#the next chapter will be the denouement

[salteytakesonmanga]

This is a badass line, but I think it also scratches the surface of something that comes up a lot in One Piece.

Birth is not destiny.

Species, race, class, gender, nationality, family history, strength… None of these things dictate how you have to live your life. But they DO affect your circumstances, and you WILL have to deal with them in some way. Accept it, manipulate it, reject it, deny it, curse it… We see a lot of ways people respond to their history. But thinking about it, it’s never really framed as “overcoming it.” Your circumstances, love them or hate them or anything in between, are part of you. Comparing this attitude to other shonen series, this is pretty fucking revolutionary. If you have to "overcome" something it suggests that it is an immutable fact of reality. One Piece throws that entire idea out, so "overcoming one's humble birth" or "overcoming one's unfortunate circumstances" isn't the framing Oda uses.

Here, Luffy is not saying he will “overcome” Arlong’s strength. He’s saying he has different strength. Luffy’s species is not a handicap compared to Arlong. It’s not even an advantage. It’s just a difference. It would be stupid for Luffy to try to compete in bite strength with Arlong* so he doesn’t bother worrying about that comparison.

This is maybe Luffy’s greatest strength: to see the world exactly as it is, without letting himself be blinded or distracted by what “common sense” says he should see.

I need to do a lot more thinking about this before I can articulate exactly what I think Oda is doing here, but you see some version of this theme appear again and again. Hopefully by the time it comes back around I’ll have a clearer idea of what I’m trying to say lol

[mittensmorgul]

🥹

[andromeda3116]

ugh, having to entirely rewrite chapter fifteen from scratch has turned into a brick wall. like, i know what i need to make happen, but it needs to be engaging and interesting and i need to thread a certain needle of thematic consistency and foreshadowing without being heavyhanded or accidentally veering into unfortunate implications, and it's... messy.

[mikkeneko]

Things come to a head, and battles are fought. Shang Qinghua prepares a diabolus ex machina. Shen Qingqiu watches (or doesn't) most of this from the sidelines. Mu Qingfang would like for everybody to please stop trying to kidnap his patient.

---

You may notice that despite my prior claims, The Chapter Count Has Increased, and I didn't get as much of the denouement done in this one chapter as I expected. I was initially going to have this and the immediate aftermath conversation together in one chapter, but it got too long and was tonally inconsistent, so. Next chapter (which is mostly done and should be out next week) will be immediate aftermath; from there, I'll see how much more of the aftermath I feel like playing out. I feel like my audience won't mind too much if I decide to take my time and, y'know, explore more of this.

[melancholy-of-nadia]

[lul11 TEASER] the DENOUEMENT of the story is COMING RELEASE DATE: JUNE 26TH, 2024 @ 3PM PST

fair warning: this chapter is at least 90% nsfw besides the beginning of the chapter. and this teaser is nsfw as well. please do not interact if you are a minor (idk why a minor would have been reading up to this point by now lmao)

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a/n: hehehehe so ???? any thoughts??? well this is (technically) the final chapter that will wrap up the whole conflict of the story, chapter 12 [shift (outro)] is the epilogue and will detail what happens in the next 3-6 months after they all start their relationship. just want to point that out as the ending of this chapter... feels like THE ending.

✨ let me know ur thoughts! how are you feeling?! ✉️

[avidbeader]

I was allowed the chance to read a friend's ARC of her debut novel and finished it today. Here's my review and I heartily recommend it for those who like BL and/or pining idiots:

Cross the Line by Lucky Hart My rating: 5 of 5 stars (ARC Review) My favorite things to read tend to run to mystery, action, and suspense, whether in a modern, historical, or fantasy setting. Romance for the sake of romance is not my first choice in picking up a book. But the things my favorite fiction has across genres tend to come down to interesting and compelling characters. "Crossing the Line" has these characters in spades. They leap off the page, vibrant and alive, with a richness of details in their appearances and personalities that will have one nodding, yes, I feel like that or yes, I know someone like that. Having these characters paired with dialogue that flows naturally from one character to the other means that scenes are engaging and keep you in the story. There were plenty of times in the past week where I stayed up past my recommended bedtime to finish just one or two more chapters, or was thinking about where the story might go when I couldn't be reading. Theo and Alec, the main characters, are nicely rounded. They both have things they excel at. They have core personalities that don't waver much as the plot progresses. They have challenges and traumas, but these things neither define the characters nor act as maguffins, only appearing in order to move the plot or cause a conflict. And they are surrounded by other interesting characters in Alec's brothers and friends that enhance the story rather than distract. One of my two wants for this book is to have more women appear on the page rather than just talked about. I can see the attraction of writing the Kings as a boisterous family with four sons and they are all fun characters, but we only get a few glimpses of Mom and mentions of a beloved but deceased grandmother. Yes, Alec being on an NCAA soccer team means being surrounded by other guys, but to not have even one girl among the student population that became a friend feels unlikely. I hope future installments of the series will include a few women with the same kind of loving depth that is shown for the characters here. The plot hinges on feelings, attraction and desire crashing up against friendship and loyalty, and it's delightfully messy just like real life can be. The circumstances in which Alec and Theo keep meeting and then avoiding include decisions, both good and bad, coming from their personality traits and outside circumstances like horrible timing or being in the wrong place. It produces a good balance of emotional exploration with the occasional sitcom-level comedy bit that had me groaning of course that happened. As things move into dangerous waters for our heroes, they take responsibility for one another because they care about each other that much. Even if neither of them has quite figured it out yet, because they are complete pining idiots. My second want for this book, because the characters are so lively, was to have a little more in the denouement department. To read the conversations between a few different characters and the process of some decisions made instead of having them summarized in the epilogue. But that's a testament to how much the characters and story drew me in that I wanted more of them. I finished this book feeling satisfied and entertained. I will read it again. I want to read the next book in the author's planned series. I would recommend it to anyone who likes modern-day romances where you want to reach into the screen and knock the love interests' heads together so they figure it all out or stop keeping their feelings secret. If you're uncertain about smut, there's only three sequences where it's featured and even then the characters are mostly busy talking or feeling things. Take a chance on this one and see if it crosses the line into one of your favorites.

[samwinchesterslostshoe]

Masterlist

Some things about me: I love to paint, sew and knit! I have a deep love for history, architecture and anything 40’s 50’s related!

This blog it my little getaway from the real world. I love sharing my stuff on here with people that love these characters with the same love and enthusiasm as I do, and interacting with so many people and other amazing artists💜

In the little free time I have left from doing actual homework and working, I like to draw characters from movies and shows that I love.

These include:

Band of brothers

Supernatural

Uncharted

The boys

The last of us

And many more!

I am always open for requests, DM’s and messages!

X

Band of Brothers fanfic:

Denouement: David Webster x OC

Denouement chapter 1

Denouement chapter 2

Denouement chapter 3

Marie drawing

Band of brothers icons:

Alton more

Ronald Spiers

Chuck Grant

Eugene Roe

David Webster

Band of brothers moodboards:

Easy Ranch - Pat Christenson

Easy Ranch - Bill Guarnere

Skinny Sisk and Shifty Powers - Taylor Swift

Ronald Spiers x Nurse

Soft Spiers

Eugene Roe

Band of brothers fan art:

George Luz sketch

Lewis Nixon sketch

Liebgott sketch

Lewis Nixon x J.C Leyendecker

Ronald Spiers

Liebgott and Webster

Webster pencil drawing

Malarkey pencil drawing

Stupid pigeon meme (aka Spiedgon)

The Pacific

Eugene Sledge doodle

Eugene Sledge drawing

Masters of the air

Harry Crosby drawing

1917

Blake and Schofield drawing

Detroit: Become Human

Connor

Marcus

Uncharted

Chloe and Nadine

Young Nate and Sam

Stinky Sam

Nathan

My taglist: @ronsenthal @whollyjoly @next-autopsy @luckynumber4 @barbeygirl @dustyjumpwingz @xxluckystrike @heystovepipeboys @sweetxvanixlla @kafka-ohdear @footprintsinthesxnd @panzershrike-pretz @iceman-kazansky @bucky32557038ww2

[domini-porter]

FIC: Some Wicked Thing, Chapters 23-25 (complete!)

hello hello! here are the last three chapters of Some Wicked Thing, the third installment of my Gilded Age AU series The Age of Wickedness!

this story has been, as always, so fun to write, and I really hope you've enjoyed it. links and chapter excerpts (light spoilers; it's the denouement and the epilogue, after all) below the cut!

Chapter 23: The Conductor Lifts His Baton

“I love you, cara mia,” Maura whispered, her face swimming close, blurry, distorted; she had said it, Jane was nearly certain, though it could have been an echo, a memory, a wish, a dream. “Pi sempri.” Pi sempri, Gianna. “Pi . . “ she mumbled, and then she was gone.

Chapter 24: The Lost Girl

“Mrs. Bartholomew,” Jane said kindly. “Nancy. You have only done what was best for your niece all along. Her parents were never going to support her how she needed, and she is very fortunate to have you on her side. But if we don’t move fast, she’ll be gone. I’m not trying to frighten you. It’s just the truth.”

Chapter 25: Hoping to be Welcomed Home

Jane didn’t respond, merely circled her arm around Maura’s shoulders as she watched the ship, its horn echoing faintly across the water, begin its arrival into the harbor. Imagined, a lump in her throat, a dark-haired little girl watching excitedly from the deck, gasping in amazement when she saw the enormous creature come into view.

once again, thank you so much for reading! see you next time!

[that-spider-fan-over-there]

Also one more thing: why y'all think all of this will be solved in 10 chapters as if there isn't a rescue, the final battle, the hero's denouement and a possible epilogue, with most of them being what the characters are gonna do after this is over, plus Izuku having to talk to Katsuki to see where that leads, and society deciding how to reintegrate the LoV.

Like. Please y'all stop to appreciate the story instead of thinking "we only have ten chapters left" THIS ISN'T A NETFLIX SHOW THAT'S GONNA BE CANCELLED IN THE NEXT WEEK IT'S LIKE YOU'RE BEGGING FOR APOLLO TO HIT WITH THE DODGEBALL CALM THY TITS

[sabraeal]

All That Remains, Chapter 11: The Prince and the Princess [Part 1]

[Read on AO3]

Written for both Obiyuki Bingo and also a very, very overdue birthday gift for @lusakina, who has nearly waited a year for me to be able to sit down and write this. It’s a slightly shorter chapter than these typically are, but this one needed to be more of an interlude between parts...

With a flourish of the pen, the girl escapes.

That is how a story would tell of this, wouldn’t it? A grand climax racing into the gentle arms of a denouement. An exultant cry of victory followed by a blank page.

Our fingers straddle the border between two words; one in which there is the possibility of failure, and the other which brings us the relief of success. It is so easy for us to turn the page, to shift from those dire hours to the moment of safety. A girl escapes, and in the space of a breath, she is far away, only pale echo of that danger buried beneath the next step of her journey.

There is no time to dwell on the between; on the sleepless hours wondering whether you will awake to the sounds of stomps and shouts, of whether you can afford to stop to catch a breath or must chance a push onward, hoping your own legs won’t give out beneath you. On the page there is only room for failure or flight, and anything in between...

That is where the story abandons you. Escape is only a small sliver of survival, and the the rest, the rest--

Is living. And oh, that is by far the hardest part.

Lata taught her how to ride on one of the sparse spring days in Lilias; Shirayuki had been the one to ask, only a day or so before, and he had huffed, at least it might make you more useful. A tepid response, one she thought had been as polite a refusal as a man like him could come, until she bumped into him in the courtyard, mouth wrapped halfway around a good morning, before he hauled her off to the stable.

Unlike most of her studies, riding did not come easy. No, instead it came in fits and starts; months of taking two steps forward and ten steps back until one day her amiable little mare broke out into a canter, and Shirayuki kept her seat. Good, the professor had grunted, hunching his furs up around his ears. I thought I might just wash my hands of this and let that poor excuse for a knight cart you around like luggage.

Please, my lord, Obi had called from his perch on the fence, a gloved hand pressed courteously to his chest. She would be my precious cargo.

Whatever he chose to call it, it was baggage, and if there was one thing Shirayuki refused to be, it was a burden. Riding might not come easy, but she had kept with it until not even Zen could find a flaw with her seat, and yet--

And yet, beside Kiki she sits a graceful as a rock in a bucket; unlikely to tumble out but by no means proficient. At least, not the way she thought she was. That’s the difference between learning a good seat and being born to it, she supposes, which wouldn’t matter at all if the moment Kiki slowed them to a trot, she didn’t feel as if her own backside would fall off.

“Catch your breath,” Kiki tells her, voice raised no louder than the susurrus of leaves around them. “We’ll need to keep moving.”

A protest hones itself to a point at the tip of her tongue-- there’s no need to stop, it wants to say, I won’t slow you down-- but Kiki only stares at her, kindness leaving her no quarter. The fight sloughs off her like a skin-- no, like a gown, ill-fitting and heavy, made for someone else. Another Shirayuki, one more used to saddles and stirrups, who spent her days toiling in the gardens and summers riding across the North, who hadn’t been afraid to throw a blanket over dewy grass to stare up at the stars.

Not the one who had wasted two seasons trying to slip into a smile that pinched at the seams. Who hadn’t let her friend simply disappear while she chose which spoon to stir her tea.

Nails bite into the flesh of her palms, sharper than she ever kept them in Wirant. She’d needed them short, then; longer ones were liable to break, for dirt to get caked deep within the bed, but in the palace...

Ornamental, Haki had called them, hanging polished nails over the divan. The same as Shirayuki had been, when all the flounces settled. Nothing more but another face to decorate its halls.

Her breath steams in the air, a gasping specter that dissolves as soon as it appears, never quite solid enough to grasp. Glancing over her shoulder, the lights of Wistal still shimmering past the dark ribbon of the river, she feels much the same. Insubstantial. Hardly real. That if she just reached out she could touch those glittering lamps as if they were no more than shards of wunderocks, meant to settle in the palm of her hands and never burn.

The city’s so tame from so far away.

“We should go back.”

It’s barely more than a whisper, a toneless sigh into the night, but Kiki’s stare cuts to her, sharp as the blade at her waist. “Shirayuki. You have just fled the palace and its protections.” The night blurs the details of her expression into shadow, but the angle of her brows says sharp, skeptical. “Are you really so eager to return?”

“I-I didn’t say we should go back t-there.” She skips over her words like a stone on a still pond, hands clenched tight around her reins. “I just meant...the market. Or maybe one of the pubs. Somewhere...”

Somewhere there’s something left of him, she doesn’t say. There’s no point when Kiki is already shaking her head, gold shimmering silver in the moonlight. “You do understand, don’t you? We cannot go back. Not to the palace, not to the market...not to Wistal at all.”

“But that was the last place Obi was seen,” she insists, stomach as knotted as the leather strap in her hands. “If we’re going to find anything, it will be there. If we leave now--”

“Obi has made some...questionable decisions in the past” --the wrinkle between Kiki’s brows discourages further inquiry-- “but if he was trying to slip out of Wistal under the Watch’s nose, he wouldn’t stop for a drink.”

Her mouth works-- wasn’t he supposed to be a slither-outer? a man who abandoned his post to make a fool of himself in every tavern before he’d crawl back into our good graces?-- but that venom stings even her own lips, a set of lies too raw a wound in her to even scrape out a single sound. To pretend she could believe that of him for a moment, even just to win her way--

You do know that house plants don’t drink champagne, she informs him, poking her head around the improbable girth of this fiddle leaf fig. Even if it does reside in a manor house.

Gold flashes up from where he crouches, startled, flute hanging limply from his fingers. It’s only a moment before it smooths into an easy confidence, into a grin that’s right at home with all these silver platters and crystal glass. It’s either this or off one of these fancy little balconies, and I got to say, there aren’t ladies walking out from beneath these leaves. Well, except you, Miss.

His playfulness is contagious. You could just drink it, if you need to. I doubt this would give you anything more serious than a case of the hiccups. She leans in, conspiratorial. In my professional opinion.

You may be the granddaughter of a bar, Miss, but never on the streets I’ve visited. A corner of his mouth twists as he levers himself to his feet. Then you’d know that the only knife you carry with you is a sharp one.

--It would be a betrayal. Another way for her to turn her back on him, to forget the man he’d become over these past six years, the one who-- who--

So, it was worth having? Just asking makes her stomach lurch, like holding her foot over a precipice, trying to judge the distance down. It’s just a necklace, just Obi, and yet she’s tangled up in anticipation, breathless for that tilt of his head, that soft flicker of a smile.

Of course. Both fondness and confusion add an airiness to his laugh, as if his answer were as certain as the ground beneath their feet, or as necessary as the air between them. It would have been just for the fact that you lent it to me.

--It’s impossible.

Not that he loved her; of course he did, but in the way a key loved its lock, or a hand might miss its pair. The way she felt when she walked the streets in front of her grandparents’ old pub and heard laughing through the glass. She was a best-worn glove, a favorite meal, a half-remembered chorus to a lullaby.

She was home, the same way he was for her. And to think of it as the same as the knights in the palace tapestries, kneeling at the feet of their mistresses and longing, to think of it as desire...

They’re mistaken, is all. Of anyone, she knew him best. If his feelings had changed, then surely she would have noticed, she would have known--

You don’t know anything about me, Miss.

Her breath catches, painful in her chest. “But we don’t know where to look. If there’s a lead, then--”

“There’s nothing left to find of him there.” Each word hits her like a whip crack, a lash she’s not braced to take. “They will be looking for you, Shirayuki. Not now, but in the morning...”

In the morning, one of Haki’s maids would bustle into her chambers, throwing curtains wide and informing her of the gowns the consort had set out for her perusal. But today her hands would sink into the covers and find no flesh beneath it, no young lady to dress as her mistress pleased. No, there would only be a haphazard bundle of silk and velvet and down, and then, then--

Kiki’s eyes narrow as she gazes back, a hunter gauging the distance between her and her target. “It will take them time to search the grounds, to realize...”

That she was gone. No, that she, of her own volition, had left.

Kiki’s mare nickers as she leads her head around, back to the road ahead. “We should use what time we have wisely.”

It is simple to have purpose when there is trouble at your back, when there is the promise of menace nipping at your heels. One step yields to the next with such ease that it becomes nothing more than an instinct, heedless of fear and of good sense. Forward is so much more tenable as a directive than a decision.

Second thoughts are the luxury of those whose stories have an after.

Night passes into day, and what once seemed a steady, sustainable pace turns relentless. Kiki turns them off the main road at first light-- we can cover your hair, but two women riding hard is a rare enough sight still-- leading them first through fields of tall grass and wildflowers, so many Shirayuki is tempted to ask for a rest, if only to replenish her stocks--

But the grimness of Kiki’s jaw stills the words on her tongue.

It’s not long until fields give way to scrublands, and scrub gives way to the first stirrings of a forest, its canopy blotting out the sun’s heat as it climbs to its zenith. To her eyes, it seems untouched, a primordial kingdom of leaf and bramble and vine, but Kiki quickly picks out a hunter’s trail in the brush, leading them deep into its cool embrace.

It’s only then that Kiki lets their pace slow, that she lets her mare come to a panting halt. “We’ll stop here. The horses need to rest.”

There’s no block for her to dismount to, but Kiki provide a knee-- and then a net of arms in short measure, once Shirayuki’s leg fails to swing over and becomes a slow, terrifying slide.

“Sorry,” she gasps, clutching hard to her shoulders. “I didn’t realize that my, er, I mean...everything’s numb...?”

Her only consolation is that Kiki’s huff is at least amused when she finds her feet. “No need to apologize. We rode for a long time. Longer than we should have.”

Obi used to complain that too much time in the saddle made him bow-legged-- like some sort of hedge knight, Miss-- but it’s not until she hobbles across the clearing, too much space between her thighs, that she understands it.

“Oh, did we? That’s good. I mean--” there’s no comfortable way to rest; to stand means suffering her trembling legs, to sit only worsens the numbness “--I thought so, but if we were really riding for so long, then we would stop to switch out the horses...”

Kiki shakes her head, expert hands never slowing as she rubs down their mounts. “They’ll check the roads first, the post stations where it’s likely we’d need to stop. And any groom worth his pay will know these are from the royal stables, which means he’ll be the first to tell them what he knows.” Her mouth gives a wry twist. “Horse thieves always pay well.”

“But we’re not...” Kiki spares her a long, dubious look. They certainly hadn’t asked to borrow a pair of His Majesty’s finest mounts. “Are you so sure there will be anyone coming after us? Izana said that if I left, that I would be-- I’d--”

It should go without saying-- even now, the burden of his gaze weighs on her-- if you break this agreement, there will not be another offer.

She clears her throat. “I don’t think he’d be sending anyone for me.”

“Not Izana.” Kiki stretches out the words with care, the kind that warns of a ‘but’ before it can round the corner. “But Zen will turn over the whole city to find you.”

“Ah...” She hadn’t accounted for that, no. Not for Zen, who so often complained of tied hands, of how his brother’s wants ran roughshod over his own, using what little power he could bring to bear. “But Izana would never let him. Not when he was so clear...”

“Which is why this will all happen so quickly.” Kiki turns to her, as grim and serious as she had been in the stables. “Before Izana can hear of it.”

Her fingers tremble against the trunk, bark biting into flesh to keep her upright. “N-no. He can’t do that. When Obi disappeared it took him weeks to even get a single search party...”

Beneath the black of her jacket, Kiki’s shoulders tense. She does not speak but brace, and that is enough to draw Shirayuki up short, to remember--

A knife strapped to a belt. A seed pressed into her hand.  Ah, she’d forgotten how easily a healed wound can run fresh, if she only pulls off the scab. “But he never sent anyone. Not for Obi.”

“Shirayuki...” A sigh soughs through her teeth. “We should go.”

But it cannot last forever. There always comes a time where fear banks, when tempers have cooled and the ceaseless war drum of the heart fades. And all that is left...

Is you.

Day fades into night again before Kiki allows them to truly rest, not just pause to catch a breath or let the horses drink. Their pace had been slow through the forest, careful as they picked their way along the knotted trails, but their mounts are exhausted, pulling at their leads as they plod into the clearing. Shirayuki can hardly blame them; she nearly balks until Kiki reaches for her, more falling from the saddle than dismounting it.

No matter how she might insist that she bore the mark of Tanbarun in her strong shoulders, or that heaving bags of soil from the cart to the greenhouse made her as capable as any of the male scholars, Shirayuki is hardly heavy. A girl her size might make Suzu stagger-- I can’t leave him on the walls by himself, Obi had confided once, grin peeking over his scarf, he’s got more in common with a sail than stone-- but even with the brunt of her weight slumping over her like a sack, Kiki is only driven back a step, solid when she plants her on the ground.

“You’ll have to forgive the accommodations,” she huffs, one half of her mouth hooking into a smirk. “I’m afraid it falls just short of royal.”

There’s no silk sheets or pillows of down, that’s for certain. But Kiki lays out her cloak to cover the soft sponge of the forest’s undergrowth, plumping her pack to make a kissing cousin to a pillow, and oh, what Shirayuki would have given for such luxuries during that breathless flight across the border, all those years ago. She stumbled upon that forgotten manor after a half dozen nights of only rocks and roots to lay her head on, with just that little hood to keep her warm.

“Ah, don’t worry about me,” she murmurs, unclasping her own cloak from around her neck. “I’ve slept on worse.”

Kiki’s smile stretches tight over her teeth. “Of course.”

Never one to need to fill the air with noise when silence would do, Kiki gathers their leads, nickering quietly at their mares as they tamp at the ground, impatient. Lata had taught her how to care for tack-- as any good horseman should, he sniffed, turning up his nose at the university’s groom-- but there’s a practiced efficiency to Kiki’s movements, almost meditative, that suggest any of her fumbling might only get in the way.

Still, Shirayuki isn’t about to stand idle. Not anymore.

“If you’re going to take care of the horses...” Her slippers shuffle, uncertain, beneath the hem of her skirt. “Should I gather some wood for--?”

“No fire.”

Shirayuki blinks. Wistal may be warm, even into its winters, but its nights still grow cold late in the season, enough that some mornings leave a lick of frost on the windowpanes. “But it will get cold soon. The sun’s already--”

Kiki shakes her head, sharp. “We can’t risk the smoke.”

She doesn’t so much snap as rasp, a dire note scraping her voice raw. Kiki has stood tall before kings and traitors both, and yet her whisper is nothing more than a live nerve that her desperation skins open. And it-- it seems so silly. They aren’t running from some first’s prince’s wounded pride, from four dozen of the kingdom’s most loyal knights and a half dozen dogs, but...

“But it’s only Zen.” It’s strange that she’s the one to say it, that in this twilight of her escape, she’s the one to speak sense. “He won’t hurt us. He’ll just...”

“Convince you.”

Her mouth falls slack. “I...?”

“Zen loves you.” It’s stunning how easily Kiki can say such a thing when Zen never had, when it had always been something hidden in the wrinkles of his smile or the longing in his eyes. “The fear has never been that he would hurt you. It is that you will listen.”

Shirayuki wants to protest, to say there would be nothing he could say to convince her to abandon Obi now that she’s set herself on his trail--

But even now her heart leaps to her throat not in dread but anticipation as she imagines Zen stepping into the light of their fire. Hope sears as he kneels before her, the fire casting his pale hair golden as he tells her, it’s all been a mistake. The anguish would turn itself to earnest apology in his eyes, and he would say that they can do this together, if only she would come back with him, if only she would stand by his side.

A breath shudders from her lungs, so full of wanting it burns.

It is so easy to say that she would not turn her back on Obi again, but three months ago, she would have sworn no one could get her to forsake him the first time.

“Right,” she rasps, chest tender beneath the hand she presses to it. “No fire.”

Oh, how easy it is for the doubts to set in, when it is only your tender heart to stand against them.

These are not Lilias’ nights, so cold that even a warm pan beneath the pallet and a heap of furs can’t keep the chill out, but they do have to press close beneath the weight of her cloak, tucking it tight around their shoulders and back, scrunching to keep their feet beneath it. It’s hardly the first time she’s had to huddle for warmth under the blankets, tucking deep into open arms to keep out the elements, but she’s used to a warmer body beside her, a furnace wrapped in flesh. And Kiki, well--

What do you expect? Obi lilts into her ear, as soft as he always spoke beneath the stars. Miss Kiki’s got a reputation to keep.

Her body is weary, bruised and battered from the ride, but even still-- her heart leaps when Kiki lays next to her, the sweet scent of lilac wafting from where her hair knots at the back of her neck. For a moment, it feels like that night so long ago, when snow had pressed at the inn’s windows, and her heart had raced from how close she had come to-- to something in that room. Not with Kiki, but with Zen, the pillows collapsing in among them and the urgency to see, to know had pressed her in for that next kiss. Her lips stung from it, tingled, and she had wanting nothing more than to say something, to ask if it was right that she felt so torn between her head and her heart.

But instead she had stared at the nape of Kiki’s neck, where her hair parts around skin like waves around a breaker, and worried. The same as she does tonight, as she does the next, and the night after. She is a font of concerns, an endless well of anxiety that burbles through the early morning hours, ceaseless until the sun rises.

You understand, don’t you? Even now, she feels Kiki’s fingers at her ankle, a single thoughtful tap on her boot. What all this might cost when it’s over?

If you break this agreement, Izana warns her, his tone implying fine print, there will not be another offer.

Think about what you might lose, the silence urges her, sounding more like Kiki than any words ever have. Think about what you might not get back.

Her fingers clench tight in the wool of Kiki’s tunic. But what about you? she wants to ask into the soft skin of her nape. What do you lose, coming with me?

Kiki is a royal knight, an aide to the second prince, the heir to Seiran. Soon to be married, too, after her father’s summit. One so important that it even peeled Zen’s aides from him, one Kiki herself is supposed to be handling the arrangements for.

And yet here she is, with her. Because a princess needs her knight. Except Shirayuki has never wanted to be a princess, and Kiki...

Must have her reasons. Good ones. The kind Shirayuki wants to know, to understand--

But instead her body betrays her one last time, and all its anxiety abandons her for sleep.

Oh, how stories never speak of this part, of that space between the wanting and the knowing. A woman wakes from her thousand year slumber in the arms of her true love. Children outsmart a witch and find their way home without a single wrong turn.

A girl escapes the garden of a sorceress, and stumbles straight onto the trail of her boy. No doubts, no second thoughts, no leads that have gone cold over the long months she spent, a prisoner in paradise.

How much easier it must be to suffer knowing that there is purpose to it in the end. How much easier it is to go forward, when every step will lead you true.

It’s impossible for her to say how many days it take for them to travel through the forest, or how many more there are before Kiki leads her back to a road. Obi had always been the one with the map in his head, unerringly leading them through hill and dale and drift; Shirayuki had only followed, putting her boot prints beside his own, a matched set.

It’s only the hangings above the inn’s door that give her pause when they pass it, that remind her that they’ve been here before. They’d run across this very courtyard with rain dogging their heels, standing in front of the desk soaked entirely to the skin. The five of them, traveling back from Tanbarun, breaths caught up in laughter as they skidded to a stop in the tile. It’s impossible, she thinks, that they could have been so young only such a short time ago.

“How about it then?” Kiki grunts, voice rough from disuse. “Would you like a bed tonight?”

Her back would certainly appreciate it. “They had baths here, too, didn’t they?”

For the first time in days, Kiki’s mouth curls toward a smirk. “You know, I think they did. Good ones, too.”

Strange, is it not, how we never know the precise moment the story finds us again?

Steam curls thick in the air, a palpable curtain between her and the bath. A welcome one; it’s been so long since Shirayuki last removed her dress that the cuffs stick to her wrists. It’s a miracle of the humidity-- and her own ingenuity-- that it peels away, leaving pink skin in its wake.

“Oh.” The warmth of the bath clings to her as thick as any cloak, coaxing out a sigh. “Where...?”

“Leave it,” Kiki urges her from farther in. “The maids will look after it. If there’s anything that can save those things.”

She hums, uncertain, letting the fabric hang from her fingers. This is her own sweat, her own mess; it hardly seems right to expect someone to clean it...

But she wants to deal with it even less. “All right.” The gown drops into the fog, lost. “I’m coming.”

When it is not just our own will that moves us forward, but the narrative, pushing us inexorably to the next turn of the page.

It’s a good, solid scrubbing that Shirayuki gives herself; she’s no stranger to the sort of dirt that a body can gather over a day’s work, but this, this is a week’s accumulation of grime and filth. It doesn’t wash away so much as flake, chipped off by the application of horsehair and grit until the only think left is pink, scoured skin beneath.

“We’re alone,” Kiki assures her through the partition, one pale foot sliding a sudsy bucket beneath. “If you want.”

Shirayuki blinks for a moment, staring down at the bubbles uncomprehending--

“Oh.” She reaches up, unwinding the towel from her head. It’d be generous to call what’s under it brown, let alone red, but with a good wash, well... “Thank you.”

Kiki hesitates. “I’ll meet you in the bath.”

Even in the most mundane of moments, the times in which we feel the most off the trodden path, lost and left with only our hopes to guide us, we can be so close that only a step would traverse the space between. That only a breath could speak it into being.

How many times must we come close to relief, and then never know it? How many doors must close while we hope for a mere window, all unknowing?

If Shirayuki had thought the steam thick before, it is nothing to how it rises from the actual bath. It might well be a curtain for how well it shields the edge from her; she risks a few toes at first to feel for it, and with a steeling breath, sinks a whole foot right down to the knee.

It’s hot, enough that the fresh skin these prickles with pain before the heat soothes it away. Her other leg follows, then the rest of her, sinking down into its warm embrace.

As much as it stings, it’s pleasant as well. As if she’s been made new again, the Shirayuki of the palace washed away, and leaving behind only her.

And then, when we least expect it--

“Caw, caw,” the crow says, swooping down to the little girl, “Good day, good day, little one, what brings you here?”

“Well, well, well.” A lithe body slides into the pool, tawny trailing after her like a comet’s tail. “Didn’t think I’d find a fine young miss like you here.”

--We are found once again.

For better or for worse.

[armoricaroyalty]

Previous | Chapter Start | Beginning | Next

author's note: welcome to the denouement! charles, as always, belongs to @the-lancasters

Transcript under the cut.

11:00 PM / August 6th, 2016

FREDERICK | Did we have to meet in the boathouse? It stinks in here. ROSALIND | Do you have to complain about everything? It's annoying. MARY | Enough. MARY | Roz, be nice. ROSALIND | [sighs] Fiiiiiine. ROSALIND | You two are the front page of The Shield on Sunday. Vance Marshall called me to ask for comment. EMILY | But how did it get out? Almost no one knew. ROSALIND | [offscreen] I'm having someone in Josie's office look into it. EMILY | Maybe it was a guess? Did you confirm the story to them? FREDERICK | [sighs] FREDERICK | When are they publishing it online? MARY | Sane time it hits the newstands, 6:30 AM. FREDERICK | Sh— Er, crap. That's not much time to prepare. EMILY | Prepare what? ROSALIND | Wardrobe, media training, press strategy— FREDERICK | Security. MARY | Em, does your building have a doorman? ROSALIND | You've got nothing to worry about. You're starting from a much stronger position than Vivi did, and look how quickly they came around on her! EMILY | Um, where is she? I'd like to talk to her, actually— ROSALIND | [offscreen] Oh, I asked her to make sure we weren't interrupted. VIVI | [sighs] CHARLES | Why the long face? VIVI | Charles! What are you doing out here? CHARLES | I was looking for you, actually. CHARLES | I'm glad I found you. I was starting to worry that I wouldn't have the chance to tell you how lovely you look tonight... VIVI | You know...I was warned to stay away from you. CHARLES | [amused] Oh? And will you, Vivi? CHARLES | ...because I'm not going to be able to stay away from you. VIVI | Charles, if someone sees us— CHARLES | Who cares? CHARLES | Everyone knows how your husband treats you. No one would blame you. VIVI | Charles... CHARLES | [softly] Don't make me beg, Vivi. ROSALIND | [offscreen] Vivi? ROSALIND | ...what's going on out here? CHARLES | Rosalind! There you are. ROSALIND | Good to see you, Charles. ROSALIND | [offscreen] I didn't know you'd be in town for the wedding. CHARLES | [offscreen] Josie didn't tell you? [conversation continues, indistinct. Mary gives Vivi A Look.] FREDERICK | [sighs] I hope you're ready for a lot more of this. EMILY | What do you mean? FREDERICK | All the bullshit. The briefings and the meetings and the pointless intrigues. What we're looking at right now is the rest of our lives. FREDERICK | ...you know, the news hasn't broken yet. If the royal life isn't what you want, what you really want....you've still got one last off-ramp. EMILY | Freddy... EMILY | You've been trying to scare me off the entire time we've been together, and it's not going to work. I'm committed. FREDERICK | Well...then I guess you're stuck with me. EMILY | [laughs] I guess I am.

[quaranmine]

day sixty eight: outline work (firewatch)

writing challenge (month three)

month two of the challenge! block #quara writing challenge if you don't want to see this on your dash everyday.

rules:

Firewatch AU or IBW are valid projects for this.

250 word minimum per day.

Challenge goes until I either finish Firewatch AU or reach 10 chapters on IBW, whichever comes first--unless I risk burning myself out first, at which point I will also stop. i may never complete this challege help

Fic-related research and art are valid uses of time and do not count as a skipped day

[mikkeneko]

"You have to go to the Master's Chamber in my place," Shen Qingqiu said.

"What? No," Shang Qinghua said.

"What, yes!" Shen Qingqiu snapped, like that made any sense. With enormous effort, he managed to move one hand over to the edge of the bed, reaching to grasp at the hem of Shang Qinghua's sleeve. "You have to see Binghe, you have to tell him what happened. You have to tell him why I didn't come back, he's going to think --"

"Bro! No! These are the same caves which, may I remind you, nearly just put you into a coma, they could driven you insane, they could have killed you, they did drive you blind," okay, he was getting a little too deep here, "and can I just say, my mother always warned me that might happen if I did it too much --"

--

Shen Qingqiu made it out of the Whispering Caves in one piece, but there are still consequences. Shang Qinghua has to deal with them.

As a heads up -- The next chapter will probably take a little longer to be ready than the previous ones, mostly because I fully expect it to cover the whole denouement (with ch10 being more of an epilogue/cooldown chapter) and I don't know how long that will end up being. 

[aseriesofunfortunatetexts]

Now that the raffle fic is out of the way, I am forced to reckon with the age-old dilemma that has plagued writers for centuries: which WIP should I try to work on next? Luckily, we now have polls to outsource all my decisions!

(As a sidenote, although the Lemony chapter of the zombie fic is at 1700 words already, continuing will require me to reread All The Wrong Questions, because it's been literal years since I first read them and I need a refresher, but that's hardly a chore. It will just require four days of reading)

[plantdad-dante]

Book #138 - The Crimson Fortress by Akshaya Raman

(probably the only book with "published first draft" vibes that I would pay actual money to read a re-do of)

So, uh... what the shit happened?

Don't get me wrong, the first half of this book was fine. Maybe stumbling a bit, here and there, but The Ivory Key did, too, so, like... it's fine. Especially because fuck, was I looking forward to this! And then...

And then the pacing just started picking up speed and kept getting faster and faster and faster, until the details, the descriptions, the explanations, the transitions, the character beats, disappeared from the page and it was just action, just plot, like a fucking summary-

Okay. To maybe illustrate what I mean, an example. There is a chapter, close to the climax, that is about 1.5 pages long (for the last ~100 pages, the chapters shorten from about 8-15 pages to 1-4 pages. Feel like that's important to mention) and it's from Ronak's perspective. In it,

- he sees his sister faint - he registers that there are no further traps in the room, other than the thing that made Vira faint and that seems to have been a one-time thing - he knicks The McGuffin (that he had given to Vira in the first place, so why even- ugh) from Vira - he decides to just carry her, because they need to continue their search for The Villain and hopefully she'll wake up on the way? - he hears and then sees The Villain's Goons draw near and realizes he can't hide - he decides to throw the McGuffin he just knicked at the enemies as a distraction, so that he has time to run? (btw, this is the last McGuffin the bad guys need to complete the Evil Plan and Ronak knows that, ffs) - he flees, carries Vira to safety - Vira wakes up and he tells her that he gave away the McGuffin

... in one and a half pages. And this isn't a dense, 6-point font kinda book. This is a normal, standard YA formatted book.

The fact that Ronak gave away the McGuffin never leads to conflict, btw. The next Vira chapter does not start with her yelling at him. It does not feature a fight, or even a discussion, or at least a mention of what Ronak did. It is just accepted, and then not mentioned again, like Ronak didn't do something extremely short-sighted and dumb, yet a-fucking-gain.

Also, Kaleb is just kind of a non-entity in the final showdown? Like, he has the Secret Weapon to Deafeat The Villain, and he hands it over to a very hurt Vira, who limps across the room to get it from him, so she can then limp back to the somehow still distracted Villain to defeat her?? And that's all he does, that's his entire contribution to the fight. We don't even get to know where he is in the room. So basically, Kaleb just stands there, paralysed by things outside his control, watching his siblings do their usual things (Riya - be rebellious and combative, Vira - be the one chosen to do the important bit, Ronak - get himself into danger for nothing but ego) and honestly, it's like nothing changed at all between these... ... Actually, I will just choose not to read into that scene any further, if it's all the same to you.

Speaking of Kaleb, I loved his character arc (and he does have one, even if it's a bit tell-don't-show, due to the pacing problem), but it wouldn't have hurt to actually see Lukas in the denouement. Just a bit. A glimpse. A line. A presence. Or am I asking too much. Like, when Lukas was introduced and Kaleb and him started exhibiting romantic tension, I was hyped, because the blackmailing thing had so much juicy angst potential, and then it just kinda- ugh.

And the worst thing is that I can't even dislike this book! Because the imagination that I loved in The Ivory Key was still there! There is, very clearly, a lot of coherency and thought behind this story. The characters and their relationships and the plot make sense. And they stay consistent throughout. It's just that... for about 150 pages, suddenly this lavishly described, evocative world gets stripped to its bones, as if the clock is running out and it is only conveying bullet points to me anymore, because it wants to get to the end before the bell rings. And then the denouement is completely normal again, as if nothing happened. As if I fucking hallucinated this skeleton of a third act.

Ugh, what I wouldn't give to read a version of this that's... well, actually finished. Hm.

[samwinchesterslostshoe]

-Denouement-

“Was there any meaning to life or to war, that two men should sit together and jump within seconds of each other and yet never meet on the ground below?”

-David Kenyon Webster-

David Webster x Female OC

Word count: 4,7K

Notes: In the book: “Parachute Infantry” by David Webster. He tells the story of what happened after we saw him get shot in episode 5, Crossroads. How he had to walk several miles across muddy fields to find safety in a farmhouse, where he was later picked up by two soldiers from F company and brought to an aid station. The first chapter of this fic loosely ties into that. Making some small changes to fit the plot better and tie in the main character Marie.

This story is based on the tv shot Band of Brothers, and the fictional portrayal of the actors playing the characters in the show.

Part 1

The Island – Holland.

October 5th, 1944.

Kenyon.

With the shock, confusion and the rush of adrenaline slowly wearing off, Webster could feel the hurt in his leg growing. His before almost numb calf was now throbbing with pain. The blood on his pant leg, having mixed with the mud of the ditch made it hard to tell just how bad his wound was.

Blankly staring at the field that lay ahead of him, he found himself faced with two choices. Stay in the ditch, safe between the side of the small dike leading up to the road, protected from possible enemy artillery - but no medics would pick him up here. Or, make a run for it across the open field - where it would be just a matter of time before he would be spotted and shot down. Dying in a muddy field in the middle of Holland, surrounded by nothing but barbed wire fences and the remains of heavy artillery fire. But Death didn’t bother him, at least not anymore. What he wanted more than anything in the world was to get out of here. To eat something other than K rations and to sleep in a real bed again.

To some it might have even seemed selfish, not caring anymore about what happened to the men in the trench next to you who not even an our ago you were fighting alongside with. Both trying everything you had in you just to make it through another mission. But if he wanted to stay alive, ever see home again, then wasting time thinking about the others might cost it his. So a decision was made.

Limping across the open field, clutching the Kraut poncho he had come across, a piece of fabric that almost cost him his life. By God if he got back home empty handed, he could never forgive himself.

Panting heavily, he stopped for just a second in the middle of the mucky field to inspect the silhouette of a large farmhouse. Under different circumstances, the barn would have been lovely, picturesque even, with its white picket fences, stained glass windows and painted shutters. The kind you would see on postcards and bring back with you to the States, so when people asked him, “So what was Holland like?” He could show them that picture. But now the once lively home lay cold and barren. No animals grazed outside, some of the colorful windows had shattered and the shutters were now nailed shut.

To him it was nothing more than a temporary haven. Slowly stumbling up along the dirt path leading up to the house, he was met by a middle-aged Dutch farmer. The men bore a stern look on his face. Just for a second, looking the man straight in the eye, he was afraid the man might shoot him. He must have seen his allied uniform because soon, the man was next to his side, putting his arm over his shoulder and slowly carrying him into the house.

Marie.

The house was stuffy and held air filled with fear and anxiety, making it difficult to think straight. For almost a month now people had come in and out of the house seeking help and shelter. Some she knew. Some she didn’t. Not that it mattered much anymore since it was best to not get attached to these people.

Ever since the Allied forces had jumped into Eindhoven, and the battle over Island had started four days ago. There was nothing she could do anymore. Being stuck between the Lower Rhine on the north, and the Waal on the south. All contact with both her friends and her connections at the Dutch underground resistance had been lost. Leaving her completely powerless and in the dark. There was no feeling worse than knowing the people you love and care about so deeply are being unjustly taken, tortured, and murdered for the simple act of existing. Nothing more but a name you just so happened to be born into. And all those who choose to help right the wrong were met with a similar faith.

All these thoughts however quickly disappeared when the loud bangs of German artillery fire exploded close by the house. They couldn’t have been more than a few kilometers away since the old stained-glass windows dangerously rattled in their frames and dust fell from the ceiling. Still, she tried to ignore them as best she could. Explosions had been going of regularly for the past few days. She was sure it was nothing. It was strange how quickly one can become accustomed to these things. Explosions now being as common as a barking dog or Sunday’s church bells.

Awakened out of her thoughts by another string of loud thuds. The explosions seemed to slowly creep in on the farmhouse. Trying to shrug it off became harder and harder when the smaller children in the house began to yell out and run to their mothers for comfort. Her dad now bore a concerned look on his face and softly muttered something she couldn’t quite make out when another loud Bang got the whole house shaking. “Naar de kelder!” screamed her father as he urged her younger siblings, along with everyone else in the house to get into the basement. ‘Just to be safe..” he muttered.

Helping her father get smaller children and elderly get down the stairs into the danky basement first. Marie caught a glimpse of something through the window out of the corner of her eye. Just for a split second she could have sworn she saw someone walking towards the house. But just as soon he had appeared he was now gone again. Alerting her father about the possible danger seemed like the best thing to do. Except the place where he stood just a second before, the top of the stairs leading to the basement was now completely empty. “Pap?!” Marie screamed into the basement. No answer. Panic seared through her body quickly making place for concern when suddenly hushed voices and clattering could be heard coming from the kitchen.

Kenyon.

The farmer took him inside, taking in the sight of the wonderfully big, old timey kitchen. Cutlery, plates, and pans filled with food still on the table. “Enough to feed the whole platoon,” he thought. A wave of resentment washed over him. What have these people done to deserve to eat fresh, cheese and bread? While he, alongside with the rest of the men in his company must fight on nothing more than canned meats and powdered lemonade while fighting for their freedom? While deep in thought, he had failed to notice the slowly growing audience that had begun to form alongside him in the kitchen.

Most noticeably, the eyes of the young woman, leaning against the door frame of the kitchen entrance. The way she looked at him made him feel uneasy. Her pale skin and hollow cheeks showed signs of malnourishment. A wave of guilt washed over him for having resented these people just seconds before. Beneath her furrowed eyebrows lay tired green eyes that felt like they pierced right through him. He couldn’t quite make out if the look she was giving him was one of concern or one of pure hatred. Despite all these things Something about her seemed to captivate him. Feeling very unpresentable in her presence. He must have made quite the sight. His uniform was covered in a mixture of blood and caked up mud and dung. The fabric tattered and ripped, exposing the filthy skin beneath.

The elderly men who had helped him inside, who he assumed was her father, helped him into an old kitchen chair, shoving a glass of water into his hands. Giving him the opportunity to take a better look at the other people in the room with him. Some children who looked at him with big eyes, clutching to the skirts of their mothers. Young boys excited and curious as to who this filthy stranger was sitting in front of them was, and elderly couples trying to show their compassion as best they could.

He didn’t know any Dutch and the little German he had picked up didn’t prove very useful. Luckily, and to his surprise, the Dutch seemed to be very well spoken in English and communication went easy. He tried explaining to the father that he was an American paratrooper and needed help. The man nodded and spoke something in Dutch to a little boy. Who nodded, and before shooting just a quick glance at him, ran out the door. With having the important information out of the way, his attention could now be focused back to the girl. She stood with her back turned to him, ushering all the other people out of the kitchen along with her father, who scattered back into the other parts of the house with disappointed looks on their faces. Turning to him and closing the kitchen door behind her now left just the two of them in the room. The air grew thick and tense. Making his heart beat at two times a pace.

Or maybe it was just him. Maybe he had lost to much blood on the way over here causing to have irradicle thoughts. Her back was now turned to him yet again as she filled up some bowls with fresh water at the small kitchen sink. Hastily looking through various cabinets and drawers.

“What’s your name?” her voice was soft. It didn’t seem to carry any hate or annoyance, making him feel a bit more at ease. “Webster, David.”

“David...,” she repeated quietly, before giving him the chance to ask for her name she responded.

“Marie.”

“It’s Marie. Short for Marieke, but please just call me Marie.”

Marie. the name suited her well.

Marie.

David. Kneeling in front of him to put down the bowl of clean water and some torn bed sheet linen, gave her an opportunity to take a closer look at the man’s face. Icy blue eyes stood out against his unshaven and dirty skin. Despite being obviously worn out and exhausted, he looked at her with a nervous eyes that made her wonder if she might have come off as too harsh. A thing that these days seemed to happen more and more frequently. With a loud rip she tore off the fabric off his blood soak pant leg, making him shift uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s alright, I am a nurse,” she reassured him, “I’m just going to have a look at your leg.” “Okay?”

“A nurse?” When she looked up at him a slight grin had appeared on his face, making it hard not to smile a little too. “Well, a nurse in training at least.”

“Oh great,” he huffed. Making her want to hit herself for saying such a stupid thing and wanting to hit him for giving her such a stupid response. Ungrateful bastard, she thought.

Having almost read her mind, he responded, “Well, I would much rather have a nurse in training then those boys back at base who stick three needles of morphine in you and call it a day,” he said while smiling.

Letting out a deep breath and focusing her attention back down at his leg, she could feel his eyes prying at her, following her every move, making it hard to stay focused and take in a proper diagnosis. The bullet had torn clean through his calf, missing the main artery thus making the bleeding non-fatal, but still being bad enough to buy the man a ticket home.

“You’re in luck,” she said looking back up at him. “It’s nothing more than a flesh wound but still bad enough to get you back to your family.”

“You call this lucky?” He grinned.

Christ, she thought. Here we have another G.I Joe who is so full of himself, thinking he is above everyone else. In her eyes, Americans were all the same; obnoxious, rude, and loud.

Even though she knew he was just joking, trying to get on her nerves a little, his sarcastic tone and manner of speaking made her stomach turn into a tight knot, making her pace quicken while still trying to clean the ripped and torn flesh to the best of her abilities.

“All Done,” she said, quickly tying of some makeshift bandages around his leg. Standing up to have a closer look at his face.

Reading people had always been one of her strong suits. Knowing what people’s true intentions were just by the way they looked at her. Knowing when someone was stressed or nervous by the way they fidgeted with objects around them. It was what made Marie one of the best nurses in her class. But with him it was different. She couldn’t make out what he was thinking, and that frustrated her. His mouth so vulgar and sarcastic, but bearing a profound sadness in his eyes. Or was it admiration?

Before she even knew it the words were out of her mouth. “Christ you look horrible.”

For a split second her heart stopped, and her face turned to stone, afraid of having offended the soldier. Did she really say that out loud? But before she even had the time to think of an apology a laugh appeared on David’s face. Suddenly all the sadness and exhaustion seemed to disappear from his body.

“I’m sure I do,” he said still laughing.

“I really didn’t mean to offend you. I just meant to say I am sure you have been through a lot,” Marie responded in a breathy voice.

“I know.”

“Good.”

An awkward silence fell between them and she found herself frantically looking around for something to focus her attention to other than David’s eyes. Finally settling on getting some more clean water and a towel.

“The other people in the house, are they all family of yours?” He asked her.

“Some of them, most of them are neighbors, some family friends. Most of their homes were taken by the Germans, the rest destroyed. I returned home as soon as I heard word that the allied forces were moving into town.”

Kenyon.

Conversation was never his strong suit, around Marie the air felt dense, and the words seemed to choke in his throat. On a happy note, however, focusing his attention on her had made him completely forget about the gaping hole that had once been his calf. Clumsily getting up from the chair to lean on the sturdy wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, he took off his helmet, raking his hands through his muddy curls. His stomach growled at the sight of what had been the family’s dinner still standing on the table. Hopefully she didn’t hear it.

“Hungry?” she asked him.

Crap. She did.

“Let’s get you cleaned up a bit first.” Suddenly she was standing in front of him, a wet washcloth in hand. “May I?” she asked him.

He nodded in approval. She brought the cloth up to his face and very gently began at wiping away the build up sweat, mud and blood he wasn’t even sure was his own caked on his skin. The warm water tuning out all his thoughts. This must be what heaven was like, right? Closing his eyes wishing he could stay like this forever. When he opened his eyes again, he was met by a green pair staring right back into his. A blush must have appeared on his face because the corners of her mouth had moved upward, repressing a smile. He tried to find something else to turn his attention to, away from those praying eyes of her. Settling on her dirty blond hair that before he arrived, must have been pinned up into a neat hairdo. But now hang loosely around her face.

The silence seemed to grow louder with every passing minute. Not being able to bear it anymore and wanting, craving to hear the sound of her voice again, he asked her, “Why did you become a nurse?”

Her face formed into a tense frown, and he wished he had just kept his trap shut.

“It’s allright if you don’t want to tell me,” he quickly spoke.

“No, I do,” she responded.

“It’s probably for the same reason you joined the army. The airborne is made up of volunteers, right?”

He nodded.

“How can you stand back and do nothing knowing the people you love are slowly being taken away from you. Being a nurse just seemed like the right thing to do”

He looked her straight into her eyes: “I know the feeling”

Her small hands still cupping his cheeks. No words where said. No word needed to be said.

He knew the feeling all too well.

He held her gaze, his heart racing again. Taking the time to take in the features of her face. She seemed too wonderful to be in such a filthy place, surrounded by constant death and despair. It was after all just a matter of time before she too would die.

She drew in a sharp breath, “Let’s get you something to eat,” she said in a shaky voice, abruptly breaking eye contact. She immediately went to work, grabbing some ingredients left over the family’s dinner. Whatever she was cooking up it smelled delicious. Never in his life did he remember being this starved. She could serve him moldy bread and stale cheese and he would put both his hands around her face and kiss her.

While he quietly sat and admired her work, he quickly swallowed eight sulfathiazole pills to prevent his wound from getting infected. When it would be his time to go, it would be something worth dying for. Certainly not an infection.

She brought out two big plates stacked with something resembling pancakes topped with strawberry jam.

“Pannekoeken!” she said exility, “have as much as you like.” She smiled, putting down two giant plates, along with warm milk and cups of hot coffee. Not knowing when the next time would be he would get to eat again, he made sure to finish every crump. It didn’t take long until the two plates where completely empty.

“Thank you,” he said with a mouthful of food. “I mean it”

“No need to thank me, it’s the least I am able to do. After all I am just doing my job, being a nurse and all. Remember?”

While he finished drinking up the last few drops of the bitter coffee, several small children dressed in worn overalls wearing small wooden clogs had come into the room. While remaining at a safe distance from him, they started whispering to each other about something he couldn’t make out. “They’re asking what happened to you,” Marie turned her head towards him while pointing at the children. “It’s quite alright if you don’t want to answer. I can send them away if you want?”

“It’s quite the gruesome story, I’m not sure if it is appropriate for children,” he huffed.

“They can handle it,” she said to him. “Unfortunately, they have already seen and heard much worse I am afraid.”

He told her all about the battle on the island. The German platoon they had taken out and how some of their men had been wounded by their own air support. The long and tiresome way to safety. The piece of cloth he had risked dying for and the enemy artillery he had encountered on his way. All while she translated his words to Dutch to tell the children. Their looks of fear slowly changed into those of awe.

Just before Marie was about to send the children out of the kitchen back into the living room again, he remembered the German poncho stuffed in his OD’s.

“Wait, just a moment,” he mumbled while rumbling his hands through his pockets, looking for the piece of cloth.

“Here, I want to give them something if that’s okay?” A confused look appeared on Marie’s face. “As long as it’s not a weapon,” she said sarcastically while furrowing her eyebrows.

“Ah, found it!” he pulled the poncho out of his jacked and cut the fabric in two using his trench knife. The children’s eyes widened, and a wide smile appeared on Marie’s face. It was the first time he had had seen her smile since he had come in. A real smile.

The children took the pieces of poncho excitedly, thanking him eagerly and ran out of the kitchen to show their parents their newfound treasure.

She looked at him with that smile of hers still lingering on her lips. Just as she opened her mouth to thank him, two men burst into the kitchen with a loud crash making her jump and run to wall behind him for protection.

Marie.

Her heart raced as she stood pressed firmly against the wall behind her. David seemed to show no signs of fear or anger. She took a better look at the two men now coming up to them. Upon closer inspection she saw the American flag sewn onto their jackets and a red cross armband around their arms causing her to let out a deep breath and unclench her fists.

“Oh Christ, Webster, it’s you” one of the soldiers sighed. “The little boy told us a Limey soldier was dying up here.”

David laughed, “all for nothing, isn’t it? Well, give me a hand. I suppose I have to get out of here.”

A tight pang sprung into her chest. Even though she knew not to get emotionally attached to her patients. She was afraid she might have grown attached to the soldier.

Just like that he would be gone. He wouldn’t even remember her name five minutes from now, and by the time he would be back home or on the boat to England, he would have forgotten about her all together.

“I will be right outside, give me just a minute,” David said while turning to look at her.

So he hadn’t forgotten completely after all. One of the soldiers winked at David and took the other one by the sleeve of their jacket, pulling him outside to leave just her and David alone in the kitchen again.

She managed to pull herself loose from the wall and slowly inch towards him.

Despite the many things she still wanted to ask him, tell him, her mind seemed to go completely blank, and no words came out.

“Well, I guess I will be going then. Thank you, for everything. I mean it,” he said sincerely. “And please thank your father for me as well.”

He turned around walking slowly towards the door. Was this really how their story would end? with a lousy thankyou and goodbye.

No. She couldn’t let it end like this. Too many friends were lost whose last words to her were those of lousy goodbyes. Or worse, no goodbyes at all.

Adrenaline rushed through her veins and all concept or rationality and formality seemed to disappear. She walked up to him and grabbed his shoulder tightly, making him turn around to face her. She cupped his face with both hands and pressed a firm kiss on his lips. Her heart seemed to beat out of her chest, and she could have sworn she could hear his heartbeat just as loud.

He pulled his lips from off hers and looked her deep in the eyes. For a second, she thought she may have offended him. Christ what even was she thinking? He may have a loving girlfriend waiting at home, a wife even. David leaned into the crook of her neck. “If it takes getting shot for me to get to kiss you, it has been worth everything,” he muttered.

He grabbed her waist, pulling her close. This kiss was different, hungry, desperate.

“Webster! Outside now! No time to lose,” one of the medics yelled, breaking their kiss.

“Best to make this quick,” he said, pressing a hasty kiss onto her forehead.

“Saying goodbye will never be easy, will it?” She whispered.

“I have to go.” He sounded cold. The adrenaline had worn off and the sharp pain in her chest had returned.

“I know. Go.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Kenyon.

What is war without sacrifice, he thought as he sat on the back of the medic’s bike, cycling to a nearby aid station further and further away from the farmhouse, until it was completely out of sight at last. How cruel to find love only for it to be ripped away from you the second you get too close. ‘If I survive this war,’ he thought, ‘I will come back here, to this little farm in the middle of Holland. I will find you, love you, marry you. I will never have to put on a uniform for the rest of my life and you will never have to stain your fingers with blood ever again.

Thank you so so much @footprintsinthesxnd for proofreading, fixing my many, many grammatical errors, and encouraging me to keep writing:))

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