#twelve miles from the border | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

senka-mesecine · 1 month ago

Note

A mini fic about the home birth of Barnes' wife.. Now I'm going to beg you for it pleasepleaseplease

The Day Beulah Jackson Climbed up the Mountain.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

You couldn’t have been normal to have been with that man.

That was the general consensus.

Something must’ve been seriously wrong with you.

She just wasn’t sure what exactly — not yet, anyhow.

But, she’d get to the bottom of it.

And yes, the women down in town discussed it ad nauseum, as they say; Discussed you. Half of them, she personally helped birth into this world decades and decades ago. The other half, she helped in giving birth to their own kids when that joyous, most blessed time arrived. In fact, there was probably no wife, no member of female kind, divorced, widowed or in a state of murky, questionable singlehood in a radius of a hundred miles that she hasn’t had a hand in aiding in the sense of being there in the most fragile and crucial of nature’s hours, making sure those newborns get pushed through alright, get enough air supply, spanking their red little bottoms crimson to ensure they cry when they’re blue and breathless, checking to make sure everything was in order — ten fingers, ten toes and all — cleaning up they mommas, changing the dirtied sheets, throwing out the blood and the placenta, making sure their breasts pump milk alright, that all the vitals are in order, visiting the happy, new parents in the weeks to come to ensure everything is as ripe as a peach and as fine as can be; figured a midwife was as crucial to these small town communities as a Preacher was, if not more, because Beulah Jackson, well, she helped the Preacher’s mother birth him back in the day and then she went and help the Preacher’s wife birth their children too, maintainin’ it generational, like a great big ol’ circle — it’s not quite an official ledger of all the county’s births she kept throughout the years, but she memorized it all, even now as she struggled up the steep, rocky trail of the carved woodland passageways thinking, in fact being certain, that possibly the one person she didn’t help deliver into this was this Barnes figure. Robert E. Lee Barnes; just the name alone gave her the heebie-jeebies. These hillbillies always had to have a name after a dead Confederate general or other. He couldn’t have that older from her own oldest son by a rough estimate, fresh out of that dreadful war over yonder, one of them mountain people decent folk would rather not run into — must’ve had a momma too at one point in time, yet who helped that poor woman give birth was beyond Beulah, because whoever it was, it certainly wasn’t her. She didn’t know anyone else who dabbled in her trade or get educated to go door-to-door. Was the 70’s. Drivin’ out to the hospital was one of them new fashions nowadays.

Must’ve just let her writhe and struggle on some straw bed for twelve hours.

All on her own. Left it up to chance; however it turns, it’ll turn out, animalistically so.

Like proper white trash.

And now, she was heading up there to aid in the birth for a man she never recalls being birthed.

The birthless.

The birthless havin’ progeny.

Were you an abused woman? Was that it? ‘Cos women, they were known to make husbands outta any old thing the cat drags in; the drunks, the gamblers, the whoremongers, the lazies, the crazies, the type to throw hands. Heck, she should know. She’s seen it all in her time. She once helped the mother of six kids down in Pigeon Forge back in 1956. give birth to her seventh even as the woman’s face was freshly bruised red and blue with the faded signs of a fairly recent beating. Couldn’t have been the monetary gain you were after, because to live out here? Way up in this here middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but pine trees, boulders and fog for miles? Sure, she knew the villages and towns dotting the shadows of the Appalachians on the edge of the border were already remote by default, but this was beyond the pale, she concludes, clicking her tongue in displeasure, her duffle bag in tow, collar neatly buttoned at the neck accumulating sweat underneath the hem. She didn’t wanna judge too harshly, but maybe there was something lacking, inside your brain, that is. Simple Minded, and all. Maybe your daddy lost a gambling debt to some individuals he shouldn’t have gone gambling with in the first place and had no way to pay it back so giving up his daughter it was? Perhaps you were a runaway from her own home that ended up taking the wrong turn? Maybe you were a victim of kidnapping and some type of coercion the proper authorities ought to have looked into? Why not? She wouldn’t put anything the folks living up in these tucked away, overgrown hovels. Female kind was scarce up here — in fact, any kind was scarce but bears, foxes and mountain cats; so why not just steal one? Cut to the chase. Skip the whole courtship phase. Put a baby inside of her? Call it a day. She’s heard this Barnes fellow was scarred up and down his face in zig-zags and that he had eyes that drive the fear of God into people. That he was a Sergeant. A pretty nasty type. Who knows what he got up to back in the war; in fact, if he was decent people, he wouldn’t live up here. He’d live down there. Down with the rest of everyone else. Excess isolation, she thought with a certain sense of self assurance, catching the sight of a lone roof and a brick chimney circled in by the embraced of the woods, was often a sign that there was something the matter, because who on earth would go somewhere even seasoned hikers and hunters wouldn’t traverse with ease? Someone who had sumn’ to hide, that’s who. And to bring a whole child into these conditions too, bound to grow up like a feral mountain goat, jumping from rock to rock —

Well, shoot, they were lucky the tricky terrain was nothing new to her.

Otherwise, she would’ve turned back by now.

Alerted Social Services.

The Police, if need be.

Halfway considered tugging at your ear discreetly post-birth.

Explain you wouldn’t be the first or the last to leave a tyrannical man, child or no child.

The house is exactly what she expects when she reaches it.

Yet not quite.

Was obvious there was a woman’s touch involved; clean garden space, tidied up front porch, the odd pot of flowers hanging from the roofed off portion of the front steps, wooden walls and heavy stone foundations green with old moss, moved lawn spaces in the middle of the wilderness like a patch of civilization carved out of nothing — reminded her of one of those rustic family homesteads miners digging for Zinc would have up in these hills before the vein of industry dried up and in fact, the frame of the man of the steps eerily remind her of that too. Nearly gives her a heart attack. Ah, yes. The man of the hour. Sure, his voice over the landline told Beulah enough about him, but seein’ him in the flesh, was like looking at a slab of marble cut out in the shape of a man, all sharp angles, edges and lines. She didn’t like this son of a bitch; but then again, she didn’t need to like her patients to do her calling of duty and doin’ it right and conscientiously. Sticking to the Hippocratic Oath. She feels herself going stiff at the sight of him. Like the high altitude of the air out on this solitary, woodland massif suddenly got visibly colder and thin. Nonetheless, she throws her shoulders out, maintaining composure. A woman was havin’ a baby. She didn’t have time to be anxious around the man who sired the whole situation. -"We talked over the phone. How far along has the cervix gone and dilated?"- She cuts right to the chase, directly and head on, the choice to bypass all pleasantries and greetings very much deliberate; her momma would be rolling around in her grave if she could see her now, bein’ as rude as she was bein’, but she felt it was necessary; to establish the rules right now — she didn’t much care what war he served in. He wasn’t her cup of tea. Especially not when he was just standing there, smoking, shoulder leaning against a wooden pillar. What was he playin’ at, all nonchalant, turning on his heel instead of sayin’ anything back, walking slowly, throwing down the butt of his cigarette and crushing it with a clean, pitch black bootheel, leisurely, like he wanted her to follow him inside. Where was he keeping his woman? Locked up in some hidden basement pantry somewhere? Like a captive Thumbelina?

The way he moved too. Didn’t move like a normal person.

He moved like he could pounce any moment.

Never gone about midwifing with a loaded shotgun before; but Barnes might’ve been the one occasion where she would have seriously considered it, even though that was no way for any babe to be born. The notion depresses her.

Just not Christian.

-"Now, I wanna make one thing clear; I want clean sheets, a clean stationary to work on, a clean room, no ticks, flies, bugs, stains, cats and dogs inside the house, and if I see any funny business, I’ll have y’all’s asses reported to the —"-

She starts ranting, talking to his back and his shoulders clad in what seemed like green fatigues of some sort of army jacket rolled up at the sleeves, moving no more than a couple of feet ahead of her, leading her through a wooden corridor, seemingly ignoring her as she had her fingers up, going by numbers — perhaps she was harsh, sure, but she couldn’t stand his lot; firearms on the wall, old, rusty tubs in the backyard, car tires scattered everywhere, critters where cooking was being done; She wanted to maintain a certain hygienic and ethical standard and she intended to deliver this child like god intended: In an environment that was antiseptic, at least vaguely acceptable and good, halting for a moment in front of what seemed like the threshold of a nursery, different in coloring from the rest of the house, so much so that the interior was almost stark on the eyes as she unties her headscarf fastened into a knot under her chin, allowing her short perm breathin’ space; all lacquered white wood, a white bed frame, immaculate white sheets, white lace curtains drawn on, a gust of fresh air peering through a window left half ajar — the frame of a woman laid up in perfectly pale bedding, the sheen of sweat lining her face like she was already going through contractions. Beulah Jackson, as she lives and breathes, she’s positively taken aback, yes. Even the air inside smelled nice — crisp. Pleasant. You turn to look at her, a hill of a belly tucked away beneath a knit, soft seeming, creme colored blanket, protected by your hands and even you look just as inviting and tame as the rest of your surroundings. Like someone living in a gingerbread home in a gingerbread bed. The abode of someone well taken care of, she loathes to admit. Perhaps the most out of place, alien sights were herself after the long trek up the mountainside and Barnes himself, looking like a savage in a china shop, irregardless of the quietly smug look he gives her with those shot glass blue eyes, almost as if to say ‘This good ‘nough for’ya, ma’am? ‘To your tastes?’ Seating himself on the pale arm chair opposite of your bed, thighs wide, like he intended to stick around, wordlessly gloat and watch, never taking his eyes off of you.

You were so pretty, she thinks, especially with these contrasts in place.

What on earth attracted you to him?

-"Sugar, you mind the company?"-

She decides to ask as tenderly as humanly possible as she unfastens her coat, leaving it on a nearby sofa that looked like it belonged in a doll house, endearing herself to you tactically to make you feel safe in his presence, setting down her duffle bag on a clean, pristine white wood table and unzipping its contents, being careful to lift up the blanket covering your legs, certain to try and get some acknowledgment whether you wanted him in here in the first place. Eight centimeters dilated. Yeah, you should be ready soon. She could measure just by looking. -"Let me get you in a better position."- She mutters to herself, stacking up the ivory linen covered pillows underneath your calves to ensure your comfort; it doesn’t bypass Beulah’s notice basins of water heated up where early prepared alongside cut chunks of material, gauze and rubbing alcohol. She shoots Barnes a stare, catching him looking at her, gazing like a hawk, something sparkling in his eyes. There it was, that arrogance again. Well, he shouldn’t feel too self content. She expected a former army man who was in Vietnam to know his elbow from his asshole unlike most civilians. She wasn’t about to applaud a fish for swimming in a stream, that was for certain.

-"No, I want him here."-

You manage as confirmation, through a groan, brows furrowed in immediate distress.

-"You sure? Alright then."-

She retorts, feeling her head tilt curiously; you should’ve been in more pain by now.

She almost wondered if your Barnes fellow plied you with something to take away the strain.

She just hoped he didn’t go and pour gin into your mouth like it was expected with his lot.

-"I can see a head full of curly hair."-

She remarks, making the announcement, taking a peek into the tent of coverings held up by your spread knees, spotting the circular globe of a scalp riddled with moist, stick curls pushed forth by a sudden wave of rapid contractions, gaze briefly gazing the offending father on the arm chair — goodness gracious, the baby’s going to look like him too, to top it all off, with his head full of brushed out, semi short cropped, dark toffee colored ringlets, she just hoped to god it doesn’t miraculously and tragically go and inherit that nasty scar of his in the form of a birthmark. -"Now, push for me, darlin’, I’m thinkin’ you’re one of those lucky few who’s gonna be done in an hour."- Beulah predicts, quite frankly glad for you; least God could for you livin’ cooped up in the mountains with a man who looked like the devil’s offspring is to ensure you have a smooth, swift birth. Life had to balance itself out some way. Let some woman up in a manor townhouse in Nashville have the long, difficult birth, she figures, rolling up her sleeves after cleaning herself up to the elbows in the basin daddy dearest set out. She still wasn’t gonna applaud him for it -"Eyup! That’s good stock."- Barnes speaks up, probably for the first since she’s arrived, cocking his head to one side in an abrasive fashion, nearly startling Beulah.

His fingers protectively gripping your hand from his armchair now pulled entirely close.

Possessive.

Defensive.

Clearly mocking her through the way he simultaneously threw his prominent, scarred chin out, like someone who’s miraculously read every single thought ever since she’s walked up here. A twinge of subdued shame overtakes her once you push and your face crumples up in pain and she says nothing back to him because this wasn’t the right time to snipe at each other. The way he observed you so intently, his focus instantaneously rendered singular, almost boyish once you practically scream and throw your head back against the lacey pillow, like the years melt off of his face, undisrupted by his gnarly scar that quite frankly made her nose crinkle up in distress; for a moment he looked like a child; she shakes her head, brushing the thought off, focusing on all the blood and fluids lubricating the vent space for the little one to glide through — first birth; you were good and healthy. Predicted more for you. Your man seemed like the type who wouldn’t crawl off of you until you’re bred with at least ten, she scoffs, her Forceps, tools and vacuum on the ready in case extraction needed and the procedure gets stalled as you grip the sheets, pushing, your teeth gritted and lids crinkled up, sweat accumulated around hair neatly tied, brushed back —- she wondered if he did that for you too.

-"Now push, darlin’, I hate to say it, but y’all doin’ this perfectly fine without me! Must be a record!"-

She yells, voice congratulatory, fingers guiding the little head and shoulders protruding through where it ought to have gone; with birth, there really wasn’t any written rules. Some folks give birth after twelve hours of intensive struggle, some need a Caesarean, some give birth after five hours, some are just smiled on by a lucky star and give birth after half an hour and in her forty years of doing this, the shortest birth she’s helped along with had to have been four hours long; today, though, that place seemed to have been under a real threat of losing its number one spot only to be replaced by the woman of one Robert Barnes whose babe was already halfway inside of its momma and the other half, as slithery and as slick as an otter, in the palms of Beulah’s welcoming hands, eyes glued shut, face red, expression all crinkled up, sliding unto the clean cotton towel her pappa undoubtedly set out for you to lay on, now stained red with blood. Takes exactly thirty five minutes and ten seconds; the white ornate clock on the wall above the bed tells her as much; and at nine in the morning, one minute give or take, Beulah Jackson birthed a fresh bouncing baby girl, yes, all ten fingers and ten toes involved; her two hundredth and twenty eighth baby to date, umbilical cord attached to its placenta in tow; she cries out all on her own without even needin’ a spankin’.

Seven pounds and two ounces; the most perfectly average baby measurement.

She could tell simply through experience alone, years and years of birth perfectly average kids. She reaches for the disinfected scissors, about the set the newborn free; a chill runnin’ down her spine.

Realizing he was right there, shoulder to shoulder with her, starin’ down your privates.

The sheen of a push knife between the knuckles.

Man as big as a bull and as quiet as a rattlesnake.

Didn’t even notice him standing up from his seat and walking over.

-"Wh — what are your intentions with that thing?"-

She nearly stutters, drawling, pointing the top of her nose at the blade.

Watching him place the sharp, pointy edge against the fleshy rope of the cord attached to the bellybutton.

And cut.

Before she could stop him, he was carrying his baby girl to the washing basin.

He wanted to the do the honors personally, huh?

And here she semi expected a man like him to moan and complain his firstborn wasn’t a son.

-"Your hands better be clean."-

She interjects, not intending to be a pushover where the subject of a baby’s safety was concerned, approaching you instead, where your head lay on the pillow and clearing your accumulated sweat of your brow as you watched her eagerly, with a look of relief while Beulah herself, hell, she couldn’t help but observe those big, meaty bronze hands carefully wipe the newborn off from all the excess puss, blood and slime, aquiline nose fully downcast, lids heavy, entirely focused on the task, something oddly calm about it, about him in the spite of the fact that knife he cut the umbilical cord was right beside the wash basin, gleaming with a freckle of red, like a ruby. -"Bobby."- You moan out --- a peculiarly sweet nickname for a man like that --- the tone of your voice halfway cracking with pain, almost on the verge of tears when he approaches you, setting down the babe on your torso slowly for skin to skin contact, minding the head; Did he do this before? Was he from one of those families with a litter of children and he so happened to have several siblings he looked after or sumn’? She has to wonder, observing you two, collecting the blood stained basins, rags, cloths, the rolled up placenta and the spread out fabric that was underneath you in a singleminded pursuit of discarding of everything, giving the new parents a moment to themselves, watching Barnes back in his arm chair, elbows on his knees, having that perplex, sorrowful boyish look to him; like a ten year old grievin’.

Tender.

It was unexpectedly, harrowingly tender.

So much so she had to get out of there in spite of imagining her own legs grow petrified to stone, feelin’ like an intruder seein’ sumn’ not meant to be seen. You were normal. As opposed to all her expectations of you, you were a normal, well cared for woman. Perhaps not unlike any other woman she's ever met.

-"You folks rest up. I’ll be right here. I'll sow you up in a hot second."-

She whispers in a haste, small voiced for once; stunned for words, more like.

Quietly stepping out of the gingerbread doll bedroom, listening to you whimper with your child.

This was the one day Beulah Jackson climbed up the mountain on foot, sure.

She figured, well enough, tossing the bloodied water into a nearby ditch —

Well, it would’ve been the day she climbed down the mountain too.

Understanding she didn’t have to understand everything.

And all the ways distinctive folks loved.

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nomie-11 · 9 months ago

Text

Chapter 18 - The Scrutiny of a Sorrengail

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Flying for short distances, for Genevieve, is enjoyable. The feeling of the wind in her hair and the bite of the air is a comforting feeling. Flight maneuvers—if she's flying alone or with Xaden—are even more enjoyable.

The dips and dives that come with combat formations are a rush of adrenaline that never fails to send Genevieve into a state of exhilaration. The weightlessness, the sharp turns, and the roar of the wind in her ears make her feel alive in ways that nothing else can. It’s the closest she comes to forgetting everything.

But flying for long distances is a brutal reminder for everything going wrong for Genevieve.

The six hour flight for their prize for winning the Squad Battles might just kill her. The weeklong tour of the most out of the way outpost ever known to man would be fine, but the flight there and back would be the death of her.

“I’m pretty sure I’m dying.” Nadine bends over, bracing her hands on her knees.

“I feel that.” Violet says, every vertebra in her spine screaming as she stretches, and that hands that were freezing from flight only moments ago begin to sweat in her gloves.

Genevieve cracks her neck, trying to shake off the tension that’s settled into her bones from the extended flight. Her body aches in ways that are almost too familiar—the bite of cold in her extremities, the stiffness in her muscles, the gnawing exhaustion that feels like it’s leeching away her strength. The cold settles deep, despite being early april, reminding her of the toll her last burnout took, leaving her vulnerable in ways she hates to admit.

“You’re not dying,” she says to Nadine, though her voice lacks the usual bite. “But if you were, I’d say it’s a fitting prize for us winning Squad Battle.”

Nadine shoots her a half-hearted glare before turning to stretch out her back. Violet isn’t faring much better, Liam holds her hands as if he can channel his own body warmth into hers.

Gods, Genevieve groans. I miss Xaden.

“Welcome, cadets,” the commander says with a professional smile, interrupting Genevieve’s brooding. He folds his arms across the chest of his lightweight leathers, and he has the gaunt, tired rider look that any rider gets when they’ve been stationed at the border for too long. “I’m sure you’d all like to get settled and into something a little more appropriate for the climate. Then we’ll show you around Montserrat.”

Genevieve huffs, shifting her weight from one sore leg to another. It definitely is hotter here than it is at Basgiath, but she’s sure she’s not the only one still reeling from the cold winds above.

Rhiannon inhales sharply from beside her, her gaze sweeping over the mountains.

“You all right?” Violet asks, and Genevieve nods, her eyes asking Rhiannon the same question.

She nods as well. “Later.”

Later arrives in twelve minutes, where a still slightly cold Genevieve and a two very hot Rhiannon and Violet sit in the triple-occupancy barrack rooms. They’re sparsely furnished, only three beds, three wardrobes, and a single desk sit in the room.

Rhiannon is quiet the entire time they make their way through the bathing chamber, washing off the ride, and alarmingly silent as they dress in their summer leathers. It may only be April in Montserrat, but it feels like June.

“Are you going to tell us what’s up?” Genevieve asks, stowing her pack beneath the bed before making sure all of her daggers are safely sheathed at her hips and thighs.

Rhiannon’s hands tremble with what looks like nervous energy as she straps her swords to her back. “Do you know where we are?”

Violet mentally brings up a map. “We’re about two hundred miles from the coast–”

“My village is less than an hour away on foot.” Her eyes flicker between Genevieve and Violet with an unspoken plea,the emotion swirling in their dark-brown depths clogs Violet’s throat, and Genevieve’s eyes are solid with resolve.

“Ok, so we’re going.” Genevieve said firmly, her eyes meeting Violet’s with a strong gaze.

Violet blinks once, surprise evident on her features.

“What?” Genevieve asks, her own surprise at the soft disagreement now painted on her features. “You’re telling me that if you had a happy family, safe and waiting for you, an hour away, you wouldn’t go?”

“Ok,” She says, quickly agreeing. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers, even though it's just the three of them in the tiny room. “We have six days to figure it out and we will.”

“Let’s go, Second Squad!” Dain’s voice booms through the door, and the girls filter out, joining the others and Major Quade as they get a tour of the outpost.

The fortress itself is just four massive walls, filled with barracks and various chambers, turrets on each corner and a large, arched entrance that boasts a spiked portcullis that looks like it might fall at any second. On one end of the courtyard, there’s a stable with a blacksmith and armory for their company of infantry, and on the other is the dining hall.

“As you can see,” Major Quade tells them as they stand in the middle of the muddy courtyard. “We’re built for siege. In the event of an attack, we can feed and house everyone for an adequate amount of time.”

Ridoc mouths something at Violet that Genevieve misses, but she doesn’t miss the death glare Dain shoots at Violet afterwards. Awkward…

“As one of the eastern outposts, we have a full twelve riders stationed here. Three are out on patrol now, three wait, standing by in case they’re needed, and the other six are in various stages of rest,” Quade continues. The distinct roar of a dragon echoes off the stone walls. “That should be one of our patrols returning now,” Quade says, smiling like he wants the cadets to believe him, but can’t find the energy.

“So,” he says, clapping his hands together. “We’ll get you riders fed and put to bed, and then we’ll work on who you’ll be shadowing while you’re here.”

“Will we get to participate in any active scenarios?” Heaton asks, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Absolutely not!” Devera snaps.

“If you see combat, then I’ve failed as this being the safest place on the border to send you,” Quade answers. “But you get bonus points for enthusiasm. Third-year?” Heaton nods.

Quade turns slightly, and smiles at the three indistinct figures in rider black as they walk under the portcullis. “There they are now. Why don’t you three come and meet—”

“Violet?”

Genevieve freezes, she knows that voice.

In an instant, Violet is no longer beside her, but running full force at the familiar girl, who sweeps Violet up and hugs her like she’s never before.

“Mira,” Violet whispers, burying her face against her shoulder, and her eyes burn as she rests her hand on top of Violet’s braid as if committing every detail of her sister into her mind.

Mira pulls back just long enough to look Violet over, as if she’s checking for damage. “You’re all right.” She nods, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

Violet nods, and it’s true, she is alright. But just because she’s alive doesn’t mean she’s the same person Mira had left at the base of the turret. They both know it.

“Yeah,” she whispers, pulling back Violet into another hug. “You’re all right, Violet. You’re all right.”

“Are you?” Violet says, jerking back to study her. “Gods, Mira.”

“I’m fine,” she promises, then grins. “You didn’t die!”

Irrational, giddy laughter bubbles up from Violet. “I didn’t die, you’re not an only child!”

“Sorrengails are weird,” Genevieve states, drawing a bemused look from Liam who stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest.

“You have no idea,” Dain says in response, his lips curved into a small smile that makes Genevieve want to hurl.

“Shut up, Aetos!” Mira barks, throwing her arm over Violet’s shoulder. “Catch me up on everything, Violet.”

—--------------------------------------

It’s early evening two days later, just after dinner, when Violet, Genevieve and Rhiannon sneak out of their first-story window and drop to the ground. Mira’s out on patrol, and Genevieve knows this is their only chance.

“We’re on our way.” Genevieve calls out to Tairn, giving him a warning.

“Don’t get caught,” He warns in response.

“That’s the plan.” the three girls sneak along the battlement wall, turning the corner toward the field—

Genevieve runs so hard right into Mira that she bounces backwards.

“Shit!” Rhiannon hisses as she catches her.

“Of course you would be sneaking out,” Mira says, her voice pointed at Genevieve. “When I saw you with Violet I knew you were a bad influence on her,” then she turned to Violet. “You should be staying away from people like her. You know better.”

“Me?” Genevieve asked, her jaw nearly on the ground. “You’re the one who stuck an innocent nineteen year old girl into a dungeon! You were the last face I saw!”

Mira’s face freezes, her eyes narrowing as she stares at Genevieve. “I had no choice. You were a prisoner of war, Genevieve.”

Genevieve’s jaw tightens, anger flaring in her chest, but Violet steps between them, her voice low. “Mira, this isn’t the time. We’re just—”

“Just sneaking out,” Mira cuts her off, eyes still locked on genevieve. “And dragging my sister along for whatever you’re planning. What is it, revenge? A mission? Are you planning to kill Violet while you’re off in the villages?”

“If I wanted to kill your sister I would have done it ages ago,” Genevieve bites, her pulse quickening at the accusation, her jaw clenching so hard it aches. “I don’t know if you heard, but I basically taught your sister how to fight and I protected her in situations I could’ve stayed far away from. But because I don’t care about family names, unlike you, I saw Violet for who she was past being a Sorrengail and protected her.”

Mira’s eyes flash, her lips pressing into a tight line. “Don’t you dare act like you’re doing her some favor. You’re still the daughter of a traitor. You’ve always had your own motives.”

“I was a kid!” Genevieve snaps, fists clenched at her sides, her entire body trembling with the effort to hold back as vines creep up her legs. “I didn’t choose this! I didn’t choose any of it!”

The tension between them is thick, and Violet shifts uneasily, her eyes darting between the two women as if trying to diffuse the situation.

“Mira, please,” Violet pleads, stepping closer to her sister. “We’re not doing anything dangerous. Rhiannon just wants to check on her family. That’s all.”

Mira doesn’t seem convinced. Her gaze hardens as she turns back to Genevieve, her voice as cold as the wind that had chilled Genevieve to the bone earlier. “And what do you get out of it, Hale? You always have an angle.”

Genevieve’s heart pounds, fury and frustration swirling inside of her. She meets Mira’s gaze without flinching. “Maybe I just want to help someone. Ever think of that? You don’t know me.”

There’s a flicker in Mira’s eyes, something that could be doubt, or maybe regret. It’s brief, and then she hardens again.

“I don’t trust you,” Mira says flatly.

“And I don’t care,” Genevieve shoots back. “I’m not doing this to prove anything to you, Sorrengail. I’m doing it for Rhiannon, and for her family. Because some of us still care about things like that.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Fuck me!” Genevieve exclaimed to Tairn, exasperatedly.

“Isn’t that what the wingleader is for?” He chuffs in response, laughing at her.

Mira cast a sidewards glare at Genevieve. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your natural life.”

“She means it,” Violet whispers.

“I believe it,” Rhiannon responds.

“You’re here two days and already breaking the rules,” Mira mutters. “Come this way, it’s quicker to cut down this path.”

An hour later, Mira and Violet are stretched out on the cushioned benches that flank both sides of Rhiannon’s sister Reagan’s house, watching Rhiannon rock her nephew by the fireplace, lost in conversation with her sister as he parents and brother-in-law look on from the nearby couch.

Genevieve sits alone on a chair, her body tense with what looks like… awkwardness. Violet has to stifle a laugh, and Mira knows that watching them reunite is worth everything.

Genevieve feels the warmth of the fire on her skin, but it does little to thaw the icy knot in her chest. Watching Rhiannon cradle her nephew stirs a deep, aching void she hasn’t allowed herself to dwell on in years. The joy on Rhiannon’s face, the way her sister embraces her with such ease and love—it reminds Genevieve of everything she’s lost, everything she can never get back.

Even Violet is sitting with her sister, laughing about something with her as if they were never separated. Genevieve is alone.

Her mind drifts to her mother. She could almost hear her voice, soft and comforting as she tucked Genevieve into bed on the cold winter nights in the mountains of Aretia. She used to hum lullabies when she thought Genevieve was asleep, a melody she’d give anything to hear again. A melody she hasn’t heard since the rebellion ended in flames, and her mother disappeared into the darkness.

And Quinn. Bright, caring Quinn who used to hold little Genevieve’s hand as they ran through the fields of flowers and forests, laughing as the wind whipped through their hair. She had said nothing would happen to her, that she would always be there. But she was gone, her death haunting Genevieve’s mind like a plague.

Her grandmother, though… everywhere Genevieve turned she saw her watching. The woman who raised her when her mother left and her father died. The one who knew every story, every song. Genevieve remembers the clear feeling of her strong hands braiding her hair, or rubbing in burn cream when her pale skin suffered the bite of the sun. But the sight of her face was slowly but surely disappearing from Genevieve's mind.

A lump rises in her throat, her chest tightening as she blinks back tears. More than anything, she wishes that she could be back with them again. Back in her grandma’s manor, feeling her mother’s embrace, hearing her sister’s laugh, smelling her grandmother’s floral perfume. But that world is gone, buried beneath rubble and blood.

Suddenly, Rhiannon is right in front of her.

“Do you want to hold him?”

Genevieve looks up, startled. Rhiannon is standing there with her nephew nestled securely in her arms, his tiny face soft and peaceful. For a moment, Genevieve’s heart stutters in her chest, the innocent warmth radiating from the baby pulling at the carefully constructed walls she built over the years. She opens her mouth, but no words come out.

“I don’t know if I should,” She finally manages, her voice hoarse, almost unfamiliar.

Rhiannon’s eyes soften, as if she can see right through Genevieve’s hesitance. “It’s okay. You’re in control now, you won’t break him.” She steps closer, her tone gentle but insistent.

Genevieve swallows hard, feeling everything crumble beneath her as her hands hover awkwardly in front of her before she relents, nodding slightly.

Rhiannon carefully transfers the sleeping baby into Genevieve’s arms, guiding her hands into position. The little bundle is light but warm, and the weight of him against her chest feels foreign, almost unreal. Genevieve stares down at the tiny face, the soft rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps, fully trusting that Genevieve will do no harm.

Everything fades. All she can see is the fragile life cradled in her arms. Something shifts inside her, a flicker of something long buried, something she thought was gone.

“Don’t even think about it,” Train’s voice booms in a familiar manner. “I’m too young to be a grandfather.”

Genevieve snorts, glancing at the baby in her arms and then shaking her head ever so slightly at Tairn’s comment. “Always so dramatic. I don’t even want kids,” she responds, but the humor fades quickly, replaced by the sudden rush of emotions that holding the child has stirred in her.

“Genevieve?” Rhiannon’s voice brings her back to the present. “Are you alright?”

Genevieve forces a nod, though her throat feels tight. She’s not alright. This moment—the warmth, the innocence, the tenderness—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. She misses her family, but above all, being apart from Xaden for three days now has started to be painful over her dragon’s bond.

She can feel all the tension Tairn is carrying, being apart from Sgaeyl has been hard on him. She misses Xaden, too.

Rhiannon notices the shift in Genevieve’s expression, the fleeting vulnerability she rarely allows herself to show. “You can hand him back if you want,” Rhiannon offers, her voice understanding.

Geneiveve quickly nods, handing the baby back to Rhiannon.

Her thoughts drift again—back to Xaden. The bond between the two of them had been growing steadily stronger with every intimate moment they shared, every word they exchanged, and the bond between their dragons was infinitely stronger. Being apart from him now, even for just a few days, was harder than she anticipated.

“I need some air,” She muttered, quickly exciting the house past Mira and Violet, who looked on in confusion.

The cool night air hits Genevieve’s face as she steps outside, leaning heavily against the rough wooden door. The warmth of the fireplace and the emotions swirling inside had been too much. She couldn’t breathe in there.

A shiver runs down her spine. Scanning the dimly lit fields beyond the house, her heart skips a beat. Of course he’s come to find her. There, in the shadows by the edge of the tree line, stands a figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair nearly falling into his eyes. Xaden.

He strides forward, closing the space between them in long, purposeful steps. His presence is magnetic, pulling her closer even before he reaches her. When he does, the air around them seems to shift, growing heavier with the unsaid.

“Xaden,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. The knot in her chest has loosened just from the sight of him.

He doesn’t speak, not at first. Instead, he reaches out, his hand slipping around her wrist, pulling her toward him in one smooth motion until she’s pressed against him, her head resting against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath her ear, a grounding rhythm, that calms the raging storm inside her.

“I missed you,” he finally says, his voice low and rough, as if the separation had been just as hard on him. She can’t find the words to explain how much she missed him, how the past few days without him had left her feeling raw and unsteady. So, instead of speaking, she leans up and kisses him, soft at first, then deeper, pouring all the emotions she couldn’t voice into the kiss.

He responds immediately, his hands tightening around her waist, pulling her even closer. The intensity of their bond flares between them, the connection humming with the energy of their dragons, of the unspoken feelings they both kept buried.

When they finally part, both breathing heavily, Xaden’s eyes darken. “Three days. We couldn’t make three days,” he mutters, his voice laced with frustration and need.

Genevieve sighs faintly, her fingers brushing his jaw. “No,” she agrees, her voice soft. “We can’t.”

They stand there for a moment longer, wrapped up in each other, the world fading into the background.

“Mira’s going to be so pissed,” Genevieve says softly, her voice lighter than before now that she’s back in his arms.

“I don’t care.”

Neither does she, as she pulls him down again, kissing him deeper and deeper against the darkness.

—----------------------------------------

Genevieve was right. Mira was not happy to find her little sister’s best friend, who happened to be the daughter of a disgraced traitor, kissing the son of the man who killed her older brother. Nor was she happy to have him on base with her, but that was not Genevieve’s issue.

“So all we do is wait for something to happen?” Ridoc asks as the group all sit around a table that runs the length of the briefing room. He’s leaning back in his chair and putting his boots on the end of the table, and Genevieve can practically see the fire in Mira’s eyes as she watches.

“Yes,” Mira says from the head of the table, then flicks her wrist and sends Ridoc flying backwards. “And keep your feet off the table.”

One of the Montserrat riders laughs, changing the markers on the large map that consumes the only stone wall in the curved, windowed room. They all sit in this room, in the highest turret in the outpost, offering unmatched views of the Esben mountain range around them.

Second Squad plus Xaden was split into two groups for the day. Rhiannon, Sawyer, Cianna, Nadine, and Heaton spent the morning with Devera in this room, studying the previous battles at the outpost, and are now out on patrol.

Dain, Ridoc, Liam, Quinn, Emery, Violet, and Genevieve spent the morning on a two-hour flight around the surrounding area, with one extra tagalong—Xaden. He’s been the worst kind of distraction since arriving last night. Dain won’t stop glaring, Mira keeps watch on his every move.

All Genevieve wants is one moment of peace with this man before he’s ripped away from her again. But Mira doesn’t trust her yet, so every second she spends awake, Mira spends watching her, and once Xaden joins them, her eyes are split between the two of them. The two traitors.

“Whatever Violet said to get Mira off of Liam’s ass she needs to say about me next.” Genevieve huffed, glancing over at Liam, who was holding Violet’s hand comfortably. Then she glanced at her own hand and then at Xaden’s hand, before bringing her’s into her lap. She was not ready to be public like that.

“Consider this your Battle Brief,” Mira continues, side-eyeing Ridoc as he scrambles back into his chair. “This morning was about a quarter of the patrol we’d normally fly, so regularly we’d just be getting back about now and reporting our findings to the commander. But for the sake of killing time, since we’re in this room as the reaction flight for this afternoon, let’s pretend we’d come across a newly fortified enemy outpost crossing our border” —she turns to the map and pins a small crimson flag near one of the peaks about two miles from the Cygnisen borderline— “here.”

“We’re supposed to pretend it just popped up overnight?” Emery asks, openly skeptical.

“For the sake of argument, third-year.” Mira narrows her eyes on him, and he sits up a little straighter.

“What would our objective be?” Mira glances around the table, noticeably skipping Xaden and glaring at Genevieve. Last night, she’d taken one look at the rebellion relic on his arm and walked by without saying a word. And she hadn’t spoken to Genevieve since she left Rhiannon’s house in a flurry. “Aetos?”

Dain startles from where he was glowering across the table at Xaden and turns to face the map. “What type of fortifications are there? Are we talking about a haphazard wooden structure? Or something more substantial?”

“Like they had time to build a fortress overnight,” Ridoc mutters. “It has to be wooden, right?”

“You are all so fucking literal,” Genevieve groans, rubbing her thumbs on her temples. This has all been headache inducing. “Just say that they occupied a keep that’s already established. Stone and all.”

“Thank you, Hale,” Mira says, although it sounds physically painful for the name and the gratitude to be leaving her lips in the same sentence.

“But the civilians didn’t call for help?” Quinn asks, scratching her pointed chin. “Protocol calls for a distress signal this far into the mountains. They should have lit their distress beacon, alerting patrolling riders, at which time the dragons on patrol would have told all available dragons in the area. Every rider in this room would have mounted first as the reaction force and the others would have been woken from their rests, allowing the riders to prevent the loss of the keep in the first place.”

Mira scoffs and braces her hands on the end of the table, staring them all down. “Everything you’re taught at Basgiath is theory. You analyze past attacks and learn those very… theoretical combat maneuvers. But things don’t always go to plan, so why don’t we talk about the things that can go sideways, so you’ll know what to do when they do, as opposed to arguing that the keep shouldn’t have fallen?”

Quinn shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“How many of you have been called out as third-years?” Mira stands straight, arms folding over her black leathers.

Emery and Xaden raise their hands, though Xaden’s is barely a gesture. Dain looks like his head is about to explode.

“That’s not true. We’re never called into service until graduation.”

Xaden presses his lips in a tight line and nods, giving Dain a sarcastic thumbs up.

“Yeah, all right.” Emery laughs. “Just wait until next year. I can’t count how many times we’re the ones sitting in these very rooms in the midland forts because their riders have been called to the front for an emergency.”

The color drains from Dain’s face.

“Now that’s settled.” Mira reaches under the table and pulls out a set of models, putting a six-inch stone keep in the center of the table. “Catch.” One by one she tosses painted wooden models of dragons at the group, keeping one for herself. “Pretend the other riders don’t exist, and we’re the only squad available to take back that keep. Think of the power in this room. Think of what each individual rider brings to the table and how you’d use those powers in unison to conquer your objective.”

“But they don’t teach that to first-years,” Liam says slowly from beside Violet, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of her hand.

Mira glances at the whirls of magic on his wrist, but to Liam’s credit, he doesn’t tug his sleeve down. It’s hard for Genevieve to remember that their third-years are the first riders who will serve with the children of the leaders of the Tyrrish Uprising—an uprising that could have left borders defenseless. Everyone in the room has become accustomed to Liam, Imogen, Genevieve… even Xaden. But those in active service have never flown with anyone marked by a rebellion relic.

Mira’s glare is hard, but it’s interrupted by Violet clearing her throat and shooting a look at her older sister. Her eyes widen ever so slightly at the clear warning on Violet’s face to back off, and she directs her attention back to Liam.

“They might not teach you this battle strategy as first-years because you’re all too busy trying to stay on your dragons. You had your first taste of strategy during Squad Battle, and we are approaching May, which means War Games start soon, right?”

“Two weeks,” Dain answers.

“Good timing then. You’ll need all the experience you get if you’re planning on surviving.” She holds Violet haze for half a breath. “This kind of thinking will give your whole wing an advantage, since I guarantee your wingleader is already assessing every rider for their own abilities.”

Xaden flips his dragon model in his hands but remains silent. He hasn’t spoken a single word to Mira since he’s arrived.

“So let’s do this. Who’s in command?” She glances around the table. “And let’s pretend I don’t have three years of seniority over even the highest ranked of you.”

“Then I’m in command,” Dain answers confidently, straightening his back as if an improved posture gives the illusion of power.

“Our wingleader is here,” Liam argues, pointing at Xaden. “I’d say that puts him in command.”

“We can pretend I’m not here, for the sake of the exercise,” Xaden sets his model dragon on the table and leans back in his chair, draping his arm across the back of Genevieve's, eliciting a glare from Mira. “Give Aetos here the position we all know he craves.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Genevieve whispers, nudging him.

“You have even seen me start to be a dick.”

Genevieve freezes, her head immediately swiveling to face him. That was his voice… in her head.

He turns, the golden flecks dancing in his eyes. She can hear him laughing in her mind, his lips tilted up into a small smirk.

“You’re staring. It’s going to get awkward in about 30 seconds if you don’t stop.”

Her gaze snaps forward.

“How?” She hisses.

“The same way you talk to Sgaeyl and I talk to Tairn. We both knew we could feel something in each other's mind, I just had to test if we could actually talk. Though I’m starting to wish I tried it sooner, the look on your face is priceless.” He winks and turns back to the table.

“You’re the wingleader.” Every word out of Dain’s mouth is agonizing, spoken through gritted teeth.

“I’m not even supposed to be here,” Xaden shrugs. “But if it makes you feel better, for the purpose of war games, you’d be getting your orders from your section leader, Garrick Tavis, which he’d get from me. You’ll be carrying out your maneuvers as a squad for the good of the wing. Just pretend I’m another member of your squad and use me as you wish, Aetos.” Xaden folds his arms over his chest.

“So what have you heard through this… extension of our dragons’ bond?” she whispered harshly.

“Why are you even here?” Dain challenges. “No offense, sir, but we weren’t exactly expecting senior leadership on this trip.”

“You’re more than aware that Sgaeyl and Tairn are mated.”

“Three days!?” Dain fires back, leaning in. “You couldn’t make it three days?”

“Lay off it, Aetos,” Genevieve barks. “Just because you can’t keep Violet underneath your thumb anymore doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me. Or Xaden. It has nothing to do with him, that’s up to Tairn and Sgaeyl.”

“I’ve heard just how much you miss me when I’m gone,” Xaden says, his timing impeccable.

“Of course you rush to defend him.” Dain hurls a glare at Genevieve. “I know I’m not wrong when I say that General Sorrengail gave you orders to watch him and report suspicious activity, not fall in love with him.”

“How do you know about that!?” Genevieve’s mind is reeling. She only told Xaden about her mission, maybe she mentioned once to Violet in passing. Oh my gods, Violet! Genevieve’s eyes could cut through metal as she stared so hard at the silver-haired girl, that Violet could swear she was looking right at her soul.

“Great job remaining professional, Aetos.” Xaden scratches the relic on his neck, and Genevieve knows damn well that stupid mark doesn’t itch. “Really shows those leadership qualities to their best advantage.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Genevieve sneers, her fiery gaze not leaving Violet’s, but the words are obviously pointed towards Dain.

One of the riders down the table whistles low. “Do you boys just want to whip it out and measure? It would be faster.”

Liam smothers a laugh, but his shoulders shake.

“Enough!” Mira slams her hand on the table.

“Oh, come on, Sorrengail,” the rider down the table whines with a wide smile. Both Mira and Violet look his way with sharp eyes. “I mean… the older Sorrengail. This is the best entertainment we’ve had in ages.”

Violet shakes her head, and looks around the table. “Mira has the ability to extend the shield if the wards are down, so the first thing I would do is send her to scout the area with Teine. We need to know if we’re dealing with infantry or gryphon riders.”

“Good.” Mira moves her dragons closer to the castle. “Now let’s assume that there are gryphons.”

“You want to do your job?” Genevieve says, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face. “I mean, how you can forget you’re the squad leader is beyond me.”

His hands clenched around the dragon he holds as he rips his gaze from Genevieve. “Quinn, can you astral project from the back of your dragon?”

“Yes,” She answers.

“Then I would have you project into the fortress to check for signs of weakness,” Dain orders. “And then have you report back. Same with Liam. We’d use your farsightedness to see if you can locate where the gryphon riders are and if there are any traps.”

“Good. The weaknesses are the wooden gate,” Mira notes as Quinn and Liam move their dragons into position, “And the Navarrian citizens they have captive in the dungeons.”

“So much for blasting the whole place,” Ridoc says.

“You’re an air welder, right?” Dain asks Emery. “So you can shape your dragon’s flames, lead them through the occupied parts of the keep without killing civilians.”

“Yes,” Emery answers. “But I’d have to be in the keep.”

“Then we’ll get you into the keep.” Genevieve says firmly. “My signet works the best when I’m on the ground-”

Dain cuts her off.

“You want him to go in on foot and leave his dragon?”

“Why do you think we get all that hand-to-hand training? Or are you going to leave all those innocent people to die?” Mira flicks her wrist and Emery's dragon goes flying out of his hand and into hers. She puts it in the center of the keep. “The real question is, how do you get close enough without getting you killed, since I’m guessing the others will be busy fighting off the gryphons that launch once the fireworks start.”

Genevieve sits back, rolling her eyes.

“What’s your signet, Aetos?” Quinn asks.

“Above your pay grade,” Dain answers, glancing around the table and skipping over Xaden, then making the rounds again, finally sighing. “Any ideas?”

“Sure.” Violet picks up both Genevieve’s and Xaden’s dragons and shoves them toward the keep. The figurines hover above the structure, a testament to Violet’s superior ability to use her lesser magic in the absence of a signet. “You stop ignoring that you have two of the most powerful signets at your disposal, and ask the Shadow Wielder to black out the area so no one sees you land, and send her, a Life Weaver” —Violet’s eyes lock on Genevieve— “to take out the threat from the inside out.”

“She’s not wrong,” Mira agrees, but her words are clipped.

“You can cover all that?” Dain begrudgingly looks at Xaden.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Xaden retorts.

“Just wasn’t sure you could cover an area that—”

Xaden lifts a hand a few inches above the table, and shadows pour from underneath their seats, filling the room and turning dark as midnight in a blink. Genevieve’s heart jumps as her sight goes black, gripping her dagger tighter.

“Relax. It’s just me.” A ghost of a touch skims her cheek. “Want to put some vines up just to scare him?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Genevieve whispers, this is the first real time she’s been in his signet, and holy shit, it’s terrifying.

“Fuck me,” someone says.

“I can surround this entire outpost, but I think that might freak some people out,” Xaden says, and the shadows disappear, racing back under the table. Genevieve takes a deep breath, noting that everyone at the table, beside Emery and Imogen, who have no doubt seen that trick before, are slightly green.

Even Mira, who’s staring down at Xaden like he just took an attempt at her life.

“I hope you didn’t get any idea while we were in the dark there,” Xaden teases, and just like that, whatever fear Genevieve was harboring disappears into the air around her. He laughs, and she grits her teeth.

“Get him out of my head,” She throws at Tairn.

“You’ll get used to it,” He responds, not bothering to give her directions on how to reply.

“Is this normal with all mated pairs and their riders?”

“For some. It’s a great advantage in battle.”

“Well, it’s a pain in my ass right now.” She internally groans. Right now, she misses when he was far away and not in her head, listening to her every thought and concern. She thinks a lot, and it's nauseating to think he was listening to everything.

“Then shield him out the same way you do me—or start talking back,” Tairn grumbles. “You have the power to be a pain in the ass, too. You already are one to me.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to talk back at him?” She gives Xaden a heavy dose of side-eye, but he’s engrossed in the ongoing battle they’ve waged against an imaginary keep.

“Figure out which pathway into your mind is his. You only have two, narrow down which one is mine and which one is his.”

Oh joy. That should be easy.

The hypothetical operations are concluded, each of them using their powers to the best of their abilities, everyone except Violet. But when it’s time to take out the gryphons in air, Violet knows that she and Astrape trump everyone except Genevieve and Tairn.

“Good job,” Mira says, glancing at her pocket watch. “Aetos, Riorson, and Sorrengail, I want to see you in the hallway. The rest of you are dismissed.”

The rest of the squad rises, chairs scraping the stone floor as they file out of the room. Genevieve stays seated for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she watches Xaden, Dain, and Violet file out of the door behind Mira.

“Come on, Genevieve.” Liam’s voice snaps her out of her reverie, and she looks up to see him standing behind her, an easy smile on his face. “Let’s get out of here.”

Genevieve stands, brushing her hands on her pants. “Yeah, I’m coming.” But as she walks out the room, and brushes past Xaden, he gives her arm a light squeeze.

He tries to be reassuring, but there is too much on her mind. Too many things that apparently, he can hear too.

——————————————-

“There’s a drift of gryphons headed this way!” Tairn bellows, not even minutes after she’s gotten back to her triple dorm in Montserrat. It’s evident that the other riders have gotten the alert too, because as Genevieve runs back to the battle plan room, the others are there too.

“You have to go!” Mira says to Violet, pulling her into a hug.

“We can help!” Violet argues, but she’s being held so tight.

“You can’t. And if Astrape is using her power to keep you seated, then she’s diminished as well. You have to go. Get out of here. If you love me, Violet, you’ll go so I don’t have to worry about you, too.” She releases her, looking to Xaden as the squad pours out of the door above, thundering by as they run down the steps. “Get them out of here!”

”Let’s go!” Dain shouts. “Now!”

“Lieutenant Sorrengail,” Xaden addresses firmly, practically snarling at Mira. “Even if you don’t trust me, I’m the best weapon you have,”

“If what you say is true, then you’re also the best weapon Genevieve has, and gods only know what Genevieve might do if Violet gets hurt. As much as I don’t trust either of you, you’ve kept her alive this far and you need to keep her alive now. The other half of the squad will be here in moments, we have time. Go.” Mira’s eyes shift to Genevieve. “Violet will follow you if you go.”

Xaden grumbles, grabbing Genevieve by the wrist and motioning for Liam to do the same to Violet. He’s practically tossed her up on his shoulder, as Violet struggles against his grip.

“No!” She fights, but there’s no point, Liam outmatches her by so much. “Mira! What if you get hurt? Astrape’s speed could be the only thing that saves you. Tairn’s speed could save you! At least let us stay!”

She looks over her shoulder at the doorway, but there’s steel in her expression. “You want me to trust you, Hale? Get her the fuck out of here and find a way for her to keep her seat. We both know she’s dead if she doesn’t.”

“Mira!” She screams, clawing at Liam’s arms, but he’s already halfway down the stairs with an arm clamped around her waist as if she weighs less than the swords on his backs. “I love you!”

“Liam, let us go grab our packs. She can’t run while I watch.” Genevieve says, following quickly in step behind Xaden’s long strides. It takes only minutes for Genevieve and Violet to grab their bags and Rhiannon’s since they’ve never unpacked, cramming their cloaks into the empty space. Once they return to the hallway, Xaden and Liam are there waiting, and their packs are suspiciously empty.

Genevieve doesn’t even want to think about what they’re leaving behind in order to get them out safely.

Violet doesn’t even bother looking at them, marching for the door, but Genevieve grabs her elbow and spins her around. “Nope. We can’t leave the fortress walls. We’re going up.” Liam grabs her waist and all but hauls her to the nearest turret. “We’re climbing.”

“This is bullshit!” Violet yells at Genevieve, uncaring that the other members of the squad also climbing the turret can hear. “Astrape could help them!”

“Violet, your sister is right. You have to make it out, so we’re going. Please just climb.”

“Dain,” Violet says, realizing he’s right in front of them.

He turns around and takes Rhiannon’s pack, slinging it over his own. “I don’t like Genevieve all that much, but she’s right. It’s not just you we have to get out, Violet. Think of every other first-year.” The plea in his eyes shuts Violet’s mouth. “Are you going to sentence an entire untrained squad to death? Because I’ll make it. Dianna, Emery, and Heaton will, too. And we all fucking know Riorson will. But what about Rhiannon? Ridoc? Sawyer? Genevieve? Do you want her death on your hands?” He asks, his words choppy as they race to the open door.

They burst onto the roof as Emery mounts his dragon, who is precariously perched on the thinner-than-quadrant wall. Violet pales, and Genevieve knows that she will never be able to mount Astrape at this angle.

“Ridoc and Quinn are already in the air,” Liam tells them as Emery launches skyward, where Cath, Astrape, and Deigh hover, their winds beating the air.

“Violet can’t mount at this angle!” Genevieve whispers harshly to Liam. “Get her up on that dragon!”

He nods, pulling Violet in towards her, his hand cupping his head as he gives her a quick kiss, before lifting her up for Astrape to grab. She’s fighting the whole way up. The rest of the squad is in the air and safe. Genevieve can fight. But they won’t let her.

Liam goes to mount next, crumbling the masonry with the force of Deigh’s landing, and Liam takes off down the narrow walkway toward the large Red Daggertail.

“You next, Aetos,” Xaden barks, and Dain flicks his eyes to Geneveive.

“Gene-” He starts to argue.

“That’s an order.” There’s no room for argument here in that tone, and Geneveive knows it, especially when Cath takes Deigh’s place on the wall. Dain looks like he might fight, but ultimately he nods, turning to Xaden.

“Get Genevieve in the air as soon as Tairn arrives.” He says firmly.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Xaden says, his words firm. “Now get on your dragons so I can get her on hers.”

Immediately, he turns and runs up Cath’s leg, mounting so easily that Genevieve is almost jealous.

“Where are you?” Genevieve calls out to Tairn, seeing the empty skies above her.

“Almost there. I was doing what could be done.”

“Let me stay and fight,” Genevieve says to Xaden, desperation evident in her every word.

Xaden turns sharply at her words, his eyes dark and stormy, stepping closer until Genevieve can feel the heat radiating from him. “You can’t stay,” he growls, his voice thick with frustration and something deeper— something raw that he’s been holding back.

“I’m not running away,” She snaps, her fists clenched tight at her sides, fighting against the pull in her chest, the one that keeps dragging her back to him.

“Damn it, Gen!” He grabs her shoulders, the force of his grip sending a jolt through her. His face is so close now that she can see the tension in his jaw, a battle raging in his eyes. “If you stay, you might die. And I can’t—” He cuts himself off, the unspoken words hanging between them.

Genevieve freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She’s fought her entire life. Fought for survival, for vengeance, for a reason to keep going. But this—this feeling tearing through her, the one he’s igniting—it’s different. She’s never let herself feel it before. It’s terrifying.

“I’m not leaving you,” she whispers, the words slipping out unbidden, her voice breaking with emotions she can barely hold back.

Xaden’s expression shifts, the anger in his eyes softening for just a moment, replaced by something fierce, something vulnerable. He steps closer, and before she can say anything else, his lips crash against hers, hard and desperate. The kiss is searing, full of everything he’s never said, everything they’ve both been holding back. It’s a demand, a plea, and a promise all at once.

Genevieve’s hands fly to his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as she kisses him back with the same intensity, her heart pounding wildly. She can feel the tension in his body, the barely controlled restraint in the way he pulls her closer, as if he’s afraid to let her go. Her entire world narrows to this moment, to the feel of him, the taste of him, the way he’s pouring every emotion into this one kiss.

It’s like he’s trying to memorize her, to burn the memory of her into his soul. And she feels it too—that same desperate need to stay with him, to fight beside him, no matter the danger.

But even through the heat of the kiss, there’s something else. Something that trembles beneath the passion: fear. Not just hers—his. She can feel it in the way he holds her so tightly, in the way his breath hitches as he pulls away, just barely, their foreheads still pressed together. His hands remains on her, fingers digging into her shoulders like he’s fighting himself, fighting the urge to tell her to stay.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, so quiet she almost doesn't hear it over the rush of wind and the distant roar of dragons. His forehead is still pressed against hers, his breath coming fast, the admission barely escaping him.

Her heart twists painfully at his words. Xaden—the leader, the warrior, the one who’s always in control—is admitting something she never thought she’d hear. The weight of it crashes into her, and for a moment, all she wants to do is throw caution to the wind and stay. To fight by his side, consequences be damned.

But they both know the truth. If she stays, she’ll only put everyone else at risk. Including him.

His lips brush hers again, softer this time, lingering for a heartbeat longer than before, as if he’s reluctant to let her go. “But you have to,” he whispers, his hands slide down her arms, reluctantly releasing her, but not before he presses one last kiss against her forehead.

Genevieve bites her lip, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. She hates it—hates that she has to leave him behind. But she knows, deep down, that if she doesn’t go, she’ll only make things worse.

Tairn’s presence thundered into her mind, a surge of power. “I’m here,” the dragon rumbles, his wings beating the air as he descends towards them.

Xaden steps back, his jaw clenched, watching her with an intensity that makes her chest ache. “Go,” he says, his voice hoarse, filled with an emotion he won’t let himself fully show.

With one last, longing look, Genevieve turns and runs toward Tairn, her heart breaking with every step. As she vaults onto the dragon’s back, she glances over her shoulder, locking eyes with Xaden one final time.

She doesn’t need words to know what he’s thinking—what he’s feeling. It’s written all over his face, in the way his hands are still clenched at his sides, in the way he watches her as though he’s afraid this will be the last time, even though they both know he will survive.

And as Tairn takes to the skies, lifting her higher and higher into the air, Genevieve swears she can still feel the imprint of his lips on hers, the weight of his unspoken words settling deep in her chest.

She doesn’t want to leave him. But she has to survive—for both of them.

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

Hey everyone! whats up? I'm unbelievably excited for the next chapter-omg. This chapter was chill, but I don't think it was particularly empty, you know?

i actually am very excited for chapters like 23, 24, 25 to be published because thats when more about quinn and genevieve's backstory gets revealed and its been so much fun to write.

also i have an extreme obession with kit connor in romeo + juliet, truly the only man i've ever been attracted to (thats a blatant lie-sorry to my ex boyfriends if you ever read this)

anyways, thats it! let me know if you liked it, and if you did leave a like, comment or kudo! see you all on saturday!

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taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix

#violet sorrengail #fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #liam mairi #xaden and sgaeyl #xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #garrick tavis x reader #the empyrean #the wounded healer

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casuallivi · 2 months ago

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Continuation to II. Brown Eyes (check part I for warnings)

III. A Trespasser

In the open backyard behind The Winged Fairy stood a woman completing a wire with freshly washed clothes. The last line was filled essencialy with white undergarments, all the ones before displaying an array of colorful dresses and skirts filling the wires with vivid patterns and colors. Beyond the clothes, cream sheets and bedding swayed gently under the upcoming summer breeze, peppering the air with a fresh floral scent.

Built with dark and sturdy fireoak, The Winged Fairy stood proudly in an open field only twelve miles away from the great port city o Valosa, Day Court's biggest exporter of sardine. Golden ribbons of mid-day sunlight caught the timber frame illuminating the two store inn that most of the time seemed to be a black dot on the greenery.

Humming a quiet tune, Elain wrung the last tiny pink dress, making sure to secure it with two clothespin before drying her hands in the apron fastened around her waist. Her faded brown dress was much darker on the front from manipulating wet clothes, a quiet relieve for her flushed skin. A flock of birds chirped loudly while crossing the sky, and she shaded her to look at them, smiling expectantly at the strong rays of sun finally peeking out from behind the dispersing rain clouds.

Her eyes dipped to the inn standing tall and silent to her right, hungry for new patrons to filled the inside. She couldn't wait to get back to work. Adriata would soon start the preparations for Summer Solstice, and Elain was excited with the prospect of receiving a good flux of passersby from the port cities and villages on their way to either work in or enjoy the splendid celebration.

Maybe even we can watch it, a dangerous spark whispered inside of her.

Elain looked at the two little girls playing a couple feet from her, running after each other with wood sticks, wind swaying errant black curls that had escape from their braids. She imagine how happy her daughters would be attending the festival, how they would love to chose new vibrant fabric to transform into dresses and matching shoes, how their starry eyes would shine at the sight of acrobats, and the fireworks, and the different types of foods and faes. Elain laughed at herself.

I took thirty years of carefully curreted routine and undisturbed borders for her to trust herself and sunny to venture further than the outskirts of the village and visite the nearest town. There was no way she would suddenly grow courageous enough to visit another Court just to peek at their celebration, let alone expose her daughter to the dangers of it.

No. Elain would do much beter staying where she was safe. Protected. Where the villagers no longer pegged her magic for odd, questioning her behaviours, her lack of pointy ears or her daughters who never aged no matter how many years passed. Twins little girs who nature had sent to her when Elain needed the most and insisted in staying perfectly frozen in the age of 5, kindred spirits abuse by former fosters who found theirs souls in need of a mother just as Elain found herself in need of children. Besides, she liked her village. Felt like she belonged now. No different than any other fae neighbouring her borders.

"Mornin'."

An involuntary curse left her lips at the sudden greeting, an unfamiliar male stading close.

"You scared me," she said softly.

"Noticed."

Elain apraised him from head to toe, cataloging he was two heads taller than her, dark eyes and dark hair cropped close to his skull in a classical military style, a high colar black uniform covering his marble ski, leaving only the hands, head exposed. She took one step behind at the sight of the purple insignia of Night Court shinning on the right side of his chest. A Night Court soldier had never crossed her protective borders without her knowledge and consent before. No one did.

No one was supossed to.

“Can I help you?”

"I'm looking for the owner." He jerked his chin towards the inn.

"You found her."

She collected the empty laundry basket at her feet, giving herself time to recover and not appear nervous. The male paused, absently stroking the pummel of the sword strapped to his side. Now he was the one appraising her.

"I guess you'll have to do, then." He shrugged at last. “I searching for a male. Illyrian."

Her blood chilled, but Elain pretended all was well as she plastered a regretful expression, clapping her hands together.

"Oh dear, was your friend supossed to meet you here? I'm sorry, but I don't have any patrons at the moment. He must have continued on the Eros road straight to the village."

The male ran his tongue across his teeth before spitting on the space between them.

"The blood traitor is no friend of mine." He bluntly eyed the open space around them, his attention lingering on the small barn on their far left. He cocked his head to the side. “What’s in there?

“The usual.”

“The usual?” The male eyed her with suspicious. “And what is the usual?”

Elain shrugged.

“It's a barn. You'll see horses, chickens, goats, storage crops. The usual.”

"Mind if I check?"

He didn't wait for a response, sidestepping Elain and walking in direction of the barn. She hurried after him, his ridiculously long stride making her jog.

"Excuse me, what are you doing?"

"The male I'm looking for was gravely injured. If he is any clever at all, he'll be laying dead somewhere and all I'll have to do is drag his disgracefull body back. If he is dumb enough to have tried and staying alive a place with the usual would be as good hidding as any." He stopped in front of the door. “You don’t mind if I take a look, do you?”

Elain didn't even had time to protest before he was kicked the door out of the hinges. She covered her eyes as plywood flew everywhere, exploding under the strengh of his boot.

"Godess. You are not aloud to do this!" She yelled at him.

"Says who?" he questioned already inside, kicking the mounts of hay out of the way.

"Says me! The owner!"

He paied her no mind, continuing his check out, lazily checking all the 6 bays. Sunny whined as the male passed by him, standing on his back legs. The soldier stopped, inhaling hard.

"Whose horse is this?"

"Mine. I wouldn't stand to close if I was you. Sunny doesn't like males." The urgency in her voice had nothing to do with him the barn. Elain knew he would not find anything here.

It had been a while since she last strengthened her protective borders, which would justify this male trespassing then without a single warning. The hidden room in the second floor of The Winged Fairy was a different story. For almost a month now Elain had been casting the concealing spells which vanish the room from any wondering eyes, the meticulously painted scarlet sigils covering every inch of the door frames making sure the occupant could not be found.

“Do you have permission to be here? Our day court High Lord isn’t lenient with trespassers.”

The soldier ignores her.

“I want to see yours papers.” She demands.

The soldier ignores her, continuing to check every nook and cranny until he's left unsatisfied for finding nothing. Not a body. Not a speck of blood. Not a scent to be tracked. There's nothing there. Finally he turns to Elain, his gaze fixing beyond her, on the outside of the barn.

"Yours?"

She looks back to see Nuala and Cerridwen lingering near the broken door frame, their curious eyes darting between Elain and the stranger. She swallows.

"Yes."

"Twins. How rare."

The male makes his way back to the entrance, Elain rushing in front of him to take both girls in her arms, stepping aside to stay as far from him as possible.

"I want to see you papers." She repeats firmly, all politeness gone.

“Just you and the father, then?”

"Just us. No father." She corrects. "Papers."

“A female running an inn by herself. How odd."

Elain watch as his eyes roam the length of her body, the foul smell of evil intent burning her nostril. He steps closer to her and she steps back. The male scoffs, reaching inside his breast pocket to pull an array of carelessly folded papers, the pristine insignia of the Day High Lord shining brightly in gold in some of them. Lord Helion had permitted this particular bastard’s entrance in his lands himself.

He throws the papers at her feet.

“Relax, little sheep. Your High Lord and mine have a mutual agreement. I have permission to search the land, and that includes your shabby inn, so go ahead and stay out of my way as I do it, unless you want to see how sharp this end is.” He tapped his sword.

With the girls weighting heavily but secure in her arms, Elain stood still watching the male march to the backdoor of the inn. She caged her fear in a tight ball and hide well in the confines of her chest. Her sigils will hold just fine, she told herself.

They had too.

#elriel #elriel fanfic #elriel fanfiction #elain archeron #elain #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #elain x azriel #my writing #sunshine brown eyes and a trespasser

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elaratyrell · 2 years ago

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Misery {Annie Wilkes! Aemond Targaryen x Author! Reader}

*All images found on Pinterest*

Warnings: Dark! Aemond, stalking, language, mentions of murder Smut- oral (fem receiving), fingering (fem receiving), female orgasm

*Divider from Firefly Graphics*

Synopsis: You find yourself near death after being the victim of a car accident in a snow storm while working on the latest instalment in your bestselling Misery series. The man who found you, your self declared number one fan, seems innocent enough, but his dark past, and even darker intentions, soon become clear

With a sigh of slight relief, you placed the final page on top of the pile beside you, tying a rubber band around it and placing it in a blue leather case.

Another book finished to hopefully join the others on the bestsellers list.

You had written twelve other books, to be exact, and had now finished your first completed draft for the thirteenth.

The cursed number.

The unlucky number.

The number of misfortune.

But for you it was a blessing.

For years you had dedicated your life to the running series of books centred around a character called Misery. You'd published your first book at eighteen, becoming the new face of the romance genre. And as you had grown up, your books had matured as well, becoming darker, bordering on the thriller genre as well as still centering on the romantic aspect. It was a bold move, but seemed to pay off, as it had made you even more popular than before.

Yet, after dedicating your life to one character for an entire decade now, you knew you had to move on, take another path in a new series you were going to write. You knew some of your fans would be disappointed that this would be the last entry in the Misery series, but it had to be done.

It felt like a relief to you, that you could finally move on with your life. And you felt as though it were almost a weight being lifted off your shoulders as finished your usual celebration of a single cigarette and champagne. You rose to your feet to take the manuscript to your car with the rest of your belongings, departing from a small log cabin called Winterfell Lodge you always rented out when working on your latest novel. It was always calming to get some time away from the chaos of the city.

You pulled your coat around you tighter, the snow flurry thickening around you as you loaded your bags into the trunk of your car. Usually, you wouldn't drive in weather like this, especially as it seemed as though a snow storm was fast approaching, but you needed to get back to the city as fast as possible.

Quickly shooting your agent a message to let you know you had finished the initial draft and were on your way to get back to the city, you started the car and drove away from Winterfell Lodge.

You squinted slightly as the snowfall grew thicker still, trying to see the curve in the road as the wipers speed couldn't keep up with the snow that was now covering the road. You slowed your speed, maintaining control of your car, humming along to the song playing on the radio.

Maybe you should have waited for tomorrow.

It was already late in the afternoon, and the clouds darkened the sky.

You turned on your car's headlights, a small sign reading 'Curved road, next thirteen miles'.

You hit the curve no problem, turning the wheel with perfect control, keeping a steady speed as you continued turning the wheel, but suddenly one of the wheels skidded, followed by another as the car span erratically out of control.

And all you remembered was the car spinning of the road, followed by it slamming into a tree, doing a one hundred and eighty degree flip, landing on it's hood.

And then as you fell into the darkness, you heard the harsh sound of the radio static and the howling winds, and felt the blood trickling down the side of your face.

Followed by nothing. Only darkness.

When you awoke, you felt numb.

You skin was paler, and clammy with a feverish sweat that sent a slight tremble through you. You couldn't lift any of your limbs. They felt weighted down. You didn't even want to try and lift your head.

"You're awake."

The voice was male. It sounded calm, well spoken. Soothing, almost.

Approaching footsteps to your bedside soon brought the owner of the voice into your vision.

He looked around your age, maybe two or three years younger, around twenty five or six, perhaps. He had long silver hair tied half up, a strong jaw and a tall, well defined figure. One of his eyes was a vivid blue, like a sapphire, the other a cloudy white, a long scar running from his brow down to his cheek. Resting on the bridge of his nose was a pair of black rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a dark blue sweater, the white collar of his shirt peaking up above its neckline, and a pair of black trousers.

Your saviour was very handsome, indeed.

"W-where... where a-am-"

"Shush," He interrupted you, placing the back of his cool hand against your forehead, frowning slightly at the heat radiating on your skin from the fever. "We're just between Storm's End and Winterfell. You've been here two days. I was concerned that you were not going to pull through. I'm thankful to say that I think you will recover. You'll be okay. Thank the gods you'll be okay." He shot you a slightly relieved smile. "Oh, how foolish of me. My name is Aemond Targaryen, and I'm your-"

"Number one fan?" You murmured, your eyes fluttering closed from a split second before opening again to see him shooting you a rather bashful smile, his cheeks dusted with pink.

"That- that's right," He murmured. "I-I am also a doctor, fortunately enough." He added, gesturing to where you were connected to a drip before outstretching his hand and opening his palm to reveal two pills. "You need to take these for the pain," He said softly, lifting your head slightly to bring the pills to your lips and swallow them, his fingertips lingering slightly against your lips.

Aemond propped up the pillows slightly, resting your head back down. Giving you a better view of your room, you noted you appeared to be in a rather old cottage or farmhouse. Your room was rather charming; wood panelled walls, a large fireplace opposite the bed. From the window, you saw a view of the mountains.

"Shouldn't I be in hospital?" You mumbled.

"The blizzard was too strong. I didn't want to risk trying to get you there. I couldn't even call, the phone lines are down and I don't own a mobile, I'm afraid. I doubt you could even get signal out here with the weather like this."

"Thank you for saving me," You murmured, you eyes aching with fatigue.

"You are more than welcome. Now, you should get some rest. You nearly lost your life." He replied, stepping back. "I'll be back to check on your when your meds run out," Was the last thing he said before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.

Your fever past after a few days in Aemond's care, but you were still incredibly weak. But Aemond promised you that things would get better.

"It's not going to hurt forever, I promise you."

"Will I be able to walk?" You asked.

"Of course. And your arm will be fine, too. Your shoulder was rather badly dislocated, but I managed to pop it back in there. But I must say, I am rather proud of what I managed to do with your legs, especially considering what I had around the house. In fact I don't think there's a doctor in the whole of Westeros that could do a better job."

And with a flourish of blankets, he made your legs visible to you for the first time.

From the knees down, you believed you resembled a mummy. Steel rods that seemed to be remains of aluminium crutches were used as splints with taping circled around them. From the knees up, your thighs were swollen and horribly bruised.

Upon seeing your slightly horrified expression, Aemond hastily added. "It is not nearly as bad as it looks considering the severity of your injuries. You have a compound fracture of the tibia in both legs, and the fibula in the left leg is fractured too. I could hear the bones moving, so it's best for your legs to remain immobile. And as soon as the roads open, I'll take you to a hospital. In the meantime, you've got a lot of recovering to do, and I consider it an honour that you'll do it in my home." He gave you a kind smile, once again leaving you to get some more rest until he had to administer your next round of painkillers.

And soon enough Aemond's visits to your room became more frequent and for longer periods of time. He didn't just stay to gave you your meds, but also to reassure you that the sweeling to your cheek would go down, and how you were still beautiful, and how much he adored your books.

"It was quite a miracle that you found me," You said one evening after Aemond had fed you your dinner. He let out a small, slightly nervous chuckle in response, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Actually, it wasn't a miracle at all. I... as I... in a way... I was following you."

"Fo-following me?" You stammered out.

"Well it isn't exactly a secret that you were staying at Winterfell Lodge, you know, considering that I am your number one fan, but some nights I found myself driving there, sitting outside and just looking at the light in your cabin, knowing you were most likely creating another Misery masterpiece. I'd try to imagine what the world's greatest writer was creating." He replied, his voice light and airy, as though it was the most simple explanation.

"Can you say that last part again? I didn't quite hear..." You murmured, trying to brush off the fact he practically stalked you. Aemond just shot you a small smile in response.

"The world's greatest writer." He repeated before continuing. "Anyway, the other afternoon, when I was on my way home, there you were leaving the lodge. I must say I was curious as to why an intelligent woman such as yourself would go for a drive with a storm such as that approaching."

"I... didn't know there was going to be a storm like that..."

"Well, luckily I did," He replied. "And, it was lucky for me too. Because you're alive, and now you can write more incredible books. I've read absolutely everything you've written. I enjoyed your three standalone novels at the start of your career immensely, but the Misery series... I must say that they are my absolute favourite. I-I know them all by heart, all twelve of them. I love them, they helped me through my darkest times... through any obstacle I've faced in my life, I've managed to find solace with Misery.

You couldn't helped but feel touched by the way he spoke so fondly of your work, how he constantly sang your praises whenever he got the chance. The man was socially awkward it seemed, and perhaps rather shy at times, but he was still surprisingly charming.

"You're too kind..."

"And you're too brilliant," He replied. "You must be to create such a wonderful character like Misery." As he spoke, he traced a finger down your cheek. The swelling was gone, and the bruise was fading. He cleared his throat, hastily pulling his hand away and rising to your feet. "I'll um... just wash these dishes up." He said, seeming rather embarrassed all of a sudden. "I'm sure the road will be open soon, which means the phone lines will be back up in no time. But until they are, I'll kept trying so you can phone your agent."

He stopped when he reached the doorway, turning away from you, his hand hovering over the door knob.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Oh goodness no. I-I was just wondering if I could ask you a favour."

"I'm sure it's the least I could do after you've shown me such kindness." You replied, mustering a small smile that made his expression brighten.

"It's just that I noticed in your case there was a new manuscript..." He trailed off, hesitating slightly.

"You want to read it?"

"If it's not too much trouble. I do not mean to intrude."

"I usually only let three people read my new work this early," You replied, making his smile drop slightly. "And that's my editor, my agent... and the person who was kind enough to save me from dying in a car wreck."

"I... thank you," Aemond smiled. "You have no clue as to the gift you've given me and the gratitude I feel to you."

You shot him a smile, but that soon changed into a grimace as you winced from the pain.

Aemond glanced at his watch, hastily placing your empty plate on the bedside table before reaching into his pocket for the painkillers.

"It's like clockwork, the way your pain returns," He murmured, pressing a glass of water to your lips to help you swallow the pills. "The pain will subside soon. It will be okay," He sighed, placing his hand over yours as your expression twisted in discomfort.

"What's the title of your newly finished book?" He asked, trying to take your mind away from the pain.

"I'm not sure yet," You murmured. "I usually come up with the title after the final draft is finished. Perhaps after you read it, you'll have an idea or two."

Aemond's expression brightened again. "I will do my best not to let you down."

Days past, and soon enough Aemond could move you from the bed to a wheelchair. Your arm was healing nicely, as were your legs, despite there still being some time until the latter were properly healed. Aemond never failed to update your over his progress of the manuscript.

"I read chapter one, it was one of your best introductions to a Misery novel I have ever read..."

"Page twenty, I've reached. It's incredible how you can engage with the reader so quickly in the novel..."

"Page thirty, I had to force myself to put it down..."

It wasn't until one day when he came in with your lunch that something seemed a little... off, about Aemond.

"I know I'm only forty pages into the book..." He began in his usual tone. "But... oh I cannot criticise someone like you-"

"It's fine," You replied. "I can take it. Believe me, if I can deal with the critics, I'm sure I can handle whatever my number one fan has to say."

Aemond softly exhaled, keeping his gaze fixed on where he was cutting up your lunch. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"It is brilliantly written," Aemond admitted. "Although everything you write is brilliant. But... the swearing..."

You raised an eyebrow.

"The... swearing...?"

"Yes, the swearing. There, I said it!"

"It bothers you?"

"It is inappropriate. It has no nobility," He protested, sawing through the food on your plate.

"It is appropriate for the setting and background of the character speaking-"

Aemond stilled, his hands stopping from cutting your food for you. His head lifted to meet your gaze, his expression uncharacteristically cold.

"No. It isn't," He replied firmly, resuming to cutting your food, his gaze still focused on you. "What do you think people say when they go into the grocery shop in town. Give me a carton of those effing eggs and five slices of that bitchly roast chicken?"

You couldn't help but smile at his refrain from using the profanities, but it faltered as the cutting becoming more and more erratic.

"...And in the bank, do I tell Mr Lannister, here's one big bastard of a cheque, give me some of your darn money?"

You let out a nervous chuckle at his rants, but soon enough your ears were greeted by the grating sound of metal against china. He looked down, slamming the plate down on bedside table.

"There! See? Now see what you have made me do! These were my mother's plates! What she left me when she passed! And now, it's all scratched!"

His chest heaved as he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. When they reopened, his good eye was full of shame and embarrassment.

"Oh... I'm so sorry... sometimes I can get so worked up I... oh, can you ever forgive me? Here..." He pressed your pills to your lips before picking up the plate, shooting you a rather overly sweet smile.

"I hope you can forgive me. Oh, Y/N... how I adore you. I mean... your mind. Your creativity... that is all I meant."

Several days passed, and Aemond's previous disposition had returned. He didn't lecture you over the choice of language used in the book, but still seemed disapproving nonetheless. He still cooked and fed you your meals, brushed your teeth, gave you your pills, praised you every waking moment he was with you. The phones were still apparently out, but he had assured you it was only a matter of time before they were up and running again. He had even managed to convince you to autograph his limited edition copy of your first Misery novel, promising to cherish it for the rest of his days.

He still gave you regular updates on reading your manuscript. At page 185, he expressed his sadness at being over halfway through. At page 300, he branded it better than perfect, that it was divine. He said it was more beautiful than any tapestry adorning the Red Keep. He had then introduced you to his pet snake, Vhagar, and his cat called... Misery.

And you had found out more about him.

How he had graduated top of his class from medical school, and how his peers and his family were constantly consumed with jealousy from his success. How they would attempt to belittle and mock him for his eye, and how in his lowest moment, his fiancée, Alys, had left him, but you had saved him with releasing your newest Misery novel some weeks later.

He had told you about the neglect from his father, his older brother's alcoholism and his mother's untimely death. He stiffened when he mentioned his eye, but you quickly changed the conversation and didn't bring it up again, not wanting to upset him by bringing up possible past trauma. And you had listened to him, consoled him over the misfortunes of his past, and he had expressed his gratitude in return.

And then he had left you to rest while he returned to finish the manuscript, which he had entitled Misery's Child.

The slam of your bedroom door awoke you from your doze, your eyes fluttering open to reveal Aemond staring down at you, his face ashen and jaw clenched.

He must have finished the book, it seemed.

"You... she cannot be dead," He murmured. "Misery cannot be dead!" He then exclaimed, voice rising. "How... how could you do this to me?"

"Women in that age... it was tragically common for them to die in childbirth, Aemond. I'm sure you know that. But you know, she will still be alive in... in spirit..."

"I do not want her spirit! I WANT HER! AND YOU MURDERED HER!" He yelled.

"I... I didn't kill her..."

"THEN WHO DID?"

"Nobody she... she passed away and..."

"She passed awa- she passed away?! No, Y/N, you did it. You killed her. You murdered my Misery."

He picked up the chair by your beside where he usually sat with you with ease despite it's weight, rising it in the air as if to strike it down on you before turning and throwing it against the wall. It shattered immediately upon impact, breaking into pieces on the floor.

"I... I thought you were good," He murmured, tone suddenly soft. "But you're not good. You're just a dirty, untrustworthy woman. I don't... I don't think I should be near you for a while..."

He walked to the door, and stopped to turn back to you.

"And don't even think about anybody coming for you. Not the doctors, your agent, your editor... I won't call them. I haven't called them and I never will. Nobody knows you're even here. And you better hope nothing ever happens to me... because if it does... you'll die."

After the click in the lock of your door, followed by the slamming of the front door and the revving of Aemond's car as it pulls away from the house, you let out the breath you didn't know you had been holding.

You were slightly shaken from Aemond's outburst, but tried to focus on what needed to be done, shifting to the other side of your bed and reaching out with your arm. It had come out of it's sling several days ago, and was now bandaged in a cast. You managed to grasp ahold of the armrest and pull it towards the best, shifting your body closer to the edge of the bed. Your legs screamed in agony as you manoeuvred yourself onto the wheelchair, but you persisted nonetheless, managing to sit down in the chair and wheel yourself towards the door. Reaching into your hair, you pulled out a hairpin Aemond had leant you, pushing it into the keyhole and soon enough hearing a click. Turning the knob, you pulled open the door and wheeled yourself out of the room, looking down the flight of stairs that blocked your way.

Letting out a deep sigh, you gripped the banister with one hand as you slowly steered yourself to the edge of the staircase.

"What have I got to lose?" You murmured, before wheeling the chair down the stairs.

The chair turned on its side as it crashed down the last step, but you managed to hoist yourself up again. You immediately tried grabbing a phone, but it turned out to be fake. You then discovered the windows bolted shut and both of the front and back doors having a second lock at the top, which you couldn't reach due to not being strong enough to stand just yet.

You wheeled yourself back into the living room, looking at the photographs placed on the drawers against the wall. There was Aemond as a young boy standing with his siblings and mother, his eye unharmed. Another showed him graduating medical school, a proud smile on his face. The third was him with his mother. And the fourth... was you.

He truly wasn't lying when he said he was your biggest fan.

Between the two photographs was a crystal dragon ornament, and beneath that was an emerald scrap book. You lifted the ornament carefully and grabbed the book, opened it.

The beginning seemed fairly normal. More photographs of his childhood and teen years. The was a photograph of him at what seemed to be a formal event with a women you only assumed was Alys. She was dressed in dark green, matching Aemond's tie, and you were sure she was very pretty, but you couldn't see her face due to the black ink scribbled over it, almost cutting through the photo. The next page was work related. More photographs and newspaper clippings of his medical success.

But turning the page was a different story entirely.

The first page contained a page of the newspaper, what seemed to be it's headline emblazoned in large capital letters.

'Doctor Aemond Targaryen arrested for the murder of nephew Lucerys Velaryon'

'Doctor Aemond Targaryen was arrested this morning, accused of the murder of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon. Targaryen, 20, pleaded not guilty to the death of Velaryon, 16, under the accusation he had simply acted in self defence after his nephew attacked him with a knife and caused the disfigurement of his left eye'

And it only got worse as you read the following pages.

'Targaryen trial postponed until December 10.'

Accompanying the headlines were photographs of him standing in front of the courthouse with his lawyer, Larys Strong, a stony expression on his face.

'Targaryen declared innocent by jury, claims he was a victim of a malicious attack.'

'Shamed doctor Aemond Targaryen resigns from King's Landing hospice.'

You slammed the book shut, a sick feeling brewing in your stomach as you hastily placed the book in it's position with the ornament on top.

Wheeling yourself to the stairs, you gripped the banister and you pulled yourself up the stairs. Your arms ached, the muscle burning and sweat beading on your forehead as you persisted, refusing to let go and crash back down to the bottom again.

In time, you reached the top of the stairs, moving the wheelchair as quickly as you could, taking the pin out and moving towards the bed, when a slam of a car door stopped you in your tracks.

Aemond was back.

You knew he would enquire about the now unlocked door, but you could just pass it off by saying you urgently needed to use the bathroom. You also knew that you didn't have enough time to haul yourself back into bed, and so you did what you could, and threw yourself out of the chair and onto the floor, pushing the wheelchair away from you slightly as the front door opened, the rustling of paper bags being put on the table before the creaking of the stairs. There was a slight falter before he twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

He knew it was unlocked.

"What happened?" He asked, voice laced with concern as he hurried over to you, lifting you into his arms and shushing your cry of pain as he placed you down in bed atop the covers. His glasses had been taken off, the brilliant blue of his good eye burning into you.

"I needed the bathroom, but I couldn't get back into bed I... I lost my balance and fell on the floor..." You lied, hoping that you managed to convince him that your story was true.

"You needed to use the bathroom?" He asked, receiving a nod from you in response.

"And you managed to get yourself on and off the toilet alright?"

Another nod.

He slowly nodded in response, and you let out a small sigh of relief, visibly relaxing at him seemingly believing your story.

"And... you managed to get down the stairs and into the living room without hurting yourself after picking your bedroom door lock?" He added, his tone still soft.

A little too soft.

"Aemond... I never..."

"And you managed to somehow drag yourself back upstairs into your room?"

"I... I don't..."

"The dragon ornament on top of my photograph album," He replied. "It was pointing the wrong way."

You opened your mouth to speak, but found yourself at a loss for words, you mouth dry and your blood running cold.

"It's okay," He murmured, running his thumb over your lower lip. "I shouldn't have scared you. I know I did. I frightened you, hm? Well for that I apologise. I will refrain from repeating that behaviour in the future." He added, leaning forward slightly. "You are so incredibly important to me, Y/N. I'm sure you know that. You saw the photograph downstairs..."

You tried to speak again but he quickly shushed you, the finger resting on your lip tracing down your jaw, your neck, across your collarbone. His pupil had dilated, his breath quickening slightly as his hand moved down to your chest, covered by one of his shirts he had given you, framing your body in a pale blue.

"You do not need to speak Y/N," He whispered, leaning closer still, one hand placed the other side of you, caging you against him. "You will only waste your energy..."

As he pressed his lips to yours, you knew you couldn't fight back. You were weaker with him even without your injuries, and with his erratic behaviour, and what you had discovered downstairs...

And so you let him deepen the kiss. You let him part your lips with his tongue. You let his hand wander down from fondling your breast to your waist, pulling the shorts you had on down to your knees.

You let him ever so gently part your legs, pressing a line of kisses along your upper thigh, and then pay the same attention to the other, his lips tracing your flesh that had been swollen with bruises the week before.

Did you even know how long you had been here?

Staring up at the same ceiling, being enclosed in those same four walls day after day had merged the days together.

And if you asked Aemond, would he tell you the truth?

You couldn't trust him, but you needed to stay alive. And if you had any hope of getting out of here alive, you needed to stay on his good side.

And so there you were, legs spread as Aemond lowered himself between them, his moans vibrating against you at your taste, his tongue circling your clit and sending a jolt of pleasure through you that was both pain and pleasure as your legs twitched slightly, a hand tangling in his silver locks.

You resented the way your legs squeezed around his head as he thrust two fingers into you, murmuring against you about how wet with want you were for him. Your body was betraying you, but you couldn't stop the way he was making you feel such pleasure. The mere curling of his fingers against your sweet spot, or the flick of his tongue against your swollen clit caused a string of breathy moans to leave you, and soon you found yourself coming undone. He drew his fingers out of you, replacing them with his tongue as he eagerly lapped at your release.

He sat back, lips glinting with your release. He reached forward, fingers parting your lips so you could taste yourself on him. He let out a satisfactory groan as you sucked on his fingers, allowing them to linger on your lips as he pulled away.

Pressing his lips to yours, he pulled your underwear and shorts back up to rest on your hips.

"I would love to go further with you, but I'll have to wait until you're back to your full strength. It may take some time... but I think I can manage with having your addictive taste on my tongue until I can truly claim you as mine. You'd like that, hm?"

"I..." You let out a deep breath. This man was unhinged. He'd break your ankles with a sledgehammer before letting you leave. You knew that your best chance to survive this, was to play along. Allow Aemond to believe that you were beginning to reciprocate his affections for long enough so he could let down his walls and nurse you back to health so you could escape.

"I would like that..." You murmured, looking away to feign embarrassment.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of, my darling Y/N." Aemond replied, looking at you with such fondness, you wouldn't have believed he was a murderer. He paused for a moment. "This may not be the best time, but I have a surprise for you. In the other guest room."

"Oh... okay..."

"If you want to wait another day, as disappointing as that would be-"

"No, I can see it now," You hastily replied as to not flair that nasty temper up again. He smiled warmly in response, stepping towards you as you reached for the wheelchair, but he instead lifted you into your arms bridal style, walking you away from the chair and towards the bedroom door. Instinctively, you wrapped an arm around the back of his neck, your head resting against his shoulder.

He pushed open the door with his foot, giving you another overly sweet smile as he proudly declared "It's your new studio. I set it up last night. I just needed to get the typewriter and paper, which are downstairs."

"But... w-why..."

"You need a place to work, after all," He interrupted you, placing you down on the desk chair. "All writers need a place to work."

"B-but... what would I write?" You asked.

Aemond smirked at you, walking over to where a trashcan sat in the far corner of the room. The clang as it landed on the floor echoed around the room as he dropped it at your feet, your manuscript discarded in it.

"You want me... to burn my book?" You looked up at him in disbelief.

"I know this may be difficult to you," Aemond nodded, reaching into his back pocket and bringing out a box of matches.

"I... I can't..."

"Yes. You can," Aemond's voice was firm. "You can do this. Do it. Now."

Your hands began to tremble as he pressed the matchbox into them, pouring lighter fluid into the trashcan.

"I know this is the only copy," He continued. "You always only write one copy at first. When you were eighteen, you wrote your first book and you didn't make a single copy. Because you didn't think anybody would take it seriously. But they did. And you kept that tradition because it's a superstition to you, and you don't want to make a copy in fear of it being rejected. I'm trying to help you can't you see that?" His voice was steadily rising as his agitation grew, making the tremble in your hands worsen.

"I just want to help you. Why won't you let me help-"

As he spoke, you hastily lit one of the matches and threw it in the trashcan, the manuscript exploding into flame.

And as Aemond lovingly kissed your forehead, murmuring how proud he was of you for being so strong, all you could do was stare at the flames consuming your work, your own masterpiece.

"Now you can go back to doing what you're great at," Aemond murmured, a hand resting on your shoulder. "You can write a new novel, your greatest achievement ever... Misery's return."

He knelt down by you, a finger hooking beneath your chin, turning your head to meet his gaze. "I know you didn't mean it when you killed her. And now you can make it right. You can even write it in my honour, as a thanks for saving your life and nursing you back to health." He leaned forward so his breath was tickling your ear, his hand now resting on your thigh. "Although there are also other ways you can repay that debt to me."

"And you... you expect me to write something up just like that?" You asked.

"I expect nothing less than a masterpiece from you," He replied reassuringly, pressing another kiss to you, this time on the cheek. "I have the upmost faith in you my darling... I know you won't let me down... and if you do... we'll just have to start again. And again. And again... you won't try to escape, will you?"

"O-of course not. I... wouldn't dream of it."

Aemond hummed in approval. "I know you won't," He whispered, kissing you on the lips before standing up. "No one will come for you. If they do... I won't let them take you. If they try to take you from you, or if you do try to leave..." He said, opening a storage closet and reached inside, brandishing a sledgehammer. "There are other ways of keeping you here... with me... forever..."

Masterlist

#Aemond Targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #Aemond Targaryen imagine #House of the dragon #House of the dragon x reader #House of the dragon imagine #Spooktober

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foundtherightwords · 2 months ago

Text

The Minstrel, the Maiden, and the Knights of Hellfire - Chapter 8

Pairing: Hellcheer, Medieval AU

Summary: England, 1139: the civil war between King Stephen and Empress Maud looms large, threatening to tear the country in half. For Ed and his band of traveling minstrels, however, the more pressing matter is how to survive the upcoming winter, now that they were tossed out by their latest patron. When they stumble upon a naïve pageboy looking for warriors to escort the lady Christiana to safe haven in Wales, Ed comes up with a daring plan - pose as knights, take the job, and collect the reward. After all, how hard can it be? What Ed doesn't count on is endless battles, treacherous roads, marauding bandits, Lady Christiana's pompous fiancé, and his own growing attraction to the fair maiden herself...

Chapter warning: some violence

Chapter word count: 3.5k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Read on AO3

Chapter 8

They got as far as Stratford, a small village upon the River Avon, when they heard the news that Stephen had had to give up his western campaign and was now returning east to protect the capital from the forces of Miles of Gloucester, who had transferred his liege to the Empress. This had no effect on the company, save for allowing them a collective sigh of relief. What care had they for who was fighting who, as long as the road was safe again? Abandoning their flight to the north, they turned west once more, following the Avon until it met the Severn, whence they would cross Worcestershire and Herefordshire into Wales.

This was Ed's country. He'd grown up in a village nestled between two ranges of hills, the Clee and the Malvern, which embraced the valley like a pair of lovers' arms. The closer they got to Worcester, the more it felt like homecoming to him, though perhaps an uneasy one. He tried to tell himself that the last time he walked these roads had been nearly twelve years ago, a frightened child, unwanted, lost. Anyone who had known him back then would not recognize him now.

They still performed at every stop along the way. The only difference was that Christiana now joined them for every performance, heralded by Geoff, who was their master of ceremonies, as the Dancing Princess. Christiana accepted the moniker with good cheer and eagerly took to the stage, where her dances were always received with great enthusiasm and largesse. The tension they'd felt in Campden had seeped through the Midlands. There were talks that the attacks in the east were just a ruse to lure King Stephen away, and now the Empress was moving her forces into the unguarded territory in the west to take it for herself. The entire region seemed poised on a precipice, awaiting the terrible fall. In the meantime, the people still had to eat and drink and find ways to divert themselves, and Christiana's presence, her smile, and the way she moved, ethereal yet still utterly vivid and alive, could always calm them down and help them forget their troubles, even for a little while.

Finally, the River Severn was within sight, coiling under the November sky like a ribbon of molten silver, and with it, rose the roofs and steeples of the town of Worcester. From there, it was only forty miles to Offa's Dyke on the Welsh border, and then thirty miles more to Llandovery, and their journey would come to an end. Ed tried not to think of it, but sometimes, watching Christiana dance to his music in the fitful torchlight of the tavern, seeing her smile and her eyes fixed on him, he would hope, against all senses, against all reasons, for a miracle to keep them together. He kept telling himself that Fate couldn't have conspired to bring them back together, only to tear them apart again. After all, stranger things had happened, hadn't they?

But all was not right with Worcester. Even before they came to its gate, they had seen columns of dark, greasy smoke from behind the town walls and heard its bells—not the calm, stately bells to sound the Divine Offices, but the frantic bells to signal alarm. And, underneath the anxious tolling of the bells, there was screaming. The thin, frightened screams of women and children, and the menacing, bloodthirsty screams of men.

"Something's happening..." said Dustin fearfully as they drew to a stop on the road, watching the town in the distance, too afraid to take another step.

While they lingered, the town gate burst open, and people poured out of it, men, women, and children, laden down with their earthly possessions. Some were shot down by archers atop the town walls, others were ridden down by mounted soldiers and dragged back into town screaming. Fortunately, the soldiers seemed half-hearted in their chase, and, as more and more refugees fled from the burning town, the soldiers soon gave up the hunt to pursue more lucrative looting within the walls of the town itself. Those fortunate few who escaped were scattered in all directions, like fallen leaves blown by the cruel winter wind.

Soon enough, some of these wretched people came to the main road, where the minstrels still stood transfixed by fear and indecision, caught in a flood of panicked humanity. Ed managed to grab one of them, an old man whose back was bent under a heavy scrip, leg limping from a wound—new or old, it was impossible to tell.

"What's happened?" Ed asked.

"A siege!" the old man panted, trying to squirm out of Ed's grasp. "Gloucester—his entire army—burning, killing, taking everything and everyone—get away while you can—" He pulled his cloak free and limped away without a look back.

Ed turned around and saw six pairs of panic-stricken eyes looking back at him. He could feel his own panic rising, cold and bitter like bile at the back of his throat, numbing his limbs. All the detours, all the roundabout ways taken to avoid the fighting, wasted. They all looked to him for protection and guidance, and he had led them straight into a battle. The panic reached his head, muddling his thoughts, so he could no longer see a way out.

Christiana pushed her way to the front and took his hand. "What do we do, Ed?" she asked.

At the sound of her voice and the feel of her hand in his, some of the fog lifted from Ed's mind. He couldn't afford to lose his head now. They were depending on him. She was depending on him.

"We take the back roads," he said, a plan forming in his mind. "The soldiers are busy securing the town right now, but once it falls, they will turn their eyes to the countryside. Though we don't have much that they'd want to take"—here Ed noticed that Christiana exchanged a meaningful look with Dustin and Maxime, but there was no time to press for an explanation—"I'd rather not take any chance."

"Wait," said Dustin. "If this is the Empress's force attacking, why do we have to run? If they know my lady is loyal to the Empress, surely they will spare us and let us through—"

Before the boy could finish, the others all raised their voices to drown him out.

"Have you lost your wits?" said Gareth.

"What do you suggest, that we offer Lady Christiana up like a sacrificial lamb so we can have safe passage?" said Maxime contemptuously.

Even Christiana shook her head at him. "We cannot risk it, Dustin," she said. "These soldiers do not care where our loyalty lies; all they care is whether we, or our friends and families, have enough coin to ransom us. We must avoid them at all costs."

His face turning crimson, Dustin sheepishly fell back. Ed nodded at Tadhg, who took Warlock's bridle and turned the wagon off the main road, toward the line of trees on their left. Wordlessly, the others followed.

Once they were behind the cover of the trees, Tadhg drew Warlock to a halt. "We can't go in there, Ed," he said, pointing to the woods beyond, where the trees grew so thick together that the place was shrouded in shadows despite the leafless branches. "The wagon won't fit."

It was true. Ed looked around, pondering. His eyes landed on a large thicket of brambles, almost as tall as he was. The berries were long gone, but the leaves, though browned and withered, remained, and the thorns were sharp and plentiful enough to deter any busybody.

"There," he said. "We hide the wagon. Anything you don't want to lose, take it with you. We can come back for it after, or..." He swallowed and squared his shoulders in an attempt to look brave. "... or we can replace it, if need be."

He helped Tadhg unhitch Warlock from the wagon while the others took their things out of it. Ed and his friends had few possessions except for their instruments and some clothes, which they put in a bundle on Warlock's back. The costumes and props they left behind, though Ed took the swords with them. Fake they may be, but these swords would make decent singlesticks, and they needed all the weapons they could get. They had eaten most of their store of food, and Tadhg distributed the remaining bread and cheese and ale amongst them. Dustin, Maxime, and Christiana took their saddlebags and scrip.

Ed noticed Christiana's hands shook as she fixed the scrip's strap over her shoulder, so he gave her fingers a squeeze. "Everything will be all right," he told her, with an air of reassurance he didn't feel.

She nodded silently at him, her eyes wide on her pale face. Then, opening the scrip, she took her coin pouch and counted out forty shillings, which she handed to Ed and his friends. "I know we haven't reached our destination yet," she said, "but please accept this, in case—in case we get separated, or—"

"No!" Ed pushed the coins back toward her. "We take the payment once we've seen you safely to Wales, and not before. We stay together. Everything will be fine."

Christiana shook her head. "Please, take it," she insisted. "For my peace of mind."

Reluctantly, they took ten shillings each. Then, half dragging, half pushing, they put the wagon as deep inside the brambles as they could, covering it with dead branches and dry leaves. This done, they walked westward through the woods, pulling Warlock along.

"If we do get separated," Ed said to his friends in a low voice so Christiana couldn't hear, "make your way to my uncle's croft. And try to keep one of them with you." He nodded at Dustin and Maxime, who were clutching their bags white-knuckled as they stumbled through the trees. Christiana he didn't have to worry about keeping close, for she hadn't let go of his hand save for a brief moment to unload and help to hide the wagon.

Geoff, Gareth, and Tadhg nodded back solemnly.

For all of Ed's attempts at bravery, he couldn't stop fear from forming in the pit of his stomach, cold and heavy like a ball of ice. The wagon had been their home for so long that he felt exposed without it. And although they were further and further away from Worcester, the sound of fighting and the acrid smell of smoke still wafted toward them through the cold, still air, a quiet threat that urged them to hasten their steps and put more distance between them and the battle. Christiana's act of distributing the coins had an air of finality about it, as though they were already being separated, and also served as a reminder of the danger they were in.

They continued their way westward, keeping the burning town behind them. A movement from behind the trees made Ed reach for his wooden sword and Maxime for her dagger, but it turned out to be just a woman, with two little boys in tow. They stared at Ed and his company in mute apprehension, and, apparently deciding that they were safe, fell in steps alongside them, just as silently. More travelers appeared from further down the woods and other winding footpaths and joined them as well. Unlike the desperate refugees from the town, who had only been focused on getting as far away as quickly as possible, these people had a stealthy, wary look about them, as though they had been on the road for a long time and were treading with the utmost care, lest they drew attention to themselves and brought the attacking force down upon them all. Ed guessed they were the ones who had left town early in anticipation of the siege.

It seemed a perverse imitation of their first day on the road—now, as had then, they were traveling in a large group, except instead of being accompanied by bright blue skies, warm sunshine, and cheerful music, they walked under the November sky, heavy with lead-colored clouds, and in an oppressive silence only broken by the sound of shuffling feet and the occasional whimper from a child. No one talked or even looked at each other.

The travelers didn't rest or share their food; those who did have food ate when they could without stopping. One of the boys, the older one, was clearly hungry—he was dragging his feet, and his stomach gurgled so loudly that they could all hear it. Christiana offered a piece of bread to him, but he turned away and hid his face in his mother's skirts.

"You should eat something," Christiana said. "So you can keep your strength for your mother and brother—"

"We don't need your charity!" the mother snapped, pushing the bread away.

"Forgive me," Christiana said. "I didn't mean..." Her voice trailed off, and she looked close to tears. Ed glared at the mother as he drew Christiana to him, patting her arm in a clumsy attempt at comfort.

The sound of water murmuring ahead signaled the approach of a stream. Their path started to slope downward and narrow into a bottleneck pass, forcing the travelers to walk only two abreast while holding on to tree trunks and branches to keep their balance. Tadhg, his hands full with Warlock's bridle, fell to the rear of the cortege.

Ed did not like the look of the pass. There was nowhere for them to run should they be ambushed—trees grew close on either side of the path, hemming them in, and ahead, at the bottom of the slope, was a large, swampy brook. He wanted to suggest turning back, but the people around him were so grim-faced that his words died in his throat. Well, perhaps if they hurry and cross the brook, it would be safer...

The woods around them exploded.

Men, dozens of them, dressed in faded homespun so they blended in almost perfectly with the brown and dead trees, came at the travelers from all sides. A child screamed. Warlock whinnied loudly. Ed's knees went weak. These were no Alf and his cronies, no erstwhile crofters and serfs driven off their land and forced to become outlaws. Despite their rough attire, these men were fully armed, with chainmail or leather armor over their homespun, and had the hardened look of career soldiers, those who delighted in robbing and pillaging as much as they did in fighting. Their tattered garments appeared to be for disguise rather than due to necessity, and their weapons gleamed as they were swung at the travelers. Some travelers tried to fight back with their knives and staves, but they were no match for these men. More screams went up as several of the party fell under swords and arrows, and soon the soldiers had them surrounded.

"P-please," the woman walking next to Christiana begged, clutching her two boys close. "Please don't hurt us. We have nothing..."

"Nothing, eh?" the leader of the soldiers said. His face was a mass of scars, out of which his black eyes shone like two embers as they roamed over each traveler, appraising, weighing, measuring. "We'll see about that. Take that horse," he nodded at Warlock, "and search them for valuables. Carefully."

Christiana squeezed Ed's hand so hard he was afraid she might crack the bones.

One of the soldiers was moving toward Tadhg and Warlock. They didn't have much time left. There was no telling what these soldiers would do to them—they would be taken for ransom, or worse. All Ed knew was that he would be damned if he let anything happen to Christiana.

He counted the soldiers. He counted their own numbers. An idea occurred to him.

"Geoff," he said, out of the corner of his mouth. "The Battle of Hastings."

Geoff frowned at him in confusion.

"When the Normans feinted retreat to trick the English into breaking ranks, remember?" Ed whispered. The Battle of Hastings wasn't their forte—they were much better versed in the Crusade—but they had reenacted it a few times, and Ed trusted his troupe to remember the movements.

Geoff nodded, finally understanding. Ed inclined his head toward the three archers. They were the biggest threat and had to be taken out first. Geoff gave Gareth, who was on his other side, a small nudge and whispered the plan to him. Tadhg was too far away, but once the signal went up, he would know what to do. As for the others... Ed could only pray that their wits were quick enough, and so were their legs.

Ed turned to Christiana. "Whatever happens, stay close to me," he said under his breath. Her eyes widened slightly, but when he pressed her hand in reassurance, she pressed back, showing that she'd understood.

Taking a deep breath, Ed bellowed, "A white dragon! Saint George for merry England!"

Never mind that it was the war cry of the Saxons, and they were playing the part of the Normans in this particular act. The cry had the intended effect. The soldiers jumped like startled rabbits, temporarily stunned into confusion, not knowing where the cry had come from. Tadhg, bless him, immediately knew what it meant. He let go of Warlock's bridle. The horse reared up with a half-frightened, half-triumphant whicker, front legs coming down on the approaching soldier. The soldier fell back. Several of his comrades ran over to capture the horse, but Warlock broke through their ranks and disappeared into the woods.

Good luck, old friend, Ed thought. He prayed that he would find Warlock again, and if not, that the horse would be safe wherever he ran to.

While the soldiers were still in confusion after Warlock's flight, Ed and his friends rushed at the archers, bowled them over, and wrestled the bows out of their hands. Maxime's dagger bloodied a couple of the soldiers, and Geoff's wooden sword connected with a few heads and necks. The rest of the party descended into chaos, which was exactly what Ed wanted.

"Run!" he screamed at his fellow travelers. "Run in circles! Confuse them!"

He didn't know if they understood him or not, but run they did, some down the slope and across the brook, splattering mud and water, others back the way they came. The soldiers cursed, uncertain as to which they should follow. One of the archers regained his bow, but the circuitous paths the travelers were taking meant that he did not have an accurate aim. Gareth, Geoff, and Tadhg were also running in the same direction as Warlock. Ed caught a glimpse of Maxime's red braid as she followed Geoff into the trees, and heard Dustin scream, "No! My lady—I cannot leave her—" while Gareth roared at him, "Run, you fool!" before they, too, disappeared.

A shriek from Christiana made Ed spin around. She was grappling with a soldier for her scrip. The soldier, clearly having no qualms about hitting a lady, pulled out his sword.

"Christiana!" Ed screamed a warning and ran toward her. In the same moment, she twisted away from the soldier, slipped on the bed of dead, moist leaves covering the path, and went tumbling down the slope.

Ed's singlestick sword slammed down on the soldier's unprotected nape, causing the man to stagger. Seizing the advantage, Ed pushed the soldier aside and ran after Christiana, heedless of the branches on either side of the path that snapped at his face and scratched his hands, stinging like horsewhips.

He came to the bottom of the slope just in time to see Christiana floundering in the middle of the brook—the momentum of her fall had propelled her straight into the water. Without taking the gittern from his back, without even stopping to think, he jumped in after her. The water was frigid, but it did little to deter him. An arrow whizzed past his ear. On top of the slope, he heard the archer let out an oath. Christiana was still thrashing and spluttering somewhere to his right, weighed down by her heavy scrip.

"Let it go!" he shouted. "Throw it away!"

"No—" Water went into her mouth, choking her, and she went under.

Biting back a curse, Ed swam to her. One, two long strokes, and he managed to grab the back of her cloak and pull her spluttering to the surface.

"Hold your breath!" he said and plunged them both under again just as another arrow flew over their heads. Emerging a few heartbeats later, he saw some soldiers clambering down the slope. A log drifted past. Ed grabbed it, pulled Christiana's arms securely around it, and, allowing her to lean on him to keep her head out of the water while he leaned on the log, he let the swift current bear them away, away from the shouting, the clanging of swords, and the hissing of arrows.

Chapter 9

#hellcheer #hellcheer fic #hellcheer au #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #joseph quinn #eddie x chrissy #eddissy #joseph quinn fic #medieval au

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knight-elkwarden · 4 months ago

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Prehistoric Anorri are believed to have been either a sister species to, or a subspecies of Imarri. Unfortunately, due to the Anorri's ancestral homelands currently being under miles of ice, evidence for or against this theory is virtually non existent.

Modern Anorri are one of three species with recognized personhood in Har Fang, and are often considered the most powerful of the three. Despite their vast morphological differences, all of the Anorri tribes are considered members of the same species. Due to their bodies naturally being saturated with shapeshifting magic, they can vary greatly on an individual level and shifting one's form is culturally considered a form of self expression. Body plans remain fairly constant within a single tribe, although coloration, ornaments and antler shapes are incredibly varied, even among closely related individuals.

The five tribes pictured here are the ones that interact the most with human nations, and thus the ones we have the most knowledge of. Others exist, but due to sparse information, and them refusing contact with us, they are omitted from this document.

(More lore, as well as individual images under the cut!)

According the both the Glacierwardens and the mythology of other tribes, Anorri used to have a prosperous kingdom in the north divided in twelve provinces, each home to a tribe. It's crash brought about the end of the first age, triggered by the ice wall rapidly advancing.

It is said that nine of the ancient tribes fled the kingdom then. Two fled east, two west, none of them were ever seen or heard from again. Five fled south, three of them weren't fast enough, and got caught under the ice wall, including what would today become the Glacierwardens. The remaining two made it to Har Fang, where the ice wall wouldn't reach them. All current Anorri tribes (except the Glacierwardens) are descended from these two ancient tribes.

While much of this story cannot be directly proven, what is known is that the ice wall has been slowly retreating back north since at least the third age. There are both historical records and geological evidence that it used to reach to the northern border of Edorae, and the petrified Glacierwarden tribe was indeed found around the Sheer Sea, which would have been under the ice wall before it retreated to its current location.

The Birchtenders are a rather isolationist tribe living in the mountain range that divides the east and west of Harfang. Their current matriarch is Kenerros.

They are most known by us humans for their historic aggression on the kingdom of Edorae, back when the Birchtenders frequented the plains at the base of the mountains. Thankfully relations have improved since Kenerros became matriarch, and the two groups currently have a truce. As long as Edorae stays off the mountains and Birchtenders stay off the plains.

Cliffrunners are some of the smallest Anorri, but also the most agile in the air. They make their homes in the Floating Jungle and often frequent the Musoneese rainforest below. They are currently ruled by matriarch Vanah.

They live above one of the few stable sources of flow crystals in Har Fang, and are fiercely possessive of it. Thankfully for us, they have a trade pact with Musonee, giving us nearly unlimited number of flow crystals.

They are curious by nature, and have a deep appreciation of art. They maintain our exclusive flow crystal agreement as long as we provide them with art, craftsman goods and articles on a wide range of topics.

No dragon species so far encountered has scales. The Firescale tribe are the only known exception, and it is from this unusual quality that they get their name. They live in the arid, volcanic and semi-desert region of Nyr. Their current matriarch is Malikehvrah.

There is not a lot of information about the Firescales. What is known is that they maintain vast cave networks under Nyr where they mine and process gemstones and metals for trade with other Anorri tribes and occasionally us humans.

They are generally friendly to humans, and a few individuals are known to accompany travelers and caravans that pass through Nyr. When prompted about it, these individuals claim that they simply enjoy the company and perspectives of outsiders.

Tidecallers are known for their close association with the Silver Isles's residents, as well as their stunning colors and features. More than other Anorri, Tidecallers treat shapeshifting like an art, and as such are some of the most varied when it comes to a single tribe. Alimeruu is their current matriarch.

They are close allies to the Silver Islanders, and some islands even have populations of both humans and Anorri living together, but most Tidecallers live underwater in coral reef caves. They readily trade with the islanders to receive land resources in exchange for underwater resources humans can't easily get to.

Glacierwardens are technically the oldest tribe, though they were frozen in a form of petrification stasis for a long time. Their "revival" by the Northernese people marks the start of the fourth age and for this, the Glacierwardens have vowed to help and protect the kingdom of the Northernese. Their matriarch is Sheer.

These Anorri are large and imposing, but seem to emit an air of sadness about them. Their petrification was rushed and imperfect, resulting in losing most of their memories of the past. According to them, they mourn the loss of their culture, the loss of family and friends that they cannot even remember the faces of.

Quite a few of them have taken to selectively breeding and altering herds of wildlife, trading the resulting domesticated creatures between themselves and occasionally to humans and other tribes.

#har fang #dragon #spec evo #spec bio #speculative biology #speculative evolution #worldbuilding #fantasy worldbuilding #myart #my art #art

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 1 year ago

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When you touch me, I am where love is born

Young!Mihawk x reader.

This fic is part of the Beast in Black series.

*****

The man is attractive, if you like the burly type, with rough features and a full beard - which you occasionally do, even though you are slightly put off by the fact that your would-be victim, a former pirate who is now working solo as a robber, has killed twelve people, all of them but one defenseless civilians and including four children, to steal their valuables. Your grandfather, who put your first gun in your hand when you were only nine and taught you to use it, and a number of other firearms, to perfection, told you emotions are often a shooter's worst enemy, a cause of confusion and inaccuracy and worst of all hesitation, especially when the target you are shooting at has a weapon of their own; still, in your heart you feel satisfaction, even joy, and not guilt, at the thought that you will rid the world of this lowlife and protect his future potential victims.

Your target has no permanent residence and is notoriously proficient at putting pursuers off his tracks, but you were able to track down an accomplice of his who, for a small price, told you he would be in a certain island, on a particular day.

He is, and you are as well, having reached the island yesterday by ferry under the guise of a normal, innocuous tourist eager to enjoy the island's luxurious beaches and night-life. The truth couldn't be more different, and as you check for the twelfth time your gun is loaded and ready to shoot, you order yourself to keep your cool and stop your heart from beating twice as fast as normal. Yes, this is your first assignment as a mercenary; yes, you are still very young, and a woman, which would lead many of your fellow killers for hire to look down on you and doubt your ability; yes, you have never killed anyone before, which could make you hesitate once you will have to actually pull the trigger, not at a clay pigeon or another target prepared by your grandfather for your training, but at a living, real person.

But you can do it. You want to do it, because you have trained so much and so long for this, and that man does deserve to pay for what he has done, and you want to prove, to the world and more importantly to yourself, what you are worth, how strong and clever and resilient you are, beyond the family you were born in and the role you will take on one day. Your grandfather, an excellent gunslinger who had been a mercenary himself in his youth, expects you to put to good use everything he taught you and succeed, and your mother, while naturally worried for your safety, raised no objections and allowed you to begin a career as a killer for hire, knowing you felt the need to put yourself to the test beyond the comfortable, tranquil borders of your island. They both count on you, and you'd rather eat glass than disappoint them… and yourself, the harshest, least forgiving judge of all.

Also, if I don't kill that guy, he will probably kill me. That's also something I should keep in mind.

Having kept watch on the old barn, in the middle of the countryside, your target had spent the night in, you have seen him leave soon after dawn, the long sword he used to kill most of his victims as usual by his side, and set out towards an uninhabited corner of the island. You followed closely, careful not to lose him and, at the same time, not to be spotted, and three miles later you saw him reach an old abandoned mine; there is no sign of life for miles all around, which makes you suspect that, more than preparing an heist in a bank or a shop, or to attack an unsuspecting traveller to rob and then kill them, the man is meeting with an accomplice to organize an hit, or perhaps he has chosen the mine as his new hideout, to lay low for a while.

But all things being equal, the reason that has brought him here doesn't really matter; he might be looking for a safe place to store his stamp collection, or planning to transform the place in an ice cream shop for all you care. The only thing that counts is that you will kill him today, provide justice for all the people he has murdered, and begin making a name for yourself as a mercenary. You don't care about the bounty money, that you plan to donate to the less affluent families of your island (after, perhaps, you have treated yourself to a good dinner) and even becoming famous as a killer for hire is a side issue; you only want to do what is right, and prove yourself you are more than a privileged young woman, born with a silver spoon in her mouth and destined to a life of tranquility and power.

Even if it means risking your life.

Your target has reached the entrance of the mine, securely boarded up and surmounted by a large KEEP OUT sign; he walks back and forth, clearly nervous as he smokes a cigarette, fingering the hilt of his sword. Hidden in a small ramshackle building, perhaps the old foreman's office, no more than ten paces away, you look at him through a crack in the door, kneeling on the dirty floor; your heart is pounding, a feeling of tightness constricting your stomach, the hand grasping your gun (a good, reliable and lethal model; not the derringer you will one day receive as a gift from your father and that you will treasure for the rest of your days, but still perfectly up to the task) sweating. Despite all the time and effort you dedicated to prepare for this moment, you are a nervous wreck, which is not completely a bad thing, since the last thing you should do is underestimate the danger you are in. Your target is still alone, busy smoking and apparently unaware of your presence, but any moment you waste could be the one he decides to leave, or he is joined by someone else; after all he does look as if he is waiting for someone. You can't hesitate any longer.

You stand slowly, grimacing at the pain in your knees, retrieve a second gun from the bag you have left on the floor, to use should the first one jam, and slide it in the holster hanging from your waist; you have chosen comfortable clothing, for obvious reason, and soft-soled boots, that allow you to walk as noiselessly as possible… and, in turn, to make it harder for your target to hear you approach.

The man has turned his back to the shack, busy lighting another cigarette after the one he has just put out under his foot; it's your moment, you decide, and you waste no time in slipping out of the splintered door and take one step, and then another, towards him.

Years and even decades later, as the list of your victims grows longer and you get used to the tension and the danger your job entails, you will still remember this moment as clear and vivid as if it had taken place yesterday, down to the smallest detail. The glowing yellow-red of the sun barely raised above the horizon; the natural vegetation rustling in the gentle wind; the russet colour of the unsown earth under your feet; the expectant, charged silence broken only by the distant call of a carrion crow. You are only partially aware of your actions, your instinct and training taking over, as you take a third step, which brings you at maybe six from your target - more than close enough for a clean shot. Your gun is aimed, your finger already brushing against the trigger. You are about to talk, but the man, still turned the other way, anticipates you.

"I was waiting for you." he says, tense but calm, and the shock is almost enough to make the gun slip from your hand; you have been very careful to remain hidden, making sure he had no idea you were keeping a close eye on him, and you were absolutely sure you had succeeded, and would easily sneak up on your target. Apparently the truth is different… or at least so it seems for a moment, before the man finally turns, sees you, and goggles.

"What the… who the hell are you?!"

"I…"

"Where is Mihawk?" he insists, which is a question you have no answer for, but that at the same time is enough to dispel your doubts: he had no idea you were coming, and was actually waiting for someone else - perhaps an ally or an accomplice.

It takes your target half a second to notice the gun you are aiming at him. "What the…?!" he exclaims, letting his second cigarette fall to the floor and grabbing his sword.

It is already a full second to late.

"Jack 'The Tiger' Vespertine." you begin, mimicking the formal tone you heard your mother use so many times; you will decide to do away with the declaration of intents by your third assignment, like virtually all World Government-sanctioned mercenaries and killers for hire do, especially when the target is already aware of the danger they are in and armed, but since this is your first time you deem appropriate to follow the rules to the letter "You have been found guilty of twelve counts of murder…"

Vespertine's sword is drawn with a movement too fast for your eyes to follow, but thank all the Gods you are fast as well, and ready; a battle-cry fills the air, and half a second later, when the man has barely had the time to raise his blade above his head, your finger pulls the trigger, and the bullet explodes out of the gun's barrel, opening a hole in the middle of his forehead.

Vespertine is not an heavy man, but the thud of his body hitting the ground is deafening, the ground shaking under your feet. He doesn't move, and for a full minute you don't either; you stare at the body in front of you, your gun still pointed at him even though you know he is most likely already dead, as you push his sword away with your boot. You can't see his face, since he has fallen on his belly, so, for safety's sake, you shoot him again, in the back; the man doesn't move, which is proof enough for you.

Somewhere in the distance, the carrion crow cries again, a sound vaguely similar to an acid laugh; you glance all around you, making sure you are still alone and no one witnessed your actions, and then cautiously crouch down, using your free hand to turn the body on his back and look at it -at him- in the face.

This moment is the reason why you decided to do it like this. Up close, looking at him in the face and making sure he saw you and, within reason, knew you were going to kill him, instead of finding a safer way, hidden among the shrubs or from a moving vehicle or even at the third floor of a building, so that your target would have no way to know what was going to happen, and to defend himself. You had to let him know; not because you owed him (he was a killer, scum like that was entitled to nothing) but because you needed it.

"There is nothing wrong with aiming from a distance, and shooting at someone who doesn't expect it, at least if you're a mercenary and chasing a certain sort of people; in a fair duel, or when the person you are shooting at deserves to know what is going to happen to them, different rules apply." your grandfather told you one day, as you walked together in the fortress' gardens, at the end of yet another training session; he was an honourable man, your grandfather, but he was also smart and pragmatic, and he knew honour was something a person could not always afford to care for, and that when you didn't leave someone else to pay for your actions there was nothing wrong with running away to fight another day "We are not swordfighters; we don't duel for supremacy, for a grandiose title or so that everyone in the world knows our name. The gun is a weapon; if you want to kill someone, use it and it will do its work. It's not your friend, or a talisman that endows you with some arcane power; it is a tool that you need to learn to use, otherwise you will be the one getting hurt. It is a bloody business, a raw and practical one, devoid of heroics and ethics, but it can protect you and help you make your way in the world. It all depends on you. Just..."

"Just?"

Your grandfather had stopped, contemplating the rose bushes your mother tended to personally, and that ran all around a tiny plot of grass, where your family had enjoyed so many outdoor breakfasts.

"What I'm trying to say is that using firearms, especially for a deadly purpose like you mean to, is something you mustn't take lightly." he continued as he looked at you; he loved you dearly, but in that moment there was sternness in him, as if he were warning you against a terrible danger, or a grave crime you were about to commit. You liked it; he was the first person to treat you like an adult, years before you could even vaguely call yourself that "It... goes to your head; the power to kill with a simple press of your finger can make even the most rational and moderate person feel all-powerful. And the risk of forgetting it is people you are shooting at and killing, not clay pigeons or game to serve at dinner, is high."

You looked at him; he was probably the person you loved the most in the world behind your mother, and he was wiser than even her. You trusted him completely, and you knew he only wanted what was best for you; had he said bathing every day in olive oil would make you immortal, you would have believed him.

"And you think this could happen to me?" you asked, afraid of hearing his answer; evening was approaching, flames of red and purple painting the darkening sky above your heads "I... I don't want it to, grandfather; I only want to kill bad people, like you did. I don't want to become bad myself."

Suddenly he smiled, as he took your hand in his like he did when you were still so young you needed to be guided as you walked. "I have faith in you, (name); I know there is no kinder girl in all the four seas, and I am sure you will one day rule over our island with justice and mercy." he told you "But if you really want to become a gunslinger... you have to promise me something: when you kill a man, you have to look at him in the eyes; not necessarily before, as I told you, but at least after. Take responsibility for what you have done, and face the consequence of your actions. Especially the first time."

A sudden gust of wind passed over you; the evening was warm, but you suddenly felt chilled.

"Promise me, (name)."

"I promise, grandfather. I will do as you said."

And you do, contemplating the body of the man in front of you, now truly alone in that isolated corner of the world. You feel no guilt; rather, you are proud of yourself, and you know your grandfather will be as well, when you'll call home to reassure him and your mother you are all right. You have proved yourself, punished a vicious murderer, and given justice to his victims. All in all, a good day... even though you do feel a bit upset, even if you couldn't exactly say why.

You can't tear your eyes away from Vespertine -or rather, from his mortal remains- even longer than what your grandfather would deem necessary. The bullet you have killed him with went right through his cranium, but the hole it created is no bigger than a bean at the centre of his forehead, and his face is still perfectly recognizable... which is good, since you wouldn't be able to collect the bounty if you can't prove you killed the right man. You saw another body once, an inexperienced guard on your island, who had shot himself in the face with his service pistol as he cleaned it, and the bullet had completely erased his features, so much that even his parents couldn't formally recognize him...

Vespertine's old bounty poster, from the time he was still part of his old pirate crew, is folded in the inside pocket of your jacket; you take it out, open it, observe it carefully comparing the man in the picture with the one lying on the ground in front of you, and finally sigh, relieved. You had already checked it for the third time twenty minutes ago, as you waited for the right moment in the foreman's office, to make sure you had actually found the right man and were not about to kill an innocent who simply resembled him, but this is obviously the first time you can examine him up close and yes, this is undoubtedly Vespertine himself. You killed him... but your work is not over yet.

Still, you can't stop looking at him. His eyes, of the same colour of your mother's, are still open, a single drop of blood that slid down from the wound leaving a tiny blood trail along the side of his nose. He had had time to realize you were attempting to kill him, but his expression betrays neither fear, nor rage, nor the pain he must have felt as he died; rather, he seems... surprised, as if he really hadn't expected to see you, to be attacked, and that that quiet, still morning would be the last of his life.

I'm doing it, grandfather, you think; you will make sure to tell him in person once you're back home, to let him know you haven't forgotten what he had taught you, but for now, mentally addressing him is the best you can do. Just like you told me to. And now I know what you meant; I feel exactly as you thought I would. I killed him; and all it took was pulling a trigger. He wasn't a good man, and he deserved this and even more. But still... But still...

It is sudden and violent, like a punch (or a bullet) to the stomach; the bounty poster falls from your fingers, and you fall to your knees, your legs unable to support you. Your head swims; your heart beats fast enough to hurt; cold sweat covers your back, your arms, your whole body...

A disgusting sound (bleeeaarrggghh) escapes your lips, followed by everything you had eaten in the last twelve hours.

*****

You start feeling a little better fifteen minutes later, and thank all the Gods you have water and paper towels in your bag, which allows you to clean yourself at least a little bit.

After a brief rest, you get to work, retrieving other tools from your bag: a knife, a sturdy sack, the sort you use to store grain or flour, and a tinderbox. You bit your lip, ordering yourself not to feel sick again, as you cut Vespertine's head, sawing through skin and tendons and bone and separating it from his body; consequently, you put it in the sack. Collecting wood takes you only a few minutes, since the countryside abounds with fallen branches and twigs; lighting a fire is equally easy, since you have been taught to use flint and steel since you were a little girl. Dragging your victim's body over the (still unlit) pyre is the hardest part, since he must be twice as heavy as you, but in the end you succeed, and soon Vespertine's remains are burning and then reduced to ashes, leaving no trace of his passing that an eventual friend or ally could trace back to you. Unsure of what to do with it, you finally bury the man's sword near the entrance of the mine, digging with your bare hands since you don't have a shovel at hand and making sure it cannot be found.

You then place the sack containing your victim's head in your bag; the idea of carrying that thing around is more than a little disgusting, but doing the same with the entire body would be much more tiring, and your grandfather said it will be more than enough to claim the bounty, since a severed head is clear proof of a person's death.

Soon after, you set off. You haven't lowered your guard yet, in case Vespertine hadn't come alone or had friends and allies nearby, not to mention that watching your back will now have to become the norm, but you feel relieved you have completed your task, and you can't wait to reward yourself with a good meal, cash the bounty and return home to tell your mother and grandfather about your first success as a mercenary.

You have started whistling a popular song of your island, the warmth of the blooming day kissing your skin, when suddenly you are not alone on the road anymore; a tall man is walking purposefully towards you, and towards the mine... a man with a large sword hanging from his belt.

Shit. Vespertine did say he was expecting someone, and while you cannot be sure this guy is (was) a friend of your victim and would want to avenge his death, the best, safest thing you can do is to get away as quickly as you can, before he realizes what has happened and that you must be responsible for it. Is it cowardly? Perhaps - no, it surely is, and your grandfather did tell you the honourable man is very often the dead man as well, and you are a mercenary, not a warrior, you are not bound by a code of conduct and it would be very stupid to risk your life when you have nothing to gain from it, but...

But...

"Excuse me." you call to the man who has by now walked five or six steps behind you, turning to look at him and thinking back to your brief conversation with Vespertine "Is your name... Mihawk?"

The man turns, clearly surprised to hear a stranger mention his name. He is very tall, slim but strong, dark-haired, practically but elegantly dressed.

"Do I know you?" he asks after a moment he has spent observing you.

"No, but perhaps we have a mutual acquaintance. Did you know Jack "The Tiger" Vespertine? Were you meant to meet him today?"

You grimace, realizing you have used the past tense when this man -Mihawk- still has no idea Vespertine is dead. This is probably the stupidest, most dangerous thing you have ever done, a leap in the dark, because your gun is still charged and nothing would stop you from at least trying to kill your second swordsman of the day, but you could simply keep walking, and he would have no way to know what has happened, since there is no trace of Vespertine's remains and by the time Mihawk may suspect he had been killed, you would be long gone.

Still. Something in your heart tells you you are doing the right thing, because you are not a coward, and because this man will not prove to be a danger for you. You don't know why, but you are sure.

"Is he a friend of yours?"

Mihawk brings his arms to his chest; he is still staring, and there is something in his gaze that makes you squirm - in his gaze, or perhaps in his eyes, which are of a very unusual colour...

"Why should I tell you?" he asks in the end.

"No reason, actually." you admit "It's just... well, I hope you were not close friends, or related, because he is dead."

Silence. You tense, ready for whatever his reaction will be, but the man lets his arms fall to his sides, without touching his sword - a good blade, he will tell you in time, but still largely inferior to Yoru, that will not come into his possession for a few years still.

"You killed him?"

"I did. Less than an hour ago, at the mine he was waiting for you at."

"Are you a pirate?"

No, just the daughter of one, you are for a moment about to answer, before quickly stopping yourself. You have been sworn to silence regarding the identity of your father, for the safety of your family and your own, and you have never been tempted to break that promise until now. What is happening to you?, you wonder, feeling strangely numbed all of a sudden, why do you instinctively feel able, or even eager, to share your secrets with a man you had never met before...?

(You will understand it; in time. And you will be happy of it.)

"No; I'm a mercenary working for the World Government." you answer in the end, trying to pull yourself together; it is technically not the truth, at least until you cash your first bounty, but the Marines do have a number of killers for hire on call, and who knows, perhaps one day you will be part of that selected circle... "Vespertine left a long list of victims behind him, there is a bounty on his head."

"I see."

You wait for him to elaborate, to express rage or regret or joy at the news of Vespertine's death, but Mihawk is clearly not the loquacious sort, because he keeps his emotions for himself, and "Thanks for telling me." he simply says.

"No problem. Why was he waiting for you?" you ask again, cocking your head; you have no idea of how dangerous he is, even now that he is little more than a boy, but even if you knew, you wouldn't be deterred. You are curious... and fascinated, somehow, by this stern and hermetic young man.

Mihawk looks at you, clearly disapproving of your curiosity, but in the end he sighs, and finally gives you the explanation you wanted. "We were meant to duel, Vespertine and I. He had challenged me a month ago, and we were meant to meet this morning at the mine. I... am running late, unfortunately, because the ship I took to reach this island clashed against a larger one and for a while it seemed it would go under."

"Oh, that's... scary."

He shrugs, clearly unconcerned. "I would have managed, I am a capable swimmer. I was just afraid Vespertine thought I had decided not to meet him because I was afraid."

"He... was a capable swordsman?" you ask again, still eager to learn more; the only bladed weapon you have ever handled is the knife you use at the table and, now, the larger one you took with you from home to separate your victim's head from his body, but you have always been fascinated by the world of the swordfighters, bound by a strict code of behaviour, who often have to prove themselves before a more experienced fighter accepts to train them and among whom most serious duels end with the death of one of the two opponents. For them, the weapon is not a tool, of defense and offense; it is... an art. A cult, almost.

"Above average, from what I saw, which is not saying much. But he had challenged me, and refusing would have been a stain upon my honour."

Just like you expected. "I see. Well." you add, suddenly embarrassed "I'm sorry I took your opponent away from you."

Mihawk shrugs, marginally more inclined to chat. "If he let you kill him, it means he wasn't a worthy opponent." he reasons; he has no facial hair, but his sideburns are long and neatly trimmed, and while already tall he's still a few inches away from his full stature "I should thank you for saving me a futile effort."

You cock your head, an eyebrow raised. "Are you saying I am less capable a markswoman than you are a swordsman?" you inquire; you don't care if Mihawk will propose to see for yourselves and challenge you, forgotten is the guilt you felt for ruining his morning. Who the hell this smart-ass thinks he is, especially considering you must be the same age? You don't care how actually powerful he is, you wouldn't even care if he were the world's strongest swordsman, no one can insult you and get away with it "Is it because I am a woman? Or because I use a gun and not a sword?"

"No, I..."

"I'll have you know I've been trained by one of the most capable former mercenaries of the four seas, and that Vespertine didn't even have the time to attack me before I put a bullet through his head."

"I'm sure you are more than capable." Mihawk says, clearly aiming to pacify you but, fortunately, without sounding patronizing "Forgive me; I meant no disrespect."

He seems sincere - he is, he will confess to you years later, and deeply embarrassed for the gaffe he just made; it is rare for him to admit he had erred... but, he will confide you with the shadow of a smile, he is happy those words didn't make you hate him, then and in the years to come. Because of this you decide to forgive him, and

"If you want we can split the bounty." you propose, feeling generous; you intended to donate the money to someone who needed it on your island, but you can take another assignment soon "Or, you know, there is Verspertine's sword, I can tell you where I buried it..."

Mihawk shakes his head. "I can only take another swordsman's blade if I am the one who bested them; in any case, I doubt a man like Vespertine owned a blade I could be interested in." he points out "And I don't need compensation; you killed him, you deserve to keep the money. Well, I... I suppose I should go back."

"Right..."

Silently, you both set off once more, walking side by side along the only path towards the nearest village. You are still on edge, both happy for your first success and shaken by the fact that you have, after all, just killed a man, but soon you find yourself focusing on something else... namely, on the young man walking next to you. He is undoubtedly handsome, but it's something else that piques your curiosity... a depth, and complexity, unusual for one so young, and that you can perceive behind his apparently impassible façade.

"So." you begin conversationally after a while; you have almost a mile to walk to the village, and maybe chatting will make you reach your destination faster "Are you any good with that sword?"

Mihawk grunts, the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice. "I like to think I am more than good."

"Really? Are you famous?"

"I am... becoming famous. This is why Vespertine wanted to duel me."

"And you think you would have beaten him?"

"I know I would have."

He speaks matter-of-factly, as if describing an undeniable truth and without the slightest hint of arrogance or overconfidence; you usually appreciate humility, and you have no way to know whether he is as good as he thinks he is, but you like the self-assurance he carries himself with.

"So this is what you do? Go around, duel other swordsmen so that you make a name for yourself as a powerful fighter?"

"I do." Mihawk easily acknowledges "When I'm not too busy fighting the Marines and looking for a loot or another."

"You're a pirate."

"I am. A wanted one, in case you were thinking of claiming my bounty as well."

You smile, aware you are both involved in a game whose rules are still undecided. "Is that a challenge?" you inquire, and Mihawk shrugs, looking straight in front of him.

"If you want to consider it as such."

"I see. Luckily for you, I intend to cash Vespertine's bounty before looking for another assignment, so I will not challenge you today."

"Luckily for me..."

Silence falls between you, an unexpectedly companionable one considering you have known each other only for a few minutes. As you glance sideways at Mihawk, you can't help noticing his eyes, yellow like the ones of a hawk; you have never seen anything of the sort, but there is beauty in his gaze.

"What about you?" Mihawk asks "What has brought you to become a mercenary?"

"Are you surprised?"

"Women are a minority in the trade, those as young as you even more so. You are wearing clothes of good quality, which means you are probably not doing it for the money. Am I right?"

"You are."

Mihawk grins. "As I thought. So what? Are you following in a relative's footsteps? Or were you simply bored?"

"Both things, in a sense." you admit, walking leisurely along the mud-smeared path; the fact that a virtual stranger is able to read you so easily should upset you, but it doesn't, maybe because you can perceive Mihawk poses no danger to you, or maybe not "I... simply needed to test myself. Growing up, I never had to worry about money, or fear for my safety; I'm not saying I was spoiled, or that I spend my days idling without duties and responsibilities, but I feared letting things go like they were meant to, I would become indolent, content with what I had but unable to aim higher. I never needed to prove I was strong, and clever, and capable of taking care of myself; but I wanted to make sure I was anyway."

You are not sure your reasoning makes sense, especially to someone who barely knows you, but Mihawk nods in understanding - in approval, even. "That was brave of you. And clever."

"I just wanted to do what I thought was right."

Twenty minutes of sporadic but pleasant conversation later, you have reached the village, actually little more than a handful of houses and little shops and a tiny harbour, connected by a regular ferry service to a larger island from where you can easily catch another boat to return home. Perhaps, you reflect, you should think about buying a small ship of your own; experienced sailors are not lacking on your island, and you could ask someone to teach you...

"You want to join me for a meal?" you propose as you walk past a tavern; you know you and Mihawk are destined to part soon anyway and will probably never meet again, but he is the most interesting person you have met in a long while, and you like talking to him "After all it's breakfast time..."

Mihawk hesitates for a moment, taken aback by your offer. "I'd... like that." he answers, and you could swear that surprises him as well "But I need to depart soon."

"I see. Well..."

You are both standing in the village's tiny, almost empty square. This is good-bye, then, you're about to say, but impulsively you step closer to the man in front of you, who tenses. "What...?"

"Your eyes." you murmur without realizing. You were right, they are yellow, their gaze piercing and deep, intense albeit not necessarily cruel "They are... beautiful."

"... you think?"

"Of course; I had never seen anyone with eyes like yours! They make you look like a bird of prey. Like an hawk."

Something in your words makes the man in front of you smile; he is flattered, and still not as good at hiding his emotions as he will be in twenty years. "I've been told that before."

"Is it hereditary? Do you have a particularly sharp vision or...?"

"I... don't think so; no one I have ever met has them, and I see normally."

"Amazing..."

Silence again; you face each other, both still so young, full of dreams and ambition, unaware of what the future has in store for you - individually and not. Neither has any idea you will meet again, and how your relationship will change and grow, but in that moment, both of you are sure, a sort of quiet, clear certitude: you will remember that brief encounter forever.

In the end Mihawk takes a step back, both literally and metaphorically. "I should go." he softly points out nodding in the direction of the village's harbour "So... good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mihawk." you answer, intimately saddened for reasons you can't fully explain even to yourself; it is not like you to get attached to people you barely know, but there is something interesting in this young swordsman, something special, and you wouldn't mind having the time to discover exactly what...

A nod, the hint of a smile, and he's walking away. You look at his retreating figure for a minute, his dark hair gently swaying in the breeze, his hand elegantly resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Maybe one day we'll meet again." you call out to him, making Mihawk turn "Maybe I'll be asked to bring you in to the Marines."

He smiles; once again, amused, but not patronizing. "I look forward to it." he answers, raising an hand in farewell "What is your name?"

"It's (name). Lady (name)."

"I'll be seeing you then, lady (name)."

A minute later he has disappeared, hidden by the buildings across the square. You smile to yourself; something tells you Mihawk is destined to make a name for himself, as a pirate and even more as a swordsman, and you can only hope that, by your next meeting, you will have done the same.

Still, that could take years, and in the meantime you have a couple of more pressing matters to attend to: breakfast, since your stomach has started growling, and calling both your family, to let her know you're all right, and the Marines.

You decide to take care of that first, to get it over with. You glance once more at the tavern, hoping the coffee they offer is better than the one you drank on the ferry, retrieve your transponder snail from a side pocket of your bag, and dial the number you had learnt by heart before setting off from home. You could technically cash Vespertine's bounty in any Marine base of the world, but you decided to do it at their HQ, especially since it's your first time; you hope it will be easier to get noticed, and make a name for yourself as a capable mercenary.

"Good morning. Who do I have to talk to in order to claim a bounty? Vice-Admiral Garp? Yes, put me through to him, please..."

#One Piece #One Piece Live Action #OPLA #Dracule Mihawk #Mihawk #Dracule Mihawk x reader #Steven John Wars #Mihawk x reader #Steven John Ward #Theo Le Ray #Bellona's stuff

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districtfourmermaid · 5 months ago

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Do you have specific locations in mind when you write about Panem? For example, is 12 in a particular part of Appalachia for you, etc? I can't tell from Katharsis (which, don't worry about that, because trust me, it says way more about my geography skills than your writing skills lol) so I was curious!

Ahoy, sweet reader!!! Thank you so much for asking this, because it touches on something I have been thinking about more this year. And bear with me, I'm gonna go off a minute, and it will veer more towards Four.

First, let's look at the movie!official map.

Something that has always bothered me about this is the size and proximity of the Districts. There are some, particularly Nine, Ten, and Eleven, that we can infer or were described as taking up more land. For their industries, they must. However, it is noted that most Districts' populations and economic centers are concentrated in singular towns. In those geographically larger Districts, workers may be shuttled between home and work sites, but there is a limit to how far that can stretch. Two is noted to be the odd one out with its multiple villages. So, given that we know the Districts do not actually take up this kind of space, that there are miles and miles of wilds between their borders, it is really just a display of potential ranges.

I always imagined Twelve in the northern Appalachians, a little east of this map, since I wasn't accounting for as much sea level rise. I like having Thirteen further north, nearer old Canada, to incorporate a wider range of North America, and a Twelve in the northern part of the mountains lets us have that without them being too far for the commutes in Mockingjay. In Ch. 16, I said Buttercup "trekked hundreds of miles," and to get that, I mapped West Virginia to New York. Not super precise. When she gathers herbs in Ch. 9, I did double check their current ranges and preferred growing habitats to try to be accurate. Northern creep explained by climate change. Coming up, they will eat some wild boar. Feral swine are a big nuisance in the south, and they can get up to the range depicted for Twelve. May even spread further with such a decrease in urban environments, but I'm not a terrestrial biologist. Here, the range for Twelve is smaller than the other Districts, and I don't have a more specific headcanon aside from being biased for the bit closer to Pennsylvania.

Now, being a Chicago gal, I do appreciate its inclusion at the tip of District 6. It's where the transcontinental railroad connected and has historically been the intersection of many a terrestrial trade route--and big about trains--thanks to the Great Lakes! To me, Six is there, and they still use old railway paths and the lakes for moving things, even if there isn't much in the direction the lakes lead anymore. No idea why Three would be there; I used to headcanon that as somewhere in California like Silicon Valley or wherever those people moved after it was eaten by the sea. Three should be closer to Five, which is very appropriately placed where solar panels will get a lot of action.

So, about District 4. When I first read the books, if I thought about seafood in the US, I thought about Bubba from Forrest Gump and all the glorious ways he enjoyed shrimp. This led my first thought about District 4 to the Gulf of Mexico. Later, the West coast grew on me, but Southern Four will always have a place in my heart. And that connects to my next point. Let's talk about Aquaculture!

This figure represents world-wide industry and our current environment, so we must take it with a grain of salt to extrapolate to Panem. That said, I do believe that Four does a combination of wild capture and aquaculture. Wild fisheries could be completely depleted for all we know! Aquaculture is the way of sustainability, and I can go on about that for hours. BUT do you know what the top-cultured aquatic species in the US is today? Catfish!

This map is shows the profit of catfish and other freshwater species like bass and tilapia in the South. If we roll with Four being on the West coast, then I will always put it in the northern part of that. Note the shade of Washington. That's salmon and trout! Salmonids and other prized seafood species are cold water animals! They also do a fair amount of salmonid aquaculture in Idaho. I do not buy a Californian District 4. Not with the way the waters are warming. There is so much salmonid aquaculture up that coast into Canada, too! And the "Yellow Death" that Four's trout hatchery scientists make a new vaccine for in Katharsis Ch. 11 is a Flavobacterium sp.

Anyway, thanks for asking!!!

#hunger games #Panem #district 12 #district 6 #district 3 #district 4 #aquaculture #ask #anon #katharsis

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devilboydogman · 4 months ago

Text

OH GOD ANOTHER BRAIN WORM FOR THIS CROSSOVER LORD HELP ME-

“Diane,” said the younger agent from the driver’s seat, “11:30 A.M., February 24th. Entering the town of Twin Peaks. It’s five miles south of the Canadian border, twelve miles east of the state line.”

Will kept his head leaned agianst the passenger seat window as he listened to Dale speak into his recorder, even as his skull vibrated agsainst the glass with the movement of the car down the road.

“I’ve never seen so many trees in my life!” Dale dropped the suave-agent tone for just a moment to be proclaim his fascination for nature, and Will had to smile a little bit at the innocent sort of wonder in his voice.

Will listened as the professional tone returned and Dale began detailing their trip to his secretary. Will preferred to write the notes he sent back to the bureau, but he knew well of Dale Cooper’s M.O., the way he used that mini cassette recorder as both a note dictation medium and as a security blanket of sorts, expressing thoughts and feelings that often had little-to nothing to do with cases to Diane Evans simply because he felt comforted in doing so. “...Remind me to tell you how much that was ...Lunch was, uh, ham sandwich on wheat, a cup of coffee, and a slice of cherry pie, for me. Agent Graham had turkey on rye and a coffee. Damn good food.”

“It was pretty average, Ms. Evans,” Will chimed in aloud, fondly rolling his eyes.

“Well, you didn’t have the pie, Will!” Dale shot back, earnestly, then continued with the details of where and who they were to meet when they arrived. Will hoped that the sheriff who shared a name wiht the 33rd President of the United States would be cooperative.

Will sat up and straightened his tie slightly as they rolled into the town, knowing they’d shortly be coming upon their destination of Calhoun Memorial Hospital to meet with the Sheriff. Bureau dress codes were a pain and a half to Will, but he usually got away with leaving his top button undone, his suit jacket unbuttoned, and his tie a bit loose. It simply felt too constricing otherwise. The damn trench coat made him feel like he should be smoking a cigar in a grizzly detective noir film. He had the five o’clock shadow and tired eyes to complete the look, anyway.

The uniform made Dale, on the other hand, look like an overenthusiastic kid taking dress-up way too seriously. Will knew that hair style of his had to feel like hell, the amount of gel he used.

#will graham #dale cooper #twin peaks #hannibal #twin peaks fanfiction #hannibal fanfiction

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eternal-haunt · 2 months ago

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Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B.—I dine between twelve and one o’clock; the housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I might be served at five)—on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an infernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders. This spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a four-miles’ walk, arrived at Heathcliff’s garden-gate just in time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow-shower.

On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged causeway bordered with straggling gooseberry-bushes, knocked vainly for admittance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled.

‘Wretched inmates!’ I ejaculated, mentally, ‘you deserve perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I don’t care—I will get in!’ So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently. Vinegar-faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the barn.

‘What are ye for?’ he shouted. ‘T’ maister’s down i’ t’ fowld. Go round by th’ end o’ t’ laith, if ye went to spake to him.’

‘Is there nobody inside to open the door?’ I hallooed, responsively.

‘There’s nobbut t’ missis; and shoo’ll not oppen ’t an ye mak’ yer flaysome dins till neeght.’

‘Why? Cannot you tell her whom I am, eh, Joseph?’

‘Nor-ne me! I’ll hae no hend wi’t,’ muttered the head, vanishing.

The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through a wash-house, and a paved area containing a coal-shed, pump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully in the radiance of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and near the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to observe the ‘missis’, an individual whose existence I had never previously suspected. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me take a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained motionless and mute.

‘Rough weather!’ I remarked. ‘I’m afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door must bear the consequence of your servants’ leisure attendance: I had hard work to make them hear me.’

She never opened her mouth. I stared—she stared also: at any rate, she kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly embarrassing and disagreeable.

‘Sit down,’ said the young man, gruffly. ‘He’ll be in soon.’

I obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno, who deigned, at this second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of owning my acquaintance.

‘A beautiful animal!’ I commenced again. ‘Do you intend parting with the little ones, madam?’

‘They are not mine,’ said the amiable hostess, more repellingly than Heathcliff himself could have replied.

‘Ah, your favourites are among these?’ I continued, turning to an obscure cushion full of something like cats.

‘A strange choice of favourites!’ she observed scornfully.

Unluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, and drew closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness of the evening.

‘You should not have come out,’ she said, rising and reaching from the chimney-piece two of the painted canisters.

Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and apparently scarcely past girlhood: an admirable form, and the most exquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of beholding; small features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered between scorn and a kind of desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected there. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to aid her; she turned upon me as a miser might turn if any one attempted to assist him in counting his gold.

‘I don’t want your help,’ she snapped; ‘I can get them for myself.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ I hastened to reply.

‘Were you asked to tea?’ she demanded, tying an apron over her neat black frock, and standing with a spoonful of the leaf poised over the pot.

‘I shall be glad to have a cup,’ I answered.

‘Were you asked?’ she repeated.

‘No,’ I said, half smiling. ‘You are the proper person to ask me.’

She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a pet; her forehead corrugated, and her red under-lip pushed out, like a child’s ready to cry.

Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby upper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some mortal feud unavenged between us. I began to doubt whether he were a servant or not: his dress and speech were both rude, entirely devoid of the superiority observable in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff; his thick brown curls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common labourer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed none of a domestic’s assiduity in attending on the lady of the house. In the absence of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to abstain from noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes afterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure, from my uncomfortable state.

‘You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!’ I exclaimed, assuming the cheerful; ‘and I fear I shall be weather-bound for half an hour, if you can afford me shelter during that space.’

‘Half an hour?’ he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes; ‘I wonder you should select the thick of a snow-storm to ramble about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People familiar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a change at present.’

‘Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay at the Grange till morning—could you spare me one?’

‘No, I could not.’

‘Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity.’

‘Umph!’

‘Are you going to mak’ the tea?’ demanded he of the shabby coat, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady.

‘Is he to have any?’ she asked, appealing to Heathcliff.

‘Get it ready, will you?’ was the answer, uttered so savagely that I started. The tone in which the words were said revealed a genuine bad nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a capital fellow. When the preparations were finished, he invited me with ‘Now, sir, bring forward your chair.’ And we all, including the rustic youth, drew round the table: an austere silence prevailing while we discussed our meal.

I thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it was impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal scowl they wore was their everyday countenance.

‘It is strange,’ I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea and receiving another ‘it is strange how custom can mould our tastes and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff; yet, I’ll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart—’

‘My amiable lady!’ he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on his face. ‘Where is she—my amiable lady?’

‘Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.’

‘Well, yes—oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even when her body is gone. Is that it?’

Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of being married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace of our declining years. The other did not look seventeen.

Then it flashed on me— ‘The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea out of a basin and eating his broad with unwashed hands, may be her husband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being buried alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor from sheer ignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity—I must beware how I cause her to regret her choice.’ The last reflection may seem conceited; it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive; I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably attractive.

‘Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law,’ said Heathcliff, corroborating my surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction: a look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.

‘Ah, certainly—I see now: you are the favoured possessor of the beneficent fairy,’ I remarked, turning to my neighbour.

This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his fist, with every appearance of a meditated assault. But he seemed to recollect himself presently, and smothered the storm in a brutal curse, muttered on my behalf: which, however, I took care not to notice.

‘Unhappy in your conjectures, sir,’ observed my host; ‘we neither of us have the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate is dead. I said she was my daughter-in-law: therefore, she must have married my son.’

‘And this young man is—’

‘Not my son, assuredly.’

Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to attribute the paternity of that bear to him.

‘My name is Hareton Earnshaw,’ growled the other; ‘and I’d counsel you to respect it!’

‘I’ve shown no disrespect,’ was my reply, laughing internally at the dignity with which he announced himself.

He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than neutralised, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time.

The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A sorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow.

‘I don’t think it possible for me to get home now without a guide,’ I could not help exclaiming. ‘The roads will be buried already; and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance.’

‘Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They’ll be covered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them,’ said Heathcliff.

‘How must I do?’ I continued, with rising irritation.

There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only Joseph bringing in a pail of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff leaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a bundle of matches which had fallen from the chimney-piece as she restored the tea-canister to its place. The former, when he had deposited his burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in cracked tones grated out ‘Aw wonder how yah can faishion to stand thear i’ idleness un war, when all on ’ems goan out! Bud yah’re a nowt, and it’s no use talking—yah’ll niver mend o’yer ill ways, but goa raight to t’ divil, like yer mother afore ye!’

I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence was addressed to me; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged rascal with an intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however, checked me by her answer.

‘You scandalous old hypocrite!’ she replied. ‘Are you not afraid of being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil’s name? I warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I’ll ask your abduction as a special favour! Stop! look here, Joseph,’ she continued, taking a long, dark book from a shelf; ‘I’ll show you how far I’ve progressed in the Black Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The red cow didn’t die by chance; and your rheumatism can hardly be reckoned among providential visitations!’

‘Oh, wicked, wicked!’ gasped the elder; ‘may the Lord deliver us from evil!’

‘No, reprobate! you are a castaway—be off, or I’ll hurt you seriously! I’ll have you all modelled in wax and clay! and the first who passes the limits I fix shall—I’ll not say what he shall be done to—but, you’ll see! Go, I’m looking at you!’

The little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful eyes, and Joseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and ejaculating ‘wicked’ as he went. I thought her conduct must be prompted by a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavoured to interest her in my distress.

‘Mrs. Heathcliff,’ I said earnestly, ‘you must excuse me for troubling you. I presume, because, with that face, I’m sure you cannot help being good-hearted. Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way home: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to get to London!’

‘Take the road you came,’ she answered, ensconcing herself in a chair, with a candle, and the long book open before her. ‘It is brief advice, but as sound as I can give.’

‘Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit full of snow, your conscience won’t whisper that it is partly your fault?’

‘How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn’t let me go to the end of the garden wall.’

‘You! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my convenience, on such a night,’ I cried. ‘I want you to tell me my way, not to show it: or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a guide.’

‘Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph and I. Which would you have?’

‘Are there no boys at the farm?’

‘No; those are all.’

‘Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay.’

‘That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.’

‘I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on these hills,’ cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen entrance. ‘As to staying here, I don’t keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do.’

‘I can sleep on a chair in this room,’ I replied.

‘No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit me to permit any one the range of the place while I am off guard!’ said the unmannerly wretch.

With this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend me.

‘I’ll go with him as far as the park,’ he said.

‘You’ll go with him to hell!’ exclaimed his master, or whatever relation he bore. ‘And who is to look after the horses, eh?’

‘A man’s life is of more consequence than one evening’s neglect of the horses: somebody must go,’ murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected.

‘Not at your command!’ retorted Hareton. ‘If you set store on him, you’d better be quiet.’

‘Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin,’ she answered, sharply.

‘Hearken, hearken, shoo’s cursing on ’em!’ muttered Joseph, towards whom I had been steering.

He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern.

‘Maister, maister, he’s staling t’ lanthern!’ shouted the ancient, pursuing my retreat. ‘Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, holld him, holld him!’

On opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat, bearing me down, and extinguishing the light; while a mingled guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton put the copestone on my rage and humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching their paws, and yawning, and flourishing their tails, than devouring me alive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I was forced to lie till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, hatless and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out—on their peril to keep me one minute longer—with several incoherent threats of retaliation that, in their indefinite depth of virulency, smacked of King Lear.

The vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don’t know what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack her master, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel.

‘Well, Mr. Earnshaw,’ she cried, ‘I wonder what you’ll have agait next? Are we going to murder folk on our very door-stones? I see this house will never do for me—look at t’ poor lad, he’s fair choking! Wisht, wisht; you mun’n’t go on so. Come in, and I’ll cure that: there now, hold ye still.’

With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness.

I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled perforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed.

...

I am speechless.

Are you truly able to send an entire chapter in a single message like this? What is this tomfoolery?

#distant.remark #limbus company #limbus company au #limbus company rp

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