#we shall see. ill report back in a week i guess

[maemil]

Unfortunately I actually think Jayce blasting a hole through Viktor with a laser made me more a fan of his here

[em-writes-stuff]

hidden injury

day four of @whumpcember

743 words

warnings: death report, infected wound

~

One of the first reports I’m genuinely interested in, the first written about use of illusion magic on another person. Report found crumpled up behind a book about…water nymphs. Cool. Report seems to be from one of the earlier villages in Petyod, though there’s no sure way to check. The translations have been lost, so I don’t know what it was written in originally, though my guess is..maybe Forgotten Humpt? From the grammar in the earliest translation I can read, that’s what makes the most sense. Grammar has since been altered to make more sense; what a shame. 

Let’s dive in, shall we?

Death report: history and suspected cause of death of Yeoughn Flix

A young girl, Atleigh, and her older brother, Yeoughn, joined our camp five months ago. They were set up with rooms and Yeoughn got a job working with our hunter. His expectations were to do enough work to pay off living in the village and to help the hunter with whatever she needed. 

Atleigh was never seen playing with the other kids, even though they constantly reached out to her. Most of the time, she was found laying in her room, staring out of the window. 

Our leader, Goffry, was worried about her and had our healer look her over, making sure her isolation wasn’t due to anything physical. 

After the check up, she was deemed physically fine and it was assumed her lack of energy was due to the drastic changes in her life. 

Yeoughn started to decline in health, nothing extreme at first, coughing fits and days where he could barely get out of bed. The only people he’d let see him were our hunter and Atleigh, and reluctantly, our healer. The first week of his illness was only the start, after eight days, he began to get worse faster than anyone had suspected. 

Atleigh was at his bedside constantly, taking care of him more than anyone thought she ought to do. Somehow, she didn’t get sick. 

After nearly six weeks of Yeoughn’s declining health, he passed in his sleep. We were alerted to it by Atleigh’s uncontrolled sobbing. We ran to the room and found that Atleigh had a (presumably) new wound that our healer hadn’t remarked on earlier. 

It was an angry, inflamed gash cutting across her entire midsection. The flesh around it was puffy and infected due to neglecting to treat it properly. 

Atleigh drew back from us and hid her stomach, trying desperately to cover herself fully. 

Our medic declared Yeoughn dead and took care of Atleigh before making his remarks on Yeoughn’s death, to which he ruled the cause was overworking himself. 

Atleigh confessed that her brother had been hiding the wound with illusion magic, something that wasn’t known to be possible until this case. While the possibility had been talked about, it was never proven. 

Now, Atleigh’s infection is gone and the gash is on the path to healing, though it’ll be a long road. Once healed, Atleigh has asked to take Yeoughn’s place as our hunter’s apprentice and our hunter has accepted. 

As for Yeoughn, his room will be emptied and his body will be given to the woods, as is the custom. We have not told Atleigh yet, though I can’t imagine she’ll take it well. 

~

Woah-kay then. 

There’s no follow up that we’ve been able to find as of yet, but I can imagine that there’ll be some eventually. 

It’s an interesting case, I’d never considered that using one’s magic too much could cause a decline in health. I knew that not using it cut your life expectancy extensively, but overworking it? 

One thing I didn’t consider while skimming the report was that this could be one of the Forgotten Lands, deep within the Binding Forest. 

The little information we have on the villages that resided there show that they might’ve sacrificed their dead to the forest to keep it from devouring them. It’s definitely possible. If so, this is a big discovery, I never expected to find anything solid from there, though Ezran swears that he worked on translating something with Edward. Not that his memory from nearly two and a half centuries ago is reliable. 

The report will be put with the small section we have for the Forgotten Lands and the audio recording under “magicians-illusion magic-magic on others” where it will likely remain alone, as this case is the only one I’ve heard of. 

[officialscaramouche]

ayo feel like doing a gorou confession fic for me? pretty please with sprinkles on top (you know that fucking tiktok)

Ofc Pizzato anything for u my dear 🥰

Pairing: Gorou x gn!reader

Warnings: slight angst

Word count: 1,969

You heard a couple friendly knocks on your office door, eyes glancing to the clock to see it was a little past noon and you knew exactly who it was. “Come in,” you chime, putting down your pen and stretching upwards with a smile.

“Helloooooo!” You hear as the door swung open, Kazuha flaunting an envelope between his fingers. “Letter time!”

You sweep to your feet and give him grabby hands. “Give it to me!” He chuckles and places the thin paper into your hands. “Tell me who it is already,” you giggle as you rip it open and slide the letter out.

“No,” he sighs, rolling his eyes. “I keep my promises.”

You quirk and eyebrow before you fold open the letter. “Even if I bribe you with dango?”

Kazuha smiles. “Even if you bribe me with dango.”

You grunt and groan but it quickly stops when you unfold the letter, reading the contents.

Good afternoon, cupcake, it starts. You blush at the pet name. I hope your day is going as well as mine. I’ve just won the office lottery! I’m going to ask for more snacks in the break room. That way, everyone benefits too! Specifically though, I want more sakura mochi! The ones you made for us were delicious. Share your recipe? :3

I adore you, your secret admirer.

You squeeze the letter to your chest and squeal, your face warm from blushing and your heart pounding against your chest. “Oh, Kazuha, whoever this person is, I really wish they’d come up and confess!”

Kazuha tuts and wiggles his finger. “But then the mystery wouldn’t be there anymore.”

“Screw mystery!” You squealed, gazing down at the illegible and scratchy handwriting, the mysterious stains and fur all over the page. “I’m ready to hear these words in person.”

Just then there was a knock on your door and a quick turn of the knob, one of the top brass leaning against your door frame. “Good morning, Chatty Cathy’s,” sang a familiar voice and ear twitches.

You wave while Kazuha bows, hiding the letter behind your back. “Good morning, General Gorou.”

The tail behind his back wagged discreetly as the two men share a knowing glance. “Kazuha,” the general clears his throat. “May I speak with you?”

The samurai nods his head and gives you a little wave as he walks out the door. “Bye boys!” You sing, tucking the letter back into the envelope and putting it away.

The next day, as routine, a little past noon you heard three friendly knocks on your door. You excitedly put your pen down, closing your ledger and standing out of your chair and onto your feet. “Kazuha,” you grinned. “Come in!”

He pushed the door open with his back, lugging a big box with some plastic sticking out from the top. “I’m just a mule to you guys aren’t I?” He groaned, lifting the box up and onto your desk. “This is ridiculous.”

You stood on your tippy toes to try and peek inside the box without being obnoxious. “What is it?” You hum, getting more and more restless.

“Your letter, what else?” He kind of snapped, letting out a deep sigh and rolling his eyes. “I wish he’d confess too. That way I don’t have to carry these things.”

You pulled back the top of the box that was just out of your reach. “Here,” pushing your hands away, Kazuha tore the box apart to expose a giant basket full of goodies and flowers. “The letter.”

Kazuha snapped the taped-on letter from the plastic and handed it to you. Wasting no time at all, you rip the envelope open and unfold the letter.

Dearest [Y/N], you’ve pierced my heart like an arrow through a target and I simply cannot get you off my mind. I heard from the grapevine that you wish for my confession. …Maybe I shall do so in the near future? It’s not that I do not want to be yours, but rather that you make me quite nervous. Still, we see each other for terribly brief moments but these moments are the most precious to me. Hopefully I can muster up the courage to finally tell you how I feel. In the meantime, please accept these treats and toys imported from across the globe. My favorite are the dog-shaped biscuits.

Your shy admirer.

Looking up from the letter you find Kazuha stuffing his face with some chocolatey cookies from within a tin box labeled ‘Fontaine.’ “Are those good?” You ask, reaching in and stealing one.

“Mhm,” Kazuha hums, taking a bite out of the one in his hand. “I’ve never had Fontaine chocolate. I guess the rumors about being the best were true.”

You melt under the sweet taste and crunchy texture, thinking that if your crush’s letters had a taste, it would be like this. “This is so nice,” you sigh, eyes sparkling as they gaze upon the basket. “Do you think he’s going to confess to me?”

Kazuha stares out the windows of your office that peer into the rest of the building, watching a certain general spill water on himself and the resistance leader. He takes another bite of a cookie. “Maybe.”

You squeal in delight and spin around in joy. “My heart’s beating so fast! I hope he does it soon or I’ll explode!”

Kazuha chuckles and playfully shoves you aside. “If you explode, I’m eating all of your snacks.”

“No! They’re mine!”

Weeks— almost a month— go by with no further letters. Kazuha stopped coming by, whether at noon or otherwise. The only knocks you got were visits from Kokomi about the budget or from other soldiers carrying reports and receipts from spending. Your heart ached at the sudden lack of contact, wondering if you had done or said something wrong.

Maybe your eagerness was intimidating and this mystery man just wanted someone to flirt with without commitment. Maybe he got bored of you. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to you anymore.

Regardless, you wanted to try and spark it back up in case you’ve stepped on some toes without realizing. That night when you got home, you tossed the ingredients for sakura mochi into a bowl and got to mixing.

The office ate everything you brought before lunchtime rolled around. With such great success, you had confidence that he’d reach out to you tomorrow, if not today.

But alas you were left in silence once more, leaving your heart to crumble and ache. You were quick to recover, considering you never met the guy— let alone knew his name. But you had no time to be worrying anyway, because in a couple of days one of the squads were returning from the front lines and you needed to factor in medical costs. Apparently they took a hard hit when Sara Kujou showed up with her samurai. Kokomi was depending on you, and you didn’t want to let her down.

You spend these few days really crunching the numbers, making sure that every wounded soldier would get the basic medical necessities with some left over for any miscalculations. With every i dotted and every t crossed, you stuffed your report into a fancy envelope and handed it to Kokomi. “Thank you [Y/N] for your hard work under such a sudden timetable.” She thanked, tucking the envelope under her arm. “The team should be arriving tomorrow, so I will be submitting this for review immediately.”

You bow respectfully and offer your thanks for praise. “It’s no problem at all, Her Excellency. I was given ample time to prepare the balance sheet.” You begin to turn when you’re stopped once again by her.

“Before you go,” she smiles softly. “Would you mind helping out at the infirmary? We’re short handed right now with the sudden intake of Delusions.”

“Of course, Her Excellency. I will be there whenever you need me.”

You weren’t specialized in medics but you had helped around often enough to know the basics. And anyone could become a master at immediate medical attention after doing it so many times.

The flood of gurneys was a little disheartening to see, but you were still thankful for all that they do for the greater of the country. It must be scary being at the front lines, but everyone knew what they were signing up for.

You catch sight of Genera Gorou and Lord Kazuha chatting with Lady Kokomi before you were assigned to a batch of wounded soldiers, feeling a little bad for harboring ill feelings toward the young lord for disappearing. ‘You could’ve at least told me that you were leaving,’ you thought as you rinsed the injured area.

“I can take over from here,” the head medic stepped in, slipping on a new pair of gloves before getting a closer look at the soldier before you. With most of everyone patched up and recovering, the medic team was able to take control of the infirmary once again.

You wash your hands and check the clock. A little past noon. It’s funny how at this time you would’ve waited with bated breath for a couple of knocks. But not anymore.

You step out of the infirmary and find Kazuha and General Gorou sitting outside on the benches there. “Oh, hi boys,” you say surprised.

Kazuha grabs and shakes your hand. “Thank you for helping out our soldiers,” he says seriously.

“Oh, it’s not that big of a deal,” you mutter. “I do this all the time.”

A calloused hand pushes Kazuha’s away and shakes your hand firmer, harder. “No, [Y/N],” Gorou says with a sort of oomph behind his words. “These are my men…my family. They would be suffering if not for your help.”

You look to the side uncomfortably, a little put-off by the tension in the air. “And that’s why—!” Gorou continues, suddenly eight decibels louder. You hold eye contact with the general, his face darkening into a deep red flush, his eyes glassy and ears twitching. He squeezed your hand harder and shut his eyes. “M-My C-C-Cupcake!!! P-Please let m-me take you on a date!!!!”

Kazuha winced at the loudness of his friend, covering one of his ears but still smiling nonetheless. The people walking by stared and mumbled, but it didn’t matter as you felt your heart pound against your chest. You felt your eyes well with tears as now your face flushed red, the general cautiously opening his eyes to see your trembling lips and pathetic pout. “A-Ah! [Y/N], don’t cry!!”

You tug on his hand hard, pulling the man into your arms and squeezing him tight. You sobbed into his chest, hearing and feeling how frantic his heart was beating as well. “You idiot!” You shout into his battle-worn chest. “Don’t disappear without telling me…”

Gorou caressed the back of your head and chewed on his lip, his tail drooping with guilt but twitching with excitement for being in your arms. “Did I…scare you?” He whispered tentatively, choosing his words carefully.

You pull away and wipe your eyes, Gorou watching you closely and holding tightly onto your waist. “I thought you got tired of me…because I stopped hearing from you.” Gorou frowned and cupped your face, thumbing your cheeks gently. “I even made sakura mochi and I didn’t—”

“You made sakura mochi??!??!!! Is there any left?!?” Gorou’s jaw dropped. He let you go to turn and run to the break room, halting before running back to embrace you once more. “Heh, uh…” he chuckled nervously. “I’d actually…rather hold you like this…”

You couldn’t fight the smile that spread across your cheeks, flushing your body against his chest. “That’s okay,” you giggle. “There aren’t any left.”

You had no idea that his ears could flatten sadly like that.

[lucycola]

Spock being kind of betrayed by his love interest but after a bit of angst, everything falls into place and fluff is baaaack :>

Spock x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: Language, sexual situations, daddy kink if you squint

Spock is a bit of a stubborn asshole in this one. He doesn’t like being lied to and will not stop at getting the truth, especially when he knows it’s about him. Spock may be a little too personal in front of Bones, but it’s an emotional situation. 

The buzz from your monitor diffused through the air, ringing in Spock’s ears. As low as it was it still brought him to groggily open his eyes. The whole room was wrapped in a soft blue glow. He sat up, hand immediately feeling the empty spot next to him.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not exactly sure how long,” you whispered, hunched over the screen.

“T’hy’la,” he said into the glow, tone sharper than he intended.

You hurriedly flipped off the monitor.

“Spock,” you said, “I’m sorry I woke you.” You tip-toed carefully across the room and crawled back under the thermal blankets. Your boyfriend have better been thankful that you were extremely cold natured otherwise the mere temperature of his cabin would drive you out of the room.

“What were you-”

“I was finishing up some work for the lab. I dreamed of it and woke and immediately I had to do it before it slipped my mind.”

He could sense your deceit in the way your voice wavered, but it also did that when you were grieving. He moved to find your hand in the dark, but failed as you began to massage his scalp.

Were you avoiding his touch? he wondered.

“Sleep, Sa-mekh,” you gently teased him with the only word that could make his scowl at you, other than ‘papa’ itself. He did like it in bed, however, as much as he denied it.

You paused, thinking of the word critically, a surge of panic leaving your hands. He could feel it, “Tell me what ails you. Who were you talking to a moment ago?”

“Myself,” you quickly yanked your hands away. “I really am sorry for waking you.”

He didn’t bother turning to face you or to further question you. It would come out eventually at the test of his impatience or yours. Something was upsetting you-he felt the raw emotion even through the follicles of his scalp. He would take more time to ponder-more time to investigate.

“I shall return to  sleep - as should you. You should participate in your work on the alpha shift singularly as your sleep cycles will continue to be disrupted therefore lowering you work efficiency-”

“And yours?” you finished for him, half joking. “Whatever you say, Commander.”

x

“I wish everyone would stop treating us like we’re married, honestly,” you said, crossing your arms in front of Doctor McCoy.

“All I know is that I’ve got an irritated Vulcan asking me to scan you. He thinks you're hiding something from me and he’s doing whatever he can to figure it out before actually asking you. Something about not letting him touch you. I tried to tell him it was normal once a month-”

You gave him a playful swat.

“Forgive me, I jest.”

“How ridiculous,” you replied and then sighed.

“That’s a man’s pride for you. It escapes no species,” Nurse Chapel said handing you back the report.

“And as you are hiding something, I’m guessing, I suggest you go on out with it. He’ll tear the ship apart finding an answer.”

“And how I think he used to indulge in smothering me in rapid fire questions. That was before our first meld,” you said, fingering the edge of the padd not having fully looked at it yet.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t tried that yet,” McCoy said, “He’s already hunted me down once. I’m not allowed to say anything, but as a favor to me-”

“Bones-”

“Keep him out of my hair and tell him whatever it is you’re lying about-”

You turned the padd to face him and his eyes enlarged, first with shock and then with mirth. He let out a hearty laugh.

“Good luck with that one. I’d say he’s gonna turn green, but that’s normal for him.”

“Have you  talked to your mother yet, honey?” Nurse Chapel asked.

x

Why would you have spoken with your mother so late an hour? Was it purposeful because he had been sleeping? Was it an emergency? Surely you would have told Spock.

He had already extracted the call log from his comm, even though the data had been private and locked under your information. You would fuss at him later he already knew, but this little inkling in the back of his mind reminded him. That raw feeling he felt through your hands. It terrified you. You were scared of something.

You were lying to him. You had lied to him. You had not been speaking to yourself. You had been speaking to your mother. He supposed he could contact your mother, but you two had never formally been introduced and some parties might find that offensive.

You were eating less and less and sleeping with him less and less. You weren’t being as intimate as you usually were either and that was most alarming. Not because it was a requirement to Spock, but because it was a deviation of your behavior. Spock didn’t usually adopt Terran colloquialisms, but once after sucking him off in the lab in the middle of a gamma shift he called you a ‘dirty bird’. He always made you blush when using Terran phrases and slang.

Was it something he did? It seemed he was always doing something, but Spock could honestly not place something accidentally offensive or insulting he might have said. You were pretty good at pointing out when he was too candid or too critical. He was good at pointing out when you were too emotional and too...well too human.

Yet he relished in every bit of that-and so did you, or so he thought you had.

So what was it?

Spock didn’t chew on his nails, but found himself letting the edge of his thumb rest in his teeth.

A familiar warm hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Look alive, Spock,” the captain playfully chided.

“I assure you captain I am in no way deceased.”

x

You were pregnant. It was that simple. Yet, it didn’t feel simple at all. You wouldn’t hardly let Spock even touch you for fear of finding out. You were terrified of his response.

You were puking in the bathroom and had called your mother immediately. It was the second week in a row and Christine’s labs proved it.

You had a bun in your oven. You could see Spock giving you the quizzical brow at the use of the expression. You could see yourself fussing a little, telling him you knew that he knew exactly what that phrase meant and to stop acting like he didn’t.

It was true what you had said to Bones.

You two weren’t married. It was perfectly normal to have a child out of wedlock- that was, on Earth. You hadn’t even met his parents. What would they say? It would only be a fourth Vulcan. He didn’t speak fondly of his father and whenever prompted you could practically read how sour their relationship was. His father had to be fond of humans to some extent-his wife was human after all.

Would other Vulcans shame Spock? Would they shame your baby?

You heard a buzz from the comm. You got up out of bed and walked over.

“McCoy to Yeoman L/N.”

“Yes, doctor?”

“I’ve got a green-blooded devil down here demanding your presence.”

You groaned into your fist.

“You can’t make me.”

“Please.”

It was the first time you ever heard Spock say that. The tone was nearly pitiful as it was on edge.

x

“You can’t make anyone get a scan, Spock. She doesn’t even work in your division,” Bones said once you arrived.

“She has not been eating, sleeping, nor participating in the normal intimate recreations. Her behavior is off and her pallor has changed considerably,” Spock argued.

“That’s not of anyone’s business, Spock,” you said, appalled. He was being...so unlike himself. It was even weirder that it was in front of Bones. Spock would rather eat his hat than be any kind of vulnerable in front of...well anyone. 

“He’s...he’s just worried about you,” Nurse Chapel offered politely from afar.

You groaned, “I wish everyone would just stay out of it. I’m not ready for this.”

“Well you should’ve thought about that before you...uh” Bones started but immediately stopped when you shot him daggers, “Spock, why don’t you just ask her?’

“She has deceived me once before. I do not trust her again to be candid. She is either emotionally upset with a matter and does not want to tell me because it concerns me or she is ill and is emotional about such and does not want to tell me. Either way I am...most concerned.”

It seemed Spock would be eating his own hat later. You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks. Was he really this worried? 

“Spock...”

He turned to you, “I apologize for involving the doctor but I do not like it when you lie. Especially when I can be of assistance.”

You could feel water brimming at your lashes. “You’re so smart, Spock. Just so damn smart I hate it.”

You sat on the edge of one of the stretchers, tears dribbling down your face.

“Now, look what you’ve done, you ass!” Bones said angrily, “Out of my bay this instant.”

Spock ignored him and knelt down in front of you.

“I can help. And if I can’t we will find a way, ashayam.”

You looked up at him. “I am upset with something...and I am sick and it does have to do with you. Both of your guesses were right.”

You held out a hand. He assumed it was to meld, but it wasn’t so as you only placed his hand palm down on your still flat abdomen.

His eyes widened. “Y/N...”

“I know I lied about talking to my mother. I was just afraid you would find out and I wasn’t... I just don’t think we’re ready. I want to be ready, but I don’t know if you’re ready. We’re not married and I don’t want to cause trouble for you on Vulcan.”

He stared at your stomach for a long time, hand unmoving.

“I do not care what others think of me on Vulcan. I do not care what they think of my t’hy’la or my child,” he said with a tone of finality, “I only care what you think. If you are not ready I will not force you to beget my children.”

“Are you ready?” you asked.

“I do not think a parent ever truly is. My mother once spoke those words to me,” he admitted, “But it is not my say in the matter whether you choose to carry out the pregnancy. Do you wish to terminate the pregnancy?”

“No, Spock.”

He rubbed your stomach gingerly, “I am sorry for my behavior, ashayam. It was most ill-mannered of me. The mother of my child deserves better treatment.”

You placed your hand over his while it was still on your stomach, “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t lie to you.”

“Well, well,” the doctor spoke up from the awkward silence beside his nurse, “I guess we ought to pass around cigars now?”

It seemed you both had forgot that Bones and Christine were still even there, witnessing the sappy moment between you two. 

Spock repaired that easily. 

“I will not allow my t’hy’la to engage in such a habit or for those surrounding her to do so. Certainly, doctor, you do not permit such unhealthy behaviors to pregnant persons.”

You laughed and Bones rolled his eyes.

Another day on the Enterprise, you thought. Another day.

tagged: @groovyfluxie @dontgivedeath @lumar014 @pringtella @moonchildlonan @superninjapervert420 @love-wanderlust15 @ischysiaclark​@imyourspacegirlfriend @hiddlestonme @fandoms4ever97 @mywellspringoflife​ @rebelchild93 @nilalunis16​

[ashbrea381writings]

Fractals and Feathers:Pt1

For as long as Damian could remember, his grandfather had grumbled about his wings. The outer color was fitting for the League, a deep pine green with brown eye-markings near the base. The underside, however… Were a soft, baby pink that faded into a grey-white. His soulmate was obviously some civilian girl who had no problems in her life. “It is unbecoming. If you were to ever meet this person, you must end them on sight, salvage some form of dignity.” Ra’s lectured, sneering down at Damian. “If you fail to do this, you will lose the right to have wings at all.” With that threat, Ra’s swept out of the training room, leaving Damian to consider what he must do.

The next five years were spent with Damian training hard, the threat of having his wings removed hanging over his head. He kept an eye out for his soulmate anytime he was out on a mission either with his mother or when he was alone. He was determined to not get his wings ripped from him, no matter what fate wanted for him. This went on until the fateful day his mother took him away from all he knew, and left him with his father. His father’s wings were jet black with small points of pure white like stars on the underside and slate grey with blue and purple markings on the outside. Damian didn’t care about the colors of the other boys’ wings, and ignored the color of his own, choosing to keep them tucked close enough that only the grey edges of the bottoms showed at all. This is why it took him 2 weeks to notice the first cracks.

****

Marinette had always found the dichotomy of her wings interesting. The light, pale pink fading to grey on the back, and the dark pine green on the underside. She thought it was pretty, and just a bit mysterious. Somehow, on hot days the inside of her wings would be just a bit cooler than the rest of her, soothing the heat just enough to be comfortable. On cold days, they gave off the heat of the summer sun, warming her through the cold nights in her attic bedroom. When Marinette got her miraculous, she worried about her wings giving her away, but instead of her pink/grey and green wings, she found that the pink was replaced by bright red with black dots, and the green was changed to black with red dots. Meeting up with Chat, she found him with startling acid-green and black patterned wings. “I guess they want to protect our identities.” He joked, laughing and admiring the pattern. “Let’s not focus on that, Kitty.” She sighed and turned to face Stoneheart. “This is scary enough as is without thinking about if they didn’t hide our wing colors.��� “True… Let’s go.” His face turned suddenly serious. “Do you have a plan?” Stoneheart took time to defeat, and Ladybug forgot the Akuma, so they had to clean it up later, but… They were pretty happy with the partners they were starting to become. They started to get to know each other, not revealing identities, but learning everything else about each other. Until one day, Chat brought up something interesting. “Hey, what happens to your wings if something happens to your soulmate?” “Why do you ask, Kitty?” Ladybug paused as she was unpacking the dinner she’d brought with the two of them. “Someone I know, they commented about the color of a person’s wings when we were out together. They said something about how that person had lost their soulmate. Nobody ever said anything to me about the colors changing if we lose them.” He stared at his gloved palms, seeming to not see anything at all. “Why? Did yours change color recently?” Ladybug asked, alarmed. “No! No, they’re the same as always, but… My… My mother disappeared a while ago, and I want to know what to look for and how to know what happened to her if I see my father’s wings change.” He sighed deeply, dropping his head into his hands. “I know I can’t say more because we can’t know who each other are, but I just… I’m so terrified to see them changed one day.” Ladybug wrapped an arm and wing around Chat, pulling him to lean on her shoulder. “Oh Cat. I can tell you, but try to stay positive, okay?” At his nod, she continued. “Your color on the underside of your wings will change if your soulmate dies. If they die of old age, they turn pure white, if they were sick, pure black, if they had an accident, they become silver, if they died a hero or sacrificed themselves for someone, they turn gold, and… If they were killed, they turn blood red.” Ladybug sighed at the end and hugged Chat tighter. “Does your father have any of those colors without any other color or pattern? It’s only plain colors with no other pattern for if the person has died.” Chat took a deep breath, shaking his head, “No, they still look like Mom’s wings as of last I saw them. We… Don’t talk much.” He hugged Ladybug tightly, wrapping his wings around under the one she had put over his shoulders. “Thanks, Bug, I’m glad I know now… At least I know she’s still alive out there. Somewhere.” They finished their dinner, flying a circuit around Paris to make sure all is well before they called it a night. The next few weeks passed, and they kept up with the Akuma Victims, making sure to check in on the victims after each fight. The people of Paris started noticing something odd as this continued though. The Akuma fights, even though all damage was reversed after each one, were affecting their wings and those of their soulmates.

***

Damian squinted at the small spider-webbing of cracks that glowed gold on the underside of his wings. It reminded him of kintsugi in appearance, subtle cracks that showed gold between the usual colors. “Father, what does this mean? I thought your wings only changed color if your soulmate died?” He finally asked after the number of cracks increased to stretch in geometric patterns across the pink and grey feathers. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen this before.” Bruce frowned, looking closely and waving Tim over to him. “Will you try to find anything you can about this phenomena?” Uncharacteristically serious, Tim nodded and went to work right away, his red and black wings draped over his chair comfortably. Damian turned away before he noticed the colors inside his wings, not wanting to know. A sharp beep alerted him to his phone, and he raised an eyebrow at the photo. “It would seem Kent is having a similar problem.” He showed Tim the photo Jon had sent of his own wings, the blonde and emerald green feathers also showing cracks, in a similar geometric pattern, but in a mix of gold and blood red. “I shall inform him that we are already looking into it.” “Yes, let Jon know that we’re working on it. If his case increases at any point, or anyone else around him experiences it, have him notify us.” Tim called over his shoulder as he continued to work on the program he was making to search with.

***

How long does it take for your wings to change color when your soulmate dies?

Marinette chewed her fingernail as she scrolled through the results, reading a few different reports comparing the reported time of death and when the soulmates’ wings changed color, mostly reported by hospitals in the case of illness or death. “Within two or three minutes. That explains a lot, actually. But then why are they not completely changed, just showing cracks?” “You have dealt with some pretty destructive Akuma recently.” Tikki recalled from her place on her Chosen’s shoulder. “Maybe those only kinda count because they would have been permanent if you hadn’t done the Cure?” “I suppose. Syren was pretty intense, and so many of the people who have the markings were probably people whose loved ones and even they themselves drowned.” Marinette sighed. “I wonder what Mamman and Papa think about all this?” “You could probably ask them… It isn’t so strange to wonder since you can see the cracks in their wings, and in other people’s at school.” Tikki suggested. “Good idea, what would I do without you?” Marinette giggled, patting Tikki’s head and opening the edge of her blazer so Tikki could listen in from there. The bakery was quiet at the moment, so Marinette had little trouble catching a few minutes of her parents’ time. “What do you think about them? I saw Alya and Nino with the markings at school and I’m not sure what they mean.” “Well, I’ve seen them before, but not this much on one person.” Her Papa said carefully, “Your Grandpa Roland had a heart attack not long before your Maman and I got together. Did you notice the black edging to some of Grandma Gina’s feathers?” “I thought she just had black markings.” Marinette answered softly. “On the back of her wings, yes, but his wings are just grey and white with the black tips.” Tom sighed, rubbing his face. “This many cracks… and the mix of colors. It’s very unusual. I can only assume it’s because of the akuma attacks. Which means that either your soulmate is very lucky, or they aren’t in Paris.”

[kjack89]

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 1/?)

Because nothing says ‘independence day’ like writing the participants in a French rebellion as members of the British upper class...

The Bridgerton AU that no one asked for. Will be at least 4 chapters, probably, to be published on a schedule only God herself can predict. Developing E/R, hijinks and shenanigans. All of the shenanigans.

One might recall when, not too long ago, the author of this paper hung up her pen and retired from reporting on the drama that each new season of fresh-faced debutantes and their endlessly anxious mothers brings. But alas, dear Reader, the excitement of this season has proven too much for this Author to suffer without company – which is why the pen has been passed to a new scribe.

But the fortuitous timing of the season has not been met with equally thrilling events for sharing here, as indeed, the most recent ball, hosted annually at the start of the season by the ever-insufferable Thénardiers, was positively under-attended. Not by the eager mothers that are the backbone of any season or their equally eager daughters, but by the young, eligible men who usually at least deign to make an appearance, dance a few dances, and exchange niceties as is expected for men of their station.

Instead, the only poor sap who wandered into the Thénardiers’ den of matchmaking was the Baron of Pontmercy, who was positively beset by hopeful ingénues, the most brazen of which was undoubtedly the Thénardiers’ eldest daughter, Éponine. While this Author notes that Miss Thénardier has had a patchy history with suitors and thus cannot be fully blamed for attempting to sink her claws into one as eligible as the baron, this Author must also sympathize with Baron Pontmercy, who seemed only to find himself with one moment to himself. 

Then again, rumor has it that his single moment was interrupted by an unknown young lady with an equally unknown chaperone who whisked her away posthaste. Her identity is one mystery both this Author and Baron Pontmercy are equally eager to discover, but the more pressing question is where the others of Baron Pontmercy’s gender were when they should have been equally beset by potential brides.

Never fear: Whatever answers I find, dear Reader, I shall certainly share with other enquiring minds. For a nominal fee, of course. While there are rumors of young men meeting in the backroom of a certain gentlemen’s club to discuss the overthrow of society, capitalism, and the King himself, this Author, being of the gentler sex, finds herself unable to obtain an invite, and as such, alas, cannot bring herself to comply with their lofty goals. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 MARCH 1831

The air in the backroom at the Musain Gentlemen’s Club was hazy with smoke and thick with plentiful conversation as its guests, all young men dressed in their dinner best, traded stories and jokes in between sips of their drinks.

At least one among them was not drinking, though – Enjolras, who sat in an overlarge armchair towards the back of the room, his back to one of the large windows that spanned almost the entire height of the wall. He alone was also not joining his friends in their merriment, his brow instead creased as he read over something.

When he had finished, he glanced up. “Combeferre,” he called, barely raising his voice despite the cacophony of the room. 

Not that he needed to: the moment he spoke, the room fell quiet as all eyes glanced at him as if waiting for him to continue. In return, he just arched an eyebrow at them. “Well, don’t let me put an end to your fun.”

A dark haired man sitting at a table in the far corner playing cards with two others raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Worry not,” he called in return. “You won’t.”

Laughter broke out yet again at that, and most of their number returned to their previous conversations as Combeferre pulled up a chair next to Enjolras’s. Enjolras pursed his lips, looking unamused. “Why is Grantaire even here?” he asked Combeferre, who, quite to the contrary, looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“I imagine because you have not yet told him that you wish for him to leave and never return,” Combeferre said evenly before giving Enjolras a rather assessing look. “Assuming, of course, that is what you wish.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together. “That’s not the point—”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “No, the point is that you had a comment, I assume, about the pamphlet I gave you to review.”

Enjolras still looked disgruntled, but seemed more than willing to allow the change in subject. “The pamphlet is fine, but I imagine you already knew that.” He handed the pamphlet draft back to Combeferre before asking, “What do you imagine the distribution schedule to look like? With Parliament sitting this week—”

He was interrupted by a thin, rather-nervous looking man appearing at his elbow, the doorman to the establishment who was paid a decent sum by each man inside the room to not interrupt them and to report nothing of their comings and going to any who might enquire. When Enjolras had made that arrangement, he had been thinking of the police; when his friends had followed his lead, most were thinking of their mothers.

“M’Lord Enjolras, I do beg your pardon—” he started, sounding almost as nervous as he looked.

Enjolras’s brow furrowed again. “It’s fine, what is it?” he asked, a touch impatiently.

The doorman bobbed his head and cleared his throat. “There is a, ah, a woman seeking entry.”

Bahorel, seated nearby, let out a wolf whistle. “The young ladies of the season are getting restless!” he crowed, to much laughter. 

“Restless, and bold, if they are coming into the city to seek their groom, and without a chaperone to boot,” Bossuet said with a grin.

“Leave to Enjolras to be the one to cause all tradition to break,” Jehan sniggered.

Enjolras could feel his ears burning red but he studiously ignored the jeers and catcalls from his friends, instead frowning at the doorman. “May I ask why are you telling me this?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even. “Last I checked, it was your policy to restrict admittance to men, despite my protestations to the contrary.”

“Of course, M’Lord, it’s just…” The doorman quailed slightly at the look Enjolras gave him. “The woman in question claims to be your mother.”

Immediately, all jokes ceased as identical, horror-stricken looks crossed the faces of each of his friends. Enjolras blanched, all the blood draining from his face. “Did you confirm that I was inside?” he asked, a little desperately.

The doorman shook his head, his eyes widening. “No, of course not, m’lord’s discretion being of utmost importance to this establishment.” He hesitated. “That said, she did not appear to believe our denial, and is threatening to come inside and verify for yourself that you are not here.”

Enjolras groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course she is,” he sighed. He glanced at Combeferre as if considering asking for his assistance, but seemed to think better of it, instead standing and drawing himself up to his full height. “Right,” he said. “Well, I think you’ve got everything handled here, so I suppose I’ll just go, er, handle this situation.”

Combeferre again looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “Of course,” he said. “And, if you do not return, I shall call upon you later this week, shall I?”

“Yes, but the question will be more whether you should call upon me at my house or at the hospital,” Enjolras muttered, and it was to Combeferre’s credit that he still somehow managed not to laugh.

The same could not be said for Grantaire, who started humming what Enjolras recognized vaguely as a funeral dirge as soon as he headed towards the door, and Enjolras gave him the nastiest glare he could muster. Of course, Grantaire was unaffected – if anything, it only caused his grin to widen, and he raised his cup in yet another mocking toast as Enjolras swept out of the room to go deal with his mother.

It was anyone’s guess whether his mother or Grantaire irritated him more.

He started to ask the doorman where his mother was, but found that he did not need to ask – her voice was echoing all the way from the entrance hall. “I am the Dowager Marchioness of Enjolras,” she was practically shrieking, and Enjolras winced, mentally calculating how much money it would take to smooth this particular incident over. Certainly less than when Courfeyrac almost burned the place down, but almost certainly more than when Bahorel and Grantaire had gotten into a fistfight and broken two statues and a chandelier.

He really needed better friends.

And a different mother.

“I demand to speak with my son!” his mother continued, her voice rising in both volume and pitch. “And do not give me this nonsense that he is not here, I know quite well where my son is!”

“M’lady, I apologize, but as I have said, we cannot confirm that your son—”

“I shall confirm it for myself,” Enjolras interrupted, saving the poor proprietor, who had never looked more relieved to see him. “Mother, kindly stop screeching at these gentlemen for doing their jobs.” His mother spluttered incoherently  but Enjolras knew better than to allow her the chance to regroup.

Instead, he grabbed her by the elbow and steered her to the door, glancing over his shoulder to nod his thanks at the proprietor. As soon as they were outside the building, Enjolras dropped any pretense at propriety. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, not releasing his mother from his grip. “Coming all the way into the city to find me? Pray tell what could possibly have been so important to cause such a scene!”

His mother yanked her arm from his grasp and glared up at him. “A scene?” she repeated, her voice deathly quiet. “My dear son, if you consider that a scene, you are ill-prepared for what is soon to follow.”

Enjolras sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. “There is no need for theatrics—”

Without warning, his mother slapped him across the face. “Theatrics?” she hissed. “When I have spent every waking moment these past several years trying to ensure your future and the future of our house!”

She made as if to hit him again but Enjolras caught her wrist, staying her hand. “Madam, you may be the Dowager Marchioness but I am the Marquess of Enjolras, and I will not permit you to assault me in the streets, my mother or not.” He released her arm before adding sardonically, “Besides, think of the gossip.”

Again his mother gave him no warning to gird himself, but this time, she burst into tears, sobbing into his shirt. “Oh, for the love of—” Enjolras took her again by the elbow, gentler this time, and led her to where her carriage waited. “Get a hold of yourself,” he snapped. “You have already made enough of a scene this evening.”

“Perhaps a scene is what it will take!” she half-shouted in return. “For you to finally listen to me, to hear what I have been telling you!” Enjolras rolled his eyes, holding out his hand to help her into her carriage, but she stubbornly refused to move. “Since you clearly don’t listen to me when I make arrangements solely for your benefit.”

“I assure you, you have never once done anything solely for my benefit,” Enjolras said tiredly. “But if it will stop your screaming then please, tell me the latest way in which I have ruined your plans for my future.”

“The Thénardier ball!” his mother wailed, crying again. “All those eligible young ladies, and you could not even deign to show your face! How am I to get you married at this rate?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes so hard he half-feared he would pull a muscle. “Hang the bloody Thénardier ball,” he ground out, hesitating for only a moment before picking his mother up and placing her inside the carriage, swinging up after her before she could protest. 

“What are you doing?” she cried as the carriage moved off at double speed, and Enjolras thanked whatever higher power there was that his mother’s driver also clearly did not wish to linger.

Enjolras sighed. “You wanted me attention,” he said tiredly. “So you have it, albeit not in public where you clearly wanted it.”

For one long moment, his mother just glared at him, tears shining on her cheeks. Then she sighed and sat upright, her pose turning almost prim as she drew a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and delicately dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “Very well,” she said calmly, all traces of earlier hysteria gone in an instant, and Enjolras realized immediately that he had been duped, that he had played directly into her hands.

She had anticipated that making a scene would be the easiest way to get him to leave with her.

And now she had him as a captive audience for however long it took for her driver to reach her house. And while he was not a betting man, he would wager all his money and lands that she had directed her driver to take the long way.

His mother was smiling at him, a cold, unpleasant smile, and Enjolras groaned, tipping his head back against the pillowed cushions. “Please don’t tell me that you really pulled all of that because you wished to discuss the Thénardier ball.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she said before tapping his knee. “And sit upright, you will cause your clothes to wrinkle.” Enjolras groaned and reluctantly sat upright, glaring balefully at her as he waited for her to continue. “No, I merely wished to discuss something and this seemed the easiest way.”

“Then by all means, please tell me: what do you want to discuss?”

“Why, what else?” she asked, a small smirk lifting the corners of her mouth. “Your marriage.”

----------

There were few things that Enjolras loathed more than being hoodwinked by his own mother into a conversation he’d been spending the past several years avoiding, but as he stood staring up at the rather imposing façade of a house he had been to only perhaps a handful of times, he thought this just might rank.

Still, his options were decidedly limited, and he hesitated only a moment more before climbing the stairs to the front door, knocking briskly. In telling of a house less used to visits during the season, it took a moment for the butler to answer the door, and Enjolras shifted uncomfortably on the stoop as he waited. 

“May I help you?” the butler asked as he opened the door. 

“Yes,” Enjolras said. “I’m here to see Grantaire.”

The butler eyed him warily. “And who should I tell Mr. Grantaire is here to see him?”

It took everything in Enjolras not to roll his eyes. “Tell him that the Marquess of Enjolras requests his presence,” he said dryly, hating the way the butler’s eyes widened when he realized just who was standing in the doorway.

“Of– of course, m’lord,” the butler said, immediately opening the door wider to usher Enjolras indoors. “Beg your pardon, m’lord. I’ll just, ah, go fetch Mr, Grantaire.”

He retreated up the stairs and Enjolras finally did roll his eyes, sighing heavily as he wandered a little further indoors. He had spent half his life, it seemed, going from one grand house to another, so very little surprised him, but he was intrigued by what he might find in Grantaire’s house. While his own park-adjoining manor had been in his family for generations, and was decorated accordingly, Grantaire came from new money, and this house had belonged to a different family entirely not even a decade before. 

He paused to examine a small portrait of two young children, a boy and a girl, when he heard footsteps clattering on the stairs and he turned to look up as Grantaire joined him, a jacket rather hastily thrown on and buttoned incorrectly.

“My Lord.”

Grantaire’s voice was pitched just slightly higher than usual, in a way that indicated genuine surprise at finding Enjolras standing in his foyer, but somehow still retained the telltale lilt that Enjolras had long since realized meant Grantaire was making fun of him. 

He scowled automatically. “Enjolras,” he corrected with an exasperated half-sigh.

Grantaire inclined his head, a smirk twisting his lips. “My lord Enjolras,” he said, and Enjolras’s scowl deepened.

“Just Enjolras,” he said flatly, not waiting for Grantaire to escort him into the house, instead crossing the foyer to peer into the front sitting room. 

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Grantaire said, following him.

Enjolras twisted his head to give Grantaire a smirk of his own. “As you seem so keen to remind me, I outrank you,” he said. “And believe me when I say this is one time I will feel no guilt using the trappings of the nobility to my advantage.”

Grantaire just snorted, brushing past him into the sitting room, ignoring the tea that had been set on the table and instead making his way over to the drink cart against the far wall. “Forgive me, but I can think of many instances where you undoubtedly used your title and your family to your advantage without any guilt,” he said dryly, pouring himself half a glass full of amber liquid before pausing, considering it, and adding another finger. “But let’s save that particular fight for a different time.” He turned back to Enjolras and raised his glass in a mock toast. “For now, before I forget my manners any further, let me say welcome to my home, and please, allow me to pour you a cup of tea.”

“I am capable of pouring my own tea, thanks,” Enjolras said, a little stiffly, and he sat down on one armchair before leaning forward to rather stubbornly do just that.

Grantaire did not join him, as if he thought keeping physical distance between them might keep things civil. “Only you would think that hospitality was an insult.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “The way you said it, it was.”

“You underestimate my capacity for being genuinely polite,” Grantaire said dryly, taking a large sip of his whiskey.

“Do I?”

“Tell me, my Lord—” Enjolras gritted his teeth but chose not to interrupt him. “—if not to insult me to my face in my own home, what brings you here, and at tea time no less?”

His voice was calm, pleasant even, but Enjolras felt himself flush in realization that he had done exactly that. And no matter how frequently he might wish to throttle Grantaire with his own hands, that was offensive even for him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking down at his tea as he stirred it. “I have been rude.

Grantaire looked briefly surprised, as if he had not expected an apology. But then his smirk was back in full force. “All is forgiven...my lord.” Enjolras really might shatter his teacup at this rate. “But you still didn’t answer my question as to why you are here.”

Enjolras set his teacup down and straightened, looking Grantaire in the eye. “I came to ask for your help.”

Grantaire laughed. “So you come to my home, uninvited, you insult me to my face, and you still have the audacity to ask for my help?” He drained half of his whiskey in one long gulp. “You are lucky you have been granted the face of a Greek god, Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras sighed, though he knew it was a losing battle. Grantaire had called him that on the first day they met, when Grantaire was finishing college and Enjolras just beginning, and he had continued to call him that for all the years since. “Look, I am sorry, and not just because I need your help. I am ill suited to polite society and the longer the season drags on, the more foul my temper becomes.”

Grantaire made a small noise of agreement. “You and I both,” he murmured, draining his glass and pouring himself another before finally joining Enjolras, settling into the armchair across from him. “Very well. You have my attention.”

Enjolras leaned forward, sudden urgency in every line of his body. “Word has it that you were instrumental in helping Lord Joly and Mr. Lesgle avoid scandal last season when both were in love with Lady Musichetta.”

“Well, we avoided a big scandal at least,” Grantaire said, eyeing Enjolras carefully. “There must always be a little bit of a scandal or none would believe it.”

Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “Either way, all three are happy, and living at Lord Joly’s estate, and not a word about them has been wasted in Lady Whistledown’s papers this season.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “I am astonished to learn you have read any of the newly-revived Lady Whistledown’s papers, let alone with enough frequency to speak with such authority on the subject.:

Enjolras flushed a mottled red and looked away. “It’s an easy conversation topic,” he muttered, “when I am forced to speak to those with whom I have nothing in common.”

“Such as the twittering nitwits your mother foists upon you at every turn?” Grantaire asked lightly.

Enjolras met his eyes evenly. “Exactly. And exactly why I am here.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “You’re here to better learn how to talk with women?” he asked, almost certainly purposefully obtuse. “I admit, I am an expert on the subject, but—”

“Of course not,” Enjolras snapped. “Not to mention if I did need help in that arena, you would be the last person I would turn to.”

Grantaire laughed. “Your loss, he said cheerfully. After all, to have bedded as many women as I with a face like mine requires quite the expert hand at wooing.” Enjolras rolled his eyes and Grantaire smirked before taking another sip of whiskey. “Very well. If you are not here for my help in speaking to young ladies to finally secure a marriage match, then why are you here?”

“Because I do need to marry someone,” Enjolras said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “But I need it not to be real.” Again he met Grantaire’s eyes. “And you are the only person I can think of who can help me pull that off.”

[agwitow]

P&P + Zombies (pt 2)

Read Part 1 Here

Leaning toward “Zombie Impressions” for an official title--though I’m using the term ‘ghoul’ instead of ‘zombie’ within the story itself. “Ghoul Impressions” doesn’t sound as nice though... maybe “Dead Impressions”???

****

In seeking a distraction from Lydia and Kitty’s incessant suppositions about the newly arrived Mr. Bingley, Lizzy slipped into Mr. Bennet’s office, only to find it empty of any other person. Confused, but only a little worried, she left in search of Jane to ask:

“Is Father still abed?”

“Not at all,” Jane replied. “I saw him and Mother walking together outside.”

Appeased—for if he were taking a short walk then this was one of his better days—Lizzy decided she could simply ignore her youngest sisters while she trimmed a hat. It was much later in the day when the sound of a carriage drew the attention of those Bennet girls who were in the drawing room.

“Who could that be?” Lydia asked, rushing to the window. “Oh! It’s Father! He must have been visiting Mr. Bingley!”

Lizzy dropped her hat and rushed to windows. Sure enough, Mr. Bennet was slowly climbing down from their carriage. The sallowness of his skin and trembling of his limbs were signs of how tiring the excursion had been for him, but he still held his head high as he came in to the house.

He had barely removed his hat before Lydia and Kitty were asking him questions. He waved them off with a strained chuckle and declared, “Let me catch my breath a moment. Perhaps fetch your Mother and other sisters.”

Though neither girl wanted to do any such thing, they knew they were unlikely to get answers to the questions that had been burning in them all day until they had. So with more speed than their dragging heels might have preferred, they gathered up the rest of the family to the drawing room.

Lizzy fussed over Mr. Bennet as soon as he had taken his usual—though long empty—seat. Fetching a footstool, draping a blanket over his lap, and finding the plumpest of pillows behind his back.

He shook his head with a smile. “Lizzy, my dear, you need not fuss so much.”

“Your trip took much out of you.”

“It did,” he agreed. “But the number of pillows you surround me with will not change that. What’s done is done.”

“Why did you go? Surely we could have waited to be introduced at the next ball.”

“Ah, but that would have vexed your Mother greatly.”

She frowned. “Let her be vexed. It’s not her health at risk.”

He clasped her hand in his, giving it a little pat. “It only tired me, my dear. I will recover.”

Lizzy wanted to say more, but they were joined by Mrs. Bennet and the rest of the girls. They all settled into their seats and waited for Mr. Bennet’s news. No matter how tired he was, he could not but help smile indulgently at the women of his family.

“Though I have become quite settled in my ways, your doting Mother convinced me to make a new acquaintance on behalf of you girls. I must say, I was not overly impressed by the manners of Mr. Hurst.”

“Mr. Hurst? Who is that?” Lydia exclaimed.

“Why, the gentleman I was to meet, was it not?”

Mrs. Bennet made a choking sound and crossed her arms to glare at Mr. Bennet. “So Mr. Bingley is still lost to us.”

Jane was quick to put in, “You forget, mamma, that we shall be able to meet him at the assemblies. Did not Mrs. Long promise to introduce him for us?”

She sniffed. “I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing, no matter her promises. She has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her.”

“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet. “And I am glad to find you do not depend on her serving you.”

She opened her mouth to make some sort of retort when Kitty began to cough. Her ire quickly turned toward her daughter. “How can you be coughing so, Kitty? You hardly stir out of the house except to go to tea and buy ribbons! You cannot have gotten sick from so little.”

“I do not cough for my own amusement, mamma,” Kitty replied fretfully. “One of Miss Kingsley’s visiting relatives had a cough of his own. I must have got it from him.”

“Then no more outings until you are recovered.”

“But mamma! Lydia and I have been invited back for tea this very afternoon!”

Mrs. Bennet’s frown dipped towards a scowl. “It will not do for you to pass the cough on to anyone else. What would the neighbours think? One of my own daughters spreading an illness so carelessly! No. You will stay in.”

“I will tell you all about it,” Lydia said brightly.

“You will not. You are not going, either.”

“What! Mamma! Kitty is the one sick, not I!”

Mrs. Bennet’s frown softened, but she still shook her head. “Lydia, my love, Miss Kingsley should not have invited anyone to visit while her relative has a cough. It is very ill-bred of her.”

“It’s only a cough,” Lydia whined. “It’s not as if he were biting people!”

Jane gave a little gasp, then quickly dropped her eyes to keep anyone from reading the worries about Mr. Bennet’s condition in them. She hardly need have bothered, for all other eyes were focused on Lydia and Mrs. Bennet’s argument.

“He may have only coughed last time, but who’s to say it won’t be more this time?” Mrs. Bennet said, her tone shifting into something resembling reasonableness. Lydia was, after all, her favourite. “Every apothecary and surgeon declares a different set of symptoms to watch for. They have no real answer as to where it comes from, or how it is caught.”

“It was damp on their journey here,” Lydia protested. “That is where his cough comes from. We are only at risk of being overlooked for future engagements.”

“If it is a simple cough, as you say, then Kitty will be better in a few days. Then you may both go to whichever teas you wish.”

Lydia pouted, but she knew none of her sisters or Father would come to her defence. In such situations it was usually her Mother she would appeal to. Rarely were her whims curbed by her Mother, but on those occasions when it happened, there was little point in dragging out the argument.

Once silence had fallen again, Mr. Bennet offered, “Well, my dear Mrs. Bennet, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to her.”

“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, when I am not acquainted with him myself. How can you be so teasing?”

“Ah, my dear, you are the spirit of modesty. A fortnight’s acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of such a short period. But if we do not venture, somebody else will. After all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance, and, therefore, she will think it an act of kindness. If you decline, I will have to take it on myself.”

“What nonsense is this?” Mrs. Bennet asked, wringing the edge of her apron as her mind tried to unravel the mystery that was her husband.

“And who is Mr. Hurst?” Mary put in.

“Ah, I suppose I should have been more specific—I made the acquaintance of two gentlemen and the ladies accompanying them.”

“What? What is the meaning of this? Mrs. Bennet cried.

“Mr. Bingley is a very amiable young man, though his brother, Mr. Hurst, was not nearly as polite. Of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, I have little to report beyond that they look very much like their brother.”

For a moment, silence weighed heavily on the drawing room before Lydia and Kitty let out loud whoops and began to dance about the room. Mr. Bennet watched their exuberance with a contented smile until the day’s efforts began to bring about the pain is his joints and increase his fatigue so that only the noise of their merrymaking was keeping him awake.

Jane and Lizzy were quick to notice his decline and silently drew Mrs. Bennet’s attention to it. She nodded once, then turned to the three youngest and declared:

“A fortnight is not much time to make any changes you might want to employ for the ball. Let us see what we have to work with.”

Both Lydia and Kitty were quite happy to leave off their dancing and go upstairs to pour over dresses and ribbons and shoes. It took a bit more cajoling to get Mary to go along.

“Why are Lizzy and Jane not coming with?” Mary groused.

“They are the eldest of you all, and so have more to choose from. It will not take them as long to prepare their wardrobe.”

Once they had all left, Lizzy and Jane helped their Father out of his chair and to his office, where he might be able to rest without interruption. He murmured his thanks before falling asleep. Jane opened a window a little to entice a breeze into freshening the room while Lizzy wrapped a blanket around him to keep any chills away.

In the hall, Jane turned to her sister and whispered, “Did you feel how warm his brow was?”

“Too warm,” Lizzy agreed. “And his hands were too cold.”

For the first time since they had been told the truth of his declining health, Jane could no longer believe he might improve. “How long do you think he will… will remain?”

“Days? Weeks? Months more?” Lizzy shook her head and sighed. “I cannot even make a guess. But what are we to do when it happens? What if he rises?”

Jane shivered. “Let us pray he does not. No young man would take to wife a daughter of a ghoul.”

#

Mrs. Bennet made herself busy attending to every little whim of her youngest girls for the rest of the day. It did not deter Elizabeth from simply waiting until the others had turned in for the night. Jane suspected what Lizzy wanted to discuss with their Mother, but was too gentle to be able to make an argument for either side. So she bid her sister goodnight before retreating up to the room they shared alone.

“Oh! Lizzy! You mustn’t lurk like that! You nearly gave me such a fright,” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed.

“You certainly gave me a fright earlier today when you sent Father out. By himself.”

She tutted away the worry. “He is a doting father, you know. Ill or not, making acquaintances at our time of life is not pleasant. But we would both do that and much more for you girls.”

“And what if something had happened while he was out?”

“Nothing did.”

“This time.”

Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth glared at each other, each completely sure that they were in the right.

“If he’d died on the way and come out of the carriage as a ghoul at Netherfield, do you really think there would be much point in having ‘made their acquaintance?’” Lizzy asked.

“Pish. If he’d died, they would have simply found a corpse.”

She blew out a relief breath. “So he is free of the walking virus.”

Mrs. Bennet shifted and would not meet her eyes. “Not exactly.”

“Does he, or does he not, have the virus?”

Mrs. Bennet stared at Lizzie for a long, silent moment. She gave her head a shake. “You are always asking questions and wanting to know more than you need. But I can see you’ll let me have no rest if I do not tell you more. Give me a moment to change, then we can go to the kitchen and enjoy a bit of tea while we talk.”

For a moment, Lizzy started to protest, but then she realized what her Mother had said. She nodded and headed down to the kitchen immediately. She wouldn’t wake Jane twice by changing and leaving, only to come back later. So while she waited, she fed the embers in the oven until there was enough of a little fire to warm the kettle.

By the time Mrs. Bennet made her way to the kitchen, the tea was ready and poured. Lizzy had put two spoons of sugar and just a splash of cream into the cup for her Mother. For her own, she’d only used half a spoon, a bit more cream, and a crushed clove.

“I know you think I should have brought in an apothecary or doctor to tend to your Father,” she said after taking only a single sip. “And I did, the first time.”

“First time?”

“It was a few years ago. Do you remember the year where nearly everyone had a cough that lasted through the winter?” At her nod, Mrs. Bennet continued, “Even after most had recovered, your Father’s cough still lingered. We talked to all sorts, hoping to ease the pain in his lungs. There were various things they tried. Some helped, some didn’t. But as soon as we thought he was better, it would return.”

“I think I remember that. You and Father went to town to visit my aunt and uncle, did you not?”

She nodded. “We did. We had heard there was someone in town who might help. And he did. But he warned that this illness had weakened your Father. His next illness would likely be his last.”

“That’s just what one man in town said.”

Mrs. Bennet sipped at her tea. “After being through so many painful and unsuccessful treatments, your Father was… not willing to go through it again. When he became sick this time, we worked to ease his pains and hoped time and rest would do what all those apothecaries and doctors couldn’t.”

“But it didn’t.”

“It helped at first. It was much easier to do things when the pain was not so… complete.”

Lizzy stirred her tea and tried to understand what they had gone through.

“Then, a few months ago, your Father had a… a little fall.”

“Little? He collapsed and knocked his head against his desk!”

Mrs. Bennet sighed and set her tea down. “Your father is not over-large, but still too large for me to carry. If that had not been the case, I would never have told you and Jane anything about his health. It is not for a child to worry about their parent.”

“How can you think to keep this a secret for much longer? What happens when he dies? Will he rise as a ghoul?”

“I plan to keep it secret at least until all of you girls are wed.”

Lizzy stared at her, dumbfounded. “It would be impossible for him to live that long.”

“If we can keep him confined for the first fortnight after he rises, then the worst of the danger will be past.”

“Whatever do you mean? Ghouls are ravenous beasts that attack any living creature they come in contact with!”

Mrs. Bennet smiled, a note of triumph gleaming in her eyes. “That is the common understanding, yes.”

Lizzy narrowed her eyes. “Is it not correct?”

“It is not the whole truth.” Mrs. Bennet paused, waiting for Lizzy to ask what it was, but eventually sighed when it became clear that Lizzy would do no such thing. “After death, it takes three to five days for someone with the walking virus to rise as a ghoul. Upon rising they are, as you said, ravenous beasts. If they are kept from… feeding… then their hunger abates after a fortnight. After which, they will try to resume their old habits.”

“What? If that is true, why are ghouls not simply kept secured until the hunger abates?”

Mrs. Bennet gave a genuine sigh of sadness. “It is only a semblance of life. They cannot speak, and they become easily confused. They are still dead, so their body will continue to decay. And if they are injured, or angered, they will revert to their ravenous state. So long as they do not eat living flesh, it will pass, but if they do, then they will be lost to that madness forever. For most, that is far too much risk for far too little reward.”

Lizzy was dumbfounded. It sounded strange and fantastical, but her Mother was not the type to invent stories. She could misunderstand things and draw fanciful conclusions—in fact, she often did—but to come up with something so beyond the norm? She shook her head. “And what reward would make having Father become a ghoul worth the risk?”

“Seeing you girls wed, instead of homeless, with hardly a penny to our name.”

“How did you learn about such things?”

Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “Your Father is not the only one who reads old books on occasion.”

This seemed almost as bizarre an idea to Lizzy as the thought of her Mother making it all up out of nothing, but no matter what further questions she asked, she would not say any more. As far as Mrs. Bennet was concerned, the matter was now settled. They would care for Mr. Bennet in secret until he died, keep him locked away once he did, then allow his ghoul to make just enough appearances to keep suspicions at bay. He hardly saw or spoke to anyone, so she did not think it would be much trouble to keep the charade going. Lizzy was much more doubtful of their success, but could see no way to explain it to Mrs. Bennet without beginning an argument that would leave them both angry and with no other solutions.

(Read Part 3 Here)

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[oh-sweet-mama]

Lonely (VI)

T.W - talk of self harm, talk of suicide

3 weeks later 7 days until the full moon Remus

The feeling of my shoulder blades cutting into my ribs, just added to the feeling of the dulcet ache that seemed to consume me.

3 weeks. 3 fucking weeks. Y/n can't stand to be in the same room as me. Let alone my D.A.D.A partner, but she somehow tolerates it.

Fully cooperating with the work we have to do, like a royal servant. Matching purple under eye bags adorned both of our faces, but somehow made her more eternal.

Over the weeks she had slowly stopped coming to the meals at the great hall, and the effects were starting to show. Her cheek bones were becoming more prominent on her face, and her usually rosy color, long faded away.

The usual radiant y/c/e's faded away to leave a monotone grey. She seemed so fragile, like a Porcelain doll, if only I had treated her that way.

So fuckin' stupid Remus.

A note hit my forehead and landed in front of me.

Keep staring at her like that she'll end up with two holes In the side of her head.

S.B

Recognizing the messy handwriting, before even finishing the note, I immediately knew who it was.

The feeling of tears pricked the sides of the eyes, but I ran out of tears to cry long ago. Instead the feeling of a dulcet ache in the chest replaced the physical show of emotions.

6 days until the full moon Y/n

My shitty diet consisted of Tea, cigarettes, and what ever my friends brought me back to the dorm. Of course I tell them that I'm not their responsibility, but they still bring me the occasional muffin or biscuit.

James brought me entire meals, of which I could barely consume the entire thing.

You have to do it you have to tell him.

No. No I couldn't. I can't risk losing someone else. He would hate me if I ever told him. Send me to the ministry, report me to Dumbledore, hell I'd get kicked out of Hogwarts.

I still maintain physical hygiene and grades. The two most important things. Can't smell and can't fail.

The ache in my chest was never there, maybe it had to do with the fact that I'm always high enough to fend it off.

First tip, the best way to get over someone, get all the emotions out, get numb, act like it never happened.

Easy, right? No. You can't just act like it never happened, he was all I had, all I'll ever have.

I just wasn't good enough.

I stopped going to parties, instead focused on my studies. One of the best in my class.

'Y/n what's your secret?'

'I don't know, uh drugs? Heartbreak? Both?'

5 days until the full moon Remus

The increasing uncomfortable pressure on my joints was almost enough to distract me from her. Almost.

I just want to run up to her and tell her everything, drag Sirius, and make him confess too. Maybe we'll all be happy together.

The imagine of the three of us happy together and in love. Clouded my head. I thought about it so much it was almost tangible.

Her daily routine trips to Madam Pompfrey had me assuming the worse. I had my fare share of bandaging up Sirius' forearms and upper thighs.

I tried to think, her period maybe? No, she's had hers for years, she would just excuse herself to the toilet.

My mind just defaulted into the worse case possible.

Suicide?

My heart thumped in an uneven painful rhythm. Swallowing a lump in my throat I hadn't even known formed I continued to attempt to let my teacher teach me the material of today's lesson.

Please be ok y/n, please, I love you to much to lose you, even though I've already have

4 days until the full moon

Tell him, tell him, he'll help you. The pain is too much, please it hurts.

I took a deep breath calming the clamoring thoughts in my head. A very dangerous place to be at this time of the month.

James was sitting next to me on my bed, the way he usually does, reading something. I noticed the title of his cover.

Lycanthropy: Everything you need to know and why their still human

"Didn't know we were learning about Lycan's in D.A.D.A." I murmured, focusing back on my own book.

"We're not, personal purpose." James answered back.

"What's your opinion on them?" I asked getting more nervous for James' answer.

Tell him, tell him, he'll help you. James loves you, he'll help you.

"There people, humans, witch or wizard, just with a condition. Doesn't make them dangerous, just misunderstood." James answered, "why do you ask?"

My eyes went wide, my pulse sky rocketing, the sudden awareness of the blood rushing through my veins.

"N-no reason." I desperately hid behind the small potions handbook from the library.

"Y/n/n?"

"Hmm? Very interesting potion here yes-"

"Wolves bane potion? How ironic, oh and your little wolves bane garden?"

My face paled, all of the blood rushing from my head into my toes.

Oh why can't I just sink to the bed and disappear?

"Very lovely flowers yes?"

"Do you, have, anything you want to tell me?" James asked causally not looking away from his book.

Oh what the hell.

"Fine! Fine!" I got up from the bed, tossing my book in the process, "I'm a werewolf!"

James froze in his spot. Before slowly lower his book so his eyes could peek above.

"What?"

"I contracted Lycanthropy ok?"

"Y/n sit down, and tell me everything, ok?" A sweet tone, of compassion and understanding, allowed me to sit and tell him everything.

3 days until the full moon

Remus

Nearing the summed of the month, a deep pit of anxiety took place, along with the increasing pain across my body. Sleep easily overcome me at any point possible, but restlessness at any other time.

Dozens of old scars, reminded me of the painful transformation. I pondered the lonely pain, that radiated through my diaphragm. Even being with one of the loves of my life, the immense feeling of being alone, was over clouding my mind.

Though James had been acting different, skittish, more than usual. He was usually found escorting Y/n.  

Again in D.A.D.A, We were granted a study hall period, in the Great hall. Books open, parchments being scratched on, quills moving from their ink pots, and light chatter amongst the tables. The table segment of which I sat was mostly empty, Sirius lightly leaning on my left side. A soft voice came by and stopped right in front of me.

Glancing up for a moment, my eyes glued to the figure in front of me. Y/n. oh shit oh shit, keep it cool Remus, don't scare her away now. Though a few seconds later James adorned her side, as usual.

2 days until the full moon Y/n

The secret was out, at least a little, an invisible weight was lifted off of my chest. Granting less anxiety about the first shift of the school year.

Actively avoiding the conversation, about where I go, or how it happened, I seemed to feel free. I guess I hadn't seemed to notice the weight of the secret I had been keeping.

It had become second nature, to harbor such a deadly illness, no harm shall come to them. I promised myself. Even if it meant lying to them.

It's better to not have them know, than having them risk their lives for something I can handle.

1 day until the full moon Remus

Y/n seemed to be getting healthier with the promotion and consolation of James. Every one needs someone to lean on.

I just wish I had been me. Maybe if I had told her, told her about my illness that seemed to consume me at times. Hell, my best friends and boyfriend knew about me long before we even started dating.

Yet 2 years had gone by and I couldn't bring myself to tell her, I was afraid of losing her. But I still did.

The day of the full moon 3rd person

"Y/n, please come with me, trust me please!" James begged to the girl, that refused any type of help. "You've already taken the wolves bane potion, and you can't hurt me. You know why? Because Lycans don't attack Animagus'"

"You're an Animagus?" Y/n whispered, just above her breath.

"Yes. Now please." James held his hand out to her, in a silent last offer of help. Y/n laced her fingers with James' and he sped off with her close in tow.

James pulled a seemingly blank piece of paper from His hoodie pocket, and let go of her hand.

"James, what are you doing?" Y/n asked in a hush tone.

A wild grin played out on James' face, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." The Incantation, followed through the tip of James' wand and caused ink to spread around the parchment. Names moved across through what looked like halls.

"What is that?"

"Marauders map, shows what every one is doing, every minute of everyday, see, there Dumbledore, in his office. I was just making sure the rest of the marauders were on their way and was no one coming."

"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs?"

"Yea you'll see, come on now." James snatched Y/n's wrist and ran, taking her out of the castle and towards the shrieking shack.

"James the willow! Be careful!"

He continued to tug the girl behind him.

"James!"

"Hurry, there almost there." Reaching the edge of the field where the whomping willow resided, James stuffed the map back into his pocket.

"James? What the hell, where were you?" The rest of the marauders came out from behind a group of trees, "and what the fuck is she doing here?" Sirius snapped

"Can I tell them, Y/n?" James asked.

"I will," y/n replied in a hushed tone.

"Tell us what! You're dating?" Sirius scoffed.

"No, I-I'm a werewolf, a Lycan, a lycanthrope, whatever you want to call it! James said you could help me, last time I went to my usual spot, I fractured both of my legs and laid in the middle of the forbidden forest for 3 days"

Sirius paled out, and looked back to Remus.

"If you want me to go, tell me now, I've taken the Wolves bane potion, it's only a couple hours hike into the forbidden forest."

Remus felt his heart drop, then a deep ache. How long? I guess she also had no right to tell me, just as I never told her.

"No, Y/n stay, let's go inside." Remus said, sincerity laced into his voice. Her face softened.

"Where?" She asked.

Remus pointed to the willow. Her face paled.

James headed over to Peter to discuss who would stay outside in case anything went south. Sirius looked to Remus.

Remus took a few hesitant steps toward her. Before reaching his hand out offering her safe passage. Instead she swooped in gently under his arm.

Remus' heart swelled, maybe she does still love me after all.

1888 words

Ahhhahahahhah

It's finally coming together baiwbsiaiensl

-Kal

[kiranxrys]

Alone Together Episode 2 Transcript

Okay, I guess I’m going to keep doing these for now! This is a viewer-made transcript of Episode 2 ‘Sources’ of Alone Together: A DS9 Companion performed on the Sid City Social Club. Again, beneath the cut, and again, please let me know if you think there are any errors and I’ll fix them ♥

watch: one | two | three | four

read: one | three | four

ANNOUNCER (ON-SCREEN): ‘Alone Together’ – a DS9 companion, Episode 2 – ‘Sources’. Jake Sisko is forty-four years old. He is now the editor in chief for the Federation News Service and living in the apartment above Sisko’s restaurant with his wife and their two daughters. Jake has clearly matured and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders most days. Nathan took over the restaurant from Joseph when he finally realized he could no longer keep up with day-to-day operations. Nathan continues to use Joseph’s time-honored recipes, but he still forgets to stir the gumbo often enough.

Jake first moved in with his grandfather when he decided to pursue his reporting career on Earth. The great thing about Jake’s father, Benjamin Sisko, being a Bajoran Prophet is that he can always reach out to Jake, Kasidy, or their son. Today Jake’s not-so-baby brother lieutenant junior-grade Joseph Yates-Sisko is an engineer on Deep Space 9. Doctor Julian Bashir has taken on a rather paternal role with the Sisko children, as has Professor Miles O’Brien at Starfleet Academy. Miles has even been known to show up with a bottle of the good stuff from time to time. Quark even keeps in touch with Jake, usually to trade information as much as checking up on Jake. Having dated a Dabo girl, Jake became a rather proficient Dabo player. Quark gives him information and in exchange, Jake doesn’t play so much Dabo when he visits the station.

[fade to black]

RECAP: In our last episode, Garak called Doctor Bashir to Cardassia Prime under a mysterious pretense. Unable to transport to the surface or access medical records from the planetary health authority, Doctor Bashir is at an impasse starting to treat or cure the unknown illness affecting Cardassia.

JULIAN BASHIR (VOICE ONLY): Mission log stardate 73712.6. Castellan Garak has brought me up to speed on the medical situation on Cardassia. A genetically engineered virus has begun sweeping through the populace, seemingly infecting at random. The source remains a mystery. My analysis is quite preliminary at this point.

JAKE SISKO (VOICE ONLY): Julian, is that you? I can’t seem to make visual contact. Please respond.

JULIAN (ON-SCREEN): Jake? Jake, I’m reading your transmission – standby, I’m trying to clean up the signal. Computer, apply a recursive algorithm to the bandwidth filter.

COMPUTER: Working.

JULIAN: Jake! I’m not receiving this transmission under ideal circumstances. Wait- wait a minute, there we go. Is that better?

JAKE (ON-SCREEN): Julian. [laughs] Hi. I tried to contact you on the station.

JULIAN: Yes, I was called away on a priority mission. What can I do for you?

JAKE: Well, uh, Doctor Jabara told me – the medical emergency, right? Is everything okay?

JULIAN: Yes, I’ve only just arrived so there’s a lot of work to be done. It’s good to hear from you, Jake but I’ve a lot to do and I’m a team of one – what can I do for you?

JAKE: Yeah, well, when Doctor Jabara told me I tried to call Kira but she was in consultation with the Vedek Assembly.

JULIAN: Yes, the life of a Kai is a busy one, but I wasn’t called to Bajor.

JAKE: Yeah, um, any chance that this has something to do with what’s happening on Cardassia?

JULIAN: Um… where I am is classified. However it’s simply a humanitarian mission. But what do you mean, what have you heard is happening on Cardassia?

JAKE: Ah, I have my sources.

JULIAN: Jake…

JAKE (LAUGHING): I just have a few questions, Julian. Um… you know me, I won’t take too much of your time.

JULIAN: The last time you had a few questions I spent the next four hours consulting on your latest novel.

JAKE: Yeah, well today I’m contacting you in official capacity for the Federation News Service. And… I’ll make you a deal. You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you whatever it is that you think I know.

JULIAN (LAUGHING): Look, Mister Editor-In-Chief, you contacted me.

JAKE: Oh, well, you know you can’t blame a reporter for trying.

JULIAN: A doctor isn’t normally the most newsworthy source. The last time I was important to a story was when you were writing a profile of me, right before…

JAKE: Yeah, before we responded to that medical emergency on uh- Ajilon Prime, right?

JULIAN: Yes.

JAKE: I think uh- to be honest, that was the kind of diversion I was looking for for an interesting angle.

JULIAN: Interesting angle?! I’d just proposed one of the most controversial theories of my career – you didn’t think it was interesting enough?! Well no wonder you wrote about yourself! I could’ve explained the theory more clearly if you’d just told me-

JAKE: Yeah, well, you know honestly- you know this really wasn’t about Ajilon Prime and that wasn’t why I changed the story- the focus of the story, Julian. But enough about Ajilon Prime – I want to talk about Cardassia. According to my sources, it is on lockdown. I mean nobody is able to get permission to enter the place or leave the place, from what I heard. And you know Quark told me than Grand Nagus Rom said that business is horrible and he’s completely frustrated. But no one can give me a clear and solid explanation so I was hoping that maybe, you know, given your close relationship with Garak, that um… maybe you could uh- clear things up for me.

JULIAN: Well frankly I’m surprised you were able to get that much information.

JAKE: Interesting.

JULIAN: What is?

JAKE: Well, I mean a second ago when I was bringing up the topic, you know, you seemed a little bit uh- evasive. But now that you know what I know a little bit you seem that you have more that you want to tell me.

JULIAN: Not at all, Jake! I have absolutely nothing further to tell you, other than-

JAKE: Well you’re talking to the editor-in-chief of the Federation News Service, Julian – I know when people are trying to keep a secret from me so… I mean hell, you don’t know what I know!

JULIAN: You’d be surprised – and watch your language.

JAKE: I’m- I’m sorry, I- I just- I just called because I know that there’s issues on Cardassia and… you know, with you being coincidentally called to a medical emergency, and Garak being the Castellan of Cardassia… it didn’t take much for me to kind of do some dot connecting.

JULIAN: Hmm… look, Jake, I really can’t talk about it. Suffice to say, I’ve been called to a priority mission and understandably, I cannot comment on a mission that has only just begun.

JAKE: Julian, I’m not just looking for a story. I want to help. At least I- I think I can help. But I do have an obligation to the truth, and- and I will honor that.

JULIAN: Now that is interesting.

JAKE: What?

JULIAN: You just reminded me of your father for a moment. Had you said ‘looking for a damn story’, I might’ve sworn we were back in his old office.

JAKE: [laughs]

JULIAN: More importantly, how do you think you can help?

JAKE: I heard mumblings about an attempt on Garak’s life a few weeks ago. I had contacted him at his home.

JULIAN: He took your call?

JAKE: Well, you know, Garak checks in from time to time, but in this case subspace communications were a little shaky so he took a call from Bajor’s newly-appointed ambassador.

JULIAN: But you don’t even live on Bajor.

JAKE (LAUGHING): Well, wait a minute, I’m the firstborn of the Emissary so you know, all Siskos are Bajoran citizens. One word from the Kai and I, you know, I kind of landed the job.

JULIAN: [laughs] Well Garak must’ve been surprised to see you on the other side of a diplomatic communicate.

JAKE: Yeah, well, not that he let it on but he did compliment me on my resolution – I think his exact words were uh- [clears throat] ‘Truly the manouver of a Sisko’.

JULIAN: [laughs]

JAKE: Yeah, you know, I told him a source said he might be in danger and… he was alerted as rumor of a coup.

JULIAN: What did he say?

JAKE: Well, he didn’t really say much, you know how he does – he listened, he avoided my questions, he asked about my family, he complimented my last novel and he, you know, he redirected every subject change and then he got me talking about my dad so… I learned more from a rumor than I ever would’ve from Garak. I’ll give him this, though – he’s good.

JULIAN: You don’t know how good. Frankly I don’t even think I know how good he really is.

JAKE: Maybe not but… that’s where it ended, my trail was cold until about fourteen hours ago when I heard that you had left. Anyway, my sources in Cardassia had told me that-

JULIAN: You have sources on Cardassia?

JAKE: Yeah, I have sources throughout the quadrant, Julian, you know that! Anyway, multiple sources on Cardassia said that Garak was uh- hosting a diplomatic conference. He was still trying to smooth things over with the Breen and their trade agreement was developing some cracks, shall we say, along their distribution routes.

JULIAN: Cracks?

JAKE: You know, apparently some Ferengi merchants had sold a couple of Cardassian cargo haulers some second-rate transporter modules, you know, led to some major consignment issues and losses for both sides. They were crying foul, I mean it took some time to figure out who was at fault.

JULIAN: Jake- Jake, this is fascinating, but… what does it have to do with Garak?

JAKE: I thought doctors were supposed to have patience.

JULIAN: Actually, doctors make the worst patients.

JAKE: No, no I’m-

JULIAN: -oh, making a little joke.

JAKE: All right, well I- I was… where was I?

JULIAN: Lost cargo.

JAKE: Right. So the Breen, they weren’t going to get the payments because the cargo never completed the rematerialization routine and basically once they started the transporter sequence, something happened and they ended up with a bunch of organic and inorganic goo all over the place. Cardassians accused the Breen transport captain of deception and vice versa.

JULIAN: Neither race are particularly trusting of others.

JAKE: Yeah, well, that’s right. Um… Cardassians wouldn’t allow the Breen to complete their own analysis and the Breen denied any wrongdoing, so the whole thing is about to become a galactic incident, if Grand Nagus Rom hadn’t been in the middle of an audit-

JULIAN: An audit? Jake, where are you going with this? I really don’t have time.

JAKE: Yeah, yeah I’m getting there, Julian, just bear with me! So being the man that he is, you know, Grand Nagus Rom was completing his annual audit of Ferengi trade practices and discovered uh- the transporter modules were known to be faulty. They came from decaying annex-class prototypes that had been found in an abandoned shipyard. You know, the Ferengi, they came across this stuff and they started scavenging, they tweaked the old module transporter biomatter- I’m sure you’re aware that annex-class ships weren’t known for flawless transporters, and- and those were prototypes.

JULIAN: So you think the Breen tried to assassinate Garak as retribution?

JAKE: Yeah, well, that’s one of three theories that I’ve kind of come by to explain Cardassia’s apparent shutdown. But after this trade embargo, suddenly uh- I don’t know, apparently usage of all medical equipment is subject to state approval?

JULIAN: It doesn’t make sense. The Breen aren’t known for biogenic weapons, they use brute force, with rather advanced weapons technology, but I’ve never heard of any weaponized viruses.

JAKE: Hm… a virus?

JULIAN: [sighs] Jake, I really have to get back to work. If there’s nothing else you can tell me of any use-

JAKE: No, no- Well, just- just let me- bear with me… There’s two other somewhat credible theories that I have that implicate the Andorians and the Romulans.

JULIAN: Romulans?

JAKE: And Andorians.

JULIAN: The Andorians have nothing to gain from Garak’s death.

JAKE: That’s true but their beef is also with the Breen. You know, Andoria’s population and its fleet were completely decimated and they’re still recovering from the Breen assaults during the Dominion War. So, you know, icy moons are not exactly lending themselves to quick procreation.

JULIAN: Well, their colonies are also further apart due to the need for lower temperatures that still fall within the M-class conditions. Plus, Andoria is militaristic – they have great warships, but they don’t devote resources to espionage or underhand methods. Look, Jake, the last time you broke a story about Andoria, you found yourself in front of the Federation Council being threatened with extradition.

JAKE: Yeah… and my evidence convinced them to recall the ambassador before the charges were dropped. Anyways, the Andorians and the Breens may have issues, and the Breens and the Cardassians are resolving this trade dispute-

JULIAN: But the Romulans are the only species you’ve mentioned who have been known to use biogenic weapons.

JAKE: Would they have a reason to want Garak dead?

JULIAN: Well let’s just say that Garak and the Romulans have… past dealings.

JAKE: You mean his past with the embassy?

JULIAN: What are you talking about?

JAKE: Come on, Julian, we all know that he was a member of the Obsidian Order. I mean, he was working as a groundskeeper on Romulus for the Cardassian embassy. He never told you? Garak was no more a gardener than he was a tailor.

JULIAN: Actually, Garak is quite a good tailor.

JAKE: You- you know what I mean. He may be a politician now but as a spy he played many roles. I’m surprised he’s satisfied with, you know, such a quiet life.

JULIAN: World leaders hardly live quiet lives.

JAKE: Yeah, you- you know what I mean.

JULIAN: I do. Jake, listen, I appreciate your insights, at least I have a starting point. If you hear anything else, please let me know.

JAKE: Now that I know where to keep digging I’m sure we’ll be in touch.

JULIAN: Give the girls a hug from me.

JAKE: Julian, one more thing! Sorry, I’m glad you’re still there. [laughs] Before you go I want to say uh- I thought about it a little and I think I’m old enough to say hell now.

JULIAN: You’ll never be old enough to swear, you’re still thirteen! Though I may have some work for you later, I’ll be in touch.

JAKE: Work? A job? No I- I didn’t think I was any really much use at Ajilon Prime – I don’t think you would uh- have any use for me. I couldn’t do any much more than that.

JULIAN: We’ll see. Take care.

ELIM GARAK (ON-SCREEN): Uh, excuse me- are you uh- are you quite finished, Doctor?

JULIAN: Garak? Have you been monitoring us this whole time?

GARAK: Doctor, all communications in and out of Cardassia are currently under my direct control.

JULIAN: Well, we may have a lead.

GARAK: Yes, the Romulans.

JULIAN: You already suspected them?

GARAK: Oh, I’m suspicious of everyone, but- but Jake, you did confirm that specific concern of mine.

JAKE: I’m glad I could help.

GARAK: Indeed. I suspected that the Romulans could be involved. I’ve placed agents on several planets for reconnaissance – only three of the eight are still alive. Never send a boy to do a man’s work.

JAKE: Only three left?

GARAK: Now, remember, Mister Jake, remember, all of this is off the record.

JAKE: Yeah, as long as you’re in danger I’ll respect that.

GARAK: Even after my life is no longer in immediate danger, we may not be able to discuss this particular situation publicly. I’ll- I’ll let you know.

JAKE: Understood.

JULIAN: Garak, how were you able to monitor my communication with Jake? I was barely able to receive his signal at first.

GARAK: I know, I had to run his signal through the same encryption protocols we’re using – it took a moment to reconfigure our local systems to allow us to communicate outside of it. Although your recursive algorithm was a good idea, it never would’ve worked. The bandwidth filter has nothing to do with my encryption protocols.

JULIAN: Five out of eight operatives are dead?

GARAK: Yes, yes, acceptable losses – twenty percent. But this is a bit more, isn’t it? It’s a serious issue, and it requires risk.

JULIAN: Garak, Jake and I figured out in a few minutes of conversation, you really have to learn to trust.

GARAK (LAUGHING): And who would you have me trust, Doctor? An intelligence operative for an alien government and a reporter who shares his secrets as part of his job? Hardly people one should consider trustworthy.

JULIAN: But you have to trust me, Garak.

GARAK: Yes, Doctor, for better or worse, I trust you. But Captain Sisko once told me that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. We all have a weakness, and if it’s the right interrogator who discovers it, the information revealed could devastate sectors of space and destabilize entire worlds.

JULIAN: I never realized you and the Captain discussed philosophy.

GARAK: Well-

JAKE: I never realized you discussed anything with my dad. [laughs]

GARAK: The Captain and I saw each other from time to time – it’s a small station, after all. However, the uh- the good intentions paving the road to hell in this case are the secrets. Knowledge. People see secrets as being malicious little things, but they keep the peace. Secrets are both power and penalty. If everyone was honest, there’d be no need for secrets. If no one shared secrets, the galaxy would be a much happier place. But Doctor, you know the things I know, and in some cases the things we both know are the things we need to ensure that no one knows. Anarchy would reign and the order of the day would be chaos. Trust, especially for people who hold this information, is both a luxury, and a burden of truth.

JULIAN: I hate to admit it, but you’re right.

JAKE: Listen guys, uh- if you ever need to share some of that truth…

JULIAN & GARAK: [laugh]

GARAK: It isn’t, Jake, that I wouldn’t trust you with Mila’s recipes or even- even some wildly outdated intelligence data, but I know you have a hunger for information. And you also feel a great responsibility to let your people know of any threats, and thus, this virus, is a threat. Not only to Cardassians but quite possibly to off-worlders, as well.

JULIAN: Fair point, but Garak-

GARAK: You know Doctor, haven’t we wasted enough time?

JULIAN: You’re right. Jake if you’re willing to keep digging you can focus your investigations on Romulus now. I’ll do some looking myself.

JAKE: I’m on it. [leaves]

JULIAN: Garak, you said that you have holographic systems. An EMH. How sophisticated are your emitters? Could you create some scanning equipment at your location that will be tied into your equipment? By now I suspect you have a closed system like the one you’ve locked your medical professionals up in. Does it have medical databases?

GARAK: I suppose I do and I suppose it does, but… what are you getting at?

JULIAN: Well you were willing to transmit images – if I can’t do the analysis myself, if you had access to the equipment, well, I can at least analyse the results.

GARAK: You- you know Julian, that really hadn’t occurred to me.

JULIAN: Oh yes, well, you wanted the best.

GARAK: That enhanced brain of yours rarely ceases to amaze me.

JULIAN: Let’s get started. We’ll likely need standard biobed with an [uncertain] scanning interface. I need to map your cerebrum to see if we should expect any issues with reasoning. A portable retinal scanner too, will help identify any changes in blood pressure or possible sensory complications. The biobed will also monitor your cardiopulmonary system, which should give me a look at your heart. We may be able to slow the progression until we have a cure.

GARAK: It’s a good thing I had a PADD nearby, Julian – that’s quite a list. With no EMH to conduct the scans, it will take a few minutes.

JULIAN: Well contact me when you’re finished, I want to see if Jake has learned anything.

GARAK: Very well Doctor, I’ll contact you shortly. [leaves]

JULIAN: Jake? Jake?

JAKE (ON-SCREEN): Julian. Yeah, Garak had more than a few enemies on Romulus. There was a proconsul Mirok who opened- who opposed opening diplomatic relations with Cardassia at all. He was poisoned. Uh, subcommander named Ustard, who was the Chief of Staff for the Romulan ambassador. Ustard died in a transporter accident beaming to the Romulan Senate. And the ambassador, well, we all know about the ambassador.

JULIAN: We do indeed. But they’re all dead. Are you suggesting this is a vendetta from someone related to one of those people?

JAKE: Well, anything is possible. I’m more suggesting behavior.

JULIAN: I suppose. But Garak was assigned there – it’s not like he goes around killing Romulans.

JAKE: No, but it sounds more to me like he may have been ordered to kill Romulans… Did you ever meet a Senator Varak or… Vreenak on the station?

JULIAN: Should I have?

JAKE: Well, not really but, you know, Quark would sometimes sell me little tidbits of information. Now let’s just say, I take the occasion break from the uh- Dabo wheel and he would tell me things. Now one of the things he told me about was a Senator Vreenak, who apparently visited the station before the Romulans joined the Dominion War. Now Senator Vreenak… maybe- maybe he was working with my dad to have some kind of negotiation into the entry into the war… I don’t know, I’m not sure, but you know shortly after he would’ve left the station, he… he was lost in a shuttle explosion.

JULIAN: Vreenak also negotiated the non-aggression pact for the Dominion. It’s quite a chance of alliance.

JAKE: And he’s dead.

JULIAN: [sighs] I suppose it’s possible that the Romulan government, or the Tal Shiar for that matter, could be playing a rather long game.

JAKE: Garak is the leader of the world- of his world, you know, Cardassia is in a much better place now and you know, they may even someday join the Federation, who knows? We have a level of isolation to get over but-

JULIAN: Koval.

JAKE: I’m sorry, what?

JULIAN: Jake, I have to go – keep digging. If you hear anything else, let me know.

JAKE: I’ll be in touch.

JULIAN: Thank you.

[pause]

JULIAN: And Garak! If you’re listening, which I expect you are – medication, rest. I’ll contact you shortly.

[fade to black]

[CREDITS]

[freudensteins-monster]

His Heart’s Desire (the beginnings of a Good Omens/Stardust crossover)

WARNING: This is unfinished and will probably remain unfinished. It was only meant to be a short crossover synopsis like always but it got away from me, then it made me fight for every last word for about a week until I could get it to the point where I felt I could leave it.

The idea popped into my head while scrolling through Ao3 and seeing the tag “angels used to be stars”.

Also posted on Ao3.

There was once a young man who wished to gain his Heart’s Desire.

And while that is, as beginnings go, not entirely novel (for every tale about every young man there ever was or will be could start in a similar manner) there was much about this young man and what happened to him that was unusual, although even he never knew the whole of it. - Stardust, Neil Gaiman

Ezra Fell, for all the gentlemanly qualities he possessed, had always been treated as something of an outcast by the townsfolk of Tadfield. For all he was kind, and well-read, and taught the children of the village their letters with such patience and enthusiasm, they could never forget what he was: a foundling from beyond the ancient stone wall that marked the eastern border of the village, the ancient stone wall that protected them from all manner of strange and terrible creatures that surely dwelled in the forests beyond. Not that they ever mentioned it. No well-bred person spoke of such unbecoming things, but they always managed to say a lot without speaking when it came to Ezra Fell.

Their poor treatment of him had only gotten worse after the death of the local vicar, the only father figure Ezra had ever known, culminating in R.P. Tyler, his snobbish landlord, drastically increasing the rent on Ezra’s beloved childhood home-turned-library in an effort to force him out. Ezra had worried over the notice for the better part of the day before getting up the nerve to confront his landlord as he and his yappy little terror of a terrier made their way home from the only pub in the village. It was a personal attack Ezra had tried to argue as delicately as possible, tugging nervously at the hem of his brown hand-me-down waistcoat - after all he’d never raised the rent as much as a penny for as long as the old vicar had been alive. When that failed Ezra practically begged his landlord to consider some sort of arrangement which would allow Ezra to purchase his home from him. Tyler was never going to sell, and told Ezra as much, but then a flash of fiery golden light shot across the night sky catching their attention and a cruel thought began to take shape.

“The only way I’d sell to a man of your background, Mr Fell, is if you brought me back that fallen star,” he most assuredly did not slur.

“The star?”

“Aye. You present that star to me by weeks end and I’ll gladly hand over the keys to you. But if you don’t, and if you’re so much as a day late with your rent, I’ll toss you and that absurd collection of tinder you call a library into the gutter.”

An idea once planted is a hard thing to kill, and as R.P. Tyler stumbled home Ezra’s gaze turned eastwards, trying to recall the path of the fallen star and wondering just how deep into the forest beyond the wall it had landed.

Several minutes earlier in the kingdom of Etherium, many leagues beyond the wall, in the largest bedchamber in the highest tower of the Palace of Light a queen lay dying. She is surrounded by her remaining children. There had been eight of them once but one by one they had perished – accidents, she was told – until only four remained; Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, and…

“Aziraphale?” she called, her eyes struggling with the dwindling light.

“No, mother. It’s Gabriel,” the youngest of her remaining children huffed impatiently. “Aziraphale died as a babe. Raphael lost him in the forest when his camp was attacked by bandits. Remember?”

“And poor Raphael took an arrow through his righteous heart,” Michael feigned a sigh.

“Such a shame,” Uriel added, herself an excellent shot with a bow.

“Little Aziraphale was claimed by wolves, one can only assume,” Sandalphon grinned.

The queen feels the loss of her other children keenly and laments that she must leave her throne to such ill-suited heirs. Unable to choose one over the other, for they are no good choices, she gathers the last of her strength and walks to the window, looking out over her kingdom for the final time. She pours the last of her light into the pendant that had hung about her neck; a translucent crystal on a gold chain. It glows brightly for but a moment then turns cold and opaque as the queen hurls it into the night sky. It seems to hit something at its apex before careening back to earth. Her children watch on curiously, wondering if the old girl had finally lost all her marbles. She turns to face them, her skin now ashen making her look every one of her considerable years, and addresses her children.

“Whoever of royal blood can return the Light to the palace shall claim the throne of Etherium.”

Her children step over her cold body, shoving each other out of the way to get a better look at the pendants final resting place. Sandalphon accidentally falls out the window in his eagerness, or so the official report will say, and his three remaining siblings do not so much as even glance at his mangled corpse at the foot of the tower as they take their leave of their ancestral home to hunt down the pendant.

Hidden in the darkest depths of the darkest forest, someone else sees the star fall, and to them a fallen star means far more than a home or a throne. To them, a being who was old when the foundation stones of the Palace of Light were still hot and gooey, a fallen star is a means to restore her and her siblings to health and vitality and power beyond imagining. She hobbles back inside to share the joyous news with her siblings.

“A star has fallen!”

Her voice echoes through their cavernous and cluttered home but she gets no reply. She rushes about the place with a sense of urgency and a hunger she hasn’t felt in centuries. She retrieves a prized metal box from its hiding place, clicking her tongue in irritation at the three sets of bindings - one red, one black, one white - and seeks out her siblings. She finds them slumped together on a fetid sofa in what could be assumed to be the sitting room.

“A star has fallen!” she almost weeps with happiness. “One of us must seek it out.”

Her siblings rouse then, slowly. Her brother is dark and frail, and every bit of exposed skin puts his bones on display. He smiles the sharp smile of a predator, his mouth already watering. Their sibling is pale and weak, every movement disturbing the thick layers of dust that have accumulated on their hair and clothes, and when they speak the air becomes more putrid.

“A star? It has been so long,” they sigh.

“So hungry,” their brother echoes.

She shoves the metal box onto their laps and presses their hands to the knots of their respective bindings. A small spark of magic from each of and the bindings undo themselves.

“I will bring it back for us,” she declares as she pulls the box back towards herself.

Her siblings are too tired to fight her for the right, and though relieved she despises them for their weakness; they once fought all out wars to decide petty arguments, but that was so long ago now. She reaches into the box, her fingers tingling as they wrap around a glimmering scrap of the last star they found. She drops it into her mouth and almost faints in sheer ecstasy. As the power courses through her she stumbles drunkenly about the room and until she spies the silhouette of a large gilded mirror. She rips away the cloth that covers it and promptly does the same with her brittle once-red wig and the rags that covered her thin frame. She watches her reflection in awe, never tiring of the transformation, finding it just as magical as it had been the last time over four hundred years before. Her skin becomes radiant and smooth, her hair regrows cascading down past her shoulders like rivers of blood, her body fills out and she feels strong again for the first time in an age.

She runs – runs! – to their shared bedroom and digs out her favourite outfit and armour, preserved with care at the bottom of a solid oak chest. She dresses with haste but savours the feel of the blood-tanned leather on her skin, the weight of the armour, the familiarity of the sword at her hip. Her siblings have found the energy to leave the sitting room and are waiting for her by the front door. Their eyes rove over her restored form with unabashed hunger and envy, and it’s almost as heady as the star’s light coursing through her veins.

“The star lies 1000 miles to the north,” her brother tells her, handing her a leather pouch of runes stones carved from the bones of his first kill. “You must make haste for others seek it out.”

“Bring it back so we may all be young again, sister,” their sibling begs her, handing over a blade of darkest obsidian.

She takes their gifts reverently and secures them to her person. “I will find the star and cut out its heart,” she swears. “And when we are all of us restored to our full power the world will know fear once more.”

When we return to the other side of the wall, where magic and murder are not so commonplace, we will find Ezra Fells rather impulsively packing for a journey that will surely be more perilous than taking a carriage to Ipswich, or even all the way to London. Both of which he’s done precisely once.

He was second guessing himself for the hundredth time in less than an hour when there was a sharp rapping at his front door. As he went to answer it he tried not to think about how it may not be his front door for much longer.

“Anathema, my dear. What are you doing here so late?” he asked of his one and only friend, ushering her inside.

Anathema Device was considered something of an outcast herself and would tell anyone who asked (not that they dared) that she was a witch. She lived on the outskirts of town in a small cottage that had been in her family for generations and her oddness was tolerated by the townsfolk more so than Ezra’s for this very fact: there had always been a witch in Jasmine Cottage. It was downright traditional, and as long as Anathema kept curing their ailments without gossiping about them to their neighbours, and brewing her grandmother’s particularly potent spiced cider at Christmas, the townsfolk let her be.

“It’s Agnes,” Anathema groused, as though that explained anything. The woman had been dead and buried fifteen years now. “She left me something in her will with strict instructions on when to deliver it to you.”

“That time is now, I take it?”

“Right…” Anathema paused until the grandfather clock in the sitting room struck 10. “Now.”

She pulled a small parcel wrapped in waxed paper from her pocket and passed it over to Ezra. He took it gingerly wondering what on earth could be so important that Agnes would put such a plan in place. She had always claimed to have been able to see the future and doled out predictions to any who would listen. Ezra had been respectful of her claims, even helping her get a book of her prophecies published, but had never truly believed her because for all the years Ezra had known her she had never once offered him advice on his own future. At least not until this night.

At Anathema’s urging he took a seat and began to unwrap the small parcel only to find a smaller parcel inside of it with letter in between the layers.

“It’s from Agnes,” Ezra remarked before reading her missive aloud.

Dear Mr Fell,

I must get right to the pointe, for time is of the essensse: it was I who first found thee as a babe, crying in the night by the broken section of the Wall. I Saw thou were in need and sought thee out. I Saw who would love thou best in this smallminded village and left thee on the doorstep of the church for deare Reverend Andrews to find.

In the basket with thee was the enclosed parcel. I Saw that thou would be in need of it this night after thou talk with that bunch-backed toad, Tyeler, and Anathema and I have kept it safe for thee alle these yeares.

And though I’m sure thou would rather I just tell thee what to do to keep thy home, truste me when I tell thee that it will alle work out in the end, and that halfe the joye is in the journey. Now, be a dear and put on the kettle before thou opens the next parcel. Thou won’t get to drink it but the routine should steady thy nerves.

Sincerelee,

Agnes Nutter, Witch.

P.S. You tell R P Tielerr from me that if he keeps harassing thou or that poor Young boy his precious apple trees will never fruit again! Theyr going to be struck downe with a fungus come Spring regardless, but it would be a great lark if he thought I was haunting him from beyond the grave.

 “What did you talk to Tyler about?” Anathema asked after allowing Ezra a moment to digest the truths Agnes had laid out in her letter.

“Hmm?”

“R.P. Tyler. Agnes said you talked to him.”

“Oh, yes. He increased my rent – almost doubled it, in point of fact. I had been trying to reason with him, or perhaps strike a deal that would allow me to purchase my home from him.”

“Let me guess: he wasn’t interested.”

“No, he seems quite eager to see me destitute,” Ezra lamented. “But while we were talking we saw a shooting star land beyond the wall and he said that the only way he was going to sell to me was if I could bring him that star.”

“What rot,” Anathema spat. “Ezra, please don’t tell me you’re even entertaining such nonsense; he wasn’t being sincere.”

“Of that I had no doubt,” Ezra huffed. “But surely some man of science somewhere would have interest in a rock fallen from the heavens? I could sell it, and if I can’t buy my childhood home from Tyler perhaps I could buy another. Somewhere as far away as London, or even Paris. Some place where no one whispers about what I am.”

“What you are,” Anathema recited patiently, “is my friend. And I want to see you happy, I do, but not by putting your life at risk. No one travels beyond the wall outside Market Day. Not even Agnes.” She waited another moment for her words to sink in before gently prodding him. “Do you want me to stay, for when you open that one?”

Ezra broke himself out of his muddled thoughts to offer her a small smile. “I think I’d like a moment to myself, dear.”

“Of course. But I’ll be back first thing tomorrow with a warm loaf of bread to break our fast, and we can talk about that,” she said, gesturing at the unopened parcel. “And find you somewhere else to live that isn’t under R. P. Tyler’s thumb,” she added as though he didn’t play landlord to half the village.

Alone in his home-for-the-moment, Ezra read Agnes’ letter once more for good measure before following her instructions and putting on the kettle.

A few minutes later, with warm but still trembling hands, he unwrapped the second parcel. Inside was a solitary white candle peppered with gold flecks and another letter. From the moment his eyes caught the first sentence they began to tear up…

 My dearest brother,

Leaving you here is the hardest thing I have ever had to do, and though you and mother may never forgive me for my actions, please believe me when I say it is for the best. It is not safe for you here. Every day our siblings jealously of your light and the attention mother gives you grows. They will do anything to gain her favour, even eliminate the competition, and I cannot hope to both protect myself and be there to stop every attempt made on your own cherished life.

I realise this cannot be easy to read but it is my greatest wish that my decision has allowed you to live a life free of pain and fear and the greed that has poisoned our siblings souls. I hope you have found a home and a family who loves you like you deserve, but selfishly it is my deepest wish that we may meet again once you are a man capable of defending yourself. To that end I have enclosed a gift.

The fastest way to travel is by candlelight. To use it, think of me and only me.

All my love,

Raphael

It took Ezra several moments to get past the realisation that he had a brother, and a mother, and an unknown number of fratricidal siblings, to acknowledge the gift mentioned. The candle must be magical in origin, he reasoned, and thus it would make sense to wait for Anathema’s return to study it further… but if it meant finding a way to return to his brother’s side – his brother! - who was no doubt beyond the wall that she would still be hesitant to let him take such a risk. He fidgeted with the candle while his tea grew cold, all the while turning words like “brother” and “mother” and “home” over in his mind.

How does it work, he wondered. The fastest way to travel is by candlelight, his brother’s letter had said, so Ezra had to assume that one had to light it, thus creating candle light, and… just think of his desired destination. Simple enough really, he mused, gathering up his half-packed leather satchel (a gift from the late vicar), adding some rations (half a block of cheese, the last of his bread, a few apples, and a canteen of water) just in case, and seeking out a match before he realised what he was doing.

He should probably leave a note for Anathema for she was sure to be cross with him in the morning when she found him gone. But perhaps, if the magic candle worked as he imagined it would, she need never know. Perhaps the candle would take him straight to his brother and perhaps there was enough magic within it to allow a return trip?

“Perhaps, perhaps…” Ezra muttered anxiously. He quickly found a pencil and wrote “Anathema – Back soon – Regards, Ezra” in his patently elegant script on the brown paper wrapping, then pulled the long strap of his satchel over his head, fussing with it until he was comfortable. With a deep breath he lit the match and took up the candle in his other hand. He counted to three and with a trembling hand brought the flame to the wick.

“Home,” he implored the universe.

A roar like a wildest thunderstorm assaulted his ears as the world rushed by in a dizzying blur and just when Ezra thought he might be sick it all stopped rather suddenly and Ezra found himself tumbling to the ground atop of some poor bystander.

“Oh! Oh, Raphael!” Ezra exclaimed, jumping to his shaky feet and reaching out to the man he assumed must be his brother. “I’m so… I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not! And I’m not bloody Raphael, so get off me!” hissed the body on the ground.

“You’re… You’re not my brother?”

“Do I Iook Iike I’m your brother?”

Ezra properly took stock of the man he had crashed into. He was tall and lean and wore strange robes of midnight. He was fair of face, his naturally sharp features were verging on knifelike in his irritation, with long red hair that seemed to shine without a light source, like each strand possessed within itself a flickering flame, and his eyes were an unnatural shade of yellow that burned with the ruthlessness of a midsummer sun. Ezra with his stocky frame, mousy, untidy hair, and too snug second-hand suit could not imagine a man more his opposite.

“No. Sorry. I was mistaken.” Ezra glanced nervously around the strange clearing he found himself in and seeing no one else, let alone a possible long lost brother around, turned his attentions back to the man who had still not made an attempt to get up off the ground. “Well, are you all right? Do you want some help?”

“You can help by Ieaving me alone!” the man snapped, slapping away Ezra’s outstretched hands.

“Very well then,” Ezra bristled, leaving the strange man to his misery to focus on his own problems.  "Light the candle and think of me,” he muttered staring down at the candle still in his hands that was now half its original length. “I was. I was thinking of Raphael… But then the star just popped into…” Ezra spun in a circle, his eyes growing wide with the realisation that he was not in a man-made clearing but an impact site. He turned back to the strange man. “Oh, excuse me, sir. Sorry to bother you again. This may seem strange, but have you seen a fallen star anywhere?”

“You’re funny,” the man huffed, though his glare said Ezra was anything but.

“No, really, we’re in a crater,” Ezra pressed on. “This must be where it fell.”

“Yeah, this is where it fell. Or if you want to be really specific,” the man drawled, jabbing a finger towards the night sky. “Up there is where this weird bloody necklace came out of nowhere and knocked it out of the heavens when it was minding its own business. And over there is where it Ianded,” he said, pointing towards the deepest part of the impact site. “And right here,” he growled, pointing to the ground on which he sat. “This is where it got hit by a magical flying moron!”

Ezra faltered as his brain was forced to make several adjustments rather quickly about its understanding of the universe.

“You’re the star! You’re the star? Really?” Ezra babbled, the colour draining from his face as this new reality came crashing down around him.

The star was human, or at least human shaped, and he could not sell off said star to secure his childhood home (though he was not naïve enough to think there weren’t men who would desire to buy such a creature).

The candle had not taken him to his brother, though he had initially wished it. Perhaps stray thoughts of the star had derailed the candles route, or perhaps his brother was no longer living and it was not possible for the candle to take Ezra to his side. What proof did he have either way?

And the candle only had one journey left in it – how best to use it? Should he return to Tadfield and his uncertain future, or try to go to his brother again, which was filled nothing but uncertainties, or did Ezra do what the voice in his head that sounded a great deal like the vicar said and offer the candle to the star so he could return to his home in the sky?

Ezra patted his coat pockets in an increasingly erratic pattern before sinking to the ground opposite the star. In the end it wouldn’t really matter which he chose because he had forgotten to pack a second bloody match to light the damn thing with.

“Oh, fuck.”

[rowenah1974]

Most terrible blogger in history

Yes, its official.  I am THE WORST at blogging!

So.... what’s happened since I last deemed to post about my totally boring life here?  Let’s just make a bullet list shall we?

1. My Dad died.  On my son’s 14th birthday.  That sucked.  It was totally out of the blue and unexpected.  The coroner’s report said he had pulmonary emboli and deep vein thromboses - so multiple of both.  Apparently there’s not enough research being done into the link between blood clots and vascular dementia because if there had been, maybe the doctors would have known to look for them rather than think the breathlessness he’d had on and off for months was related to his heart!

2. I moved house.  We’re no longer live in a shoe box.  We now live in a normal sized house across the road from my Mum.  My brother moved in with her after Dad died so our old house (which belongs to my brother) is empty but still has a lot of our stuff in it because this house still has a lot of my brother’s stuff in it!  Dad’s stuff needs to be sorted so there’s room for my brother’s stuff so it’s a knock on thing.  Hopefully, I will have access to the two spare rooms in the house at some point though!

3. I had a pelvic x-ray last October which was ordered by the lady doctor at the GP practice (which has since been shut down by the Quality Care Commission and the head GP forced to retire!  We now have a new GP practice but in the same place.  Go figure!) and when I phoned for the results of it two weeks after it was done, I was told that the head GP said it was fine - no changes from the previous x-ray that I’d had years before.  It was only because I reminded the receptionist that the doctor had said she wanted to see me to follow up that I found out that it wasn’t actually fine at all!  She told me that there had been evidence of joint deterioration on the x-ray I’d had years before and that the new x-ray showed that this had progressed in both hips and that the right hip was worse than the left.  So, osteoarthritis.  Oh joy!  No news on my back pain though.  She referred me to a physiotherapist for treatment that turned out to be utterly useless.  He had NO knowledge of M.E. or how exercise affects the condition even though I told him in the initial consultation that I could not do exercise as it makes the condition worse.  In fact, the whole manipulation therapy he insisted on doing because ‘the muscles around your spine are in spasm’ (yeah, no shit Sherlock!) made everything worse & I managed to do one round of the exercises he gave me, just once, before ending up in agony and in bed for several days.  My mother, a retired physiotherapist, said she would have used some kind of electrotherapy to reduce the inflammation before doing anything because of the M.E. but it appears that the modern physio doesn’t bother with things like that.  Obviously not trendy enough.  I gave the physio some information about M.E. and my symptoms.  He promptly decided that physio was not helping and referred me back to my GP!  So that was a total waste of time! Last week, I spoke to someone from the clinical assessment service (whatever that is - basically another bloody physio!) who was supposed to sort out what’s going on in my back.  He asked about my pain, looked at the x-ray from last October and said ‘there’s deterioration in the joints of the lumbar spine’.  So, osteoarthritis there too.  More joy!  So I’m being referred to the pain management team.  Palmed off on someone else yet again!  And so we wait yet again to get an appointment to be seen.

4.  The world has been hit by a coronavirus pandemic.  We’re on lockdown.  Suggested self isolation for at risk individuals started about 12 weeks ago and now our ‘leader’ Boris “Can’t brush my hair for the life of me” Johnson is loosening the lockdown he introduced on 20th March mainly because people can’t abide by the rules anyway.  There doesn’t seem to be the fear of a second wave of the virus from the government like most of us with an ounce of sense has.  So, do we wait til people start dying in large amounts every day again before BoJo tells all the selfish a*holes to stop breaking the rules and getting together with their mates for barbecues and so on?  Your guess is as good as mine.  And so the sensible among us continue to stay home and only go out for essentials, not socialise with friends and do our bit to help the health service cope with the influx of Covid-19 positive patients.  In the meantime, Amazon and the Royal Mail keep us all in touch with the outside world.  Thanks guys!

5. I’m going to dye my hair pink.  Mid life crisis in lockdown is a genuine thing people!

6. I have to give a shout out to Miranda Hart for highlighting the fact that lockdown for those of us with chronic illnesses like ME is basically normal life.  We don’t have the energy to go out other than for essentials.  We are mainly cut off from other people and yet we carry on like this for years on end.  It’s nice that someone out there cared enough to bring M.E. to people’s attention.  So cheers for that Miranda.  I would gallop in your honour but that would require spoons I don’t have currently.  I know you understand.

So that’s about it.  I am going to try harder to blog in future.  I’m going to try harder to do a lot of things more often in future.  Wish me luck!

[leximpwrites]

Seeker 2

The second chapter of the project I’m working on! After this, I will be posting new chapters at least once a week, but as I said in an earlier post, if I get possessed by a writing gremlin and bang out three chapters in a week, then that’s how many you’ll get! Lol As always, I love to hear what y’all think, so please feel free to leave a reply!

@officialleehadan​​ @kitvinslakte​​ @nox919​​ @dierotenixe​​ @stuck-in-theclouds​​ @gyvorn12​​ @apenvssword​​ @wildforestferret​​ @krceramics​​ @starsdreaming​​ @wordsdreaming​

We eat at the Silver Star. Its one of the few taverns in the city that understands how much food a Skeer needs to eat, and feeds us well. After, we head back up the hill in the general direction of the Seeker barracks. I've never liked that name; it sounds so military and austere. The reality is much different. 

Our barracks are a sprawling estate in Hightower that provides all the space we need to live, train, and study. After centuries of Seeker occupation, the estate is appointed with luxuries from all over the world, carried home by the Seekers who live here. I've added many myself, in fact. Call it sentimentality, but there's something to be said for making a place feel like home. 

And if anyone is touchy about our owning the place, well, it's no more than we're due, if you ask me. We put our lives on the line every day for the sake of the people. I'd say a little luxury isn't an unreasonable reward.

We make our way through the wrought iron gate and head up the gravel path. All around us, fellow Seekers go about their business. The salle and training yards are off to our left. I share a nod with the weaponmaster on our way past, but don't keep his attention as he barks orders. There are more than a dozen foundlings drilling under his watchful eye, their purity charms glittering under the light of the torches. To our right, the riding fields and the stables where we breed and raise the huge striders that Seekers use in place of horses. 

“Shall I come with you to report, sir?” Jax asks, pausing inside the grand entryway after we walk through the immense bronze doors. I shake my head.

“No, that’s alright, lad,” I tell him. “I’ll report to the Old Wolf for the both of us. You go take care of your gear and then get yourself a bath.” He nods and smiles gratefully, heading off in the direction of his rooms in the east wing, whistling an old farmer’s tune. I turn and head in the opposite direction, towards the marshal's office in the east wing

The floor is carpeted with deep black, the wood paneling of the walls a rich walnut, polished smooth. The place always smells clean, with hints of incense, woodsmoke, and the oils we use to clean our weapons. Shelves piled high with scrolls and books of all kinds line the walls at regular intervals. If there is a system for their organization, it’s not one that I’ve ever seen before.

“Enter!” comes the gruff order when I knock politely, and I step through the door before coming to attention and saluting sharply, right fist over my hearts.

“Sir,” I say, looking at a point just over the head of High Marshal Imtaral. “Seeker Second Class, Alchanic reporting in.”

“At ease, Zepara,” he says distractedly, and I immediately relax offer a smile. 

Djared Imtaral was my mentor back when I was the same age as Jax, and I credit much of my success and skill to the lessons he taught me. He’s known among the Seekers as “The Old Wolf”, and it’s a very apt moniker. He looks like one. An old, tired, grey wolf, though one that is still more than capable of putting the young pups around it in their places. He’s nearly three hundred years old now, and may well hold his post for another sixty years or so before he retires, barring mishap or illness. He trained scores of us over the years. I was his last apprentice before our previous High Marshal, Lord Barray, retired and Imartal took his place. 

As always, his desk, an old wooden monstrosity he keeps threatening to burn, is covered in papers. He has half a dozen piles before him, and a larger stack at his right hand. Some he sets aside, and others get a quick, scrawling signature. 

Some he glares at, hoping they might simply burst into flames and leave him in peace.

My old teacher does not like paperwork. 

“So, how is the youngster doing?” he asks me, gesturing to one of the chairs across from him with his pen. “Luteno, is it?”

“Jaxus Luteno, yes,” I confirm, taking a seat “We found a shade nest that had recently taken root in the Whitebone District of the Outer Ring. Completely purged, got the queen and the nest guard all in one go. I let him take the lead on it, and I’m proud to say that he did spectacularly.”

“Do you think he’s ready for advancement?” he asks, shuffling through the stack of papers on his desk, absently reading and signing off on things as we’re talking. "I've kept an eye on his progress, and he seems to be doing very well."

I consider his question for a few moments before replying. “I would say that it wouldn’t be inappropriate to advance him.”

“But?” he prods, raising an inquisitive brow at me.

“But I would feel less uneasy if we gave it a little more time,” I admit, feeling a little uncomfortable. “It’s not that I have any doubts about his skill, it’s that I’m worried I may not have taught him everything that he needs to know.”

Imtaral chuckles, giving me a look that is both sympathetic and proud at the same time. “Welcome to the reality of being a teacher, my young friend. We just do the best we can and hope that it’s enough.”

I sag into my seat. He's right. I know he's right. I don't even disagree with him, but... Jax is my first apprentice, and I want to make sure I don't screw him up.

“However,” he continues, recapturing my wandering focus. “Yours is not an uncommon sentiment, so I will do what has been done numerous times before now. I will authorize him to advancement from Initiate to Seeker First Class, and assign him as your partner from this point forward until we have need of him elsewhere. Will that suit you?”

I breath out a quiet sigh of relief and nod, feeling a profound rush of gratitude towards my old mentor. “That will do fantastically, sir,” I say, getting to my feet and saluting again. “With your leave, oh wisest of leaders, I would like to go and give the good news to my apprentice and then get out of this gear and into a bath.”

He laughs and flaps a hand at me. “Go, you rogue, out of my sight before I have you thrown into the dungeons!”

I grin as I turn to leave. “You don’t have a dungeon, master.”

“Then I’ll have one built just for you!” he calls after me as I exit his office, completing the old joke between us. 

I snicker to myself and head off down the hall to find Jax so I can deliver the good news.

*******************

Three weeks later, and we finally receive our first assignment. During this time, Jax and I have been patrolling the city, mainly in the Outer Ring. He's been doing well since his promotion to Seeker First Class, now more confident in his abilities than he has ever been before. He's an excellent partner; we work well together, and he's bold enough now to make his own decisions, while still being smart enough to defer to my greater level of experience when I offer advice. 

I'm proud of him. 

My only qualm is that I still haven't gotten him to stop calling me 'sir'. As soon as he gets distracted, he slips back into his old habits, and the 'sir' comes back.

I guess I shouldn't judge. I do it to Imtaral, myself.

A message runner finds us on our way out of an apothecary, having just finished putting down a stalker that the idiot was keeping for fresh ingredients. Naturally, it got loose and killed him along with three of his customers. 

"Why would someone think that was a good idea?" Jax complains, wiping his silver-edged broadsword clean of viscera under a nearby fountain. He's limping; the stalker managed to get in a good bite on his calf. "Graaah that stings! Of course it got loose! It's a bloody stalker!" 

Stalker venom is nasty stuff, able to kill a normal human in minutes. Seekers are highly resistant to poison though, so he’s not in any danger of dying. He will, however, be miserable for the next few days while the venom works its way out of his body.

I chuckle and pat him on the shoulder. "You did well in there," I say, crouching down next to him and inspecting the wound on his leg while pulling my aid kit out of my coat. Seeker long-coats are quite possibly my favorite piece of gear besides my coach-gun, Sophia. Essentially a collection of pockets sewn into a knee-length overcoat, the heavy leather is treated with both oil and magic to repel water, acid, and insects. Strips of fine chainmail sewn into the sleeves, shoulders, and chest offer protection that I've needed more often than I like to admit.

A tap on my shoulder makes me turn, one hand going to my blades as I curse myself for my own distraction. When a young page jumps away from me, eyes round with fear, I curse again and bare my empty hands to reassure him.

"Sorry, lad, I didn't hear you," I say gently with an apologetic smile, keeping my hands where he can see them. He's more startled than properly afraid, but I take care to keep from frightening him again. Gods above, but we must be a sight after dealing with the blasted stalker. "We just finished a nasty fight in there, so I'm still a little keyed up."

The boy nods once and grins, showing two missing teeth. "Aye, sirrah, no harm done," he says, then holds out his mark book. "Gots a message for ye here, if'n ye'll sign for't."

I scribble down my signature and hand him back the book along with two silver regents, which he takes with a pleased grin. 

"Thankee, sirrah!" he says with delight, and hands me the tightly furled message scroll. "Ye be have'n a good day now!" He gives me a little salute with two fingers and then dashes off up the street to deliver his next message. 

I unroll the parchment and quickly scan the contents. What I read chills me. Jax picks up on my mood instantly. 

"Trouble, sir?" he asks, more curious than concerned. 

"Aye, trouble," I agree, catching his attention. Without preamble, I hand him the scroll as I return to dealing with his leg. 

"By order of High Marshal Djared Imtaral, Commander of Imperial Seeker Operations," Jax reads aloud. "Seeker Second Class Zepara Alchanic and Seeker First Class Jaxus Luteno are hereby ordered to proceed with all haste to the city of Strovostgard. A high priority target has been identified in the area. You are to rendezvous with an additional five Seeker teams that have been dispatched and then report to Deputy Marshal Singaren. Additional details will be made available upon arrival." 

Jax's eyes have gone round with surprise, and he turns to look at me. "Six Seeker teams, including us? Depending on the size of the team, that's anywhere from twelve to sixteen of us! The amount of force that many Seekers could bring to bear–" He trials off. 

I nod grimly, tying off the bandage with a careful tug. 

"What on earth could require so many of us?" he says quietly, more to himself than to me, but I answer him anyway, knowing that he's badly shaken at the thought of such a dangerous creature. I know I sure as hell was, the first time.

"The worst kind of monster a Seeker can face," I tell him, getting to my feet and collecting my gear. "Come. This isn't the kind of thing to talk about in the street. Let's head back to the barracks and I'll tell you about the kind of creature that can haunt a Seeker's nightmares." 

[elsaclack]

Omg!!! I'm so glad you're doing the kiss promts!! Can you please do 10!! Or 3!! Or aaah y'know could be both combined!!! Once again I loooove your writing and you're the owner of such a wonderful mind!🌻

3. kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s

10. staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

ummmm heyyyyy let’s pretend like this isn’t like 4 months late shall we?

anyways i’ve been struggling to build a premise around these prompts for…oh…4 months now and today i finally landed on one that kind of works. it’s a little weird and AU BUT it’s also, like, gratuitous making out and it’s also borderline plotless so it has that going for it i guess?

basically it’s a superhero au very, VERY loosely based on tua, in that i took superpowers from that universe and applied them to jake and amy (and rosa but only vaguely in passing conversation). so understanding tua is not in any way necessary to understanding this au, i’ve just been obsessed with a superhero au lately and i decided to give it a try with this prompt and it worked out a little better than i was expecting.

SO without further ado…

She’s three paces away from his front door before the panic finally overtakes the calm and she freezes mid-step.

The hallway is quiet, only the faintest sounds of muffled televisions and clinking dishes meeting her through the series of closed doors lining either side, and she’s certain that if she strains hard enough she could probably pick out the sounds of his voice over all others.

(That’s a new ability she’s noticed about herself as of late - she can bend the fabric of space and time, and she can hone in on Jake’s voice even over the cacophony of an explosion. Nevermind the fact that neither seem related on paper, it’s fact.)

(It’s also so much easier to feed the beast of denial prowling like a lion in the back of her mind.)

She lets out a small groan and grips the straps of the tote hanging off of her right shoulder a little harder. The stiff fabric cuts into the places where her fingers curl and she closes her eyes, trying to focus on it over the rising panic in her gut. This is fine. This is normal. She’s been here close to a dozen times before, especially as of late. It’s normal.

Except, of course, for the fact that her mask is buried somewhere in the bowels of her tote and not firmly affixed to her face to cover her eyes, the way it has been every other time she’s been here before. That’s different. That’s new.

But she can still see the way his mouth had flattened in that grim, determined grimace earlier. She can still see the way he’d pointed upwards, his brows raised in an unvoiced question. She can still feel the weight of his gun - the only one not lost in the chaos of the fight - in her hands. She can still see the way he’d motioned for her to do it - to rip the fabric of space apart, to slip through, to teleport herself up high so that she could take the final kill shot on the giant bloated alien monster that had been terrorizing Brooklyn just a matter of hours ago.

And she can still see the way the earth spun in a dizzying, wobbling way, far too blurry and fast for her to get her bearings enough to teleport safely back to the ground. And she can still feel the pure fear of that realization that she was plummeting to her death alongside the alien she’d just successfully killed.

And she can still feel his body slamming into hers mid-air, his arms cinching tight around her, his recently-discovered levitating abilities working overtime to first get him up to her and then to slow their momentum enough that they hit the ground relatively unscathed.

And after the fact - after he saved her life - there was this moment. This breathtaking, heart-stopping, paralyzing moment, when he’d looked at her and she’d looked at him and his hands subconsciously gripping her waist maybe…weren’t so subconscious in the way his thumbs stroked along her ribs and his fingers rippled and tensed. And he’d leaned toward her - that much was undeniable - and she thinks she maybe, probably leaned toward him too.

But the world was still trying to settle after teetering on the brink of collapse and Rosa was howling in victory and Charles’ footsteps were pounding into the ground, growing ever closer, and his grip went from protective and just a little bit possessive to helpful and supportive in the blink of an eye.

She would have been ready to completely forget it ever happened - the way she always did when they went and had one of those moments - if not for him pulling her aside and gently adjusting her mask right as the reporters began to swarm. “I accidentally knocked it out of place earlier,” he’d explained softly as he smoothed down the corners against her temples. “No one saw anything - I didn’t see anything - it was just crooked, and - and I know how much you hate that during interviews.”

His fingertips trailed down her face, then, most assuredly not against her mask any longer, but he didn’t linger for long. Just a feather-light touch of her cheeks, a gentle brush of a thumb against her chin, and then he was stepping back and gesturing for her to lead the way toward the mob.

And that - that has been plaguing her for hours.

Because she didn’t even think to try and stop him when he reached for her mask. Because she let him adjust it - because she probably would have let him take it off of her completely.

Because no one has ever seen her take her mask off. No one knows her secret identity. Jake doesn’t even know her real name - none of them do.

And yet here she stands, maskless, heart in her throat.

Three paces down from where Jake lives.

She’s been here before - crashed on his couch and, once, in his bed after missions, worked out long and winding mysteries in his living room, tried and failed to learn how to cook in his kitchen under Charles’ watchful gaze. She’s been here before, and yet -

With a quiet, somewhat defeated sigh, she pulls her tote open and reaches for her mask. She lifts it to her face slowly, only pressing down lightly - enough that it will stay in place, but without the usual intensity as during a physical fight.

It’s much easier to take the next step forward after that.

She knocks on his door before she can convince herself not to, and from inside she hears the glass clink of a bottle hitting a hard surface, and the muffled beats of socked feet trotting against carpet. She swallows hard as the light behind his peephole flickers - and shifts her weight nervously when she hears his deadbolt slide and click.

He’s not wearing his mask. The door is only partially open and his face is mostly hidden in the shadows of his ill-lit apartment, but she can see the reflection of light glinting against deep brown set against white. It’s the first thing she notices - followed shortly by the evidence of their fight only just developing on his face, like the bruises on his jaw and the scabbed over cut on the bridge of his nose.

(She hasn’t exactly examined herself in the mirror yet, but she’s fairly certain her own face is in similar shape.)

“Hey,” he says - cautious, almost reserved, but not guarded.

Never guarded.

This is the fourth time she’s seen him without his mask on.

“Hi,” she whispers.

He takes a small, tentative step forward - and the light from the hallway illuminates his entire face for the first time. His eyes flicker as he searches her face, curious in a way that somehow quiets the panic she’d felt before. “Everything okay?”

“Um…no.”

Concern fills his gaze at once, and his body visibly tenses - weight shifting to center on his feet, the muscles of his chest and arms tightening.

“Wait, not - I mean, everything, everything is okay,” she gestures into his apartment, toward where she knows the windows are situated on the far wall, and he relaxes again - aside from the little pucker in his brow. “I just meant - I’m not okay.”

His Adam’s apple bobs and he rocks forward a degree. “Did I - did I hurt you? Earlier, when we fell -”

“What? No! No, of course not, you - you saved me, Jake. You absolutely did not hurt me.”

A tiny, minuscule wave of relief seems to wash through him, but it isn’t enough to ease the creases between his brows. “Good,” he says, nodding as he reaches up to rub his fingertips against the back of his neck. “So, then…what’s up?”

“I just…I’m not…I’m not good at this.”

He pushes his door open a little wider and leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “That’s okay,” he says. “I’m patient. Take your time.”

She nods and drops her gaze to her feet. “I owe you,” she murmurs.

“You do not.” he says so sharply she looks up on instinct. “You don’t owe me crap. We both know I would’ve done the same thing for any of the others without hesitation. I didn’t even have to think about it, Dora,” he says the false name he gave her years earlier gently and her stomach bottoms out. “Please don’t think that I’m gonna hold this over you or something, okay? I would never do that.”

“No, I know you wouldn’t, that’s not - what I meant.” The intensity is still burning in his gaze, but curiosity is beginning to blossom there, too - she inhales deeply and sets her shoulders. “You have been nothing but open and vulnerable with me, especially over the last few weeks. And I’m - I want to do that, too. I want to be more open and more vul-…I want to be more vulnerable. Because - because I trust you. I trust you.” As she repeats the phrase, the corner of his mouth quirks up - but still, the concern persists.

“I believe you,” he says with a shrug.

“That’s - I mean, thank you, but - I still want to do this.”

He searches her face a half-moment longer before his gaze drops down to her shaking hands - now slowly moving up toward her face. “Hey,” he pushes off the doorframe, arms coming uncrossed, socked feet moving over the threshold to inch toward her. The door swings shut behind him - he doesn’t seem to hear it. “It’s okay - you don’t have to do that, Dora, really -”

“I know I don’t,” she says through grit teeth as her fingernails gently pry the stiff leather away from her skin. He pauses, hands raised between them, a half-hearted attempt at moving her own hands away from her face. “But I want to. Really, I do. Unless you don’t want me to.”

He stares a moment longer, face twisted in indecision, before his shoulders drop and his hands fall back to his sides. “I want you to,” he whispers, looking stricken by his own confession.

She shoots him a small smile before working the mask away from her face. The adhesive sticks stubbornly to her skin and she quietly hisses when it pulls at the edge of a barely-developed bruise along her cheekbone. He watches, motionless, aside from his hands rhythmically clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Finally, the mask completely separates from her face, but she holds it over her eyes for another moment. “Dora isn’t my real name,” she murmurs.

His eyes widen. “You don’t have to tell me your real name,” he says quickly. “I mean I - I want to know, but more than anything I want you to feel safe and if me not knowing your real name makes you feel safe, then -”

“Jake,” she interrupts, and he falls silent at once. “I do feel safe with you. That’s why I’m doing this.” He opens and closes his mouth, before slowly shaking his head in clear wonder. “I want you to know my real name before you - see me. The real me. Is that okay?”

He nods.

She inhales again - a short puff of air - and lifts her chin a degree. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek in anticipation, and she can’t help but to smile at the endearing sight. “Okay,” she breathes. Jake shifts his weight from one foot to the other as she slowly lowers the mask, and her eyes fall closed as the leather interrupts her view of his breathless, affectionate face. They remain closed even as her hands drop down to her sides; the silence that follows is practically deafening.

She’s looking down at their feet when her eyes flutter open again and despite the nervousness simmering in her belly, she’s genuinely surprised to see he’s moved toward her since she closed her eyes - their toes are mere inches apart. And she knows when she finally lifts her gaze up to his face, he’ll be close enough that she’ll be able to count each individual freckle where they faintly smatter against his nose and cheekbones.

“My name - my real name - is…Amy.”

He’s looking at her like he’s just discovered the secret to life when she meets his eyes; his grin is blinding, his eyes shining. “Amy,” he repeats, so carefully, so reverently, and it sounds even better in his voice than she daydreamed it would. “God, I’ve been - I’ve been imagining this moment for so long - you have the best name, I love your name. And your eyes. God, your eyes are so pretty, I don’t - I don’t even know what to do with myself -”

She laughs, and he laughs, too, but his is filtered through a shaky gasp. “Oh, my god, when you smile it’s like - like your eyes smile, too? How do they - I mean, I’ve never -” he cuts himself off with another choked laugh and she’s still smiling, even as his eyes openly rove over her face. “God, you’re so pretty,” he whispers - to himself, it seems.

She knows her smile has gone shy, that the heat from the tips of her ears is probably pouring through her whole face, but she can’t bring herself to care - his flickering eyes have landed on her lips, his own smile slowly fading, replaced by unmistakable desire.

Nerves pulse through her heart, but she shifts toward him anyways - just like before. He blinks rapidly as she makes her slow approach, lips parting in apparent surprise. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth and she feels herself swallow thickly, eyes glued to the spot even after his tongue vanishes.

He ducks his head, the tip of his nose brushing against hers seconds before his lips press tentatively against hers.

Aside from the rapid beating of her heart in her chest and his own noisy breathing, neither one of them move. It’s a little strange, almost…maybe…bad…but then -

Then he moves into her all at once, his arms rising up to haul her closer to him, bringing her up to the balls of her feet. She quickly steadies herself with her arms around his shoulders, and not a moment later her back his arching, bending, curving backwards, as Jake’s tongue sweeps into her mouth. He groans against her when she angles her head, fingertips digging a little harder into the meat of his shoulders before one travels up to lightly cup his cheek. Her tote falls from her shoulder and lands in a clatter at their feet but he doesn’t seem to notice - he groans again, louder than before, when both hands frame his face and her tongue brushes against his as she pushes into his mouth.

His hand sweeps up her spine, the arm still around her waist tightening to better stabilize her, and then his fingers are pushing up through her hair to brace the back of her neck. The crown of her head lightly bumps against something hard and solid, followed quickly by her shoulders; it’s as she feels his body stooping, arms burrowing down around her beneath her armpits, knees bending and thighs tensing, that she realizes she’s just hit the back wall of his apartment building hallway and he has every apparent intention of lifting her up and pinning her there, in plain view of his neighbors.

“Mm,” she hums against him as her feet just barely leave the ground, dropping both hands to land against his shoulders. “Mm, Ja- Jake,” she turns her head away, ripping her lips from his, and he rears back, eyes bright with alarm. “No, no, no, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s - it was good, it was really good -” She has just enough time to register his relief before he’s moving toward her again, quickly working his way down to her jaw, kissing and lightly nibbling, drawing quiet gasps from her every few seconds. “Jake we - we’re in, we’re in the hall.”

“And?” he grunts, lips now moving over her the side of her neck, experimenting with the sensitive skin around her left ear.

“We need to - to go inside,” her voice is thin and airy, borderline pathetic, and when his teeth scrape against a particularly sensitive spot she has to bite down hard on her knuckles to keep from audibly moaning.

“Been wanting to do this for years,” he mumbles between kisses. “If you think I’m gonna stop for one second -”

“Someone might see,” she gasps.

He grins against her, lips curling against her skin, and through their chests pressed together she can feel his heart hammering just as hard as her own. “I didn’t know you were into people watching you do this kinda thing, Amy,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing where it rumbles in her ear.

She swats his shoulder hard enough that the sound reverberates down the hall. “I meant someone might see,” she says, suddenly able to think clearer in the midst of a more familiar dynamic in the midst of this newly intimate setting. She nods her head down; her mask lies to the left of his foot, slipped from her grasp after being swept up in him. The sight of it seems to sober him a little, though not enough for him to move away; he extends his leg and sweeps it back toward them with his foot, his grin bright and eager as he moves it to lie in the narrow space between the heels of her feet and the wall behind her.

“There,” he says, unmistakably triumphant. “Now, where was I?”

She lets out a laugh as he lunges back toward her, hands pressed against his shoulders and head angled up so his lips only make the barest contact with her cheek. “We should go inside,” she insists as he leans away, pouting. “It’ll be more fun…”

His expression seems to light up with interest for a moment, but the pouting returns all too soon, visible even as he drops his forehead down against hers. “But I don’t wanna move.”

“I can’t show you what’s in my tote if we don’t go inside.”

He pulls back, brow furrowed. “Is that like a euphemism or something?”

“Oh, my god, no! I just - I brought, like, food and movies and stuff, in case you wanted to hang out or something -”

“I definitely want to hang out,” he says, “but the food and the movies can wait for later.”

He winks suggestively and she rolls her eyes, but before she can think of a rebuttal he shifts and his thigh presses up between hers and oh, yeah, they need to get inside his apartment now. “Fine,” she rasps - and he grins with unmistakable pride at the audible effect he has on her. “We’ll do it the hard way.”

She hooks her foot through the straps of her tote and shifts back so that the heel of her other foot presses against her mask, and then she’s tipping forward, hands ripping through the spacial fabric around them to teleport them both directly to his bedroom.

“Whoa!” he shouts as he topples backwards, the backs of his knees hitting the mattress and knocking him completely off-balance, sending them both down in a tumbling heap. His arms stay around her this time; she blinks and shakes her head to find his face just inches away, staring up at her in wonder. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” he murmurs.

“Actually, it’s sort of like getting over car sickness - after a while, you don’t even really feel it anymore -”

“Not teleporting,” he interrupts. He reaches up slowly and brushes her long hair back behind her ear, before gently ghosting his fingertips along her cheekbone, just under her left eye. “This. You. You’re just - you’re so smart and beautiful and badass -” She scoffs a little at that, and he shifts his head to the side, brows furrowing. “What?”

“I am not a badass, I mean - I’m into crossword puzzles and knitting, you make fun of me for it all the time. If anyone’s a badass, it’s Rosa, with all the knives -”

“You can be into crossword puzzles and knitting and still be a badass.” he interrupts indignantly. “Just ‘cause you don’t dress in all black and threaten everyone around you within an inch of their lives for every little thing doesn’t mean you’re not badass. I mean, who stopped that alien earlier? Who killed it? You, or Rosa?”

“Me,” she admits quietly.

“And who was brave enough to come here and be vulnerable on purpose? You, or Rosa?”

“Me.”

He nods. “Badass.”

“I just -”

He surges upward, interrupting her with a kiss, and her heart feels like it might explode or something for how many beats it seems to be skipping. “You’re a badass, Amy,” he repeats in a whisper when he lets his head slowly drop back to the mattress. “And you’re so, so beautiful.”

It’s one of the last truly coherent things either one of them says that night - aside from each other’s names.

[bluedraggy]

Beatrice Santello - Part 2 #11

Image by ottoOttsy

Cemetery and Proposal

The service was a melancholy affair as a warm spring rain fell outside the chapel at the church, but Bea felt like that was appropriate. The casket, of course, was closed, but she greeted both Mr. and Mrs. Hartley. Pastor K. said a brief few words and both Mae and Gregg were blessedly subdued.

Bea said goodbye to her friends after the service as they weren’t feeling like going to the burial, but it had been a while since Bea had spent time with her mother so she turned on her car’s lights and followed the train of cars to the cemetery.  The rain had stopped and the grave site was covered by a tent anyway, so other than getting a little mud on her boots, it was alright. Casey’s parents were reserved as could be expected, considering they were burying their son.

She’d managed to keep her composure until they lowered the casket into the ground, but memories of her mother’s burial came flooding back and she was unable to hold back the tears any longer. All the assurances of the afterlife and that the dead person’s soul lived forever didn’t help. She left shortly after and walked back to her car where she got out the flowers she’d bought earlier, then walked back to where her mother’s headstone stood up stark against the wet ground.

“Hi Mom,” she said quietly to the grave. “I brought you some flowers. Damn, I hope you’re there somewhere. They just buried Casey. I never really told you about him, did I? I don’t know if you, like, know my mind. I hope not. It would be embarrassing. But I think I was in love with him. Well, really I know I was. He was killed by some nut jobs here, but I’d broken up with him before that because he brought drugs and stuff into the Pickaxe. Casey, if you can hear me too… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to shut off the shudders that were coming on - a sure prelude to another round of crying.  It worked.

“Anyway, Mom, Dad’s doing alright I guess. We miss you. I miss you. I’ve got enough for the lease on the building, inventory and taxes this month. Still can’t hire Germ full time, though. Bill’s still there, but I keep him out of the store as much as I can. He hasn’t done anything for a long time though, so I think it’s okay. Sorry I haven’t been back more often.”

A little while later, she stood up again and brushed the mud off her knees. She looked over to where Casey’s grave was. Workmen were taking down the tent and two other men were shoveling more dirt over it, filling it in. Everyone else had left. She took a flower from her mom’s bouquet and walked back to where the shovelers were just finishing up.

There was no headstone, so she just dropped the flower over the mound.

“The headstone will be installed next week,” said a voice she recognized behind her. She didn’t turn around.

“Hi Pastor K. Why are you still here?”

“Oh, I guess I’m like you. I know a lot of people buried here. You cared a lot about Casey, didn’t you?”

It was more a statement than a question. Bea just nodded.

“I know I’m supposed to tell you he’s in a better place and all that, Bea. But even us religious people don’t know for sure of course. I suppose no one alive does. That’s why they call it ‘faith’ I guess.”

“Do you have faith? Do you think he’s still around… somewhere?”

“I have faith. It’s all we have, Bea. Still agnostic I suppose? I don’t suppose I could talk you into coming to service some day?”

“I’d feel like a hypocrite, Pastor K.”

“We’re all hypocrites, Bea. We do the best we can though. I think someday you’ll be a regular - but you have to find your own way home first.”

Bea turned around to face the diminutive pastor, anger flashing in her eyes.

“I can’t believe in your God, Pastor. A decent God wouldn’t allow things like this. And don’t give me that Mysterious Ways crap. The only God that would allow this doesn’t give a shit about us. Surely you know that!”

“We’re alive, Bea. He’s not, but we are.”

“We’re just amoebas. Scum on the surface of the earth.”

“Now you’re just venting. It’s okay, Bea. Venting is good sometimes. Did you love him?”

Bea turned back to the grave, imagining the bones underneath it.

“Yes.”

“Do you think you just loved an amoeba? We’re more than that, Bea. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t hurt so bad.”

“I don’t believe in your religion, Pastor Karen, but I’m coming to understand the need for it at least. I’m glad you’re here. You help people get over things like this.”

“I try to help people cope, Bea, but no one gets over it. Death and religion are inseparable.”

“I saw him, Pastor. Down there in the mine. For just a minute, I thought I saw him. I was probably imagining it though.”

“Could be. Your mother believed, Bea.”

“Didn’t do her much good, did it.”

“I don’t know. She went through a lot, Bea, and not just the illness. She believed, and she loved you and your father an awful lot. I think her faith helped her get through each day.”

“Careful, Pastor K. My mom is a touchy subject with me, okay?”

“Okay Bea. But if you ever need to talk… you know where I am.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Bea said.

As if on cue, the rain began again. Pastor Karen opened her umbrella and handed it to Bea. She took it gratefully, and held it over both their heads as they walked back to where the cars waited.

************

The police finally released their report, detailing the Black Goat cult and their sacrifices. The story rekindled interest in Possum Springs for another month, but the attention on Bea and her friends who had first found the sacrifices waned as the magnitude of the crime was revealed. But even that horrific revelation soon faded from the public eye since all had apparently died in the cave-in and there would be no trial to focus attention on the murders.

Bea didn’t know any of the members well, and she was glad of that. Angus apparently knew one of them as a former co-worker at the Video Outpost II, but they’d never been friendly.

Spring had begun to turn towards summer when a man walked into the Pickaxe that Bea recognized immediately. This time, however, he wasn’t posing as a customer, nor did he attempt to surreptitiously record her inventory on his phone. Instead he walked up to the counter.

“Hello Bea, do you remember me?”

Germ wasn’t there that day, but Mae was in the warehouse cleaning up after a recent delivery.

“Mister video. Here to finish the job?”

The old gator smiled. “Oh Bea, we finished that ages ago. We know all about your business. Things have really picked up since the mine thing, haven’t they?”

It was true enough. Though the mine was well sealed now, there were plenty of caves in the area too and spelunking in the area had really picked up. She had taken advantage of the renewed interest by stocking a wide variety of climbing and caving hardware and becoming familiar with their use. She cringed now, thinking back to. the amateurish methods they had used back then, and how lucky they’d been not to have hurt themselves.

“We’re doing alright. What do you want Mr. Video?”

“The name is Brown. Hamilton Brown. I work for a competitor of yours, MISS Santello.”

The guy had done his homework.

“I see. And why shouldn’t I kick you out again right now, Mr. Brown?”

He reached into his jacket and brought forth a manila envelope.

“We want to buy you out, Bea.”

Bea looked at the envelope. It was thick with papers.

“Not much of a competitor if you just buy out the competition.”

“Look through those papers tonight before you reject our offer out of hand. We’ve already bought the land out by the Interstate. Groundbreaking will commence soon. As soon as the news hits, this offer will be rescinded.”

Bea’s eyes opened wide. “Home Badger.”

Mr. Brown nodded.  “Bea, we will put you out of business and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You know it already. But we have a proposal for you. An absurdly lucrative proposal, given your revenue.  But we do our research too. Somehow, even as young as you are, you’ve amassed quite a lot of good will here in Possum Springs. Especially after finding those kids’ bodies. Good will is a valuable and very tangible thing. We’re willing to pay for it.”

“So, what’s your angle, Mr. Brown? You just want to buy the Pickaxe, and shut it down?”

“There are those who had intended something like that. But they’ve been overruled. No, Bea. We want to buy the Pickaxe and keep it open - as an extension of the new mega-store Home Badger. We’ll even keep the name. ‘The Ol’ Pickaxe - Your Neighborhood Store, by Home Badger’. You may not have noticed, but the downtown area here is going through something of a renaissance. We’d like to be a part of that.”

“I already am a part of that,” Bea said, sliding the envelope back. “I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

“Bea,” said Mr. Brown, sliding the envelope back again. “Please, take a look. We’re not your enemy - or at least we don’t have to be. We can be your partner, if you’ll consider it. Bea, it may take a year or two, but eventually your business is going to fade as your customers begin to abandon you. You could keep the doors open, but your profits will dwindle even more. You’re barely making ends meet now, and that’s with… shall we say… questionable employment practices. It will only get worse. Please, consider it. Talk it over with your father.”

Bea’s natural reaction was to fight it. But time had tamed her tendencies to snap judgments.

She looked at the old gator. Underneath his polished exterior, his eyes looked bright. 

“Do you get a bonus if I agree, Mr. Brown?”

“Of course I do. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a good deal. I think you’ll agree when you read the details. You’ll want to hire a lawyer to go over the fine print, but I’m confident there’s nothing in there that you’ll be opposed to.”

“It’s not my store, you know,” Bea said, but she took the envelope and put it on a shelf under the counter.

“No, but it might as well be. Your father isn’t well. You’ve done very good by him, but he’s not getting better. He needs help, Bea. Professional help. And not by your Dr. Hanks. This could provide that help.”

“At the cost of the business he worked all his life to build,” Bea responded, but without much heat. She wasn’t so sure.

“Read the offer, Bea. It’s only the first two pages that covers all the major points.”

“The devil is in the details though.”

“That’s what lawyers are for, but I don’t think you’ll find any devils in here. You know what we want, Bea. We’re willing to pay handsomely for it. What we really want is your goodwill. We don’t want the people in and around Possum Springs to see us as big-city interlopers. We want to be your partner. But yes, we would own the Pickaxe.”

“Get out of my store, Mr. Brown.”

He nodded and produced a card. It had only his name and a phone number printed on it, but the background color was the unmistakable hue of the Home Badger. She took it and slid it in with the other papers in the envelope as he left.

Mae came in from the back.

“Who was that?”

Bea looked up from the envelope. When she’d opened it to insert the card, she’d seen a number on the first page. A very, very large number.

“Huh? Oh. That’s Mr. Brown. Nothing important.”

[korkrunchcereal]

Dusk

Upon a nearby hill Bal-Varos Eyvor watches the host that has gathered, sitting astride a destrier black. In the northern pass of the Tempest Coast he vowed to make his stand, sending out a call for aid from the remaining southern powers. The first to answer had been the Lady of the Coast herself, for the enemy threatened her home and she could not allow such sacrilege. Next had come the people of the Gilded Lands, fractious by nature yet when faced with a common threat were the fiercest of allies.

Beside banners silver marked with the grey flame he watches the unfurling of the Blackfyre banners, and beside that were such houses as Dawngrasp, Sol and Indaris. Every house had sent soldiers or were otherwise represented by fierce patriots of their homes. Even men he knew to be of low reputation had come in motley bands of cutthroats and thieves, yet come they did in defense of their home. As the morning sun rose above the pass, he watches a shimmering gleam of steel catching the first rays of light.

They had come to protect their homes for they could not bear to see darkness destroy the world. Bal-Varos feels the blood pumping in his veins at the sight; by the gods he had not commanded such a host in decades. It felt good to wear the plates again, rather than the statesman’s robes. It felt right. His eyes, wizened with age, stared out beyond the army now and instead to the pass. Unconsciously he taps his fingers against the steel of his helm tucked into the crest of his arm, mimicking the pounding of drums.

“It is an impressive sight.” A woman’s voice called from behind him. Bal-Varos turns in the saddle to watch as the Lady Greyflame herself approached. Upon a silver hawkstrider she rode, her armor that of the Tempest Knights she so famously commanded. Yet greatest of all adornments was that of her dragonscale cloak, dyed grey to subdue the bright ruby it had once been.  

“Aye, it is.” Bal-Varos answers in acknowledgement. He turns back to eye the pass, brow furrowing in thought. “How many do you think we have? Two thousand?”

“People, yes. Veteran soldiers? Half that.”

“Mmm…” Bal-Varos nods with the assessment. He briefly glances to the black bear banner of his own house, forefront among all others. Greyflame was probably right. He could count upon his own soldiers he had brought, for none were as fierce or well trained in the Gilded Lands. Beyond that? The Greyflame Knights and some small smattering of soldiers. The rest were an uncertainty, yet he cannot second guess their intent or their use.

“There is less than I had hoped for.”

“More than I expected.” Bal-Varos sighs, a frown crossing his features. “Gods, it aches my heart. Two thousand…I remember when we had twenty thousand.”

“The Scourge’s wounds still linger to this day. We are not nor ever will be the same for it.”

“I know. It still boils my blood; damn the human boy. Reducing us to this state, with each battle a desperate bloody gamble for success.” Bal-Varos let go of the reins, realizing he had gripped them so tight as to turn his knuckles white. “Still, two thousand will have to do. We do not have time to rally anymore.”

“So the scouts reports are true then? The Blackbloods will be here soon?”

“Aye.” Bal-Varos nods once more. “They say by day’s end, but I think sooner. Foul purpose hastens their march upon us.” To slaughter us, though he does not speak those words.

“No doubt they will greatly outnumber us. You sent men ahead?”

“I dispatched several of my best just before the sun’s rise. I expect they’ll be back within an hour or two, I think.”

“Good.” Greyflame pauses before she speaks again, her tone neutral. “I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

“Clouds?” Bal-Varos looks up, squinting as he stares beyond the pass. In the distance were grey clouds swollen with rain, seemingly travelling south towards them. “Bah, it’s rain. Doesn’t it rain all the damn time in the Coast?”

“Yes, but rain dampens the strings of bows and turns the dirt slick and uneven. It’ll make for harder fighting should it arrive before the battle. I hear as well Blackbloods fear fire, and rain will rob us of such.”

“Oh? Where’d you hear that from.”

“Survivors of the Ridges massacre.” An awkward pause follows the statement, as Bal-Varos is uncertain how to respond immediately. He had heard of the tragedy of the Ridges to the northeast. It was already a land of ill omens before the invasion of the Blackbloods. Now? Bal-Varos can only imagine what horrors dwell in that cursed place.

“They say the Blackbloods fear fire?”

“The Blackbloods are undead given life by the void. Such abominations cannot stand the blessed warmth of fire, nor can they bring back our dead if the body is burned. Pray the rain holds, Bal-Varos. We shall certainly need any help we can get in this I fear.”

“Gods it is a poor day when I must battle nature too. Some evil purpose must favor our enemy, to bring the chance of rain on the day they’ll arrive.”

“Evil purpose, or simply bad chance. And as I said, perhaps the rain shall not reach us when battle is joined. I fear such is unlikely however, for those clouds swiftly approach.”

“Bah! It rained too the Day of Weeping. Up to our knees in muck and gore and death that day. Gods I can still feel the mud that seeped into your boots.” Bal-Varos sighs, remembering that day bitterly. Back then it had been Arcannon Indaris who ruled house Indaris, and no man ever lived so arrogant and proud. He had thought it possible to face the scourge invasion head on. He had convinced all the lords, including Bal-Varos, to meet the undead on an open field rather than fortify their holdings. It had been a disaster.

“Yes, the unfortunate truth of our part of the kingdom is that it often rains. Yet even still, I would take the rain over the temperate north. There, they breed only laxness for no hardship befalls the meadows and hills there. They have never known the harsh wave upon the crags, nor the fierce winds that howl. They do not know how to brace for the storm as we do.”

“They don’t even know how to brace for a shit, let alone a storm.” Greyflame chuckles at his joke, Bal-Varos spotting her shake her head out of the corner of his eye. “The fops in the north have been kept isolated by fighting. They were unprepared, and it shows. Took southern lords to save the north; men like the Truefeathers and the Netherstars. Fighting men.”

“They’re not saved yet. If the Blackbloods take the southwest, they have an easily fortified position to reinforce and expand dramatically. Already the Ridges are lost, and Havenblaze I imagine is in ruins or soon to be. As well, the rest of my lands and the Gilded Lands have all evacuated to the sea leaving our host the last stand.”

“Well, we certainly cannot afford to lose then, can we? Gods knows my ancestors would not allow me peace in death if an Indaris was all that’s left.”

“Speaking of Indaris,” Greyflame begins, “Have I heard correct in that he still marches north?”

“Aye, he’s with the Sunguard though I have had no word from him in weeks.”

“Nor have I. His brother and sister were on board one of the ships evacuating, but there was no sign of his betrothed or Cyvar.”

“Wrenth? Gods if there was ever a man with their talent wasted. No doubt he’s with the Indaris boy, or otherwise holed up in their pretty castle to wait out the storm.”

“Hopefully if anyone in that house were to live it’d be Wrenth. I can actually stomach his presence, which is more than can be said of his master.”

“Aye, a weasel shit that one. Still, the boy is damn cunning and is much like his father, for better or for worse. Besides, despite his many flaws he at least has the Gilded Lands interest at heart if only because it aligns with his own.”

“Perhaps…and perhaps he is simply just a snake with a golden opportunity.” The words hang in the air, broken only by the shifting of Bal-Varos’ horse. It stomps its hooves into the dirt, shifting nervously. Greyflame looks over, a brow raising. “I told you, you should take one of our hawkstriders. The Quilreven breed we have is the finest in the kingdom. They’d serve you better amid the Coast than your horse.”

“Bah; I hate the damn chickens. Besides, your birds are small. On the charge they’ll lose to a horse every time.”

“That I know to be false. None are as swift or as fierce as the Quilreven, especially on uneven ground.”

“And I’m telling you, a battle trained destrier is- “Bal-varos pauses as the sound of a horn interrupts him. He immediately looks northward upon the peak of the pass. The guards he had put there had spotted something. Blackbloods?

“Blackbloods?” Greyflame echoed Bal-Varos thoughts, though he shakes his head.

“I don’t think so. Perhaps it’s the scouts returning.”

“So early? That does not bode well.”

“Whatever it is, we won’t find out here.” Bal-Varos snaps the reins, his horse taking off. Behind him he hears the shrieking caw of Greyflame’s hawkstrider, the beast soon darting to move beside Bal-Varos. Down the hill they ride, past tents and soldiers still readying for war. Their destination is beyond the camp, beasts moving past armored knights and formations of troops until they stand at the forefront. Before them the maw of the pass looms, threatening to swallow them whole.

“A rider comes.” Greyflame’s eyes were true, for deep in the pass Bal-Varos watches a lone figure approach upon horseback. Bal-Varos could not make out which of the scouts it was, eyes narrowing. Why was he alone?

“Where are the others?” He voices with concern. There was something strange about the way the horse moved. It was awkward almost, as if unaccustomed to sprinting.

“Something’s wrong.” Greyflame announced. Bal-Varos turns to watch as she dismounts, moving to a nearby soldier armed with a crossbow. She does not ask for it, instead snatching it out of his hand. “Bolt.”

“Greyflame, what are you doing?” She ignores Bal-Varos, grabbing the bolt offered to her. Before Bal-Varos could act she pulled the trigger, a steel tip whizzing through the air. It slammed square into the torso of the horse, sending it collapsing to the ground hard. “What have you done!”

“That’s not your scout.” In bewilderment he turns to look at her, then the fallen body. To his horror, he watches the horse get back up, seemingly unfazed along with its rider. Another bolt is fired, finding purchase in the horse’s skull and causing it to fall once more. This time it did not get back up. Its rider however clawed its way out from under the corpse of its steed.

“What in the hell…” The rider charged at Bal-Varos, hands outstretched. This close, Bal-Varos recognizes the rider as one of his scouts, only the man’s neck was twisted at an unnatural angle and a hole was in his chest. A third bolt felled the man, piercing skull and brain and sending him collapsing to the ground. A miasma of black smoke oozed from the wound, shrouding the body in a foul cloud. Bal-Varos turns his attention to Greyflame for explanation, though he already knows as a sinking feeling hits his gut.

“We don’t have until day’s end. They’re here. Now.” Greyflame lowers the crossbow, face twisting in rage. Above them a great horn sounded once more, though this time there was a sense of urgency to it. It rang out thrice in a great boom that echoed through the pass. Bal-Varos feels a chill run up his spine, the hair on the back of his neck rising in protest to the horn.

The Blackbloods were here.

“Men, to your position!” Bal-Varos barks, wheeling his horse around to face the army. “Captain Eyvor shall hold the left flank. Captain Euwen shall hold the right, and I will command the center alongside Lady Greyflame.” He places his helmet on, vision narrowing to the slits in the steel. Swiftly he withdraws his sword, letting the blade ring out its cry. “Fear not this darkness that comes, for it cannot stand against true and just men! You are elves of Quel’thalas! Elves of the South! This is your land. Land you have bled to hold against the Alliance, the undead and now the Blackbloods! The day will be bloody and fierce, yet tomorrow a red sun shall rise over our victory. For Quel’thalas!”

“For Quel’thalas!” Hundreds of voices responded.

“The South stands strong!” Cheers echoed from near two thousand voices, and for a moment Bal-Varos feels hope. These were true sons and daughters of Quel’thalas. Today, they would prove why they are children of the blood. Yet as Bal-Varos turns to face the pass, his heart sinks in his chest at what he witnesses. By the gods, there were so many. Blackened horrors from the worst of nightmares crawled and writhed as they moved through the pass. The distance was well over a thousand yards, and from here it was merely indistinguishable shapes that squirmed with ill intent. Like a black festering wound they poured forward, the very shadows shirking from their presence.

“It was wise to make our stand in the pass.” Greyflame’s voice cuts through the air, nearly causing Bal-Varos to jump in his saddle. He turns to look at her, seeing a cavalry flail held loosely in her grip. “We can hold thirty men abreast at its narrowest. Their numbers will mean little in this funnel. Though we should move behind the front lines.” Bal-Varos nodded, pulling on his horse. The ranks of his men parted for their commanders, letting them move to safety. The terrain and battle left little room for cavalry, and so the two dismounted. This would be a meat grinder of infantry.

“Aye. Gods, look at them. What sort of evil is this?”

“The foulest of all. In men there is greed and lust and all manner of wicked vices, but in this? There is no motivation for power. There is no want or desire, save for destruction and annihilation. This is primordial in its hatred for life. In truth, I wonder if it is even capable of thought, or if its simply driven by the unconscious urge to consume?”

“Bah; a question for scholars, not warriors. It is a monster, pure and simple. Its thoughts and desires mean little to me. No better than a beast, and like a rabid dog it needs to be put down.” Closer now the enemy drew and from here Bal-Varos picks out mortals amid such monsters. The Void elves, or Ren’dorei as they called themselves, marched in formation amidst the chaotic charge of the Blackbloods. United in evil deeds, they were the worst of men. Bal-Varos grips the hilt of his sword fiercely in anger, blood boiling.

“Steady men!” Greyflame’s voice booms over the battlefield, though she mutters quietly to Bal-Varos now. “We’re outnumbered bad.”

“As you said; their numbers will mean little as long as we hold the pass, though I will confess I wished for the use of cavalry.” No response was given, for instead Greyflame raised her flail skyward, her voice strong with fervor and command.

“Archers! Fire!” In response, dozens if not hundreds of arrows and bolts flew through the air, arcing high for but a moment before raining down upon the Blackbloods. Before the first volley had even hit, a second was let loose. Shapeless abominations though they were, they were yet creatures bound in mortal coil and thus fell beneath the many-colored rain of fletching. Steel pierced flesh and bone and whatever else the gods had deemed these creatures be made of, felling scores. It did not slow them.

“We’re in for a tough fight alright…” Bal-Varos pushes aside the man in front of him, taking his place in the line with longsword drawn. He was a warrior king, not a philosopher. Many would deem themselves too important to fight on the front lines, and instead hide in the rear. Bal-Varos had never been such a man. He fights beside his men because how could he ask them to die for him, if he would not die for them?

Amidst his people, Bal-Varos was quite large in size, and towered a full head over even the tallest here. He would be the rock to hold the line and as long as he stands, it would not bend or break. Gods these monsters were hideous. Many did not hold a singular form, for they writhed and shifted in jerking motions. Some had two eyes and others a great many, though even that would change on a whim. This was chaos given an evil form for evil deeds. Yet among these monsters and the Void Elves marched the dead. Elven faces twisted with malice shambled, a faint violet hue to their movements.

Whatever foul sorcery had brought them back had allowed them at least the ability to wield weapons however clumsily, for spears and swords were gripped with ill intent. That was all they were afforded in this cursed resurrection for they marched with mindless obedience to whatever commanded such a host. Bal-Varos bares his teeth, though such his hidden behind his helm. He can smell them now, a sickly stench of rotting meat and fruit assailing his senses. He suppresses a gag, though others beside him are not so fortunate.

“That smell…it’s terrible!” A voice cries beside him.

“That it is. No worse than a goblin’s brothel though, I imagine. Little less oil here though.” Bal-Varos’ jest has the intended effect, easing the panic that was growing in the soldiers around him. Some had even chuckled.

“Can we win, my lord?”

“Yes.” Greyflame moves to stand beside Bal-Varos now as she speaks, looking to the world the warrior queen she was. Bal-Varos remembers the rumors of her with amusement; none had ever bested her in battle in the Coast. She was the tempest itself from which her land was named, unstoppable in her fury. The Indaris boy had bested her true, though the fighting had been fixed to ensure the safety of Greyflame’s people. Had it not been? Bal-Varos was unsure who the victor would have been, though he guesses it would not have been Aurelian.

“Men of the South! Brace yourselves!” Bal-Varos’ command was met by a wall of spears around him. The Blackbloods would break themselves upon the steel and flesh of elves, ready to die for their home. He grips his sword with both hands now, the great mantle of the bear cloak waving lightly around him in the soft breeze that rose. Overhead the clouds had darkened, the sun fading in the approach of the storm. Yes, it did look like rain.

A final volley landed amidst the Blackbloods before they struck with the force of a thunderbolt. In the opening charge dozens died, their blackened forms oozing away from spearpoint and sword tip. Bal-Varos claims the first strike with a roar of anger upon his lips, sword hewing a monster with a dozen eyes and as many limbs in twain. Steel pierced and sliced against the flesh of the Blackbloods, yet more charged over the bodies of the fallen.

Like a great wave they crashed against the rock that was the elven line. The great numbers of the Blackbloods was meaningless in this small pass, though they had a great many to throw against the elves. Arrows and bolts continued to rain down upon the Blackbloods, for their great horde was clumped up so stymied as they were. Sorcerous fire too began to rain down in bolts of lightning and fire, for the magi of the coast and of house Blackfyre commanded each with fierce precision. Battle had a funny way of making strangers allies, for together they struck with fury.

Bal-Varos himself was a god of war. Each sword blow brought ruin and death upon the Blackbloods, for they balked against his rage. Beside him, Greyflame was an avatar of vengeance. They had said she possessed supernatural strength and was blessed by gods, and right now Bal-Varos believed such tales. She smote the Blackbloods with ease, sending their bodies flying as if they were little more than dolls. Bal-Varos watches a void elf charge her, a sword and shield in hand. She strikes against the shield, crumpling it like parchment and sending him flying in a broken heap.

Around him men bled and died. Though the Blackbloods could not use the full force of their numbers, they still had many to throw. They were seemingly infinite, whilst the elves were finite. Each death is a loss Bal-Varos can barely afford, and dying the elves were. A colossal beast with two heads smashed into the elven line, sending men scattering like dice. Behind it the Blackbloods surged, trying to pierce further the wall. Concentrated fire brought the monster down, and stout hearts pushed back the Blackbloods.

This happened all along the battle line, however. Wave after wave of monsters charged fearlessly against the ichor laden steel of the elves and though they died, they could afford such deaths. Exhaustion would set in, for no man can keep fighting forever. Even Bal-Varos begins to feel his arms ache, for he slays monster after monster with great rending hews. Sweat beads his brow in exertion, though he keeps fighting.

By now the ground had become slick with blood and gore, causing men to slip and stumble. The screams of the dying were matched by the roars of monsters, and the smell…gods the smell. They never tell you about the smell. Bal-Varos gags as he cleaves a Ren’dorei in twain, the odor of death and shit pungent as blood spews across his tabard. He was getting tired, and there was no end in sight to the Blackbloods. He takes a brief moment to look skywards, cursing for he could not tell how much time had passed yet.

The ground shakes beneath Bal-Varos’ feet, drawing his attention down to the earth. There is a great hissing sound, followed by a low wail. He looks up, going wide eyed. A fog of purple miasma was racing towards the elven line, the source hidden behind the horde of bodies. Though it did not affect the Blackbloods, Bal-Varos knew such would not be the same for the elves. An elf too far forward is caught by the fog, and his screams pierce the battle. In seconds he dies, body a sickly hue. Moments later he pulls himself up, and Bal-Varos curses.

“They use foul magic!” He cries out, voice hoarse from shouting. “The mist will doom us!” Greyflame must have heard him, for she stepped forward against the fog. The fog seemed to shirk away from her presence, being dispelled by the simple act of her existing. The hair on the back of Bal-Varos’ neck rises, recognizing there was some power afoot though one he did not recognize. Yet Greyflame’s very presence cast back the fog long enough for her storm magi to cast fierce winds, and the fog was no more.

Yet despite this, the elves were losing ground. The sheer weight of the Blackbloods was slowly pushing them back. Men tripped over their fallen, only to be consumed and swallowed whole by monsters. Each inch brought more Blackbloods against the elven lines, the gap of the pass widening. Though hundreds of the monsters lay dead, they simply kept coming.

“Hold you bastards!” Bal-Varos commands. He stands his ground, a giant among men. For a time he is alone amidst a sea of darkness, dozens of blows raining down upon him. Most do nothing against the thick plates he wears, though some find purchase in the gaps. His bones ache now, and he swings his sword with great effort. He cannot break or fall back, however. He must stand and fight.

Bal-Varos bleeds now, faint stains of crimson beneath his tabard. A Ren’dorei had driven a dagger into his side, piercing plate and mail. Bal-Varos’ response was to separate the Ren’dorei’s head from her shoulders, but the damage was done. The great bear was wounded, and it began to show. He is slow to block and parry, and for a moment it looks that the bear would fall. He is made of sterner stuff however, and the bear is fiercest when met with death. He lets out a mighty roar, his sword cleaving in a great arc. Creatures guided by malice and instinct, the Blackbloods shirk away for in some recess of their twisted forms they recognize fear.

Fear that the bear will devour them.

Thunder booms overhead, and Bal-Varos is joined by Greyflame and the troops, who stand beside their lord. Lightning cracks in the sky, and they strike. Some unknown command forces the Blackbloods back and for a brief moment there is respite. Bal-Varos collapses to a knee, panting hard. He is exhausted, the weight of his sword aching. A hand clasps his shoulder, and he looks to up Greyflame. She is covered in blood but suffers no fatigue. Damn magic.

“Stand, Eyvor. The enemy threatens us still!” Slowly Bal-Varos rises, leaning upon his sword for a moment. With a deep breath he readies himself. He hears the wounded cry out, and the panting of men. He sees the broken bodies of his people scattered amidst the stygian hordes they have felled. They’ve put up a good fight so far. They-

A great horn pierces the air. The sound is ugly and cut short.

It is terrified.

It is doom.

Bal-Varos looks up to where the horn sounded and goes wide eyed with surprise. The Blackbloods were upon the crest of the peak. The horn was a warning; the enemy had scaled the walls of the peak itself. There were dozens, nay hundreds descending from the rocky outcropping. No mortal man could scale such a face without dedicated equipment and time, but these were not men. Some of the creatures fell to their deaths, unable to keep their grip yet many more still were behind.

Numbers counted for nothing within the pass, yet past it? Numbers were everything. The Blackbloods would flank and swarm the elves like locusts. They were going to be surrounded, and Bal-Varos cries out in rage. Damn them and their trickery and damn himself for not expecting such tactics. The situation was desperate now. He knows they could not retreat in any organized fashion; such would be too slow, and the Blackbloods would devour them all. A disorganized route would also doom the elves. No, there was only one course left, and he gives a silent prayer before uttering his command.

“Stand your ground! Greyflame gather the cavalry; we will need them very soon.” She gives a silent nod, her eyes trained on the descending Blackbloods as she leaves. The elves had exhausted their supply of arrows and bolts, leaving the creatures unmolested as they climbed down the pass. “Men of the South! Today is the day heroes are made. Swords will shatter! Spears will splinter! Yet we will not go quietly into the void that awaits. The South stands strong!”

The enemy had rallied now, and once more surged against the elves. Bal-Varos does not hold his ground, however. He meets them on the field, charging against the tide. He is tired and he is wounded, but he is not dead yet. Behind him dozens follow their lord and commander, ready to charge into hell itself should he order it. Not all were of house Eyvor, yet they follow the bear as if he is their lord. As thunder boomed overhead once more the two forces collided. There is great slaughter as man and monster alike fall in a desperate battle of survival. Bal-Varos hears fighting from behind and knows the Blackbloods upon the peak have reached the ground. He knows his daughter fights there yet and prays for her safety. Yet he cannot think further on it, for the battle was in front of him.

His sword is slick in his hands from blood. How many has he killed now? It felt like dozens. Even still hundreds if not thousands more were behind each monster he slew. He cannot fight forever and he knows it, yet he fights until death claims him. Death has already claimed many. He would be but one more amidst an endless sea of bodies, yet until that moment comes he fights. Slowly he finds himself surrounded, for the others are dead.

He is alone.

He does not stop fighting.

He cuts down another of the monsters, turning as a great force strikes him. He is sent flying through the air from the blow, and lands hard. He feels several ribs are broken, and it hurts to breath. He tries to rise, though stabs up as something lunges. Sword pierces flesh, and a mass of writhing limbs falls on him before going still. He is pinned under the weight of the creature, and more come yet. A lumbering monstrosity, no doubt the beast that had struck him, looms overhead. It raises its fists to deliver the killing blow.

The blow never comes.

Something charges behind Eyvor, a great shadow leaping overhead. He looks up, seeing feathers and a cloak dull grey. Greyflame has come to save the bear. She roars, her lance she has brought piercing the giant aberration. It falls hard, lance tip broken in its skull. She discards the broken weapon, flail now in hand and she smites the Blackbloods with fury. Her hawkstrider battles too, pecking and clawing at any that approached.

“Get up, Eyvor! Your gods are not done with you yet.” He strains against the weight, and with a roar he throws the corpse off him. Slowly he rises, breathing heavily. It hurt, but the pain was good. He was still alive. Greyflame was still fighting as if not burdened by fatigue, each blow as strong as the last. Witnessing her, Bal-Varos is certain now Aurelian would not have stood a chance in a real fight. She was an unstoppable goddess, each blow met with thunder above. For a moment he wonders if Greyflame commands the sky above, though cannot voice such questions.

The ground seems to shudder under him, as if quaking in fear. Behind he hears panicked cries, and he turns quickly. A great pillar of darkness strikes down from the sky upon the surviving elves with such force as to temporarily deafen, and when he regains his hearing he is met with panicked screams. Then he sees it; the route. The elves were fleeing as more strikes from the very heavens rained down. He turns back to Greyflame, shouting for her.

“Greyflame! Our lines are breaking. We must go and rally them!” She does not answer at first, though quickly pulls the reins of her hawkstrider. The beast caws, before turning and taking off. Greyflame offers out a hand to Bal-Varos, easily pulling the large man upon the saddle as if he weighed nothing. Gods she was strong. The two rode hard down the pass, past Blackbloods that shirked away momentarily. Yet Bal-varos hears them behind shrieking and howling, and he knows they follow behind. The two emerge from the maw of the pass into disaster. The elves were beginning to flee. The foul magic from the sky had broken several holes in their lines, and the Blackbloods filled the gaps.

“Stand your ground, damn you!” Bal-Varos shouts, though they cannot hear him. There is a howling tempest growing around him and Greyflame now, as if the very sky is threatening to swallow them. Dark magic coalesced around Bal-Varos in a fine mist, and he felt fear. Gods this was the end. There was no hope of victory this day, nor any other day. He had led his men to die, and for what? A hopeless task. Dully he hears his name, though it sounds as if underwater. They were going to drown be-

“EYVOR!” Greyflame’s voice snaps him from his stupor. He blinks rapidly, shaking his head to clear it. The enchantment over him faded with the mist, and he felt courage in his heart once more. “My magi are dead as well as the Blackfyre warlocks, and without them the enemy is free to bewitch our forces. The Blackbloods have someone powerful to curse our forces.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Yes. They are deep amidst the host of our enemy, protected by a living wall. We cannot reach them.”

“Damn it. We must rally who we can and hold.”

“It is too late; we cannot reform in time to mount a proper defense. They’ve broken through the pass.” Bal-Varos swore, though he knew Greyflame spoke true. Their defeat was sealed when the Blackbloods scaled the walls of the pass.

“We must get word to the surviving commanders! We need to rally at Seahallow! We can mount a defense there.” And let the others die. He does not voice it, but they both knew what it meant. The Blackbloods would have free reign to raze the countryside and slaughter any that had remained behind. The Tempest Coast and the Gilded Lands would burn.

“It seems we have no other option. We- “Greyflame pauses before she pulls hard on the reins, wheeling the hawkstrider around. Bal-Varos does not see what strikes them, simply feeling the overwhelming force. A bright light blinds him, a great heat burning at his face. He brings a hand up to shield his eyes and he hears a grunt from Greyflame. The hawkstrider jerks beneath him, before taking off in a full sprint with a shrieking caw.

When he regains his sight he sees they are fleeing the battle eastward in the direction of the coastline. Behind him the Blackbloods howl, though they do not catch the Hawkstrider so easily. Greyflame is wordless as she rides, though something is wrong. Bal-Varos senses a strange tension in the woman and can all but feel the uncertainty. Finally, he finds his voice.

“What was that!”

“A spell.” She replies and he can hear how weak she now sounds. “A powerful one.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. I stopped it from killing us, though it sent the beast into a panic. I cannot control the Hawkstrider, anymore. It flees with us on it.”

“Damn it, we need to find the other commanders!”

“If your daughter is as smart as I think, she will know what to do if she yet lives. If not? No force on Azeroth will save our army.”

“If there is one left.” Bal-Varos mutters grimly. With time to breath came time to realize the full extent of his injuries. He is wounded badly and exhausted and struggles to stay conscious now. He closes his eyes for a moment. Sleep sounds nice right now. Just a little sleep.

“Stay with me, Eyvor.” Greyflame’s command keeps him awake. He cannot rest. Not yet. Gods he hurts though. They ride for what seems an hour before the hawkstrider collapses from exhaustion. Dismounting, he sees now the front of the beast was horrifically burned. Surprisingly Greyflame was untouched save a strange scorch mark against her breastplate though she paid it no mind. She instead looks outwards, and Eyvor realizes they are overlooking the sea.

“It’s beautiful.” He mutters, a hand pressing against his wound. In truth Bal-Varos has always loved the coastline. There was something awe inspiring to watch the waves crash against the rocks, unbending and unbroken. Yet in a thousand years even the rocks would erode against the waves and would swallow the world.

“Yes. I- “Greyflame pauses, turning to look at her hawkstrider. He follows her gaze and hisses, for the hawkstrider’s wounds had begun to fester and bubble.

“What is going on with it?!” In answer the beast roars, the sound unnatural. From its wounds ooze black ichor, and Bal-Varos realizes now what’s happening. He runs forward, thrusting his sword into the Hawkstrider’s neck. Steel parts flesh with ease, and soon the beast was still. “Whoreson magic. Now we’re without steed.”

“And we’re not alone.” Greyflame warns. She points to the west, and Bal-Varos looks. There were a dozen Blackbloods rapidly approaching. He curses, realizing they had been following the hawkstrider. Undoubtedly the beast had been marked and like moths to a flame attracted the Blackbloods to them. “Can you fight?”

“Do I have a choice?” He hoists his sword over a shoulder, grimacing.

“No.” With that Greyflame charges forward, Bal-Varos fast behind. They would meet the Blackbloods head on. They would not go whimpering into the afterlife, but instead face it with steel drawn. Lightning lit up the sky as the two elves smashed against the Blackbloods. Bal-Varos hacked and hewed his way through the beasts in desperation, each swing harder to do than the last.

He howls as something pierces his side. Bal-Varos looks down at the oily purple tendril that has broken through the plating into flesh, and with a cry he brings his sword down upon his assailant. Something hard presses itself against his back, and he cranes his neck to spot Greyflame. Back to back the two hold their ground as the monsters roar, biting and jabbing in some attempt to kill. Bal-Varos hears Greyflame grunt in pain but does not see what caused it.

They are few now, and one leaps at Bal-Varos. He brings his sword down hard but cannot raise it in time to stop the other. Jaws bite down hard into his shoulder, teeth piercing plate and biting deep into flesh. He does not cry out but instead slams his head against the monster. It weakens its grip but does not let go. Bal-Varos shoves his sword upward into the jaw of the beast, and it finally stills. As it falls, it brings Bal-Varos down with him.

Greyflame slides down with him, the two sitting in the dirt back to back. Struggling, he weakly saws at the monster’s neck, leaving its head still buried in his shoulder as the rest of it collapses. There is nothing in him except exhaustion, now. His wounds are a dull throb, and the haft of his sword has long grown slippery with ichor and blood. He can rest now. The midden heaps of Blackblood corpses around them is still and slain.

Time passes.

“It’s over then, do you think?” he asks, of the knight behind him.

“Mm.” Greyflame’s reply is weak.

“Hardest fight of my life. Should’ve…should’ve sent my daughter off with your boy now that I think about it, eh?”

“It’s bad luck to talk about regrets before dying, Eyvor.” Her voice trails off.

“Ah, I guess you’re right.” He grunts, letting his sword drop into the dirt. “We need…we need to rally the others. We might be able to strike against the rear of the Blackbloods before…before they destroy our lands.”

…

“Greyflame?”

…

“Wake up. Wake up. You’ve got a people to lead, don’t you?”

…

“Ceana?”

…

Bal-Varos sighs.

It begins to rain.

[trashbin-mumbling]

Chapter I

Ever since the humans has set a huge fire to the forest, it was marked as one of the biggest tragedy in history.

It has made a few animals go extinct and a few to become endagered.

When all hope was lost, a huge tree grew, and was given the role to protect all animals. The tree provided us with food and protection from the fire -- we called it the Tree of Life. Everyone worked in harmony and no one dared to strike on eachother. And even if they did, they'd get taken away from the Tree of Life.

But then the humans has striked and chopped the tree down after finding out that it was made out of "rare material"

The tree of life was gone.

I was quickly taken away from the area, abandoning my kind. We were the only ones left.

- - - - -

(1ST P.O.V)

I was currently still walking aimlessly in the ruined forests, the scent of ashes and dust was everywhere. It was a horrid smell.

What happened again?.. oh.. right.

I'm lost. I can't remember how many days, weeks, months or years has passed me ever since the Tree was chopped down. I was doing my hardest to survive since I was the only one left in my kind. What were we? I can't remember.

I scanned my areas, all I saw was rubbles, trash, and fallen leaves. Trees being one of them too, It was getting tiring to walk around, so I decided to rest for the night. There was a nearby cave made out of the rubbles and trees, so I rushed over. I was already feeling the adrenaline. It scared me, obviously.

When I rushed over to the cave entrance, I instinctivly placed my hand on the cold surface, just to catch my breath. The texture was somewhat in the middle of rough and smooth. Maybe its because it rained...? Or it was getting mossier, I dont know.

So I crawled under the cave, in hopes I'll live another day to find somewhere to stay.

(Back to 3RD P.O.V)

The fox finally fell asleep under the cool cave, the sounds of crickets chirping and the wind blowing filled the atmosphere. It was peaceful, yet left chills down your spine from the feeling that -- something will pounce and bite.

He was obviously tired and didn't really care much from the noises the bugs emitted, and was in a deep slumber, soon enough, the sound of crunching was heard.

"Hey.. is that a survivor?.."

"Lead the way."

The sounds got louder, and soon enough a sound of something brushing against the cave walls resonated in his ears making him flutter his eyes slowly.

And there he was faced to face with a wolf and swan.

The fox widened his eyes and quickly backed up "S-STAY AWAY!--" The swan gripped on his wrists softly, yet firmly "Sir, please, we won't do such thing. We have come to rescue you." She spoke out in a sweet tone to calm the frightened fox, the wolf simply glanced "Come, we should go back, we're done with our shift for today." The fox struggled out of her grip, but the swan simply gave a soft gaze, as if to say -- It will all be okay.

He stared back and saw genuine concern from the woman, he finally saw the truth and bit his bottom lip, anxiously "I... Im sorry for my behaviour." The wolf didnt reply and simply leaned against the cave, staring. The swan gave a soft smile "its quite alright. I apologize if we did look suspicious. We'll take you somewhere safer, come with us."

[ and so, the fox went along with the two, they walked over the hill, the swan was infront while the wolf was behind. The fox didn't know where he was going but then saw something soar from above.. an owl..? ]

"Cho! Imako!" The swan looked behind her, before glancing up the skies. She spotted the owl boy who was flapping his wings and gave a tired look, his voice was average to a person speaking infront of you, is that supposedly his yell? "Ah, Rowlet! Hows the situation back in Haseika Village?" The fox looked up as well, the owl, presumambly, Rowlet looked rather nerdy, yet at the same time, VERY sleep deprived, he wore a simple beige coat that has some sort of symbols and round glasses.

"Mr. Hagetaka is looking for you and the others. He requests you to come back. The village is currently alright." His voice was.. soft, making the two tilt their head, the wolf behind them walked forward, his ears twitching a bit "Mr. Hagetaka is looking for us. And the village is alright, we should go." The swan nodded before waving goodbye to the owl who then flew off.

Now the fox had questions, he didn't know there was a village. Who was Cho? Imako? Rowlet? Hagetaka?.. the swan seemed to have notice his mood by the way his tail was moving slightly along with his furrowed expression, she simply placed a hand on his shoulder causing him to jump, ever so slightly.

"We'll talk about the situation later, for now. Lets move on forth."

And so they did. The only sound heard was the sound of the leaves crunching each time they took a step, not to mention the harmonious bug's chatters.

It went up for a few more minutes when they finally saw 2 swans and a wolf. The swans was a male and a female, both looking quite the same, only difference being the hair length, while the wolf was still a male, but looked more.. nicer and welcoming. And next to them was a Koala clinging onto the wolf and a fidgety looking otter

"Ahh, Cho!" The male wolf waved at the female, so it looks like he can assume that the wolf was Imako and the swan was Cho. The male wolf surprisingly didn't drop the koala clinging unto him or well. The koala letting go. The two swans simply stared, not really saying much which honestly made the Fox a bit more anxious about them. Imako cleared his throat "Mr. Hagetaka is currently looking for us. We should report back to him."

The wolf gave thumbs up while the two swans simply nodded before holding the otter'a hands, to which he replied by awkwardly being dragged away by them. Cho walked forward and gestured the fox to follow, while of course, Imako stayed at the back.

"Whats the name of the village?" The fox spoke out, voice somewhat parched from lack of water, Cho hummed "Haseika. Its where the new Tree of Life is located." The fox widened his eyes

Tree of Life? "a new one?" Imako grumbled "Leave the questions for later. I'm pretty sure Kireika would happily answer them..." Cho looked over her shoulder, doing a little 'ehem'

He rolled his eyes "Mistress Kireika." The fox still stared, he was intimidated but there is so much going on.

[ it was another long walk, but sooner or later they walked through a tree bridge and through the tree leaves that were still... oddly alive and was finally greeted with the sight of Haseika Village from above. They were on a hill and there in the middle was... ]

"Is that the tree?" The fox pointed at the little bonsai in the middle, Cho giggled along with the cheery wolf "No silly, thats not it."

The two swans pointed at a hill with small opening that was decorated with flowers and had a vine like curtain. The fox just stared before realizing "Ah, so.. through that opening?" The two swans nodded, before going down the small log stairs (still dragging the poor otter) the cheery wolf simply followed, not having a problem about the Koala girl while the 3 went on ahead to follow them.

The fox's eyes glowed in amazement after seeing the beauty of the village. Everyone was seen working in harmony, children were happily chasing eachother, and the scent of simple pastries were from the distance. Who knew that they'd still get lively in the night.

Speaking of pastry, That made the fox's stomach grumble. He hasnt ate much... which is why he can barely remember things. Cho giggled "You're hungry, aren't you?" The fox simple laughed awkwardly "y-yeaah..." Imako stared blankly "Don't worry. Im sure Namake would happily treat your wounds, illnesses, etc etc." Cho nodded at his remark "yeah! Doctor Namake is the best!"

Before they made a turn, a loud booming voice was heard "OI, STOP RIGHT THERE!" the swans and wolves froze and turned around. Along with the survivors. They saw a tall vulture who wore all black and had a far different uniform than the swans and wolves, they all turned to his direction.

"WHERE THE HELL DID YOU ALL WENT?" The cheery wolf gulped while the two swans winced at his voice, Cho cleared her throat "U-Uh.. well Mr. Arukami sent us t--"

"DID HE NOT MENTION ABOUT OUR MEETING?!" the 2 survivors stood there in shock while the Koala woke up rubbing her eyes before sleeping on the ground instead. The vulture grumbled "Agh.. that forgetful little shit. Come. They'll just find their way to the Tree." Cho stuttered a bit, being caught in her sentence while the cheery wolf avoided eye contact, which ticked the Vulture off even more.

"AS FOR YOU, YOKIKA, DONT YOU DARE THINK THAT I DID NOT SUSPECT YOU FOR WRAPPING MY FUCKING STAPLER IN VINES." the now named, Yokika puffed his cheeks out "You'll be doing 300 push ups after the meeting is done. You 5, follow me." The vulture then glanced at the 3 survivors "You 3. You know where the Tree of Life is?" The otter choked on his saliva, while the Koala was still asleep on the ground, the Fox nodded "Y-Yes sir."

The vulture squinted his eyes "You're aware and respectful. I like that. We shall be taking our leave, please respect the Tree." The vulture then left, the way he spoke as if he glossed over his previous behaviour surprises the fox. But now his concern is the tree and the survivors..

"Ah.. well, hey uhm.. what are your names?" The fox glanced over to the two, of course the Koala didnt answer while Otter gasped "Y-you're talking to me..?" The Koala fluttered her eyes open rubbing her eyes "Tsubuya." The otter squeaked "Y-YOU'RE STILL ALIVE?!" Tsubuya stood up lazily and clung onto the fox "Sleepy." The Fox awkwardly carried her, she looked around 9 or 10 The otter looked sround 15 or 17, he was 19.

"A-AH UH.. M-MY NAME IS KAWAUSO- J-JUST CALL ME KAWA- OR UH- WAU-- WELL, UH, ANHTHING I GUESS!" He seemed to be a very.. socially awkward person. The fox nodded "I see uh.. my name is Kit." Kit then looked around "We should probably head for the tree of life." Tsubuya mumbled a quiet -- "Tsutsu" while Kawa nodded rather... aggresively

The path to the tree of life was a bit near, they just had to take a straight walk to the distant viney curtains. The village was still lively and cheerful, the village itself was circled by the mountain walls. But it wasn't that high. Finally, they were greeted by the vine like curtains. The 3 stayed quiet and took a deep breath.

Soon enough they went through the vines, and the sight amazed him, making his heart leap from excitement. The feeling of emotions rushed in once he saw the beauty.

A single island in the middle while the lake around it had flower petals resting on them while a few children slept. And there the tree.. was instead a deer sitting down peacefully with her antlers spread all over the place.

She was the tree. The tree of life.

The fox widened his eyes. While the deer fluttered her eyes open.

"Welcome."