#warning: vague descriptions of warfare and violence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

godmadeaterribleerror · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter 3 - You've Torn Your Dress

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: This one's the first of many doozies. I recommend you clock out now if you think the following will distress you: mentions of rape, but no scenes or explicit description. If not, read on! Chapter Title is from Rebel Rebel by David Bowie.

Word Count: 7.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Your first mission is delivered, and it goes about as expected. Contains usual tags, emphasis on mention of rape/non-con.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst

Read on A03!

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

When your team stepped into the safe house, you could see the moment the smell hit their noses.

“Merde,” Frenchie was the first to speak, a poor omen within itself. “What the fuck am I smelling?”

“Uh, probably the milk and meat. They’re the strongest.”

Annie said your name carefully, watching your reaction as she spoke. “What happened.”

“He wouldn’t put away the groceries.” You said with a shrug. You were over it. It was like, ten bad things ago.

“So you just. Left them out?” Hughie said, seemingly baffled.

“Yeah.”

“Mallory said she delivered them on the first night.” Annie glanced between you and Hughie.

“She did.”

Hughie’s eyes widened further. “That was almost two weeks ago.” When you just nodded in agreement, he pushed further. “They’ve been out the whole time?”

You frowned. “He doesn’t get to win.”

“What are you, five?”

You just sighed, giving Hughie a pleading look. “Don’t tell MM.”

“What?” Butcher taunted from the back of the group. “That he was right, and you can’t handle Soldier Boy?”

“I thought you were on my side about this.”

“I’m on the side of the truth, Love.”

Both you, Annie, and Frenchie let out huffs of amusement at that claim, with Hughie looking sheepishly amused.

“You can’t possibly believe that.” Annie gave Butcher a pointed look. He only winked in response, leaving her to turn back to you with an eye roll.

“Has it been like this,” Hughie gestured vaguely around him. “The whole time?”

“Nah. Worse.”

Really, hell would be a better word for it. After the knife incident, there had been the toilet paper incident, which you had won, the coffee incident, also your victory, the laundry incident, point Soldier Boy, the TV incident, point you, and the Lord of the Rings incident, another point Soldier Boy. The Elton John, Jimmy Carter, and Rockefeller Center incidents had ended in stalemates akin to the Cold War, but should those fuses reignite, you were sure you could take them home. Overall, you’d burned him seven times, he’d thrown two chairs at you, you tossed shit in his face once and threatened castration on fifteen separate occasions, and he had offered to sleep with you thirty-one times.

“He hasn’t, he hasn’t hurt you. Right?” Hughie wasn’t fully looking at you when he asked, his voice soft and nervous.

“No. I mean, he’s tried. Not in… that way, but I’ve had a few things thrown at me. All the physical violence died out around the laundry incident, though. Now we’re using psychological warfare.”

“Laundry incident?” Hughie said at the same time that Frenchie said, “Psychological warfare?”

“Don’t ask.” Was your response to both. You’d avoid revisiting the laundry incident in your mind for the rest of your life if you could help it, and the actual practice of your warfare was more childish than you’d like to admit.

“Well, as lovely as a reunion this has been, we need to talk to you both. Where’s the cunt, anyway?" Butcher craned his neck to look down the hall.

“Probably moping around in his room.” You shrugged. “Let’s talk in the living room, standing at the door is weird.”

While the living room hadn’t taken even close to as much damage as the kitchen, it had not escaped you and Soldier Boy’s sparring unscathed. Books provided by the CIA, which were mostly stereotypical classics, had been upended from their shelves and strewn across the floor. The TV was still intact, as was the sofa, but the former was stuck on PBS, and the latter was, at this point, compromised of 70% trash.

“Holy shit,” Hughie muttered as he stepped over a copy of Catcher in the Rye. “You can’t plan on living like this the whole time?”

“Well, if America’s number one man-baby would stop moaning and bitching about his glory days, then maybe, yeah.”

Annie gave you a concerned look. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll castrate him.” Though the threat had now been made sixteen times, it never satisfied you less to say it.

“I’ve told you, Sunshine, if you did that, you would only be hurting yourself.”

Everyone in the room fell silent, their eyes trained over you with tense gazes. You turned to find Soldier Boy almost directly behind you. “I’ve told you, by definition, I’d only be hurting you.”

He gave a mocking pout. “Wouldn’t that plague your perfect little conscious?”

“I’d live.”

“Bitch.”

“Cunt.”

“Prude.”

“Manwhore.”

“Whiny Brat.”

“Waste of space.”

“Waste of good pussy.”

“Waste of government money.”

“Waste of Compound V.”

“Pathetic, assfaced Dickwad.”

“Stuck up, pretentious Ice Queen.”

“Geriatric, entitled, blue-balled G.I. Joe Fuckdoll”

The room had practically vanished around you as you and Soldier Boy fell into your now well-tread path of insults. Your blood was burning with that feeling, aching to burst across the room as both of you glared hard enough to, fingers crossed, kill the other.

“Jesus Christ,” Hughie said, breaking you out of your own spell.

“What are they doing here?” Soilder Boy asked, somehow having only just clocked their presence. “Do I finally get to do my job and leave?”

“No,” Annie answered. “We have no way of knowing how long you’ll be here at this point.”

“That’s what I said,” you muttered under your breath, turning back to your team.

“Yeah,” Soldier Boy said at full volume. “And I don’t fucking trust you.”

“Will you get off my ass about it now?”

“I think you like me on your ass, Sunshine. My offer never leaves the table.”

“Cunt.”

“Bitch.”

“Helpless man-child.”

“Prissy tease.”

“Glorified propaganda poster-“

“No,” Annie cut it. “We’re not doing that again.”

“Party pooper,” Butcher grumbled. “I was hoping they’d kill each other this time. Then we could just go home.”

“Well, did you at least bring me drugs?” Soldier Boy seemed to search the room, as if a pile of weed and coke would miraculously appear on the floor amongst the mess of wrappers and fluid-filled paper towels.

“We’re not buying you drugs with government money.” Annie said, giving you a look of apology. “As I’m sure you’ve been told.”

“Many times,” you affirm under your breath. You’d had to hide the glue on day five, which had let to the toilet paper incident on day six. A day had not passed since where you didn’t catch him trying to turn a new household object into something to snort.

“I thought weed was fucking legal now.” Soldier Boy glared at you, as if you were personally responsible for the CIA not buying him blunts. “It’s a free fucking country. I should be able to smoke whenever I damn please.”

“Porn is legal,” you reply. “Doesn’t mean the federal government is going to bring you some.”

“If they brought me porn and weed, I’d be far more open to whatever shit you want from me.” He winked at you.

“We gave you that last time,” Hughie pointed out, shifting nervously. “It barely helped.”

“Will you be a good little supe if we come back with porn and weed? Because we can go and-“

“No, we need to do this now.” Annie spoke over Butcher, and you noticed a line of worry on her forehead, along with Hughie’s nervous fidgeting. Though Butcher didn’t seem plagued by an anxious tell, he relented to Annie faster than you’d ever seen, and alarm bells went off in your head.

“Annie,” you bit the bullet, asking softly. “What is the ‘this’ you need us for?”

She gave you an apologetic look. “Trial run.”

“Trial run?”

“We’re giving you a test, Love.” Butcher said with a smirk. “See if your little experiment is even viable. Maybe take out a player in the process. All depends on if you and him,” he jerked his head to Soldier Boy. “Do your jobs right.”

“I don’t need your little ‘test’ to know if I can do my job.” Soldier Boy snapped.

“Last time you failed,” Hughie muttered.

Frenchie nodded in agreement. “In a spectacular manner, yes.”

“Because that bitch and that pussy stopped me.” An angry scowl was thrown at Annie and Butcher, who returned it and grinned widely back respectively.

“You were going to kill a kid,” Annie said coldly.

“He shouldn’t have been in the line of fire.”

“The line of fire? Do you hear yourself? Do you really care about others so little that-“

“I’d do it again,” he snapped back, unbothered by Annie’s disgust. “You don’t get to ask me for help and get mad when I do.”

You gave Butcher a pointed look. “Aren’t you glad you listened to me?”

Though all you got in response was a grunt from Butcher, Soldier Boy’s eyes shot to you. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

You returned his glare, steeling your own eyes to match his interrogating gaze. “We’re removing the ‘kill a kid’ option from your choices. You want to know why we’re stuck here? Because you fucked it last time, and we won’t let you fuck up again.”

“You won’t let me?” He sneered, leering at you coldly. “You don’t let me do anything, Sunshine.”

If the “Sunshine” thing continued to stick, you might have to throw yourself off a roof. But you didn’t flinch, just tilting your head mockingly. “You wouldn’t need a shock collar if you hadn’t bit the hand.”

“I wouldn’t bite the hand if it hadn’t tried to kill me.”

“Nobody tried to kill you, Mate.” Butcher interjected. Soldier Boy’s anger switched back to him with fists curling at his side, but Butcher kept talking with a bored drawl. “You shouldn’t have bloody fucked up.”

“And, like I said,” you shrugged. “It won’t happen again.”

“If I see the shot, I’ll take it. Whether you like it or not.”

Looking into his eyes, you believed him. No doubt fogged your brain that, given the opportunity, Soldier Boy wouldn’t hesitate to take out Ryan Butcher with Homelander. Part of you, the angry and bitter part still trapped underground, understood that. But you’d see Ryan once, from afar, and he had looked so young. You didn’t have to imagine his fear or touch him to understand what it was like. For your life to change abruptly and without reason, to have to sprint to keep up with your new one. Soldier Boy had volunteered for this life. Ryan hadn’t. You hadn’t.

So, holding Soldier Boy’s gaze, you made your voice clear and steady. “You don’t get to take the shot until it’s clear. Ryan will be out of the picture before you even see Homelander.” You turned to Annie. “What’s the test?”

“Head-popper.” Butcher answered for Annie with an odd look at you. His voice carried the usual light and oddly joyful tone he used when discussing murdering supes, but his eyes on yours were quieter, with less manic vengeance than you’d seen before. If you didn’t know better, you’d call them thankful.

“Head-popper?”

Hughie jumped in at your confused frown. “Neuman.”

“Oh,” you paused, looking over Hughie’s worried face. “We’re going after Neuman?”

“Who the fuck is Neuman?” Soldier Boy asked with a reluctant grumble. You had picked up on his consistent annoyance with new things after you’d found him screaming at the microwave three days ago, and not knowing new people didn’t seem to be any different.

“She’s a supe who can pop people’s heads like balloons.” Frenchie gestured in imitation for effect. “It’s disgusting.”

“And she’s the VP elect, which would put an ally of Homelander in the White House, one step from the Oval Office.” Annie said pointedly, giving Frenchie a look. You offered him a small smile over her head. Though the demonstration hadn’t been helpful, watching his hands fly around mimicking Neuman’s powers was undeniably entertaining.

“She's dangerous,” Hughie added. “But she’s not a bad person. We don’t want to kill her, just remove her powers.”

“What do we need her for then?” You didn’t have to look to know Soldier Boy’s accusation was directed at you. You bit your tongue, trying to ignore the way the words seeped into your skin.

Because he’s right. A cruel whisper said into your ear, and the itch on your skin began to feel like a rash. You were saved from the plague of your thoughts—the urgent feeling to fall prompted by almost nothing—by Butcher.

“If you think you’re going anywhere without her, Governor, you’d better get used to being wrong. She’s there for the same reason she’s here. So you don’t go postal.”

Soldier Boy gave you an unreadable look as the rush of your heart in your chest slowed from Butcher’s words. You turned away from him, but you could almost feel his eyes through your skull as you looked at Butcher with a blank face.

“What’s the plan?” You asked, praying it would be simple, with as few people as possible around and, ideally, in the middle of a desert filled exclusively with fire extinguishers.

“MM and Kimiko are doing recon on one of Bob Singer’s rallies. Frenchie will create a distraction for the secret service, and Neuman’s personal detail is going to suddenly disappear-“

“Disappear?” You interrupted Butcher with raised eyebrows.

“Keep your panties on, they’ve been bribed. Once she’s isolated, Soldier Boy’ll blast her, and we can all go home confident in your little gambit.”

You hesitated, trying to imagine the last political rally you’d seen. Group of people in tight groups, electrical wiring for microphones, speakers, and lights. Gates and closed doors, hallways leading out onto streets. “How are we going to isolate her?”

“Me and Butcher will work on that,” Annie said, almost reaching for you with a reassuring pat, but thinking better and jerking her arm back. She opened her mouth, an apology certainly on her, but you raised your hand to cut her off.

“How long until we leave?” You asked. Maybe they’d say ‘three hours’ and you’d get to talk to someone who didn’t think swing music was sonically viable for a bit.

Hughie checked his watch. “Ten minutes ago.”

“Ago?” Your eyes widened.

He gave you a sheepish look. “We thought it would take less time to get you.” He turned to Soldier Boy. “Your suit’s in the van. I can bring it out-“

“I can change on the way.” Soldier Boy grumbled, ignoring Hughie’s start of sputtering protests. “Let’s get this over with.”

———-

Much to his annoyance, they had forgotten Ben’s shield, and nobody would let him change in the van. He tried several times, only to be met by a chorus of groans, shouting, and swearing. He had listened to their complaints only because she had started giving him a look he recognized as a flag for a storm of uncontrolled fire. No hot disgust or sparks of rage, only a cold and quiet, almost glassy-eyed stare. Her heart steady but her breathing too fucking controlled to be natural, measured so equally that it sounded mechanical. So, because he figured she would only become more bitchy to live with if she incinerated her alleged “friends”, Ben stopped trying to pull his shirt over his head.

Once he did, the van fell insufferably silent. The edged pleasantries and conversation he’d overheard during Butcher and his band of Assholes arrival had ceased save for tense questions and hushed conversations. Ben didn’t fail to notice all the spineless avoidance and careful words directed at them both. She, even after the foggy look faded, remained curled into a corner, trading small and toothless smiles with her team. More timid than he’d seen her before, almost like a scolded child as she looked around the van nervously. Her eyes watched the shadows as though Homelander himself might jump from them, the chew of her lip giving Ben a headache. The only words she spoke were a jab at Ben when he’d said something about political rallies post-election being fucking pathetic—giving him a lecture about American politics now heavily depending on something called “going viral”—only to fall silent once more after. Her team looked at her like a glass bomb, as if she was a delicate statue looming over their heads and not the vulgar, violent woman who slept down the hall from him. That woman infuriated him, testing his patience every time she opened her mouth, but this paranoid, skittish pussy of a girl was so much worse. So when the van halted and Butcher’s team began to filter out, he called her name. When she ignored him, he reached out and grabbed her arm.

“What the fuck!” She pulled herself out of his grip in a second, staring at him with anger. She glanced down at her arms, a look he didn’t understand crossing her face, before returning her attention to him. “Do not touch me.”

“I barely touched you,” he glowered, annoyance quickly flooding him. He had only brushed skin, with a light grip she had thrown off, there was no need to be so dramatic. “When I touch you for real, you’ll fucking know, Sunshine. And you’ll fucking beg for it. I needed to make you listen, you were fucking ignoring me.”

Her brows knit, and he heard the chew of her teeth on her tongue. “I’m not going to beg for anything, and I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“I said your name, and you kept fucking walking.”

“I didn’t hear you.” She snapped, but didn’t relent. “Speak up next time.”

She knew just as well as Ben did that they were both far from quiet, pussy-voiced fuckers. And while he definitely hadn’t yelled for her attention, it shouldn’t have fucking mattered. He’d seen her pick up his grumbled insults and mocking comments just fine over the past two weeks. “Bitch.”

“What do you want?” She asked with a sigh, ignoring his jab and looking at him as if he exhausted her just by breathing. “We have to go, and you still need to change.”

“You shouldn’t let them treat you like that.” He said, not hiding the contempt from his voice. He wasn’t going to skirt around his thoughts, lining them gently to help her fucking feelings.

Her body tensed, her limbs looking as if they’d locked into place. “Like what?” Ben heard her swallow as she answered, her voice not lost enough to make her sound clueless to his words.

“Like you’re a child they have to coddle. A problem they have to deal with.”

She stared at him, her glassy-eyes returning. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, cunt-face.”

Ben snorted. “They don’t treat you like the bitch you are. They always use that sweet, pussy voice, like they’re talking to a fucking puppy, when they say something to you. They’re always all fucking pouty when they look at you, pussyfooting around so they don’t make you sad.” He gave her a mocking grin, hoping the next words landed like a bullet. “They treat you like me.”

It had clearly worked, as the van had grown hot, and her eyes were clearing as her heart began to pick up. Ben felt an odd feeling cover him as he heard it, almost familiar and sparking pride in his chest. She wasn’t a jittery shell anymore, she was going to try and kill him. It made his grin grow genuine, and the van grew only more heated, the air waving around them.

Her mouth opened, and Ben hoped whatever came out of it would be vile and crude.

“Hey!” She turned her head and clenched her jaw as someone called her name from outside, the van rattling as a fist banged against it. “We need to go!”

The door opened to reveal the Cocksucker, whose face grew quickly red, a bead of sweat falling from his hairline, as he was blasted with a quickly dying wave of heat.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, turning from Ben as the heat dropped further. “Coming.”

Cocksucker gave her a worried look, his gaze flying quickly to Ben, but just nodded and stood aside for her to move past.

As the door closed and Ben began to change, he listened for their soft, tense words.

“Are you okay? Did he do anything to you?” Cocksucker’s voice was nervous and gentle, like being suffocated by one of those fucking fluffy blankets Ben had seen in the empty bedroom of the safe house.

“No, he just grabbed me to talk. And you don’t have to keep asking me that. I’m fine, and it’s not as helpful as you think it is.” Ben frowned at her voice, the malice from it drained entirely in only a few seconds, replaced with only a tired hollowness.

“Grabbed you?! Like, he touched you?”

Having anticipated Cocksucker being more interested in the “talk” part of her sentence, or the shit that sounded like it was about feelings, Ben's brain rattled over Cocksucker’s word, his tone of panic looping in Ben’s head. He spoke of Ben’s touch as though it were a plague, and not something many people would kill to feel. Ben almost burst out of the van to say just that, but froze when he heard her answer.

“It was fast, I didn’t feel much. Even if I did, it doesn’t matter. I can’t go the rest of my life without touching people.” Her voice had a finality to it, and Ben could almost picture her downturned lips and wrinkled brow.

“You touch us when you heal us.” Even Cocksucker’s voice didn’t sound sure of his response.

“It’s not the same, and you know that.”

There was a momentary stall in their words, and Ben took the opportunity to emerge, securing his belt as he walked to the door. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see, but Cocksucker looking pathetically around, anywhere but the woman as she curved into herself, wasn’t it. She held a white-knuckle grip on the sleeves of her jacket, her thumb running up and down in small movements. They both turned to him as the door banged open, and Ben caught the empty look behind her eyes before her indifference slipped back into place.

“Did you hurry me just to sit around like pussies, or are we going to start fucking moving?” He asked, the air feeling too uncomfortable to sit in.

Cocksucker blinked, glancing at his watch. “We have a few minutes until they arrive, but I guess it can’t hurt to be vigilant-“

“Arrive?” The woman’s eyes widened, and Ben saw smoke curl from her hold on her jacket. “They’re coming here?”

Cocksucker nodded. “It’s a high-security escape exit-“

“It’s a fucking street, Hughie.”

“That’s used as a high-security escape exit.” After a moment of searching the area, Cocksucker pointed a few yards down, at a large door set against brick. “Neuman will come right out of there, and her guards will close her out here, where Soldier Boy will blast her.” He paused, glancing at Ben, before looking back at the door and taking small, cowardly steps away from his spot between them.

“It’s a public area, anyone could walk past! What the fuck were you thinking?!” Her voice was hushed and agitated, and Ben had never seen her face lose color at that speed before, had never heard her heart stutter and jump as if trying to escape her body.

“It’ll be fine,” Cocksucker’s voice wavered, giving them both a nervous look. “It should be fine. MM said it would be fine.”

“You heard him, Sunshine,” Ben gave her a wink, adding a half-cocked smile when she didn’t even return him with a dirty look. “MM said it would be fine. And have some fucking faith in me, I’m not a fucking monster. I won’t blast any running pussies except for this head-popper broad.”

“You don’t even know what she looks like.” Her tone wasn’t quite the vicious mockery he was used to, but it was better than the apathetic, empty voice she’d been using. She was rolling on the balls of her feet, speaking without looking at him, her eyes moving restlessly from the door to the end of the street. “And I don’t believe you.”

Ben just shrugged, allowing the silence to hang. The wind was picking up, whistling through the chill of winter air, making the heat around them, emitting from both Ben and the woman, all the more obvious. Despite the biting cold, Cocksucker had taken off his stupid puffy jacket, even stepping back further from where they stood, with Ben in the center of the street and the woman off to the left. Despite her slowly stepping further and further back, her back now almost against the wall, Ben could feel her watching him, hear her heart continue its new and erratic beat.

“How long now, Hughie?” Her voice was raised to carry over the wind, though it hadn’t lost that stupid fucking weakness. Cocksucker, thank fuck, didn’t get a chance to respond with pathetically comforting words, as only one skipping heartbeat after she spoke a shrill fire alarm sounded.

“I’m assuming that’s your stupid French fuck's plan?” Ben asked dryly. “Start a fucking fire? I thought you pussies were all about minimal damage.”

“He probably just pulled the alarm.” The Cocksucker’s answer lacked any confident assurance. “And I think we’re just against needless murder.”

Ben almost started to rant about their so-called needless murder being a mighty high horse for a group of people who had manipulated him just as much as Vought, who’d been willing to help him kill all those backstabbing pussies from Payback so he’d help them. About how their stupid fucking moral purity complex seemed to adjust perfectly to aid them, and maybe he wasn’t a fucking angel, but he was strong and powerful—something they fucking needed—man, and he wasn’t a pussyfaced liar about what he was, what he did. The words died on his tongue, though, as hundreds of frenzied footsteps reached his ears.

“Fuck!” he growled, turning around and pointing at Cocksucker. “You fucking pussy.”

Cocksucker gave him an idiotically confused stare. “Dude, uncalled for.”

“She,” Ben pointed to the woman, whose heart was beating impossibly fast and looking on with a bloodless face. “Was fucking right. This is a stupid plan, because unless your head-popper walks like a human centipede, it’s not going to be just her that I fucking hit when that door opens.”

Cocksucker only gaped at him like a fish as the footsteps grew louder, annoyingly unsure stutters escaping him, and just as Ben decided it might be good to slap the idiot out of his daze, the woman stepped forward.

“We need to move, Hughie. Now.” Her voice wasn’t steady, her whole body was tensed and hyper, but it held a determination Ben almost admired. “We can’t be here.”

“He- he could be fucking lying, or wrong-“

“That’s not a risk we can afford to take.” She cut off Cocksucker’s doubts, and Ben found himself surprised at her defense of him, even if it could barely be called that. Her hands were smoking once more, but she had firmly planted herself in the middle of the road, eyes turning sharply to Ben. “If people see you, any element of surprise over Homelander would be lost. We need to fucking move, you need to get in the fucking van now-“

The door banged open, and the streets flooded as hoards of people in star and stripe-themed outfits flooded the road. Everything became so loud, and that rapt, snapping sound in Ben’s head started to spread through him, spurring the drum in his chest. They were finding rhythm so fast, everything fading as Ben tried to slow it. But there were screams and shouts, and everything was getting further and further away from him while carving into him all the same, so though Ben could hear the sounds of metal clanging and shouts of his supe name, he couldn’t think anything past the beat beat beat, until he lost it all at once.

As his vision grew clear with his head, Ben expected to see shattered bodies and bloody walls. Instead, all he saw was the woman and fire. Her face was flushed red, her eyes crazed, and her clothes had become charred with holes as the fire surged from her into a barrier, cutting them off from the crowd. Cocksucker was yelling her name, urging them both to return to the van and leave, but as Ben moved, he glanced back to see the woman frozen and heard her heart as if it were his own. The wall was growing wider and shooting high, Cocksucker wouldn’t shut the fuck up about moving, but her eyes had squeezed shut, unresponsive to anything but the growing flames.

“We need to fucking go, now!” Ben turned to see a large man he vaguely recognized barreling down their side of the street, his face twisted in anger. Butcher, Starlight, a small woman he remembered fighting, and that French prick followed him, all loading into the van as the large man stopped beside Cocksucker.

“I told you he’d fucking blow it,” the man said, giving Ben a disgusted look, so flawlessly revolted Ben wouldn’t be surprised if he’d fucking practiced in the mirror.

“Hey, I didn’t fucking blow it, you pussy-“

“You said that Neuman would come out of here, that it would just be her!” Cocksucker, much to Ben’s shock, cut him with a high voice and a wave at the wall of fire. “That’s way more than just her! Is she even there?!”

“No,” the man said gruffly. “Neuman saw Butcher and figured out something was up. She’s long gone.”

“Fuck!” Cocksucker yelled, running a hand through his hair.

“Oi, we can go over how MM fucked up later,” Butcher leaned out from the van. “We need to go before she sends Homelander.”

“How I fucked up? You’re the one who disobeyed me and blew our cover-“

“What’s wrong with Madame Anomaly?” The French Prick appeared at Butcher's side.

Cocksucker glanced at the woman, calling her name before turning to the large man Butcher had called MM. “She absorbed Soldier Boy’s blast. I think it got her stuck.”

“We don’t have time for this. Get Soldier Boy in the van, I’ll take care of the Anomaly.” MM repeated the French Prick’s words, and Ben realized they were, for the first time, using the woman’s supe name.

“You heard him, Gov. Get in the bloody van.” Butcher’s words were clearly directed at Ben, but as he climbed into the van Ben saw Butcher’s attention locked on the woman.

MM had moved closer to the woman, a move Ben deemed more fucking stupid than brave. If she had “absorbed his blast,” as Cocksucker said, he wouldn’t recommend any non-supe be anywhere near her. MM seemed to realize this himself at the last possible second, taking a pathetic, stumbling step back with a pause. He and Cocksucker exchanged a look, something passing between them that Ben didn’t understand, before Cocksucker leaned down to grab a pebble from the road. Ben watched as he shakily shook out his arms, wound up, and tossed the pebble at the woman.

It was a terrible fucking idea, Ben didn’t have to be Einstein to know that, but the chain reaction that played out still managed to go worse than he might have guessed.

The woman whirled around, her eyes blazing, with a roar sounding from her chest. Fire shot from the wall directly at Cocksucker. In almost slow motion, Ben watched her face become painted with horror as she recognized her target, a different, fearful sound leaving her. She reached an arm out, her heart seeming to falter, and barely redirected the flames before they hit Cocksucker in the chest. The blaze just grazed Cocksucker’s arm, passed the van clear of anyone else, and hit the building with a boom.

The moment the bricks caught fire and the ground began to shake as the building crumbled, the woman's wall of fire fell. The woman herself remained upright, but only barely as MM shouted her name and she started to stumble to the van. Cocksucker was hauled in by Starlight and the French Prick, the former fussing over his burnt arm—Ben had seen worse at Herogasm and nobody whined about it—and Cocksucker waved her off. The woman pulled herself in, ignoring Butcher’s outstretched hand, and the door closed behind her. MM appeared in the driver’s seat, and as the engine started everyone fell into a heavy-breathed silence.

Through the ride, Ben watched the woman open and close her mouth a million times, returned to her fetal position in the corner but watching Cocksucker with a strained face. Her hands tapped against her still-smoking jacket, reaching out hesitantly before she pulled them back into herself. No words were spoken, not even the anxious whispers of the ride there. Ben felt relief as the van stopped, MM climbing out and opening the doors to reveal the exterior of the safe house, grateful for any excuse to leave these stupid, sniffing pussies to wallow in their failure.

MM led Ben and the woman to the doors, opened them by leaning oddly at the doorbell, and gestured for them to walk through. The man followed them in, shutting the doors behind him with a rough push.

“If we failed the test, I am not doing that fucking shit again.” Ben grumbled as MM turned around from the now-shut entrance.

“Butcher told me about the fucking mess you and him made in here.” MM ignored Ben entirely, speaking to the woman as if he wasn’t even there. “A team cleaned it up while you were gone, and Mallory will send more groceries tomorrow night. I saw a picture, it was fucking gross. I’m only doing it once, because I don’t want a new disease to develop in here. You’re an adult, you should take care of this place by your goddamn self.”

The woman looked at her feet, humming a small acknowledgment. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Is Hughie going to be okay?”

MM sighed. “The kid will live. I’ll look at him when we get back.”

“I could help-“

MM cut her off with her name. “He’ll be fine. We’ll make sure of it.”

She gave another nervous hum, and Ben jumped in.

“Can you answer my fucking question-“

“We’ll let you know what our next steps are after we talk to Mallory and Singer. This wasn’t good, but it’s not the end of the damn world.” Once again, MM ignored Ben. It was starting to feel personal. Before Ben could push further, MM reached a hand out to rest on the woman’s shoulder, right over a hole in her sleeve. Her head shot up with her heart, but the panic in her seemed to evaporate just as soon as it appeared. Her name was gentle as MM spoke it, eyes locked with hers. “You didn’t fuck up. You did your job.” She nodded slowly. “It’ll be fine.” With those last words, he exited the building, leaving Ben and the woman in the hall.

“What’s his fucking problem?” Ben grunted, half directed at the woman, half to just say it.

She gave him a flat look. “You killed his family.” Before he could come up with a clever response, honest or dodging the annoying feeling of guilt forming in his throat, the woman turned from him and walked away.

———-

You were so tired. Your bones ached, oddly cold in a way you hadn’t felt in a while, your skin crawled with feverish chills, and when you closed your eyes, you could see the flames graze Hughie and the building turn to dust. As MM’s lingering calm he’d offered you faded, all you felt was tired. Worthless. A liability. You had fucked up, just as much as Soldier Boy. Maybe more so, because he had PTSD, even if he would deny being a “hung-up pussy”. He had lost control because he’d been tortured by Russians, you’d almost killed your friend and definitely destroyed a rec center because you’d been startled. You just wanted to sleep, to deal with the inevitable fight about groceries in the morning, running on more than quickly expiring adrenaline and caffeine pills stuck in your throat.

You made it to your room, changing into one of the pajama sets folded in your drawers, hoping someone mentioned that the allegedly fire-proof wardrobe you’d been given apparently wasn’t strong enough for the full force of your fire combined with Soldier Boy’s nuclear explosions. A shame, you’d liked the pants you’d chosen for the mission. You’d live without the jacket, though. You’d hardly pulled the shirt over your head when the door ripped open, a still suit-clad Soldier Boy standing at your door.

“What fucking happened to you?” His question was blunt and confusing as he entered your room, remaining near the door but over the threshold.

Your body was too heavy to fight with him right now. There was no tense prickling on the bridge of your nose, only the throbbing stab of a headache. “Go away, Soldier Boy.”

“All of you have a fucking thing. A weird, sad reason to whine around and pretend you’re better than me.” He didn’t budge, but rather leaned forward. “What’s yours.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You said I killed MM’s family. Butcher’s always pussying around about Homelander stealing his girl. Cocksucker mentioned something about that fast asshole doing something as well. I’m not sure what the French Prick bitches about, but I’m sure it’s something.”

“First of all, you did kill MM’s family.” You really don’t want to do this right now, but maybe he’ll give up and fuck off. A fruitless wish, a small part of you knows, but you have nothing left to push back with. “And Homelander didn’t ‘steal Butcher’s wife’, he raped her.”

“Right.” Soldier Boy watched you, his expression unreadable in the shadowy room. “Those are all fucking things. So tell me what yours is.”

“I don’t have one,” even as you speak the insistence, it sounded fake and hollow.

He takes another step forward. “Yes, you do. I saw how you froze, nobody without a thing locks up like that. I heard Cocksucker ask you if I ‘hurt you’. Just for the record, Sunshine, I may not be a Boy Scout, but I’m no fucking rapist.”

“You’ve tried to sleep with me thirty-three times.”

“And I’ll blow your mind when you realize how much you’d love it, no sooner. What’s your fucking thing.”

You stare at him, the intensity in his voice throwing you off. He’s insistent, comfortable in your room but standing at his full height, attention fixed entirely on you. That impression of dissection has returned—the feeling as if he’s trying to pick you apart for him to play with. “Why do you even care?”

“Because maybe if you tell me, I can kill what supe fucked up your pretty little head and you’ll be less of a bitch.”

You can’t stop the snort that escapes you. “What a selfish fucking cunt reason.”

He shrugged in something that could’ve been an agreement. “Maybe.” He falls silent, but doesn't leave.

You collapse to sit on the edge of your bed, staring ahead as you rub your temple. “Please just go.”

“No.”

You look at him, not caring if he sees the desperation in your eyes. “Can this not wait six hours for the morning?”

“No.”

“Do you know any words but no?” You mutter under your breath.

You didn’t miss his annoyed humph. “Oh, just fucking tell me.”

“No.” It was your turn to snap. Your exhaustion was becoming lined with bitter childishness, and you didn’t care enough to try and suppress your urge to sneer at him.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re an idiotic, self-absorbed, sadist asshat who wouldn’t know empathy if it started sucking his dick.” You mocked.

He grinned. “Ok, now name my bad qualities.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“I’ll start guessing,” he took another step forward, now almost directly before you. “Did that red-headed lesbian steal your puppy?

You frowned up at him. “Maeve was bisexual.”

“Did Noir take credit for a college project?” He ignored your comment, leaning down with a mocking smirk.

“Trust me, I got all my dues in college.”

“Did that gay-for-Jesus blond steal your boyfriend? Did the fast asshole that stole Cocksucker’s girl break up with you? Did water-boy eat your goldfish?”

“I’ve never met Ezekiel, A-Train actually murdered Hughie’s girlfriend, and The Deep famously doesn’t eat seafood, he fucks it. But by all means, keep going.”

Soldier Boy blinked. “He fucks it?”

“Yep. It’s gross.” You shrug. “Are you done?”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

You give a toothless smile. “Not until you get all your guesses out.”

“Oh?” There was unquestionable surprise in his voice at your relent, only making your fake cheer grow and your immature anger fully overtake you.

“I want you to feel like a real fucking asshole when I tell you.”

His face split open with a grin. “Well then, did the Twins kick you out of Herogasm? Did that bitch, Crimson Countess, overshadow your big debut? Did a Z-lister get more attention than you from the Vought pussies?”

You just raised your eyebrows, crossing your arms as Soldier Boy continued until the list of supes ran dry. As the last jeer left his mouth, he mirrored your face of cold amusement.

“Well?”

You leaned back, watching him closely as you spoke. “Homelander kidnapped me, kept me in a dungeon, raped me in an attempt to make more mini-Homelanders, and, after you returned, started experimenting on me to try and recreate the V used on you.”

A small shock rushed through you after you spoke. You hadn’t said any of that out loud, not fully, since you’d escaped. You danced around it with Butcher and his team, with Mallory and the CIA leaders, always picking and choosing parts to omit so nobody would look at you with pity and fear. It hadn’t worked, they did anyway, but there had still been control over it. Up until this moment, nobody had known why Homelander had done all those things to you. Everyone had seemed happy to chalk it up to him being a fucking psychopath, not anything deeper. Certainly not attempting to create a small army of additional Ryan Butchers. Small things were still yours, flashes of hunger and warped sounds remaining in your head, but everything else you had just told him.

Why did you do that? A voice hissed as the high from your petulance faded. Why did you let him win? Why did you give him a weapon to use that could hurt you?

But looking at him, he didn’t appear to be a portait of self-satisfaction and heartless triumph. He was staring at you, scanning you as though the scars Homelander left would be visible on your bare legs and arms. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t weak or coddling, but angry.

“He kept you locked up?”

You nod, part of you getting ready to fight him over something.

“He hurt you? To try and recreate me?” Your repeated nodding only seemed to inflate whatever was happening. “Did it hurt?”

Your arms and face started at that, an uncertain feeling spreading through you. There had been no reverent tone as Soldier Boy had asked the last question, no sadistic for affirmation. But you didn’t know what he wanted to hear. Why he even wanted to know. But an involuntarily honest answer escaped you. “Yes.”

He stared at you for another second before he opened his mouth, only to close it without making any sound. Abruptly, he whipped around and began to leave, giving you only one more indecipherable look as he closed the door behind him, leaving you on the edge of your bed, alone in your room.

You lay down slowly, half expecting him to storm back in at any moment, but minutes passed, quickly turning into a half hour, and your body sat at the edge of collapse once more. Soon it was unbearable, and you lay down, your racing mind being forced to a halt as sleep pulled you under.

Your sleep, as had been the case for a while now, was haunted by nightmares of blue eyes and yellow, fluorescent lights. You woke up in a cold sweat, and took a long, needlessly warm shower before forcing yourself to leave your room around 9:30. Despite your lingering fatigue, no part of you wasn’t restless as you walked down the stairs. Your body tense and ready to run, your head spinning with hypotheticals and lining up words you may need—that feeling under your skin creeping up your spine and fluttering in your gut. But Soldier Boy wasn’t in the living room or the hall. You poked your head in the dining room, hoping to avoid the minefield of the kitchen, but it was empty, the plastic chandelier lights off, the table occupied only by a vase of wilted flowers. You moved to the kitchen, ringing growing in your ears, but he wasn’t there. You turned to walk away, continue your search, but double-back as it hit you.

Nothing was in the kitchen. It was empty. Of Soldier Boy, and of the groceries MM said would be delivered.

You wandered in slowly, watching the counters as if they might start to glitch and flicker, revealing hidden produce and dirty dishes. But, leaning over the sink, there was a single plate, soaking in water that was dotted with crumbs. Slowly, you moved to the refrigerator, slowly opening it as you glanced around the room. Your eyes widened at the sight inside. Milk, drinks, and produce had been placed inside, disorganized and haphazardly. There was a jar of mayonnaise in the fresh drawer, along with a box of pasta on a side shelf, but the fridge was full. You moved quickly to the pantry, which had been sorted in a similar fashion, but filled. And when you opened the last cabinet, you saw a piece of paper stuck under a jar of peanut butter.

I know I did a shit job. Clean up if it bothers you, but don't bitch to me about it. And tell Mallory to get smooth peanut butter next time, or I’m not doing anything for her but killing Homelander - Ben

222 notes · View notes

rise-my-angel · 1 year ago

Text

Heart of the Great Wolf

21 - A Bastard or The White Wolf

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 21.2k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, slight canon divergence, bloody and gory imagery, mention of animal death, child death, references to rape, descriptions of warfare, canon divergence

Notes: I know, okay? I had to be the one to write it, I know about the preposterous length. I'm sorry. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

You had never told your father about that day, even though for a long time it stuck out in your mind the more used to it you became. Always in the back of your head, but not only the violence that you had seen, it was the words with it. The first time was the one that frightened most, that was what you were told before and it seemed it was true, because the thing that never got easier was the answer that followed after it was all over.

You could look back through your stays in Winterfell but so often it landed back at a moment right at the start, even though everything else were the ones that impacted your life's course.

During your first stay in Winterfell, you had started to adjust within the month. It wasn’t being away from your father and mother which was the most difficult part to you, it was simply the difference in the day to day that was so odd. The Starks noticed it right away, that you were not used to being apart of a household that wasn’t so stern and rigid.

When you had woken up from your trio of days asleep and fever ridden, you didn’t remember right away that you had even arrived. Taking a few minutes to recall the fuzzy memory of being shown the castle and partially remembering meeting Lord and Lady Stark, before you vaguely recalled feeling terribly unwell by supper. Luwin had been checking up on you while Catelyn sent the boys away thinking that it might be better to ease you into things with a mother figure at your side.

She was wrong it turned out. You were almost uncomfortable and put off by how kind and gentle she was with you. Explaining in a soothing tone that you had been rather sick when you arrived and you had slept through most of it, the entire time you had been painfully quiet and stiff when she would try to run a hand over you comfortingly.

Only when you were up and about, you still were like that, but with everyone.

Would listen and stand by Lord Stark during the day but you really didn’t say much. Meals were when it stood out the most. Robb and Jon were ten at the time, and were as loud and rambunctious with each other at supper as they were outside in the training yard. They would try and include you all the time to talk and joke at the table, but you would look over hesitantly at the curious faces of Ned and Catelyn before giving the boys a shy smile and little else. It took a fortnight for everyone to understand that perhaps you had grown up in a bit more of a difficult family then they assumed. Then everyone had their own tactics at how to make you comfortable.

Catelyn’s was the most simple and emotionally effective. Easing you into the dynamics of a mother figure, knowing you were rather young in a far away place surrounded by strangers. It took some time for you to get used to her being around, prompting you with questions to open up, easing you into things like admitting that you think your mother loves you but she stopped spending time with you after she lost your first brother. Then she lost your second brother and father sent you away. You had thought it was you who did something wrong and this was a punishment.

Asking you as she stood behind you untangling the knots in your hair, “Does it feel like a punishment? Being here?” You shook your head no, before apologizing for moving at all and sitting more rigid then before.

Your voice was quiet, but that never really went away. “Not anymore. I like it here. There’s always people around and something to do, and I don’t have any friends on Dragonstone.”

For a while, she was the one who felt like your mother. And when you went back home, you had trouble getting used to your own again. Selyse was quiet as well, she loved you but was never very affectionate and neither was your father. Things between you both never really got any better after that. Then one day Catelyn started to pull away as well. Not knowing what prompted it yourself, but you were twelve and visiting Winterfell again, it was well past midnight, so your nameday had just passed.

You and Jon had snuck out when everyone was asleep. It had been his idea. All but sneaking into your room right before you fell asleep, tossing a cloak of his at you and dragging you out of bed. A short ride on horseback to a lake nearby, he was fourteen already and sometimes had to take the reins himself to bring out your more adventurous side. Saying he never got to spend time alone with his best friend anymore. And when you teased him, “So is that my gift, Snow? Being allowed to call you my best friend? I am so greatly honoured-” He hadn’t thought twice about hoisting you up and tossing you in the lake, him following soon after.

The next day, Catelyn was a little different. A little colder to Jon then normal, and a bit stern towards keeping you focused on your tasks. Not a clue that Catelyn had spotted you both coming back. Her putting a bit more of a wall up when she recognized the evidence of him having a crush. Clear as day to her when finally seeing how physically affectionate Jon was with you, when he thought you two were alone.

It wasn’t your fault, you were the only girl both eldest boys spent most of their time around in such a consistent manner, and Robb had mentioned to his mother that he told no one he liked you until confessing in that very moment. Ned had told Catelyn to leave them all be, saying that if Robb wanted to pursue something he would do it respectfully at his own pace. While keeping from her himself, that Jon's crush wasn't new, that Jon had been the one with feelings for you since he first damn well laid eyes on you, so stopping that crush was a solid impossibility.

You were younger then the boys as well. They were both over fourteen and you had only just turned twelve. It wouldn’t be for another two years until you bled for the first time, and another two years after that before you had a single romantic interaction in your life.

Yet still, none of those stood out in impact of your time in Winterfell.

The strange part though, was how it wasn’t Jon or Robb either. Of course as a child, you had no way of ever predicting the life which would spin itself around you all in painful manners of blood.

They had become some of the biggest aspects of your life, both boys deeply curious to get to know the Southern girl who had collapsed ill on her first day in their home. Robb boisterous and eager to lead a new friend into showing you the way Northerners did things. Jon was more quiet and preferred to be the one to help ease you into the more difficult parts of being in such a new place all alone.

Early on there was no distinction between the two. As close with one as the other. Robb would often find ways to get you both into trouble, and Jon would be the one to pull you into the shadows to keep from being caught in the first place. It had been strange for them when you left. Only eight you had no understanding of if this was a place you’d be allowed to go back too, and while they would be left with each other they knew you were going home to a more difficult family and no one to remind you to have fun once in a while.

Not that he told anyone, and of course Jon had naturally treasured every second with his brother, but he liked that you were both a kind of outcast. This wasn’t your home, and Catelyn wished it weren’t Jons but together you enjoyed the quiet and didn’t have to care about those things. Winterfell was a lot more lonely for him when you left, and when they learned the day you were coming back, Jon, almost twelve by then, could have cried. Only realizing in that moment did he think he would never see you again.

A common thread in Jon’s life with you it seemed.

But still, friendships, and love, and marriage. Blood, loss, death and a strange renew of life you still could recall one day so clearly you could hear him speaking to you.

A month your first stay in was when you encountered a deserter from the Night’s Watch. Despite Catelyn’s deep protests, Ned had told Ser Rodrick to get you ready to join them. “Lord Stannis did not send her here to be coddled, Cat. She won’t be this young forever. If it scares her, then she needs to learn to face those fears.”

You had been very quiet on the ride out. Ned had been accompanied by Ser Rodrick, Jory, and two others you hadn’t known the names of as you rode, following in the back beside Robb and Jon. Both whom had been through this before, in fact it was their third time.

Robb was a little less comforting, but he also knew that one day he would have to take over as Lord, and wanted to ensure he was as calm as his father was, taking most of his energy to keep himself collected. Jon watched you a little bit closer. You looked smaller then ever amongst them all in such a large clearing of land. It stuck out to Ned as well, bright eyes and stood shorter then even his boys.

But you came close. Didn’t shy away in the back by the horses, instead up close and still silent. Robb was off to the side, adjacent to his father as the guards brought the man forth. Your eyes narrowed as he rambled. Covered in grime and dirt he looked like what they described as wildlings but draped in black leathers. You couldn’t even remember what he had said, looking so intensely at the wooden platform he was knelt over and the dark stain under it from times before.

Pulling out Ice, a great sword of Valyrian steel and pointing the blade into the ground, Lord Stark leaned over it’s hilt and spoke quietly his sentence of death. Stepping up right beside you as he did so, Jon was close enough you could feel his warmth. Voice very quiet as he asked, “Is this your first time seeing something like this?”

You could only nod, looking at the bloody wood and the great size of Ice. He had leaned in more, voice quieter even to ensure it was only for you. “The first is the scariest, but it’s important you watch.”

He stood right by you as Lord Stark brought the sword down and in one seamless slice did the man’s head come off. Dropping to the ground as the blood behind in the place it once sat dripped profusely down. In the instant it severed, you didn't close your eyes, but you did flinch, not realizing you instantly grabbed Jon’s hand as your stomach dropped at the sight. Jon held it back right away.

Quietly muttering your name with comfort he told you, “It’s alright, you did good for your first time.”

Looking down you only then realized you had grabbed his hand and wide eyed dropped it taking a step back with a mumbling apology. Your own father had always told you it was important you stand on your own with those sorts of things, and you were embarrassed at likely annoying the black haired boy with your childishness.

As Lord Stark approached, Jon took his leave to join Robb by the horses. The man kneeling down to your level with a deep rumble in his voice that held none of the coldness lessons from your father always had. “Do you understand why I did it?”

He was taken in that moment by your wide eyes and small voice. Not yet knowing two daughters was in his future he felt both the pull of teaching you duty, and comforting a little girl. “He broke the law.”

Nodding, he leaned a bit more in. “He did, but the question was not why did he have to die, but why I must do it?” You shook your head an honest no.

It was those next few exchanges that stuck so heavily with you. Something you thought about for that entire ride back, all through your supper and there still as you later drifted off to sleep. “Many King’s and Lord’s have men who do this for them. But we see things differently here. We hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eye’s and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man doesn’t deserve to die.”

Biting your lip, you nodded but clearly something else was in your thoughts. He stayed knelt there waiting for you to feel ready to ask it. “Will I have to do it one day?”

Lord Stark ran a hand over your head, and gently down your hair. “I can’t say for sure if you will. You’re Lord Stannis’s only child which means if you have no brothers, his duties will fall onto you some day. And you will be the one having to make the hard decisions.”

He watched your eyes drift to the men cleaning up what remained of the blood and body before finding his eyes again. Clearly you were a small, sheltered girl hidden away on a grim island with what Ned knew for a fact was a not very affectionate father. Truth be told, if he could have simply kept you in Winterfell with his sons, he would have. “Is it supposed to feel so scary?”

The bit of fear was in your eyes, but you held it out of your person well. “Taking a life should never be done with pleasure. But even in fear you must never look away. A leader who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”

You never told your father about that day, you didn’t want him to be angry and it worried you that meant you would never go back to the North again. But as you stood there that day so many years from that memory, it was something you hadn’t forgotten. That you couldn’t just look away because it scared you, even when you saw the fires and heard the chanting in your mind.

It had arrived in the early hours of morning with a short scribbled letter. “Bring me my bride, bastard. Bring me her and I will give you back your brother with his head still attached. Keep the whore from me any longer, you will watch my hounds fuck her bloody and feed you to them.” The one that sat in front of you though sent you back into the flames, and the chanting. The horror of a night and an image that made you so ill you dared never think of it.

But as in that box, sat the rotting, thick blooded head of a black direwolf you couldn’t stop yourself from seeing that true horror. You knew such a fate couldn’t happen again. Ramsay would put you through a torture getting his hands on you, but you couldn’t see another Stark strung up and mutilated, parts of his own wolf shoved onto what they cut off and parade it around like a spectacle. Not again.

It had come in the early hours of the morning, a chest of sorts that reeked so heavily it made the Glover’s suspicious in it’s contents. Now it sat open on the table for everyone around it to look at in their own horror. Or in Jon’s case, a rage blazing behind his eyes as they debated around him what coarse of action to take, interrupting the current train of arguing doubt with a frustrated, “What am I supposed to do then?”

Debate had begun on if it was a trap, if walking into it was wise, and if he was telling the truth. Back and forth about the kind of person Ramsay was, how much he would stick to his word when the truth was it was impossible to tell. He was erratic, and his thirst for cruelty meant he had no bounds to keep his person within. Little else would ever drive him but the ravings of a monster that even after everything you could not predict.

Galbert Glover tried with confidence, but it was not bought by any. “We gather more men, we rally the Houses you’ve reached out to and overwhelm their own.”

Running through your mind, there were only so many that you could get to before pushing the time too far. Jon on his own, agreed. “How long will that take? You think the Bolton’s are going to wait for us to be ready? If Ramsay knows where we are, their armies will too.”

“Where’d he even find him? You both standing there telling us he’s alive but where would he even have found the boy when no one else knew where he was?” None had been able to figure that out initially, at least with the resources available but if they had sent men out before to hunt the boys down once then they likely did it again when no word was spoken of the matter.

Robett Glover looked to his brother with a knowing glance before turning to you. “Not many of the Houses under them are there willingly and they don’t have enough men on their own to escape them, but there is one that would have reason to side against you.”

Your eyes slipped shut, bracing your palms on the table with a deep sigh knowing the answer was far easier to sniff out then one may figure. The last time any had seen Bran, he had said that Rickon was being taken east to hide and there were two houses to the east that would have had the ability to search for the boy. And between them, there was only one that had proven they had the audacity.

“Kill me and be cursed.”

He was right in the end. Robb’s end was a horror and now you continued to feel the ripples of how unstable the Karstark’s had become near the end of the war. Your voice was quiet as you glanced back up to the open chest. “Well, we executed his father. So it seems to be he’s decided to take it out on the only Stark they could get their hands on.”

Jon and Theon both remained in the dark, having no proximity to the events you were discussing. Galbert Glover shook his head. “Bunch of oathbreakers, they are.”

Closer to you, Maege Mormont tried seeking your attention but it was trained on the blood in front of you all. “If he’s fool enough to think this is vengeance for his father, someone should remind the boy how old those Lannisters were.”

The rain was so heavy that day, the sky grim and cloudy as so few stood in that clearing as Robb executed Rickard Karstark. The undeniable rage in his eyes only after it was done, holding off so heavily from showing those feelings to stay composed in front of his men. He understood the weight of the choice you both had made, and yet it seemed the Karstark’s still didn’t.

“It’s not about Rickon. It’s about me.” Jon’s eyes trained up to you in a sharp glare that you worked very hard to not look at. “He can’t blame Robb now that he’s gone, but I’m alive which means the Harald Karstark can take it out on me. And he knows sending me back there is vengeance enough.”

It was on the tip of your tongue, but you knew it would cause an argument. You knew too well in fact that Jon would not stand there and let you say it, not make that choice but there was nothing else that was fair. “Why would Roose Bolton allow any of this? He’s smarter then to send out this kind of threat.”

Theon had a point, he was far smarter then this. Smart enough neither his King or Queen suspected his treachery until it was deep in your stomach. But there was one more thing in that chest that you hadn’t brought up. The one thing that you didn’t want to look at more then the direwolf’s head and it was the same thing that gave you that sensation in your stomach.

A dagger had been stabbed in the edge of the chest, keeping the note visible in place. It sat in front of Jon currently, being the one to unthinkingly pull it out to read the letter for himself when you both had arrived in the hall. You wanted to throw up thinking about it, but you couldn’t stop looking at it and unlike many times before out slipped words you couldn’t prevent.

“Theon’s right. Roose is far smarter then to do any of this, but he only let it happen because he wasn’t there to stop Ramsay from sending this one.” The group following your eyes to not the note but the knife with blood dried. Most had thought it was the wolf’s blood on it. Technically, that was true, but it also was yours.

Jon standing a little straighter as he looked to you. A warning that you refused to look at in his eyes and your name slipping sternly from his mouth. “This isn’t about-”

“Except that it is. They don’t have Tywin Lannister lording over their rule. They wanted me to marry Ramsay knowing that if I gave him an heir, then they have something to back their claim. But without that...” You looked at everyone but him, you didn’t want him to so easily recognize the conclusions you were already drawing yourself towards. “Then Roose’s son with Walda Frey would inherit the North..and if I recall he didn’t exactly take too well to the news of her carrying a boy did he?”

Theon dropped his head, “No. He didn’t. As a matter of fact I think he just might have been angry over it.” The look you both shared was dreadfully morose.

Galbert Glover nodded. “Roose Bolton doesn’t give a damn about anyone that gets in his way. You were a valuable hostage and without you then he doesn’t care about finding a new wife for the boy. Wouldn’t put it past him to take away that legitimacy the second he found out about that letter he sent your way.” Gesturing across the table to Jon.

His own hands were clenched hard enough you could see the strains in his knuckles. “If it’s only him, and he gets you back, then he thinks he has the North.” You watched with a still expression, made of stone and trying not to show anything. “He has to have Rickon then. Knows there is no chance I’d hand you over until I could see my brother with my own eyes.”

Maege was strict in her tone, a scolding that was not often heard on her. “We aren’t handing her over period.” Jon met her eyes, offended that she thought he for a second had considered the idea as she caught on quick. “I meant no disrespect, but this isn’t a negotiation, it’s a fight. Just because nothing’s been done about it yet, doesn’t make you any less the King’s heir. And even if you take it, she’s no less the Queen we chose.”

Biting your tongue hard as your eyes slipped closed before reopening. You shook your head slightly with a low tone of warning in your throat. “Maege-”

Quick though, she turned to you with a point and a set wild in her eyes. “No, shut up.” Were it anyone else, they may not have gotten away with that. “Trading one hostage for another didn’t do us any damn good last time, and we aren’t willingly doing it now.”

“She’s right.” You didn’t look at him, you didn’t want to hear about whatever this was going to turn into, and knowing full well Jon was about to keep you all but sewn to his side to prevent you from leaving on your own to do this. “I’m not offering you up to him. If I’m willing to fight for you, I’m willing to fight him for my brother too. But if we do this, we have to do it now.”

Robett tired to protest, “They have horses, weapons, everything we don’t have but numbers. We march on Winterfell now and we’re asking to lose.”

A rise in his voice, flaring a temper you knew Jon was struggling to contain. “We don’t have time. I can’t spend the next few weeks gathering more then when Ramsay has my brother. What about when he sends us something else next time, and it’s whatever he’s chopped off of Rickon? Am I still supposed to wait it out and hope we have enough?”

Voice so clear in your ear, warm but roughed with a strain of frustration as you lived it once more.

“Father rots in a dungeon, how long before they take his head?”

Your own voice finally echoing the words floating in your mind. “Jon’s right. We need to meet with Ramsay, and we need to do it now.” Finding Jon’s eyes they softened a tad towards you. “We never made it to your father when we had the chance, and we had far more time then we do here. The longer we take, the more likely he’ll kill Rickon out of anger.”

Something needed to be said between you, but there was nothing that you would do here. Neither arguing with the other in front of people, and you both hated the possibility one was coming the second you two were alone. But for now, Jon looked at you with a quiet certainty before turning to the others. “We leave as soon as we can. Ramsay doesn’t have the numbers and that’s going to have to be enough for us. I’ll speak to Tormund, make sure the free folk understand what we're walking into.”

Both Glovers and Maege nodded, not questioning that they took orders from Jon in the same way that they had once done Robb. You could almost see the traces of a title on their tongues that Jon had not yet accepted.

Jon called your name as soon as you turned to leave with the rest. Pausing mid step and turning to look back at him, reading the demand you come over to him in his eyes. Glancing at Theon with a flicker of your eyes to the door, he got the message. Leave and shut it behind you.

Standing in the middle of the room hoping he would just say it, and not make you come over to him to hear it. Only Jon could play this game of waiting even longer then you could. Perhaps over a minute passed when you relented, turning to better look at him only to find his eyes trained on the direwolf’s head. Footsteps echoing in the empty room as you approached, closer to his side then you were before.

“If I’m fighting for him, I’m fighting for you too.” His hand tracing the edges of the chest before swallowing harshly and slamming it shut. Unable to stand the sight any longer, no doubt imagining a horror as you were. What if it was the other wolf’s head he sent next. Trying to say his name, he interrupted you as his face twisted in frustration.“Let’s say I give you up, trade you to Ramsay for Rickon, do you really think he’s going to hold up his end and not kill him and the rest of us anyways?”

Arms crossing in front of your chest you shrugged. “Isn’t it worth the risk.”

You wished he had more of an outburst. Slam his fist into the table, yell at you, get angry. Anything but the quiet and almost heartbroken look he gave you instead. “I’m not letting you kill yourself by sending you back to the man who made you want to do it in the first place. You’re not going anywhere.”

“We could end this war right now, boy.”

That’s what he had said. Standing bloody and tied up in front of you and Robb, looking him in the eye saying that it could be that easy. But Robb was smart enough to know that wasn’t the case, smart enough to know that beating Jaime Lannister in a final one on one wouldn’t stop the rest of the Lannisters from coming after them anyways.

“It would save a lot of our own men’s lives. We need numbers for more the just this, only here we have a chance to trade thousands for one.” Jon pushed off the table, turning away from you as he ran a hand over his mouth. Pacing mindlessly to the opposite end of the room as you stepped only a few feet closer. “Maybe this is what’s right.”

Turning to you, his eyes were glaring and his brows narrowed in anger. “And how would you know that?” Face only twisting a little downward at this words he continued to pace. “To you what’s right is always throwing yourself down first to make it easier for everyone else. When all it’s done is make you feel worthless. You mean something to other people.”

Moving to lean against the table, you crossed your arms fixing to a point on the floor that didn’t hold anything that mattered. Hearing him come around the other side of the table, ending up closer to your left. “Not more then your own family.”

You could feel him before you saw him come into the side of your vision, always giving off such a warm heat that you could melt within. Jon’s own arms crossed as he looked to nothing as you did. “Rickon’s my little brother, and I’m going to go get him. The same way I tried to go get you when I found out you were alive. You’ve been just as important to me since the day you stepped foot in Winterfell.”

It was a rainy night when Robb told you that story. One that had been withheld from you for so long to not make you uncomfortable. “Robb said you were the one who looked after me, when I was sick.”

Jon nodded, both of your hearts heavy but maybe that would be a feeling that never went away after losing him. “I did. Watching you for three days because your fever was so bad I was scared you’d die the minute I looked away, and I’m just as scared now. Scared if I leave you alone for too long, you’ll wind up dead again or leaving because you think loving you is a burden.”

Only able to see part of him from the side as you glanced, you sighed deeply without any ability to refute it. “I wasn’t trying to make you choose between us.”

So badly Jon wanted to reach out, run a hand along your hair and down your spine but touching you when you were this dispondant was too risky to do. Not knowing if you’d flinch away from it. But his eyes had slid up to watch you trying not to watch back. “I know.”

The quiet was almost something like comfortable for a moment before you pushed off the table. “We should get to work, if we leave at dawn maybe it’ll take us a few days. If it doesn’t start snowing again at least.”

Jon called your name one more time, pausing you in your steps but instead of waiting for what he wanted to say, you felt him come up behind you. Not quite pressed against your back, but close enough your senses felt overwhelmed by him. His hands ever so slowly reaching around, running gently along your waist until one hand reached where he knew the scar was, and felt a slight tremble in you. Leaning down to place a gentle kiss on your neck you exhaled with a shake.

Didn’t push more into you or let his hands grow with greed. Only making you feel weak in your stance as he so lightly pressed his lips up a path from your neck so he could rasp in your ear. “One of us needs to tell him before we leave.” Perhaps it seemed, a little greed slipped through, the hand tracing your scar moving with a more firm hold on your hip as he stood an inch closer. Making your eyes close at the feeling. “I can-”

You shook your head, dizzy from how close he still was to you. “It should come from me. I sided against him before, meaning I know what to expect in telling him I’m doing it again.”

Jon’s brows narrowed, unhappy at the prospect but he had Stannis had come to an agreement over you, one that he had yet to really explain himself on. But your safety was paramount, even against your own father. Though if he were being honest, it was less of an agreement and more of a thinly veiled threat. Not something to be proud of, but he refused to give any a chance to hurt you again. “Come find me when you’re done. Okay?”

He didn’t move his hands or step away when you nodded, sighing lightly you breathed out, “I will.” And only then did he let you go. The more you two let whatever this was grow, the more you both were realizing it was a little...a lot more intense then the love you shared in innocent times. Something that clouded you when you were close to him like a buzz from too much wine, that only burned hot in your veins for him.

But you had to shake it off. Afterall, it was a burning Stag that you were about to face and he would take far less kindly to things then Jon did hearing it for himself. The halls of Deepwood Motte echoed in your ears as you made your way through them, knowing that where you’d find your father would be away in his own camp, making plans for his own army that you knew wouldn’t include you. But he had to accept this. Had to accept he was striving towards a goal he could not reach.

The North wouldn’t have him, because the North had a King. And now the one they were waiting for certainly wasn’t going to come from an outsider. No one cared about them until it was strategically advantageous for them, and that was the problem. They chose Robb because he was one of them, he cared, and it was their livelihoods he fought for. And all of those traits were shining brightly in Jon no matter what he tried to dispute.

Deep in your mind, you knew there was still something left in your father that could make him a good King, but you needed him to grasp what he had scolded you for. He was going to have to accept a broken Kingdom, because the fight the North was in, was for each other, and for survival against threats beyond the Wall. They wouldn’t return willingly to the Seven Kingdoms, not when the cold in the air was only going to get worse.

Not when the North was going to be the first line up against what was coming. They couldn’t afford to kneel to fights that had nothing to do with them anymore. Fighting for Stannis Baratheon meant later fighting for whatever cause he pledged them too on his own. That willingness died the second Greatjon Umber pulled his sword out, and pointed it at Robb with a passionate deceleration.

“There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to.”

But as you stepped outside, looking to the people all around it was hard to deny that even those who would not look to Jon as their King, he was still the leader they believed in.

“And how do you know know if he is telling the truth? Wouldn’t be hard to lie, the boy has done it before.” Your palm ran up to your forehead pressing harshly against it in frustration. Stannis calling your name to look at him, you let it drop down to your side once more turning back to look a him. “All I’m asking is how can you be sure.”

Your eyes painting over as you once more saw the bloody horror inside the chest with no doubt about whose it belonged to. “It was Rickon’s direwolf, Theon and Jon both knew what he looked like there is no mistaking it. Unless he caught a miracle and found the head of another black direwolf to send as a mocking.”

Your father watched you carefully, noting the agitation in your posture. Leaning back in his seat a small bit, he looked once more like there was no hope in your ask. There was hardly ever any, normally sending you off with a dismissal no matter what it was towards. “I don’t imagine he is going to give you up that easily, you’re heading to Winterfell for a battle.”

Neither confirming nor denying, you only positioned your hands at your hips one knee bending slightly trying to find the right string of words to place after one another. “First light of dawn, the men and the free folk all know to be ready. We push hard enough, we may be able to make it there in three days time.”

Straight to the point your father, “Neither of you have come asking for my help.” Your eyes only narrowing the very slightest of bits, at least fully aware at your father would catch it out of everyone. A remaining trait between you. The only ones who could still read the other like a book. “The wildlings came here to fight the same fight I was, what reasons would they have for not following now?”

Truth was that, he was just not a man they would believe in. You wanted to, truly you did. Those many years ago in King’s Landing as you and Ned Stark looked to each other as the only ones fighting for the right claim to the Iron Throne. But those days were long gone, and too much had happened to push it all back to that now. It was impossible.

“The only way you are willing to find allies is if they respect your rule. Your claim. Trying to do the right thing, but you’ve shown them no reason to believe in you.” Pausing, you let the air in your lungs tighten as it approached your mouth. “Jon doesn’t want them to kneel for him, they don’t need to, to have a leader they can rally around.”

Father and daughter both keeping your eyes as still as possible, letting him connect those dots all on his own. He reached it likely already, but he was a man who needed to stew on things before blurting out the first in his mind. “And why would anyone kneel for him?” The condescension of someone who figured it out but would make you say it.

That habit was a lot more endearing on Robb then it currently was on your father.

Head tilting to your feet, eyes closing as long as it took to inhale before you matched your father right in the eye. “All of the Northern high lords signed off on Robb’s will before...” Your heart still plummeted, that knife sitting on the table mocking you for how you could still see it’s final act. “It outlined his decrees of inheritance, including his line of succession. Who would take over after him.”

“The Northerners have yet to claim anyone as their King, only your the Queen that remains to them. You don’t see fit to take that role of leader for yourself?” It itched in the back of your mind, that he was testing you. Shireen was gone, meaning you were his last living child. Renly was gone and had no children of his own, and the only remaining Baratheon’s would be those surviving somewhere in these lands forced to call themselves a bastard.

Stannis was trying to gauge if you had any willingness to take the Iron Throne after him.

If you took the North, you might be open to taking the rest of them he likely figured. Only you shook your head. “No. Robb trusted me, we were at war and we worked together. But he was King. He was their leader. I am not the Queen who gets to rule on her own, after her King’s death.”

Robb spend no time ensuring you were supported and listened too, but his word was final no matter what and you wouldn’t have spent so much time on his will if it were to only survive through you. You inheriting the North was only a possibility if your son had lived. And even then, you would still be here, because someone would have to be King until little Ned was of age.

You weren’t Cersei. You were not going to just place your sons on into a Kingship no matter how old they were. That was a making of disaster. No matter what those around you may claim, children deserved to stay children. Tommen sat on the Iron Throne now but it was Cersei in charge. Gods, Tommen was what? Eight when you last saw him in Kings Landing?

You could hardly picture what he and Myrcella both would look like now. Myrcella would be verging on womanhood in some time. By her next name day she would be fifteen, Tommen thirteen. At those ages you were still carefree enough to run around the wolfswood with the Starks, stay up until you and Robb were caught trying to sneak wine out of the kitchens. Even if your son had lived, you wanted him to experience those things, live a childhood they deserved.

Stannis watched you lost in thought, were he a better father he would have found some way to assure you, comfort you through these struggles. But he wasn’t. From everything he had heard both from Winterfell and the months in Kings Landing, the man who acted more as a father to you then anyone was Ned Stark. “Who then?”

Inhaling a breath you just smacked your palms in defeat against your thighs as you dropped them from your hips. Looking at your father with a plain honesty. “Robb named Jon as his heir. To be King in the North after him.”

He may have seen it coming, but hearing the truth of it was another matter you suspected. His silence and cold stare hadn’t changed much at all but you could see the cogs turning behind his face. “And how many of these Houses know that he’s left the Night’s Watch for this cause?”

Running in your mind the list and picking out the few that was written off as to not cause disruption in the more loyal ranks to the Boltons. “Most. Save for House Karstark and a few smaller houses. Chopping Rickard Karstark’s head off seems to still be a sore spot for them, reaching out seemed like a risky idea but most others have gotten our calls. None will be able to get to Winterfell before we do, but we can’t risk Rickon’s life in hope’s of waiting for those brave enough to come.”

The silence in the tent was thick, a stifling air that could choke if either of you breathed it in. Once more you stood across from your father, at the side of a King that was not him and saying they will still not kneel anyone but their own King. None had called Jon King yet, but everyone was starting to feel it. The more in command he took, the more everyone saw their leader.

“You understand what this means right?”

Nodding, your face twisted into a harshness. “I do.” Looking to meet his eyes, you found no fear of what he would do this time. Nor did you think if he wanted to, did he have the courage now that he was forced to look you in the eye as he would do so. “I swore my life to the last King in the North, and I didn’t sign in agreement on the next only to betray him for the father I was ready to fight against.”

Looking down, his voice was a bit more rough and strained. “I’m not asking you to betray him. I’m asking if you understand this means I cannot fight with you. I don’t need another leader to follow or to run off alongside. I needed an ally in the North. If he is a King, he’s not an ally.”

“No, in your eyes he’s an adversary.”

As they flew back up to you, whatever was built between you two in the short time you had seen each other again was burning out right before your eyes. If he truly wanted to fight for the threat that matters, then this wouldn’t be so hard for him to accept. But he still was the same man as before. Still the man who stood across from you and Robb saying that he will destroy you.

Opening his mouth to speak, you shook your head. “I don’t have time for this. I left a Stark behind once and he lost his head for it. I’m not doing the same thing again for Rickon. With or without you, we leave at first light.”

Coming out into the cloudy sky, you sighed to yourself. Feeling a dizziness wash over you while you stood there. Once more letting your hand press firmly against your forehead as the pain increased as the racing agitation in your heart.

You had begged Renly not to declare himself King, told him to not break apart this family more then it already was becoming. Perhaps it was meaningless ask. House Baratheon already doomed to split apart and fight against one another in one manner or another. He told you to pick a side, to think about what family you were trying to keep together.

But the only family you had that felt like it, was Shireen. Now, only three of you were left, and everything between you all was without any love. The only family that remained to you were the ones fighting for each other. Not against.

Sitting by the free folk in a tense quiet, did he approach. The one person on the other side you knew without a doubt you were going to miss. Sitting beside you, both watching the camp in quiet as you both contemplated what to say. You gave him a break, starting first time time around. “I’m sorry to see you go, Ser Davos. It’s been a long time since I got to spend any time with you.”

His voice was a bit lighter then yours, not weighed down by onslaughts of problems one after the other that never ended. Just a few personal ones he kept close to his chest. “Easy for you to forget, but I’ve known you since you were a girl. Watched you go from a shy thing too afraid to make friends to a Queen in the North. You’ve done well for yourself.”

Leaning forward, your arms resting against your knees as your hands stayed clasped together. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Positioning himself enough to still be within your vision, staying with his eyes outward to the same sights you were. “Hardly ever does. I tried to murder the red woman, got thrown in a dungeon by your father and next thing I knew he had renamed me Hand of the King. Success for people like us rarely comes at a pretty price.”

You hadn’t said anything, and you suspected he didn’t want to talk about it as much as you didn’t yours, but leaving him with nothing felt wrong. Not picking up that it was the same words as your father, only the emotion behind it was held back with an obvious weight that hurt more then you could pretend it didn’t. “I’m sorry about Matthos.”

Inhaling deeply beside you, there was a glad feeling that it was shared, but also one that knew how hard it would be to say anything further on it. “And I’m sorry about yours.”

Swallowing harsh, your eyes stung wishing they would let them fall. “It’s not anywhere near the same as your loss, but thank you. I take it my father told you?”

“He did. Wasn’t too happy about being kept in the dark, but I also think somewhere deep down he knew something like this was inevitable.” Nodding, your hands clasped together tightened around what it was holding, willing yourself to do it already. Give it up to someone who would keep it safe as he continued beside you. “Your mother isn’t pleased.”

“She rarely is.” Now that got a bit of a huffing laugh from Davos. Pulling only a tiny smirk from you in return. “She thought she lost me, then her husband, Shireen...but she always had a purpose beside him. Was loyal to him, and she should keep that. Give her something proper to hold onto.”

He was looking at you, but you not brave enough to look back. “And what about you? What belief now is keeping you going?”

Maybe you knew, maybe you didn’t but the answer felt strange to admit all the same. So you shrugged in response. “Only the gods know that now.” Fiddling with the bag you finally leaned back, turning partially to him. “I have something for you, before we leave.”

Gently, you opened your hands and moved them over to him. Taking him a good minute to open the small pouch to see, slowly as he knew what was in there, but having to be sure. Saying your name in protest you shook your head. “No, I want you to take her. She was like a daughter to you, and I know you’ll keep her safe.”

Holding it in his hand, he turned it around to look it all over as if it would show you anymore of her then the small bits. “Why not take her with you? She always wanted to go with you to visit Winterfell, after all.”

You shook your head, hoping to not hear the toxic words in your ear. “We’re walking into a battle with no idea if we can win it or not. If I die out there then she’s just lost to the ground. If Ramsay gets me back...I refuse to let any part of her be around him. Ever.” Finding his eyes proper, and as much ran through his in pain as yours tried to hide, but your voice broke all the same. “Take care of her for me.”

Moving to stand up abruptly, Davos followed suit calling your name. Looking back, you both found no ire for standing on different sides of this mess. Finding the other in a hug, he held you close as you found the sound of a father’s care in his voice. “You and Jon go reclaim your home, and I’ll bring her there to visit myself.”

Nodding you held tighter for a moment. Tired of leaving and losing things left to care about.

The closer you got to Winterfell the more everyone could tell there was something deeply wrong in the air. You had grown to be dead silent during the day, and the normally endearing brashness of the free folk only served to further worsen your head. The cold hardly feeling like it touched you anymore and only found itself further freezing soon as it reached your heart. Clouds were mostly grim, and even though in some places the snow wasn’t any more prominent then a sprinkling on the ground you found it’s once beauty to return to darkness.

It was that first snow storm that blew in not long after arriving in Winterfell. It was that which you would find yourself staring out into, the small pockets of quiet you were trusted to be by yourself with only to know it was because the only other option was death in the drastic drop below. The fear from the rush of how high up the one you and Theon had to make was minuscule in the grand image.

Only a few horses were within your ranks. Not nearly what would match Ramsay’s men. He had not the numbers, but the weapons and the strength. You only had so many, less then a hundred up against the many hundreds if not close to thousands in his. No doubt having taken the time to rip away your chances of finding enough on your own.

The free folk were fierce, and Jon was a great commander but you were walking into a bloodbath and you all knew it. The kind of bloodbath you desperately wished Jon would let you prevent. Maybe he would keep his word, if all he cared about was getting back what he lost, maybe you would be enough and Rickon could live without doubts.

But Jon still kept you close to his side in the journey. Refusing to allow you alone, and certainly not alone with a horse. You’d ride off the second you did and Jon knew it. If he wasn’t there it was Ghost, and if Ghost wasn’t there it was the large imposing form of Tormund who would no doubt just toss you back with no effort.

Let him take you, let him do whatever he wants and maybe this didn’t have to end the way it was going to. Whatever your odds were, you didn’t look at them with promise. Numbers didn’t mean anything, you knew that too well. For three years you had the least amount of numbers rallied behind Robb and he lead them to every victory. Ramsay wasn’t a commander, but he had the strength, and he certainly had the brutality.

The night before you would arrive at Winterfell was awful. You wanted to throw up, maybe scream while the entire time you saw the same in Theon. The nightmare of what you had escaped and now both of you were running right back up to the front door.

“Can I even trust you tomorrow to be on your own horse?” From watching the small fire where you sat away from many, Ghost only a few feet from your feet most of the evening, Jon seemed to have snuck up on you as your mind was too far away. Turning your upper body back and upwards to see him approaching you narrowed your eyes in confusion. Taking no time to sit down next to you as he elaborated. “When we meet with him. Can I trust you with your own horse that you won’t run, or am I putting you on the back of mine where I know you will stay put?”

You looked over at him with a sigh. “I think we both know the answer to that question.”

Exhaling deeply, Jon looked you over before learning to rest his head in his hands. A sinking in his posture as he contemplated the approach. Raising his head enough, he too only watched the flickering of flames in the mumbling quiet of the camp. “I shouldn’t be making you go, after everything he’s done to you, it feels cruel to ask you to come with me. But he needs to see you, see you by my side and not as if you’re some toy we’re fighting over.”

The sting behind your eyes hurt, the prospect of what on earth he was going to say tomorrow perhaps was what frightened you the most. What horror’s would he find to mock with, to taunt, to belittle and shove you back into the ground. What he was going to say about you to Jon?

You nodded, hands clasped in front of you as your head hung in the space between them with a shaking exhale. Your name slipping gently from his mouth, “How well are you going to take it, if I ask you not to fight.”

Your face twisting in a frustration, covering your face entirely in your palms. Trying to maintain a composure of how little you wanted to be here but how important it was that you not abandon him again. “Jon-”

Calling back with your name in the same dismissive tone, “Look at me.” Tearing your head up, you rolled your eyes over to meet his. Jon’s expression full of a love you couldn’t handle right now, and knowing in yours was fear and doubt. “I’m not trying to dismiss you, but if you’re out there how do I know you won’t do anything rash?”

“Like surrender to Ramsay?”

You held a half smirk, he didn’t. “Like surrendering to Ramsay.” Yourself trying to argue that you could still do that from the sidelines but the flashing of something dark in his eyes didn’t go away. “I have one chance tomorrow at settling this peacefully, and if it doesn’t I want you to promise me you won’t give yourself up just to end it.”

A dripping of sorrow was in yours that also sought to plead for him to understand you once last time, only the intensity that pushed the grey into something so dark it was as protective as it was possessive in a way. Looking at the other, none else existing in that camp you both could only hear the dancing of the flames. “I promise.”

No lies found in your eyes, Jon deflated a bit. Braving to run a hand gently over your hair that led to holding tenderly at you jaw. “I won’t ask you to stay out it, but when this turns into a battle I won’t have you out in front.” You opened your mouth and he only pulled you a little closer to his face, “No this isn’t up for debate. You want to be out there, I won’t stop you but you’re not going into the worst of it. I- I’m not going to be able to handle that.”

Your mouth parted slightly as your lungs sunk in your chest. Closing again as you mustered enough of the turmoil inside you to gently reach up, grasping at the wrist attached to the gloved hand at the side of your face. Both inhaling deeply at the feeling as you pushed past the material to run your thumb across his pulse, like you’d done with multiple Starks before it seemed. A reminder of life. Even after death, his ran strong.

“Why do you drive me so crazy?” Jon’s other hand moving to hold the other side, resting your forehead against his as he spoke, before sitting back up, and turning you by the waist to sit more back against his chest. Facing you both out to the fire once more, his hands resting at your waist now and the side of his head pressed into yours. “Feels sometimes as if living without you wasn’t real. Like we were never apart, how easy it was to fall back into it.”

Resting a little bit back, one of his hands slid across your stomach to pull you more upright against him comfortably. “We’ve never had to fall into it. Not really. It always existed between us, only we weren’t old enough to understand for a while.” His hand squeezed your waist more, but said nothing as you both looked just to the fires and ignored the distance that others may look over with. Ghost’s eyes peeled and sharp, as if to tell those to leave you both alone.

His voice was a low rasp in your ear that almost sent a shiver up your spine. “Speak for yourself. I’ve always known you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted. And I’m not about to give you up to someone who hurt you the way he did.”

Heart pausing in a beat, you felt almost a jolt of something pass through your head at the sudden voices and feelings inside. But this time, you could feel and hear it was only Jon behind you, making that your mind’s focus to settle down. “I don’t know what he’s going to say to you tomorrow. He’ll want a reaction, he already knows me, and now he’s going to try and find the right ways to poke at you in just the worst spot.”

Jon hummed, the sound vibrating through your ears and shivering now down your arms this time. “I’ve handled being degraded all my life, I don’t care if he tries to rile me up. Only that it doesn’t hurt you to hear it.” He was watching you more from where he sat behind you, just tall enough that he could watch the troubled clench in your jaw but enough to your level that he could nudge your head with his, leaving a kiss in your hair.

“He’s said a lot of things. Most of it so bad I couldn’t even begin to know where to start..or if I even could.” His heart raced behind the leather armour, knowing the things Theon had told him and how sick it made him feel. A long quiet sat there, only the warmth of him behind and the fire in front keeping you steady. “You’re not allowed to die by the way.” Jon humming in question, “If I’m not allowed to surrender myself to Ramsay, you’re not allowed to die fighting him.”

The hand around your stomach slid across to grasp at your hand, encasing the far smaller one in his as he ran his thumb over your palm. Sighing out dramatically behind, “You come back to me a Queen and now you’re the one barking all the orders.” You breathed out a laugh, and in Jon a deeper one fell much more freely. Pulling your hand up to press a kiss to it before settling it back down on you. “And it’s cute that you think I’m going to listen.”

Turning ever so slightly to try and catch a glimpse of him, “You’re not King yet, Snow. Technically you are still supposed take orders from me.”

Your lungs shook as he pressed another kiss to your hair at the side of your head this time. “Naming you a Stark didn’t make you any stronger. You can try and order me around all you like, but I’m the one here whose strong enough to toss you over my shoulder.” Smiling in a blissful warmth you almost laughed.

“That’s probably true.” You thought of no reasonable explanation as to why you said it, but you did. And as soon as you put it out there you felt the heavens drop down and shine something on you that Jon hadn’t felt in too long. Or ever. “You’re father knew about us.”

Stilling like a stone statue in a second, you could feel the wide eyes behind you with the same that you had that day. Not letting it turn into something warped you continued, “I don’t know for how long, but he knew about us. Said that it didn’t feel good, watching as Robb got one final thing that had always been yours alone. Wondering how different things could have been if he made you a Stark in name, that then there wouldn’t have been anything keeping you from me.”

Jon was silent behind you, nowhere to hide from this one only sat in the others arms for as long as the dark remained above the skies. Choosing the path less full of heavy agony of many ways, Jon rested his head against you almost trying to hide away in your neck. “Would’ve been able to kiss you in public at least.”

Raising an eyebrow, you snapped back, “You don’t even do that now, Snow.”

A full laugh came from him that time, pulling from your neck as it rung in your ears at how little you were graced with the sound. Pulling you a bit more into his chest, his other arm leaving your waist to drape around your stomach, the one still holding your hand dragging up higher on your ribs. “It’s for your own good.” Asking how, he never let that smile leave but his voice was deep in your ear on purpose. “I’m not kissing you until I have you alone in a bed, because once I do you’re not leaving that bed for at least a week.”

That shiver across your whole body he definitely had to have felt. Breathing stuttering as you sighed out in a tensity that he could only have known from those intimate moments together these past weeks. A tiny indicator of amusement in your tone, trying to play it off. “What, are you going to chain me to it?”

Heart spinning in your chest as Jon so confidently whispered, “If you let me.” That one got more of a breathy laugh out of you and grin from him. “No? We’ll work up to it.” Kissing the side of your head once more as if in the private moment here, he was unable to keep away from you.

Neither of you said much more for a long time, you felt no need to. The peaceful quiet with Jon was always something you could count on bringing comfort. Just being near the other was good enough some times. In moments like this it felt like no time or changes have passed, only to feel in your heart that something deeply was different and there was no hiding the desire anymore. Or, Jon simply had found little care anymore in pretending as if it were otherwise.

“Do you ever wish we could go back to that night?” Your eyebrows raised in question, “Our last night together under the Weirwood.”

Truthfully, you hadn’t thought of that night in a long time. You didn’t want to. It was a night you thought was the last time you would truly see each other, and certainly didn’t feel good to think back on it in the worst of days. Biting your lip before shaking your head, you were quiet, almost a whisper just for him. “I don’t think so.” Jon asking why, you took a deep breathe and tried to lean your head back a little more against his in a sort of nuzzle. “Because that was a Jon who didn’t think he was worth enough, one who didn’t think he deserved anything good. Despite everything, the you I found again isn’t like that anymore. You’ve found purpose, you’ve found confidence. These people all look to you as their leader because of it. Going back means I want the Jon then. I loved you then too, but I’m proud of who you’ve become. I wouldn’t want you to lose that.”

You didn’t expect him to reply, and it was likely the most you had said in one go in a number of days now. Once more not a painful quiet, one that you could bask in forever. You wouldn’t want to go back to that night, that was true, but it did remind you of how easy it was to feel so close to him in complete silence. Like being around each other was enough to know what the other was feeling.

Speaking quietly into your ear, there was that hint of doubt, a dash of insecurity that was so much more prevalent in your years before. “You’ve always thought too highly of me.”

Shaking your head firmly, your free hand reached up to grasp his already covering your first hand near your ribs. “No, I haven’t. I’ve always known who you are, who you could be. You deserved the world back when everyone looked at you as nothing more then a bastard. But these people, the Northerners around us wouldn’t have rallied to your side if that was still all you were. You’ve always been so much more then that.”

You could hear him swallowing harshly, throwing down whatever emotions were spilling from them back to their depths. Waiting a good minute before finding the courage to speak again. “When did he tell you? My father, when did he tell you he knew about us?”

The smirk on your face was in no way able to be stopped. What a panic that man sent you into in the worst place possible. “About five minutes before he walked me out to marry Robb.” The stillness that erupted in his body had a burst of a giggle fly out. Catching Jon’s attention who rolled his eyes in a playful spark. “Almost sent me into an early grave.”

Huffing behind you, even through the pain there was something playful in such memories of Ned Stark, this man known for his stern Northern rule who also had a propensity of finding total amusement in his children’s embarrassment. “We have a way with words.” And those words in Jon’s mind always worth it to see that very laugh on your lips just like now. So rare anymore to see or hear it.

Leaning back finally, you rested against him more comfortably. “He would be proud of you, you know? Your father. He would be incredibly proud of the man you’ve become.”

“And I need you to know, I’m proud of you too- no shut up you don’t get a say in how I feel.” Knocking down your instant protests of that with such a genuine casualness that you couldn’t help but just laugh. It had been a long time since either you or Jon could just sit together, joke and laugh and feel like two normal lovers. But tomorrow you meet with Ramsay and the fear in your heart was great. But you knew, that even in fear you must not look away.

Maybe you hoped, you had at least one father in Ned Stark who might be genuinely proud of you.

The sight of Winterfell once more filled with dread instead of the once lifting feeling of relief. A place you once could only feel home, and yet all you could see looking at it anymore was a pitiful reminder of how far you’d fallen to. Snow having clear enough that there was a clearing of grey scattered around the clearing to the South.

Much like the last time, your group had arrived first. To his word the night before, Jon kept you on the back of his own horse. You had wished you were trustworthy enough to have your own, but you understood his misgivings over it. Jon knew too well that you would rather send yourself back into a hell instead of a fight. Ensure Rickon’s return for yours. But he didn’t trust you, and so you were kept with him.

Trying to keep it to minimal, you knew Jon was doing his best to present his side as the route to a more peaceful outcome rather then having so many men stand behind. On what horses you had, men of the Mormonts and Glovers followed as did a number of free folk. To your right sat Tormund as well, curious to your deathly silence and almost barley moving. Knowing the very second there was view of them something in your blood would freeze up and threaten to drown you then and there.

Not even the breeze of wind graced you, just a cold that stung through your skin. When they appeared, they seemed to be confident enough not to bring as many men. Perhaps ten at most from what you could see and sure enough, the person of Roose Bolton nowhere to be found within them. Just riding in the middle, a smug smirk from Ramsay himself as he approached.

Eyes looking between you both, as you felt Jon stiffen in front of you. His own gaze sharp and grey bleeding into a darker almost black colour at the sight.

Only men of the Boltons accompanied him, no other houses which may have pledged to his side joined the parlay and you couldn’t help but wonder why. Of course, as they stopped a few meters away from your own group, Ramsay’s pale blues found yours with a sickening pleasure you had known all to well.

Your lungs barley finding any movement within them, having too many times recalled what such a look would normally follow. It was that same look on his face now that he had that first night he came down to the dungeon of the Dreadfort all alone to begin a new nightmare.

Jon spent no energy on courtesies. No civility or neutral greeting as had been the day such a meeting occurred on the opposite end of your father. No, he had not the care to play Ramsay’s games.

Ramsay however always played. A tone of sincerity that was as fake as the air was cold as he looked past Jon to you. “My dear bride, you wound me. Running away only to return to me on the back of a another man’s horse? What would the people think of such behaviour?” His smugness turning to Jon himself, “Come bastard, you’ve brought my bride all this way, now give her to me where she belongs.”

Jon clutched the reigns on his horse a bit tighter in his fist, keeping a stoned expression trained on him without giving much away. “I’ve shown you her, now you show me my brother.”

Tsking at him, Ramsay never once gave up the ruse. It took much to break that joy of cruelty to something more angry and vicious. “Now, it doesn’t work that way does it? You don’t get to see little Rickon until I have her by my side again. This can be easy, bastard. Give me what belongs to me and I give back what belongs to you.”

Jon’s voice was rough, a louder tone to ensure all heard but tinted in a husk of anger. “She’s not your prisoner, and she’s certainly not your bride.”

Raising his eyebrows in a fake impress, your heart dropped realizing the things about to come out of his mouth as his eyes shined with a horrifying glee again looking to you. “My lovely bride, you wouldn’t have happened to play around with other men while you were gone were you? Running from where I’ve given you a home in a nice warm bed right into his, I’m hurt.” You couldn’t tell if you hated how he was trying to rile Jon up through you, or how in a sick way, he wasn’t really wrong.

“She isn’t a toy for you to throw around, and this isn’t your home, Ramsay. It’s mine.” A bit of a fallen expression painted over the man, possessive like the one in front of you but not in a way that was full of a care or love. Just a childish anger of wanting things to belong to him and no one else.

Finding his eyes once more, Ramsay found it in him to give a second’s patience for diplomacy. “It hasn’t been your home for some time, bastard. But I may forgive you for that if you just give me what I want. Hand me my bride, kneel before me, surrender your army, and proclaim me as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. You should be thanking me, I executed the man who murdered your brother, gave justice to how many times he stabbed a knife into my bride’s stomach there. Him and that fat wife of his won’t trouble us any longer.”

Glad for the gloves on your hands so you couldn’t dig your nails deep into your palms, trying to keep calm when all you felt was ill. Jon was equally as tense in his posture, you had been right. Murdered Roose Bolton and that way with you nothing would stand in his way of ruling the North alone.

He found once more, no amusement in Jon’s own response. Finding him to be difficult to manipulate with his words. “We both know why I’m not going to do that.”

“Come, bastard. You don’t have the horses, you don’t have the strength, and the only men at your side are a bunch of savages with no discipline. There’s no need for a battle, get off your horse, return my bride to me and kneel. I will even bring your brother to you myself, alive of course. I’m a man of mercy.”

So this was why he knew to keep you behind him. Your muscles all screaming at you to get off and just go to him, let this be over. If you did it willingly perhaps he wouldn’t even need to submit to him at all, your willingness would be enough. But Jon wouldn’t let you give yourself over, and you knew a strained feeling inside your heart was as close to gratefulness as you could get.

“You’re right. There’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us.” In a real trick of the gods, you suddenly realized too much what Jon was feeling before. Your heart raced almost too fast leaving you lightheaded. Your hands reaching barley forward so he could feel the slight pressure of your fingertips at his back. “Let’s end this the old way. You against me.”

Almost indescribably, did he lean back just the slightest. Even as Ramsay chuckled, you could sense Jon telling you to stay calm, let him handle it. Pale blue eyes narrowing slightly in a curiosity to him. “I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way the people in the North talk about you, you’re the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good, maybe not. I don’t know if I’d beat you, but I know my army will.”

Voice not wavering for a second, strong as he sat tall atop his horse, Jon didn’t miss a beat. “Will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn’t fight for them?”

A blaze in his eyes send a prickling shiver down your spine, one that you had seen in your more daring of moments. Before he had learned ways to shut you up. Scoffing with what you knew wasn’t a true security in his leadership he played himself off too casually.

“You’re good. Very good. I can see why my bride ran all the way to you. Needs a strong man with enough sense to knock her around. Not just anyone can handle a cunt like hers. Tell me, does she bleed and fight against you as she does with me?” You couldn’t see Jon’s eyes, but you would be willing to wager they were as black as could be if the strain in his shoulders were to go off of. “Do you fuck her like a wolf, bastard? She certainly takes it like one.”

Everyone on your side of the field was horribly uncomfortable. In a way, it sickeningly reminded you of that morning at the Twins. Having to stand in front of Walder Frey and let him look you over like a slab of meat and parade his disgusting interests in front of his family, your army, and Robb himself knowing that saying anything in your defence as he wanted was a mistake.

Jon felt the same, and your insides twisted at what he could possibly be imagining. “I offered you and your men a way out. But I’m not handing her over just for you to torture her more. I know the North as well as you do. Do you really think they will stay at your side after finding out what you’ve done? That they’ll still fight for you, if you murder Rickon?”

Whatever confidence Ramsay was boasting, didn’t seem as confident in the glare he gave Jon in return. More of an anger that was rarely wound up by another in his monster of a mind. “Have it your way. Come morning, we will find out. I hope your men are ready, I haven’t fed my hounds in seven days. They are dying to meet you. Of course, not before I keep you alive just long enough to watch me and my bride consummate our lovely marriage properly. You know as well as I do she's nice and broken in. But I am a generous man, so I'll even let you watch as my hounds give her all a turn before I kill you.”

Never to leave his guard down, Jon had everyone stay in their place as Ramsay so confidently turned to leave. Almost out of sight before you too, made your leave. Once the morning comes, you knew this same field would be drenched in blood, but you had to be ready this time. You’ve been in battle before, only never with such a risk of being on the losing side.

“If he was smart, he’d stay inside the walls of Winterfell and try to wait us out. But he won’t.” Nightfall had fallen upon your army, only a fair few of you still up and rerunning the plans again and again until it was ingrained in everyone’s minds. Charging into a bloodbath, too many scenarios played through your minds and every one had to be planned out no matter how minute.

Lord Glover looking at Jon with the kind of trust you’d seen in the man before, only directed towards another he’d eventually call King. “You don’t think he’d force us into a siege?”

Shaking his head no, voice low but no hesitation. “Most of his men are houses forced to fight for him. If he can make an example out of us, then he knows they won’t turn on him out of fear. He wants it to be a slaughter.”

Your eyes were narrowed, looking over everything laid out to the group almost without blinking, running along the edges where they could come from. Tormund leaning over more looking to Jon with a knowing. “It’s his horses that’s a problem. I know what mounted horses can do to an army. You and Stannis cut through us like piss through snow.”

Your eyes flickered up briefly, before turning back down. Tactic’s running through you head trying to find a solution that even sounded good before speaking up. Your head already hurt, trying to come back into this kind of world after being so drastically torn from it made it feel so much like your first battles all over again. Relying on the skill of others to push you into an idea that could even work.

The conversation around you continued as you leaned over the table silently, “They won’t be able to hit us from the sides.” Jon called your name causing your head to snap up with a bit more intensity in your eyes then perhaps you realized. “Are you with us?”

Gaze drifting to the side, you couldn’t help but recall those days in Riverrun. How full proof the plan was until one thing had taken it all apart, and ended it just before your father had breached the gates of King’s Landing. “They’ll charge at us trying to push us back, but maybe we need to do the same.” Only catching Jon’s eye you spoke with a hesitant pause hoping you made as much sense as the images in your mind. “How long would it take to breach the gate?”

A glint in his eye caught yours, something of an understanding as he answered, “If we have a proper clearing, maybe minutes.” He put the pieces together faster then you did, leaning back up as he looked to the others. “He’ll send his horses into a slaughter because he thinks it will push us back.” His voice trailing off with a lightness, looking at you with a plan the others hadn’t seen yet.

Nodding slowly, you looked to the outlaid plans once more. Finding a voice for the first time in a long time that awoken the memories of what used to be in Maege and Glover. “They’ll attempt to block our path closer, but if we can break that line we can push them right up to the gates. And if we get into the gates?”

“Then it’s over.” Maege finished for you, a proud look on her face. “I knew you were still in there somewhere.” You didn’t quite share the confidence. None of the battles Robb had one had been rushed into knowing a victory, handling every time with as much planning for failure as their was success.

Every time you would get to cocky about your own plans, was the same instances the Stark’s would all knock you into the dirt in the training yard. And Ramsay was confident. He has the advantage of Winterfell, and he has the horses but it also means he thinks there’s nothing for your men to stand up with. Jon had at some point come closer to your side, his tone rumbling in your chest from the proximity. “Ensure all the men out there knows my instructions are clear. I can’t have surprises from them tomorrow.”

Hardly having noticed Theon watching you closely, you also missed the glance between the two of them the former nodding towards you. It was almost an odd dynamic, between the four of you as teenagers it was usually split evenly of Theon and Robb, and Jon and yourself as the pairs. It was a bit odd for Jon, having missed war bringing you two together, and the trauma that bonded it for good

In ways, Theon knew you as well as Jon did. He hadn’t gone into detail so much about what Ramsay had done in specifics, but it was enough to paint the picture to Jon that day in Castle Black. It also was clear, Theon’s quiet was one thing but the fear in his own eyes trying to describe the things you had been through was another.

It wasn’t until you had told him that night in Deepwood Motte, did he learn that Theon would be dragged into the room to watch what Ramsay would do. And judging by how many marks were left on you that first night he truly came back, clearly there was so much worse happening. And it felt strange, knowing that it was Theon who knew it all best, not Jon. Theon had been the one to protect you, get you out of there and instead of returning to his family he betrayed Robb for? He stayed, knowing if Jon were vengeful enough he may have merely acted out Robb’s own execution order for him.

When you came to Winterfell shortly after you turned fourteen, Theon had already been there for about two years. Long enough to lose that initial fear of what may happen to him, and feel more at ease around him and Robb as friends of sorts. Then you showed up, and Jon could still recall how much red was painted over his eyes as he heard Theon remarking about “showing you what a man looks like.”

Robb had been as close to hitting him as Jon had. The two of you were always combative though, always bantering and joking. Many days he and Robb would have their own tasks when it was usually you and Theon whose jobs typically aligned with the other. If he used to feel jealous of what he saw as Robb getting their father’s true attention, it was Theon he was jealous of spending so much time with you day to day.

Standing there, seeing Theon’s eyes trained concerned as you tried desperately to only focus on what was right in front of you instead of the fear to come. It was that same feeling of jealousy in his gut, like no matter what he did Jon would never know you the way others did. Then again, he also wasn’t sure you knew yourself better then others did anymore.

Both men nodded at the other, at the very least, Theon had found himself working to trust your well being with him more freely. Theon could talk you down, but Jon was there to prevent it in the first place now. Most took their leave, save for Tormund.

Raising an eyebrow to him, the larger man asked with a doubtful amusement “Did you really think that cunt would fight you man to man?”

“We could end this war right now, boy. Save thousands of lives. You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Lannisters.”

The same offer, only given by the other side of the fight. Except Jaime was already a prisoner, and the battle already won. Jon next to you though, spoke deep as he glanced from Tormund to yourself. Eyes dark with far too much brewing behind them. “No. But I wanted to make him angry. I want him coming at us full tilt, no tricks waiting for us over the hill.” Turning to glance at you, he looked back to Tormund in finality. “We should all get some sleep.”

Both men nodding to the other, once a threatening dynamic built on lies turned into someone the other had found a deep trust in. “Make sure she does too,” Gesturing towards you, “Need you both sharp tomorrow.”

You hardly noticed it was only Jon left. A true battle oncoming, and sending good men into an undeniable slaughter. You could have been in the war tent garrisoned in Moat Cailin over four years ago and you might not have realized, the anxiety racing just the same.

Only brought back to the world when warmth enveloped your back and two arms came to stretch beside yours, keeping you caged between the table and Jon. A barley there hint of relaxing coming over you at the feeling, but little would make it go away. His voice was low, resting close to your ear almost humming in tone. “We’ve gone over everything as much as we can, nothing left to do but wait.”

Tilting your head barley to one side, but didn’t make any moves to look away. “I can hardly remember when I used to go into these things with any confidence.” Sighing behind you, Jon moved his hands to your hips, adjusting you a bit closer, standing a bit straighter against the wooden surface so he could more comfortably keep you close. “How the hell was I going to do any of this on my own?”

Hands holding your hips a bit tighter, voice lowering more to a rasp that could’ve made you shiver more then the cold air around you. “You were never going to do this on your own. The moment I realized you were alive, I knew ever letting you go was a mistake.” One hand running smoothly from hip to across your stomach and pulling you more back into him, your eyes fluttering shut at the sudden feeling.

Slowly, you let your hands reach up from the table and rest gently along the arm running around your front. “That day on the Kingsroad, I remember this..strange feeling. As if the second I turned from you something in me started screaming. Trying to tell me something was wrong. At the time, I thought that was just what heartbreak was supposed to feel like.” He nodded against the back of your head, prompting you to continue. “But then it kept coming back. Almost as if it were some sign that I was making the wrong choice, or was walking into a trap. I never felt something like that until we finally left, and it hasn’t been back since..since I’ve been back.”

Shivering in his arms as the hand across your stomach begun to stretch and trace along where your scar sat hidden under your layers. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. All three of you.” Neither of you spoke about it, about what you had lost from that scar other then your life. You had no way of knowing what to even say to him about it, or anyone. You didn’t want too, but you still felt a sting building up quickly behind your eyes.

Trying to shake your head, shake the water from them too, “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to you fast enough to protect you.” Jon trying telling you it wasn’t your job, but you pushed past him. “No, Jon. It is. If you’re supposed to protect me, then I’m here to protect you. That’s what this is. You don’t get to do all the work by yourself.”

Another sigh, this one with enough strength that it was both exhausted yet purposely dramatic. “Did you drive Robb this mad with how stubborn you are?”

Shrugging lightly, you leaned back into him finally. “Sometimes.”

His hand traced along that small area a little firmer, as if wishing he could feel it from over it all. Insecurity once more seeped so lightly into his voice, asking in a whisper, “Can I ask? About him?” Pressing harder into that scar for a second to indicate which he meant.

Your head felt light, for a moment it wasn’t his hand there, it was that warmth pooling of blood that left your body shivering and pale. It wasn’t judgment in your tone, but for a moment you worried it came out as such. “You’ve never asked about him before..why?”

Stilling for a moment before exhaling deeply, the nerves not quite leaving him this time. “I was jealous. Most of my life I never thought too far ahead, life like mine didn’t have much to look forward to. We couldn’t even be together anywhere but completely alone, I knew marrying you was never going to happen. Then I saw you like that in my dream one day, and all I could think about was how jealous I was that it wasn’t mine.”

Biting your tongue, trying to keep the inevitable emotions at bay desperately. But he continued. “Then you and Robb died, and I felt like a horrible person for it. Spent all that time wishing it was mine, and then you lost both of them. After that I don’t think I even knew what to ask.”

You had thought it was Robb’s in that dream, and maybe it was, or maybe it was Jon’s you didn’t really know. That dream of a baby boy was so far away in another life that it was too foreign to remember properly. Yet, you found a smile. Something deep in there was the softness you shared with Robb over it. The only times you two had any happiness before it was all ripped away. “We had names picked out.”

Jon turned a bit to look over your shoulder, a hint of a smile on your face that you never had anymore when talking about Robb. His thumb now gently running across your stomach, not at all realizing it was just the same manner that Robb himself used to do when you were pregnant. “What were they?”

Looking to nothing for a moment, you found the same words you told Robb coming back. “Both you and Robb were named after your father’s closest companions. Jon Arryn named his son after Robert, but neither of them did the same for him. We left for war trying to save him, it seemed only fitting. We had at least two others planned as well. If our first boy was named after Ned, then any girl we had would’ve been Lyanna. And-” You paused, and for a moment Jon couldn’t quite tell why you almost seemed amusingly hesitant.

Squeezing your hip he prompted, “What?”

Holding a smirk back, you shrugged. “We uh...were fairly certain however that Catelyn was not going to appreciate what we thought of for our second son...”

If anything got a sigh along with an eye roll out of Jon, it was that. Letting his forehead rest against the back of your head, grumbling, “Seven hells...what was wrong with you two..” A small laugh burst from you, prompting Jon to tear himself from you and turn you around. Backing you against the table once more, his arms now reaching to encase you between them as well. A playful glint in his own eye, “Well, when we get to our second boy we’re sure as hell not naming him Jon.”

A flush ran through your skin, and a flustered smile you wished wasn’t running so obviously across your lips. The sheer ease in his eyes and grin on his face as he said it almost made your head spin. Trying to play yourself off as just coy and joking, “Well what did you have in mind then?”

Once more there was no hesitation or doubt. Just the somewhat, actually very intimidating aura of a man who knows exactly what he wants. Running a hand gently along your hair, “Robb would appreciate having one of your boys named after him a lot more then I would after me. It doesn’t have to be our second if you’re not ready. If I recall, I promised you eight.”

Your eyes widened, mouth parting in incredulity his audacity. A higher pitched protest trying not to laugh out of your mouth, “Excuse me, I clearly remember saying we should stop at three, but you made me agree on five, where's this eight coming from?”

Jon leaned forward, his breathe brushing across your skin as he ran the hand down to stroke gently at your jaw, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m older now. I want more.”

There wasn’t much sleep to be found that night. Not by your, not by many. A battle was one thing, but tomorrow was going to be more rough then the ones you remembered. What little you did, for the first time in a long time, you were so vividly haunted by that very thing. That very horror you couldn’t keep from. Only this time, you couldn’t even tell which Stark it was strung up like a puppet, a blend of direwolves morphing in front of you so jaggedly staked onto where their heads were.

Whatever Northerners were fighting on Ramsay’s side, you hoped they too recalled the inconceivable cruelty of what House Bolton helped create as the end of their own King. Maybe Jon was right, maybe you were wrong to think giving yourself up was an option. It would’ve have saved Robb from that fate, but maybe you just needed to force yourself into those fears. Get out in the mud and do what needs to be done. No one protected Robb from such an end, but you could protect the two brothers that were right in front of you.

But perhaps, two was too great of a number to be allowed to come true.

You knew what would happen as soon as you rode up. Most of your forces on foot, only a handful on what horses you had, most in lines of archers lined across the fields from one end to the other along where you dug out. Cutting off their ability to circle around you, as your archers stood tallest to pick off any oncoming men seeking to circle your forces. None of the Bolton army was seen as Jon rode up in the middle of his army to the front.

Standing atop it were only a few figures, one of which was Ramsay and the other to yours and Jons horror was Rickon. He was alive, but as soon as you saw the distance between, and the bow in Ramsay’s hand you looked to the men poised to flank to the free folk’s right. Eyes looking to Theon’s as you knew exactly what was about to happen.

All of you were deathly silent. Ramsay leaning to Rickon in a falseness that you knew the boy wouldn’t be able to tell. He was older then you last saw, almost eleven now and yet he looked far older then a boy his age had any purpose looking. Your place enough behind Jon, you knew he could hear you in the painful quiet that was surrounding everyone.

“He’s going to make him run...”

You didn’t elaborate, and the worst was that Jon knew too well exactly what you meant. This wasn’t an act of war, this was pure cruelty. You had spared a child’s life before, you had stood beside him as Robb executed his own men for murdering children even as hostages. This wasn’t an act of a commander, and it was why Ramsay couldn’t have Roose Bolton around to stop him.

If he was sure he was going to win this battle, he still had one last game to taunt with and you felt utterly sick. This was why Jon refused to let you even attempt your own surrender, he had enough foresight to know it wouldn’t be as simple as that and he was right. Only it was against the wrong person in your eyes.

As soon as Rickon ran, Jon took off. Riding towards his brother as all of you were forced to wait in a wide eyed horror. Arrows didn’t barrage Jon, no it was a far sicker game. Ramsay stood from his safe high top, and shot arrows down around Rickon desperately running to Jon. The first time they had seen each other in over four years and you knew Jon could see nothing else but how far he had to go to get his brother.

Only, Ramsay was toying with them both. It was almost enough to make you look away. So close to their brother, both almost managed to even grab the other’s hand. Only as soon as they barley could feel the other, a final arrow shot right into the boy, and hurled him face down to the ground.

Heart stopping, the sickening dizziness. Rickon laid there, and didn’t move and for a moment Jon could only look down at what he only just couldn’t reach.

And yet, that weight, that darkness, everything that had bore down on you for over a year. The blood and bright blue eyes of that night, the fire and chanting turned to torment and a nightmare only death was your wish from. It all didn’t quite ring clearly.

Something stirred in the sheer seconds you had to act. An instinct that had been buried so deep the last time it was awake, it was Robb’s side you were fighting at. And at his side, you knew what needed to be done, and so did you now. You knew better, because you knew exactly what Jon was about to do.

As soon as Jon beckoned his horse to ride straight forward, you found a voice. Quiet for so much of your life, and yet somewhere deep you found enough of that desperate Baratheon fury that would cause Robert to shout like no other man. “Prepare to charge,”

Jon rode more, and the arrows shot at him with more vigour then the toying of his brother. In an instant enough hit his horse, sending it stumbling down and Jon slamming to the ground with it. And it was then, there was no turning back.

He stood there alone as Ramsay commanded this men to charge, a terrifying onslaught of mounted horsemen all riding towards one lone man with but a sword at his side. “Men, go, protect your commander- now,”

The free folk were as terrifying from this view as it was for the men coming. A ferocious people, sided along good men you had known and fought with before. Your own on the horses you had at their backs following enough to cover.

The roaring from both sides only forced your lungs out harder in commanding their draws, each side knowing their strategy and yours trained on those in front of Jon himself.

There was no way to describe it. What kind of blood was shed in the middle of that chaos. Your own archers the only thing that was poised to keep the Bolton armies from circling around Jon’s forces but the carnage below was something new. Mounted horses, brutal fighting from both free folk and the men with a flayed men itched into their insignia, it built up before your eyes.

Desperate yourself to remember everything you’d been taught and yet nothing could prepare anyone for this. None. In a true twisted fashion, you were sure this was his plan. Bolton men in the brunt of the action, as Jon’s men had to navigate a chaos around them and the arrows barraging them from their own sides with sigils you indeed recognized. Ones that you had sent pleas to, and ones whose arrows were as focused on you as you were focused on your own men.

In the ensuing chaos, both sides of your own on horse back had to push forward, push the line of men towards the chaos because there was no other option. They wanted to keep you as far from the castle as they could and there was only losing if you were pushed back enough.

But what built, was horror. Two sides guarding the line all poised at either side of what they created and in the middle was a wall of dead. Piles trampling over the other and adding to the weight that you could barley see in. One that you could barley see Jon in, and in an instant you found a voice that almost shocked the man you called to as it did you. But you yelled over the chaos and he heard you. “Tormund-”

It was indescribable in those moments. So much around him that he could feel his lungs crushing under the pressure of it all and soaking his vision. If this was what hell felt like then Jon would lose himself inside of it. Barley managing to push back what was on top of him until enough was there to reach up to grab onto what he knew was dead. His own and their own but he had to drag himself from it.

Something, someone seemed to have the stance to yank him back to earth, and as soon as his feet touched solid ground and he felt the air once more through the blood and grime that soaked all who found trapped within it’s depths. He hardly felt anything but a shaking ferocity that threatened to tear him apart. It wasn’t until he was yanked by the arm, forced to look at Tormund urging him to stay in control. To not lose it.

Senses from a highest peak that radiated something he couldn’t describe as the man forced Jon to keep eye contact did he realize how far down did he need to be pulled back. Coming to earth did he realize that something was off, or maybe it was that it wasn’t so deafeningly loud.

The wall of the dead in the middle, on two sides were a mixture of Boltons, Umbers, and Karstarks all holding their own line, some men, Jon even recognized himself. Many, he knew had once fought by his brothers side and it only made him angrier.

Watched their King betrayed by the Boltons, and now watched as the same house murdered Ned Stark’s last trueborn son and all posed in a challenge. Begging his forces to charge them first and get picked off by them and the arrows behind them.

Only, Jon recognized the men flanking to the Bolton’s left and right as well. Houses that he and you had called to. Houses that now, weren’t watching the men their arrows were trained on. No way of knowing the silence between a fair few that spoke volumes.

The Northerners were sure that the other houses forced to fight would surrender when the tides turned, but it wasn’t quite that. Your eyes and Theon’s had found leaders in the horseback archers parallel to your own. And a wave washed through, looks you had shared with these men in plans of battle before. Hornwood’s, Manderly’s, Blackwood’s, Dustin’s, all men you knew and you realized it wasn’t surrender they chose.

Fight as you had no other option, and once a choice was to be made they made the one that you barley had a plan for. But it was there, it had to be. You didn’t spend three years at Robb’s side, not to know exactly the kind of men who followed him. Jon’s forces on foot slightly ahead of you, and the opposite arches aimed over just enough to hit them. Your own flanking each side, turning enough to see Theon recognizing as you saw. So it was the very last plan in the book you were to cook up, was it?

Jon stood soaked in blood, men all at his sides ready to cut through them as tensions arose and as the archers poised at them were commanded to start moving. He could hear you, from what he could tell almost just behind him by a good number of feet as you held the back lines harshly.

As children, Jon and Robb often found themselves climbing the highest towers, and shouting to each other from increasingly far distances. Their father had told them that the greatest of commanders could only do so much if no one on the battlefield could hear them. That a good commander knew how to yell, a lesson he knew he and Robb both had learned with success.

But then he heard you, and he got it. He knew why you refused to let him stick you off to the sides. He wanted to fight for you, but you would for him. And no matter how much having you there scared him, you’d keep going as long as it took to ensure he kept going. And your yell, had to be that of a commander right now. One that he had previously only heard stories of from his father, that Baratheon’s were the one house who had a true set of lungs when they wanted too.

“Nock,”

The faint sounds of men and horses shifting behind them as he stared down the ones holding the line from them, teeth gritting and heaving for as much air as he could.

“Draw,”

A yell he had never heard on you, but there was a confidence he only caught at the last second. That the men in front of them, were only ones that had denied their cause and pledged to the Boltons. Only those and the Bolton’s themselves. None else. The Northerns at their backs however, looked as if they were actually listening for orders from the voice yelling behind him, watching you with a nod as if- oh honestly Jon could’ve turned around and kissed you right then and there.

“Loose,” Your arrows all fired, and the second they reached the men blocking the path, did the archers behind the Boltons turn. And arrows flew in vast numbers into the remaining men all posed to charge.

Another set of arrows and Jon found his own voice to match. “With me, men. Break their line,”

Taken off guard, Jon and his own men found their strength once more, and found the shock and confusion of the Bolton’s being picked off by their own sides broke through. He couldn’t quite see ahead of him enough, but he also knew to trust your eyes to watch those from the leader who hadn’t touched a single second of battle, save for an innocent boy running for his life.

The Northerners turning to the side of their own, men who now fought at Jon’s side recognizing the leader they didn’t just need, the one they wanted. One that was as fierce as the brother before him.

In the turning of the tides, Ramsay stood almost baffled by what was happening. Realized that the only men fighting for him for the ones being picked off by the bastard. So he did what cowards do when faced with forces that could outdo them. He ran. Commanded his men and what was left to turn back.

Realizing what happened, you made a risky judgment call. One he would be likely mad at you for later but now was important. Because you weren’t leading these men. The free folk, the Northerners all turning to fight for Jon’s side as one.

In a stroke of, not quite luck, but trust in someone who once fought beside you, you commanded your own horse forward and it was Theon picking any off before you could reach him. Coming to his side as there were more of you then there were of them, Jon looked up to where you came towards him.

Barley a glance was needed and it was all spoken already. Ramsay didn’t have the men for a siege anymore, and they all knew it. Hauling himself up in front of you, grabbing the reigns for himself. Telling his men to follow, telling them “We’re going home,”

Ramsay wasn’t ready. He wasn’t the one to lead such vicious battles and he despised that his men knew it. He thought he had them. He thought he could do it that he only had a scrap of wildings to help. Only to have the irritating audacity of Harald Karstark the night before, telling him that if it was a wildling army led by Jon Snow, then they might be fucked. That he would know this place better then any of them could wish.

His own bloody men turned on him, Houses that had sworn to his side. Albeit through threat of force but his side none the less. He thought he had the bastard, and then..he didn’t. And now he knew there was only a matter of time before they broke those gates down and the instant they did he would only have seconds to find a plan.

“Archers to the walls.” Only they didn’t. Wide eyed and rageful he yelled louder, “Archers-”

His own men by his side telling him, “Our army’s gone, we can’t hold off a siege.” At least there was the satisfaction of knocking the mouth breather on his ass for that. But the men that remained, ones that weren’t soldiers of his own house? Oh it was bad. It was bad, because they stood down. They stood down, and the gates open.

There would be no siege because there weren't enough men willing anymore to die for Ramsay Bolton’s malicious temper. They had a King, a King his father murdered, and outside those gates was the King that without ever calling himself one, had led his men through a bloodbath as fiercely as their last.

As those gates opened, on either side taking sure control of the perimeter of the yard were a mix of free folk and Northerns together finally. But as Jon descended on the home he had once thought couldn’t ever be his again, all he saw was red.

A monstrous, pathetic man who preyed only on those too weak to fight back. All Jon could see was the vile thing that waited until Jon had just reached Rickon, before shooting the boy dead. All he could see was how horrifically scared he had seen Ramsay leave you and the fear in your eyes for too long tormented by him. He didn’t get here in time to kill Roose Bolton for Robb, but Ramsay was here when Rickon wasn't, and Jon felt an intensity in his blood like none other.

You followed not long after, you and the men beaten, covered in grime, blood mixes of yours and others as Jon was drenched, soaked in the massacre which tried to crush him in. And Ramsay, stood there almost entirely clean with a bow in his arms. Looking between Jon and you with the same condescension in his voice he always had. “You suggested one on one combat, didn’t you? I’ve reconsidered, fighting for my whore of a bride sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Men all standing back, as Jon walked forward with not an ounce of fear or doubt in his eyes. You could still see Jaime Lannister, tired up, bloody and beaten taunting Robb “ Swords, lances, teeth, nails choose your weapons. And let’s end this hear and now. ” But Robb was smart enough to know a trap when he saw one.

Ramsay wasn’t.

Step by step Jon threw his shield up, taking arrow after arrow all barley moving him back a single inch. All of you stood heaving from the fight to get to this point, as you watched Jon approach Ramsay without a care in the world over his attacks. The second he got close, Jon thrusted it forward by a blunt edge, smacking Ramsay in the head and sending him knocked to the ground.

And that didn’t stop until there was barley anything left to recognize outside the blood. It could only be described once more, as brutal. An anger and violence that was so destructively pulled to the surface that none stepped in to stop. Maybe you should have, but you found no strength left in you to do so.

You fought back against Ramsay too many times and he overpowered you with ease. But Jon was the one who overpowered him, and you couldn’t convince yourself it was wrong to stop. Luckily for you, however, Jon had more strength then physical.

Ramsay broken and bloody on the ground when he stopped. Jon’s voice a hissing rasp full of vitriol as he knelt over him. “I should kill you right here, let you die humiliated in front of your own men.” Tossing what was left of his hold on him to the ground, Jon stood up. Looking down to the man with exactly what you knew you had seen in him. “But I won’t. That’s not the kind of leader these people deserve, and it’s not the kind of man I am. For now, you can rot in the dungeons with the rest of your men.”

Taken back to Whispering Wood, some taking away what was left of the men on the other side, while the rest stood around you in cheers. But it wasn’t quite over. It was why you told him, why he needed to know before he got here. You were Robb’s Queen, they fought beside you. But you weren’t their leader, you never were. Only one here was the only person it could be.

Only this time, the man they would call to saw it coming. And he knew better then most, the cheers around him couldn’t last. You didn’t come all this way together just to fight this battle. Jon’s voice was loud as he stood in the middle of his people. “Men, you’ve fought with honour. Stood beside the free folk and fought together, my father used to say we find out true friends on the battlefield. And you’ve proven that today, but one victory does not make us conquerors.”

Multiple men stepped forward, Northern Lords who you had seen in this position before, had seen this look on their faces, but this time, as you stepped forward as well they knew that you still truly believed it too.

“Winter has come, and I promise you. There is a bigger enemy coming for us. One that won’t wait out the cold. They will bring the storm with them. Bury and burn the dead, and celebrate while you can, but this war is far from over.”

It was Lord Dustin who stepped forward first. “We all received a call from a Southerner calling himself King, but we refused. Some of us forced into allegiance with the men who murdered our King and our Queen, and yet by the gods grace she’s standing here in front of us because she understands better then we all did.”

Jon met your eyes, and you just once, begged the gods to let him accept what he deserves. Just once.

Another loud, impassioned voice that spoke over many with conviction. Only Maege had a bit more grace then that was of the Greatjon who spoke the declaration years before. “Bear Island knows no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. Robb Stark was the King we chose, but he didn’t need to make this one a Stark to follow after him. He named Jon Snow as King after him because Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins all the same.”

More stepped forward, men who answered the call and those who didn’t all as Jon stood at the centre of all. The Manderly’s next, and you knew too well they realized at the last second what the true choice was, their eyes had found yours in those vital seconds before Jon broke the line, and turned to join. “Lady Mormont speaks true. Your brother came to us, chose you to succeed him, and it wasn’t until I realized I was on the wrong side of the battlefield did I remember that.”

Lord Blackwood stepped next. “My son died fighting for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, and never once have I regretted standing beside him. And I won’t regret should I die in battle beside the brother he trusted, the brother he called King.”

Fighting against until the very last surrender as they opened the gates finally, it was indeed Smalljon Umber who had the courage to step forward just as he was the one who ordered the gates to be opened. “My father’s rotting in a Frey dungeon because he fought by Robb Stark’s side, and I dishonoured him, my King, and my house by pledging my men to the ones that killed him. A man can only admit when he’s wrong, and ask for forgiveness, if not mercy.”

Jon’s voice wasn’t as powerful as before, and he caught you in his eye, closer then before. Rough and scratched like the toll was long taken on it. “You sided with us in the moments it mattered most. There’s nothing to forgive.”

With as much admiration as he had that day years ago, Lord Glover was as confident now as he was then, this time your name in his words. “We’ve heard rumours, about your death, about his.” Gesturing to Jon, still as quiet and still as ever, like he was the stag about to be spooked for once. “And if the gods brought you back, maybe they wanted you to bring him back too. Without either of you, we wouldn’t have a Queen, or a King. House Glover has stood behind House Stark for thousands of years, and I will stand behind Jon Snow.”

Silence was met, as you approached him. Bloody and beaten beyond belief and yet you held no doubt in your eyes, or a nervous hesitation as you had shared with Robb before. Now was different, and you could only see a man that was exactly what you wished he himself had seen earlier.

Your voice nowhere near as loud as any of theirs, but you trusted these men to hear you. Even if your voice was only loud enough for Jon as you found his grey ones you missed for too long.

“Robb chose you because you deserved everything he had. He didn’t want to force you to become a Stark just to lead, because Stark or Snow, you’re his brother. He didn’t want you to be the King he was, he trusted the King you would be on your own.” A hint of a smile on your face as Jon’s gaze was trained intensely into yours as if needing to lighten the thick air between you in front of so many people. “Though being a Snow..I suppose would make you the White Wolf instead of the Young Wolf.”

Had Jon’s heart not been about to break through his chest and armour and sink him into the ground, he may have found it in himself to laugh. But as he looked to you, and then up to the men, he knew there was only one choice. The Free Folk wouldn’t kneel to him, but Jon didn’t want them too. They followed him as a leader, but it was the North that was his home who needed him as their King. And who would he be if he refused the call when Robb hadn’t, he thought.

Soaking in blood from a horror bloodbath he led them all to victory in, the Northerners around Jon graced him with the title he never thought he would’ve deserved. “The King in the North,” And as more joined, drawing their swords to swear, he looked to his people with an acceptance in his eyes.

It was different this time though, you didn’t make any pledge of loyalty because truly Jon had no gods forsaken reason to hear one from you. You both came back from death in ways not a soul other would understand, and that was enough.

He did though, in front of men, in a home, in a place he never would have dared only four years ago, find enough in himself to let go of that long insecurity. The last time it happened, you both were in Winterfell together, thought was the last time. Leaving the other may have been a mistake, it may not have been, but you were in front of him all the same.

That cold night of the feast he was kicked out of, both of you had looked around to ensure you were alone first. But this time, Jon let himself just not care, and in however long the men chose to chant and cheer, Jon pulled all the air out of you as he grabbed you, pulling you to him.

Almost spinning you in his arms as you both clung to the other in a tight yet tender embrace, as all the “King in the North” faded until only your breaths could be heard by the other.

For this very moment, it would have to do.

Splashing harsh against the rocky shores, the fleet all gathered around to see the immaculate castle that stood before them, stone dragons carved into their towers and the volcanic cliffs around it acted as an overpowering shadow. An image of fear to many, but they had only just arrived. They couldn’t leave now.

Some were familiar to the land, others weren’t at all but they all stepped ashore, and with little fight as could be given, the island was theirs. It wouldn’t last for long, not as a permanent home, but it was the closest thing to what was his blood family as one man could get for now.

Some called him Young Griff, but as he stepped onto the shores of Dragonstone, he knew he had to become what he was trained to be his whole life. Eventually all the Seven Kingdoms would know him by what he came here to be. Here to claim his rightful place on the Iron Throne, as would have belonged to his father befor

But Young Griff wasn’t here to be his father. Rhaegar died a prince, but Young Griff was his only living son. The rightful heir. He was here to be King.

For his true name was said to be Aegon Targaryean

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #jon snow #robb stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine

198 notes · View notes

arcielee · 1 year ago

Text

Interview With a Writer

Thank you so much @inthedayswhenlandswerefew for always being willing to take time out of your day and allow me the chance to fangirl over another brilliantly written story. I don't think I can even properly express how grateful I am to relive this literary trauma you have blessed our eyeballs with. Just... thank you. 🦀

This is the 20th installment of Interview With a Writer! You are welcome to read over the other talented souls on Tumblr and ao3 who shared their brilliant writing! 🧡

Dividers are by @saradika-graphics 🧡

Name: inthedayswhenlandswerefew

Story: When The World Is Crashing Down

Paring: Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), be mindful of chapter warnings!

Where did the idea for When The World Is Crashing Down come from?

For a long time (since last spring, at least), I’ve had kind of a vague inspiration for a story that would take place between Rook’s Rest and the end of the war, essentially chronicling all the destruction that the Greens endure and how Aegon would cope with it. I had a sense that there could be a deeply honorable, romantic story somewhere in the midst of all the large-scale horror.

Then—around the time I was finishing Comet Donati at the end of the summer—one day I had a vivid scene pop into my mind, and true to my usual writing modus operandi, it was at the end of the story: a woman who is just emotionally demolished, crossing a field as sparse snowflakes begin falling to meet her supposed rescuer, Cregan Stark. He thinks it’s this wonderful reunion, while she feels like it’s the end of the world. Once I saw that scene, I knew I’d have to write this series immediately. It just possessed me!

For the first month I was working on WTWICD, I listened almost exclusively to Fall Out Boy’s second album, From Under The Cork Tree. The songs are absolutely riddled with anxiety, self-loathing, violence, desolation, pride, lust, and defiance in the face of defeat. That album helped shape the general tone of the series and, of course, gave it its title as well.

You have notoriously stated before that the vivid scene for inspires an entire story. What are your next steps? What were the pivotal moments that had to happen in WTWICD?

So once that first scene occurs to me, I know I have a week or two of really powerful momentum in terms of figuring out the major arc of the story, so I take advantage of that and get right to work making a chapter list and brief character notes. I knew that the series was a bit like a circle in that it would start the same way it ended: ashes would be falling instead of snow, Aemond would be taking her captive instead of Cregan, and Angel would be mistaken for a Green instead of being wrongly assumed to be a Black. I also knew that I wanted WTWICD to (generally) follow the same canon events as Fire & Blood, so I matched each chapter to the actual events from the war, and then had another bullet point beneath with a description of what would be happening with Angel, Aegon, and the other characters that are the heart of this story.

In those first few weeks, I’ll hear a lot of random snippets of dialogue that I swiftly jot down in my Word Doc under the heading of whichever chapter I feel it will likely end up in. One of the very first quotes for this series was Aegon’s greeting to Angel in Chapter 1: “Hello angel, welcome to the end of the world.” These quotes help flesh out the story and transform requisite general events, like Angel meeting Aegon when he is near death after Rook’s Rest, into specific scenes. And then for any necessary detail that I don’t have an instinctive answer for, I start researching.

For example, here’s how I determined that Angel was a Celtigar. I did some Fire & Blood research to see which Westerosi families were allied with the Blacks vs. the Greens. I knew I needed a family that started out on the Blacks’ side and stayed there, and also wasn’t already decimated by the time Rook’s Rest happened, so that narrowed it down somewhat. I had felt that the vibes of the fic were oceanic, yet bleak—grey mist, rocky cliffs, rough waves—so I was leaning towards Angel being from the Crownlands. I stumbled upon the Celtigar family (having never heard of them before to my recollection) and was so excited! Firstly, I loved that Angel would be Valyrian, though not in an obvious way; the Celtigars, after being shunned by the Targaryens and Velaryons, intermarried with non-Valyrian houses until their features weren’t so distinct. Secondly, the crab metaphor was perfect. I had already known that the theme of perpetual resurrection—rebirth/reinvention that is repeated, though not necessarily leaving the person better off—would be present in this story, and crabs molting was symbolic of that. (Also, I’m from Maryland originally, so I appreciate crabs more than your average person, haha.)

Then for Angel’s faux family (Thorne), I knew I needed a Crownlands house that was loyal to the Greens throughout the war, which narrowed the options down considerably. I wanted a Crownlands house because I thought Angel, as a very academically smart person, would be savvy enough to know that another Crownlands family would share her accent/appearance/general knowledge more than someone from the Reach or the Riverlands, thus making her lies less likely to be detected. I also loved that Thorne (as in rose thorns) could be a subtle nod to a previous series of mine that was a Wars of the Roses AU: Now I’m Covered In You.

Tell me about your Aegon interpretation. Why is he the way he is in When The World Is Crashing Down?

Aegon is someone who has already gone through a number of transformations before Angel ever meets him. He is an innocent child, an unloved and mistreated adolescent, a man who succumbs to his worst vices, and then an aspiring hero who is trying his absolute hardest to live up to being king after his coronation. When he is wounded so horrible and painfully at Rook's Rest, Aegon is at the point where he's just ready for his suffering to be over. He got a brief taste of greatness and then was knocked back down to being useless and in agony all over again; he's accepted that his story is over.

Angel saves Aegon’s life literally, but she also gives him an opportunity to be honorable in a way that he hasn’t fully been able to before. She never knew him before his maiming, so she has no memories of his drunkenness, whoring, or any other sins. She is kind and gentle, and she sees Aegon as someone desirable and brave, particularly when she gives him (unintentionally) the opportunity to be her rescuer: from the brothel, from Cregan Stark, and from the world itself. Once they’ve met, Aegon is motivated by Angel—and the future they hope to have together—to be the greatest version of himself yet: someone who can both give and accept love in its purest form.

It is Aegon's love for Angel that compels him to fight to stay alive even under the most dire circumstances and when hope seems irrational. He's not doing it for himself; he's doing it for her.

What about Aemond? How is his relationship with Aegon?

Oh Aemond. The duality of man. Throughout this series, we see evidence that Aemond has all sorts of negative feelings towards Aegon. He feels that Aegon is physically weak, intellectually unimpressive, morally corrupted, and just generally unworthy of being king. However, at the same time, Aemond loves Aegon and is entirely loyal to him. Aemond borrows the crown when Aegon is unable to rule, but he never tries to take it. Aemond will flirt with and proposition Angel, but he never tries to get her to actually leave Aegon. And each time Aegon is wounded, we see that Aemond not only cares for him physically, but tries to uplift his spirits and carry out his wishes. We see Aemond hunting for a healer and then helping to clean Aegon’s wounds at Rook’s Rest. We also see him comforting Angel and stopping her from treating Aegon’s bleeding, shattered legs on Dragonstone (which is what Aegon begs for him to do in High Valyrian). Finally, we see Aemond’s repeated denial that Aegon might not survive the war. Daeron, Larys, and Autumn are all pragmatic enough to discuss it, but Aemond isn’t. His love for Aegon is too great.

Aemond’s interest in Angel is 50% ego-driven. He knows that she prefers Aegon to him, but if he can win her affection, he scores a figurative victory over his elder brother and gets to feel worthy/superior. This impulse (which isn’t necessarily something Aemond is consciously aware of) only intensifies once he learns that Angel is a Celtigar and therefore of Valyrian ancestry. But that means that his obsession with her is also 50% inspired by her intellect, skill, courage, and dedication to Aegon, all things that Aemond highly values. Angel never has any romantic feelings for Aemond, although he does increasingly become a source of strength, guidance, and comfort for her as Aegon’s health deteriorates. But he is definitely a little in love with her, even if that emotion is in large part merely a manifestation of his own inferiority complex.

What characters in your story that you enjoy writing?

Aemond “There are other Targaryens” Targaryen was definitely my favorite character to write in this series. He is a menace!! But a menace who is also loyal, clever, vulnerable, capable, flawed, and—it must be said—very, very nice to look at.

I really enjoyed writing Daeron too, who I envision as similar to who Aegon would have grown up to be had he not been beaten down by so much emotional and physical trauma. Daeron’s a ray of sunshine who is also an unrepentant war criminal, energetic and arrogant and a diehard warrior for his family. He jokes around with Aegon, but strategizes (or at least attempts to) with Aemond, recognizing the role that each brother plays in the family.

Finally, I loved Autumn! She was essential to Angel’s survival—street smart instead of book smart, experienced instead of sheltered and naïve—and while Autumn’s arc is tragic in some ways, she gets one of the happiest endings in the series.

Was Angel ever relieved of her guilt of what she did for Aegon?

Oh no, Angel felt horribly guilty for betraying Aegon, and I don't think she gets over that in her lifetime.

Aegon is definitely aware of Aemond’s interest in Angel, but isn’t especially concerned about it. He’s used to Aemond coveting the things he’s been given and feels that the Aemond-Angel dynamic is just the latest iteration of that lifelong pattern. Aegon relies upon Aemond both emotionally and physically—all the Greens do, as he and Vhagar are the muscle behind their war effort—and ultimately trusts him to do the right thing. Aegon doesn’t suspect that Angel would ever consent to being more than tentative allies with Aemond; it’s not even on his radar.

She acted impulsively in a moment of great emotional turmoil and misdirected desperation to help the Greens win the war and, in my mind, Aemond bears the responsibility of manipulating her into making that decision. (Even ghost Aemond alludes to regretting how he handled that situation in Chapter 12!) But Angel personally feels that she was disloyal to the love of her life, and wasted time that she should rightfully have spent with Aegon doing something that would have hurt him instead.

And she never gets to confess to Aegon, so she never gets the absolution of his forgiveness (which he undoubtedly would have given, under the circumstances).

What inspired Angel?

I love writing “readers” from all sorts of backgrounds and perspectives; we’re all unique people, and “readers” should be too!

Angel is the archetypal poor little rich girl. She has material comforts, but is ultimately ill-suited and dissatisfied with life as a noblewoman. She floats around aimlessly with nothing to look forward to (except her eventual marriage to a stranger, of course) until her brother Everett is nearly killed in a fire when she’s fifteen years old. Healing gives Angel a hobby, a purpose, and a sense of agency (indeed, the power to save or end lives) in a world where she has vanishingly little control over her own fate.

At the beginning of the series, Angel has a profound fear of sexual intimacy. I think this is something that would have been very real to women in a situation like hers, but isn’t often spoken or written about. She doesn’t have much knowledge of how sex works, and what she does know is pretty discouraging: women who are resigned, at best, or tortured at worst, with blood stains on sheets, death or disfigurement in childbirth, and being physically completely at the mercy of an older, larger man who you didn’t choose for yourself. It’s the stuff of nightmares! I once stumbled upon a Reddit threat of people sharing stories of their 90-year-old grandmas not knowing what an orgasm is, and it just completely broke my heart. I wanted to give voice to all the girls and women throughout history who have been robbed of agency over their own bodies and pleasure in sex.

Angel’s journey is a circle: she begins fearful, then becomes intrigued as her feelings for Aegon grow and she realizes she trusts him. (I think it’s significant that the two men Angel loves most, Aegon and Everett, are both disabled and therefore physically not as threatening to her.) She gets to experience informed, enthusiastic consent and pleasure, and then that joy is slowly taken from her as Aegon grows weaker.

And at the end of the story, Angel is back to where she started: forced to give herself to a man she didn’t choose—and he can have her whenever, however, and wherever he wants her—and without expectations of pleasure, only pain and resignation.

Do you feel Angel and Aegon complement one another?

Angel compliments Aegon because she is both clever and resilient enough to heal his body, but also provides him with opportunities to be a hero and prove his worth, not to her but to himself. She needs him to save her from danger, she looks to him for reassurance when she is fearful, and she relies upon him to be king when the war is over and therefore ensure their happy future together. She is, to Aegon, the perfect balance of strength and weakness.

What Angel gains from the relationship is someone who she actually admires and desires, but also someone who values her for who she really is. Aegon likes Angel regardless of who her family is and what her political affiliations might once have been; he does not care about heirs, bloodlines, prestige, obedience, or power. With Aegon, Angel knows that her own desires and feelings will always be first and foremost. That’s a rare thing to find in a Westerosi marriage.

Was there any contentment with her marriage to Cregan Stark?

I don’t feel that Angel ever found anything like happiness in the North. Several readers commented that they believed she was only existing with Cregan for the rest of her earthly days, not truly living, and I think that’s accurate. Cregan Stark never questions the narrative that he saved her from the immoral, violent, rapist Usurper, and in Winterfell Angel would have had to hear—from servants, from guards, from her husband, from her children once they were old enough to know the story—comments about how horrible Aegon was an how honorable Cregan was for ensuring his defeat and “rescuing” Angel. So her loss (and the fact that it’s this indescribably heavy secret she has to carry around with her) is a wound that is ripped open again and again and again. She can never develop a sense of fondness for Cregan, because she can never forget his hatred for and his role in killing the man she loved. She can never truly get joy from her children because they are just like Cregan: large, loud, rugged, dark-haired wolf pups who repeat the fictions they’ve always been told were truths. It’s a very hollow, soulless existence for Angel.

But of course the bright side is that because she remains alive and has some influence over Cregan’s political decisions: Angel is able to protect Jaehaera, Autumn, and other Greens after their faction’s defeat. She is also able to share the true legacy of the Greens with Jaehaera once Aegon’s daughter is older. Jaehaera otherwise wouldn’t really understand their true motivations, personalities, or gifts, nor the love they shared for each other; she was a child when most of the Greens died, and Autumn would not have felt comfortable sharing what little she knew at risk of endangering her ability to stay at court with Jaehaera. We can assume that Angel was eventually reunited with Aegon (and her other lost loved ones) in the afterlife, and so there is some happiness in the long run.

Angel definitely showed some magic in her Valyrian blood: we saw her dreams with Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, but when Aegon told her, “If there’s anything interesting on the other side, I’ll find a way to let you know," was this what you were referring to at the end with, "…dreams that you never want to wake up from."

Yes! That is exactly what I was referencing, and I was thrilled that so many readers picked up on it. 🥰 It’s the closest we get to a “happily ever after” in this fic.

Celtigars are the black sheep of the Westerosi Valyrians. They’re glorified pirates as opposed to royalty or well-regarded merchants, and they aren’t nearly as magical at Targaryens or Velaryons. In the ASOIAF canon, there are no references to a Celtigar ever riding a dragon or joining the Targaryen bloodline. Angel was never going to be a dragonrider (she hates them!). But Angel does have some very subtle magical abilities that show up occasionally, and the dreams are one of them. After the events of WTWICD, for the rest of Angel’s life she is really only a shell of herself (not me making crab puns!), but dreams of Aegon give her comfort and remind her of the promise that she will see the people she loves again one day.

In Angel’s dreams, the ghosts appear in settings that they were attached to in life. Helaena was in the gardens with her insects, Aemond was in the rookery hard at work writing his letters, and Daeron (the closest thing this family has to a sunshine personality) was on a warm summer beach with Tessarion, exactly like he was the first day he ever met Angel. I feel that when Aegon appeared to Angel in her dreams, he was probably on Dragonstone, invoking memories of those idyllic first few months they got to spend alone together before Aemond started showing up (uninvited) and the battle with Baela and Moondancer.

In addition to the dreams, I think that Angel has some very slight clairvoyance. Even in the early chapters—and even as his burns are healing—she was always filled with this heavy dread regarding Aegon’s long-term health, and the threat of organ failure after repeated trauma is something that crosses her mind over and over again. She even mentions it to her brother Everett in Chapter 6. Part of her, I believe, always knew on some level that he wasn’t going to live to see a peaceful world.

Out of all your "Readers" so far, which one do you feel you relate to the most?

Out of all my readers, I think I personally relate the most to Appletini from North to the Future.

Our situations are different in a lot of ways (sadly, scruffy Juneau fisherman/rockstar Aegon is not real nor in love with me), but I think we share a) an innate fixation on responsibility and aversion to risk, and b) a sense that there is something more out there that we are always wrestling with. Do we take the leap, or do we stay where we are? Are we worthy of more? Are we doomed to relive the curses of prior generations? That sounds a little dark, probably, but I don’t mean for it to. Appletini gets a happy ending, after all!

Do you wish to share any possible new story that might be coming up?

At this point I have no comment whatsoever and nothing to announce. But I hope everyone has a wonderful Christmas! 🎅🎄🎁😏

#iwaw #interview with a writer #bts #of their brilliant stories #writing community #writers of tumblr #when the world is crashing down

23 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Text

Updated Request Information Guideline as of 3/5/2023 to Present

I've decided to update my request guidelines to better reflect my needs for submissions, what I’m comfortable with, etc. Please read this before you request anything.

WHO I’LL WRITE FOR:

Modern Warfare II -

John Price

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

Simon ‘Ghost' Riley

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish

Phillip Graves

Alejandro Vargas

Rodolfo ‘Rudy’ Parra

Modern Warfare (2019) -

Alex Keller

CoD: Ghosts -

Keegan P. Russ

David ‘Hesh’ Walker

Logan Walker

Thomas A. Merrick

Alex V. ‘Ajax’ Johnson

Kick

Modern Warfare: Multiplayer -

Arthur

Nikto

König

Krueger

Misc. -

Gary ‘Roach’ Sanderson (MWII (2009))

James Ramirez (MWII (2009))

Derek ‘Frost’ Westbrook (MWIII (2011))

Sandman (MWIII (2011))

Original timeline character ver., e.g., '09 Soap, Ghost, etc.

If you would want someone to be added to this list - please ask and I'll look into it!

WHAT CONTENT I’M NOT COMFORTABLE WRITING/GENERAL REFUSALS:

Anything involving -

Dubcon/Noncon

"Dark" content

In-game characters being asked to be portrayed as toxic/abusive/obsessive/etc.

Daddy kink

Pedophilia

Racism/hatred of a certain group of people, etc.

Petplay & anything in that area

Intense descriptions of SA*

Intense descriptions of Self-harm*

*I’m alright with writing very light references/insinuations after the fact - but no way in-depth.

WHAT I AM COMFORTABLE WRITING:

Involving -

NSFW/smut

SFW

Angst

Intense gore/violence

Character death (major or minor)

Character pregnancy/having children/being parents, etc.

Pretty much anything not mentioned in the above category, always within reason, is fair game. If you’re unsure about your idea, please ask.

IMPORTANT INFO:

I only write F!Reader x M!Character fics

I do not write ship content

I ask that physical descriptions be left out of requests so I can write as vaguely as possible

I also ask that any smut/NSFW requests be vague, not incredibly vulgar. A little idea of what you want is perfect, but I would rather you don’t send in multiple paragraphs of just....y’know. I put my ‘read-more’ bars and warnings to separate the contents from the main header, if you get what I’m saying.

It may help me more if you include a few sentences of what you’re thinking for your request - like a basic outline or literally just a prompt

You may send in a request and I may not be able to write it for a while, so, please be patient. I’ll get there eventually!

Just a reminder that every request may not turn into a fic - it’s all up to the time I’m able to put into writing and if I get that spark of imagination. I mean no harm/have no malicious intent if I’m unable to post/work on your request. There are a multitude of amazing authors on this website that may be able to write for you instead!

And, remember, if you’re confused/want further clarification it’s perfectly fine to ask me! I have no problem with answering questions.

Finally, thanks to everyone who sends in requests, general asks, etc. It’s incredibly uplifting to receive such support! Love you all!

#halcyone updates #requests #cod

64 notes · View notes

greatlydelirious · 2 years ago

Text

𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞 (𝐕)

Karl Heisenberg x F!Reader

wordcount: 5.6k words

summary: Aren't they all one in the same?

chapter warnings: smut, semi-public sex, angst, descriptions of extreme body modification, threats of violence, porn with plot

previous chapter | next chapter | (AO3 Link)

V: The Girl, the Pig, and the Crow

It was astounding how one day could make such a difference. If you boiled it down, one not-so-chance meeting turned your mundane life into a roaring fire. An overwhelming burn of desire and hope consumed your being to a point that exposed you to possible destruction. That was a risk you were willing to take.

After you and Heisenberg came to a mutual understanding of your exclusive yet purely carnal relationship, you felt strangely content. Although it wasn’t the whirlwind “Pride and Prejudice” love story your whimsical heart longed for, it was leaps and bounds greater than any other “relationship” you’ve ever been involved in.

An outsider may think that you were moving rather quickly in your feelings, but it was the pace your surroundings dictated. Monsters and disease loomed around every corner, so you didn’t have the luxury to take anything slow.

During the walk back to your home, Heisenberg drilled in that you weren’t allowed to go trekking through the woods by yourself anymore. He would come to you when he was not busy. Not the other way around. Your near-death experience by the claws of Lycans made you not protest. Sometimes logic did penetrate your stubborn brain.

Little did you know that it wasn’t the Lycans attacking you that Heisenberg feared. No, after indulging in your body his scent was plastered all over you. It was four mutated people getting their hands on his little healer that he had to watch out for. A frightening prospect, but you were none the wiser.

By the next night, you were safely snuggled by the fire with the beautifully crafted “Machinery in Anatomy” book in your lap. Haphazard oil stains and coffee rings on some of the pages displayed how well-loved it was before you got your hands on it. Perhaps you’ll leave a mark of your own. You were sure you had an old tube of lipstick stashed away somewhere.

Since the book was so large you flipped to a random page near the beginning. Its contents seemed to be more of a safekeeping for breakthroughs rather than a chronological experience. Your fingers fiddled with the corner of the thick parchment page as you tried to soak in the complex drawings and annotations.

Sketched on the paper was some sort of breathing apparatus. The device had an elongated canister, different from all the ones you’d seen before. Small wires are drawn coming from either side of the mask which begged the question, what did they attach you? To you, the apparatus looked like something that would be used during warfare. Not that you had any expertise in that department.

The writing along the drawing read, “Subject #5: Previously was in an unstable physical condition. Discovered that securing a mask alongside the cranium’s headwear ensures stabilization to fully conduct. Check for sufficient oxygen levels before durability tests.”

Subject? Based on all the other content you briefly skimmed through, Heisenberg was testing something. “I said I was busy.” The vagueness in Heisenberg’s tone made sense now. No one had pages upon pages of contraptions just for fun. What also made sense was why no one ever saw the Lord outside of his factory. Well, except for you of course.

Embarrassment flames your cheek when you remembered how patronizing you were about what he spent his time doing. Talk about being hypocritical. You always complained about people undermining your work and you did just the same to Heisenberg.

Even though you wanted to dive into every inch of text to decode what exactly he was doing, the telltale signs of sleep started to take hold of you. Although the amalgamation of your fears and dreams inculcates a feeling of dread within you, some sleep was better than no sleep. At least, that’s what you tried to convince yourself.

As you go to squeeze the book into a nearby shelf something slips out from the pages and gently floats onto the floor. Bending down you pick up the glossy material and study it. You almost drop the photo again when you finally absorb what you’re even looking at.

Murky yellow eyes stared back at you, but no emotion could be found in their depths.

Its skin was a sickly ash color that reminded you of a mangled corpse. There was no way it could be anything else. Jagged incisions that ran endlessly on the being only strengthened your theory. They were stained red and crudely mended by what appeared to be large staples. Calling the method of suturing cruel and unusual would be the understatement of the century.

Just when you thought that was the end of the horror your eyes drifted down to its arms. Giant drills replaced the spot where its upper extremities should have been. Two thick tubes curved behind its back and you were grateful you couldn’t see what the hell they attached to.

Taking a deep breath, you fight off a wave of nausea. Although you’ve seen your fair share of blood and gore, this was undeniably abhorrent.

You didn’t know if you should be horrified or amazed at the sheer complexity of the… subject you were looking at. The Duke once warned you about the horrors beyond human imagination that roamed where each Lord lived and now you knew why. Now you didn’t want to go for trysts in the woods ever again.

Turning over the photo you brace yourself for more nightmare fuel, but are met with only cursive writing, “Soldat Zwei, success. Enhanced reactor vent with optimal drills.”

From your studies, you recognize the German word for solider and two. You also remember the glimpses of other chunks of contraptions and drills in the background of the photo. That had to mean there were more combinations of corpse and machine where that came from.

These possibly manufactured mutant soldiers must be the reason why Heisenberg didn’t want you to leave his room the other day. Just thinking about the damage those drills could cause makes you queasy. You guess that’s also what makes them so effective.

Heisenberg must be going about a “show don’t tell” way to let you in on what he was doing. A part of you felt oddly flattered that he would trust you with this book, but another part of you wished you could unsee all of it.

Looking around, paranoia itches its way up your spine. This wasn’t something you could just throw on your bookshelf and call it a day. You start to make your way toward the locked chest that holds your lei until you come to an abrupt halt.

Too obvious of a hiding place. Wherever you decided would be a life-or-death decision. As dramatic as you thought that sounded this wasn’t a little secret. It was the size of a fucking bomb that was waiting to blow up your shabby old cabin. God how you missed having no responsibilities.

This is what you get for getting involved with a metal-wielding, electricity-crackling, incredibly sexy man who was also apparently a mad scientist. If only you got a coin for every time you asked yourself, “What did I get myself into?”

Not only did you have to shield yourself from the other villagers, but now you had to hide a colossal secret from Mother Miranda. Faking a smile was one thing, but helping to hide an army of corpses was a whole other brand of trickery.

You tap your foot on the creaky floorboard while trying to find an answer. Under your mattress was too cliché and nearly all your shelves are almost spilling with how full they are. If only you were able to burrow it…

Inspiration hits as suddenly as a freezing-cold snowball to the face. You smack yourself in the head at your oversight. Hiding the book under the floorboards was foolproof. It would be easy enough for you to retrieve and no one would start out with ripping up your floor if they were looking for something.

Moving off the loose floorboard under your foot, you execute your idea and send a silent prayer to any God that lay beyond this village. Wiping your clammy hands on your night down you sulk toward your bedroom. Why waste time worrying about your dreams when you’re already living in a nightmare?

Heisenberg was going to get the tongue-lashing of the year the next time you saw him.

A blissful haze filled your body as you started to wake from your surprisingly uneventful slumber. As you bend your back in a tight stretch something hard presses against your backside. Only then do you register the smell of spiced smoke filling your nostrils and the weight encircling your waist.

Disoriented you try to turn your head but are met with the prickle of stubble. “Did I sleep too late?” You ask groggily as you try to look out the window. The fabric at your hips bunches as wet kisses are trailed down your shoulder. “No, doll. I came to have breakfast in bed.”

Heisenberg’s large hand cups your core before he starts rubbing you with the heel of his palm. Ever the multitasker he fondles your breast through the silk of your night dress with his other hand. Any arguments you had planned to have seeped into your pillow.

The hand on your breast migrates up to your neck. Encompassing the soft column in a tight grip, he pulls your head back. “I was too busy thinking about your tight cunt to get anything done last night, my little minx.” You sigh as his thick cock penetrates you deeply in one slow thrust. Heisenberg’s hips kept a relaxed rhythm that made each stroke drag out your pleasure.

Air was nothing but a concept as black spots filled your vision and high-pitched moans wrestled out of your mouth. Closing your eyes, you let yourself succumb to the bliss that was Heisenberg’s dominating touch.

As daybreak ended and the late morning began, chirping birds covered the sounds of unadulterated sin coming from your cabin. A passerby would think you were being mauled by a Lycan if they came near your door. It doesn’t take long for growls and grunts to morph into soft groans and sighs.

What a way to start your morning.

Heisenberg puffed away at a cigar while sitting on the edge of your bed. You pull on a floor-lengthened, long-sleeved dress that you saved for especially cold days. As you tie your corset you take advantage of the fact that you don’t have to look at the imposing man.

“I saw a picture in my book last night.” Although you attempted to keep your voice neutral, a light tremble makes the last word come out high-pitched. The surprise visit you got wasn’t effective in mellowing out your psyche.

“Is that so?” In your peripheral you watch Heisenberg stomp out his cigar before striding over. Instead of chiding him about burning your flooring, you continue, “Y-yes. I’ve never seen staples that large before.” You were trying your best to be vague. The image seared into your brain didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Nerves get the better of you and you curse when your shaking hands can’t seem to remember how to tie a knot. “Let me lend you a hand.” Heisenberg pushes your hands out of the way before you can protest. Nimble fingers use the laces of the corset to pull you closer. He leans down enough so his lips ghost the shell of your ear. “Not here. Mommy dearest has more than one pair of ears.”

“If not here then when?” You whisper harshly back; frustrated about the waiting game you keep being subjected to. Patience was a virtue and those were hard to come by nowadays.

“Later. I have a couple of loose ends to tie up first.” With a tug, Heisenberg finishes tying up your corset. Turning around you move back to properly stare up at the bulky man. “That was technically a loose end.” Your snark is rewarded with a smirk, “I said a couple.”

A question that was gnawing in your heart comes out before you can think it through, “Am I going to end up like that?” Time feels as though it was standing still while you waited for an answer. A deep chuckle causes the metal around Heisenberg’s neck to clank. “You’d be dead already if that was the case.” Pausing he tips up your chin with his forefinger and thumb to kiss your lips, “And you’re worth all the trouble.”

Heisenberg’s answer didn’t start very comforting but at the end, butterflies erupt in your stomach. Boy did he know how to charm your panties off. After one last kiss that lingers for longer than necessary, the Lord leaves before anyone could come knocking at your door. He was your Lord and you were the lady in waiting. Nothing could be more literal than that.

“Note to self, Heisenberg has no concept of time.” You come to the conclusion while jarring the remedies you just finished. “Later” didn’t mean later in the day, but when he found most convenient. It had only been a day, but you were chomping at the bit for answers.

Did this make you a brat? Maybe; but at least you were a justified one. All you’ve been receiving lately were questions upon questions. Shaking your head, you try your best to clear out the deluge of thoughts fighting their way to the surface. You had to distract yourself. Work, eat, read, sleep, repeat. Follow that order and the days will soar by. “Easier said than done,” you mumble out loud.

A soft knocking sounding at your door rips you from your stupor. Smoothing your skirt, you make haste to the door. The sight of Elena makes you almost squeal in joy. Without hesitating you pull the young girl into your home and rush to the stove to start boiling water for tea. Conveniently your kitchen was in the same room as the entrance and makeshift clinic. It was a small cabin after all.

You’re surprised when Elena doesn’t immediately start gabbing away, so you opt to start the conversation while sifting through your cabinets in search of tea bags. “Roxana came to me with her tenth scrap this month! I offered to buy her knee and elbow pads from the Duke, but of course, she refused.” The giggle that leaves Elena is dryer than normal. Example number one on why you get paid to heal and not for small talk.

When you finally manage to find two bags of Chamomile tea you place them in a set of cups you traded for a couple of years ago. “Are you having trouble sleeping?” You spin your head around so fast you almost get whiplash. “W-what?”

Elena points over to the tea, “Chamomile is supposed to help with sleep, right?” Leaning on the counter you chuckle while rubbing your forehead, “Yeah, sorry.” You needed to relax. Hopefully, this tea did the trick, if not you would have to make a rare trip to the shanty bar near the center of town. “I’ve been sleeping, just not for very long. You know how I am.”

Nodding her head Elena changes the subject as fast as she started it, “When are you going to introduce me to your boyfriend?” Someone was on fire with asking personal questions today. Usually, Elena spent at least an hour telling you about her week before you even got to make one comment.

Straightening you grapple for the right answer, “I would introduce you to my boyfriend if I had one. But lucky for you, you’re still stuck with me. Let’s just hope Anton doesn’t hear the news.” Elena simply shakes her head like an admonishing mother, “Hush now. It will be alright. I would never let something happen to you.” You couldn’t help but falter when you notice how Elena’s eyes drag over your form. Almost like she was searching for something. What exactly she could be trying to gauge, you had no clue.

Before you can make up an excuse the loud whistling of the kettle indicates that the water was done boiling. Immediately you turn around to pour the tea while sneaking in a sigh of relief. Elena gives you a quiet “thank you” when she accepts the cup.

As you watch her take a sip of the tea, the absence of a gold chain captures your attention. You freeze when don’t see the heart-adorned necklace resting along her neck. Ever since you gave it to Elena, she never took it off. She even joked that “as long as I have a neck, I will have the necklace on.”

You wanted to ask, but your instincts seemed to stop you. From the moment she walked into your home something felt… off. There was this warm energy that Elena carried that never ceased to calm you, but at this moment, she was devoid of any sweet sincerity.

Maybe she was just having a bad day. Or maybe the other villagers had finally gotten in her head. “Are you alright?” To her credit, Elena looks genuinely concerned. Your lips lift into your well-practiced fake smile. One that, until today, you never had to use with her. “Of course.”

Looks like that trip to the bar was going to happen sooner than you thought.

Amber liquid burns its way down your throat as you attempt to wash away all the concerns you have. The bitter flavor has you sucking your tongue, but the tingle in your brain indicates that the alcohol is already doing its job.

Day drinking was commonplace as each table was occupied. The bar was dingy and had a pungent smell of yeast, but you could care less. What made you shift in your seat however was the whiny voice coming from the corner of the room. Of course, you had to come here at the same time Anton did.

Downing the rest of your drink, you slam the glass on the wet surface. Right as you pass a bag of coin to the bar keep you can feel someone’s presence behind you. “Where do you think you’re going, little lady?” Each word came out more slurred than the last.

Turning around you narrow your eyes at Anton, “Home; and that’s not an invitation for you to follow.” The drunk stumbles his way toward you while pointing an accusatory finger. “Give up the prude act. I know you want me.” You would say he had balls, but only men had those.

Glancing around the room you notice the other patrons staring at the both of you. Great. The last thing you wanted to do was put on a show for everyone. Lowering your voice, you try to reason with him, “Just drop it okay? We can talk about this misunderstanding later if you want.” The later you were referring to was the one Heisenberg went by; probably never.

Instead of backing down, he snags your wrist in a vice grip before you could evade him. When you try to yank yourself away, he only tightens his fist. “You’re not going to make me wait any longer.” Anton tugs you so you fall against him. “All you need is a rough fucking to put you in your place.”

Your stomach roils in protest. Although he was extremely forward in the past, he was never this aggressive. In a way, you blamed yourself for brushing him off for so long. The bastard was the one who needed to be dropped down a few pegs.

Tears spring to your eyes as the pain in your wrist becomes unbearable at his crushing hold, “Please Anton, let go of me! You don’t have to do this!” Why was no one coming to help you? Couldn’t they see he was deranged?

“Put a fucking sock in it!” Anton gets so in your face that the smell of his breath invades your senses and almost makes you gage. “I’m sure you didn’t protest this much when you ran away to leave the rest of your family to die. Without me, you’ll really be a worthless hag.”

Anger bursts through to overshadow your attempts to defuse the situation. You were down being bulldozed by everyone in this Black God-forsaken village. Reeling your other fist back you punch Anton in the face.

The surprise blow makes his grip loosen enough for you to wriggle free. Seizing the opportunity, you kick out blindly. Sick satisfaction fills you when Anton doubles over while holding his crotch. How was that for a “worthless hag”?

“You fucking bitch!” Anton looks up at you in disbelief as he holds his jaw. The blood roaring in your ears made you almost miss his slurred words. This time the slur was from the blood filling in his mouth and not the alcohol.

Emboldened by liquid courage you kneel so that only Anton could hear you, “If I’m a bitch then you’re a filthy pig.” With one last scathing look, you leave the bar before anyone else made the idiotic decision to confront you. All you wanted to do was go home and rub your skin until his smell and touch went away.

The adrenaline starts to wear off while walking through the village. Your hand shakes like a ground-splitting earthquake as try to tuck your hair out of your face. Your one goal was to not make any more enemies and you were doing a piss poor job at that. The only gratification you got was knowing that the only person who could fix Anton’s jaw was you. And there was no way he would dare step foot anywhere near your cabin. At least that’s what you hoped.

When you round the corner, you see Elena walking in the other direction of the path. Her face lights up at the sight of you. “Hey! I came over for our weekly tea, but you weren’t home. Did you have to get errands?”

Your raging nerves are glazed over with a rush of numbness. “W-what are you talking about? We had tea already.” If she sprouted two heads and started flying, you still would not have found that crazier.

Elena tilts her head to the side before breathing out a small laugh. “You really need to take a day off. All those oddly named herbs might be screwing with your head.” It feels as though your limbs are dead weights as Elena hooks her arm with yours as she walks you back home. Her touch was warm, but your heart felt cold.

All you could do was pace around the small space as your head barely contained the sheer insanity you were feeling at this moment. You were not crazy. Well… not in the hallucinating full interactions way at the very least.

Rubbing your temples, you analyze every second of your conversation with Elena. Nothing seems to click until what she said earlier makes you stop dead in your tracks. “Hush now. It will be alright. I would never let something happen to you.” You have heard that exact sentiment before. The woman in your nightmares told you that once. Word for word.

Gripped by panic you rush out the door. Without a destination in mind, you run past the other houses and villagers around you. The murmurs at your strange behavior swirl together in an all-consuming way. No matter where you go, or what you do, you can never be left alone. The village people, Anton, the hag, the Duke’s coded messages, and now Elena.

Maybe one person was not trying to tear you down after all; they all were.

It is like your throat is collapsing in on itself. Running between two abandoned houses, you press yourself into the cold exterior. If only you could fuse yourself into the dilapidated structure. Closing your eyes, you try to regain any control you have left.

Despite your efforts, tears start to pour from your eyes as the ringing in your ears intensifies. Each time your body shivers from the bitter cold more raw emotions are forced out to the point where you might fall to your knees from grief. You had never felt this alone since your parents were stolen away from you.

Out of nowhere, something sinks its fingers into your shoulders. Flashes of Anton grabbing you make you switch back into full survival mode. Your scream is cut short when your mouth is quickly covered.

“Stop struggling.” Your assailant’s voice sounds as if it was underwater. Not relenting you try any trick you can muster. Kicking, scratching, and thrashing; anything to be let go. In your hysteria, you manage to land some blows hard enough that they make the other person grunt.

A current of electricity jolts your body. The searing pain was as effective as a slap in the face. Opening your eyes, you are greeted by a disheveled-looking man. His hair was tousled, and splotches of crimson were splattered across the man’s torso up to his neck. What struck you was the way the man’s wild green eyes searched all over your skin.

Upon closer inspection it was not just any man, it was Heisenberg. You bring your shaky hands to Heisenberg’s face. The roughness of his beard on your delicate skin grounded you. This was real. He was real. At this moment you needed that confirmation more than anything else in the world. Before he could open his mouth, you interrupt him, “Hold me.”

Heisenberg doesn’t try to stop you as your legs wrap around his hips and you cling to his neck. For a couple of moments, you simply sit in each other’s embrace. When was the last time a lamb ran into the embrace of a hungry wolf?

Heisenberg takes your wrist in his hand, kissing the blooming bruise, “He will never touch you again.” You should have been shocked that he knew what happened, but you weren’t. Word spread fast and probably even faster when you were a Lord.

“How can you be so sure?” Nothing you tried in the past ever stopped Anton. A dark chuckle vibrates your chest as he wipes away any tears left on your face, “Because I made sure.” The assurance should have made you feel better, but it wasn’t enough.

“I feel like I am going crazy Heisenberg. Please tell me you will not betray me too.” His eyes flash, “What can I say for you to believe me?”

Shaking your head, you pull him closer to emphasize your point, “Words are not enough. I need you to show me.” Heisenberg searches your eyes before he finds the answer he was looking for. You wanted to feel a touch that was safe and familiar.

Normally rough lips descend on you with the lightness of a falling feather. All traces of Anton’s touch on your skin disappear as Heisenberg kisses every inch he can reach. The man against you did not smell of musk and bourbon, but of copper and spiced tobacco. An intoxication combination that was successful in clouding your mind with nothing, but thoughts of Heisenberg.

You moan when he starts to suck on the spot just behind your ear. One of the many erogenous zones that made you push into his body. Heisenberg grunts at your display of need, “Do you want this?” Although your body always communicated your consent, his want to hear it for himself meant more to you than anything else. “I need this. Please.” Your voice breaks as you practically beg. You wanted him to wash away all the pain and torment.

A thumb comes up to pull on your lower lip, “How can I refuse when your pretty little mouth asked so nicely?” After a quick kiss, Heisenberg begins to push up any clothes that dared to get in his way. Hands work with an inhuman speed that before you know it, you are filled so completely it almost hurts. Heisenberg snaps his hips at an unrelenting pace. Each drag of his cock makes you bury your face further into his neck to muffle your cries of pleasure.

Pushing you further into the siding of the house, Heisenberg slides a hand in between your bodies. His fingers start to rub your clit in fast circles that leave you breathless. Each message sends sparks of pleasure up your spine.

Heisenberg was consuming you in a way that left you feeling raw and vulnerable. You offered him your flesh and bones on a silver platter, and he took them without a second thought. What was terrifying was the fact that if he only asked, your heart could be his to take. After this was all said and done, would you have anything left for yourself?

“Fuck, that’s it. Use me for your pleasure, doll. Take it all.” Spurred on by his grunted words you start to meet him in time with every thrust. The additional friction makes the pressure in your core build and build until you didn’t think you could take it anymore. Nails breakthrough skin with unadulterated desperation, but neither of you cared.

Despite the frigid weather, your bodies felt as though they were on fire. Not only that but the air crackled with an intensity so explosive it made your skin pepper with goosebumps. At every turn, the universe warned you of how dangerous Heisenberg was, but the way he worshipped your skin was nothing short of passionate.

When your inner walls start to quiver in anticipation of your orgasm, his thrusts begin to stutter. Heisenberg’s voice was so deep, it was almost unrecognizable, “Be a good girl and cum all over my cock.” You did not know how much you needed permission until you had it. Closing your eyes, you revel in the tension your body releases when your orgasm rolls over you.

“God fucking, dammit!” Heisenberg slams your lips together as warmth begins to flood your core in sharp spurts. There was no finesse in the kiss, but it could not have felt more right. Tongues slide across each other at the same pace as the slow last couple of strokes trying to prolong your joint orgasm. If only you could stay in his arms with him in you, forever.

Your foreheads come to rest together as you exchange every desperate breath. Instead of pulling away, Heisenberg lets you hold him in your iron grip. Nothing felt real anymore except for his touch, his words, and most crucially, him.

A lone crow squawks before flying away from the embracing lovers. Despite how small the creature was, it reaches its master in a matter of minutes. An outstretched finger reminiscent of a willowy branch awaits the crow’s arrival.

Mother Miranda’s smile is laced with twisted satisfaction. The intelligent little birds were her eyes and ears around the village. Each conversation and possible outlier eventually reached the ears of the prophet. Just like you had all those years ago. Everything was finally falling into place. Like pieces on a chess board, Mother Miranda was able to maneuver her metal-clad knight to trap her opponent.

The hag instilled in Anton that his fate was to be with the local healer. This was so a large event could be triggered. One that conveniently pushed Anton to attack you publicly.

Mother Miranda had assigned Heisenberg to watch over you under the guise that she wanted to keep tabs on the prominent people in the village. Her true intentions were more coveted than any of her “children” combined.

Heisenberg’s supervision over the girl was going just as she instructed. Although his attack on Anton made her eyebrows raise. After the confrontation, Miranda instructed Heisenberg to send a Lycan to kill Anton. How curious was it for him to do it himself? However, all that mattered now was that the deed was done. Soon the hag would spread to the townsfolk that you used dark magic against Anton to make him infatuated with you and when it went wrong you killed him.

The point of having the villagers turn on you is so you would be forced to come to Mother Miranda for refuge and in turn be prepped for your greater purpose. The next morning Mother Miranda will call Heisenberg and tell him to bring you to the church under the Dimitrescu estate so they can have a meeting and introduce you to the family.

Ever since you were born, Miranda could feel the potential in you. That’s why she had to get your family out of the picture and stop your grandmother from further corrupting your mind. After they were killed, Mother Miranda meticulously planned what would happen to you once you hit maturity.

When she saw you in the flesh at your home today, it only motivated her further. By day’s end, a witch hunt would be assembled. Once the villagers hear of Anton’s death after being last seen with you, they will do all the work for the Black God. Then there will be nowhere else for you to run to except straight to her.

“It’s only a matter of time before you will be ready to come home my darling Eva.”

Large wings encircle Mother Miranda like a giant cocoon. By the time they retract she is not as she once was. Instead of being wrapped in her ornate ropes, she now was adorned with the clothes of a peasant. Once-flawless skin sagged and wrinkled with old age and any traces of blonde hair were now as grey as her eyes. The hag cackles as she makes her way into the village.

May the mayhem begin.

Any and all interactions are greatly appreciated.

#karl heisenburg x reader #karl heisenburg x you #karl heisenberg imagines #karl heisenberg #resident evil 8 x reader #resident evil village #resident evil x reader #heisenberg x reader #delirious masterlist #crucible of desire masterlist

166 notes · View notes

bubonickitten · 3 years ago

Text

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers #magnuspod

14 notes · View notes

whoisbxcky · 5 years ago

Text

Little Stark, Big Trouble.

request: Do you take requests? If so, would you mind writing one where the reader is Tony’s daughter and fighting on Steve’s side in the civil war and she gets hurt and it brings Tony to his senses to talk it out? Your writing is amazing!

pairing: dad!tony x daughter!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: well it’s me, so naturally angst for days, descriptions of fighting and violence, death (fleeting and temporary mind you), a lil parental wholesomeness at the end there, possibly bad language if u squint, maybe even a dad joke if u reeaally squint

author’s note: My first ever request and I am SOBBING. Thank you so much kind anon, not only for the request, but for the faith in my writing to act out your vision.

I DO accept requests and am definitely accepting them right now!! I’ll write for any character, so long as the fic content isn’t anything inappropriate (i.e. no Peter Parker smut. None. Period.).

So please, feel free to hit me up with suggestions, requests, and (hopefully) enjoy my first ever non-Bucky romance orientated fic!

Chaos. Absolute chaos, all around you.

It was all out warfare.

You were hazy on the finer details regarding how exactly the Avengers had come to be two opposing forces. You knew it was because of Bucky. His actions, or rather, the actions of someone rather distastefully sporting his face, had coincided with the creation of the Accords, which had called for Bucky’s arrest, which Steve didn’t agree with, which had pissed your dad off…

Dad…

You let out a sigh as an explosion went off to your left, ducking for cover behind a storage container as your mind whirled.

Not exactly the time or place for an existential crisis, but you’d make do.

The decision to support Steve over Tony, your father, had not been an easy one.

One the one hand, after hearing Steve and Bucky out and reviewing the evidence, it was painfully obvious that Barnes was innocent.

On the other hand, your dad was your dad. You loved him, and having to look him in the eye and tell him you would stand against him, go to war with him, if needs be, had almost torn you in two.

Why? Why couldn’t he have just listened to you? Trusted your judgement, if not the facts Steve had ready to present to him?

Your father had babied you from the moment you’d been recruited by Fury and made a part of the Avengers. Always trying to sideline you from missions, always hovering over you and scolding you for literally doing your job.

You knew it was because he cared. He loved you and he didn’t want to see you get hurt. You knew that.

But gosh darn-it, you were an Avenger.

Getting hurt, putting your life on the line, doing the right thing: all part of the job description.

The sound of your name being called over the intercom roused you from your thoughts, and you cringed inwardly, you weren’t exactly being a valuable asset to Steve’s team like this.

“Stark, you alright?”

Bucky’s worried tone crackled in your ear, and you cleared your throat, doing your best to mask the waiver in your voice as you responded.

“Yeah, Buck. I’m fine, heading to you guys now.”

After a quick glance at the mayhem before you, you slipped out from behind the container, jogging briskly across the airport tarmac towards Bucky and Steve, who were fighting alongside an obnoxiously large Ant-man.

You came up short, staring in confusion at the oversized figure in front of you.

Another explosion to your left, the sound of Steve’s voice calling out over the intercom in your right ear. There was so much going on around you, you hardly noticed the lithe black figure barrelling towards you from behind.

“Y/N!”

A familiar voice called out to you from afar, a voice that only ever brought comfort, familiarity, love. Or at least, it used to.

Your eyes met your father’s for a split second, the agony in his battling with the reluctance in your own, until an unseen force took you down from behind, your body becoming airborne for a moment at the sheer force of the impact.

“Y/N! Dammit, T’Challa, take it easy!”

Tony’s haggard tone rung out across the airport, and as you easily rolled out of your free fall, you looked up just in time to see the fear and concern in his eyes, before a well-aimed truck launched by Wanda took his attention elsewhere.

“Dad…”

You cursed under your breath, moving to check on your father’s condition, but T’Challa’s looming form materialised in front of you, blocking your path.

You grimaced.

“Your highness, it’s a real pleasure, but would you do me the Kingly honour of getting the hell out of my way?”

You offered him a sickly-sweet smile, before removing the extendable staff from your utility belt and snapping it open to its full length.

T’Challa let out a noise of indignation, his vibranium claws appearing at his fingertips. The ringing of the rare metal sent a shiver down your spine, and you readied yourself to strike.

There was a pause, as you and the Wakandan King stared each other down, then chaos.

T’Challa landed the first hit, straight to your jaw. You responded with an elbow to the ribs, ducking to avoid his swinging fist. He kicked out at your knee, causing you to stumble, but your staff allowed you to steady yourself before you spun, bringing the hilt of the staff around to strike his neck.

You struck again, lashing out with a feint strike to his temple, before redirecting your hit to take his knee out from under him. Your opponent gave a grunt of surprise, and you grinned, spinning on your heal to drive the full force of your staff into his face.

He was thrown backwards, a few inches away from you, and you took the opportunity to turn and make a break for Steve.

Big mistake.

Within milliseconds, his hand had snaked out and grasped your ankle in a vice-like grip that made you yelp. A quick yank on his end, and you found yourself flying through the air once more, your head colliding rather ungracefully with the concrete below as you landed.

You groaned, moving to get back on your feet, when suddenly T’Challa’s weight landed on top of you, launching your skull back into the ground.

You snarled up at him, firing obscenities at him in abundance as you both grappled on the ground.

One minute you were pinned, then him. Next you were in a choke hold, then he in an arm lock.

The two of you were at a rather aggressive stalemate, so engrossed in trying to take the other out, that neither of you noticed the concrete slab that was hurtling through the air, heading straight for where T’Challa now had you pinned on your front, arms stuck behind your back.

Above you, you heard the Wakandan curse, before his weight disappeared as quickly as it had landed so unceremoniously on top of you.

You flipped onto your back, eyes locking onto the debris that was now seconds away from impact.

With a start, you moved to roll out of its way, but your tactical gear had snagged on a protruding metal bar by your thigh.

You were trapped.

Everything seemed to happen all at once then, but at an agonisingly slow pace.

You heard T’Challa yell.

Steve’s voice screaming at you over the coms.

A flash of red one way.

Yellow coming from the other.

The final thing you heard was the gut-wrenching sound of your father’s voice, screaming in desperation for you from far away.

Then, there was only blackness.

…

“Y/N? Y/N!?”

You were vaguely aware of the sound of a familiar voice calling out to you. It was so far away, though, and you were so comfortably warm down here… In the darkness…

“Y/N, sweetheart you need to open your eyes. Come on, kiddo!”

Now the voice was louder, it shook the world around you, trying to make you leave the welcome blackness that you were floating in. But you wouldn’t go… Couldn’t make you…

“Y/N! Dammit, wake up!”

You heard a high-pitched whirring somewhere above you, and as you moved to settle deeper in the darkness, the force of a freight train struck you in your chest.

Your eyes burst open.

“Dad!”

You half screamed; half wheezed for your father. Frantically grasping at the air, your chest, anything. Willing oxygen to return to you.

The familiar sensation of a sturdy metal hand gripping your own almost made you cry out in relief. Your father’s face swam into focus above you, he was here.

“Hey, kiddo. Take it easy, alright? Don’t try to move…”

You registered the swollen redness of his eyes, the track marks through the dirt and dust on his face, the ragged breaths he took as he spoke in a frantic, low tone to FRIDAY.

He’d been crying? But why?

“Damage report, FRIDAY, what are we looking at here?”

His weary eyes found your own as one of his hands came up to gently brush stray hairs from your face. He hadn’t done that since you were a little girl.

“A medical nightmare.”

FRIDAY’s matter-of-fact tone cut through the moment, and your heart practically stuttered in your chest.

“Multiple contusions to the skull, including a fracture. The entire left side of her body is shattered, the hip… Well let’s just say a future in samba dancing is out of the question. Five ribs snapped, one of which is precariously close to puncturing the lung. She’ll need a knee replacement…”

You allowed FRIDAY’s gruesomely detailed report on your broken form to fade into the background, as your bleary gaze took in the array of faces above you.

Behind your father, Peter looked ashen. Rhodey eyed you with obvious concern, but kept his demeanour calm, probably for Tony’s sake more than his own.

To your left, Steve knelt within arm’s reach, his glassy eyes fixated on you and obvious horror in his expression. Bucky stood just behind him, steely gaze set on the ground, a single tear drop rolling down his cheek. Sam stood next to him, offering you a sorrowful expression as he rubbed his neck anxiously.

Nat and Wanda were knelt at your head, both offering you reassuring smiles that were only betrayed by the terror in their eyes.

You were in a bad way, that much was obvious.

“Where… T’Challa…?”

You mumbled through the blood pooling in your mouth. That couldn’t be a good sign.

Sam spoke up, trying for a smile as he did.

“He’s around, Scott and Vision took him to try and find a first aid kid, give you and your pops some space.”

You nodded, understandable.

It wasn’t T’Challa’s fault, of course. But you doubted your father saw it that way right now.

“What… Happened…?”

It was Steve who spoke this time, his voice cracking with emotion.

“The concrete slab… None of us could get to it in time. Tony… Your dad and Wanda got it off within seconds… But…”

Bucky took over for him as Steve, overcome with emotion, trailed off.

“But the damage was done, Stark. You weren’t breathing when we got to you…”

The world tilted around you as oxygen became harder to take in.

You stopped breathing?

You were dead?

“Alright, that’s enough.”

Your father’s voice cut through your panic; the cold metal of his suit hand replaced with warm, comforting flesh.

“You’re going to be just fine, sweetheart. Okay? Nat’s calling in a medevac as we speak, we’re going to get you back to Stark Tower, fix you up good as new, you got it?”

The pain, worry and exhaustion in Tony’s voice was unmistakable.

But you felt comforted all the same.

Your dad would fix you up, just like he said. Fixing things was what he did best, after all.

You gave him a weak smile, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

After a moment’s pause, you cleared your throat, your voice a barely-there whisper.

“Hey… Dad…?”

Tony scooted closer to you, his eyes flashing with renewed concern as his grip on your hand tightened slightly.

“What is it, kiddo?”

You took in a shaky breath, glancing around the group before your distant gaze came to meet your father’s one of terror.

“I was just… Wondering… You think now maybe… Maybe…”

You trailed off, a small coughing fit racking your wounded form.

“Maybe what, sweetheart?”

Tony gripped your shoulder, trying to steady you, fear undeniable in his expression.

“Maybe… Maybe... Maybe you and Steve could just talk this out like grown ass men so I can get patched up and we can all go for shawarma and call it a day…?”

A mischievous glint flashed in your eyes, and you offered your father a sharp toothed grin, which came across somewhat comical given your missing tooth.

Your father stared down at you, an ensemble of emotions crossing his face one after the other.

Shock, confusion, exasperation, anger, more exasperation, before finally his face split into a tired grin, and he chuckled.

Around you, you heard the chuckles and snorts of your fellow Avengers, the tension practically evaporating from everyone’s shoulders as you glanced around, wheezing through your own giggle.

Tony eyed you suspiciously, before looking up at Cap with a sigh, then back to you.

“Yeah, kiddo. I guess we could talk this out… Civilly…”

223 notes · View notes

lilzebub · 4 years ago

Text

The Here and Now (Through the Years CH2)

Summary: Five has returned, and no one expected the condition that he would be in. Can (Y/n) and Five navigate the major set backs, thwart the Apocalypse, and resume their happily ever after?

Five Hargreeves x F!reader Word count: 11k total

Warnings: TUA typical violence, angst, awkward interactions, brief mention of spicy time, brief description of depression Also posted on AO3!

She stared blankly at the young man that stood distressed on her porch. “Five…I….Hurry up, get inside.” Her hand darted out to grab the sleeve of his tailored blazer, and she quickly dragged him through the threshold. He awkwardly stood in the foyer of their house, with his hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts. “(Y/n) this is a nightmare. I’m an old man trapped in this body. Ever had growing pains and indigestion at the same time?” He glowered up at her. A quiet snicker escaped from her lips. “You think this is funny? Huh?”

The snicker sparked a roar of laughter that erupted deep from her belly, and Five could do nothing but stare blankly at her. He considered the last time he saw her looking genuinely this amused by something was the day of their wedding after they had tossed his Commission tracking device.

“I mean, no. It’s not funny. It’s just…ridiculous. I waited all this time. Counted all these days. And you show up here….like….” she gestures vaguely. “It’s absolutely absurd, and honestly, kind of unfair. Here is was, expecting my 100% normal, thirty year old husband to poof into my house today. And I get the awkward teenager slash old man version of you. This is too much.” She dramatically wiped tears from her eyes.

“Okay, are you done now?” Five stated frankly, with no hint of irritation. He opened his arms to her and she met his embrace, throwing her arms over his shoulders.

“It’s really hard to hug you like this. You lost a few inches in the fray, buddy.” She pressed a kiss onto the top of his head. He pulled away from her to protest, but she just pulled him back in tightly.

“Come on my grumpy little man. Let’s get you over to the Academy and see if your family can possibly help with this. They’re used to things outside of the ordinary.

The couple walked down the street, awkwardly meeting the glances of everyone around them. The uniform jacket was telling, and it was apparent that everyone was shocked to see the prodigal son of the Umbrella Academy, alive and in the flesh, looking exactly how he did nearly fifteen years ago. A man pushing a two seat baby stroller gave them a wide berth on the sidewalk, and gave (Y/n) a double take.

“(Y/n) (Y/L/M/N)?” He proclaimed, causing Y/n to screech to a halt. She turned to face the man, quickly glancing down at the stoller.

“Um, yes? It’s actually (Y/n) Hargreeves now, but yes, that’s me.” Realization dawned on her, and hit her in the face like a runaway freight train. “Uh, how are you, (ex F/n)?”

“I’m great! So great, it’s really fantastic to see you! I’m just on the way to surprise the wife at work, it’s her first week back after her maternity leave, and I know she’s missing the kiddos.” (Y/n) glanced down at the pair of cooing babies in the stoller. “And who’s this strapping young gentleman? I didn’t know you had a little brother.”

Five took an immediate offensive stance. “I’m Five Hargreeves, and I’m her HUSBAND.”

“Oh, God I’m sorry. I guess you just looked a little different the last time I saw you….At our, uh, or rather, your, uh. Wedding.” The young man stammered, and (Y/n) watched Five grow increasingly more irritated.

“Yep, Five is a time traveler extraordinaire. Just had a little mishap with his calculations. He’s not normally a teenager, or anything. Like, it’s not like that at all, I mean…God that sounds so weird. Sorry.” She was beginning to grow flustered, and no longer felt the need to explain herself. “It was nice seeing you, we’ve got to be going now.” Her arm linked around Five’s, as she began dragging him away.

“Well you couldn’t have possibly made that any more awkward,” Five fretted at her. “Bad enough you dumped him at the alter and now you had to explain how your husband, who I don’t know if I mentioned it already, but you DUMPED HIM FOR, is stuck in a teenage body.”

She whipped around him in front of him, staring him down. “Look, you don’t get to be angry at me for your mistake. It’s not my fault that you aren’t even old enough to DRIVE now.” “Well you could have driven if you had ever taken the time to learn how to drive a stick shift.” Five puffed up his chest to look tougher, but it was futile in his current form.

“You’re the one who was never around long enough to teach me how to do it.” He flinched, and she instantly felt a wave of guilt wash over her. “Five, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. We’re both just…tense right now. The world is ending, you’re hormonal and also crabby because you probably won’t get to take advantage of the senior citizen discount at Griddy’s today.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her. The moment he fell through the portal, and realizing his body was now in shambles due to his miscalculations, all he could think was how she would react. Would she faint? Would she promptly turn him away? Instead, she surpassed all of his expectations and was making jokes at his expense. He paused for a moment and grabbed her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. “You know, now more than ever, I’m so glad I married you. I can’t imagine anyone else being able to handle this curveball.”

“What can I say, Mr. Hargreeves. You had me on the hook for a long time. A little hiccup like this isn’t going to scare me off.” He smiled, lacing his fingers with hers as they continued down the street, the Umbrella Academy looming just a few blocks ahead.

The pair quietly entered the front door, only to be bombarded by all of the siblings at once. Five sulked behind his wife, as each of his family members warmly embraced her. Klaus picked her up and spun her around, quickly locking eyes with his brother. “Oh Jesus Christ, what do we have here?” Klaus murmured, gently placing (Y/n) down on the ground. “If it isn’t our dear little brother, alive and in the flesh…And perhaps a few inches shorter than last time we saw you, hm?”

Allison spoke next without giving Five a chance to respond, a look of shock on her face. “So I’m guessing something wasn’t quite right with your math, was it?”

Five pulled on the sleeves of his blazer. “You can say that again. I fucked up royally. That’s the least of our concerns now though. We only have a few days to stop the Apocalypse from happening, and I still have no idea how we’re going to do it.”

Days had passed, and the family was no closer to determining the catalyst of the Apocalypse than they were when Five and (Y/n) had returned to the Academy. They sat around the kitchen table on the day that Five had so loudly proclaimed would be the end of the world, all eyes sunken in from lack of sleep. Luther dragged his hands down his face, as he looked over at Five sulking over his late night cup of coffee. “Maybe it’s just inevitable. We should have had at least some clue by now.”

Allison scanned over the newspapers scattered along the table. “I mean, there’s nothing in the news that indicates anything out of the ordinary. Nothing political, no threats of nuclear warfare, literally nothing.”

“Or maybe it’s just not going to happen at all? I mean, today is the day isn’t it? Everything has been completely normal.” (Y/n) yawned, her forehead meeting the wooden table

“Maybe it’s you, little brother,” Klaus said, pausing to light the joint pressed between his lips. “I mean, think about it. You’re the only one who experienced the end of the world. Did you ever think, maybe it has something to do with you?” Vanya nodded her head in agreement.

“Klaus might actually have a point. Have you done anything you know of to alter the timeline at all?”

“Yeah, you know like, in time travel movies where someone accidentally kills a bug and it causes the entire future to change? Killed any bugs lately, Five? Or like, Presidents, or whatever it was you had to do with the Commission?” Klaus coughed.

Five thought for a moment, taking a sip of his coffee. “Not really, before I left the Commission, I only did one thing….” (Y/n) jerked her head up from the table, eyes widening. The family looked at him expectantly, then over to her. “You know, the whole crashing her wedding day thing. The head of the Commission, the Handler warned me she would kill us, but I didn’t really think much about it.” The group collectively groaned. Diego stabbed a blade into the table. “Well, these are the kinds of things you might want to tell us, Five. Your former boss literally threatening to murder you seems like a pretty good reason to be on high alert.”

A loud rap at the front door of the Academy put everyone on high alert. They all rose from their spots, quietly making their way towards the door. “Hey, maybe it’s the Apocalypse knocking. We can just ignore it, maybe they’ll think we aren’t home.” Klaus whispered, throwing the remains of his spent joint into a potted plant. Diego peeked out a window near the door. “It’s some blonde woman in a dress. Sound familiar?” He whispered, and Five immediately straightened his tie. “Yep, I’ll take this.” He moved towards the door to unlock it, coming face to face with the Handler.

“Good evening, Five…Assorted Hargreeves.” She flourished her hand, shoving past Five into the living room, depositing a large briefcase by the door. “And Mrs. Hargreeves, a pleasure to see you once again.” (Y/n) felt her heart tighten in her chest, recalling the last ill fated encounter with the woman, and the impossible choice she posed for the pair.

“Wish I could say the same,” (Y/n) scoffed. “Care to tell us why you’re here? You’re getting a bit too familiar with these unexpected housecalls.” The family gathered around her in a protective stance, and she felt the tightness in her chest dissipate.

“Well, I did advise you that I’d be back at a date of MY choosing to dispose of the pair of you, didn’t I?” The Handler towered over (Y/n) in her heels, frowning down at her.

Five shook his head. “That wasn’t part of the deal. I came back to the Commission, I did what you asked, and you sent me to that God-forsaken wasteland.”

She advanced towards Five. “Ah, yes, that much is true. But what I didn’t anticipate was you defying the odds. Do you know what the odds were that you’d be able to time travel back to any point in time to your wife?” She emphasized, venom dripping in her voice. “One in thirty million. Now, wouldn’t you say, the odds of that are simply astronomical?” Five looked over at (Y/n) and his family.

She paused, looking back at the family, then pointed her icy gaze to (Y/n). “You two couldn’t just leave well enough alone, could you?” The Handler smirked at the distressed boy, as she positioned herself in between him and his wife. “Did you really think I could allow you to take everything from me?”

“I didn’t do anything to you. I did my job, I did my time. I just want to live the rest of my life with my wife.” He glowered at her, as she chuckled.

“Five, tell me, why do you think I had such a vested interest in you and your boring little wife here, in your holy union, hm?” She gestured behind her. He shrugged. “I haven’t the inkiest, enough with the damn riddles, why don’t you fill us all in on why you’re so hell bent on killing us?”

The Handler nonchalantly looked at the gun in her hand, then turned towards (Y/n), cocking it in her direction. “It’s really nothing personal, dear. It’s about your baby. Specifically, the baby that you’re set to have in…oh…” She thought a beat, “four years, give or take. If I eliminate you now, the Apocalypse can resume right on schedule.” The family exhaled a collective gasp.

Klaus laughed, “Well, congratulations to my dear brother and his wife on their non-existent baby. But I have to ask, when did you get in the business of murdering babies?”

“Let me break it down for you. If Five had followed orders, he never would have married (Y/n). (Y/n) would have settled down with….that boring guy, what’s his name? Five would have continued working for the Commission, and everything would have been hunky dory. But the moment he defied his orders, the entire timeline changed. He and (Y/n) had their happily ever after, and eventually, (Y/n) will give birth to a beautiful, bouncing baby girl. Not just a girl though, the most powerful time traveler in history, in any timeline. With the inherited skills of her father, and with the complex ability of their mother to become a big flashing beacon in the space-time continuum, which might I add, didn’t seem like much until we determined Five could find her in ANY timeline under any circumstance, you have a recipe for someone powerful enough to overthrow the entire Commission, namely me. Because this child was born, the entire scenario for the Apocalypse was avoided completely, no matter what variables we changed, infinitely into the future. It just never happens. The only variable that changed was me. My entire life’s work, bypassed, like a bump in the road. The Apocalypse that I deemed absolutely necessary, gone, thanks to a single choice.”

Allison stared at the Handler incredulously. “So what you’re really saying, is you’re too selfish and drunk off power to give it up. Someone more suited to the job, who doesn’t even exist yet, is so much of a threat to you, that you’ll eliminate anyone involved?”

“Well, I was only going to eliminate (Y/n), I don’t particularly enjoy getting my hands messy. There would have been no greater delight than seeing Five suffer for his indiscretions; however, since the whole family is here, I might as well make a day of it.”

Chaos erupted in the expanse of the Umbrella Academy’s living room. (Y/n) wasn’t sure who cast the first stone, but a flurry of bullets began raining down on the Hargreeves family. Diego curved as many of the bullets as he could, as he ushered her towards the hallway. She craned her neck to peer over his shoulder, desperately trying to find Five in the fray, as she was shoved into a bedroom in the hallway, a gun being thrust into her hands by her brother-in-law. In defeat, she pressed herself against the wooden door, trying to hear anything at all, only to be met with the sounds of glass and furniture breaking, guns being fired, indiscernible shouts of her family fighting for their lives.

Gathering her resolve, she crept from the room, unable to stand not knowing what was occurring just beyond the walls. Gun outstretched in front of her, she quietly made her way down the hall, just as all of the fighting abruptly stopped.

“Where the hell did she go?” Vanya hissed, as the family peered around, puzzled. “We had her pinned down?”

Luther cautiously evaluated the rest of the family. “I don’t like this one bit. She wouldn’t just zap out of her, would she?” Allison looked towards the front door, noting the telltale briefcase that sat by the door. “She’s still here somewhere, she couldn’t get out without the briefcase.”

(Y/n) peeked around the corner glancing around at the scene before her. All of the lightbulbs in the room had been mostly shattered and the room was awash with the little light that shone in through the innumerable windows. In the dim light, chairs and tables could be seen upturned and scattered around the room.

“Five?” She called out weakly, in a desperate bid to get his attention. His gaze quickly turned towards her, and a look of terror overtook his features. A loud pop resounded through the space, and a searing pain shot through the center of her chest. Slowly, (Y/n) peered down, noting the slow stream of dark red that stained the front her shirt. Everything started to go black, as Five rushed towards her.

“What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?” He screamed at the Handler who stood smugly behind where (Y/n) had collapsed on the floor. Five removed his blazer and pressed the fabric to her steadily bleeding chest.

“Restoring order, that’s what, Five. Her being alive was a conflict of interest I suppose you could say. I think there’s going to be a little change of plans though, seeing the anguish on your face, I think that’s the best punishment I could ask for.” She glided past the family towards the briefcase, and no one moved.

“(Y/n) please stay with me, stay awake, you’re going to be fine.” Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, as he desperately fumbled with the compress on her chest. Her breath began to slow, as she reached up and pressed a hand to Five’s cheek. Klaus crouched down beside the pair, and placed his hand over Five’s.

“Five, I can feel her leaving. She isn’t going to make it.” Klaus whispered, remorseful. Five stood beside her, the space all around him glowing blue.

“I didn’t come all this way through time just to lose her.” He tightly shut his eyes, and the room began moving slowly in reverse, the Handler moving slowly backwards towards the clandestine hallway. (Y/n)’s crumpled form rose from the spot on the ground, the dark blood receding back into her body, as Five’s nose began bleeding profusely from his efforts. He felt himself weaken, as the scene resumed before him.

“Where the hell did she go?” Vanya hissed, looking towards Five who stood in his new spot near the hallway. “We had her pinned down?”

“She’s in the hallway,” he replied weakly. “She’s going to kill (Y/n). I just….reversed time by just a few minutes. We have to make sure she doesn’t kill her this time.” A moment later, (Y/n) peered around the corner. Five rushed forward with the last bit of strength he had left, pulling her into the living room and shoving her aside as he collapsed on top of her. The Handler revealed herself, looking thoroughly confused. The gun fell to her side. “Well, this is certainly odd. Did our boy just manipulate time here? So much power, so much wasted on a perfectly normal girl.”

Klaus strode forward, fists illuminated. “She’s not perfectly normal, she loves Five and that’s a feat all on its own. The kid’s hard to love, no doubt about that, but she does, and that’s worth saving.” In a flash, a barrage of tentacles burst forth from his chest, and the ghostly figure of Ben could be seen just beyond Klaus’s form. The Horror reached forth, grabbing onto the Handler’s limbs, gruesomely tearing her apart bit by bit. The family looked on in shock at the grisly scene, until there was nothing left of the Handler but a puddle of blood and gore, spewed on the floor and walls.

And just like that, the Handler was gone, ripped apart by otherworldly forces that seeped from Klaus’s body. The family stood, stark-still, covered in entrails, before erupting in fits of laughter. Luther swept Allison up in his arms, her shrieking delightedly. “I can’t believe that’s it. That it was just that easy. Klaus, I think dad might have been wrong about your powers being totally useless.”

Klaus’s hands were still shaking, as he peered down at them in disbelief. “That….bitch. I can’t believe she would have just killed (Y/n) to intentionally cause the Apocalypse. And (Y/n)…” he shot a glance over at her. “I can’t believe you were the key it all along.”

She hadn’t moved. The ringing in her ears had barely subsided, when she pressed her hands into Five’s chest to meet him face to face. His expression was barely readable, save for the telltale upturn of the corners of his mouth. The words came out so soft, the family could barely make it out. “Our baby? The Handler couldn’t handle the idea of being replaced…That’s why. That’s why they warned me we couldn’t be together. Why they tortured me, making me see you be with that asshole over and over again. If we were together, the Apocalypse would never even happen. I really ruined her timeline, didn’t I?” He chuckled, rolling over onto the bloody floor, wiping his nose of his own blood.

Diego walked across the room towards the phone, wiping his knives on his already bloodied pants. Vanya looked at him incredulously. “Diego what on earth are you doing? Is now really time to make a phone call?”

He picked up the phone and dialed quickly. “It is. I’m calling (Y/f/n). Knowing how close we were to the whole world ending, I’m not taking anymore chances.” (Y/n) turned to him, shocked. “You know, she’s been hung up on you for years, Diego. I think everyone deserves a chance at a happy ending, now.” Five stood and stretched his hand down to hers and pulled her up. He carefully snaked his arm around her waist, pressing a chaste kiss on her bare and bloodied shoulder. “Even us, Five.”

He smiled, peering up at her through his dark hair. “Especially us, Mrs. Hargreeves. Especially us.”

Luther lurched over to the liquor cabinet, and sighed. “You know, I know it’s usually Klaus that suggests we start drinking, but I propose we go ahead and pop one of these nice bottles and celebrate tonight.” And they did. Vanya pulled out her violin, creating lively, happy music for the group as they danced and laughed around the living room. Allison stole a not so secret kiss from Luther, and the family loudly teased them, secretly grateful that they were no longer hiding their affections after so many years. Klaus was able to manifest Ben once more, who although he couldn’t drink, still engaged in the party just as much as any living person could. Diego had snuck out quietly sometime after his phone call, and (Y/n) hoped with all hope that he was finally going to apologize for being a such a jerk to her closest friend.

Five had pulled her into what she could only describe as an “awkward middle school style slow dance”, with her arms clasped loosely around his shoulders as they swayed side to side. “You know”, Five started, “my father taught all of us how to ballroom dance as kids.”

(Y/n) laughed, pulling him in a bit closer. “Is there anything you can’t do, Five? You’re remarkable.”

“Well obviously I’m not great at time travel, but I think those days might be behind me. At least, after I figure out how to get my normal body back.” He frowned. “(Y/n), have you considered what we’re going to do if I’m stuck like this? Permanently?”

She considered him for a moment. “Truthfully, no. I hadn’t really considered that to be a possibility. I mean, it would be kind of nice, you’d be able to take care of me when I get old and senile.” He pushed his foot forward and tripped her, easily causing her to lose her balance in her tipsy state . “HEY! Come on, Five, you know I’m kidding. I think…..I think we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it, okay? I love you. I love you no matter what. Even if we can’t really….do the thing normal married people do. It’ll be okay.” She yawned, slowing her movements.

“I admire your persistent optimism. But my wife appears to be growing weary. Want to go relax in the library while I go over some of my old notes?” She nodded, craning down to place her head on his shoulder. “Alright, let’s go.” He gently pulled her arm across the back of his shoulders, and they made their way towards the stairs, calling out their goodnights to the family as they went.

The math was right there all along, in one of his oldest, most worn down notebooks. In disbelief, he reread his notes over and over, and was sure he couldn’t have possibly gotten it wrong. (Y/n) was dozing off in the plush arm chair, and he took a moment to admire her: all of the stress from the impending doom was gone. No tell-tale gunshot wound, no signs of excessive blood-loss. Her shoulders were no longer tense, the space between her eyes no longer creased. A peaceful expression had fallen over her, as though she would be perfectly content to live out her days in that chair with Five’s company, illuminated only by the small lamp in the middle of the table.

He drew a large red circle around the offending equation, and rose from his spot. He peered down at her snoozing form, and ran his hand through her hair. Careful not to wake her, he placed the notebook on the arm of the chair and strode quietly towards the door, knowing what he had to do.

He whispered something softly to himself, towards the empty hallways of the Academy.

The ocean waves were breaking softly along the shore, now littered with seashells after an afternoon rainstorm. The only chaos that remained was the wind that whipped through her hair, now unruly and wild from the rain. She turned around and saw him standing there, frozen in time with a grin on his face. Everything moved in slow motion as she ran towards him, crashing into his embrace. His palms rested on her cheeks, capturing her in a passionate kiss, until a small voice interrupted them.

“Mommy? Daddy?” She turned to peer down at the source of the small voice, to be met by a tiny girl with dark hair and verdant green eyes. Five bent down, finding purchase under the child’s arms, hoisting her to his chest. (Y/n) gingerly kissed the child’s forehead, then pressed another dizzying kiss to Five’s lips. He whispered words against her flesh that she had read so long before, words that were so real, she’s certain she couldn’t have dreamed them. “If something happens, just know I’ll find you eventually. I promise.”

(Y/n) woke with a start, knocking something off the arm of the chair. She slowly reached down, peering down at the foreign numbers and figures, outlined in bold red, then glanced across the room. Five was no longer situated at the table, and she began to panic. The woman leapt from her chair, sprinting down the hallway, shouting at the top of her lungs.

“Five? Five where are you?!” The pounding of her feet and the thundering of her pulse led her straight to his childhood room’s door. Before she could connect with the doorknob, a flash of blue illuminated the space beneath the door, accompanied by the telltale “pop” of her husband attempting some sort of jump. She flung the door open wide, only to be met once again with darkness. The room was empty: Five was gone. Again.

Weeks had passed, maybe even months at this point. (Y/n) wasn’t sure. No longer having the list of dates to guide her now that the Apocalypse had been avoided, she had, for the most part, lost herself in time. She could only assume it was midday, judging by the light that cascaded through the windows. Padding down the halls of their still empty home, she stopped to stare at herself in the bathroom mirror: her eyes had grown weary, and her hair was a matted mess, sticking up in all directions. Gently, she prodded at her ribs, which protruded slightly more than usual, a testament to her terrible diet since Five had…..Disappeared? That didn’t feel like the right word for it. Someone can’t disappear when this is their entire modus operandi. The absences were something she had grown accustomed to, but this time felt entirely different. There was no carefully curated list of dates, handwritten by Five. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to expect. Not even a “goodbye” or “I’ll see you soon” to soothe her addled brain, only the words echoed in her dream from the note he wrote her as a child.

Starting the shower, she went through the motions. “This is what he would want me to do, right?” She thought to herself. “He would want me to try to be normal. Whatever that means.” Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. “Come on, don’t cry. You cried it all out the first week. You’re too dehydrated to cry anymore.” Throwing her clothes haphazardly across the bathroom, she climbed into the shower.

And there she sat. She sat on the floor of the walk-in shower until the water ran cold. When she finally collected herself from the floor and wrapped herself in an oversized towel, she could have sworn she caught the wafting scent of coffee, but she waved it off as wishful thinking. (Y/n) glided towards the kitchen, a towel-clad phantom of a person haunting her home. Just beyond the threshold, she stopped dead in her tracks. A full pot of coffee sat brewed on the countertop, steam floating towards to ceiling. For a moment her breath left her lungs. Clutching her towel to her tightly, she raced towards the living room where Five Hargreeves, looking about fifteen years older than their last encounter, sat on the couch. The moment he laid eyes on her, he moved towards her as fast as his legs would carry him, stopping short as he saw her chest heaving in what he could only assume to be rage.

“I can explain. I can explain everything.” Five spoke calmly, as though he were trying to persuade an animal to not attack him. “I had the equations right years ago, I just didn’t realize it before. I was such a cocky asshole kid back then. I knew I could make this jump, it had to be just the right moment in time to get it perfect, to get me back to my normal body. Back to you.”

“Are you….Are you really home? For good? Just like this?” Her breathing was still erratic, knuckles turning with how tightly she squeezed the towel.

“For good.” He nodded, taking a step closer.

“And no more big jumps? No more accidentally getting stuck in the wrong body?”

“Nope. No more Commission. No more assassinations. I think it’s time to grow old…again. The right way.” He reached towards her, his palms resting on her shoulders.

“And what’s the right way, Five?” She closed her eyes, relishing in the warmth of his hands.

“Together. With you.”

She moved so quickly Five was afraid he may not be able to grab her in time. She darted forward, throwing her arms and legs around him, nearly knocking him to the ground. He supported her weight and held her flush against him. A sob erupted from her against the side of his neck. “Promise me, Five. Promise you won’t ever leave me like that again. I was so scared you were gone. For good. That you would be lost and I would have no idea.” She grabbed his face, kissing him in earnest over and over, her lips salty from the broken dam of tears that ran down her face. “God, I never want to stop kissing you. It feels like I haven’t been able to in ages.”

Five felt his emotions getting the better of him, and thought for a moment that he may cry. “You know I was always going to make it back to you. My lighthouse.” He smiled against her kiss, returning it with equal fervor.

“Take me to bed, Five. I think we need to make up for lost time, no pun intended.”

#fivehargreevesxreader fivehargreeves #the umbrella academy #tua #romance #angst

10 notes · View notes

bcdrawsandwrites · 5 years ago

Photo

For Unity By @jaywings and me

Rating: T Genre: Friendship, Angst Characters: urGoh, skekGra, skekSil, skekSo, skekTek, skekVar, urVa, urSu, urSol, urZah, possibly others… Warnings: A LOT OF VIOLENCE. Description: One was as vile and repulsive as his brethren. He murdered, and maimed, and reveled in it. The other was as slow and indirect as the rest of his brethren. He hated his dark half as much as the others did theirs. But who they were did not matter, for Thra saw its moment, and seized its opportunity. View all chapters here!

—~~~—

Chapter 3: For Which I Was Famed Summary: In which the Conqueror returns to his element.

---~~~---

SkekGra had dreamed the night prior.

It hadn't been much, really—or if it had been, he remembered very little of it: glimpses of moonlight on a stream, the sounds of gentle water, the taste of unfamiliar sweetness... the screaming and triumphant cries of a battle, the scent of blood. The latter wouldn't have been so terrible had it not been for the foreign emotions that accompanied it: sorrow, anger, hatred.

Even with that, it wasn't really what anyone would call a nightmare, by any stretch of the imagination. It was vague—a very mild dream, overall.

There was just one problem:

Skeksis didn't dream. Ever.

...Did they?

SkekGra had jolted awake in a cold sweat, his bedrobes clinging to his clammy skin and his covers tangled around his legs and tail. He'd sat upright in bed, two hands over his chest as he tried to calm the pounding of his heart. This... this wasn't normal. This wasn't normal at all.

After a few minutes, he’d pieced together the memory of what had happened over the past couple days, and he slumped back against his pillows, his lips curled in a snarl. He knew the cause of this—it was the same reason he would awaken every so often with sore feet, or why his legs would sometimes ache even if he'd spent all day in a carriage. Just as they did at the moment, now that he thought about it. Idiot, he growled inwardly. This is all his fault.

It had never resulted in dreams before, but that was beside the point. It was all that creature's fault, and if that's how he was going to play, so be it. SkekGra the Conqueror didn't need sleep, anyway.

A bump jostled him out of his thoughts, and he shook his head, blinking and glancing out the window at the landscape rolling past. Another lurch of the carriage nearly sent him to the floor. "Baahh, armaligs," he grunted. "We could have just walked there ourselves, with less crashing around!"

Sitting across from him, skekVar snorted. "And let the Gelfling get there before us?"

SkekGra let out a snicker, rocking in time with the motion of the carriage. “Get there before us? Heh, without having us to follow, the hapless Gelfling would get lost, and end up wallowing chin-deep in the Swamp of Sog!”

SkekVar laughed heartily. “Or they would make it to the caves, only to enter the wrong tunnel and plunge down into the inner fires!”

“Ah. That… would be a sight.” With a half-hearted smirk, skekGra absently reached up to rub at one eye with his knuckle. The General cut off his own laughing abruptly and peered at him.

“You still look as if you haven’t slept in days, Conqueror,” he said. “Did the Ceremony of the Sun not rejuvenate you this morning?”

SkekGra’s heart clenched and he yanked his hand away. “Of course it did!” He sat up, banishing all signs of fatigue from his face with practised ease and folding his bandaged talons in his lap, and let his voice take on a warning tone. “Are you worried I’m not up to this task, General?”

The General sniffed. “No,” he said, somewhat sourly. “Exhaustion never seems to bother you, with or without the Crystal. I don’t know how you do it.”

SkekGra simply nodded with a satisfied “Hmph.” He pretended to develop a keen interest in his hands, picking at the fabric of his robes with one talon. His fingers were still blistered, but healing remarkably well for him having done nothing to help the process except sloppily wrapping them with makeshift bandages. Still hurt like a fizzgig bite, though.

Truthfully, the Ceremony of the Sun had helped him. It did not, however, purge away the memories and troubles that still plagued him from the past few days, as he had convinced himself it would. He now saw that it had been a vain hope. The only thing that could truly rid him of this was warfare—bloodshed. (Or, whatever passed for blood in the bodies of the Arathim.) He would feel like himself again only once he grasped a sword in his claws and could stare into the glowing eyes of his enemies.

It was a shame he had been tasked merely with fending off yet another Arathim attack. The Gruenaks had been a refreshing change of pace. Well, at least this fight would give him material for a new show. He would need to construct more puppets...

It had started raining again. He could hear the raindrops drumming on the roof of the carriage, as well as a tremendous squelch as the armaligs plowed through a deep mud puddle outside.

SkekVar grunted, glancing out the window. “This weather is a curse. At least we’ll be underground this time instead of outside getting soaked through to the skin.” He paused, and glanced at skekGra. “So… which is the right tunnel to enter the caves? So we don’t go falling into any pits.”

Having to physically fight back a groan, skekGra reached into his pack and pulled out the map of the Caves of Grot, unfurling it between the two of them. He supposed it was as good a time as any to go over the battle plan again, especially with their most recent information.

“Here.” He prodded a tunnel entrance leading straight into Domrak with his claw. “You will enter here with your Gelfling battalion, after I enter here—” he poked another tunnel entrance some distance away from the first, “with mine. We will attack from two sides.” He traced his finger in a circle over a wide section of cave between the two entrances. “The Arathim forces are mostly gathered here—”

“—According to the last information we received,” skekVar snorted, leaning forward to peer at the map. “This is already the second time we’ve changed the plan. I was supposed to go in first—now you’re telling me to wait in the rain!”

“Not for long!” SkekGra’s lips peeled back from his fangs in a grin. “But long enough. I need time to focus the Spitters’ attention on me. You will attack from behind, take them by surprise.” He spread his fingers dramatically, the armored plates of his gauntlets clinking.

The General jabbed his own blunt claw down on a secluded spot on the map, pointing to the Tomb of Relics. “If the dirt-dwelling Gelflings know what’s good for them they’ll have hidden themselves away here, or some other place. We sent the orders to evacuate. They shouldn’t get under claw.”

“Yes, protecting the little cave-dwellers is an unfortunate priority,” skekGra said, nodding thoughtfully. “Grottans aren’t much for fighting.”

“Grottans aren’t much for anything. Can’t fight, can’t cook, can’t even see when the Brothers shine bright.” SkekVar snapped his beak irritably. “The other Gelflings would likely welcome the obliteration of their weakest clan.”

“The Emperor doesn’t agree.” SkekGra rubbed his lower jaw, running his eyes over the map once more. “We want to avoid chaos and rebellion. What good is it to rule someone who will not be ruled? We’d have to wipe them all out! And, besides…” SkekGra brushed his fingers over the top of his ceremonial staff, sitting propped next to him for use in celebrating their upcoming victory. “...We promised Mother Aughra we would protect the Crystal. Protecting the Crystal means defending the Gelfling living under its power. All Gelfling.”

SkekVar growled, drawing back into his seat. “I don’t see how the two are related at all. And we’ve been dancing around that promise for over a thousand—” he cut himself off, backtracked, and picked back up, “—for over four hundred trine. We could even just say we were too late to stop the Arathim.”

Eyes flashing, skekGra snapped his head up and bared his fangs. “You want us to tell them we lost?”

The General’s eyes widened in shock, as though he hadn’t realized what he’d just proposed. Then he scowled, letting out a puff of hair through his nostrils. “No. No, you’re right.”

“I do not lose!”

“And nor do I.” SkekVar looked down at the map again and snorted disdainfully. “We won’t lose, anyway. We’ve fought these disgusting things before, and in greater numbers.”

“Which gives us an advantage.” SkekGra, still ruffled, gestured through the air with his finger. “We fought the Arathim in Grot hundreds of trine ago, and these will likely try the same strategies again. They have no means of keeping records. They don’t know how their ancestors were defeated. They don’t remember.” He smiled. “But we do.”

SkekVar nodded decisively. "We will crush them even faster this time, and be back before the light of the first Brother tomorrow."

"Yes, so long as the Gelflings can stick to the plans."

"The Gelfling... rarely fail us," skekVar said with a reluctant tilt of his head. "They probably won't this time, either. They did reasonably well in our last battle, anyway."

SkekGra rolled up the map with a few deft flicks of his wrists, mulling over the question he wanted to ask. It seemed… unwise. Possibly even dangerous. But the mention of the previous battle brought it to the tip of his tongue, and he blurted it out anyway.

“SkekVar…” he said, hesitating as he slipped the map back into his bag, then plunged ahead. “Do you… dream?”

The General furrowed his brow. “Uh… what?”

"My lords!"

Startled, they both looked out the window to the side, where a Gelfling captain (a Spriton, if his auburn skin was anything to go by) was riding alongside their carriage on a landstrider.

"We are nearing the Caves of Grot. We await your command."

Had that much time passed already? SkekGra and skekVar exchanged glances before looking back to the captain, and skekGra cleared his throat. "How far out are we?"

"Approximately a fifteen minute march, my lord."

"Excellent! We'll stop here." He nodded to skekVar, who reached for a lever near his seat. An electrical jolt shot through to the armaligs, who squealed in protest as they guided the carriage to a stop. There was no need to begin their march to Domrak just yet, however, as the rest of their small army would take some time to catch up. In the meantime, both he and skekVar would go over the plan with the captains beneath them, and those captains in turn would fill in their soldiers.

The problem was, they couldn't all sit in the carriage to talk. Even though a few puny Gelflings could easily fit in the carriage alongside them, neither skekGra nor skekVar felt like attempting to talk over each other, so one of them would have to step out into the rain. Not keen on listening to his fellow Skeksis griping about the weather again, skekGra cranked open the side of the carriage and started to lean out—

Raindrops splattered onto his beak in quick succession; for an instant he was yanked back to the battlefield from two days ago, and a heartbeat later was swept away in the dark, churning river and foreign emotions from his improbable dream—

He jerked back in surprise into the safety of the carriage, shook the water off his beak, and eyed skekVar. “...General, would you please step out to advise your captains?”

With a disgruntled snort, skekVar snatched the map out of skekGra's hands and stomped outside.

—-~~~—-

SkekVar was right about one thing. This weather was loathsome, and entirely unfit for Skeksis. Not to mention the bizarre effect it was having, as skekGra led the march to the caves. Each step on the muddy ground brought him back to the Gruenak battle, every drop of water on his face was a spray of blood that he himself had spilled. It unsettled him.

He almost envied the Gelfling under his command, with their hoods pulled up over their heads against the downpour, but he was a lord of the Crystal. A little water could not bother him. Even so, his stride became stiff and rigid as he fought to keep himself rooted in the present.

It felt like hours had passed before they at last reached the entrance they would take into the cave system. It would be an immense relief to be able to get out of the rain.

However, as soon as they entered, a chill overtook him and he shivered. These tunnels were colder than he remembered. But at least the shelter kept the memories from the other day from haunting him.

“Onward,” he said softly, gesturing into the cave with the tip of his beak, and his army pressed on. Aside from the sound of Gelfling boots against stone and the scrape of his own claws, the caves felt eerily silent.

"There's no sign of them," the captain by his side whispered. "Could they have already eradicated the Grottan by now, and moved on?"

"No, no. The Grottan know these caves better than anyone and have probably fled to safety," he replied. "Even if they were eradicated... they would still be here." Narrowing his eyes, he peered through the uneven tunnel ahead, barely illuminated by glowing moss. "The Ascendancy want these caves all to themselves."

Strangely, he felt an uneasiness within him at the sight of the path ahead. Though why, he wasn't sure; their victory was certain, and he was not afraid of an army of oversized crawlies. But something about these tunnels nagged at him, as though they were familiar. Yet he hadn't been to these caves in hundreds of trine—not since he'd helped clear out the Arathim in the first place. So why...?

He brought a talon up to scratch at his mane in thought, and felt the brush of bandages against his head.

Bandages—

The fire in the banquet hall, the vision through that disgusting Mystic’s eyes, these caves—

That creature had led the escaped Gruenaks to these very caves.

His foot stumbled upon the rocky ground, and he let out a hollow gasp. If they were still here, if he could find them—

"My lord, is everything all right?"

Before he could answer, a deafening screech erupted from the tunnel ahead. The Gelflings all drew their weapons at once, skekGra hastily doing the same as the rock walls around them were filled with the echoes of many pointed legs against stone.

"Remember the plan," skekGra growled to the captain, before throwing his whole body forward in a roar, brandishing both of his short swords. Behind him, each Gelfling let out a wild battle cry, filling the caves with sound, before they charged forward to meet their foe.

Sure enough, the enormous crawlies were upon them in an instant, scrambling down the narrow tunnels with their red eyes glowing in the darkness.

"Kill them all!" skekGra cried, a giddy delight filling him at the promise of battle. "Don't let a single one escape!"

Two Spitters focused their attention on him at once, diving straight at him while screeching something in their hideous language. SkekGra took a ready stance, timed his strike, and swept forward in one fluid motion. One of his swords caught the leg of one Spitter and sliced it off at the joint, sending the creature skidding across the ground. His other sword plunged into the second Arathim with a crunch of exoskeleton; he pulled his sword clear in a spray of green sludge and the lifeless creature collapsed to the ground in a tangle of still-twitching legs.

SkekGra stared down at it. The thing was still trembling. It was as though the body didn’t know it was dead.

“Screeee!”

SkekGra jerked his head up to see the other Arathim he had injured streaking towards him again, its running motion uninhibited by its missing leg. Its red eyes were wide, wild, and the sounds erupting from somewhere inside it sounded less like decipherable speech and more like… screaming.

SkekGra twisted aside, brought the blade of his sword up by a fraction, and cut the Arathim in half. It joined its fellow in a heap on the ground.

His sword handle had become slick with yellow-green Arathim blood. His hand kept slipping on it, his talons working to find purchase.

His hands and sleeves were slathered in green blood.

It was all over the front of his robes.

His feet skidded in it on the ground.

The battle had only just started—he had only managed to kill two so far. Where had all this blood come from?

A strangled yelp made him look up to see a Spitter with its pinchers locked on the tattered wing of a female Gelfling guard. The Gelfling brought the flat of her sword up and smacked the creature in the eye, disorienting it; skekGra sprang forward and sank one of his swords into its back with another crunch.

The Arathim’s jaws spasmed but then relaxed in death. The Gelfling ripped herself free, gasping out, “Thank you, my lord!” before vanishing back into the horde of Gelflings. Whether it was to continue in the fray or to seek medical attention, skekGra didn’t know.

He struggled to yank his sword back out of the body. It had sunk deep into a patch of blood-soaked dirt and would not be removed. All his attempts did was jostle the dead Arathim soldier and rend it further apart, oozing yet more slime.

SkekGra released the sword handle as though touching it had burned him. There was no use fighting to remove it; perhaps it could be recovered after the battle was over.

He gripped his remaining short sword with two hands to add more power to his swing, dropping his knife-wielding secondary arms into a guard stance in case anything came at him from behind. His largest sword would have to remain sheathed until they emerged into an area with more space—the tunnels were just too cramped to use it effectively.

Arathim surged toward him now, an endless stream of them that he was forced to cut down again and again in a whirlwind of talons and sword blades. None got close enough to even touch him, but they seemed far more interested in him than in any of the Gelflings. Perhaps they did remember… some things.

Slash, a cry of pain.

Slash, another Arathim body cleaved in half.

The sounds of battle pressed in around him, suffocating him, the acidic smell of their blood heavy in his nostrils and on his tongue, leaving his stomach twisting itself in knots.

Wasn’t he supposed to be enjoying this?

Their surroundings grew brighter as his battalion fought onwards, carving their way through the tunnel. They emerged in a wide space, with Grottan dwellings perched along the cave walls. Arathim were everywhere here, scuttling over the ground, over the crude little houses, clinging to the ceiling. He was momentarily brought to a stunned halt—this looked more like a full-on invasion rather than the small, desperate attack force their original information had conveyed.

But it was no matter. They would take these caves back. Once skekVar launched his attack, their combined forces would sweep through these bugs and squash them all like the vermin they—

Agonizing pain shot through his shoulder. A shriek tore from his throat, and he swiped his blade in the direction the pain had come from. His sword sliced through an Arathim soldier that had descended from the ceiling on a glistening strand and sank its pincers into his upper arm.

“Watch out from above!” he shouted to anyone nearby, pushing the dead Spitter off him. The Gelfling all looked immediately to the ceiling, changing tactics to fend off Arathim from above as well as on the ground.

Dark blood was running down his arm. When was the last time he had been wounded in battle?

“Lord Conqueror!” a Drenchen foot soldier, panting and bleeding freely from a gash along his cheek, appeared at his side. “There are still Grottans in the cave!”

“What?” SkekGra scrutinized the area, his gaze narrowed. Sure enough, he saw flashes of green-skinned Gelflings darting through the air on shimmering wings, and spotted several others dotted along the walls outside their homes. His lips peeled back in a snarl. “Why didn’t they evacuate?”

“Stupid shadowlings!” a Gelfling guard, Stonewood by the look of him, yelled. “They’re just getting in the way! They’ll get us all killed!”

“Forget the dirt-dwellers! It’s their fault for not getting out of here!” another replied.

SkekGra didn’t bother reminding them that they’d been sent down here to defend the wretched Grottans. His soldiers were right—the frail-bodied cave-dwellers were no match against the Arathim, and they should have gone into hiding long ago. They couldn’t afford to go running after the foolish shadowlings when they should be wiping out the Arathim—

Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw a particularly fat Spitter dropping from the ceiling on a thick strand, snatching one of the fleeing Grottans right out of the air. She let out a cry as the oversized crawlie wrapped all of its legs around her, holding her suspended in the air.

Before he could think, skekGra was already swinging his sword, expertly avoiding hitting the Gelfling and knocking the Spitter's head clean off. The body still dangled from the ceiling, but the legs loosened, letting the Gelfling free, though her wings and back were now soaked in slick blood, rendering her unable to fly. He caught her automatically and set her down, turning to look toward the houses.

"Th-thank you, my lord—"

"What are you all still doing here?" he asked sharply, whipping his head back toward her. "You were supposed to flee to safety!"

"I'm sorry," she choked out, sounding close to tears. "The Arathim came upon us quicker than we expected, and in greater numbers, and... Please, we need your help!"

He let out a displeased growl. What did she think he was doing? "Head to the Tomb of Relics. General skekVar is driving the Arathim away from that area, so you should be safe there. Tell the rest of your clan!"

"I will! Thank you!" With that, she hurried off, wings buzzing as she tried to rid them of the thick Arathim blood, and called for the other Gelfling in the air as they tried to organize a way to rescue the male Gelfling stragglers from the village.

SkekGra watched their plight for a moment before turning away; he didn't feel particularly in the mood to rescue a bunch of idiots who couldn't follow orders. But then... Spitters were Spitters, and they had come here to protect this clan, useless as it was. His army could mostly take care of themselves—it wouldn't look good to let any of the civilians die.

A scream echoed from a nearby tunnel, and he followed it to find an Arathim chasing a younger male Grottan, who had fallen and was now scrambling backward while the Spitter advanced on him. With a snarl, skekGra charged toward it, sweeping his sword beneath its legs to flip it over, and then stabbing it through the middle, careful not to let his sword get in too deep. The vermin gave a spasm, then stilled with a foul-smelling exhale.

"What are you doing over here?" he asked, before the childling had time to sputter out his thanks. He was getting sick of hearing it. "Haven’t you heard you’re supposed to go to the Tomb?"

"I-I know, I'm sorry!" the Gelfling said, scrambling to his feet. "I wasn't going there yet."

"Yet?"

"I know the way there, but—but the other creatures, they don't!"

SkekGra nearly rolled his eyes at the incompetence of this tribe before realization hit him. The child wasn't talking about the Arathim. "Other creatures?"

"Yes, we're not sure what they are, but they came to us for help not long ago. None of us could understand them, but they're too big for our houses, and they needed fires to see well, so we—"

His eyes flashed. His body trembled. "Where are they?"

Brightening, the boy resumed stumbling down the tunnel. "Down this way! I can take you to them, my lord—"

"No!" he cried, starting forward, and the Gelfling looked back at him in confusion. Shaking his head, he forced himself to calm. "No, you need to get to safety. Tell me where these creatures are, and I will take care of them personally."

"Oh, thank you, my lord!" Smiling, the Grottan pointed down the tunnel. "They're down that way. It's just a left turn, then a right."

His tail twitched behind him, metal armor and blades grating against the stone beneath, and his fangs gleamed in a smile. "You are a tremendous help, young Gelfling."

The boy gazed at him in awe, barely managing to stutter another simpering "thank you" before hurrying away. SkekGra craned his head over his shoulder to watch him go, and once the Gelfling was a sufficient distance away, he bolted.

As dark as these caves were, the moss that lined them glowed strongly enough for him to discern the walls of the tunnels and follow the boy's directions easily. He slowed to a creep as he neared the last bend.

Sure enough, just up ahead he saw the glow of a campfire flickering on the walls, and caught the hushed voices murmuring in the guttural language of a race he had grown quite familiar with. He caught his breath, his heart pounding.

Here, now, finally, he could make up for his mistake.

If the glow from the fire was anything to go by, they should be right around the corner, and the noises of the battle echoing from the tunnels all around would be enough to disguise the sounds of his approach.

Perfect.

A few skilled bounds and skekGra rounded the corner, planting himself directly in front of a low-burning campfire and the three startled Gruenaks, who immediately let out horrified screams at the sight of him and gripped each other tightly as a reflex. The fire danced before him in the dim cave, bathing him in a threatening orange glow.

“You! Your fates should have been the same as those of the rest of your tribe!” he snarled, the light catching his bared fangs. "Did you truly think you could escape the mighty Conqueror?! Pitiful worms!"

Squawking in terror, the creatures jumped to their feet and abandoned their camp, which skekGra expected. What he did not expect was for the largest one to suddenly turn around, throwing a bucket of water over the fire and plunging the small chamber in sudden darkness. With bright spots still flying around his vision from the campfire, skekGra found himself stumbling over dampened logs and moss, only for his foot to catch on soggy, burning ashes and causing him to crash forward.

His targets stumbled down the tunnel ahead.

“No you don’t! Not again!” With a wild snarl, skekGra scrambled back to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in his injured shoulder, and threw himself after the Gruenaks. To his dismay, the tunnel split into four, and he skidded to a halt at the crossroads.

Which way? Just as the cacophony echoing from the tunnels all around hid the sounds of his approach from the Gruenaks, it also hid the sounds of their flight from him. He could hear it, certainly, but from which tunnel, he wasn't sure. They could not be allowed to escape again.

Bracing himself against a wall, he closed his eyes, slowed his breathing and listened hard.

Triumphant yells of Gelfling sounded from one tunnel—the tides of battle were turning. From another tunnel came the sounds of stomping feet and battle cries. SkekVar’s battalion had arrived. It seemed this battle would end shortly.

SkekGra opened his mouth slightly and flared his nostrils, drawing in a deep breath and scenting the air. The tunnels reeked with the acrid smell of campfire smoke tinged with sour Arathim blood. Beneath all of that he caught something recent, something that reminded him of clay and metal, leading down the path to the far right. With the scent also trailed the patter of quick footsteps. He snapped his eyes back open, running his tongue over his teeth. He had them now.

Robes flapping about his ankles, he darted into the tunnel, picking up that musty, loamy scent much more strongly now. It was laced with something else, too—fear. He could smell it on them like rotting swamp muck caked on a nebrie. He could hear their feet pounding against the damp stone ground somewhere ahead, echoing off the tunnel walls and making it difficult to judge how far ahead they were. Smaller tunnels continued to branch off this one—he could feel the air moving through them—and he had to sniff at each of them, making sure his prey hadn’t tried to take one and lose him. So far it seemed they had continued resolutely ahead. Did they somehow know where they were going, or were they running blind?

The new sound of heavy footfalls erupted from one of the smaller side passages, causing skekGra to veer to the side as dark shadows streamed into his tunnel. Panting slightly, he faced this new enemy with bared teeth, swords raised, ready for anything—

...Almost anything.

“Conqueror?” A huge shadow broke away from the others and faced him. “What are you doing over here?”

“What are you doing over here?” SkekGra lowered his weapons, letting out an impatient hiss. The General had for some reason decided to lead his entire battalion of Gelflings through this tunnel. The oaf was letting his quarry get away!

“What am I—” skekVar sounded bewildered. He lowered his voice, probably trying to keep curious Gelflings from overhearing. “You told me to come this way! Don’t tell me you’ve changed the plan again!”

Quickly he ran through the mental map he’d made of this area, and had to resist running his claws down his own face in exasperation. “You went the wrong way! You took a wrong turn somewhere!”

“...Oh.” SkekVar shuffled backwards awkwardly. The shadowy forms of his Gelfling battalion gathered around them, muttering.

“Is everything all right, my lord?” A Gelfling toting a lantern appeared beside skekVar. “Are we close to Domrak?” The Gelfling spotted skekGra and blinked in surprise. “Lord Conqueror? Is there a change of plan?”

“Agh—no, no,” he said. Incompetent idiots, all of them. “Listen! Just keep going down this way, the way you were going, then take a left down the single tunnel. If you follow that through the next chamber and then take a left and a right, you’ll get out. Got it?”

“You heard him! Go on!” skekVar called. “I’ll be with you shortly!” The Gelflings all chorused an acknowledgement of his command and streamed past them down the tunnel, their footsteps echoing off the rocky walls. Meanwhile, skekVar scrutinized skekGra in the dim light, the shadow of his head moving from side to side as though trying to take in their surroundings. “Why aren’t you with your battalion?”

SkekGra narrowed his eyes in a glare, not that the other Skeksis could see his expression. “I have business to attend to.”

“You’re not following the plan!” skekVar growled.

“You’re the one who got lost. And the plan was mine!” SkekGra’s hackles rose. “I will follow it how I wish!”

“And how are you following it, exactly?” The General advanced forward a step—skekGra raised his sword by the smallest degree—and glanced around again before reaching up and snagging a hunk of glowing moss on the wall, ripping it from the stone and shoving it in skekGra’s face. “What are you after, this? Going off alone to find more craft supplies for your little performances to make yourself look better?”

“What would I want with moss?” SkekGra swatted his hand away, forcing himself to stay calm—his grip on the hilts of his weapons was like iron. He hesitated, measuring his words carefully before replying. “I am chasing deserters,” he said. “I saw a group of three cowardly survivors flee down this way.”

The General glanced over his shoulder in the direction the Gruenaks had run. “A few puny runaways? And you think leaving the battle is worth pursuing them?”

“We’re winning!” skekGra insisted. “If we win, but we know some survived, no matter how few…” his voice lowered into a growl, and he had to ground out the last words, “then it’s not a victory.”

“I… suppose.” SkekVar sounded unconvinced. He gave a sharp, stuffy inhale, as though suddenly realizing something. “You disappeared during the Gruenak battle, too.”

“I did not disappear, I was—”

“—Chasing more pathetic runaways?” skekVar finished, and gave a dark laugh.

SkekGra froze.

The General did not notice. “I never thought I’d see it. The great Conqueror has become afraid to fight!”

With the speed of a thought skekGra drew his largest sword and had it pointing at the other Skeksis’ chest, the tip brushing against his metal breastplate. “Do not mock things you don’t understand, slime-brain!”

He struggled to control his shaking.

SkekVar eyed the large sword blade aimed at his heart, all traces of humor gone. “‘Slime-brain’? What, are you taking lessons from the Chamberlain now?”

SkekGra prodded his sword, forcing skekVar to take a step backwards.

“Whatever you think you’re doing here,” the General growled, “the Emperor will hear about all this.”

SkekGra attempted to cover up his lack of composure with a hiss through his teeth. “As he should,” he said. “And perhaps the Emperor would also like to know how incompetent you are at following a simple map with the correct route clearly marked out for you. And about your earlier willingness to let an entire Gelfling clan be overrun by our Arathim enemies.”

The General’s lips curled, his short tusks glinting in the dim light. “I never realized you were such a Gelfling-lover.”

Rather than dignify that with a response, skekGra removed his blade with a flourish and stood up straighter, regarding him coolly. “Hmph. I believe there is a war going on while we bicker, General.”

SkekVar gave a violent start. “Argh, do what you want,” he said. “But I’m not leaving any of the crawlies for you to skewer.” He pushed past skekGra and stumped off down the tunnel after the Gelflings. SkekGra waited for his footfalls to fade, a hard lump lodged in his throat. His tail gave a savage swish over the ground, the blades tied to it scraping the stone.

He was losing the trust of his fellow Skeksis one by one—his honor was crumbling to pieces. And it was their fault, all of it, those three hunchbacked worms and that creature who had dared to pluck them from his grasp under the cowardly assurance that he was the one being in all of Thra that skekGra the Conqueror could not harm. There was only one way to end it. Though he could do nothing about the urRu scum, these three would regret the fact that it had ever chosen to visit that battlefield two days ago.

He couldn’t go back to the battle now, anyway. He could just imagine the self-satisfied and smug look on the General’s face if he crawled back to the fight now, thoroughly chastised. But if they failed without his aid—

No, the others wouldn’t fail. SkekVar was a skilled general indeed, despite his other shortcomings, and their Gelfling soldiers had been trained well enough to take down a few aggravating spiders.

He, the Conqueror, the undefeated vanquisher of all enemies to the Crystal of Truth, had another task to complete today.

Of course, his prey had put a lot of distance between them by now. He could no longer hear them running down the tunnel, and it would be… difficult to catch up to them. There was only one thing for it. The thought made him groan.

Cursing the Gruenaks for forcing him to resort to this—and cursing skekVar too for good measure, for distracting him long enough for them to get away—he sheathed his swords and pulled up the hems of his layered robes to reveal the pants beneath, fastening his robes to his belt.

With his legs freed, he dropped down onto all fours with a thump, and he ran.

—-~~~—-

The rain beat a steady rhythm against his hood, stinging the mysterious new wound on his shoulder.

UrGoh clutched his upper hands closer to his chest, breathing steadily as he climbed. He could feel blood seeping into his makeshift bandages; his partially-healed blisters had opened.

The pain will pass, he thought to himself, the words almost a chant. The pain will pass, the pain will pass.

Truthfully, it wasn't as terrible as it could have been. With the sort of life his counterpart preferred, he'd dealt with much worse in the past. But as he pulled his way up the mountain, the pain stood out in sharp relief. He had to resort to using his lower pair of arms to aid his ascent, which moved him along faster than before.

For if his counterpart was hurting like this, then he was acting, and nothing he could be doing right now was anything good.

He had to hurry.

UrGoh had left the Valley once more after a short rest and set out immediately for the High Hill where Aughra made her home, bidding farewell to urSol and urZah. He had not seen urSu. This was likely for the best… he was not sure how that encounter would have gone.

The journey had passed more quickly than he had expected. He had managed to run part of the way, something he had not attempted since the Great Conjunction and the frantic escape from the Skeksis castle.

The hill was in sight now, with the Observatory at the top barely visible for how close he was to it. His heart pounded as he finally pulled himself up onto a plateau and gazed up at it through the downpour. He hoped he was not too late, and that urSol and urZah were right—that he truly would find help here, somehow. He could not make it to the Caves of Grot to aid the Gruenak at this point, so this was his only chance.

The relentless rain made his focus fuzzy, uncertain. Every drop brought him back to the battle he had witnessed—the shrieks of pain, the flood of dark blood staining the hems of his sleeves—

He shook his head to dispel the images and forced himself forward.

Glittering, crystalline crabs skittered over the rocks around him, seeking shelter in crevasses as he approached. They, at least, seemed unbothered by the rain.

Enormous, plantlike beings stretched across the entrance to a nearby tunnel. UrGoh had traveled far enough and seen enough to know that these were not safe, but he knew what to do. Drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils, he opened his mouth, and sang.

It was not the cheering of the Podling tongue, nor the gentle notes of Gelfling songs, but a sound known only to the Mystics: a deep note that reverberated throughout Thra and its creatures, harmonizing with the world's song, if only briefly.

The plants shuddered, then calmed, easing away from the entrance on their own and allowing him in. However, he hesitated at the opening, rain dripping down his cloak. While his heart told him to hurry, his sense told him to not barge into Mother Aughra's house, for he knew not what he would find there. It would not be Aughra herself—her body, certainly, but not her spirit, still on its voyage across the stars. He had never before crossed the threshold of this place, the home of a celestial wonder wrought by science and alchemy, built specifically for Aughra by a luminous creature that seemed like the barest memory of a dream.

Whatever—or whoever—awaited him inside, it may be dangerous, if it was enough to stop a Skeksis.

If it could at all.

UrGoh could only hope.

#skekgra #urgoh #the dark crystal #the dark crystal age of resistance #my writing #fanfic #for unity

22 notes · View notes