#the reupload as promised

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Sed Proditionem || chapter 2

In Dubiis Libertas, In Necessariis Unitas

But in the end, if I bend under the weight that they gave me, then this heart would break and fall as twice as far.

* * *

Žižka is forced to deal with the aftermath of his failure. Hans and Samuel look for the root of betrayal. At Zlenice castle, a young boy sets out for adventure.

{read below or here on AO3}

* * *

Štěpán of Tetin was bored. So bored in fact that, had the way back to Zlenice been any longer, his wandering thoughts and daydreams may as well have thrown him out of his saddle and into a blissful sleep on the muddy ground. Sure, he had known what he would get himself into, not only this morning when the messenger of Sir Tammo of Ledna urged him to finish his breakfast sooner than expected, no, he had known for over five years now, ever since he agreed to help his guardian Ondřej Dubá with his service as the King's highest judge. And it wasn't the iudicium terre bohemiae, the Bohemian common law, that bored Štěpán so much. He admired the importance of that task, craved for the structure and order that it provided, and was, at least for a seventeen year old beardless man, as Sir Ondřej liked to call him, way more interested in books full of title deeds and legislative records than would have been good for him.

“When I was your age,” Zlenice's commander Sir Nikolai had told him once, “the only law I was interested in was the law of lovemaking, and the only writing I would care for was the one my cock left on the skirts of some pretty girl.” And Štěpán would have all the assets required to be a great philan­derer, Nikolai had asserted! The full dark locks of Iwain the lion knight, the slim fingers and legs of King Charles himself, round cheeks, full lips and long lashes that every girl in the whole of Bohemia would swoon over. Štěpán had as little interest in skirt hunting as he had in the hunting of anything else, nor was he as convinced of his own talents in this regard as the old knight was. But then again, Sir Nikolai had also told him once that he'd make a fine sword fighter, and the whole of Zlenice knew how that one had ended!

His interests clearly lay elsewhere. Which land belonged to whom and for what costs, for example, and more importantly, under what circumstances could this established order be re­voked. In recent years, he had also developed a certain affinity for the exceptional rights and authorities of the church, espe­cially considering what was happening in Prague. That myste­rious white knight, Petr of Haugwitz as he called himself, wasn't particularly fond of Štěpán's interest in the latter. While Štěpán wasn't particularly fond of Petr of Haugwitz.

Just as little as he was fond of the disputes that both nobility and commoners alike called him over for these days. Or rather, that they called Sir Ondřej for, but since the lord had seen his nineteenth spring already, he had bestowed these tasks upon his ward Štěpán. Tasks that included the innkeper Adam selling his beer for a quarter groschen too many, or the guild of the tanners missing to organise their second required procession this year, or baker Marek leaving his horse unattended in the middle of the village square, and on a market day of all times. And God knew how many of those disputes Štěpán had to settle today!

The sun had long set when he led his horse across the draw­bridge marking the entrance to the main castle of Zlenice. There were stables outside the castle walls in the outer bailey, but Štěpán preferred to have his chestnut mare Šárka as close by as possible. One could never know when it was needed to flee the castle unexpectedly. Or when adventure might strike.

The light of Jan's torch was so blindingly bright that Štěpán had to cover his eyes for a moment. The guard had stuck the torch into the wet earth of the ground, while he himself had taken a seat on the lowest stairs inside the castle gate, playing dice against himself. And why shouldn't he? Nothing ever hap­pened on Zlenice. The guard still had enough vigilance in him, though, to raise his head as Štěpán passed him by. “Good night, Sir.”

“Good night to you as well.” He pulled the reigns tighter, and Šárka pranced around on her crooked hind legs. Tiredness started to get to her too. “Would you happen to know where I can find Sir Ondřej at this hour?”

“He ate early today, Sir. Wanted to find some rest, the cough had got worse again.”

Štěpán took a deep sigh and nodded. No surprising news, it always got worse on days like these when the weather changed so drastically, bringing cold air up from the river, chasing away the warmth of spring. Sometimes, when it wasn't only the tem­perature of the air that changed but also its humidity or the force of the wind, Sir Ondřej used to cough so much his whole face would first get red as poppies and then white as milk. “It's always a shame,” Sir Nikolai had told Štěpán once when his guardian's cough had been so bad he had just quit breathing altogether for a while, making everyone believe he must alrea­dy be standing on the threshold to Saint Peter's door. “But he has lived a long life, longer than the rest of us can even dream of. And eh, who knows, lad, you might inherit a thing or two now?” Of course Štěpán wouldn't. He wasn't related to Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice, was only the grandson of one of the lords Sir Ondřej had once bought the castle from, the eleventh grandson, that was. He hadn't been sent to Zlenice in the hopes of inheriting anything, but for two simple reasons alone. To help out the King's highest judge with his work in his old days, and, by fulfilling this duty, strengthen the ties between the Du­bá family and the lords of Tetín. And because for the eleventh grandson, the youngest brother of seven, there was no better use for him back at home anyway.

“Have they sent for the physician again?”

Jan shook his head and put the dice down. “Haugwitz didn't think it necessary.”

“As if he could tell,” Štěpán pressed out through gritted teeth.

“Well, with all due respect, Sir, but the old lord is a tough fella. This cough couldn't get him for the past ten years, and I doubt it will tonight.” Jan chuckled, staring down into his torch, as if the flames had just told him a very entertaining joke. “If that old lord dies, it might just be because he slips on his way to his shitter.” He was still smiling when he raised his gaze again, but winced immediately under the stare that Štěpán regarded him with. “Forgive me, Sir.”

Štěpán shrugged his shoulders. “We should make sure to keep the steps to his latrine always clean then.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Is Haugwitz with him right now?”

“No, Haugwitz is over there.” Jan nodded into the direction of the stables. “Wanted to take care of his horse.”

“Ah. I see.” Štěpán looked over to the small shed with the flickering light inside, and swallowed down the lump that had quickly formed in his throat. Maybe using the stables down in the outer bailey didn't sound like such a bad idea anymore. Ha, so much for adventure calling!

He dismounted Šárka and went over to the castle stables by foot, hoping that it would help against the quick pumping of his heart and the growing numbness in his legs. Štěpán wouldn't have considered himself to be a particularly scared man. Weak yes, that he was, and lacking any skill when it came to handling a sword, that too. But he had always longed to leave this castle one day and see the world, only that such an opportunity had never presented itself to him, keeping his travels confined to the local villages and his actions to those sealed with ink on parchment. That didn't mean he wouldn't like to follow the sweet song of fate wherever it led him, of course.

Šárka shied, threw her head back and neighed. Perhaps the horse felt it too, and what was wrong about it? Certain events and certain people just required a little more wariness.

Petr of Haugwitz was standing next to his black stallion, his back turned to the entrance. He had lid the torch on the wall, and its light made his perfectly white armour and his golden hair shine like paper thrown into a fireplace. The horse and the saddle bags he was rummaging through were hidden under the shadow that his tall, broad body cast.

Šárka neighed again and pulled on the reigns more firmly. Štěpán put a soothing hand to her neck and imagined their roles to be reversed and that she was in fact the one giving him an encouraging pat on the back. “Jesus Christ be praised.”

He refused to call the white knight Sir, ever since Haugwitz had come riding through the castle gates in late December, just a few days before the beginning of the year 1410. Pale skin, pale hair, pale armour, pale as the snow that had surrounded him. Only the glove made an exception, a single black leather glove wrapped around his belt, that he never wore but carried with him every day. Petr of Haugwitz was a strange man in all regards. A noble that spoke and growled like a bloodhound, and everything that he said seemed to be only uninformed opinions that weren't even his own. He spoke ill of the Prague demands for church reforms without knowing much about it, claimed to be a strong supporter of the King, but was tightly involved with Heinrich of Rosenberg's affairs who had been known for his loyalty towards the Hungarian usurper Sigismund. Still, in the mere span of a month or so, the white knight had managed to form a suspiciously close relationship to Sir Ondřej, yet ano­ther reason to be wary of him. And then of course there was his most obvious flaw, the one thing that kept Štěpán from ever using the title Sir when addressing him. No book or legal docu­ment Štěpán had consulted could provide him with any evi­dence that a Petr of Haugwitz had ever existed.

The white knight didn't utter a word of greeting, but he raised his head and looked over at Štěpán as he led Šárka in­side. Pale eyes as well, cold and wet, like dripping daggers of ice.

Štěpán turned away to hide the deep breath he was taking, but it was quiet enough in the stable for his breathing to be heard. Perhaps Haugwitz could even hear his heart and see the blood rush through his veins quicker and hotter than it should. With this stare of his it wouldn't be surprising. “I heard that my guardian's health has been put to the test today, while I was gone.”

Haugwitz started looking through his things again, waiting long before he gave an answer. Not as long as it felt, most like­ly, but in the white knight's presence, the grains of the hour­glass of time always seemed to get drowned in sticky honey. “He is sleeping now.”

Not the answer Štěpán had hoped to get, but then he also hadn't posed a proper question. “Sleep will do him good for sure.” His voice was so quiet and frail now, not even the voice of a seventeen year old weak student of the law, but the voice of a frightened child. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Haugwitz didn't reply but the silence said it all. The shared understanding of secrets Štěpán would better not ask about. The threat of what would happen if he still did.

Noise outside at the gate. The rattling of armour, steel scra­ping over steel as a weapon was drawn. Someone gasped from exhaustion, someone screamed. Jan. “Not a step further, you hear me?”

Štěpán rushed outside, closely followed by Haugwitz. Jan had left his place on the gate's stairs, the dice had fallen down, lay scattered across the dirt. His sword was raised, its tip aimed at the neck of a man who had appeared on the drawbridge. He stood bent over, hands resting on his thighs, panting heavily. The man was armed with a sword himself, but had it sheathed on his hip. He wore armour, but only on his legs and forearms, while a padded doublet was the only protection for his chest. Grey and brown cloth from what little Štěpán could tell in the dim torchlight, and there didn't seem to be crest on it.

He stepped forward until he stood next to Jan, and placed a hand on his wrist lightly, reminding him not to act without his command. “I am Sir Štěpán of Tetín, the ward of Sir Ondřej Dubá, who is the lord here in Zlenice. Who sent you?”

“No one, Sir.” The man's voice was only a hoarse rattling, winter wind in the castle walls. “I just ran, Sir, ran as quickly as I could. I saw the castle up here and hoped for help. I need help, Sir, you need to help me.”

“Help with what? Where did you run from, what happened to you?”

“I'm a mercenary, Sir. I was serving Father Thomas of the Prague synod. But he is dead now, Sir. Killed. A bolt in his throat, shot from the bushes like some animal.”

“Go and wake Lord Ondřej.” Haugwitz's harsh voice, a command that he had no authority for, and Jan moved without any hesitation. Štěpán couldn't blame him. The soldier was just as scared of Haugwitz as he was, and how could he dare to question him in a situation like this?

There was more Štěpán wanted to ask, but Haugwitz stepped forward now, ordering the man to come into the castle with them, to drink some strong wine and wait for Sir Ondřej. Fine then, Štěpán thought. After the shock and the fright from before and the hardships of the day, he could really use some of that wine now, too.

Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice had to lean on Jan as he dragged himself into the dining hall, and his bloated face was slack with fatigue, but at least he had stopped coughing. “So,” he wheezed as Jan had finally managed to help him sit down on his chair, which creaked under his weight, “tell me what happened, boy. And don't leave out a single thing.”

The boy in question was a man of at least thirty years, Ště­pán could see that now in the brighter light of candle holders and fireplace, but to a man of Sir Ondřej's age everyone quali­fied to be called boy. “My name is Lukas, my Lord. I was hired as a mercenary together with two other men to accompany the priest Thomas of Prague on his way to the synod there.” He was speaking much calmer now, the wine seemed to show an effect. It helped Štěpán to sharpen his wits too, and so he no­ticed how the man strictly avoided to look at Haugwitz who had taken his place at the side of the hall, leaning against the fireplace. “We just passed through a gorge close to Jezonice, when we got approached by what seemed to be two other priests.”

“When was that, boy?”

“Just after sunset, Sir.”

Štěpán furrowed his brow. “Why were you travelling at that time of the day? There would be no more inn to stop at for at least ten more miles.”

“I know, Sir, but we had just rested until this afternoon, in Uzhitz, that was. We had met two other men there, a Hungarian and a … a drunkard with a croaking voice. Kubyenka was his name, I believe.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Štěpán could see Haugwitz ba­ring his teeth at the mentioning of these men.

“But they were witty, especially this Kubyenka fella, and Father Thomas shared some wine with him, and they played dice and talked. They seemed trustworthy, and when they told us about robber bands roaming these lands who were on the look for merchants, during the day of course, when most mer­chants would travel, well, it made sense to us, Father Thomas believed them and so did we. So we stayed until the afternoon, and only continued our way then.”

“Hm.” Štěpán tried to put as little judgement into his voice as he could. If there was one thing the solving of too many a mundane village dispute had taught him it was to listen to the whole story first without much questioning, because any of that could twist even the most well-meant truth into a lie of uncer­tainty. “These priests. Did they say anything to you?”

“They did, Sir, and quite a lot in fact. They claimed that they had just stayed in Prague themselves and were on their way back to their parish now. They also said that they had met with Jan Hus. That he had shared his believes with them, and that they would know that those believes were God's true words, because our Lord had performed a miracle while Hus was spea­king. And that there would be miracles whenever someone re­peated these truths. They wanted to show us.” He raised his eyes. There was fright in them, a mortal terror, and for a brief moment his gaze fell upon Haugwitz, and the flicker of fear be­came a wildfire. “The younger one of the two took out this … construction. It was made of glass, like a lantern, but all empty inside. And then he said that the only word a Christian should follow should be that of the Saviour, not that of any priest or nobleman, and that no priest or bishop and not even the Pope himself could claim to be holy by his ordination alone, that it were only the life a clergy man leads that would make him ho­ly, his chastity, humility, poverty. And then he raised this lan­tern above his head, and suddenly … suddenly …” He swal­lowed, tears turning his dark eyes into ink. He took another sip from the wine. “Someone shot Father Thomas. With the bolt of a crossbow, right into his throat. And there were so many armed men up in the forest, and I was scared, I was so scared, and I just ran for it. I am so sorry. I should have stayed, but I couldn't, I …” The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand, before he looked up, first at Štěpán, then at Jan and finally at Sir Ondřej, but not at Haugwitz this time. “Was that the will of God, Sir? Was it divine punishment that Father Thomas had to … That he was …”

“No, boy. That was only the doing of conspirators. Traitors to the land, and to the church. And to God.”

“How many were there?” Štěpán could feel the other's looks weighing down heavily on him, especially Haugwitz's. He was suspicious about the mercenary's story, the white knight knew it, and he didn't like it. “You said there were armed men hidden in the forest. How many exactly?”

“I could not tell, Sir. It was dark, and I … I ran as fast as I could.” Lukas ducked his head between his shoulders like a scared fowl. Surely he was just as aware of the punishments for cowardice as Štěpán was. “But there was the one with the crossbow, and others too, lots of them, men with swords and axes and all that, I could hear them, see a few of them even, I … I don't think Jenda and Maretschek stood a chance.”

“The other mercenaries?” Sir Ondřej asked.

“Aye.”

“But why so many?” Haugwitz's ice cold stare pulled tight around his neck, strangled him like a noose. Štěpán noticed how he brought a hand down, but not to the handle of his sword but to the glove on his belt, wrapping his fingers around it, as if he wanted to entangle them with the empty leather ones. “There were only three of you and a priest. While they had two men in disguise, probably skilled fighters too, an ar­cher with a crossbow, and all these other men that you saw.”

“I … I suppose they wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure of what? That they got rid of you all? But to what end? They clearly wanted to set an example, so what good would it do them if there was no one left to tell the tale? And why then go through all this effort, the disguise, the theo­logical discussion, if they just planned to murder you anyway?”

The chair next to him creaked as Sir Ondřej moved around on it with a groan. Next to the hissing fireplace, Haugwitz squeezed the glove so tightly that the leather let out a desperate whine. “Perhaps they wanted him to escape. Let him run, so he could spread the message.”

“And what message would that be? That the followers of Jan Hus are dangerous and mischievous, not to be trusted at any cost? How could that be in their own interest, how would that benefit their cause?”

“What are you suggesting here, Štěpán?”

He shook his head at Sir Ondřej, at a loss for an explanation. Getting duped over the price of beer, or finding someone's horse parked in the middle of the market street seemed so much more appealing all of a sudden. But wasn't this just the change he had waited for for so long, the adventure he had craved? Only that for this adventure, a priest had died, as well as two mercenaries and a few more men perhaps, and somehow Zlenice was now tied up in all of this too, and if the church found out about it, if the archbishop got wind of the murder of a synod member from Prague, ambushed by Hus supporters out on the streets close to Zlenice, it would be a political disaster. “Something about all of this stinks to high heaven! And I would strongly advise not to jump to any hasty conclusions.”

“And do what instead?”

Lukas buried his face in his wine cup again. Sir Ondřej had his hands wrapped around the armrests of his chair so tightly, his knuckles went all white. Haugwitz plucked something off his armour and threw it into the fire. The smell of burned cot­ton filled the air like a threat. “I will go to this gorge myself.” Even Štěpán himself was taken by surprise by his own confi­dence, but there was no stopping now. “I will have a closer look at the scene of the crime, and tell you what I could find afterwards, so we can take proper actions.”

Haugwitz shook his head, his lips formed silent words that none of them could or should hear, before he actually spoke. “So how long do you plan to wait until we take these actions? Until their bodies have gone cold? Until someone else finds them and gets word out to Prague before we can?”

“We won't get word out to anyone,” Štěpán said with a firm­ness in his voice that seemed to confuse Haugwitz too, because he lifted his eyes from the fire at these words, fixed them at Štěpán instead. “The sole accountability here lies with Sir On­dřej and Sir Ondřej alone.”

“Then I will go with you at least. Two pairs of eyes will see more.”

“No, I will go on my own. When looking for evidence, any additional man would just get in the way.”

Haugwitz showed his teeth again. The face of a rabid dog. “This is foolishness.”

“I agree.” Sir Ondřej's cheeks took a deep shade of red as he tried to shift his weight from one side to the other. “With both of you. You will go alone, Štěpán. Gather whatever information you can and then report it to me. But hurry. The murder of a member of the church on my lands is a delicate affair, and one we must not leave ignored for too long.” He coughed. Coughed until his face went pale once more, and then paler than before, and sweat pearled from his brows and upper lip, mingling with saliva around the corners of his mouth. He reached out his left arm like a helpless rooster whose wings were clipped. Jan took hold of it and helped him up to his feet, dragging him over to the door. “If you haven't returned with the ringing of the bells at noon,” Sir Ondřej said before leaving the hall, every word accentuated by a cough or a sharp inhalation of breath, “I will see myself forced to write to Prague without your consulta­tion.”

“Yes, Sir.” Štěpán stood up and bent his head to Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice in a bow that only the mercenary and the white knight could see. “I won't disappoint you, my lord.��

* * *

“Shit!” He swung his arm. The head of the mace described a picturesque circle in the air before it slammed into a wooden pillar of the attic. Under the roof, high up above their heads, a handful of swallows scattered out angrily into the Kuttenberg morning sky. “Fucking shit!”

“Calm yourself, Žižka.”

He turned around and laughed Katherine right into her an­noyingly blank expression. “Calm myself? Calm myself? How exactly am I supposed to calm myself with this fucking disaster that went on out there?” He pulled the mace out of the beam with some force, wood splintered. Damn it all, he should have rammed it straight into that little bastard's stomach before he sent them down to have a word with Schwarzfeld. It wouldn't have helped, Samuel wasn't to blame for what had happened, but perhaps that would have at least made him calm himself! “One of the priests of the Prague synod is dead, we tarnished the reputation of Jan Hus, two of our own men have stabbed us in the fucking back, how is any one of us supposed to stay calm?”

“You don't know what happened.” Katherine tried to sound oh so reasonable, and it was a joke, because there was no rea­son in what she said. “You don't know if Kubyenka and Janosh really betrayed us. What if they are dead? What if Sam is right, what if it was only Schwarzfeld who turned on us, and Kub­yenka and Janosh were rotting somewhere in the forest near Uzhitz, and you were desecrating their memory right now, what then?”

“Then,” he lowered his voice and stepped forward slowly, a demonstration of his anger, he didn't want to scare her, but he could still see her warm, morning haze eyes widen in a way that made his skin crawl from shame, “I'd be a happier man. Then I could proudly say that they were the soldiers, the friends, that I rightfully set my trust in. Believe me, I'd rather desecrate their memory a thousand times over than see them become traitors.”

Katherine didn't reply, only breathed in deeply, but she would understand. Would see that his anger wasn't for her, wasn't even for Kubyenka and Janosh, and that he had wanted to beat that little shit Samuel up only because something in that boy's defiance reminded Žižka of himself ever so often.

“I understand your frustration,” Henry tried to keep his voice as quiet and placid as he possibly could, “but Katherine has a point. This is all just speculation. We need to find them first, and even if they're still alive, we don't have any clue yet what really happened, or what went on inside their heads.”

“It doesn't mater, don't you understand? They weren't there, and the whole plan went to shit. My plan!”

“Your plan, yes, but we were the ones to execute it, and Schwarzfeld was our informant, and even if someone here betrayed us, it still doesn't make it your fault.”

Žižka turned to him. His voice had lost all its fury when he spoke again, it was low and growling now, a threat. “What am I, Henry?”

“What?”

“What am I? To you,” he pointed the head of the mace in Katherine's direction, “to her,” waved it around, at Henry and Godwin, at Hans and Samuel downstairs, at the swallows above him, “to anyone here? What role am I playing in this goddamned tragedy?”

Henry didn't answer, just kept his lips pressed together, his eyes big and bewildered like a beaten pup.

“What am I, Henry, tell me!”

The boy swallowed. “The captain. Our commander.”

“Your commander, yes.”

The next words spoken weren't uttered by Henry, and not by Katherine either, but by the priest who had been silently wat­ching until this very moment, and unlike with the other two, there was nothing reassuring or calming in what he said, only blunt coldness. “You are right, Žižka. It is all your fault. You fucked up. You came up with the plan, and you commanded it. You questioned Schwarzfeld yourself, and apparently to no avail, you couldn't even keep an eye on your own men. We are deep in the shit, and while we all made our contribution to this endeavour, in the end, we only answer to you. So yes. There is absolutely no one to blame here but you.”

The silence that followed was so deafening that it roared in Žižka's ears like carriage wheels on a stone road. The boy's eyes were widened as he stared at Godwin, Katherine had her gaze lowered to the ground, her red lips slightly agape. Even the swallows seemed to have ceased their song, but Žižka paid them no mind. Cranes. The unmistakable grating sound of cranes, as they waded across the freshly frozen ground, sear­ching for food. Fog in the air, hovering above the river to their right, breaking the light of a rising sun. Some of the sun's rays landed on Hynek's scarred face and on his ginger hair, painted it the colour of dust. Must have been the morning haze. “Do not try to keep me, Žižka. This life, settling somewhere, raising stray dogs together, ha. That is not for me.”He had tucked his hands under his armpits to keep them from shaking. Must have been the cold. “They are yours. You can grapple with them now. Like it always should have been.” Then he had left. Off to Austria. And Žižka had left to Humpolec and Krumlov, dealing with Rosenberg, and failing. When he had finally returned north, Hynek was gone. Not to Austria, and not to some other godforsaken land, but to Hell, where a Devil belonged. And the pack was in shambles, some scattered, some had moved on with life. Wenceslas had offered Žižka work in Prague. He hadn't refused it, but hadn't exactly accepted it either. He could have used his military skills for none other than the King him­self, could have settled as a burgrave, but he didn't know how. So he had scraped up the pack once more, or what was left of it, because Henry had properly taken roots in Rattay with his Lord it seemed, and Godwin had built a more theoretical pro­fession for himself in Prague, and the rest, the few he could find and motivate to return to Kuttenberg, had come to him like a horde of headless chickens, waiting for him to throw them some grains of purpose, and so he had fled once more. This time, he hadn't even told Katherine where he went, but they all found out anyway. Found out when he came back to Kutten­berg with his tail between his legs because the Teutonic Order had declined him. It is all your fault. You fucked up. There is absolutely no one to blame here but you.

Žižka nodded. The swallows had started singing again, or maybe they had never stopped, only the noise of the cranes had ceased now. “Henry. I need you to write two letters about what happened out there last night. Explain everything in full detail. One will be addressed to Wok of Waldstein, the other one to Jan Sokol of Lamberg. Leave out any unnecessary formalities and apologies, and don't ask them for support either, it should only be a prosaic rendition of the events and their possible con­sequences so that they know what they have to prepare for. Once these letters are written, you will ride out and deliver them to your father at Vyšehrad. He will know where to find Waldstein and Lamberg, and you will report to him too, by word of mouth. We will join you in Prague soon. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Then leave us alone.”

Henry took a brief bow, turned and walked over to the ladder. His broad back straight as a lance, the steps firm. A blacksmith, an advisor, a soldier, a knight. His hair had grown longer, his beard too, he had matured so much from the boy Žižka had left back then in Suchdol, but into what, Žižka couldn't tell. He hoped Henry could tell at least, hoped it for him.

His eyes wandered over to Katherine, who was looking up at him now expectantly. “You too, Kat,” he said, and Katherine responded with a nod. “I need to talk to Godwin in private.” She left without a word. There were things on her mind that she wanted to say, Žižka could tell, but she would safe them for la­ter, knew that this mattered to him now. She always knew so well.

Žižka waited until he heard both their footsteps disappeare downstairs, before he set himself into motion. He walked over to where the silver rays of light were dancing on the parchment he had spread across the table. Maps, letters, charters, requests, so many names that he had long drowned in. It smelled of ink and wax, dry wood and dust. “I appreciate your honesty, God­win.” He gave a soft laugh that didn't really carry any amuse­ment with it. “In fact, you seem to be the only one here who's not trying to butter me up like a cake.”

“We barely made it out of this ambush alive. Kubyenka and Janosh are missing. The Prague church might be on our tails soon. It's only understandable that they are worried about you.” “I don't need them to be worried, much less about me.” He turned, faced the priest. He wasn't wearing the cassock any­more that Žižka had got for them, had changed it for a simple brown tunic and a black cotton hose. It suited him much better. “I need them to follow my orders and not shy away from being honest with me when my plans turn into a catastrophe. How can I be a commander when they are not fulfilling their roles as soldiers?”

Godwin shook his head and smiled softly. It was a miracle how little he had changed since they had last met. His bald skin as smooth as ever, full cheeks, a faint stubble, dark, not grey, even his brows had some colour left in them. Prague certainly did him good. “Don't be too hard on them, Jan, and please, don't judge them by my standards. I know what it's like to serve in a war as a proper soldier, they don't. All they know is how to fight amongst friends.”

It is true, Žižka thought. They had fought battles before, had called him captain and commander, but that was only ever a technicality, because he had been the one to come up with the plans, to give the orders, and occasionally they had even fol­lowed them faithfully, and afterwards they had got pissed toge­ther, had laughed and quarrelled and got into a brawl. Because they had never been an army, a troop, had only been a pack, a pack of drunkards and outcasts and robbers, a pack of devils. But a pack that was pretty damn good at what they did, because through all this they had never faltered in their respect and trust for each other. “I won't blame them for their friendship. I wel­come it, in fact.” He turned around to the table again, took the tankard and poured wine into the two cups next to it, bringing the one Katherine had drunken from to his own lips, before he handed the other one over to Godwin. “There have been whole armies that were just made up of friends, did you know that, Godwin? I even heard of some Greek troop that only hired lo­vers. Lovers, can you imagine?” Žižka took another sip, and the wine caressed his tongue and burned in his throat, and he laughed. “They fought like no other army did, because they had a cause to fight for, not only abstract concepts of honour and patriotism, but friendship and love.”

“I did not know that.”

“It is a blessing, I suppose.” He took a deep sigh. Above them, the wood of the church's roof truss cracked, as it shrunk under the heat of a new, warmer April day. “I forgot what it feels like, you know? To command this group. The pack.”

He couldn't even remember how many years had passed and how exactly it had happened. There had been beer involved, and a hot bath, and cold steel pressed to his neck. “You hate the lords of this land, don't you?” Hynek had snarled. “And you want money, even better when it's their money, am I right? Well, I have an offer for you.”And then he had introduced him to his pack, some of them, that was, while they had recruited the rest over the following year. Freeing them from prison, or being thrown into the same battle by fate, sometimes as allies, sometimes as foes. The requirement for joining the group was simple. They had to be bastards, lusting for money and willing to kick some nobility's arses. And that had worked well for a while, but times had changed, and they had grown older, and at some point money and a certain thirst for violence had stopped being the only two things that mattered.

Žižka drunk from the wine again, and was surprised to find the cup empty already. The wood cracked, the swallows chirped. It was warmer today. “Perhaps I even forgot what all of this entailed for me. What they needed from me. Perhaps that is just why Janosh and Kubyenka aren't with us right now.”

“Perhaps.” Godwin shrugged his shoulders in the same non­chalant way he always had about him. “But pondering on that won't bring them back.”

“You're right, it won't. That's what I like about you, God­win.” Žižka rubbed dust out of his right eye as he returned to the table to pour himself another cup. The other one had no feeling left in it, the sight had been gone long before, after one misfortune too many. What did it matter? One eye was plenty, and he still had his ears to hear, his brains to think, and his heart, yes, his strength of will and bravery and resistance, and maybe that was all he needed. “You are straightforward. You focus on your target, not on courtesies and forced kindness.”

Godwin laughed cynically. “Well, I'm not sure whether that's always a good thing.”

“You are a soldier. And that's what I'm in dire need of right now. A soldier, not a friend.”

“I cannot promise you to be one without the other, Jan.” The priest smiled again, that damned soft smile of his, that always felt like it was mocking all the suffering of the world, as it made it everything appear so easy. “But that doesn't mean you cannot count on me. And if it's only a kick in the arse you need, well, I can provide that both as a soldier and as a friend.”

Žižka nodded. Then he sank down on the chair where Ka­therine had sat before, and it gave him courage, feeling both close to her and to Godwin alike. “I fucked up.”

“You did.”

“We lost two of our men, and it might have been my fault.”

“It might.”

He emptied the whole cup without putting it down. Good wine, sweet but strong, and it tingled in his fingers and his thighs and made his thoughts run faster. Just what he needed now. “The man I myself brought here to give us the informa­tion we needed seems to have stabbed us in the back, which not only ruined our plan, but might also soon put the whole church and the Prague militia on our arses.”

“Very likely, yes.”

“We also don't yet know why we were betrayed.” Žižka watched as Godwin came over to him to empty the rest of the tankard into his own cup, but he remained standing. Looked down on him with those warm, impartial eyes, waiting, antici­pating. “Given that Schwarzfeld volunteered his help to me on his own, he was either played himself, or he already came here with the intention to obstruct our plans. In either way, I doubt he acted alone. No, he was sent by someone way more power­ful. And I already have a hunch who that could have been.” The biggest bastard of them all, Žižka thought bitterly. The one who brought the League of Lords together, who helped im­prison the King and crown the usurper, who had used his power to pressure commoners and lower nobility alike all around Trotznow. And Žižka had got him back good for a while. Infil­trating his gold mines in Humpolec, and then Rosenberg's very own estate in Krumlov, serving him under a different name, pouring the fucker his wine without him ever noticing. Hein­rich of Rosenberg had long stopped caring about Sigismund and Wenceslas. No, this had become personal. “But that's only speculation, and we can't go to war over baseless accusations. Perhaps Hans and Samuel will find out more.”

“Oh, I'm sure of that.”

“It's also a good thing Kobyla, Waldstein and Lamberg will be informed, so they can take precautions for similar ruses be­ing planned against them.” Radzig and Jan had after all been dealing with Rosenberg themselves over the past year, but he was tough, that sly cur. “But this is not only about us. Hus has just been prohibited from his sermons for heresy, and I might have just made the whole situation much worse for him. So we have to head out for Prague to let him know directly, only that I don't know yet how to best arrange that.”

“I think I may be able to help out with that.”

He raised his right eyebrow, looked up at the priest. There was a strained grin around Godwin's lips that was both intri­guing and concerning. “You do?”

“I may have made it sound a little easier than it actually is,” Godwin stammered, the words broken by an occasional ner­vous chuckle. “But we do share a certain group of friends, and I know the church he still goes to to preach, despite the archbi­shop's edict, and well, I also know the place where he's tea­ching. In fact,” a sip of wine, another chuckle, squinting his warm eyes, “I live there.”

“Where?”

“At the Prague university.”

“You do? Ha, Godwin, a man of a thousand talents, you've become a scholar now!”

“Oh, far from it.” He waved his cup around as if in defence, and a few drops of the good wine spilled over. “At least not as long as Hus is rector there, and we can only pray that he stays such for a while longer. But I am willing to learn, and I like to engage myself in theological discussion from time to time.”

“So what's stopping you then?”

“Well. Hus is. And my,” he cleared his throat, “lifestyle.” It was clear that he had no intention to elaborate on it further, but Žižka didn't know what to make of his insinuations either, and after a short pause he finally added: “Let's just say, a man like Hus who is holding values like decency and austerity in high esteem is not all that keen on a man who was kicked out of his own parish for drinking and whoring around. And,” he scratched his neck in embarrassment, “I may even have told Hus about it myself. Over a drink too many. So we're not on the very best terms.”

Žižka wanted to laugh, but he held it back, as not to humi­liate Godwin any further. “I see.”

“But, as I said, I happen to share friends with him. So if you want me to, I could try convincing them to arrange a meeting or at least deliver our message.”

“That may fully ruin your reputation with Hus.”

“Oh, I doubt that surrounding myself with mercenaries and robbers will come in any way as a surprise to him.”

Now he couldn't hold back the laughter any longer. To his relief, Godwin didn't seem to mind, the tightness even vanished from his expression and made room for a genuine smile. “Damn it, Godwin, you really have made a horrible first im­pression on that man, hm?”

“Perhaps one of the only things I'm truly good at.”

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, and suddenly Žižka thought he could feel a hand twist his left arm back, and a blade pressed to his throat, and the rush of danger and excite­ment pumping through his veins. “Well, you certainly made an impression on me, and I can't claim it was a bad one.”

“A knife on your throat doesn't make a bad impression on you?”

“Quite the contrary. It was everything I needed to convince me of your qualities.”

There was certain fondness on Godwin's face now, and Žiž­ka wondered whether he was still thinking back to their first meeting at Nebakov or to other moments they had shared. God­win kept it a secret. When he stepped forward to put the empty cup on the table and place a hand on Žižka's shoulder, he was all soldier again, and even more so, a friend. It was probably for the best. “Well. Off to Prague then?”

“We will wait for what Hans and Samuel can find out from Schwarzfeld. Then we'll pack and saddle our horses. I wouldn't like to stay under the same roof with a bloody traitor much lon­ger anyway.” He stood up, and his legs felt steady despite the wine, filled with new courage, new hope. “Time for a reloca­tion.”

* * *

“Sam. Sam, wait!” Hans quickened his steps to catch up with Samuel, who was storming ahead like an angry bull let loose. He reached out a hand, to hold him back by his right arm, and when Sam twirled around, his face was twisted both in anger and pain. Fuck. Hans knew that he had some bruises and cuts on his hands and face too, and when he had scratched his beard before, he had felt dried blood clumping the hair together as if he had spilled his last drink all over himself. Whatever he must look like, though, could not have been worse than this. Shit, even Sam's hand up to the root of his fingers was darkened and swollen. No wonder he was bursting with fury. “Just steady down a little, yes?”

“What?”

“We want to talk to him first. I doubt he will tell us all that much if we just beat him up.”

“Torture makes every man sing in the end.”

Hans closed his eyes for the briefest moment and took a deep breath. So, here we go again. God, give me strength to deal with this fool! “Yes, but it can also lead to them not telling you what you actually need, but only what they think you want to hear. Besides, I'd be happy if we could do this without any torturing.”

“You want to show him mercy?” Sam took a step closer to him now, so close that Hans could smell him again. Not so cal­ming now. The leather, incense and hot iron were only barely recognisable, overshadowed by sweat and blood and dirt. “Do you think he would show any mercy to us?”

“That doesn't mean we need to sink to the same level.”

“We could never sink so low.” His voice was all rough and growling, his eyes had taken the colour of grass overgrown by frost. “They act only out of greed and maliciousness.”

“Who is they? This isn't only about Schwarzfeld anymore, is it?”

“Of course it isn't! This is about something way bigger than him that you just won't understand!” He was screaming now, and Hans looked down the stairs of the tower, hoping Schwarz­feld couldn't hear them from his quarters in the adjacent com­munity hall. “And this is about me being fed up with always getting betrayed!”

“But this time, it has nothing to do with you or your people. This is about Jan Hus, and Žižka maybe, and who knows what­ever …”

“It is always the same, don't you see that? You tell me your story, and you do not understand it yourself!” The words hurt more than they should have, felt similar to the betrayal. He hadn't told Sam these secrets of his past, things he hadn't even told Henry before, only to have them used against him. “It does not matter to them whether it is people with a different faith, or a different political ideal, or a different way to love. To them we are all just vermin. Disposable tools used in their feuds. Even a lord like you.”

“Fine, fine, I get it! This is all a big chess game to the people in charge, and we are all just pieces on the board, even Žižka.” He would not be treated like a naïve child any longer, he was a ruler now, a proper lord, a fucking father! And when he now forced himself to keep his voice down and talk reassuringly to Sam, it almost felt as if he was instead talking to Heinrich or Hedwig. “But that is just the thing, you see, Schwarzfeld is ve­ry likely just another piece on this chess board himself, the same as Janosh and Kubyenka may have been. So if we truly want to find out who plays this game, we need to talk to him. Without violence.”

“I am done talking! My zeyde only talked when they hunted us down and expelled us from Prague. Your lords only talked when they blamed Liechtenstein and us for every bad deed that was ever committed in this country and hunted us down again and expelled us from Kuttenberg. Just as we had been doing nothing but talk a few years before, when they accused us of conspiring against Sigismund's uprising, when Hannah …” He pressed his lips together as if he had to physically stop more words from spilling out of him. The things he had said must have already been painful enough.

Hans nodded. “Yes, but back then you tried to cease the tal­king and take action instead, and it's not like that worked out.” He saw Sam's eyes widen in shock, as he realised that Hans had listened. It wasn't like he had tried to deceive Sam in any way, sleep had overcome him last night and rendered him un­able to speak, and Sam's talking had served as his lullaby that Hans had slowly drowned in until the very last bitter drop. “Look, I understand that you feel angry. I do too. We were supposed to die out there. Well, you were.” He could see that Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Hans interrupted him with a shake of his head. “You don't have to thank me for it. Would things have got any more dire, I'm sure I could have just talked myself out of it by showing them my ring.” It was a lie of course, there had been four of them surrounding him in the end, they would have never given him enough time to throw his fucking family crest in their face, given they could even recognise it, let alone see it in that darkness of the forest. “But it's not only about me. Henry was down there too, ex­posed. This could have ended up a lot worse.” There were tears burning in his eyes all of a sudden, and he swallowed down the fear that had crept into his throat. A long, rough night lay behind them, Sam wasn't the only one in need of some good sleep anymore. “Henry swore to protect me once, and I did the same. I know he hated the last seven years when he was stuck at the Leipa court, but at least it was safe there, for the most part. It kept him out of shit like this.”

“I doubt that he hated it or felt stuck there.” Even Sam's voice sounded rougher now than it usually did, and something in his eyes had become softer, warmer. The frost melted, lea­ving behind fresh and vibrant grass, swaying soothingly in the breeze. “At least things moved on for you. He has found his place …”

“Believe me, he hasn't.”

“He has found you.”

But is that enough? Hans thought, not daring to say the words out loud.

“I tried to build something for my people in Kolín, but in the end …” Sam shook his head. Not angry anymore, only tired. “Prague, Kuttenberg, Kolín, it's all the same. I did not only join this mission to do Henry a favour. I have heard of Jan Hus too. We do not share the same faith, but his opposition against cleri­cal and worldly rulers and against them justifying their rule by some allegedly God-given laws, I can agree with that. I had hope that this here could change something for once. But it's like you said, we are all just chess pieces. And it makes me feel helpless, and I don't want to …” He struggled for a little while, finding the right words, before he gave up.

Hans nodded. Reached out a hand and put it on Sams's arm, the left one, and as lightly as he could. “Fair. Totally fair. And that is exactly why we need to handle this with reason.”

Sam returned the nod, then they smiled softly at each other. They were both scared, they had both suffered, had both been betrayed, but if they handled this together and with a cool head, they might still get some revenge, or some answers, or at the very least some fucking rest.

They went down the last few flights of stairs a little faster, then took the door at its end that led them right into the com­munity hall, where Father Čeněk had offered them a few rooms to stay in, with the first one on the left being assigned to Schwarzfeld. They were both surprised to find Čeněk in the noble's room as they entered, and from the looks of it, both men weren't any less startled by their sudden appearance. They didn't get to ask any questions about it, as the priest just straightened his back and left with a short bow and a mumbled “My lords.” He just called all of them lord, just as he called Katherine lady. He was too old, he said, to remember which one of them held a title, and which one of those titles were also acknowledged by the King.

Sir Robert Schwarzfeld was sitting at his table, with a book and a piece of parchment in front of him. He had his sparse auburn hair covered by a cap of dark blue velvet, adorned with a peacock feather, as if he wanted to make an impression. On whom though, remained the question. Žižka had forbidden him to leave the church for at least three days now.

Schwarzfeld took in the sight of Hans and Sam for a little while, letting his eyes wander down their bloodied and bruised faces, resting on Sam's wrist a little longer, before he finally had the decency to open his mouth in shock. “Did they fight you?”

“Whom?” Hans stepped forward until he was standing right next to the writing desk. The room had no windows, the only sources of light were a candle on the table and the fireplace at the back wall, and both painted long, dancing shadows on Schwarzfeld's lean face. “You mean the four men that you pro­mised us? Oh, do not worry, Sir, there were just three of them, and one of them even ran for the hills right away. Just after that priest was shot. And not by our men.” He waited a while, examining the way in which Schwarzfeld's expression slowly changed. He was a bad actor and a worse liar, so horrible, how­ever, that it served as the perfect cover for whatever he truly thought or felt. “You set this up. You lured us into a trap.”

Schwarzfeld shook his head so vehemently that the peacock feather almost bent down all the way to his long, hooked nose. “I did not know this would happen.”

“Du falsher khazer,” Sam hissed behind him.

Hans raised a hand, demanding him to keep quiet, without taking his eyes off Schwarzfeld. “You know what, Sir? I actu­ally believe you. Because I consider you way too unimportant to be assigned a task like this. And not nearly clever enough to execute it all on your own either. But still, these men, a dozen or so of them,” Hans crouched down next to Schwarzfeld with a crooked, dangerous smile, “they knew us well. They weren't only informed about where all of this would take place. They also knew who we were. In fact, they knew more than we ever let you in on.”

“See?” Schwarzfeld's face brightened up so much that it seemed someone must have set it on fire. “It could not have been me then, could it?”

“Oh, it could. It's just that someone else must have informed you. Someone who knew more than you and brought you all this knowledge. So that you could use your money and influ­ence to gather a few more men and have them stab us in the back.”

“What, you think there is some ominous man behind me who would know all of this?”

“I think there is one, yes, but he doesn't care about the de­tails. He just pays you and gives you the ideas that you could never come up with on your own.” He tried to hurt Schwarz­feld's pride as much as he could, but it was hard to tell whether it worked. The lord's face changed its mood and colour so vi­gorously with every next sentence Hans spoke, it could have meant anything. Time to catch him by surprise then. “But Ku­byenka and Janosh knew. And since they aren't here with us right now …”

Schwarzfeld let out a laughter that could have carried any­thing from an injured pride to disbelief. “And yet you are ac­cusing me!”

“Yes, I am accusing you. Don't you want to ask me who Ku­byenka and Janosh are?”

Schwarzfeld's face changed his colour once more, he got paler around his long nose, Hans could tell even in the candle­light, and this time he knew very well what it meant. Nervous­ness. “Well, two of your men much likely.”

“Oh, clever. But you did not seem surprised in the slightest when I mentioned their names.”

“It …” He stumbled over his own words, and not deliberate­ly now. “It was evident from what you said.”

Behind him, Sam pressed out air between his teeth. “This doesn't lead anywhere.”

“You're right.” Hans nodded, then he stood up and took a few steps back, still keeping his gaze fixed on Schwarzfeld as if it was a nail that Hans had driven into his lying body. “It doesn't. We should change our tactics, I suppose.” He gave a nod in Sam's direction. “You may. If you still have some anger to let loose.”

“Oh, lots of it.” Sam didn't waste any time. In just the blink of an eye, he had rushed forward, hitting Schwarzfeld in the face with the back of his left hand. The man started to whimper and beg immediately. “Did they come and visit you in private? Did you speak with our friends?”

“I … Please, I … I don't know what you're talking about!”

Sam hit him again, just on the same spot, and a little harder now. Hans flinched from the sight of it. “Kubyenka and Janosh. The two men you just all so eagerly remembered. Did you meet with them?”

“I …”

This time, Sam didn't even give him any time to stammer out more lies. He just grabbed the lord by the neck and slammed his forehead down on the table. The blue cap flew off, knocked over an inkwell, black liquid turned the peacock fea­ther into that of a crow.

“I did!” Schwarzfeld pressed out, the words muffled and dis­torted with his nose pressed against the wood of the table. “They came to me! They said they didn't trust … didn't trust in Žižka anymore, and asked me if I could … could help them, and … I didn't know they planned an ambush like this, I just thought they might want to leave your group!”

Sam bowed down to him now, bringing his face so close to the other man's ear, Hans was certain Schwarzfeld could hear even the snarl in his breath. “Stop lying! Even if they wanted to leave us, they would just do so, instead of organising a dozen men to kill us. They wouldn't have dared to, nor would they have had the means to.”

“No, you're right, you're right, they wouldn't! But I'm sure they didn't have to. It was Egghead, yes, it must have been Egghead!”

Who? Hans wanted to ask, but he kept quiet for now, left the questioning to Sam, and he didn't have to wait long anyway.

“Who the fuck is Egghead?”

“The kind of man that you seek out when you need help with all kinds of fiddle that you cannot tell anyone else about. He will always help you, but only as long as you pay him better than someone else would.” Schwarzfeld tried to twist out of Sam's grip, but it only tightened more around his neck, as if all the strength that had left his right hand had flown into his left one instead. “I referred your friends to him! I told them I would want nothing to do with it, but that he could help them. Maybe they didn't even plan all of this either. They just wanted to get out. But I suppose they told him a thing too many, and he must have used that. Maybe he was already paid by someone else, I don't know, you got to believe me!”

“And where can we find this Egghead?”

“In Prague!” Schwarzfeld shouted out the word as if his life depended on it, despite Sam neither changing the position of his hand nor hitting him again. Sam could be frightening, Hans thought, but Schwarzfeld seemed to be scared to death. “I don't know where he lives, but there is this establishment that he fre­quents, Nový Venátky, a brothel, in the new part of the town, close to Charles Bridge. You just turn right once you cross the Vltava, not left, that's the way into the Jewish quarter, and you do not want to …” This time, Sam did take action, raising Schwarzfeld's head slightly by the neck and bringing it back down with force. The man groaned. Only out of pain, and not nearly as terrified as he had been before. “Ah no, no, I didn't mean it like that, I …”

“Stop babbling and get to the point!”

“Yes yes, Egghead, in Nový Venátky, you will find him there, I promise you! You cannot even miss him, he is bald, and his head just looks like an egg, and … Please, that's all I know, I swear, you must believe me, please …”

Hans stepped forward and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam wasn't his brother, and it took a while for him to respond. Then he finally let Schwarzfeld go with another unsatisfied snarl, and the lord slowly lifted himself up, twisting his head to all sides to ease the pain in his neck. “We do, Sir. We do believe you that this secret meeting with our friends was the only time you betrayed us.” Hans tried to put as much empha­sis into these words as he could, to let Schwarzfeld know that his cooperation changed nothing. “And we're willing to take your honesty into account when we bring word to Žižka now.”

“Thank you.” Schwarzfeld's eyes were as big as plates again, and once more his exaggerated expressions obscured any true thought or feeling he may hold. “Thank you!”

Hans tugged on Sam's shoulder again. “Leave him be and let us go.”

Sam only spoke when they were back on the stairs of the church tower. “I hate it when you order me around like a dog.”

“But it worked, didn't it? You played your role well, we both did, and we didn't even have to rehearse anything.”

Instead of walking up the stairs again, Sam made his way out onto the gallery, and Hans followed him. Watched him lean down onto the parapet, looking down to the altar. Tinted blue light fell on his face through the church windows, making him seem more exhausted than ever. “I am not so sure we actually succeeded.”

“You don't believe him?”

“Not a single word.”

“Good.” Hans stopped next to him and lowered his eyes to the sanctuary. Father Čeněk had lit some candles to its side, their smoke crept up like snakes to the flat ceiling, above which Žižka and the others were hiding. “Because neither do I.”

“He gave in way too quickly, and his words kept running like water from a well. I did not even hit him all that hard.” Sam looked down on his hand, opened and closed his fingers, light flashing on the gemstones of the rings. A sapphire, an amethyst, a pale emerald in the colour of his eyes. “I've ex­perienced much worse without saying a single word.”

The words echoed heavily through the emptiness of the buil­ding. Hans wanted to ask, but he didn't dare to. Brabant, he thought, and it made his skin crawl. He had been the one who had introduced that Frenchman into their group. He had been the one to tell the others how useful the baron would prove. Then Brabant had killed Adder for some bloody silver. Had tortured Sam to a point where it had taken him weeks to reco­ver. Betrayed. Over and over and over again. “I …” He took a deep breath, blew the air out towards the roof, following the snakes of the candle smoke. “I am lucky enough to never have experienced torture myself. But I know what it can be like and what it does to you. From Henry.”

The amethyst flickered as Sam clenched the hand into a tight fist. He did not look up, didn't say a word, but Hans could see that this was an information he hadn't expected to hear.

“It was a long time ago. Shortly before we met you, in fact, back then at Trosky.”

“Von Bergow?”

“Yes. Or rather Istvan Toth on behalf of von Bergow.”

“Hm.” Sam furrowed his brow. Hans couldn't tell whether it were only clouds outside the window or something else entire­ly that painted his expression a few shades darker. “He never told me.”

“He wouldn't have told me either. But unlike you, I share a bed with him. Naked.” Hans tried to make it sound cheerful, failed miserably and relinquished the plan. “There are certain things you can hardly hide in such an intimate situation. Like the injuries that a knife leaves on your flesh. Or tongs, or a hammer.”

Sam pressed his fingers so tightly together now, that his knuckles turned white as snow. His right hand didn't even twitch. “I cannot believe that mamzer is still alive, while so many good people have died.”

“I know how you feel.” Oh, how well he did! He hadn't asked Henry about it on their first night together, and not on their second or third one either, even though back then the scars had still been fresh. He had waited until they had finally re­turned to Rattay. In part because he hadn't dared to ruin the excitement and joy of their first shared love with such painful thoughts. But he had also been scared of the answer he would get. That Henry would say Otto von Bergow's name, the man whose life Hans had defended with his honour. “But he's a nobleman. It's not worth getting yourself killed for. And since he fled the country, allowing me to never see his face again, he might as well be dead to me. So, as a wise man once said,” he gave Sam a smile, and didn't fail this time, even though it was all coated with sadness, “we should leave the dead behind and rather take care of the living.”

Sam nodded. The fist loosened a bit. “He really was wise. I wish we could have understood more of his wisdom.”

Hans had to chuckle at the thought. “Well, I'm not sure if much of his wisdom actually exceeded the lusting for female bodies.”

“And souls. Do not forget their souls. Adder could be quite romantic sometimes.”

They shared the laugh, and it was a welcome feeling, eased the anger and the fear and all the frustration of the previous hours. It brought back the exhaustion too. Jesus Christ, what Hans hadn't given for a soft bed and a good sleep now! “Come on.” He gave Sam's arm a pat, before he straightened himself to leave for the staircase. “We need to tell Žižka what we found out. And then we may need to pay beautiful Prague a visit. Schwarzfeld might have spoken nothing but lies, but I doubt he made this Egghead fella up. Maybe he can be someone to find out more from.”

They didn't have to search long for Žižka. They didn't even have to walk up the stairs, in fact. It was Žižka who came ru­shing down to them, closely followed by Godwin who had a pained smile on his lips, and Katherine who just shook her head silently at Hans and Sam as soon as she noticed them.

Žižka didn't care. He just laughed, put his hands to Hans's shoulders, and gave him a few strong slaps that almost tossed him over. “You're back, boys. Fantastic! Tell us what you found out on the way. We will leave for Prague!”

* * *

The place reeked of death from a few hundred feet away. It was a miracle nobody seemed to have taken note of it yet.

Perhaps it was still too early for anyone to come by. The sun had only just heaved its body over the horizon, birds of the night still shared their song with the birds of the morning, and both promised that there would be a wonderful day ahead.

There was no trace of that wonderful day out here in the gorge. On the first glance, it was only a carriage, stopped in the middle of the road, and some strange and twisted figures both on top of the carriage and in front of it. For any wanderer who wasn't familiar with death, it would take a while to understand that the horribly pale sack of rags hanging from the coachman's seat was actually a priest drained off all his blood. Then they would realise that the two other bundles on the ground where in fact the lifeless bodies of young men, sliced open neatly by swift strokes of a sword. And only then would they lift their gaze to the right and see the rest of the carnage. The corpses scattered across the slope of the hill, staining the grass the co­lour of copper.

Kubyenka and Janosh were more than familiar with death. They noticed the smell and they recognised the twisted shapes of a men who had died in agony. And yet, even Kubyenka had to swallow down his disgust at the sight of it.

“This is bloodbath,” Janosh breathed out behind him. “Look just like …”

“If you say anything about any kind of mashed food now, I swear, I'm going to forget myself.”

“What you think Janosh for? Heartless ox?”

Kubyenka ignored the remark and got closer to the carriage. Judging by the colour of their skin and the stiffness of their bodies, they were clearly lying here for a few hours. So this had happened just when their little fraud should have taken place. And things went horribly wrong. “Well, we left worse things behind.” They could only pray that it had been the pack who was responsible for this slaughter, instead of being on the receiving end.

Kubyenka kicked over some splinters covering the ground next to the carriage with the toe of his boot. “That must be this spark of God or whatever shit Žižka called it.”

Janosh stepped past him and made the sign of the cross, before he reached out to turn the priest around carefully. Blood was covering his whole neck like some pretty fur collar, a bolt had hit him right into the windpipe. “You think Hans miss?”

“Hans never misses. He's a better shot than me, even a better shot than the Devil was.”

“So someone else come and kill priest down?”

“Not only someone. You don't get ambushed by two diffe­rent groups at the same time and place by mere accident.” He kicked the glass again, this time with more force, causing it to fly up high into the air and into the bushes on the side of the road. “Fuck!” They should have been here when this had hap­pened. Would it have changed a thing? Who knew, with so many bodies lying around, armed men all of them, from what Kubyenka could tell. But at least they would have gone through this together. As the pack that they were!

“If only bald guy not hold us back.”

“Aye. That bald guy.” He made his way to the slope that the bodies covered like cobblestone covered a pathway. It had all gone according to plan so perfectly. They had come to Uzhitz early in the morning, had waited there for the priest to arrive, Janosh had even rejected some local woman for their cause. Around noon, the priest had showed up and settled in the inn for a few hours. They had watched the priest and his men care­fully from a distance, just as Žižka had wanted them to. And then this bald guy had approached them. Had offered Kubyen­ka a game of dice and some beer, and fuck, he should have declined, but wouldn't that have only drawn attention to them? So he had agreed, played, won, and the bald guy had left for another round of beer, and he had handed it out both to Ku­byenka and to Janosh. It had knocked them out as good as the kick of a horse. When Janosh had finally woken him with a slap to the face, the priest and his men were gone, and night had long fallen over the land.

Kubyenka kneeled down to take a closer look at another dead body. Only few pieces of armour, but a good sword in his hand. Had died of stab wounds, right into the thigh. Kubyenka grunted in frustration. “This doesn't make any sense. I get that all of this must have been a trap from the start, and that this bald guy played a role in it too. But for what reason? Sure, they killed the priest that was supposed to carry the tidings of joy to Prague for us, but is that all? And so much effort.” He looked up, counted the bodies. Four here on the slope, but there were more up there on the top of the hill he couldn't see from his po­sition. “All these people … And where the fuck are our men?”

A rustling above, and the breaking of rotten wood. Kubyen­ka shot up to his feet. There was movement up there. At first he believed it must be one of the bodies that wasn't as dead as he had believed him to be, but then he saw that it was another man instead, hunched over the corpse like a feral dog. Pressing his own chest close to the dead one, as if he wanted to embrace it. No. He was hiding. Playing dead.

The man let out the panicked scream of a child as Kubyenka grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the corpse, only to throw him right back into the grass next to it. Before the man could even react, Kubyenka had drawn his knife, holding the blade to the other one's throat. He was a child, Kubyenka could see that now. A boy still gifted with the soft features of a girl, without a single hair on his chin. His youth hadn't stopped him from rummaging through the belongings of a dead man, though.

“What the hell happened here?”

The boy whined again, and tried to raise both his hands to show that he was unarmed, but from the way Kubyenka held him down, it remained a pathetic attempt. “Let go off me, and I will tell you everything you want to know!”

That little shit thought he could negotiate. In his position! Kubyenka let the blade dance across the boy's jaw, up to his ear, and watched him quiver with a proud smile. “How about I cut your ear off, and then you tell me everything I want to know while you beg me for mercy that I don't cut your other ear off as well?”

“Alright, alright! Please, do not harm me!” A little shit, yes, but a coward too. Perfect. This should be easy then. “My name is Štěpán of Tetín.”

“Oh, how good for you, but I did not ask you for your fu­cking name, sonny, I asked what happened here.”

“Well, I don't know either! I just arrived.” He nodded clum­sily into the direction above his head, and when Kubyenka raised his eyes, he saw a grey, feeble horse with crooked legs gawking at him from the bushes.

Kubyenka used some more force on the knife, and the blade cut into the boy's flesh, drawing a single drop of blood from his white skin and a loud cry from his mouth. There were even tears in his eyes. Kubyenka paid it no attention. “Don't fuck with me, boy. When we came here, you were already digging through the corpses like a vulture.”

The boy lifted his head and peered down the hill, only now noticing Janosh, it seemed, who was still at the carriage loo­king for explanations he wouldn't find. When the boy stared back up to Kubyenka, his wet, walnut eyes had widened and his face had brightened up as if there wasn't still a man with a knife pushing him into the ground. “You … You are Kubyenka, aren't you?”

Damn him. He sounded just as excited as if he had just met the hero from one of the old wives' tales his nurse had sung him. “How do you know my name? Who told you?”

“A man named Lukas. He was one of the mercenaries who came with the priest. He said he had a long talk with you and the Hungarian in a tavern in Uzhitz.”

Kubyenka furrowed his brow in confusion. “Is he bald?”

“No?” A question, not an answer, but Kubyenka would take what he could get.

“Then we never talked to him.”

“But you are Kubyenka, aren't you?”

He whistled in annoyance through his teeth and turned the knife a little as a warning. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“No, listen. He knew your name! Kubyenka and the Hunga­rian, that's what he said!”

“Janosh,” Janosh proclaimed behind him. Apparently he, too, had realised that the carriage wouldn't hold anything of value for them, and had joined them on the hill instead.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, or tried to at least. “Well, he didn't seem to know your name.”

“Hm.”

“But he claimed that the priest talked to you in this tavern. And that you were the ones who convinced him of going by night.”

“No,” Kubyenka shook his head, “Schwarzfeld told him. We spoke to the priest just as little as we spoke to any of the mer­cenaries he had hired.”

The boy bit his bottom lip as he pondered. “No, Lukas didn't mention anyone by the name Schwarzfeld.”

“Interesting.” And it truly was interesting, became more in­teresting by the minute, but it also made his headache grow with every new piece of information, as if he hadn't been vexed by that enough ever since drinking that fucking beer the bald guy had brought them. “Did he talk about our men at least? Four men, two of them were dressed up as priests.”

“Yes, he talked about those priests! He said that they stopped them here in the middle of the road, and spoke of Hus and his preachings. And then they got ambushed. The priest was shot from up here, apparently, and his mercenaries got attacked by all these men.”

“But not our men. I don't know any of these people.”

“And we not here to kill anyone,” Janosh added. “Only wan­ted talk to priest.”

“It was a trick,” Kubyenka explained, wondering why he even bothered, but somehow he had taken a strange liking to this boy. “A magic trick, or at least that's what Žižka called it.”

“Žižka?” The boys eyes widened again. “Jan Žižka?”

“What is he to you?”

“Nothing. I mean, he's quite famous around these lands of course, but that's not it. I just got curious because Petr of Haug­witz mentioned him. A lot, in fact.”

“Who?”

“A knight that came to my guardian Sir Ondřej Duba of Zle­nice a few months ago.” He stopped himself, thought for a while, then nodded as if he had just answered some question no one had even asked. “I think he knows you too.”

“Who does? This Haugwitz fella? I don't know anyone of that name.”

“No.” The boy laughed. “Neither do I.” Then he raised his hands all of a sudden and grabbed Kubyenka's arms, not to push him away, but to hold him, as his eyes widened again in excitement. The fear from before had vanished fully. “Listen, you need to come with me to Zlenice right now. We need to convince Sir Ondřej that this here had nothing to do with you or with Jan Hus and his followers. Because if we don't get there in time, he will send a letter to Prague, telling the archbishop that you were responsible for this massacre!”

“We're no followers of Hus, boy.”

“Even more of a reason to come with me then! Help me sort this out! For us and for yourself. Perhaps we can even find your friends this way.”

Kubyenka looked back to Janosh, who only shrugged his shoulders. Might as well give it a try.

“Fine.” He lifted the knife off the boy's throat by dragging it slowly across his skin as a warning. “I think I might like you enough to trust you. But if we find out that you're only playing us here, I'm gonna forget that liking very, very quickly. And then I'm gonna cut off more than just your ears.”

“I understand.” He swallowed nervously and still had the guts to beam like the star of Bethlehem.

Kubyenka shook his head in disbelief, before he finally got up, offering a hand to the boy to help him get to his feet as well. Then he glanced over at the old mare that grazed peace­fully just a few steps away from them, as if the whole ground that surrounded her wasn't covered in stinking blood and rot­ting flesh. “Now I just hope that this Zlenice of yours isn't too far away. Because Janosh and me didn't bring any horses with us. And I doubt this nag of yours will be able to carry all three of us.” And if it is far, he added silently, then I will be the one to ride. Let Janosh and the boy run! He for one was getting far too old for this shit.

[orcusivanth]

Divinity

[chimiye]

I'm gonna leave you on the sidewalk pavement. My Fault: London (2025)

[killerpancakeburger]

PULL ME CLOSER

SUMMARY: After a mission gone wrong, Soap narrowly cheats death. When visiting him in his hospital bed, overwhelming relief emboldens you, making you do something you regret. So you flee, resolved to avoid Sergeant MacTavish until the end of your days. 

But Johnny is done letting you slip through his fingers.

Part 1. Part 2.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader (reader has boobs, that's it)

TAGS: A pinch of angst, then tooth rotting fluff, Civilian!Reader, Anxious!Reader, Depressed!Reader, inexperienced!Reader, Desperate!Soap, Soft!Soap, mutual pining, first kiss, confessions, dirty talk, making out. Bit of a chase, but it's fluffy. Protective!Ghost bordering on controlling but he works on it. Swears, blood mention, injuries, miilitary inaccuracies, suggestive content.

WORDS COUNT: 5.6k

A/N: aaaAAAH F I N A L L Y! ITS KISSING TIME BABEYYY 💋 For @glitterypirateduck COD Vacation Mode challenge, prompts 32 with Ghost and 58 with Soap.

"Hey author, this is Soap x Reader, why is Ghost there...?" Because he just! Won't! Leave! 🙃 *you can now picture me trying to push him out of the room with all my meager strength but he doesn't budge an inch* 

As you pace around the office for the umpteenth time, you can tell from the glint in Ghost's eyes that he's seconds away from telling you to take a seat and stop writhing uselessly. 

When did you become so accustomed to the taciturn Lieutenant's expressions - or more accurately, lack of -, that you could figure out what was going on behind the mask? You couldn’t remember.

He's been keeping his gaze on you since you've sat down after learning the harrowing news; or, more exactly, since he's sat down and you've been fidgeting relentlessly.

You're feeling like a shark - to stop moving won't kill you, but it will cause the whole world to come crashing down. It will allow reality to become clearer, sharper, inescapable.

The arrival of Price in the room captures his lieutenant's attention before he can scold you. Gaz follows close behind. He offers you a reassuring smile before his captain addresses you.

“He's going to make it.”

Relief overwhelms you with just those five words; a colossal wave close to sending you tumbling down. Ghost's mask fails to hide his own calming.

Price sets his hands on his hips. His voice is gruffed but composed.

“All he needs now is rest… and some blood.”

“I'll do it,” you blurt out resolutely, taking a step towards your boss.

“No,” snarls Ghost, tone adamant.

You snap around to stare at him in shock and disbelief. He never raised his voice at you before. And, most importantly, he never tried to dictate your behavior. 

“Who do you think you are?! I'm not one of your fucking recruits-”

Price loudly coughs in his fist.

“Easy there.” 

He raises both hands in appeasement. “We don’t even know if you're compatible.”

“I'm a universal donor,” you counter immediately, determination unaltered.

“Course ya are,” scoffs Ghost derisively.

You glare at him with open animosity. What the fuck is wrong with him!?

“What is that even supposed to mean!?”

You throw your arms up in irritation.

“Enough! Both of you.”

John's tone extinguishes your shout with redoubtable efficiency. He's already not someone you would dare cross on casual days, but hearing him raise his voice makes you sheepish.

Nonetheless, you turn towards him, outraged and betrayed. "Both"!? Why both!? I'm not the one being an asshole for no reason!

“You've done this before?” the captain asks, looking at you.

You nod vigorously.

He indicates the door with his chin.

“Fine, then. Go see the nurses to set you up.”

You bolt out of the room without further ado, determined to not let Ghost get another word in. But you can still hear one last sentence as you hasten.

“As for you, Simon…It is none of your business.”

Giving blood has never been a walk in the park. Every time, you have to actively handle your nerves; resort to trusty relaxation methods, such as focusing on your breathing, or counting the tiles on the ceiling.

The stab of the needle is unpleasant, to say the least, but the wait between the jab and the removal is almost as challenging.

Nonetheless, you've done this before, you succeeded, and for Johnny, you'd be willing to do it for hours.

Power of will doesn't compensate blood loss however, and when you get up from the bed, you feel dizzy, your bandaged arm sore and stiff. The idea of meeting with Soap shortly helps you power through, and soon enough you’re sitting at a table in the canteen, empty at this hour of the day, stuffing your face with whatever snacks and drinks have been put aside to aid your recovery.

With nothing but concern for Johnny busying your mind, you end up eavesdropping on a couple of nearby cafeteria employees.

“You think that's really him?”

“Ain't that many guys going around with a skull mask.”

“I heard he killed a man with only a pen…”

Your eyes widen at the mention of a mask, and you groan in annoyance before turning around to see where the staff is looking.

Near the entrance, casually leaning against the wall, arms crossed, Ghost is watching over you like an overzealous bodyguard. He finally swapped his mission outfit for his trademark black hoodie and grey sweatpants. 

Exasperation flashes through you and you proceed to fling at him a cake wrapped in plastic. Your aim's never been anything to be proud of, but he's large enough that you manage to brush his shoulder.

“Get away from me, you creep!” you yell loud enough to be heard by him.

He gives you an inscrutable gaze before leaving the room, probably settling right on the other side of the door, not one to admit defeat so easily.

Minutes later, you leave the room to visit Soap, and observe with spiteful satisfaction that you were right - Ghost adopted the same position as before, against the corridor's wall. You glower at him as you pass by, and of course he remains unfazed.

You scoff with irritation before deciding to ignore him and focus on Johnny, accelerating the pace.

“Wait.”

You halt with a vexed sigh.

“If you intend to berate me again, I'm not gonna stand there and take it.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

You pivot to face him, exasperated by his sibylline remarks. He moved away from the wall and approached you while you had your back on him.

“Once again, what is that even supposed to mean?”

His cryptic attitude makes your blood boil with anger, one that could almost mask the feelings of hurt and betrayal he begets inside you. At some point, you've genuinely started to believe that you two became some kind of friends. Turns out that you've been naively imagining things this whole time.

“The whole self-sacrificing bullshit.”

You stare in incomprehension, searching his concealed features vainly for a clue, wishing you could rip that stupid mask off his face.

“I'm not sacrificing myself. It's just a bit of blood.”

He crosses his arms.

“We have stocks for that. And it's not just that. When he got into trouble with Price for making you skip work, you tried to take all the blame.”

“He did it to cheer me up-”

He keeps talking like you didn’t intervene.

“And when he pummeled that officer, you pretended it was all your fault.”

“I-”

“Luckily for you, Price's no sucker.”

You wince with distress.

“I just wanted to help. I hate being… feeling useless.”

“That's my problem. I swear it feels like you’d slash your own wrists if you thought it would ‘help’.”

You grimace but do not contradict him. It's actually kind of scary how much he figured you out.

“Let him take responsibility for his actions. He may look impulsive most of the time, but he knows what he's doing.”

Arms folded, you gaze fixedly at the floor in silence, not knowing what to add.

“I’m sorry.”

He talked loud enough to be understood, but the content of his sentence makes you doubt what he said as much as if he whispered. You stare at him with wide eyes, speechless. It's not that you categorically believe Ghost incapable of self-reflection, but at the same time, he's always striked you more as the type to never admit any weakness - except maybe in front of a trusted superior and longtime friend like Price.

“Shouldn't have tried to boss you around. Only made things worse. What happened with Johnny… made me…”

He acts like articulating an apology out loud has on him the effect of enthusiastically biting into a lemon - an irresistible temptation to annoy him emerges inside you. No harm in a little well-deserved payback.

“On edge? Touchy? Cranky? Irrita-”

“That'll do. Go, now.”

You turn away with an amused smile on your lips.

Witnessing the wounded sergeant in a hospital's bed is like a punch to the stomach. Maybe an actual punch would be more merciful.

Inside you, gratitude for his miraculous survival battles against sorrow caused by his pitiful state. An impressive bandage is wrapped around his head, one arm secured in a cast, the other bearing a couple of compresses. His face is littered with scratches and contusions.

When he notices you, frozen on the threshold, he beams.

“How's my little firecracker doing?”

That nickname. That damn nickname. He started using it after he caught you red-handed giving the middle finger to a rude officer who was leaving your office just as Soap was entering it. You tolerated it until you realized it was a reference to his love of explosions and all things blow-able, which made you ridiculously pleased, yet self-conscious all at once.

Your legs were already unsteady, so the complimentary alias almost finished you off. 

“That's my line, you Scottish bastard.” you retort, voice devoid of hostility despite the insult.

Closing the gap between you two with a few strides, you stop at what you consider a respectable distance.

“Why, I'm alive and kicking. No need fer ye to look so dejected.”

You scoff, both annoyed and moved by the attempt to console you. It's unbearable to see him so shattered and yet so upbeat, while you don't have a scratch but came so close to breaking down.

“I hate you,” you mumble.

“Ye love me.”

If you only knew… you wouldn’t dare to joke like that.

You smile ruefully, despite yourself.

“I'm serious. For a moment I…I really thought you… you weren't going to… shit.”

You furiously blink to get rid of the rising tears stinging your eyes, looking away shamefully.

“Hey, hey, hey, c'mere.”

He pats one side of the bed with his free hand invitingly. You obey, positioning yourself near the mattress close enough to touch. He grabs one of your hands and gently squeezes it.

“M sorry.” 

His tone is gruff, maybe a bit abashed. A pang of culpability pierces your heart. 

“What could you be sorry for? You were doing your job. I need to get over it.”

You’re not mine to lose.

“Fer makin’ ye cry. I hate it.”

Why does he have to be so kind?

You persist in trying to prove that you’re the one in the wrong here, not him.

“I shouldn't be crying. You’re the one who went through hell.”

He snorts.

“What's so funny?”

“Not funny, just… Ye didn’t even shed a tear when that bastard jumped ye the other day. Yet here ye are, crying over my sorry arse. Yer somethin’ else.”

The compliment takes you aback, and as his eyes sparkle with nothing but honesty, you fiddle with the bandage you received from the blood donation in a desperate effort to collect yourself.

“What’s that? Ye hurt?”

The concern in his voice warms your heart, even if it is unnecessary.

Soap rises from his pillow to some extent, pain obvious in his restricted movements. You react immediately, clicking your tongue in disapproval. Before you can think twice about it, you set your hand between his pecs and push him back, careful to not harm him, but firm.

“I didn't give you my blood just so you could spill it right away!”

He shouldn't be so easy to put back into his place, even with his wounds. Yet he goes down smoothly, docile under your imperious touch as if he was the unassuming civilian and you the imposing soldier.

His eyes linger on your hand before setting on you, the intensity and the heat of his gaze taking your breath away. His expression is one of surprise, but not of annoyance or revulsion, or at least that's what you hope from what you can read on his face.

Sinking into the lagoons of his eyes, you stare back in a daze. You can feel the rhythmic motions of his well-defined chest under your palm, rising and lowering as he breathes. Suddenly the contact becomes intolerable as your cheeks catch fire. You begin to withdraw but he grabs you just in time.

“Ye gave me yer blood?”

The urgency in his tone takes you by surprise, and so does his expression, one that's contemplating you like you've just announced that you've run in front of a truck for him.

“Price said you needed it-”

“Yer. Blood. We have a stock fer that!”

“I know, I just- I was there and I wanted to do something.”

“And they just let ye?”

“I asked real nicely.”

“Would have liked to see that.”

There's a challenging spark in his eye that you choose to ignore.

“It's just blood,” you mumble, shying away from his gaze, embarrassed by his reaction. You didn’t do this in the hopes that he would express eternal gratitude, nor that he'd be admiring of you.

“It will reconstitute on its own.”

He scoffs, unconvinced. Yet he doesn't sound too mad. There's a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and he's looking at you like you hung the moon.

“Let's talk less about me, and more about you, ok? How are you feeling?”

“Parched,” he retorts while reaching for the water bottle on the nearby tray table.

Of course he's not expanding further. Johnny's the kind to dramatically whine over a paper cut for fun but somehow when it comes to serious, life-threatening injuries, he becomes stoically reserved, almost stingy with words.

You almost throw yourself at the bottle when you notice the slight wince of pain in the line of his mouth - despite his efforts to conceal it - and hand it over to him.

“Just ask me if you need something.”

“Oh bonnie, ye dunnae know what yer getting yerself into with promises like that.”

You openly roll your eyes. If he can make that sort of comment, surely he's not in that much pain after all.

“Let me guess: you’re gonna ask me to kiss your boo boos better.”

You regret your jibe the second you finish talking. You were supposed to only think those words, not pronounce them. He's the gorgeous individual who can take the liberty of flirting with anyone, but you… you’re not.

His only reaction is a chuckle.

“Hmm, what if ah did? Ask fer a kiss?”

His tone is provocative, his pout sultry and his eyes pleading.

You stare at him in thoughtful silence, cogitating your answer. 

He misinterprets your lack of response, and backpedals, stuttering while doing so. He starts to apologize, plainly, apparently convinced he went too far, ashamed by his own conduct.

You let him stew in his embarrassment a bit, not out of sadism but curiosity, rarely being granted the opportunity to see him so insecure.

This could be the chance to put an end to his flirting for good. The chance you've been waiting for. It's what you should do.

But there's a part of you that is fed up. Fed up of this pretty man and his pretty words, of this blue-eyed casanova that must see you as another conquest and nothing more. You’re sick of passively enduring his quips, his seduction, his winks, his smirks. So yes, you could ask him to stop.

Or you could give him a test of his own medicine.

Lifting his hand towards your face, you lock eyes with him to be certain he's watching, then tenderly press your lips to each of his scarred knuckles.

The ensuing quiet is deafening.

He half-opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. You never saw him so flustered. Is he… is he blushing?

Somehow, seeing his flush sets your own face on fire. The reality of what you’ve just done hits you like a freight train.

Panic surging inside you, you deal with the situation the way you know best when no other solution comes to mind - you flee. Pretending you don't hear Soap calling after you, you scramble out of the bedroom like the devil's on your heels. Ghost, settled on a chair in the hallway, throws you the closest thing he must have to a bewildered gaze in his repertoire as you storm off by him, gaze that you ignore vehemently.

The following weeks are spent visiting Soap only when he's asleep. Kyle is nice enough to let you know when that's the case. You can tell by the interrogative way he looks at you that a bunch of questions rush on the tip of his tongue: what happened, why are you not simply seeing his teammate when he's awake with the rest of them. But he's either kind or polite enough to not formulate his concerns out loud. Or maybe he thinks it's a private matter between the two of you.

Either way, you’re grateful, and you repay the favor any time you can, filling the break room with his favorite snacks, making him tea or ensuring his gear gets maintained first.

At some point Ghost half complains to you, half reprimands you - since Soap is one part of his current problem and you another.

“Fuckin’ hell, never been easy keepin’ Johnny in medical, but since ya visited him he's worse than ever. Care to explain?”

“I fucked up,” you confess, without adding anything else.

“Fucked up how?”

“I can’t tell you.”

He curses loudly, dragging a gloved hand over his face, appalled by your demeanor.

“Why the fuck not?”

“I'm taking my secret to the grave. All I can tell is that I made an absolute fool of myself, and therefore I can never appear in front of Johnny again.”

He half sighs, half groans, and rolls his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You dramatic little…”

Soap eventually gets released from medical.

You spend a couple of weeks avoiding him to the best of your abilities, even though you can tell that Ghost is frankly sick of your antics, Price is five minutes away from berating you, and even Gaz starts to look at you with something that resembles disappointment. 

You actively despise yourself for ruining a perfectly good friendship. Especially because of a five seconds long action decided on a whim and carried out out of spite. You find yourself on the edge of tears a couple of times, yet unable to cry. Familiar rooms and corridors feel empty and awkwardly silent with his absence.

There are a bunch of close calls, and the base, or at least the part of it that you’re accustomed to, suddenly feels cramped.

But you hold on. 

Until you don't.

You're caught completely unaware, entering the break room as usual to get some coffee.

Only to freeze on the doorstep. Johnny's right there. Barely two meters away. It's the first time you lay eyes on him in what feels like forever. You can’t help but drink in the view.

He's sitting at a table, elbow leaning on it, cheek resting on his closed fist. Your eyes linger over the blue cobalt shirt he's wearing, your favorite of his, and his black fingerless gloves, which you've always had a weakness for. The corner of his lips are down, his eyebrows lightly frowned. Staring into space, he seems sullen.

Your heart tightens at the sight.

However you barely get the opportunity to indulge into your guilt, because next thing you know, your gazes meet. He perks up, eyes widening in surprise. You tense like a deer in the headlights, holding your breath. Dread swells inside you. You’re no braver than last time.

You turn around and decamp.

It's fine, you can come back later. You just need to unearth a hiding spot for now. The object of your affliction - on top of your affection - will probably be vexed enough by your reaction that he won't seek to confront you.

Yes, everything is just fine, you assure yourself - for no more than a handful of seconds.

Without warning, brawny, familiar arms close around your shoulders from behind, pinning your back against a muscular torso.

“Gotcha.”

The word is barely above a whisper, more a growl than anything else, enunciated right into your ear, sending shivers all over your body. You don’t find anything to do but clutch with both hands one of the tanned forearms pressed beneath your collarbone.

Fighting him off doesn't even cross your mind. It's not that you think you'd fail - you trust him to let you go at the first stern summon. You just don't want to forgo his embrace. He hasn’t hugged you since that time you've been mugged and one moment was enough to make you realize how much you’ve missed it.

“Dunnae whether to be upset ye ran away again, or to find it cute that ye thought ye could actually outrun me.”

You gulp, heart pounding and cheeks heating up.

“Johnny…”

A host of pitiful excuses accumulates behind your lips, but somehow none manage to make its way out.

He briefly tightens his hold, but the gesture feels more like a hug than a restraint. Did he… did he just squish you? Like some kind of… cuddle toy?

“Got nothin’ to tell me?”

The question is a taunt as much as a hint at reconciliation.

You try to pace yourself, and think logically about this predicament of your own making. You need to devise a strategy to come out - more or less - unscathed of this.

Soap sounds more smug than mad, but still, passably angry. Maybe there's a way to fix this. Be friends again like nothing happened. Maybe he can forgive you.

First, do not worsen things.

Two, apologize. Properly.

Three, keep your fingers crossed …?

“I'm… sorry?”

He chuckles darkly.

“Gonnae take more than that.”

You try to resist the effects this sentence, his husky voice, his proximity, his laugh have on you, the way they make your stomach twist in apprehension and… indisputable arousal. Resist the temptation to close your eyes so you could focus on his voice alone, on the warm breath brushing your skin, on the lips so close to your ear; to let go in his arms, lean with your whole weight on his body.

Focus, damn it, you admonish and beg yourself all at once. On something else. Anything else.

You’re about to argue that he cannot possibly expect you to succeed in making amends when you’re in this compromising position, but you don't get the time.

Johnny hauls you away inside the nearest room. In a split second, he flicked the lightswitch on and nearly slammed the door behind you.

Cleaning products and exiguity surround you, illuminated by a cheap light bulb.

A closet, helpfully supplies your mind. 

You barely have time to digest this information that Soap cages you against the wall, resting his forearms over your head. He contemplates you with a mix of melancholy and longing that renders your knees weak and sends a pang in your chest.

“Been going bloody mad with thoughts of ye.”

His voice is smooth like silk, tone sweet like honey, caressing your ears, warmth dripping inside your chest, making your head spin; or maybe it's a result of his closeness; or a consequence of his cerulean eyes boring into you.

“Ye got any idea how it felt to see ye leave without being able to do a bloody thing ‘bout it? Wanted nothing more than to rip off the tubes, get up, grab ye and lay back in bed with ye in my arms.”

He's intoxicating. He has to be, with how high, euphoric you're feeling, all your problems swept away, insignificant.

“Tell me to fuck off.”

You blink in incomprehension. Drunk on him, you may have lost track a little.

“I'll back off fer good.” 

Bliss makes way to horror.

“Look me in the eye and tell me ye hate me. Tell me I disgust ye. Tell me ye wish ye never met m-”

“No!”

Your shout has the merit to make him stop, even if you didn’t mean to yell. Your scream disconcerts him for a second before an exultant grin stretches his lips. His smugness is back with a vengeance.

“So ye do like me.”

“How could I not,” you mutter, capitulating, but avoiding his gaze.

He refuses to let you, and cups one side of your face to make you look at him. As you meet his eyes again, his thumb tenderly strokes your cheekbone. You feel your insides melt at the gesture.

“I like ye. A lot.”

He licks his lips, as if to grant himself some time to mull over his next words, and you automatically follow the motion.

“And I want to kiss ye. A lot.”

His hand slides from your cheek to your chin, slightly tilting your head back.

“Can I?”

It takes a moment for you to regain your voice. When you woke up this morning, you most definitely didn’t expect to receive a confession from John Mactavish. Your brain goes into overdrive.

Is this real? Am I dreaming?

“Johnny, listen…”

The gaze he's aiming at you glows with hope.

“You don’t want to be with me. I'm…” 

What? A shell of a human being? Broken?

“…a mess.”

Expectation is replaced by resolve in his turquoise pupils.

“I know exactly what I want. And it's ye. Wouldn't be here otherwise.”

His patience seems to unravel with each passing second, as he stares at you with something akin to desperation written on his face.

“Want me to beg? S’that it?”

“What? No-”

“Cause I can. Beg real pretty. Bet ye'd like that. Saw how ye looked at me the other day when I got on my knees for ye-”

He keeps babbling sweet and filthy nothings that set your face ablaze. He saw how you looked at him? Mortification briefly flares up inside you before you notice the amusement in the corner of his lips, the playful glimmer in his glance, tangled with the neediness - he's joking around. You adopt a stern expression to chasten him but quickly realize he's way too busy staring at your lips to get the message. So you grab both sides of his face to get his attention - two can play this game.

The sheepish, sad puppy face he gives you in return barely makes a notch in your firmness. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, right before diving into the unknown.

“Yes,” you profess - and before he can tease you for clarification - “You can kiss me.”

But as he leans forward to obey, an incriminating detail surfaces in your mind.

“Wait, wait…”

You cover his mouth with one hand. Then immediately regret it, with how his eyes devour you the way his mouth can’t, not helping your flustered state at all.

He gently grabs your wrist and removes your hand, before pressing a kiss into your palm, your wrist.

“Now, better say something, or I'm gonna kiss my way up.”

He hums pensively.

“Scratch that, I'm gonna kiss ye everywhere.”

Pleasant tingles travel your whole body at that. He looks up from your hand to stare at you, and there's a devious glint in his eyes that tells you he caught sight of it.

“I have never.. done this… before.”

This confession means a lot to you. It's a well-kept secret, as long as people don't already deduce it from your lack of social skills. You’d rather it stays this way, but you don't see how you can start a relationship while withholding this truth.

All you can hope now is that Soap will react in a manner you consider appropriate. If he judges you, if that fact makes you go down in his estimation, or if he starts seeing you as some sort of innocent, naive individual that he could get off on corrupting, you’re not sure you'll be able to recover from it.

All playfulness deserts his face. He observes you with a mix of solemnity and compassion.

“Oh, bonnie… I don't give a shite ‘bout that. We'll go as slow or as fast as ye want, aye?”

Stirred beyond words, you nod your assent.

Not wasting any more time, he presses his lips to yours. They're soft and warm. You expected a surge of unbridled desire, but he takes his sweet time with you, to become acquainted with your mouth. 

It only lasts a moment though; as he seems to gain in confidence and deepens the kiss, his motions fill with fervor, turn frantic. Hunger rivals devotion.

They say the greatest pleasure possible a human being can experience isn’t, well, pleasure; it's the end of pain - and he's kissing you like he's been aching for it, for so long, and he's finally getting relief. He's clinging onto you like the separation of those past weeks put him in severe withdrawal.

You probably would have let him continue if you weren't compelled by the imperative need to breathe. You turn away, panting.

Not interrupted in the slightest, he simply latches onto your neck instead.

Floating in a daze, you absently close one hand on the back of his shirt, and fondle his mohawk with the other.

“Hold on to me.”

The instruction takes a ridiculously long time to reach you. Thankfully, Soap picks up on that and grasps your hands to place them on the back of his neck. You only understand his goal when his fingers slide behind your thighs and he lifts you up effortlessly, wedging you between the wall and himself.

Once he gets his fill of your throat, he sneaks one forearm under your rear and lets go of one of your thigh, somehow managing to keep you in the air one-armed, to tug at the opening of your top.

Seeing him struggle to open your blouse one-handed, you reach down to assist; but just as you do that, he grabs one side of the clothing between his teeth, and pulling the other with his free hand, he rips off the first three snap fasteners in one go. Your eyes go wide, your mind torn between finding the gesture arousing or risible. 

You settle for a fond scoff.

“You animal.”

The name feels all the more appropriate because when he looks up at you, releasing the cloth, the hunger in his eyes is striking, and the wolfish grin he grants you is the one of a ravenous predator.

“You could have just asked-”

“S'faster,” he shrugs, at least as much as possible in his current position.

You barely notice the staple of your bra opening; he hauls you slightly higher, bringing your chest to mouth level, and dives between your breasts like a man starved. The contact makes you tilt your head back against the wall, sighing in pleasure. The sensation of his lips and tongue against your sensitive skin makes you coil: your fingers grasp the back of his shirt and his hair, pressing his head impossibly closer, your thighs clench around his torso, your toes curl.

“Fuck, Johnny.”

He moans your name in response, albeit a bit muffled. He sounds as afflicted as you are, if not more. The idea turns you on terribly.

You look down to see him, and the vision of his face feverishly pressed to your skin is almost unbearable.

Suddenly he recoils, eyes meeting yours, and opens his mouth to stick his tongue out, right in front of your nipple, holding still in silent question. Your crotch throbs with arousal and you bitterly regret your earlier assessment - this view is much harder to endure, by far. The deep, honest eagerness in his gaze, coupled with the absolute submission to your will he demonstrates…

That doesn't stop you from frenetically nodding your head in agreement. His lips close around your nipple and the flick of his tongue against it draws a whine out of you. His free hand softly squeeze your other breast.

If he wasn’t holding you, your legs probably would have given out.

A faraway ringtone painfully pierces through the torpor you’re deliciously lost in. Your ringtone.

Johnny swears under his breath and blindly gropes your ass to silence your phone lodged in your back pocket.

Your eyes snap open in horror as you abruptly emerge into reality.

“Shit, shit, SHIT! Put me down!”

You repeatly hit Soap's shoulders to get his attention and convey urgency, without putting real force behind it. He complies immediately.

Your soles barely reached the ground that you’re already whiping out the device from your pants. Your coworker's name is displayed on the screen. Turning your back on Johnny, you pick up the call in a panic.

“Hey… yes. Yes, I'll be there in a minute. …They're not here yet? Thank fuck.” 

As you sheepishly reassure your colleague that you’ll be there soon for the meeting that should have already started, you feel fingers fiddling with your blouse. Your first instinct is to bat Johnny's hands away, before grasping that he's actually putting your snaps back in place.

“Hm? Oh no, nothing bad. … I, uh… I just got held back. Anyway, see you soon.”

You hang up with shaky hands and a weary but relieved sigh.

The Scotsman's arms wrap around your waist from behind and he lovingly nuzzles his face against yours. His stubble prickles your skin, but the gesture is too endearing for you to spurn him.

“No more running away, aye?”

He exudes peacefulness, every muscle in his body content and relaxed. Where did Ghost's vicious attack dog go and who's this teddy bear?

“No more running,” you acquiesce.

“Good lass,” he purrs.

Normally, you would have gotten back at him for that patronizing comment, but you still feel bad for the way you treated him, so you just grunt.

“We'll pick up where we left off, hmm?”

Your cheeks burn furiously as you realize what he's referring to - his kisses wandering lower, to fulfill the “everywhere” part of the pledge he made earlier.

What the hell did you get yourself into?

[miralaxio]

Devotion.

[topgunyaoi]

hi

[qinchebaobei]

The Holy Quaternity

[anoant-haikyuu-dump]

In the Philippines rn and was hit with a stroke of inspiration

[buildoblivion]

cheer up turlough you’re on holiday

[theshmeepking]

Recently came across lem0uro's old Saiya Moon art, and upon looking up more examples for a friend of mine I just happened to discover that somebody had uploaded most of the pages on Pinterest.

lem0uro hasn't been active in the Dragon Ball fandom for a good few years now (and as far as i can tell her only activity since early 2022 has been through Patreon exclusives) but I still to this day absolutely adore her art and feel like it'd be a waste not to preserve it, especially since I distinctly remember just how much love, care, and effort she put into this project specifically. So, in the interest of preservation, I uploaded the full comic (save for one page I unfortunately wasn't able to find), in order, to my Google Drive for your viewing/reading pleasure.

[screamingcrows]

Drabbles - Week 1

Zandicktober masterlist Welcome to (a reupload of) the month dedicated to putting our favourite Akademiya scholar through the wringer. Every week has 6 drabbles and (approximately) 1 drabble turned full fic. Some of these scenarios are objectively unpleasant. Every drabble will have content warnings where relevant, but expect it all to be between suggestive and explicit.

Minors DNI

Day 1 - Thirty minutes

Zandik took one glance down and sighed. It had been thirty minutes and it was still there, pressing uncomfortably against his boxers as he shifted.

Maybe if he could just-

A foreign sound was quelled with a cough. The quickest resolution would be to handle it. Crimson eyes averted to instead take in the steadily climbing sun, a fumbling hand reached into the nightstand. Gauze would have to do.

It was with tears stinging his eyes and white fibers clinging to his painfully hard cock that his orgasm crested, disappointing in every measure. Nothing to show but a sticky mess.

Day 2 - Dignity

Loud, bright, cramped; the House of Daena was a great many things. Faced with whispers and raised eyebrows, Zandik was once again reminded why it wasn't a preferred place of his to study.

Patience and endurance were his prized virtues.

But by now, you'd been chattering away to some lowlife for at least ten minutes. Laughing and touching their shoulder. Zandik's teeth ground against each other, fingers tightening around the corner of the table as he debated once more if he had the patience for this.

They were a waste of your time, someone who learned but didn't understand, and you should be able to see as much.

Day 3 - Light

Tantalizingly light brushes along his jawline had a shiver running down his spine and a frown settling.

"Quit it. We should be working."

Zandik despised your giggle almost as much as he cherished the memory of its warmth cradling him. Your quill tickled his neck and ear, a groan bubbling forth when his mind conjured images of your lips taking the place of that damnable feather.

"Find someone else to annoy."

You wouldn't, of course, he wouldn't let you. His hand already curled around your wrist, but found himself unable to spit out another scathing remark, warm puffs of air hitting his ear.

"Loosen up Zandik.."

Day 4 - A new person

Why he'd agreed to this was beyond even him. The voice saying that he wanted your praise had been smothered months ago after all.

So why did your scarf now cover his eyes? Faint notes of sumeru roses invading his senses while you'd tugged at his unruly hair. His heart was hammering in his chest because of the close proximity of sharp scissors.

"Final touches and you're a new person," your excited squeal had him huffing.

A sharp pop accompanied by the scent of cherries had him frown in confusion. What now?

Sticky lips pressed against his, protest lost to your mouth as he reached to tear off the blindfold, hating every moment of the messy feeling without mustering the will to pull away.

Day 5 - Drops (dacryphilia)

Perhaps his words had been on the harsher side, justifiably so but still, your tear stricken cheeks had come as a surprise.

The quiet sobs sent a shiver down his spine, hand moving to press against his lips to stifle- stifle what? A gasp?

Why was his skin heating up the longer he watched those crystalline tears mar your skin? Would they be heavy upon his tongue?

Zandik nearly choked when your tongue darted out to catch a drop, fingers clenching to hold tightly to control. You were weak enough to cry over nothing consequential, but he would not be so rash as to indulge in it.

Day 6 - Predator (full fic)

Foliage crumbling should have drawn his attention, all instinct screaming for his neck to twist and eyes to search. Predators were abundant.

The greatest of them all directly in front of him. Poisoned fangs behind upturned lips, hypnotizing eyes under thick lashes, and an outstretched hand, wholly bereft of claws.

Instead, a piece of leather lay in your palm, offered up as sweet bait to lure him close enough for the kill.

He took it with a still hand, forcing himself not to follow the leash to where it connected securely to the collar around your neck.

"Aren't you happy? No more getting angry because I wander off."

[kiruamon]

A villain's light AU - After the battle 4

He is trying his best.

[starcrossedjedis]

"Are you happy?" - Would it matter if I was? If I wasn't...?"

tagged: @acabecca @akabluekat @arrthurpendragon @asirensrage @astarionbae @bibaybe @bisexualterror @bravelittleflower @cas-verse @chickensarentcheap @curious-kittens-ocs @darknightfrombeyond @darkwolf76 @daughter-of-melpomene @drbobbimorse @eddiemunscns @emilykaldwen @foxesandmagic @fyeahgotocs @fyeahhotdocs @harleyquinnzelz @if-you-onlyknew @jewishbarbies @jamezvaldes @juliaswickcrs @katiekinswrites @kingsmakers @koiwrites @mabonetsamhain @mystic-scripture @ocappreciationtag @oneirataxia-girl @susiesamurai @stachedocs @thatmagickjuju

[skele-tam]

Starting off the new year with a drawing of my boy Zeta!

Did you know he actually works as a scientist, using his zero gravity magic to further this AU's research in space travel.

Why is he holding a beaker? Don't ask me, I'm not a scientist 🤷‍♂️

[wynniebear]

Dragon Wynnie *heart eyes* *blush*

[pinkstar-if]

Hey there! I know you said you probably won't come back to this game, but dashindon is getting shut down by the end of January. I was wondering if maybe you'd want to archive it or even relocate it somewhere. Pink Star is one of the first ifs I played and I have very fond memories of it, your writing is lovely! Whatever you decide I hope you're doing well and your education stuff is sorted out by now!

ahhhhhh this is such a nice comment 😭😭 I'm so happy that liked Pink Star that much, especially enough to come back and ask for me to keep the game playable.

I no longer had the files to Pink Star, but DashingDon was able to recover the files from the site and send them back to me.

So, with immense thanks to him, I have reuploaded the game to CoGDemos! (I haven't playtested. If there are any new bugs, let me know and I'll deal with them ASAP :) )

this being said, if you enjoy(ed) my writing, I do currently still write stuff, although it's a far cry from what I was writing here.

@27spoons <- is a blog I've been using to post fanfiction for the past little while. If you're a fan of Yellowjackets (the tv show), or have requests for literally anything you want me to write, requests are open for any fandom! but I have mainly stuck to Yellowjackets thus far.

anyways, i wanna thank you guys for all your continued support :) its incredible to me that a game I haven't touched in years is still receiving notice.

until we meet again <3