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sandinthemachine · 1 year

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Prelude

Part 1 of Deadly Nightshade, a Monster!König x Reader AU

Part 2

Masterlist

Here it is. Well, here's the beginning, at least

A massive thank you to @itsagrimm for feeding the folklore obsession, helping with research, helping me with ideas, and being an overall lovely human. They're writing their own monster story with König, and you should check it out. It's wonderful already.

Warnings: Perhaps a little thalassophobia. No gendered pronouns here but reader will use they/them and be afab. Nothing else yet, but many to come, so this series is 18+

Words: 2067

"Take my hand I know where to go To fractured fairyland Oh bare your soul" -Prelude, by Blackbriar

A gust of sea air buffets your face, throwing wisps of hair you’d so carefully secured flying across your forehead, flickering over your scrunched eyes. You peer over the edge of the hull, watching the water roll up along the side of the ferry, spreading out in wisps of foam dancing across the dark curtain of liquid like delicate stars, soon swallowed in a cloudy abyss. Some of the spray splashes up into the air, curling into mist that quickly disappears in the thick cloud of fog pressing in from all sides.

You take a deep breath, holding the salt in your lungs and letting the pricks of cold mist settle inside you as they weep through your clothes and sift through your hair, penetrating straight to the skin and further, down to your very bones.

You’re the only one left on deck now that the sun has been blotted out. The few other passengers huddle deep within the belly of the ship, cramped and stinking of sweat and engine oil.

You shiver. Better to be cold out here with the smell of seawater, watching the depths churn below you, hypnotizing in a way only the deadly can be.

The mournful bellow of the ship’s horn drags you away from the dark abyss, pulling your vision upwards to take in a sweeping light cutting through the air. The ship turns, waves slapping harder along its side, and as you make your way to the bow you make out the hulking mass of land looming out of the ether, the narrow strip of dock reaching out into the water like a dark limb to beckon you forward.

Once the ferry is fully docked you are the first to step out onto the stained and crooked planks, half expecting them to sink under you as a rotting log would, ever-so-gently tumbling you into the cavernous deep. Even so close to shore you cannot see the bottom through the inky waves, and you shiver to think of what could happen. You tighten your hands around the strap of your bag, resolving to stay inland, far away from shore.

The pebbly walkway shifts and slides under your feet, casting stones into the surrounding sand with each crunching footstep as you make your way forward down the path. You can see nothing for the fog but know there is only one path, one way to go.

As you travel on you begin to realize the reason you can’t see anything isn’t the fog after all. There is simply nothing to see. A rickety shack curls out of the mist on your left, sharp and washed out, fading into the background. The path turns away, and as you look right you see more smaller landings holding decrepit fishing boats whose riggings curl in on themselves like spiderwebs in the rain. The steady rumbling of waves echoes all around you, closing in like the rushing of your own blood through your ears.

Finally you come into the town. Or what here would be considered a town. The collection of squat buildings huddle into the earth, curling their walls around themselves to hide from the fog. There are no signs to tell you what the buildings are. Now that you think of it, you haven’t seen a single sign on the whole island. Nor even a word. The ferry had no name. The ferryman didn’t give you a word of direction. Even the fishing boats had no letters painted lovingly on their sides as so many mainland boats did. It felt like you were trudging through a half-formed dream full of just enough shapes and structures to know something was there while leaving out any detail that could help you understand what exactly that something was.

You stop in front of a large glass window, peering into a shadowy building to see rows of shelves. Filled with objects. Some kind of general store, it had to be.

Hoping they were open, you push your way inside. No bell hangs over the door, but the hinges creak and scream at the sudden movement, announcing your presence all the same.

“Hello?” you call softly, clenching your hands around your bag strap.

“What do you want?” The crotchety old voice drifts from your side, grating along itself as it scrapes down your spine. You turn to the source, taking in a tall old man bundled in a faded yellow raincoat that still glows sun-bright against the shadowy interior. His bushy grey eyebrows scrunch together, regarding you.

You force a smile, stepping forward to hold out your hand. “Hi, I’m-”

“The one taking over Monsen’s farm.” His eyes narrow at your extended hand, and you quickly snatch it back to your chest.

“Yep. That’s me.” You lick your lips, looking down at your feet.

“What do you want?”

“I was…hoping to get some food to bring back. You see, I just arrived and…”

“Fridge is in the back.” He turns abruptly, ambling over to an old armchair tucked in the corner, flopping down in it to turn the radio on.

“Right,” you say to yourself, backing away.

The 'fridge' has no light and is nearly picked clean, but you manage to scrounge up a glass milk jug and an unlabeled jar of what you think might be tomatoes. “Christ, I feel like I’ve stepped right into last century,” you mutter, but quickly scratch the thought when you find a completely normal box of pasta sitting in the back of one of the shelves.

Well, it’s enough to make some kind of meal, at least. Assuming the house actually had electricity like you were told it did.

You dump your meager pickings on a table next to the old man, pulling out what you think is enough money and placing it alongside them. Wordlessly he reaches under the chair, pulling out an old metal cash box and slowly counting out change for you.

As you stoop to pick your stuff back up, he sighs, pulling your attention to him.

“The ferry ships in supplies most Mondays. Market sets up outside on Sunday and Wednesday. Best stop by then.”

“Thank you, sir.” You smile, genuinely this time, and turn to leave.

“Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Buy some earplugs next time you’re here. The whales come up to shore, right up where you are. Moans fit to wake the dead.”

You nod, furrowing your forehead, and make way for the door.

And behind you, the radio crackles, snatches of words flowing through.

“…calm seas and windless days…once again….ship gone…waters off Breaker’s Point.”

You shudder as the door creaks shut behind you.

You thank your past self for writing down the directions as you make your way to the house, picking through piles of rock and scraggly copses of trees. Soon you start counting the forks in the road and cursing whoever’s grand idea it was not to put up any street signs. If these rocky trails could even count as streets, that is. Still, you’ve been on hiking paths with better labels than this.

Fortunately the island is not too large. You figure you’ve been walking maybe half an hour by the time you pass a pair of quaint cottages, faded green with wraparound porches. Your neighbors, you knew. The only clear landmark of the entire walk, signaling your own place was just around the hill.

A shrill voice breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Hello, hello!” A greying head pops out of one of the house's windows before disappearing, the door opening soon after as a tall and spindly woman trots out to greet you, lugging something large and round.

“You’re the new one!”

You suck your lips in between your teeth to stop a huff. “Yeah…”

“I thought I heard you were coming today! I’m Elisha. Oh! And I made you something.”

She triumphantly holds out the object in her hands, and you discover it’s a large pot wrapped in towels. You juggle the items in your hand, turning to shove them in your bag so you can take it from her.

She giggles at your confused look. “It’s soup! Full of meat and potatoes and all that goodness. It’ll keep you nice and warm. And you won’t have to cook for a bit.” She winks conspiratorially, accepting your thanks with a casual wave of her hand. “Ah, it’s nothing, really.”

You take a step back down the path, aiming to give her a farewell, but she doesn’t move, so you pause, awkwardly half-turned away from her.

She leans over, head tilting to the side as she examines your bag, and you find yourself shrinking away.

“Oh, dearie me!” She slaps a hand over her chest. “You don’t have anything on you, do you?”

“What-”

“One moment!”

She marches into her house, returning shortly with an old baseball bat that she balances atop the pot.

“Much better.” She steps back, grinning at her handiwork. You raise an eyebrow, and she huffs. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. This side of the island, we get all sorts of seabirds flying up at night. They like to howl and cry sometimes, sounds fit to make the devil himself turn tail and run.” She mimes a shiver. “I always feel much better having something near me. Anyway, you’d better get home. It gets cold after dark!”

With that, she whirls, marching back inside, the door slamming abruptly behind her.

“Right,” you murmur, gulping.

You are pleasantly surprised to find your cottage does, in fact, have working electricity, even if the lights are rather dim. You set to work warming some of the stew over the stove-top, resolving to make Elisha something later as a thank you, even if she scared you a bit. She was probably just trying to be funny.

As you work, you come across a note on the counter, written in a familiar delicate looping script.

Dearest Plover,

Ha, I still remember the day you got that nickname. You were, what was it, eight? Nine? Small with something to prove, running along the beach and jumping out of the way of every wave until the rest of us were all laughing with you. And around you, all the plovers danced on little legs just like yours. Your veins were full of seawater, your father said. We all found it so funny then.

Anyways, I’m getting away from myself, as always. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here to greet you, I really had to rush. I know I’ve already been over everything with you, but I wanted to make sure I reminded you of the important bits. And again, my deepest, deepest thanks for agreeing to come take care of everything on such short notice. I really need it. And who knows, maybe a bit of time out here will help you, too.

Here I go again. Rambling, rambling, rambling. I’m as bad at writing as I am conversing, it seems. As I was saying, important things to remember are as follows:

Checking on the sheep every morning. They usually do just fine out there on the marsh grass, and they have a little shed to go in at night, but it’s always good to make sure.

Bring the sheep in for every storm. It’s hard to tell which ones will be big, so better safe than sorry. Keep your radio close, it will save your skin out here.

On that subject, there’s a good deal of swampland between here and the field where they graze. It’s treacherous ground, so always make sure to stay on the path along the western coast (I hope you still have the map I drew for you).

Sometimes a sheep will wander off into the swamp. It’s sad, I know, but you just have to let it happen. Don’t get yourself lost or stuck trying to find them, please. I’d rather lose a sheep or two if it means keeping you in one piece.

Try not to be out after dark. Storms can come on fast, and when the sky is already black it’s impossible to see the clouds getting darker.

With my sincerest love,

Your Favorite Uncle

P.S. I almost forgot. Make sure you lock the windows tightly before bed. We get the most dreadful winds here. They howl like a pack of dogs, it’ll make you jump right out of your skin. Best to draw the curtains closed, too. It gets awfully dark.

You smile sadly, tracing your fingers over the ink, and settle in for dinner.

Author's notes: Thank you to everyone who reads this. Comments and reblogs are much appreciated. And don't worry, our beloved monster man will make his appearance soon, I'd just like to settle in to our setting first :) I'm thinking of drawing out a map as a little homage to all those good old books that always had nice maps in the front pages. Let me know if that's something you'd all be interested in.

A very different type of note: My town has an old stone obelisk that looks out over the fishing docks. On it is carved the names of every person we've lost at sea. No one remembers the oldest ones anymore, and the town records don't have anything on those ones. The names in this story are taken from the oldest ones on that obelisk. My own way of remembering them, I guess.

#könig #könig x reader #monster!könig #monster fucker #horror #ish?#more atmospheric I guess #folklore #blackbriar #slow burn

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