#what are tags even and what are titles

[trensu]

Steve had always wanted to be a skilled fighter. The schools that churned out the best fighters all happened to be schools for holy warriors. It was possible that Steve maybe sort of lied a little (with the help of his friends Robin and Dustin) to get into this school by claiming he was full to the brim of religious fervor but hadn’t decided who to pledge his sword to yet. It shouldn’t have worked, if he were honest with himself, but by some stroke of luck it did, and he finished his training as one of the top combatants. 

The issue now was that he had to pick a god whose crest to carry. There were all sorts of gods. Gods of water, gods of air, gods of agriculture, war gods, cat gods, plant gods...the list was endless. And while Steve was one of the best fighters around, he was most definitely not one of the best researchers. Thankfully Dustin and Robin were very clever and knew where to find details about the many gods in existence.

“So what kind of god do you want to follow? Maybe we can start there,” Robin asked.

“Uh…a good one?”

“You’re no help at all, you know that?” Dustin grumbled.

They suggested a local god known as Carver who stood for righteousness, but Steve turned that down. It didn't feel like a good fit. They suggested a love god by the name of Chrissy, who valued love of all kinds, romantic, platonic, familial...Steve had been tempted, very tempted, because Steve had always carried an excess of love in his heart. Robin had vetoed that one stating that Steve was already too reckless with his love and she wouldn't stand by and watch him break his own heart over and over again.

Dustin suggested a god of knowledge, Clarke, who blessed and guided those with curiosity, imagination, and a knack for invention. Steve shot that one down immediately. He was never one to be overly imaginative or curious; he preferred to deal with concrete things. Out of their quickly dwindling list, Robin reluctantly suggested Hargrove, a war god favored by a nearby kingdom, but if Carver was ill-fitting, then Hargrove was outright repellent to Steve.

"C'mon, Steve, you gotta pick someone!" Dustin huffed in frustration. 

Robin thunked her head against the table in the library where they were looking up deities. She was obviously at her wit's end too. Steve, however, just dug his heels in with a particularly stubborn scowl.

"I can't just pick anyone!" Steve said. "If I'm going to pledge my sword to someone, it has to be someone...someone good. Someone that, I don't know, someone I can believe in, even when--no especially when things go wrong. That’s the whole point!"

"Yeah, I get that," Robin sighed, a mix of fond and annoyed, "but this is the eighth book we've gone through and the only one left here is called the King of Darkness which is hardly going to--huh."

Robin paused mid-rant to look at the page more closely. Steve and Dustin both huddled around her to peek into the book as well. Dustin also made a sound of curiosity.

"That's weird," Dustin said.

"Right?" Robin asked enthusiastically.

"What? What's weird?" Steve didn't get what caught their attention.

"This god only has a couple of sentences," Dustin explained, "And they don't really make sense. Something about dark creatures and the undeserving? The grammar and structure is all weird though."

"It looks like a half-assed translation," Robin added with a nod. "We should find the original text."

"Yeah! And if we can make a better translation, we could get it added to the next edition and they'd have to put our names on the book," Dustin said excitedly. Robin's eyes lit up at the thought and they both rushed off to the stacks to track down any original sources.

"Guys! Guys, what about my..."

The librarian hushed Steve, irritated. Steve groaned in defeat.

"...godly choices. Yeah, fine," Steve slumped back on his seat. "I need to find non-nerd friends."

Two days later, Robin and Dustin finished translating a slim, dusty book. They were nearly vibrating in their seats as Steve reviewed their notes on what they found. Dustin gripped his arm and gave him a shake.

"So? What do you think?" he asked excitedly.

Robin slung her arm across Steve's shoulders. With more tenderness than Steve expected, she said, "I know it doesn't seem like it, he doesn't really fit with your whole style, but it could work."

"Yeah," Steve said with a hopeful smile. "Yeah, this feels right."

--

It took longer than Steve would've liked, but eventually he managed to track down a small, crumbling shrine. It was an alcove carved near the entrance--no more than a crack in the stone really--of a cave at the edge of a lush forest. He almost missed it, it was so drowned in overgrown crawling vines and weeds. It bore a modest statue, no bigger than Steve, standing atop an equally modest plinth. There was a spot that obviously held a plaque once, but it must’ve been dug out by thieves at some point.

The sight of it made something in Steve's chest twinge; a strange pang of melancholy at seeing a god so forgotten and abandoned. It surprised him as he had never been particularly religious, but there was just something about this one that drew him in.

It was the middle of the day, so Steve quickly made camp and took advantage of the light to begin clearing the shrine. He started where the plaque had been, scrubbing off the dirt and moss that had filled the indentation. He knew a good smith; he could commission a new plaque to be made. After that, he weeded the immediate area around the plinth where worshipers would typically lay their offerings and pray.

By the time he finished that, it was late afternoon and he decided that was good enough for today. He had to eat and get a few hours of sleep so he could be alert once night fell. When he curled up on his bedroll, he couldn't help the grin that spread on his face. He was going to offer himself to his god tonight, and with any luck, his god would accept him.

--

He woke to a multitude of high pitched squeaks and the sound of many, many flapping wings. The sun had just fully set, and the stars that could be seen through the canopy burned brightly. Steve took his time to fasten on his armor and scabbard properly, and fixed his hair so not a strand was out of place. He took a few deep breaths to calm an unexpected bout of nerves before going to the shrine and kneeling.

His god had no official prayers. Or rather, the prayers for his god were forgotten. Robin and Dustin did their best to find anything prayer-like but it had been in vain. They suspected that most of the god's holy items and lore were purposely lost. Lacking that, Steve decided it was best that he introduce himself.

"Um, hi," he started and immediately winced. "Sorry. I'm not used to...this. I couldn't find any of your…holy words? Prayers? The right ways to speak to you, I guess.

"I'm Steve. Steve Harrington. I'm a fighter. I finished my training a few weeks back. I was the top of my cohort when it came to combat. I'm good with my sword and I know how to take a hit. I can turn just about anything into a weapon if it's needed."

Here Steve paused for a moment, straining to hear but there was nothing other than the typical sounds of a night out in the woods. Steve took a breath and plowed forward.

"I want to be more than a fighter, though. I don't want to just wave a sword around for nothing. I want it to...to matter. So I spent a lot of time trying to decide who to wield my sword for. It took me a while, but I found you. I want to be your shield and sword, if you'll have me."

Steve stopped again to listen. Nothing. Robin warned him this might happen. Gods didn't always accept warriors who offered themselves to them, and forgotten gods weren't always reachable. It was fine, though; he’d try again tomorrow night. Steve turned in just before dawn, eager for night again.

--

Steve worked on clearing the vines tangled around the statue's legs and feet. He yanked out the thick, scraggly vines, and carefully picked apart the prickling thorny ones. There was a particular gnarl of vines that didn't seem like they had a stranglehold on his god's statue. They were healthy and strong, and the way they curled and grew looked more like a caress than an invasion. He decided to leave those on, though he gently rearranged them while removing the more invasive vines so they looked more decorative.

When night arrived with the sound of squeaks and wings, Steve went to kneel at the shrine. He introduced himself again, gave the same spiel as the night before. Still he heard nothing. He scratched the back of his neck in mild insecurity.

“I guess I should tell you I didn’t find you on my own. My friends Robin and Dustin helped me. They’re way smarter than me, you know? Total nerds. I can swing a sword like nothing, but books and research? Yeah, that never works out for me, so they helped me look up all sorts of gods.

“There’s a lot of them. Way more than I thought. Dustin and Robin both recommended me ones or vetoed others. They were getting frustrated with me because I kept rejecting the ones they gave me. 

“Then Robin found you. Kind of by accident, to be honest. But she did her research thing and I knew that I wanted to carry your symbol. It took me forever to find this shrine. Robin said this was probably the only shrine you had left, so I had to find it. 

“Dustin kept saying it was on the other side of the forest, but obviously he was wrong. Not that he’ll ever admit it, the little shit, but whatever. I’m sorry your shrine was abandoned like this, but I promise I’ll fix it up. I’m good with my hands, I can do it.”

There was no response to his admittedly disorganized ramble. It was fine, he told himself. He needed to be patient. He’d come back the next night.

–

Around the statue’s waist there was another tangled mess of vines, except these vines had died and rotted to dark sludge. There was fungus growing on it, and it reeked. It was gross. Steve scrubbed at it for hours because the rot had stained the stone. He was able to get rid of the rot and most of the stains before going to catch a few hours of sleep in the afternoon.

Night fell and Steve was kneeling for the third time. He repeated most of what he said the previous two nights. There was still no response. He thought maybe he was pushing too hard. He’d never been the super talkative type anyway. He could share the quiet night with his god, if that was what his god wanted.

A few hours passed when he was startled out of his near meditative state by the sound of snapping twigs. He leapt to his feet, hand on his scabbard. Someone–a man by the look of it–stumbled out of the woods. He was pale and dark haired, dressed in ragged clothes that were probably awful even when they were new. He looked like a vagabond. 

Steve stepped in front of the shrine, protectively. The stranger grinned at him and Steve could already tell he was not going to enjoy the conversation that was about to happen.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Steve asked firmly, cutting the man off before he could speak. The smile only grew wider.

“I could ask you the same thing, sir,” the man said, adopting the annoyed huff of a wealthy lord. Steve scowled.

“I asked first.”

“I asked second!”

“You didn’t ask me anything,” Steve responded, somewhat smug. The man paused and then snorted a laugh.

“Yeah, okay.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “You got me.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Steve repeated shortly. The teasing grin was back, and Steve felt his scowl deepen.

“Nothing and no one, m’lord,” the man bows mockingly.

“I’m not a lord.”

“Huh. Could’ve fooled me. You’re certainly as demanding as any lord I’ve ever met.”

“Oh fuck you,” Steve snapped. “I’m a holy warrior.”

The man laughed at him outright.

“Well that doesn’t sound very holy warrior-ish. Are your type allowed to swear?”

Steve grinded his teeth and decided it was not worth it to continue this conversation for much longer.

“Look, if you’re here to steal, I’ve got nothing on me.”

“That’s exactly what someone with something to steal would say.”

“Well, I don’t! I’m on a pilgrimage and I don’t want to spill blood on holy ground. So.” Steve wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword. “Leave. Please.”

“Holy ground? Here?” the man barks out a laugh. “Don’t you know what this place is?”

“Yes,” Steve says shortly, placing himself more firmly between the shrine and the man. “Please leave. There shouldn’t be violence done here.”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that. This place used to belong to the King of Darkness. It’s said he was so evil that nothing grew here until he was run out and defeated by the god of righteousness. You know the one. Really plays up the holier than thou thing by making his hair all gold and glowy? Gotta say, you could give him a run for his money though.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No really! Your hair is great. Way better than Carver, even with the glowy thing.” 

“Not that!” Steve said in frustration. This guy really liked the sound of his own voice and Steve was starting to get a headache. It was near dawn and all he wanted was to spend the last hour or so in the quiet night with his god.

“So you agree your hair is better than a god’s?” The man tsks at him. “That’s pretty blasphemous. Are you sure you’re a holy warrior?”

“No! I mean, yes. Wait,” Steve growls at his own bumbling. “No, I’m not better than any god. But I am a holy warrior. Kind of.”

“Kind of.”

“Look, I’m working on it so I need you to leave. You’ve insulted him enough already.”

“Your god is the King of Dark–”

“Call him that again, and I will draw my sword,” Steve said, voice steely. “He’s the Lord of Night, and I won’t let you insult him at his own shrine.”

The man goes quiet for the first time since he showed up. He looked almost surprised, his mocking grin gone. His eyes flicked over to the dilapidated statue and then back at Steve.

“Lord of Night doesn’t sound much different than what I called him,” the man said lightly.

“Well, it is,” Steve told him. “Now, will you please leave?”

The man stared at him for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah, alright.” And then he left as suddenly as he had arrived.

The tension that had built up in Steve’s shoulders drained away. He went back to kneel in front of the shrine again when he noticed the barest hint of sunrise on the horizon. He cursed under his breath then was hit with a wave of embarrassment at cursing in front of the shrine and the whole situation that had transpired.

“I’m sorry about that,” Steve said, abashed. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

–

It happened again.

now with an additional snippet here and here

ps: i do not do those reader tag list things. if you'd like to keep up with my stuff, follow my writing tag: trensu tells stories

[pigswithwings]

A Guide On Lessening Yourself

(Or, What To Do Before They Cut You Open)

This guide has been created to prepare you for your upcoming procedure. Please read carefully and follow all directions in order to have the safest experience.

RECOMMENDATIONS:

- Do not eat. (Required; at least 3 hours before the procedure starts. No meats, no vegetables, no grains, and especially no fruits. Any remaining food that is being digested will get in the way.)

- Do not drink. (Required; at least 2 hours before the procedure starts. No water, soda, juice, soup, milk, coffee, or energy drinks. Any remaining fluids will get in the way.)

- Do not bleed. (Required; at least 1 month before the procedure. No paper cuts, nosebleeds, injuries or other form of your own blood leaving your body. Restriction of the expression of your mortality is imperative.)

- Do not dream. (Strongly suggested; at least 1 month before the procedure starts. No daydreams, no hopes, no wishes, no lifelong goals, and no nightmares. Avoid losing yourself within any fantastical trappings - these are the vestiges of a mortal mind.)

TIPS:

BEFORE

- Make sure to confirm your procedure date. Whether by checking online, asking your doctor, or praying, it's of utmost importance that you remember the specific time and day of your event.

- Make certain that this procedure is for you.

Though the process has already been scheduled, you still have options if you're unsure. Asking God or previous patients are the most authentic ways to learn about this process. Consider the benefits and consequences of the procedure as a whole - this will undoubtedly affect your life, but will it be more negative rather than positive? Will you be able to be happy again? If you are willing to accept such possibilities, continue on. Should you choose to, however, you may still opt out before the scheduled date by telling your doctor and/or healthcare provider.

DURING

- Make sure to arrive early to your procedure. Timeliness is key.

- Be flexible with your interviewers. Many angels are unfamiliar with human languages and may instead choose to communicate directly inside your mind. This may cause discomfort as well as the feeling of being stripped into nothingness. Don't panic and remember that you deserve a chance at holiness, regardless of your humanity.

- Be polite. Though your angel interviewers may have already visited Earth before, human customs are often difficult to adjust to. If an interviewer makes a social faux pas (such as revealing their true form), brush it off and continue the conversation as best you can.

- Be prepared for any questions regarding your past attachments, relationships, possessions, etc. If you've prepared well, you'll be able to answer with full honesty that you have left all possible remnants of humanity behind - that means no mistakes, no regrets, and no emotions.

- Should you pass the interview (you will be told after they have finished), be ready to experience anywhere from a small to large amount of pain. This experience usually lasts around 20 seconds, but some say it feels like an eternity of blinding, searing light. The scale of your pain will be a direct result of how successful you were at stripping away your humanity; the agony that follows will be the angels burning it off of you.

- Wait through the pain.

- Wait through the pain.

- Wait through the pain.

- Wait through the pain.

- Wait through the pain.

- Wait through the pain.

- Wait thought it.

- Wait through it.

- Wait

AFTER

- If you've successfully passed the interview, survived the procedure, and become an angel, congratulations! The following tips are only suggestions, but may help you in adjusting to your new existence.

- Avoid brightening your divine light too much at once. You'll quickly realize that your new eyes are far more adjusted to light than a human's, making the world appear dimmer than before.

- Avoid speaking out loud to others for the first few millenium, as this may cause harm if done incorrectly. Instead, practice "speaking" through the visual and audible expression of abstract concepts.

- Don't expect to visit Earth again. More often than not, angels avoid the human world (most say it's too painful to linger), so it's very unlikely that you'll return. Don't come back if you possibly can.

Finally, enjoy your new status as part of the divine. Not many people get to experience the feeling - you have made it! Please enjoy the rest of infinity.

[buqbite]

Halo

[immult]

ugh. imogen could've summoned a reilora when they were appealing to the masses you know. even under the zone of truth imogen wouldn't be lying if she had twisted it to say that the "terrors" can be bent under her will and power. do you know how hopeful that display would've been for the room's- exandria's morale? do you know the amount of positive votes that alone would get bells hells?

but it will send the wrong message. it is never about reining or annihilating the ruidians. it's about imogen arriving at kreviris and saying how wonderful it would be if she's allowed to share the taloned highlands, her birthland, with them.

Exaltant Hope as in her hope was so enduring that it saves. Red Storm as in her bloodright, curse, and blessing. but the title was always meant to be read together: Exaltant Hope of the Red Storm. she is the red storm's hope. ruidus' and ruidians' and ruidusborns' and all the exandrian dreams dreamt on that ruddy surface.

it is imogen in whitestone, leaning against the door that shuts her out, saying things that look scary can be so beautiful if you give them a chance.

[redhoodie1723]

lando norris number one enemy now

[jennicatzies]

That one bistro game

[anna-scribbles]

thirteen update 🍂 🎹 🏠 👻

chapter 2: November

chapter summary:

She was in a good mood. If she was ever going to take it well, it would be now.

“Maman, what if I went to school this year?”

excerpt:

“Heh.” Adrien flicked a finger beneath his chin and strutted the length of his bathroom floor, glancing at himself in the mirror. He twirled a rose—a red one, one he’d grabbed from the vase downstairs—between his fingers and then presented it to the mirror with a flourish.

“Haruhi!” he declared, “the spring of my heart surges upon the sight of your fresh smile, my love. My heart beats at the command of your drum! Your face is the fierce longing of my soul, and I present to you now this token of my lavish, undying—”

A sharp knock clicked against the bedroom door and Adrien froze, his hand still passionately hovering over his heart.

“Adrien?” Nathalie’s voice called, and Adrien—true to character, if he did say so himself—startled so hard that he slipped and fell onto his butt on the tile.

“Yeah?” he called, hastily pulling himself up and trying to find a place to set down the rose.

Nathalie peeked her head through the bathroom door and took him in, his rumpled hair and the too-small blue blazer he’d saved in the back of his closet for occasions such as…this.

“You have a guest,” she said flatly, and Adrien could not for the life of him figure out whether she was making fun of him.

She left before he could decide, and then it was only a matter of seconds before his bathroom door was thrown all the way open and a blonde ponytail bobbed into view.

“Adrikins!” Chloé crashed into him, wrapping him up in a hug that nearly knocked him over again. “It’s been way too long. You’ve been neglecting me. Aw, did you get me a rose?” She plucked it from his hands and then scrunched up her nose. “Ew, is this real?”

“As real as the current that springs from the well of my heart,” Adrien invented, and Chloé frowned at him like he’d just spoken Greek. “Nevermind.”

She looked him up and down and scrunched her nose up even more. “What did you do to your hair?”

Adrien frowned at his reflection in the mirror and pushed his hair further over to the side.

“I was trying to make it look cool.” He’d been trying to make it look like Tamaki from Ouran High School Host Club.

“It looks like you just rolled out of bed.”

read on ao3

[milkbreadtoast]

Here's a v quick vague rushed half assed TWSB propaganda post

TWSB is a romance novel isekai subversion story. You know, the escapist genre that there r 2353533535 kr webtoons/novels for... i got reincarnated in my fav romance novel as the villainess yadayada THAT genre. but a twist on it!!!

TWSB is for fujoshi/fudanshi/fujin who would rather ship the 2 male love interests in a romance than have a love triangle with the female lead... TWSB is also for poly/throuple/trio enjoyers (whether platonic or not ur choice). And old women yuri enjoyers. And people who enjoy novel isekai subversions like orv and surviving romance (and SVSS? i havent read but ive heard comparisons)... /ppl who think novel isekai premises Could be interesting but find so many of them boring cliche or wasted potential... and people who like fun worldbuilding... or ppl who r interested in the premise "typical shoujo romance novel plot gets derailed and ends up accidentally becoming a non-romance action fantasy which is also highkey extremely gay"..... *dangling a chocolate croissant in front of u* ooooh u want to read twsb so bad wooooo is it worki

(EDIT: oh to be clear im recommending the novel btw!! webtoon is cute but the novel is where u get the full experience 🛐 idc which one u start w but pls read the novel... hehe)

[destinywillowleaf]

one of a kind living in a world gone plastic

baby you're so classic

@most-tragic-character-tournament

(all my thoughts in the tags)

[helios-two]

cindy + studcoms compilation

[thecoffeelovingfreak]

𝒔𝒐𝒘 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚

sequel to eyes of the ranger

pairing: boothill x gn!ex-undertaker!reader

genres: western!au, angst, domestic fluff, bits of hurt/comfort

word count: 8.6k

warnings: spoilers for boothill's backstory, death, heavy angst, explorations of grief, gun violence, blood, implied suicidal thoughts, unhealthy coping mechanisms

notes: I've only seen the bare minimum of his story leaks, and they've been spinning around my head ever since. Some details of the timeline might be tweaked, or imagined/added, but that's just for the au. Still, please enjoy this sequel, and what more I've added to this world! Here's some flowers again :) 💐

Read it on ao3!

~~~

Candles cast their glow brightly across wood panels as you hummed a lilting melody. Hands played with your hair, tugging on the strands to draw your attention away from the swirling pot of stew.

“Papa?"

"He'll be back soon, sweetie."

Your daughter shifted on your arm as you placed the spoon back in its resting spot. Her head fell against your shoulder, no doubt growing bored as crackles of fire echoed across the cabin.

You resumed the tune, bouncing slightly from side to side. She perked up once more as you took her hand over your first two fingers, thumb covering its small size. Her eyes began to crinkle as her first few teeth were revealed by a smile. She always loved dancing and music, likely because of her "silly papa".

When he left for town in the afternoon, he tripped over the porch's last step – on purpose, you suspected. She quickly laughed from where she sat with you in the rocking chair, calling him the nickname as he straightened up again. In just a couple strides he was back in front of you, fingertip meeting her nose before she swatted at him. He chuckled, leaving another kiss on both of your foreheads and embarking again.

As you gently spun, her gaze drifted to the window. She lit up, brighter than any heavenly body, and pointed to the door.

"Papa! Papa!"

The sound of approaching hooves met your ears softly, leading you to peer through the glass panes. Unfortunately, your vision was greeted by the furthest people from Boothill.

The National Hunter's Agency had grown to infamy everywhere you went. They had been given many pardons, and bought off plenty of sheriffs and their higher-ups to be able to operate as they pleased in numerous states. It seems now, after two years, they had caught wind of your bounty and wanted to cash in.

You carefully set her down on the floor, hands staying at her sides in case she lost balance. With some support, you walked her to your shared bedroom, guiding her to hide in your shaker wardrobe.

An anxious hand rotated the knob on the front door, leaving you face to face with a row of five men. Two in suits at the center, and three dressed more rugged at their side.

"Good evening." one greeted, smoke flowing from his mouth. "I assume you know why we're here."

The reverberations of your boots ceased before the steps as you stared at the lineup. "Naturally."

He hummed, throwing the remains of his cigarette to the dirt.

The agent at his right spoke up, "Why don't you walk down here, then."

“Isn’t it your job to capture me?”

“Continue resisting and you don’t have to be the only one we take.”

Your resolution faltered, and the hunters closed in. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Are you sure?”

Glass shattered behind you, followed by heavy thumping. Tendrils of dread inched in, their freeze creeping over your bones.

“Step down.”

Despite every instinct screaming for you to move, to follow their commands, denial and fear kept you in place.

“You’ve got about one minute before we force you to.”

A glaze fell over your surroundings, the situation tumbling to the wayside as your thoughts and blood rushed in unison. It was five against one, and each of them were armed – you were not. They had more information than they were letting on. Someone was searching the cabin for your daughter, likely their sixth. She would be weaponized if she was caught, stuck in the crossfire of your bounty.

Was there a way out of this? To prevent what seemed increasingly inevitable?

Well, yes. You could give yourself up.

But there was no guarantee of her safety afterward, or that you would remain alive.

Still, you and Boothill had made a promise when you first took her in, just one year ago. If danger ever presented itself, you would lay down your lives to protect her.

One of the hunters drew his pistol as your boot hit the first step.

Another dismounted, his dirtied white shirt twisting, then straightening once more as he approached you. A rough grip captured your arms, dragging them behind your back. Something hard hit the ground at your right, a rope thrown by one of his partners. It was wrapped and tied around your wrists, the friction beginning to cast a light burning sensation over the skin.

A foot met the back of your knees as he tightened the restraints, dust rising at the impact. One of the agents joined you, the scent of smoke lingering on his fingers as he brought your head up to meet his eyes. They returned to his side a moment later as his gaze turned to the cabin.

A hunter had your little girl in his grasp, her steps short, frightened, and struggling as she was led down the stairs. She looked at you, searching for answers or what to do.

The saddled agent’s voice sounded from behind, “The NHA seeks to rid these ranges of their impurities. When you wish to uproot an evil such as yourself, no trace must remain.”

He gestured toward the four hunters, and his fellow agent disappeared from your view.

Then the brutality they were known for reared its unforgettable head.

The low flat heel of a dress shoe met your back, staying there as you writhed on the ground, watching up at your daughter.

A metallic barrel crept to the rear of her head.

The tendrils of dread became horrible claws, sinking into every organ and twisting.

Warm ruby droplets cascaded over pale brown and flesh, as the shot’s echo dulled your senses and her body crumbled to the ground.

The claws dug open a void as a defeated cry exit your lips. You were released from under the agent’s foot, flipped over to stare at the cloud-stricken dusk. Voices yelled around you, the words fading into one persistent cacophony. A hand pressed itself down onto your shoulder, before a pain blossomed in the other. A rugged face peered down at you, contempt rising in their features. A new flower of sharp ache grew in your left thigh, tears finally stinging at your eyes.

A fresh splattering of blood flowed over your face, shocking you out of despair. Their body went limp over yours, and you quickly brushed them to the side. Now free from the hunter’s reach, you sunk your hands into the dirt beside you, slowly turning yourself back to your stomach. The hilt of a knife hit the ground as you did so, veins coming alight with panic from its twist in your wound.

Despite every injury, you only had one focus – to see your daughter one last time.

Sharp gravel digged uncomfortably underneath your legs as your restrained hands inched forward. Blood thrummed in your ears, yet the unmistakable sound of gunshots broke through. Within a matter of seconds someone rushed to your crawling form. They called for you, voice breaking at the scene as a hand brushed through your hair.

“Darlin’?”

Your head rose at every emotion kept within that one word, asked by a husky voice you could find in any darkness. Anguish cast itself over his face when he finally saw what you were headed toward. He sank to his knees next to you, a wrecked sob reaching into the evening only to be greeted by no comfort.

Reluctantly, you gazed at your daughter’s corpse, journeying silently past Boothill to finally touch her.

A sticky scarlet liquid mocked you, revealing your sorrow-stricken features coated in its kind within the pool. Your fingers rose to her, a warmth lingering below as she was turned. You summoned any last inkling of strength you had, smiling down to her and speaking softly.

“You were my pride and joy, sweetheart. I’ve had no greater honor than being your parent.”

You leaned down, a soft kiss landing on her forehead before you cried a chant of apologies. When any words you could conjure finally entered oblivion, your eyes looked back to Boothill. He hadn’t moved an inch, rendered paralyzed by the gravity of what he arrived home to. It seemed as though he had been ripped apart, every wire inside of him fraying.

This was your fault, and you were sure he knew that too.

Regret became a well in your heart, rising from the depths and overflowing onto its dying grass. Your head ached, thoughts swirling until each one sinked in grief’s whirlpool. In resignation, you lie beside her, holding her chilled hands between your fingers. If you closed your eyes, you could still see her smile as you danced making dinner.

It would feel best if you never opened them again, but you couldn’t leave Boothill to carry this weight alone. He didn’t deserve such a fate.

A hand swiped over your stained cheek, drawing you back to miserable reality. Tears descended from silver, embers kindling beneath their despair. You lifted your hands from hers, closing her lifeless eyes. Boothill’s hat rested at his chest, head downturned from where he knelt.

Together, you mourned.

—

PART I - Fatherhood And Other Dreams

"Papa! The moo-moos!"

"I see them!" Boothill chuckled, watching a finger point at their pasture.

Rena wriggled against his side, wanting to move closer to them. He complied, jogging to the wooden fence as she smiled.

Her small hands reached past the log fence, petting along one of the cow's heads as it grazed. She had such an affinity for the animals here, something you always joked she got from him.

Every morning like clockwork, she would point them out, longing to go and sit with them for a while. He would join her, occasionally teaching her things about their diets or hair as she would get close and stare into their big brown eyes.

Today she angled back against his leg and smiled at her altered reflection in them, before you tousled her growing hair. He hadn’t heard you approach, too absorbed in the scene to hear your boots kick up dust. His hand rose to rub against the back of your neck as you leaned into him, sipping on your mug of black coffee.

He had noticed your odd positioning on the pillow, no doubt leaving you with some pains when you woke. Quiet snores filled the room; something he would laugh with Rena about, her high-pitched giggles overtaking the silence of the night as her hands pat against your cheeks. Your light snoring would cease, and your face would scrunch up at the unexpected disturbance before you recognized the poking of your daughter. He watched as you tickled the side of her neck, placing a hand on her back when she fell on your chest and wiggled around in joy.

He’s never felt more love than in those little moments, witnessing his entire world as two shining stars amidst the murky midnight.

“In!”

“Brush first?”

“Yeah!”

He was brought back to you after a quick shake of his head, two gazes of the same color waiting for him. One enthusiastic, the other fond and patient as he bent down to pick up Rena. She played with his low braided hair, pulling a few small strands free. You ventured to the stables, likely fetching a brush that she had dropped on one of the chairs yesterday.

The grass was fresh with dew, shining under the morning rays. He opened the gate with ease, feeling a breeze run over his cheeks as he shut it behind him. The pasture was wide, yet filled with only ten cows. Each one would be brushed daily by Rena, starting with one patterned in brown and white. It was an activity she had adored since the first time you had brought her out to help just a couple months ago. Seeing how much she enjoyed it, he joined the two of you only a week later.

You came to his side, handing the brush over to her as you sipped on your coffee. He gestured at you with his chin as bristles met little hairs. With a smile, you turned the mug in his direction, a warm and bitter liquid flowing over his tongue.

A gentle laugh left your lips when the cow’s head moved, rising up into the brush and slightly twisting into it. Rena turned to you, beaming as she moved the brush to another spot. The cow reacted in turn, and you laughed again.

~

The wood ceiling of the barn came into view as Boothill’s head was tugged backward. A light chuckle echoed through the space, falling in time with the noon bird's chirp. His hat tumbled to the hay and dust riddled floor, yet it didn’t remain for long. Little hands left the ends of his hair, snatching the hat instead. He watched, bale in hand, as you scooped up Rena. In a swift motion, you placed his hat on her head, one arm wrapped around your neck and the other reaching for the large brim.

The bale crashed onto the floor, beginning a new stack by one of the stables. The sound brought Rena's attention to him, her head tilting backward to spot him from underneath the hat.

“Like papa!”

“You wanna be like him?"

"Yeah!"

"Then we're gonna have a lot to teach you."

He grinned, the brightness of the sun’s rays and his daughter’s admiration seeping into his smile. With her now distracted by one of the horses, he wrapped an arm around your waist, leaving a kiss on your lips before continuing his work.

~

The orange and golden rays of sunset beckoned your gaze to the large window overlooking the front porch. Rena slept peacefully on your chest, a combination of a full stomach and boredom likely the cause. You brought the book in your right hand to the other supporting her, flipping the page carefully.

The slow thumping of boots echoed through the door, prompting Rena to stir. She had always been a light sleeper, though she didn't always fully awaken. It seemed that this evening she would, leaning backward into your hand as the door opened. Boothill's figure emerged, lit by the bright horizon. She shuffled as her eyes opened to meet his, slowly laying further backward against your hand. Letting the leather-bound book fall from your lap, you wrapped both hands around her. She whined, leading one of your brows to raise.

Boothill inched closer, stopping at the edge of the rug in your little living area. You set Rena down, your hands staying at her sides. She watched the floor intently, gaze shifting between it and her papa. Quickly you picked up on her intentions, standing behind her and holding her hands just above her head.

Her foot moved forward slightly, and excitement blossomed on both your and Boothill's faces. He knelt down, holding his arms out for her. Feeling encouraged, she moved faster, taking her first few steps with your support. When she finally reached her papa, he lifted her up, cheering at her along with you. She beamed, her feet kicking back and forth in the air as she giggled.

~

The stars twinkled in the growing twilight, contrasting with the auburn and violet hues on the horizon. Cool grass stood between your fingers, the tranquility of the coming night bleeding into your spirit. The hill provided a lovely view of the valley below as crickets began to chirp. A thin herd of deer moved like whispers just a few feet before you.

One startled in your direction, the sound of Rena picking at strings increasing its paranoia. She was transfixed by the instrument, plucking as she sat in Boothill’s lap. His affectionate gaze watched down at her, adjusting the blanket over her legs.

There were many nights over the past few days you would wake to find Boothill absent from your bed. Rena would stir at your side, face scrunching further into the pillow as she murmured. After returning her stuffed bear from the other side of the bed, you would walk to find him at the kitchen table. The fire lit various scenes; some filled with brushes and varnish, others with whittling tools and etched knobs. Sometimes he would be passed out against the table, shavings coating his cheek. He wanted to complete the gift as soon as possible, his wish of sharing and passing on melodies and lyrics from his life fueling his craft.

Feeling fingers brush through his hair, Boothill would awaken to your soft gaze. Wordlessly you wiped his cheek, taking his hand in yours and bringing him to bed.

Gentle singing met your ears, skilled strumming of a guitar accompanying it. One large hand shifted up and down the strings, holding, shaking, and lifting to change the tune. The other encased one of Rena’s guiding her through the song.

The sun completed its descent underneath the horizon, and the herd of deer found their way back into the forest. Hints of light hung in the sky, now joined by colors of dandelions and the deep sea. The high-pitched babbling of your daughter chimed in during certain sections, forming a heart-warming duet. With your head on Boothill’s shoulder, you hummed along.

—

The town of Iris Creek was blissful, wilted blossoms gathering on the path's edges from the growing heat. The watery flow of its namesake echoed through the grand trees, calming your mind as you approached with Boothill at your side. After your most recent hunt, a week of rest was well-deserved.

Leaning down, you let the velvety liquid rush between your fingers. Its chill permeated your flesh, a content smile on your face as Boothill toyed with your hair.

“I enjoy seeing you this way.” he whispered, staring at you lovingly.

You turned, removing your hand from the water and laying back on the grass.

“At ease?” you questioned.

He nodded, resting down beside you, hat on his chest. You brushed aside his lengthening bangs, turning the strands together before running a thumb over his cheek.

He leaned into your touch as you asked, “Do you watch me sleep then?”

Embarrassed, his face angled toward the ground.

“Gettin’ shy on me, cowboy?”

He gave no response, simply meeting your eyes with a tender silver. Your lips met his cheek, feeling the bashful warmth gracing his features.

“I like it.” you spoke softly in his ear, leaving a little bite along the lobe.

One hand came up to your waist, holding tightly as your focus shifted to his neck. The other fell into your hair, gripping after a bold lick to the revealed skin.

“Can’t help but be at your mercy, sugar.”

“Such a charmer.”

“Around someone like you, it’s only natural.”

A nibble at the edge of his jaw led his fingers to rub underneath your shirt.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, look at you. One conversation and I was hooked.”

“All it took was one challenge for you to love me?” you chuckled.

“Sugar, all it took was one glance.”

A cry reverberated down the creek as you finally kissed Boothill’s lips. It was panicked and small, drawing you almost entirely from the moment.

Pushing off of his chest, you sat up to survey your surroundings. Boothill rubbed your thigh, looking at you curiously. Just a minute later the two of you stood, spotting a tarnished cloth amongst the bank’s brush.

“Do you see that?”

He followed your gaze, walking ahead of you only to kneel down and lift the sullied fabric. His eyes widened as he beckoned you over. The crying intensified, a tiny head turning from side to side.

A baby.

Boothill was the first to move, cradling them gently in his arms. You brought a finger to their grabbing hands, brushing another one over their forehead.

“What should we do?” you wondered aloud.

“Take them in?” he uttered.

“Are we ready for that, though? We’re wanted criminals, Boothill. That’s no life for a child.”

“Then we settle down.”

“There’s still no guarantee we won’t be hunted or ambushed.”

Your hands fell back to your side, unsure eyes watching the gears turn in his mind.

“We would be their parents, together we can take anybody. Lay down our lives if necessary. We could find somewhere more isolated, maybe even further out of this state. Teach them some of our methods as they get older.”

A heavy sigh left your lungs, the weight of dozens of questions slowly dissipating. There were many details to discuss and new plans to craft. Nonetheless, your head landed on Boothill’s shoulder, two adoring gazes on your child.

~

Butter-colored rays bore through the train car’s windows, wide mountains of tan rock and green bushes waiting outside. A bundle of blankets lay in your arms, encasing your daughter in comfort and warmth.

Boothill had left for them not long after you brought her back to the hotel, returning worriedly with them in hand. They were soft and luscious, leading you to wonder who he had stolen them from. “Only the best for our little girl” – it wasn’t just a statement but a promise.

Another was sworn that evening, your daughter finally clean and sleeping in your arms. Boothill rest behind you in the bed, shielding your small family from any danger while wrapping you in care.

“What should we name her?” he asked quietly, warm breath fanning over your neck.

You pondered silently, letting your head lay on his shoulder. “How about Rena?”

He hummed, a thick finger running over her forehead. “From that play of Effie's, right?”

“I think her story was admirable. Live freely, out on your own road, never waste your time with what you can’t change.”

“Now I like the ring of that.”

“See?” you smiled, a teasing slant to it. “When I wrote to her a few days ago she added in a thought or two about the characters. She said Rena also meant melody, at least according to what she could find in Thatcher's library.”

“Then it's settled.”

His chin landed in the crook of your neck as he simply watched her be, absorbed in thoughts of the future. It wasn’t until she stirred, eyes opening and hands seeking, that you witnessed him take on a gentleness formerly reserved for only you.

His eyes began to water as she held his finger close, staring up in his direction yet unable to pin him down. When she finally did, he sat like a spooked deer, only releasing a low, happy chuckle after your own.

A cough down the car broke you from idle reminiscence. Boothill read a crinkled paper, the letter sent from the ranch you were seeking out. He had come back one evening with the result after days of asking around. Down near Iron Springs, there was someone with plenty of land – could provide decent wages and a cabin to stay in. A suitable place to settle down, with much for Rena to learn and experience.

Taking his cheek between your empty fingers, you pinched and watched him grumble. Despite your lifestyle, you could only hope that this would be a lovely and safe life for her.

—

PART II - A Luminous Star, Ephemeral

Murky skies cried chilling droplets, harshly soaking your bloodstained shirt. The evening had to be setting in, but any hope of seeing the sun finally fade had long since dissipated with the storm’s onslaught. A frayed splinter dug into your palm, the weight of the shovel increasing as the hole in the ground deepened. The dirt was malleable, easy to unearth and pile up.

Many graves were dug by your hand, and you prayed this would be the last.

Boothill wept only a few feet away, Rena’s corpse in his arms underneath a sturdy tree. Ashamed, your gaze fell back to the emptying plot.

Heavy throbbing found its home along your left side, yet still, you had to dig. The pain was deserved – a punishment that fit your crime. Crusting edges tug and bent at the surrounding skin, the quickly cauterized wounds only growing more irritated by the rainwater.

Trickles of pink traversed down your cheeks, blood washing away slowly with your tears. Leaning on the shovel, your eyes rose from the ground. A strong and steady breeze cast the rain in sheets, carving figures in the mist. Discerning who they were was useless, you could remember them anywhere.

Your father, the Weston family, and your daughter.

The mud and soil coating your fingers shifted to a deep scarlet, beads falling from their tips and hitting your boots. Trees morphed into tombstones, and you found yourself paralyzed. Mr. Whitfield’s gravelly voice rang in your ears, drowning out any natural melodies.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn a pure soul, lost too soon. Rena Blackwell was an adored child, and she will continue to be so in our thoughts, and all the way to the depths of our hearts. Her smile could dispel any darkness, and her curiosity persisted to the ends of the earth. Her fascinations lie with animals and music, her greatest friends a pony and her papa’s guitar. May she find eternal peace amidst these mountains and plains, their windy song carrying her gently to the hereafter.”

Lightning crackled across the sky, an omen of your judgment day. Boothill’s shadowed figure stand illuminated by the last ounce of daylight breaking from the clouds. Rena lay delicately in the grave, eyes closed and hands folded, his hat just beneath their union. Wordlessly he took the shovel, leaving you to kneel at her side as dirt cascaded over her corpse.

Stars found their stages in the wisp-struck night sky, their beaming light mocking. If they were tangible to Earth, you would have left plenty of rounds in them. Mourning was an act displayed to you since childhood, but it never came easily. Perhaps that was part of the point. Loss would never be simple, and humanity is far too complex to handle it so. Death was an odd thing, and despite working so intimately with the inevitable specter, it had yet to reveal every one of its forms.

Every body you would prepare never revealed its secrets. No amount of soap and water could cleanse it's invasiveness. No number of incisions and blood drained could release the agony. The fluids injected could not provide life, and clothes would only emulate. Death was permanent, and excruciating to all.

You could shoot a man without hesitation, but being along the receiving end of that cruelty, you could only resign yourself to regret. You killed bad men, yet they still had lives. Friends and family they found or created.

The grating sound of a knife on wood reached your ears, breaking into your thoughts. Boothill sat opposite to you, a neat piece of bark in his hands. Raging thunder rolled, sending a chill down your spine. Paranoia created the shattering sense that you would be reunited with Rena by dawn. Either by your own hands or someone else’s; perhaps the heavens would shoot back, sanctioned by some higher force that heard your monologue.

You watched him work, one tainted hand of yours rubbing back and forth over the dirt housing your daughter. His actions soon faded to oblivion as the song of the storm played on.

When a new bolt of lightning crashed, you became privy to her tombstone.

Rena Blackwell

Beloved star

1892 - 1892

Boothill stood, utterly dejected and tear-stained, before extending a hand down to you. His head met your shoulder once you rose, and one of your hands reached his hair. Strength was needed of you, not misery. The only comfort you received was a fact – no harm would befall you in Boothill’s arms, unless he pointed the gun at you instead.

—

Cheers ascended from under the floorboards, filling your pitch-black room with taunting joy. Your eyes remained on the ceiling, hands at your sides as you lay still – attempting to sink into the hard mattress while the hurricane to your left continued. It was the sixth night ending like this. Boothill had yet to find slumber, his journey to it only filled with suffering. He never reached out, always keeping his back to you and his face toward the pillow.

Despite the stinging urge to run your fingers through his hair, not once could you ever. Conflicting instincts wanting nothing more than to soothe him, but craving an escape.

You rubbed your eyes, throwing the sheet off of your body. The night chill creeped in, the sensation a welcome dissipation for your tenseness. A sniff echoed before a heavy sigh, and not even a moment later the bed resumed its light shaking. Stomps came in unison from the bar below, startling you to jump. With a worn exhale you sat up, feet touching the rough floor. In just a couple quick movements, you were dressed well and ready to face the ruckus below.

A saddened silver gaze finally revealed itself in the sliver of light from the doorway, but yours focused only on the ground, afraid to face him.

Instead, you would find solace in a bartender’s hands, the liquor he poured leaving a delightful blaze in your throat – easing the pain one sip at a time. It was only now you could understand why Isaiah Weston made the choices he did. Too cowardly to navigate his emotions, much less his son’s. The vulnerability intimidating, and any words gone with the wind. A weight too heavy to hold, but various fears preventing you from ever sharing it.

Getting lost in the bottle was a romantic escape, then, even if you would come to regret it. That blossomed the vicious cycle, when your method of coping only added more guilt – defeating the purpose of this night to begin with.

A hand placed itself on your shoulder, bringing your gaze from empty shot glasses to a familiarly styled head of black hair. Tears rapidly welled in your eyes, spirit feeling despondent when their hand returned to the counter.

“Jasper?” you whispered, feeble hope fueling your delusion.

They shook their head at you, “I’m afraid that’s not my name.”

“My apologies.” you nodded, downing another round as they began talking to the bartender.

He was dead, the first to meet the end of your revolver. There was no place to find him besides six feet under, at the very cemetery you first met.

Perhaps a visit to Fort Talia was what you needed. It had been four or five years since you left that fateful night with Boothill, never to look back. Although now, after everything, maybe looking back is the right thing to do. Return to, and learn from the past in order to glance forward. Walk the deck of the funeral parlor, stop by your old house. Finally speak to your mother again.

It was decided. Talk to Boothill come morning and see if he would join you.

—

Bright noon rays lit up the dusty buildings of Fort Talia, its peaceful people walking past Boothill with nods and greetings. Under any other circumstance he would respond, however words failed him now. The brim of his new hat hung low, obscuring his features and providing a bit of comfort. The less others saw of him the better.

He was fractured, too many pieces scattered across the range for him to find. Conversation would not come easy when he could hardly even handle a talk with himself. Your hotel rooms had become suffocating as of late. Silence reigning and gazes only ever in opposing directions. It was cold – a sensation Boothill had become unfamiliar with after all these years. That only served to make your icy temperament feel like a burning hell. No words exit your lips, eyes focused out of windows, on the ceiling or the floor. It was unbearable, the shunning that leaked from your figure.

What had he done to make you feel so? Was he even to blame?

Silver watched the clouds drift over the sky, a horrible longing to join them occupying his mind. A nearly impossible fate for him, now feared more than ever.

“Papa!”

A small, light voice shouted excitedly, followed by the pattering of boots on the deck.

Boothill turned expectantly, arms shifting and ready to pick up his daughter.

Instead he was made a fool.

He quickly returned to a regular stance, leaving down the nearby alleyway to lean himself against the wood. That was somebody else’s child, not his. The title he came to love most would never be used again, abandoned amidst the Iron Springs forest. “Papa” was her first word, and possibly even her last.

He recalled the tears you shared when she spoke, listening to her babble about him. Her voice was that of angels, as if he was finally worthy of speaking to the heavens.

Now he lost that angel, the most vivid star in the sky.

~

Three moss-coated tombstones lay before you, names that you first came to know at fifteen.

Isaiah, Callie, and Jasper.

Ellis must rest in Warren, then. Forever separated from his family.

A couple desert marigolds grew along the path to the cemetery, and you left one at each of their graves. Six in total gathered in your hand – one for each person you were to visit, as well as two extras for whoever you saw fit.

Boots trudged through the dry ground, avoiding stones that shaped plots or decorated the base of a tombstone. Rocks of grey and tan sat below your father’s and the one now beside it.

Upon reading the inscription, the marigolds fell to the dust.

Your mother was buried at his right, her death only one year ago.

With your forehead to the fine wood of said tombstone, your resolve finally crumbled. Any strength you wished to hold forsaken for the misery you denied. Tears flowed and fell frenzied, patiently creating a mud where your fingertips dug into the ground.

All of this loss, but why?

Why cherish anything if it would only be ripped away?

Holding your precious little girl one moment, only for her blood to splash over your face the next. Befriend a lonely boy, one who you found a kinship with, just for him to be shot by your hand.

Your mother, who despite her own mourning, still silently reached out to you, giving you what support she could muster. Your father, who robbed and killed unbeknownst to you, still provided and taught you things he knew about the world that would never be shared at the old schoolhouse.

They all had one common thread – loving you.

Burden, plague, curse. All words that could describe what a detriment you were. If they never loved you, never met or created you, perhaps their fates would be different.

What of Boothill, then?

—

Droplet-stained windows displayed a wagon of bottles stopping outside of the saloon. One of the drivers lept from its front, unlocking the back panel and pulling out two jugs. He lifted them in each hand, a big smile on his face as he cheered through the doors.

The crude and familiar scent of cigarette smoke curled through the window as you cracked it open, the stale quietude of your hotel room grating your nerves. Boothill observed you idly from the bed as you inhaled deeply, palms on the framing. The smell was lovely now, soothing almost. His gaze bore into you, seemingly trying to decipher your inner world.

"What is it?" you spoke softly, head turning toward him.

He sighed, eyes shifting to the ceiling. "I… You've just been so… cold I guess. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help it sometimes."

"Our daughter died, Boothill."

He sat up, "You think I don't know that?"

With a heavy exhale, you faced him. "Of course you do, but I just…"

"Every day begins and ends with her. Not a second goes by where that scene ain't fillin' my head."

"You assume it isn't the same for me? I watched them shoot her – her blood was on my face for hours! Do you think I can forget that?"

"I'm not askin' you to!"

"It sure sounds like it!"

"I just want some answers and for you to recognize that you're not the only one hurtin' here. Shutting me out hasn't been doing any good."

"Shutting you out? I recall you doing that to me. Any time I reach out, you leave or move away from me, and I get no words, nothing! You've got no love or respect for me anymore!"

"Don't you go there." He stood, inching closer to you with every word. "How dare you say that I feel nothing for you. If anything, you've been giving that treatment to me. Do you know how it feels to lay there cryin', wishing that your partner would just run their fingers through your hair and share that pain with you? No. Instead they go out for the night doin' who the heaven knows what, and then return at dawn like nothing happened. Like they didn't just abandon you to return reeking of alcohol or bruised and bloodied. Do you know how powerless that makes somebody?"

"I'm handlin' my own pain my way. I'm tryin' to be strong for you!"

"I don't want you to be strong for me! I want to know that my partner is here, and never leavin'! You remember what I said? I take care of you and you take care of me. That was the promise!"

"Well how are you takin' care of me exactly?"

"How am I supposed to begin if you never let me in!"

"Rich comin' from the likes of you."

"Why're you talkin' down to me? Do you think that helps?"

He paused before you, staring down into your eyes with a mixture of fire and love – an undertone of concern and fear. His hands came to hold your shoulders, and you hesitantly accepted the touch. One drifted up to the side of your neck, his thumb tracing your jaw and the edge of your cheek. The way he'd always comfort you. A guilt began setting in, tearing and biting at your throat, preventing any words from leaving you – likely for the better after your childish retorts.

"I don't wanna fight with you, darlin'. Please, just talk to me."

Wordlessly, you placed your arms around his neck, hugging him cheek to cheek. His own came to encase you when you finally whispered everything in his ear.

"I miss you… so much it hurts. I'm so sorry for all of the turmoil I've given you. That was never my intention. I just… I felt like you hated me. Blamed me for her… death."

"I never could."

"And I know that now. I didn't mean to be so cold, and I understand how you need me. I must admit I'd like to be selfish and have you do the same."

"That's not selfish."

You sniffed, "My… my mama died a year ago."

"Darlin'..."

"I didn't know." Fresh tears welled in your eyes. "She had no way to write to me. I have no idea what could have happened to her. She was all alone, lost to the world in our little house."

His hands descended to your hips, carefully stepping backward as you clung to him reluctant to move. He turned, setting you down on the bed before walking to get a blanket off of one of the chairs. The soft wool came into your hands before a weight settled behind you.

“Lay down.”

You shifted up the bed, throwing the blanket over your legs and resting your head. Boothill shuffled up next to you, his cheek to your chest. He stared up at you, eyes closing when your fingers finally ran through his hair. A sigh filled the room, mingling with gentle neighing from the street below. Silver was revealed to you once more, a low and husky whisper reaching your ears.

"We had this huge tree, back on the farm down in Redhawk. Its branches were wide and overflowing with leaves, but on a windy night you could see the stars through them. My fathers, they were always dreaming -- planning for our future. We'd sit out there and they'd talk for a while, answer any of my questions and teach me some life lessons. Eventually, one would get to strummin' on the guitar and we'd sing and cheer along – it was the most fun when some of their friends would come to visit or we'd host some guests from the road.

One was more pragmatic than the other, though they both had sharp minds. He could talk to anybody, find out anything he wanted to know. More caring and gentle, but still very strong. My other was a great gunslinger, and charismatic to a fault. He was a little rough around the edges, but I loved him anyway. They were my idols; taught me nearly everything I knew before I started goin' on the round-ups. Wasn't until I went back to our farm just a couple years later that I found it tore apart, two letters on the dining table for me. They were gone -- one captured and killed by the NHA and the other off to get revenge. He left me one of his revolvers, the same one I still use today."

Your fingers ran over his exposed cheek, noting the brimming water in his eyes matching your own.

“They raised a brilliant son.”

Your voice cracked as you finished speaking, watching him cry into you as you released your own burdens. The euphoria of budding forgiveness and the grief previously set aside catching up to you. It seemed that nearly every pain of yours was one he shared at some point or another, and it only emphasized the resolution of your argument.

You needed each other now more than ever.

—

“Are my eyes playin’ tricks on me?”

“Well I don’t believe it either.”

A man shook hands strongly with Boothill, hitting his other down on his shoulder. He had a confident glint in his hazel gaze, a boisterous air around him.

“How’ve you been, you beautiful piece of scrap?” he chuckled.

“Times have certainly been better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, friend.” was his somber reply.

You extended your hand, feeling a calloused one against your palm.

“I see you’re his partner in crime, undertaker.”

“You got one of your own yet?” you asked, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

“Of course! You’re more than welcome to come by tonight and meet her, our kids as well! We’ve got two of them raisin’ hell all over the place.”

“Thank you, but-”

“We’ll be there.” Boothill interrupted, a sharp smile contrasting with his sullen eyes.

“I’m happy to hear that!” Lee beamed, “Some supper'll be ready for you.”

His hand hit your elbow playfully before he focused on Boothill.

“What liquor do you like now, ‘Hill?”

~

Lee’s porch was well-lit, a small garden out front with bright flowers and a structure of twigs resting alongside the stairs. It was likely built by his children, or whoever got distracted while watering and left puddles on the steps. A light knock reverberated through the door, summoning a figure that stood as tall as the knob to open it.

“Hello!”

Quick steps came from behind them, before the door was tugged open further.

“Come in, please!”

You were the first to cross the threshold, a large fireplace and a set table coming into view. Chairs were gathered immediately to your left, some books and a half-built pyramid of empty cans decorating the scene. Blankets were gathered against the wall, dark brown eyes meeting yours as a shaggy dog rose from its bed.

Lee carried a pot to the table, a white cloth protecting his hands from the hot handles. He uttered warnings of the heat to his kids, the same ones who greeted you at the door. Another figure, just slightly taller than him, followed behind with a pitcher of water in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other.

While they continued preparing the food and adjusting the ambience, one child tugged on the ends of Boothill’s coat. The other peppered him with questions, looking excitedly at his gun and even more so at the chamber kept in his arm. A small smile grew on his face at their attention before they returned to Lee, wanting to know stories about his “heroic” friend. He followed them to the table, pouring two cups of water from the pitcher and handing it to them. Joyfully, they thanked him and resumed their conversation with Lee.

Seeing what he had raised mixed feelings. You were happy that he had found somebody of his own, that they seemed to love each other and work well together. That joy still couldn’t bury the tinge of envy sinking in, created from how it hurt to be reminded of what your family could have been had Rena simply been allowed to grow.

Scratching behind one of the dog’s ears, a tap landed on your shoulder and grey fingers came into view. They held a glass out to you, filled with clear liquid.

“For you, darlin’.”

The undertone of his words were not lost on you – avoid drinking tonight. Let me take care of you.

“Would you like some stew?”

The welcoming voice of Evelyn sounded from the dining table, a bowl and ladle in her hands. You accepted her offer, watching her gold wedding band glint in the light as you approached her. Their dog followed just behind, its nose occasionally bumping into the back of your leg.

The stew was warm in your hands, making a soft thud against the counter as you sat beside Boothill. A savory broth coated your tongue, the heat of a home-cooked meal comforting amidst the chilly desert night. Conversation flowed easily between all of you, as if you were playing back at the saloon years ago. It wasn’t until there were scraps in bowls and empty glasses covering the table that it took a more serious turn.

Evelyn dismissed their children, Emmett and Mable, from the table. Begrudgingly they went to the living area, playing with the dog and continuing to build their pyramid.

"What happened, 'Hill?" Lee questioned lowly.

You placed your hand along the back of Boothill's neck, meeting his somber gaze. “Let’s talk about it.”

He sighed, his eyes leaving yours and looking at the couple on the opposite side of the table. "Just eight or nine months ago we found a baby up in Iris Creek. We took her in as our own, raising her at that ranch I was tellin’ you about in Iron Springs.” He paused a moment, and you brushed your thumb against his nape, your focus remaining on the wood floor. “About… About three weeks ago the NHA came knockin'. They killed her right in front of them." His gaze turned to you momentarily. "I arrived shortly after."

"I'm so incredibly sorry to hear that." Evelyn spoke gently, placing her hands over one of yours and Boothill's. "I won't pretend to know that pain, but we're here if you need anything."

Lee reciprocated her action, a grit in his voice that was vastly different from hers. "Those cruel bastards will get their judgment day." He exhaled after a glance from his wife, solemnly looking at you, then at Boothill. "She's right, though. A room, food, company, whatever you need. There'll always be a warm fire ready here for you."

—

Bidding farewell to the McHale’s was difficult. They wanted nothing more than to continue catching up, but the night was passing and grogginess collectively set in. Emmett and Mable shouted their goodbyes from the porch, accompanied by the waves of Evelyn and Lee. You returned their gestures, slowly riding off from their home. Boothill’s gaze turned to the stars after saying his own goodbyes, watching the sky as he shifted back and forth. There was much to ponder after that visit, especially for him. The two of you hadn’t talked much in the past few hours, occupied by your own worlds and memories of the past.

Life had been fulfilling thus far, though one world-altering regret weighed heavily on that idea. A certain finality came with it, a need for eventual acceptance lest you meet that finality yourself. In time you would arrive there, but for now it was best to let the pain run its course – feel it and share in it. Boothill had no expectation of you than to simply be there for him as he is for you. Rena had two parents, and lived the best, most beautiful life you could provide for her.

There was one thing you had learned about death -- all that it claimed were eternally benevolent, either in life or the hereafter. If your parents, or Boothill's fathers were here right now, made of flesh and blood, they would want the best for you. For you to live another day and find your place in this wide and bittersweet world. They strived the same as you, to give their child the life they deserved. Perhaps Jasper's notions in the face of death's door were correct. Family would reunite, free of burdens and earthly matters. Spirits would live on in bliss, their memory preserved by each generation.

When you picture all that you've lost, you see a beautiful ranch -- just like the one you worked in Iron Springs. There would be a grand tree, housing Boothill's fathers and little Rena giggling and tugging on one's hair just like she would with you. Your parents would exit a cabin with various drinks and a bowl of apples, stopping to share one with a horse on their way to the meeting spot. Maybe even the Weston's were there, Isaiah smiling from a rocking chair on the porch. Callie would be happy, free of sickly features and whistling a tune. Ellis, cleaning his guns right beside his father. And Jasper would walk from the door, giving each of them a hug before running over to your parents and helping them carry their goods.

If the day ever came, when you would face that reaper with your boots on, that was the life you craved to return to. One where you could drink, laugh, and settle things with your large family -- everyone you ever held dear gathered 'round to celebrate the day. You would wait for Boothill, the inevitable fact being that he would outlive you. It was an idea accepted long ago. Confronting reality was necessary for the life you lead.

Yet that was the other thing about death -- love surpasses it. No matter what kind that love was, it would dance across the edge into the realm of departure. While it may alter itself, those living would still hold its fondness.

If the day ever came that Boothill joined you, either as he is now or as Jesse Blackwell, you would greet him with arms wide open. That very same love remaining with the dead, living in their own peaceful way at your little ranch.

"What's on your mind, darlin'?" he whispered, gazing at you now, instead of the night sky.

"You, and our dreams." you replied with a small smile.

“How romantic of you.” he chuckled, a contrasting and heavy look in his eyes.

Silence rode along between you for a moment until you spoke up, “Where do we go from here?”

He exhaled, a defeated yet promising sound. “Let’s just start with our hotel room. Take it one day at a time from there.”

[ao3screenshotss]

[luckycharms1701]

You’ve always loved turtles. If you’re truly pressed to say why, you would probably say that what you like about them most is the intermediate space they take up. Between land and water. Between soft and hard. Between big and small. They really do it all.

It doesn’t hurt that turtles are super cute.

So when your soulmark came in as an orange turtle on your bicep, you were beyond ecstatic. There is debate about the soulmark symbols and what they mean, but you hoped that meant your soulmate would share your same interest.

There’s really only one career choice for you.

When Channel 6 approaches you about doing a story on your turtle rescue, you are surprised to learn that reporter April O’Neil is going to be the lead. She’s an amazing investigative journalist, not known for this kind of fluff piece.

You understand when you meet her for the first time. She’s as obsessed with turtles as you are. You almost forget it’s an interview as the two of you chat and chat.

Despite the easy rapport you and April have, you are surprised when she contacts you after the piece runs. All she would say is that some people want to thank you in person, can you meet up with her? The mystery has you intrigued, so you agree.

You are not expecting four giant turtles and their rat father. Once you apologize for being rude and they insist it’s fine, open-mouthed staring is the most minor reaction they can think of, they thank you sincerely for your help with their “kinda, sorta brothers???” as the orange-banded one put it. It seems that when they saw the story your passion for your work moved them.

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

Out of this unusual meeting friendship is born.

You, Mikey, and Raph hit it off immediately. They often sneak off during patrol to come help you with your turtle rescue, much to Leo’s chagrin. He can’t really be mad at them though, they are a huge help to you. You have employees and volunteers, but none of them can understand the turtles you rescue like the guys can.

It’s one such night when you realize that friendship isn’t the only thing on your mind when you think of Mikey.

The two of you are passing in the outdoor enclosure, him with a box of his “little bros” in hand, when you trip on a rock. Without even looking at you, he reaches out, catches you with one arm and a “Woah there angelcakes!” and spins to set you back on your feet. He turns and continues on his way, cooing down at the baby turtles in the box.

You, meanwhile, are frozen in place. The way he just… did that, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Just casually picked you up with one arm and put you back down, as if you weighed no more than a feather. The way he acted like it was normal, reminding you that he is not. The way his scales felt, cool through your shirt. Paradoxically the thought lit a fire in you.

It’s a little harder, interacting with Mikey after that. Every touch causes your heart to stutter, and Mikey likes to touch you a lot. He throws his arm around your shoulder and ruffles your hair. When you are able to successfully rehabilitate a particularly ornery softshell turtle, he picks you up in a hug and spins you around, nearly causing you to faint from the sensation.

And he’s so sweet, especially to the turtles in your care. Your heart swells three sizes whenever you see him handle the turtles with such care, as if they are made of hopes and dreams instead of shells and teeth. He doesn’t even mind when they draw his blood, simply laughing and apologizing for scaring them. Even you curse at them for biting sometimes, on your worst days.

He’s a little too perfect, and sometimes when you think of him you find your hand on your bicep.

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

You are thinking of him while you and Raph are building an additional enclosure for a leopard tortoise that isn’t playing well with the others. You feel an itch in your bicep, possibly psychosomatic but annoying nonetheless. You push up your sleeve with the hammer in your hand and scratch at your soulmark with it while you line up the next nail.

“The fuck is that?”

You look up at Raph and blink. That was pretty abrupt, even for him. You follow his gaze to your bicep. “My soulmark?”

A kaleidoscope of emotions flash across his face, too quick to follow. He settles on exasperation. “That’s your soulmark? ‘Nd you never thought to, I dunno, talk to him?”

“Talk to who?”

Raph throws his hands in the air and stalks off. You hear a mutter that sounds suspiciously like “made for each other” as you watch him go.

Part of you wants to follow, to figure out what’s going on, but you really don’t want to have to wrestle this lumber you’re nailing back into place. It took long enough the first time. So you turn back to the task at hand, trying not to get distracted while you hammer the nail in.

It doesn’t take long for Raph to come back, his protesting little brother in tow. He comes up to where you are bandaging your finger after hitting it with the hammer and grabs you as well. He sits the two of you down on the pile of lumber.

“Bro, wha-” Mikey cuts himself off, staring as Raph lifts your sleeve and reveals your soulmark to him.

Raph steps away, letting your sleeve fall back into place, then points between you. “Talk.” He stalks off once again.

You turn to Mikey, hoping he can shed some light on what’s going on. He’s still staring at your bicep, a little slack-jawed. You wave your hand in front of his face, and his gaze snaps up to your face. He starts fumbling with the bracelets around his arm.

When he manages to push them off his wrist to reveal the matching orange turtle, it’s your turn to gape at his arm. You’re moving before you really process everything, and he meets you in the middle for a searing kiss.

“That’s not talking!” Raph’s annoyed yell comes from the other end of the enclosure. You and Mikey pull away simultaneously and start to laugh.

[canecone]

And just like I said here he is in all his glory

[fandom-geek]

me: oh wow, eurogamer's review of veilguard's press demo is out, let's have a read

eurogamer: "veilguard is a streamlined cinematic action game"

me: oh god

eurogamer: "the lines between dragon age and mass effect are blurring"

me: why

eurogamer: "plays more like a single-player action game in combat than a traditional rpg"

me: ....

eurogamer: "the city appears densely populated and buzzing, you can't really interact with people you see there; it's set dressing. But it's beautiful set-dressing nonetheless, and how interactive does it really need to be?"

me: AHHHHHHHHHHHH-

eurogamer: "as a role-playing game it provides a welcome refreshment to the density of Baldur's Gate 3"

who has ever wanted less things in an rpg???? w h o ?????? it's like praising a shooter for having a ton of alternatives to combat!!

[hunxi-guilai]

omg you're back!! so exciting, i hope you'll have a good time here again 💖

hah, to a certain extent I never stopped! I was absent for most of 2023 due to Things Continuing To Happen but I've been writing and nicheposting in various corners of the internet as well ☺️