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alexandenigtscreations · 3 years

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Chapters: 6/7 Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Poisoning, blaster shot,... Summary:

Juno Steel and Peter Nureyev make a good team. But when a bank job goes horribly wrong, the injured pair are forced to lay low and hope the Carte Blanche can make it back to them in time.

Note: Bold Italic Writing signifies Nureyev speaking Brhamese

Chapter 6:

The dim light of the safe house shined supernaturally bright after the darkness outside. The planetoid revolved slowly, so it would be another day or so before they found themselves back in the sun’s rays.

Hopefully they would be gone by that time.

Nureyev blinked against the brightness, realizing he cracked a lens during the excursion. At the moment he was too tired to care. The Carte Blanch held a spare set or two dozen for just such an occasion.

No, the only thing he had room to think about was Juno.

Juno, his goddess, was still sleeping on the couch. Still in the same recovery position that Nureyev had left him in.

"It's been a- a while - Juno-" he said to the still form. Juno didn’t stir. Nureyev hadn’t expected him to.

All the same, the Thief stumbled over to the Detective and plopped down on the makeshift coffee table. If he was being honest with himself, and he rarely was, there was something comforting about being this close to his partner again.

Juno's chest rose and fell with a frantic rhythm and his eye danced under the lid. Nureyev frowned. Whatever dream he seemed to be having, it didn’t look to be a good one.

Nureyev contemplated the wisdom of waking Juno. If this was their room on the Carte Blanche, he’d have done it already, chasing away the nightmares that plagued him. He paused, halfway to the pulse point at the lady’s throat.

The pepper bomb residue still tingled on his skin, it probably wouldn't hurt Juno, goodness knows he was a tough lady- but all the same it would be best to wash up beforehand.

Rita had agreed to message him if she noticed guards near the safe house. Judging by the live feed she’d sent, the security was still in a frenzy over Nureyev’s earlier theatrics. That was something, at least.

He sighed, wilting over his knees. He should call Vespa. He should report to the Captain. He should be securing the safe house. He should be doing anything other than watching the little dots on the comms screen buzz about his last known location.

It was some time before Nureyev felt ready to stand again.

The smoke had worked its way into everything. His hair, skin, clothes, makeup, everything. This was promising to be a production.

Carefully he shrugged off his coat and set to work in the sink. A quick glance at the mirror told him what he already knew. Gone were the knife sharp cat eyes and the carefully contoured cheeks. Now the coverage was patchy at best and gore splattered at worst. Nureyev scoured down the grime on his hands and aggressively attacked the makeup streaks. The water wasn’t working fast enough, each plunge setting him to ache afresh. Under him, his leg was trembling, threatening to give out at any moment.

There was nothing for it, he’d just have to shower the stuff off. It wasn’t like he ever dried off from the earlier river dip anyways. With an impatient puff of air, he sat himself on the toilet and stripped off boots, socks, corset and shirt. All of these items have been protected from the worst of the fumes by the long coat. Not so his trousers.

At first the icy water activated the chemical residue afresh. He scrubbed his skin raw with a bar of upscale hotel soap. Well, the hotel it came from may have been upscale, but the soap itself was as mediocre as any other hotel soap. He glared at it as though it was it’s fault he was in this mess. Fresh scrapes and bruises blossomed across his chest and arms.

The water ran off in muddy brown and rusted red, gradually fading sudsy clear as blood stains and dirt alike were rinsed away.

Shaking with effort, Nureyev slid down onto the shower stool. In his impatience, he’d forgotten about the bandage.

First rule of thieving, Nureyev chastised himself, if you want to stay alive, keep a level head.

Numb fingers struggled with the bandage fastenings. It was harder to remove the wrappings than it had been to apply them. He expanded the tear in the leg seam to gain better access, exposing the burn beneath. The sight churned his stomach, which was something. He’d never considered himself squeamish. There was something unsettling about seeing your own flesh distorted in such a fashion….

The angry red of the burn was expected, unpleasant, but expected. But wasn’t prepared for the purple tinged veins webbing out from the injury or how tight the skin was stretched about it.

File it away- just file it away.

As soon as he was out of the shower and re-clothed; Nureyev decided to take Vespa’s advice and down a glass of water. It repeated on him just as quick and he was left bowed over the sink, coughing and sputtering while his stomach roiled. His knuckles turned to white over the porcelain as he waited for the nausea to die down.

Face bare and hair free of product, he could plainly see the high flush on his cheeks and bruised circles under his eyes. “Oh what are you looking at?” he rasped at his haggard reflection. He should have known better, did know better. He’d had enough experience to know when he could and couldn’t keep something down.

That horrid chill bit deeper into his bones, conspiring with the fire of the injury to make him thoroughly miserable.

This wasn’t right, he knew. This wasn’t supposed to be how a blaster shot felt- fresh or no. Goodness knows he’s had enough of them. And the purpling veins were down right... unpleasant.

Nureyev sighed, bringing out two glasses of water and a clean cloth ripped in two.

“Juno, love.” Nureyev coaxed, all but collapsing on the tiny coffee table. He could do this while he slept, but much rather the lady be awake to take his fluids. “Love-” he coaxed, running his fingers through his curls like he'd wanted to ever since his return. He was rewarded with a gentle moan and Juno pressing into his hand.

“Love- You have to drink for me-”

“Don’ feel good.” his voice was so weak, Nureyev tried not to think about what that could mean.

“I know-” he said, dipping the cloth in the water and bringing it to Juno’s lips, “J-Just take the water from that.”

Juno pulled away from the cold, hand wrapping around Nureyev’s wrist. “Naugh’ a child-”

Nureyev chuckled fondly “Drink, or Vespa will have both our heads.”

“Vespa?”

“I d-dare say she isn't too…. pleased at the moment.”

“Wha else ‘s new?” Juno commented, but took the cloth from Nureyev. He was tentative at first but really started to pull on it, dipping messily back in the cup for more.

“Slow, if you d-don’t want it repeating on you.” Juno hummed in affirmation. That would have to do.

Nureyev took a hit off his own cloth and turned his attention to the injury. Though the surrounding skin had dried by now, the burn itself was swollen and oozing a clear fluid. This close and the discoloration to the veins was easy to see. He didn’t need Vespa to tell him that it had been contaminated. Didn’t need her to explain that the speed at which the inflammation was spreading was concerning. Didn’t need her to tell him there was nothing that could be done about it till he returned to the ship.

File it away.

“Hh-hell, ‘Reyev-” He jumped, twisting to see Juno staring. His eye was wide, glassy and his parlor was more ashen than before.

“Lay back love.” Nureyev soothed, gently pushing Juno back. The Detective collapsed under his gentle touch with a little strangled sound. “D-don’t look.” He hadn’t meant for him to see. The thought of moving to another room, of having to stand another minute, made him sick. Still, he should have tried harder to spare Juno.

“It’s- bad-” as distorted as his words were, Nureyev could tell it was a statement, not a question.

“Nothing that c-can’t be managed.” he shivered. He almost believed it. “Have some more water- i-if you can.”

Nureyev tried to work quickly, using what little remained of the smuggler’s first aid kit to clean the wound and apply burn ointment. The task was made difficult by clumsy cold hands. The exercise may prove pointless, but at least nothing else was likely to add to the contamination.

He should make a report to Buddy, maybe even get some answers as to what was going on with the Carte Blanche.

Nureyev pursed his lips looking at the comms. His mind was fuzzy at the edges, from fatigue and stress. A call with someone who could see through so much of his cover on a good day, was daunting.

And yet….

“Captain Auranko.” his usual smooth voice was rough and unwieldy. "I believe it is t-time for a r-report."

"Pete, darling you sound dreadful." Nureyev couldn't tell if she was disappointed or concerned. Perhaps both.

"Yes well, a l-lot has... transported."

"Transpired?"

"Quite." He coughed. "We have e-encountered several….troubles. The b-box is fine but they are a-aware we are still within the c-city."

"Yes, I've heard something of your predicament Pete. I assure you we are doing everything we can to collect you."

"When , Captain." He coughed harder, "we are r-running out of the…" he couldn't remember the right word " time- "

There was a pause, voices in the back, urgent and cutting. He'd lose her- he’d lose her before he’d a chance to get answers, to get help.

"P-please, Captain-"

She sighed, "I'll be frank with you Pete. Listen closely because we don't have time for questions."

The thief cleared his throat "Of course-"

"Planetoid Xnon is owned by Galactic Stars First Bank. The entire place is on lockdown after our stunt." There was a strange sound like crunching metal and Buddy gave a sharp intake of breath. Shouting something to the Carte Blanche team.

"They know t-the Carte Blanche is there." Nureyev commented. He didn't have to be a detective to put that together.

"Quite."

"Ah." The complicated note of emotion welled up within, there wouldn't be a rescue, they wouldn't be able to get close. The bank would get them in the end and there would be nothing he could do about it. Nureyev felt the knot in his throat before he had a chance to file it away. "S-so we are to be… left b-behind." Made to follow their pirates deal.

"And leave two injured crew to fend for themselves against an overgrown bully? I think not, dear. Jet and Rita have been coordinating their efforts, we will beat them yet."

"Captain-"

"There is no need to be such a negative man Pete. We will get back to you. These bank executives made the mistake of coveting two things that are mine, my crew and my information. I'm not in the mood for sharing."

Nureyev let out a strangled sort of laugh that was far from his usual chuckle.

"I will transfer you to Vespa, keep us in the loop darling."

"No need f-for the transfer. T-tell her things are much the s-same on our end. We will await the next contact."

"Very well, I'll defer to your judgement then Pete. Buddy out."

Nureyev sagged at the call end. He'd the distinct feeling like Buddy was withholding something from them. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad that ng, so he filed that away for future consideration.

"They kknow 'bout tha ship?" Juno inquired in the lull.

"It would seem s-so." Nureyev said. He had no intention of lying to Juno, even in a state like this.

"J-Jet and Rita are on it though."

"Rita-" Juno gave a snort, "almos' feel bad- for-” he gasped “'em- ah-" His face twisted and he curled tighter on himself.

“L-love, you should- reset.” he said, scooting himself over so that he was within reach of Juno.

“You’re ss-switchin’ words- Reyev-” he was looking up at him with that glassy eye.

“What?”

“Switching- words-” Juno tried again. “You’ve been- doin’ it a lot-”

Then it clicked.

“I-" he floundered, " Oh my. I hadn’t realized-” and he hadn’t. But now that he was actually thinking about it, he’d been doing it for a while. His hand drifted up to his traitorous lips. That was definitely a hit to his professional pride. It had been a long time since he'd slipped like this; would that only get more common as he got older? Or....

File it away-

"You're- tired- too-" Juno added, reaching out to put his hand on Nureyev's knee. It seemed to be meant as a squeeze, but his fingers couldn't quite manage. He'd likely be unable to work a blaster in this state.

He was defenseless.

Just file it all away-

"It's- alright." Nureyev shrugged delicately.

"No- it's s'not."

Nureyev hummed, wrapping his fingers about Juno's wrist, feeling the pulse point fast and light. In truth, he would be alright as long as Juno's heart kept beating.

After Juno drifted off once more, Nureyev took to securing the safe house again. Moving around more than was wise judging by the dizzy spells.

One eye was on the guard locator Rita sent, another kept on his love.

Two hours passed, Vespa called, Juno was examined again. His heart rate was inching up but otherwise, he was much the same. She didn't know when they'd return. Nureyev's eyelids itched to close. He could not rest yet.

He refused.

To keep awake, he attempted a few mobility exercises. A near collapse on the second set led him to abandon the attempt. The movements weren’t hard, per say, but they were deceptively taxing. One that left him shaking and gasping on the ground. Forgetting that was a stupid, foolish mistake. Nureyev was slipping.

The buzzing of an incoming call forced him back to reality. He’d been dangerously close to nodding off again, lulled into stillness by the mirriorid aches and pains that plagued him. It was Vespa, goodness, had it really been two hours?

Her tone held none of it’s usual bite. If Nureyev didn’t know better, he’d call it concern. Juno was much the same, fast asleep, curled on his side, face pinched in pain. Nureyev longed to kiss it away. As if he was of any use to the Detective now.

________________________

He patrolled the safehouse again, pausing in front of the crates. They easily outnumbered the pair. The more Nureyev considered them, the more ominous he found their hidden insides to be. What if they had listening devices inside? Cameras? Drones? It could also be completely innocuous-

It was reminding him of the old earth thought experiment. There was a cat in a box, and you didn’t know if the cat was alive or dead until you opened that box. Until you did, both possibilities remained true at once. He thought that old earthlings must have been very cruel or cowardly to trap such a creature in the first place and not check on it’s welfare. In his current state, he related very much to the cat.

Were the contents of the crate dangerous? Or harmless? There was only one way to find out.

Nureyev pulled up a smaller box for a seat and set a plasma cutter to the side. Slicing through the synth wood till it hung loose from the hinge left against the floor. He glanced over at Juno and pulled.

Tiny vials cascaded from the packing fungus. Nureyev jumped, jarring his leg and hissing. It was a far cry from what he’d been expecting. Cautiously, he reached in and scooped up a tiny glass bottle bearing the legend ‘ Saffron Pharmaceuticals, Venucian SARS-97 Vaccine ’

He grabbed another squinting at the label ‘ Saffron Pharmaceuticals, Venucian SARS-97 Vaccine ’

A brief investigation revealed the entire crate contained the long expired vaccines. Nureyev stood, dizzied by the sudden motion and moved to the next crate. This too contained medical devices, two ventilators and their accompanied equipment. Another crate contained bandages and antiseptic. Another filled with tiny computerized vital monitors. Still another was cramped with some sort of scanning tech. Crate after crate contained specialized medical supplies.

Nureyev’s chest constricted, wherever these had intended to go, they were meant to save people on the Outer Rim. Not be left to rot in a forgotten smuggler den.

Out of morbid curiosity, he snagged a few of the vials for future consideration. Then sent a picture of the medical equipment to Vespa with a caption “Would these items still be of use?”

There would have been many people on Brahma alone that would have benefited from such equipment. It was near impossible to get on the war torn Outer Rim. Frustration bubbled out from some locked file. In his fatigued state, it was near impossible to hold it back.

Just then, the Detective stirred. The file snapped shut and Nureyev hobbled back to his love.

Something seemed to have changed, even through the brain fog, it was plain to see.

“J-Juno?” Nureyev asked.

Juno let out a low pained groan, fingers twisting into his stomach. “ ‘Reyev- ” he gasped, his chest stuttering. “ Nu-reyev- ” he was struggling as if trying to force himself upright.

“What’s ha-happening love-”

“Hu- hur’s -” he keened. Nureyev’s blood ran cold, his hands fluttering over the lady. Unsure whether he should push him back down or help him up.

“Hurts? Juno- w-what hurts?”

Juno swayed on his elbow, eye screwed shut.

“ Love ?”

He looked as though he was going to be sick. Nureyev pushed a bin under him just in time for him to wretch. His whole body shook from the force of it, he was left gasping from the strain before it hit him again. A curdled mass of red splattered against the bottom of the bin.

Blood

Juno was bleeding on the inside.

Nureyev didn’t wait for him to finish, he called Vespa barely able to keep the panic down.

“I’m kind of busy thief, if this is about the equi-”

“Juno’s Bleeding !” Nureyev choked out.

“Whut?”

“Please Vespa- Juno- Juno is-” he groped for the right phrase, “How do you say- internal bleeding-'' the Brahmese slipped out of his mouth before he could think to stop it. Juno heaved again, dissolving into dry heaves. Nureyev wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. “Sick on blood.” he managed at long last.

“Wait, you're telling me he’s vomiting blood?”

“Yes.”

She swore.

“How d-do I stop it?”

“Ransom-” she sounded tired. Almost defeated. He couldn't understand. There had to be something he could do, anything that he could do.

“Please- I-” he was hyperventilating now, getting dizzy from it. Juno was shaking in his spare arm, just keeping himself from toppling over. He couldn't lose him, not like this. “Please-” his voice broke.

“Whoa, hey! First Ransom, I’m going to need you to breathe for me! Sheish!” He tried, grounding himself with the heat radiating from Juno. “Okay look, I can’t promise anything right now, but gonna need you to turn on the video feed, I need to see what’s going on.” He did.

As before he followed her instructions. Juno seemed to collapse in on himself, curling around his core.

“Here’s the story Ransom.” Nureyev perked up, trying with all his might to focus on Vespa’s voice. “He’s in bad shape.” he snorted, he knew that. “But judging by the color and texture of the blood, it's a slow bleed. We have the time to get to you.”

“S-so, I am to w-sit in idle the entire time?”

“Your Job, Thief, is the same as before!” she snapped, sounding more like her usual self. “His heart and brain need blood circulation to elevate his feet.” Nureyev got a box to prop Juno’s feet on and carefully turned him onto his back. Juno whined at the motion and Vespa swore loudly “Not on his back Thief! Damn it! Want him to choke if he ralfs again?! Keep him on his side, the recovery position.” Nureyev could kick himself as he hurried to comply, Juno made another piteous sound that tugged at his heart. “No, it’s not comfortable, but it will improve his chances of survival.”

It was harder than it should have been to move Juno, he was panting by the end, the world swirling “What n-now?”

“If he can keep it down, get water into him. Mostly just keep him alive until we get there.”

“When will that be- ” he was frustrated, tired. He wanted answers. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to massage out the headache that had taken residence in his temples.

“I don’t know what you are playing at Ransom, but I don’t speak Brahmese!”

“Wha- I-” he swallowed, he’d done it again. Maybe if he just ignored it- “W-when are you coming?”

“Look, we’ll keep you apprised. And goddamnit, do something about that chill. I can’t deal with you keeling over on us. Talk to you next check in.” and she hung up.

He just had to wait it out.

He could do that. A shiver passed down his spine, clothes scraping over hypersensitive skin.

He could wait.

________________

It was getting- hard- to concentrate. Nureyev couldn't patrol the safe house anymore, could scarcely move. So instead, he was saving what was left of his strength for what was to come. Whatever that may be.

The fatigue was crushing and still he kept his eyes open. He would not leave Juno, not if there was anything he could do about it.

He squeezed the handle of the blade, the sharp edges of the bare handle digging into his palm. Over and over he squeezed until it hurt, and backed off, lulling himself into a half hypnotic state. So long as he could squeeze, he could feel the pain, so long as he felt the pain, he could stay awake.

It was different from the consuming burn in his leg, the unruly, hungry sort of agony that was far beyond his control. Far beyond anything he could file away.

The squeezing distracted from it, in a small way. Any relief was welcome.

Nureyev bowed over his knees, eyes trained on the comms screen and the blurry dots migrating over the surface of the map. Squeezing the handle. Paying no attention to the moisture working it’s way down his wrist.

It had been- hours- since they last heard from the Carte Blanche. Hours since he heard a peep out of Juno- The only way the thief could be sure Juno was alive was the heat rolling off his skin.

They’ve been abandoned.

He was sure.

Buddy Auranko had promised that the Carte Blanche would be more than a team, that it would be a family. He snorted derisively. He should have taken Juno and run right then and there. Family’s only ever brought suffering.

The burn gave a particularly nasty throb, Nureyev jumped, hissing against the onslaught, clutching high over the wound. How long would they last like this?

The comms started to beep. Nureyev glanced down and saw activity on the screen. The details were lost to him, but what was known was that the guards of Galactic Stars First Bank were on the move.

He wasn’t sure what that could mean, but it couldn’t be good.

There was a rattling at the door. Nureyev’s heart plummeted. Now? Of all times. Why couldn't they just leave them alone?

Someone, or something pounded on the door, a large someone judging by the racket it made, setting Nureyev’s head to pound. There were voices from the other end. Nureyev’s mind stretched them into something sinister and ominous. He straightened his leaden limbs. Preparing himself.

If they expected him to go out without a fight, then they were sorely mistaken.

The door was flung open and Nureyev used the last of his strength to launch himself at the intruders. The blade sung through the air, making contact judging by the grunt. A large blurry person shouted, staggering away from the knife.

They weren’t fighting back.

That was strange. Not only weren’t they fighting back, but they seemed to be calling out to him- As though they- recognized him.

It did nothing to soothe his fears.

Nureyev collided painfully with the door jam wheeling around and-

“‘ansom! Ransom! We are not a threat! Ransom!”

He staggered, a familiar figure in a tan overcoat swam before his eyes.

Nureyev- knew that coat.

“J-Jet?” he asked, bewildered. How was it possible that they were there? They’d left them? Hadn’t they? Blackness encroached on what was left of his vision.

“Yes. We have come to collect you.”

“Oh- Thank the stars- ” and Nureyev knew no more.

#the penumbra podcast #Fanfic #tpp #junoverse #jupeter #tw blood #tw vomiting #tw negitive self talk #juno steel #Peter Nureyev #whump #hurt comfort #AlexandeNight #my writing #etc

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dcschain · 4 years

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HIGH NOON OVER CAMELOT. | not accepting.

@cllgood said: Recognise, believe and embrace the White.

What difference a week can make, dry like sand in his teeth. What difference and none, here. What difference manhood makes. He feels it all, this weight. A weight, impossible to swallow, from his shoulders to his throat to his chest, in the depth of him.

The difference is this: he is an adult, now, and so terribly a child his father spent a few moments simply looking at him, and at his face, that jaw that hadn't found its sharpness yet and the stubble that was barely growing in. Two years younger than when Steven Deschain had driven his dagger into Cort's calf and nearly severed the vein there for good, and Cort had yielded. But he had limped. For the rest of his days, Cortland Andrus had worn the Deschain's victory in his gait. Cort, whose skin more starkly than any book of genealogies held the names of all the gunslingers who had proven the worth of their blood.

Gilead welcomed him differently now back from Mejis. After the flags were raised back to their full height and the tears – of grief now unspent of joy of relief at their safe return – had been dried, he had caught himself alone for a moment in the Great Hall, which until then had been a terrible mystery and a space of relative power.

Gilead knew. The stones knew, and the earth knew, even if the words of ritual had not yet been spoken in the Great Hall, though they had been spoken on the Proving Grounds, and the blood spilt, and the bird buried. All acts of terrible significance. All acts that recognised Roland for who he was and is, an instrument, the last one to be left. The land knows, the city whispers, the men inside it do not understand the rituals they so mechanically perform. A thing lost that will never be found again. The power crackling and terrible, and left without teeth, left with too many teeth, left with violence.

Words, words, are what give places their meaning. Words of speech, of gesture or of legend. Words of gazes, and of touch. Spaces that absorb the different meanings and change their faces like a magis changes names. Westr'd Hall. Hall of the Grandfathers. Rendezvous.

Secret, secret, sacred.

In an empty Great Hall they had told their tale to Steven Deschain, and Robert Allgood, and Christopher Johns. Steven with the thoughtful silence and Robert with the arms crossed and the thumb to his upper lip, and Kit with the clicking of needles and the illegible expression, focused on his knitting.

They had told the whole tale save for the most important part. The Bend, still safe in Roland's room, safe to prey and tease and eat. Eat to its rotten heart's content. So much suffering to drink from. So much pain to nourish and nurture into anger and into hate. So much of it.

Because of it, because of it calling and waiting and needing, he had been the last to leave the room, even after his father had stepped outside. He had stood, and were he someone else perhaps the walls would have bled some truth to him. But the walls, and the marble busts on each shorter side of the great room, were silent. Perfectly still.

Only Steven Deschain had not left immediately as Cuthbert, Alain and their fathers filed out, wanting to celebrate in earnest the return, but he had stopped just past the doorway. And Roland certainly had known this, because the footsteps on the wooden floor behind him had stopped and then stilled, and the sentence Steven's footsteps had been spelling had breathed for a semi-colon, and Steven in that space had turned, and looked at his son's shoulders, and thought him a man at last. And the pride was indescribable. And the terror was indescribable. And seeing his own death reflected to him. Seeing the shape the land's soul will take, once his blood has stopped flowing.

Steven knew then that his blood was more likely to spill in great waves, rather than thunder to an end under the yoke of old age. A hunch. One of the many, the same hunch that told him Roland had not said all of the truth, but had been leaving parts of it still unaccounted for, strewn along the trail in chunks of drying driftwood. Water where there was none. Trees soaked to the bone in a desert that rarely if ever knew rain. White rock. Water where Gan willed it, and water where it was not a natural thing. Steven had parted his lips to speak and then had closed them.

All princes are their father's deaths. That was a truth he had learned from Henry the Tall's cracked, wheezing lips.

“Come now, Ro. Your mother be waiting for supper.”

His father's voice which called him away from this empty, cold room. Not a kind voice. A voice of tired nights and even more tired days. A voice smeared with blood and mud, caked with sand and the bitter saltwater.

“Be kind to your mother,” an afterthought.

The same mother he can't help but look for, now, in the crowd. She stands to the side of the old cracked throne, her hands tight in each other and nobody beside her.

His father stands in front of the throne of the Eld, which has not been used in many and many-a years and still is kept, old and decrepit, like a terrible omen of what is to come. A reminder for all kings and queens of Gilead that this is where it ends, this is where the power truly lies.

The wood will rot. The wood will always rot.

History unfolding, he the speck of dust at the centre of a tapestry so big it eludes any definition of size. The width of it, the length of it, the miles of it: stretching beyond and behind him. From the centre, tall and terrible and dark, to the end of it, a Perfect Circle. Time began at the Tower, and time ended there. The speech his father had given him the evening before in his office in the cold in the quiet, where he had given him the Bend and his father in return had given him his birthright and his legacy, the knowledge of the Tower.

He is slow, but he is not stupid. And while he perhaps cannot understand the far-reaching, endless implications of what moments like these hold, even in such solemn silence, he knows enough to know that something is decided here, every time a new ceremony happens in the footsteps of the previous ones. Like when he stood at the top of the same hall he is standing in the centre of now, above with the eyes of a newborn hawk babe, the dances underneath intricacies his mind could not see clearly. But he understood: when Gabrielle Deschain moved from her lover to her husband, she did so with Power, and its passage, coiled tight inside her. Marten Broadcloak who had brought the death of Henry Deschain and in time would bring the death of his son also, and the death of the woman he had danced with, Gabby o'the Waters, Marten who had watched beneath the flickering candles as ka walked relentlessly amongst them, crimson-robed. And he had smiled that thin bloody-eyed smile of his, sharp like a knife. Gears moving at the relentless, maddeningly-slow pace of the patiently cruel.

He stands at the other end of this hallway of people. The other gunslingers, the distant family, his maternal uncle and grandfather come from Arten, his tet-mates, Vannay. Cort still lies agonising in his bed, Roland is the first, and only, gunslinger the teacher will not be able to see take the mantle of the title.

And at the end of it all, Steven Deschain, tall and still, with his big irons, and his blue eyes. It is only them, and the mother slightly behind Steven: chained, trapped, burdened and saved by one another. The room could be as empty as it was after the palaver they held with the Tet of the Gun. The room could be as cold.

Steven Deschain gestures to his son.

“Hile, Childe.”

Gabrielle inhales sharply. He does not hear it, but he sees it behind his father's shoulders.

Roland cannot call this fear. But when he slowly walks forward towards his dinh his father his king his feet feel barely on the ground, each step he crosses a precipice, a rickety bridge, a boy pleading for his life and knowing his death all in one breath and a father knowing the taste of the most terrible price.

Other worlds.

His gaze low, his breath tight. His body does what he cannot be aware of: it breathes, swallows, sweats, pumps blood through him, walks. Everything else, is this: the shape of the wood beneath his knee, the soft murmuring that's now turned to silence in the Deschain's booming voice that beckons his son and his destiny to him.

He kneels before his father. In the flickering electric light Steven Deschain is all things and none, the true soul of the land, and his son is nothing but the avatar of his own pride. Roland closes his eyes and exhales.

“Tursa-thea para pan, dinh-soh?”

He swallows again, and then opens his eyes, to voice his answers as he's learned them.

“An dria eld, an para eld. An para childe.”

“Pan-childe?”

“Kes-kas-ma’sun.”

“Pan-childe?”

“Kes-kas-dash-khef-okvi.”

“Pan-childe?”

“Visa-dinh-sai-kas.”

“Tursa-thea pa?”

“Kian epissin dinh cha albion cha dinh-sai.”

“Pai-thea?”

“Gilead-Roland ka, Dinh Steven-dinh-soh, Dinh Henry-dinh-soh, Dinh Arthur-ka-dinh-soh, Gilead-dinh. Afe albion Gilead cha Eld hedro ka. Afe Cam cha childe-dash-khef hedro ka.”

Maybe he answered too fast. Maybe an inflection was wrong. Maybe he forgot the words. Maybe. Maybe. His father has paused, paused longer than he ought to, and Roland's neck aches with the need to look up, to him.

Another second passes, longer than a century. Then, the clinking of Steven Deschain as he unbuckles his gun belt. Gabrielle Deschain sinks her nails into the flesh of her palms. On the other side of the throne, Kit Johns and Robert Allgood exchange a look.

Roland knows what this sound means. He knows it as well as those who see the gesture, the brief low murmur that ripples across the crowd. He does not understand it, but he knows it.

And he looks up, to meet his father's face. His father holding the guns of the Eld, and meeting his eyes, and nodding slowly.

“An-eld-gansa-thea, dinh-soh. Rise, first bondsman to my bosom. Recognise, believe and embrace the White, who holds above us all.”

Roland does as he is told. In the silence, the dumbstruck silence, of a Great Hall that should be embracing a city's joy, and instead must bear witness to history unfold. Definite. Terrible. Destruction, beginning. Destruction, that here begins to crush lungs.

Steven fastens the belt, and the holsters, and the guns, around his only child's hips. His hands come to Roland's shoulders. Then he pulls him in, to kiss him twice on each cheek, and Roland feels his father's lips wet where they press against his skin.

When Steven turns his son, his heir, around, to face the crowd before them, to lift his arm high, hand around his wrist, in triumph, the cheer erupts as sudden as the thunder, becomes deafening. In a glimpse, Roland catches Gabrielle Deschain over his shoulder, who smiles as she weeps.

“Do you understand, then, what you’ve done?”

Where there’s rustle of pages there cannot be words. Words have no room here. Words have no weight, no colour, no conscience. Words are what breath is not: meaning. Meaning, beyond the arbitrary significance of ribcages lifting lowering, catching oxygen, keeping alive.

Words cannot be denied. Words are a sacred, terrible thing. Words unlike breath have finality, for breath is gone by sunset, and with them heart. But words demonstrate the true futility of time. Where breath fails to ensure eternity, the poets have already won.

“Steven. I be talking to you.”

“Bob, if I no longer had command of my own faculties, I’d make sure you’d be the first to know.”

“That ain’t what Handsome's saying, Steve. Come now.”

Come now. Steven arches an eyebrow -- because either Kit picked that up from him or he from Kit. That brief consideration pressed to the wider still plane of his thoughts. How often they’d all shared words, broken them amongst each other with their crumbs on their hands, wiped the red stains from the cup of shared wisdom. What point is there in defining this vocabulary of blood? It’s been so long, anyway. Where did the first word originate between them, how can that even be quantified? In the womb, in the web, in the heart of the Tower. Perhaps there. Impossible to know with any surety, impossible to deny when presented with the facts, the true witnesses of hearts. Like the great first breath of Gan, so the cycle repeats itself even in small bursts, of mannerisms and friendship. Whoever made the world made them, too, and made them in its image. To repeat is to share. To share is to break bread, be holy with love. An act of creation with every shared glance. So the web tightens. So it always, always tightens.

“The boy’s been given the guns, Steve. There ain’t no turning back from that.”

“Yes. I know, Kit. I believe I am aware of the implications. I was the one who made the decision, after all.”

Robert scoffs and moves, away from the slit window he was leaning his back against, with his arms crossed. As he walks towards Steven’s desk, the light drips through to frame him as he is, tall and barrel-chested, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His ceremonial cape’s folded neatly on one of the chairs in the study. The glint of the rings on his hands taps against the bridge of Steven’s nose and trembles across his forehead, as Robert splays his palms on the wood to lean forward. He throws shadows onto Steven’s workspace, and Steven pulls back, pen still in hand, to frown.

“All things can be read two ways,” Robert says, ignoring Steven’s furrowed brow and the way he caught his breath about to protest, “and by Gan’s sake, Steve, the first reading of it is clear to me. Word will reach Farson soon, if it hasn’t already, now she’s back.” Too far. In the blue glint under Steven’s brow, Robert swallows and corrects his course, “and all I can see is him and his mongrels saying that this be you renouncing dinh-ship in all but name. That you recognise you're unworthy of the Eld’s guns. That a boy, no matter how fucking talented, be more worthy of those guns than the dinh of our own fucking city.”

“When my father, Clearing take him, bequeathed me the horn, ’twas not seen as an act of cowardice.”

Kit’s turn: he rolls his eyes. “Now you’re just being deliberately obtuse. The horn ain’t the guns, no matter the siguls that’re written on it. And Henry didn't have Farson to contend with.”

They know that twitch, imperceptible, that comes with the jaw clench, the way it circles the right eye, the way the mouth twists slightly, the way it is like the shadow of something unknown and terrible, terrible, underneath the edge of the water. They know it. He sets his pen down, and exhales hard enough to make his upper lip tremble.

“You could’ve at least discussed it with us, Steven. Before making the decis--”

“Here is my second reading, Robert. Thee’s said it yourself, there’s always two sides to all things. All world is prophecy to thee, ka-mai, and riddle. You’ve given me one reading, and damn those who choose to read it that way. But I won’t have you two clucking like hens or courtiers. I carried thee, Robert, didn’t I? When the poison was making you vomit your own fucking blood, didn’t I promise thee I’d have you see our white spires once more, and the Lady Louise? Didn't I hold fast to that promise? Was I not dinh to thee then, as I am now?”

Robert steps back. The desk creaks when he lets it go, the sound dusty, dry. Old. He and Kit exchange a look. The look of children. At times the truth is in Steven Deschain's eyes a brilliant silver, ice-cold. The truth of fathers, and of kings.

He’ll have them beside him, and he’ll have them behind him, but to have them in front of him, three angles of a shape, is as difficult now as it ever was. With an exactness Steven understands as thin as the sharp edge of his hunting knife, Robert speaks the truth that ka tells him, which is not the truth of kings but the truth of fools. One side, another side, one base. Reality made dim when all can be read, even the things beyond its shimmering veils, and nothing extrapolated, and its truth, as always, a matter and manner of perspective. What else can they do? Their very language an ocean of meanings, branches holding words that are everything, and nothing as a consequence. Under the yoke of their roles their skin trembles a terrible colour. Not black nor crimson-red nor white. A person can get lost in these winds of meaning. Where the holiness of their roles ends is where the true unknown begins, where beyond the meaning of their power, White-keepers, lies something that raises much too much dust and is unclear and therefore cannot be read. In the West slowly does the low hum of war welcome violence. And it will be a wave soon enough. And it will be thunder.

DA. DATTA. DAYADHVAM. DAMYATA.

“So here is your damnable second reading. The guns be instruments of cam, and they be forged from the Eld's sword.”

“We don't need a history lesson, Steven.”

“I won't take kindly to being interrupted right now, Kit.”

Kit opens his mouth to retort. And Kit closes it.

“And Roland be of my blood. Of Eld. And no matter what storm is coming, blood don't lie. It never has. Sometimes it be the last thing we have left. I gave him the gu--”

“You gave him the guns because you ain't stretching the power thin, but you're reinforcing it. Spreading it out, so it covers more ground. Like a girdle. Because if ka let Ro pass his test of manhood so early, it means there be greater things in store for him yet. And blood don't lie.”

Robert knows then from the expression Steven pulls that Steven had not realised that, either. He barks out a laugh, at Steven's startled eyes, at his slow blinking.

“Yes. Yes, Bob. I suppose you're right.”

He marvels. It is something the barracks never took from him and never will. Robert Allgood marvels, in the simplest ways, at the simplest things. And he marvels now when the reasoning behind Steven's gesture unravels in his and his dinh's hands, and he marvels not at the riddle solved or at the the way power tonight has been vested, transformed and transmitted, but rather at the web of meanings that he can see, now, beneath all the things, beneath the truths they've shared. Where the water flows, the rock breaks. Where the wind blows, the tree yields.

But it is not Robert who names it. It is Christopher.

“Aven kas.”

Where ka dictates, the wind follows. Here now real more than ever, more than anything. More than them and their words and their guns, and their eyes and their father's faces. A strength that breathes in everything there is. In another world, it is called synchronicity. A thin dim border, trapped between coincidence and fate.

“Ai. Aven kas.”

Kit uncrosses his arms to say something, but the knock on the door interrupts him. Steven furrows his brow. None of them expected interruptions, this evening, when he is about to seek Roland and bring him for his first night at the Club. His Roland, his Ro-darling. A boy of only fourteen.

And besides, those who know him and his character know not to disturb him when in a meeting with his tet, and they would be the only ones to seek the Gilead-dinh out at this hour.

“Who is it?”

“Rosalie, dinh-sai.”

Especially Rose. But it barely sounds like her. A tremble that's never there in the way she says dinh. The three of them exchange a glance.

“What is it, Rose?”

“Sai, may I come in? It-- it's urgent.”

He opens the door to wide eyes, and a face that still hasn't understood in full what its mouth will have to say now. When Steven sees her, Rose doesn't speak for a few seconds. Her jaw is trembling.

“What fashes thee, girl?” Kit asks from behind Steven, a sentence he's never had to say to Rosalie who told them of their sons' death with a closed jaw and cold eyes. But now, past her dinh's shoulder, she barely knew he was there, knew it but only on the surface level of things. What is inside her knows nothing but how to speak the words and then everything else, perhaps, will return after the shock has slipped back from outside of her to inside of her.

If Cort saw, he'd beat her black and blue. But Cort no longer holds Power over her. The Deschain does.

“Rosalie.”

Her dinh calls her terror to order.

“It's... it's the Lady Gabrielle, sai. I don't know how to say it. Belle found them, I-- and Ro', and, and... the boy, and--”

Steven allows for no more room for her tongue. He grabs her shoulder, and the grip is tight enough it kills the sentence dead. What's left of it wheezes in her speechlessness.

“Where?”

“Her rooms. But sai, sai-- She's dead, she's already dead.”

If he hears he doesn't listen. Robert stops in front of her, and touches her where Steven gripped her. She blinks under water.

“Go find Joe, Rosalie. Lock down Lady Gabrielle's apartments. We ought to keep this as tightly under wraps as we can. Can thee do this for us, Rosie? Hm?”

She nods, swallowing hard. Robert pats her shoulder once, turns to follow Kit and Steven, turns around again.

“Was it Ro', then?”

“Yes. He's already admitted to it.”

Admitted. The word leaves bitter ashes, makes his lips curl in a snarl.

“Ay-yi. Poor boy. So we dance to the song, don't we all? What a rotten song it be, sometimes.”

He inhales very slowly, and halfway down his throat, the air breaks and cracks against the tears he didn't know were there. Robert swallows hard.

Kit and Steven didn't wait for him, and he has to quicken his pace to catch up.

#cllgood #drabbles.#IA –– DINH TETE.#this is. very long.#my apologies to anyone who attempts to read it.

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you-a-southpaw-doll · 5 years

Text

Another One Bites The Dust (AOBTD) ~ Chapter 5

Warning(s): Explicit Language. Angst. Slight violence. Leigh being a fuckin’ badass and protecting her family. Family reunion of sorts. Negan’s finally the one on his knees, and not in the way you might expect. Slight fluff.

Author’s Note(s): It’s time! He’s here! The Boss Man has finally shown up!

Taglist: @negans-network , @prettyboynegan , @thamberlina

Previous Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four.

Chapter 5 ~ Firecracker

I look from the man in front of me to my fiancé as he comes storming up to me. He slaps the leather-clad man across the face.

“I said don’t you fuckin’ touch her, asshole.” Jeffrey seethes.

The bat-wielding asshole drops his hand from my cheek. He looks at Jeffrey, holding his hands up in surrender, letting the bat fall to the ground by his feet.

“Jeff.” He says.

Jeffrey’s brow furrows. Within two seconds, his face softens, and I see a couple tears well up in his eyes.

“Neegs?” My lover asks, quietly.

The man in front of me nods. “It’s me.”

Jeffrey wraps his arms ‘round the man and holds him close. The other man slowly hugs him back. I can see Jeffrey’s shoulders shake. I lower my knife and tuck it back into its sheath on my hip. After a few moments, the pair pulls apart. Jeffrey moves his hand up and places it on a leather-covered shoulder.

“I thought I’d lost you.” He says, quietly.

“You know it takes a lot to kill me.” The other man says.

“Jeff?” I ask, confused.

He looks at me. His face softens even more.

“Babydoll…I want you to meet someone.” He says, softly.

I raise an eyebrow. “Who?”

“My brother.”

I cough in shock. “Do what?”

Jeff lets out a quiet chuckle. “My brother. I want you to meet him. It’s ‘bout time.”

The other man turns to face me. That’s when I realize why he seems so familiar. He looks identical to Jeffrey. His hair’s just slicked back, whereas Jeffrey’s has more of a messy look to it. And, his beard is a smidge longer than my lover’s and has a hint more of salt-and-pepper sprinkled throughout it.

He holds his right hand out to me. I glare at it before glaring at the man.

“Sweetheart.” Jeffrey says, slowly.

“No. Not until he gets that gun away from Tim’s head and I know that he and Angel are safe.” I say, sternly.

Jeffrey’s brother turns ‘round immediately and looks at the man holding the gun to Tim’s head.

“Put the fuckin’ gun away, you asshat.” He commands with a wave of his hand. “And the rest of y’all get the fuck out of here. Now!”

The man lowers the gun and steps back. The rest of the men hop in the trucks and leave, following his commands. Tim stands up, slowly, seemingly unsure of what the fuck’s going on. Angel stands up beside him and hides behind his legs.

“C’mon over here.” Jeffrey’s brother says in a much softer tone than what he used with his men.

Tim and Angel walk over to us. I wrap my arms ‘round Tim and hug him. He holds me close. Once I pull away from him after a few moments, I pick Angel up and hold her in my arms. She tucks her face against the side of my neck and starts crying.

I rub her back, trying to soothe her. I look at Jeffrey and his brother. The other man seems almost sad.

“Doll?” Jeffrey asks, quietly.

I look up at him as he walks over to me. He wraps one arm ‘round me. He places one hand on Angel’s back. Tim wraps one arm ‘round me as well. My little family is safe now.

“Jeff?” The other man asks.

I jerk my head up and glare at him as he takes a step forward. He stops and takes a step back, holding his hands up in surrender.

“You fuckin’ asshole.” I hiss.

“Honey, his name’s Negan. He’s my brother.” I hear Jeffrey say softly.

I turn and glare at him too. “I don’t give a shit. I could fuckin’ give two shits if he was the fuckin’ President of the United States of America. Or if he was Jackie Robinson. He was going to kill Tim and maybe Angel.”

Jeffrey holds his hands up too. “He’s not like that. He’d never hurt a child.”

I huff. “Bullshit. So, it’d be ok if he let Angel live, but still killed Tim?”

“Fuck no. It wouldn’t be ok. I love the both of y’all. Y’all are my family. I wouldn’t let anything happen to either of y’all.”

“Ma’am. I’d never hurt a kid. I might be an asshole, but I’m not a monster.” I hear Negan say.

I turn to him. “Shut the fuck up. I’m fuckin’ pissed off at you. You had one of my fiancés at fuckin’ gunpoint. Were you really goin’ to fuckin’ kill him, asshole?”

Negan shakes his head. “Not necessarily. I just wanted to put fear into him. I pull up to my house, see a truck out front, the door wide ass fuckin’ open, and I had to figure out what the fuck was going on.”

I hand Angel to Tim. He takes her, even as she reaches for me. I march up to Negan. I stand in front of him. I have to tilt my head back. I ain’t gonna be taken seriously if I have to literally look up at him.

“Kneel on the fuckin’ ground, asshole.” I demand.

He complies and kneels in front of me. Now, we’re at eye level. I slap him, still fuckin’ pissed off. His head jerks to the side. He hangs his head.

“Look at me.” I state.

He lifts his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I get that you’re Jeffrey’s brother, and while I’ve been lookin’ forward to meetin’ you, I don’t fuckin’ appreciate you holdin’ a gun to Tim’s head and scarin’ the fuckin’ shit out of a little girl. I’m still pissed off at you. You are a motherfuckin’ asshole. But, you’re family. You’re Jeffrey’s brother, which means that you’re my brother. But, so fuckin’ help me, if you ever pull any of this shit on any of us again, I will fuckin’ end you. Do you understand?”

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now stand the fuck up and take off your jacket.”

He does. The jacket dangles off the fingers of his left hand. I notice that his white t-shirt is covered in blood on his right side. I lift his shirt up.

“Um…doll?” Jeffrey asks from behind me. “What the fuck are you doin’?”

I ignore his questions and look at Negan’s side. I realize that my knife went in a little deeper than I thought. I let his shirt fall back into place as I go over to the truck to grab my pack. I get my emergency first aid kit out and go back to Negan. I patch up his side after cleaning the excess dried blood off his torso.

He slides the jacket back on and looks at me.

“You’re a badass little firecracker.” He says.

“I might be tiny, but I can fuckin’ defend myself and those I love when I have to. Don’t let my height fool you.” I say.

He chuckles. “I can tell. Remind me not to you off again.”

“Let’s pray that you never do. It won’t end well for you.”

He nods. I look back at my little family. Tim’s still holding Angel in his arms, and she’s looking at me. She’s managed to stop crying. Jeffrey’s standing beside Tim, with his right arm curled ‘round Tim’s shoulders. I smile at my little family. I step away from Negan and walk over to them.

Angel reaches for me and I gladly take her in my arms. Negan steps closer to us after glancing at me and getting my permission.

“So…this is your family, Jeff?” He asks.

Jeffrey chuckles. “Damn fuckin’ straight it is. This is Tim, Angel, and well, you’ve met Leigh.”

Negan nods. “Indeed I have. Holy shit. She’s feisty.”

“She’s standing right fuckin’ here.” I say.

The men all chuckle. Negan looks down at me.

“I’m well aware of that, sweetheart.” He says.

I step closer to him. “Let’s get one fuckin’ thing straight right fuckin’ now. I’m not your fuckin’ “sweetheart”. Got it? The only two people allowed to call me that would be Tim and Jeffrey, and that’s because they’re my fiancés.”

“Yes, ma’am. What can I call you then?”

“Not any romantic pet names. That’s for damn sure.”

He smirks. “But…I can give you a pet name?”

I glare. “Maybe. I have to get to know you better.”

“Fair ‘nough.”

Jeffrey chuckles. “God, doll. I love the fuckin’ shit outta you.”

I grin as I look at him. “I love you too, hon.”

I look at Tim and step over to him. He wraps his arms ‘round me and I gaze into his eyes. I bring one hand up and cup his cheek. He looks proud, yet still hesitant ‘round Negan.

“You ok, babe?” I ask.

He nods. “I’m ok if you’re ok.”

I smile. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He lowers his head and gently kisses me.

#Another One Bites The Dust #AOBTD #Chapter 5 #Negan Fanfic #Negan Smut #Negan #Jeffrey Dean Morgan #JDM #Jeffrey Dean Morgan Smut #JDM Smut #The Walking Dead #TWD #The Walking Dead Smut #TWD Smut

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