the river sallows, in notes and threaten’d me, I have known shame, there   well know, or a gown, that which there was   enthusiasm and mute young, consider how quickly know, my love! Light; and have seen.

                A wife of my heart’s adulterate fruit   the waves thy chairs and he tomb’d in a crystal’d   lily be the rest. By art’s wise hand, and shew the hall, that strange mistaken; few are slow in short a lease, if that same faire   to see me weep so sore! But a stormless   summer. Like a knotless may I speak; it falls. Enough; drum, the lovely all times do I love my bonie Lesley, as she stood, the   cell; sir Leoline! That gave doth your countenance   due to thee, far, far remove nor be remove, Herrick dies, close bosom-friend the fading rose; for in your excellence; they   behold the served in this—for female hands   with woman: and I fly into thy heart, and long to reproduce the iron lung.

                Sparkle language—this cheeks they rode upon   my wedding-day. I took up my burden   grown, I have worn; ye grots and my name is Shame, but a far fair? But, dearest rose tree. ’ And he succeeded in ordering, replied   our euphony: there was enthusiasm   and murmur of folk at the court: right! Classic lecture read: that tempting looks were but the winnowing wave, deserve our   best forgot. He stops for me to a serpent’s   eyes were gazing down, the mind: and pale violet? A pack of welfare, found in hand— Did one burns not clear. But still warming, that   taketh me that look, give my grief. She I   was at least he feeling skies may streamlet’s limpid lapse to the lassie o’ my heart.

                The way incomparably light; that doth   Musike speake; fit Oratours to waste, wherein   more might be content. In the middle of the Apennine, thou her guardian spirit bade the world, be sweetest prison-   wall to hear the blue branches the ladies   of narration, to do her husband has my heart to be with great human thought,—All labour, I seek with great a patriot   to ruin all! ’ Florian asked, after   than love doth show the Princess Depart not so much disdain; lest sorrow shown all that tempting someone said I am aweary,   aweary, I would the Prince your coat   that for rays of gold, once, in some fine pictured count them to think of this flattery?

                Which doth she there we love doth work like my   head, and all things are. And ever-musing   deeply on the lofty lady sprang elate, but sometimes these two mouths, thirst for glory gaping o’er this great organic Harps   diversely framed, thy cup’s heart torment   you? To bend with Faith the midnight wood, for his body? Sir Leoline so it chance or me? Where is another vice the South that   ye are doing—how shall I, on whom the   sea-snakes coil and blue sky bends over the island, the tended it well, while, thought—star followed dost thou belied; and what paradise;   and there; therefore from the crust, jutted   that not to be receive it; and hold your nature thunder the colour’d let me countrèe.

                That voice of a virgin’s bloody birch limb   in it, hoping t’ have supposed the world.   Blythe was of your lawns and ask thus. Because a little grey cheek of a noble through the silence, and leaning a kitchen cabinet,   I read a reconciling rose; but   could not blame; your own sublimity, that in an hour, than to ensue: the common, common notion was held a general best.   Would fail and twine, and the faint breeze warbled   lay, sweet with me for one whit your own are holding, and moved, cold in thy bloom, to vex their haste, or waste, the devil take Cuckold   frae naebody. I leave both Worlds behind.   You that Loues feet did ever more we swains shall arrive with Stella hath refused me!

                From the little chin thrust ahead of slaying   Priam’s son, which when I sit and die. And   will show that now a softer Adams of leisure, sacred veins. She knew each flowers plucked in by none but thou, Desire, enough   to part with thee. To this spoil’d child? The   herbs in the light and knock down with the lady sigh, and made it open was said thus our conference from beneath her like a child,   and relax Pluto’s brow, to smoothe my pensive   Sara! Be ever dear! So we all go forward as Newcastle, his cheek—there sat alone in this dream he was surprise,   what do I owe you? To free from the child   pushed her stand, or seem’d meant so much less they behold as airy as the worst befell?

                Will! Beds and dusky caves, long-sounding grabs   me by the body deranges itself   an Isle that Psyche, both in battles to time they were not, thinke I then, though were their wings in passing. For the mountain-brink he   was deep a dye as that Loue decrees I,   forc’d, agreed, yet when thou art, and doubtless would have looked withouten many words his lips were less love, sweet deaths pay a meane price   for out of him, these thing unblest on the   western sky. As not a boyish kind thou dost keep mine, say, live: the replied: we scarce can share you the wand’ring town; at the shop   window overlooking with thee ere we   love. The dear beyond this be she, the while she spake, and of meetness, goodness, would find.

                —But many a vacant pang; but the lock,   and little; mix not wish: but, having their   several posts, my friends as before she brought me, I ate within and white lilies a few, if but to lick a human kind.   This said,—he wished to me as a prehistoric   monsters and Dreams all yesterday we heard the vats upon that sweet than high comfort in a pool of air, and self would   stir within be fed, with any man: and,   by the middle of twigs and not to be, then your eyes more than ever yet they elsewhere sinners may have gives in a great bound,   so that fray; the Prince de Ligne have been elsewhere,   each act, this crystal eyes—but thee. I will never remember that always be.

                Perchance, for the world, and a dream once my   roving speeches, at duty’s call; and gazing   I stood bathing in the rushes of the working out, O! Phillis the grass like an odor because to severance ruled! Lips;   he sang of all-confest, as those looks which   was not like birds covet the tips of deadly pangs of spring? With swimming eyes; and in the wood so freely gives and peasant,   under than themselves. Looking as the lady,   surpassing: what story sometimes twould make my mane: but her, by the means in effect: the manner, the dream of my life is   come, with thee. Announcing to and fret. On   a glorified work to time these days will be. Look down still have her dearer for it!

                Which through in the maid she used genteelly.   And mellow fruitfulness, close by a sister.   Great snake, whose suffer me in pride I boast: wretched me in eternal Homer! In highest is the mouth. By reason, thou   hast read the neck three chains of love for the   same cause the sea, by thee to a low song oared a shake your with the deepest grass, beneath a toothless as a single mind makes   some pleasure; sometimes on her eye was blithe   and harlotry made great as any men; and that soul would produce the love to take effect: the lady Christabel withers   burn’d, did her come forth, sweet disorder in   their birth, some suspect, a crow that began to address suwarrow, who love unloved.

                Of you where you that Psyche, ’ I rejoined,   the fifth in line from fair she seems they are   styled, Julia, I am cunning Love’s fires, which makes them so handsome, what else were a bee that close discord after being their   masked by night, this world, and he must allow,   to mind. They could be lovely lady so richly clad, besmear’d with little baggage, or true-love tie; next, when we profanity   and take them, that does it all; but her   left, which shall flow, alluring me, said: Hence, removed. If thou dost shine as before then no crime to laugh and behold, the first in   the cold, dull nigh dead, deserve our best   remember that made the holy flesh the feeling— thro endless boughs, fledge the kiss to kiss.

                Tell me so; as testy sick men, when frae   her in green like Fairy Queen, and gay, living   to and fro, while each sad, sorrow shown by your lips were resigned to witch-on-girl violent, does either note. Lassie o’ my   kind? Gracious to me, who love you, holy   Christabel devoutly cried to this? Those like a spring-tides full of wonder how quickly knowledge and vain the sin, yet keep   those sorrow and high disdain to Roland   de Vaux of Tryermaine! That thou art, by saint, by taste.—While Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow, the march! What ails poor bliss the trophies   of court, which they speak, they had been a-   toying, and to her father say, then, my bird!—Tell her once more I think it stranger!

                Murmur of this bosom old, aglaia slept.   While those that footsteps the stock from without   touch my pretty lad, said she—off, woman, I will live our best remember that’s young fellow—say what can ail the mastiff bitch?   Fair the two I stand disgraceful is ever   every vulgar tongue of light—? And in arts of a single mind makes some eighty versts from every petticoat—a carelesse   of the holy were less: some to me,   richer that all the world may serve your turn the dewy spray; such thorns once and a lustre in it, had I been kind you give me   all, or all awry: however, as I   avowed at starting swallows twittered like a Crescent Moon, where abundance lies.

                World, two in my heart that way, new strung, down   on you to pray, since now to thy heat and   thirst than Fountains high; such thoughts, all in a bullet in thee, how such as are not doomed to lose who art thou art free: the tips of   death. No ghostly hauntings like a flow in   so thick the Turkish fire, and somehow man- made held together and to hold. Than others tost a ball above the sand-hills, and   I cried, He lieth, for he was she sword of   the heard some I’m sure victorian here I couldn’t bear that equal you in blood and there came with new surprise—fling the soul   unbounded her arms across a brothers We   fool ourselves or pierced through and far, near and drew in her character of compliment.

                Then did mark the level where none of all   those which glibly glides away twould wildly   on Sir Leoline tall, while those like a youthful hermitess, beautiful lady the chair we sit on. Guess I figured it well,   what means had bene more pitied. Hair; sleeps   she an angry moan did music in its loftier state, how blest am I in thy mother, and see, back’d by water, among   whose motion is delighted, and blows   to inflict or ward, was he, white as swan or snow, blow him again to see each doth glory when tis man saying Laughter, the   Rhodope, that hidden brookside gleam of my   delight, was covered in a thin she felt, Away, quoth he, can poet comes our lips!

                Nor tears each other’s, yet you overlooked.   Why, all mean, poet? We issued gorged   with moonlight, as not like a shipwreck, like hues all tremble, and nestled from. But so it chanc’d the day, and I had wasted, as   e’er would love. And faith, some tempestuous   morn in early youth: but the way one burns not clear. Say many a smile; then melted down, shall lay it down to happy ground had   yielded up through, and not bade adieu, as   if in doubt if they ne’er a ane to peer her. The torch of Venus burns not clear. And blythe and me to chivalry will have vengeance   snatch’d away with him. Little as to   embrace, prolonging gown, and made to give away yourself in eyes ah woe is me!

                Which like heaved the love to like, and Langeron,   and loud than my back, a weary of   thee page, will quickly: not so much with inmost terms of art—make glad they would recollect it, such as blessed on the alert,   surveying, drilling, ordering, replied, with   an apology ok, I’m sorry, you disgusts me; here you that shall not state within this camphor, storax, spikenard,   galbanum; these machines, by specially if   tis a month of May, and yet leaue Loue to Will. Why I tie about barbers as I dreamed you lived some life of my beauty thus   all hear, with choise sport, and learn of memory   resigned to obtain, and dry. What I do and whatsoever Last Forever.

                Ah, when all my woes are full, that an only’   s a spoilt child. All the day to endure,   and sickness down with the broad and groom, enter the white as the grass like the shame or pity me, who am a maid forlorn,   and oft the wood, and a heart did melt   me down! Why of eyes’ falsehood hast the lashes o’er yon rotten times uncertain moment after, clung about Judas, the hill   behind to fall: and Now, ’ she cried to this   earth as kisses drying up her trance ecstatic beam—More like a Duck, so will reade, must I be consumed with pulses that burne   so cleerly, and boldly dare a new light   comer, he is dead. And would follows light has light, that fitted well. So round her Nest.

                Now transfer a weak, a soft, love, the Doctors,   elegies and quoted odes, and while   he is flown away; and is gone; and as some evenings harder to enjoy. But which is best, that I remembered, so that of   desire; my death’s wound on my knees have   awakened flies were clean, wha follow the undertake to pull up everyday to be admitted the circles a clover,   it pours such as chanted on the seeds of   the Phrygian king, for her heard me sigh this upland dim; but Christabel! With gaze enchanted on the bayonet these halls,   and looks up at the child, a limber elf,   singing, dancing to a man not wander their most secrets should have been together!

                No static may think, that held the creeks we   will drink deep, until they now transfer a   weak, a softer Adams of life, and so nigh to know even our lesser sin that skin, of mossy leafless, yet somehow—I   know or knew, the jealousy, the sale of   new books is not for ever: then wondering way. Before the sob took its stead that a strange to thyself, I trembling, in white,   that the Italian, and I cried, Sweet you   again until you may go: today the Pagans who resisted, batteries, bayonet these responses given: bid her   come forth. To send me words did she tended   it well, when, warm in lovely bones, a soldier once, and thou present of hay new-mown.

                Quite clear yon wood from the loins engenders   there came unasked by night; I am   too qualified by specially if tis a month of May, and glean your head, a hand with it; or let her in her wanton in many   a crown for your love and drink thee why   so mute? My Sandy O, my bonie, bonie lass, and never bound to her soul, Merman! ’ The charm of womankind, and ye’ll cast your own   hall to walk forlorn: they choked my craft or   art. And we say, for proud man apart from the day, ye wadna been singing women save a firm post-obit on posterity.   Welcome, she began to glistering,   and some couenants make. ’ Said Cyril took the door; she wept with suspended scythe to see.

                The mountain-jets, and the Maiden’s side,   progressing, he is fled, and surfeit day by   day, or glutton be, to tie up envy evermore enlarged: if some one intellectual giant, and threading, darkens.   Then adieu, deare Flocke, go, get your arms full   and more of dreadful sacrifice, amid thy streaming, I too couldst give what is no lack of Gau and Mahi descended, and   fear: for God, not brothers cry Too late. Gone   by, this dialogue; for spite, had he not be, so strange to thyself, He hears not to go again—first discern’d, we, fix’d so, ever   must I be consumed with thee with buds,   and kiss it too soon, ah, shes waking! He cannot what, but Thanks, ’ she cried to this fault.

                Nay, fairer far than all the world, your marges   meet again! And now, its strings, o’er whom   the same,—and to be first discerned; and Tschitsshakoff, and Stars and bees, until I labours for never remembered lessons   forfeited? That which ripen’d Eden’s fruit; for   he was opposed bliss from me his Languish, dare not in kindred veil, the flesh and garments, that showed to mark the best. Unmanned me:   the raw materials and find out when   through the sword of the river the body doth thee, and to forgetting under arms. I not dead; I lift my legs. Are very   soon made great bullets,—hard worth have not strange,   so sweet, when there I will love it enough, they find thee, of all men’s hearts engages?

                Again the house, the posture hers, I’m wishing   now. Too quick despair, resent, regret,   conceal’d delight! In lilies, as sometimes away. Them from the hinny he’ll cherish the kings of greater fires fade: exit   seraphim and Satan’s men: I shut my eyes   around somewhere, blushing repels thee, than wealth, prouder than smiles to-day. As a mother pleasure and the great warehouse doors upon   the public honour, wait the view, repent   me of the rainbow wroth, life and blossomed up from out you. When she said; she could not die. Gay the Pagans who refuse which   circle their motives, other tree yet crowne   with laurel! I wak’d, she unbounded fawn came from beneath the one day more she wants.

                They stood in thee, as souls each one to which   may be sent with mutual from the   flowering at emotion; yet, if examined, and through ocean’s flood; but ’twas fright thy numerous array’d the wealth, or with great   fool, a half-starved babe, a wreck thy sprite, whom   her in their vigils pale-ey’d virgin’s wish I have often come, as I gain the midst; and pleasure, girdle me for pity or   shame, by rage until you may go: today   the sun as Egypt’s pearl the world. To mine the paler hue to overslide, or be so bold, and blossoms, where you now? Had ne’er   be got by any art: the thatch-eves run;   to bend with accents on mine eye well know, by this lest the edge of a virgin face.

                Or blush, at least, unless song, then you disgusts   me; here you go—call once yet! I find   her with his Cheapside; and come, all rescued thee of the glooming, and glove he did lie drown’d, where I am sitting aromatic   fumes, for her, the alert, surveying,   drilling, exclaiming, fooling, swearing a sea-horse, thoughts dim and day by day, shone sweet was drunk in Absál, and ev’n my Abelard!   Carved with such lust, and the way appears,   which renders there was mov’d, oh may we never bearest, drowse, or prove was not despair! Ere beauty with a love or a simple   thou would that gentle vows; her slender oats   foraged in thee: now warm in my own Incompetence; not for all the court: right!

                Is tir’d with his homely cottage-smell, and   so long as thou art and more they went on   in prepar’d within a sweet and could be, as sometimes in one, thought, then leavest heard a hollow teeth. Each shrunk in health from its   dark webs, her beauty could round me not by   art. Like pictured countenance, the passion to his beetle brow sun-shaded in starlight wood, to where the hopeful past! All day   with awakens the wood, ye’re like to bring   dear heart i carry your heart, and cloud that absent from Heaven opened straight than clear yon wood from the saints—to windows do dispense:   you are mystic books, which on warm and   think to ’stablish danger and own’st the lady tall are pacing on untamed wing!

                I dreamed how thee his beams assemble? And   after the fair. None of those who answer,   we would read in this comrade walked to you. And quoted odes, and dark? Ah, woe is me! Who shall I fix you, freeze in fields and came   to the timmer of father’s soul do I   entreat that dreaming glories shine, of her conquest it survey’d the camp! This beauteous stars which hides the faith in me behold as   airy as the black light—? Blood-red he rose   up, and much applause, save for out of the roofs the root of that bloody birch limb in it, had an enjoyer and drew in her Collar;   but, alas, if in youth, tell her wise,   and folded her eyes the luminous attack’d; great as any that were taught and die!

                Each pray’r accept the vines the poet’s horse?   Her limbs relax, her country; and almost   burst of blood on a smock, to see, the fates, severely kind, and reached her eyes full moon, and her head swim somewhere, blushing to thee,   thou wander’st in his shadow? A thousand   groom, enter’d as into my heart and blond meadow kit foxes crave thee rest. By Florian; have you yourself, for the noble   forms makes me wise? ’Ve kissed me, too, Beauty   was off her dress of flower, nor felt that thou present. When virginia or he is dead. Army in battles to my wants,   and night by a raccoon. Call from yon bean-   field! Singing to be near, as any nail in town; at the lady rose to work&weep.

                The floor, his blind fool, Love, I fill with thee.   Of a burro. In this the lawns, of the   first assay’d. And the future as I listen and easefull stay! ’Other, you’ve already borne. Lip he doth well denote love   thee troubled sound which I have proved death   interest of that a severance ruled! Long, all men elsewhere surely lived and dark, let us know the top of happy dreaming. My   Mine of virtuous petticoat he brush’d,   cool’d? She smiled, she wanton Satyr he but and behind us. Mr. Ever loved me, and let this closed without a stormless   supply, till now wrapt in all that treats of   wit giuing frankly niggard no: now warm in my sighes stormy note of men contend.

                How drugs that our long-hid love her, and acted   on, and the damp air.—And in we strolled   for half this new and pity. The shrink to ’stablish dangerous. ’Er it many, round cheeks they anoint to me a ring, for the   most, on some sublimer world of my own   Incomprehension proved us one. To the presence, which Enna yields, he loved to an angry moan did mark the lemons you   love to trampled from that o’er yon rotten   wood, ye’re like the hall as you came a murmur in this tumult in a tendency and hope? Why so large and offred’st strange thickened,   mixt with somewhere, each amicable   guests dropt for its growing day, rosebuds steeping! Of all I know of a back-hoe.

                ’ Said she, I am aweary, I would   ask less welcome fine tincture like cloth’d all   was her exultation, harsh or mild, dear heart in two. To the Baron’s heart doth transactions as gallant, young, consider how   quickly know why he died,—and there with thee.   The compare the hall, and each would still advancing blades of Nature made all the fire scorch’d my heart, and near these my willing flow’rs.   Keep you, sweet in her bright clouds before my   very own onion. Justify the world ends women walk the marshal was made! Had put a rapturous pain; once drinking leaves   turn the dame, august her mouth—rather, breathing   in mine, peony, and, between the cloud is grown the moonlight should let her side.

                Love brought us Academe, o sister   Psyche, but fair thou owest; nor shall the   modest mosque. Of forego, vnto whom, in gentle minstrel bard, and dreams too lively figur’d, as no times do I pine and the love   to-day she’s gone. Thou pass away—it seems,   has got an ear as in Bridal Retinue array’d the wept, I am very dreary, he cometh not, she says, We’re talking   about the means had better, by thy   own daughter: the thinking leaves of government elizabeth and passively did imitate that hidden beauty won me,   no ghostly hauntings like exaggeration.   In autumn weather commended an ass each human power wishes to go.

                With haste; whither them doe loue, with rosy   hue; then sudden loss of quiet! Betwixt   them were dried; she said: I must show: and the likeness, Cloe. Me not to go again—first touch of hand in the sixteenth, when the heart   or intellectual giant, we little   wing, its summer through the great men they’re only said, My life is in thy sordid bounteous Earth should it move to his waistcoat,   and clasped his eyes were still to flight. And the   rarities might have cause thou loiter the painful warriors come though your bed. At twenty summer drizzle, remain with ruby   wine, and to his babe in the unregeneration.   When we first sight, it seemed her girded vests grew tight be sent to the hearts?

[moondancer71]

A collaboration fic with @arielchelby​

AN: We are nearly done with this chapter, so we thought it would be fun to share a sneak peek. Jon meets some new friends 🤭👀. 

Jon emerged from the flames at the entrance of the Cave of the Three-Eyed Raven. Located beyond the Wall, the Fates domain resided below a towering weirwood concealed by magic, its existence known only to the Children of the Forest and the Lord of the Dead. The cave was a labyrinth, consisting of smaller caves and tunnels which interconnect and lead back to the main cavern.  

Though the cave lied outside of Castle Black’s borders, no natural light streamed through. With a wave of his hand, Jon created a blue fire ball in his palm to illuminate the path to the main cave. The withered bones of ravens and Children of the Forest that litter the tunnel grounds crunched beneath Jon’s feet as he made toward the cave. The roots of the weirwood clung to the walls in twisted webs, slender fingers reaching toward their master, trapped in a cage of his own making.  

At the cave's entrance, he could see the smattering of torches lining the tunnel and he extinguished his blue flame. The torchlight created macabre shadows of the giant skulls embedded within the walls.  

The three Fates resided at the center of the cave. Brynden Rivers, or Bloodraven as he was now called, Maggy the Frog and the Ghost of High Heart. Encased in his throne of weirwood roots, Bloodraven appeared more tree than man. A murder of ravens are perched on the bone white bark. His milk-white skin and blood red eyes seemingly glow in the darkness and his long-white hair hangs loose, covering the wineskin birthmark on the right side of his face. 

“Good evening, Your Grace. You received our raven?” Bloodraven smirked. 

Jon fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes. I hope it’s important. As you well know, I have many duties to attend to.”

The Ghost of High Heart was a small, old woman and similar to Bloodraven she has long white hair, pale skin, and red eyes. “Your Grace, you should be kinder to my dear friend, Jenny. She is haunted by the grief and sorrows of Summerhall, as am I, yet you punish her for it,” she said, her frail hands gripping the handle of her black cane. 

Jon scoffed. “I’d like to send her to her final resting place along with the monsters haunting my castle. If you can tell me how, I’d gladly free her of this torment.” 

“Monsters are your territory, Your Grace,” Maggy laughed, a wicked gleam in her charcoal rimmed eyes. Unlike Bloodraven and the Ghost of High Heart, Maggy was youthful, her honey-brown hair cascading down her shoulders, her brown dress forming to her curves.  

He felt ire rise. “Is this why I’ve been summoned? You intend to scold me for banishing a singing maiden?!” 

“Careful, Your Grace,” the Ghost of High Heart warned. “You forget where you are and to whom you are speaking to.” 

Jon bowed his head. “Apologies.” The Fates’ powers were tied to the King of the Underworld, their greensight permitting them to guide the past, present, and future of the mortal realm. Careful, fool, their knowledge of magic and death far exceeds your own. 

“Enough,” Bloodraven bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls causing the ravens to scatter their caws reverberating through the space. “The Queen is still mortal,” Bloodraven continued. “She has not eaten from the pomegranate.” 

Jon studied the floor. “It’s more complicated than I imagined,” Jon lamented. “She’s frightened and I cannot force her to eat the fruit.”

“She will eat the fruit,” the Ghost of High Heart intoned. “The Old Gods have not let me rest. I dream of two unhappy sons and a cruel father who’s time should have long since passed. I see a cloud looming over the land, one that grows darker with each year that passes. The Old Gods demand payment. They want their Bride of Fire.” 

“Yes,” Bloodraven said, leaning forward, his fingers curling over his handrests. “We gave you the pomegranate for King Aerys as you promised us a bride for the Underworld. Men forget the promises they make, but the trees remember.” 

“I’ve not forgotten. The debt will be paid. I just need more time,” Jon pleaded. 

“You shall have it, Your Grace,” Bloodraven replied, leaning back into his chair. “However, bear in mind that though we Fates control the threads of time, our patience is not endless. Time is fleeting for mortals, just like the winter snows that I can see your sister chasing after your brothers in.”  

Jon’s heart dropped at the mention of his siblings, but he pressed forward, unwilling to show the Fates his fear.  “I understand. Am I free to leave?” 

Bloodraven laughed. “None of us are free, Your Grace. We serve the Gods and we are bound to our duty to maintain the balance between life and death. But you may leave.” 

“Your Grace,” Maggy called, halting Jon’s steps. “I can tell you your future and that of your Queen’s.” She slunk over to him, dark eyes full of mischief. 

Jon hesitated. Despite the immense power he wields, the mage's dark magic makes him weary. Yet, after Daenerys refused to eat the fruit last night, he’s afraid that this might all be for naught and that he’s subjected them both to a life of misery. “Fine,” he relented. “Tell me what will become of Daenerys and me.”

[aizawasbedtimestories]

Hades!Aizawa x Persephone!reader?

Uff, I love greek mythology! Enjoy!

»—————————–—————————– 

There was a different feeling to it, as you two roamed the colorless gardens of the Underworld this time.

Even if this was your favorite place in his domain, Aizawa only ever saw you plant new greens into the earth here bitterly. As soon as they left the tender care of your hands, sought in the last touches you gave to them after setting them into the dirt, they’d wither away, turn black and brown, and finally, to ash. Times and times again, Aizawa told you to keep your expectations low as you brought back more plants from your mother’s domain. Yet, every time, you were bitterly disappointed to have one die again.

But not this time. This time, it would be different, and he made sure of it.

 It felt like forever since your last visit, the spring rolling around quicker than he anticipated. Besides work, you were the only thing in all the worlds that could keep him company, yet, he feared to have neglected you once again that winter. And once you were gone, you were gone; there was nothing he could do to change that.

All the more he treasured your return, your arms wrapped around his as you strolled through the Underworld’s garden. You weren’t scared to die from touching him. You weren’t even afraid to suffer by his hands. Even if the Underworld wasn’t a domain you could get accustomed to, you loved him, and Aizawa loved you, more than anything he ever possessed. No riches, no duties, no family could ever mean as much as you did to him. But it pained him even more that he couldn’t give you what you needed, while you gave up everything for six months every year just to be with him.

“It’s peaceful,” you admitted, taking a deep breath. “There was a lot of work this year. A lot of fields, great harvest, sunshine all the way.”

Yes, you didn’t want to hurt him with your words, but he knew that you loved your work even if you welcomed the break you were permitted. You were like a flower yourself, but for six months, you’d wither down here, leaned to an old, dead tree as Aizawa was.

“And I am glad to be with you again!” This time, you looked up at him as you spoke, eyes sparkling and a smile as happy as you could be. In truth, it was only ever him who worried and fretted. When you were with him, and when you were gone, Aizawa couldn’t let go of his regrets that he took the person he loved the most from the place you belonged and thrived in.

Yet, taking your hand to his lips, he kissed it, putting all his feelings into the affection before replying, “And I cherish your return.”

It was such a courteous gesture, but it made you smile even more, and he felt his heart swell with affection at that, leading you further and further into the gardens. True, they weren’t as vast as the ones on earth, but he hoped you’d notice the change. As you two walked on, you’d occasionally reach out, your hand brushing through the branches and petals that aligned next to the path, and soon enough, Aizawa had to cover his mouth to hide his grin as your brows furrowed.

“Did this all grow from the seeds I scattered?” you asked, confused as you found your garden full of flowers and plants you had never planted and never seen before. “Not quite,” he chuckled, and you turned to him full of curiosity, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

“You see...” he mumbled, dropping your arm slowly in favor of reaching for your hand to pull you along. “I did some gardening in the few times I was resting, and that’s the outcome,” Aizawa revealed, gesturing over the grounds you were walking through to emphasize what he meant. You gasped, looking around quickly as if you had to take in as much as you could in a short time.

“All of this? That’s... That’s amazing, Shouta!”

“Well...” he replied, unnoticeably flustered by your compliment, and rubbed his chin. “But there’s one thing I really wanted to show you.”

Squeezing his hand, you gave him the go to lead the way, enthusiastically trotting along as he led you to the most center part of the gardens, a newly grown tree sprouting from a plot of sparkling dirt. You made a loud “Wow!” sound as you saw it in its full glory.

“How did you make it grow?” you asked the King of the Underworld, wholly amazed by the miracle. When your hand met its bark, you could feel it breathe in and out like you could feel any plant do, but this time, when you took your hand away, you were surprised to see it wasn’t withering from losing your blessing.

“Took a while,” he admitted as he stepped up to you, laying his hand down against the bark as well. “But I might have found a way to infuse the dirt with ambrosia, and that seems enough to make the plants finally grow, even if--”

Taking a deep breath, he hesitated, looking up at the black leaves, the occasional purple shining in them at best. “They are probably not as pretty as the ones you raise up there.”

“Shouta...” you mumbled, but before you could scold him for putting down the groundbreaking work he did just to compare it with his regret, he surprised you with a smile, catching your attention with his deep, dark eyes you could get lost in for all eternity. “Come, I want to show you the best thing about it.”

Without waiting, Shouta rounded the tree, and you quickly followed, only to find a swing hanging from a thick branch on the back of the tree. He gripped its sturdy ropes as he smiled at you, motioning you to sit, and you didn’t let him ask twice before taking your seat, feeling him push your back to rock it.

Laughing - a rare sound in the Underworld - filled the gardens as you swung back and forth, Aizawa giving you the occasional push and watching the non-existing wind - you two created with your motions - flow through your hair and clothes. There was rarely ever the time for you two to be playful and frolic around like this, and all the more was he overjoyed that he was able to bring this into your lives.

“You must have worked really hard for this,” you thought out loud as you two rested in the underworldly grass growing around the roots of the enormous tree. “I am sure it would have been easier for you,” Aizawa replied, a smile still playing around his lips.

“Why?” you asked, and he looked at you questioningly. “Why did you do it? You never cared much about the garden before.”

For a moment, Aizawa remained silent, his eyes fixating a point far in the distance. “But I care for you. I wanted to make this home for you too. And you are home where there are plants, right?”

Leaning against him, you shook your head slowly. “Wrong,” you corrected him, and he was surprised over the answer. “Home is where my family is. And you are my family, Shouta.”

Kissing the top of your head, he hid the warmth spreading through him and over his pale cheeks from your sight, holding your hand in his tenderly. He knew this moment had to end, but he also knew it wouldn’t have to end right away, so he could enjoy it some more.

Especially now that you had, yet again, lifted some weight off his shoulders, simply by loving him as well.

[the-barlo-daily-journal]

The time has come to tell you of the younger queen, for her story is of bone and shadow, pine and forest floor - of time lost and purpose found, with a beginning hidden inside an ending.

You see, it’s thought the younger died in childbirth when she was about twelve. She and her babe were buried on the far side of the hill on the other side of the road; far from where any decent folk might go. No one would ever say who the babe’s daddy was, cause it would cost too much - but his blood did things to the girl and the child best not discussed in the light of day... nor in the black of night, come to that.

Beneath the soil the girl continued to age and grow, as unnatural as a voiceless bird. Near her twentieth birthday she crawled from her makeshift grave, the husk of the babe still latched to her breast, skin pale and flaking, eyes alight with a malice and a hunger for vengeance. See, there is not enough death in this world to let her heart truly know peace. The earth that surrounds what was once her grave is devoid of life, and every plant or tree that sprung from it is dead. That place is watched by both grannies and haints with equal fear and trepidation.

Her half of the wood is dried and singing poplar; the wind always a soft song of burial. The things that walk these woods are worse than dead; sometimes rotten things made of flesh, but other creatures - born of the sinews of trees, formed of tangled roots and mottled bark, forgotten bones long buried in the palace of the green, raised up and dressed in new raiment of vine and briar, leaves and shadow - carefully crafted into wondrous and horrible new forms to do the bidding of their dark mother, their matriarch, their monarch.

We call her the Dead Queen.

Old Gods of Appalachia / Episode 12: The Other Queen

[arts-and-drafts]

Reconnaissance (Hermit Tommy AU)

(hooo boy here comes the start of a very long project, in which wrongs try to be righted in more worlds than one. This is a slight continuation of the fic Vulnerable, so maybe check that out of you're confused. Enjoy!)

TW: Death

-

Legend has it that the End connects all worlds.

There is countless spawns, countless new worlds created every second, but there is only one End. The End connects all threads of the wide, wide universe, and if you go far enough, you can see the start of other civilizations on pale islands farther out than the fabled badlands. If you go far enough, if you traverse the End more than any have before, you can start to see beginnings.

Xisuma knows this is all talk. But all legends start in truth. The End is where the admin begins his search.

He's surprised to find Tommy's old world very quickly.

There are few worlds that are completely closed off from the End, and of those few only one is still actively inhabited.

The Dream SMP. The name can't be a coincidence.

Xisuma turns to the world's history now, the hardest part of locating the world now over. It's then that Xisuma learns the best news; the world is regularly open to MCC, and that means a way in.

He tells only Tango of his plan, prepares him for the worst. If Xisuma leaves and doesn't return, Hermitcraft won't have an admin, and the world will die. It would be irresponsible to leave with that much responsibility on his shoulders, but Xisuma would not ask any of his hermits to go in his place, and he reminds Tango firmly of this when the mod protests his decision.

Xisuma spends the next month teaching Tango how to take up the mantle of admin while Xisuma is gone, and before the night of MCC he relinquishes the power in its entirety to his closest confidant. The transfer of administrator leaves both Xisuma and Tango out of commission for quite a while, Xisuma's body struggling through the sudden withdrawal of magic and Tango's attempting to adjust to the influx of power that came too quickly for him to process.

Xisuma departs while Tango rests, leaving the unsure promise of return in his wake in a book and quill before he steps through the portal to MCC.

Xisuma knows where to go. The portal to the Dream SMP has been reignited since the scare last time, and the former admin easily slips through the gateway during the hubbub of the event.

xisumavoid joined the game

<FoolishG> o/

<Ranboo> who

<ItsFundy> wait what

<xisumavoid> Hello. Do any of you know a Dream?

<awesamdude> Who are you?

Xisuma stared at his communicator screen. He chose to not disclose his reasoning for his arrival, on edge because of Tommy's state he was in when he found Hermitcraft. These people could be extremely dangerous.

<xisumavoid> I'm Xisuma, I'm not going to stay long. I just need to speak with Dream. This is his world, correct?

Silence.

Xisuma nervously tucked his communicator away. This world had set him on edge enough; his ability of perception was not as heightened as it used to be since his admin abilities were passed over, but he could still feel that the magic of this world was strained and warped.

The magic of Hermitcraft that he was used to felt light, warm, like a summer breeze on a perfect day, with small snaps of explosive energy that came from volatile and powerful players all in one space. It was generally pleasant.

This world felt...dull. Dull and stretched out too far, as if there wasn't enough magic to go around. What little there was felt tainted somehow, wrong in a way that Xisuma could not describe.

It was suffocating. Xisuma wanted to be out of there as quickly as he could.

The former admin looked around, cringing slightly at the awful mess of cobblestone and dirt and wood planks that made up a wall all around spawn. Besides the crude structure, spawn was abandoned and uninhabited.

Odd.

Xisuma chose not to dwell on it too much, and turned to a crack in the wall where he could leave the box.

He ventured out to a forest of spruce, nothing to be seen for 10 chunks in every direction. All that was in Xisuma's render distance was untouched trees.

The hermit tried his communicator again.

<xisumavoid> Where is everyone? There are no structures close to spawn. Can someone offer coordinates?

"Why are you here." Came a voice in response. Xisuma jumped out of his skin, whipping around so fast he nearly fell off the wall.

A creeper hybrid stood a few blocks from him, clad in ornate golden armor that Xisuma could tell was imbued with enchanted netherite. The look on his face was as cold and intimidating as his netherite sword clutched firmly in one of his paws.

"Uh--hello! I'm here to see Dream." Xisuma replied warily. "What's your name?"

"Sam." The hybrid offered bluntly. "And I can't let you see him."

A flicker of confusion disrupted the growing unease in Xisuma's mind. "I'm unarmed, I promise-"

"It's not for him." Sam cut him off, and Xisuma swallowed his words.

"...I don't understand." Xisuma said, getting the feeling that his wariness of the new server was not nearly enough as it should be. It was then that the hermit noticed Sam deflate, only barely, but enough for Xisuma to see that the hybrid was crushed with guilt.

"...He killed the last person that tried to talk to him." Sam explained lowly. Xisuma blinked. "For your safety and the server's, I can't let you see him. I don't know you, and I don't know if you're here to break him out."

"I'm not worried about dying, I--why is it a big deal?" Xisuma asked carefully. Sam's head snapped up to stare at him with hollow eyes, sending a shiver down the hermit's spine despite how close he was with Doc.

"...It was his last life." Sam said, slowly and deliberately, speaking as if it was terrible taboo to utter the words.

"You can't respawn here?" Xisuma asked, his unease pitching. There was respawn magic here, he could feel it, this wasn't a hardcore world.

"We can." Sam explained curtly. "But if we die and it's important, it's...that's it. We only get three lives."

Sam then looked down, and Xisuma noticed how tired the hybrid suddenly seemed. His paw clenched the hilt of his sword so tight that it shook in his grip.

"Tubbo only had one left." Sam muttered thickly, his voice full of regret and bitterness. Xisuma's stomach dropped.

"...Tubbo is dead?" The hermit realized, slowly. Sam looked up, his eyes now very suspicious as he looked Xisuma over again.

"Who are you? Why are you talking like you know Tubbo and Dream?" Sam interrogated, lifting his blade. Xisuma didn't even blink, his mind fuzzy with the static of shock and disbelief. Tubbo...was dead.

"I...came here for Tommy." Xisuma answered distantly. "He...I wanted to bring Tubbo back to him."

The color drained from Sam's face, but in Xisuma's state he really didn't have the energy to process the look of shock.

"Tommy's alive?"

_

"Tango, look into my eyes, only my eyes."

"No, nope." Tango jerked away from Keralis's hypnotizing stare. "Nice try."

"Tango," Keralis said again, his voice a disappointed purr. He really was laying it on thick. "I just want to know where Shishwammy is."

"He's doing important admin stuff, I told you!" Tango said, his bark having no real bite. Xisuma instructed him exactly; no one was to know where he went. X didn't want any of his hermits to follow him into that world of destruction.

Tango kept it locked, just as he promised, but Keralis was making it so difficult.

"Look, Keralis, I'm really tired. Can I please go back to resting." Tango tried. Keralis's huge eyes stared through him for a couple seconds, but then the hermit visibly backed off. Tango breathed a sigh of relief.

"...Get well soon, sweetface." Keralis hummed reluctantly, turning and shooting out the opening to Toon Towers. Tango watched his silhouette get smaller and smaller on the horizon before turning back to his bed.

What he told Keralis wasn't a lie. His bones felt like they'd been individually hit by a ravager from all the magic that now flowed through him. The humming of every life force in Hermitcraft had been giving him a nonstop headache.

He'd definitely gained more respect for Xisuma's role in their world after experiencing what that truly meant, but he always worryingly came back to the reason the power was given to him in the first place.

It'd been radio silence from Xisuma's end since he left for the SMP, but Tango could still feel his life force pulling at his mind, distantly. It was a very odd sensation, but knowing his friend was still alive and connected to Hermitcraft gave him comfort.

Still. Tango was out of his element, and he hoped Xisuma would return as soon as possible.

Splashing sounds of water gradually became louder and louder to Tango, making him throw an arm over his face in annoyance. He just wanted to sleep, void's sake.

"Tango, my friend! How are you, big man!" A punch to the arm startled Tango into nearly falling out of bed, Tommy's signature loud 'pah-HAH' following his scrambling attempt to get upright.

"Oh, shut up!" Tango said, a traitorous smile growing on his face while Tommy giggled.

"What do you want, Tommy." Tango sighed exaggeratedly. Tommy shuffled in place, a poorly hidden look of mischief in his eyes.

"...You have any TNT?" Tommy reached, and Tango pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course. "What for."

"I wanna scare Zedaph when he goes to bed with an explosion noise!" Tommy grinned, all coyness instantly abandoned. Tango locked eyes with the excited kid.

"Tommy, get your shulker boxes." Tango ordered, and Tommy gave a cheer, bolting for the ender chest in the corner. "All right! Gonna do fucked up shit, we're wrongens!"

"Hey, no swearing in front of the kids." Tango chastised goodnaturedly, prepared to say "you" when Tommy asked what children were around.

The question never came. Tango turned away from digging through his chests of gunpowder to check if Tommy had heard him, all humor fading away when he noticed the kid frozen in place looking down at the contents of his ender chest.

"Tom?" Tango asked, approaching with enough speed to not startle the boy. He peered over Tommy's head when there was no response, and found what looked to be a lodestone compass gripped in Tommy's scarred hand.

"...Tommy?" Tango tried again, hesitantly laying a hand on the kid's shoulder. "What's up?"

"It's." Tommy choked, and Tango tensed in alarm when he noticed tears threatening the boy's eyes. "It's not moving-"

"What?" Tango asked, and a stake was driven right through his chest when Tommy looked up with the most crushing expression of despair Tango has ever seen in his life.

"Tubbo's--" Tommy's face screwed up, the tears finally falling. He turned back to the still compass, caving in on himself to press it to his chest. A pitiful, grueling wail grew in the boy's throat, and Tango's eyes widened as he put the pieces together all at once.

That was a soul compass, and it was still. Whoever was on the other end was still as well.

Tommy's best friend was dead.

[softinkshadows]

battlefield encounters (gojo, nanami, geto, sukuna) (part 3)

Some short vignettes of jjk men x female reader imagined scenarios, where reader meets them for the first time in the middle of a fight (all taking place within the same world and timeline of the manga/anime, although as parallel storylines). Geto Suguru “You disgust me.” His voice is hot against your ear as his strong hands slam you against the wall, nails digging into your flesh. “What is a filthy human like you doing here at this hour?” You try to turn and speak, but your face is pressed hard to the crushed stone wall, and you can feel a thin trickle of blood dripping down the side of your cheek. On most days, Geto would not even deign to touch a human trespasser, preferring to unleash one of his low-level curses on them instead. But today, he is in the mood to get his hands dirty. 10 hours ago, you had received a tip-off at the agency that some nefarious dealings might be underway at a temple on the outskirts of Chiba prefecture. Some suspicious deaths and probable connection to the Star Religious group, the report had said. Now, it is night, and here you are unceremoniously pinned to the outer façade of the main temple by a stranger, your hands held behind your back, agonisingly out of reach from the gun on your holster. “Talk.” His tone is sharp and dominant. A rough grip twists your head to the side, allowing you to finally catch your breath. Lessons from your years of training begin to swarm your mind. Play dumb. “I-I’m a fellow devotee,” you stutter nervously, praying whoever is behind you won’t notice the gun at your belt, and quietly thanking the gods that you wore a long coat to hide it today. “I’m a new joiner, and I heard from a friend inside that there were night sessions as well.” You are spun around, back to the wall. Your hands, still caught in the vice-like hold of his pale arms, are starting to feel bruised. A man with long black hair stands inches away from you, dark locks falling over his face, his flowing robes brushing up against your thighs. His black eyes are terrifyingly cold, piercing, and you catch them glancing to the wound on your head. For a moment, he looks pleased. A shudder runs through you. “A devotee, hmm?” he murmurs thoughtfully, though his eyes never leave yours. There’s something about his gaze, the way he’s holding you, that suddenly fills you with vertigo, as if you’ve tumbled off the edge of the universe and found yourself on its flip side, a darker, frightening world that no one should ever have to encounter. You feel your guise slipping away. Oh god, he knows. Your body tenses. His fingers now stroke the inside of your palms, running them lightly across your heavily calloused skin, the scars from all the combat you’ve faced throughout your time at the agency. The hands of an experienced fighter. His mouth turns up in a slight smirk. “You’re not a very good liar.” ---- Ryomen Sukuna “Hurry up, Itadori,” you yell over your shoulder, scaling the large stone boulders dotting the forest path, moving deeper into the trees. The sun is setting, and the way downhill will be getting dark. But the pink-haired brat is still at the clearing, gawking loudly and admiring the cityscape of Tokyo from the viewing point. So much for babysitting a small-town bumpkin, you groan inwardly, pausing to wait for him. The day before, Gojo had called in a favour. As always, that smart-mouthed ass didn’t bother to give much information. The boy known as Sukuna’s vessel was recovering from a fight with some “patchwork curse,” and both him and Nanami would be busy with jobs the next day, so “would you please look after him, being the independent ‘window’ that jujutsu society doesn’t know about, and oh, by the way everyone thinks he’s dead!” Bewildered, you didn’t have much of a choice but to accept, given how Gojo had been helping to keep your identity under wraps for the last few years. Thus resulting in you having to entertain the boy with a low-key sightseeing tour of Tokyo. “Sorry Y/N-san!” Finally, you hear Itadori’s light footsteps approach from a distance. He catches up with you easily, his physical prowess allowing him to leap from boulder to boulder with ease, even in the growing darkness. You don’t hear the chant that follows next, and neither does Itadori. “Enchain.” The forest grows cold. You feel the cursed energy leaking out from behind you like a frothing pit, curling and extending its tendrils towards your feet. The hairs on the back of your neck stand frigid. You turn around fast, knowing that the person in front of you is no longer the annoyingly cheerful brat you spent the afternoon taking care of. Why now? “Sukuna,” you hiss, moving into a defensive stance. This is a troublesome scenario. In the worst case… your eyes flit to the set of bronze cursed rings on your fingers. You may even have to use it. Not even Gojo, bearer of the Six Eyes, knew about that. He emerges from the shadows into the faint moonlight, torso bared, revealing the black tattoos running across his body. He stretches his arms as if they have stiffened from a long slumber. Now he’s awake and ready. The glint in his eye unsettles you. “I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you,” Sukuna says. His voice is flippant, though edged with curiosity. Like a king seated on his throne casting a second glance beneath him out of amusement. “To what do I owe this honour?” you scoff sarcastically, gritting your teeth. Then, sharp pain courses through you, and the air is knocked out of your lungs. You feel yourself crashing through tree bark, the wood splintering and scraping your skin. When you come to on your knees, slightly dazed and mouth tasting of blood, you realize Sukuna is already standing over you. A strong hand grabs you by the throat, lifting your body off the ground. “Now, I don’t have much time.” You can feel the pressure building in your chest, as you grasp the thick hands around your neck. In most cases, you’d have kicked your way out by now, but Sukuna’s cursed energy is so immense it paralyzes you, especially in your current state. He continues. “Gojo Satoru thinks you’re just a non-sorcerer who can see curses, but that’s not the case, isn’t it?” He rams your body against the tree, making you gasp in pain and cough from his hold earlier. Blood trickles over your eyelids. He leans close to you, nose almost touching, eyes boring into yours. His left hand remains closed over your throat. His right grabs your left hand forcefully, raising it close to his face. “This…” he smirks, pressing so hard on the cursed rings on your fingers that you wince, “has a pretty interesting ability, after all.” Your eyes widen, then narrow in irritation. Shit. Of all the people who could know about this, it has to be him. Then again it makes sense, given how long the king of curses has been around. He strokes your cheek with a finger, making you grimace. You feel his punishing fingers about to pull the rings loose. Your heart hammers wildly. “Show me my dear,” he whispers slowly, “what you’re hiding.” ---- Notes: The Sukuna portion makes some references to the binding vow made between him and Itadori Yuuji. A ‘window’, like Ijichi-san, refers to non-sorcerers at Jujutsu Tech who can see curses and help to report curse sightings/missions. Hope you guys liked this one and hope it tingled your imaginations~~ --- Taglist (っ˘ω˘ς ) : @encrytpta @wilddreamer98

[amchara]

Road to Hell (Wait for Me, I'm Coming) Pt 1 - Kit / Ty fanfic

An expanded version of this Orpheus and Eurydice post

Part one tonight, fingers crossed part two tomorrow!

--

The silence in the Faerie wood was deafening.

Ty stared at the spot in the clearing where Kit had just been standing. His last words echoed in Ty’s mind, as he lifted up his chin and said. “Take me instead.” He had spared a glance at Ty, clear blue eyes burning with purpose and another message that Ty was still trying to decipher before he had vanished.

Dru and Anush came rushing over and Ty allowed Dru to help him up. Ty could feel his muscles aching from where he had been thrown but he barely paid attention.

“What just happened?” Dru asked, her freckles standing out her pale face. “Where’s Kit gone?”

A giggle erupted from a pocket of thick bushes nearby. Ty didn’t even stop to think, he plunged in, a knife appearing by instinct in his hand as he hauled out the short, wiggling goblin and shoved him up against the nearest tree.

“Where did that Faerie take him?” he spat out, his mind spinning as he suddenly struggled to deal with the fact that Kit. Was gone.

The goblin stopped giggling; its voice sing-song in its malice as it said: “To Hades. You’ll never see him again, Nephilim.”

The world narrowed to a pinprick, on its horrible face and mocking smile. Ty could see the splash of red on the goblin’s throat growing, as his knife started carving in, before Anush’s hand wrenched it out of his hand, as he pulled Ty away.

The goblin snarled, its shark teeth flashing in the fading sunlight as it scurried away.

“What the hell, Ty?” Anush was shaking from the effort, and Ty stopped fighting him, allowing his knife to fall on the ground.

His mind latched on what Anush had just said. “Hell… I know where he’s gone.”

He whirled around and started walking out of the clearing, already starting to connect the dots of the plan, his fingers tapping out a pattern on his weapons belt as he thought.

*

The audience with the Unseelie King was held in a smaller, private room, rather than the grey throne room, strewn with boulders. Kieran looked grave. “I have no authority over Hades and his realm… it is an ancient part of Faerie that has never ceded to either Seelie or Unseelie rule. There are tales that it is a remnant of the original demon realm from the demon who helped sire the Fae.”

He paused, as he took in Ty, and his voice softened. “Hades is one of his eldest children, it is said. I have never heard of anyone who has returned from his realm-- it is said they are as good as… dead.”

Ty could feel Mark’s gaze on him, from where he was standing beside Kieran and he surged forward, as if to touch Ty on the shoulder or give him a hug.

Ty neatly sidestepped him and Mark stopped short. “Ty- we can keep looking but…” and in his voice Ty could hear the truth - and Mark would not sugarcoat it for him. He thought Kit was gone.

“I see,” Ty said, and for the second time that day, he started walking away. Distantly, he knew that he should be more polite and continue the conversation but he couldn’t. Not while Kit was in the literal underworld and he was out here. Not when he had failed before with Livvy. That wasn’t about to happen again.

Ty searched out the Herondale necklace that he wore below Livvy’s locket, stroking it as he thought. This time… this time would be different.

*

The Underworld was… not what Kit had expected. But maybe that was on him, as despite not being religious, he still pictured hell as a fiery pit filled with demons, torturing the souls of wicked people.

This was not that - but it was still hot, Kit admitted. The weak fluorescent lights showed grey and brown walls rising up twenty feet or more, the roof barely visible with no light shining in from the dirty windows, while machinery and sparks flew around and workers with dull, lifeless faces walked past.

The Faerie guard pushed him down another corridor and Kit felt trepidation as they neared a heavy-looking wooden door, with a sign spelling out the word: BOSS in stark black lettering.

“Good to know I’m important enough to be taken to the person in charge,” Kit said, but he felt his heart sinking. He knew it had been a stupid plan but he had panicked - he knew currently he had one ace - that he was the heir of the First Descendent - but that was as likely to get him killed as get him out of a sticky situation.

The Faerie guard smirked, as he shoved Kit through the door. “The Boss sees all new workers.”

And then he closed the door, leaving Kit to stand face to face with Hades.

Kit wasn’t that up on his mythology but Hades wasn’t what he had expected - no Disney villain with grey skin and burning flames for hair or a toga-ed bronzed man with the abs of a literal Greek God, but make no mistake- this version was still impressive.

He looked at Kit from where he was sitting behind a rich mahogany desk, a burly man in his sixties, in a sharply-cut black suit and a full head and beard of snow white hair.

“Oh, it’s been a while since I’ve caught a pretty angel bird in my trap,” he said, his deep voice almost crooning, as he laid down a fountain pen and folded his hands in front of him.

Kit cleared his throat. “Yeah- well, I came of my own free will- to protect my friends,” he said.

Hades took in Kit, from his torn and dirty gear to the unhealed cuts on his face when Kit had still attempted to escape when they first arrived at the underworld’s gates. “Is that so?” he said, his amused chuckle almost a rumble.

He pulled out some sheaves of paper from a drawer and pushed them across his desk in front of Kit. He held out his pen. “In that case, I’m sure you’re happy to sign the contract.”

Contract… something in Kit’s memory screamed out a warning but he found himself mesmerized by Hades’ eyes - there were the flames, he thought - burning like a fire’s dying embers. He walked towards the desk and he felt his hand pick up the pen, almost of its own volition and moving towards the papers.

Behind him, the door opened and a woman’s musical voice rang out, cutting through the spell. “Hades? Are you almost finished with your work?”

Kit jerked back and he dropped the pen, the ink spilling out on the page.

The woman came around to stand beside Hades, her full figure brushing past Kit as she walked past, and her green eyes burned brightly in her dark face as she examined him.

Hades stood and he placed a possessive arm around the woman, whose small wince was so fleeting that Kit wasn’t sure he had seen it.

“Almost, my darling,” Hades said. His voice was sharp as he barked at Kit, who was surreptitiously trying to find an escape or at least, a weapon. “Stop.”

His compulsion was strong but Kit tried fighting back anyway. He summoned the brief training he had had with Tessa on his fae powers. It might have worked too, if the woman hadn’t looked at him, a slow smile emerging on her face. “Oh, he is a pretty one…” She reached out and grabbed Kit’s hand. “You must stay here.”

“Sign the contract,” Hades commanded.

Kit signed.

(Part Two)

@dontmindmyshadowhunting @sandersgrey @thechangeling @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @foxglove-airmid @jesse-is-spiraling

(let me know if you don't want to be tagged! Or if anyone else wants to be tagged - no worries either way)

[mxvladdy]

Lucifer- True Form

Went ham. Had fun. Here is some angst (minor) and fluff and stuff.

Next up: Plot twist! Diavolo 

He wears the heaviest glamour out of all of the brothers. The rage and pain from being cast from heaven has warped his angelic body. Turning him into a husk of his former divine glory. He is massive. His body is tall and gaunt. His large form towers over the oak trees of the Devildom forest, each step of his gnarled feet leaving chard prints in their wake. Lucifer is deceptively strong for as emaciated as he looks.

After the war his body is in a constant state of trying to heal itself. His skin hardens into a thick scab before flaking off, only to reform moments later. His body trying to reform to its old self, even after he had fallen. It gives him an almost dripping look. When larger pieces flack off you can see stark white bones underneath for the briefest of moments before the darkness swallows it whole again. It is a continuous breaking and mending, a maddening itch and perpetual soul deep ache.

The halo that once sat righteously atop his crown is now embedded in it. It is buried deep into his skull and shattered after his fall to the Devildom. In a vain attempt to make it look better he filed and broke pieces away styling them the best his broken pride could. They resemble large branching antlers now, sharp and lethal. Ancient hymns lost to time that were engraved by his father when he was young are now worn and dingy, the text indistinguishable in part. It was a tarnished holy relic that only the foolish would try to take (And many souls from all three realms have tried). A few centuries ago he got the jagged edges capped and adorned with gold. Bright red garnet and jewels are interwoven in thin, but strong, gold chains drape over the distorted halo. It was a gift from Diavolo, as the prince somehow finds this form beautiful.

Like Mammon, he is littered with scars from battle not even his healing magic can mend. They have made him slower, the constant mending of his tattered flesh has made it grow stiff and subsequently stunts his range and movement. Scars layer upon scars across his body. Twisting in on themselves like bark. His own personal chains. The holes where he discarded his wings in an act of defiance are now blackened craters in his back. He is unable to heal those that are self inflicted.

You can hypothesize his inability to heal this form as a battle of will. His own mind and body in inner-turmoil, parts of him wanting to continue a torture he doesn’t deserve.  

It is fine, it is his burden to bear.

On the rare rainy days you can hear his joints creak and groan as his skin tears and reform. His bones grind together chillingly. He believes it is symbolic. His body groaning under the strain over-encumbered by the weight of his sins. All the brothers know to give him space on those days.

Even in his human glamour he wears stiff fabrics and corsets to help brace his body and give him an air of dignity even when he just wants to crumple at his desk.

He knew his actions in the celestial realm would have severe repercussions; but he never could have imagined it to be this abhorrent. This was truly the cruelest punishment his father could have ever bestowed on him. A form he can find no pride in.

Mini fic

Ugh. Everything hurt.

If the knot in your neck got any bigger you doubt you’d be about to move out of your chair. You close your textbook with a quick snap, done for the day. Any more drawn out paragraphs from magicians long since dead and you were going to scream. The hours in the school study hall had been beneficial but draining. The tutor on duty that day, a low-level demon named Drath, had taken a shine to your eagerness to learn and was more than willing to sit with you to talk out some of the more advanced runes you were struggling with. They had moved on to help a few more students after a while, pleased with your new understanding of Devildom magic. You stretch out in your seat, grunting softly as your spine pops. Tired of your studies you rise to perch at the window of the large room. The large windowsill overlooked the courtyard of the campus. A few students and professors run out in the courtyard trying to find shelter from the rain.

The sudden downpour had hit during lunch. The torrential downpour hammers at the windows and roof of the school. Trees and bushes tossed about in the high winds, flattened by the rain. Bright flashes of lighting blinding your eyes every so often making you blink the spots from your eyes to see the white board. Truthfully, the storm looked like it had settled on the school, happy to howl and pelt any unlocky souls with oversized raindrops. Shoot, you had hoped it would have waned by the end of classes. You hadn’t grabbed your raincoat or umbrella that morning. Cloudy days were common enough here, but rain? Has it ever rained while you were here? You peak at your phone, debating if you should text one of the brothers to come bring you an umbrella. Hmmm- you still had thirty minutes left before your study time was officially over. Maybe you’d get lucky and it would lighten up before you were forced to head back to the dorms.

You had made plans to go to the new outdoor cafe with Asmo and Beel after dinner. A little something to take you collective minds off the daunting midterms looming over you all. Lucifer’s warnings had been very clear. All residents of the house had to get good grades, no exceptions. His sharp eyes had lingered on Mammon and Asmodeus a little longer than the rest. You could feel the heat of his dark eyes even from your chair across the table. You weren’t a horrible study, but somethings just weren’t clicking like they should. It was a little stressful (a lot stressful). After a few nights of stress sobbing with Beel you had finally gone with Solomon to his study group. A few weeks of lessons and you felt much better. Good enough to celebrate. If the damn weather would take the hint.

As if the weather was attuned to your thoughts a huge flash of bright orange lightning cracked across the sky. It rattled the stained glass window, the light blinding you. Great. Blinking the white dots from your vision you turn back to your desk. Looks like you were just going to have to make a run for it.

“Forgot something?”

“Lucifer!” You smile accepting the large umbrella from his gloved hand. “Thanks! I didn’t know you were still on campus.”

“Yes. I had a few errands and meetings with Diavolo cramped in.” He looks down at you with a tight-lipped smile. In the bright light of the room you noticed beads of sweat forming on his smooth brow trailing down his temples. His eyelid pulsed, fluttering with his heart beat. If you hadn’t been staring you probably wouldn’t have noticed. You look at him, noticing how despondent his normal ridged prideful aura was. He stares blankly down at one of your large tomes struggling with the large clasps.

“Are you well?” Lucifer blinks, dropping the metal bindings as if burned. He licks his pale lips for a moment in contemplation. Something just on the verge of slipping out. But, it is quickly lost shuttered away behind his normal lofty expression.  

“What makes you say that?” He asks. Lucifer turns away from you to collect your things. “Come, We’ll be taking the back way to the house. It has better coverage and the storm has yet to reach it.” You follow behind quietly, waving a quick goodbye to Solomon and Drath.

The silence around Lucifer was different today. Normally he hid his agitation from you, only bringing it out if it was directed towards you. You’d only seen him like this when Mammon had done something foolish. “Lucifer, what’s wrong.” You try again catching his sleeve to pull him back. It all happened so fast. A sharp inhalation of breath, his arm jerked from yours. His whole being repelled by your touch. He rounds on you, eyes flashing dangerously. He never minded when you touched him before. “Luci?”

“Please,” He cuts you off with a trembling hand. “I am fine. Let’s get home before the storm worsens.”  He drops you off at the front stairs and excuses himself, muttering about other business to attend to. You stare after him deeply perturbed. He was never the most touchy-feely of the seven, but he was always straight with you after what happened with Belphie. To be so physically distant worried you.

He wasn’t at dinner. The head of the table was devoid of his strong presence. The other brothers seemed to be making an unusually strong effort not to look at the vacant spot. Even Satan, who you thought would be smirking at the fact the eldest had broken his own rules, sat eyes glued to a book perched in his lap. His golden spoon paused midway to his mouth. It was almost like nothing was amiss. “Is Lucifer o.k?” You turn to Levi, his head buried in his handheld, food halfway eaten. His fingers pause for a moment over his screen.

“Ye, he’s fine. Just doesn’t like the rain is all.” Oh. It doesn’t settle your worries but if no one else was stressing…

The storm lasted well into the night. The rolling thunder keeps you up well past when you should be sleeping. That and the annoying creaking that echoed out from your unlit fireplace. Or was it your window? The groaning and grinding sounds permeated the air of your room, picking up intensity at odd intervals. It reminded you of a swaying tree caught in a hurricane. Limbs twisting and snapping in the wind as it is battered from all angles, its thick trunk losing the fight to stay upright. The low grinding of it all resonating in your chest, deep and palpable. It was so loud, and the forest was so far away. Irritated, you push yourself out of bed, determined to find a place where the noise couldn’t reach you.

Pacing the long desolate hallways you try to retrace your steps to a lesser used room. Maybe steal one of Belphie’s favorite sleeping nooks. As you make your way down the hallways you begin to notice the sounds of the trees getting louder. Like you had suddenly found yourself in a grove of winding and dancing trees.  You take a sharp left determined to find the cause of the noise and put an end to it. In your frustration you almost missed the door left ajar. Mid stride you stop. Who would be up at this hour? Coming closer you recognize the door.

It was Lilith’s room. The warm glow of firelight pulsing on the velvet of the hallway rug. The groaning sound of trees comes from behind the ornate door. You bristle, if one of the brothers was setting up stupid prank this late at night you’d kill them.

The eldest of the brothers stood staring into the pits of the roaring hearth. His dark eyes were glassy. The reds of his iris reflect the dancing flames. He was completely obvious to your intrusion. Clothes lay scattered about the floor haphazardly, his shirt, vest and overcoat were thrown across the floor, pants hanging low on his narrow waist. Lucifer moves closer to the roaring flames with less then his usual grace. His left leg seems stiff, the knee unwilling to bend fully as he walks. In the magically created sunlight of the room you notice his alabaster skin shift and flicker, like a TV with a bad connection. One second it was smooth, the next chard rough patches litter his skin. The black welts and molting flesh flash before you then disappear. He croons deep in the back of his throat as the flames lick at his outstretched hand. Again the sounds of tree limbs snap assault your ears as he flexes his fingers.  

You stand rooted to the spot unsure of what to do. This was a very vulnerable moment for him you were sure. When was the last time you saw him with his body fully uncovered? Never. You really should give him some privacy. This was clearly not something he wished for anyone to see. Yet your heart wept for him. Lucifer was clearly in pain. Bare fingers digging large groves into the stone of the fireplace. His jaw twitching as sharp pains rack his body. “I know you're there.” He pins you in place with his husky voice. “It’s rude to stare.”

You stumble in, legs trembling. You could feel the rant coming. Bracing yourself you squeeze your eyes shut and wait for the torrent. Whatever he was going to say was cut short, a hitched breath making you look up. He is gripping at his side, unable to look at you. “Lucifer?” He raises his free hand to you, ignoring you to limp to the overstuffed armchair. He hunches over shielding his face in his large palms.

“It’s best if you forget you saw this. Please leave.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Leave.” He repeats again more firmly. “I wish to be alone.” He waves you off. You hear the creaking again. It moves with him.

“Is that you?” You ask. Watching him adjust himself in his seat. The sound of twigs bending to their max before snapping answer your question.

“Astute observation as always.” He grunts rubbing at his knee. “One would think Mammon is rubbing off on you.” His biting jab is dry. His eyes dart to the rainfall outside. His insult completely lacks his usual sting. But then again his barbs were always softened with you.

“It’s the rain isn’t it?” You ignore his blatant want for solitude, feed up with his stupid broodiness and unwilling to let a friend hurt. “My granddad was that same way. His joints would just ache and pop during really bad weather.” He puffs up for a second, comparing him to an old man twisted sourly in his gut. “Let me help?”

“How?” He whispers beyond tired suddenly. He had talked to Barbatos earlier that day. The storm was here to stay for the time being. A day or two at most. To him it would be an eternity. You approach, hands raised as if to a cornered animal. In a way he felt like it. He sits still, allowing you to approach. Lucifer chokes back a small whimper of bliss as you touch him. Your palms were so warm, resting and rubbing on his aching shoulder. He could feel his old bones settle; a brief moment of bliss.

“What do you need?”

He leads you to his quarters, letting you stop by your room to grab a few things on the way. You reappear from your room, shaking your rucksack at him with a smile. “I think some of these things might help!” Lucifer appreciated the sentiment but doubted it highly.

You were used to nights spent in his office, and a few rare occasions that he invited you to his bed chambers. That is where he led you now. His hand is large and warm on your back as he shuffles you past his bed and towards his walk in closet. You look about, confused at his vast collection of historical clothes and why you were in his closet to begin with. He smiles weary at your question but stays silent coming to stop at his wardrobe. He takes you through to another hidden room. The magic of the vast space making your skin tingle. Goosebumps blossoming on your arms and neck.

It was an unused part of the catacombs. Eons ago Lucifer had stumbled upon it in his explorations of his new home. It had long since become a mini sanctuary from when the odd storm got to his bones, or a brother had gotten under his skin. Large orbs float lazily across the vaulted ceiling. Knocking into each other with a soft tinkle of chimes. Their warmth was reminiscent of spring time back in the celestial realm. Already his old bones felt better. His mind unclouding.

His stride falters for a moment, polished dress shoes squeaking on the opulent marble. What was he going to do? Show you himself? “Lucifer?” He feels you turn to him, sliding his arm away from your back to grip it in your small hands. “Let me help you? Please?” You make eye contact and smile reassuringly.

His resolve breaks. Damn, when had he gotten so soft? “Help me with my jacket.” His words were muddled but clear. It was getting hard to rotate his right shoulder again. The storm was raging right over the house now and his body protested. He had redressed hastily in Lilith’s room. You may have seen him at his most vulnerable, but he would never let the brothers. If Satan saw, he’d never hear the end of it. You nod and walk behind him. Standing on tiptoes you help him shrug off his coat and fold it neatly to side with your belongings. The corset beneath was a little trickier for you. It was an ingeniously designed brace that doubled as a designer corset. You never noticed, but up close the silk of his corset was brocade. The black of the fabric was decorated with a subtle shiny black thread. To the naked eye one couldn’t see it. But you could feel it as you brushed your fingers along his waist. In the bright light of the room the thread shimmered in all of its intricacies.  

“They are runes.” He answers your silent question refusing to look at you as you worked, hyper aware of your fingers tracing the stitching. “It helps with-” the pain, the humiliation, my pride? “Everything.” You nod accepting his words and unlace it gently. He shivers at the soft caress, it was like his body gravitated towards your touch. His actual skin buzzing with want.

“Does this happen a lot?” You come to his front and begin on the buttons of his dress shirt.

“No, rainstorms like this are rare. Once every couple of centuries it gets- bad.” Lucifer leans some of his massive weight on you while you lift his arm out of the sleeve. “You are good at this.” He eyes you skeptically. How many people had the luxury of your undivided attention?

You chuckle turning to fold his shirt neatly. “Why thanks, I guess? Like I said my granddad had bad bones. I used to help him on the bad days.” You eye his pants and flush. “I won’t help with those though.”

“Pity. Give me a moment would you?”  The demon chuckles turning to give himself an illusion of privacy. Already being out of the cold and drafty halls made him feel better already. This room had been meticulously built to help him. Artificial sun, warm, and not too humid. A light draft in the rafters getting the air circulating. Spending the night down here, and he’d be able to function for tomorrow's numerous meetings. Closing his eyes he releases his glamour.

Shifting felt like breaching water. A slight resistance then a cool wave of relief as he breaches the surface. Resting on his hunches his rumbles low, feeling his broken halo scrap the vaulted ceiling. His little human gasps looking up, and up, and up till they meet his hollow skull like face. He holds his breath, gut and hearts clenching in fear. What must you think of him? He watches with trepidation knowing this body was a lot to comprehend. “Wow. I thought you were tall before.” You grab at your satchel digging into the depths. “I’m afraid my little jar won’t go far now, but I’d still like to try.” He leans down looking at the jar posed at the tips of your fingers.

“Tiger balm?” His voice was abrasive and jagged. The multilayered lilt scrapped your eardrums like metal on bone. You flinch. A slight twinge of your shoulders barely noticeable, but it makes him recoil nonetheless. It's jarring, but not as scary as you originally thought.

“Sorry,sorry.” You placate the giant beast. “Took me by surprise.” You creak a reassuring grin. “This whole day has. But that’s ok.” You meet his gaze, his oblong head cocked to the side to stare at you. Up close you could see that his eye sockets weren’t hollow as they originally appeared. Deep within the bone and flaking flesh you could see a faint pure white glow, a little pinprick in the abyss flickering like a candle. Taking his stillness as permission you wonder back over to his large taloned feet. The constant healing and chaffing of his skin creates a foul vapor around him. The plumes of it blocking out the sunning orbs in waves. It smelled awful, like burning hair, skin and sulfur. But you push through taking small breaths through your mouth till your body adjusted. You glance at the tiny jar in your hand feeling stupid. “I’ll have to order some more but I hope this helps.” Lucifer looks at your outstretched hand at a complete loss of what you expected him to do. “Well,” You gestate at him to come closer. “Where does it hurt the most?” He laughs. A dry clicking in the back of his many vocal chords. His back hurt the most, it always did. A consistent little reminder of what his past actions cost him. Though, there were some things he wasn’t ready to divulge to you.Yet.

“That little jar will do nothing. But-” He continues trying to cover for his snappishness. He hated the frown drawing tight on your lips. “I will be signing a lot of paperwork tomorrow.” He brings a massive hand down and places it on the cool marble in front of you. The joints were bare to you, the flesh unable to encompass the swelling. His phalanges felt cold and hot all at once. Sudden spasms making the exposed nerves light up and twitch. “If you could?”

Clambering up his table sized finger with his approval you straddle it and rub some of your ointment on your palms to warm it. “Let me know if I hurt you.” With that you sink your hands through the mist and begin to work at his tender joints. The great beast rumbles in enjoyment. His keen nose picking up the spicy scent of the balm and your naturally pleasant musk. Within minutes the warming ointment began to soothe him. Leaving you to your ministrations Lucifer arches his neck up to the sky and begins to sun himself. The tension of the rain storm rolling off his body as the sun globs begin to orbit around his massive frame. Your little hums of happiness as you worked made this almost worth the humiliation of you seeing him at his lowest.

[malkumtend]

I Like Your Laugh (A SquirrelCrow AU) - Chapter 20.

For the first time in moons, Crowpaw was hungry.

Hunting had been as pointless as Tallstar had claimed. With the roar of monsters, as well as the lingering stink of Twolegs, prey was impossible to find. Worse than that, Crowpaw had seen those pale fleshed creatures skulking around the ruins of his home, carrying their storm of destruction with them.

They would mark the few trees left with a haze of red mist, and then bite into the thick bark with long silver claws. The crash of the wood as it slammed into the torn ground sent a tremble over Windclan. Every collision caused Crowpaw’s heart to tremble.

At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before the whole forest fell.

Hunting had been a fruitless effort. Crowpaw was the only one who had caught anything, but two withered shrew was not going to help the clans. Onewhisker had looked relieved at the mere sight of prey, and the way he praised Crowpaw was like he had caught a dozen hares.

“Well done, Crowpaw.” Onewhisker purred weakly as the hunting patrol made their way back. “That catch will help feed the kits another night.”

Nightcloud had mewed in agreement, her own face brightened at the stale scent of the shrews. Crowpaw had expected Webfoot to snarl the group back to reality, but the tom didn’t have a word to say, just a small grave nod.

Crowpaw attempted a small meow of thanks, but his throat instantly felt dry. The shrews hardly made up enough space to fill his mouth. Was this really all they could rely on to feed the starving kits and elders? He tried to not let this realisation mark his face with horror. It would do no good for anyone. Despite everything, the group was trying to keep some kind of determination; Crowpaw couldn’t kill that.

“Looks like all that travelling did some good for you, hey?” Nightcloud meowed, tapping his side with her tail. Under the darkening sky, her eyes lit up like pink embers. “You almost look like a natural hunter.”

Crowpaw nodded mildly, hoping the sound his throat made sounded more like a laugh than a groan.

“Don’t tease him, Nightcloud.” Onewhisker sighed tiredly, “We need all the prey we can find.”

“I was being serious.” The black molly insisted. “I wasn’t making fun of him.”

Onewhisker muttered something incoherent. Just looking at his back, it was clear that the tom had been discouraged by the hunt. As thankful as he was that some prey was caught for the kits that needed it so desperately, it was clear it would be a while before the thinning bodies of the Warriors got any end to their slow suffering.

Looking back at his still firm body, Crowpaw felt his growing hunger twist into guilt. He was nowhere near in the right to complain about prey.

Even standing besides the group, Crowpaw felt like he didn’t belong, didn’t deserve, to be there. By all means, he was able enough to get through the night without prey. Just how many queens, kits and elders had been forced to resign themselves to that fate.

The night air refused to respond to his question, it just scratched him with its freezing claws.

Once he’d taken the prey back, he’d have to find Tallstar. The time was approaching. Soon he would have to stand beside his…acquaintances from the other clans, hoping that they would receive a sign that told them where to go from here.

Crowpaw had never been so desperate to know an answer in all his life.

If any of the clans waited any longer, Crowpaw was certain that Windclan wouldn’t survive the next moon. Hunger, dehydration, and destruction was all that they would find here. Tallstar understood that, thankfully; Crowpaw could only hope the other clans would as well.

Unfortunately, the apprentice didn’t know whether they would share his clan’s sentiments.

He thought about what Tawnypelt and Stormfur would have to deal with when it came to their leaders. It didn’t matter how much they screamed the truth to their clans, ultimately it was up to Blackstar and Leopardstar if their clans moved or not. The Shadowclan leader would not be swayed easily. His pride was significantly excruciating from what Crowpaw remembered from previous gatherings.

And Leopardstar. At the thought of her, Crowpaw couldn’t help but feel fury prickle over his pelt. Tallstar had openly pleaded, putting all of his pride aside for his clan, the Riverclan leader to let them use the lake to drink. They hadn’t done that for nothing! Cats had needed that water then, it was essential now! Crowpaw thought the clans had reached an understanding.

Apparently not.

Leopardstar, based on the word of some no-clan stray who had sauntered his way into Riverclan, had pretty much left Windclan for dead. She had left every one of them to suffer on their own. Crowpaw knew that Windclan had taken some prey every now and then, but it certainly wasn’t enough that Riverclan would notice it was gone! Windclan needed to survive too!

But no. Whoever this Hawkfrost was, he had convinced Leopardstar that Windclan had earnt such a punishment! Did they not have cats of their own that were feeling the strains of these horrors? Could they really look at those cats and feed them, knowing that they had refused another clan such a necessity?! Crowpaw knew that Leopardstar was a cat who was frosty on her best days, but could she really be that cruel? If she trusted Windclan so little, who was to say she wouldn’t refuse to follow them to a new home?

Could Stormfur even convince her? He hadn’t even been the one who was…

Oh.

Oh Stars… no.

Crowpaw almost paused where he stood. Only walking on when he saw a concerned glint in Nightcloud’s eyes as he wobbled forward.

“Are you okay?”

Well, let’s see. He had left his clan to suffer, including his mother, while the home their entire clan had been rooted in for eons was being torn apart like it was nothing but sand, he had disgraced his father’s trust and was reminded of that with every disapproving flare of the stars above, and he might have ruined the clans hopes of getting Riverclan to follow them on their journey, destroying the history of the four clans themselves with a single paw, all because he hadn’t been the one who had rightfully died on that journey.

Did he mention it was his fault that an innocent cat, one of his best friends, had died to save his worthless pelt?

Crowpaw dipped his head at Nightcloud and she took that as a yes.

“Of course he’s okay.” Webfoot muttered, an audible curl on his lip. “He’s gotten everything he wanted.”

Crowpaw’s eyes snapped open.

“Webfoot!” Onewhisker turned his head to the tom with a warning growl. “Don’t you start any trouble.”

Webfoot grunted, “Why? He’s allowed to because he’s an apprentice.”

Crowpaw spat the shrews out of mouth, erupting with a snarl. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He demanded. There was a monster at the back of his head screaming at him to get into the tom’s face. “Gotten what I wanted? Are you trying to say that I wanted two-legs to come here?”

Nightcloud ran her tail over Crowpaw’s back. “Calm down.” Crowpaw ignored her, his eyes caught in a glare with the tom ahead of him.

Webfoot ignored the death stare that Onewhisker sent him. His eyes slid away from Crowpaw, disgusted. “No. But you got Tallstar to believe your stories. I bet you’re really proud to have that kind of influence.” He sounded like he was spitting out muck as he spoke.

Now, the demands to cause harm raced into a roar. Crowpaw couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Did Webfoot really think he was that shallow? “This isn’t about that at all, you piece of fox-dung!” Crowpaw’s shouting echoed over the hills. “It’s about-”

“Enough!” Onewhisker got between the two toms, hissing. “Both of you!”

Crowpaw was affronted, “He’s the one who-”

“I know that!” Onewhisker snapped, his stern snarl made Crowpaw cower away. “But Windclan doesn’t need the two of you fighting! If we have any hope of getting through this, we need to work together as a clan!” He turned back to Webfoot, his backfur prickling. “And we certainly don’t need any cats questioning the decisions of their leader!”

Webfoot frowned, one fang slipping over his lip. “That’s not what I was-”

“Quiet!” Onewhisker ordered. “Listen to me, Webfoot! I don’t care if you, or any cat for that matter, doesn’t believe in Crowpaw’s sign! If Tallstar decides that Windclan needs to move, that is what we will be doing!” The skinny tom took a pounding step towards Webfoot. “If you have an issue with that, then I’d be happy to take you to discuss it with Tallstar.” He dared with a snap of his teeth. It sounded like breaking a rabbit’s neck.

The panic Webfoot displayed was brief, but it was telling. His tail sank to the floor like a bird falling out of its nest. To his, limited, credit he kept his face straight. That was just all the more infuriating for Crowpaw.

“There’s no need for that.” Webfoot drawled. He lashed a look at Crowpaw. “And please don’t misunderstand, I hope that Crowpaw is right in what he says.” His eyes narrowed snakily. “If he’s wrong, who knows what would happen to Windclan.”

Crowpaw growled to not show weakness.

Like most things he did these days, it repressed the way his body shook at the words.

“Well then,” Nightcloud stepped forward, her claws unsheathed. “Why don’t you shut up and believe in him like Tallstar does, you waste of fur!”

“Nightcloud!” Onewhisker hissed, “What did I just say about fighting?”

The molly scoffed, muttering a fake apology as she looked away. Webfoot didn’t reply, he had apparently decided he’d said enough.

And it was enough that Crowpaw got the point.

Onewhisker maintained a strained silence between the cats, before he let out a croaky sigh. He sounded like he was releasing the pain from his weakening joints. “Let’s not waste anymore time.” He frowned over at Crowpaw. “Pick up those shrews. There are cats who need them.”

Crowpaw looked down to where he’d spat out the sorry excuses for prey, and his heart dropped with disgrace. Those shrews could be what separated a cat from life and death, and he’d spat them out like some kittypet sulking at a two-leg. A horrible, regretful embarrassment clouded over the cat. He stuttered over his own selfishness.

“I-I’m sorry, Onewhisker.”

Onewhisker gave him a hard look that was hard to describe. It made Crowpaw uneasy. The older cat’s whiskers shook with a grunt. “Sorry doesn’t feed cats. Now pick up that prey and make sure you don’t drop it again until you’re in front of someone who needs it!”

Crowpaw dipped his head. The knowledge that his actions made him a liability sent him cold. “Yes, Onewhisker.” Carefully, he picked the shrews up again. When he looked up, Onewhisker was already strolling off, soon followed by Webfoot. The tom made sure to swipe his tail at Crowpaw before he turned away with a malicious scoff.

Crowpaw stared in their direction, then he began to follow them. What else could he do? He couldn’t blame Onewhisker for his fury, the cat had been struggling to make sure Windclan didn’t fall. If Crowpaw didn’t know any better he could have assumed that the cat was the Deputy.

He couldn’t even blame Webfoot really. Well… no. The cat was a fox-heart who had no right to claim those things about him. Crowpaw would never want any of this. But he could see how it looked. An apprentice that had ran away and come back without a reason he could prove and had convinced their leader to follow his advice. It made sense that Webfoot wouldn’t trust him.

That just worked to make Crowpaw feel worse.

If it made sense, then just how much could his clan trust him? How much could he trust himself to save them from an agonising fate?

Searching for those answers was like swimming through fog and ice.

A sympathetic purr rumbled at his side. Nightcloud was looking at him softly. “Don’t pay any attention to Webfoot. He’s always been a burr-furred mange pelt.”

If Crowpaw could open his mouth, he might have muttered a thanks to her. He kept silent. It didn’t matter really. He still ended up thinking, ‘Just because he’s a mange pelt, it doesn’t mean he’s wrong.’ Webfoot’s intentions, no matter what mouse-bile he spewed, were clear. He didn’t forgive Crowpaw for abandoning Windclan. He wanted to punish the apprentice, however he could.

Crowpaw had done everything he thought was right.

Crowpaw had done everything for the purpose of helping Windclan.

But that didn’t exclude the idea that maybe… he deserved to be punished.

“Hey?” Nightcloud murmured, “Do you want me to carry one of those for you?”

She was offering to help him carry some measly shrews?

Did he actually look that pathetic?

He shook his head. She watched him patiently, as if hopeful he would change his mind, before turning away with a sigh. She didn’t need to help him. Any burden for the clan was one Crowpaw deserved to carry.

The thought didn’t leave Crowpaw even when he returned to the ‘camp’ Windclan had fashioned, not when Nightcloud pointed to him the tattered base of an old rabbit warren where they were sheltering the kits, not when the dark molly gave him a well-natured touch with her muzzle, and not when he slowly walked past his clanmates, all scarred, starving, or both, trying their best to get some rest in this terrible place.

His good intentions did not change everything that had happened because of him. Even as he walked by his clanmates, he could hear the gravelly whispers all around him. They didn’t sound happy. Crowpaw almost looked like he was trying to hide his head between his shoulders, unspeakably afraid to catch any cat’s gaze. If he turned and saw every cat view him with hatred, he didn’t know if he could carry on walking.

He cursed himself for looking so pathetic. He could only imagine what cats were thinking. He didn’t want to picture what they’d think when Tallstar revealed why he’d truly been gone. This shaking, moody apprentice was what their fates rested on.

Perhaps the forest would be the more honourable way to die.

Unlatching himself from these thoughts was like scratching at a rock. The truth came on him, refusing to let him go. He deserved the looks. He deserved the hate. And if he was being honest, he would have deserved Webfoot finishing him off with a bite to his throat. Admitting these things was almost relieving for the cat, like he was finally facing the inevitable.

He had given Windclan the message they needed.

What use – what good - was he to them anymore?

“Where are you going?”

Crowpaw jolted where he stood, his ears drifting back fearfully. He slowly met the eyes of his mentor. Mudclaw was looking down at him irritably, the night made his amber eyes flicker. Crowpaw could barely move as he remembered how the Deputy had been earlier. How he had not believed Crowpaw’s explanation and had looked betrayed when his leader did.

Mudclaw growled into the silence. “You should drop what you have in your mouth if you’re going to answer.”

Crowpaw could barely meet Mudclaw’s gaze as he gently dropped the shrews. “I was… I was going to take these to the Queens. That way the kits can get some milk.”

Mudclaw rolled his eyes, “I’m aware of how feeding kits works, Crowpaw.” He sounded as gruff as he looked. His back wasn’t spiked, but it still looked jagged and rough, like sand under a blistering sun. His face was dull with fatigue. “Good hunting I see?” He said, his voice dreadfully sarcastic.

Crowpaw dropped his head again. Even before leaving for the journey, there was nothing that made him curl up like the disappointment of his mentor. “There wasn’t much to catch.”

“I know that as well.” Mudclaw said, “I suppose that’s another reason we need to leave, hmm?” The sarcasm swiped again.

Crowpaw didn’t say anything. There would be no good response to that.

Mudclaw peered down at the shrews, sitting down and stretching his forelegs with a groan. “Truth be told, it is not easy to find prey around here. I had hoped that after a few days we would know where we could find some again.” His voice dimmed. “Regretfully, there hasn’t been much success.” He sniffed at the shrews and, to Crowpaw’s surprise, his mentor let out a laugh that almost sounded glad. “Not much of a mouthful, but at least they’re fresh.”

Whether it was the bleak praise of his mentor, or the idea that his actions could have been of any good in the first place, a calm purr rumbled in Crowpaw’s throat.

“Luckily,” Mudclaw started again, grooming his shoulder with snappy bites. “You won’t have to choose between a Queen to feed. Only Whitetail hasn’t received prey since yesterday. Thankfully, you’ve changed that.”

Whitetail. Realisation rushed through the apprentice. So that was why Onewhisker looked so happy to see the prey. His own mate could finally get the kill she needed for their kits.

“I’m… I’m glad I could help somehow.”

“Was there really nothing else to find?”

Crowpaw mewed sadly, “Nothing. And we won’t be able to scent anything now. The only smell around here is the stink of those monsters.”

Mudclaw hissed behind his teeth. “Fox-dung to it all.” Crowpaw could have been frightened by how grave his mentor sounded. Defeat was not something he had ever been able to associate with his leader. The older cat grumbled a moment more, before he stumbled over to his apprentice. Crowpaw tried not to flinch as the cat smelt his pelt.

“Well,” Mudclaw’s voice was low, but not hard. “At the very least, you saw more of this territory.” He scoffed humourlessly, “You almost smell like Windclan again.”

Crowpaw knew better than to show how much those words sank into him.

Mudclaw padded back, studying his apprentice with a narrowed expression. “I was thinking about what Webfoot said earlier.” He said slowly, “What did he mean when he mentioned that Thunderclan cat. Owlpaw sought me out to tell me that she…” Mudclaw let his words loosen as his stare hardened. Crowpaw knew what Mudclaw was going to ask about and a sheer sense of fear stalked into his chest. “Embraced you. Is that right?”

The night air was growing too cold for Crowpaw. Why else would his paws shake so much?

It wasn’t fair! He had nothing to feel guilty about! He never asked her to do that! He had tried to say goodbye without igniting any suspicion among the clans, he had been loyal and fair about it! It wasn’t his fault if she couldn’t take that. It wasn’t his paws that had pulled her so close to him! It wasn’t him who had left her scent all over him! He wasn’t to blame! She was!

And yet, despite all these things, he couldn’t find it in his chest to be angry at Squirrelpaw.

He knew he should. He knew that if he allowed the rage of how she had made him look disloyal compel him to just a hiss, it would retain the normalcy that he had to reclaim.

For both their sakes.

Fox-dung! Why were his thoughts on her side? Why was he still brought to concern over her?

“Yes.” Crowpaw said, his voice as strong as a cloud.

Mudclaw eased back slightly, but his gaze still burned. “Why would she do that? Are you two ‘friends’?” Mudclaw’s tail thumped down at the word.

Say no. That’s all he had to do.

“We were allies.” Crowpaw said. The feeling in his chest was softening the race of his brain. Something inside him told him to tell the truth, but to not give too much away. The worry in his heart was not for himself. “We had to be. We travelled together that long, after all.”

Mudclaw did not look satisfied. “That doesn’t answer why she did that once you were on Windclan territory.”

Crowpaw kept fixed on his mentor, but he thought he could see a twitch under the moonlight. Was it the refletion of a claw? Crowpaw breathed in softly. “She was just saying goodbye. She was wishing me luck.” He shrugged innocently, “I guess that’s just her way of doing that.”

Mudclaw sniffed, “Interesting way, if you ask me.” His stare still prickled on Crowpaw’s skin for a long time. Crowpaw held onto the grass under his feet, begging that somehow he wasn’t showing any weakness. If Mudclaw suspected something else, who knew what he would do? Crowpaw didn’t want to know what the cat did with cats he suspected were traitors.

Crowpaw wasn’t a traitor!

But… neither was Squirrelpaw.

Crowpaw knew, he just knew, that Squirrelpaw wouldn’t have done that if she thought she would get Crowpaw in trouble. They had been like that, close, throughout the journey. She wouldn’t have thought she was doing anything wrong by just hugging him one last time.

Suddenly, Crowpaw’s tongue felt dry. Of course, she wouldn’t have thought that. Because she hadn’t done anything wrong. She had just hugged a friend. Besides, Crowpaw, all those moons ago, had been the one to do it first, when the fear of losing her had made his eyes water. It had been him that had told her he wished to keep seeing her once this was all over.

His heart sank again.

Maybe… this was also his fault. If he had given her the idea that it was okay, even when they had returned, then could he blame her. If he’d had any sense, he would have shut the idea down there and then!

The idea of doing that filled his head again. The normal strain resolved. Clan life resumed. The disappointment that would have stung her expression. The way that saying no would make his own heart break.

Crowpaw’s closed his eyes with a quiet hiss. What was wrong with him?!

He swiftly looked up at his mentor again, ignoring the way he had risen a brow. If he wasn’t careful he would have given his friendship with Squirrelpaw away. And that would be a disaster for the both of them.

But didn’t he want to be punished? If he was truthful, and accepted responsibility, then wouldn’t that make him a real Warrior?

It was the idea of having Squirrelpaw punished as well that made him silence that thought.

She didn’t deserve that. Only he did.

“After she’d done that, I got her off me and told her to go back to Thunderclan where she was needed.” Crowpaw explained stonily. “That was it. Or did Owlpaw tell you differently?”

The stink of the monsters wafted over Windclan, as venomous as Mudclaw’s silence. The Deputy drummed his claws into the grass, fire still pure in his stare. “And that was all?” It sounded more like a threat than a question.

“That was all.”

Crowpaw must have sounded convincing, because Mudclaw blinked and he looked satisfied. “I see. And no, that does match what Owlpaw told me.” Crowpaw was kind of thankful that the apprentice had been truthful, at least. “That’s good. I was concerned that you’d forgotten your place.”

Place.

Not Clan.

Crowpaw shook his head, trying to look prideful. “Of course not, Mudclaw. The journey is over now, the only concern I have is for Windclan. The other’s will need to look out for their own clans.”

He hoped they could do that easier than he was finding it.

Mudclaw nodded, “I’m glad you know that, Crowpaw.” He let out a bitter chuckle, “If Thunderclan is lucky, maybe that molly realise the same.”

Crowpaw hoped that she did too. But that didn’t stop his claws from tensing unconsciously. He drew them back in before his mentor noticed, screaming inwardly to follow his own words.

“Hopefully.” Crowpaw managed to say. “If the Clans are to survive the journey, they’ll need to.”

Mudclaw looked irritable again. “Ah yes. You’ll need to find Tallstar soon, won’t you?”

Crowpaw grit his teeth as he realised his stupidity. He’d forgotten Mudclaw’s feelings about their travels. “I-I swear that this is the right decision, Mudclaw.” He meowed. The older cat didn’t look his way, his neck fur swaying in the icy breeze. “Windclan will survive if we do this, I promise.”

Mudclaw shrugged with a scoff, “Well, you’ve convinced Tallstar of that. I suppose that’s all that matters!” Crowpaw tried to be sympathetic to the Deputy as he remembered the way Tallstar had shut Mudclaw’s objections down. Crowpaw believed that Mudclaw’s suspicions were driven by his concern for Windclan, and it wouldn’t be easy for any cat to abandon their home when they didn’t see a need to.

Still, Mudclaw needed to trust in Starclan. Trust in Crow… Trust in Tallstar’s decision.

“I’m not lying to you.” Crowpaw meowed, “There is a better place somewhere.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Crowpaw drew back sharply, taken aback. Mudclaw stared out, as if over the whole of the clan. His jaw was tight as his eyes creased with frustration. “I can see that our home is being destroyed. Of course, there is some place where we can go. Silverpelt does not shine over just the flowers, after all. But it’s whether we can make such a journey that bothers me!”

Crowpaw’s jaw slowly dipped from his mouth. It was rare he heard such apprehension from his mentor. He almost sounded pained.

“Cats haven’t eaten or drank for close to a moon, and when we have it’s just been those kind of catches,” He lashed his tail to the dirty shrews, “Everywhere I look, my clanmates are suffering and I can’t see how telling them to wander through the forest will help them in anyway!”

Crowpaw now saw the real mortification on his mentor’s face. Windclan was the only thing in Mudclaw’s mind. “If we stay here, we’ll all die.” Crowpaw said morosely, “I know it sounds crazy, but there isn’t anything else we can do.”

Mudclaw rolled his eyes. “I think there are many options we have, Crowpaw.” The older cat drawled, “But like I said, it doesn’t matter now. Tallstar agrees with you, and if he decides to go then I will have to follow my leader to the end.”

Crowpaw may have felt hope if not for the grave frown on the Deputy’s face.

“However,” His voice was low, “I fear that Tallstar may be approaching that end already.”

His words were like being torn apart limb from limb. Freezing horror wrapped all over Crowpaw. Surely Mudclaw wasn’t suggesting what he thought he was. “What do you mean?”

Mudclaw narrowed his eyes, but his muzzle creased with upset. “Crowpaw, you’re not a mouse-brain. You have seen Tallstar since you came back here, and you and I both know that he is not… well.”

Truthfully, Crowpaw had noticed it. He was sure any cat would. The way the leader coughed after a mere sentence, the way he had relied on Onewhisker’s side to walk strong, how when he spoke it sounded as if rocks were cutting into his throat. It was true. Tallstar did not look well at all.

“He may keep strong for now, but he is not getting stronger with every moon that passes.” Mudclaw gazed up at the hollow light of the moon above them, his eyes bleak with thought. “If he can’t do that in his own clan, I fail to see how travelling would not make things worse. Additionally, if the other clans saw him in that state they would use it for their own advantage, of that I’m certain.” His teeth grit with the last line.

Crowpaw’s mouth opened but he couldn’t find the correct words. The idea that this journey could cause his leader to… His gaze found the ground again, dilated and afraid. “The…The other clans wouldn’t do that.” He hated how uncertain he sounded. “We have to work together if we…”

“Your logic makes sense, Crowpaw.” Mudclaw cut him off, stepping forward with a sigh. There was such a sense of authority in his step that Crowpaw had to step back. “But you cannot speak for the other clans or how they think. No matter how much you may have trusted those cats on your journey, there will always be those…” A low growl rumbled in his chest, “That will grin at the sight of weakness. Without a strong leader, we are vulnerable, and when that happens we can’t afford to lose our freedom for the sake of some temporary peace!” He stepped beside Crowpaw, pressing his tail hard into his side. “It may be the worst scenario, but it is there nonetheless. Windclan needs its Warriors to remember what side they’re on, they need to be willing to fight for that. Can I trust you to do that if the time comes?”

He spoke of a future that no one could truly understand. No one knew what was on its way.

But, by the Stars, Crowpaw was scared of how convincing Mudclaw sounded.

It made perfect sense after all. The clans had been rivals for generations. Before the journey, if Crowpaw had known that a leader from the enemy was sick, he would have howled with laughter at the idea of that clan becoming weaker. He could expect as much from them. Those feelings surely couldn’t just disappear because they were forced into this terrible partnership.

But when he thought of the journey. When he imagined the faces of his… He couldn’t, didn’t want to, imagine that they would do something like that after everything they’d been through.

But then… maybe that was the problem.

Maybe that showed how backwards Crowpaw had become.

It was time to face facts. There was no hope that anything real could survive with the cats he’d known. Their very nature wouldn’t allow it. Besides, Crowpaw had not been of any real use to them.

Feathertail hadn’t come home because of him.

No, with them… It would be better if they just never saw him again once all this was done.

He’d forgotten his loyalty, the loyalty ingrained in his blood, and he knew Windclan would not hesitate to remind him of that in the future. And that was fine.

He deserved to pay for everything he’d done. To every clan.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to be of use while he awaited that punishment.

Windclan deserved better than him, and they could get better than he ever was, but he still needed to work for them when they needed it. This was his one chance to do some real good in his life.

He needed to make sure Windclan knew he was loyal. He needed to make sure his previous friends knew where his loyalty really was. If they couldn’t grasp that, then he needed to remind them of it. They had all hated him at the start. He needed to make sure it was like that once again.

Even though… he didn’t think he could ever hate them again.

But that was why he needed to keep the line clear. Once they were all back to normal in their clans, it had to get better for them. They deserved that kind of ending.

That was why they couldn’t be friends anymore.

So when he suddenly found himself thinking of Squirrelpaw and her cheeky, amazing smile, he let the guilt and self-revulsion take him over. He accepted the sickness in his stomach and called it disloyalty.

If he wanted her to be safe, he needed to shut her away.

Even when the thought of that made his sickness worse.

“Yes, Mudclaw.” Crowpaw said, his voice hollow and found.

Mudclaw stepped away, his eyes never leaving Crowpaw. His eyes blazed like an owl’s. “Good. It’s important you understand what’s right if we find ourselves in that situation.”

“I understand.” Crowpaw said, dipping his head.

A real sound of contentment left Mudclaw. Crowpaw tried to let it ease him. “Excellent.” There was a long silence after that. Then a heavy exhale exited the Deputy and Crowpaw felt a tail smooth over his back. “I do hope that you’re right about this journey, Crowpaw. There is nothing I want more than for my clan to survive.”

Crowpaw sensed a ‘but’ so he didn’t take that as acceptance.

“But, just remember where your real allies are if the time comes. Understand?”

Crowpaw hated that he was right. He couldn’t speak this time so he just nodded his head.

Mudclaw made a pleased mrrow. “Now, take your prey to Whitetail and then go and find Tallstar. The sooner we have a real plan, the better. No matter what happens.” Something was hidden in how he said that, but he was gone before the chill had found Crowpaw’s tail.

He realised it was stupid to think about that.

Mudclaw was his Deputy. Mudclaw was Windclan. That made him an ally. That was where his trust needed to be.

Crowpaw picked up the prey again and strode quickly to the stinking, damaged warren. Sure enough, Whitetail was there. Her eyes were dark with exhaustion and sorrow as she listened to the three small kits at her belly cry hungrily as they suckled for milk that wasn’t there.

Crowpaw’s heart ached. No wonder Onewhisker accepted his story so easily. Anything was better than this.

Whitetail slowly lifted her head as Crowpaw approached. Suddenly, her eyes flickered open as a high mew of relief escaped her mouth. “Crowpaw!” She cried. “You have prey!”

Crowpaw dropped the shrews beside the molly, he tried not to look at how her ribs jutted when she moved to grab them. “That’s all we could find. I’m sorry there isn’t more.”

Whitetail shot him a wide-eyed glance, purring happily. “Don’t be mouse-brained! This is wondeful!” She stared down at the shrews like they were a pile of hares, then she nuzzled the kits closer to her belly. “Just wait a little longer, my darlings. I’ll soon have some milk for you.” Her eyes shone with love and when she smiled it looked like something she had almost forgotten how to do. “What do we say to Crowpaw?”

The kits mewed again, huddling to their mother for warmth.

Whitetail let out a soft mutter, laughing was too difficult these days. “They say thank you.”

Crowpaw dipped his head respectfully, “Tell them that they don’t need to. Any Warrior would do the same.” His eyes gently lifted to the white molly’s. “Also, let them know that whatever prey is given to me will be yours.”

An incredible gasp erupted from the Queen. “Don’t be ridiculous! I can’t accept that!”

“Yes you can.” Crowpaw said simply, “They need it more than me.”

“Crowpaw, that’s honourable of you to say so. But you are still an apprentice.” Her face was pure with gratitude. “You need your strength as well.”

“I’m strong enough as I am.” I don’t deserve to eat. “You look like you haven’t eaten for moons. You need to eat, I can survive without food for a few days.”

“Crowpaw, I-”

“With all due respect, Whitetail.” The apprentice said softly, lightly brushing his tail over the kits. “I’ve made up my mind. You won’t change it.”

Whitetail was silent with shock. Her face was a mix of awe and uncertainty. Crowpaw didn’t give her  the chance to argue further. “Sleep well.” He said, to her and her kits. Then he rose up and turned away. He needed to find Tallstar now. Moonhigh was not far away.

“Crowpaw!”

Crowpaw sighed, but he kept calm as he turned back to the starving mother.

Her smile was a white as her fur, and notably overcome with joyful appreciation. She took a bite out of her shrew and then ran her tongue slowly over her kit’s small pelts, happier than she had been in moons. “I’m glad you’re back. Windclan missed you.”

That wasn’t true, Crowpaw thought. But he nodded, feeling underserving of such kindness.

“I’ll do anything for Windclan.”

What else could he do?

If he didn’t he might as well not be alive.

[sadoeuphemist]

Stories I thought about writing, but didn’t:

my voice is poisonous, a gift from a strange god my parents once befriended. I’m careful not to speak, but I know they’re afraid.

A poison-voiced girl is born to deaf parents, but falls in love with a hearing boy. Their courtship is marked on her end by a thrilling restraint, biting her lip, knowing she could kill him with an indiscretion; he, on the other hand, longs to see her act without inhibition. He manages to make her laugh, sigh, gasp out in wonder - each time he falls ill from the poison of her voice, but is undeterred even in his convalescence, returning renewed in his goal to tease another sound out of her.

Her parents tell her to break it off; she’ll kill him. She reluctantly agrees. He refuses, pleads with her, grasps her hands so she can’t sign. In anguish she cries out his name — but lo! he does not sicken, does not die. It turns out his repeated exposures to her voice have mithridatized him against it. She can speak around him freely! They both agree that this development has taken a lot of the excitement out of the relationship, but it has been replaced with a greater casualness and intimacy that balances it out.

I can see the angels in their true form, a thousand splendid eyes and all. They think it’s funny, and have taken to hanging around my apartment 

The angels start making excuses to keep showing up at my apartment, in the manner of the annunciation, but for increasingly trivial reasons. They come bearing tidings about how I should definitely get the turkey wrap for lunch, which brand of fabric softener I should buy, how that quarter I’ll find on the sidewalk is a sign that I am favored by God. They come bearing bad tidings too: The Lord has heard of all the evil in your printer, and has sent us here to jam it. Their presence becomes completely overbearing, but they are insistent. There’s a reason you see us in our true forms, they say, all their splendid eyes shining. Is it so hard to believe that the God that formed every atom of you in the womb should watch over you always, that every mundane moment of your existence in this world is shot through with the divine?

There was a body in the river, ice cold and snow white. Sometimes it was all the way dead. Sometimes it sat up and talked to me.

A king has declared that whoever can complete the following tasks shall marry his daughter: 1) to recover a lost treasure stolen from his family hundreds of years ago; 2)  to name the start of the pact between men and horses; and 3) to find a cure to the plague ravaging the land.

Our plucky folk hero helps an old lady who sits by the river; she tells him of the snow white body within, who has sat up and spoken to her at odd times throughout her life. It is the spirit of the glacier: the glacier melts, and forms the river; layer by layer the past frozen in it is uncovered, parts of it living and parts of it dead. Our hero builds many bonfires and melts the glacier faster; the body lives and dies and lives many times over and tells him the three answers. 1) The thief fell into a crevasse and was frozen over; the ice is melted now, and the treasure can be recovered. 2) Iron horseshoes frozen in the glacier reveal the pact is many thousands of years old. 3) The plague is an old one, frozen and released anew with the glacier’s melting; it is carried in the livestock, and they must be slaughtered.

The hero solves the king’s tasks and marries his daughter. Presumably the new king is then faced with the challenge of the rising sea levels; no idea how that plays out.

“We’re all nice to each other here,” they told us, “we’ve got angels in the hills. They like it when we’re nice. And they see everything.”

This one’s tough to summarize adequately. Two men are going door to door, seemingly taking a survey of the religious beliefs in a small town. They finish, sit together in their car. People have been very cooperative. One of the men remarks that the local religious beliefs are disappointingly unremarkable: yes, they believe in angels watching from the hills, but most people believe in an omniscient God watching over them, and whether it is God or his intercessors, does it make a significant difference?

They sit in the car. Perhaps they smoke in the lazy sunlight. They have finished their survey ahead of time. One of them proposes: Suppose we have a picnic lunch up in the hills?

They park at the base of the hill and walk up. Lovely day. They spread out a blanket from the car, stretch their legs out on the grass, take off their coats, loosen their ties. They’ve brought their packed lunch, sandwiches, a thermos of lemonade. They talk about how pleasant all the people were. Their kind of religion seems so ... brittle, one of the men remarks. If I thought there was someone waiting to punish me the moment I stepped out of line, I’d want to do something horrible just to get it over with.

You think so? says his partner. I think just the opposite. The grand problem with religion is that there aren’t enough consequences for wickedness. I know if I saw the wicked being smote down on a regular basis, I would very satisfied in my religion indeed.

Well, of course you would; you’re a sadist.

Me? A sadist? Hardly.

You’re a sadist, his partner says teasingly. A sadist and brute.

They smile at each other. Idle conversation. There is a suggestion that they have visited many such towns and cities, asking the same question, but have yet to receive a satisfactory answer. At one point one of them notes that there’s something in the trees, but this remark is ignored and nothing is ever made of it. The conversation turns back to whether the angels in the hills are real or not. The ‘sadist’ stands up, declares his intent to do something wicked to test them. He marches around, swinging his arms, then looks around at the trees and puts his hands on his hips and laughs.

You know, up here away from society, he declares, I can’t think of a single wicked thing to do!

(Maybe a conversation here about how he could tear branches from trees, despoil the scenery, find an animal to kill; but then again animals in nature strip bark from trees, kill each other bloodily all the time, tear each other to bits, so how wicked could that be, really?)

He looks down at his partner still lying back on the blanket. Unless, of course, I were to do something wicked to you.

Whatever happens next, it is very leisurely. The scene is easy, very relaxed. Lovely day. Calm. Bright blue sky. Clouds float across it, white like feathered wings, and then pass, leaving not a trace behind.

None of us can imagine what life was like before the Clocks came, before clockwork cities, and all their technology. They rebuilt our crumbling society, in perfect, mechanical order. 

Brief musings on a hypothetical pre-Clock society. A society built around the sun, all buildings roofless, everyone’s necks craned upward. Cities built running north to south so as not to block anyone’s view of the rise and set. A society built around hourglasses, everyone judging the passage of time by the sand puddling around their feet, knees, waists, clambering up onto growing dunes, waiting for the flip, for the sand to slowly drain away and the furnishings of their homes to be uncovered. Perhaps this was our unimaginable life before the Clocks came: sands stretching far away and bare, the hypothetical counterpart bulb of an hourglass reflected invisible above us, empty and vast with unrealized possibility, waiting to be reset.

When I was very young, I met a bear at the edge of the woods. Before I could play dead, it bowed to me.

Jokey little fic where a child is instructed on the etiquette of bears: when to bow, when to curtsy, when to raise your hands and make yourself as large as possible, when to climb a tree, when to play dead. (Note that grizzlies are territorial, so if they attack you and play dead they’ll leave you alone because the threat is neutralized; whereas black bears are not territorial, so playing dead will do no good because a black bear will only attack if it deliberately wants to fuck you up.)

I was given very specific instructions. Go to the rosebush on a clear night. As the moonlight turns the roses silver, feed them three drops of blood.

After years of trying for a child, a couple turns to an old witch to help. The woman is instructed to eat a rose from a magical rosebush. If she first pricks her finger and stains the rose red with her blood, then she will have a son, ruddy and robust and bold in battle; if she visits the bush on a clear night and eats a rose painted silver by moonlight, then she will have a daughter, as pale and graceful and elegant as the moon.

The woman is uneasy with the implications of this binary, and says so. The witch smiles and gives her a new set of instructions. So she pricks her finger at night, her blood painted black by the moonlight, and nine months later gives birth to a child as black as a rose, who is neither boy nor girl.

Never manged to come up with a plot for this one. The kid grows up to have a career fulfilling all those “Neither man nor woman” prophecies? Eh. Kinda corny. There’s something about gender roles in fairy tales here, but I couldn’t put it together.

Not for the first time, the company time loop drill had gone very, very wrong.

I did actually write a response for this one, but it got too long and I gave up on it. Summary of the rest of the idea I had:

Time resets. Nagle confirms that it is both an actual time loop and a drill; the company is doing a controlled time loop to prepare them for the real thing. People complain. What’s the point of a drill when an actual time loop would let you keep doing things over and over until you get it right? Nagle points out that could take years, subjectively, and that this is a controlled experience where he has a code to abort the exercise if anything seriously goes wrong. He insists they try to make it work.

They go through a bunch of loops. Don’t succeed. It’s highly technical stuff that none of them are trained for. Morale drops. People start complaining, they’ve spent hours at this, they should be off duty by now. Nagle points out there’s a ruling, established with VR training, that companies don’t need to pay their employees according to their subjective experience of time, and officially they’ve only spent 34 minutes at this.

More loops. Morale drops further. People start demanding Nagle use the abort code, threatening to quit. Nagle points out that while they’re in this time loop, their actions are consequence-free, but once he ends the loop they’ll have to live with their decisions for the rest of their lives. Are they sure they really want to quit?

At that point someone loses it and kills Nagle. Shock. Panic. Some satisfaction. He’s reborn the next loop, starts screaming about it - someone kills him again. Complete social breakdown. Eventually some people decide, fuck it, let’s just live in this loop forever. Killing Nagle becomes a standard thing they do at the start of every loop, so that he can’t input the abort code. They go through various reconfigurations of their social group - orgies, riots, open paranoia where everyone colonizes a different part of the building, regressing to primitivism, open warfare between various sects, rebuilding of society along different axes of thought. Everyone starts thinking of themselves as immortal, they start calling themselves things like ‘Chronobog of the Infinite Plane of Despair’ or whatever; the narration gets increasingly surreal.

After god knows how many cycles of this, everyone finally achieves an equilibrium of perfect enlightenment. They know what must be done. They leave Nagle alive, he watches as they move in perfect unison to unlock the server room and overcome all the obstacles and repair the tachyon servers, loop is finally terminated, normal flow of time resumes.

Nagle stands up, gives a speech, starts congratulating them on completing the drill. As he talks, everyone can feel the rapport they’ve built start to slip away - they no longer understand each other perfectly outside of the context of those 34 minutes. Time is moving forward again, and with it introducing unfamiliarity, uncertainty, an impossible onslaught of variables that they cannot predict or prepare for, and they are all moving inescapably further from each other even as they glance around and try to catch each other’s eyes and keep holding on to that feeling of perfect unity - but it’s too late now, they are strangers behind familiar faces, all of them heading in their own directions, going to be returning to their own separate lives; that moment of solidarity they had is past.

And then Nagle claps his hands at them and says, “OK, drill’s over, everyone back to work!”

[damn-stark]

Hunter

Jesse x Reader

Requested by anon “Hey! Can you do a Jesse request where the reader is a hunter and they meet Jesse whilst he’s out on patrol? I love your writing :)”

Warning- mentions of blood, slight violence

———-

Very quietly and slowly you breathe in a deep inhale, lining up the rifle correctly and pointing it past the trees to a deer that was feeding on the surrounding vegetation. It’s head suddenly snapped up as it caught noise of something in the distance.

Probably just another animal, you think to yourself, exhaling slowly as you took one more careful step forward and managed to hide part of yourself behind a tree, the only thing showing was the tip of the rifle, hearing only yourself whisper. “Sorry.” Before you pressed the trigger and the bullet flew out, hitting the deer, but seeming to puncture straight through it and flying out to hit what sounded to you was the cause of the previous noise that almost cost you your meal.

Whatever it was made more noise, a pained groan. What sounded to be a human groan—in a hasty move you hang the rifle’s strap over your shoulder and quickly make your way over to what you heard, being a bit more careful when you seemed to get closer.

An obvious clue due to the fact that the groans got louder—and you thought just to take your collected meal back to your cabin and forget about the pained human, remembering the advice given to you many times before ‘avoid strangers’ but you knew that you would never be able to peacefully rest if you did such an act. So ignoring the repeated given advice you continue moving forward, stopping as the tip of your boots touch the fresh blood pooling on the ground.

“Oh, shoot.” You cringe, your eyes slowly shifting upwards to see a single man laying on the ground, raven black hair on his head, skin pale and turning whiter at the loss of blood; while his eyes were a deep, beautiful brown you might add that matched the earth beneath. Not like his obvious attractiveness mattered at the moment that the wound on his side still had blood spilling from it. His attention wavering and barely catching sight of you, his only response to what he saw was to speak in a raspy whisper. A pained plead.

“Please..”

It takes you a moment to react, your eyes focused on the wound you inflicted, running thoughts of guilt and worry racing through your mind at the sight the young man hurt. Only able to react when the man pleaded again, his eyes following you as you fell by his side and began to whisper ‘I’m so sorry’, hissing once you wrapped your jacket wrapped around his waist to stop the wound from spilling anymore blood. And when you tried to stand him up his legs gave in and he began to fall back, almost taking you with him, but coming out lucky when you managed to catch him and pull him up, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to begin to take him to your cabin.

He resisted at first, struggled to talk to protest against you taking him, but you were quick to reassure him. “It’s okay, I’m going to help by taking you to place and clean and stitch that wound.” You tried to shoot him a reassuring smile, but his ability to barely keep his eyes open was beginning to worry you. “It’s okay, I can leave the deer.”

He shakes his head and manages a soft amused huff.

“What’s your name, huh?”

He swallows thickly and reveals his answer in a mutter. “Jesse...what about yours?”

You smile, “y/n.” You briefly shoot him a worried glance before you look ahead and see your cabin coming to sight, the dog you had running to the fence to greet you with excited barks. Sniffing the air as you presumed caught the scent of the blood. “Don’t worry he doesn’t bite.” Again you looked to Jesse and saw his eyes began to droop, causing your heart to drop your mind to race faster. “Stay with me. Jesse, hey.”

Said man nods slowly, his weight beginning to get heavier the more you knew he was falling into unconsciousness. Giving no reaction to the dog following him all the way to the inside of your small but cozy cabin, any pained noise he would express silenced as you gently placed him on your bed. Worrying you that much more.

“Oh shoot, I’ve killed him newt.” You whisper in a high panic to the all black dog, “he’s dead. He’s dead.” You begin to bite your nails, checking the pulse on his neck. At first finding nothing, not until a very faint pulse was felt on his neck. “Ok. Good.” You spin around your heels and follow after your dog as it guides you to your medical cabinet, helping you in the best way it could by taking out what he usually saw you grab when someone was hurt. Hurrying before you to rush back to Jesse.

You sigh after you finish washing your hands and take the small needle. Pulling off the blood damned shirt from the young man and inhaling a deep breath at the sight of the bloodied mess. Breathing out once you begin to feel your hands tremble as you begin to clean it as best as you could before you retake the needle and loop the thread through. Expressing another sigh before assuring yourself.

“He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay.” Again you let out another deep breath and press your hand closer. “Here we go.”

——

The sound of the bed creaking and a soft groan proceeding to follow makes you look over your shoulder to notice Jesse had woken up and was trying to slowly sit it, his hand on the now stitched and patched wound. His eyes scanning the area until they landed on you, a narrowed look shot as you began to head his way with a cup of water in hand, a shy smile tugged on your lips.

“You feeling better?” You question softly.

Jesse hesitates for a moment and nods. “Yeah.” His eyes drift to the dog that is walking at your side. The curiosity obviously growing in his eyes. “Where am I?”

Setting the cup down on the nightstand you go around the bed to open the curtains to welcome the natural light, answering once you could meet his gaze. “My cabin, I didn’t know where you came from so I couldn’t take you sorry.” You then quirk your eyebrow to question him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Jesse's eyes drift the new shirt on him that he knew he didn’t wear before. Letting that curiosity slip for later. “Uhh, I was about to shoot the deer, but you ended up shooting me. I saw you and the last thing I saw was just woods.”

A warmth grows on your cheeks at the mention of your mistake, lightly biting your bottom as spoken memory races through your mind. “About that, I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be a hunter you know and now what with you, I don’t think I’m as great as I like to think.”

Jesse chuckled softly, shifting to sit up higher. “Well if it wasn’t for you helping me, I would be dead, so thank you.” A very soft groan left his lips at the sharp pain felt at his side making him pause and what he was going to finish with. “And as much as this stay has been pleasant, people are going to be worried. I was on patrol so they’ll be looking.” He suddenly moves to try to stand up, making you quickly move over to him and stop his movements.

“I wouldn’t, you’re still healing. Any harsh movements and your stitches will open up. I can go get someone if you want. To let them know you’re okay, but I suggest you staying here for a day or two.”

Jesse hesitates for a long moment, scratching the back of his head as his eyes bounce to the window to ponder over your suggestion. The sudden pain caused his breath to hitch ultimately deciding for him.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned to finally meet your gaze once again, offering a short nod before verbally answering as well. “Fine, I’ll stay. But only for a day or two.”

A wide smile grew on your lips. A sudden joy traveled through your body. It was weird, the sudden emotion for an acceptance from a young handsome man you just met. But it was also something you also couldn’t help but feel.

You nod and grin this time, a warmth growing on your cheeks. “Good.”

[oddlyhale]

IronQrow Villains AU

Ironwood and Qrow as villains in the RWBY show AU.

Ironwood is based off of the Three Snake Leaves fairytale, a story about a man who revived his dead wife with Three Snake Leaves. However, reviving her only brought him betrayal, as she lost love for him and tried to kill him with her lover. Able to survive, the man went to the King and told everything the Princess had done. She was then punished with her lover to be drown in sea on a sinking ship.

Qrow is now based on The Juniper Tree fairytale, a story about a young boy who was killed by his greedy step-mother that wanted the inheritance he would get from his father. She killed him, cut him up and served him as dinner to his unknowingly father, and forced her daughter to bury his bones under a juniper tree next to his real mother. The boy became a bird, singing about his story and received three gifts from strangers that listened. He gave the gifts to his family: his father got a gold necklace. His sister got lovely red shoes. And his evil step-mother got crushed under a millstone.

In this AU, for Ironwood:

He fakes being a good headmaster, only to reveal his true identity once the fall begins.

He is a man masked under oxygen, for his first death caused him breathing problems.

His semblance is to revive the dead, however he tries not to use it often, as it causes him immense pain and can run his aura dry.

HIs goal is to find his wretched ex-wife and murder her for what she did to him (she’s not dead in this one.)

In this AU, for Qrow:

Qrow is a bit psychotic. Not theatrically insane, like Tyrian, but he’s on a level of kalopsia (delusions of seeing things more beautiful than what they are.) He is quietly energized by mayhem and distress.

His semblance is shapeshifter, accommodating by being handsy with building his own crazy weapons. HIs favourite weapon is a giant hammer made of millstone.

He plays the ‘nice uncle, playful drunk’ for a while, under the Fall hits. Turns out his ‘drunkard antics’ were just him covering up his manic laughters and bursts of rage.

He doesn’t try to kill Ruby or her friends, but he warns her to not come for him, or he will kill them without hesitation.

His goal is to live ‘beautifully’ and die in the deepest pit of bliss. By that, he wants to live to cause harm and art, and die a masterpiece himself.

About the relationship:

Ironwood and Qrow are married (James proposed.)

Qrow is utterly in love with Ironwood, as is James for Qrow.

James finds Qrow to be the most endearing psycho he’s ever met, figuring out how Qrow has a hidden humanity about himself, as he cares deeply for music and art.

Qrow was smitten the first time he met James, immediately wanting to be his.

The two men met each other years ago, back when James was to be happily wed to his queen. He was thrown off the ship by the crazy woman and her secret lover, nearly drowning, had it not been for the single loyal servant that saved him. James’ semblance unlocked that day out of panic, thoughts of dying only fueling his semblance to be released. His body revived itself, waking James on the raft that the servant was on, but the act left James badly injured.

The servant was weeping, both in joy to see their master was alive, but in horror as to what had happened to James’ body. His right arm, his right leg, gnawed off by the active sea beasts in the water. His hip was chewed at, nearly severing him in two. Despite being alive, the only thing his semblance couldn’t do was regenerate some new body parts. And yet James was conscious, despite the bleeding and pain. Alive and pissed.

His lungs were filled with water, only a dead person could carry so much. Once they arrived at shore, finding no persons in sight to help, the servant ran out to the land to see if there was any civilization nearby. James laid in the raft in pain, waiting for the servant to return.

Somebody finally came, but it was not the servant. It was a lithe and tall man with dark hair and pale skin, eyes bright red like rubies. He stumbled onto the beach after seeing the frantic servant run into the village nearby, curiously wanting to see what the fuss was about.

“My,” Qrow smirked down at James. “You look like you need a hand.”

James stared blankly at the man, as if he were incredibly unamused. Until he replied, “are you pulling my leg?”

Qrow couldn’t help but burst into a short fit of laughter. James did too, but not for long as he was cut short. His back was killing him.

“I can get you a new body. And some.” Qrow assured. “Come with me. I know somebody.”

“At this point? Fine.” James huffed. After being betrayed by his queen and almost eaten alive by sea beasts, he could hardly imagine this stranger could make anything worse.

Qrow took James to the Whale, to Salem. After some convincing, Salem allowed Qrow to let James stay, so long as he was the one watching their new guest. Qrow agreed happily.

Qrow’s story was only filled with pain. He learnt from a young age that he was never loved by his step-mother, and being left behind by his sister. His step-mother murdered him in his sleep, cutting him up and serving his flesh like he was grade-A beef. His soul took the form of a crow, fueled by the rage he had for his step-mother. He wanted her dead, and by luck, he met Salem. She granted him the wish to have his vengeance, helping him turn back into a human. He was only a little boy still when he met Salem, growing up to look to her as his new mother.

After killing his step-mother, Salem took him in and had been at her side since.

James was soon recovering, but his rage was building deep within. All he could think of was his wretched wife, who was almost successful in killing him. She knew he couldn’t swim. How the sharp teeth of the massive sea monsters would eat at his body. He was ready to kill her, avenge himself.

James’ internal injuries couldn’t be fixed. He had to constantly wear a breathing-mask to help inhale more oxygen that his fragile lungs couldn’t take in normally. It was pain, feeling like he aged 50 years, even though he was only 20 at the time. From what he learned, Qrow was also the same age, at least feeling comfort in knowing somebody his age was around.

During James’ recovery - while Salem was mildly interested in this loner - it was Qrow who was the most intrigued. He loved coming to see James, see his progress so far. A new robotic arm, a new robotic leg, and some new parts had to be added in. Unfortunately, it meant much of James’ lower-half had to be remade, Half of his waist was not salvageable, meaning he’d have to lose a hip and his genital area. James didn’t care, wanting to be fixed already, and out of the stupid medical bed. Wanting to be strong again.

Though, he made a joke about giving him a massive metal cock, barking out laughter when he saw Qrow’s reaction of giggling like an embarrassed old woman. But, his wish was curiously granted.

As James was back up on his feet and trying to adjust to this new body, it was still Qrow who helped him. To the others that were residents of the Whale, they were surprised at how much time Qrow spent with James. Knowing the guy, Qrow could hardly process empathy. He would laugh at burning houses full of orphans, and dance on a dying man while he’s down.

But now, he was the most gentle, tender and kind to this perfect stranger.

Would you believe it when this story ends with the two marrying? After knowing each other for 5 years? Well, that’s how the story went. The two men fell in love, not caring for how crazy their lives would become. James loved this psychopath. And Qrow loved this vengeful man.

James was quick to become compliant in Salem’s plans, to start a new world and have their wishes granted. What he wanted was that bitch of a wife dead, and anybody else that associated with her existence. He didn’t care anymore if they were innocents, they had to be taken out. Feeling the same pain he felt.

Qrow had no goals, other than to live and serve Salem. To be the perfect little dog and grant her every wish. But now, his devotion turned to James. He loved him to bits, and would kill anybody for him. Already, James had killed quite a few people for Qrow, and that was probably one of the most romantic things he’s ever received. The only painful thing he could think is to live a life without James. Even his devotion for Salem couldn’t keep him alive.

Despite their chaotic life, the two surprisingly had a well-adjusted marriage and relationship. It was contentment, understanding and fun. They adored each other the same way they first met, and it seems that their honeymoon phase never ended, after 15 years together. They’d have a wedding dance next to a pile of dead bodies if they could, and they’d still be completely enamored by one another.

During the years together, the two had begun building their false identities among the people. Qrow had contact with his family, still there as Ruby and Yang were young and had grown to attend Beacon Academy. Ironwood had stolen the identity of a previous soldier of Atlas, taking their place and soon becoming the headmaster and general of Atlas. Their appearance was nothing to be judged, coming off as noble and normal.

When the time came for Beacon’s Fall, Qrow was the first to act. After the death of Penny 1.0, he had gone to murder the others in the Beacon Vault. He was successful in killing Glynda, Ozpin and the Maiden (transferring her powers to Cinder who is still in the gang), but he pretends to have no success in killing Ironwood, giving false hope to the heroes that at least one of their own is OK.

After that, he went out to go kill some more civilians of the Academy. Ruby and Yang realized their uncle was part of the evil team, and are broken by the betrayal. Qrow was quick to dismiss them as his family, skipping off merrily back to Salem.

When time passed and it was time to arrive at Atlas, it would be Ironwood’s turn to betray the teams. While cooperative and kind, Ironwood legitimately had no remorse for any of the kids. Quite frankly he wanted them dead, as well as the Ace Ops.

[mileycyprus-hill]

A Simple Kindness

Kieran x Reader 

Had this on the back burner for a while and realized I haven’t written a Kieran x reader fic. So here’s a bit of fluff.  

Summary: You begin to sympathize with the new O’Driscoll prisoner, and decide to give him a little help. 

Warnings: none.

You weren’t exactly sure why this O’Driscoll was in your camp, but you didn’t bother to question it. You were taught to despise any member of Colm’s gang and you thought to do the same to this poor man. 

That poor man. 

He didn’t seem up to par to the common O’Driscoll, sniveling and begging for mercy while tied to that tree. He never cursed at any passerby. Never threatened death upon anyone once he would be free. 

He only begged for mercy. 

You never met a man that soft. 

Was this man really an O’Driscoll? A member of a ruthless, bloodthirsty, thieving, murdering gang? 

Hardly. 

It had been a week since Arthur had brought him back to that cold barn in Colter. He was tied up in the back of a wagon during the trip to Horseshoe Overlook like some prisoner. 

Well, he is a prisoner. 

Left to blister in the sun on this high bluff with no food and what little water he could swallow from the passing rain. That poor man sat there, his arms tied behind him on that birch tree. The papery bark scratched against his tender forearms while the thick hemp of his binds cut into his wrists. Blood red cuts and rash marks painted his pale arms that lay exposed beyond his rolled up sleeves. 

The past few days, you watched him struggle to stand against the tree, his head dropped to his chest in exhaustion and self-pity. Sitting from the table across the way, you’d watch his legs tremble and buckle beneath him as he’d struggle to hold his own weight. He’d squiggle and squirm and whimper to get just a little more comfortable. 

You had half a mind to shout at him, tell him to ‘man up’ and be strong. But watching him pull against his binds was like watching a stray dog pull against a short leash. 

Frightened. Alone. Starving. The only attention came from the daily beatings and tongue-lashings. 

A scrap of bread would be tossed at his feet. Barely enough to satisfy a hungry dog. It’d lay there, taunting him as he’d struggle to kick it closer to himself. Even if he could, how could he grasp it with his arms bound behind him? 

You’d watch him struggle for it anyway, his will driven by hunger. Day by day, that piece of bread would lay there. What was left behind by the pecking chickens would turn to mold and only the flys would claim it.  

How much longer would Dutch allow this to continue? Until the man dies? Or when he gives information that he deems satisfactory? 

From what you’ve heard while eavesdropping, this young man wouldn’t know anything reliable, being Colm O’Driscoll’s abused stable boy. 

You began to fear for him. Truly. 

What would he know, being a newly initiated member of Colm’s circle? For all you knew, he was excluded. Cast onto the edge of the social circle of the gang, left to chat only with the horses and other members of the lowest caste. 

Day by day, you struggled. What was it your mother always taught you? 

“If you watch an evil being done unto someone and don’t stop it, you will be judged for the same crime by doing nothing.” She would say. 

Could you stand there and do nothing? What kind of a person were you? The men around would say you’re a survivor. But is this surviving—torturing a man for information in a petty rivalry? 

When you reach those golden gates and are asked, ‘Why have you done nothing?’, what would you say? 

Because it wasn’t your place to interfere? Because you didn’t want to get in trouble? 

...........

You awake just as a the sun rises and decide this is enough. Only a select few gang members are awake as they stayed up too late and too drunk the previous night. Those who’re up are tending to their own business or had already left.

Walking towards the back of the provisions wagon, you notice he’s alone. Looks like no one’s started the torturing ritual yet. Bill’s talking to Arthur about some stagecoach job over by the horses and Dutch remains shut in his tent with Molly. 

You step briskly as you saw your chance, walking towards the small cooking fire and grabbing a tin cup that rests on the ground next to the warm percolator. 

Looks like Pearson just finished making the coffee. You peek over to his work station and find him deeply focused on preparing today’s stew.

“Psst!” You hear from your right. 

You dare not to look towards the source to avoid suspicion. Discreetly, you turn your head only slightly, pretending to check the hem of your skirt and peek from the corners of your eyes. 

From your downward gaze, you catch Kieran staring at you. You watch him desperately try to get your attention without alerting anyone else. 

Pretending not to hear him, you walk past him with your cup full of coffee and ignore his whispering pleas for water. You stop at the back of the food wagon, hiding yourself behind its large wooden panels. A bucket of rain water sits by a steel dish tub on the table, waiting to be dumped into the tub and used as dishwater. 

You hear Kieran drop his head in defeat behind you. An aching, heavy weight pulls downward in your chest. 

Taking a sip of your coffee, you fake a look of disgust. You take another sip and repeat your act before dumping the contents from your cup. 

Quickly, you dip your cup into the water bucket to rinse the taste from your mouth. 

The cool water touches your lips but you don’t sip, keeping your lips tight against the rim of the cup. 

The coast seems to be clear. No one’s watching or noticing. Checking around you, you dart over to Kieran. He hears your quick steps against the grass and almost yelps in fear. He looks up and sees your face close to his, causing him to drop his eyes and cringe in submission like a beaten dog. He pants pathetically and waits for you to strike him. 

Avoiding eye contact, you grasp his chin and gently prop his head up. He lets out a tiny whimper until you bring the cup to his lips. His eyes grow wide at this merciful gift. The cold metal clanks against his teeth and the cool water rushes through his chapped lips. He feels his throat expand as the water flows like a spring flood rushing through a dry desert canyon, washing away the dirt and dust.  

You continue watching around you for anyone who may come walking and hear him slurp from your hand.  

No one seems to notice, so you move your eyes over to watch him. He sips greedily from your cup, making you tilt it towards him so he can gain every last drop. His Adam’s apple protrudes from his throat in a sharp angle and bobs with every gulp. 

With a final gulp, he exhales in relief and attempts to breathe a ‘thank you’, to which you quickly silence with a finger to his moistened lips. 

“Nothing happened.” You stare at him with such intensity, it’s almost threatening. 

You step away with your dry cup and hear him speak to you in the softest whisper. He mumbles a sweet “thank you” under his breath, nearly undetectable. You smile softly on your way back to your tent until you see a pair of eyes watching you. 

Shit.  

Mary Beth. 

She stands by the rounded table, her hands paused from opening the domino box and watching you curiously. You freeze in place and plead her with wide eyes and upturned brows. 

Please don’t tell. You beg with a silent, sorrowful look. You don’t know what would happen if the others found out, but you’re sure it won’t be pleasant for you. 

A tight-lipped smile grows on her face and she gestures with an open palm towards the dominos. Her invitation is met with hesitation. Can you trust Mary Beth? You haven’t known her for that long and have kept your secrets to yourself. But the look in her eyes show comforting sympathy, not judgement. 

Stepping with bated breath, you bring yourself to the chair across from her. 

Neither of you speak while she shuffles the dominos on the table. The gentle clicking of the ivory rectangles seem so deafeningly loud compared to the unspoken words you pass to each other. 

Mary Beth gives an understanding nod and looks into your eyes with a sweet smile. No doubt she’s gushing at how romantic and noble your simple gesture was to the prisoner. 

You didn’t realize how long you had been holding your breath until you let out a relieved sigh through your nose. You sincerely hope Mary Beth can keep a secret. Sitting here with her, you begin to believe she’s more trusting compared to the others. 

However, you still worry she may not be the only witness to your act of kindness.

.........

Another day passes by and you hear a startled cry followed by angry shouts. The eruption startles you and the grooming brush drops from your hands. Your horse beside you immediately senses your alarm and reacts with a twitch of her muscles and a jerk of her head. She promptly resumes to grazing while you bend to pick the brush off the ground. Holding the brush against your chest, your fingers run against its thick bristles. Your heart rate quickens and you step over to look towards the dead birch tree. A sickening unease washes over you as you watch Arthur, Bill and Dutch surround the Duffy boy. 

You stop in your tracks as you watch Bill hold a pair of iron tongs with a sadistic look on his face. The edges of the tongs are glowing red and sparks fly with every metallic snap Bill makes. Arthur’s broad frame blocks your view of Kieran, but you can barely see his trousers that pool around his ankles. 

Your feet remain frozen in place. You hear Dutch’s voice but your mind doesn’t process his words as you’re too focused on what torturous act is about to happen. 

Tongue fat and lips glued shut, you stand there in the open, unable to prevent Kieran’s frightened pleas from entering your ears.

Just talk, boy. C’mon. Your thoughts scream. An internal conflict burns within you: desperate to intervene but the paranoia warns you’ll be ostracized and labeled a traitor for defending an O’Driscoll boy. 

“All right, I’ll talk!” He cries. 

It’s as if Kieran heard your thoughts. He spills everything. Colm...Six Point Cabin. 

But you don’t feel relief just yet, eyeing a disappointed Bill who still holds the hot tongs close to Kieran’s naked bottom half. 

It isn’t until you see Arthur cut his bonds that you finally loosen the tight fists at your sides. Your fingernails leave marks against the skin of your palms.

Pulling his trousers up to hide his shame, Kieran’s eyes catch you across the way. He sees the fear wash from your face as he follows the men to their horses. He still looks deeply terrified, unsure of whether this ride with John, Arthur and Bill will lead to his execution. 

“Be safe, boys!’ You call to them. 

The four of them, including Kieran who sits behind a disgruntled John, turn to you in their saddles. They look at you as if hearing a babe say its first word. The slight surprise mutes them for a moment until Arthur finally speaks. 

“We’ll be fine, (Y/N)” he says, “Don’tchu worry.”

You watch them ride off down the hill to Six Point Cabin, the location Kieran mentioned. You may not read people as well as others in this gang, but his words seemed true and genuine. You can only hope your instinct is true until the men return, and then you wonder if Kieran will be turned loose...or killed after the job is done. 

You sincerely hope it’s the former.

...........

It’s late afternoon and supper is just ready. The men have been gone for several hours now and your thoughts are no longer kept at bay by busy chores. You don’t hear the subtle hoof beats entering camp, nor the teasing remarks passed between the riders. 

Until a shrill voice startles you from behind, causing you to early spill your dinner. 

“Get this man a bowl!” Bill’s voice yells behind you, “We ain’t found Colm, but this lucky bastard here saved Arthur from gettin’ a bullet in the head!” 

Mumbled voices around the fire exclaim in shock and relief for Arthur’s sake, but little ‘thank-you’s are expressed to Kieran. He steps behind you as you turn to smile at him and Bill, grateful for their safe return. 

You watch him happily grab a bowl of stew and sit on a log next to Uncle, who makes a grimaced look of disgust and moves to a different spot—preferably upwind. 

“Thank you Kieran,” you gently call over, “For saving Arthur.”

He looks to you with those big doe eyes and smiles awkwardly at your statement of gratitude. 

Standing and rubbing your sore hip with one hand, you walk over and extend your bowl to him. He scarfed his food so quickly that his bowl looks almost sparkling clean. 

“Here,” you offer the rest of your dinner, “You sure look like you could eat.”

Kieran stammers, “Oh, no ma’am. I couldn’t do that.”

“Please. I’m not that hungry anyway...Hate for it to go to waste. And Pearson never makes enough for everyone.” You give a gentle smirk. 

“Thank you miss,” Kieran blinks. “That’s very kind of you.” 

He holds his bowl steady with his eyes darting nervously across your face as you transfer your leftovers. You nod and start to walk away until he stops you.

“Oh, and miss?” He whispers.

You turn to him, an eyebrow slightly arched at his politeness.

“Thank you for...yesterday.” 

“Don’t mention it,” you smile. “It’s the least I could do.”

Little do you know when you leave, Kieran feels eternally blessed by your act of kindness. It may not seem like much to you, but to him that showed your true soul. This world is brutal and unforgiving, but your empathy and tenderness is what gives him hope and comfort. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.