#wing commander fergus

[usafphantom2]

Wing Commander Brendan Eamonn Fergus Finucane, DSO, DFC & Two Bars (16 October 1920 – 15 July 1942) was an Irish RAF fighter pilot and ace

[holdstf]

Quick study sketch of my favourite angry scottish lad

[akampana]

Prompt n.24 sounds very interesting. Arturia is a king, but also a knight. And the one thing a knight has by their side, is their trusted weapon...

But we know that sometimes, a weapon is not just a weapon. Sometimes its much more...

Right, Cu Alter?

24. “You will never lose me. I will always be right here beside you.”

Cu Alter x Arturia

One-shot, set in a world where Cú Chulainn and King Arthur exist in the same time period. Enjoy! Thanks for the ask!

___

A loud clang resounded within the stone confines of the throne room, and yet it was quiet compared to the storm raging hell outside, and quieter still to the turmoil that wracked King Arthur’s mind.

Tristan’s desertion was followed by those of a number of knights. The first crack in the glass foundation that kept Camelot’s flag flying high. The exposure of Lancelot’s affair, however, was the hammer that finally smashed it to smithereens. Now here she was left amongst the rubble, with an aggrieved Gawain, a conflicted Bedivere and the cold, dead body of poor Agravain, who fell victim to her excommunicated First Knight. Arturia did not know where Merlin was. Kay had left months ago with all his fortune. She needn’t be a genius to know he wasn’t coming back.

What the people demanded was revenge for King Arthur’s cuckolding: the hunt and execution of the treacherous French knight that fled to his homeland, to whom Arturia held no grudge. Her logic demanded she carry out the farce, but what remained of her sealed-up heart did not.

From this derived her conflict, which she wrestled in solitude, here at the glaringly empty Round Table that used to seat her comrades.

Pursue the man she’s forgiven or stay her hand? Give the people what they want or stand by her own beliefs?

Arturia flinched as cool metal brushed against her fingertips, her startled eyes climbing to meet orbs the color of the wine she just spilled.

“King—!” the glare he sent her stilled her tongue at once, his inhuman crimson eyes glowing in the dim candlelight.

“Cú,” she corrected herself, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself. Her thinner night garbs did little to hide the secret of her sex. In the dead of night, she wasn’t expecting any visitors. Especially not at the Round Table, which was devoid of all life at this hour.

“Has your fire gone out for the night?” she said, twisting her father’s silver ring around her thumb as she spoke, “I will arrange for a servant to assist you at once—”

“Forget it,” interrupted the brutal warrior, reclining himself into Lancelot’s former seat as he poured his own goblet. “Can’t sleep in all this racket.”

She knew instinctively he didn’t mean the storm. Regretful green eyes inspected the mess in the corner, wasted wine that was a victim to her ire. Briefly, she wondered how the foreign king could hear her from all the way in the east wing, but it was hardly important. Cú was already a man of few words. He wouldn’t waste any on small talk.

“Yer gonna chase the bastard, aren’t ya? It’s what yer subjects want,” came his raspy declaration, cutting in through the silence just before a crack of lightning illuminated the room. Their eyes clashed in the glaring white light, blood orbs against evergreen.

“I can...I cannot deny them the justice they expect of me,” she answered, grief lacing the small voice that barely carried itself through the thunder.

“So you deny yerself. Just like you’ve done all yer life. Ain’t that right, Arturia?”

It took King Arthur a moment to fully grasp what had come out of his lips. Her breath began to labor as she wracked her brain for an excuse. Panic settled into her bones faster than the snow outside seeped into the grass. Before she could formulate anything, however, she felt Cú’s fingers encircle her wrist.

“Relax. I ain’t telling no one. Weapons don’t talk, remember?” he soothed, as much as an emotionless killing machine could, anyway.

“You are not just a weapon. We have been over this.” Arturia shot back, momentarily forgetting the source of her stress.

As her frantic breaths began to still, she managed a small question. “How long have you known?”

His claws released their grip, lamenting the small indents they left on her skin. “Since ya wasted yer fourteenth seat on a foreign king that once would have torn yer land asunder.”

Cú reached past her arms, lifting the wool cloak from the short king’s chest. Sure enough, he now had his confirmation, a modest chest that was so cleverly hidden behind her armor plates.

“‘Tis of little consequence to me,” he voiced, replacing the garment she pulled so closely around herself. She watched him as he gave her another glass of wine, trying to discern if he spoke the truth.

“I don’t bloody care about what’s between yer legs, the same way you never cared for this fucking tail that trails behind me. All I need to hear are yer orders,” her allied king continued, flicking away a loose strand of hair with the scaly appendage.

“If ya wanna kill Lancelot, Arturia, I’m with ya. Point me in the way of France. But if not, then gimme some other fucking command. I don’t give a shit, as long as it’s what ya want.”

The King of Knights pursed her lip, still unaccustomed to hearing her real name from one who wasn’t supposed to know her secret. Especially when the one who used it was someone she did not expect: the displaced King of Connacht, who was more frequently an envoy serving at her court as an allied Warrior of the Round Table than the ruler of his late queen’s territory. The latter job, Cú had delegated to Fergus, as the “Mad” King had chosen to dedicate his freedom to the one that liberated him.

Arturia shook off his crass manner of speech. After nearly a decade of having him by her side, she’d grown accustomed to his language, even if he was frequently scoffed at by Agravain and Gaheris when the siblings still lived.

The reminder of her knights’ deaths led her gaze back to her table and its empty seats. There were so few that still belonged to the living. Some of them were never to be filled again. Arturia turned to her right, to where Lancelot once sat, meeting ruby eyes instead of onyx ones.

“Then how about this,” she suggested, imprinting the Irish King’s face into her memory the same way she’d done for the rest of her knights. Slowly, she slipped off the silver ring she’d been fiddling with and slid it onto his pinky.

“Return to your homeland with as much gold as you can carry and my eternal gratitude. Take a fourth of the cattle. Reward each of those in your service with one and keep the rest to enrich Connacht.”

Thunder raged on outside the castle walls, but it was the silence of the king before her that unnerved Arturia to a ridiculous extent. For while neither were as talkative as her remaining nephew, the quiet had never been quite so tense.

“The hell?” Cú finally asked, glaring at the Pendragon ring with disgust instead of honor. “You’d have me run? Do ya think me a coward—”

“—I think you are a king that should not die for the flag of a kingdom that is not his,” she cut him off, grasping his hand before he could tear her father’s ring off. “You asked for an order. This is it.”

Cú Chulainn’s claws dug into the collar of her cloak, as he pulled her to his face, a menacing look upon his countenance.

“An order?” he grunted harshly, “Or a feeble attempt at driving me away before I can leave you?”

Arturia’s struggles suddenly ceased, her limbs going limp before the foreign king finally let go of her clothes. The chairs screeched as each ruler fell back onto them, the older one far more irate than the younger.

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Cú murmured, his voice soft as his fist thudded onto the circular table. “Ya’ve been an absolute tool since that depressing redhead turned in his rank, and some thoughtless fools followed. Then ya let Lancelot leave, don’t even bloody try to tell me he got away.”

Arturia turned her head, hiding her eyes behind her hay-colored hair. It mattered not how her charisma could sway crowds, her tongue knew not how to lie. Green eyes searched the empty room, counting the few chairs that would be occupied tomorrow. Her sister’s remaining sons’, Bedivere’s and...oh, how very few.

Arturia rested her hand on his fist, urging him to keep the heirloom as proof of the great service he gave Camelot.

“Go home, Cú. I cannot...I cannot lose you, too.” the British king sighed, getting used to the chill of solitude. She’d always known that a life as king was a life alone. At least with Cú, she could choose the day he left, instead of spending her time counting the days till he made his exit, just like her knights, her wizard, her brother.

“Don’t ask something so fucking stupid then go looking so damn pitiful,” he responded, flipping their hands and dragging her into his space till her lips touched his.

There was a reason Cú had stayed, pawning off Connacht to someone else that deserved it more and joining Camelot’s court instead. Not only had Arturia broken the geis that kept him tied to Medb, but she also gave him purpose.

Cú never spoke of it, but he remembered their first meeting like it was yesterday.

It was on the battlefield, back when he was still bound by geis to serve another mistress. Medb, the sly vixen, had tricked him into her service, forcing him into the frontlines till he’d slain every single one of his former comrades.

Bathed in the blood of his friends, the red clouding his vision, the man who was once Ulster’s proudest warrior was no more. His valiant face was replaced by a monstrous visage, his armaments were stained black. Upon his head sat a crown of thorns, forced onto his head by a queen who knew nothing but chaos.

Before long, the name he was proud to take up had been given new meaning. He was no longer Ulster’s guard dog, but Medb’s rabid hound, who sunk his teeth into anything and everything that so much as irked the devilish queen. Cú Alter, she called him, now that she’d bent him to her tastes. Cú Alter, a fitting name to a warrior forced to tarnish his own title.

As the bodies piled up around him, no rhyme nor reason for their slaughter, Cú began to see himself in a darker light, grasping at straws for some sort of purpose behind all the mindless killing.

He must have been a monster. A monster that massacred all that stood in his way regardless of honor and glory. Yes, that must have been it, he convinced himself, finally submitting to the dark cage that his hated loathsome queen had put him under.

As the black chains dragged him deeper and deeper into his own personal hell, he took up his spear once again. It lashed out whenever he touched it, staining itself dark till the vibrant red he used to wield was nowhere to be found. Once more, to the battlefield, said Medb. Once more, he tore across it with a godlike ease.

Then suddenly the cursed spear collided with its match, a sword of shining light that glowed as bright as its wielder. He remembered the moment so clearly, his breath hitching at his throat as his strikes were pushed back, the wind pressure whipping his hood out of his face. His heart pounded with adrenaline as his gaze fell down to his opponent: a tiny little thing, so small they should have fallen to his last strike, but there they still stood, defiant green eyes staring up at him with no fear.

Rage overtook his figure, fueling his strikes as he tried to cast the small warrior back, but all his efforts were met with equal force.

“My name is Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot.” a small voice, too fragile to have been a man’s, rung out across the battlefield. Spear met sword once again, pausing in their dance.

“Your name, knight.”

Even though he stayed on his feet, it was like the king had pulled the rug from under him. Their eyes locked once more, and he saw himself within the green irises, staring mouth agape at his opponent.

His name? His name? How long had it been since he’d been asked for his name? How many foes had he slain since then? How many nameless faces had he sent to the grave? How could this person, this puny king, take one look at his monstrous form and face him like a knight regardless?

“Cú Chulainn,” came his raspy voice, which too often had been used to roar like a beast. It felt foreign on his lips, which had ‘til then spoke nothing but bitter resentment.

That day, Arturia saw more than the monster. More than the weapon he’d disillusioned himself into being. Cú followed the king after Medb’s defeat, intending to find some proof that it was all a fluke, but it never happened. Arturia never treated him or her knights like a weapon or a tool. Arturia treated him like an equal.

And now, years spent the line, she was robbing him of that feeling, sending him away with glory and riches. If he were younger, he’d have jumped at the prize of heroic fame, but that was no longer what he wanted. What he wanted was to be right here, right next to the person that made him feel human again.

As their lips parted, Cú sent a glare through the empty seats of each of the deserters. He’d never understand how they could leave their king behind. He’d met his fair share of monarchs— hell, he technically was one—and even as belligerent a person he was, he wouldn’t wield his spear for any other.

“You will never lose me,” Cú declared in between rough kisses. “I will always be right here beside you. Understand?”

The Irishman returned her ring as she nodded, breathless, into his shoulder. She had one. Even if the world were to turn on Arturia, she still had one. One that would stay forever beside her.

Beside her...

Beyond Cú, the shorter king saw the backrest of Lancelot’s former seat, and finally, she knew just what to do to settle the people and follow her heart at the same time.

“Disregard my previous orders. Heed this instead…”

As the words left his king’s lips, Cú Chulainn proudly grinned.

[demonologist-in-denim]

What if in earlier seasons, Crowley was written as an amiable ally for the boys, rather than them disliking him. Imagine Crowley being established as “not as bad as other demons” in the Winchester’s eyes, as a semi-reluctant ally who – yeah, on occasion, puts his own interests first, but never directly threatens and even occasionally helps the boys. He’s still snarky, and he can still be an arse. But the boys know that as long as they don’t cross him, Crowley won’t mess with them. From Crowley’s end, that’s because keeping good relations with the infamous Winchester brothers is to his benefit. But then, they start to grow on him. And maybe he’s a little more lenient with the flannelled nightmares than he should be, a little indulgent, rolls his eyes and does a few favors for them. Which only further encourages the Winchesters, and later a less willing Castiel, to view him as a frenemy.

The rest of the early seasons is the same, except now, moving into season 6, the boys are willingly working with Crowley and Cas. They don’t like the idea of opening up Purgatory, but they understand that Hell and Heaven really do need to be taken in hand – and who else are they going to trust to do that? As things start to look really dark throughout that season, the boys start pushing back, start testing their relationship with both angel and demon, and Cas still betrays all of them and takes the souls for himself. And now there’s season 7, with Crowley working with the boys to stop Cas – Dean wanting to save him from himself, Sam and Crowley unhappily planning to kill the angel – Sam because he doesn’t think Cas can be saved, and Crowley because he wants his share of the Purgatory power. Unleash the Leviathans, and now we’ve got the King of Hell working closely and willingly with the boys to stop this new threat. Demons at their disposal, even. Which doesn’t put Crowley in a very good position in Hell, but he pushes on because it’s this or let the Leviathans eat the world. The Winchesters plus Crowley and a now restored Castiel manage to defeat the Leviathans, just as the demons rise up and dethrone Crowley. Hell is a free-for-all, and demons are loose in the world.

Then have all of season 8 be about demon in-fighting and the human casualties along the way. The boys work to get Crowley back on the throne, so he can restore some order. But that also means he’s temporarily dependent on them, in hiding with them from his former minions. Leads them to the Men of Letters legacy, which in turn leads to the bunker. Bring the British Men of Letters back in seasons earlier, alerted to the awakening of one of their old establishments in the States. Throw Abaddon into the mix, providing a competitor for Crowley laying claim to the throne, which would make him more susceptible to the help offered by the Winchesters, and unfortunately to the supposed support of the BMoL as well. By now, Crowley’s an unofficial member of Team Free Will, the boys well aware he chose saving the world (and them) over giving his full attention to Hell, leading to all this. There’s the sense that the four of them – plus Kevin and Charlie, at this point – are all in it together. Maybe even Meg is still around, maybe she’s trying to lead one of the demonic factions, and there is this whole I-care-about-you-but-we’re-on-opposite-sides between her and Cas. Crowley has softened, the same way Cas softened over time with exposure to humanity and the Winchesters.

Of course the tablets and Kevin came into play with the Leviathans. The BMoL reveal they have the demon tablet, and suggest Kevin might be able to find something on it to control demonkind and restore Hell. Big dramatic reveal to the Winchesters only, the BMoL admit that there is a means of closing the Gates of Hell permanently on the tablet – learned from a previous prophet whom, ahem, did not survive their duty – and now the Winchesters are torn between sparing the world from demons and betraying Crowley. Crowley, who is counting on them to help him get his throne back. Crowley who has begrudgingly and then more willingly worked cases with them while they’ve tried to find an answer to all of this. Crowley who led them to the MoL and the bunker in the first place. Who isn’t as bad as the rest of his kind, who Dean likes to go for a drink with and might even consider a friend. And just as the Winchesters decide they can find another way to close the Gates, Kevin discovers the necessary spell, and the BMoLs take advantage that there is a demon close at hand, and snatch Crowley to perform the demon trials.

And by the time the Winchesters race to his rescue – torn, because ending the trial means not closing the Gates, but damn it, he’s had their backs, so they’re going to have his – Crowley is in the last hour of the cure. Tells them to let it happen, let the trial be complete, the Gates slammed shut. His own soul restored. But there’s that whole thing with Metatron and Cas and the angels going on, so of course this is the moment the angels are cast out of Heaven. And Abaddon bursts in, maybe Meg comes to challenge her. And in all the chaos, the cure is never completed, time’s up, too late. The boys defeat the BMoLs, rescue Crowley, escape. Cas is lost somewhere in the world, human after what happened in Heaven.

Season 9 would be almost completely the same – Crowley’s blood addiction, searching for the Mark and the Blade, Abaddon, the angels, all of it – except, the Winchesters actually sympathize with Crowley. They express concern, ask after him, say maybe having regained something of his soul is a good thing. And Crowley is torn, because he can now really feel that affection he has for the boys, and he might very well have the option of a place among them, but also he knows Hell needs a ruler to keep demonkind in line, and he still likes power. The boys help him overthrow Abaddon, help him get clean of his blood addiction. Maybe there’s a scene where Crowley and Meg compare notes – he who went through the cure, and she who cares for an angel, neither of whom really fit with demonkind anymore. And by the time the season reaches the later episodes, with Crowley back on the throne and the boys working cases while trying to figure out what to do about Metatron, Crowley is an acknowledged, secret extension of Team Free Will. Makes changes to Hell, keeps demonkind under tight control, helps here and there on cases.

All of this, all of this headcanon, just to get to the point where the boys are always making side comments to Crowley about, you know, how if he wanted to give up Hell and join the three of them full time, he’d be welcome. Come on, just work one more case with us. Just this one about hellhounds. Just that one with vampires. Just one more, one more, one more. And Crowley acquiesces more than he knows he should. Cares about the boys and Cas more than he knows he should, hates Hell and demons more than he knows he should.

So that by the time the Mark takes Dean and turns him into a demon, it’s not only Sam and Cas that are hurt by it. It’s Crowley, too. Crowley who sees Dean turning into something truly evil, something worse than Crowley himself is now. And he agrees with Sam and Cas that he’ll take demon!Dean under his wing as his second-in-command in Hell until they find a cure, a cure for the Mark as much as for being a demon. Season 10 is all about Cas (who’s grace is fading) and Sam working to find a cure while working cases, and Crowley trying to keep Dean occupied with hunting down rebel demons and the like. He even sends the Knight of Hell after angels, to capture more grace for the fading Castiel. Throw Rowena – as Fergus’ ex-wife – in there, attempting to convince Crowley to share his throne with her, causing mischief. He would feel this deep sense of loneliness – demon!Dean isn’t the companion he was before the Mark, Rowena only wants power for herself ultimately, demonkind hates and is in open rebellion against him – and Crowley is beginning to admit to himself that he just doesn’t have this in him anymore, to be the kind of monster it takes to rule Hell. Maybe Dean even tries to take the throne from him, with Rowena’s help, and the acceptance by the demons of this alternative ruler is everything Crowley needs to finally break from old loyalties and the desire to rule, from demonkind entirely.

Realizing the situation is entirely out of control, Crowley, Cas and Sam work to capture Dean. They convince Rowena, who has now taken the throne of Hell for herself, to remove the Mark, thus removing a threat to her reign. Crowley makes an oath that if she will do this, he will never seek to retake the throne. An enraged demon!Dean is forced through the demon trials, in which he says the most horrible and hurtful things to Sam and Cas. And to Crowley, cuttingly demanding to know why the former king will put Dean through this, restore the hunter’s humanity, but not his own. Crowley doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t have an answer because he realizes that, once, he would have said it was important he hold Hell, or that he wanted the power that came with being a demon, or that he was scared of facing what he’s done as a demon. In light of everything that has happened – the complete rejection by demonkind and the loss of Hell, the revulsion he feels after the aborted cure and Dean’s own time as a demon, and knowing he has a place here on Team Free Will – Crowley realizes he no longer has a reason not to complete the cure.

And in the last hour of the cure, with Dean almost entirely restored to himself, the hunter understands the demon better than ever before. Tells him, one of these days, it’s going to be Crowley in this chair, the cure coursing through him, the three of them gathered around him, supportive. And Crowley knows he’s right. It’s no longer a question of if – only when.

Once they’ve completed the demon cure, the boys set about removing the Mark, with Rowena’s help. And removing the Mark unleashes the Darkness in the world. In season 11, the Darkness should have been something much more insidious, and dangerous. A force which slithers into people, bolsters the innate darkness that is in everyone, turning people into their worst selves. And it controls demons utterly. They are mostly formed of the Darkness, after all.

And for Crowley and the cure, “when” is now. It is that, or fear turning on the people who used to teasingly ensnare him in “just one more case,” who would embrace him as one of them if only he’d allow it. And now, he’s finally ready for that.

[bigfan-fanfic]

Luka, Benny Cousland, Asha Lavellan, and Vaati Adaar (clockwise from top left)

Some headcanons for the new OCs I’ve been making. Maybe I should do these for all my OCs?

Vaati Adaar (Dragon Age: Inquisition) - face claim Chris Evans, bottom left

Vaati was practically born into the Valo-Kas Mercenary Company, a Vashoth child of Tal-Vashoth parents Meraad and Isala. However, he was kidnapped at age five by Templars and imprisoned in the Circle of Magi in Kirkwall, known as the Gallows. At age fifteen, he was rescued and set free by Warden-Lieutenant Lissa Surana and former Templar Raleigh Samson.

Vaati had a hard time in Kirkwall. His left horn was permanently damaged when a Templar sawed it off and had a fellow apprentice cauterize it with a fireball - the apprentice was made Tranquil and Vaati was left with a jagged white stump where his horn used to be. As part of his proposal, Blackwall gifts Vaati with a magic silverite false horn that he wears always.

 Vaati was raised by Shokrakar after he escaped the Gallows. He was eager to expand his powers beyond the Circle’s teachings - he has an analytical mind and quickly became Shokrakar’s assistant tactician and second-in-command.

Vaati wields a spear that he uses mainly as a staff, and a spiked greatshield for defense and sometimes offense. He is only twenty-three when he becomes the Inquisitor to protect young Tash Adaar.

Vaati used to be involved with Tash’s elder step-brother Arno and acts sort of as a big brother to the Herald. He and Tash work together to plan the way the Inquisition goes, although Vaati defers to Tash’s judgments for the most part.

Vaati is demisexual, and began being attracted to Blackwall after they spent many weeks talking in the stables and whittling toys for the kids in New Haven.

Vaati enjoys carving and making things with his hands. His greatest fear is Tranquility, and he still has nightmares about the Gallows, where he was threatened with it daily just for the crime of being a qunari.

Asha Lavellan (Dragon Age: Inquisition) - face claim Mallory Jansen, bottom right

Asha Lavellan was the First of Clan Lavellan, but she left in order to become a Watcher for the Arlathvhen, keeping an eye on the shemlen’s wars and movements and how they would affect the People.

She bears the vallaslin of Dirthamen, the God of Secrets. Asha is a competent assassin and mainly wields a pair of daggers. However she is a mage, so she uses these to channel magic.

Asha has spent years helping city elves flee oppressive conditions and make it to various clans. She is well known amongst the Dalish and a legend among city elves who call her the New Emerald Knight. Asha’s connections led her to become the Dalish Advisor to the Inquisition and work closely with the other advisors, the Herald, and the Inquisitor.

Solas’ apparent dislike of the People led her to greatly distrust him, even as he tried to find out more about the distinctly non-traditional Clan Lavellan, and she took over teaching Tash about the Dalish folklore and culture when he and Tash’s relationship crumbled. Solas offered to remove her vallaslin and she balked, avoiding him from then on.

Asha encountered Briala at Halamshiral and the two women fell hard in love, particularly after Asha helped Tash to keep Briala in power with a public truce, and then after she assassinated Celene once Corypheus was defeated, leaving Briala as the power behind the throne Gaspard occupied as a puppet Emperor.

Asha is a rift mage and has perfected a technique much like Calpernia’s ability to teleport. She also gives Briala an enchanted dagger as a token of their love.

After she and Briala marry, Briala wears a mask with the vallaslin of Falon’Din hidden inside it, to commemorate the bond between her and Asha as one of similar strength to that of the two gods.

Benny Cousland (Dragon Age: Origins) - face claim Pedro Pascal, top right

Benezio Alendro Cousland, Lord of Highever, is actually Josephine Montilyet’s cousin through marriage - his brother’s wife, Oriana, is Josephine’s cousin, but the Couslands originally came from Antiva and the two have several ancestors in common. Josephine gets a message to Benny to have him serve as Tash’s tutor in dealing with nobility.

Benny escaped the massacre at Castle Cousland with the sacrifice of Ser Gilmore, and came across the Hero of Ferelden’s party by chance as he was trying to reach Ostagar to find Fergus.

Benny is skilled in the diplomatic arts, as well as with the rapier, and he used both these talents to assist the Hero. He formed a close attachment to Zevran during this time - the two informally married after the Blight and traveled together, first to Amaranthine with the Warden’s party. He became known as the Dark Wolf there.

Benny and Zevran spend the intervening time between the end of Origins and the start of Inquisition fighting corrupt institutions and helping protect the disadvantaged. Around this time they both become Red Jennies. While Zevran does assassination work for Leliana, Benny becomes somewhat of a mentor to Sera, helping her organize the Red Jennies.

Zevran and Benny form a polyamorous relationship with Mysen of Denerim and his husband Alistair during Inquisition. The four eventually end up in Kirkwall, helping Varric, working to improve the orphanage Mysen and Alistair started, and occasionally going on missions for Divine Victoria or the Red Jennies.

Benny is mildly allergic to strawberries and will break out in hives if he eats one, although it will clear up quickly and he won’t be in danger of anaphylaxis. 

Benny is technically next in line for the throne of Ferelden should Queen Anora have no heirs. He formally adopts Alistair and Mysen’s foundling children so they are Cousland heirs, and hires guards to protect the orphanage.

Luka (the Witcher - Netflix) - face claim Niall Horan, top left

Luka is a gold dragon in human form - he prefers his human form immensely and only ever shifts back to save someone’s life or flee quickly. His mother was killed by dragon hunters when he was still a hatchling, and he had barely come of age in human years when his father Villentretenmerth had to leave him behind.

In human form Luka can still breathe fire, and can cast limited spells when he sings. His singing voice can be bewitching if he isn’t careful. HIs full name is Luczaryth.

Luka has a bright and happy spirit and is surprisingly naive. He seeks to do good deeds and seek out joy for his long-lived existence.

Luka has repaired over many years an abandoned house in a forest on the Continent. Jaskier heard Luka’s singing from afar one day and came upon the fine house. He seduced the young dragon, and the two spent many weeks together, falling deeply in love. Jaskier invited Luka to join him on his journeys and the two often perform duets, although Luka will occasionally leave to make sure their house is safe.

When Luka meets Geralt, the Witcher reluctantly takes the young dragon under his wing (so to speak) to protect him. Luka and Jaskier experience a great attraction to Geralt and act on it. 

The three maintain a polyamorous relationship. Although Geralt chases Jaskier off after meeting Luka’s father, they reunite and agree not to be parted in anger again.

Despite acting very submissive to the other two in public, Luka is the one to take charge in bed, with Geralt letting go of all control and Jaskier switching between roles as the mood takes them.

[magneticmage]

What my Dragon Age OCs named their animal companions (at least those that have them);

As this was longer than anticipated, it's under the cut, otherwise enjoy my babbling!

Lynera Mahariel has the following animal companions as a ranger:

-"Vengeance " aka Nan the Bear (a bear that underwent a type of modified Joining and became a bereskarn who later acquires the ability to wear heavy and massive armors). She will often use him as a beast of burden and a mount into battle. It is very docile for its kind, oddly enough, and she perhaps guesses that it might be because she raised the bear from a half-grown cub after its mother was killed by human hunters. When it got the Blight post-Deep Roads, she used some of the Archdemon's blood they had collected (yes, they fought it in the Deep Roads but that's another post on its own) and she is known to have stayed by its side the entire time, fully prepared to put it down should the need arise. As this was on the heels of Tamlen's ghouldom and subsequent death, she did not want to have to lose another friend to the Blight's corruption, but felt no other alternative was available. She is also prepared to kill Nan before going on her Calling (while she helped to find the cure for the Taint, she did not use it herself as she had accepted her fate as a Grey Warden during the Fifth Blight). She named him Nan after the rage and grief she feels over Tamlen and the loss of her old life, something the bear seems to share towards bow and arrow armed humans who have not been recognized as allies. He is brown and black furred.

-"Anger" aka Nin the Wolf (another animal companion who was Joined-seeing a pattern here yet?-after contracting the Taint and transformed into a blight wolf that eventually gains the training to wear medium and then heavy armors). She took the wolf in after he was separated from its pack by a darkspawn war party in the Kocarri Wilds and he has remained with her ever since. While extremely territorial and aggressive, she can soothe him with a simple touch much to the bafflement of others, and sometimes even herself post-Joinings. She named him Nin due to all the anger and frustration she was feeling at the time, as well as how aggressive and snappy he was to others. He has red fur with a dark gray underbelly.

-"Sadness/Depression" aka Nume the Spider (the final mention of animal companion to Join Lynera's menagerie of pets-turned-Tainted-Wardens and capable of wearing light armor). She hatched the spider from an egg sac recovered in the Dark Forest from around the Queen spider's nest. While Nume takes some time (probably a few months to half a year, given spider's known moulting rates as juveniles into adults) before the spider is fully grown and capable of combat, Lynera doesn't generally use her for direct skirmishes and often has her set up webbing to facilitate ambushes. She contracts the Taint after a few skirmishes with the darkspawn and Lynera promptly has her Joined. Careful to a fault and uncertain about the abilities and effects this new type of Spider would have should Nume ever be allowed to breed, Lynera makes a point to kill any male spider within the general facility and often has Nin or Nan do so. She also noted the Nume's weaknesses to certain types of damage and had Wade craft specially designed armor to protect her friend. Nume is named after the rage and grief that Lynera experienced at the time. Nume is black with vivid red and white markings and gold-hued eyes.

Isemaya Tabris;

-Kisses the Cat=An old she-devil calico cat that's been Fade-Touched after she rescued it from the Alienage orphanage's attic. She taught the cat to wear a set of modified studded leather-and drakeskin armor that Wade designed after showing her to the staff at Vigil's Keep. Prior to that, she simply kept the cat in her pack and had trained it to come when called. She named it Kisses after it proceeded to continously bite at her armor and clothes before calming down as time went on, at least until Ser Pounce-a-lot came around as the two only get along at certain times (when their owners are in the room, her heat strikes, etc.).

Catriona Surana;

-"Freedom" aka Revas the Warden Mabari Warhound (Was also Joined upon contracting the Taint post-Solidier's Peak and it inspired Catriona to modify the Joining in such a way as to allow-or, at least, attempt-other creatures to undergo it and hopefully have a higher chance of success. The results of the test have yet to be determined due to the small sample size thus far, but it offers promising results if the current survival rate holds true. Although this does not stop the creature's from changing due to their now Tainted nature nor does it make them immune to the Calling, however, she has also begun further research into modifying the Cure for them, as well. The results will have to be remain to be seen as this modified cure hasn't been tested yet). She had the mabari trained to wear medium and heavy armors over time so that he could continue to fight beside her as she is a blood-mage, spirit-healer, and arcane-warrior and thus often fights on the front lines when not shuffled away in her research libraries. Revas himself was named after she found community and acceptance among the Danish and city elves after being so estranged from her respective heritage and cultures due to being in the Circle at Kinloch Hold since the age of eleven. He was also named for the fact that she found she actually wanted and enjoyed her newfound freedoms after so long denied them by the Templars. He's got white fur with icy blue eyes and seems slightly more wolf-like in appearance than most mabari.

Cale Amell;

-Barkspawn the Mabari Warhound is the sibling of Catriona's wardog due to being in the same litter. He is a dull black-furred dog. He was not Joined and was often used as a frontline of defense should enemies get to close to his owner as his owner is far more squishy than Catriona and so was taught to wear medium and heavy armor sets. He is also extremely fond of Morrigan and almost seems to prefer her over Cale at times. He was returned to the party, alongside his brother, by a chance meeting with Cale's estranged sister, Raven Amell, in the lifting of the seige of Gwaren during the Fifth Blight.

Raven Amell;

-Ribbon the Falcon=This lovely bird was give to her by one of her past Orlesian lovers (now deceased due to poisoning by rivals in the Game) during their time at Montsimmard together before she was set to be transferred to The Gallows at Kirkwall. Needless to say, the Blight interrupted those plans and Raven kept her bird until its death by arrows during the fight against Corypheus' forces in the Arbor Wilds despite the light armor vestments it had been granted and trained in by that point of time. Prior to her death and the Mage-Templar War, she was often used to scout and send encoded messages or for hunting small game like rabbits. Ribbon is named after the streaks-"ribbons"-of lighter colors across her dark brown wings and underbelly.

Fion Cousland;

-Hafter the Mabari Warhound is exactly what a Cousland should have in a mabari; purebred, stalwart, noble, and fierce. He's a charcoal grey color with some uneven ashy and soot colored stripes. He was given combat training around the same time as Fion had begun to excel at his own warrior training and the two quickly became a nigh-unbeatable time. By the time of Awakening, Hafter is able to wear truly massive protective armor and still keep fighting as effectively as ever, though he has gained a healthy fear of water after going under a river for a few hundred feet post-Awakening but pre-Inquisition. He was named after the old tales Nan would tell him as a child.

Aelynne Cousland;

-Rabbit the Mabari was the runt of the litter and was given to Aelynne upon the previous death of her old dog (an aged greyhound named Marble she'd been given by a relative). She is a simple brown color with a white underbelly and darker brown ears. She's got a small "mask" across her eyes that matches her ears. She was named Rabbit due to Aelynne having stated she wanted a pet rabbit for Wintersend and Fergus promptly giving her the long-eared mabari as a present soon after instead. Rabbit is calmer than her master and often helps to keep her calm and collected and focused. Due to Aelynne preferring longer range combat (though she later gain a reputation for being a skilled duelist post-Fereldan Civil War and her own raider adventures), Rabbit was trained to be a more direct threat to their enemies and thus wears medium and heavy armor (though the later is often only used for ground assaults as it's often a detriment at sea).

Barran Aeducan;

-"Family" aka Kalnath the Deepstalker Queen is a hardy and rather large deepstalker matriarch of unusual gold and blue coloring with alert and bright red eyes. While her numerous and fast-growing progeny is occasionally weaponized as fodder after becoming acclimatized to having Barran at the top of the "pecking order" so to speak and thus often trained for simple tasks and commands, Kalnath herself is extremely valued by Barran as she was the first creature to not attack him during his exile in the Deep Roads. He freed her from a darkspawn trap and nursed back to health while traveling to Ostagar. Once healed, she did not leave and seems quite content to continue her adventures with Barran. She was trained to wear light to medium armor to better protect her in battle (though her progeny goes without). Barran has begun an extensive breeding program of her descendants to make them viable as scouts and pets (often those of unusual colorings such as Kalnath herself or gentler and obedient natures) among other things. He is adamant that Kalnath is not a pet but is often found secretly doting on her whenever possible. Kalnath is named for fact that he viewed his family-namely Bhelen, Trian, and even King Endrin-as a nest of deepstalkers with slightly more complexity in motive and means that he often had to navigate growing up but they were deepstalkers if the same pack, at least. Also Bhelen's betrayal was still fresh in his mind and he decided he would be a "deep lord" by swallowing "the venom" of his traitorous brother if that is what it took to get vengeance.

Valda Aeducan;

-"Peace" aka Partha The Giant Spider Queen is a companion of Valda that rarely leaves the Palace walls except when she goes on expeditions into the Deep Roads. Partha is a vivid blue color with green and yellow markings as well as with eight large red eyes. Valda's fascination with spiders started young upon being served them as a special birthday dish when she was six. Since then she has been breeding them for a variety of uses (from exotic pets to poisonous toxins and tools of death against her enemies to more mundane uses such as spidersilk threads for clothes and meat for food) for quite some time. Partha is the latest and most successful individual she has produced thus far, having lived nearly as long as Valda herself (Partha is currently in her late teens) due an extremely strong toxin and elemental resistances paired with powerful muscles for strength and speed. This spider queen is even capable of wearing light armor to aid in covering up her weaker joints and underbelly, as well as occasionally some more sharp drakeskin-and-teeth options for intimidation purposes. She was named after the dwarven word for peace due to Valda wishing to bring about an end to the systematic oppressions faced by many in Orzammar as seen when she encountered a young Brosca ruffian during her youth.

Tatha Brosca;

-"Friend" aka Salroka the Bronto is a beast of burden that Tatha "liberated" from Beraht's cages before killing the crimelord. He is a deep cobalt color. Initially taken so that she could quickly gather what supplies she could scavenge (and an emergency food supply if that failed) before she could abscond off with Rica and Kalah into the Deep Roads-at least that was the plan until the guards arrived and she was Conscripted into the Grey Wardens. Salroka is a simple brute and not easily frightened though it was a rough adjustment period for them both on the way to Ostagar. She often ended up using him as a warmount during the Fifth Blight and so took preparations to get him used to heavy (and then later massive) armor. She named him Salroka after Leske as she missed her fellow partner in crime and did not fully trust Barran despite having been friends with his twin sister for some years prior to the whole mess with Beraht and Jarvia (also another story for another post). She managed to avoid killing Leske during the initial engagement with Jarvia and sent him away when he woke up. Unbeknownst to her, Valda has recruited him to serve as a hidden bodyguard of sorts for Kalah Brosca. Tatha had joked that her old Salroka was even better than her new one so killing him was just a waste of dwarven talent when she was questioned about why she let him go.

Dion Caron;

-Victoy the Giant Rat is a pet rat with fluffy and curly grey and brown fur that Dion has had for a number of years. He doesn't know why the creature is still alive and frankly doesn't care enough to find out. He has trained the rat to help Garam look for and set up traps for the darkspawn they often hunt. He even gave her a makeshift set of Grey Warden gear out of a sense of camaderie. Her name is Victory to remind him that in the war against these monsters and other great evils, the world is still so full of little victories like her.

Jasper Hawke;

-Honey the Mabari Warhound is a beautiful golden-brown mabari from a litter of seven that was birthed by Malcolm's mabari when they were kids and, although one died shortly after, two were given away to family friends, and another was killed by the darkspawn in the flight from Lothering (it was Leandra's white dog named Cotton), he managed to survive among other things; being mauled by a bear, getting burned by mage fire, and losing a fight to a giant rat (poor Honey now has a crippling fear of them). Jasper has trained him to follow commands and wear specially crafted heavy armor (often matching Jasper's own) alongside the special magical-resistant Kaddis he uses. Jasper also has him help train the templar recruits and will even let Aveline borrow him for similar purposes from time to time. Honey was named as such due to getting into a fight with a bear over its beehive of his own volition. He was found hours later beside a dead bear, horribly wounded and covered in bees and honey. Jasper couldn't help but laugh at the memory once he'd recovered.

Gray Hawke;

-Biscuit the Mabari is a grey and brown mabari and was the runt of the litter. A sickly pup that required lots of attention, he has grown to be a very healthy (if somewhat needy) and overly large lap dog. The Kaddis Gray uses are often used for their artistic aesthetics but a few are for actual combat as well. Gray often has him guard the family estate when he is away or sleeping; he even goes on little patrols around the neighboring blocks if rumors are to be believed! He is also very friendly and prone to stealing biscuits, hence his name.

Skye Hawke;

-Pudding the Mabari is a deep brown color and was the largest of the litter. She is also the most curious of the bunch and has been known to get into anything and everything if left to her own devices (much like her owner, some would say). While she often used to help round up the animals around the farm growing up, she's since developed into a capable and well-rounded animal. Skye often uses her for assisting in pranks and diversions, but doesn't often use her for battle out of sentimental reasons. A number of Kaddis designs and types are used for this purpose. She was named Pudding after Skye's favorite desert.

Violet Hawke;

-Cream Puff the Mabari Warhound is a mostly white furred with gold-spots mabari with gray paws and tail. Violet often fights alongside her mabari and even had Cream Puff's own Champion heavy armor comissioned (though her dog did not join her in the fight against the Arishok). Otherwise, Cream Puff is as docile as they come and is known to "kidnap" little kids and other small creatures and bring them home which Violet then has to return. She was named by Malcolm Violet asking for his help in naming her mabari.

~Additional Bonuses~

Emilyse Trevelyan has a cream-colored mabari gifted to her by an Antivan suitor (much to Cullen's consternation) after a recent litter of his Fereldan relatives kennels. She goes on to often use the dog-and its inevitable litters of pups with Cullen's own mabari- to help with the therapies for trauamtized mages and templars looking for some form of comfort who come into the sanctuaries and clinics set up in the Inquisition's wake. She named her Butterscotch.

Garam Kader has acquired a giant silverite-and-steel golem he's named after the dwarven word for war, "Kallak", by the time of Awakening. The details of how exactly he managed to acquire this particular golem are unclear and no one on his team is willing to elaborate on it either.. He has the control rod but upon being told the truth of the Anvil of the Void by Barran and Tatha, he has set a team of researchers to finding a way to break the rod to restore the dwarf's original personality and (hopefully) even find a way to reverse the process and return them to a dwarven form once more. Until then, he maintain Kallak in as best a condition as he can manage despite the numerous missions and dangerous assignments he is given by the Grey Wardens. In the meantime, he has augmented Kallak with some truly massive crystals. He often leaves the golem to its own devices in Vigil's Keep's courtyard where it will wander off to the forge. Wade complains that it is watching him and making his work difficult but Lynera seems to soothe these fears with a simple "perhaps it remembers the craftsmen who made it or what it once was before it became a golem".

[worldevoured]

ANORA MAC TIR  B. 9:02 DRAGON || INQUISITOR

STATISTICS

FULL NAME Anora Mac Tir.

DATE OF BIRTH 9:02 Dragon.

PLACE OF BIRTH Gwaren.

RACE Human.

GENDER Cisgender woman.

PRONOUNS She/her/hers.

SEXUALITY Bisexual.

NATIONALITY Fereldan.

RELIGION Andrastean.

POSITIVE TRAITS Ambitious, intelligent, logical, serious.

NEGATIVE TRAITS Cold, deceitful, opportunistic, secretive.

PHOBIAS None.

MENTAL HEALTH Healthy.

AFFILIATION Fereldan Court ( formerly ), Inquisition.

TITLES Queen ( formerly ), Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor.

SKILLS & ABILITIES

CLASS Warrior.

SPECIALIZATION Templar.

WEAPON Greatsword.

DECISIONS

EXPLORING THEDAS Redcliffe — Inner Sanctum reached, Crossroads secured, gained cultists’ allegiance; Crestwood — Closed lake’s rift, captured Caer Bronach; Western Approach — Claimed Griffon Wing’s Keep; Hissing Wastes — Explored Dwarven ruins; Fallow Mire — troops rescued from the Avvar; Emerald Graves — Fairbanks revealed to be noble, Fairbanks defeated the Freeman; Emprise du Lion — Imshael killed, captured Suledin Keep.

THE WRATH OF HEAVEN Accepts being chosen by Andraste.

CHAMPIONS OF THE JUST Went to Theirinfal Redoubt, allied with templars; Ser Barris made Knight Commander.

IN YOUR HEART SHALL BURN Declared for faith.

HERE LIES THE ABYSS Grey Wardens banished, Warden Contact left in Fade.

WICKED EYES AND WICKED HEARTS Celene rules alone, Gaspard executed. Grand Duchess Florianne killed.

WHAT PRIDE HAD WROUGHT Skipped elven rituals and fought guards, Morrigan drank from the Well of Sorrows.

DOOM UPON ALL THE WORLD Cassandra made Divine.

JUDGMENTS AT SKYHOLD A hanging judge.

JAWS OF HAKKON Discovered and met Ameridan, did not share the truth about Ameridan, hunted down the Nox Morta, the dragon was slain.

COMPANIONS

Blackwall recruited and stayed, left prison as false Grey Warden;

Cassandra received and read Tome, rebuilt Seeker order;

Cole recruited and stayed, made more human;

Dorian recruited and stayed, met and did not reconcile with father;

Iron Bull recruited, Chargers not saved;

Sera recruited, killed Harmond on her own and left;

Solas freed his friend;

Varric tracked red lyrium source;

Vivienne recruited, given snowy wyvern heart;

Cullen encouraged to not use lyrium;

Josephine supported to do favors for the Du Paraquettes;

Leliana steeled.

CONNECTIONS

FAMILY Loghain ( father ), Celia ( mother, deceased ), Cailan ( husband, deceased ).

WANTED SHIPS Anora/Cailan, Anora/Fergus, Anora/Sebastian, Anora/Warden.

NOTES

ON MORALITY Anora is a phenomenal politician, but a questionable person in terms of her morality. I love her character and find her fascinating, but I won’t skim over that. Anora also is, objectively, not a particularly good queen during the Origins timeline – she does nothing to try and curb her father’s power, or Rendon Howe’s, and either doesn’t know that a foreign power is in Denerim and involved in an illegal slave trade, or doesn’t care. This will be addressed. 

I also think it’s important not to shy away from the fact that Anora is ambitious, and ruthless. Whether it’s because she believes that only she can rule Ferelden effectively or it’s because she just likes power, these are important parts of her character. I don’t think it’s fair to judge Anora harshly for the things we celebrate in male characters, but I don’t think it’s fair, either, to absolve her of her faults or even potential cruelty in an attempt to correct the misogyny in fandom.

It’s also important to acknowledge that Anora has canonically shown prejudice against elves, shown primarily through her indifference towards elves, even though she would likely deny any prejudice if asked. This is another thing I won’t ignore or skim over. Anora is not a feminist character.

SHIPPING Because of Anora’s role, direct or otherwise, in the capture and sale of elves as Tevinter slaves, I am very uncomfortable shipping Anora with elves.

CANON COMPLIANCE

WORLDSTATE After she is overthrown by Alistair and the Warden, Anora is imprisoned, until she is exiled. Anora leaves for the Free Marches, where she is taken in by friends of the family ( by default, the Trevelyans ); while there, she enjoys some of the social privileges of nobility, alongside the shame of being removed from her throne. She swears to retake her country, certain that only she can lead with the strength and power that Ferelden needs. When her hosts are invited to take part in the Conclave, Anora attends with them, hoping to impress upon the Divine the need to remove Alistair from Ferelden’s throne in the wake of the violence and turmoil wracking the nation. She is the sole survivor from the explosion. She believes herself to be chosen by Andraste, fashioning herself almost as a second coming. For this main verse, Alistair must be king.

QUEEN OF FERELDEN I will also happily write Anora having remained the Queen of Ferelden; however, this verse will only be available on request, and will require some plotting. My main verse for Anora involves her becoming Inquisitor.

ON CAILAN The idea that Cailan would secretly arrange for a marriage with the leader of a foreign nation, particularly of a nation that once colonized Fereldan, and cast aside a well-beloved queen who is also the daughter of a national hero, and could and would do this without anyone being the wiser, just doesn’t work for me, so I ignore it. It wasn’t in the game, and I don’t super trust Gaider anyway, so I’m happy to assume it isn’t there.

PLEASE READ!

It’s totally okay if this isn’t your scene! I won’t be offended if you’re not interested in my portrayal of Anora, and I encourage you to blacklist her tags if you don’t like what I’m doing with her. I also encourage anyone who wants to have a discussion on this topic to reach out to me; I love talking about my inspiration for Anora, how I develop her, and the historical analysis and theory I use for the character’s backbone. To me, the most interesting things about Anora are her many faults, and how she weaponizes the very things for which people dismiss her, especially her womanhood. That means examining, as honestly and critically as I can, the manner by which Anora takes part in oppressing the elves of Ferelden, all of which is supported by canon material. I have studied medieval and early modern queenship extensively, and am drawing from not only canon, but from the historical influences from which canon drew. Please be an adult about this; nonstop vagueing and accusing me of misogyny when I point out Anora’s canonical racism isn’t the gotcha anyone thinks it is. 

[greatworldwar2]

• Paddy Finucane (Irish RAF Ace)

Brendan Eamonn Fergus Finucane, known as Paddy Finucane amongst his colleagues, was a Second World War Royal Air Force (RAF) fighter pilot and flying ace—defined as an aviator credited with five or more enemy aircraft destroyed in aerial combat.

Born in 1920; into a Catholic family in Dublin,Ireland of Irish and English heritage, Finucane grew up during the "early troubles" and the Irish Civil War. In 1936, the family moved to England, where he developed an interest in aviation. Keen to fly, Finucane applied to join the RAF and in August 1938, was accepted for flight training as a pilot. After a shaky training career, in which he crash-landed on one occasion, he received news that he had completed flight training. In June–July 1940, he began conversion training on the Supermarine Spitfire. On July 13th, Finucane was posted to No. 65 Squadron at RAF Hornchurch.

Finucane's first victory was scored on August 12th, 1940 during the Battle of Britain. During the campaign, he was credited with two enemies destroyed, two probably destroyed and one damaged. Promoted to acting flight lieutenant in April 1941, he joined No. 452 Squadron flying offensive patrols over France, known as the Circus offensive. During this period, Finucane had his most successful period of operations, destroying 20 German aircraft, sharing in the destruction of three, with two damaged and another two probably destroyed.

In January 1942, Finucane was promoted to the rank of squadron leader in No. 602 Squadron. Within six months, he was credited a further six individual victories bringing his tally to 28. In June 1942, he became the RAF's youngest wing commander in its history. Finucane was appointed to lead the Hornchurch Wing. On July 15th, 1942, Finucane took off with his flight for a mission over France. His Spitfire was damaged by ground-fire. Finucane attempted to fly back to England across the English Channel but was forced to ditch into the sea and subsequently vanished. After his death, Finucane's brother Raymond served in No. 101 Squadron RAF and survived the war.

Finucane was credited with 28 aerial victories, five probably destroyed, six shared destroyed, one shared probable victory, and eight damaged. During his career he was awarded a Distinguished Service Order for gallantry displayed in flying operation against the enemy, and awarded a second Bar to the Distinguished Flying Cross for gallantry displayed in flying operation against the enemy.

[alchemisland]

Moors Mutt III - Beastbound (second edit)

Night fled day and I read the sky. Through bores a fiery sliver shone, conjuring fantastical images of a great city somewhere past the clouds, its denizens craning to the light's dying. I stood waiting for a sunrise which never came. In her place a bruised bank of laden clouds arrived to the beat of mjolnir's blows.

The storm, furious mute, spoke through our works. Droplets exploded musically, dull on timber, shrill on sheet, like crackling fire against thatch.

Lar the blackbird rose early, stretching and emerging from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution, his wingspan filling the alcove.

Foot travel was impossible, even treacherous. Lar wouldn't have it. 'I know someone.' he said 'Unpaid tab, lovely spacious wagon. Hold tight.'

Lar inquired if I had thought in my wisdom to pack a rainmac, to which I said no. After deriding my urban foolishness he opted to lend me his own, an enormous caul like a bear pelt, waxy and unpleasant against my neck.

Unpaid tab, yes. Lovely wagon, no. Against the rising slope, his contraption strained. Its light frame shed water at every judder. We veered, almost fatally, at least twice, prompting a sudden whiteknuckled plee for forgiveness from whichever deity hated me, but the man knew his charge and kept us steady.

Soon the ground levelled and in relative peace I gelded the day's larger duties into manageable tasks. Ten had a certain motivating roundness. Ten labours set to Heracles condemned to misery by jealous Hera. Ten commandments from on high.

After a short time at work my mind lost its typical easy-focus. Each sentence I read twice or three times. At common words I stared with newfound curiousity. A single letter roused me, pertinent by its pompous wax rosette; a bill of sale for several oxgangs, including Talbot Church, to be sold to Lady Sizemore, with a transitory period of two hundred years during which no litigious action could be sought by either party for the purposes of solving any dispute of ownership. I paraphrase now, for each word writ was careful chosen.

There was little ambiguity as to the tone the bill's author Henry Wales, the estate's executor, attempted to convey. Beside the Lady's seal and sinister scrawl Henry, presuming wont to associate with the Sizemore name, printed his agency's crest, ruby pomegranates on a kylix with a lidded eye acentre.

Harder to discern, in an unpracticed hand was the seller's signature, a reluctant cluster of slanting characters keenly reflecting the scribe's defiance at his enforced shift, rudely contrasting the infernal airy loops of Mr. Wales and his evil brood at the Wales, DeLien & Hensonbore firm.

Perhaps fearing her legacy unworthy of envy, Lady Sizemore extended the empire's borders at considerable expense. In the same batch I found two drawings, the first a surveyor's border outline, the other a plan of the churchyard denoting nearby antiquities. Aside from the cairn, which for a thousand years stood its watch in front of Talbot Church, Lady Sizemore's purchase encompassed two dolmens, four standing stones, eight middens and one fulacht fiadh.

As I read, the cairn braced like a greatshield outside. Henry Wales' told me everything else in his correspondence - he was nothing if not thorough. He outlined the how of its shifting, even naming decent but affordable lackeys who wouldn't let the superstitions dissuade their good sense. I peered over my shoulder through the second floor window at the mound of the immense granite phallus, its pulsing micha veins dazzling in the scantest light. Virile and windworn, the stone in shifting lost little of its commanding presence, which had driven men of the Dawn Age prostrate. She took the winds gladly against her bulk like oil upon an anointed brow.

I wondered why she had closed the church. Why move the stone at all if she owned the lands. Surely enforcing a harsh penalty for trespassing to deter ramblers over time is easier than shifting a megalith. How the mind boggles.

Little else occurred. I found interesting some newspaper snippets concerning the then day's pugilistic affairs, to which the upper classes had enured themselves, to such degrees that even the leisurely apolitical pages of Country Living magazine included a column notating the latest heroes and villains of the prize ring - most from Broughton's.

Gull-winged Dan Donnelly was bold in Vetruvian repose. His shoulders wrapped the borders. I noted a scribble in the margin, not her Ladyship's hand, H's looping like drunk P's and S's like broken 8's; the person had written, 'Jew though he is, he is more twelve trys than twelve tribes.. Did you see that match last week? Mendoza has a head like a breastplate.' Witty, though I stayed my smile as punishment for his beastly opening stipulations, but he was right - Mendoza was incredible.

The day otherwise passed quickly. I worked mostly absent of mind. Near freedom the final banality seemed yet more soul destroying, but fortunately it was easily done. I signed the final field with flourish.

On the doorstep gazing out at the torrid tempest, for a brief moment Cairn Cottage seemed inviting. I cast a final backward glance. Inside Acrisian frames, there lay yesteryear's gentry in oils, frozen in perpetual offence.

As arranged Charon ferried me back to Sperrin. In the carriage I thought of Talbot Church. Desirous of its contour I pierced the veil of evening and through the smoking air rifled the horizon. I wished it a modest place, far from the ostentation of Cairn Cottage. The church loomed out there somewhere in the vild. I imagined a modest place, with trees once forming a wondrous girdle reclaiming their purloined land, where roots and shooted tentacles bored the aged concrete, flourished in the open and grew upward until the church itself resembled a pagan kingdom, a mask of blushing ivy hosting colonies of resident bats.

Outside Lar's, wet as it was possible to be, some queer curiosity took me and I paused on the threshold. Fingering the doorhandle, I brought my ear to the wood. Lar joked, joyous overmuch at his own humour. I turned the handle and let the door swing open. All attention on me, I let them drink in the sight of the soaked city rat. 'In you come.' A wave of relief swept Lar, which he wrestled into a piteous pout. Relief more that his finances were secure than any concern for my wellbeing.

Two drinks waited, patient as unconfessed sinners. He smiled as I peeled off the sopping mac and slung it across the chair back, nodding him his reluctant dues.

We feasted like sentenced men. For to uphold our strength we ate lashings of gravy thickened by meat juices, steaming Yorkshire puddings, slabs of succulent pork, bog mushy peas, and custard to follow.

We reclined afterwards. Fergus slipped the bolt unbidden when the small crowd shifted, loudly dragging his stool the short distance to our barside council. We traded nothings, batting pleasantries back and forth with all the vigour of two exhausted tennis players; he shamelessly imparting tall tales of field endeavors and cabbage patch dalliances; I feigning amusement, ascribing his stories more laughter than their content deserved, desperate to avoid frank discussion. I was eaten witless. My mind in grave custardy.

'Are we, like lantern thieves, away with the light?' Lar undid the top button of his trousers and swelled an inch before my eyes.

'We are.' I answered curtly.

'Handled a gun before?' Lar braced for a hasty response, which I gladly supplied.

'I have and don't intend to again. I'm not sure about guns.' Lar's brow furrowed. 'I believe with alternate ends, disagreements often arise.' I thought carefully and to his credit he waited patiently. 'How can I put this.. I don't want a fox hunt.'

'I never said it was.' Lar replied. 'If I might be bold, why hate the gun and not its wielder? Is a rifle always an instrument of terror no matter the context? On the shoulder of an adventurer piercing the interior, emboldened by its weight, is it the selfsame tool dispensing random death in the hands of a deranged?'

He continued on in a similar fashion for several minutes. After zoning out, I had to nod with extra vigor to his next points, just enough to convey attentiveness but not agreement.

Foam pooled at the corners of his mouth. 'It's a fool that lowers caution in victory! Wear these chains. Be it upon your head.'

I tried to interject, 'Lar, really that's a bit dram-'

He continued unabated, 'Should the beast prove strengthful and beguiling and somehow catch us unawares, it won't make a good look for that book of yours.'

Admiring of his passion, I had none to share. 'Any given situation is more likely to end in a leaden exchange with guns present, vise a vie, sans guns we are overall safer, despite feeling less protected individually.'

'Your charisma won't stop a beast. If in some desolate future you find yourself alone, bloodied and fatigued, you'll embrace your firearm like a lost lover and thank Mars for the gift of battle.' Empassioned, Lar slapped the bar.

'Point taken. I'll pack one. Don't intend on using it though. My only stipulation is that I choose my own gun.'

Pulling aside a rug Lar revealed a hatch, the entryway to his private cave of wonders. Fergus tossed the heavy door aside to reveal stone steps and a low unlit corridor. As he descended, candlelight revealed walls streaked and sticky with the dregs of drams spilled in violent melees.

He fetched the swaddled armoury and laid it for my reluctant perusal. I felt something like guilt looking at them. I couldn't pinpoint the feeling. Not a betrayal of principals; I am indignant, but I know my principals only matter until they don't fit my schedule. Nothing is too sacred to reconsider. Still, there was a lingering sense that I had wronged someone. My unease was perhaps a consequence of past lives lived conscience-free. When I rode with Cortez greedily discharging my sizzling firearm into the chest of a scout; when I stood a wart-faced archer at Agincourt and rained death across the mire, athwart a river of Francish blood.

I chose a revolver, its relative snugness more graceful than the longnecked pistols and bayonetted-rifles otherwise offered. Six shots, lightweight, swift off the hip.

Once the guns were again squirrelled away, we untensed with a fifth drink, and a sixth shortly thereafter.

'Have you a route in mind?' Lar slurred at length, his jaw shifting from side to side like a cow's chewing the cud.

'You tell me. You're the gun weilding adventurer.' I teased.

'I have some notions. Let's have one more drink. Don't go to bed bitter.' He fingered a bottle and seductively circled the cork, but his indecision had angered me.

'Notions are actions without legs! As joint expeditionaries, in name rather than eventual royalty I add, I offer no pronouncement on the route. What am I paying you for? Hardly your winning anecdotes. We're following your route to success or failure.' I departed, lifting the flap for myself this time.

Drink deep of nightwine and give to tumbling, so say the texts. I have read them all, from Hobbes' Essential Oneiria to Throughland's Night Study. Through the circle's end, overboard the sil of sanity I fell to a gallery of my own being, divided into layers, each some fractured facet of the whole, where each feeling untempered by its counterparts unfolded in wicked fullness; galleries of nudes in lust's royal academy, raging red the river of anger, rocky the paths untold which might have been. I saw shades of myself in every variation, vexing and charmful, until at last to the untamed plains I came, savage and noxious. It was there I found the church.

What place more apt for spiritual contrition than a chapel of the mind where only the clanking templar's ghost sat in solemn judgement, his observations vocalised in clanks and bumps, selfsame the thud of ladders against the walls of Jerusalem.

I perceived the structure was a mental construct, but its myriad details and idiosyncratic flourishes hinted at a verifiable corporeal existence. A modest church of grey stone, low ceilinged with a single stained glass. I crouched at the fingertips of a stumped transept, at the left hand of the scoured christ on the cruciform. Talbot, who took no pleasure, busied as was his charge. He stared at empty pews. His name I knew implicitly and his face was one familiar, even through the scrambled madness of dreams. He strained from the pulpit without address toward where I watched. I never moved. What should happen if i did? Nothing. No more than the wild sun stirs at the opening of a bud.

Pried from the altar in a chaos of streaming robes and flicking pages, he descended the stairs, alone carpeted, toward the front row where a soiled shovel propped. He took the shovel in hand gravely and exited the church.

Upon his return he came to where I stood. Of the shovel there was no sign. In its place he carried a banded scroll and a small wooden lockbox fit for its length. He placed them by his feet, swept his robes backward and with a trowel from his belt began chipping away over an existing foundational weakness, until the trowel stove and the trough of the block was splayed. When the scroll was placed and the box sealed, he hid it away inside then set to repairing the flagstone.

I woke shortly thereafter to thunderous footsteps. I feared the storm had abated little in the night. Conditions so adverse would delay our expedition, but as the cacophony continued it seemed closer, from within the house. I walked from the bed wrapped in a sheet and opened the door a sliver to see Fergus stomping up and down the corridor gathering supplies.

[thecreaturecrossroads]

@reddiadem continued from Rescue

Indeed she had been. When she woke and there was no Infernum crawling in beside her, she was concerned. But when Fergus and his mate Enid came barging in as she was getting dressed to search her lover barking up a storm with worry she knew that something was afoot. Mind racing as she stretched out her awareness through the tree and then land beneath and around it. Trying to find where her sweet demon was.

As she did she gathered her bow to her among a few other things and called her other hunting dogs to her. The two Red setters and the her Lakeland Terriers. There was the scent of blood at her borders and across fern and grass from it. Her land telling her but not screaming out at her since it now was accustomed to her love. Keeva gave a fierce screech as she lept from the window and sailed off on her massive wings, Dogs running along on the ground below her. The acre’s between her and her destination eaten away in a manner of a few minutes in their haste. 

When they reached his resting place her dogs whined at Infernum’s growl, and parted before Keeva to let her into him.

“Shaaah, shahh~” she hushed, setting her bow to the side and taking the pack. “Ye got yerself intae quite the scuffle, didn’t ye me brave Beastie.” her wings sank back into her back and she was able to crawl her way in to him. She weaved balls of soft light to hang about their heads to give her better light. She petted his hair. and kissed his forehead. Trying to comfort him. 

“Here, eat this, it’ll get ye started on yer way tae bein set tae rights.” she plucked one of the berries that made up part of her wreath on her head and held it out for him. It might not him up and heal his wounds in a jiffy, but it’d help with the blood loss and deaden some of what pain he might be in. She gave a command to the dogs in Gaelic and all but Fergus and his mate scurried away on their errand.

[kirkwall-on-fire-blog]

In-Character Interview

Rules:

1. Choose a character

2. Answer as them

3. Tag 5 people!

I consider myself tagged by @allisondraste because yes.

I will probably be returning to this later on because, honestly... I have too many OCs and love to talk about them all.

I’ll tag: Uhhhhhh I don’t actually know how tagging works?? (RIP me). An also I feel like I’m so late to this that everyone has done this already, so... I’ll tag whoever wants to be tagged! Because honestly that’s how I ended up doing this so might as well, right? Spread the OC love! <3

Elisse Cousland is up first~!

What is your name?

"Elissora Eleanor Valerie Margaret Cousland! Or, um, Elisse for short. Yes, Elisse will do just fine! Honestly...”

Do you know why you are named that?

"Father had a penchant for overly long and complicated names, I suppose? I do notknow, to be honest. Fergus likes to tease that he, Aedan, and I were all named this way so our first initials spell FAE, but... That cannot be true, right? Right?”

Are you single or taken?

"Umm both? Maybe? I am uncertain. It’s... a tad strange, being in a relationship with a spirit-- Ah, former spirit, sorry Cole! Still, I would not trade him for the world. Whatever the state of our relationship, I am quite content with it.”

Have any abilities or powers?

"I can shoot really well! It’s funny, I picked up a bow after the whole ordeal with Arl Howe because it reminded me of Mother, but after a while I felt... empowered? Yes, that is the word. It feels good to be able to protect yourself for a change, and protect others, too. I will not be a child in need of a rescue again.”

Stop being a Mary Sue!

"Why, I would never! What has Mary done to you, anyhow!? You leave her alone this instant! If you have a bone to pick with me, that is one matter, but I will not have you dragging some poor girl’s name through the mud! Humph!”

What’s your eye color?

"Blue. Mother used to say that mine looked like a calm midsummer lake, while Aedan’s looked like ice. ...Fergus has brown eyes. Teehee.”

How about your hair color?

"Hazel brown, thank you very much! All Couslands are brunettes, though I happen to have the lightest shade of hair between my siblings. Too much time spent in the sun, Mother used to say.”

Have any family members?

"Plenty! Is... what I would like to say, but at this point... It’s just Fergus and me. He’s doing rather well with his new wife, so maybe there will be more little Couslands running around soon? It would be lovely to hear children’s laughter in the old castle.”

How about pets?

"Leo offered to give me Aedan’s old Mabari, Pup, but somehow that doesn’t feel right. He chose her as his new master, you know? I wouldn’t want to break that bond. But she did promise me a puppy as soon as the new litter is born, so hopefully someday soon!”

That’s cool, I guess. Now tell me something you don’t like.

"Tight spaces. Dungeons. Fire... Those things bring back some bad memories. I’m sorry.

Also, Queen Anora. I really, really hate Anora. Humph.”

Do you have any hobbies/activities that you like to do?

"I practice my archery skills quite often. Sometimes Sera and Varric join me, and Mahariel showed me a few neat tricks that one time. Other than that... Pulling pranks with Sera is quite a bit of fun, though it does get us into trouble a lot... I spend much of the remaining time in the infirmary. I may not have magic, but my first aid skills have improved considerably since I joined the Inquisition.”

Have you ever hurt anyone in anyway before?

"I... hope not. I’ve tried my very best to leave no reason for anyone to be upset with me, and yet... I am certain there is someone, somewhere, who was hurt by something I - or the Inquisition - have hurt. Inquisitor Adaar says it’s unavoidable, but still, it’s not a pleasant thought.”

Ever…killed anyone before?

"Yes. Out of necessity only, and never out of selfishness or greed. I will not allow myself to sink to the level of Howe and his men.”

What kind of animal are you?

"A hawk. Aim far, strike fast, spread your wings and fly away from things that hurt you.”

Name your worst habits.

"I, uh, may stick my nose where it does not belong... I just can’t help it! What if someone is hurting and I don’t know about it? What if someone is upset at me!?”

Do you look up to anyone at all?

"Oh, plenty of people, of course. I am still young, still inexperienced, and thus I have much to learn from people greater than me. My parents and my brothers were my greatest source of inspiration growing up - and still are, in many ways. Warden-Commander Amell is another, and so is Inquisitor Adaar, and the Hawke twins, and Lady Vivienne, and Dorian, and... Oh, but I’m rambling, am I not. Sorry.”

Are you straight, gay, or bisexual?

"Neither. I am proudly asexual, thank you very much. After everything that happened to me in Howe’s dungeon... I think I would prefer to relationships of the mind and soul, and not the body.”

Did you attend school?

"When I was a girl, I was taught by Aldous, the old historian in my parents’ employ. After the Blight, Cousland sent me on an exchange program to a girls’ school in Orlais. The education was... decent, but the company rather horrid. They thought me strange when I refused to wear a mask and went out to practice my archery! Hmph! Stuck-up aristocrats!”

Ever want to marry and have kids some day?

"That’s... I know it’s expected, me being a noble and all, and if Fergus cannot produce an heir then it will be up to me to fill that role, but... I would rather not. Have kids, that is. At least not at this time. There is too much turmoil in the world, and I would not want my children to suffer the way my brothers and I did simply because the world is not a kind place. As for marriage... Maybe, someday. I admit, the thought of walking down the aisle in a while gown does make my stomach fill with butterflies...”

Do you have any fangirls/fanboys?

"Do supporters of the Inquisition count? I know those are not strictly mine - if anything, they cheer most for Inquisitor Adaar and Felandris - but still. I have received several offers of marriage recently, but those hardly count, no?”

What are you most afraid of?

"Sometimes I think that this is all a dream. That one day I will open my eyes and I’m a little girl again, alone in Howe’s dungeon. Except this time, Leo doesn’t come barging in through the door to rescue me, and my brother doesn’t kill the Archdemon, and I will just die in that dungeon, without anyone ever knowing where I am or what became of me...”

What do you usually wear?

"If there is anything good about Orlais, it’s their scout uniform. It’s so sleek and yet so practical!”

What is one food that tempts you?

"I would die for just one more taste of Nan’s home-cooked pig roast. No one makes it quite like she used to.”

Am I annoying you?

“No, of course not! What would make you think such a thing?”

Well it’s still not over!

"I’m ready and willing to answer all your questions!”

What class are you (low/middle/high)?

"Technically, the second highest after the King and Queen. The Cousland family is quite renowned, and quite close to the Crown, after all. Especially after all Aedan did to save Ferelden from the Blight. We live in a castle, we have servants - all the typical assets of a noble family.

“But as for myself, I would like to think I can live a middle-class lifestyle quite well. I don’t much care for the fanfare and ceremony of the upper class. Especially the Orlesian upper class. Ugh.”

How many friends do you have?

"Good question... Does the entire Inquisition count? They are all such good people, and they have been so kind to me this entire while... And of course there’s Leo, and Alistair-- er, King Alistair, and all of Leo’s Warden recruits, and... even Teyrn Loghain, I suppose. Okay, I know he supported Howe and what he did to my family, but still... He died a hero. And that’s what counts. Aedan believed in him, I think, so I will too.”

What are your thoughts on pie?

"Mmm, pie... Oh, dear me, I didn’t mean to drool!”

Favorite drink?

“Lemonade! It’s so refreshing in the scorching heat of summer.”

What’s your favorite place?

"Back in the day, there was this tree in the back of Highever Castle. The branches up high were bent in a weird way, almost like shelves. I used to climb up there and watch the servants scurry around trying to find me for hours. Aedan was the only other person who knew about how I hid up there, and he used to sneak me snacks and random things to play with. It was almost a second room to me.

“Nowadays, I like to sit on the roof of Haven. Watching the Inquisition members from up there is just as entertaining. Aedan is gone, of course, but... Sera and Cole bring me snacks now.”

Are you interested in anyone?

"W-Well, I...! Maybe...? It’s... quite complicated, but... A-Ahem, might we change the topic, please?”

That was a stupid question…

"Aww, don’t feel bad! It was a cute question! i’m just... not good with being caught off-guard, you know?”

Would you rather swim in the lake or an ocean?

"A lake. I’ve done so quite a few times when visiting Redcliffe, too! The ocean, on the other hand, looks quite terrifying, and far too deep for me to ever hope to find a foothold. What if it carries me off? I am quite fit, but not to the point of being able to swim for days!”

What’s your type?

"The slim kind with feathers at the tip to silence its movement through the air! You look confused. We are talking about types of arrow, aren’t we?”

Any fetishes?

"Nope. End of topic.”

Camping or outdoors?

"What fun! I can run around outside for hours! Or, at least, until I trip over something, or a branch whacks me in the face... But I do love to camp.”

[four-loose-screws]

FE5 Umemura Novel Translation - Chapter 9 Part 6

If you would like to start from the beginning, read a missed part, etc., click here!

Pre-3DS FE Translations - FE Awakening Translations - FE Fates Translations - Original FE Support Conversations - Ko-fi

Nearly another month passed.

It had been almost six months since the imperial army had surrounded the castle.

The situation had only gotten worse. Aside from the wing containing the throne room, the entire castle had been captured.

Everyone was injured and very fatigued. They were now sitting and resting in the rooms and hallways.

Leif assessed the situation while walking towards the throne room. ‘We just might be at our limit.’ He thought.

“Prince Leif!”

He suddenly heard some call his name and stopped. He forgot what he was thinking about.

It was Miranda. She and Conomor were walking up to him.

“Princess Miranda!” He swallowed and looked at her. “I might not be able to fulfill my promise to free Alster. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She shook her head and closed her mouth.

They were quiet for a moment. He figured she had gotten his attention because she had something to say, so he waited for her to say it.

“Go ahead, Princess.” Conomor encouraged her.

She nodded meekly and looked at Leif. “Prince Leif, I’ve been thinking for a long time that I need to apologize to you.”

“You, apologize to me?”

“Yes. We’re in this situation all because I asked you to fight an impossible battle. I’m really sorry.” She bowed her head.

Leif found what she was doing so strange that he smiled. “It’s not your fault, Princess Miranda. So please, raise your head.”

She did as he told her to, but looked anxious.

“But forget about that, is it okay for you to be here? For Alster’s princess to die in Leonster? Even now, you should be able to run a…”

“I won’t. I’m okay with whatever might happen to me.” She yelled and cut him off. “There’s no country for me to go home to. That, and…” She stopped there and looked up.

“And?”

“It’s nothing. I’m going now.” She said, then hurried away.

Conomor bowed and followed after her.

Leif cocked his head and watched her leave.

-

When Leif returned to the throne room, he leaned against the door and breathed a small sigh. “This might be the end.” He muttered.

August glared at him. “What are you saying, Prince Leif?” But even he was clearly exhausted.

“Everyone’s completely worn out! What good will it be to keep going?! It’s only a matter of time now before the castle falls, isn’t it!?” Leif yelled.

The two glared at each other for a while.

Suddenly, August smiled. “Not all hope is lost.”

Leif frowned. “What do you mean, August?”

“I’ve received news that a huge rebellion happened in the Kingdom of Isaach. The liberation army is putting up a good fight against the empire, and traveling across the continent.”

“So you’re saying that if we’re lucky, they’ll come here.”

“Considering their route so far, they just might.”

Leif didn’t say anything, instead getting lost in thought. ‘This story is no doubt a ray of hope for us.’

“By the way, Lord Leif. Who do you think the leader of the liberation army is?”

“If they’re from Isaach, then they must be Prince Shannan. I’ve also heard rumors of him before.”

“No, it’s not him. While he is one of the important people in the army, the leader is someone else.”

“It’s not Prince Shannan? Then who could it possibly be?”

“It is Lord Seliph of Chalphy, the orphaned child of Lord Sigurd. He’s the best suited to be the leader of the liberation army. The people call him Grannvale’s Scion of Light.”

Leif had heard stories of Sigurd’s son from Finn before, who should be about the same age as him. He bit his lip. ‘Seliph is the same age and in the same situation as me, yet he’s fighting really well, and here I am, about to give up on protecting a single castle. What am I doing?’ He opened his eyes and picked up his sword that had been leaning against the wall.

“Lord Leif…?”

“I’m going to fight on the front line. There’s no way we can let things end here.” He pushed the door open and dashed out of the throne room.

-

Leif fought on the front line for several days after that.

Everyone fought well, most likely because their leader was there with them. They fought as if they had never been the losing side at all, and the imperial army was never able to enter the last corner of the castle.

Days passed, yet the castle did not fall.

Perhaps to put an end to it once and for all, one day, more imperial soldiers appeared than ever before.

“So they’re finally getting serious, too, huh?!” Fergus’ face twisted into a frown when he saw the enemies coming at them.

“We have no reason to fear! They’re just getting as fired up as we are! No matter how many come, we will not prove to be weaker than them!”

Everyone responded to Leif’s words with a mighty battle cry.

“Let’s go!” He rushed at the imperial soldiers, leading the charge.

Imperial axe fighters destroyed a section of the castle wall with hammers. It collapsed in a cloud of smoke.

Countless imperial soldiers climbed over the collapsed castle wall and marched on.

Imperial mages shot fireballs that landed in front of the castle.

Leif cut down a knight. “Guard the center, everyone! Do not push yourselves to advance forward!” He yelled out the order while moving back. ‘How long have we been fighting for?’

The bodies of countless imperial soldiers covered the entire castle lawn.

The numbers were finally starting to be in their favor, however, everyone in his army was starting to look tired.

Meanwhile, the next wave of the imperial army’s reinforcements now arrived, and all sense that their numbers were decreasing was gone at once.

“I don’t care if you abandon the eastern wing! Gather in the center of the castle, everyone! Lure the enemy into this narrow hallway, and pick them off one by one! Our goal is not to rout the enemy! Only to survive! Those who are injured, don’t push yourselves! Stand down for healing!” Leif stood in the entryway to the castle and yelled.

The entryway behind him led to the throne room. He planned to guard that door, even if it cost him his life.

The sun was beginning to set in the west.

His entire army was breathing heavily.

‘How much longer are we going to be able to hold out like this?’

As he was thinking than thought, the imperial army started to cause a commotion for some undiscernible reason.

‘Something unexpected must have happened.’

“C’mon! What are you all doing?! What’s going on?! Listen up! Leonster will fall! We’ll never give up!” A man screamed. He appeared to be their commander.

The imperial soldiers got even louder

‘This is our ray of hope!’ Leif smirked. “Get him! He’s their commander!” He yelled.

Mareeta and Dagdar started running. They flew past the imperial soldiers and straight towards the commander.

Mareeta swung her sword down.

The commander blocked it with his shield, and swung his axe down.

She jumped back.

He followed up by swinging his axe upward.

She blocked with her sword.

He pushed his axe down, sending her and her sword flying backwards.

She fell to the ground.

“Die!” He swung his axe down at her.How

Dagdar stepped in-between them with his back to the commander. The axe became lodged deep in his right shoulder.

“Dagdar!”

“Dad!”

Mareeta and Tanya screamed in unison.

“This is nothing!” He yelled and swung his hammer.

The commander blocked with his shield.

The hammer smashed through it.

The commander stumbled back, causing him to pull his axe out of Dagdar’s shoulder.

Dagdar groaned and fell to his knees.

“Thanks! Leave the rest to me!” Mareeta said to him before while running towards the commander.

She swung her sword down.

The commander stopped the blade with his axe.

She attacked him over and over again, but he blocked every slash with his axe.

He took every attack with a calm smile on his face.

Suddenly, his helmet burst into pieces.

Miranda had hit him with a fireball.

He instinctively glanced at Miranda for a second.

That second was all Mareeta needed to stab him in the throat.

His eyes opened wide, and he tried to groan, but nothing came out.

She pulled out her sword.

Blood spurted out of his throat as he fell forward.

“L-Lord Barat has been killed!” One of the imperial soldiers screeched.

The imperial army started to cause a commotion once again. But this time, within seconds, they began to scatter and rush to be the first to run away.

Leif watched them retreat and sat down.

One by one, the rest of his army did the same, sitting down as if they were collapsing.

Tanya was the only one who ran. “Dad, are you okay?”

Dagdar clutched his wound. He winced, then pushed himself to smile through the pain. “C’mon, this is nothing! I ain’t gonna kick the bucket ‘til we’ve saved Eyvel.”

“Dad, you old pervert!” She sighed while holding back tears.

Everyone laughed weakly.

[bantarleton]

Wing Commander Brendan Eamonn Fergus Finucane. About 10 pilots from the Irish Free State fought in the Battle of Britain with the RAF, defending the British Isles from what would have been German invasion in the event the battle had been lost. One of them, Brendan "Paddy" Finucane, became an ace who would claim a total of 32 enemy aircraft before he was killed in 1942. The eldest of five children, Finucane grew up in County Dublin, where his father had taken part in the Easter Rising of 1916. He and his family moved to England in 1936, and he enlisted in the Royal Air Force aged 17. Finucane became operational in July 1940 and downed his first Bf 109 on 12 August, claiming a second the following day. During a 51-day period in 1941, Finucane claimed 16 Messerschmitt Bf 109 fighters shot down, while he was flying with an Australian squadron. Finucane became the youngest wing commander in the RAF, a rank he received at 21. He was shot down on 15 July 1942.

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

PEC (4): Carried on the Wings of an Eagle

Fourth post for the Lallybroch Library Prompt Exchange Challenge PROMPT #16: “Good morning. I see the assassins have failed.” (submitted by @the-fear-you-wont-fall). The posts, which will last for the next days, will later become part of the “Without worry” series. @thelallybrochlibrary -  This is a kind of longer "weekend chapter". Partially it was inspired by this video: Click!  My special thanks goes to @raunchyblonde21 :)

(”Sommerabend” by PDPhotos)

Quellheim Monday, August 25, 1749, early evening  

          It was a wonderful mild summer evening. They had dined in the garden. Now Fergus was sitting on one of the benches reading, while Claire stood at the entrance of her herb garden, surveying the rest of the garden from there. Between the part of the garden where she had grown vegetables and flowers and the geese enclosure stood seven trees of blue plums and two trees bearing yellow plums. Two more trees with round red plums joined the back garden wall. The fruits were nearly ripe and had to be harvested soon. There were too many fruits for three people to consume them.

          It had been the same in June, when the currants had ripened. Claire had discovered them shortly after she, Jamie and Fergus were brought here in February and had been given the farm. There were ten bushes that stood on a small piece of land that connected the garden with the meadow behind the stables. Seven of the bushes carried red currants. These bushes were of a smaller species. Behind them were two really large bushes of black currants. And hidden in the midst of all these bushes was an isolated smaller bush of white currants. Many of the red and white currants they had eaten fresh for dessert. A part of them Jamie had taken to the market. But the blackcurrants, which she knew were especially rich of vitamins and minerals, Claire had made into juice and preserved with alcohol. When Jamie saw what she was doing, he had jokingly asked her if she wanted to open a secret trade in liquors. As a result, she had taught him about the health benefits of the blackcurrant for half an hour ... He had rolled his eyes, thanked her, and assured her that he would not ask such a question again so quickly. She rolled her eyes, turned back to her work, and muttered something that sounded like ‘ignorant Scot’, but not without a little hidden smile. When they were finally able to enjoy the quietness of their bedchamber in the late evening that day, he had taken her hands and kissed them. Her fingers still smelled of the fruits. 

          "Have I ever told you how much I love your hands, Claire? They seem to bring healing and restoration to everything you touches here. With them you have made a home for Fergus and me out of this place. And out of the wilderness behind the house, you have created a garden that not only provides us with fruit and vegetables, but has become a small paradise in which we all can find peace. The work of your hands," he had whispered. Then he had kissed her hands again. 

          "And that's just what happens outwardly. I wish you could see what effect it has to Fergus, every time you hug him, tenderly run your hands through his hair. You really became his mother. Not only here. Not only through the adoption. Do you remember when we were searching for him after the battle of Prestonpans and he confessed to you that he probably killed a soldier? I will never forget seeing you two when you found him. You pressed him to your chest as if you wanted to absorb all his pain, all his exhaustion, the whole nightmare of having seen the darkness of war. If there ever was a day, Claire, on which you became his mother, it was that day. You pressed him to you and every touch of your hands said: ‘I care for you with all my heart.’” 

          Gently, he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. Small rivulets of tears began to flow from them. She did not say anything. But in her mind she'd returned to the day they had feared they might have lost Fergus forever. When she finally found him, she did not know if her heart should burst with joy and relief, or if she should beat him for his carelessness. In the end, her heart had decided. But she knew that her heart had opened up for him much earlier and in a way that went far beyond the care that a person of mercy was able to give to an orphan. It was the night she'd found Fergus whimpering in his room. It was the night he told her about the terrible thing Black Jack Randall had done to him. It was the night he could not stop crying for blaming himself that Jamie had been arrested for challenging Randall to a duel and Claire had lost Faith. That night, she realized how much Fergus loved her and Jamie. Really loved them. That night Claire remembered a verse from the first Epistle of  St. John, written on one of the walls of the ‘L'Hôpital des Anges’: ‘Let us love, for He loved us first.’ She knew that these words referred to God. But could it be different between humans? Could she keep her heart closed to a person who showed her and Jamie so much love and care? She could not and she did not want it either. If there ever was a day, Claire had begun to think of Fergus as a son, it was that day. Jamie's soft whisper called her back to the present. 

        “Claire? Mo chridhe, what’s wrong?" 

        “Nothing, Jamie, nothing. I just love you both. With all my heart.” 

        “I know, Claire. And with your wonderful hands.”

 (”Speicherstadt Hamburg” by Karsten Bergamnn)  

North Sea Monday, August 25, 1749, early evening 

         His journey had gone well so far. Over the last days, Benjamin Smith had slowly become accustomed to the movements of the ship. After dinner with the captain, he had climbed up to the deck and leaned against the railing. The captain and the crew of the ship, which sailed under the flag of the Republic of the United Netherlands [1], left him alone most of the time. In particular, they did not ask any unpleasant questions as to why he wanted to leave Edinburgh under the cover of the night or why he was in such a hurry to get to Hamburg. Their welcomed ignorance was certainly helped by the special price Mr. Smith had paid for the trip - in gold.

        He enjoyed the fresh salty air and began to stretch his arms and legs. If the wind maintained that speed, he would reach the first destination of his journey in time. He had a ten-day lead and had to take advantage of that lead. The success of his mission depended largely on it. Last night he had already feared that he would not succeed. Although the actual autumn storms were still pending, the ship had to drive through a bad weather front. The thunderstorm and the ever-rising waves had given him a great deal of angst, though he tried to conceal this from the captain and the sailors. After he had left the deck, he had clung to everything in his cabin that he could somehow grab. But at some point his stomach rebelled so badly that he had to vomit. Luckily he was standing right next to the washing basin. Later, the thunderstorm had subsided, but the waves were still restless. In his fear, Benjamin Smith had resorted to a tried and tested remedy. He had begun to hum a song that his mother had taught him: 

Carried on the wings of an eagle over the roaring sea of time Carried on the wings of an eagle into eternity Over mountains and valleys and glades even higher to the heavenly height for strong are the wings that carry me the wings on which I stand And under the same wings how wonderful do I rest There is my place of refuge my firm and secure house The enemy may circle above me aim at me and spy as he will for strong are the wings that cover me and under those wings there is peace Yes, sheltered under the wings and kept on top of the wings there you find a blessed rest there you find a joyful ride there you find a firm assurance trough this changing pilgrimage for under those wings there is peace and on those wings there is strength [2]

         The song had not missed its desired effect. As in the stormy nights in which his mother had sung him to sleep with this tune, he calmed down gradually, and the storm and the waves did the same. The language was still alien to him, yet he had internalized the words for years. His mother had told him that it belonged to his father's favorite songs and every time she mentioned his father, a radiant smile had formed on her face that Benjamin would never forget.

        His father. If his journey was going well and he completed his mission successfully, he would see his father again before the end of the next month. And he knew he would not only see him again, he would make him proud too. But was it that what he wanted? He did not know. Too little did he know about the man who was his father. Why did this song have a special meaning for him? What did his father associate with it? What did these lines really mean? But maybe that would all change. Obviously fate had determined that from then on they would spend a lot of time together. This future prospect sparked ambivalent feelings in him.  

        But before his thoughts could continue to become entangled in the difficult family circumstances he had been born into, he forced himself to concentrate fully on his task. If everything went according to plan he would arrive in Hamburg in five days, change the ship and then go down the river Elbe for another three days until he would reach Magdeburg. There he would meet with the commander of the fortress, who would forward his message to Potsdam via the secret royal messenger system. He could only hope that his message arrived there in time. He told himself that that was no longer his responsibility. Yet he could not silence his inner unrest, which was caused by his uncertainty about the outcome of this affair. He would much rather have asked the commander for a horse of his own, so that he could bring the message to Potsdam himself and thus ensure that it arrived there on time. But he knew that he had neither the authority, nor would a single rider be able to accomplish this task. Precisely for this reason, the secret royal courier network had been set up many years ago. It was a tightly knit system of royal couriers carrying messages entrusted to them from one station to another. These riders were specially trained and had excellent horses. Each station was about a day's ride away, and when the courier arrived at one station, another, with a rested horse, was there and ready to pick up the documents and carry them on. It was - as Ambassador von Klinggräff had repeatedly emphasized - a very reliable and effective system. Nevertheless, Benjamin Smith hated to leave tasks unfinished, which had been entrusted to him. Such situations always left a mixture of uncomfortable feelings in him. He found it difficult to put these feelings into words, but he felt helpless. And this helplessness seemed to be accompanied by a feeling that something was lacking. Both led to an inner restlessness, which was very difficult to control. This led to more helplessness and with that, the whole vicious cycle began again. The fact that a failure this time could not only lead to a loss of money, land or power, but to the loss of three lives burdened him even more. The only solution was to focus on the things that mattered most in the respective situation.

        He stretched again and took a deep breath. Then, resolutely, he left the deck and went to his cabin. He undressed and put out the light. Shortly thereafter, he fell into a restless sleep.

(”Pflaumen” by cgonzalezandrade)

 Quellheim Monday, August 25, 1749, nearly one hour later the same evening 

         Claire turned her attention back to the plum trees. She had already detailed plans for what she would do with this immense harvest. One part they would eat fresh, another part Jamie would take to the market in Teichheim for sale. A third part she would use to make damson puree. The plums, which were not particularly juicy, she would dry and the rest, especially from the yellow and the red fruits, she would preserve in alcohol. Harvesting and preserving the fruits would mean a lot of work and yet she was happy. Jamie had been right. Much had improved over the last five month. With the beginning of the harvest season in the garden, their menu had become more and more varied, which - she had to smile - was reflected also in the weight of Jamie and Fergus.

         She looked over to the apple tree where Fergus sat on one of the benches, completely immersed in his book. In the course of the year he had grown quite a bit - physically, but also in his personality. The work at the farm was not only consuming a lot of time and strength, it also increased with each new purchase. Over the past few months, Claire has watched with delight as Fergus not only became enthusiastic about every new little project, but also took on more and more responsibility and diligently fulfilled his duties. It became increasingly obvious that he wanted to prove himself to Jamie as a true son. Since the end of the harvest, he and Jamie spent a lot more time together and it became apparent that this was good for both of them. Jamie was pleased to pass on his knowledge and skills to the boy, and Fergus enjoyed to finally be taken seriously as a man. Claire tried to support him in his efforts. But sometimes Jamie's comments on the lad's behavior led to very funny situations. 

        Today, two servants of farmer Rein had brought the two pigs that Jamie had picked and bought. He had assigned Fergus to herd them to the little meadow behind the stables. Together they had watched the boy fulfilling his task. 

        "He does it well. Just look with how much patience he takes care of them," Claire had said. But Jamie had just grinned and whispered: 

        "Sassenach, he does that because he already sees them as sausage and ham on his plate." 

        She had given him a light blow and shook her head with a smile. Then both had laughed aloud and Fergus, who had no clue about why they were laughing, turned to them with a serious look before turning his attention back to 'sausage' and 'ham' as Jamie called the two pigs henceforth. 

        As her gaze swept over the herb garden, her mind was meditating about the things that needed to be done there, Jamie had approached her. He had cleared his throat softly so as not to frighten her. Then he had put his arms around her waist and gently pulled her close. 

        "Good evening, Mr. Fraser," she whispered while melting into him. 

        "Good evening, Milady," he answered just as softly. 

        She felt his smile in her hair and put her hands over his arms. 

         "What do you think about, mo chridhe?" 

         "I've planed the work for this week. The rest of the fruit has to be harvested and we'll have a lot of work with it." 

         Instead of answering her, he began gently placing kisses down her neck. 

         "And what have you done, Mr. Fraser?" she asked with a certain ironic undertone in her voice. 

         "I looked for the animals and closed the gate, then made plans for the rest of the evening." 

         "And what are your plans for the rest of the evening, Mr. Fraser?" 

         "Well, first of all, I'd like to spend some more time with my family. I want to sit down with my wife and our bookworm, enjoying the mild weather, and then when it's dark, and hopefully our son is sleeping soundly, I intend to be close to my wonderful wife, as close as only I allowed to be." 

       "Really? Good to know that!" 

       "Is that ... a good plan, Mrs. Fraser?" 

       She turned into his embrace and nodded. 

       "This is a very good plan, Mr. Fraser. We should put it into action as soon as possible." 

       "Je suis prest, Milady."

Notes:

[1] For more information see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dutch_Republic

[2] The original (German) song is “Auf Adlers Flügeln getragen”. The text was written by Anna von Werthern-Viebahn (1884 - 1931) and set to music by Emil Janssen and Johann Courad around the year 1920. You can find the original text here: Click! The (poor) translation above is mine.

[whiskynottea]

We’ll rise up. Chapter 6- Back at Saint Antoine

Previously Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 

Jamie felt François’ weight on his shoulder and the world’s weight on his back while he watched Claire move away.

His heart was crushed, a giant hand trying to squeeze it until there was nothing left.

Sir. She’d called him sir. Not Jamie, not even “my lad”, as she mocked him the first day they met. Could it possibly get any worse?

Five days passed without seeing her. Five days aching to hear her voice call his name, talk to him. All he did was thinking about her, desperate to figure out a plan to meet again – not an easy feat. With his noble façade to preserve and the everpresent duet of his uncle and godfather always keeping an eye on him, Saint Antoine could as well be in the North Pole; it seemed totally inaccessible.

Jamie was so focused on trying to find a way to go back to her place, it never occurred to him that they could meet elsewhere. No, not in his worst nightmare he would imagine such a reunion -- she, needing help and he, despairingly unable to assist her.

Jamie watched the brawl from afar without moving towards it, well aware of the risk this move beheld. Annalise was trembling next to him, clinging hard on his arm. The threat before their eyes kept her irksome blubbering voice in her mouth and Jamie was thankful for it. He had started taking Annalise away to avoid any uninvited attention from the men when he saw Claire. She was there, running to the fight.

His heart stopped for longer than he ever considered possible for a heart to dismiss its one and only function. His breath hitched in his throat. He felt drawn to her, his body leaning eagerly towards her like a compass needle pulled to the north. Taking a deep breath, Jamie gnashed his teeth, swallowed his anguish and fought for the sensible part of himself to prevail. 

As much as he didn’t want to leave Claire alone when she needed his help, it was pointless to present himself on her side in his current attire. Furthermore, Annalise was still with him and he had first to remove her from the scene. Swiftly, he led Annalise to a carriage, directing the driver to go straight to her house without any stop. The young woman was frightened and asked him to accompany her to the house but Jamie had no mind for her at the moment. Well trained, he buried the turmoil of his feelings deep inside and bade the woman au revoir with a bow and a fake smile on his lips. The moment the carriage was out of sight he turned and almost ran to Claire.

She had stopped them on her own and was now protecting the man on the ground, kneeling above him, while talking to the rebels. He couldn’t imagine a more extraordinary woman in his wildest dreams. Jamie stood in the shadows, knowing that if he would join her everything could go far worse but always ready to interfere if the matter went south. One of the men was solemn but the rest were still enraged and talked harshly to her. He remained unseen and observed her, admiring her spirit and determination. When the men finally retreated he enjoyed her triumph more than she seemed to do and watched a boy run to Claire, the same revel on his face as the one on Jamie’s. Ecstatic and proud, he walked to her to offer any help that she might need.

While crossing the street, several thoughts sneaked into his mind. Who was that boy and how did Claire know the wounded man? And more importantly, was he someone special for her?

Apart from the questions, he had some suggestions to make as well, on her choice of action and the way she valued her life. But most of all, he needed to see her eyes again and listen to her voice. He’d dreamed of this moment as he closed his eyes numerous times during the last days daydreaming about her, longing to come close to her again and smell the citrus and chamomile in her hair.

He rejoiced so much in the fact that Claire was safe in front of him and they met again that he couldn’t help the foolish grin forming on his lips while raising the stranger Claire was helping from the ground. Totally forgetting his outfit for a moment, he was certain that his feelings would be reciprocated.

Jamie’s reflection stopped the moment Claire looked at him. Something was terribly amiss. Her polite smile disappeared from her face when she realized who was the person that had rushed to their aid. After that, she was distant and avoided his eyes.

Jamie’s first thought was that Claire wanted to focus all her attention on the injured man. He left her some space and talked to the boy who was with her, but his eyes and mind never left Claire.

The cold gaze that had replaced the generous one he remembered shocked him. She didn’t address him and even when he later bent next to her, to satisfy his need to feel her closer, Claire ignored him.

Jamie’s worry kept increasing, when Fortuna -the goddess of luck- smiled at him. He’d volunteered to help the man back to his house and Claire finally raised her eyes on his again. She then really looked at him, as she did that night. He heard her sweet and sincere voice thanking him and felt his heart growing wings again.

It was just a moment before the ice crept back in. Her eyes trailed off on his clothes and then reality hit him, like a thunderbolt. Seeing the ominous sign, Jamie realized rain was coming hard on him and resolved to get as protected as he could be.

Gathering all the breath left in his chest he tried to explain himself. Claire was indifferent and didn’t even give him a chance. She addressed him as a stranger and left, taking the boy with her and wishing the man –whom she apparently knew– to have a quick recovery.

Jamie wasn’t a fool though. He saw her concealed anger in the wat her jaw was set and her hands fisted. She could pretend nonchalance but her hurt was clear to him in all her little moves.

Above all, she didn’t ask about his wound. Jamie had seen her mending himself and François and was sure that Claire cared deeply about her patients. 

However, she didn’t ask about his injury and how he was feeling.

That was good; Jamie smiled softly. She must have been furious. Her anger confirmed everything he thought laid between them. She cared for him and felt betrayed but there was still a chance to rectify what was done. He wouldn’t mess this up.

François groaned on his side and Jamie readjusted his position to help the man. He had to help him back home and then he would go immediately to find Claire.

“Where to?” he asked, eager to be done with the task.

“Merci, Monsieur for your help,” François politely replied and then answered Jamie’s question.

Their destination was not far but François kept a slow pace and Jamie had the impulse to take him in his arms and transfer him to the house as soon as possible.

“I believe you know mademoiselle Claire?” the man asked, making Jamie miserable. Talking would make him move even slower than he already did.

“Aye, ye can say we’re acquainted,” Jamie replied ruefully.

“She has a kind heart and a clever mind; always had. Her disposition can be that of great courage, as you can tell from today’s events. But she can be very headstrong. You must have patience.”

Jamie frowned. The man seemed to know Claire very well. How this servant knew so much of her character and why did he instruct Jamie on how to act concerning Claire? Now confused, he turned to see the man but the other just smiled to him and winked.

“I know love when I see it and you couldn’t take your eyes off her, monsieur.” Taking this as an answer to all his silent questions, Jamie chuckled and they continued their way.

The house where François lived was in the opposite way Claire had gone, near the Royal Palace and not far from Jared’s. His cousin’s income allowed him to inhabit a house in one of the richest districts of Paris and Jamie knew the neighbourhood well. After leaving François and giving him his best wishes, Jamie hastened his step back to the central part of the city, straight to the warehouse they kept the wine stocks. He changed his clothes, choosing a plain, dark grey attire and walked towards Saint Antoine ready to face Claire’s rage.

The closer he was getting to Claire, the harder it was to command his heart. When he finally arrived at her house he had to pause and take a few deep breaths. He’d made up his mind on his way there; he would tell her the truth, as hard as this might be and he wished that she’d believe him. He prayed her feelings were as strong as his - even if they were expressed only as anger at the moment.

Could that be possible? After meeting only the one time?

Claire was nowhere to be seen but Jamie saw Claudel playing with three other boys in a short distance. Claudel! What a name for a boy! He brought Sawny with him; luckily he had left the toy in the warehouse. Claudel saw him and directly left his company, trotting to Jamie. He was smiling and his warm brown eyes were shining with mischief.

“Hallo again, monsieur,” the boy addressed Jamie first.

“Hello to you too, Claudel,” Jamie paused and presented the wooden snake to the boy. “I brought you my wee snake, as I promised.”

The boy’s face lightened up and with a grin, he took the toy from Jamie. “Oui! It’s very nice, monsieur. What does Sawny mean?”

“Sawny is how my brother called me when I was just a bairn. Even younger than you,” Jamie replied wistfully. “He made it himself and gave it to me as a gift. Will you take care of him for me?”

“I will! I will never let it out of my sight, be sure of that!” Claudel replied enthusiastically.

“Weel, thank ye Claudel,” Jamie paused, frowning. “Do you like your name? Claudel, I mean?”

The boy’s amiable face contorted momentarily in thought, as if considering his name for the first time in his life. “I don’t mind it but I can’t say I like it,” he finally replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was thinking... Maybe, between you and me… Fergus is a much stronger name. Much more appropriate name for a man with responsibilities, ye ken?”

“Fergus,” Claudel whispered the name in a French accent. “I like it! Will you call me Fergus? Can I tell Milady to call me that as well?”

“Milady?” Jamie asked incredulously and immediately regretted his tone. Why would the boy address Claire with a term saved for the noble?

“Oui, mademoiselle Claire,” Claudel rephrased cautiously. “Can I tell her?” he continued eagerly focusing on his new toy and name.

“Well, if things go well we can tell her together. Is she here?”

“Oh no monsieur, she’s away” Claudel was sceptical on how much information he should give away.

“Can ye tell me where to find her?”

“You could wait here for her to return, no?” he entreated.

“I could, but I dinna have much time.”

Jamie saw his opportunity to talk to Claire slipping from his hands. He had to return at the wineshop on time or he would have to answer to a hell lot of questions from Jared.

Claudel’s face was scrunched in thought. “You won’t hurt Milady, will you? I think you like her.”

“Aye, I do like her. A lot. And I need to find her.”

“Milady went to walk by the Seine. She does that when she is angry or sad,” Claudel said, looking at Jamie. “Is she angry at you?”

“Aye” Jamie said leaving a breath, “I think she is.”

“Maybe she is angry because you made her sad. I think she was sad and I couldn’t make her smile today.”

“Weel, wee Fergus,” Jamie winked at him. “Let’s hope I will,” he said with a rueful smile and left Fergus behind.

Seine was not far and he had to find Claire. He was more concerned now, knowing that she was not safe at her home. What possessed her to go walking around just by herself?

God, if something happened to her because of him and his damned double-life…

Jamie quickened his step wishing that he’d find Claire and she’d be willing to listen to him. 

Mary, Michael and Bride, that she would believe his truth and forgive him!

He needed her to forgive him. What would he be otherwise? How could he live without her, now that he knew she was within his grasp?

Chapter 7

[sonxfcupid]

Surreal moments

“Oh, did you expect me to play fair? 

                               I am the god of love. I am never fair. “

After the Senate House had burnt down and all the fuss had died down to just a stir, Callum was left to his own thoughts, a dangerous thing for any demigod. Since being unable to break through the wall by himself, his self-confidence had dropped to a new low, and a feeling of uselessness and powerless had overtaken him. He knew that people would say that he was just feeling sorry for himself and that he should just pick himself up from this, and move on. But with night terrors plaguing his dreams, the horror that almost came to be seemed to follow him around. This is why he never confided in anyone and would rather deal with the feelings on his own. He didn’t feel like himself and he had even opened himself up to someone he barely knew. If he continued on this path, he wouldn’t be able to perform to the best of his abilities as a centurion or a member of the legion. He knew he had to do something about the way he felt before it was too late, that’s why he had decided to go and visit a special place in his heart, to pray for guidance. It was known as Deirdre’s well and was located at the back of the Fitzgerald property.

The first time he had visited the spot was one night whilst staying at Fergus’s House. He had woken up in the middle of the night, something whispering to him. He had felt the presence of something mystical as soon as he had stepped foot on the property, but with a family as old as there’s, what wasn’t mystical about the place? He had followed the whispers, not thinking of the consequences and ventured out into the garden. There, under a Crowhurst yew, was a small spring that was dedicated to the goddess of love. That night the air was lit by fireflies and nymphs frolicked between the trees and vegetation. Callum approached the spirits and before he knew it, he entered into a trance-like state, his powers flaring up and causing him to be on a high of love and affection for everything and everyone. This night was the first time that Callum had met his father, Cupid. Well, he thought he met him, but due to his trance state, he could never confirm this. It was the first time he had also accessed his powers with enough control to not be afraid to use them anymore and he had learned how to control them if he were to have an emotional meltdown in the future again.

As Callum trudged through the dew-dampened grass in the fields of Mars, he couldn’t help but feel how romantic that night felt, a full moon looming overhead, causing a silver light to flood the valley and light his path to the well. The grass faded into cobbled roads, his sneakers gently tapping as he went along. He passed the Senate House, briefly pausing in reminisce of its former beauty. He jumped over the trench that Percy had formed to channel the water to the fire and continued to the Fitzgerald property where he jumped the fence and entered the quiet and dark garden.

The trees around the well felt empty, a huge contrast from the first time he remembered it, causing to question if the night had even happened. The small spring trickled into the stream it formed, and with the sound of the gentle breeze and insects, a harmony in the night was created. Callum tore a strip of fabric off of his purple shirt and soaked it into the well, the cold water washing over the spot where his burn used to be. He squeezed the excess water out the strip and reached up to tie it to one of the lower branches of the tree, making a wish in Latin as he tied it, “I wish that I can find myself again tonight and that I would be able to consult my father, Cupid.”, his last word echoed through the trees of the garden as if the spirits were whispering the name to each other. He then found a place under the tree and sat down, cradled between two roots and his back leaned up against the trunk of the tree. He closed his eyes and listened to the night.

“You’re trespassing.” A deep, rich voice called out. It had so much power behind it that it felt like it could be the resonance of an earth tremor. Callum’s eyes flew straight open and he was halfway on his feet when he noticed that there was nobody around him. The voice had seemed to come from thin air, the trickling water the only sound now that filled the night.

“I -- I have connections with this well. I have a right to be here.” He replied, feeling stupid for talking to no one, but he was sure that he had heard the voice, there was no way he had imagined it. The wind replied by ruffling the leaves of the trees, causing Callum to tense up, his instincts kicking in and his fight or flight reflex causing him to ready his fists for an attack.

That’s when a figure appeared, rippling through the air and presenting itself before Callum. The man had curly, sandy-blond hair that had been pulled back into a man bun. His face had sharp features and Crimson eyes, as dark as blood, which seemed to have a slight glow to them. The man was wearing a white button-up shirt, with a few of the top buttons undone, exposing his hairless chest. A pair of Snow white wings seemed to sprout from his back but were folded up snuggly and a quiver hanging on his left shoulder. He wore a pair of khaki chinos that where almost a size too small, showing off his toned leg muscles, and his outfit was completed with a pair of light brown suede shoes.

“Surely a child would recognize his father when one see’s him.” Was his opening statement, his arms opening to show off his complete complexion. Callum had to hold himself back from losing his temper at the god. Of course he wouldn’t recognize his father if he’d only seen the man once in his life. Instead, his reply was filled with as much sass as he could manage in one sentence.

“How nice of you to show up.”

“At least I am here,” and as if Cupid could read Callum’s mind, he continued, “I simply do not have time to meet all my children. The only reason that you have seen me twice now, is that I feel like you have potential Callum Hayes.” His voice so clear and charming, that he was sure that anyone would fall for the god, even after he had just said hello.

Callum shifted, feeling uncomfortable but curious as to why his father had come to see him. Sure, that’s what he had wished, but wishes were barely answered.

“I am here because to put it frankly, you’re in a situation in which you are too weak to handle. I don’t blame you, it’s from your mother's side.” As Callum registered the words that Cupid was saying, rage swelled inside him, causing him to clench his fists as he saw the New Roman Herald headline, ‘Kid punches Love himself’. Who did this man think he was? Sure, he was a god, but that didn’t mean he had to be an asshole about everything.

“Relax kid, you’re wasting time on futile things, There --”

“Can you please stop reading my fucking mind and let me speak! It’s why I have a mouth!” Callum cut his father off, rage still inside of him. “You can’t say that shit about my mother! She is kind and caring and good! All she wanted in life was love, and what did you do? You literally screwed her over, and then hooked her up with some asshole!” Callum shouted, all logic had been lost and he hadn’t thought about who would hear him out in the woods, trespassing on Fitzgerald property. In return, Cupid rolled his eyes and sighed,

“Listen kid, there’s something I have to show you and if you worry about these things now, there won’t be time.” Callum couldn’t stand how the god had just dismissed how angry he was just because there wasn’t enough time. He was about to argue his point again when a dog's bark echoes against the trees, or perhaps it wasn’t an echo? Soon, you could hear the distinct barking of hound dogs in the night, and soon after, voices shouting out to each other.

“See. This is why.” Cupid said, his hair suddenly changing, transforming into longer dark hair that framed his face. “Just, open your mind.” Cupid’s command was so clear and strong that Callum forgot about what he was feeling and concentrated on clearing his mind, waiting for something to happen. Cupid reached out and placed the palm of his hand onto Callum’s forehead. Suddenly, Callum had been whisked away from the forest into his own mind, ready to see what Cupid had wanted him to see.

Callum woke up with a startle, sitting straight up in his bed sheets. His first instinct was to reach for Z, but Z was not there. His room swirled into focus as his mind settled, establishing what had just happened. Had it all been a dream? Did Callum actually meet Cupid? He shifted slowly, pulling the sheets off him and walking over to his dresser. He pulled out a towel and a clean shirt, picked up his toiletry bag and headed for the bathroom for a cold shower. He swung his door open, knocking over his boots and left his room into the corridor that had been cooled by the night air. Little did Callum know, the boots that he had knocked over were damp and slightly muddy as if they had recently been dragged through a garden and the shirt that lay next to his bed, was missing a strip around the hem. Callum’s life was about to change forever.