#there be sharp rocks and painful death and no rum at all

[darkandstormyart]

Ma, there is Xicheng discourse! 😱😱😱On the boyslove subreddit! They know of the tumblr!

*removes moss from the entrance to the hole beneath the rock i leave under*

*squints in the sun*

"discourse? foolish humans"

*crawls back under the rock*

(nah seriously tho, i'm curious what discorse? is it pro-xicheng vs. anti-xicheng? or is it a who-steals-whose-hoodies-in-this-relationship discourse? spill the tea, i am not familiar with the ways of the internet. as you can see, i'm still on tumblr)

[iceshard1011]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Characters: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, mentioned logan patton virgil and thomas Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Background Logic | Logan Sanders and Morality | Patton Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Being Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Explicit Language, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Blood and Injury, Brief suicidal thoughts, Imprisonment, Temporary Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Inspired by Art, I Tried, i've had creativitwin brainrot for weeks, something had to be done, Time Skips, Haunting, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders is a Good Brother, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Has Issues, They need hugs, Minor Original Character(s), they're just unnamed antagonists Summary:

Remus wished there were more stimulating things down here. Or that he wasn’t down here in the first place. Or that he was dead.

so @fangirltothefullest is an absolute sweetheart and allowed me to mess with some story concepts from her #halloween au, so cheers. i hope you don’t regret it.

5k word story below the cut :)

A modern-day architect would rather have called the castle a mansion, as it may have remained for that long but certainly not in its prime. By then, it would be overgrown and unkempt, with the rock stained dark and wood rotting, and one of the wings would be half-collapsed. By then, it wouldn’t be considered a castle, much less be considered livable. By then, the lonely halls would be acquainted with grief and heartbreak and a sense of ambition strong enough to feel stifling. By then, the mansion’s story would be long irrelevant and forgotten, save for two important variables.

After all, for a castle, it didn’t have a dungeon.

The cellar, for as large as it was, had not initially been very entertaining. It certainly was at least a little interesting now that anything within Remus’ reach had been torn apart and strewn across the floor. The shackles around his ankles and wrists were thin and flimsy but damned hard to break. He hadn’t even got a crack through the links.

Remus hadn’t gotten any ideas until one asshole ventured down into the cellar, gave Remus a smug smirk from where he was tethered in the corner, and snagged a handful of bottles from the far wall.

After she’d left, sauntering up the stairs like they owed her a personal favour, Remus had stretched his leg as far out as he could and kicked the shelf hard enough that it tipped. The sound of crashing glass and the inevitable distress from future intruders, stumbling down for a bottle of shitty whisky or rum, was enough to satisfy Remus.

Only for a small while.

When they’d found out what he’d done, a few brave pricks had tried to make him pay for it, but he’d got one of them in the groin and the other in the eye. They’d quickly decided the gashes in his legs from the littered glass was enough of a lesson.

It wasn’t.

Taking away their small pleasures wasn’t enough. Making them mildly irked at their lack of celebration drinks only fuelled Remus further.

The next thing in his reach were the barrels. The food didn’t matter all that much; potatoes, apples, a few boxes of nuts. He tipped them over, kicked them open, tried to make the ground as gross as possible and the food as uneatable as he could, all the while trying not to wince at the waste.

The only things that seemed to love it were the rats. Remus wasn’t sure how they got in, because as far as he was concerned the only animals that got into the castle were the ones he had occasionally brought in (at the expense of a poor few maids and their sense of sanitation and Roman’s patience) but they ate at the mess he’d created on the floor. He wished he could have said it was one of the best days of his life when they found the fermented grapes. They also ate the spiders in the darker shadows of the room, which he appreciated. It was a bit of a pain when his body defied him long enough to shut down and linger on the edges of unconsciousness only to wake up and find vibrating spiders itching up his face.

Sometimes, Remus’ acts of vandalization were less petty acts of revenge and desperate attempts to escape his own head because everything hurt and he couldn’t stop thinking and every time he closed his eyes, he was crimson soaked and he hated it and it was too much he just wanted it all to STOP—

Those were the times when the old portraits and unfinished artworks were kicked to the ground, dragged around, torn and ripped and cracked and destroyed. The canvases soaked with the floor and strengthened the damp, musky smell which anyone else would have hated but Remus was used to because he always returned home from trekking through rivers or swamps and Roman would wrinkle his nose at him and shoo him away to get cleaned while Remus just laughed in his face—

The noise made as Remus curled in on himself and pressed his clammy forehead to the ground was nearly inhuman.

He didn’t feel much like a human now anyway. Perhaps more accurately a feral werewolf, or a mutant cannibal with a mouthful of fangs, or maybe even a malevolent spirit scratching and clawing at chains wrapped along his body, if spirits exist, which Remus was loath to admit he had yet to be proved so.

(He’d always said that if he ever found a ghoul, he’d drag it into Roman’s room and set it on him for the pure joy of proving his brother wrong and god fucking damnit could his mind stop thinking for TWO SECONDS?)

Remus wished there were more stimulating things down here. Or that he wasn’t down here in the first place. Or that he was dead.

No one came down here, not after he’d attacked the food and drink and then any face that wasn’t familiar. Which included all of them, now. They had all probably figured that he had enough in the cellar to sustain him for however long they were going to leave him down here. Or they were going to let him die of malnourishment. He didn’t have much of a preference.

(He did, but it wasn’t the “right” preference.)

Once, he wasn’t sure how long ago now — hours, days? — a timid, shy looking servant had plucked up enough courage to venture into the cellar with him. They’d offered some clean food and a cheap chalice of water. He’d been mildly surprised when they’d gone so far as to placing it easily within his reach and not expecting him to pop a shoulder from its socket trying to get it.

Remus remembered thinking, for a moment, that they probably shouldn’t have been down in the cellar, and that food and water was probably not supposed to be for him, and they were probably risking something by doing this, and that they certainly hadn’t been part of the initial takeover.

But then he’d taken one look at what he’d been brought; the cruel reminder that he was stuck in a basement, chained and alive and he would rather just—  just—

He didn’t remember knocking the tray aside or lunging for the servant despite the chains painfully biting and tearing his skin. He could vaguely picture their terrified expression as they whirled and scrambled back up the steps, and the way the light dimmed with the slamming of the door.

He never saw or heard from that servant again. He hoped it was merely because they were scared of him now, and not something more sinister.

Remus shifted, his legs scraping across the ground. He wished the sharp sting coming from where the embedded glass pieces were enough to distract him from the bone deep throb echoing through his whole body.

He twisted his hands, a habit that had gotten him wrists rubbed raw and nails chipped and bleeding. It made his shoulder ache, too. He’d dislocated it at some point. Before or after being thrown into the cellar, he wasn’t certain.

It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if Remus found out he was already dying. Injuries he’d been dealt previously had yet to be treated, and he was willing to bet any chance of freedom that the open, festering wounds were now infected.

Breathing was painful, too. Whether that was the result of broken ribs or something else, Remus had yet to decide.

It didn’t really matter all that much to him, anyway.

Remus closed his eyes and wished for sunlight.

  The bush had clearly been munched. Remus leaned down to squint at it, eyeing the berries and the half-eaten leaves. The muddy banks of the creek proved Remus’ suspicions with a small, almost indistinct trail of hoofprints.

Remus grinned. He shook off the persistent black beetle, which had been trying to crawl onto his boot and turned.

“Alright Moonshine,” he announced. “We’re on the right track.”

The Appaloosa nickered in reply as he swung back onto her back.

“Yeah, I know I can’t call you that in public,” he said, “but there’s no one else around here, is there?”

Moonshine snorted in agreement. Remus nudged her sides and she started forward, delicately clopping over the riverbed. She was much more tranquil than Remus’ old horse, who had been an absolute delight to go on adventures with. Too bad Roman let the stupid advisors boss him into getting rid of her, since she was such a menace. Admittedly, she had been a menace, and admittedly, Remus had loved her very much.

Roman had given him Moonshine and told him to call her Moon in front of anyone else. Remus had decided it wasn’t an all-bad apology. This horse didn’t kick him when he approached her, which he supposed was a bonus.

Given Moonshine’s naturally mild attitude, he was understandably perturbed when she stopped in her tracks and began to back up. Remus frowned and scanned the surrounding trees.

“Nothing’s there, girl. Go on.”

Moonshine snorted anxiously. Her ears swivelled. Remus followed them, glancing back the way he’d come. They weren’t that far from home. What was going through her head?

The horse’s hooves skidded across the ground. Remus narrowed his eyes.

“You smell something?” he asked. Moonshine waved her head from side to side, her eyes rolling. Remus glanced up. Past the treetops, there was a trail of smoke curling up towards the clouds. He couldn’t see where it was coming from, but the unsettled feeling in his gut told him he was quite sure he already knew.

Despite her protests, Remus twisted Moonshine to face the direction of the castle and dug his heels into her sides.

 The slamming of the cellar door flung Remus’ eyes open, accompanied by the rapid thumping of his alarmed heart.

He scowled at the thudding of heavy boots on creaky stairs and wondered where Moonshine had gotten to. He hadn’t seen her since he’d reached the castle doors. He hoped she was still intact. Perhaps she had run away the moment he’d dismounted. Perhaps he was more of an unrealistic optimist than he knew himself to be.

Three pale faces bobbed down the stairwell and approached Remus. Remus greeted them with a snarl and feint, to which they all reacted wonderfully with varying degrees of fear. It satisfied Remus enough to remain passive while the guards gripped his arms and detached the chains from the wall. They dragged along the ground with a painful scrapping ring as they heaved Remus up the stairs.

He waited until they’d kicked the cellar door closed behind them to punch the first guard in the face.

He got a kick to his knee for it, and it collapsed under his weight, but they only had to put more effort into keeping him upright, so was it really much of a loss?

Remus didn’t know for certain where he was being taken — dragged, really — but he had a vague inkling that made something in his stomach uncurl ever so slightly.

Twenty minutes later, the first guard with a soured mood, the second with a bruised cheek and the asshole at the back with a broken nose, Remus considered it a win by the time he was flung to the ground at a pair of pretentiously shined stolen boots that glinted maliciously up at him.

“Providing my guards with a hard time, were you?”

Remus bared his teeth skywards. The asshat snorted, like he was amused at the display, and anger curled in Remus’ gut. He shot up, his chained hands reaching, grasping, clutching mere inches from that smug dickface’s gob.

“Go piss into a wolf den, asswipe,” Remus told him. He got another laugh in reply, so he jerked forward and smashed his head to the man’s jaw.

The dickweed staggered back with an agonised cry, and once more Remus felt something in him curling and clenching and biting because really, he couldn’t handle a little bit of a chipped tooth?

“Fucking pussy,” Remus scoffed under his breath.

The man, who was no more a leader than he was a sack of shit sitting in the middle of a grandly polished entrance room, waved to the balcony. “Get him out there.”

The balcony, Remus quickly found, was the centre of attention for a goddamn amphitheatre-esque performing stage.

“Putting me on my knees?” Remus asked as he was shoved to the ground a second time. Whale Penis sneered down at him, still rubbing his swollen jaw. “It’s not the most romantic setting I’ve ever seen. And you haven’t even taken me out to dinner yet.”

“One more word out of your mouth, and I’ll cut out your tongue before your head.”

“Sorry, you skunk-smelling scumbag-of-puke-smelling plaything for a dog,” Remus spat. “I’m into that.”

Cocksucker curled his lip distastefully. He waved his hand, and Remus was bent over a slab of wood that bit into his throat.

“Personally, I’m a bit of top, myself,” Remus said despite the glint of metal now shining ominously above his head. He had to shout over the noise of the people below. “But whatever. If you’re into doggy style—”

“Enough!” Son of a Screaming Banshee Bitch yelled. Silence fell. Remus squinted down at the crowd, but he couldn’t discern any familiar faces. Either they were hiding themselves from him, or… “I thought you would be far more amusing, yet unfortunately, you’ve proven me wrong. I have had enough of this,  and you.” He shoved a finger at Remus’ face. He’d bite it if he could. (Given his head was trapped between wood, waiting to be severed from his shoulders, he very clearly couldn’t. The urge was still there, though.)

Murderous Bastard turned to the man standing above Remus and said, “Execute him.”

The blade swung down. Remus grinned.

Finally.

 When Remus strutted out into the room, wearing before multiple servants, council members and advisors a frilly green dress blown out around his feet and shrinking down his chest so much it was a relief he did not possess the ideal female body, Roman’s headache returned tenfold.

It didn’t help matters that Remus was continuing a rant from the night prior — one that involved his very open, very shameless, very dangerous thoughts about some poor attractive sod he had seen the week he had ventured into town.

“Remus,” Roman said placatingly.

“You should’ve seen it; he was just looking for trouble dressing like that!”

“I can imagine,” Roman said, not unkindly. Normally, he would indulge Remus for longer, but he could tell that the others in the room were beginning to grow agitated and uncomfortable.

“And I don’t even know why I like him. He’s not even that interesting!”

“It’s all about looks,” Roman assured him blandly, moving his attention to the scrolls before him. One advisor leaned down to murmur their input to him.

“Ah, right!” Remus said, bonking himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. “Dick size! How could I forget? I must be ill.”

“Remus,” Roman said with a sigh, and his brother finally, finally fell quiet. “I would like to hear more of this, truly, but… Perhaps at a different time?”

Remus wrinkled his nose.

“When I’m not in the middle of a meeting?”

Remus’ scowl deepened.

“That you should be a part of as well?”

Remus’ sour expression dropped. He glanced away, wearing the face of someone who knew they were caught red-handed doing something they should not have been doing. Roman raised his eyebrows.

Remus whirled. His dress swiveled around his ankles. “I’m going hunting.”

“Wearing that?” Roman asked after him. Remus flipped his brother off on his way out the door. Roman squelched his smile when he spotted the disdain on the advisors’ faces. He continued to discuss with the others in the room, quietly wondering how many more seconds in Remus’ presence they were from all having simultaneous strokes.

Luckily (or not) that didn’t happen when Remus poked his head back into the room, his dress swapped for his hunting attire and announced, “I’ll be back by sunset, probably.”

Roman hid his smile and told him, “Bring back dinner.” Remus grinned brightly and Roman was sure one of the counsellors almost squawked in outrage.

Roman was loath to admit it in front of anyone, but going about his day as he was required was a duty nothing short of exhaustingly mundane without Remus. His brother always provided some level of amusement, even if it became distracting at times. Roman supposed that burying oneself into one of the empty armour suits used purely for  décor  and prancing around to ambush unassuming servants was not an agreeable practice. Remus never enjoyed being cooped up in the castle, though. He got restless, and Roman knew he wasn’t simply “acting out” when crammed into small spaces, no matter how large the castle.

By the time Roman emerged and escaped to the balcony, his headache had spiked to a near-migraine. He tried not to slump but leaning against the railing felt pitifully relaxing after sitting rigidly straight for the entire day.

He was so busy massaging his temples that at first, he hadn’t registered the sudden disturbance down the corridor from him.

Don’t groan, Roman told himself as he stifled a heavy sigh and turned, venturing towards the noise. What was he going to have to deal with now? With any luck, Remus was back and causing mayhem. Roman could do with his brother’s carefree nature at the moment.

He didn’t expect the Great Hall’s polished floor to be splattered with blood and all exists guarded at weapon-point.

“I’ll ask once more,” a voice called. Roman traced it to one of the strangers, who was now looking down at a councillor. “The lord of the mansion is… where?”

The advisor’s gaze caught Roman’s, and he pointed without a moment’s hesitation. Disappointing, Roman supposed, but he didn’t have it in him to be surprised. The intruder turned, a wide smile plastered to his lips when he spotted Roman standing in the hallway entrance. The look in the stranger’s eyes was full of confidence, but one that Roman couldn’t see in a leader.

“It’s prince, actually,” Roman said, briskly walking to the centre of the room before one of the lingering members included in the odd style of takeover could take a swipe at him. “Given our parents were connected to the royal family.”

The man tilted his head. “Interesting. Do you always talk so highly of yourself?”

Roman tried not to scoff indignantly. “Do you always invade people’s homes to mock them?”

“It’s a profession.” The man stalked forward, strides long and slow and not unlike a hunting predator. Roman didn’t miss the sabre at his side.

Still, he only barely managed to repress the flinch when the blade was brought inches from his neck. “Are you aware of how many people your parents fucked over?”

Roman gave him a raised eyebrow. “Were you among them?” he asked, his voice pitched innocently.

The man’s expression darkened, but then dropped to be startled when he found his sabre being obstructed by the blade of a golden-handled rapier. Roman gave him a considering look and a smirk that bordered between sly and puzzled.

“This is not how I remember duels beginning,” Roman said. The man frowned, but the way he immediately tried to kick Roman’s knees told the prince pretty much all he needed to know.

“You’re not very experienced, are you?” Roman asked, easily sidestepping a slash for his shoulder. “Did you think you could just storm a random place with force and some scary blades?” He twisted away from a swipe at his ankles.

“I have help,” his opponent assured him. “If I wanted it, you’d be dead already.”

“You should meet my brother,” Roman said. Blood sprayed to the ground when his rapier left a line along the man’s cheek. “If you weren’t trying to invade our home right now, I believe you two would make a great pair for collective destruction and carnage.”

“I’m sure.”

Roman just barely managed to escape the severing of the tendons of his wrist with the next attack. He skipped a step backwards and used the change of weight and positions to darted around the challenger (a mild and rather polite label for the gang who had already taken several lives unauthorised and attacked without the laws of a proper duel in mind). The man’s legs buckled beneath him with one kick, and Roman leapt away before his own legs could be caught by the edge of a blade.

“What is this all about, then?” Roman asked, frowning at the man as he struggled up from the ground. His sword was lowered, if only in consideration for not attacking a felled objector, but his senses were still running on hyperdrive; the servant at the back of the room was still alive, just barely, despite the blood projecting from their throat. The two intruders near the hallway that lead to the armoury looked like they were discussing bets. To the left, a gang member was inspecting the rings on the hand of a dead councilman. “Surely you could have robbed this place by now.”

“I’m not going to monologue and give you a chance to hatch some grand escape plan,” Roman’s combatant snapped, rising to his full height. “I’m not that dull.”

“Oh, no,” Roman said, because that hadn’t actually crossed his mind, “I’m genuinely wondering what you’re thinking.” He was levelled with a doubtful look, so he continued; “This all seems either incredibly planned out or a spur-of-the-moment decision that carried you here with a number of men and weapons. So what do you want? Money? Is it a ransom? The actual lord and lady of the house died months ago. You can’t get revenge on them.”

“No,” the man agreed. “But I can with you.”

Blazing hot pain sliced along the back of Roman’s leg. It was so sudden and intense that he couldn’t bite back the scream that tore his throat. His knee buckled but he regained his balance by twisting away from his attacker from behind and waving his sword.

“I have help,” the man reminded him with a smug smile. Roman’s lip curled in distaste.

“No honour among thieves, I suppose,” Roman mused, grinding his teeth and forcing himself to stand straight. He wrinkled his nose after a moment. “What the hell are you burning?”

“The gardens.”

Roman rolled away from an attack from someone at his flank and whirled to glower at their leader. “Why?”

The brute dared to look Roman in the eye, shrug, and say, “Felt like it.”

Roman growled and left an open gash along his assailant’s dominant arm. The man shouted and teetered back. Roman swiped another wound down his calf. He dodged a hit from behind and ignored the shriek from the attacker behind him as they clutched at their eye.

Two other guards dropped the more their leader was pushed back to the point of the stairs at the back of the Great Hall, where he was tripped and pinned by a blade to his throat.

Roman glowered down at him. “I was already in a foul mood today,” he said informatively, “and I am less than impressed at your vandalization as well as the murder of the people who live here.” His eyes darkened dangerously. The tip of his rapier brushed the bob of the man’s throat. “Letting you go to live the rest of your life in a prison cell seems like a generous offer to me.”

The entrance doors burst open with a thundering crack and Roman jolted, his grip tightening on his hilt in fear of dropping it. He wasn’t expecting his brother to explode into the room in a furious whirlwind and start swinging his morning star.

“Remus!” Roman barked, almost involuntarily. What the hell was he doing here? “What are you doing?”

His brother glanced up, looked Roman in the eye, and smashed the head of one of his attackers beneath his boots. Roman grimaced. More blood spilled onto the floor.

The leader of the foolish escapade launched himself from the ground while Roman was distracted, and the two of them rolled down the steps. Roman flung his arm out to deflect a dagger stabbing for his face, but his sword flew from his grasp, spinning across the floor with a singing screech. He got another punch in on the leader before one of the moron’s backups dove to pin his arms down.

Remus shouted his name, and he twisted his head in time to watch his brother get kneed in the stomach and thrown to the ground.

He couldn't get up; the leader’s dagger was positioned to just barely be touching the edge of his eye in silent threat. He was going on about something to do with revenge and blah blah I’m a villain.  Roman pressed his knees to their chest, gifted him a winning smile, and kicked.

The moment that the man went flying Roman clambered away from the other guard, making for Remus at the same time as his brother smashed heads with his attacker, sending them slumping to the ground.

Relief made Roman’s muscles go weak for half a second, but it was all the leader needed to pounce on him a second time.

“Consider this a generous offer,” the man snarled and buried the dagger to Roman’s chest. Roman scrambled backwards, still looking around for his sword. If he could just—

He cursed as his arms dropped his weight.

“YOU SON OF A BLOOD-SUCKING PIG FUCKER,” Remus roared.

Roman kept his breathing even. He glared up at the criminal. “You’re a coward.”

“And you’re dead,” the man replied. Remus careened forward, missed the leader when he dodged, and paid him no more attention in favour of skidding over to his brother. Behind him, a guard raised a crossbow, but he was waved away. The leader watched the pair before him, something akin to sadistic interest lighting his eyes.

A few moments later, though, he’d wave a hand, and a group of his followers would pin the one with the angrily twitching moustache to the ground and drag him somewhere to be contained. There were more exciting things to deal with, and an emotionally repressed brother going through grieving was not one of them.

Remus was snarling like some wild thing, and when he stopped shaking his brother he whirled around, teeth bared and fists clenched and eyes unfocused.

He was knocked to the ground before he could attack. The leader got a fat blob of spit on his shoes and a disgustingly unfavourable insult hurled at his person shortly before a sword hilt connected with the back of his skull and he went as limp as his brother.

 Remus was having a Very Bad Day.

He wasn’t sure when he decided, exactly. It had probably been on its way for quite some time, but Remus was always bad at calculating emotional responses and realising when Bad Days were on their way, so perhaps this was not completely unexpected. It did not make anything any easier.

The smallest noises around the mansion had him jumping. Earlier, he’d snarled at the door that always creaked in the kitchen. He’d given Thomas a bad scare, too, when he’d looked at the werewolf and lunged for him with his own bared teeth.

Remus hadn’t realised it was so bad until Patton had walked into the room, screamed, and Remus had spun to see all the furniture levitating off the ground.

Growling, he shuddered from head to toe, trying to dispel the jittery energy tingling in his limbs. Which was stupid, he was being stupid. He wasn’t even physical anymore, he shouldn’t be feeling bugs crawling beneath his skin.

He regarded the jagged shards grouped on the ground and wondered if Logan was sick of him breaking his vases. Several vases, multiple lights, any painting he came across and a variety of decorative plates and bowls had already been destroyed in his trail.

He wanted to kick at one of the pieces, but only the wisp of his body misted around the ground uselessly. The chains strapped to his body scraped across the floor. Remus blinked down at them for a moment, and they began to morph into a pair of blood-splattered weapons and a soaked uniform.

Vehement fury boiled out of him in the form of a low snarl.

The furniture in the room lifted again, now shaking like Remus had dumped the bugs on them instead. Something behind him shattered with his clenched fists.

Movement caught his eye and he whirled, claws elongated and teeth sharpened.

Roman regarded him mildly, calmly taking in the destruction of the room. Remus shifted, still bristling, but now silent as he watched Roman move past him and try to push a flowerpot back onto the desk from where it was dangerously tilting forward. It didn’t move, even with his effort. Remus swallowed needlessly and joined him, successfully pushing the pot to a safer position.

“Sorry,” said Remus, sounding like dragging chalk and screeching metal.

Roman glanced at him. He didn’t ask what he was apologising for. He never did. Remus wondered if he feared the answer. “You’re a poltergeist. Isn’t this behaviour standard?”

Remus worked his jaw, but nothing came out. Roman’s gaze swept back over the room. “Logan will be grateful you spared his photo frames.”

Remus cracked a cheek-to-cheek smile full of teeth. “Only for when Patton’s not in the mood.” 

Roman visually sighed, though no sound accompanied the gesture. Remus tried scratching at his arms, but they only phased harmlessly through. He growled to himself. Roman squinted at him. “Your neck is bleeding again.”

Remus took the opportunity to tilt his head exaggeratedly and unnaturally to the side. Roman’s face twitched, a hint of a wince.

“Remus,” he admonished quietly.

Remus shrugged and shifted away. He frowned at the far wall. Roman did not reach for him. He never did. Remus never asked; he had a solid idea why. If he were in his brother’s position, he wouldn’t care much for being affectionate with him, either.

“Virgil and Thomas were making warm drinks when I last left them. Would you like to join them?”

“We can’t drink that shit,” Remus spat.

Roman didn’t react. “It’s not about the drinks.” Remus curled his lip. “I know you don’t like to interact with them, but perhaps it will be good for you.”

Remus gnashed his teeth. The chains curling heavier around his body. He glanced down the hallway. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine Thomas’ joyful laughter and Patton’s giggles. It made him angry, how they could be so carefree. How they got away with being monsters and could still smile.

“Come on.” Roman brushed past him, their shoulders just barely touching for a mere moment. “If you hate it still after a little while, I won’t bother you again.”

Remus huffed. He trailed after his brother, shoulders slumped. Roman glanced back at him and he scowled back, making his point evidently clear without whining further.

Then, Roman gifted him a small, genuine smile. Something in Remus’ chest leaped, but it couldn’t have been his heart because that thing didn’t work anymore.

He grinned back, but by the sad look in Roman’s eyes, he could tell his brother knew it wasn’t genuine.

“Only a little while,” Roman reminded him. Remus sighed, low and grating and painful. The blood around his throat lessened, only slightly.

“A little while,” he echoed, and followed his brother.

[yeet-imma-skeet]

Oh There’s The Sky

(Based on @starr-fall-knight-rise ‘s unique universe. Part 4 of the story.)

(Part 1: https://yeet-imma-skeet.tumblr.com/post/613232997621202944/the-sky-is-falling)

“Holy shit.”

“What a big ass spaceship!”

“Looks like right out of Star Trek.”

“Doesn’t it look like it’s broken though?”

The crewmen and marines gathered in the mess hall to recuperate murmured to each other in agreement as a wide projection of the strange vehicle outside spread throughout the ship like wildfire.

It slowly grew closer to them as they fumbled through space with what was left of their thrusters, showing evidence of damage to its hull. A jagged line the size of their own ship cut through its back end, nearly cutting off a winged structure.

"I bet the ones who built it are tiny."

Someone choked on their drink, "Pfft, how do you know that?"

"Well usually the smaller the alien, the bigger they make their stuff. You seen a Celzex ship? They're fucking huge."

"It’s best not underestimate whatever is in that monstrosity," A bright yellow Drev joined in, cradling a slinged arm.

The resting humans begrudgingly agreed until a sudden sense of caution flowed through them as the pearly ship towered close to their own. The few injured Drev in the room felt unease at the sudden restlessness the humans shown, especially those who were marines.

The yellow one asked, "What's wrong?"

"That." A young marine pointed at the display, "The vibes feel weird."

"The vibes."

"Don't underestimate the power of vibes, too."

The Drev shook their head in disbelief, but then again, humans were known for their strange power of prediction...

————————————

"Caldat!"

Thunk! Galia’s vision erupted into black and white splotches as she held her throbbing head. Dizzy and quite mad, she slid out from under a techy floor table on the fritz.

"Yerras! What?!"

"Report to the command room immediately!"

Sensing something wrong, she ignored the fading pain and ran out one of the gathering decks. Within a few minutes, she flew through the corridors to burst into the command room. The hovering orb projected a few panels of information around it as it connected to the master control panel. Then she heard it. It was a mix of lilting tones along with short hisses and abrupt humming not unlike her own voice. Curiously, she opened an arial, listening to the disconcerting yet beautiful sound.

Remembering why she came there, she asked, "What is up with that noise?"

"We've encountered another dolmier through short range communication. The noise you are hearing is an unknown language sent from it. It also sent data which I am working to translate by looking through their own systems. Their security is surprisingly weak, almost ancient."

Her eyes widened in shock, "Doesn't that mean—"

"We have met another sentient species."

A bombshell could almost be heard inside her head. Scientists theorized that there could be others in the vastness of space but no one found any interest outside their solar system. They had plenty of resources and had no shortage of companionship. The few who gazed towards the stars were only seen as eccentric and mostly worthless. Why would they look past their reach? Why would they try to find anyone else? What worth is there in another people?

Now that Galia is about to encounter another, she had no idea how to react. The past fifty cycles of training and combat did nothing to prepare her for meeting a whole nother alien species. Sure, some diplomacy would probably help but how would she know that it was appropriate for them? She sighed as she remembered that her comatose friends could've helped as they were taught to be the best diplomats. As numerous thoughts and improvised ideas past through her mind, the orb made a revelation through its translation.

"They are asking for assistance. Their dolmier is critically damaged and they have injured."

"What?" She was knocked out of her thoughts, "Show me the dolmier."

With a few moving around of its projections, a large image appeared. She was prepared to see something mysterious and powerful. Maybe discover a giant behemoth of a dolmier or one decked out in countless weapons. Instead, she found a stumpy, gray brick. A very beat up brick. Chunks of space rock were stuck in its hull. It was... quite small. She couldn't imagine living in such an enclosed space.

"Despite its appearance, it has a powerful engine called a 'warp core' made for deep space exploration."

"Exploration? Why?"

"After looking through some of their data, the makers seem to be an unusually curious species. Their dolmier's directive is to purposely find and record unknown things."

"Hmm." Her tail swished around in concentration, "We have no shortage of rooms but we have next to no food for others."

"...Our directive to keep the Royals safe and search for others. They may jeapordize our purpose."

"Yes, but we can't really do that in the middle of nowhere when we are running out of food and have a broken thruster. If we save them, they may offer us some assistance in return."

"...They ARE omnivores like yourselves and seem to have a better handle on food production."

She walked to the control panel, "Then we agree to assist them?"

"I shall send an affirmed message and instructions on docking. Though the translation isn’t perfect, they should get an understanding."

———————————

Captain Silva sat hunched over in his quarters, head in his hands as a heavy sigh slid from his lips. If anyone was with him, they would've smelled the faint aroma of rum from his breath. Granted he only had a sip, a shot-sized sip, but one nonetheless. He wanted to keep sipping, maybe from the bottle itself as the thought of the many deaths he caused weighed on his mind. As mich as he craved the feeling of freedom in the form of alcohol, he promised his crew that he would be back after a break. They wouldn’t find it very comforting to find their captain inebriated and he needed to do all he could to prevent panic.

A voice called from his com, “Captain, please report to the command deck. We have a reply.”

He heaved his heavy body off his untouched bed, combing his hair into place to look like he hadn’t just been pulling at it a few moments ago. Looking into a mirror as he almost left, he swiftly washed his face of any tear stains. He can’t let them see him like this just yet.

The weary officers on deck perked up at the sight of their captain entering the bridge, looking tired yet stern as always. A lingering medic, the head doctor in fact, narrowed her eyes at his flushed cheeks but paid no mind once he started giving orders as usual.

“What’s the reply?”

The communications officer stood as she reported, “They have accepted our ask for help and showed diagrams on how to board their ship. They apparently have a docking bay that can fit half of the ship though it is normally used for smaller craft.”

“Have you gotten anything about what kinda alien we are dealing with?”

“Well we received a bulky package of medical data. Some of it is unintelligible but we do have an image. It’s—um, well see for yourself. You too, doctor.”

The room grew still as the hologram of something not unfamiliar showed. The first thing they noticed was the face. It was very much like their own except for a lack of a mouth and nose, only a smoothened white face with red eyes which seemed to stare into nothing. They then saw the noticeable differences. The most apparent thing they all noticed was a long reptilian tail on their rump, ending with a tuft of hair the same yellow hue as the mane on their head. Something like bird wings grew from the sides of their head where ears would usually be. They were also bipedal, with legs resembling a prehistoric raptor’s.

Latinar stepped back at the sight, eyeing their three toes ending with sharp claws. He shivered at the thickness of their arms and even sharper looking claws from their six fingers.

“A predator species!” He exclaimed.

The room erupted into a flurry of whispers of surprise and awe as a few muttered in unease. Silva gazed at the rotating image as shock rolled into his mind. The commander and his crew were the only other ones to find a predator species. They were only just barely sentient with a young civilization but a predator species nonetheless. And he, Captain Silva, and his crew discovered another one!

“Now, now. Everyone quiet down.” He motioned with his hands, “Are they safe to approach?”

The officer read through the incoming message as she said, “The message they sent was cordial though some words were a bit off. Plus, they sent us their anatomy and medical records. I don’t see why not.”

“Hmm. Doctor?”

“Whoever is doing the translating is appearing to be accurate. The records are changing as I’m reading it and it shows biologies similar to us.” She answered, not looking up from her screen, “I suggest we wait a bit until everything is translated so we can produce vaccines as needed.”

Silva nodded, “Alright then. Send a message that we’ll wait for the medical records to fully translate and secure our safety before we come. Also, send some of our information to their side.”

———————————

“We received a message back and a data bank of biology records.” The orb wrote on a screen.

Galia stopped her pacing as she asked, “What did they say?”

The orb relayed the message as multiple squares of information projected from its form. The foreign characters on them changed into Farrisan ones as she skimmed through. Then her gaze landed on a 3D image of the dolmier’s creators within. They were almost like her own species! They had forward facing eyes with strange protrusions on their face and had small, strangely-shaped arials on their heads. Their legs were almost straight and gangly along with their arms. They also seemed to be clawless and only had five fingers on each hand. What surprised her the most was their lack of a tail. How the heck do they stay balanced without a tail?

She tilted her head at the sight of the strange creature, looking into its blank eyes. The image seemed empty, devoid of life. She couldn’t imagine it being real if it wasn’t for the fact that they were within orbiting distance of multiple. Another projection caught her eye, one completely different from the first creature.

It looked like a shiny, armored bird. They stood like Farrisans, with strong legs that ended in two stubby toes. They also had no tail, making her flick her arials in disbelief once again. What made up for the lack of one was an extra set of arms. An interesting thought crossed her mind as she imagined the creature in front of her. It would be quite interesting to fight with one, especially because of their extra arms and large stature like their own males.

“The first species which makes up the majority of their group are called humans. The one you’re looking at now are called drev.”

The unknown sound it said aloud for their names sounded almost musical. It would be quite hard for her to pronounce ‘drev’ but found saying ‘human’ much easier on the tongue.

An icon appeared next the the orb, “They are requesting for a live video call, caldat. Do you want to answer?”

Her arials perked up as her tail flicked around in thought, “You’ll translate?”

“Of course.”

“...Accept the call.”

———————————

The room of humans and a drev stood uncharacteristically quiet as the centuries old dial tone rang in the air. Captain Silva sat on his chair, dressed with his cap and uniform jacket as he anxiously waited for anything to happen.

Then it did.

The image almost blinded him with the sheer amount of white on the other side of the call. The room inside seemed to be of the same material one the outside of their ship, an almost obnoxiously bright pearly white. When his eyes adjusted, he finally saw what inhabited it. The creature was almost as white as the room with long dark hair. One of its golden eyes was closed as a pink scar ran down the left side of its face. Though he hadn’t seen them for long, even he could tell that they looked weary and cautious.

They hummed and hissed as words crossed below the screen, showing a translation, “Greetings human. I am Galia. May I know who this is?”

He spoke with practiced ease, “I am Captain Silva of the UNSC Esperanca. I’m glad to speak with you as we need immediate help.”

The being paused as they read their own translation, “Yes, I have seen but I also am in need of aid.”

“We have seen the damage to your ship as well. In exchange for sheltering in your ship, we can help fix it. There is next to no room left for our crew and we need to contact our allies.”

“That is a sound exchange though may I ask for help with provisions? My food supply is almost empty and its procurement is slow.”

“How many are in your crew?”

“...It is only me.”

Silva’s eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, “You are alone in that giant ship?”

“Yes, there were more but...” Her strange ear-wing-things drooped, “A sickness has killed them.”

The nearby doctor’s head shot up from her readings. Without any regard to the captain, she butted into the video, “A lethal sickness?”

The creature looked at her in surprise, “Yes, but the onboard AI has found a preventative medicine to combat it from my own blood. I was fortunate enough to be naturally immune to it. I will mention, however, that there is no cure at the moment if one does get infected.”

The captain and doctor looked at each other, a silent conversation passing through their eyes. The white being looked between them, confused yet intrigued at the staring contest.

The doctor asked with a serious expression, “Can you send us all the information about it?”

——————————

For once, Galia had no clear answer. Who would want to help them if they knew about the Infection? Saying ‘well you’ll find that it killed most of our population right after they gone mad and infected others and there no cure so please help’ is going to make them run for the hills. She did the best she could to not visibly look panicked but she had to say something, the hesitation was starting to show.

The orb interrupted, “I’ll send every known instance of the disease and my progress in its eradication. Forewarned, it can be graphic.”

The humans looked at the orb in shock as information poured into the doctor’s tablet, causing her to brush off her shock as she scanned it.

Galia openly gazed at the floating ball in disbelief, “Orb! What the h—“

“After looking through their data, I have concluded that they will not leave us behind.”

“H—Why?”

“Because they are human...”

(Part 5: https://yeet-imma-skeet.tumblr.com/post/616966577516150784/the-sky-is-in-pieces)

[snarkwriteswrasslin]

FFT: sirens song; jon moxley

Notes:

So.. this came into my main from @vonschweetz​ and I had to do this, entirely based on conversations we were having at the time about Mox’s pirate patch. And sirens. This is a pirate soulmate siren au thing? Enjoy? I do definitely want to write this out in full at some point but again, i do not know. we shall see.

Summary:

Pirates and sirens.. Those two things do not fit.. Or do they? Mox is a pirate in search of a long sunken ship and it’s treasure. Serafina is the siren whose supposed to protect the ship. She’s trying to lure Mox to his death but Mox ends up saving her life. Bantering and flirting and the discovery of hey, we’re soulmates?!?

Warnings:

alcohol tw, drowning mention, and shenanigans.

Pairing:

Jon Moxley x OFC, Serafina

A flash of brilliant red caught his attention and in a rush, Mox drunkenly raced for the binoculars sitting on a long wooden bench near the side of the boat. Picking them up, he raised them to his eyes and peered through.

“Well, goddamn.” he nearly choked on the rum as the sip he’d taken conflicted with a sudden lump forming in his throat. He chuckled to himself watching the leggy redhead as she lazed on a rock just a few feet from the spot on the old weathered map in the pocket of his breeches. “ Hope she’s not lookin for the Pearl too, otherwise, we’re gonna have a serious problem. She’s been here every fuckin day this week.. Singin and layin on that damn rock..”

First glimpse showed that she seemed to be tanning. And upon closer inspection of the sky, a storm looked like it’d be rolling in later that day. But for whatever reason, Mox found himself drawn to her. And was that music he was hearing again?

He tensed all over almost as soon as the realization hit him exactly who he was looking at.

The boat was too close to the X on the map to turn back now. “Can’t hear her fuckin death song i-if I-I’m shitfaced.” Mox muttered drunkenly as he turned the bottle up and downed as much as he could.

But he couldn’t stop hearing it. And the more he heard it, the more he wanted to dive off the boat.. Swim out to her.

That was all part of their lure. He knew that. It didn’t stop her song from having some form of an effect on him.. But the kicker to all this was one thing.. He’d always been immune to the song of the siren. As in, he’d never been able to hear their songs.

It really got him to thinking. A sharp sting from his wrist had him dropping both binoculars and rum bottle to the deck and swearing as he gripped his wrist with his opposite hand. The pain felt hot, like a branding iron being seared to his flesh. When he took his hand off his wrist, red raised flesh greeted him.. An intricately designed silhouette of a woman with flame-red hair.

XXX

“Oh come on.. Seriously? You’re not going to turn back? Most are deathly afraid of my kind. Okay then, handsome sir, if you insist. Come on and meet your fate at the bottom of the ocean.” Sera tore her eyes off of the Paradigm as it bobbed in choppy water just a few feet away now. A sharp pain shot through her wrist and she quickly grasped her wrist with her opposite hand, biting down on the inside of her cheek.

At first she thought it may have been a jellyfish or something. But when she pulled her other hand away, two things happened. First of all, she noticed the intricate patch of red angry flesh as it swole and started to burst into colors. A man’s face. Bright blue eye, the other one hidden beneath a patch. She raised her hand to her hair as she puzzled what the sudden appearance of the marking might mean and then… Then the second thing happened.

A sharp pain to the back of her head and everything went black as she slipped from her perch and into the water…

XXX

The shouting from a fisherman’s boat nearby as they tried to tug up the net caught Mox’s attention, taking his mind off of the peculiar marking on the inside of his forearm bursting into color and on the red-head siren whose song he could actually hear and be affected by. And then that song went silent and he got the distinct feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Mox tensed and stood, making his way to the side of the ship, peering down into the water below. “It’s a trap, goddamn it. This is how they get us. I’m not goin out like that, no, fuck that.” he tried to tell himself that.. but then, just below the fisherman’s boat and right next to the rock she’d been sprawled on moments before, he saw that same brilliant red hue, floating. And he got this sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

No part of him should’ve been willing to risk certain death to dive into the choppy and icy ocean, but try reminding him the perils of doing so, especially while mostly drunk. Suddenly, nothing mattered but getting to the area he saw that brilliantly red colored hair floating almost lifeless in.

Mox dove into the water, swimming out towards the area he saw her floating in and he wrestled her free from the seaweed and other ocean life she’d become entangled with, swimming as best as he could back to his ship. He got her into the life raft on the side and he climbed back aboard, raising the life boat and letting it settle on the deck where he started measures to get her breathing again.

“C’mon, damn it. C’mon. Breathe, Red. Breathe.” the words came even though everything in him was quick to remind him just how against the grain what he was doing right now, saving a siren who was hell-bent on causing his untimely death not even one hour before.

He just knew she had to live. He was operating as if by instinct.

XXX

Serafina shot up violently, coughing, ocean water spraying out of her mouth with much force. Her head was pounding and ocean colored eyes darted around her, taking in her surroundings. She was on that damned boat. The one she’d been sent out to lure closer. She sighed and shook her head.

… you know the rules… he’s saved your life, you now owe him something… the others are never going to allow you to live this down… then again, you never really quite fit in with them, did you?… her mind was berating her for her foolish mistake as she tried to take it in. Almost dying is a shocking thing.

“You were supposed to drown.” Serafina frowned and shook her head. The man whirled around, staring her down intently, a smirk on his face as he did so. “Yeah, well ya supposed t’ be better at th’ whole siren thing than y’ are. What kinda siren doesn’t know how to swim.”

“I know how to swim.” Serafina mumbled, her jaw clenching. She went to stand but evidently, the combination of her being on a boat and not in water and as a result having human legs and in addition, the strong hit to the head she took… Those two things combined to leave her reeling. Strong arms gripped her waist and she found herself hauled over broad shoulders.

It wasn’t in her not to fight if she felt she were in danger and at this rate, she had no idea what to expect. The Purveyor of Violence, Pirate Mox… He was not known for being a kind man.

A loner and a drunk and perpetually angry, yes. But not a kind man.

So she started to attempt getting out of his grasp, but that beefy arm only locked tighter around her bottom and he chuckled. “What? Y’ think I’m gonna make ya pay for tryin t’ end me? I should, but I’m feelin generous today.”

… and you’ve been coming back to this exact spot for a week now, not only hopin to find the Pearl, but to catch more glimpses of her too…. and try and figure out why y’ can hear her song and not any of th’ rest… he’d never admit to thinking any of it, but the fact remained.

He tossed her carefully onto the hammock he slept in below deck and he turned, intending to walk away. “Hey, wait…”

Mox stopped and turned back to look at his guest.

“ I wasn’t exactly trying to kill you. But you’re the one who keeps getting closer and closer to my pod. I had to defend it. Why the hell were you getting so close anyway?”

“That’s my business, kitten. Not any of yours.”

Serafina laughed and immediately winced as pain rolled over her. Mox eyed her in concern and stepped closer, hissing as his fingertips clumsily touched against the beginnings of a nasty bump forming on her head. “Y’ not goin anywhere, Red.”

“It’s Serafina.”

“It’s whatever I wanna call ya. Ya kinda on my boat, kitten.” Mox’s fingertip trailed down from the bump on her head, across her jawline slowly, then trailing even slower over the outline of a quivering plump lower lip. “Tell me somethin’, Red.. The Pearl still down below?”

Serafina sucked in a sharp breath and raised a brow as he inched closer, a hand on the side of her face as he stared deep into her eyes. He smelled like rum and leather and the scent was almost dizzying. His eyes were almost a hypnotic shade of ice water blue. It hit her then, the angry raised patch of flesh on her inner arm.

She peeked down and gulped as soon as she realized that the man currently within kissing distance of her face was the same man staring back up at her from her own skin.

“I asked ya a question, Red.”

“Oh, it’s down there. It’s my home, actually.” Serafina’s tone came out quieter and she dared to look up at him, holding his gaze. Mox found himself staring at her harder, mouth inching closer to hers as he leaned in even more. As soon as he realized why she looked so familiar and raised his arm to look at her and then at the marking on his forearm, he swallowed hard.

“Well now, this is just interestin.”

“It’s forbidden, that’s what it is.” even as she said it, she just had this feeling in her gut.. All the excuses in the world weren’t going to be enough to sway her into leaving the man’s side. Literally no one in her own so called family were in a rush to rescue her before. This man dove off of a ship.. Drunk… and swam out to her… Then he did everything he could to save her life.

She at least owed it to herself to get to know the real Pirate Mox.

“Never stopped me before.” Mox said it before he could stop himself and the thought that he was even contemplating… A life with his soulmate, given their beginnings thus far.. It froze the man in place as it all washed over him. But see, there’s one thing that Pirate Mox, Purveyor of Violence had been looking for much longer than any kind of treasure below the ocean.

His other half.

His soulmate.

And if it was her, he was not about to let her go, forbidden or not…

Serafina gasped as his lips brushed right against hers and the taste of the coconut rum filled her mouth as he leaned in, those large and rough hands at her sides to pull her closer, pull her lips in deeper. “Maybe I just found somethin’ better than th’ Pearl’s remains.”

“Perhaps.” she mumbled softly as her eyes fluttered open and shut and her lips parted willingly to allow his tongue entrance. She clung to his body, deepening the kiss to a point where she was twice as dizzy as she’d been due to merely hitting her head.

“And I’m gonna take real good care of y’, Red.”

“Oh, I bet you are.” she cooed against his continued lust filled kiss, her fingertips digging lightly into his shoulders…

[unholyhelbig]

Season 2 is still not available in my country, so i need fanfiction to fill the empty void now. Pirate AU: Up to you what ship you use because i ship them all at that point. Posie, Hosie, Hizzie, Phosie... Just imagine how good they will look in those clothes! Though Penelope teasing the shit out of Josie and Lizzie and Hope trying to kill each other while deeply in love would be a treat. Go as angsty as you'd like; but please don't kill them... and i'm a sad bitch i really need a happy end xD

Read on Ao3 | Send me more Legacies Prompts! 

Title: Double-Edged Sword 

Ship: Hope Mikaelson/ Lizzie Saltzman 

The window had frosted over in the dull twilight. A full moon hung low in a velvet sky, its glow pushing close to the cobblestone streets and crowded pubs. The room was bathed in black and heavy with the scent of sex. Silk sheets clung to Hope as she stared at the ceiling, heart pounding and mind finally dwindling off to something other than the noise downstairs.

“What’s it like?” The girl beside her panted as she scooted up against the headboard, reaching blindly to the side table for a rolled cigarette, a flame shaded her face before the scent of fig and smoke coated her lungs. “Being one of them?”

Hope drew in a deep breath and her throat burned, her fingers curled around the bedsheet. “There’s a rush in it, I suppose. Nothing you can’t get out of sex.”

“Then why do it at all?” The girl took a long drag.

There was a crack against the wooden ceiling, soaked in water, and warped from the open windows that lead to the sea. That question had never been prompted before. It was easy to fall asleep in one of the rooms above the pub. She would leave before morning and move her aching body back to the ship as it rocked back and forth with the waves.

“Legacy,” Hope turned on her side and stared at the girl, her silhouette in the darkness “My father was a feared man, a memory of a nightmare. People used to call him the king of the seven seas, and he lived up to the reputation. It left me no choice, I suppose.”

The red glow of the rolled paper simmered like the eyes of a demon, blinking as she lowered it once more. “You always have a choice.”

“What type of woman becomes a school teacher when her family slaughters townships and holds ransom for gold? It would be a death sentence.”

She could imagine a red building perched on the top of a rolling green hill in the country. There would be no ocean in sight, not even the scent of salt. It would be a simple life without the knowledge of how to use a sword or the scent of gun powder. In another universe-maybe, but this one left her with the residual taste of rum.

“What’s it like killing someone, then?”

The girl had stamped out the tobacco and it left them bathed in eerie darkness. Hope frowned, even with the understanding that neither of them could see it. It was another question that she hadn’t been asked- though not many people stopped in the face of danger to have a civil conversation with her.

“You know, I’m not paying you to talk,” Hope growled, deep and husky as she moved across the bed and straddled the girl. Their bodies were warm and slick, her hand planted on the headboard. She tasted of ash and vanilla. “Or ask questions.”

Hope leaned down and bit softly at the girl's jaw before moving to her neck, her pulse right under her tongue. She almost didn’t hear the pounding on the door- and even then, she didn’t respond to it. It wasn’t until a warm light and the noise from the pub filled the room that she pulled away with a snarl.

“This better be important.” Hope didn’t bother turning to face the door.

“Ma’am there’s a crew downstairs.” The wench that stood so easily behind the bar stumbled with her words. She paid more attention to the noise in the pub now- it wasn’t the usual drunken laughter and jovial conversation. She hadn’t yet heard the firing of a gun, but there was a struggle, sharp and dangerous.

“Shit.” She glanced down at the girl, “It’s been fun,”

Hope stumbled off the bed and pulled on a pair of loose pants before fastening the belt and her shirt. The fabric was rough against her skin- all too uncomfortable. She grasped her boots and slid them onto bare feet.

“I would advise the window.” The woman responded, glancing towards the commotion once more.

She nodded curtly before unlatching the iron edge and getting a good look at the alleyway that it lead to. There was a certain crispness to the air and her breath pooled in front of her quickly. Despite the scuffle in the establishment, the night was oddly quiet.

It wasn’t a far drop, Hope had done worse. She felt her boots against the cobblestone and a dull ache in her ankles as her fingers touched the wet surface. But still- she was washed with relief. After a few pints and something even more, it would be difficult to fight.

Hope straightened up and looked towards the British port town.

Her back was suddenly against the wall of the pub, digging into her shoulder and forming a brash pain. But it wasn’t what Hope was focused on most- instead, it was the double-edged blade that was pressed against her throat, so sharp that it could split a hair. She grasped blindly for her own.

“Don’t fucking move.”

The open window above them swam with sheer white curtains, and despite the order, she glanced up. Her weapon was still leaned against the desk, scattered in paper and receipts and wax-sealed letters. So her attention flickered back to the stranger.

Even in the dull light of the moon, she could tell that the woman was breathtaking; dressed clad in a red trench coat that sparkled like her own spilled blood. A white shirt hugged her frame under that, long blond hair flowing over squared shoulders. She was a rich pirate. Not one too afraid to flaunt her treasures while Hope guzzled most of her own down on weekends.

The woman’s knee pressed between her own. “You’re coming with me.”

“Now, while that sounds enticing, I’ve already had enough fun for one night-“ Hope snapped her jaw shut when the blade pressed deeper into her skin and a searing scar blossomed. “Right, Okay, you lead the way.”

She smiled then, not something kind, but all together threatening. It was wolfish- primal even. “I don’t trust you, Hope.”

In one swift movement, she took the blunt end of the sword and hit her across the temple. A metallic taste coated her tongue and a sharp ringing hissed all at once; before the world suddenly turned black.

The first thing Hope Mikaelson heard was the low call of a seagull. There was a stifling heat to the room that did nothing to quell her slowly edging headache. It started at her temple and throbbed to the back of her neck, mouth thick with the taste of blood.

She groaned and shifted against sheets, her muscles tightening with sudden movement. Her eyes burst open and she cringed away from the abundance of sunlight. Hope blinked it away and took in her surroundings.

She was in a small room and even now, she could tell it was on a ship. It rocked back and forth with the tide, a small window bleeding with the sun. Hope was situated on a twin bed, the white sheets soaked in dirt. Her fingers shook as they pressed against her temple and she pulled back, hand wet. There was a tiny desk and a gas lantern adjacent to her and a dresser bolted to the floor.

The scent of saltwater coated her lungs, even as she grimaced and plopped her face back down onto the sheets. The smelled like lavender; like one of the large homes her father kept in the south. The summer breeze would fill the room and catch whatever book she would get lost in. There were fresh roses and a hedge maze that she would spend hours in, turning herself around.

Hope longed for those days. With the shaded porch and the sickeningly sweet lemonade served with biscuits. Her mother’s smile and the way she would point out the blue jays that landed on a feeder.

Now, her jaw ached and her heart throbbed, and she wished she hadn’t spent most of her evenings drinking herself into a stupor before sharing in close encounters barely remembered in the first place.

They, whoever they were, could kill her. Would kill her the second they got what they wanted.

Hope stood shakily, ignoring the dull nausea that filled her stomach the second she changed positions. She walked towards the desk and pulled open the bottom compartment. There were a few sheets of paper and the latest dictionary bound in leather. She pushed both aside before reaching for the very back.

“You’re not going to find a letter opener if that’s what you’re after.”

Hope froze and slammed the drawer shut before turning towards the door. It was the same woman from last night. She had shed her coat, the warm ocean breeze pushing easy white cotton against her frame. Her eyes were a ghostly blue, almost shining gray. There was a metal tray in her hands and a sword that Hope tried not to stare too intently at, attached to her belt.

She took a couple of steps forward and closed the door behind her before setting the food on the top of the dresser. “We’re about a hundred miles from the nearest port, and heading further.”

“you’re saying there’s no use in fighting, then?” Hope’s voice settled like stone.

“I’m saying you can try. If you get through me, there’s a whole crew waiting just beyond that. It’s up to your discretion if you want to try to survive at sea in your weakened state.” She spoke nonchalantly.

Hope glowered, but couldn’t’ help but lean against the desk for support. “Who are you?”

“Elizabeth Saltzman,”

Saltzman… the name sounded familiar, a trade family that used to run errands or her linage. They were well regarded until her father’s untimely demise last fall. It had been every ship for themselves, all order dripped away.

“Right, and what exactly do you want with me?” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned closer to the desk behind her. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it by now.”

“We’re taking you back to Charleston.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll chance the sharks.”

“The Yankee’s have a bounty on your head, Hope. 19,000” Elizabeth quirked a brow “If the posters didn’t’ say alive, I would have skinned you on the spot, don’t get comfortable.”

Hope clenched her jaw, but didn’t like the way her head throbbed in response, so she softened her expression. It would be weeks until they got to the port in South Carolina, months if the weather wasn’t careful. Still- she stared Elizabeth Saltzman down like she had the upper hand. Like she wasn’t the one dehydrated and bloodied.

“Eat something, will you?” She turned and exited the room before slamming the door shut and dead bolting it with a deafening click.

[kaiser-dracon]

Chapter I: Welcome to Midgand, Mr.? (New Version)

The night was utterly still, silent like a held breath. The ageless moon glimmered brightly as "Sanguine", the crimson longship of the far-continent was sailing in the calm waters of Midgand. The ocean’s surface glowed with sea sparkle in bright blue light. A lone man let out a prolonged sigh as he gazed over the sea from his cabin on the ship.

He picked up a leatherbound journal from the nightstand beside his bed and seated behind a nearby table. He flipped the journal open. Smelling the salt in the air and feeling the boat creaked under his foot were his daily experiences since his journey began a few months ago. He turned the screw on the lantern that was near the table, turning it on. His features glowed visibly by the light; The lush, blond hair was coiffed over his shoulders to perfection. His eyes were pale green, like the hue of spring, bright and soft all at once. But a deep and distant gloom waved behind them.

He dipped his pen in ink, starting to write on a blank page. 

“From the Veritable and Staunch Accounts of Sir Avernus Diphda, valiant Knight of the Hyland Empire.” He stopped as a sudden rumble shook the ship for a moment, eyes darting around the room. “...I have been sailing the ocean for two months before I finally arrived at Midgand waters. If lady fortune smiles at me, maybe I…”

"Having trouble sleeping, your majesty?" Avernus was interrupted by the captain of the ship who was standing in the door frame, an older man, long gray beard, wearing a blue and gold outfit of the Hyland navy, holding a bottle of rum in his hand. His tired eyes sank into his sockets. “We’re already there. Although, I have a bad feeling about this, child.”

Avernus pinned his pen in ink. “Yeah. You and me both, captain. Besides, I can’t stop thinking about home.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glancing back at the ocean over the window. “I hope I can find something in Midgand, otherwise…”

Avernus trailed off into the distance, thoughts hazing by a deep sadness. A sadness that he carried from the far-continent deep in his heart. The captain cast an appraising eye over his equipment beside him; A long silver scepter that was leaned against the wall, an ornamented wooden chest, and two daggers in their sheathes. He favored Avernus with a nod of approval.

“Aye. It seems you’ve come prepared, young lad. Your foresight will serve you well.”

With that, Avernus noticed gray clouds slid in to cover the moon. Another rumbled rocked the ship. Suddenly dread tightened in his stomach. “Something is not right…” 

The captain took off toward the deck, and Avernus followed, picking up his scepter and darted out of his cabin.

"Report!" Captain yelled.

Suddenly they found themselves amid a brewing storm. Shouts filled the air as men rush about the deck. 

Avernus felt the air getting thicked by malevolence; the corruption that took form emanating from the daemons; hellish creatures that roamed the earth, searching to kill and feast on humans and malakhims.

Captain gestured at the front mast as it appeared to be damaged. “Look to the prow! If we don’t fix her up, we’ll be feeding the fishes!”

A violent gust of wind swept across the deck, throwing the sailors and slamming some into the mast and wooden walls. Avernus braced himself against the railing and raised his hand. “I don’t have a malak with me, but I’ll be damned if I die here.” A red, glowing sigil of magic circulated his wrist like a crimson bracelet. It scratched his cuff, and the blood that came out turned into a sliver trickle of mana. “Heaven Bright!”

Rainbow-like magic raced out of his fingers and spread above the ship. The churning sea grew still for a second, but it didn’t last. The whole boat lurched on the choppy waters again. Avernus slammed his arte into his surroundings again, trying to blast the clouds and winds away. “Can you just, like, chill?!”

Suddenly, the vessel listed starboard. Avernus thought it was from a gust of wind, but then a glistening tentacle, wide around as an oak, came hunting upon the deck from the dark depth of the ocean.

"Kraken!” the captain screamed.

The tentacle smashed a group of sailors against the deck, throwing their bodies away like used toys and sending shock waves over the deck. The rest caught up in the surge and fell from the ship. Avernus hit his back to the railing. As he slumped on the ground, he saw the captain dashing at the tentacle and slashed it away with his cuttles. 

The tentacle withdrew, slithering back into the briny waters. Avernus sprang to his feet. Captain waved at him from a few feet away. “I need your help, lad, or we won’t be able to get out of here alive!”

Salt spray mingled with the relentless lash of rain whipped against Avernus’ cheeks as he raised his staff, and the weapon extended itself from the top and bottom. He clenched his jaw in fury. “Show your foul face, if you dare! And I hope you dare!”

The surface water broke with a splashing sound several giant tentacles began rising from seawater, each nearly as long as the ship's mast.

"Ready the cannons, men!" The captain desperately cried as the seawater rained down on them from the tentacles.

"They are going to crash on us!" one of the sailors shouted in fear. Avernus scoped the enormous tentacles that were surrounding them, " No fire, no earth. Only wind and water. My choice is clear then,"

The sigils whirled around his wrists and sucked the blood out of his veins, turning it into mana. "Whirlwind Slash!" 

Wind solidified into sharp mana and flew at super speed at the tentacles. The scales on the monster's skin was too tight, but the arte managed to cut some of the arms. The beast shrieked in pain and started hammering the deck. Avernus dodged the attacks, diving left and right until his second arte charge up, rushing to his hands. "Aqua Sphere!"

A large circular warding shield was appearing above the deck, stopping most of the tentacles in their tracks.

His arms shuddered. "I can't hold them for too long, go to the cannons and fire!" Avernus yelled at the sailors as he held the tremendous force of the Kraken's tentacle at bay. The remaining crew managed to reach the cannons, lighting the fuses.

"Ready... Fire!" 

First, the port side cannons fired, and then the starboard side emptied their ammunition on the tentacles. The steel canon balls drilled into the flesh of limbs, tearing and burning them away. The large chunks of rotten meat fell into the sea.

"We got them! Yeah!" The sound of cheering filled the air as the tentacles began disappearing beneath the dark water.

For long moments, the sea churned only of its own volition, frothing and foaming like a horse’s lather. Avernus probed the surface but saw nothing stirring beneath the angry spume.

"It's not over! Re-arm the cannons, men!" The captain ordered again.

Then, with a tremendous roar like a hundred thousand death knells ringing as one, the colossal daemon broke the surface. Avernus brandished his weapon and whipped it at the monster as it stared with its pale yellow eyes.

"Wind Lance!" Avernus attacked the Kraken with swarms of wind arrows, targeting its eyes. The elemental bolts pierced the monster's right eye, but it lifted a massive tentacle, crusty barnacles clinging to its suckers, readying to strike.

Having no choice as his arte hasn’t recharged in time, Avernus dropped to one knew, teeth clenched, bracing for the daemon’s blow. The Kraken brought its mighty tentacle down upon the deck, showering them with slime and fragments of shattered wood.

Sanguine heaved upon the colossal impact, listing madly to and front.

Amidst the shakings, Avernus saw the captain challenging the beast, running at it with his sword drawn. “Get out of my ship, you ugly piece of sh--!”

Avernus watched in horror as the Kraken brought down an arm and smashed the captain with ease as if he was a little mosquito.

Avernus scrambled to his feet, rage cutting across his face. "Whirl…"

Before he could finish his arte, another tentacle batted him from behind, flooring him against the deck. A surge of burning anguish enveloped his body. Just as he was tried to move, he saw yet another one of the tentacles grab the captain’s wounded body and pulled him off the deck as he was cursing something unintelligible at the monster. Avernus crawled but immediately winced in the pain of his broken ribs, coughing up blood. The Kraken’s mouth yawned, and the body of captain disappeared inside of that infinite blackness, beneath a ring of thousand sharp teeth.

The Kraken reared up, fixing Avernus in its gleaming, beady gaze. It windmilled its flailing arms, beating them upon the angry water. Unbowed by its fury, Avernus blinked away the sting of sea and rain and staggered to his feet.

His body was numbed to the pain. "Abomination... I will show you what real pain is." Avernus raised his arms and clawed his hands. “For all the dreams that are lost!” The sky above them turned red. His breathing intensified. A new weight was pushed into his soul from beyond. “You will come to know my fury, beast, and you will learn to fear it!”

Rumbling, the Kraken surged forward and tangled its limbs all around the vessel. The deck quaked and bucked beneath Avernus’ feet. Its grotesque head loomed ever closer, blotting out the lightning-riven sky so near that Avernus could see himself reflected in the glassy, fearsome orbs of its eyes.

Two dark, purple sigils appeared in front of Avernus, and he pushed his hands into them. “May my face be the last thing you ever see! Begone! Celestial Crush!”

A pair of giant, dragon-like claws tore through the air and grabbed the Kraken’s head and crushed his eyes, pointy thumbs drilling into them. It thrashed its colossal head back and forth, clear ichor seeping beneath the claws that dug deep into its eyes. The Kraken shrieked in a piercing cry, seeking to unknot itself from the hull. But it was grasped onto Sanguine too tightly and couldn’t free itself. Avernus twitched his hands, and the summoned dragon hands mimicked his movement perfectly. 

The rest of his stamina left his body as Avernus put the last of his endurance into one final movement twist of his hands, pressuring them and crushing the Kraken’s skull with a bone-crunching sound. The monster’s large body slumped and began to sink into the sea, pulling down the ship with its lifeless arms.

A massive wave of water hit Avernus, and his consciousness washed into the darkness as his senses blackened.

But as fate would have it, he eluded the hands of death for now.

Among his silent dream, Avernus sensed someone talking to him from a distance. The voice kept getting closer and closer.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead." A young and eager voice called to him, kicking his legs.

Avernus slowly opened his eyes. An enormous pain engulfed his skull as the light entered his sight. He raised his head to glance at the man; A skinny, short man with a missing front tooth was smiling at him. His ragged and vagrant outfit screamed one word: Pirate.

 "Great. Thieves." Avernus observed, mumbling.

The pirate smirked. "Boss, the pretty boy is awake!" He exited the room in a rush. Avernus grunted in anguish and tried to move his body, but ropes tied his hands and legs. Destroying his bindings was an easy task for him, but what could he do in the middle of nowhere with pirates?

Another much taller and friendlier figure entered the cabin and opened his arms. "Welcome to the Midgand, traveler." 

The man was wearing a purple coat with a purple hat and a pointy beard. Avernus sneered at his clothing. "Nice outfit. For a pirate."

The pirate turned to his subordinate in surprise. Avernus’ gall seemed to spark some interest.

"Benwick, look! Our man can bark!” He chuckled and turned to Avernus. “Such audacity! Wounded, broken, and tied up, and yet you do not beg for your life." The pirate crouched near him, shaking his head. “You are one interesting fish.”

“Shame you can’t differentiate between a shark and a fish.” Avernus mocked him, glaring from behind his messy hair.

"Even sharks are nothing but herrings in my grasp." The pirate clapped his hands. "Bring in the good stuff!"

Two pirates entered the room, carrying Avernus’ wooden chest and his scepter. Then another tall blond man followed them and sat on a nearby crate behind on the far side of the room. His attire consisted of tailored black trousers tightened with two belts and brown boots and gloves. He also wore an orange shirt, a loose white shirt, and a black waistcoat finished off by the long-dark business type jacket. He pulled a coin out of his pocket and tossed it in the air.

Avernus’ frowned eyes widened as the sensation of earth affinity washed over him alarmingly. The blond guy gaze suddenly fell upon Avernus, and they stared into each other’s eyes. A sense of imminent danger and dread pierced Avernus’ heart. That man had the eyes of death as the reaper himself was digging into his soul. The pirate leader followed Avernus’ gaze. As an average human, he couldn’t see the man, but he chuckled instantly.

"So you can see our ghost. That means you're a special one, pretty boy. Like one of those exorcists! This must be our lucky day, Benwick!"

The blond guy, now identified by Avernus as a malak, quickly took off and exited the room.

The young man shook his head at this coincidence. “Give me a break.”

The pirate captain picked his scepter and swept an endorsing gaze over it. "It's a lovely staff you got there, gold with ruby stones engraved in it. It is yours, I presume?"

"Maybe," Avernus replied in an indifferent tone and maintained his icy demeanor.

"You know I like something about you, and I don't know if it's the bravery or the foolishness.” The pirate captain reached his coat and pulled out a gray and silver pistol.

Avernus sighed at the sight of the gun. "An anti-dragon weapon in a pirate's hand, who would have thought…"

The pirate placed the barrel under his bloody and dirty chin, raising it. "You see, I'm aware of your handicrafts, and I have to say, your weapons are magnificent pieces of art!"

After staring for a few seconds, the pirate smirked and withdrew the gun. "I'm looking forward to adding this beauty of a staff and whatever you stashed in that chest to my collection. So until you can open your mouth and tell me how to use this weapon and the magic password for that chest, you are staying here as our guest."

With the pirates laughing out load, Avernus was left alone, broken and wounded in the dank corner of his cell. But little did they know what a sorcerer was capable of doing. Even without a malakhim bound to his spirit, he had some tricks up his sleeve. The mana that he had built up started to travel through his veins, fractured bones, and beaten muscles.

A day had passed. On the next midnight, the healing spell cured most of his wounds. Avernus conjured a minor fire arte and burned his binding. He raised on his feet and took a glimpse of the shore from the small window. He decided to put his escape plan in motion before the pirate’s ship distanced itself from the coast. Avernus silently trashed the cell's lock, breaking it.

He peeked over the wall: Two pirates were playing cards, oblivious to the fact that their prisoner was now on the loose. Avernus crept up behind them and quickly bashed their heads against the table, knocking them out cold. Avernus spotted his chest near their table, but his weapon was nowhere to be found, although he didn't need to know its location. After all, his weapon was bound to him. Avernus picked up the chest and moved outside. 

Avernus was stopped in his track as he saw the blond malak in black, sitting on the top of large crates, playing with his strange coin, and waiting for him.

"Can't get a night of sleep?" the malak asked, stoically in a threatening tone.

The sorcerer sneered, treating it as a joke, "Nah, didn't like the hospitality nor the smell. Also, it is too boring for me here, and I crave for action, malak."

The malakhim jumped down to the deck in a quick move. "That's a shame, but you are not going anywhere." He bumped his fist together, gazing threateningly at Avernus, "Get back to your room nicely, and I won't have to break your fingers and your nose."

Avernus rolled his eyes and let out a sigh before leveling a challenging stare at him. "Stand aside, malak. I'm not in the mood to play games. Besides, why do you care? They can’t even see you."

“You know nothing, stranger. They are an interesting bunch, and to me, they’re important.”

The Benwick guy ran outside of the crew quarters, watching Avernus standing there on the deck, alone. "What?! The prisoner has escaped!"

Avernus turned uncaringly toward the pirate. He knew that to them. It probably looked as if he was talking to himself.

"Last warning." The malak threatened, prompting Avernus to turn back to him.

Avernus shifted into his battle stance. "Alright, let's dance, malak."

He raised his arm and opened his hand. "Dreamshadow, come to me!"

A thundering sound roared from the captain's quarters. The malak, fully aware of what was happening, rushed and pulled his arm, ready to slam Avernus with his clenched fist. The great staff broke through the wooden walls, twirling like a windmill, it flew back and reached Avernus in time to block the malak’s punch. The force of malak’s fist connecting with the protective ward boomed around the deck. Avernus slid a few feet back.

"Damn it!" the malak gritted his teeth and pinned Avernus under his reaper’s gaze.

The malak threw another punch, and Avernus dodged it in time. Then, a solution crossed his mind.

"He’s powerful, but he is also an earth malak on the sea, which means…” Avernus grinned. 

"Bad mistake, my friend."

The young man's eyes started to glow bright white as magic waved through his body. "Colossal Surge!"

Suddenly, a massive wave towered over the ship and dived onto the deck, causing both Avernus and the malak to fall into the sea. Avernus quickly whipped his staff, and the water solidified under his feet. He turned back, only to see the malak paddling in the water for his dear life.  "Have a nice swim, you stupid malak!”

After a few more minutes of surfing, his mana ran out, in time for him to crash into the shore. His exhausted body couldn’t do more. After rolling over on the sand, he turned on his back and gazed into the sky.

"Welcome to Midgand, Mr. Diphda …" he said to himself, breathy.

Another day had passed—a day of non-stop walking into unknown jungles. With no map and no clue of where he was, Avernus desperately probed the area for any signs of civilization. During mid-day, he came across a small river, flowing with clear water. He dropped to his knees and dipped his filthy face into it. He pulled his head and ran a finger over his messy long hair.

"Water… I wished I had time to bathe myself, but I've wasted enough time already.”

His hearing picked up footsteps nearby. Avernus raised his head and scanned the area. To his surprise, he spotted a small blond girl, wearing white attire and holding a strange umbrella, was standing on the other side of the river, looking at him with a stony face. She glared, her eyes checking his body. 

Again, the vibes of another earth affinity malakhim radiated from her. Avernus squinted his eyes at her. “Is that another malakhim?”

She turned her back to him, looking like she shrugged him off coldly, and with slight disgust, she vanished into the jungle.

"Hey! You! Wait!" Avernus stood up, raising his arm, but it was already too late. As he picked up his chest, a wooden sign close to the river grabbed his attention.

“The village of Aball.” As he read the sign, a glimmer of hope sparked in him. “It seems lady luck is smiling on me--”

A supernatural howl pulled him out of his little comfort. His ears alarmed to an enemy that he fought its kind for the last six years of his life. Six years of untold responsibility would crush man’s soul. 

“A werewolf!” Avernus whirled his head toward the sound and sprinted in haste. He pushed away from the bushes widely to the side and jumped into a wide clearing. He suddenly found himself between several broken pieces of bottles and shattered crates. A traveling merchant had lost their stash.  Avernus raised his head only to lay eyes on a man, appeared to be the merchant himself, twitching and wincing, howling: His breathing became quick and ragged, his eyes turning red. Hooked claws burst through his fingers, dark fur rippling over his skin. Moments later, an enormous, jet-black wolf bared its teeth, howling a challenge toward Avernus.

Avernus stared at the Lycan’s long, vicious fangs. He dropped his chest and readied his staff. Duty called to him once more. He had no malak, and no blood was left in that pale body to fuel his mana. But he wasn’t a man to back down. Never.

His fingers fumbled around the middle of his staff, and the top extended with a metallic bang, and a pair of transparent scythe blades came out in parallel. Their surface was crystal clear and radiated with extreme magic built into it. “This is not a normal staff that any shepherd can wield. This is a gift from a malak.” Avernus heaved a heavy breath. “I shall grant you the eternal rest, poor soul.”

Avernus squared off against the daemon, catching his breath. “Come and meet your salvation!”

The werewolf stamped a gargantuan paw then charged forward, howling. Avernus pulled his long scythe-staff away and lunged to meet his opponent. The beast threw a clawed hand at him. Avernus shifted his body to the side, dodging its attack. Then sprang forward, slashing open the Lycan’s chest. The beast bellowed, blood gushing from two deep wounds. 

Avernus’ heart pounded furiously. Suddenly his sight hazed. His exhaustion finally took its toll on his broken body. He stumbled back. Avernus struggled to control his balance. But he barely caught a glimpse of a young village girl watching the fight from afar. Avernus whipped his arm violently. “Go! Get out of here!” 

Taking advantage of Avernus’ disorientation, the werewolf landed a solid punch on his chest, bowling him over. Avernus slid into the dirt and his body snapped against a rock, and his head cracked against the stone. Another pain surged in his back as he cried in agony. The daemon jumped on him and hammered viciously at his guard, landing blow after blow.

He was sensing his stamina flushing away. Avernus focused a sliver of his blood and streamed it into his weapon. The magic lit up his staff and enveloped it in a beam of light that blinded the daemon. “Veil’s Edge!”

His staff fired up his arte as a rainbow storm into the werewolf’s body. The daemon flew off of Avernus and slammed into the side of a tree, causing it to buckle outward. Avernus pulled stood up, his eyelids heavy and obscured by blood trickling from his forehead. Both adversaries, wounded and out of energy, prepared themselves for final showdown. The forest surrounded their warcries and howls for battle. Avernus launched himself at the daemon and slashed a full cut to the daemon’s stomach. 

They both stood still for a moment, locked into their fighting pose, before the daemon went limp, falling to the ground with a crash that shook the jungle beneath Avernus’ feet.

His staff fell as the blades retracted and disappeared. Avernus’ crippled body faltered, stumbling to the front as the last of his stamina escaped him. The world stilled, and once more and the darkness was his host. His senseless body crumpled to the ground.

Again, he floated in darkness. There was nothing, no light, no ground to stand on. Then, as if a dam had split open, several voices flooded him. He sensed a golden light flaring to life a few feet away. The light grew closer, swelling outward to form a scene. Avernus reached out to the light as it dimmed.

For a mere second, he was taken back to his body. He opened his eyes to see a pair of blazing eyes watching over him. A kind hand put a wet cloth on his forehead. He squinted his eyes at that shining face. “You need to rest, mister.” The warm voice soothed his mind, but he passed out again from the pain.

In the infinite darkness, Avernus looked for that fiery gaze, and his hand desperately reached to the light, to that warm, kind voice before dark consumed him once more.

[spaceprimcessleia]

Sparks in the Night

Here is my Bering and Wells exchange gift for @pers-books some angst with fluff and sweetness to round it off. 

AU- ‘real world’. The gang work together in an antique themed cafe where Helena is a regular customer and Myka’s girlfriend. 

Hope you enjoy! 

Myka stands shivering on the doorstep for a long time before she has the courage to knock. It’s Christmas, she tells herself. You can’t just go barging in on Christmas. But she doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and snow is falling onto her shoulders, melting right through the knitted sweater she’s wearing. 

Helena answers with a mug of something hot in her hand. Her curiosity turns to surprise and then alarm; she reaches out with her free hand and drags her into the house like she’s just caught her making out with her boyfriend on the porch. “Myka! You’ll catch your death.” 

As soon as they are inside, she throws the door shut. Without another word she steers her into the lounge and gently pushes her onto the couch. A moment later there’s a soft weight on her shoulders and Myka grabs the edges of the blanket gratefully and draws them around her shoulders. She’s thinner than she used to be. Too thin, really. 

“I’m going to get you some dry clothes.” Then she’s gone and Myka is left blinking at an empty room. She shivers, even underneath the blanket. 

In the far corner of the room there’s a bare Christmas tree. Its branches hang, limp and plain- offering nothing to the walls devoid of any kind of ornaments or tinsel. The only offering is a picture of Helena with her arms wrapped around a baby girl mounted at the centre of the wall opposite the couch so you can never help but look at it. Tears sting Myka’s eyes but she forces herself to blink them away and swallow hard before her girlfriend returns. 

Helena comes back with a thick pair of pyjamas and a sweater. She hands them to her with a smile that Myka can only weakly return. She cradles them to her chest, struggling to summon something to say. 

A smirk dances on Helena’s lips as she looks her up and down. “Don’t be shy, dear.” It’s so normal that she relaxes her grip on the clothes and almost smiles back. But she can’t quite bring herself to strip down in front of her. Not when she already feels like she’s already sitting there with her father’s words stamped across her forehead. With a gentler, but more diminished smile, Helena excuses herself to go and make some tea. 

Myka changes quickly, pulling the borrowed clothes on without looking at herself and folds her own up in a neat parcel. Her girlfriend returns a minute or two later with two steaming mugs. She hands one to her, handle first. 

It’s still a long while before anyone speaks.

“Are you going to tell me why you were on my doorstep in this weather? Not that I’m not delighted to see you.” The tea is cool by now, but Myka still blows on it before she answers. 

“My dad knows,” she says to the mug, wrapping her hands around it. 

There’s a quick, sharp intake of breath beside her, but it’s a moment before Helena says anything. “I trust he didn’t react well to the news?” 

“He threw me out.” It’s like someone’s jammed a rock in her throat. She wants to breathe, but there’s nothing but a lump and when she swallows it moves down to her chest and lodges itself there. 

When Helena reaches for her, her hand circling her wrist, Myka thinks of pulling away. They don’t talk about this. It’s there, but they don’t talk about it. Helena sees the way she shrinks in his presence, the stacks of notebooks in her closet, the steel bucket in the corner of her room that she’s never questioned. Myka is sure she sees far more than they’ve even dared to whisper out loud, but talking about it is something else entirely. 

But Helena’s touch is warm and calming, so she unpeels her hand from around her mug and lets her take it. She forgets about the dull pain in her wrist until Helena’s grip is suddenly a little too tight. Her thumb brushes the ring of bruises as gently as if she were made of butterfly wings. 

“He did this?” Her voice is quiet with a ragged edge like the serrated blade of a knife. 

Myka just shrugs. He had done it, when he was pulling her towards the door to throw her out into the snow, but to say so feels like opening something she’s kept an air tight lid on for years. He’s never been violet, exactly. Just cold and hard and cruel. And there’s the steel bucket that sometimes gets filled with ice water for her to stand in until she can remember all the answers. 

Helena’s grip on her hand is almost tight enough to be painful. “Did he...hurt you anywhere else?” 

“No,” she says at last, her own voice like someone is standing on her throat. “He just wanted to get me out.” 

Without even looking at her she knows Helena is angry. Angrier than she’s ever seen her. But she knows what happened five years ago and that this can’t. “It’s okay,” she tells her, trying to force herself to sound lighter. “At least I get out of the Christmas quiz.” The one where her father pounds her with question after question until well past midnight. 

When Helena looks up at her, her eyes are dark, only lightened by the dancing flames of the fire. “It’s not okay. He thinks he can do this to you? To anyone? What gives him that right?” 

Myka shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. No one has ever stood up for her, not even her mother, but now she wishes she could go back to quiet denial. A picture of her mother standing in the kitchen, hands to her mouth, muttering It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas, over and over again spills into her mind. It’s the closest she’s ever come to telling him to stop. 

She jumps to her feet, delayed fury crashing through her veins. “Shut up! You wanna yell, then chuck me out and go to a dive bar. I’ve had enough people screaming at me.” It’s gone as quickly as it came and she sinks back onto the couch, wanting to bury her head in her hands, but Helena’s face drops. 

She sits down slowly, carefully. “I’m sorry, darling. I wasn’t shouting at you.”

Myka lets her head drop onto Helena’s shoulder. “I know,” she murmurs. “I just...I don’t need you to be mad. Not right now.” In answer, her girlfriend wraps her arm around her shoulders and pulls her into her chest. 

It’s a long time before either one of them can bring themselves to move, but Myka’s legs are cramping and she really, really needs to pee. Her cell buzzes in her pocket and when she pulls it out she notices it’s gone past midnight into Christmas Day. With a jolt she wonders what her parents are doing, if they’ve just gone to bed like nothing happened. 

It’s Christmas!!! The text is from Pete, her colleague (friend) from the coffee shop. Attached his a selfie of him, Claudia and Leena. She had almost forgotten they were spending Christmas together. She’d been invited too, but she was supposed to be at her parents’, decorating the tree with her dad. They had only got half way through it. 

“Perhaps we should consider going to bed?” Helena says, not the least bit suggestively for a change. 

Myka makes a non committal noise. She knows already there’s no chance of sleep, not with her father’s words ringing around her head. As if she knows what she’s thinking, Helana stands up, pulling Myka with her. “Or if we’re both awake, perhaps we could make this place look a little more festive?” 

Ten minutes and a trip to the tiny attic compartment later, they have a box of decorations that look as if they haven’t been opened in twelve years and mugs of hot chocolate with shots of spiced rum (made with water rather than milk). 

It’s obvious Helena’s trying, so she does too, but it’s not until her girlfriend literally throws a string of tinsel at the tree that she really steps in. “What are you doing? You’re meant to hang it!” She snatches it from the branches and rearrnages it so it rests neatly in a circle all the way to the back of the tree. 

Without looking she knows Helena is rolling her eyes behind her, but she thinks maybe this was a lot more deliberate than she’ll admit. 

Even with all the baubles the box has to offer on the tree, it still looks bare. “Is this all you have?” 

“Yes, dear it’s all I have. I wasn’t expecting guests.” But then her eyes flash like she’s just discovered the secret to time travel. “I have some candles in the kitchen.”

Myka frowns. “I suppose we could light some…”

“For the tree.”

“You want to dangle an open flame from a pine branch?”

Helena crosses her arms, defensive. “I’ve seen it in films.” 

“In cartoons, Hels. Do you want to burn the apartment down?” 

“All right. It was merely a suggestion.” 

“I’m never leaving you alone again. You’re worse than Pete.”

“Please do not compare me to that imbecile-”

For a moment, it’s enough for her to forget why she’s even there. It’s enough to make her smile in the face of Helena’s glare. “What?” she demands, but Myka just bites down on her lip and shakes her head. There’s a warmth glowing in her chest, like there’s one of Helena’s candles where her heart should be. 

Then- she’s not sure who steps towards whom- they’re kissing hungrily and desperately, like they can find all that they’re missing in each other. For more than a moment she thinks maybe they can. They only stop when the buzz of Myka’s cell makes them jump and spring apart like they’ve been caught on the front porch. 

Helena sighs. “Is that Peter, again?” It is. Another selfie- Steve and Artie have been dragged into this one, the latter looking very much like he would rather be anywhere else. Claudia has her arm thrown around his shoulders, her hand coming up behind his head in a ‘V’ gesture. Pete is doing the same to her. 

Myka smiles, finally feeling like maybe she could sleep after all. Helena slides a hand through hers and tugs her closer. She rests her head against her shoulder and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, there’s fresh snow falling outside the window so the entire world looks strange and new. “It’s Christmas,” she mumbles as if she’s only just noticed. 

She feels Helena press a kiss to the top of her head. “There’s no one alive I would rather spend it with, even if the circumstances are a little less than ideal.” Myka squeezes her hand, gently, saying everything she can’t find the words for. 

When Helena’s lips find hers again, they’re softer and kinder. They make it to the bedroom at last, and Myka lets her peel her clothes away without flicking off the lights or dropping her eyes so she doesn’t have to see. Even before they crawl under the sheets she is finally and completely warm. 

A banging noise is coming from somewhere outside of her dream, tugging her out before she’s ready. Myka groans and buries her face in Helena’s hair, but it doesn’t go away. It gets louder and more insistent, like it knows she’s ignoring it. “I wonder who that could be,” says her girlfriend, dryly. 

Frowning, Myka lifts her head. “Did you invite someone?”

Helena gives her the smile that’s reserved only for her. “Why don’t you go and find out?”

Still half asleep, Myka rolls out of bed and pulls on her sweater and the first pair of pants she touches. Her girlfriend trails behind her, her own sweater brushing halfway down her thighs. She doesn't bother with anything else. 

Finally, Myka tugs open the front door and what looks like half the state spills inside. Pete, holding something huge wrapped in tinfoil- Claudia with three tupperware boxes stacked together, Steve with a giant pudding and Leena with more tinfoil wrapped plates. Finally there’s Artie- their boss and Claudia’s favourite person to torment- sporting a Santa hat and a sack that looks suspiciously of gifts. “Ho, ho, ho,” he grumbles. 

Pete is the first to hug her, dumping his own parcel so her can wrap both of his arms around her waist and lift her right off the ground. “Happy Christmas, Myks!” He spins her around and drops her back on the floor while Helena allows herself to be hugged by Claudia and Artie dumps his sack of presents in right there in the hall. 

Leena’s next, then Steve and Claudia, before Helena’s arm loops around her waist and she leans back against her. She’s smiling wider than she ever would have done if she had stayed at her parents’. “What are you all doing here?”

“Helena text us,” Claudia offers. “She said there had been a change of plan and we had to get over here today without asking any questions and bring all the food we had. Oh, and these!” she holds up a bag spilling over with tinsel and baubles. “Something about not setting the tree on fire?” 

[vegas9]

Stitches

Summary:  Preseries. Jack has always cared entirely too much about his public image, which is how Anne occasionally finds herself his doctor when his pride gets the better of him. She's not particularly fond of it.

Canon: Black Sails Primary characters: Anne Bonny, Jack Rackham Genres: Patching up, Hurt Jack, Jack has Issues, Anne is sick of Jack’s shit Pairings: Anne Bonny/Jack Rackham Rating: Teen

Warning: minor medical care

Read it on AO3 

.........

"For someone with such a smart mouth you sure are dumb sometimes," Anne grumbled, fingers deftly working the curved needle through torn skin in tiny – if not straight – stitches.

"I'm sorry?" Jack winced as she tugged at the sutures a bit too tightly.

"You should'a let the doctor do this hours ago," she pressed her lips together in a grim line, eyes flicking from her work to the blood-soaked clothing and rags that even in their ruined state were folded and placed neatly on a wooden chair. There were a lot of things she was never going to understand, the fact that Jack would still fold bloody clothes with a gash the length of her hand on his chest was one of them.

"It didn't seem bad enough to warrant looking for him," Jack groused. "Besides, our fine ship's doctor hasn't so much as washed his hands in weeks," he gasped as she started stitching again.

Anne glared up at him, fingers pressing around the wound harder than necessary out of spite. It earned her a choked hiss of pain and a measure of satisfaction. She couldn't fucking believe him. He could say what he wanted about the doctor and washing but she knew it had been about saving face. His damned fixation on his reputation was going to be the death of him one day.

"If you saw me with the same injury, you'd have a fucking fit if I di'nt have it seen to immediately," With that thought she frowned and stopped stitching again. She gave him a hard look, gaze going from the wound to his face and back again several times as she tried to piece it together and kept coming up empty. The silence stretched on long enough for her to feel the ponderous rock of the ship beneath her feet. "How'd you even manage this anyway?" she asked.

"Ah, well," his face coloured and he tried to buy himself a moment by picking up the bottle of rum next to him and taking a swig of it. "I was making my way down here anyway and," he shrugged, glaring at the bottle as if it had done him a personal wrong. "when we hit that swell I wound up pitched down the stairs," he finally admitted, pointedly not looking at her.

Anne tried, she really did, but the smirk tugged up at the corner of her lips and her shoulders twitched. Half a minute later she had lost the battle entirely and a bark of laughter escaped her.

"Fell on your sword then?" she asked between poor attempts to stifle her amusement.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "That railing is more shards and splinters than anything else. I landed on an especially sharp sliver half as long as my arm," he attempted to explain even though she had begun to laugh in earnest, her hand pressed to his collarbone to keep from yanking on the sutures she hadn't quite finished. "The coat and shirt are positively ruined," he moaned. "It's a mercy no one was there to witness it,"

Anne thought he should be more concerned about the state of his body than his clothing, but that was a conversation they had beaten to death years ago.

"It's gonna leave a nasty scar," she grinned as she tied the stitches off and cut the thread. Anne liked scars, especially liked them on Jack. She enjoyed being able to look at them, touch them, and know that the two of them always managed to survive.

"Darling..." the look he gave her was all heat and dark humor even though his eyes were still tight with pain. He reached up to cup the side of her face with his hand, thumb swiping gently over her cheek. He leaned in and kissed her gently, smiling when she stepped in closer to him. She had been mad earlier, when she had first found him bleeding in their cabin. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had hit him, she had certainly looked about ready for it. This had to be a good sign.

The sudden, sharp sting of her teeth biting down much too hard into his lip told him otherwise. The rough shove of fingers over the newly stitched wound only confirmed it. His breath came out in pained pants and it was all he could do to remain still.

"Pull somethin' like this again an' the fact that the doc don't wash his hands is gonna be the least of your problems," her voice was little more than a low growl as she pulled out of his grasp. With one last look at her handiwork she turned on her heel for the door. She stopped for a second, hand on the latch, and sighed, smirk curving her lips. "Fuck you, Jack,"

[fantasyandromancelover]

The Tale of Tales Chapter 44

The last thing Gray remembered was going to the local tavern to drink a couple rounds of rum the next thing he knew something hit him hard on the back of his head and everything went black. When he woke up he found himself in a dudgeon cell and his wrists were in shakles. It was so dark where he was, there were no windows and no sunlight coming in, the only light in this area was the light that came from the torches on the walls. He stood up on his feet and tried to break free from his chains.

"Don't waist your strength those chains are enchanted to hold you until I say otherwise." A scratchy voice said.

Suddenly a bony hand with fingers long and sharp enough to be talons lunged through the cell bars and sized Gray by his throat bringing him to where he was face to face with a hideous old hag.

"Ugh! Who the hell are you?!" He asked startled by her awful appearance.

"I guess you wouldn't recognize me now huntsman but I used to be quite a looker!"

"Minerva?"

"Yes it's me you idiot! Look at what you've done to me!"

"If you ask me it's an improvement. Now you look as ugly on the outside as you do on the inside."

Despite looking as old as dirt, she was strong enough to slam him back into the dudgeon wall.

"Oh man! That's going to leave a bruise!"

"How could you do this to me?!" She screeched.

"You wanted to eat an innocent girl's heart! That's sick and inhumane! No one in their right mind would do that!"

"You've stolen my beauty from me! Now I have nothing!"

"Well you could always pride yourself on something less fleeting than physical beauty."

That earned him a slap across the face.

"What I don't understand is why? I offered you gold, enough riches to set you for life and if that wasn't enough, now you're going to be forced to relive the same torture you went through as a child all because you refused to kill that little brat! You knew the penalty for if you failed and yet you still wouldn't do it! So why? Why would you give up gold and suffer through never ending torture for just one insignificant girl?"

"Torture me all you want you hag! But I'll die before I ever do anything to hurt Juvia!"

Minerva nashed her crooked teeth in anger and frustration. Then a thought entered her mind. After about five minutes of silent thinking she sized Gray by his face and started examining it carefully. Then she realeased him with a smug look forming on her face.

"How did I not see it sooner? I should've pick it up the minute I saw all the signs. The softness in your eyes whenever you saw her, the blush that rises to your cheeks whenever her name is mentioned, it was so obvious that I can't believe it took me this long to notice it."

"Notice what? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your expression says it all. You're in love with her."

Gray went silent as a shocked expression crossed his face. Was it true? Had he actually fallen in love with Juvia? No. No it wasn't possible. He had never fallen in love with anyone before. After he lost his parents he swore to himself that he would never love again.

"Well, well we are in a quandary are we not?" She said. "I need her dead to remove this curse that you have placed upon me and you need her alive to keep your precious heart happy! Well now I know how I can punish you properly! I'll see to it that you feel pain worse that you have ever felt in your entire life!"

"What are you going to do to me?"

"I'm going to force you to watch the woman you love die."

"You stay away from her you witch! If you harm so much as one hair on her head I'll kill you! You hear me?! I'll kill you!"

Minerva just grinned at him with her blackened teeth then walked off into her spell room.

"And now a special sort of death for one so fair."

She opened her spell book and once again began flipping through the pages. At last she stopped at one page containing a very evil and dark spell. After reading it she began to concoct a deadly poison made from black magic. Then she took an apple, dipped half of it into the poison, and used another spell to dye it. Once she was done she went back to the dudgeon holding a very peculiar looking apple in her hand. One side of the apple was blood red while the other side was snow white.

"What is that?" Gray asked her.

"An apple and it's a very interesting looking one isn't it? It's as white as snow and as red as blood, kind of like the two women in your life. Look one cheek is as white as snow like my wretched stepdaughter and the other cheek is as red as blood just like that scarlet haired woman you know. White as snow, red as blood, white as snow, red as blood. Isn't that funny?"

"Hilarious." He said sarcastically. "What's the point of this?"

"Well you see the snow white side of the apple is perfectly safe and harmless but the blood red side is covered in a deadly poison."

"You're going to force me to eat that aren't you?"

"Oh no this isn't for you hunter boy it's for Juvia. Just one bite with those delicate lips and she'll fall down dead."

"She won't eat that!"

"Oh won't she? Did you forget how much she loves apples? And thanks to your little trick with the pig's heart she won't recognize me when I offer it to her. She'll think I'm just a harmless old peddler woman." Then she scratched his wrist with her talon finger nail.

"Ow!" He hissed in pain.

"The minute she tastes my forbidden fruit, her breath will stop, her blood will run cold, to the world she'll be dead and her body will become her tomb and you'll be able to watch the only thing."

"No...No! No! You can't do this!" He cried grabbing the bars of his cell and trying desperately to pry them open.

"But I can and I will."

She placed the apple in a basket then pulled a tattered cloak over herself before leaving the castle through another one of her secret passage ways. This time she would kill Juvia even if it cost her, her life and it would. She didn't know it but if she successfully killed Juvia then she would pay a terrible price.

"Come on! Break you stupid chain!" Gray demanded as he tried to break the shackles holding him with a rock.

"Don't bother I already tried that."

It wasn't until now that Gray realized that he wasn't alone. Across from him just three cells down was where Natsu was being held.

"Hey I know you. You're the guy who was dragged off by a chimera." Gray said. "I thought you were dead."

"No but if I don't get out of here I'll face a fate worse than death."

"Really? What?"

"Getting married to Minerva."

"Eeeeesh..."

"I know but don't worry, once I chew off my arm I'll be free as a bird."

"Really? Chew your own arm off? That's what you're going with?"

"You got a better idea? I've tried everything! Smashing them with a rock! Burning them with fire! I even spit on my hand hoping that it would make it slippery enough to slide out."

"Eww! And you're supposed to be a prince?"

"Hey I'm desperate! What would you do if you were being forced to marry this crazy woman?"

"Good point."

"She said the chains were magic and that they would only break with a key or when she says so."

"Hmmmm...I've got it!"

"Got what?"

"An idea. She says that she wants to marry you right?"

"Regrettably yes."

"So she's gotta let you out sometime right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay so here's the plan."

[missblissy]

Title: Homeless at Home Fandom: Red Dead Redemption Genre: fanfiction, chapters, angst, reader insert, fluff, slow burn, friends-to-lovers, pre-game Characters: Young!Arthur Morgan, Dutch Van Der Linde, Hosea Mathews, Arthur Morgan/ Reader, Female reader, Arthur x Reader, Arthur Morgan x Reader, Arthur/ You Chapter: One || Two || Three || Four

Follow me on AO3!! Read it there too!

((Hello, I had to get this chapter put up because I had so much fun writing it!! Reader/MC is here!! I will have the next chapter up very soon!! The next chapter will also be in second person POV!! Future chapters will go back and forth between Reader/MC and Arthur!! Things are about to get really good!! I can't wait to get the good parts when you and Arthur start falling in love~~ That's so far away still >:) Have fun reading until then.))

Description:

Dutch put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gave a squeeze. He had this sad look on his eyes and he said, “You know what to do,” And walked away to finish taking care of the parents of this poor girl. Arthur held the girl as she cried and thought about Dutch’s words.

....Because it’s the right thing to do.

He had to pry her away from him. She held on like it meant life or death. It was so bizarre because he was a total and complete stranger to this girl but she had gone from hating him to loving him in just a second. He could never see himself trusting someone so easily. Then again he wasn’t a child anymore.

“What’s your name, miss?”

She rubbed her eyes to clear away her tears, “(Y-y/n)… (L/n)…”

____________________________________________________________

How long… has it been? The lantern was barely flickering alive. It could die any second. This train just didn’t want to stop. As each moment passed, whether it was an hour or a few minutes, it got colder and colder stuck in that train car. It had to have been more than 20 hours, possibly more. Arthur was tried, he couldn’t sleep. He was hungry and regretted not eating much the day before.

Dutch was sitting beside him with blood covered fists. He took the rings off his swollen knuckles. It had been so long that his wounds had scabbed over, rock hard. He punched the walls so hard trying to escape that he was pretty sure he broke a finger. He couldn’t feel it though, so it didn’t matter that much.

There was a God though because Dutch had a flask he kept in the pocket of his vest. So it wasn’t all that bad, “Should of brought a book,” He joked while passing the rum to Arthur.

Arthur chuckled, “Yeah, like I can even really read one,” His voice dripped with dark humor as he tried to laugh at his own shame. The satchel at Arthur’s side had burned him with the thoughts of the book he had in there. It was his mother’s journal so there was no way he was going to share that with Dutch, “If only Hosea was here… He has that stupid pocket watch on him he stole from that funeral.”

They both chuckled at the memory. That was a very unfortunate day… for the family they robbed. Well, Dutch and Hosea robbed them while Susan provided get away. Arthur got to watch from where they left him near a saloon, he had only been with them a few weeks at the time. He was the one that found out that tip that a funeral was happening soon and told Dutch about it.

A shiver cut Arthur’s memories in half. The cold started to become painful. He looked to Dutch you seemed unfazed, “Can I have some more of that rum?” Dutch passed him the flask, and to Arthur’s surprise, it wasn’t empty.

He took a swig and cringed as the dark liquor burned on the way down. Thankfully it warmed his belly and soon the rest of his body too. The cold was still a problem, just less of one for now.

“Where do you think we are headed, Dutch?”

The older man took in a deep breath and brought his hand up to his chin, “North. That’s for sure. It’s February. It’s not spring yet. But I know its only this cold up in the most northern parts of this god damn country around this time of year.”

Arthur let those word sink in. How far north was north, “Like… Illinois?”

Dutch shook his head.

“….Ohio?”

Another no.

“How far, Dutch?”

Before he could answer the train’s whistle called out while bells rang. They were coming to a stop. Dutch and Arthur shared a glance and stood up at the same time. They had been sitting so long though, Arthur could barely feel his legs. The cold rushed in again and Arthur wobbled forward. Dutch caught him before he could fall.

Dutch pushed Arthur towards the front of the car so they were hidden in the dark corners behind the ladder. There was an unsettling scream as the breaks of the tracks fought against the cold. There was an echo that rang far and wide that Arthur could hear even inside the steal and iron car. His gut told him he was far from home, and his heart hoped his gut was wrong.

Several minutes passed while the listened to muffled yelling. It made Arthur’s heart sink every time he heard a burst of powerful wind slam against the train. Finally, after what felt like forever, someone had started walking above. The hatch was slowly peeled open and as light pooled in from the cold snowy world outside, Dutch and Arthur held their knives close. If they could get out of here without making a sound, they could probably live to see another day.

A man started climbing down the latter. He was covered in layers of clothes. Arthur shivered and held back groan when the icy winds whooshed inside. The man didn’t see them, but he saw the mess they made. He started to call for one of his friends but he was cut off as Dutch jumped forward and slit his throat. Thanks to the corners of darkness, Dutch and Arthur could hide from sight. His friend was already on his way coming down the ladder so Arthur was forced to be smart. Staying unseen, Arthur waited for the second man to get to the ground. He jumped from the side and tackled the man to the ground, stabbing him quickly in the neck while covering his mouth to muffle his screams.

Bloody and cold, they took the chance to swap clothes with these guards. It felt nice to put on heavier clothes. Too bad they had blood on them. It didn’t matter at this point.

They weren’t doing this to blend in they were doing it to stay warm. Dutch was torn between taking the money or the gold bars. He knew he’d need as much as he could to get them back to the open west. He hated the thought of not having enough to take back home to Hosea and Susan.

He chose the money. It was the easiest to hide. He stuffed as much as he could in each pocket and had Arthur do the same. They had about a thousand each on them. There was thousands more they had to leave behind. There was no way they could walk around hauling bags and satchels full of money without horses to escape on.

Dutch climbed up the latter, keeping his pistol ready to fire if need be. He poked his head outside and had to squint at the blinding whiteness that was his view. The sun was in the middle of the sky and slowly rising. He looked around and noticed they were stationed at a town that was busy despite the weather. No one was around so Dutch took this as the chance to escape. He waved Arthur to climb up while he kept watch, “Go!” He whispered, “Jump down in the snow, get as much blood off you!”

Arthur nodded and crawled to the side of the train. The jump intimidated him but he didn’t have any other choice. He flung himself into the snow and hoped it would break his fall. It did, but not really. His knees buckled when his feet crashed into the icy ground under a couple feet of snow. He was knee deep in snow and he fell to his side in pain. At least he was getting the blood off him.

Dutch landed less gracefully than Arthur but fought through the pain. He brushed snow up and down the dark coat he was wearing. Arthur was unfortunately in a gray coat so it was harder to hide the stains. He did his best to hide them or wet the rest of his coat with snow.

After a few minutes, they rushed away from the station and towards town. Arthur groaned at the sight before his eyes. It was busy and packed with people. Brick roads and light pools. Horses and carriages. It wasn’t a city. But it was a town on the verge of busting at the seams.

There was a sign on the walls of the train station. Arthur slowly tried to read it. He whacked his hand at Dutch and pointed to the sign, “New York,” He said.

“Dunkirk...” Dutch’s voice was barely above a whisper. The second some walked by he snapped out of his frozen gaze and approached the man with an unfordable about of smoothness. With a smile on his face he asked the man, “Excuse me, friend, can you tell me where I am? I miss my stop a few miles back, where is Dunkirk located in New York?”

“It’s about a four your train ride south of Buffalo, sir, ” The man was so helpful. It was like he got asked that question a lot. He kept his frown on his face though and then pushed aside to get back to his day.

Dutch wasn’t done though. He sidestepped and blocked the man again, “H-how far from Pennsylvania?”

“Three hours north by train,” The man was not happy but Dutch let him go. He got his answers.

“Arthur!” He ran over to Dutch’s side quickly. Something was very wrong. Dutch looked like he saw a ghost. He stared hard at the ground the franticly looked around, “New York!” He said sharply under his breath.

“H-how we gonna get back?” It scared him being this far north. Arthur had never been this way, he knew trouble was up here. He knew there was so much law that if anyone of these pricks knew his face they’d turn him in for the sheer joy of it.

Dutch didn’t say anything but he made a sharp turn into the train station. Arthur followed close behind him. The heat in the station was welcoming but the smell inside was spoiled by the number of people in there. It was cluttered with folk getting on and off trains. Waiting for trains. Waiting for carriages to avoid the cold. Seems everyone had the same idea. This wasn’t a problem for Dutch, he just shoved his way past people. He made it to a window after cutting in line. The teller was startled and taken aback when Dutch smiled at him.

Funny how Dutch looked like a crazy mad man and he didn’t seem to notice. Arthur was sure he was watching the man have a break down of some kind. Dutch did his best to keep his cool and ask, “Do you have a train that would be heading southwest? Texas? The Arizona territory?” He tried to speak slow, but his words still mumbled together.

Arthur watched from a few feet back as the teller shook his head, “Not for another three weeks, no. Can’t go that way with the weather right now,”

Something snapped in Dutch and he almost lost his temper. Again, he spoke slowly, this time with an underlying irritation to his tone, “How in the hell did that train from Arizona get here?”

“It came in as the storm hit, sir. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s more snow here than we know what to do with. No trains are allowed to leave the state until the weather has let up,”

Dutch stood there for a few seconds. He didn’t want to take this as his answer, but he had no choice. Arthur rushed to follow him outside. He could hear Dutch muttering under his breath.

“Fuck!” He said sharply. A few people looked at them. Arthur did his best to ignore their stares, “I hate New York,” Dutch said more quietly. He started walking into town.

Arthur followed close by. He couldn’t keep asking the same question. He knew he had to give Dutch time to thing. He for one was at a total loss and found himself helplessly and totally dependent on Dutch to survive.

They went into a general store and Dutch and Arthur bought some much-needed supplies. Dutch asked the owner if there was any place in town to buy a horse or a wagon. There was a stable but they were closed for the winter season.

For now, they got some cans of food, some booze, a map that the store offered of the local county, and two leather-bound empty journals. As they walked out of the store, he handed one to Arthur. For some reason, he thought he had escaped the role of being a school kid. But to his disappointment said to him, “It’s gonna be while until we get home. You should write. I know you ain’t good yet but you can keep up the practice. It’s something to do at least,”

Arthur didn’t argue like he normally did. He took the smooth black journal with a slight nod of his head in thanks. He tucked it away in the new satchel he got. He traded it for half the price of the old one which was falling apart. This one was made of wolf fur.

“Got a plan yet?” Arthur finally asked as they worked their way around this upbeat town.

“Yes and no,” Dutch said, “We can’t sit around waiting for the weather to get good. My face is too well known in these parts. I’m thinking we steal a horse… just one. We ride out on it and find some kind of.. farm. A ranch. There has got to be some even up north. We’ll get a wagon and ride back west to Cleveland. Get on a train there and see ourselves home,”

It sounded easy enough. But Arthur knew he had a few weeks ahead of him living on the road. As the walked further into town Arthur found himself looking at something truly spectacular. It was one of the great lakes. Erie, infect. The entire lake as far as he could see was frozen over. It looked like an icy wasteland out there. Dutch pulled him from his thoughts once again.

“We need to get word back to Hosea that we’re alive,” They set off for the post office. Arthur had to go in because they could have had wanted posters of Dutch inside. Arthur was only wanted in one state and they stopped searching for him a while ago. Dutch was much more popular with the government though.

Arthur sent out a letter to a man by the name of James Henry Garrison. It was the current pen name they had set up to keep in contact with one another. Arthur chose it when he joined the gang. His vocabulary was limited and his handwriting looked like chicken scratch. Arthur shook his head while he started the letter, pushing down his irritation at himself.

Dear brother, Me and Pa made it to New York. It’s colder than hell here. Talked to the teller about another train heading west. Says no trains will be leaving N.Y until the weather lets up. The factory didn’t pay Pa. So we don’t have a lot of cash. Just enough to get us back home. Tell Ma to not worry and if she has to clean up and move around then let her. Won’t be home for a few weeks. Gotta head to Cleveland by horse. We’ll be taking the next ride west from there. Hopefully. Will write back when we make it to Cleveland.

- Brandon

Arthur hoped the letter would make it to Hosea safe and sound. And hopefully soon so that he and Susan didn’t have to worry too much. The letter was short and sweet, it wasn’t like he could really write more because he didn’t exactly know how.

Back outside again, Arthur and Dutch meet their next task of stealing a horse. Dutch had been eyeing one while Arthur was in the post office. It was a large workhorse, strong enough to tread through the thick layers of snow. The huge horse was black with white spots and had a crazy mane. It looked nastier and meaner than any outlaw they’ve ever come across.

“How in the hell are we going to steal that thing?” There was a hint of attitude in Arthur’s voice. He wasn’t looking forward to being bucked off a horse two feet taller than him. Seeing as he would be riding at the hind end anyways, “Let’s say we get on it, then what? Walk out of here with all these people around?”

Dutch had a plan, he always had a plan. He shook his finger and went, “Ah, ah. Have faith in me, boy. Follow my lead,” The horse was hitched outside some kind of barn.

Arthur could smell the molten iron leaking from inside the makeshift blacksmith's barn. The horse was already agitated and didn’t seem pleased to be out in the cold. There were some low lives scattered around here an there but none of them seemed to be paying attention to anything. Dutch had started sneaking across the road, walking fast and quickly to the side of the barn. He waved Arthur over and the two stood there looking around the corner. Dutch had picked up a rock from the ground and tossed it a few times in his hand before took all his strength and pelted it at the window across the street into someone’s upstairs store. The two of them quickly hid behind the barn’s walls and watched the show start.

The store owner came running outside and instantly started yelling at the low lives that had been loitering around to behind with. It created the perfect distraction. Dutch gave Arthur a quick shove and rushed to the horse waiting to be taken. Within the chaos, Dutch mounted the horse and pulled Arthur up. As they left, someone noticed them stealing the horse and called out in alarm. Thank god this horse was huge and fast, they made it out of town before the law was able to show up and hopefully no one saw their faces either.

The wind bit at his neck and ears, and Arthur wished he had more clothes on. The horse that he had nicked name Bucky -because any second this horse would buck him- trotted through thick snowy paths. Arthur watched the coast of Lake Erie as they made their way west. The landscape changed from open fields to thick forests. He could still see the lake splashing out between pine trees. While Arthur was looking in the forest he noticed something.

“Dutch-” He tapped his shoulder, “Look. A house. I think it’s abandon. Or no one is home.”

Dutch slowed Bucky and gazed into the trees. There was a stone house that blended in making it hard to focus on. He squinted and spurred the horse towards the house.

There wasn’t any light coming from inside and the chimney was free of any smoke. There was little to no tracks, no horse, no sounds. There was a barn though that was busted slightly open. Dutch saw in there an unused wagon. He smiled and began to chuckle with joy, “Good looking, Arthur,” He praised, “Let's see what’s happened here,”

Arthur slid off Bucky while Dutch went for the wagon, “See what you can find inside. Get anything that seems useful,” Arthur followed orders and kicked his way through the snow to get to the house.

It was just as cold inside as it was outside. The door didn’t even need to be unlocked. Arthur pushed the heavy door aside and tried his best to see inside the dark house. It looked empty, but not in a good or safe way. As he pushed inside he found himself in a kitchen that was fully stocked. It was like who ever lived here had just up and left everything behind. There were pictures everywhere. Rugs, curtains. This was a house owned by someone rather wealthy but it was funny because it was so small and cute.

Arthur pulled out his revolver just in case some animals had snuck in, or if there was a chance someone was home.

He made his way into a living room and found a massacre. It made sense now, the house wasn't abandoned. It’s owners were killed in cold blood, left to freeze and rot on their living room floor, “Dutch!” Arthur called, “We got some dead folk in here!”

There were a man and woman, probably married from all the pictures hanging about. The looked high class in nice clothes but covered in frozen blood. They didn’t die peacefully. It looked like they suffered. Dutch had walked into the house. When he saw the bodies he let out a sigh that expressed grief, “A shame,” he said, “Snows too deep for the wagon,” It didn’t take him long to get back to business, “Seeing as our hosts are no longer with us… I don’t think they’d mind if we stayed a little longer. Go check the other rooms, see if anyone else is home.”

Dutch had gotten to work and removing the dead while Arthur searched some more. He found the master bedroom with the biggest bed he ever saw and a bathtub right there in the god damn bedroom. Right across the hall was a smaller bedroom. Arthur pushed the door open and was greeted with heat. He instantly pulled out his gun and aimed it blindly in the room. There was a lantern, lit and flickering, there were cans of open food on the floor. He saw something moving behind the bed.

It was hard to make out what he was looking at, at first. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he found himself looking at a child. A girl. She made it very obvious where she was hiding and she was even staring back at Arthur. When he pointed his gun at her she screamed loudly as if she was about to die. Arthur quickly lowered his gun and move into the room, “No! No! It’s okay! I put it away!” He stuffed his gun into his holster and raised his hands up, “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The girl stayed in her place and let out a cry, “Go away!” She sounded sick. His voice was high pitched and stuffy. She coughed a few times then yelled again, “Get out!”

The commotion caused Dutch run over. He stood in the doorway and caused the girl to scream again. She picked up a stuffy animal she had and threw it at them. Dutch dogged the toy and shuffled into the room, “Miss! Calm down! We ain’t here to hurt you!”

“That’s what the other men said!” She threw another toy, this time it was a wooden horse and it hit Arthur square in the chest, “They killed my mom!” She cried out. Arthur got a good look at this girl. She was young but definitely not much younger than him, “They killed my dad! They just killed them for the fun of it! You came back to kill me too!”

Arthur took a few steps towards her, he was trying his best to not snap at her for all the toys she hit him with, “We ain’t those men,” He said slowly, “We saw what they did to your mama. We ain’t bad like them,”

She clutched tightly to a doll that looked like a princess. She took a few steps forward as she started to calm down, realizing she was in no immediate danger. She broke into a run and threw herself into Arthur’s arms and cried, “They killed them!” She sobbed, “What am I gonna do now, mister?”

Dutch put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gave a squeeze. He had this sad look on his eyes and he said, “You know what to do,” And walked away to finish taking care of the parents of this poor girl. Arthur held the girl as she cried and thought about Dutch’s words.

Because it’s the right thing to do.

He had to pry her away from him. She held on like it meant life or death. It was so bizarre because he was a total and complete stranger to this girl but she had gone from hating him to loving him in just a second. He could never see himself trusting someone so easily. Then again he wasn’t a child anymore.

“What’s your name, miss?”

She rubbed her eyes to clear away her tears, “(Y-y/n)… (L/n)…”

She sniffed hard and coughed a few times. She seemed to be really sick, “How old are you?” he kept a hand on her arm, lightly holding it but also to keep her from clinging to him again.

“12,” He voice was so sad and raspy. He felt sorry for her. She was only three years younger than him but he could already see the innocents she had was gone. He almost saw himself in her. He remembered when he was 12 years old. He cried a lot then too, “I’m scared, mister,”

“It’s alright, (Y/n),” Arthur stood and as he did she took his hand in hers. It caught him by surprise but he didn’t make her let go, “We’ll take care of you. My name is Arthur,”

As they left her bedroom and made their way into the open end of the house, the bodies were gone but the blood remained, “He’s Dutch,” Arthur pointed at his mentor who was digging around in the cabinets.

“Why?” She asked, “Why take care of me?”

He stopped his snooping and Dutch met up with (Y/n). He gave that heartfelt smile of his. It was soft and only half a smile but it carried so much weight behind it. For a killer and outlaw, Dutch smiled a lot, “Because… It’s the right thing to do. You’re just a kid and you won’t make it on your own. I’ve always wanted children but no woman would stay with me long enough,” He and Arthur laughed at that, “You’re a lot like my young friend here,” He gestured to Arthur, “I plucked him from the streets too. He ain’t had nobody until I came along,”

She shyly hid behind Arthur’s arm and said, “Are you guys going to send me to the orphanage?” He remembered the building all the low live hung around back in town.

Dutch shook his head quickly, “No,” He sounded so sure and his words stood as firm as he did, “Not unless you want to go.”

(Y/n) shook her head quickly and clutched harder onto Arthur’s hand, “I don’t want to,”

“Well then, hello Miss (L/n). It’s my pleasure to formally meet you. I am Dutch Van der Linde, at your service.”

[shireness-says]

Killian Jones and the Lost Boy

Summary: Killian Jones' entire life changes when he meets a boy living on the streets. ~12K.

A/N: This was supposed to be 5K. It was not. What it is is 12K of Killian being adorable with tiny Henry. Be aware: this is mostly a Captain Cobra fic with Captain Swan as a bonus. Contains swearing, vague mention of pirate deaths, and a painful amount of cute.

Many thanks to @awkwardnessandbaseball who took up the editing mantle when I couldn’t look at this anymore! Thanks a million, you da best.

Also on AO3.

Enjoy!

There’s a port, off in a nearly forgotten corner of the map at the furthest edge of Misthaven, that Killian Jones and the rest of the Jolly Roger’s crew like to dock at.

It’s nothing much; a tiny hamlet, really, not worthy of much interest to mapmakers, let alone anyone else. But the merchants are fair, the women are friendly, and the drinks are cheap, so the Jolly and her crew keep coming back. Scarlet’s even found himself a sweetheart in town – the pretty florist’s daughter, who loves when he brings her texts from far-off lands. So they make port every 4-6 weeks to restock.

It’s the kind of routine Killian’s life needs right now. Five bloody years spent searching the realm from one end to another for a way to finally kill the Dark One, to exact his revenge for his Milah and for his hand, and when he finally comes back with a poison that can kill the Crocodile once and for all, it’s only to discover that the demon had procured a magic bean at last and used it to reunite with his son in the Land Without Magic – a land Killian has no desire to ever set foot in. Killian’s entire life had centered around revenge for so long, first for his brother and then for his love; with his former monarch deposed after the war and the Crocodile long gone, he’s no longer quite sure what to do with himself. Piracy had been a means to an end, and without that goal to reach, he’s aimless, fruitlessly searching for some way to bring meaning back to his life. It’s been two years of this, him and the crew of the Jolly drifting along from port to port, like a ship without a rudder, just as when they first heard of the Dark One’s departure. So he makes a point of returning to this particular town regularly, in a feeble attempt to return some semblance of normalcy to all their lives.

Truly, it’s the least remarkable town imaginable. Killian isn’t even sure it has a name; there’s nothing listed on his maps, and the townspeople tend to just refer to their little hamlet as “here” or the only slightly more dignified “In Town”. It’s the kind of place where people keep saying they’ll leave one day, but rarely do, finding themselves staying behind and doing whatever their father had done before them and making a family and wishing they had just done more with their lives. But that’s of no concern to Killian and the rest of the crew; their comparatively worldly presence and status as a new face makes them welcomed guests in a town desperate for new tales of the world, even if they are pirates.

Really, the only distinguishing factor about the town is that it’s nearly overrun by a group of street children that Scarlet dubs the Lost Boys (over-dramatic git that he is). From what Killian understands, a sickness swept the next town over a few years back, leaving many children orphaned. No one quite knows how the children came to be in this hamlet instead, but the fact of the matter is they’re here, and clearly have no intention of leaving. Kilian never has problems with them; one of the bolder children tried to pick his pocket once, but that effort was quickly shut down. He may not hold with chopping off the hands of thieves, especially after losing a limb himself, but a threatening glare is more than permissible, and has so far worked wonders.

(Whale has a problem with the pick-pockets, but Whale is also an idiot, so Killian understands why the ship’s doctor has become such a target.)

There is one boy Killian worries about, who can’t be more than four and struggles to keep up with the others. He’s just so small, clearly years younger than even the next youngest boy. With his short legs and childlike tendency towards distraction, Killian is worried about the possibility of the lad getting separated and left behind. Unfortunately, the truth is that this may be a better solution than whatever the boy escaped from. Killian is more than familiar with local orphanages, having been a ward of one in that period between Mama’s death and Father’s retrieval (and later abandonment); he remembers the poor conditions, the children sleeping four to a bed, the insufficient amount of food that was always only a small step away from having gone bad. Slavery was far worse, but Killian’s memories of the orphanage are far from rosy, and in fact pitch closer to awful. He can’t blame the boys for wanting to strike out on their own in their ragtag group, and suspects what coins the little one can beg and the older ones can earn on odd jobs (combined, of course, with outright thievery) can provide much better sustenance than orphanage meals deal, combined with that wonderful feeling of independence and determining one’s own fate. Killian resolves to pay closer attention come winter when the temperatures drop to make sure the lad isn’t in danger of hypothermia, but for the moment, he’s happy to leave well enough alone.

------

For such a small town, it’s somewhat surprising that it can boast two taverns, but that’s the truth of the matter. The Jolly’s crew tends to patronize the less reputable of the two, a dark and slimy-feeling joint called the Rabbit Hole that’s not too far from the docks. Most of the town chooses the Red Wolf Inn, but Killian’s grown quite fond of this hole in the wall, where the traffic is less respectable and the owner (Jefferson, he thinks the name is) is more than happy to accept their money.

It’s been a night for the ages; Mulan had taken everything Smee had to offer in a game of dice, Whale somehow managed to piss off not one, not two, but three women in a two hour period, and whatever batch of rum Jefferson is serving them tonight is particularly strong. The entire crew is three sheets to the wind and Killian’s seen more than a few of his men slip off to dark corners with female companionship.

Killian had planned to find some company of his own that evening when they had all set out, but he’s thinking better of it now. Despite his intentions, he’s veering towards the kind of drunk where he’s likely to pass out immediately after sex and find his cabin missing a few valuables in the morning, and he’d honestly like to avoid that if at all possible. So as the night winds down, Killian slips out the door to walk back to the Jolly by himself. He absent-mindedly tries to plot a course for the rest of his evening: get back to the ship, set aside his vest to mend that missing button later, find some damn water to drink, maybe crawl into bed and read a bit more of that new collection of adventures he picked up at the market in Agrabah...

That’s when he hears the sniffle.

It’s a quiet noise, really; he’s not sure at first that he heard anything at all. But the noise comes again, from the alley to his left, and Killian can’t help but go and investigate. He expects a puppy, maybe, something insignificant to be sure, expects to be on his way in a moment.

Instead, he finds a little boy. No, he finds the boy, the little boy he tries not to worry about, huddled in a corner of the alley in the October night’s chill, all alone. And that discovery sobers Killian up quicker than he could have imagined.

The lad spots him coming as Killian steps closer, and fearfully tries to curl up tighter and scoot away, his bottom lip visibly trembling. Smart lad – already knows not to trust the benevolence of strangers. It’s working against Killian’s good intentions in this instance, but smart lad, all the same.

“It’s alright,” he say as gently as he can, “I’m not going to hurt you.”But the boy is still eyeing him warily – especially his hook, Killian realizes – so he unlocks the appendage from its brace, offering it to him in a goodwill gesture. The lad takes it somewhat tentatively, but seems reassured by the fact that he now has control over the sharp instrument.

“See? Nothing to worry about.” Killian offers his best smile, one he hopes will put the young boy at ease. “My name’s Killian. Or Hook, if you like that better.”

The lad frowns a little, tripping over the name. “Kill-an?”

“Aye, that’s right, Killian. What’s your name, lad?”

The boy still looks nervous, but he does mumble out “Henry.” So that’s progress.

“Henry? Oh, I like that. A good, strong, dashing name for a growing boy.” The next part is trickier – finding out exactly how little Henry came to be huddled in this corner. Killian has never seen the lost boys out late at night, for all that they’re underfoot during the day, so he assumes they’ve got some sort of shelter or tents set up.

“Henry, can you tell me where your friends are?”

Henry’s been a little misty ever since Killian walked up, but this question proves to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, as the little boy bursts into tears.

Somehow, Killian ends up sprawled on the ground with a sobbing child in his arms, trying to soothe the poor thing and failing miserably. If this reaction is anything to go by, the rest of the boys are gone; thinking back, he realizes that the town had been abnormally quiet this time at port. They must have moved on to a new town and left poor Henry behind, whether by accident or on purpose. The boy’s tears finally start to calm, but the experience seems to have eliminated his hesitance as he clutches Killian’s jacket and tries to burrow his little face into the juncture of Killian’s neck and shoulder.

He rocks and shushes the little boy for a few minutes longer as he tries to formulate a plan. Henry is far too young to be on his own – honestly, it’s a wonder he’s made it this far with only a collection of other children looking after him. In the morning, he’ll have to see about maybe finding a family to take Henry in, but for the moment, there’s really only one option.

“Henry, would you like to sleep on my ship tonight?”

------

To say Will Scarlet is surprised when Killian shows up back at the Jolly Roger with a small child hanging onto his hook is an understatement.

“Uh… something you’d like to share with us, Captain?”

Henry’s getting nervous again, trying to hide behind Killian’s legs, so he shoots Scarlet a look he hopes says be gentle. “It’s alright, little one,” he cajoles, convincing Henry to peep out again, if only to look up to meet his eyes. “Henry, this is my friend Will Scarlet, and Scarlet, this is my friend Henry. Can you say hello to Mister Will?”

“Hello, Misser Will,” comes the little voice, somehow instantly melting his sarcastic second mate into a man who softly smiles as he crouches down to the little boy’s level.

“Well hello there, master Henry,” Will says, offering his hand for what must be the most adorable handshake Killian has ever witnessed. “How old are you?”

Henry proudly holds up five fingers, much to both men’s amusement. “Oh, you’re five?” Scarlet asks, only to receive a frown in return. Re-examining his fingers, Henry folds his pinky down before presenting the hand again. “Four then?” At least that receives an excited nod. Henry is clearly very proud to be an entire four years old.

“Young Henry is going to be staying with us tonight, isn’t that right, lad?”

Henry nods, but still looks up at Killian’s face nervously, like he’s afraid they’re going to take that privilege away from him at any moment. Killian tries to put as reassuring a smile on his face as he can, but it’s more than a little heartbreaking to see how Henry doesn’t trust this good fortune he’s receiving.

“Well that sounds like fun, little mate. Do you want something to snack on?” asks Will. “I know I get hungry right before I go to bed.”

The boy practically lights up at the mention of food, and Killian feels a stab of guilt cut through his heart. Gods, he was so worried about Henry having a safe place to stay for the night that he forgot that the lad probably hadn’t had a decent meal in possibly a very long while. So he nods at Scarlet to go rustle something up for the boy and offers his hook, once again, to the lad. He’d tried to offer the hand earlier, but Henry has taken some odd comfort from the hook, and it does have the added bonus of leaving Killian free to handle other things with his other hand (his only hand). 

He’s already decided that Henry will sleep in his cabin. It’s not that Killian doesn’t trust his crew, it’s just that he doesn’t want to take any chances with the lad, and there’s probably the fewest chances for Henry to get into something and accidentally hurt himself in the captain’s quarters. Plus, he thinks Henry will be less scared in a room with him than with a bunch of strange men and women. So Killian carefully helps the boy down the ladder - he insists on doing it himself, very determinedly declaring “I can do it!”, even as Killian still makes sure to keep his hand and hook at the boy’s sides just in case he slips - and settles him in one of the chairs. The little lad is happy enough to sit at the table and look at all of the maps currently laid out, so Killian sets off to find the lad a cot and a blanket - maybe even a spare pillow, if one exists - just as Will is about to walk in with a hunk of bread for Henry to nibble on. As he walks away, he can just hear Henry’s excited chatter to the other man, a noise that makes him smile. But for the moment, he’s got more important things to take care of.

As he lugs the thin pallet down the narrow corridor - the best he can find, but probably still better than little Henry is used to, sadly enough - he runs into Will Scarlet again, seemingly making his way back to his own bunk in one of the former officer’s cabins. “Is the lad alright?” he tries not to ask too urgently.

But Will just nods genially. “Yep, happy as a clam. Practically inhaled that bit of bread, thought I’d go see if I had any sweets hidden to give him. How long is he staying with us, Captain?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. You’re down in the village proper a hell of a lot more than any of the rest of us; have you heard of any families that might be willing to take him in?”

The crewman screws his brow in thought. “I… no, I don’t. But you might try going down to the other tavern tomorrow - the Red Wolf Inn. Most of the town wanders through, and lord knows that the lady who runs it, Granny Lucas, has an ear for the gossip. If anyone knows of family who’s willing, it’ll be her.”

That seems like a solid enough plan. He’ll head down with the boy tomorrow, sort the matter out, and then the Jolly Roger can be back out of port as soon as their stores are replenished. Easy. “Excellent. We’ll go in the morning.” And with a nod of thanks to the other man, Killian manages to reopen the door to the captain’s quarters and slip through with the pallet.

Only to find the four year old boy already asleep at the table and clutching the last scrap of bread like it’s his salvation.

As quietly as he can, Killian makes up the pallet, making a quick note in his head to get the boy a bath and a change of clothes in the morning. The little lad barely stirs when Killian carefully scoops him up to carry him to the makeshift bed, except to try and burrow in a little closer to the warmth of Killian’s chest. It makes his heart warm, that little bit, to see how this tiny human inexplicably seems to trust him, even unconsciously. He hasn’t thought about kids in a long time, not since Milah had told him she didn’t want any more, and he can’t help but wonder if this is what fatherhood could feel like; like a tiny body in his arms and an unassailable trust.

But Henry isn’t his. Henry, Killian tries to remind himself, won’t be staying on the Jolly for very long, will have a family of his own who can properly take care of him as soon as can be arranged. There’s no point in getting attached. So he sets the little boy down and tucks him in, carefully extricating the hunk of bread from tiny hands.

He allows himself to brush the dark hair out of Henry’s eyes before turning to attend to his own bedtime rituals, but that’s it.

------

When Killian wakes up with the sun the next morning, his little houseguest - or cabin-guest, he supposes, as the case may be - is still fast asleep. That’s fine; good, actually. It means he has a chance to get down to the local market to procure for Henry a set of clothes that isn’t quite so dirty and torn. Will is more than willing to keep an eye on the little guy; they seem to have formed an attachment in their short time together that Killian doesn’t see any reason to discourage. Will’s a big kid at heart, which the four year old must love.

His purchases are easy enough to locate; the only thing Killian ends up not buying is a pair of shoes for the lad, since he realizes he doesn’t have any clue what size Henry might need, and that’s something they’d need to be a bit more specific about. If the pants or shirt are too big, it’ll be fine, but shoes should really be a proper size, plus just a little bit of room to grow. 

The shirt and pants should be the end of his purchases, besides maybe picking up just a bit of cheese on his way back to the ship, but a tiny, tucked away booth catches his eye instead. There’s an old woman making all sorts of knitted goods, fingers flying almost faster than his eyes can process: hats and socks and gloves, in every color imaginable. None of those are what catch his attention, however. Tucked away behind everything else is a bright flash of color - a multi-colored, patchwork blanket, the perfect size for a child. He doesn’t need to buy it, truly; he’s sure Henry will be more than happy with just the new clothes.

He buys it anyway.

------

To say Henry is thrilled is an understatement.

Killian walks back into his quarters to find Scarlet grinning at the table as a giggling Henry concocts some wild story and acts it out, practically bouncing off the walls. Still, he happily rushes over when Killian walks back in, laden down with packages.

“I missed you, Killy!” he chirps, trying to pry parcels out of his grasp.

Killy. He hasn’t been called Killy in years.

(He might like being Killy, even if Scarlet looks like he’ll give him all kinds of shit about it.)

Henry’s looking at him expectantly, so Killian’s probably been lost in his thoughts for too long. “Well I missed you too, little mate!” he smiles. “But I had to go pick up a few things for you.”

The clothes go over well - or at least as well as clothes ever go over with children when presented as a gift. But the blanket…

Henry loves the blanket. 

He gasps dramatically when he tears the paper off, looking between the soft yarn and Killian’s face with a sort of soft awe before abruptly standing and crashing into Killian’s legs in a massive hug, muttering something into his thigh that Killian thinks must be “thank you”. It’s hard to know how to react to such a display, but he does as best he can, patting the boy’s back.

“Well, you’re very welcome lad.” Retrieving the blanket from it’s packaging on the floor, he clumsily drapes it over the boy’s shoulders with hand and hook. “Nice and cozy, yeah?”

Henry nods, still clinging to a leg. 

“Now, what do you say we have some breakfast and get you washed up, then go see some of Mister Will’s friends?”

------

All washed up and practically skipping down the street, Henry looks like any other boy.    

They’d told him, briefly, about the plan - how they’re going to go see a friend of Mister Will’s who going to find Henry a real home. The boy is a little confused, but enthusiastic all the same. It shouldn’t be too hard to find Henry a proper family, Killian thinks; the lad is just so damn happy, and loving, even after everything he’s been through.

Even at 11:30 in the morning on a weekday, the Red Wolf Inn is packed. Will was certainly right; the bustling room appears to be the social center of this tiny hamlet. They attract more than a few suspicious looks, but Will’s presence seems to calm the masses a bit, thankfully - something that must be a first, he wants to joke. The man himself is scanning the room with furrowed brow, seemingly not finding the face he’s looking for. In the meantime, a fierce blonde is quickly approaching with a scowl on her face that causes Henry to hide behind his leg. Killian can’t blame the lad; frankly he’d prefer to hide himself. 

“What do you think you’re doing with him?” she demands, gesturing at Henry. Killian quickly realizes she’s more worried about the little lad than anything, which helps temper his trepidation in dealing with her, even as Henry grows even more nervous of her tone and clutches tighter to his trousers.

“Actually, Miss - ” he begins, but she cuts him off in fiery indignation. It’s a good look on her, actually; he might even like her, if she wasn’t actively working against him.

“Now listen here, you prick, you may be some fancy pirate and he’s just a street kid but that is no excuse. If you think I’m going to let you do awful things to him on this property -”

“Killy’s a good pirate!” Henry’s little voice pipes through, just as indignant as the blonde’s. “He bought me a blanket,” he adds, like that settles everything.

The barmaid still looks wary, but softens somewhat at Henry’s protestations. He has a way of doing that, Killian is starting to realize. “I’m just trying to look out for you, kid,” she finally says.

But Henry is a perpetual ray of sunshine. “He saw I was cold outside last night, and let me stay on his ship!” he chirps. “And he says he’s going to help me find a family! He’s a very good pirate.”

That even gets a smile out of the woman. “Well, he sounds like a very good friend.” She still sounds a little suspicious, but at least she’s no longer engaged in outright one-sided combat.

Henry just nods sagely. “He’s my Hook.” Like that’s a logical explanation of their relationship, in the same lines as ‘uncle’ or ‘brother’ or ‘father’. Hook. 

(Who knows, maybe it is, what with the irrational, absurd comfort Henry draws from clinging to the damn thing.)

Killian shakes himself back to awareness before his thoughts can travel too far down any such rabbit holes. “That’s what we’re here about, actually, Miss. My mate Scarlet here told me the proprietress, Mrs. Lucas, might know of a family who could take young Henry in? It’s awfully cold for tiny fingers to be out on their own.”

He tries to grin charmingly, but the barmaid only looks uncomfortable. “Well…” she begins, clearly bothered by something, and Killian feels himself tense up in anticipation. “Granny isn’t here, you see. Left to spend the day by herself and gave me instructions not to bother her unless the place is on fire.”

Oh. Well, that’s an easy enough problem to work around. “That’s fine, lass. Do you know when she expects to come back?”

“The day after tomorrow. If you’re still in port you could come back then, I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to talk with you. And in the meantime, I could probably keep an ear out. Let you know if I hear of anyone who’d be willing.” 

He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can even utter a single syllable, he’s interrupted by an awful gurgling, moaning noise - Henry’s stomach. The little lad can certainly tuck a lot away. Killian lets loose a chuckle at Henry’s guilty look, before turning back to the woman. “I think that should work. Now, in the meantime, I don’t suppose you have anything we could eat? It seems young Henry here is hungry again. Growing boy and all that.” Looking down at the boy in question, he sees Henry trying to give his own charming smile, and has to stifle a chuckle before turning back to the barmaid, catching her holding back her own laugh.

“I believe we have some stew in the back I could spoon up, if you like. How many servings?”

Killian turns to ask Scarlet if he’d like a bowl, but the man’s wandered off again, likely to try and woo his lady. Or maybe just avoid the blonde’s wrath. Either way, it’s an answer to his question.

“Two, please, Miss…?” he ends in a questioning tone. It would be helpful to know who to ask for in two days’ time (and that’s the only reason, truly, he swears).

“Emma. Emma Swan.”

------

Henry absolutely wolfs down his stew, and Killian makes a note to make sure they pick up some sort of bedtime snack for the boy tonight. The least they can do while the lad is on the Jolly Roger is make sure he’s well-fed.

Swan has noticeably softened by the time they’re ready to depart, a fact for which Killian is grateful - he’s not sure he has any more arguments to counter any insistence that Henry not stay on the Jolly. So they make their farewells - Henry more enthusiastically than Killian.

(“Bye, Miss Emma!” he calls, practically flapping his entire hand in a wave as the woman in question chuckles and good-naturedly waggles her fingers right back.)

The next days pass quickly, waiting for news from Miss Swan or from Mrs. Lucas. Killian does try going back to the tavern to see the proprietress on the day she’s expected back, and she is present, but so is the rest of the entire tiny village (or at least so it seems), so Miss Swan waves him away and promises they’ll come down to the ship when there’s news.

As much as the crew has welcomed their young guest, the fact of the matter is that they’ve been in port for almost a week. They’re a ship full of wanderers; while short sojourns to restock their stores and enjoy the local bars (and women) are welcomed, they all itch to get back on the open sea before too long, and a week is stretching their patience. So it’s with no small relief that he sees Miss Swan walking up the gangplank at last - at least, until he sees the look on her face.

“We’re trying to find him a good family - ” she starts, and Killilan can already see where this is going.

“But haven’t yet,” he interrupts. “I take it that’s what you’re here to tell me?”

She nods guiltily. Fantastic.

Honestly, he doesn’t know what the next step is. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that they’d have trouble finding a home for Henry. The boy is such a cheerful, bubbly delight; any family would be so lucky to have him. But the fact of the matter is that he needs to be casting off in the next day or so, or risk losing his crew to other ships. He trusts his men, a feeling that goes both ways, but this is their livelihood, and if the Jolly isn’t out pillaging and plundering, they’ll have to leave and find another ship to work on. He simply can’t afford to wait around until they find Henry a proper home, as much as he’d like to.

“I hate to ask, lass, but the crew and I need to be casting off. I don’t suppose there’s any way you can look after Henry until - ”

But that only earns another guilty shake of her head. Killian has to admit, he doesn’t much like that look on the lady’s face. “My room is barely big enough for me. I can’t keep Henry cooped up in there when I barely want to go back at night.”

There’s a whole host of questions he wants to ask about that, about why Miss Swan has to put up with such subpar lodgings and what he can do to help, but he’s distracted by the sudden awareness of Henry’s little body around his legs. Looking down he sees the worry no four year old should have to be carrying, and that’s it. The decision is made.

“What do you say, lad? Want to spend a little time on the ocean waves with us?”

------

Henry takes to life at sea like a fish to water, so to speak, and the crew takes to him like one of their own. Henry spends his days running from bow to stern and back again, seemingly without any complaints of unsteady legs or seasickness. Somewhere along the line, the crew - Killian suspects led by Scarlet, but he can’t prove anything - begins calling the boy “Little Mate”, which he loves (and Killian finds pretty cute too, even if he has to pretend to be stern and disapproving). As such, the days are now filled with calls of “C’mere, Little Mate, I want to show you something” and offers to teach the boy various things.

 Scarlet - or ‘Misser Will’, as he’s becoming known - has an extra special bond with the little boy, but everyone really takes well to his presence on board. Smee is slowly showing Henry all the best hiding places (a particular hit with a curious little boy), and Mulan has been trying to teach him some basic defense with the help of a couple of wooden sticks for swords. At his age, lessons in actual sword-fighting are a little bit useless due to his size and attention span, but he still loves playing at being a knight (or perhaps a dashing pirate captain…) and Mulan’s insistence on decent form can only be an asset if he chooses to pursue the art as he grows older. Killian especially appreciates how she tries to teach their ward some basic weaponless maneuvers even little Henry can execute, like kicking and punching at knees and ankles and advising him to bite and scratch and scream. Henry is still more interested in charging wildly at Mulan’s legs, but Killian still feels better, knowing the boy will have these lessons in the back of his mind and a little bit of muscle memory of how to protect himself. Will, of course, will probably always occupy the top spot in Henry’s book of favorites, especially now that he’s trying to rig up a harness so the lad can safely climb up to the crow’s nest, but the rest of the crew seem ok with that. Even Whale seems to like having Henry around, even if he doesn’t know quite what to do with a small child.

The one little bump is the nightmares. Henry is shockingly good about going to bed when asked - much better than Killian ever remembers being about the matter, though the bedtime stories he receives as a reward for his cooperation certainly must help the process. The lad is even good enough to fall asleep quickly after hearing tales of pirates and princesses and mermaids. But unfortunately, good sleep is not always to be had for poor Henry. Killian is growing used to waking up to the lad’s thrashing and whimpering, and it truly breaks his heart all over again. There’s not much to do for it; the best Killian can do is try to calm the boy down with gentle shushing and strokes to his hair and face. Eventually, Henry will calm down, and usually falls back to sleep after being carefully tucked into his blanket, tight and snug.

(The whole endeavor is feeling more and more like parenthood, and Killian isn’t sure he dislikes it.)

(But Henry will be gone within the month, off to his own family, so he tries not to get too attached.)

------

Emma - Miss Swan, that is - is already waiting anxiously on the docks the next time the Jolly Roger makes port, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in impatience. Henry makes a beeline straight for her legs as soon the gangplank is down with no notice at all for the various calls to “be careful, Little Mate!” Instead, he plows into her her with a mighty “oomph!” that Emma has, thankfully, already braced herself for.

As Killian makes his more sedate way down to the dock, he can already hear Henry chattering away, seemingly determined to tell Miss Emma every single thing that’s happened the last month.

“... and I saw dolphins, Miss Emma! Have you ever seen dolphins?”

She smiles indulgently, and Killian swears he feels his heart stutter at the sight of this woman being so good to the little lad. He’s so lost in that smile and the way she holds Henry’s hand like she might break it that he entirely misses her response, whatever it might be. Honestly, he’s not even sure how long he stands, smiling like a fool, before he notices Miss Swan jerking her head to the side like she has something she wants to tell him, privately.

And boy, does she ever have something to tell him.

“We think we found a family that will take Henry,” she says, and Killian feels his heart jump - whether in anticipation and excitement or in sadness that his time with Henry will soon be ending, it’s hard to say. The two are irrevocably tied together at this juncture.

Somehow, he forces words past his mouth. “You did?”

She nods. “Yeah. I mean, you and Henry will have the final say, but yeah, Granny and I think we have a candidate. I just wanted to talk to you about how you wanted to do this. Should we speak with them first, make sure they’ll be a good fit, before we let them meet Henry? You’re his de facto guardian at the moment, so I figured you might want to talk to the couple before making any decisions about his care.”

That… is a sound idea. He feels a little guilty admitting it, but Miss Emma is right. He just got so caught up in the idea of simply finding Henry a family that would take him in that he forgot to consider whether they’d be the right family, which is even more important. Emma is waiting expectantly, so he quickly pulls his thoughts together. 

“Aye, that sounds like a good idea. Shall meet them at the Red Wolf in, say, two days time? Have a little bit of an interview?”

So it’s settled. Killian will meet Emma and the couple in two evening’s time to find out if they’re the right family for Henry.

------

They’re not the right family for Henry.

The wife is nice enough, a sweet woman on the upper end of middle age whose own two children are already gone, making names for themselves in the Queen’s Navy. She seems like the kind of woman you’d want for a loving aunt, who’d pull you into a loving hug and try to fatten you up a little.

Unfortunately, Killian can’t say the same about the husband. He’s a shoemaker by trade, which isn’t a problem, per se, but he seems detached from the whole thing, not excited by the prospect of a child like his wife is, and Killian gets the idea that he’s mostly agreeing to this as a way to get some help in his shop without formally having to take on an apprentice. Frankly, Killian’s a little afraid that Henry would get taken advantage of as another working body by this man, and he’s not at all confident that the wife, lovely though she may be, would have the spine to prevent it. So he expresses his thanks to their faces, and privately resolves that no, Henry will not be going home with these two.

The lad takes the news surprisingly well, especially considering how excited he had been at the prospect of a real proper home. But when Henry is told the bad news, he just shrugs and turns back to whatever wrestling match he and Scarlet had been in the middle of. Killian is just so relieved to not have to handle any tears that he’s willing to take the boy’s reaction at face value and not dig any deeper.

Emma agrees with him about the couple, thankfully. As it turns out, all of Granny’s interactions had been with the wife, and she shares his trepidations about the husband’s attitude and motivations. So they share a couple mugs of ale and resolve to continue searching for the perfect family to take in Henry - someplace where he won’t just be housed and fed, but truly happy. It’s the night Killian learns about Emma’s motivations for doing all this - that she herself grew up in a series of orphanages, overlooked and unloved. She’ll do anything to keep Henry from growing up like that.

(It’s also the night Killian learns how much he likes the way Emma snorts instead of laughs, but that’s entirely irrelevant to the matter at hand.)

Henry is still on board the ship when they cast off again, but Killian feels better about it, knowing that they still need to find the perfect fit for the little lad.

------

The second month with Little Mate goes more or less smoothly. This whole period of time seems to be defined by efforts to grant Henry little gifts. Mr. Smee, at one port, purchases a skein of the most obnoxiously green yarn Killian has ever seen and knits Henry a little hat to match his own. Henry, of course, insists on wearing the bloody thing almost all the time, so he’s become a tiny fluorescent beacon bobbing up and down the ship. Meanwhile, the ship’s carpenter has taken a liking to Henry that has resulted in a series of toys the boy patently Does Not Need, from a collection of building blocks that always seem to be right in the way of Killian’s bare feet at night to a carved wooden sword with intricate patterns on its hilt. Henry loves them all - really, this must be some sort of heaven for a little boy growing up with not nearly enough - but Killian’s favorite is the little step stool Mr. Hollis fashions for the lad so he can man the helm with the captain. Killian has been slowly trying to teach Henry about port and starboard and the basics of steering the Jolly, and while Little Mate is catching on admirably, he’s really more concerned with pretending to be the captain and giving the crew ridiculous orders. It’s very cute, and Killian tends to give the crew permission to follow Henry’s commands when it doesn’t interfere with other work because it makes the boy giggle, and it’s a sound Killian dearly loves to hear.

Even Whale has developed something of a friendship with Henry, despite still not really knowing how to interact with children. Granted, the entire friendship centers around Henry insisting that the good doctor examine his various minor scrapes and bruises, but still, it’s an odd comradery, of a sort. Whale is slowly figuring out how to talk to Henry, so that’s progress, at the very least.

Where they’re not making progress, unfortunately, is with Henry’s nightmares. Killian tries all he can think of to make it better, but to no avail, and there’s finally a night where even tucking the lad in snugly doesn’t help allay the terror. Killian’s already climbed back into bed to try and get back to sleep, but he can still hear the way Henry’s breath is faster than it ought to be and catches at every stray noise. The poor lad is still scared, there’s no two ways around it. And that’s unacceptable. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so he tries a last-ditch ploy he remembers Liam offering when he was young and scared.

“Lad? Do you want to crawl up here with me?”

By the end of the month, even on nights where he hasn’t had a nightmare, Henry still sometimes likes to crawl into Killian’s bunk, his precious blanket in hand, and starfish himself over Killian’s torso like a weighted blanket. It takes some getting used to on Killian’s end, but it helps the boy, and that’s really all he wants.

------

Emma’s second candidates are actually genuinely lovely - the both of them. He’s a baker in the next town over and she’s a dedicated homemaker, the kind of young and cheerful folks Killian would love to send Henry home with for good.

The only problem is that they already have seven children of their own. Seven. Seven children ranging from fifteen to almost two. Their heart is so clearly in the right place, and Killian appreciates their willingness to step up, but he’s not sure he wants Henry to be just one of a crowd.

He and Emma share another drink or two (or four, on his part...if anyone is counting) after the meeting with the rejected couple concludes. Killian keeps feeling like he has to apologize and justify his decision, which only gets worse the more he drinks. It’s especially stupid because Emma isn’t arguing with him.

“I just want what’s best for him,” he tipsily insists once again, before Emma has had enough.

“Would you stop it?” she demands. “I don’t disagree with you! I was just like Henry, once, just a kid who got forgotten and left by the wayside, and I know there’s a big difference between a roof over your head and a home. And that difference is the people.” She softens her tone as she sees his shock at her outburst. “I don’t blame you for being picky about a family for Henry, not for a moment. In fact, I think it’s nice that he has someone in his corner. It’s a lot more than I ever got.”

Killian wants to say more, wants to reach over and cover her hand with his and tell her all about a father who sold his sons for the sake of his own skin (the first time he’s told anyone since Milah), but the look on Emma’s face screams caution, and he knows that if he pushes too much, this could all go sideways. He can’t afford that for Henry’s sake.

So he nods and finishes his drink and tries not to think the words “kindred spirits”, instead steering the conversation to lighter topics, like the latest gossip in town and the places he and Henry have visited together. 

Milah had always craved tales of adventure when trapped in her small town, as do many of the ladies he’s entertained at various ports, so it’s a surprise to hear that, while Emma enjoys hearing about how Henry had reacted to exotic sights, she doesn’t have much any particular desire to travel herself. It’s the strangest thing, as she’s fiery and full of life and energy in all other ways, but is still perfectly content in her corner of the world. When he explicitly asks about her lack of desire to see the world, she shrugs, having to take a moment to collect her thoughts. 

“I guess… well, I guess I was always searching for a home as a kid. And while I may hate my actual rooms, this town, Granny and Ruby and all of my regulars… they’re the closest thing I’ve found to home. I don’t really want to give that up.”

It makes sense to him in that way he thinks only orphans understand. Killian has lived on the Jolly for years, but before that, nothing was stable in his life except for Liam. But he never truly felt lost, because Liam was his home. And then, later, Milah was his home. It was only the in between moments that he felt lost, homeless.

 (He thinks that Henry, and maybe even Emma, could give him back that feeling of home.)

(But Emma and Henry need roots, roots he’s not in a position to provide, so he pushes the thought away once again.)

------

Month three with Henry on the Jolly Roger brings its ups and downs.

The particular high point, for Killian at least, is teaching Henry about the stars, just like Liam did for him. As Henry has gotten more confident in his stay on the Jolly Roger, he’s gotten more squirrelly about his bedtime, and on the nights where the boy is far too awake and very insistent that he won’t go to sleep, Killian has taken to spreading a blanket on the deck for them both to lay on and stare at the stars.

“You see that one there?” he says, pointing at the sky and guiding the boy’s tiny hand. “That’s the pegasus. Do you know what a pegasus is, Henry?”

Henry shakes his head and looks up expectantly in that way that never fails to make Killian’s heart melt.

“A pegasus is a flying horse. They’ve got these lovely, big wings all covered in feathers. No one has seen one in years, but they’re supposed to be absolutely beautiful.” He chances a glance at Henry, who watches him tell the stories with rapt attention. It’s that innocent attention that encourages him to keep talking, address a subject he usually avoids. “Did you know I had a brother, lad?” Henry shakes his head, eyes wide and curious. “Well, I did. His name was Liam, and he was the captain of this ship.”

“But you’re the captain, Killy!” the lad’s little voice pipes up, and it’s enough to make him chuckle.

“Well yes, Little Mate, but I wasn’t always. Liam was in charge first. And once, when he was still captain, we were given the use of a sail covered in pegasus feathers. And do you know what it did, Henry?”The boy shakes his head frantically, and despite the difficult memories the sight of Henry on the edge of his proverbial seat brings a smile back to Killian’s face. “I could scarcely believe it, but it made the entire ship fly - lifted us right out of the water and carried us through the clouds to another land!”

“Can we fly now?” Henry cuts in excitedly, and Killian feels a little knife of guilt over having to deny the boy a single thing.

“Sadly, no, but we can still go any place you want. Just say the word, my boy, and we’ll chart a path, any place you like to go.” It’s the best he can offer, under the circumstances, but Henry is a good enough lad that he readily accepts it and only snuggles in closer. They lay there in a peaceful silence for several minutes before Henry’s voice cuts once again through the night.

“Will you tell me another one, Killy?”

“Of course, lad.” He searches the sky for something else Henry might like, before settling on a small group of stars. There’s not so much a story involved, but he thinks the boy will like it all the same.

“See this one, Henry?” he says, tracing a cross shape with the boy’s pointed finger. “That one is called Cygnus. Do you know what cygnus means?”

He feels more than sees the shaggy head shake against his shoulder. The boy will have to have a haircut soon, but that’s a matter for another day.

“Well, cygnus is the Latin name for a swan.”

Looking down, he can see Henry’s little face light up. “Like Miss Emma?” he asks excitedly.

“Like Miss Emma,” he agrees, and it’s true. Emma is beautiful and slightly dangerous, someone not so make sudden movements around, just like her namesake. He’d hoped that telling Henry about Emma’s star would bring a smile to both of their faces, and it’s worked even better than he had hoped.

There are other good moments, too - it’s wonderful, seeing new places through Henry’s eyes and the wonder he expresses at each new day. It doesn’t hurt that Henry still introduces Killian as “He’s my Hook!” anytime anyone asks, bringing a soft smile Killian hadn’t known he was capable of to his face each time. But all the same, those quiet moments under the stars where Killian has to carry Henry down to bed at the end of the night are his favorites.

Unfortunately, month three also brings the worst moments imaginable when the Jolly Roger is cornered into an unavoidable fight with Henry hidden in the captain’s cabin. It’s not that the ship has become some sort of pleasure cruise since the boy has taken residence; they’re still pirates, and the way a pirate makes their living is by attacking and ransacking other ships. But Killian’s been more careful about his targets in the last months, not wanting to put Henry in undue danger. Primarily, they’ve been attacking ships that are already sitting ducks - somehow crippled, or small, or obviously poorly kept up; ships that won’t take too much effort or danger to subdue. But they’re in the middle of the ocean and some damned child of a pirate captain wants to make a name for himself by taking down the Jolly and her crew, and before Killian knows it, they’re prepping for battle.

He never wanted Henry to be in the middle of this. Of course, there’s plans in his head for if this happens while Henry is on board, but he never wanted any of them to need to be implemented. The battle will be bloody and scary and possibly deadly and gods, he never wanted Henry to hear any of the noises he’s about to hear. 

Killian somehow manages to snag Scarlet as he’s running around prepping cannons and making sure the boarding equipment is where it needs to be. That’s stage one of the plan: keep Henry with Will. He could really use Scarlet up on deck in case this gets ugly, as he’s one of the better swordsmen, but at the same time, he is one of the better swordsmen, perhaps the best after Mulan, and he wants only the best looking after the lad. Plus, Henry loves Will. Having the big idiot keep the lad safe is the best option for Henry and for Killian’s frayed nerves.

“Come with me,” he manages to command the other man, practically dragging him below decks to where Henry is building some sort of tower on Killian’s desk. Bless Scarlet, he understands immediately upon seeing the boy, and nods as reassuringly as he can.

Killian walks over to where Henry is slowly looking more and more nervous and crouches down so they can talk eye to eye. It’s very important that he phrase this correctly so as not to panic the lad any further.

“Now Henry, you might hear some loud, scary noises in a little bit, but it’ll be alright, aye? Mister Will’s going to protect you, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Henry’s lip has started to tremble, but Will does his best to smile cheerfully. “We’re going to have our own little party, Little Mate, and make everyone jealous of the fun we’re having. Nothing to worry about.”

Still, Killian wraps his arm around the boy’s shoulders to calm him down. “But you’ll be good for Mister Will and make sure you do everything he says, right?”

“Aye, Killy,” Henry mumbles into his shirt, and Killian manages a chuckle despite the fear. 

“That’s a lad. Now you be good and I’ll see you soon, ok?” he says, standing up and allowing the boy to crash into his legs in a fierce hug.

He pulls Scarlet aside on the way out for a final word. “There’s a secret compartment that should be large enough for him underneath the table.”

Scarlet nods solemnly in response, understanding the words as instructions for the worst-case scenario. Killian is only able to return to his duties as captain by reminding himself, repeatedly, that Scarlet will do everything in his power to keep Henry safe, should it come to that.

It doesn’t come to that, thankfully, but the battle is still everything Killian never wanted the boy to hear. There’s no casualties on their side, thank the gods - Killian does not relish the thought of having to explain to Henry why any of the crew won’t be coming back - but their opponent isn’t nearly so lucky. The cocky captain is ultimately spared, but he does lose several crew members and most of the wealth he’s carrying before the ship is effectively crippled and set adrift. Killian’s almost certain he won’t last long at the hands of his own crew, thanks to their anger over their losses, but at least he won’t have to have that particular blood his hands.

He leaves Smee to direct the clean-up as he rushes back down the ladder, stopping only at the sight of the literal blood on his hands. Killian wants so badly to rush right in and gather Henry back into his arms, give him a big hug he’s sure they both need, but there’s no way he can face the boy like this, still covered in the crimson evidence of battle. He’s had worse, especially in his most aimless days, but there’s enough that he’s sure would terrify a small boy. There’s nothing to be done about the shirt, unfortunately, but at the very least he can duck into one of the officer cabins to borrow a washbowl.

It feels like far too long before he finally deems himself clean enough to handle Henry. It’s just in time too, because when Killian opens his door, the boy is on the verge of a complete meltdown, even as Scarlet gently rocks him back and forth on the bed. As Killian enters, the boy bursts into tears and wiggles out of Will’s grip to run into his arms.

“I thought you weren’t coming back!” Henry sobs, and Killian collapses to the floor right in the doorway so as to hold the hysterical child better. 

“Of course I came back, lad, I couldn’t leave my best mate, now could I?” he tries to cajole, but to no avail.

“Misser Will said you’d be back once it was quiet again, but the noises stopped and you still didn’t come…” but the sobs are nearly overtaking him now, and the rest of the sentence is lost in the tears. There’s not much to do for it anymore, so he just rocks the lad back and forth and tries to assure him that he won’t ever leave Henry alone, not if he can help it.

He doesn’t even pretend to put Henry to bed that night, just lets the lad sprawl all over him, for both their sakes and peace of mind.

------

Emma must sense the desperation when they pull back into port a week later, because she cuts right to the chase. There’s another family, and she thinks they’ll both really like them.

And Killian does. They’re a well-to-do family who’s just passing through, but they’re kind, if a little proper and uptight. It’d be a good life for Henry. So after the initial interview - which has somewhat changed into a quasi-interrogation over the past few months, but oh well - Killian agrees to bring Henry by the next day and see how they get on.

Henry, however, does not take to them. It’s not that he’s rude, or mean, he’s just quiet - not the Henry Killian has grown used to seeing these past months. They’re very kind and generous to offer, but it’s just not a good fit for the lad. Killian hates it, but he feels relief, knowing that it means Henry will spend another month in his care.

He haltingly puts that feeling into words on his ship that night, laying on a blanket with Emma and a sleeping Henry after an outing of stargazing.

(“Did you know you have a star, Miss Emma?” Henry had demanded excitedly, and had insisted she come learn the constellations when she had replied in the negative.)

(But then again, the lad had also insisted they buy Miss Emma a flower he proceeded to tell Emma was only from Killian, so Henry may have ulterior motives.)

(Not that Killian particularly minds those motives - he and Emma have grown unexpectedly close in their quest to find a family for the little boy that has brought them together. But there’s something especially blush-worthy about a four year old trying to orchestrate your love life.)

“It’s just going to be so quiet here, without him,” he whispers in the dark. “I know a pirate ship isn’t exactly a silent place, but I swear, he’s wormed himself into every corner.” He pauses. “Is is bad, that I’m happy the family didn’t work out? That I’ll get another month with him?”

He can just feel her fingers brush his where his arm cradles Henry, and it sets a whole different variety of butterflies fluttering in his stomach. “I think it just means that you care for him,” she responds softly. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. Henry could use a whole stable of people in his life who care for him.”

He can hear the faint sadness in her voice, the longing for something she never got, and it causes a pang in his heart in the same area that Henry’s gratefulness for the simplest things he should be used to does. It’s a little tricky with a sleeping four year old on his arm, but his reaches over to tangle his fingers with Emma’s as best he can. 

(It’s moments like this that he wants to carefully store to look back on after Henry leaves, after Emma comes to her senses about associating with an aimless pirate, but he knows there’s no chance of his memory ever exactly capturing this feeling.)

------

Henry’s fourth month on the ship just feels like borrowed time.

The suggested families for Henry have gotten better, more suitable, and Killian fully suspects it’s because Emma’s taken over the search. It’s only a matter of time before she finds the perfect family, and Henry won’t be in his life any longer. So he tries to savor each moment as they come and make sure the lad only has the best of memories of their time together, short as it may be.

The best of memories, unfortunately, is complicated and compromised by Henry’s continued nightmares. They’ve gotten worse since the skirmish, the little boy waking up shaking in terror and crying out. Much as Killian might wish to keep Henry with them forever, the dreams only cement in his mind that a pirate ship is no place for a small child.

Calming Henry down from these dreams is bad enough, but what’s worse is how he’s begun calling for a father who’s not there. Each cry of “Papa!” sends a little shot of pain through his heart because he is not Papa which means that no matter what he does to soothe the boy, it won’t be precisely what he needs.

But Killian tries his hardest all the same, cradling Henry’s small body to his chest and carrying him from his small cot to the marginally larger bunk, whispering all the while that “it’s going to be alright, I’ve got you, Killy’s got you”.

Those nights they eventually both fall back to sleep with the remnants of tears on their faces with a death grip on one another.

------

Emma’s practically bouncing with excitement the next time they dock, and Killian’s heart sinks a little, knowing it means she’s finally found the right family for Henry.

“I think you’ll really like them,” she tells him. “They’re the kind of parents I wanted as a kid.”

And she’s right, of course - he really likes them, despite the corner of his soul that’s desperate to find a fault so he can keep Henry by his side for just a little while longer. They’re actually a pair of locals - a farmer and his wife, but they live further into the country and rarely come into the tavern, so Emma hadn’t even considered them until recently. The wife is a petite little woman who cries when she talks about how their own child had died in the sickness and they’d never been able to have another, her sturdy husband holding and stroking her hand through the sorrowful tale. It’s so easy to tell that they’d love Henry, regardless of blood, that Killian’s concerns are easily wiped away. The only thing left to do is introduce them to the boy himself.

Henry, by some miracle, takes to them immediately. There’s still some of the nerves at first, with the boy looking back at Killian for reassurance, but he’s quickly won over by the couple’s tales from the farm of their pair of sheepdogs and the small apple orchard and their stubborn cow who insists on going where she pleases, regardless of any prodding in various directions. Henry is so clearly enchanted by their descriptions of a proper home, and Killian’s heart beats a little easier through the lingering sadness, knowing this precious, happy boy will be absolutely cherished.

 It’s bittersweet, walking back to the Jolly with a small hand within his own, knowing this will be the last time they do so together. Henry is somewhat subdued himself - has been all afternoon, come to think of it, despite his excitement about his new parents - so Killian thinks he can’t be alone in the sentiment. He’s trying to drown the sorrow in lists of things to do, things to pack (the storybook Will bought the lad in Glowerhaven, the pair of pants with the hole in them he hasn’t had a chance to fix…), but it’s not quite working, and most of the walk is spent in a sorrowful silence.

The rest of the day seems normal. Henry wanders off to tell Scarlet all about the “nice man and lady” and Killian sheds several tears while bundling all the lad’s things together - Gods, he has so much stuff now compared to when he arrived - but none of that is unexpected.

Things only take a turn for the unusual after dark. Killian had hoped to maybe spend one more evening under the stars with Henry, but the lad is downright lethargic, and ready for bed. That should have been Killian’s first clue, but it’s only later that he realizes something is really wrong.

No, the real first clue is when Henry wakes up not even three hours later with his teeth chattering.

“Papa?” he mumbles. “I don’t feel good.”

(Killian’s far too concerned to even worry about the fact that Henry is trying to call him Papa.)

And sure enough, when Killian goes to check, brows furrowed in concern, Henry is burning up, far warmer than little boys should ever be, and his eyes are all dull and glassy. Something is obviously wrong, something Killian can only imagine Henry picked up in a distant port.

There’s no time for speculation, though. Henry is sick, and Killian doesn’t know what to do. His first thought is Whale - the doctor should be able to fix this or at least help the poor mite - but Whale is off god knows where trying to get under some girl’s skirt, and not to be found. But Killian’s panicking and Henry needs something now and he doesn’t know how to fix it and somehow, they’re standing outside of the Red Wolf, Henry bundled into his beloved blanket in his arms and sweating buckets, without any memory of how they got here.

He somehow manages to find Emma, and it’s probably it’s own kind of miracle that he’s able to convey to her what the problem is despite the rising panic in his eyes and voice. She offers her own frown upon feeling his feverish head, and before he knows it, he and Henry have been ushered upstairs to one of the rooms in the inn.

“Do you know where he caught it?” Emma asks, failing to mask her own urgency.

Killian shakes his head in return. “It could be any number of ports…” he trails off. They’ve been to so many places in the last month alone; there’s no telling what Henry may have picked up.

“I think it’s just the flu,” Emma cuts in quietly, interrupting the blur of his thoughts. “But even that can be dangerous. I need you to go downstairs and tell Granny we need some broth and her chest salve. I want to try and make sure his chest doesn’t get too clogged up.”

Killian nods in relief; this is something he can do, fetch materials for the people who actually know what they’re doing, but Henry’s panicked cry stops him in his tracks. 

“Papa!”

And there’s no question, Emma will have to get the things she asked for because Killian is not leaving the little lad. He may be a pirate and he may not be Henry’s father but when the lad calls for his papa, it is still Killian’s job to comfort him. 

He gently holds Henry’s sweaty hand as he collapses into the chair next to the bed. “Papa?” the lad pipes again, but softer this time, calmer.

“It’s Killian, lad. Killy - your Hook.”

But Henry just sighs in relief and nods, like the matter is settled. “Papa.”

Oh.

Oh.

He shouldn’t be surprised, with the massive role he’s played in the boy’s life these past four months, but it still takes his breath away to hear that title falling from Henry’s lips in relation to him. It’s with no small lump in his throat that he’s finally able to reply.

“Yes, lad, Papa’s here. I’m going to take real good care of you, aye? Papa’s not going anywhere.”

------

A pirate ship is no place for a young boy.

But that just means Killian gives up on the whole pirate lark and goes straight once more, changing the Jolly’s name to the Swan’s Song and going into business fetching whatever the townspeople might need from far off corners of the land. 

It doesn’t happen overnight, of course; it’s a process, starting with addressing his decision to permanently take Henry in himself. The couple who are supposed to take Henry are gracious about the change of plans when Killian comes down the next day, exhausted and with hair shooting every which way, to tell them that Henry won’t be coming with them after all, that he’s going to assume care of the lad for good. Apparently, they had suspected as much, and are even kind enough to offer to let the two come visit if Henry ever wants to see the farm animals.

Next comes settling matters with his crew. Most have been there for years, and while Killian has never doubted their loyalty, switching to a life lived on the right side of the law is not what most of them signed up for. He can’t say for certain that they’ll follow him into this new endeavor. But he underestimates their faithfulness to himself and Henry; to a man, everyone decides to stay and embrace a new way of life, as long as Killian is still the captain.

(He does not cry over that, but it’s close. Clearly, Henry has made him go soft, though he can’t say he’d change a thing.)

He tries to wait to start something with Emma until all the other matters are settled, but he’s ultimately too impatient. His ducks are mostly in a row, having tearfully informed Henry that he’s not going anywhere, effectively retiring from piracy and informing the crew as such, but he would have liked to have purchased a proper home first - a way to give Emma the roots she so deserves. But Henry keeps needling him in his four year old way, and there’s really no denying that the very mention of Emma’s name makes Killian smile like some lovestruck schoolboy, so patience be damned. He may stroll confidently down to the Red Wolf Inn, but it’s still an incredible relief when Emma accepts his invitation for a night on the water, just the two of them, with a wide smile.

The house comes later. It’s not much - a small cottage on the coast a short walk from the town proper - but he can smell the sea wafting through the rooms and there’s room for flowerbeds on either side. Henry is enamored by the lofted area up by the rafters, and Killian’s already making plans to turn it into a bedroom for the boy before he even truly realizes he’s made the decision to buy the place. Money isn’t an issue after years of piracy, and the place is officially theirs sooner than he would have thought possible. 

There’s not even a moment of questioning whether he’ll invite Emma to live with them. It’s only been a month since that first date, but Killian knows he’s in this for the long haul. He’s seen her rooms - they’re just as tiny as described, perhaps even more so. It may look like a whirlwind romance to others, but he already knows this is meant to be a home for all three of them - him and Emma and Henry. It wouldn’t be right to have one of those pieces missing. So Emma gathers up her belongings, and Killian swears that the main room seems brighter the moment she steps inside for good, just by thanks of her presence.

It’s truly nice, being able to settle into a more stable life, something he and the crew frankly all need as they get older. Many of the men are still living on the ship, but there’s a not insignificant portion who have decided to put down their own roots. Will even takes the opportunity to finally marry the lovely Miss French, an occasion they all celebrate. Some days, Killian thinks they’re all on their way to becoming sedentary old men and women. 

(He can’t truly bring himself to complain.)

The transition isn’t entirely smooth, of course. Henry is devastated the first time he has to stay behind on land, and Killian is a little devastated to leave him, but Emma will be there in the neat little house to watch over him, so it’s not as bad as they both act. Emma will watch over him with all the love in her heart, and they’ll both be waiting whenever he steps back on land. Some days, he misses the feel of the ocean waves rocking him to sleep, but his heart hadn’t really been in piracy for a while; he’d been wandering the oceans aimlessly, until Henry had come along to give him a new purpose. 

Lately, Henry’s been hinting about a wedding, but neither Killian nor Emma are in any rush. They may be living together and raising a child together, but they’re in no hurry to get married. He’s a reformed pirate and she’s a stubborn barmaid; tradition has already been thrown to the wind, so there’s no real need to do things just because anyone says they should.

Killian still plans to ask, one day, some indeterminate time when the sun is shining and they’re all incandescently happy and it’s right (because if there’s anything he’s learned from this journey, it’s the importance of the right fit, the right moment). But there’s no real urgency - he’s got all the time in the world.

After all, with a former lost boy and lost girl by his side, how could he ever need anything else?

[misticrepository]

Butterfly of Evil

Beneath the thick canopies of Darkwood Hollow, far past the sunny and verdant towns of the Sprites, an Imp called Slav made his home. Nephew to the great King Mephitic, Slav was surrounded by luxury. His ceiling and walls had been carved by a team of masters out of the trunk of an ancient tree, and as he passed them the grotesque faces of nightmares stared back, painted in all their gruesome detail.

Slav was indulging one night in rum with friends when an idea struck him. He and his companions went out wandering, grinning, looking for trouble as Imps often do, when they came across a slumbering Daydream Graffen. They harassed it with rocks and sticks for a time, getting snapped at for their trouble before moving on. A lone Nokwi was in their path, obviously separated from its family, and Slav and his friends thought the creature looked too much like a feathery ball to pass up. The Nokwi squealed and lashed out with its claws before scampering away from the raucous laughter of the Imps, who continued on and found a Sprite underneath a tree, sleeping curled up against a Blush Lirionox.

Slav woke the Sprite with shouted insults and a rock to the head, but as the Sprite rose the Imps stepped back. He was armed with a sword and had the look of a royal soldier about him, and in a moment his Lirionox was up and snarling. But Slav and his friends laughed all the more, their minds clouded, and rushed the pair anyway. In a quick flash of steel and teeth, the Imps fell to the earth.

The foolish Imp didn’t survive, nor did his friends, but his spirit wasn’t content to go out in such a way. Clinging to the physical realm, magic formed around the wandering spirit of Slav and he was reborn. A butterfly black as pitch with red-tipped wings, looking as though they’d been dipped in blood, now inhabited Mistica.

And Slav wasn’t content to simply flutter about. All of his wants had been fulfilled before his death, and he intended to continue that lifestyle no matter what form he possessed. Slav soon realized that the magic that had gifted him with new life had imbued his body rather than leaving it, and he quickly learned to manipulate it. As in life, Slav’s spirit enjoyed torturing others, so he took to landing on window sills in the night, conjuring up horrid nightmares for whoever was sleeping nearby.

One’s spirit is highly sensitive to the nonphysical realm when asleep and so Slav found his new hobby easy, taking inspiration from the nightmarish creatures he grew up with to shape the horrors. The Imp’s dark soul took pleasure in the pain he inflicted, and he found himself quite content to live out his days as such.

But Slav’s doings reached the ears of a Phantom Panju by the name of Ada. She lived a solitary existence high in the canopy of Darkwood Hollow, moving frequently, but during her occasional journeys into small towns and villages she heard of the plague of nightmares. All victims, she noted, reported waking and seeing a black and red butterfly flying off into the night – the victims who woke at all, anyway.

Disturbed, Ada decided to track the nightmares. She stayed in a small village near the Pomme Tree, where the sweet smell of fruit hung thick in the air. That day she slept, but as the moon rose and blackness covered the forest, Ada woke and began her hunt.

She didn’t need to follow the shrieks of terror that nearly made her ears bleed to find the culprit, as the sheer power of Slav’s nightmares pulled Ada’s own spirit like a magnet. Following this sense she landed atop a branch above a small home, and perched on the windowsill was a large, black-winged butterfly so dark it was almost invisible in the shadows.

Ada crouched on the branch, keeping hold with her sharp claws as she calculated the jump. She didn’t know if a physical attack would stop the creature, but what else was she to do? But the moment before Ada leapt onto the windowsill the butterfly took off with alarming speed; the Panju jumped anyway and climbed into the bedroom of the victim. A small Cheran was curled up on its bed, shaking; Ada rushed over, intending to devour the nightmare before any more damage was done, but again she was too late. Ada touched the Cheran but it was still.

With a shudder Ada left the house and followed that powerful, morbid attraction again, her red eyes glittering in the pitch darkness. Her stubborn heart would not allow even one more victim tonight! And with that Ada doubled her pace, barely touching branches as she leapt from tree to tree until the black butterfly was in her sight.

It was, again, on the windowsill of some poor soul’s bedroom, still as a statue. Not even a wing fluttered in the soft night breeze and Ada shivered again. The target was small but she was determined to strike quickly, and so the Panju pushed off her perch with powerful legs and felt the creature struggling under her paw as she landed.

A powerful sense of dread suddenly overtook Ada and she pressed down harder on the butterfly, but still it twitched and writhed beneath her. In her mind she could almost hear it wailing, a high pitched shriek that, unlike the cries of the butterfly’s victims, elicited no sympathy.

For a moment visions flashed before Ada’s eyes and it took every ounce of her willpower to make them fade away. Hundreds of eyes staring at her from the night, huge jaws dripping with poison beneath sightless faces that seemed to laugh at her struggle…

Finally Ada saw clearly again. Breathing hard, she bent to pick the butterfly up in her jaws and jumped up into the canopy again, taking refuge in the solitary cover of the trees’ thick leaves. Slivers of moonlight shone here, and Ada found in the light a modicum of comfort.

The butterfly was still alive, thrashing in her teeth as though immune to the pain. Ada sat in silence, ruby eyes shut, digging into the spiritual power her species possessed. She could devour nightmares, and this creature was practically made of them, a being powered by fear. Ada felt the spirit in the butterfly’s body; it beat like a heart, though slowly and oddly off time. The rhythm felt wrong to the Panju but she wasn’t surprised. Her power began enveloping the spirit, but it fought back; the beating became more frantic and Ada’s own heart skipped a beat with a gasp that almost brought her out of meditation. But she was stronger, and eventually the butterfly’s spirit succumbed to her own.

It flickered in and out of existence, desperate to stay alive, but with one last push Ada sent it to purgatory. The butterfly still in her jaws became limp and the Panju dropped the lifeless thing, and then flicked it off her branch with her claw. She let out a long sigh of relief and realized every muscle in her body ached from the effort of banishing the evil spirit, and she supposed all the jumping around hadn’t helped either.

With a sense of contentment Ada lay down and closed her eyes, ready to enjoy a peaceful night.

[shmosnet2]

10 Totally Reliable (Mostly) Sane People Who Have Seen A Mermaid

10 Totally Reliable (Mostly) Sane People Who Have Seen A Mermaid

Most people these days accept that mermaids are a charming myth, symbolizing the power of nature over man or a cautionary reminder that things are not always as they seem at first sight. Of course, there’s also the old metaphor of women as temptresses, luring helpless men to their destruction with their devilishly feminine wiles. Or maybe the mermaid is a singing cartoon character with alarming hair and the voice of an angel. However, there was a time when perfectly rational people not only believed in mermaids but sometimes also convinced themselves that they had seen one in the scaly flesh. Here are ten such reports. 10 Christopher Columbus

In 1492, Christopher Columbus set off to find a new trade route to Asia and famously “discovered” the “New World” of the Americas by mistake. Not only did he find a new continent, but he also observed a few mythological creatures. He recorded in his journal that he was sailing in waters close to the Dominican Republic when he saw three mermaids, which he described as “not half as beautiful as they are painted” and as having “some masculine traits.”[1] It is now generally accepted that what Columbus actually saw was likely a manatee or dugong. Both creatures are able to do “tail stands,” which would lift their heads and torsos out of the water. Their forelimbs look vaguely like arms, and they are able to turn their heads from side to side. So, in the dusk, after having been at sea for six months and possibly having had too much rum, it is perhaps understandable that an experienced sailor would mistake a sea cow for a Siren. Though it must have been pretty strong rum. Columbus wasn’t alone, however. The supposed skeleton of a mermaid was presented to the Portsmouth Philosophical Society in 1826, but it turned out to be a dugong, which was no doubt disappointing, as a mermaid would have livened up their meetings considerably. 9 Taro Horiba

In 1943, at the height of World War II, a group of Japanese soldiers were stationed on one of Indonesia’s Kei Islands. They began to report seeing strange creatures in the waters around the island. The creatures were said to have a humanlike face but a mouth like a carp’s, with needle-sharp teeth. They were also about 0.9 meters (3 ft) tall, with pink skin and spikes on their heads. The creatures were seen around the edges of the many lagoons or cavorting along the beaches. If approached, they would dive into the water and not resurface. When the soldiers asked the locals about the creatures, they were told that the mermaids were known as Orang Ikan, which translates from Malay as “fish people,” and were fairly common in the area. Reportedly, local fishermen sometimes found them caught up in their nets and promised to keep one for the soldiers. Sergeant Taro Horiba claims to have been shown a creature that looked half-human/half-ape/half-fish (yes, that is three halves) and had webbed fingers and toes like some kind of amphibian. Horiba did not think to take a photo of this creature, which was unfortunate, but he did spend a great deal of time trying to persuade zoologists to investigate the creature after the war. So it must be true.[2] 8 The Chief Of A Scottish Clan

In 1830, crofters in the Outer Hebrides, off the coast of Scotland, were cutting seaweed on the shore when they spotted the figure of a small woman in the water. Some of the men tried to catch her, and as she was escaping, a boy threw a rock at her. The crofters said that they heard her cry out in pain as she disappeared beneath the waves. A few days later, her body was found washed up on the shore. Crowds gathered, and they sent for the most important person around, the chief of MacDonald of Clanranald, part of the great Scottish MacDonald Clan, who also happened to be the local sheriff. The upper half of the mermaid was said to be the size of a four-year-old child, albeit with abnormally large breasts. Her skin was soft and white, and she had long, dark hair. The lower half was like a salmon without scales. The clan chief ordered a shroud and a coffin be brought to the beach, and the mermaid was buried in the nearby churchyard. Her funeral was said to be the best-attended funeral they had ever had. Unfortunately, they didn’t think to take a collection for the headstone, and the exact location of the mermaid’s grave is unknown. This is not the only mermaid to have found its way to Scotland. In 1833, a professor of natural history at Edinburgh University reported that Scottish fishermen had captured a live mermaid and held it captive for three hours while they studied it. The creature apparently had a face like a monkey, the torso of a woman, and a tail like a dogfish.[3] 7 The Shaman Of Hakata

Japan has a long association with mermaids, although the mermaids of Japanese legend are significantly more fishlike than the buxom European ones we might be used to. They usually have razor-sharp teeth and occasionally horns as well and are said to have magic powers, though these are usually unspecified. The purported remains of one such Japanese mermaid can be seen in Fukuoka at the Ryuguji Temple. In 1222, a mermaid is said to have washed ashore at Hakata Bay. The local shaman declared that the mermaid was a good omen, and its remains were buried in the Ryuguji Temple, whose name means “the undersea palace of the dragon god.” Fitting. For many years, visitors to the temple were offered water to drink, in which the mermaid bones had been soaked. The water was said to be a prophylactic against numerous epidemics. Six of the bones still remain in the temple, rubbed smooth by their time in the water.[4] Many visitors still find their way to the mermaid’s tomb, which may or may not explain why the guardians of the temple have decided not to DNA-test the bones. Some scientists who have studied the bones, however, believe that they may well come from more than one animal and probably not from any known aquatic creature. Some scientists even believe that the mermaid’s bones may, in fact, be those of an ordinary landlubbing cow. 6 Henry Hudson

Henry Hudson was an English explorer in the early 17th century. He is best known for his explorations in North America and for the bay, strait, and river that are named in his honor. He made four expeditions looking for the fabled Northwestern Passage to the Far East. When his passage through the Arctic was blocked by ice during his second voyage, he changed course and sailed northeast toward the Russian region of Novaya Zemlya in the Arctic Ocean. Again, his passage was blocked by ice, and he was forced to retreat. While in the Russian waters, however, he had an encounter with a mermaid. Hudson described his mermaid as being, from the navel up, the size of a full-grown woman with white skin and long, black hair. “Going downe,” he saw a tail the shape of a porpoise, with a speckled Mackerel pattern.[5] Or perhaps it was a porpoise, with the tail of a porpoise. 5 Prince Shotoku

Prince Shotoku, one of the most important figures in Japanese history, was a powerful and sober man. In the seventh century, he introduced the Seventeen Article Constitution, which set the expected ethical behaviors for officials. The prince was not the kind of man to believe in fairy tales. However, a merman was said to have appeared to Prince Shotoku at Lake Biwa. The merman was dying and so, as dying people always do, found time to tell his story to a stranger. The merman said that he had once been a fisherman who had sailed into forbidden waters. As a punishment, he was turned into a hideous, fishy creature. The merman, or ningyo, clearly felt that this was a just punishment because he asked the prince to build a temple to display his body after his death, as a warning to other fishermen to stay inside the lines. This temple, known as the Tenshou-Kyousha Shrine, can be found near Mount Fiji, where the mummified remains of the mermaid are watched over by Shinto Buddhist monks.[6] 4 Captain Richard Whitbourne

Richard Whitbourne was an explorer, writer, and colonizer of other people’s land in the 16th and 17th centuries. He led ships in battle against the Spanish Armada and organized the supply of fish from Newfoundland to the Mediterranean. So, he was a man of wide experience, one might think—not one for fanciful imaginings. In 1610, off the coast of Newfoundland, he described his encounter with a mermaid that swam “cheerfully” toward the small boats he and his crew were sailing offshore. He stated that the mermaid swam swiftly, diving under the water at times and then rising out of the water high enough for him to “behold” her bare shoulders and back. He claims not to have looked at the front of her. Whitbourne described how she came up to their boat and tried to climb in, but the sailors were afraid, and one of them hit her over the head with his oar, whereupon she let go and swam toward another boat. All the men, then, being frightened, made for the shore as quickly as they could.[7] Whitbourne’s account appears to be very detailed and is written in his usual neat handwriting, which must have been particularly difficult after all that rum. 3 Captain John Smith

The explorer Captain John Smith may or may not have rescued/been rescued by Pocahontas (not). He was elected leader of the Jamestown colony and traded largely peacefully with the Native American Powhatan tribes around them. He seemed to be a levelheaded kind of guy. Thomas Jefferson once described him as “honest, sensible, and well informed.” Surely, then, his account of seeing a mermaid can be taken at face value? It is claimed that in 1614, he saw a green-haired woman, “by no means unattractive,” swimming in the water. When she turned to dive, Smith was apparently shocked to see her mermaid’s tail. Manatees are often sighted in the bay where Smith had his Sirenian encounter, so it may be tempting to believe that he, like others, saw the manatee from behind and thought he had seen a mermaid. However, it has been suggested that not only might Smith have not seen a mermaid, but he might not even have claimed to have seen a mermaid. Some scholars believe that the account of the mermaid sighting was written not by John Smith but by Alexander Dumas, author of such novels as The Three Musketeers and The Man in the Iron Mask. The account was purportedly written contemporaneously by Smith in 1614, whereas, in fact, Smith had not been in that area since 1607. No evidence of the mermaid entry can be found in Smith’s original notes, most of which are still available. The first mention of Smith’s encounter with a mermaid is in a tale by Dumas, in which he cited Smith’s account. Smith’s supposed adventure lent credence to Dumas’ own story about a man who sired four children with a mermaid.[8] 2 Blackbeard

Edward Teach, the legendary pirate known as Blackbeard, served first as a privateer during Queen Anne’s War. He became a pirate after the war ended. He named his ship the Queen Anne’s Revenge in honor of his former employer. Blackbeard and his crew cruised the Caribbean, plundering ships and adding them to their fleet. His pirate crew of 300 was the largest ever to trouble shipping on the high seas. At one point, he brazenly blockaded the port of Charlestown, seizing any ships that attempted to enter or leave and demanding ransoms for the release of captured sailors. In 1718, the Queen Anne’s Revenge was run aground. Some scholars maintain that Edward Teach deliberately scuppered his own ship in order to break up the crew, who were fast becoming a liability. Blackbeard was soon caught and killed, and his severed head was mounted at the front of his captor’s ship as a warning to others. Before he met his grisly end, however, Blackbeard had an encounter that was altogether more ethereal. It is recorded in his logbooks that he ordered his crew to steer away from certain “enchanted” waters because they were populated by merfolk. He was said to have seen the merfolk with his own eyes and to have been wary of vexing them.[9] 1 Henry Loucks

Henry Loucks was a fisherman working the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. He was said to have been “as reliable as any fisherman on the river,” which may or may not be a testimonial. In 1881, Loucks reported five separate sightings of a mermaid on the Susquehanna River. He claimed that the mermaid came out at sunrise and at dusk, rising to the surface of the water, whereupon it had a good look around, floated on top of the water for a while, and then slowly sank beneath the surface, leaving its hair floating on the surface for a moment before finally diving to the depths below. Loucks said that he had considered shooting it but was worried about being charged with murder, so he let it go. When asked if, as in the fairy tales, the mermaid carried a comb and a mirror, he replied, “It might have had, but I didn’t see it.” When asked where he thought it went, he supposed that it had a cave somewhere at the bottom of the river. Newspaper reports appealed for the mermaid to be captured, alive if possible, and reassured potential mermaid hunters that they would be immune from prosecution if they brought it in dead. To date, no one has taken advantage of the offer.[10] Ward Hazell is a writer who travels, and an occasional travel writer.

https://ift.tt/2OWfhT7 . Foreign Articles December 06, 2019 at 11:58AM

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Bones In Her Lungs.

"Must we dream our dreams, and have them too?" — Tear from me, my beloved, the flesh that dresses this body of seduction. Calling your love where it's forbidden to caress; and leave me naked with my bones that are laden with the longing of your kissing touch to uplift their burdens of time. ••• The lights waned between purple and red, as if a glitch of continuity was cursed upon this limited spectrum of colour as the booming bass of this modern music Freya's hips were still pleasantly unfamiliar to celebrated their loudness. Between senselessly gyrating bodies, Freya's movements cast hypnotism with its specific sensuality that was written out of the pages of Time – clocked with mystic modesty yet ticking with unwinding wildness. Gazes were stricken waxy upon her, melting as if by the fire fuelled by a blazing candle of a siren's spell. But a blink (or lack thereof) couldn't summon her attention. She was laden with lousy fatigue, blanketed upon her bones by her millennial slumber. And midsummer nights were spent on with eyelids closed, dazed with rum and dancing; and even if there was a potion of infatuation upon her lids like in the Shakespearean stage to have her lovelorn for one who fell first in her line of sight, the lines recited by her wrung out heart would still remain of the same dialect – with words calling out to her deceased love; Mathias. As it was his face that meld itself into the features of others every time she opened her eyes. Like now. The hallucinations hexed upon her, the reddened room having its hue bleed into her eyes as if blood seeping out into her sockets from her pressurised skull; as she collapsed upon the bloody bed of thorns that was her memories. » Freya's immortality was a child, the recipient of unrequited affection from its mother as it clung onto her with stubborn limbs coiled around her body, smothering her with guilt. She didn't want this child, it /wasn't/ her child. It was shoved into the cradle of her arms and it rocked her limbs until they broke; until she lost and couldn't hold the child of her own. Freya's fingers clutched onto the then flat plane of her stomach, deflated of the handful round dimension it had swelled up to, as she traced the ghost of her lover's touch that was breathing with life upon her flesh even a month ago as his fingers held onto her bump as he spoke in the language of gibberish accented with affectionate tuning of words to his unborn child. "Our child will see the entire world." Mathias has declared, promise stitching itself in threads of vibrant colour over his face. A sad smile subconsciously conspired on her lips against her lover's happiness as she spoke, "If Dahlia doesn't bind herself to him..." As if his ears were scarred for only the hearing for that one word he asked, "Him?" His brows drew close to one another as if in curious consultation. "How do you know?" "Maternal instincts. Witch instincts. Perhaps I drew a spell to find out." Freya's smile switched sides to become playful instead as her fingers rubbed affectionately over her inflated stomach. His smile, that always breathed the air of freedom into Freya's lungs, liberated himself upon his lips. Her gaze was an explorer and his face still the map of an unknown paradise, filled with tales of travel and adventures and overseen by the laws of freedom. His passions were the keys that unlocked him from the jailing cells of the standard society judgement. Opinionated and outspoken; he had unlocked her from mysticism's imprisonment and legalised permanently the charges of affection from her towards him. She thrived off his energy, and he lived on hers; ever famished for one another. "A boy or a girl..." He finally says. "Dahlia won't take our baby away from us. I swear to you." And before she could reply, his lips were dictating upon hers, ruling her hopelessness to silence. 'But you forgot to promise that she wouldn't take /you/ away from us, Mathias...' As immune as he was to the disease to her pessimism, his immunity didn't stretch to cover the region of hexes. And one born from the sickness that was the infection of Dahlia's mind, he was vulnerable to it in all alternates of reality. Especially their own. And to a curse and a poison, she had lost both Mathias and his child. She had sobbed with her body convulsing as Mathias collapsed to his death, as she was sobbing now; clutching her stomach, her own breaths smothering against her throat. With the exception of the fact that her lungs were no longer laden with the responsibility of inhaling life into another growing inside of her. Her child had withered in her womb, defenceless to ward himself against the infectious incantations of the fatal poison. Had he welcomed it, with untainted innocence perhaps thinking it would only be goodness to gift him with if it was through his mother? What was she thinking... As she remained seated in the middle of the improvised pentagram sketched upon the granite floors of her abode, only covered in flimsy white fabric waist down with her torso bare, a scream tore itself apart from her thrust once again at the recollections as her fingers branched out to grasp the sharp serpentine bone. She jut the bone's flat and fatal end she underneath a nail whilst her lips began to kiss the Devil's tongue in the incantation for this spell of forbidden magic. The snake's bone pressed between the pink flesh and the opaque transparency of her nail until she began peeling the force backwards to pry her flesh off of her finger. Blood cried upon her, while she cried in applause to the punishing pain she declared herself to deserve while the cursed bone scathed over the solidity of her own bone as a substantial amount of skin was uplifted to have her drop her butchering equipment to free those fingers to grab onto the bloody, linear clump of flesh to bare it off expose the ruddy ivory of her skinned finger. Inciting a scream into the incantation of the sadistic spell, she tossed the flayed flesh to accompany the rest of the unholy ingredients in front of her, before carving a chant into the atmosphere with her mutilated palm that sparked embers of her magic in the ancient bowl where it all was stocked. Her nose flared in contradictory opposition to the foul fragrance of burning flesh, as if that would have aided in the smell not charring her nasal canals. Her unharmed hand guided its fingers to claw underneath the other's bleeding skin over that bony finger to pare off the rest of the human tissue conjoined to her metacarpals, pinkish skin allot underneath her nails as she bared herself down to the bone, tearing off the skin that had once touched her love's. She tossed the dripping lump clasped in her palm into the flames as the spell had demanded, the embers in the bronze bowl screaming up to a bleak blue blaze. Madness seeped into her laughter, as with psychotic fixation, she scraped her bones clean up to her wrists with the serpent's remnant of both her hands; now a venomous paralysis possessing them where only bones remained like a skeleton's – just abundant in blood – due to the curse upon the serpentine bone just before the fingers distanced themselves from one another at calculated and equal distances, but not by her own instructions. Her blurring vision gazes longingly at the slim lengths of her ivory bones. Soon, her whole body would be reduced to the vestiges of only this, ripped off of skin and eternal life and the ignorance that came from era erasing sleep. If this spell worked. "Ettimier em caem," Her tongue flipped in backwards Latin as her wrists, guided by the conscience of dark magic and not her own, flicked to position her unmoving fingers in vertical alignment underneath her breasts, over the gaps between her ribs cages just as the bones' tips plunge into her skin until half of her skeletal digits got swallowed into her chest, excruciating agony burning her veins. "Aem ossa te menrae erepicca." The strips of her bones were protruding into something plush and jelly-like — her lungs. Her respiratory rhythm flunking into fluctuation as blood thumped up her throats and cascaded in a blanket of scarlet down her mouth and onto her bare chest. Suddenly, sensations returned to her bones and she felt her fingers curling around the shape of her lung, lacerating it into pieces as it closed around the organs, her ribcage rupturing from the dark strength spelled into her bony fingers as her body got engulfed in breathless bloody and her spine snapped backwards, in a semi-lunar curve before the links amidst her vertebrae crack one after the other. With a serene smile in contrast against the tangle of lamenting limbs, immortality embraced her no longer. After all, how could she live breathing for one when she had breathed for two for so long? Freya Mikaelson was dead. Or so she had dared to hope. A hungry howl hounds herself back from the blackness of her peace. "No, no!" A wail grieved itself from her broken body. Her arms lay on either side of her torso, as if her fingers had seeped out through her torso by themselves. She mechanised deep inhalations into her chest, both out of mental turmoil and to sense for any gaping holes in her lungs somehow. But there was none. God fucking damn it! This was BOUND to work. Bound... The Armaic anatomical and muscle restoration spell her aunt had crafted upon her in her youth. In her mad misery, she had forgotten of that invincible imprint of a spell upon herself. "All I am asking is for death... Is it a mercy to great to spare upon me?" « The coldness against her cheek seeped into her consciousness, inviting her back to the time that was the 21st century. Drenched in sweat that acted as glue for her tousled blonde hair to stick to her face, Freya lay upon the club's floor, with a circle of people in formation of the shape around her as if spectators oddly fascinated by the workings of a freak show. And given the soreness that thumped in her bones, she knew she must have been a hell of one. Her body must have reenacted some of the spine snapping moments from the projection of her past. She left the club, vexed voices echoing against the dome of her skull as if they were on rent to fill up its vacancy. Her vision blurs and filters vignette with blackness staining its edges with quivers climbing down her long legs with every step. She finds herself in front of the bayou, out of an unexplained instinct. The forest's foliage unfurled in front of her like vines of silken hair tumbling down from a bun to drape the back of a petite maiden. The nexus of the dark and Aramaic magic having as if political power struggle inside the podiums of her body from the realistic recollection of her memory. Her knees buckled as she neared the edge outlined by the silvery strand of water as howls resonated throughout the bayou. The wolves. Hayley's wolves. Perhaps that was Freya's instincts, suicidal in imprisonment from the violent vestiges of thoughts from her past. She was drifting in the realm of past and the present, and she desired to be torn to shreds. Thump. Thump. 

Freya rolled back, the muddy ground squirming underneath her as her obscured gaze fall upon the sinuous sight of a predatory figure. The wolf's chrome rimmed irises embraced her own as it approached Freya like a benevolent leader, ready to strike his damaged disciple out of her misery. She wondered if it was God's plan all along – to have humans morph into animals and laugh as His fanatics tossed themselves into madness as creatures without linguistic tongues remained more empathetic than men themselves. Why else would He have designed for her to die like this? The wolf's teeth drummed soundly against each other, perhaps composed out of hatred for her identity as a Mikaelson. But just before the murderous jaws could strike the final note of the harmony of death, the whisper of a bullet cut through into the music to introduce unappreciated cacophony. The bullet dug itself into the wolf's leg, and it sprinted in the opposite direction after a guttural growl of rage. "Woman, what were you doing lying about like that? I thought you were dead." Unblinking eyes still dimmed by the absurdity of the events, stare into the where the lycanthrope had been. Then she finally looked upon the man who denied her the peace she was craving after, Latin lining up in her head to devise a curse to damn this bastard with. In her daze, she still managed to recall the rumours of hunters in the bayou, equipped with the vendetta of leading the wolves into extinction. "I wanted to be dead." She said plainly while getting up, the back of her hand slicing away tears that had escaped without her will. "Too bad someone employed us to kill down your suicidal aid, huh?" Rage was her crutch as she towed forward, fingers trickling up to down to arrange the air into an electrified field for her magic. "Well, though, why would a beauty like you want out of the world for? Your boyfriend dead?" Still delirious, Freya's laughter was contaminated with toxic humour, "You don't know how close your guess is." She was about to flick her wrists to crumble his knees to dust but when the familiarity of his face blurred into focus, she was leashed back. And she would have rather clawed her eyes out to blindness than have optimism infect them. "Mathias?" All the facial lineaments on the male's face marry into each other to the holiness of her lover's, a face she had studied and touched down to every pore. Hope bursts inside her like a riot of colours unknown, painting her black and blue with the bruise of consequences that may sketch themselves in the future and then bloody red with the muse of love. Before a word was spoken, she tossed herself into his arms, her lips seeking solace in the entanglement with his own whilst his hands raked down with viable hunger down her petite body. Maybe she was in Death's embrace, the moments that had followed her wake just an initiation to shock her into the company of the dead. Her lover returned without the chokehold of the hex having him drown his lungs with his own blood as they now remained coupled together by passion. His hands grip onto the back of her thighs as he provides a lift and her legs instinctively hike up and snake around the width of his sturdy waist. Her back slams onto the prickly support of a tree, an adept spine curving an arc against it to have her bounteous breasts pressed up against his chest while his hands closed on to tear her shirt to tatters. But his body... It lacked the familiarity that had hers always tangle to his will. His mouth lacking the eloquent mechanics of passion that would have her driven mad in pleasure. And that tongue certainly did not speak French with hers with the same fluidity. And most of all, the touch of love didn't caress her body; but unchecked just mutilated it. Her lids drew up to unveil her eyes to the truth. As if the lines of facial matrimony divorced their ties, this face was lawed as someone else's. Her stomach felt a sickness spread as if housing a plague of abhorrent sorrows as she pushed herself out and away from the arms of this dog; this stranger. Her skin burned with betrayal, as if screaming to chastise her for the violation it had endured. Her flesh clawing to unburden itself from the bones that had sworn their fidelity to Mathias, but now had been lured out from their loyalty. Her legs shook as shame suppressed her pride to bits of broken fragments. What had she done? "Come on, babe." The man said. "Decided fucking in the forest was a bit too bold for you?" Her brows drew together in raging disgust whilst her shapely lips broke their pursed line in sorrow. Her fingers lifted, constricting in air as she channeled the pain to bite into his abdomen that had been fortunate enough to press up against hers before her hand gestured down in a violent pull, his stomach ripping down and having his intestines coil onto the ground in a bloody heap as he collapsed onto his knees. "You Wiccan bitch!" He screamed his profanity in agony. "No, /babe/. I'm not a Wiccan." A twisted smile eclipsed her features, fingers poised into a circle just right enough to grasp the heart that tore out of his chest and flew into her grasp after an airborne flight, beating its last against her palms as the man fell face first onto the ground, blood and innards gushing out of the gaping hole in his body as she recalled back to the roots of her father, roots of her own. "I'm a Viking."