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the-witches-you-couldnt-burn · 3 years

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When it all falls down

Hi guys! The next chapter is here! I just wanted to say I don’t really have a update schedule so it will most likely be updated every few days. I’ve pre-written most of this fic (or at least planned it) so as long as I don’t lose motivation it will be completed!

Ao3

Story Masterlist

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CHAPTER TWO: The call from the catacombs

Warnings: threats, mentions of kidnapping & death

“I don’t need guards surrounding me constantly, father. I may be of royal bloodline, but I am no weakling.”

He was the crown prince and a trained assassin, yet he was babied similar to when he first arrived at the manor. His family smothered him.

After the coup he was taken into his father’s protection, and although he was born of his mother’s sexual misdeeds, his father treated him the same as his brothers. The first of his father’s charges that he met was Timothy Drake. Drake took part in Wayne Trading and became a successful merchant (but the majority of Gotham’s coffee supply mysteriously disappeared overnight). Then Damian met the Wayne clan’s eldest ward Sir Grayson, he was a famous knight in not only Gotham but Blüdhaven too.

He bonded with them along with his new sisters; Lady Barbara from the Gordon House, Stephanie Brown, Helena Wayne (his toddler sister by blood, conceived from his father’s Union with Countess Kyle) and Cassandra Cain. He had met Cain prior due to her mother being Lady Shiva, a close associate to his mother and grandfather. The reunion between Bruce’s third male charge and the young prince was awkward to say the least. During Jason’s MIA period of his life, he was ‘taken-in’ (aka kidnapped) by the royals and took on a guardian role for Damian (who was only a toddler at the time). The two silently conversed and as the tension faded it lead to constant rough housing and insults being thrown.

He lived and learned from his family until he was nineteen. At nineteen he had an argument with his father about his family’s smothering nature. Lord Wayne agreed they were being a bit much and lessened the security presence that followed his only blood son. After which he was promptly kidnapped by his mother and forced into an arranged marriage, to which the Wayne clan wasn’t even invited to witness.

And now here he was, months later, married and without the ability to contact his found family. Here he was drinking fucking tea with his ‘chosen’ bride. Not much had changed between the him and the bluenette, they were just two strangers joined by a forced union. There were no loving touches, longing glances, consummation of marriage or any connection other than a bond between respected acquaintances.

They communed under the watchful eye of the palace servants. “Spies.” Damian hissed, seething under his breath. “They are nothing more than rats feasting on gossip.”

Marinette sat across from him, posture straight as a board. The couple were separated by the cotton tablecloth that was decorated with a vase of lilies and porcelain plates. A small feast fit for at least twelve sat before the two of them, all were delicacies from across the country and beyond the borders. Her pinky pointed outwards as she sipped the piping hot moli longzhu, a playful smirk danced across her features.

“Your mother has made sure that they have nothing else to eat other than hearsay.”

Although he had been tempered by his father’s teachings, a fire flared within him. If anyone heard her it surely would be reported back to his family; the aftermath wouldn’t be pretty. No this wasn’t him protecting her, he was protecting himself, if someone heard her and it spread another ‘incident’ could occur. No matter the outcome, it wouldn’t end well.

Marinette tilted her head, raising an eyebrow at him, delivering a silent plea for him to challenge. He huffed looking away, her words were treasonous but true.

“You shouldn’t talk like that if you’d like to keep your tongue.”

“Aw, I’m glad to see you are looking out for me.” She quipped back, hand against her chest, mocking him. Her smile was wide and her eyes crinkled as she laughed. ‘Either she was insane or stupidly brave’ he thought as he watched her, ‘what had mother gotten him in to?’

“I’m looking out for myself.” He stood up and brushed off dirt from his garb. “If you make a fool out of yourself, it reflects badly on the Kingdom and I. You said yourself, you wouldn’t burden me through the bonds of matrimony, so don’t make this harder then it already is.”

She sat there in shock silence. Her jest was nothing more then that, she never meant it to cause him harm. She didn’t mean to burden him. She eyed him as he walked down the path. She sat in the pagoda, alone. ‘He was right’ she thought, ‘I need to be careful with my words. Not only for my safety but for my people also. I don’t want my actions to cause them harm.’

Later, when she finally saw fit to reenter the castle, she wandered the desolate hallways. League Castle held few materialistic decorations that didn’t serve a functional purpose. So paintings were no where insight. The only form of artwork she knew of was a sculpture of the late King, his majesty Ra al Ghul.

She looked down at the sculpture from a second story window. It lived in the confines of the royal gardens, atop a grand fountain display. She remembered hearing of the coup when she was just a child. ‘The King was killed and the prince was exiled’ but Lady Talia still ruled and the prince is back from his supposed banishment. It didn’t make sense. And for that matter why was a ten year old exiled in the first place?

Her arm was yanked, spinning her around to face the she-demon herself. The Mistress’ nails threatened to break her skin, they were sharpened and resembled animal claws. The woman’s dark eyes made Marinette uncomfortable, ‘she seems to be on the verge of being unhinged.’

“Come.” It wasn’t like Marinette had a choice, Talia dragged her down the hallways. She stumbled every so often as she tried to keep up with the woman’s strides.

The two came upon a dead end. The bluenette looked forward confused, and before she could even question it, the bricks separated revealing a dingy staircase that descended into darkness. Turning towards her captor, she saw her grab a nearby torch that lit the hall, a brick slowly slid back into place. They followed the spiraling decline until they reach the bottom, the air down here was moist and musty.

The fire only lit a few feet in front of them. They had gone from walls made of polished marble brick to decaying wood and cracked stone. The flooring creaked underneath their steps, the torn carpet was worn by those only travelling one path. She held her breath trying to avoid breathing in the damp air, mould growing at the corners of the walls. Realising she hadn’t said anything until now, the shock of Damian’s words and her abduction by his mother had kept her silent. “Lady Talia? Wher—“

“Hush child.” The venom dripping from her tone was the opposite of one used to shush a toddler, Talia’s hand covered Marinette’s mouth, silencing any objections; the heat of the nearing flame caused her to flinch. “You must learn your place.”

‘Did she know!? Did she hear me?’ Her silent scream reverberated through her mind. The seed of dread in the pit of her stomach grew vines that restricted her limbs causing her to stumble. Her heart clenched, it now felt made of lead and weight heavily within her chest. It’s beating was similar to a drum. But still the dragging continued.

They happened upon a room. Said room looked to be an older, more dilapidated version of the castle’s throne room. There were torn tapestries and fractured tables, it was like the souls of the ancient couldn’t escape this place fast enough. It’s whole atmosphere was eerie. “This castle was built from the ashes of the former empire.”

Marinette suppressed a gasp, she was right. Everything and everyone had told her she was wrong, she saw the shaking of their heads and heard them debunking her theories. The king was alive and the prince was never exiled.

The king was alive.

Taglist:

@thesunniestdays @jayjayspixiepop @toodaloo-kangaroo

#maribat #mlb x dc #dc x mlb #marinette x damian #damian x marinette #damian wayne x marinette dupain cheng #daminette #When it all falls down #arranged marriage au #royal au

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rythasbrenelle · 4 years

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Prompt #19 - Where the Heart Is

(Note: I don’t have any great group screenshots, and I certainly don’t have any with everyone mentioned, unfortunately. Most of this is adapted from scenes written alongside some fine people, and the characters appear in the order of @savothesewercat, @bellsandspells, @mugishalffull, @wineandcookies, @erahsae-ffxiv, @straycatte, and @fheylahaken.) Belmion, ages 7-18; the Duskwight, ages 18-23; Rythas, ages 23-24 “Home, little bat, is where the heart is,” Erelle said. Belmion lifted his head to find her staring down at him. Lit by the crackling fire nearby, her eyes twinkled every bit as brightly as the ten silver studs lining her long ears. She wrapped her arms around Belmion, holding the boy tight in her lap. “It’s with the gang, it’s with your parents, it’s with me. No matter where we go, you’ll have a home with all of us.”

Home was never a single place. It was caves or tunnels, narrow or sprawling, cold or comfortable. It was thickets of trees and bedrolls beneath brambles. It was an abandoned cottage in the woods, dilapidated and one good gust of wind away from collapse. They drifted from hideout to hideout, playing a lifelong game of cat and mouse. But they did it together. If Belmion’s aim was true and his ears were sharp, then he had the Butchers. Murder for love. He was happy to make the trade. “They’re family,” Belmion told himself, years after Erelle taught him about home. He secured his mask in place to stifle what he could of the bitter stench of death as he picked through the campsite, retrieving his arrows and stripping corpses of their possessions. “I do this for them because they’re family.” He was a Duskwight. A Grey. Cave dweller, thief, brigand, murderer. All any of them had to their name was a ruined city nobody on the surface gave enough of a shit about to rebuild or even preserve. The Gridanians would share, but he’d never be seen as an equal. The Keepers would shoot him if he dared walk their lands. Home was something to carve out from the world and take by force. “Bel. Have you ever been outside the Shroud?” Arlianne asked. Her crooked fingers made their way through his long hair, weaving a snowy lock of it into a braid. She sighed and lightly slapped his back as he pulled his hair out of her hand with a shake of his head. “You can use your words, you know. But alright. We should see the rest of the world sometime, yeah? There’s a lot more out there than this forest and the underground.” Belmion hummed. “What about Auntie and everyone else?” “They could come with us, if they wanted. But I don’t think they would.” Belmion tilted his head back, this time spilling more hair across Arlianne’s fingers and earning him a glare as the beginnings of the new braid were made to mingle with hair she hadn’t wanted. “I don’t think so either. But I kind of want to go anyway.” Home was with loved ones. But they weren’t always gathered in one place. That was okay though. If Belmion could stay with Arlianne, anything was okay. The Duskwight lost track of the days. He sat with his back to the wall of the cave. His bloody fingers toyed with the bones of his most recent meal. They were too small to twirl properly, nothing like his lost stilettos. He settled for turning them over and over in his hand. Anything to occupy his mind. He’d spent a third of his life taking everything from the people of the Shroud. They’d finally responded in kind. Home was a makeshift tomb, a secret cave full of bones and dripping water, twelve steps wide. The Duskwight found Limsa Lominsa a poor fit for him. It was loud with the sound of bartering, gulls squawking, sailors coming and going at the docks. He passed his days learning arcanima out of a stolen grimoire. He passed his nights with his back to a wall and a dull knife in his bandaged hand. Home was somewhere far behind him, lost to time and hubris. Home was nowhere, but that was okay. He’d be gone soon. A home would be wasted on him. He kept his head down and his eyes lowered and marched forward. He had no reason to look. Home crept up on him and spoke with an accent that made her sound a little bit stupid. “Hey, sharp.” The words freed him from his reverie not because they meant anything, but because they were said right in front of him. He blinked, bringing the book in his lap back into focus, and lifted his eyes to find a woman staring at him. Her body was all straight lines and sharp angles, not a curve in sight. She blinked large eyes at him, the picture of innocence. “You look like you just walked through a desert.” “Ah. Hi.” His voice matched hers: unremarkable, without power or presence. “I, ah, suppose I did just walk through a desert, yeah. Haven’t been here long.” The waif gestured toward the bench he was sitting on with a wave of her claws. “Mind if I sit?” “Oh.” His eyes cut across the street, taking note of the empty benches across from them. He looked back to the Miqo’te. She wasn’t moving. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Go ahead.” The woman hopped up and perched herself on the stone bench before tucking her spindly legs beneath herself. She’d elected to sit sideways on the bench and face him, fixing her attention on him in a way that felt foreign. He was used to people’s eyes skating over him, hardly registering his existence before moving on. He preferred that. He usually disliked the attention. Not this time. And like that, home had him and wouldn’t let go. “Rythas is good family,” Mahteki murmured, resting his head on Rythas’ shoulder. The smell of buttercream vaguely registered in Rythas�� brain, something he catalogued and tucked away in his head even as his body froze at the sudden contact. His scars were on fire, his hands itched. He felt warmth tinge his ears and cheeks, and it didn’t abate even as Mahteki added, “Zanin still wins though. Sorry.” “Rythas is the best Rythas,” Zanin interjected. He offered a small smile toward the Duskwight. Home became quiet moments between the jobs where he threw himself into the blender and wove magic that threatened to crack his bones and ignite his skin. It was time spent nibbling on cookies and drinking tea and clinging to sanity. Rythas’ stomach twisted into knots. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to pry off whatever was squeezing down on his heart and making his chest tighten. He kept his eyes down, staring at the bandages wrapped around his hands, following the way they slithered over themselves before disappearing around the contours of his palms. Someone nudged him. He lifted his head to find Lionnellais’ sympathetic smile and a silver flask extended toward him. Rythas barely managed to say his thanks before grabbing the container away from the Elezen. Sometimes, home was a cocoon of noise and body heat, inescapable within the confines of whatever concert venue he’d drifted toward. But it was something meant to be fun. He’d been fortunate enough to find people that made sure of that. Rythas tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. The chime of a bell was normal. The sound of it being placed onto a pedestal, clicking into place, was not. And he’d grown too used to the rustling of Savo’s satchel and the clunk of a bell being dropped into it to mistake a different sound for it. He climbed the stairs and found Erah’sae waiting by the door. The Keeper blinked his mismatched eyes toward Rythas. “Mornin’, Rythas. I’m not catchin’ you at a bad time or anything, given it’s this early?” Erah’sae paused, then tilted his head. “Or late, ‘pending on your viewpoint?” “Nah. I was planning on being up for a while still.” Erah’sae nodded before taking his hat off and hanging it from the nearby stand. “So, you’ll be up for a bit … mind if I bend your ear?” Home was different than what he’d known. It was giving and taking and not minding whether he was being asked to help or asking for help himself. Building a home took a little bit of effort, but it was worth the trouble. Rythas watched the tuna flopping on the wooden deck, his ears full of the sound of it slapping and struggling. With a word, he lulled it to sleep, then lifted his eyes to look toward the mooncat nearby. Lolette looked remarkably like Savo, though the differences were clear to him at a glance. Still small and delicate, but not starved. Pale hair, but in loose curls. Red lenses, but remarkably bright green eyes behind them. A long tail, but fuzzy rather than rat-like. And perhaps most notable, a huskier voice, barely accented. But her smile was similarly warm and set him at ease. “Oh, I don’t think there’s ever really an end, just a road. When you’re dead then I suppose your journey to redemption is over, but I think it’s something that once you’re already doing, you’re kind of on the right path and, in a way, already there unless you slip up again. We’re stained. But we’re not evil nor irredeemable. Just tainted.” Rythas wasn’t sure he believed her. But he liked that she said it. Home was a place of comfort. Somewhere to limp back to and lick his wounds when they grew too painful to ignore. Rythas motioned for Fheyla to join him, patting the spot beside him. Instead, she plopped herself down onto his leg, balanced on his knee. Ordinarily, he was the warm one. It had come with his time in the cave-turned-tomb and existed as a fire that lingered beneath his skin. But the mooncat felt feverish, her body heat bleeding through the cloth separating them. “As long as you’re trying to be better, it’s okay to me,” she said, nodding her head. Her pigtails, resembling nothing so much as blue and white tassels speckled with dander, bounced. “Thanks. Appreciate your graciousness,” he said dryly. Despite his comment, he rubbed her head. She grinned and swiped the corner of her mouth across his palm, leaving his bandages a little wet. He ignored it and continued, “I’m trying. Really. Doesn’t always feel like anyone sees it. But I am.” “But seriously, why is you having so much trouble learning? I mean, I know you’re only male, but … c’mon?” She paused a moment, then fixed her eyes on him, blue eyes oddly focused behind the red lenses perched on her nose. “Rythas?” “Yeah?” “Has it ever occurred to you to stop resisting and just join my camp? Hitch your wagon to my train? ‘Cause … you may have noticed, I’m always right. Every time you ignore me, doesn’t it end up badly?” “It doesn’t, actually.” “I’m just trying to help you be happy,” Fheyla insisted, leaning close enough that Rythas could catch the scent of old laundry clinging to her. “You seem so sad and I’ve noticed that you never take my advice. Seems like there might be a correlation there.” Home was sometimes full of verbal jabs and groans and frustration. But when the lights grew dim and they were left on their own, it was a place to unmask their vulnerabilities and find comfort. Savo slunk to the couch and curled up as best she could with the space available, resting her head in Rythas’ lap and blinking her glowing eyes in a wordless, tired response as he asked if he’d woken her up when he came through the door. He draped an arm over her, a canvas of scars on blue skin covering bruises and pale skin stretched taut over the bones beneath. Her clawed fingers kneaded his legs like he was a pillow, and once she was satisfied, she rolled over to look up at him. A smile curled her mouth, and she leaned over to kiss his stomach through his shirt. One of his hands fell over hers, and he knit their fingers together. Home wasn’t what he’d known before, when he was never without a chaperone or a crew or a partner. It was sometimes distant and elusive as people came and went, his lives intersecting with theirs however briefly fortune permitted it. It didn’t go with him everywhere. Sometimes it disappeared from behind a bar without warning, sometimes it crawled into a wine cask to sleep, sometimes it skipped off without a care in the world while a million words were left yet unsaid. But he loved it all the same. (Prompt #18: Panglossian) (Prompt #20: Holy Water)

#ffxivwrite2020 #ffxivwrite #rythas brenelle #savo kesslivang #mahteki yah'wasi #zanin briggs #lionnellais devereaux #erah'sae zhwan #lolette panipahr #fheyla haken #i would edit the utter hell out of this #but that's against the spirit of the challenge #so a mess of a post it remains

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dfroza · 3 years

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to stand firm in faith

just as a mountain or a Tree

this is a necessity in this world, in the face of opposition and the fear of man.

Paul writes of this in his Letter with Today’s reading from First Thessalonians:

[Timothy’s Mission]

When we could bear it no longer, we decided that we would remain in Athens and send Timothy in our place. He is our beloved brother and coworker with God in preaching the gospel. We knew he would strengthen your faith and encourage your hearts so that no one would be shaken by these persecutions, for you know that we are destined for this. In fact, when we were with you we forewarned you: “Suffering and persecution is coming.” And so it has happened, as you well know. For this reason, when I could endure it no longer, I sent our brother to find out if your faith was still strong, for I was concerned that the tempter had somehow enticed you and our labor would have been in vain.

But now, Timothy has just returned to us and brought us the terrific news of your faith and love. He informed us that you still hold us dear in your hearts and that you long to see us as much as we long to see you. So, our dear brothers and sisters, in the midst of all our distress and difficulties, your steadfastness of faith has greatly encouraged our hearts. We feel alive again as long as we know that you are standing firm in the Lord.

How could we ever thank God enough for all the wonderful joy that we feel before our God because of you? Every night and day we sincerely and fervently pray that we may see you face-to-face and furnish you with whatever may be lacking in your faith.

Now may our Father God and our precious Lord Jesus guide our steps on a path straight back to you. And may the Lord increase your love until it overflows toward one another and for all people, just as our love overflows toward you. Then your hearts will be strengthened in holiness so that you may be flawless and pure before the face of our God and Father at the appearing of our Lord Jesus with all his holy ones. Amen!

The Letter of 1st Thessalonians, Chapter 3 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 12th chapter of 2nd Kings that describes work done to fix the Temple in Jerusalem:

[Joash of Judah]

In the seventh year of Jehu, Joash began his kingly rule. He was king for forty years in Jerusalem. His mother’s name was Gazelle. She was from Beersheba.

Taught and trained by Jehoiada the priest, Joash did what pleased God for as long as he lived. (Even so, he didn’t get rid of the sacred fertility shrines—people still frequented them, sacrificing and burning incense.)

Joash instructed the priests: “Take the money that is brought into The Temple of God for holy offerings—both mandatory offerings and freewill offerings—and, keeping a careful accounting, use them to renovate The Temple wherever it has fallen into disrepair.”

But by the twenty-third year of Joash’s rule, the priests hadn’t done one thing—The Temple was as dilapidated as ever.

King Joash called Jehoiada the priest and the company of priests and said, “Why haven’t you renovated this sorry-looking Temple? You are forbidden to take any more money for Temple repairs—from now on, hand over everything you get.”

The priests agreed not to take any more money or to be involved in The Temple renovation.

Then Jehoiada took a single chest and bored a hole in the lid and placed it to the right of the main entrance into The Temple of God. All the offerings that were brought to The Temple of God were placed in the chest by the priests who guarded the entrance. When they saw that a large sum of money had accumulated in the chest, the king’s secretary and the chief priest would empty the chest and count the offerings. They would give the money accounted for to the managers of The Temple project; they in turn would pay the carpenters, construction workers, masons, stoneworkers, and the buyers of timber and quarried stone for the repair and renovation of The Temple of God—any expenses connected with fixing up The Temple. But none of the money brought into The Temple of God was used for liturgical “extras” (silver chalices, candle snuffers, trumpets, various gold and silver vessels, etc.). It was given to the workmen to pay for their repairing God’s Temple. And no one even had to check on the men who handled the money given for the project—they were honest men. Offerings designated for Compensation Offerings and Absolution Offerings didn’t go into the building project—those went directly to the priests.

Around this time Hazael king of Aram ventured out and attacked Gath, and he captured it. Then he decided to try for Jerusalem. Joash king of Judah countered by gathering up all the sacred memorials—gifts dedicated for holy use by his ancestors, the kings of Judah, Jehoshaphat, Jehoram, and Ahaziah, along with the holy memorials he himself had received, plus all the gold that he could find in the temple and palace storerooms—and sent it to Hazael king of Aram. Appeased, Hazael went on his way and didn’t bother Jerusalem.

The rest of the life and times of Joash and all that he did are written in The Chronicles of the Kings of Judah. At the last his palace staff formed a conspiracy and assassinated Joash as he was strolling along the ramp of the fortified outside city wall. Jozabad son of Shimeath and Jehozabad son of Shomer were the assassins. And so Joash died and was buried in the family plot in the City of David. His son Amaziah was king after him.

The Book of 2nd Kings, Chapter 12 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Thursday, december 17 of 2020 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A set of posts by John Parsons that points to the Light of our Creator:

It has been said that the Greek mindset regards what is beautiful as what is good, whereas the Hebraic mindset regards what is good as what is beautiful. The difference is one of orientation. Doing our duty before God, in other words, is what is truly beautiful, not merely appreciating the appearance of symmetry, order, and so on. This explains why moral discipline (i.e., musar, מוּסָר) is so prominent in Hebrew wisdom literature. True beauty cannot exist apart from moral truth.

The word chinukh (חִנּוּךְ), “education,” shares the same root as the word "chanukah" (חֲנֻכָּה, dedication). Unlike the Greek view that regards education as a pragmatic process of improving one's personal power or happiness, the Jewish idea implies dedication/direction to God and His concrete purposes on the earth. Disciples of Yeshua are likewise called talmidim (תַּלְמִידִים) -- a word that comes from lamad (לָמַד) meaning “to learn” (the Hebrew word for teacher is melamad (מְלַמֵּד) from the same root). In the New Testament, the word “disciple” is μαθητής, a learner or a pupil of a διδάσκαλος, or a teacher. True education is therefore foundational to being a disciple of the Messiah...

(Note that the Hebrew word “rabbi” comes from the word rav (רַב), which means "great." The word rabbi (רִבִּי) is formed by adding the 1st person singular ending, i.e., "my great one," or "my reverend." In Yiddish the word is rebbe. Yeshua told us not to call anyone other than Him "rabbi" or "father" since we are all brothers and sisters and He alone is our Master (Matt. 23:8)).

Following Yeshua, then, first of all means submitting to His authority and learning from Him as your Teacher (Matt. 23:8). Only after spending time with Him are you commissioned to go “to all the nations and teach...” (Matt. 28:19). This is accomplished not only by explaining (propositional) doctrine but by kiddush HaShem -- sanctifying the LORD in our lives. We are called to be a “living letter” sent to the world to be “read” (2 Cor. 3:2-3).

During Chanukah we recall the courage and faith of Judah the “Maccabee” and his brothers. The name "Maccabee" is said to be an acronym [מ כּ בּ י] for Moses’ affirmation of faith: מִי־כָמכָה בָּאֵלִם יהוה / “Who is like you, LORD, among the mighty?” (Exod. 15:11). Since God alone is the Supreme Ruler of the universe, we do not need to live in fear of man. As King David wrote: יהוה אוֹרִי וְיִשְׁעִי מִמִּי אִירָא / “The LORD is my Light and my Salvation - of whom shall I be afraid?” (Psalm 27:1). Yeshua the Messiah is our true Light (ha’or ha’amiti) and our Salvation (yeshu’ah). He has said, “My peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled; neither let it be afraid. In the world you shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world” (John 14:27, 16:33). [Hebrew for Christians]

12.16.20 • Facebook

We are commanded not to love the world (κόσμος), nor the things this world values, since doing so embraces a philosophy of life, or spirituality, that is at war with the Father and contrary to the truth of the Eternal (1 John 2:16; James 4:4). The fallen world values "the flesh" and the "desire of the eyes" that is patterned according to the "arrogance of life"; it is a "beauty pageant" that esteems others based on their accidental qualities instead of their inner and essential qualities....

The world values other people as means to an end rather than as ends in themselves, and therefore is inherently violent and exploitative. The flesh is the realm of the all-too human, the selfish, the natural, the ordinary, and the tit-for-tat, where love and acceptance are extended solely in conditional terms (Matt. 5:46-47). In this connection, let me quote from the late Henri Nouwen and his book “Return of the Prodigal Son”:

"At issue here is the question: To whom do I belong? God or to the world?" Many of my daily preoccupations suggest that I belong more to the world than to God. A little criticism makes me angry, and a little rejection makes me depressed. A little praise raises my spirits, and a little success excites me. It takes very little to raise me up or thrust me down....

As long as I keep running about asking: "Do you love me? Do you really love me?" I give all power to the voices of the world and put myself in bondage because the world is filled with "ifs." The world says: "Yes, I love you if you are good-looking, intelligent, and wealthy. I love you if you have a good education, a good job, and good connections. I love you if you produce much, sell much, and buy much." There are endless "ifs" hidden in the world's love. These "ifs" enslave me, since it is impossible to respond adequately to all of them. The world's love is and always will be conditional. As long as I keep looking for my true self in the world of conditional love, I will remain "hooked" to the world - trying, failing, and trying again. It is a world that fosters addictions because what it offers cannot satisfy the deepest craving of my heart." [Hebrew for Christians]

https://hebrew4christians.com/

12.17.20 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

December 17, 2020

Cursed or Blessed

“Thus saith the LORD; Cursed be the man that trusteth in man, and maketh flesh his arm, and whose heart departeth from the LORD.” (Jeremiah 17:5)

Jeremiah provides for us a striking contrast between the self-assured humanist and the one who has placed his trust in God. The man who looks to his own abilities or those of others to save him in time of trouble is “cursed.” His existence will be one of futility, just as is that of a parched desert plant (v. 6). Why? Because his “heart departeth from the LORD” (v. 5), the source of strength and salvation.

Jeremiah uses a play on words here. The words for “man” in our text are different: the first means “warrior” or “strong man,” and the second a “normal man.” The warrior who should be strong is cursed because he is trusting in one who is weak; in this case, any other man’s wisdom or might, or even his own strength, when overestimated. What sense is there in that?

In contrast, “blessed is the man that trusteth in the LORD” (v. 7). “He shall be as a tree planted by the waters,...and shall not be careful [i.e., anxious] in the year of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit” (v. 8). Why? Because his “hope the LORD is” (v. 7). We see the warrior—one who might be considered strong—trusting solely in the true “strong man,” the Lord.

It is a tragic fact that even many Christians fall into the mindset of the autonomous humanist and attempt to live their lives (even “the Christian life”) under their own power. Do we trust in our own feeble power or in the Lord? Every heart, whether humanist or Christian, “is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” (v. 9). Make no mistake! “I the LORD search the heart” (v. 10); He knows our inner motives. Let us recommit ourselves to trust in the Lord and make Him our hope. JDM

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mrsalwayswrite · 4 years

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The Difference Between Champagne and Rum Part 1 (Alfie Solomons x OFC)

So this was a cute one-shot that came to mind that somehow turned into a mini series. I’ll hopefully have the other parts up soonish (once they are written).

I want to dedicate this piece to the most lovely @evelynshelby for inspiring and encouraging me to write an Alfie piece. (Btw, she has her own incredible stories that you should definitely follow.) This is my first time writing a fanfic piece for Peaky Blinders. I have always been too nervous to attempt it. So let me know if you think I did Alfie justice.

Summary: A young Alfie prepares himself to spend a night in jail. Next thing he know, he is on the run with a blonde angel by his side. Nothing about this night goes as he expected.

Warnings: Some violence, swearing and racial slurs. Just the usual in Peaky Blinders. :)

Words: 5k

~The Difference Between Champagne and Rum~

Part 1- Saved by an Angel

1911

He knew it. Everyone knew it. Bless her, even his own mother knew it. No matter what the Rabbi said. Alfie Solomons’ soul was damned. He was sinful and that would not be changing anytime soon. He easily picked up and wore that mantle though. For it meant there was food on the table for his family and coal to keep them warm in their dilapidated, shoddy apartment. It also meant his younger brother and sister could stay in school and receive a good education. Plus their mum did not have to work sewing till her fingers bled from dawn until midnight. No, his soul was damned but he did not care. He was the man of the house, had been since the age of nine when his father died, and his family came first.

The first time he saw her…he wondered if he might regret missing heaven and all its beautiful creatures. It would be a shame if all the angels looked like her. Perhaps he could amend his ways…later.

Blood ran down from the left side corner of his mouth, leaving the tang of copper and dirt on his tongue. The dull ache from his mid ribs told him that he would have bruises there tomorrow. He would have to keep them hidden from his mum. None of the pain affected him though. None of the blood stopped him. In this moment, he was an invincible force of nature. Even the devil himself would refuse to fight him right now.

He glared down at the bleeding, busted man at his feet, the wrath of all his ancestors fueling his rage. “You want to say that again, you fucking wop?”

The man –teenager really- sneered but wisely kept his tongue behind his teeth.

The lad at his feet was only a year older than himself, just barely an adult, but that did not matter. Not here on the dirty streets of London. Not even when the gang of wop lads outnumbered the few Jewish lads walking back to the shitty apartments of their families. Big fucks little. And a certain Jewish lad promised himself to one day be the boss. To never back down from a fight until everyone feared his name and pissed themselves even thinking about fighting him.

Alfie eyed the seven other Italian lads sprawled out in the back alley in various states of injury or restrainment. Two of his own lads looked injured enough but otherwise no one was dead. Returning his intense gaze to the ringleader at his feet, he cracked his bloody knuckles.

“See here. That’s the thing, innit? You think just coz you got them fuckin’ suits and greased hair, you s’better than us. Mmm? S’fucking disgrace, mate. Me little sister can fight better than you lot.”

“Fuck you, Solomons.” The man spat blood onto Alfie’s shoes.

Alfie kicked the downed man. “S’disgusting, Sabini. Mate, you gotta learn to shut your mouth before shit starts fallin’ out, yeah? Now, I’m gonna…”

“STOP THEM! STOP THOSE BOYS!”

He looked up as several whistles blew, alerting him to the coppers running straight towards them. Rapidly he spun around, already seeing the panicked look on a few of his lads’ faces. He guessed these coppers were probably paid off by the Sabini family, so the Italian lads would be seen as the victims or get a slap on the wrists while the Jewish lads would be thrown in jail at least overnight if not a couple of days.

“Ishmael, Natan, get the lads! Get ‘em to the warehouse!” Alfie barked out, eyeing the inevitable situation. He was not afraid. This would not be his first time in handcuffs or in jail. At the rate it was going, probably not his last time either. He would make sure they remembered his name though.

Fists clenched at his sides, he stood perfectly still, like a statue made from stone- unmoving, unrelenting, fearless and determined. Only his icy stare betrayed the whirlwind of emotions seething underneath his skin. He waited for them. As a predator eyeing the unsuspecting prey approaching, he remained fixed amongst the Italian boys he had just been fighting. To any outsider he appeared Ares, the god of war, his victims laying at his feet.

Once the coppers tried to arrest him, to make him surrender…the whirlwind of fire was released. He attacked, doling out several solid punches to those in uniform. They would never forget his name. They fought back with their batons, meeting his bloodied fists. Red clouded his vision. Moments blurred as he held his own. At one point he laughed, cocky and brash. Youth and vengeance fueling his rage.

Eventually, it took four grown men to slam him on the ground and handcuff him. The rocks and debris scrapped the side of his face. He sputtered as a fresh wave of blood filled his mouth when one of the coppers kicked him in the stomach. Cursing colorfully in Russian, he remained down…for now. From what he could see, it looked like the lads had gotten away. Two coppers were trying to wrestle two different wops down and arrest them also. The rest were pulling the Italian lads up against a nearby wall to assess their injuries.

“Move it, boy.” A gruff voice commanded him, dragging him up and towards a nearby brick building across the alley from the Italian boys. Smart man to separate them. He hit the wall, none to gently, and slide down to sit, his back resting against the coarseness of the brick. It tugged at his coat. Sweat soaked through his shirt underneath with flecks of blood splattered sporadically. Whose blood though was the ultimate question. Through half-hooded lids, he watched the coppers and the Italian lads while resting and assessing his own injuries. His ribs rebelled their current position. At least one or two of his knuckles felt busted. The trickle of pooling blood in his mouth made him think he cut his inner check. A new throbbing came from his temple. He could not remember if someone got a hit in or it was where the force of impact from being slammed to the ground originated. The boss would be fucking livid with him. So would his mum. Honestly, he was unsure which was more terrifying when yelling at him.

Opening his eyes to blink away any sweat and blood trickling down, he shifted slightly, the brick digging into his back. That was when he saw her. An absolute angel on earth. Casually walking, as if for a relaxing stroll in the park, she came closer in that dirty back alley. A copper walked close by her, a hand on her elbow as if to guide her. Alfie would not tear his eyes away from her. Never in his seventeen years had he seen anything he could truly label gorgeous or breath-taking. Yet this creature of light did not waver like a flame or mirage. No, she strolled with her head raised proudly, a pout to her full lips with an almost bored look. Her long, blonde hair glowed under the dingy streetlamps, casting a halo around her face, highlighting her delicate features. What made her stand out even more was the party dress and heels that seemed more appropriate for an aristocratic event or a club than the dank back alley full of blood, sweat and piss. Her dress was purple with a sweetheart neckline, lace just barely covering her exposed shoulders and ending mid-shin. Everything about her screamed wealth and posh. Still he could not hate her. It would be like hating a field of sunflowers or a dazzling morning sunrise. His eyes traced her lithe, feminine form and he swallowed subconsciously. There was no way she was older than him, but her silhouette left no doubt that she was a beautiful woman and not a pretty girl.

Once they got close enough, she softly said something to the officer escorting her then without waiting for a response, strutted towards Alfie. Each step she took in his direction, the dirt, blood and sweat felt amplified on his skin and clothes. He could not move nor speak, his mind having lost all function in her wake.

Friendly-like, as if they had known each other for years, she knelt down at his side. Apparently uncaring of the grime in the alley. Her emerald green eyes sparkled like a priceless gem. Quickly she pulled a handkerchief from her small clutch and tenderly dabbed away the blood at his temple, cheek and mouth. No one had touched him this gently outside of his mother and siblings. Unconsciously he leaned into her touch, the handkerchief against his skin.

“Looks like you were in a right, proper fight. I almost feel sorry for the other guy.”

“Naw, don’t be, love. Those wops asked for it.”

“Did they?” She glanced over her shoulder at the others against the opposite wall of that alley. “What did they do?”

“Looked at me funny, right? Can’t ‘ave none of that.” He was not actually going to tell her the wops started yelling racial slurs across the street at him and his lads and making comments about how their mothers spread their legs for anyone. No, he would play it off.

“Well, serves them right then. Looks like they probably needed some dirt on those clean suits and shoes.” Turning back, she winked at him then continued her cleaning, ignoring the rest of the chaos surrounding them. It truly felt like being in the eye of a storm. Nothing and no one else around mattered. All he could see, feel and sense was the angel before him. Even her touch was delicate as she cleaned up his face. Not once did he wince, but that could just be from his mind unable to focus on anything besides her.

“Are you injured badly?” She asked, keeping her voice low as her eyes found his in the gloom.

“No. ‘M fine.”

“Ever been to jail?”

He definitely was not expecting that question from her. “Yeah…yeah, I have.”

She hummed, seeming unsurprised. “Have fun?”

“Oh yeah, fucking best day of me life. Champagne and dancing to fill the night, yeah?”

She laughed, and in that moment he decided that was his favorite sound on this planet. It was robust and sweet, her head tipped back and eyes crinkled. “Well I would hate to take away that pleasure from you but I was wondering if you wanted to get away. I mean these officers are lovely and all but I would not mind a stroll under the moonlight. What do you think? Want to escort me?”

“Love, I’ll follow you wherever you wanna go, yeah?”

A smile burst forth, brilliant as a supernova and filled Alfie with a fire he had never experienced before. Sure he understood the fire of anger and wrath, it helped fuel him in the fights he got into. This though… this fire seeped deep into him like a brand made on his bones that warmed him from head to toes.

“Cheeky. I’m going to hug you but do not move from that position. Wait for my signal, got it?”

He nodded, mouth dry. What the bloody hell was happening? Wait, he would get her dirty with all the filth on him. Before he could protest, she shifted and wrapped her arms around him, embracing him. The scent of lavender filled his senses, making him subconsciously take a deep breath. Was it a perfume she wore? Was it just infused into her skin? It did not matter, he wanted to drown in her scent and never resurface. Her lips were next to his ear, her breasts pressed against his chest, her warm breath ticking the hairs on his neck. It was too much. This angel, a being of light, was creating quite sinful images in his mind. Awful, beautiful, wicked scenarios that entailed her pearly white skin laid bare beneath him. All the blood in his body rushed south and suddenly he felt lightheaded, unsure if it was her intoxicating scent and proximity or his bodily reaction and blood loss. It felt so wrong. His soul was damned, blackened by his choices. Yet he yearned for her like he never had before for anyone or anything.

Both a moment and an eternity later, he heard a faint click coming from behind him. With that she leaned back, but not before dragging a single finger slowly down his jawline. That simple touch sent shivers down his spine.

“What’s your name?”

“Alfie. Alfie Solomons.”

“I’ll be right back, Alfie. Stay here.”

With an astounding amount of grace, she rose from kneeling next to him. Casually she strolled over to the copper who had guided her initially into the alley. He had been speaking with two other coppers standing near the Italian lads. During their strange interaction, Alfie had actually forgotten about the fucking wops and coppers, too entranced by her. Now looking around he could see some of the coppers walking away with the other lads while others stood around surveying the area. He counted at least six coppers in current view. Four too many to all be informally patrolling together. Did someone tip them off to the fight? Were they waiting? Questions swarmed in his mind. At least the Jewish lads got away. They were lucky this time.

Twisting his hands, he froze. The handcuffs no longer strangled his wrists. Actually they felt loose…a quick shake and they practically fell off. That was what she had done when embracing him? Now a new set of questions swarmed like a crazed flock of pigeons in his mind. How? Why? If anything, his respect for her grew…and his curiosity. This was clearly not her first time getting out of handcuffs. She was an enigma. A posh girl who could break someone out of handcuffs in seconds. Glancing to his left, he noticed her small clutch lay on the ground near him. Was this a sign of trust or manipulation?

Overall his rational mind continued to scream ‘what is happening?’ for nothing about tonight was going as expected.

A couple minutes later, she sashed over to the four Italian lads sitting against the far wall and began chatting with them. One, with a black eye, said something and winked making her giggle shyly. A jealous rage crept upon Alfie. Who the fuck did those wops think they were talking to his angel? They were lucky they were all handcuffed because if even one tried to touch her, he would kill the sod…and make it fucking biblical worthy. He continued to watch with growing ire as she laughed and talked with them for several minutes. It took every ounce of self-control to remain where he was and continue the pretense of being handcuffed still.

Finally, she rubbed one of the lads’ shoulders in farewell while making a comment that caused them to laugh or snicker before she returned to his side.

“Nice fuckin’ chat you have there, yeah? Makin’ new friends?”

She sat on the ground next to him, brushing her hair over her shoulder, it easily reaching her mid-back. “Patience, sweetheart, patience. All part of the plan.”

“Plan, eh? That’s the thing, now, innit? I’m not much for patience. Too restless, me mum says, asking too many questions, yeah.”

“I promise I’ll make it worth your time.” She purred out, a glint in her eyes.

His trousers suddenly felt a little tighter. “Oh yeah? Care to share with the class?”

“Now where is the fun in that?”

“You ain’t gonna get me shot, right? That s’fucking pain and would ruin me night.”

“As long as you can keep up.” She deadpanned then glanced over at the other lads, keeping her voice lowered. “You know these streets?”

“Yeah.”

“At the signal, we run. You can get us away from here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” They sat in poised silence for a long moment. He unashamedly took the time to admire her beside him. She was too clean, too pristine to be from anywhere around here. Hell, it looked like she bathed regularly which honestly was uncommon where he was from. She certainly had weaned at the bosom of wealth and continued to be nurtured by it. So why was she here? Why did the coppers have her? Why was she so desperate to get away from them? “What’s your name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She winked, fiddling with the hemline on her dress.

“Ah, come on, love.”

“I saw you fight the police men.” She abruptly changed topics. “I have never seen anyone fight like that before. I bet you could box in the rings if you wanted.”

“Yeah? Just somethin’ you learn on the streets, right? Not much to it. I’ve always been broader and stronger than most lads, yeah, so I guess it is easier. Me grandfather taught me some.”

“Well, I found it incredible to watch.”

A second later, a commotion had him whipping his head up in time to see the Italian lads leaping up and running down the alley, some faster than others. The coppers immediately started after them, yelling and blowing their whistles. Chaos suddenly ruling the alley.

He guessed that was the signal.

Leaping to his feet and ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs at the movement, he grabbed her hand. Within the span of a heartbeat, they were racing away from the commotion. Adrenaline coursed through him, helping him forget the aches, pain and fatigue from the fights that night. A shout sounded from behind but neither one of their steps faltered. At the end of the alley, still holding her hand, he pulled her left into a different back alley. He kept his ears open for shouts and whistles, eyes open for coppers and any of those wops looking for revenge. He knew this town, these streets like his own name. They were a part of him, as much as his own blood and bones. He both loathed and loved them. They made him who he was. Yet he promised himself to rise above the poverty dragging its inhabitants down. He would rule this place. Fuck anyone who tried to stop him.

After at least ten minutes of running, he pulled her behind a local dress shop. The streetlamps could not pierce the gloom behind the store, making it perfect for hiding out. Plus there was usually a couple boxes laying around to sit on and it did not smell nearly as bad as the butcher shop just down the street. He pushed her against the wall and pressed himself beside her. Both of them gasping for breath, chests heaving. A glance at her surprised him. A brilliant smile shown, illuminating her face. As if sensing his gaze, she turned her head to meet his eyes. He could not help returning the smile.

“Think…we are…safe?” She asked between deep breaths, eyes still locked on his.

“Yeah…yeah. Don’t hear footsteps…besides ours, right?”

“Yeah.” Her smile turned mischievous as her breathing began to even out. “You seemed to know right where to go. I’m suspecting you have done this once or twice.”

“Once or twice. But you, fuckin’ hell. Gettin’ me outta those handcuffs. You do that often?”

“Once or twice.”

He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. This girl, this angel, was nothing like he had ever met before. Standing next to her now, he realized the top of her head just reached his chin, even in those little kitten heels she wore. For some odd reason, that realization made him smile.

“Is St. Mark’s church far from here?”

Raising an eyebrow, he smirked. “That where you’re supposed to be, innit?”

She shoved him, playfully. “Well is it?”

“No, not far. Come on, love. I’ll walk ya there meself. Can’t have you wanderin’ and gettin’ lost, yeah?” He chuckled at her glare before she just rolled her eyes. Pushing off the brick wall, he was surprised when her hand shot out to grab his arm.

“Wait.”

“S’alright? Need to catch your breath?”

Then the completely unexpected happened. He knew to the very marrow of his bones that he would never be the same again.

She roughly tugged him closer before raising up on her toes and pressing her lips against his. Immediately a heat wave shot through him. Without thinking, his body moved on its own accord. He was too focused on the delicious taste of her pouty lips, that entrancing scent of lavender dancing around her, and her body pressed against his. His hands automatically sought out her hips, backing her against the dirty, brick wall to further press himself against her. A slow sweep of her tongue had him open his mouth on a moan which then allowed their tongues to fight for dominance. Her hands moved from his neck upward into his hair, alternating between fisting it to force him closer and scraping his scalp with her nails. Sure he had kissed a couple of girls before, he was a seventeen-year-old hot blooded male. None of those times even came close to this moment. This kiss that would forever ruin him for any other woman. This was heaven in its bliss and hell in its torment. He ached to get closer, to taste more of her, to hear her breathe out his name. With each moment, every touch and continued molding of their lips, she burned further into him, like a drug he would never fully be able to escape.

Finally their lips unlocked, lungs demanding air. Panting with swollen, bruised lips, they stared at one another caught up in the moment of passion and fire. A whole brigade of coppers could have come marching down the alley and he would not have noticed.

“Do this often?”

“Once or twice.” He teased back, his ego inflated at seeing her look as wrecked as he felt. Apparently his kiss and touch affected her just as much as hers did to him.

She laughed, eyes sparkling in the dimness. “Still wanting to escort me?”

“Love, you ain’t gettin’ away from me now.”

Reluctantly he pulled away from her. All he wanted to do was continue kissing her, breathing her in and never let her go. Yet reality demanded something very different. It was obvious she was in a far different class from himself, something he would never achieve. He picked up her clutch that had been dropped on the ground during their snogging. Together, they stepped out of the alley and into the deserted street, heading south towards the church.

“You stopped bleeding.”

“Mmm? Oh yeah.” He touched his temple where there was certainly a cut. “I didn’t get none on you, right? Don’t wanna get any dirt or blood on you, keep you from being all dolled up.”

“I am fine. That stuff never bothered me anyway.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. A posh lady not bothered by blood and dirt? She certainly was turning into a class all of her own…and he did not mind at all.

“What? Stop looking at me like that.”

“You’re the oddest lady I ‘ave ever met.” He teased.

“Excuse you!” She shoved him away, causing him to laugh as he stumbled several steps over dramatically. “See if I ever kiss you again, making fun of me like that. Plain rude is what that is.”

Swiftly moving back to her side, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She refused to meet his eyes until he tipped her chin up with his hand. “Awww…come on, love. I was just teasin’ you a bit is all. I like you. Never been into girls scared of gettin’ their hands dirty meself. End up bein’ too much fuckin’ work, yeah, they are.”

A soft smile graced her lips. “Well, I would hate to be that.”

“Forgive me? I can get down on my knees right here if that’s what you want. I’ll sing a song for you, but you might think a damn cat is dyin’. Probably best if I don’t. Scare you away, yeah.”

She laughed, eyes crinkling. “I forgive you.” She pressed a quick peck to his mouth before sliding out of his arms to continue walking side by side.

“Do I get to learn who you are now?”

“Oh, I am no one interesting. Just a simple lady out on a stroll.”

Scoffing, he nudged her shoulder with his. “That’s the biggest fuckin’ lie I’ve ever ‘eard. A fancy, posh girl like yourself is never a ‘simple lady’, yeah? So, what’s your name?”

“Perhaps I do not want to be her tonight.” She sighed, looking up at the stars as if to distance herself from reality. A feeling Alfie understood all too well. She continued, her voice just a whisper in the night. “Perhaps I want to be someone different…someone else before society forces me to put the mask back on...to pretend for the sake of family and reputation that I am someone I am not. My apologies. I am rambling. It does not matter. Tis not your problem.”

He stopped, moving to stand in front of her. The depth of despair in her words made his heart clench. The whole night she had eluded an aura of authority, confidence and, truthfully, a sex appeal. Now though, whatever wall she protected herself with dropped for a moment. She tried to move around him but he gripped her upper arms gently yet firmly until she looked up at him. Those emerald eyes held him, curiosity and hesitation warring in their depths. Ever so gently he ran a knuckle down her cheek before tracing her lips with the tip of his finger. A piece of his mind imaging their passionate snogging was only a figment of his imagination.

“Look at me, love. You’ll never be a ‘simple lady’ coz you s’fuckin’ something else, right? You can break outta handcuffs faster than most men take a piss. Then you outrun coppers in those kitten heels all while laughing like a fuckin’ lunatic. But hell, maybe all posh ladies are like that where you are from, yeah? Scarin’ the shit outta normal lads but not me, no, love, you’re stuck with me now.”

With a blossoming smile on her lips, his self-control ran out. Bending down slightly, he kissed her. This kiss was slow and soft, a caress of lips and intermingling breaths. He broke it, placing his forehead against hers. “So, who do you wanna be tonight?”

“Either no one of consequence just out enjoying a stroll…”

He snorted. That was him every day.

“…or a king and queen, looking down on our kingdom.”

With a flourish, he bowed, probably not properly in anyway but it made her laugh. Then standing up, he quickly pulled his long black coat off and draped it over her shoulder. The goosebumps and faint shivers had not gone unnoticed while he held her. She giggled, giving him a proper curtsy while wearing his coat as a robe, looking more regal than she should.

“Your majesty, your carriage waits for you.”

Her smile was brighter than the full moon and stars above. Still giggling, she wrapped an arm through his. “My king, you are truly too kind.”

“Naw, that’s what us fuckin’ proper royal people do, yeah?”

They both laughed as they strolled down the darkened, dirty streets. Their conversation steered clear of anything too personal. Both enjoyed this pretend game, being someone else if even just for a little while. They talked about what they would do to make the city better, complained about the particular subjects that annoyed them, how many dogs and horses they each wanted, and where their summer getaway should be. On more than once occasion, they stole kisses from one another, some chaste and some not so much.

Yet like the clock striking midnight and the spell being broken, their time neared its end as they approached St. Mark’s church. Ahead, Alfie could see several cars lined up on the street. Their drivers standing around smoking and talking, waiting for those inside. The cars and drivers screamed wealth, far more than common in Camden Town.

“I can go from here. Thank you for walking me.”

“You sure? I don’t mind none, love.”

She slipped his coat off her shoulders before handing it over. “Thank you, Alfie. This was far more fun than I have had in a long time.”

“Will I see you again?” The words came blurting out without his permission but he did not regret asking. He desperately wanted to see her again.

“I hope so. I truly do.”

“Wait, I still don’t know your name. That’s not quite fair, innit? I mean, when I first saw you, I thought to meself, there, now there’s a fuckin’ angel.” He reached out a hand and twirled a lock of blonde hair around his finger. “Pretty damn sure you’re the most beautiful thing on this fuckin’ earth, yeah? And I’ve seen the ocean before, Margate yeah, but its nothin’ compared to you.” Where the words came from he was unsure but they poured forth on their own. As if knowing their time was over, he wanted her to remember him, even if it was for blubbering like a simpleton. He hoped she would not forget him like he would never forget her.

Taking a step closer, she kissed him once again, cupping his cheeks. “Call me that. I’ll see you around, Alfie. I do not think this is good-bye. Not for us.”

Before he could respond, she twirled around and walked towards the cars, gliding like a phantom from a dream. It did not take long for the men to notice her, one in particular coming to her side. After a minute of talking, he walked next to her up the stairs of the church then disappeared into the light after opening the doors.

Alfie stood rooted in the shadows for longer than necessary. It was foolish to linger, he knew that, but his body felt immobile. His eyes glued to those doors he would never pass through. Finally with a huff and curse, he tugged his coat back on and turned away. His walk home would be long for St. Mark’s was in the opposite direction of his mum’s shit apartment. It was worth it though. With each step, the lingering hint of lavender drifted off his coat. A reminder of the only other person besides himself to wear it. His feet were on autopilot for his mind could not stop ruminating on the blonde beauty with gemstone eyes. An angel on earth.

On the barren street under the moonlight and flickering streetlamps, Alfie prayed for the first time in years. He prayed to see her again. That whatever fate brought them together would not desert them now. He needed her light in the dark world he inhabited. He wanted once again to hold and kiss his angel.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #alfie solomons #peaky blinders fiction #alfie solomons x oc #pre ww1 #mzwrites

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desperationandgin · 5 years

Text

Tell Them I Remember You (Jamie x Claire)

Rating: General Audiences

Summary: Set at some nebulous point during Dragon Fly in Amber, Claire visits Castle Leoch after remembering she may have left something behind.

Author: desperationandgin

Also Read On: AO3

Once I knew which direction to go, I’d never driven somewhere so quickly in my life. It was first light, and I was speeding like a mad woman toward the place where Castle Leoch still stood. A dream set me on my path, a recovered memory, and I had to see, I had to know. Could something truly survive all this time, undiscovered? If not found by whoever occupied my former surgery after my abrupt exit from Leoch, then by looters and eager tourists once the castle was abandoned.

Two-hundred and twenty-five years was a long time.

I had to park away from the property a bit and walked the rest of the way. Standing outside of what was left of the structure, I told myself it was dangerous, that I shouldn’t go inside. There could be all sorts of wildlife nesting there; not to mention crumbling stone ready to drop at the slightest change in pressure.

I didn’t listen to myself.

Entering the dilapidated structure, I closed my eyes at the wave of memories that seemed as though they happened in a different life separate from the last twenty years.

Trying to escape the night of the Gathering. Walloping Dougal with a stool right in this hallway.

The hall was now half-crumbled, exposed to the elements. Hugging what wall there was, I made my way down the steps that led to another corridor. Here, lower, the castle was in a bit —but not much — better shape. Pulling out my flashlight, I stopped first at a door covered with vines and cobwebs. Pushing, I had to shove hard, four times before the door gave way, and I stumbled into the room with a cloud of dust. Closing my eyes for a moment, I slowly blinked them open and then looked around the chambers that were once Jamie and I’s marital bedroom. There was nothing left in it now, but I looked to my right where the vanity once sat, where I’d once situated myself while Jamie bent on one knee to beg my forgiveness. From there, my gaze dragged along the floor to the spot in front of the hearth.

Ye are mine, mo nighean donn. Mine, now and forever.

Pressing a hand to my chest for a moment, I swallowed heavily. There on that floor, I’d let myself believe Jamie would always come for me. That if I stayed with him and stopped trying to leave, he would love me this fiercely forever. Banishing the invasive thought, I turned to leave the room, continuing onward and further down until I reached the surgery door. It still hung open from twenty-three years ago, when Frank and I forced it open. Now that I was here, my heart felt as though it might try to escape my chest. If it was gone, was anything truly lost to me since I hadn’t thought of it before now? I wanted it to be there, my hope higher than it should have been, considering. Walking into the room after coming off the last step took me to a jumbling, confusing mesh of past and further past memories.

Winding my way toward the cupboards that were still there (though empty), I scanned for the clever little secret Beaton had left behind after his death.

”What’s this, then?” Jamie had asked one afternoon as it stormed mercilessly outside. With everything washed out, he was able to spend the day with me, and I couldn’t say I minded.

I’d turned my gaze to what he was fiddling with, a loose drawer at the end of the cabinets. “It’s been broken since I arrived here,” I noted, but he’d seemed unsure of my answer.

“Nah, Sassenach. I dinna think it’s broken.”

I’d turned back to my own work to let him continue fiddling with it until I heard a quiet snapping sound and turned to look again. What I saw made my eyes widen. “Is that a--”

“Aye,” he’d interrupted. “‘Tis a false bottom to the drawer.”

He’d fixed the crooked bottom panel, and it’d slid into place easily within the wall of shelves.

My fingers moved over the dusty glass until I found what I was looking for: the drawer with the false bottom. With a bit of effort, I managed to get the drawer out of its slot and slowly, carefully turned it upside down. As soon as I opened it, I would know once and for all if one of my earliest gifts from Jamie could still be mine.

We’d hurried through the corridors of Leoch, Jamie’s hand gripping mine tightly. Inside of my surgery, he’d proceeded to tell me Colum’s plan to send him away with Dougal, and my heart had sunk to my stomach. I ached to know that we would be separated for Christ knew how long.

“I was finally able to get ye a proper wedding present, Sassenach,” Jamie’d admitted. “I wanted to give it to ye, special, but wi’ things changing, and so dangerous, I dinna feel I should wait.”

Before I’d been able to protest that all would be well and he would return to me, he’d pulled a beautiful pin out of his sporran — a brooch, of two silver, intertwining hearts topped with a crown. “I had word sent ahead to the smith to have this made for ye and ready upon our arrival.”

I hadn’t been able to believe it, stunned by the beauty of the piece. “What does it mean?” I’d been curious to know.

“‘Tis a luckenbooth. Ye give it to your bride to symbolize love and loyalty.” His gaze had been soft and warm as his eyes moved over my face.

I’d held the brooch in my fingers and realized then why we were in my surgery. “You want to hide it.”

“Aye; I dinna ken when I’ll return, and someone may take advantage of ye alone, try to steal such a fine piece from ye.”

I’d idly thought of Laoghaire at the time, but she’d been merely a passing thought. “I can wear it proudly when you’ve returned then?” I’d wondered aloud.

He’d smiled at me and gave my lips a quick kiss. “Aye. Ye’ll never have cause to remove it again.”

Wetting my lips, I looked down at the drawer in my hands and finally pressed. Instead of clicking open, the entire fragile thing shattered in my hands, going quickly to dust and splinters of wood. I dropped what remained in surprise before falling to my knees, reaching for what I knew I’d seen. That flash of silver. Once my fingers closed around it, I pulled it out of the rubble and stared, brushing away years of dry dust. Underneath, it was still as beautiful as ever.

I didn’t know what it was — if it was seeing it again or simply being somewhere I once was with Jamie — but there, on a floor covered in over a century of abandonment, I sobbed. I hadn’t allowed myself this in a long, long while. Not since Brianna was a newborn had I sobbed this way, begging for Jamie in the same breath I cursed him for making me do this without him. I didn’t hate him for it anymore. How could I, when I’d been able to watch our daughter blossom and grow while he’d died on a battlefield? Even though (regardless of Culloden) he’d long been bones anyway, it hurt to know he’d died alone, without comfort. Without me. It was an ache I carried with me, always.

When I finally stood on shaky legs and dusted my trousers off, I clutched the brooch in one hand and prepared to leave before a slip of paper caught my eye. It was something old, parchment that was surprisingly not yellowed, and rolled tightly, as you would a scroll. It could only have been in the drawer and was likely some sort of salve ingredient list I’d written long ago. Waiting to open it, I made my way back out into the daylight, squinting before walking to the car and sitting inside. Once more, I stared at the brooch, this time in the light. It was as beautiful as I remembered from the one time I’d seen it before.

Setting it aside in the passenger seat, I finally unrolled the piece of paper to see what I’d written myself over two centuries ago. Reaching for my glasses, I slipped them on and began to read. As my eyes scanned the words, I felt myself turn impossibly cold, then hot all at once, as if my body couldn’t make up its mind. Once I began to shake, I fumbled to get the window down, taking deep lungfuls of air. It took a few long moments to believe what I was seeing and I read it again, slowly.

Sassenach,

I wonder when you will discover my note? Perhaps if you do, you can leave me one in return?

When you do find this, let it make you smile to know on this day and the day you discover your surprise, I love you.

Your faithful husband,

It was his loopy handwriting, faded but his. It was almost as if I hadn’t cried at all as I dissolved into tears once more; this time, my shoulders heaved with the force of them. Everything we’d lost, everything we thought we still had when he wrote the note, shattered my heart. When Jamie wrote this, he thought we would begin a clever game; but instead, weeks later, I was telling him of time travel while on the run. We’d had so many plans, and lost all of them to time.

Once I pulled myself together, I realized the sun was high in the sky and glanced at my watch — just after noon. I still wanted to go into town and see if there were any records of Lallybroch, to see where the ownership wound up. I wanted to go to Lallybroch; I wanted to go home. Taking a few deep breaths, I felt the first two tremble; but eventually, my breathing evened and I looked down at the brooch in the seat beside me.

It symbolized so much, once. One day, eventually, I would have to say goodbye to him.

“I love you too, Jamie Fraser.”

I spoke the words aloud to a ghost and knew that today wouldn’t be the day.

#outlander #jamie x claire #outlander fic #jamie fraser #claire fraser #tell them i remember you #my fic

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sassyshoulderangel319 · 5 years

Text

The House in the Forest

“Wait. You have a human hostage?” a voice demanded in the other room. I groaned in complaint, stretching my sore neck. Human? Why did the voice say that like they weren’t human? What was going on? Why was I so sore? Where exactly was I and how did I get here?

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a guest,” a more familiar voice replied. “She came willingly.”

The first voice said something in another language that probably translated into, “Bull crap.” There was a brief pause. “Humans don’t come to our lairs willingly, Killian. Unless they’re hunters.”

“She’s not.”

“I smell fresh blood. I can tell she’s not. Hunters don’t often get bitten.”

Fresh blood? Guest? Bitten? Came willingly? Were they talking about me?

Why was my head so foggy? Why couldn’t I think straight? What exactly was going on? Huh?

Another brief pause. “She’s awake,” the first voice said.

The familiar voice went, “Huh. So she is,” and then was silent.

“Think she can hear us?”

“Probably.”

“Show me her,” the first voice ordered.

The familiar one laughed heartily. “Oh Auggie. You’re cute if you think you can order me around.”

A door creaked open. There was a moment of silence. Then another creak. I shuffled. I was lying down, that much I was certain of. My hair was sprawled out on several silk pillows.

“I’m guessing the silk nightgown didn’t belong to her originally.”

“Of course not. But I’m a generous host.”

“Sure you are.”

The door closed, but I could still hear talking.

“She smells like a hunter, but she’s not one,” the first voice, Auggie?, remarked.

The second voice, Killian?, chuckled. “I think she’s a Van Helsing descendent.”

“Van Helsing?!”

“Yes. But she’s harmless. Drawn to this place like a moth to flame. I think she’s adorable.”

“So you fed off her.”

“Hunter bloodlines always taste the sweetest. But I didn’t take enough to kill her.”

What?

I tried to sit up. My neck was sore and didn’t want to support the weight of my head. Sitting up seemed like it wasn’t an option. I groaned in complaint at the pain in my neck.

“Sounds like your most recent escapade isn’t reacting well,” Auggie remarked.

“She’s not an escapade, Augustus,” Killian retorted. “She’s a—”

“I know. A guest,” Augustus finished, exasperated. “But she’s a guest you fed off of. That makes her an escapade.”

Killian sighed dramatically. “You’re so old-fashioned. And I just... got carried away, is all.”

There was a pause—during which I tried to sit up again and failed.

“Got carried away?” Augustus quoted. “Oh no. You’re not...”

“Not what?” Killian challenged.

“In love with her.”

A loud scoff assaulted my sensitive ears. “Of course not! She’s human---she’s fragile. Did you know it takes less than a pound of pressure to break human skin? That’s why paper can cut them!”

“I’m aware. But you know the rules, Killian. Humans are off-limits. Too fragile. Too short-lived. You’d be better served to have a cat for company.”

“Cats don’t live as long as humans do.”

“No but they are rather better company,” Augustus said.

Killian’s eyeroll was almost audible. “Whatever. I have stuff to do and a guest to entertain. Go home, Auggie. Before the sun rises and you’re stuck here all day.”

There was a quiet Whoosh and the talking stopped.

The door creaked open and a hand cradled my head. “You’re looking a little weak, darling. I think I got a little carried away,” Killian’s voice said. “I took too much from you. I apologize.” His face swam into my vision, cloudy at first and slowly coming into focus. Dark eyes, dark hair, gauntly pale skin with sharp cheekbones. He looked as familiar as he sounded but for the life of me I still couldn’t figure out why.

“Don’t remember...”

“Anything? No I’d imagine not. One of the downsides of vampire venom is it blocks the previous few hours from your memory—so you don’t remember the vampire. It’s a defense mechanism that keeps vampires from being outed to the world. It helps us live in secret. Vampires are a curse on the human world. We’re not supposed to exist. So we stay separate from humans as much as possible, despite them being our food source.”

“Vam... pire...?” I mumbled.

“Yup. That’s me, dear.” Still cradling the back of my head, Killian helped me sit up. “Ooh. I’m sorry. I should have cleaned you up better. The back of your neck is coated in dried blood. My sincerest apologies.”

“Why did you... feed off me?”

“Well, as I recall you gave me consent and we got a little carried away.”

“I... don’t recall.”

“No. I’m aware you don’t. Which, I grant you, makes it difficult to verify that I’m telling you the truth. Those memories of last night are still there, just blocked off by a curtain. You can find them if you look hard enough.”

I stared at his handsome face. “Uh...”

“Perhaps this will jog your memory.” He leaned forward and planted a kiss on my lips. I molded against him immediately—instinctually—like I’d done it thousands of times before.

———

“Whoa,” I muttered, looking around at the dilapidated mansion. “This is still here? I thought the city was gonna tear it down for being a safety hazard.”

Cautiously, I crept toward the front door. The top hinge was broken, making the door hang slightly, warping the other two. Caution tape was crossed over the front door in a narrow X while a Do Not Enter sign hung haphazardly on the wood. The whole place smelled of time. Old wood. Old weathered stone. Mildew and plants slowly reclaiming the elements of the house for the earth.

I pushed the front door in and ducked through the X of Caution tape.

The powerful flashlight in my hand would definitely be useful once the sun completed its descent and plunged me into darkness.

I’d been in this old mansion hundreds of times. I’d wandered it a lot from the ages of twelve to twenty-two. Whenever I needed a getaway or just some alone time. I knew the ruin better than anyone. The creaky stair leading to the crumbling upper levels. Which windows had glass in them and which might cut me for the broken glass on the floor. I knew where the wooden floors had rotted away and which rooms to avoid.

No matter how old I was when I came here, I always felt like there was a pair of eyes watching me. But as I got older and nothing bad happened, I stopped thinking too hard about it. I liked to imagine it was the ghosts of residents past watching me appreciate their home.

I made my way to my favorite part of the mansion.

The ballroom. It was remarkably intact and the acoustics were perfect. I could bring a portable speaker, set it with my old iPod on the floor, and dance without disturbing anyone.

Which was what I did. Despite the deepening twilight, I wanted to dance.

So I turned on my speaker and started to waltz as though I had a partner, slightly taller than me, whisking me around the floor. I was used to leading myself—every partner I’d ever had was flimsy and didn’t know how to dance so I ended up being in charge, despite being a good follower and longing for a strong partner to play the leader once in a while.

I smiled at the old ballroom as I danced around, imagining what it must have looked like in its prime. Gilded torch sconces, beautiful instruments on the slightly-raised stage, perhaps tapestries, gleaming windows.

As I spun, I slowly came to the realization that I was actually seeing the ballroom transform—not just my imagination projecting. “Holy cow—what the—?!” I breathed.

A slow clapping reached my ears. “Phenomenal dancing, my dear,” a voice said.

I whirled.

The man standing in the doorway under the torchlight was intoxicatingly handsome. Dark hair and eyes with marble-fine skin and a tantalizing smirk.

I backed away. “Who are you? What happened to this place?”

He chuckled and stepped into the ballroom. “You’ve loved this place rather fondly, haven’t you?”

“That doesn’t answer my questions.”

“Alright. My name is Killian. And you’re in my home. You’ve always seen it as a ruin because that’s what I allow humans to see. It’s been enjoyable, wasting a decade watching you wander around this place, seeing only what you can see and enjoying it regardless.”

“How... what? How do you make it look like a ruin?”

The man—Killian—chuckled. “I can make humans see whatever I want.” There was a Whoosh and suddenly he was directly in front of me. “I’m a vampire, darling.”

Holy crap. Run. NOW, I thought frantically.

My legs refused to budge.

“Holy...” I whispered.

His hand covered my mouth. His skin was frigid to the touch—like he’d been making snowballs without gloves on. “There’s nothing holy on these grounds, my dear,” he purred. He growled the word holy like it physically pained him to say it aloud. I took a step away, making his hand fall off my mouth.

“Don’t... come any closer,” I said.

He smirked but didn’t close the distance between. “Or what? You’re in my territory on these grounds. You came willingly. I can do whatever I want to you.”

I backed up again. “Vampires are monsters.”

“We’re a curse on your world, yes,” Killian agreed placidly. “But ‘monster’ might be a bit harsh. Most of us do our best to live in secret and only prey on guilty souls.” He tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming in the firelight. “And oh, how easy it would be for me to play right into your expectations and use my gifts to... convince you to stay here. But I won’t. I’ll let you choose of your own accord the path you take tonight. I’m too fond of you to force you into anything.

“I’ve watched you from your childhood wander this place. Spent a decade observing, listening to you rant about your problems to the walls as though they had ears. I know you better than you think I do, Angelica. You think I’m a stranger, but I’m not.”

I suddenly recalled every time I came to this place to sit on rotted furniture and yell to the forest and the ruined house about my problems. To talk aloud to myself just for the sake of processing the chaos of my thought stream.

He’d been listening?!

That was just embarrassing. I’d talked about boy problems in high school! I didn’t need some age-old vampire listening to me complain about how Brian from biology stared at me the entire class period instead of the whiteboard and try to figure out what to do about it.

My face turned bright red and I took several more steps away from him.

He took a deep breath through his nose and snickered. “You’re blushing. Makes it easier to smell your blood. It smells sweet, if you’re wondering. Most people are mildly salty, but there are a few bloodlines that are sweet.”

“You have the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old,” I snapped.

“I have the emotional maturity of a twenty-five-year-old, actually,” he retorted, a playful glitter in his eyes. “That’s when I was turned. When my body froze. It was in the middle of the Revolutionary War. There were a few vampires on both sides turning other soldiers into vampires to gain an advantage over the other side. But your ancestors hunted most of them down and killed them in the centuries following the war.”

“My ancestors?”

“Yes. The sweet-smelling bloodlines invariably belong to vampire hunters.”

I stared, but Killian obviously wasn’t done.

“You ranted a lot about how your brother was always treated better than you. I imagine he’s been groomed into the next generation of hunter.”

“Boys are always treated nicer than girls. I was forced into responsibility at a young age while he was allowed to dink around like a lazy oaf with bad behavior well into adulthood. I doubt he’s been trained as a hunter.”

“You might be surprised. Your brother is Samuel Beckham, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“My friends have had run-ins with him. Carrying a wooden stake.”

I stared in alarm. “Uh...”

Killian smiled gently. “The world is much different than you know. Now. If you would allow me, I’d like to show you around my home now that I’m allowing you to see it as it is.” He offered me his elbow. I stared at it.

“Why now?” I asked.

“You’re an adult and I figured you probably wouldn’t run screaming at this point.”

“Being an adult and running away screaming are not mutually exclusive,” I pointed out.

“Indeed not,” he agreed. “But you’re brave enough to face the world so you’re brave enough face me.” He took my hand and looped it through his elbow, leading me from the ballroom. I relaxed slightly upon figuring out that he didn’t seem to have any intention of hurting me. He picked up on me loosening up and smiled at me.

As he gave me quite the grand tour, I found he was quite charming. He’d toned down the “intimidating supernatural creature” vibes and ramped up the “gracious gentleman” vibes. He was chivalrous and nice.

And a little flirty.

After he showed me the three-floor mansion, we ended up in a beautiful, moonlight-bathed room on the top floor’s balcony.

“So... what was with the intimidating act earlier?” I asked.

“I thought it might be good to see if you were scared. I’ve long held a fondness for you that’s deepened as you spent more time here and I wanted to see if you were brave enough to actually put up with being friends with a vampire.”

I turned and glanced at Killian. “You... want to be my friend?”

“Darling, in my mind, we’re already friends. I liked to think of myself as your imaginary friend when you were a child. Now that you’re an adult, I think we can be real friends now. You’ve spent so long talking to my walls, you now might as well talk to me.”

I fidgeted. “Thanks.” We were quiet for a minute. “So... my family really lied to me about being vampire hunters, huh?”

“Well, I’ve heard of Samuel Beckham, and your father is Richard Beckham, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I had an encounter with him. About five towns over. Few years ago now. He tried to kill me.”

“Can’t believe they lied to me,” I muttered. I looked Killian directly in the eye. “I want you to tell me everything you know about my family.”

“On one condition,” Killian said. “You stay the night here. It’s too late for you to go home and I have... a plethora of guest bedrooms for you to sleep in.”

I thought for a moment. He had a point. “Okay. Tell me everything.”

Killian smirked and pulled me into an embrace.

There was a Whoosh and suddenly we were in a beautifully lush parlor, sitting on the sofa, slightly turned to face each other.

Killian told me stories of more than just my father and brother—he had stories of my ancestors. Generations of vampire hunters in our area, traveling to hunt, occasionally joining with others. Killian always managed to avoid the hunters in my family, but did talk with them without them realizing he was a vampire.

He told stories in the most captivating way. I couldn’t look away, completely drawn in. He was engaging. I kept leaning forward, like I was trying to dive into the actual story.

Before I knew it, we were pressed together, my shoulder snuggled into his upper arm. I was staring up at his black eyes like he had the secrets of the universe in them.

After several minutes near the end of his stories, he blinked. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I was using my compelling to capture you in the story or not,” he said.

I cleared my throat and leaned back, face flushing.

Killian cleared his throat as well and leaned away. “I should—I should get you something more comfortable to sleep in and show you to your room.” He disappeared with a rush of air that blew my hair away from my face. Another breeze struck me as he returned with a beautiful white silk gown in his hands. “This is an old nightgown of my sister’s. When she was alive. It should fit you.”

I took it into my hands. It was beautiful and must have been expensive back when it was made. Heck, it looked like it would be expensive now.

“Thanks.”

“Here.” He scooped me up and after a blast of air I was set down in a beautiful guest room. Four-poster bed with lush hangings and mahogany framing. An armoire and wardrobe of the same wood.

“Wow,” I said. “This place is beautiful.”

“Get, uh, get changed and get some rest. It’s already late for a human. I don’t sleep but you must be exhausted.”

Once he said that, I realized I was tired. “Thank you,” I said. I let Killian shut the door and I changed into the nightgown. When I was done, he knocked.

I opened the door.

His jaw went slack. “W... wow. You look... great,” he said.

“I mean, it’s a nightgown,” I said.

“No, I—I mean it. You look—”

“Shut up,” I hissed, grabbing him by the collar with one hand and the back of his head with the other. He smirked before planting his lips on mine.

We got carried away very quickly. I felt Killian’s fangs graze the skin on the back of my neck, making me shudder. The shiver travelled from my head down to my feet.

“Killian...” I whispered, barely more than a breath.

“Angelica... I—I got carried away. I’m sor—”

“Stop apologizing for being what you are.”

“I just—”

I took a shuddering breath. Tonight was full of impulses. “If you want to, do it,” I whispered.

“I’m a better monster than that.”

“You don’t have to be with me. You don’t want to hurt me. I’m giving you permission.” I brushed my hair off my neck. “Bi... bite me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“Alright.”

Two sharp stabs entered the back of my neck. My eyes rolled into the back of my head.

Spots entered my vision and everything went black.

———

I pulled away from Killian. “I... I remember,” I said. “I...”

“I swear I didn’t necessarily—”

“I trusted you, Killian,” I said. “I don’t know why. But I did. I do. You’ve... completely captured me. You gave me truth when my loved ones gave me lies. You pulled me in and I’m not sure I want to be let go.” I slid closer to him, pressing our fronts together, hands holding his shoulders.

“Angelica,” he whispered, hands circling my hips and gently forcing me back a half-step. “Stop tempting me. Your blood is dry but it’s exposed and being that close might make me lose control again.”

“You were in control last night,” I pointed out.

“No I wasn’t. I started in-control, but lost it. It’s why you passed out and why you’re weak right now. I took too much from you.” He pushed me even farther away from him with his grip on my hips. “Don’t get caught up in the throes of my abilities. I have no control over luring prey toward me like an anglerfish in a dark trench. You’re drawn to this place like a moth to flame and I think it’s because I’m here.”

“You’re saying your unconscious allure is responsible for my impulses last night?”

“Possibly.” His eyes were closed and his face half-turned away from me. “I should... help you clean up the dried blood.”

Neither of us moved. “Killian?” I asked after several drawn-out moments of silence.

“Hmm?”

“What... should I do now?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“You’re literally hundreds of years old. You have a lot more life experience than I do. And I just found out that my family is a family of vampire hunters and never told me about it. What should I do?”

Killian looked surprised. “I... it’s your life, Angelica. I can’t tell you what to do. My opinion isn’t one you really want.”

“Maybe not but I asked for it.” I blinked. “Wait. You bit me. I’m not going to turn into a vampire, am I?”

He shook his head and flicked his dark bangs out of his eyes. “No. I made sure none of my venom stayed in your system. You’d turn if I bit you and didn’t suck the venom out of your blood.”

I nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Angelica... you could... you’re welcome to stay here.” He looked away from me, letting me go. I leaned toward the loss of contact, body yearning to keep touching him. I released a breath that I’d held and shook my head, trying to clear it.

“It’d be ironic, wouldn’t it?” I asked.

“What?”

“If you turned me into a vampire. A daughter of a bloodline of vampire hunters—a vampire herself.”

“I would never turn another person into what I am. I was forced to become the way I am—and I would never—”

“What if I asked, one day?”

“I still wouldn’t. Not unless you were actively dying.”

“Killian, look at me. Please.”

He turned and barely met my eyes. “You know a lot about my problems from my years of wandering your house and ranting at the walls. You don’t always see me for who I really am. A fun-loving, caring, happy optimist.”

“I have seen you that way too. When you dance. I see the real you shining through.”

I blushed. Killian stiffened.

“Let’s finish cleaning you up, okay? The dried blood is really getting to me.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

———

“Can I... hmm. How do I put this? I want to ask my family about the hunting thing. And if they don’t answer or lie to me... I don’t want to be around loved ones who do nothing but lie. So I’ll come back here,” I said as Killian French-braided my hair. I didn’t ask him to. He’d just done it. “If that’s alright with you.”

“You’re always welcome here,” he said. “If you weren’t, I would have made the illusion so dangerous it would have scared you off.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

He tied off my braid. I turned around and pressed my lips to his. He closed his eyes and sighed, tilting his head for a better angle. After a moment, he pulled away just enough to whisper against my lips, “This passion, Angelica. I don’t think it’s you. I think it’s my influence on you.”

“We’ll see. If I still feel like I want to push you against a wall and kiss you when I’m at my house, far away from you, we’ll know whether this impulsive passion is you or all me.”

“I mean, I’m not complaining. But being with humans romantically is strongly discouraged. Most of us aren’t strong enough to resist the temptation of having fresh blood so close by so often.”

“Are you?”

“Look at what I’ve already done to you.” His fingers ghosted gently over the two scabbed wounds on the back of my neck.

“I let you,” I pointed out.

“But I went too far. It’s my fault.”

“You went through so much trouble wanting to be my friend and now you don’t want anything to do with me.”

“You’re wrong on one count and half-wrong on the other. You say I don’t want anything to do with you and that’s false. I want you to stay here. I want to be around you as often as possible. But I want you to be safe and I don’t think you will be if you stay with me. I’m not going to pretend like you didn’t hear Augustus talking this morning. Even other vampires don’t think it’s a good idea to stay in close proximity to even one human.”

“And what am I half-wrong about?”

“When you were a child I wanted to be your imaginary friend and protector. You were innocent and sweet but sharp as a tack.” He paused. “But, when you became an adult and you vented your problems to the walls and puzzled through them in a calm and collected manner, I started to feel differently.”

“You said something about how your fondness deepened?” I muttered.

“Yes. I fell for you. It’s one of the reasons my charm is so potent to you. My subconscious recognizes that my consciousness wants you closer and acts accordingly. If there was any supernatural blood in your veins, all of my abilities wouldn’t work on you. But you’re human so you get the full force of a predator’s adaptations to lure prey. And I don’t want to put you in danger.”

“Stick to the plan,” I said, swallowing thickly to force the other words I wanted to say down. “I go home and ask my family. If I still want you when I’m there the way I want you here, I’ll be back. If it’s just your charm, you’ll never have to see me cross your threshold uninvited ever again.”

I adjusted my jacket and moved to leave.

Killian snatched my wrist. “Angelica,” he said, tone almost pleading. “You’re always welcome here. As a friend. Even if you don’t want me the same way, I’ll accept it and always be here to welcome you back.”

“Killian, I...” I didn’t know what to say to that.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “I never want to pressure you into anything.”

“I know. You seem like an incredibly genuine man,” I said. “I’ll... probably come back.” I smiled and left the mansion, feeling in my pockets for my phone, iPod, speaker, and flashlight. I had everything I came in with.

The French braid left the two scabs on the back of my neck exposed, so I pulled the hood of my jacket up and bunched it on the back of my neck to hide them. My family’s reaction to them would confirm or deny Killian’s claims that my father and brother were hunters.

The farther away from the mansion in the woods I got, the more I felt like I could breathe. Like there had been some sort of tense cloud hanging over me that lifted as I put distance between me and the house.

That had never happened before. But, then again, I’d never had a conversation with the occupant of the house before last night.

The closer I got to home, the more I felt my heart pulling me back in the other direction. Toward Killian’s mansion. I wanted to go back. I’d felt safer there than I had... even in my own home. Maybe my instincts were reacting to my father and brother being lethal all along and Killian wasn’t lying to me. Because of course it had occurred to me that he was lying to me—he was a vampire and I was a vampire’s prey—but he’d never gone out of his way to lure me in before. In ten years of me using his house as a sanctuary he hadn’t spoken to me until last night.

Hmph.

I pushed my front door open. “I’m home!” I called into the void.

“Angel!” my mom exclaimed, slamming into me with a strong hug.

“Oh. Hi Mom.”

“You were gone all night last night!”

“I know. I’m okay, I promise,” I said.

“Don’t ever do that again, Angel, without telling me, okay? Where were you?!”

“I went to Gina’s house for the night. We just got talking and I passed out on the sofa.” I made a mental note to text Gina to tell her what I said so if my mom asked, she could cover for me. We had a mutual agreement to cover for each other, but without warning it could be hard.

“You scared me.”

I shucked off my jacket. “Sorry Mom.”

“Did Gina braid your hair?”

“Yeah.”

“Wait. Honey.” Mom caught my wrist as I moved to go into the kitchen to find some breakfast. “What’re these?” She brushed my braid off the back of my neck and revealed the bite wounds, touching each one gently. They were slightly tender and made me flinch.

“Mosquito bites. I itched them hard.” I went and found the toaster still out. “Are Dad and Sam home?”

“Dad’s at work. Sam’s upstairs with Diego.”

Diego was Sam’s best friend. If I knew them as well as I thought I did, they were probably upstairs playing Halo or Minecraft or something that they would shout at me for not understanding if I poked my head in.

“Okay. Just wondering.” I made some toast.

“So what are your plans today?”

“Think I’m gonna go on a hike.”

“Mom?!” Sam shouted from upstairs. “Is that Angelica?”

“Yeah!” Mom called.

Thundering footsteps preceded my brother’s entrance to the kitchen. “Where were you?” he demanded.

“Gina’s.” I ignored the hostility in his tone and munched on my toast. “Why do you care?”

“I was worried about you!”

“You’ve never worried about me once in your life.”

Sam shoved my braid onto my shoulder. “What are those?”

“Mosquito bites.”

“On your neck?”

“Yeah. Why? What’s it to you?” The hostility in my tone slowly ramped up until I wasn’t even bothering to hide it.

“Your hair was down last night. A mosquito wouldn’t be able to get to your neck.”

“You’ve never had the absolute horror of getting a bug stuck in your hair when it’s as long as mine,” I deadpanned. “Trust me when I say it is possible and it sucks.”

Sam blinked. “Can I talk to you alone?” He took me and my slices of toast out the back door, away from our mom and his best friend. “Those look like a vampire bite.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” I growled lowly so any neighbors outside wouldn’t hear.

“What?”

“You and Dad are vampire hunters, aren’t you? That’s why Dad travels so much for work.”

“How did you find out?”

There it was. Confirmation that my family lied to me.

“Does Mom know?”

Sam chewed his lower lip. “Yes.”

“Great. So I was the only one left in the dark. It all makes sense now, why you were the favorite child—endlessly indulged to misbehave while I was forced into domestic responsibility from a young age. You’re the one carrying on the family legacy.”

“Angel, you’ve been bitten by a vampire. Those wounds are fresh. Hours old. One fed off of you. You’re not turning—I’ve seen the transformation before—so tell me who it is and I’ll—”

“No,” I said. “What happens to me is none of your business.” I turned sharply and went back inside. I went up to my room and changed into a new hiking outfit. I heard Sam follow me up the stairs. He was glaring at me from the door to his bedroom as I emerged. “Mom I’m going on a hike!” I shouted.

“Take Sam and Diego with you!” Mom yelled from downstairs. “They could use some sunlight!”

“They’re not plants, Mom! I’ll be back in a couple hours!” I ran down the stairs, grabbed my water bottle, threw it in my backpack, and ran out the door. There was no doubt in my mind that Samuel would follow me trying to find out who the vampire was who bit me.

So I ran the whole way back to Killian’s mansion, trying to buy myself some time.

“Killian!” I shouted as I shoved the front door open. I was weak from blood-loss still and the run tired me out.

He was immediately in front of me. “What is it?”

Panting, I tried to speak. “Make... this place... look like... a ruin. And let’s... get out of here. My brother will follow me here. We just... need to buy... some time.”

“You confronted him.”

“He confronted me about the bite wounds.”

Killian scooped me up into his arms. Wind sped across my face, tangling the baby hairs that escaped my braid. “They lied to me,” I muttered.

“You came back to me.”

“I told you I would. I wasn’t gone for long but I felt like I was being pulled back here the whole time. I figured it out, Killian. I want you.”

Killian slowed to a stop. We were far away from the forest outside my town. Heck we were probably in another state. “You’re... you’re sure about that?” he asked, barely more than a whisper, setting me down.

I nodded. “Positive.” I tilted up onto my tiptoes and planted my lips on his. He kissed me back enthusiastically.

“I want you too.”

#original #original fiction #my writing #writing #fun fact #my name was almost Angel #hence why I chose Angelica #that flashback... is too long #I'm sorry #This thing is SO LONG #vampire #vampires

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bloodyshadow1 · 5 years

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You’re Not Easy, But You’re Worth It: Canon Lesbian

My prompt for Day 2: Canon Lesbian. read and review

The ride back from Fort McLair was quiet, disturbingly quiet, even for a quiet person like Yasha. It was supposed to be a simple job, but now…, the air around their cart was heavy. Yasha spared a glance at Beau whose foul mood radiated off of her making things feel dark. It wasn’t the monk’s fault, it was that damn wizard’s fault who tried to play with her mind back at the fort who was to blame. But he was dead, Beau killed him before they found her it was an uncomfortable sight to behold. Beau was a private person, a person who did her best to maintain a persona of not caring and cool strength, to be seen vulnerable like that by her friends hurt her more than they realized.

She wasn’t angry with them, Yasha knew that, Beau let Jester hug her and speak softly to her after they found her like that. She didn’t lash out or snap at anyone, she just hated that her friends had seen her raw and vulnerable like that and it radiated off of her miasmically.

It was supposed to be an easy job, there were rumors of ghosts haunting the old dilapidated fort and the nearby villagers were frightened of what lurked inside, so they hired a band of adventurers to deal with their problem. The Mighty Nein agreed to clear out their ghost problems for a promise of a reward and set out thinking it would be easy. After all they had two clerics on their team and Yasha was with them for now, they thought they could take on any undead that was haunting the old fort. Maybe they could have but it turns out that the old fort was haunted alright, but by cultists, not ghosts.

There were over a hundred of them, all dressed head to toe in the same black robes, infesting the ruins of the old fort. A cult of Morthog, a god none of them had heard of. They botched their stealth checks when they investigated the leader preaching to his word and he immediately ordered his flock to kill them. The Nein might be formidable in battle, but they were still outnumbered a hundred to seven, Yasha didn’t know who ordered them to retreat, but there was a call to run so they ran.

The Fort McLair was a maze of death traps, how anyone lived there before or lived there Yasha didn’t know, but there were pit traps, spears that shot from the walls, logs that would smash you if you tripped a string. It was awful trying to make it through, Beau was the first to fall through one of the pit traps, she pushed Caduceus out of the way when he was about to fall and disappeared in the floor below.

That was the first time Yasha thought her heart was going to explode, she trusted Beau as a fighter, she was…, magnificent when she was in battle, but the monk had a lot of weaknesses that the group made up for. Yasha didn’t like it when the little monk was out of her sight in battle. But they didn’t have time to go after her, Caleb and Nott both messaged Beau who told them that she was fine and that she would meet them outside, so they continued their escape, Yasha ignoring the pit in her stomach. They all got separated eventually, Fort McLair was likely poorly constructed in the best of times and the traps didn’t help. Fjord and Caduceus got separated by a falling wall, the ground collapsed the moment Jester and Caleb crossed them leaving a pit on the other side of a hall, which left her and Nott together.

It was rough at first, the little goblin was prone to panicking worrying about the others, especially her poor squishy wizard manchild, and Yasha wasn’t the best people person to calm her down, but eventually they managed to recenter themselves, so they could what needed to be done. It turned out that the two of them were a deadly combination together in battle. Yasha’s blade fueled by her tranquil fury found itself buried in a dozen cultist bodies stopping any that tried to ignore her to get to the smaller target. While Nott’s crossbow bolts flew true whenever a robed figure tried to slip a poisoned blade in the barbarian’s unguarded back before slipping back into the shadows to mark her next target.

After a half hour and a dozen different message spells flying around they managed to regroup with the others, except for Beau who was still lost. By that point most of the cultists were dead, unconscious, or fleeing. A hundred robed figures might have been able to crush the seven of them like a wave crushed a sandcastle, but separately hunting four separate groups of intruders took away most of their power. Jester and Caduceus managed to heal up the minor wounds they suffered, and they decided that it was safe enough to search for Beau who remained lost to them. The rest of the party didn’t seem as worried as Yasha was, at least on the outwardly, Jester said she was sure that Beau was fine, probably doing some cool monk shit and took out a million cultists on her own. Nott even joked that Beau was probably using her secret agent training to use and assassinating dozens of bad guys a second. Yasha tried to believe them, but there was a sense of uneasiness in her stomach that wouldn’t go away.

When they approached a chamber, they heard the sounds of fists hitting flesh and rushed in knowing it would be Beau’s handiwork. But once they got inside they saw something they never thought they’d see, Beau was on top of the robed figure smashing her fists into where the man’s head would have been turning his face into hamburger. She was covered with the man’s blood and tears were streaming down the little monk’s face as she shouted, “I’m not broken,” or “I’m not worthless,” over and over as if it was some sort of twisted mantra.

They were all in shock, Yasha didn’t think she’d ever see Beau cry, she didn’t think any of them did. “Beau,” Jester was the first to break out of the stupor, “Beau he’s dead, you don’t need to punch him anymore.” But Beau either didn’t hear her or didn’t care as she kept slamming her fists where the man’s head used to be the squishing sounds soon gave way to duller thuds of knuckles hitting stone.

By that point Jester was getting closer but Yasha was faster and grabbed one of Beau’s raised fists so she wouldn’t strike the stone beneath her again. She didn’t expect Beau to lash out and try and swing at her with her free hand. Yasha could see Beau’s large blue eyes lost in their rage, she was paler than usual, much paler and her face snarled like a wild animal. Yasha had always known Beau could hold her own in a fight having fought beside her so often. She was fast, tricky and determined a deadly combination, but part of her always thought that fighting with your bare hands was foolish. Yasha had been punched in the face before, a fist can’t do the same damage as her great sword or the spells the rest used, and you risk damaging your hands, your only weapons, each time you attack. But when she saw Beau’s fist fly towards her face she suddenly realized why Beau did what she did.

The fist never made contact, Beau somehow managed to shrug off whatever madness she was under and stopped her attack an inch away from Yasha’s eye, though the quick stop splashed some of the cultist’s blood on the barbarian’s. “Yasha,” Beau said weakly, “what happened,” she said staggering. “Shit are you bleeding,” the monk exclaimed in shock when she saw the blood on Yasha’s face, she reached up to touch what she thought was a wound but stopped when she saw her own hands first. She was covered in blood from her elbows to her knees, her eyes went wide remembering what had happened.

“Beau,” Jester interrupted quietly, “are you okay Beau?” She watched the whole scene worried about her friend and when Beau lashed out at Yasha she almost screamed.

Hands covered in blood Beau desperately tried to wipe the tears away as if it would remove the memory of her crying and what she was saying from her friend’s minds. “Yeah Jester, I’m fine,” she said lying to her best friend’s face. “A little banged up and tired,” she admitted, “I got a few cuts and bruises, but hey, I found the leader,” she gestured to the now headless man’s body, as if it would make things normal. “He kind of got the jump on me and used some weird magic that fucked me up for a while, but I managed to break out of it.”

“Do you mind if I rummage through his pockets,” Nott asked nervously as if she had never seen the monk before, “I’ll give you what I find since you got him, but you’re looking a bit wobbly.”

“Actually, yeah Nott that would be great,” Beau said exhaustion written all over her face, “my head’s kind of spinning so I think I need to sit down,” she said almost falling over. She probably would have if Yasha wasn’t still holding on to one of her wrists.

“Come on,” Caduceus said walking over to the exhausted monk, “let’s get some healing into you.” For a moment the amethyst on his staff and his outstretched hand glowed as he touched Beauregard. As the healing magic did it’s work a few of her cuts closed up and the paleness lessened, leaving her skin a healthier darker tone. “There we go, I’m pretty tapped but once we get to the cart I can do a bit more, but you should be fine for now,” he assured in his oh so soft tones.

“Thanks Cad,” Beau said still looking a bit uneasy, she tried to give a smile in appreciation but all she managed was something that would give children nightmares. She did look slightly better at least.

She still seemed a bit unsteady though, “if you’re not feeling a 100% I could carry you to the cart,” Yasha offered knowing how much Beau loved being in her arms. Purely for Beau’s benefit of course.

But while she would normally jump for a chance to be carried by Yasha, instead Beau’s face turned angry again, “I’m not weak or broken,” she roared, “I don’t need to be coddled!” It took her a second to realize what she had said and instantly her face changed from anger to regret, “I-I’m sorry Yasha,” her voice full of remorse. “I didn’t mean to yell, I think that bastard’s magic might have done something with my head.”

Beau sounded genuinely apologetic and miserable, “it’s fine Beau, another time,” Yasha offered to save her friend from embarrassment. Beau lashing out at her stung, but she knew that whatever happened in the room had hurt Beau in ways magic couldn’t cure and tried not to take it personally.

“Thanks, I think I just need a good night’s sleep,” Beau said trying to sound believable and failing horribly, “and a bath,” she said looking down at herself. The cult leader’s blood had seeped into her clothes from her pants to her vest and arm wraps, she didn’t often care about her appearance, but it was kind of noticeable and made her look scary instead of unkempt.

“All things we can get at the inn,” Fjord said breaking in when she saw how uncomfortable Beau was getting. “I think most of those assholes are gone and since Beau took care of their leader here I don’t think they’ll be coming back. Hopefully this will be a wakeup call for them and most of those people will just go home.”

“Or maybe they’ll come back and be the antagonist down the line in fifty episodes,” the ceiling/sky voice called out and there was laughter for a moment. As always like the rest of Exandria the Mighty Nein did their best to ignore him, it was a nice male voice, kind of sexy while being nerdy and friendly, but since none of them knew why or how it happened, there was a universal agreement that no one was to interact with the Sky Voice and just go about their lives when he makes a comment.

“A moment Beauregard,” Caleb said approaching the other human of the group, “there are many spells that can affect the mind in nefarious ways, some just go away when they are broken while others have a sinister happen of coming back on their intended target. I just want to check to make sure whatever magics the man used against you did not have a lasting effect. It will only take a moment, if it is alright with you.”

It looked like Beau wanted to argue, but she was so tired and she knew how Caleb felt about mind effecting magic, “fine as long as you’re quick about it.” And they managed to sit her down on a box, Yasha finally letting go of her arm so Caleb could do a quick examination.

He asked her a few questions, his eyes glowing while they did, ‘did the man say anything, what gestures did he make, did he look like a powerful mage?’ To which Beau answered, ‘I don’t remember,’ ‘he pulled a roll of paper out of his pocket to cast the spell,’ ‘why does it matter, he’s dead now anyway,’ trying to pretend like she was her normal stubborn self.

“Something from his pocket you say,” Caleb said stepping away from Beau finishing his investigation. “I don’t sense anything wrong with you per say, but it would help if I knew what spell he cast on you. Are you sure-,” he started to say but Beau cut him off.

“Look Caleb, I appreciate the concern, but I feel fine and but I’m exhausted. I agreed to your little examination and you said you didn’t sense anything,” Beau said in her usual abrasive tone. If I remember anything in the morning, I’ll tell you but for now I really just want to get out of here before he stinks up the place worse than you and get a good night’s sleep.”

“Ja, of course Beauregard,” Caleb said relenting his investigation for now, though he still seemed suspicious.

“Great, let’s get out of here,” Beau said forcing herself off the box and strode out of the room on uneven legs.

“Wait Beau, you shouldn’t go off alone,” Jester said running to catch up to her. If she hadn’t Yasha would have as she moved to follow them.

Before she left though she heard what the others were saying in hushed tones, “well what do you think it was Caleb, you’re the magic expert,” Fjord asked as quietly as he could.

“I don’t know,” Caleb admitted with a sigh, “I was not lying when I told her that there are many types of magic that effect the mind, certain spells can only be cast by wizards, others by clerics, so I have no idea what was cast or even where to look. The scroll makes things trickier, as it could be any spell known to arcana, and when they’re used they tend to be used up completely.”

“I found some remains of it maybe,” Nott said breaking into the conversation. “Jester and I also found a few rings which ran off with, a necklace, and a large purse of a hundred platinum,” which was the last thing Yasha heard before leaving the room. She wouldn’t be much help sifting through magic spells, she’d be more helpful guarding Beau and Jester from anything that might pop up.

About a half hour later they had combed through the remains of the cultists for anything valuable, they got a lot of knives and some poison, and in total the other cultists might have had a hundred gold between them. Beau was clearly agitated and tired, but she rested on the cart and kept her mouth shut. Jester took a spot next to her, “I don’t want you to be pouty all alone,” she said when Beau questioned her.

“I’m not being pouty,” Beau said humfring to prove Jester right, but she didn’t protest the cleric’s company. Yasha felt an uncomfortable feeling in her guts at that, a feeling she didn’t like and pretended didn’t exist. It was good that Beau was letting Jester comfort her, it was a good thing and Yasha should be glad was letting someone do it, even if she had snapped at Yasha when she tried.

It was a long ride back to the village, even with Jester doing her best to keep Beau’s spirits up the monk was clearly ready for a week of sleep. The villagers crowded around them all asking questions about the ghosts, not giving them a chance to answer. Beau looked like she was going to kill someone if they didn’t get out of her way so Yasha, Jester, and Nott took her to the inn they were staying at leaving the charismatic party members behind to explain what happened and collect their payment.

The Rusting Tankard wasn’t exactly the most inviting name for their needs, but it did claim to have hot water for bathing and rooms for sale which was good enough for them. They didn’t have a laundry service, it wasn’t Zadash, but the baths were nice, tubs, not a large communal bath like a bathhouse would have but hot water all the same. When the inn keeper saw the state Beau was in she offered to only charge half the normal fee for the bath if the monk promised she wouldn’t set foot in her common room again until she was washed.

Caduceus offered to take care of the bloodstains on Beau’s clothes, he said something about the red not mingling well with the blues. It would take a while, but he said he could do it. Beau told him he didn’t have to, it was just clothes and she could buy another outfit, but he told her it would be fine. They all knew Beau was full of bullshit, she could get new clothes of course, but her clothes were her monk uniform, she’s been wearing them since before they all met, there’s something sentimental about that, even if she didn’t want to admit it. So, Beau took a hot steamy bath that got the blood off of her and made her feel like a person again, Jester offered to bath her but the monk turned her down saying it would be weird. After which Beau was stuck in a pair of work breeches and a brown shirt that the inn keeper’s son had long out grown. Beau had been offered a dress, with which the inn keeper said she’d look so much prettier if she actually dressed like a woman, Fjord managed to use that old half-orc charm to let them not get kicked out after the things Beau said to the woman.

After that it was a quick dinner, after which Fjord and Caduceus insisted Beau go to bed, of course despite the monk saying she needed sleep she fought them all the way. Eventually with Jester’s help, Yasha managed to wrangle Beau upstairs to the room and force her into the bed. “A pair of strong beautiful women dragging me to their room, are you sure I’m not already dreaming,” Beau asked them cheesily. Both Jester and Yasha agreed that they didn’t blush at that stupid line and anything that Beau saw that might be mistaken for such things was because of her mental trauma.

After that Beau fell asleep right away which was understandable. Jester stayed up a bit longer drawing in her sketch book to show the Traveler before conking out too. Yasha took up her sitting position on the floor as always, Beau and Jester often offered to switch or share the bed with her, but she always turned them down. She was used to the floor and it was fine enough, a wooden floor was softer than the ground she normally slept on.

Yasha fell asleep eventually, it was always a struggle with her nightmares, but it always came eventually. But she was a light sleeper, in Xhorhas you had to be, or you might not wake up. Beau’s feet crossing the wood roused her from her slumber and Yasha’s eyes flashed open ready for danger, but there was just Beau leaning against the wall sweeting. It felt strange for Yasha watching Beau in the darkness, knowing that Beau couldn’t see her. Yasha knew that she was doing nothing wrong, she wasn’t watching Beau as she slept, Beau woke her up and she had yet to go to sleep was all that it was, but it felt strange all the same.

Yasha watched Beau standing there in the darkness and wondered what she was doing. At first Yasha wondered if Beau just needed to use the bathroom down the hall, but when she saw the monk take her boots with her when she left the room Yasha knew something was up. She left a quick note for Jester in case the tiefling woke up and followed the monk. Yasha wasn’t the best at being quiet she wasn’t awful but she was just too big to be graceful outside of battle. But while Beau normally was perceptive, she only had human eyes and was distracted, she didn’t even bring her goggles when she left.

Yasha followed the Monk outside of the inn and eventually outside of the town, in the moonlight, one moon was even full making it easy for her. When Beau left the town limits Yasha started to get worried, maybe Caleb had been right and the spell had done something to Beau’s mind. When Beau got to the edge of the forest that neighbored the small town Yasha wondered if she should stop Beau from leaving town, she wondered if she should go back and find the others, but she didn’t. Yasha didn’t know why she didn’t, but she followed Beau into the dark forest all the same.

The tiny monk kept going through the forest for another few minutes until she found where she wanted to be. It didn’t look like anything special to Yasha, but Beau seemed to think it was perfect for whatever she was doing out there. Sitting down Beau mediated for a few minutes, she was never good at it and could never do it for very long even now, but it did help to center herself, to let her feel like her Ki was a part of her rather than a resource to use.

The monk of the Cobalt Soul focused the best she could, the nightmares still whispered in her ear, but maybe if she wasn't just imagining it, maybe they were a bit quieter, So it didn’t work, Beau didn’t walk all the way out there to mediate, and with that she got up from her sitting position and turned to the trees and started swinging away..

Yasha watched all of this with a sense of fascination, she had seen Beau fight many times, but that was always practiced martial arts. This Beau was different she wasn't using any of the martial arts that the monks beat into her, she looked beautiful in the moonlight was all Yasha could think of. Beau was beautiful she always had been, Yasha never denied that despite being resistant to the monk’s advances. Beau might be short but that was no problem for Yasha But there was always something that felt like Beau was holding back part of herself.

This Beauregard was different from her normal self, Beau had always seemed surprisingly reserved in the eyes of the barbarian, but now this raw, angry Beau who was trying to exhaust herself was like Yasha was seeing her without holding herself back like she was watching Beau rage without being in battle. The vulnerability Beau was was exhibiting was something that made Yasha feel dirty observing without her knowledge, but it was hard to look away. When the first tree fell Yasha was in awe seeing what Beau could do with her bare hands. But when the tears started to fall from Beau’s face and she collapsed to the ground weeping, though Yasha knew she couldn’t watch this anymore, watching her punch trees wildly was one thing, but this was too private.

Of course, the gods had a sense of humor though, despite being able to follow Beau silently since she left their room, a rouge twig gave her away. “Who’s there,” Beau shouted, her throat raw from crying and sounding exhausted but looked ready to unleash her anger on a real foe.

Sighing, Yasha stepped out from behind the tree that had been her shelter and into the moonlight, “it’s me Beauregard.”

“Yasha,” Beau said more than asked sounding confused, “what are you doing out here?”

“I you woke me up when you left the room,” Yasha said thinking honesty was the best policy. “After what happened today I was worried that you weren’t in the right mind. I thought maybe you were leaving.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to walk away, I know that’s your thing,” Beau said and it hurt Yasha’s heart to know she was right. Noticing the hurt on Yasha’s face Beau felt ashamed, “I’m sorry, I’m upset that I was being spied on, but I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine,” Yasha lied, “you didn’t say anything that was untrue.”

“Yeah, but I didn't’ say it because it was true,” Beau said ashamed, “I said it because I wanted it to hurt you, so I’m sorry.”

“Beauregard,” Yasha said softly, “what happened today with the cult leader? I won’t tell anyone but you need to talk to someone if only so you don’t have to carry the burden alone.” when it looked like Beau was just going to wave her off, Yasha decided to play dirty, “Molly taught me that you know,” it was true, but it also wasn’t fair.

“That’s some cheap shit, Yasha,” Beau said with a huff.

“Perhaps,” Yasha admitted, she knows how much Molly’s death weighs on Beau, “but it’s the type of cheap move that gets results, which he would care about more if it was with someone he cared about.”

For a moment Beau was quiet, and Yasha thought she pushed too hard, “it was my dad,” Beau said with a hint of finality. “Whatever the good Reverend’s spell did to me…, I saw my dad. Except, I wasn’t me anymore, I was back to being a little girl and he seemed so much bigger than he is in real life, just as much of an asshole though.” And like that, the dam began to break, “he was yelling at me again like he always did, calling me worthless, that I was nothing, that I was born broken, all things he’s said since I was eight, but then he called me unloveable and I don’t know why but something broke inside of me and I flipped out on him. I’m not sure if I broke the spell or if I just swung hard enough at what I thought was my dad to disrupt the reverend’s spell, but it happened. I didn’t stop swinging though, not when he surrendered, not when he begged for mercy, not when he stopped saying anything,” Beau said softly as she remembered the squishing of the man’s remains beneath her.

“Why do you think it bothered you so much, what the projection of your father said,” Yasha asked at a loss. She wanted to help Beauregard, she wanted to help her so much but she wasn’t good at this sort of thing. She wasn’t like Molly who could get anyone to talk just by being him and she wasn’t like Caduceus that managed to help everyone he talked to.

“Because he was right,” Beau shouted as she turned away from Yasha, tears were starting to fall down her face again and she didn’t want Yasha to see. “Because I’m broken, I’m worthless, and I’m nothing. But he was right, I’m unloveable,” and Yasha had never heard Beau’s voice sounding so weak and defeated.

Before Beau could say another word though she felt Yasha’s massive arms wrap around her from behind, “don’t say that Beau,” Yasha whispered into her back. “Don’t say that son of a bitch was right because he isn’t. You are amazing, you are beautiful, and you are loved, so don’t listen to those voices in your head that are telling you otherwise. They’re lying to you, so don’t listen to them.” She didn’t know what to say, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to try to help and she just let the truth flow out.

Yasha could feel the smaller woman weeping in her arms and didn’t say anything, she didn’t need to trip over the words, she just needed for Beau to know she was there, and that someone cared about her.

Gonna level with you, I sort of rushed the ending. It’s close to 10:00 pm here on thursday night which means Critical Role is on so I needed to get this up and posted because I don’t want to write it during the episode. So here’s my work for the prompt Canon Lesbian, which Beau is and she’s my favorite character. I think Yasha is too, and I headcanon her as a lesbian, but all we know is that she does is attracted to women, obviously since she was married to one. ��This was an odd piece, originally it was supposed to be from Beau’s perspective and end after she broke the spell, and honestly it was supposed to be more Beaujester than Beauyasha, but I decided to make the change for some reason. I’ll do a Beaujester one shot later but for now this is my second story for CRfemslash week. Read and comment if you want more, it helps more than you would think.

PS for those who might be curious, the spell that was cast on Beau was Weird, a ninth level spell. The Reverend who I call Joffell was wealthy and stumbled upon treasure he didn’t realize the worth of, but he was also an idiot who wasted a 9th level spell because Beau pissed him off in the first draft of the story.

#critical role #critical role spoilers #the mighty nein #beau #beauregard #beauyasha #yasha #crfemslashweek #critrolefemslashweek #cr #cr spoilers #fanfiction #fanfic

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thewhitelady · 6 years

Text

Eilean Mo Chridhe (14)

Whaaat, two chapters in one week? Mark this on your calendars - it’s a miracle. Thanks for all the amazing feedback, you all rock!

14 | Previous

The forward operating base was staged in the remains of a once beautiful, vibrant Belgian farming town. Now, the people were gone, long since evacuated from the rubble that was their homes, and the military had moved in. The few buildings that were still fully standing, lucky enough to have somehow missed the constant barrage of shelling, had become the hospital and administrative buildings, all surrounded by dilapidated stone frameworks. It was in one of the ruins that Jamie eventually found Claire, preparing for Rabbie’s great escape.

There was no roof or windows and two of the walls had fallen but the former home was well sheltered from view, looking simply like rubble from the road. Claire had turned what was left of the chimney into a makeshift table where she would grind her herbs, away from the prying eyes of the hospital staff.

With time ticking down on Jamie’s 36-hour leave pass and Claire about to be preoccupied with helping them save their brother’s life, there was a few things he needed to speak with her about before it was too late.

“There ye are, lass,” he greeted as he walked over a pile of bricks where the front door once stood.

“I’m just deciding on the easiest way to administer an antidote,” Claire explained. “There are a few different herbs that can counteract a dose of alkaloids of this size. The simplest way would be to use activated carbon but I don’t know where I would find that around here.”

“How is it better?” Jamie asked. The passion Claire showed in her letters for healing and botany seemed subdued in comparison to hearing her speak of it and he wished he had forever to listen to her explain the how’s and why’s.

“It’s extremely absorbent,” Claire said. “It’s able to bind to molecules and remove substances that have already dissolved. A dose of activated carbon would have the belladonna out of your brother’s system almost immediately.”

“Speaking of my brother…”

He paused long enough to move around the table so they were mere inches away. So close Jamie could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the soft hairs of her arms standing on end to meet his. He lowered his head to look into her whisky-coloured eyes, hoping she wouldn’t think him daft for what he was about to suggest.

“I want ye to go wi’ him.”

“With your brother? To help him out of Belgium?”

“No,” he said, taking a light grip of Claire’s biceps. She felt so delicate, his hands easily wrapping full around to meet in the middle. “I want ye to go to Scotland, Claire. Get awa’ from this bloody place.”

“I can’t go to Scotland!” she scoffed, trying to move away though his hold on her prevented it. “I’m needed here.”

“Claire,” Jamie said with eyes pleading. “I need ye. I canna focus on keeping myself alive if I dinnae ken yer safe and if I die, I need to ken you’ll be taken care of.”

“How would I be taken care of?” Claire questioned. “It could be months before we ever made it to Scotland - ports are closed, I have no money. Do you expect me to wander the European countryside with a man I’ve never met then show up on your family’s doorstep looking for them to take care of me if you don’t come home? I can take care of myself.”

Tears were welling in her eyes at speaking the words of Jamie’s possible future aloud and he brushed them away softly as they tumbled over the edge and onto her cheeks.

“I ken ye can. It’s one of the many things I love about ye. But...they’ll be your folk, too,” he assured her. “As my wife.”

“Your wife?” she repeated quietly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life, mo nighean donn.”

“But how?”

Jamie smiled knowingly, “Lass, if there’s anything this army has plenty of it’s priests. Say the word and we could be wed afore supper.”

Claire’s heart rate increase as a thrill of excitement shot through her, leaving a trail of goose pimples in its wake. With every letter she got from Jamie over the months, deep down she had secretly hoped one of them would include an offer of marriage. This wasn’t exactly how she had ultimately envisioned their union taking place but if this was what being with him would mean, then she would take it.

“Won’t we rouse suspicion, when I’m the one who treats your brother?”

“They willna ken,” he assured her. “By the time anyone could even notice anything amiss, ye’ll both be gone. Ye must promise me that ye’ll go. So much of yer life has been spent taking care of somebody else, Claire. Let me take care of you now.”

“Yes.”

***

“Jamie, where are ye goin’?” Willie called out as Jamie made his way quick march across the camp.

“To find a priest!”

“Not to confession, I hope!”

Jamie rolled his eyes, it was just like his brother to assume he wouldn’t make it a full hour before he needed to confess his sins to the Almighty.

“Dinna fash, a bhalaich. I need to see the man about a wedding!”

Willie was stunned into silence as they continued to walk along the uneven road, dodging stretcher bearers and men on horseback.

“Jamie, ye’ve never even mentioned this lass before and now ye want to marry her?”

“Willie,” Jamie stopped and turned to his brother, holding him by both shoulders as he looked into the face that was so much like his own in spite of their many differences. “I’ve loved Claire since the very moment I laid eyes on her, months ago. She’s the only lass I want tae be wi’. If I die, I want to ken my pension goes to her. Trust me when I say she’s the only lass for me.”

Though his brother was ranting something about his lunacy, Jamie didn’t quite hear the words, distracted by a supply wagon just behind where they stood. Two men were unloading the wagon with crates destined for the front full of rations, trench timbers, ammunition and other necessities.

“Go find a priest, I have tae do something,” he muttered, pushing Willie toward the administration buildings, ignoring his brother’s weak protests as the elder walked off in a huff to complete the task.

Jamie took a quick inventory of the contents of the wagon as he approached the two men unloading and cataloging everything.

“Excuse me!” he announced his presence, catching the attention of the supply crew. They both hopped to attention, saluting him in recognition for his rank. “Were you not instructed to bring this crate to the hospital, Private?”

The men looked both curious and confused by the small crate Jamie had pointed out, just one of a set of ten that was on the back of the wagon.

“That one, Sir?”

“Yes,” Jamie acknowledged. “Clearly the message wasn’t delivered in a timely fashion. I’ll take it myself!”

“Sir, I think perhaps we should wait until the message…”

“Private!” Jamie interrupted, standing at full height, back ramrod straight to make the two feel more inferior than they already did. “I said I’ll take it myself. They need this over at the hospital straight away.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Jamie picked up the small crate from the back of the wagon, walking casually away from the supply station until he was out of sight and able to break into a full sprint back to where he’d left Claire. He burst over the rubble holding the small crate victoriously in front of himself.

“That’s not a priest,” she said rhetorically.

“No, it’s not,” Jamie chuckled. She looked on in curiosity as he pulled a knife from his belt and pried open the wooden crate. “Ye said ye needed activated carbon, yes?”

“Yes, why…” Claire began to ask when Jamie triumphantly pulled out a small box respirator. A face mask was connected to a corrugated tube with a filter on the end for soldiers to use during chlorine gas attacks in the trenches. Jamie pulled the filter free from the tube and using the knife, separated the top from the base so she could see the black powder inside.

“Activated carbon, lass. I found it.”

Claire let out a whoop of joy, jumping into Jamie’s arms so fast he nearly dropped the filter. He wrapped one arm tightly around her, unable to keep himself from pressing his lips firmly against hers. They tentatively explored, each taking a turn tugging the other’s bottom lip gently. Reluctantly, Jamie pulled away, dropping one final kiss to Claire’s nose.

“Ahem,” Willie cleared his throat to both announce his presence and dispel some of the sexual tension in the room, “Yer priest is here and he’s willing to wed ye.”

#eilean mo chridhe #outlander secret santa 2017 #yes I'm still writing this #I'm just slow #for: akb723 #20th century au #WWI au #outlander fanfiction #outlander fanfic #jamie x claire

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the-roanoke-society · 6 years

Text

the condemned.

once upon a time in louisiana, something went awry.

featuring @agent-houdini and, in a roundabout way, agent whiskey of statesman.

go tell aunt rhody, go tell aunt rhody, go tell aunt rhody, everybody’s dead...

figures. give the quartermaster a wet dream, get a nightmare in return. fair play, universe.

houdini woke slowly.

she savored the rare morning off, a gentle, natural awakening as opposed to an alarm jolting her from a dead sleep to go train the newest round of recruits. she inhaled, deep, stretched and—oh. that’s right. jack was in new york.

she missed the familiar weight, the warmth of him next to her, but… it did allow her to stretch her limbs out in every direction as far as they would go. she laid like that for a moment before rolling up and reaching for her specs on her nightstand.

as soon as she slipped them on, she could see a small red dot in the upper corner. a new transmission. she opened it.

the imagery that met her turned her blood to cotton.

it was seraphim. and she looked awful.

the feed was timestamped at a little over one o’ clock in the morning. houdini frowned. seraphim had been afield for at least a week, somewhere down in louisiana. she hadn’t given anyone the specifics of what she was doing, she’d just—left.

“… good morning.”

seraphim began, her voice rough. she was facing her specs, recording, in an unfamiliar room. the familiar tinge of green that came with night vision mode cloaked all the visuals. even past that, houdini could see her skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. it almost made it look like she was made of plastic. “i’m ah—i’m sorry, if this wakes you. but i—you’re the only one i trust with this.” a crooked smile.

her speech was… something was wrong. was she drunk? drugged? where even was she? “i’m not sure how much time i have so i’ll try to make this quick. if i do this the right way, your specs should start loading my coordinates riiiight about—now.” codes started to manifest in the opposite corner. latitude, longitude, a map. she was deep in the bayou. “and some other files i thought might be useful.”

a logo. red, white.

what was the umbrella corporation?

“remember the drug cartel? in santa fe? regla de perro blanco?” seraphim continued, and coughed. “i ah, did a bit more research, when we got back. lauren, this thing—went a lot deeper then we thought.” she swallowed, shaking her head, looking at the floor for a beat. “i don’t know what this corporation is, i’m—i’m not even sure i can explain what’s happening now.” seraphim shifted, and pain ghosted across her face.

“… it’s something unholy.” she sighed, glancing around the room. ‘room’ was a generous word. houdini squinted. dilapidated carpentry, old stone. more like a dungeon, she thought. a prison cell. if seraphim was sitting on something—a chair, maybe just a mattress on a floor—she couldn’t see it. “i came here alone, thinking that i’d be able to handle what i thought i was going to be a little bit of reconnaissance, field research. the same occult ties we saw in new mexico are everywhere here. they’d—on my way in they’d made an altar out of the bodies of deer, and…”

and for the first time, houdini saw fear in the agent’s eyes. “i was wrong. i should’ve listened to harry when he told me about james.” another nervous grin. “rae’s, uh, rae’s gonna be pissed when i get back.”

the more she spoke, houdini realized that no, she wasn’t drunk. she wasn’t drugged. she was sick. tendrils of dark hair had curled against her forehead, and there were dark smatters of something down the front of her shirt. houdini couldn’t tell what it was. she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

but through the feed, seraphim looked squarely at the camera, meeting houdini’s eyes. her expression was equal parts physical discomfort, a subtle horror, and a not-so-subtle despair.

a woman alone in a cold, dark room.

“this is me formally sending a distress signal. you and jack—well, jack hopefully after you’re finished watching this—are now officially the only agents who know my whereabouts and that i have been—detained.” her cadence slowed. her words were being carefully chosen.

“and i am choosing the both of you, because you were with me in new mexico. and therefore you both—“ more coughing, a bit more violent. “—you both would understand why i came down here. this—this was—“ she made a vague gesture. “an accident. if—if i’d known—“ she ran her hands through her hair. she was shaking. “guess i’m not as strong as i thought i was, huh?” she tried to laugh, but houdini could see tears forming in her eyes.

she’d never seen seraphim this scared before and it was disturbing on a level she couldn’t quite articulate. their fearless leader, not so fearless anymore.

“and tell—tell merlin—“ for a second, seraphim couldn’t speak. she lifted a hand to her mouth, gazed off at some far-off point, breathing. trying to regain her composure. but her voice was thick when she began, “—lauren, i need you to lie to him. i need you to tell him whatever he needs to hear so that he’s not worried. he—he can’t know i’m down here, even lillith just knows i’m somewhere in the state, and… and i know, it’s already been a few days, i know hamish’s going to get suspicious, might already be but—“

tears began to roll down her cheeks. the night vision caught two separate glints of light—a cross around her neck, and her engagement band on her left hand. she wiped at her face, “—there’s nothing for it, lauren. you can ask him for any new tech, that’s it. this is a road that would swallow a quartermaster whole. and if—if you and jack can’t find me, or it’s been three weeks since this transmission and i’m not back…”

more coughing, this time so aggressive that seraphim bent in half out of frame. when she sat back up, she wiped at her mouth, and was that a smear of blood on the back of her hand? jesus, what had been done to her?

she stuttered out her next words, and houdini had a horrendous thought that maybe she was still choking on whatever dark substance had just come up her throat. she thought she was going to be sick for a second. “… w-well. in that case. tell him the truth. i asked you to cover for me, because i wanted to protect him, and—“ seraphim’s voice was steady, but she was weeping. “—that he was the love of my life. and it’s—“ she swayed, as if faint. don’t pass out, morgan, not yet-- “—i want to minimize the damage of what i have done.”

there were creaks. they sounded distant. seraphim abruptly froze, eyes wide, body stiff. listening. and houdini pressed her specs into her face, hearing what might’ve been footsteps over seraphim’s holding cell through an old wooden floor, not realizing that she’d been holding her breath until it was over.

seraphim waited until they’d passed. then closed her eyes, let out a smooth exhale. smiled. she whispered, “… but we’ll do as jack says, as burn that bridge when we get there. i will see you soon.” seraphim reached out then to grab the glasses, and the feed visuals shifted as she moved to shut them off. “help me lauren-wan kenobi—“ more footage of the room. “—you’re my only h—“

a gasp. a quick image at the very last second of the feed that passed too quickly.

then nothing.

houdini was fighting to not have a panic attack.

she reopened the transmission, fast-forwarding to the last few seconds, purposefully slowing the frames.

there was nothing about the building that seraphim was being held in that was helpful. it was rotting, it was condemned, and looked like many properties she’d seen the exorcist cleanse with agent succubus. garbage and—bones? all over the floor. scattered papers. she caught the corner of a stained box spring. a few empty budweiser bottles.

and that final frame.

jail-like bars. a doorway. light spilling out behind a man easily as tall as merlin, and twice as wide. the light blacked out all of his features, but caught on the lenses of his glasses.

in an apartment in new york, a phone screen lit up.

[8:46 AM]

sweetheart calling . . .

#agent houdini #agent whiskey #statesman #agent seraphim #once upon a time in louisiana #mission files #lies & lessons #hymns & holograms #(we'll call this a resident evil au idea.)#(and i suppose there are many timelines when many handles are asked--)#(how far will you go to save your token exorcist?)

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 7 years

Text

Balance on the Head of a Pin

Chapter Eight

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x Reader | Word Count: 3334 Warnings: Fluff, swearing

The walk to her Gran’s saw them moving in companionable silence as Loki’s mind was filled with the vision of Lauren in her dress. Technically it was filled with images of him peeling her out of said dress, but he wasn’t one for splitting hairs. It had been so soft under his fingers, her skin warming it through and him in return. The idea of her bare beneath would stay with him for days until he could ascertain for himself just what clever confection of satin or silk Sadie would put her in to keep those pesky panty lines at bay.

It wasn’t until she led him down a narrow dirt road out of town that he snapped out of his musings. “Darling, just where does your Gran’s home reside?”

She smiled up at him and linked their fingers. “Down this way. She’s a bit eccentric, but she ain’t crazy like Daddy said. She’s… well, you’ll see.”

“She’s quite special to you.” Here again, she had nerves blooming, but where meeting her family had created nerves of fear, these were nerves of excitement. Clearly, his meeting her Gran was far more important to her than meeting her parents had been.

“Gran was my safe place, my savin’ grace. She gave me a place to come when home got to be too much.” Lauren slowed to a gait no quicker than a lazy amble. “Growin' up here was… difficult. Marabeth was the golden girl. Straight A student, Captain of the cheer squad, homecomin’ queen and all around darlin’. She was perfect as she was expected to be, and she held me to impossible standards. I wasn’t her and couldn’t compete.”

He squeezed her fingers, offering comfort and encouragement without words.

“Cissy was the baby. She was… beautiful right from the beginnin’. I can remember being no more than five or six and thinkin' I’d never seen a more beautiful baby. I was so proud she was my sister. I thought, “Here. Here is a sister who will love me like Marabeth couldn’t.” I should’a known Marabeth wouldn’t let that happen.” She sighed and looked away.

“What do you mean, Lauren?" How could one sibling stop the other from caring for the first? No one could have turned him against Thor. Yes they had their rivalries, and eventually, his jealousy had caused him to turn his back on his brother himself, but before that, he would have given his life for Thor.

“Marabeth was and still is very good at tellin’ people a grey truth. They’re not exactly a lie, but she can take a seemingly harmless comment and twist it to mean somethin' else entirely. It’s what makes her a good lawyer.”

The pain seemed to ripple from her in waves.

“And she did this with you and Cissy?”

Lauren nodded. “I didn’t know until it was too late how Marabeth had been whisperin’ in Cissy’s ear, tellin' her things like how I hated her because she was the baby and had taken my position in the family, or how I thought she was hideous and ugly. None of it was true, but then Mama and Daddy heard Marabeth talkin’ and…” She shrugged.

He stopped dead center of the road. Anger and shock filled him. “They believed your sister? They believed Marabeth over you?”

“Cissy was old enough by then to have been well and truly spoiled. You saw her. Mama and Daddy catered to her every whim, so when she backed Marabeth, there was no point in even botherin’ to deny it.”

Eyes downcast, she looked so defeated he hated her family all the more for it. “My love, I’m so very sorry,” he said, tugging her close and cupping her cheek.

“It is what it is. After, I did my best to conform, to live up to expectation, to be an Annandale, but I always seemed to come up short. Marabeth was the heir, expected to make her mark. Cissy was the baby, coddled and catered too. I was, still am, the one who disappoints. Whose only value is in her ability to make a good match and wed an appropriate husband.”

“Lauren, you have far more worth than that. Anyone who knows you, the real you, loves and adores you.” He hated her family with shocking intensity. The small tricks he’d played, the pranks pulled, the little curses he’d cast at lunch were not enough, would never be enough to punish them for the hell they'd put her through. “They may not be able to see your true value, darling, but I can. Those of us who are your chosen family can. You’re the cool head among us all, keeping not just Stark, but the rest of us in line as well. We would not be who we are today without you, Lauren.”

“Oh, I...” She blushed even as her eyes sparkled with tears. “I’m sure everyone would get on just fine without me.”

“No. No, we would not.” Drawing her in till she was firmly caught against him, Loki ran his hand over her sleek tail of hair, giving it a gentle tug to tilt her chin up. “You are integral to our success. While we all see the big picture, the large fight to come, it is often you who sees the small pieces, the little things of common sense we in our grand vision cannot. You may not see it, may not know it, but many times the casual things you say or the questions you ask of us keep us grounded. I have watched Steve seek your opinion on things simply because your humble nature keeps us humble. It is far too easy to see one’s self as a lofty being, living on a height far above the common people when those same common people elevate us to that status. We- they may be heroes, but they are still just people tasked with an extraordinary burden. Because you treat them as equals, they feel it and remain, as I said, grounded.”

Her eyes had long overflowed, her tears falling to drip from her chin. “Loki, I… I’m fairly certain that is now the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Thank you.” Pressing up on her toes, she kissed him softly.

“Hmm,” he hummed, enjoying her softness and tasting the salt of her tears. “If I leave you in tears, my heart, perhaps I am still not doing a good enough job.” Pulling back, he brushed the tears from her face. “If, in the next few days your family becomes exhausting, remember this. The family you are born into is not always the one which is best for you. My own biological parents left me to die. Had the Allfather not shown compassion, I would not be standing here today.”

Sneaking her arms out from between them, Lauren wrapped them around Loki’s neck and rested her head on his chest. “Not a thought I want to contemplate.”

He chuckled softly. “Nor I.” Closing his eyes, he rested his chin on the top of her head, content to stand in the dappled sunlight beneath the gently swaying trees in the middle of this out of the way dirt track. Never before had he been so happy to be so far from civilization and the halls of Asgard. Stroking his fingers over her back, he let the peace and quiet, the sound of the insects and singing birds wash over him, memorized each sound and scent so the memory of this moment would be one he could look back on with clarity.

“This is nice,” Lauren said quietly. “You’re like steppin’ into the big fridge in the kitchen.”

A small smirk curled her lips when he looked down at her upturned face. “If nothing else, I can keep you cool in the summer and warm in the winter, is that what you’re getting at?”

“I don’t know,” she snickered, playing with his hair. “I’ll have to keep you around till winter to find out.”

“Cheeky,” he chuckled, patting her bottom and making her squeal. “If you think I will allow you to escape me after the winter,” he leaned closer, his proximity to her lips darkening her eyes, “you are sorely mistaken, my Valkyrie.”

The hand at the back of his neck tightened. “Who says I will let you escape me?”

A rumble like a wolf filled his chest as Loki dove in, took her lips and her breath in a searing kiss. Her moan filled his mouth with sweetness, her body moulding to his until she seemed boneless, and his arms were the only thing keeping her upright. He wanted to sink in, wallow in her, take everything she was willing to give. Every touch, every kiss, every perfect, special moment with her made it harder for him to keep his control. To step back when all he wanted to do was step forward, sink in, and claim.

Breaking the kiss, he held her away by the waist, keeping her steady while putting distance between them. “You make me forget myself, my love.” Emeralds, dark and sparkling, full of mischievous light nearly made him groan.

“The God of Mischief? Forget himself? How… interestin’,” she crooned, her smile smug.

“You really are a sassy thing, aren’t you?” Shaking his head, he took her by the hand and tugged her along as she giggled uncontrollably.

By the time they reached the narrow bend in the road, he could see the two-story home which waited, much smaller than the one of Lauren’s parents. It was of an aged design, with peaked roofs, fancy woodwork, and wooden shutters. A faded yellow, the paint peeled in places. It was, in its slightly dilapidated state, far more appealing than the monstrosity of her ancestral home. It was surrounded by forest, encroaching but not aggressively so, but it was the extensive gardens laid out before him which surprised him enough to take his breath.

They were wild, a riot of blooms and buzzing bees. A seeming mishmash of types and sizes, so exceptionally blended it was effortless and stunning. Tube feeders, long and narrow, attracted tiny birds like gleaming jewels. Stones and benches invited one to walk or sit in contemplation. Water trickled in the brook he could hear but not see, while in a separate plot of land, a much more uniform garden was placed, one clearly meant for edibles as it ran in neat rows.

The woman working within its fenced confines hummed happily in time with her scratching at the earth, a large straw hat upon her head. A white shirt beneath a floral dress, faded yellow like the house, was decorated with yellow bees and bright-faced sunflowers. She was such a contradiction to the refined, elegant - stuffy - style of Lauren’s other family it set him back on his heels.

Lauren smiled up at him, took the lead, and gave his hand a tug, encouraging him forward when, unbelievably, he found himself nervous to meet the woman who meant so much to her.

Closing in on the fenced garden, Lauren called out, “Gran?”

The elder woman spun around, and her wrinkled face split into a wide grin. “Lulu! C’mon, child and give your gran some sugar!” She shuffled a little, her body language belaying her arthritic frame as she made her way toward the open gate.

One of advanced years, Loki wondered why she did not have a boy or a girl to see to her work. On Asgard, the aged were held in high regard, honoured for their knowledge and experience as that experience was always millennium in the making. He hung back, waiting at the gate while Lauren picked her way across the rows of vegetables to hug her Gran.

“Just look at you sparkle, Lulu!” the elder woman laughed, her eyes a bright blue-green and still very full of life.

Lauren flushed as she was want to do upon receiving a compliment, something Loki now realized had been a rarity in her youth. He made a mental note to do so more often. While he didn’t expect her to become comfortable with them, he hoped she would, someday, not find them such a surprise.

“I missed you so much, Gran,” Lauren sighed, eyes and voice teary.

“Pish!” her Gran huffed. “With such a fine young man standin’ at my gate? You couldn’t have missed me all that much,” she teased.

Lauren glanced his way, and Loki followed her path out into the garden beside a row of high growing green stalks. Upon closer inspection, he realized the twisting vines were climbing netting. Coming to a stop at Lauren’s side, he held out his hand.

“Loki Laufeyson, my Gran, Ellie Annandale.”

Bringing her aged and weathered hand to his lips, Loki kissed her knuckles. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Ellie.”

“Oh, Lulu!” She fanned herself lightly with her free hand, her gardening tool having hit the dirt with her first glimpse of Lauren. “He’s so fancy!” A giggle, high and girlish came from Ellie, and her cheeks flushed a similar shade of pink to Lauren’s. “Handsome manners on a handsome man. If I were a few years younger, I’d give you a run for him I would.”

Finding her enchanting, Loki chuckled, and held her fingers between both hands. “If Lauren were not my Astvínur, I would snatch you up and run off to Asgard.”

“Oh my…” she breathed, fanning her face a little faster. “Ain’t you just the tom cat’s kitten.”

“With such beautiful women as the two of you, it cannot be helped.” He kissed her knuckles a second time and grinned broadly at her.

Ellie nudged Lauren with her elbow. “I like him! He’s a keeper.”

Lauren, eyes bright and shining full of appreciation, cocked her head to the side and smiled at him. “I’m beginnin’ to think the same.”

Neither woman noticed the ripple of the chain around Lauren’s throat, but Loki did. The magic in it, his magic, called out to him as the first step in strengthening it was achieved. The sight of it set his heart racing and excitement flowing through his blood.

“Let’s get in outta the sun. We’ll have sweet tea and y’all can tell me what trouble you’ve been gettin’ into in New York. That and you can tell me how your Mama took it when you came home with Mr. Mischief.”

“You wound me, fair Ellie. I am a reformed mischief-maker,” he chuckled, halfway in love with her already. Clearly, this was where Lauren had learned her sass. Tucking Ellie’s hand in his elbow, Loki winked at Lauren. “Perhaps I can entice you into telling me tales of Lauren when she was younger?”

“Oh, I can do you one better,” Ellie giggled.

“Gran, no,” Lauren said, shaking her head.

Another wide grin crossed Ellie’s lips as she leaned conspiratorially toward him. “I have pictures!”

***

Hours later Bucky was still snickering about his call with Lauren, well able to imagine how much trouble Loki could cause for people he disliked. If the Trickster hadn’t pulled some kind of stunt, Bucky would have thought him sick.

While he understood the reason behind their sudden engagement, and possibly admired the balls on Loki to make such a forward announcement without knowing how Lauren would take it, he had to admit he was concerned. It was a rapid jump from admission of feelings to an engagement. He didn’t want to see Lauren hurt at some point in the future if this all fell through.

Continuing on into the gym, he found Steve working over a heavy bag and wandered closer, placing his metal hand against it for his friend to work it over a little harder.

“Buck,” Steve nodded.

“Talked to Lauren.”

“Yeah?” Steve glanced at him and arched a brow. “And? He’s behaving?”

Bucky shrugged. “More so than I expected what with Lauren’s family.”

Slowing to a stop, Steve began to unwrap his hands. “It’s that bad?”

“Her mother’s a piece of work,” he grumbled, having found Lauren in tears or on the verge of tears more times than he wished to remember. “Sisters ain’t much better.”

“And her father?”

“Mostly indifferent. I gotta tell ya, Steve, she grew up way the hell different than you or I did. That’s a whole nother world.”

“She’s so sweet. I don’t get it.” He shook his head.

“I don’t either, but not everyone’s moms were like ours.” The memories he had, the ones that had returned to him, were few but precious as were the ones of Steve’s mom.

“Anything I should know you don’t want to tell me?” Steve asked, eyeing him expectantly.

“Well,” Bucky hedged, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Spill it,” Steve demanded and crossed his arms.

It was his Cap pose, one most people found intimidating. Bucky simply smirked at him and crossed his arms in response. “I’ll tell you, but you ain’t allowed to flip out.”

“I do not flip out!”

“Yes, you do, punk.”

“Jerk!” Steve threw a half-hearted punch.

Bucky ducked and swept Steve’s legs out from under him. Looming over Steve flat on his back, he snickered softly. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, pal.”

Steve jerked his legs up and around and took Bucky’s out, sending him crashing to the ground beside him. Kicking up to his feet, a move Bucky mirrored, they slowly began to circle each other, moving away from the heavy bags and weights to give them room.

“Her fucker ex was there when they arrived. Guess things got a little heated between him and Loki during the introductions. Loki pulled his God of Mischief routine. Kind of freaked them all out,” Bucky chuckled, the vindictive side of him pretty pleased with that.

Rushing in, Steve landed a blow to Bucky’s ribs and took one to his thigh for his trouble. He grunted as he slid out of reach. “Please tell me he didn’t summon the helmet?” he sighed.

“Nah, just the staff. Still, it made an impression.”

A smirk curled Steve’s lips. “I bet. Admittedly, he’s good at intimidating people.”

“Most people.”

“Most people,” Steve agreed. “What’s the bad, Buck?”

“Ain’t bad so much as… surprising.” The plates in his arm shifted, drawing Steve’s focus as he threw a right hook.

Arm flashing up, Steve blocked it with a smile and chuckle, his face reading you’re a shit with the move. They traded blows for a few minutes, fists and feet in constant movement, causing them both to breathe heavily when they broke apart.

“Stop stalling. What the hell did he do?” Steve glared at Bucky sternly.

“Such a punk. That shit doesn’t work on me, and you know it.”

Quicker than most people could see, Steve elbowed him in the face, sending Bucky reeling.

“Fuck!” he bellowed when his lip split.

Snorting, Steve snickered, “That’s for being an ass.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at Steve and swiped the blood from his mouth. “You’re so gonna get it.”

Another round of fast and furious blows saw Steve sporting a bloody nose when Bucky snuck beneath his guard.

“Damn it, Bucky! Just tell me!” Steve barked, pressing the heel of his hand against his face.

“They’re pretending to be engaged!”

“What?” Steve’s eyes had grown as big around as saucers, and Bucky burst out laughing.

“Take it easy, pal. They were trying to make her talk to that asshole. Loki suspects something’s going on there with Lauren’s mother. He didn’t know what, but he didn’t like it and took matters into his own hands to block them from forcing Lauren into something she doesn’t want.”

“Jeez, Buck,” Steve sighed.

“He has a thing for her.”

“Huh?” Head whipping up, Steve muttered, “Really?”

“And her for him.” Bucky grinned.

Steve’s mouth opened and closed twice before he chuckled, “Well… shit. Ain’t that something.”

Next Chapter

#balance #loki #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #avengers #avengers au #avengers fanfiction #southern belle #fanfiction

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thedeadflag · 6 years

Text

Demon WIP

Remember NaNoWriMo? Here’s part of one of those fics I never got around to finishing. It’s a bit of a mess and totally cracky, but eh. Got to sort of exorcise parts of my old long-buried feels and settle some of them a bit better than they had been, so at least there was that.

Between the winding oak trees lining the roadside, the crackle of dirt and leaves under her feet, and the petrichor saturating the humid air, Anya wasn't sure which part of her latest destination made her more nostalgic. Georgia was more than a stone's throw away from North Carolina, but the similarities to her childhood home remained as she looked around the area at the particularly isolated backwoods destination. There was a fence along the southern portion of the road, and there was a dilapidated abandoned shed just off the eastern corner, but aside from that, the area was devoid of civilization.

She'd been there for seven hours and there'd only been a single vehicle passing through the rural three way crossroads. Used to be that she could sit out on the porch of her family home and see two, maybe three vehicles pass all day long. It was as if she had a bit of that childhood comfort now, which felt like luck given the circumstances.

It'd been a long year of research and traveling, countless nights spent in shoddy motel rooms and camping out in the back of her aging 1998 Subaru Forester, but she had a good feeling about this place. There was a weight to the air separate from the oppressive humidity; there was a certain sting to it, like the fading burn of embers and resin in her nostrils.

And honestly, she needed it to be right this time. With a hundred and seventy one dollars to her name, she was running out of chances. She'd long passed the threshold for desperation, so Anya went into each possibility fully prepared, knowing she had to make her shots count where she could get them.

Seven times she'd failed in her quest. She hoped her poor fortune would end there. It was the rare Florida Torreya at the western corner that had her thinking this was it, but it was dangerous to get her hopes up too high.

Anya checked her watch and then her notebook, triple checking the right time. There was a new moon overhead, it was well into harvest season in mid-late October, and the sun had set just shy of seven o'clock, setting the stage for her ritual to take place between seven-thirty and nine.

Not having wanted to jump the gun, she'd waited for the sky to darken nearly completely before deciding to start, keeping the area lit with lanterns along the fence posts in preparation, but it seemed appropriate to get things underway now. Anya checked around, making sure she had everything ready, before heading out onto the road with her ingredients in hand. She didn't have the money to last until another new moon, so she needed to be precise.

Perfect had never been a word anyone used to describe her, but that evening, she had to be. For her sake, she had to be.

With a dagger to carve the lines and symbols into the damp dirt, and the ashes of yew trees to fill them, Anya worked with slow precision, allowing herself the time to ensure everything was positioned properly according to the night sky, that every line was precise, that the trail of ash remained unbroken.

In truth, as much as she needed this to work, she couldn't help but fear who or what would arrive if she was successful. She'd bounced around the past year performing summoning rituals of all kinds to no avail, but with the distinct knowledge that the demons or deities she tried to summon weren't necessarily the peaceful, loving types.

But that night's ritual had been entirely promising in that she'd met someone who claimed to have had luck with it, though the woman had been sworn to silence on who it was that would be summoned. Some of the elements had Anya thinking Enodia, or some other variation of Hecate maybe, but the woman she'd met hadn't seemed all that witchy. In addition, the symbols were entirely wrong, both foreign and new to her despite her vast researching. Some resembled a few Greek symbols, but others were wholly perplexing.

She'd been desperate enough to take the woman at her word, having run out of reasonable options before, but she'd had the financial resources for one last attempt, so there she was. In rural Georgia, on her hands and knees carving intricate runes and symbols into the dirt, littering the area with jasmine and lavender, and setting out a meal for her guest smack dab in the middle.

Bizarre didn't begin to describe it, but after a half hour of work, she was satisfied she had it all to code, enough to bring the pre-heated meal off her camping equipment and into the center of the set stage.

Anya knelt at the edge of the design and reached into her bag, pulling out the final ingredients: the blood of the chicken she'd slaughtered for the meal, a vial of the tears of her greatest woe, a collection of dead skin from her body, and her box of matches. None of it really made any sense, but she pushed that aside and began the ritual.

She'd been instructed to have a small line poking out from the main circle encompassing the main ritual design, symbolizing that she was currently outside of her summon's reach, seeking audience, or entrance, or some form of contact. In that small portion, she carefully poured the chicken blood, the liquid spreading further in and saturating the ash she'd used in the main design.

"The fuck...?" She muttered, expecting the liquid to mostly remain where she was pouring it, but it seemed to naturally retreat from the area and into the circle, as if it was drawn, leaving a small puddle in the area it'd been poured. Enough for her to empty her tears and dead skin flecks into.

"Well, here, goes nothing..." She mumbled to herself. In past rituals, there had always been a vocal component, some oral request for aid, or rite of submission, but she'd been instructed that there was none for the entity she'd be seeking out.

Anya wasn't sure if that was good or bad, all things considered.

Instead, she lit a match and dropped it into her sacrifices, focusing as hard as she could on the pain and sorrow that had led her there, on the deep lifelong yearning she'd felt which she'd never been able to quench.

Fire erupted from the circle, sending Anya stumbling backward as blue flames reached up towards the sky. The heat was unbearable, searing at her skin and wrenching a cry from her dry, scorched throat. The air was thick with smoke and ash and try as she might, Anya couldn't breathe, choking on the burning remains of her offerings, vision fading as she collapsed to the ground.

Her yearning for family was the last thing that passed through her mind before her body gave out, Anya falling into the clutches of unconsciousness.

The gumbo was spectacular.

It was so rare to be called to material form, and most times her meals were the blandest, most middling offerings of sustenance she could imagine. Often times, it was raw, and as much as she could appreciate the taste, she preferred that it be a rarity.

As in rare.

No one ever laughed at her jokes, so it was her duty to fill that gap. Puns were the highest form of humour, after all. That some didn't understand that was simply shameful.

But back to the gumbo, it really was something special. There was a gloriously sweet heat to it, and maybe if she was more generous, she would have decided that much was worthy of a gift in response, but some traditions were important to hold up.

Sure, when precious few people were around to uphold those traditions, they didn't matter quite so much in practice, but it was the principle of the matter that had her holding off. At least, until she finished her gumbo.

There wasn't a big enough bowl in the world for her when it come to such a delicious offering, but as she stared down at the empty bowl, she knew it was time to get down to business. Despite the lack of a captive audience, it was unsightly to lick her bowl clean, so she set it aside and perched back atop the fence, snapping her fingers.

In an instant, the blonde on the road jolted upright into a seated position, gasping for air, chest heaving and throat straining. It was all a bit dramatic, but entirely necessary to gauge the intentions and pursuits of those that put in the work to summon her.

While she wasn't exactly a mind reader, she was granted the final visions of the summoner, which tended to help her navigate the following moments. It never was good to get caught off guard, after all. Other such beings failed to include that sort of safeguard and look where they were now.

Dead. Or, well, nearly all dead.

She'd survived as long as she had because of principles and caution, not luck, after all.

It was only polite to wait until the woman on the road stopped hacking and coughing before she decided to make her presence known.

"I bet a fiddle of gold against your soul 'cause I think I'm better than you." She spoke with a twang, feeling a spike of concern at how violently the woman on the road's head turned in her direction. There was a modern word now for it. Whiplash? She was pretty sure it was whiplash. "You rang?"

The woman on the road just gawked at her, leaving her feeling a little concerned that she'd yet again used outdated terminology. As much as she found modern technology and society exciting and intriguing, it sure was difficult to keep up with the language.

"Do people still say that? Humans haven't moved on from phones yet, have they?" She added, thankful at least for the silent shake of the woman's head. "Ah, good, good. That'd be pretty embarrassing. As impolite as it is to ask a woman's age, it's unsightly to reveal you're a few decades or centuries 'out of the loop'. Makes things awkward."

"Are you...?" The woman started, words failing her pretty quickly, but the question was obvious enough.

"You can call me...Clarke." She decided, watching the woman's face twist in bewilderment. It was a decent enough name, and certainly more accessible than the ones humans often found unpronounceable.

The woman slowly got to her feet. "Clarke? I...I performed an elaborate, expensive ritual and nearly died summoning a...a Clarke?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing." She let out, earning a flat stare from her summoner. It was spunky; she couldn't help but like that sort of gusto. "Look, I could say my true name, but there's a small chance you'll bleed out from your ears, and I'd rather avoid the mess and screaming, all things considered."

The woman seemed to pale a little, which at least let her know she was rational enough. "Clarke it is, then." The woman stated slowly, focus shifting to the empty bowl. "Did you really eat my gumbo? Wasn't it charred?"

Clarke shook her head. "The runes protect the offering. Fantastic, by the way. You should be proud."

Warm brown eyes narrowed at her warily. "I used to cook for a Cajun place down in Baton Rouge. If I couldn't handle a bowl of gumbo, I'd be a little ashamed of myself."

She didn't see the reason for the modesty, knowing she hadn't tasted gumbo that good in decades, but perhaps it was just a character flaw of the woman before her. "So tell me...who is this enchanting, brave woman that summoned me forth? I'm curious."

"You...uh, sorry. I've probably watched too many movies. I thought you'd just know." The woman stammered, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "I'm Anya. Anya Pine."

Clarke grinned at her latest guest and looked her over. "And what is it you're pining for, Anya?"

To her great surprise, the woman let out a loud, sharp laugh before quickly stifling it, trying to compose herself. "Can't believe I laughed at that. Haven't heard that one in years."

"It's a good joke. Nothing wrong with a good pun." Clarke insisted, earning an easy nod from Anya.

"When I was a kid, people made fun of my last name enough for that one to get a little overdone. There are better jokes." Anya countered, making a fair enough point. "Like...a crime was committed in the forest, and the police are stumped. Who did it?"

Clarke laughed at the pun and shrugged, more eager to enjoy the moment than anything. It was rare to find someone who shared her taste in humour. "Who?"

"Yew know who." Anya answered, lips spreading into a wry grin.

"Oh, I like you. Did you know I can cut down a dead tree just by looking at it?" Clarke asked, amusement billowing inside her as Anya's eyes grew wider. "It's true. I saw it with my own eyes!"

Anya rolled her eyes, but the laughter that escaped the woman had Clarke feeling surprisingly happy she'd been summoned. It was a nice change of pace.

"So how does this work, exactly?" Anya probed, stepping closer now, off the road and onto the grass, leaning up against a fence post.

"Well, like I said, you tell me what you're pining for...sorry, I couldn't resist...and we figure something out. That is, if you're looking to barter. Most are, these days. You don't get many who just want to meet me and have a little chat like the old days. The world's changed, though, so I can understand that, I don't take it personally. Faith means something different these days." Clarke explained, keen eyes tracking Anya's expression, feeling a little curious at the confusion there. "What's on your mind, sweetling?'

Anya's head ducked, and even in the dim lantern light, she could see the blush on those high cheekbones as clear as day. "You say faith. It's just...it's an odd word choice given I'm face to face with you."

She'd long since grown tired of that line of questioning over the years, but it was a misconception she did take some enjoyment in clearing up. "The whole Abrahamic god thing's got folks twisted. They're too lazy or scared to actually show up and do anything like the old gods. They point around at things they generally didn't create, get a few people to write some tomes for them, and say 'this is proof of my will, you don't need to see me to know my power'. Whereas for millennia, people had faith in some of us from knowing us, and having faith in our power and guidance. You don't usually get people lined up offering human sacrifices on a whim, to please some invisible deity they've never had any proof of. Either way, it's still faith if you've seen something with your own eyes. Some lazy gods demand people take even their existence on faith. The salt of the earth types that actually get things done just demand faith in our decisions and abilities. That we do what we promise."

Anya stood there for nearly a minute, brow furrowed, clearly processing. She had a good feeling about this one, so Clarke wasn't surprised when the woman eventually offered a slow nod and met her gaze. "Okay. And if I wanted to barter?"

Clarke pushed off the fence and stepped up to Anya, lifting a hand to the human's cheek, marveling at how soft her skin was for a brief moment before being quite taken with the slight pressure against her palm. If this were a more primitive era, she might have offered a different deal than usual. "There's only one thing I desire."

"Popular lore says it's my soul, but...I don't know if that's right, or what it means." Anya let out, voice much quieter now, not that it inconvenienced Clarke. She could hear the cricket brush up against a blade of grass fifty meters down the road, it wasn't any trouble adjusting to a particularly quiet whisper.

"A soul is simply a vessel, sweetling. A part of your spirit that contains your faith." Clarke explained, knowing it was a fair bit more complicated than that, but Anya didn't need to be bored to death with the philosophy of it all. "It's nothing you'd miss, and it's nothing you'd lose. Contrary to popular belief, selling your soul simply gives control of it. We, who can...touch, and use souls...we can do what we will with it and what's contained within it. That's all."

Anya shook her head and took a half step back. "I apologize, but I'm a little hesitant to just take you at your word on that. Especially after all the research I've done on demons."

Clarke couldn't contain her laughter, having not heard that one for a number of years. "Do I look like a demon to you?"

Anya shrugged. "I don't know. On some shows, demons just look like humans, but with black eyes."

"Like, bruising around their eyes? Or are their eyeballs are literally black?" Clarke asked, feeling a mite curious over their representation.

"The second one. But sometimes they just...are a big black cloud of smoke and they enter people and use them as hosts." Anya clarified, leaving Clarke to leave a mental note to write that particularly laughable idea down.

"Priceless. No innocent human hosts here, just a recreation of my mortal body from way back when. I'd like to think I look good for my age, but after long enough, you kind of stop caring what people think." Clarke was a little surprised that Anya's gaze only drifted down to her lips, rather than scanning the full length of her.

After all, she'd had her fair share of followers once upon a time who thought her the pinnacle of beauty. She didn't let it get to her head, or hadn't for a few centuries, but it was curious. She sensed a deep yearning in the woman, and there was definitely a little lust in those warm brown eyes, but Anya was being rather polite about it all.

Maybe Clarke wasn't sure what to think about that.

"I know the feeling, in a sense." Anya murmured, blinking away whatever haze had fallen over her. "So that's all I have to bargain with? My soul?"

"To your credit, it's a solid bargaining chip." Clarke chirped, shooting Anya a bright grin. With any luck, the woman would live a long, fruitful life, and that boded well for her.

Anya stared off towards the road, at the ritual site. "And you're not a demon?"

Apparently, Anya needed more convincing. Clarke contained her annoyance and took hold of Anya's hand, luring her closer. "It's not that simple. The word was created in reference to nature spirits, which...here I am. According to Christianity, I'm a demon, but so is Zeus. So is Diana. Same with Ganesha, and Papa Legba. All gods, demi-gods, or any sort of divine being that's not Yahweh, Elohim, Allah...whatever people decide to call them...anyone who isn't them and their heavenly retinue? Demons. Absurd is what it is, but every faith has its own internal logic systems. So to faithful Christians and Catholics, and the religions themselves, I am a demon. To me, I'm a former nymph that ascended to take on some of the duties of Enodia and Hecate when they were slain. I don't think it's fair to bundle ones like me in with all the Christian and Catholic-specific demons out there, but hey, I'm apparently a succubus to them."

Despite the stricken expression Anya wore, she could see relief in her eyes, and that was enough for Clarke to feel she got her message across clear enough. "Gods can be killed?"

"Uh, yeah. Why do you think the Abrahamic god has angels and demons and prophets to do its dirty work in keeping that whole system of checks and balances running? Laziness is a big part, but when you're working down at ground level, things can get dicey. It's why most of the major remaining gods pull that 'have faith that we exist' stuff. Can't get killed too easily if you never have to meet anyone in material form." Clarke explained, before giving Anya's hand a squeeze. "I have a good feeling about you, though. Pretty sure you're too desperate to try and kill me, even if you knew how."

Anya shook her head. "I have no interest in killing anyone. I just need help."

"You get one deal, sweetling. One request in exchange for your soul." Clarke noted, bringing her other hand over to Anya's forearm, gently rubbing up and down her smooth skin. "It's in my best interest to make it good for you."

It wasn't even a lie, really. If the barter they struck benefited Anya tremendously, it'd only boost the woman's faith in her, and bolster Anya's soul, granting Clarke more years, and letting her maintain her power for longer. Still, the more complex and intense the request was in terms of altering reality, the more power it'd sap from her, so it was a balancing act.

There was a good reason, after all, why only one deal was ever struck per follower, why each negotiation was always about wringing as much value out of each soul as possible. For someone like herself, who didn't seek out limitless power and an enormous market share, each deal had to be approached with great tact and care.

Anya swallowed hard once, twice, and nodded, gaze dropping to Clarke's hands and the hopefully soothing affection she was offering. "I really want to believe that. I'm past the point where anything that happens here could be a mistake, so...okay. Okay, I think."

All that desperation she'd felt upon being summoned was finally shifting to the foreground in Anya, and Clarke couldn't help but feel a little troubled, hoping she wouldn't have to let the woman down. Anya, after all, had been so composed, so curious, and so generous.

Clarke tugged at Anya's hand and moved to sit on the grass. "Come, sit with me. Tell me what you need."

Anya cautiously followed suit, and didn't flinch when Clarke closed the few inches of distance between them, reaching an arm around to lean Anya into her. "I've worked so hard. I'm proud of everything I've fought for and achieved. I've...I've been true to myself, and there's strength in that. There is."

Clarke cradled Anya's head on her shoulder and ran her hand through the woman's hair, wanting to still the slight tremor in Anya's voice.

"Of course there is. I felt your strength in the summoning, Anya. Tell me how I can help." She whispered, turning her head toward Anya, pressing a kiss to her crown that had her summoner practically melting against her. "I'll offer you my strength. All you have to do is ask for it."

Anya let out a shuddering breath and planted a hand hard down atop Clarke's thigh. "I'm a woman. And I'm...I've done all I can to get to where I am, and I'm happier now in a lot of ways than I used to be, but I can't get what I need to ease the ache inside me. No doctor can, no medication can. None in the whole world. And where I'm at is enough for most, and I'm no less a woman for it, but I just need...I need to get rid of this pain. I need..." Anya rambled unevenly, more and more agitated by the moment, closer and closer to those ragged breaths crossing the threshold to tearful sorrow.

Truly, she didn't want Anya crying at all. She wanted to take the pain away. Usually, such empathy only extended to those who had created a solid connection to her, but there was something about Anya, something special, she just couldn't put her finger on it.

"Tell me, sweetling." She murmured, pressing another kiss to Anya's crown, managing to sap some of that restless, woeful energy away in Anya's resulting sigh.

"I need to be able to give birth."

Wide-eyed and with her heartbeat reverberating in her skull, Anya waited, waited, breathless and consumed with desperate hope that Clarke, this beautiful demon, would give her what she'd yearned all her life for.

It'd been a life-long struggle, enduring her violently transmisogynistic family and her eventual exile from her childhood home. Enduring schools and homelessness, counselors and teachers alike that offered sympathy and support up until the truth came out. Enduring four and a half years of sex work, two years of routine harassment and groping at her restaurant gig, and another three at her most recent job, a warehouse gig, which had ground her confidence and will to a fine paste.

But above all, she'd endured dysphoria. Throughout it all, it remained. Each attempt to alleviate it would reduce parts of it, sometimes eliminate whole parts, but there was always a deep, intense pit festering inside of her that refused to be quenched by her grieving and cognitive behavioural therapy and hormones.

It was no use. She'd always felt a deep wrongness over not having a vulva and vagina, and she'd always wanted to give birth since she was a young child; those deeply held desires had never left. It'd made her genital dysphoria a hopeless tangled web of suffering, but even if bottom surgery had been accessible, had been affordable, there was no procedure that provided the other missing component. There would still be more than enough dysphoria left to suffer from.

Anya had fought her entire life just to keep her head above water. If nothing else, life owed her this. After all the praying and pleading to every god under the sun, after the countless heartfelt wishes over the years, after the years of torturous laboring just to claw her way to a less dysphoric, more survivable state, she deserved a break. Or, at least an end to it all, if it wasn't possible.

She hoped it was. That hope was harder to hold onto with each passing, aching second.

"Sweetling..." Clarke let out with a level of disappointment and regret that immediately had Anya's throat clenching shut, tears erupting at her last ditch effort collapsing around her.

It's not fair... Those three words repeated through her mind in a vicious loop as a sob wrenched its way out of her, not understanding why beings that could move heaven and earth couldn't help. It's not right...

Clarke tried to wrap her up, strong arms pulling her in as Anya fought the embrace, but she was too exhausted to resist for long. "Shhh, I think you misunderstand me, Anya. I'm supposed to be selfish, sweetling, and were you a lesser creature I would have taken your offer in an instant, but you need to ask for more. Please ask me for more than that, because it hardly takes anything to fix up your ovaries or uterus, and I'd be getting so much from you."

What should have been relief had Anya collapsing from a fresh spike of dysphoria, her demon not even recognizing her, not understanding what she was asking for. Because of course not.

"And...and if I don't have ovaries or a uterus?" Anya managed to get out there, the words feeling like shrapnel as she rubbed her face across Clarke's linen top. "And if I'm a trans woman?"

"I don't know what that means." Clarke spoke, sounding entirely bewildered before pulling Anya away enough to look her in the eye. In an instant, Clarke's blue eyes burned as bright as the flames from the ritual, the demon's stare boring into her as the air heated up around them. Amidst the disgust and nausea, among the dull consuming ache across her body and the stabbing anxiety in her chest, there was something new. Like a pin prick at the front of her skull, hot and sharp, a small acute spike that had a headache blooming behind her sinuses, pulling her focus away from everything else. "Don't fight it, sweetling, let me in. Let me see."

Whether it was exhaustion or the sheer defeat she felt over having tried so hard for nothing, Anya closed her eyes and focused on what she yearned for the most. This time, though, that image shifted, memories from her past flitting through her mind in a whirlwind of exhaustion and heartbreak like a highlight reel of her life.

And then her eyes were snapping open, lungs taking in the oxygen from a desperate gasp as she stared back at an awestruck Clarke. It took a moment to realize it, but her anxiety, her nausea, her pain, it was all gone, at least for the moment, but it was hard not to feel a little unnerved at Clarke's stare. "What?"

"I knew there was something about you." Clarke said with a grin, not quite predatory but very toothy and a little intimidating. "Enodia would bring in all she found, those like you, to be nymphs under her guidance. You're making me nostalgic, Anya of the pines."

Anya knew she was gaping, but she couldn't help her reaction. The violent swing from hope to despair and back again had her feeling dizzy and overwhelmed, but if Clarke spoke the truth, then she'd surely be able to help. She had claimed to have, in some sense, taken over for Enodia after the deity's supposed passing.

Clarke wasn't Enodia, or Hecate, but if Clarke could help, then Anya was happy to hitch her wagon onto that proverbial star.

"And she helped them?" Anya asked, knowing her fingers were digging into Clarke's thigh, but she was close. So close. With her whole body tense and on edge, waiting for confirmation, she couldn't help herself.

Clarke didn't even seem to notice it, those soft blue eyes never wincing, not even a little bit. "Of course. Some of them were like you, yearning to give birth, to create. Some didn’t, but felt a great misalignment in some form that Enodia was happy to help with. My predecessors offered that gift, knowing how special creation was, and how painful their lives could often be without aid."

Not that she thought a deity could remotely be a chaser, but Anya couldn't help but fixate on that last bit, even as relief flooded through her at the knowledge. "She thought we were special?"

"She had the ability to help women ascend to become nymphs. But she couldn't create a new divine being unless through one that had already been shaped thoroughly by a deity, and that wasn't a common request from most woman followers. Re-shaping your bodies, at least the ones that requested it, was enough to make it possible. Most of them were women like yourself." Clarke explained, Anya's buzzing mind still managing to put two and two together, leaving her breathless at the implications. "Women like you could give birth to demi-gods or immortals, if you chose to. I had many sisters like you...Raven, Octavia, Emori, Costia...I loved them all so much. And like my mother, and her mother Enodia, I can take care of you. All you need to do is offer yourself up to me."

Anya held Clarke's gaze, knowing this was what she'd yearned for all her life. No price was too high for freedom, and no one was better suited to make it all happen.

She swiftly turned and straddled Clarke's lap, a thrill rushing through her as Clarke's hands immediately went to her hips. "I'll offer you my body and soul if you put a baby inside me."

Apparently, Clarke wasn't on the same page, recoiling slightly at the offer, eyes growing wider at the gesture. "Me? I'll be happy to make you fertile, I'll change your body as you need, but...I'm not sure you know what you're asking for."

In reality, it was simple. "I've wanted to get pregnant all my life. I'm a lesbian...I love women, so that already limited my options before considering I'm trans. But you...you're a...a demon, a succubus, a goddess, something powerful enough. And if by changing me, you make me able to bear your children...then I want that. I want you."

Clarke's focus shifted between her eyes, and finally, finally, the demon's composure seemed to be faltering, blush rising to Clarke's cheeks. "You'd let a demon plant their essence in you?"

Anya lifted a hand to caress Clarke's face, palm gliding down her cheek. "I would let you do much more than that."

Despite the thrumming of her heartbeat in her temples, Anya heard the moan rumbling up Clarke's throat as clear as day. "You don't understand...any hope at a normal life would be gone."

As if such a prospect could ever lure her, not after all she'd known in her life.

"Fuck normal! Do you think I want to fit into this bullshit society that's hated me all my life? I don't care about that! I want a family!" Anya yelled, forcing herself to take a calming breath or two as she slumped forward, nose slowly trailing up and down Clarke's. She was so close, and Clarke could clearly help her. She didn't understand the reluctance when she was putting herself out on a damned silver platter.

"Sweetling..." Clarke let out, voice low in clear warning, but she couldn't heed it. She had to press, lowering her own voice to a whisper.

"I want a family. I want to adopt as many kids as I can, but I want to experience pregnancy, too. I want to give birth, even if just once. I want to be free enough from dysphoria to be able to raise my children well. I don't care about normal. You can help me, and give me what I want, so please." Anya begged, her breath hitching as she brushed her lips across Clarke's. "Please make me a mom."

Clarke had seemed intent on being so controlled, so calm, but as she leaned back enough to get a better glimpse of the demon's face, she saw a very human response. Blown pupils staring hard at her lips.

Anya gave Clarke's cheek one last caress before she gripped the demon's jaw, wresting away her complete attention. "Make me the mother of your children. Take me, fuck me, and make me a mommy. Make..."

"'Mommy'? Isn't that a child's word?" Clarke interjected with a hard laugh, clearly trying to distract from the situation at hand despite the demon's hands gripping hard at Anya's hips. She could see the lust in the demon's eyes, but for some reason Clarke was conflicted.

She was handing over her soul, Anya wasn't sure what there was to be conflicted about. "It'll be your child's word for me, your children's word for me. Or some other word, whatever fits, so long as you put a baby in me!" She stressed, grazing her nose along Clarke's, staring down at the demon with all the determination she could muster. "I'm offering my soul for you to get me pregnant and birth your child. What is there to think about?"

"It's been centuries...I haven't had a family in centuries." Clarke spoke, and though her voice spoke the words calm and clear, she could see the mix of anguish and yearning in the demon's eyes.

Anya wouldn't pretend to understand immortality or godhood or any of that. It was beyond the scope of her existence, so she just didn't want to waste time on it, but she could focus on Clarke's desires. As much as the demon seemed pained at the memory of her family, the grip at her hips was only growing tighter, more painful.

Clarke wanted what she did. Anya just needed to convince her it was worth it.

"Then we'll make a new one. We'll keep it safe. It's not ancient whenever, there aren't roving parties looking to find and hurt you. We can start over...we can both start over." Anya offered, smoothing her hands down Clarke's cheeks, leaving one to tilt the demon's chin up, leaving their lips inches apart. "I'm tired of suffering and just existing to live day after day. Aren't you?"

A fire flashed in Clarke's eyes and then Anya was falling backward, flat on her back in the grass with Clarke looming over her. "Life should be about more than just surviving. We deserve better than that." Clarke purred, crawling over her body until the demon's blonde locks curtained Anya's head. "I'll take your offer, sweetling. But don't get it in your head that this is strictly for you...I'm doing this for my people."

Anya rolled her eyes. "And I am yours, and I want to mother your people, so cut the bullshit and take me already."

Clarke let out a growl, eyes burning bright and hot with that same flaming blue glow to them. As mesmerizing as they were, though, it was hard not to notice how Clarke's canines descended and the rest of her teeth grew sharper, the demon's hair taking on a dark crimson tint that flowed from root to tip faster than Anya's brain could really comprehend it.

It was the feeling of Clarke's hand against her cheek that drew her out of her stupor; or, perhaps more accurately, her talon, five digits having narrowed to three larger ones. "Shall I take you here, or somewhere more modern like that shack over there?" Clarke's voice was, for a lack of a better word, fuller, sounding like it was coming across at a few different octaves.

It was all bizarre, but it couldn't distract her. "The shack's set up with a devil's trap as a precaution if things went wrong. Here's better." Anya let out, leaning up on her elbows to nip at Clarke's lower lip. Having sex on the grass wasn't perfectly ideal, but the ground was soft and there weren't any rocks jutting into her back, so she didn't really have anything to complain about aside from being in full view if anyone drove down the road tonight. "But do something about your claws, I'm not into being cut while getting finger-fucked."

The demon cocked her head a bit to the side. "You're peculiar. I don't frighten you?"

"What's supposed to scare me, the jagged teeth? The flaming eyes? The talons? The blood-red hair? Please. I've seen real evil in this world, you don't scare me." Anya pressed a kiss to the slight cleft in Clarke's chin. "It's a little weird, but if this is you, then I want to see all of you."

Anya wasn't sure how Clarke managed it, but the woman loomed over her holding both hands up, one human, one...more beastly. In the blink of an eye, Clarke's clothes vanished. "Then you'll see me. It's been a little while, but I'm not so green that I'm gonna toss this..." Clarke waved her taloned hand. "...into one of your pussies to start with. I'd like to think a few hundred years hasn't made me rusty."

She groaned and nodded, falling softly back onto the grass. "I'll take your word for it." She answered, moving to pull her clothes off before a snap of fingers met her ears and she was suddenly nude. "Okay, could have used some notice, there."

"You're a big girl, and we were going to get naked one way or another." Clarke asserted, lowering herself onto Anya, leaving her wondering how she didn't notice how damn hot Clarke's body ran before. The demon felt like a heated blanket cranked up to max, but Clarke's gaze still managed to be hotter as those burning eyes stared down at her. "My my, you are a lovely one, aren't you? I might actually take my time with you."

Clarke's more human hand grazed down along her side, coming to a halt at Anya's hip. As much as she'd been in it for the deal, having sex with a divine being seemed like an experience she didn't want to rush. That combined with having gone an uncomfortably long time without being touched, and maybe Anya liked the sound of a more leisurely roll in the hay. "Please do."

"In that case, I've got a long list of things to work out...aside from the obvious, is there anything you need me to cross off that list, sweetling?" A demon with manners. Novel. Anya just shook her head side to side, drawing a broad toothy smile from Clarke. "Then let's light your candle..."

I hadn’t finished the smut section, so I’ll leave this here, but yeah...when the demon au prompt got interest, I got the “deal with the devil” and “crossroads demon” tropes swirling in my head, and well, being that I intended to write trans rep into most if not all of the NaNoWriMo ficlets I was writing at the time, I felt this was a fair direction for things to head into.

And, like, as I mentioned in the top disclaimer bit, it let me put some of my age-old feels to word, and put them out there. I grieved over that part of my reality alone a number of years ago, for days, alone. It felt good to air them out a little. Not being able to get pregnant and birth children hurt like hell, but it didn’t make me less of a woman. And if I magically gained that ability, it wouldn’t make me any less of a trans woman, obviously. Sometime in the future, trans women will give birth...for now, we have the rare story exploring that notion.

Anywho, I hope y’all enjoyed this snippet, as cracky as it might have been (it’s a demon AU, of course it’ll be a bit OOC)

#writewritewrite #demon au #thedeadflag #clanya fanfiction #crackfic #pregnancy tw #long post

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zach-the-fox · 4 years

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Tribal Furs Episode 2: Our Own Place

The glowing ball rises above the ground, spreading rays of light across the land. Light stretches among the trees, touching them and everything below their canopies. The orange fox emerges from another room, separated by a thin layer of leather curtain. He stretches as he stands in the middle of the doorway. He looks around to see he’s the only one in the main room of the hut. Taking advantage of this opportunity, Zach sneaks over to the entryway, where it is divided from the outside with a leather curtain. Just as he’s inches away from the divider, he’s interrupted when a paw grasps at his arm. The blue-painted fox turns around to see behind him is the owner of the hut, the leader of the tribe, who shoots him a mean look; dipped eyebrows and gritted teeth. “Where do you think you’re off to, Boy?” Zach keeps his gaze on the older fox, not moving his lips in anyway. “Well?!” The tone of his voice is raised, showing agitation and impatience.

“I’m going out,” Zach responds, breaking his silence. “Into the jungle to gather food.”

“You plan on running away and crying again?” his father remarks. “You’re just an embarrassment to the family. A mistake made by your mother, that’s all.”

“I never asked for your comments. I’m just picking fruit and collecting nuts.”

“Whatever you say, Wimp. The more time you’re away from me and this village, the better.”

Zach exits the hut and steps out into the open air of the village. He treks his way across the village center and makes it toward the gate. Before he reaches the defenses, he bumps into another fox; the blue and orange one.

“Oh, I’m very sorry!” says the other fox. “I-I didn’t mean to hit you in any way! P-please don’t get me in trouble!”

“What?” Zach utters. “Why would you think I would do such a thing?”

“Y-your father is the chief… I did a bad thing hurting you…”

“Relax, I’m not going to do anything… It was only an accident. I just have to be more careful next time. Good day.”

As Zach wanders off, the blue fox says, “I’m sorry for you.” Zach pauses for a second. His ears twitched with the sentence of his counterpart. Without hesitation, he presses on, passing the opening of the village guarded by foxes armed with spears.

***

The orange fox runs across the branches, jumping to the next to stay above the jungle floor. He makes it across eighteen branches before using the vines to slide down. As his feet touch the mossy surface of the flora ground, he walks forward ten paces before stopping in front of the tan-dressed blue-jay, who rests under a small tree, enjoying the hard-shelled fruits hanging above her. “Morning, Navy.”

Navy ceases her beak and looks up at the fox. “Oh, morning, Zach! You’re just in time for some breakfast. Care for some cocoanapples?”

“Uh, sure.” Zach sits next to her and receives the fresh drupe from her wings. “Thanks.” The fox picks up a rock from his side and bashes the fruit open, revealing the red core and chocolate milk that surrounds it. He takes a bite out of the core and drinks the chocolatey liquid from within the shell. “Mmm, this is pretty good.”

Navy turns to her friend. “So, what have you been up to lately?”

Zach swallows his food before facing her. “Huh? Nothing really…”

“Did your father yell at you for being out?”

“Not really. I mean, he did yell at me and he did insult me, yet he doesn’t care. We don’t really talk or do anything together. Ever since my mother disappeared, I’ve had to deal with his ways for a very long time. I’ve been trying for so long to win his attention, aiming to get better at things, only to be knocked down by his criticisms and pushed away.”

“We’re two of a kind.” Navy takes another bite out of the apple part. “Do you think fate brought us together? Or could it be just coincidence that we happen to stumble upon each other at the right moment? All because of our dads?”

“It’s hard to tell. Either way, I’m actually happy we’re friends now. I’ve been struggling my whole life to try and win my father’s love and attention. When that didn’t work, I sought the attention of others, but my father has told everyone that I’m a bad influence, further distancing me from everyone.” He looks toward his ally. “You’re a good girl, Navy.”

Navy’s cheeks turn red. “Why, Zach, I’m flattered. Your kind words really know how to make a woman blush.” She stands and tosses her breakfast aside. “So, what should we do now, “friend”? Have some adventures in mind for us?”

Zach gets up and meets her eyeline. “Beats me.” His ears twitch, causing him to turn his head to the side. “Hey, did you hear that?” Navy faces the direction he looks in, asking what’s wrong. “Somebody’s coming!” He drops the fruit to the ground, grabs the bird by the wing, and pulls her out of the area. As they vacate and seek safety from nearby thickets, a blue wolf with a male build, rainbow hair, and a blue loincloth comes into view. He holds a long spear in his paw, walking through the grass. Noticing the cocoanapples on the ground, he kneels to the ground and examines them.

Lifting one of the cocoanapples in his paw, the wolf holds it close to his snout and sniffs it. “Fox Faction,” he utters, straightening himself as he drops the fruit and readies his spear. The blue wolf scans his surroundings while pointing the spear tip around. “Where are you? I know you’re hiding somewhere! Come out now!” As he searches around, ruffles in the bushes catch his attention. With ease, the wolf sneaks over to the shrubs, then parts it with his weapon. “Aha!” To his surprise, nothing is there. “What?! Hm… I’ll find you Fox Farts, wherever you may be!”

From afar high in the trees, the bird and fox watch as he disappears from the area.

“Phew, that was close,” Zach spurts. “Imagine if he actually caught us.”

“What do we do now, Zach?” Navy asks. “This isn’t very safe, and we can’t hide from the other tribes forever. We need to-” She jumps as the spear lands beside her, lodging herself into the trunk next to her. “Yeek!”

“Found you!” shouts the wolf, running toward the tree. The two friends head across the branches to avoid him. Zach runs along the tops while Navy flies. “Come back here now!” The bird and fox continue to across in an effort to get away, but the rainbow-haired wolf is far from giving up. “You can’t outrun me! I will- Whoa!” The blue canine trips over some roots and slams his entire body face-first into a fresh mud puddle. As he picks himself up, he continues along the path of his two prey. After some time running, he stops to catch his breath. “You can’t… You won’t… I will… find you…”

Zach and Navy continue onward down the jungle. Zach looks back at his chaser, who is nowhere to be seen.

“Did we lose him?” Navy questions.

Zach stops on the next branch. “I-I think so. That wolf is fast. Perhaps we should-” With a snap, the branch beneath him breaks, causing him to fall and land on the ground below. The fox grunts as his body lies against a cracked, stone surface.

“Zach!” Navy flies down to him, landing on her feet and rushing toward him, aiding the fox up. “Are you okay?”

“Ow,” the fox replies. “That hurt…” With his friend’s help, he stands. As he picks his head up, Zach takes notice of some stone structures strewn about the area. Moss and vines hold the empty buildings hostage, claiming them as their own, while trees grow from the stone roads, creating cracks within the pavement. Distorted, broken statues of monkey-like creatures adorn the broken roads. Freshwater spews into the fountains as fruit grows on the trees. Zach stares in amazement as Navy looks to see for herself. “What is this place…?”

“It looks like some old abandoned city,” replies Navy. “Something that could’ve belonged to the precursors.”

Zach turns his head to her. “You mean from the story of the lost civilization?” Navy nods. “I’ve heard about those stories… It fascinates me how the precursors of the jungle knew more than we did… How they settled in peace and harmony… But it’s mysterious how they vanished…”

“Yeah, we’ve all been told those bedtime stories. I never thought to be standing in the same place the precursors did. It’s so eerie…” Zach scans the ruins again, taking in the natural beauty of the dilapidated buildings. “I actually kind of like this. I say we put this place to good use.” The fox turns to her and asks what she means. “We should use this old city as our means to hang out.”

“Use old ruins as a hangout place? I don’t know if this place is good for that.”

“It’s good, believe me; hidden from view in the jungle, supplies fresh water and fruit, nobody ever comes around here, and we can do whatever we want here with no one telling us what to do!”

“Well, I do like what you mean by that last part.” Zach takes a deep breath in and out. “Okay then.”

Navy smiles. “Let’s go see what our “friends” left us, shall we?” She goes off to explore their new claim, walking in and out of empty structures as Zach tails her. @pink-unicorn-blood

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skywardsoul · 6 years

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The Bridge Between You and Me (chapter 6; Finale/Epilogue)

It's here! The finale/Epilogue of the Bridge Between You and Me! I want to start off by apologizing for the delay. My computer's hard drive broke, and I was without access to my works for about two weeks. I'm actually posting this chapter from a loaner as I type this! The next thing I want to address was everyone who has been following this story. Thank you all so much for the kind reviews and constructive feedback! It means the absolute world to me. Finally, I want to talk about whats coming up. I have already mentioned the spin-off of this story, taking place during Akko and Sucy's trip to Japan, but I was also thinking of maybe doing a collection of one-shots/two-shots about various points in Sucy and Akko's life. I hope you look forward to both!

so, without further ado, please enjoy the final chapter!

Ao3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12312885/chapters/28879020

FF.Net link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12682030/6/The-Bridge-Between-You-and-Me

chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5

It was no secret that witches lived a very long time. While the average non-magical human would be lucky to live to a ripe age like 80 or so years, a witch could easily exceed 100. Particularly powerful witches were even rumored to live centuries. This meant that witches had a long and thorough history, one filled with rituals, ceremonies and countless memorials. So it came to little surprise when the High Magic Council filed a complaint against the Blytonbury City Planning Department.

The details hadn’t been made entirely clear, but apparently the city’s plan for building a new park overlapped directly with a landmark considered very important by magical kind, especially to the witch who originally lobbied the council to file a complaint.

And that was who she was meeting with. Eleanor let out a frustrated sigh as she checked the map that had been sent to her. In recent years, witches had come a long way in adapting to new technologies, but were still a ways behind the modern standard. Eleanor appreciated the electronic map, but wished the display was a bit more informative rather than the flat out general area it gave her. ‘Follow the path and you’ll probably find it’ were far from the best instructions.

On some level she still felt betrayed. Eleanor knew she was the newest employee at the office, but it still seemed highly unfair that she was the one who got saddled with this whole mess. Witches were notoriously stubborn when it came to complaints like this, so the chances of her actually changing this one’s mind were next to none. They wouldn’t reach an agreement, it would go to the higher ups to deal with and on and on until something was figured out that made everyone happy. That meant this whole thing was nothing but a waste of her time.

Eleanor shivered as a sudden gust of wind blew, messing up her short, amber locks. Winter was right around the corner, and there was nothing she’d love more than being back in her heated office. But she wasn’t. She was following some dirt path to go argue with a witch. The grass at its edges was tall and untrimmed, spilling into the path itself. Eleanor had read somewhere that at one point it had been used by witches who were on their way to the leyline terminal. Those days were long gone though, for as far she knew most witches traveled to the leyline by the magical roads via broom.

The whole thing just felt, abandoned. Yet for some reason Eleanor couldn’t help but feel a bit at ease as well. It was strange, to say in the least.

After following the path for a good while, Eleanor found herself at a small river. It wasn’t very wide, and the water wasn’t water wasn’t very flowing very fast, but a small bridge stretched over it all the same. The stone of the bridge’s railing over lapped awkwardly and inconsistently, giving the appearance that it was hastily put together. The flagstone used for the actual bridge itself was much cleaner and arranged more orderly, the markings on it revealing years of use. Strangely enough, the bridge didn’t seem worn, or dilapidated in anyway, despite its apparent age. If the path leading up to it were anything to go by, the old thing should have fallen apart and into the river ages ago. Yet, here it stood, sturdy and defiant.

While the bridge was quite the curiosity, it was the woman standing on it that really caught Eleanor’s attention. It wasn’t hard to tell she was a witch, her robes and the broom she had slung over her shoulder being a dead give away. She was quite tall, and on the thinner side. Her skin was a strange almost ghost like pale, and her chocolate brown hair was worn in a long braid, draping over her left shoulder. For whatever reason, her left eye was obscured by her bangs.

As she approached, Eleanor cleared her throat to prepare a greeting.

“Hi there,” she said in a friendly tone, holding out her hand for the witch to take. “I’m Eleanor Van Buren, from the Blytonbury City Planning Department. Are you the witch I’m supposed to be meeting to discuss our planning options?”

The witch didn’t respond immediately, seemingly examining her before a small smile spread across her face. She hadn’t been able to tell before, but up close it was easy to see the witch was nearing her silver years. Still, there was an indescribable energy in her smile, one that seemed warm and boundless. Her dark, scarlet red eye shined with it as she took Eleanor’s hand and shook it.

“My name is Akiko Manbavaran-Kagari. Nice to meetcha!”

Eleanor was a bit taken aback by the fervor in which she shook her hand, and had to catch herself from falling over.

“Uh, r-right,” she said stabilizing herself. “Well Mrs., um, Manbavaran-Kagari-”

“Oh please just call me Aki,” the witch interrupted. It was hard to explain, but her words and attitude were chipper, yet her tone was dry and droll. Almost like she somehow simultaneously excited and bored.

“Right...Aki,” Eleanor began. “Why don’t we start at the beginning. What exactly is it that the magic council is afraid of getting demolished?”

The last thing Eleanor had expected was for Aki to start laughing. It was raspy, yet obviously familiar to the tall witch. She clearly enjoyed her fair share of mirth.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude,” Aki said as her laughter died down. The large grin she wore before continuing, giving Eleanor a clear look at her surprisingly shark-like teeth.

“The thing we’re worried about gettin’ knocked over is right under you!” the brunette woman exclaimed gesturing to the bridge around them.

Eleanor simply stared at her in slight disbelief. This was all over some tiny bridge? She knew witches were weird but this was a whole new level of nonsensical.

“You mean..this whole problem, is because of this little bridge?” She asked incredulously.

Aki simply nodded her head, a smile on her face.

“Well yeah. I don’t go through all the trouble of maintaining it for your department to go and wreck it,” she said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Well at least now she knew how the bridge had stayed in good shape all this time. Magic really did seem like the only answer.

“Not to undermine your effort or anything,” Eleanor started cautiously. The last thing she wanted was to get cursed or something. “But is this one bridge really worth it? I mean is it really all that...special?”

Aki paused at this, putting a seemingly contemplative hand to her chin, a sly grin on her face. Suddenly she stopped, turning to point at something to left of the bridge.

“It is to them.”

Confused by her statement, Eleanor followed her line of sight. Her confusion quickly changed to awe. Resting nearby at the bank of the river, was a massive sakura tree. It’s hundreds of out stretched branches, swaying in the breeze. Despite the closeness to winter, each one was covered in beautiful pink blossoms. Gently, pink petals fell from it, drifting down into the river, making the lazy stream flow with color. Equally magnificent, and arguably just as baffling, was the tree that accompanied it.

Pressed against the sakura’s trunk, was a tall and spindly banaba tree. It’s branches were seemingly intertwined with that of the sakura’s, it’s light purple blossoms blending with the pink of its partner’s. The two trees stood proudly, side by side, practically woven together, as if nothing could separate them. Not only were neither of the tree types native to the area, but there was no way that either could have possibly grow to the size they had with another so close. The most confusing thing at all however, was how Eleanor had failed to notice them on her approach.

None of it made any sense. She turned to Aki for an answer, but stopped when she saw the other woman’s face. There was a far off, nostalgic look in her eyes as she gazed at the two planted wonders. Suddenly, she started to walk across the bridge, passing by Eleanor as she did. Startled, Eleanor followed her until they stopped at the base of the two trees.

She hadn’t noticed it before (that seemed to be an annoying trend today) but there were two stone plaques situated just at the base of both trees. What they said Eleanor was unable to tell, as each one was written in a different language, ones she couldn’t read. Slowly, Aki raised a hand, and placed it at the point where the two trees seemed to meet. The brunette witch started to hum as she ran her hand across the bark.

Eleanor was at a lost for what to say. She had expected to come and argue with some crabby old lady about the importance of some enchanted rocks or something. That was all but forgotten at this point. She never would have guessed to see something like this, and the awe of it all simply kept her from caring about something so petty. What she was seeing was special, she just knew it. Just as she was about to break the silence, Aki beat her to it.

“I’m not sure if you know, but when a witch passes on, she must return the magic within her to the earth that gave it to her,” Aki began. Her voice was quieter than it was before.

“We, to put it simply, become trees!” the witch said with a smile, turning to face Eleanor. “Rumor has that the more powerful the witch, the greater her resulting tree.”

“Then...these are...graves?”

Eleanor was surprised at how quiet her own voice had gotten. Aki gave a slight giggle before responding with a nod.

“I guess, by non-magic standards yeah, they are. We like to think of them in a less dark sense though. Less, a burial place for the dead, and more, were they simply decided to live on,” Aki explained.

“Then these witches, the two burri- er, living here, were quite powerful then?” Eleanor asked.

Aki smiled once again before turning back to the trees.

“Yeah some would say my mothers were pretty strong. They were apart of the New Nine Witches after all.”

A wave of realization hit Eleanor in that moment. Manbavaran-Kagari. The name had rung a slight bell when she heard it before, but it was quite clear now. Sucy Manbavaran and Atsuko Kagari; two of nine fabled witches who had helped to save the world from a doom filled missile so long ago. This is where they were buried!?...this was their daughter!?

“Y-you’re the daughter of two of the nine witches!?” Eleanor asked stunned.

“Yes, I am,” Aki said with a laugh. “And as I said earlier, that bridge was very important to my mothers during their lives. It’s important to me too of course. I have countless family memories revolving around it.”

Aki walked forward, stopping to crouch near her mothers’ plaques. Silently, she placed two things, a jar of pickled plums, and a bundle of fungus, down in front of them. Turning back to face Eleanor, Aki began to walk back to the bridge. Once again, Eleanor followed. Looking briefly over her shoulder, she was shocked to find that the trees had seemingly vanished, leaving behind an empty river bank.

“Normally we keep the trees cloaked to non-magical eyes, you know to keep away fanatics and tourists,” Aki explained “Although I’m sure Okasan would have loved the attention,” Aki chuckled at this before continuing.

“I made an exception for you though, because I thought you’d just might need to see them to get where I’m coming from.”

Aki paused and turned one last time to her with a big smile.

“They say the more powerful a witch was, the greater the tree. I say boo to that, it’s all about the love. The love they had in life, that’s what makes for a grand tree. And a lot of my mothers’ Love is centered around that little bridge,” Aki said proudly.

“Do you see why I can’t let the city get rid of it?” the witch asked gently.

Slowly, a smile spread across Eleanor’s face. With a slight giggle, she responded:

“Yeah...I think I do.”

It came to the delight of the magical

Council, and to Akiko personally, when it was announced two weeks later that the city would be dropping its plan to build.

#little witch academia #sucyakko #akkosucy #suakko #alec writes #lwa #IT'S FINALLY DONE! ENJOY!

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bernardhiking · 4 years

Text

Everest Base Camp Trek

Dates of hike: November 19-30, 2019

Country: Nepal

Region: Khumbu

Trailhead: Lukla

Hike Destination: Everest Base Camp (EBC)

Distance: 120 km (72 miles) round-trip

Overall elevation gain: 5,500 m

Difficulty: Intermediate-tough (on account of high altitude)

We decided to tackle one of the classic hikes of the world: Lukla to Everest Base Camp. A few data points about this undertaking: The trek (the word used in Nepal for extended multi-day hiking) from Lukla to EBC and back takes 11 days, and the total distance covered is more than 70 miles. The way up to the base camp (at 5,364 m.) is chopped into reasonably short daily stages, interspersed with two acclimatization days to make sure hikers are not incapacitated by altitude sickness. You can rush up there much faster, but you may go back down in a rescue helicopter. Most people take Diamox to help with altitude sickness (though I did not). The altitude affected us in the predictable ways, causing occasional headaches as well as sleeplessness; the latter affected me rather strongly, as I struggled through four nearly sleepless nights in a row at high altitude. Our guide made sure we measured our heartbeat and blood-oxygen content every morning and evening. If the reading goes into a critical range, the guide would make the person go down. Descending is physiologically benign, and most trekkers cover the entire distance back from EBC to Lukla (about 36 miles) in three days. A word about the options available to get to the trailhead in Lukla. Since there is no road or other earth-bound means of transportation to this place, you need to fly in, unless you fancy walking for several days. They say this flight is not for the faint-hearted, but in good weather it really is just a short 25 minute joy ride from Kathmandu. If you sit on the right side (which is the left side of the plane) you see the entire chain of the Himalaya lined up on the horizon, and when another plane in the convoy pops up in your line of view, the photogenic appeal is hard to beat.

Maybe people who sound wary about this flight refer to short uphill runway in Lukla. But I found it rather thrilling to land on this unique air strip, and although the plane comes down hard on the runway (not only is the air thin above 2,800 meters but the runway meets the plane at a steeper angle than usual), there’s nothing to be particularly concerned about.

One thing that becomes clear right away upon deplaning is that this ain’t Kathmandu any more. While a day ago, we had capered around in the Nepalese capital in short sleeves, up here in Lukla the air was nippy, to put it mildly. We knew what was in store for us when we sat down in an unheated restaurant for breakfast, clutching our coffee mug with clammy fingers. From now on it would get colder in direct proportion to the altitude we gained. There is no effective indoor heating anywhere in these mountains, and the trekker better be prepared for some cold nights. By contrast, the days are sunny and pleasant, and that brings me to the topic of weather in the Himalaya. The climate in these parts is strictly seasonal, and the pattern is bipolar. The trade winds blowing from the southwest in summer bring daily rain, and when the winds reverse direction in the fall, turning to northeast, sunny and dry weather follows, stretching for days, weeks, and even months. It is the only major mountain range that I know of where the weather is predictably good for long periods of time, especially from the end of September through December, though temperatures are in the lower range due to the short days and flat angle of the sun.

DAY 1: Lukla to Phakding (8 km; altitude: 2,850 m. – 2,600 m.) The first stage of our trek, from Lukla to Phakding, goes mostly downhill, and we already arrived at our destination at noon time. After being pampered with hot towels and the region’s signature masala tea at the Yeti Mountain Home, we made straight for a local restaurant overlooking the Dudh Koshi river valley. There, we had the first of many lunches consisting of fried rice and momos (Nepalese dumplings). Although our package included all-you can eat food for all meals, our guide reminded us for the n-th time to order strictly the amount we can eat and to leave no food behind. This was in consideration of the fact that all food (as well as every other necessity) was precious, being literally carried up the valley on the backs of people and animals. Besides the ecological, there was an economic rationale for this no-leftover policy: The less we ate, the more money was left-over from the fixed amount that was provided to our guide by the trekking operator. We had opted for the “luxury” version of the trek, which meant we were housed in the “best available” lodges along the way. “Best available” can mean bunkbeds and a shared toilet further up the valley, but mostly it means a separate room with attached toilet and sometimes a hot shower as well. Our Yeti Mountain Lodge in Phakding was well appointed in all regards, with spacious, clean rooms, lovely gardens out front, and the food was served banquet style, with wait staff coming around delivering bowls of steaming soup, fried noodles, and even the occasional bit of chicken.

We had been warned to stay away from meat and alcohol during the trip (the meat because it tends to be unsanitary in remote areas, and the alcohol because it puts a strain on the already altitude-stressed cardio-vascular system), but on this first stop along the trail, we still indulged in the forbidden pleasures, washing down our curry chicken with a can of Khumbu Kölsch. After Phakding, we remained teatotalling vegetarians for 10 days, which contributed to the nice side-effect of trekking--losing a few pounds. En route to Phakding, we quickly realized how many fellow trekkers were on the trail alongside us. Although the end of November was quite late in the fall trekking season, we encountered a few larger groups of about twenty hikers as well as smaller groups like ours (we were four people), and the occasional solo trekker. When our guide told us that a month earlier, the trail was much more crowded, we felt instantly better. Although we remained wedged down deep down in the valley, we glimpsed our first Himalayan peak today, Kusum Kanguru (6,370 m.), whose towering bulk rose sheer into the azure sky. What adds further charm to the scenic beauty are the large “Mani Stones”—rocks carved and inscribed with the Tibetan mantra “Om Mani Padme Hum.” To my eye, these were essentially sculptures, large artistic installations harmoniously integrated into the landscape.

DAY 2: Phakding to Namche Bazaar (11.5 km; altitude: 2,600 m. – 3,500 m.) The second day of trekking is quite long, and it involves a substantial altitude gain of almost 1000 m. Indeed the final ascent from the valley bottom where the Dudh Koshi meets the Theshyo Khola River, is substantial. Here, one really begins to feel the altitude. And when it gets that steep, the larger groups begin to slow down and bunch up, so that we had to pass them, overtaking group after group. Since we like solitary hiking, the crowds were not our favorite part. Our guide, who realized this, forthwith timed our daily schedule to avoid the busiest times on the trail: Apparently most groups start their day at 8 am, which is necessary for the larger, slower groups to reach the day’s destination before sunset. By starting the day’s trek one hour or more behind the majority of our fellow trekkers, we often had the trail almost to ourselves; or rather: we shared it only with pack animals. These caravans are ubiquitous, especially on the lower reaches of the valley, where long lines of mules, horses, and yaks are frequently encountered.

If you look at the size of Namche Bazaar, a veritable town, and consider that this place was entirely built with materials lugged up the mountain by muscle force—both animal and human—it becomes clear how many trips have to be made to make it possible. But the beasts do pose somewhat of a challenge and at times, trekkers and pack animals compete for the narrow, dilapidated trail space, with sometimes unfortunate consequences. Just outside Phakding, at the start of today’s trek, our friend was pushed by a mule from behind and she fell hard against the slope, cutting her fingers and damaging her wedding ring, which lost one of its inset diamonds, a detail we only noticed an hour or so after the incident. Our guide used some first-aid materials to bandage the bleeding fingers, and it was all fine. But from then on, we referred to mules as “her friends” and would give them as wide a berth as possible when they approached from either direction. Some of these caravans are so long, with more than 100 animals in total, that it can take 15-20 minutes until they all pass, trying one’s patience. But the higher up one goes on the trail to EBC, the fewer animal caravans one is likely to encounter, as the human settlements become increasingly smaller, thus necessitating fewer good to be transported. Resting areas appear at regular intervals along the trail, with ledges where trekkers and porters can place their load away from the dusty ground and where garbage and recycling bins are installed, though both are usually overflowing. One such stop about an hour below Namche Bazaar was particularly crowded because from here you could get your first glimpse of Everest, though only barely, with trees blocking the line of sight. Still, dozens of trekkers were milling around, some of them trying to pose for pictures “in front of” Everest, although what they really did was pose in front of trees. I itched to get away from this crowded spot, but it seemed we were wedged in a long line of slow-moving hikers. Just then, the path forked, and while everybody went to the right, our guide nudged us onto the less traveled path on the left, apparently reserved for pack-animals. This track was quite deserted, thus saving us the discomfort of being absorbed into a convoy of slow-moving, chatty hikers. There are several checkpoints along the way, and one benefit of having a guide is that all the paperwork is neatly taken care of by him, while we can take a rest and catch a breath. At the checkpoint before entering Sagarmatha National Park, we encountered a code of conduct that, among other things, required us to “refrain from anger.” It is an important injunction because simply walking on the atrocious trails around here could make anybody give in to the undesired emotion. Over long stretches, the trails in Khumbu Valley are terrible. I don’t understand why they don’t undertake any trail maintenance in these places, but rather let the trekkers, pack animals, and local porters stumble over unbelievably dilapidated, rocky, eroded trails. I often encountered heaps of rocks in the center of the trail inside a village; everybody was laboring over these obstacles and the poor animals were getting their hooves scratched and scuffed, but apparently nobody says “hey lets get a few villagers together and spend ten minutes to remove these loose rocks from the trail.” Occasionally the trail resembles nothing more than a riverbed, a steeply inclined, stone-strewn channel.

But again, no anger please. Just roll with the punches... Namche Bazaar—dubbed the “Sherpa Capital”—is the biggest, liveliest town along the Everest trek. The town is arranged like a horseshoe, with rows of houses aligned in ever-expanding semi-circles up the steep hillside. Here you can go bar-hopping if that’s your thing (although watch out—alcohol will interfere with your acclimatization process), or you can do serious gift-shopping (although who is going to carry all that loot back down to Lukla?), or you can play billiards (a surprisingly popular past-time along the Everest trekking route). Anyway, it’s a pretty fun place, with gaggles of school kids in uniforms laughing and running up and down the steps while monks in dark maroon robes bask in the sun, serenely contemplating the scene.

DAY 3: Acclimatization hike (4.5 km; altitude: 3,500 m. – 3,900 m.) Namche Bazaar is the first of two acclimatization stops. So, we did what all trekkers do: make our way up to the Everest View Hotel equipped only with daypacks. This is a surprisingly modern hotel that would not be out of place in Aspen, Colorado. But instead, it sits on a ridge high above the Dudh Koshi river, in the middle of nowhere, to be reached either by walking on a thin trail for an hour and a half or by helicopter. The hotel’s name is aptly chosen, but it could equally well be called “Ama Dablam View Hotel.” In fact, Ama Dablam (6,812 m.) is the most prominent landscape feature on view throughout much of the trek to EBC, and it is one of the most beautiful mountains to boot, standing tall and solitary, leaning pridefully backward and to all intents and purposes looking unclimbable (it is, in fact, climbed by dozens every year).

So, while the summit pyramid of Everest is just visible behind the broad, lumbering ridge of Nuptse in the distance, Ama Dablam is the king of the valley, stealing Everest’s show. This is the first undeniably major panoramic highlight, and we took many pictures, even as we sipped tasty masala tea and swilled ginger-lemon-honey brew at our open-air restaurant table.

Meanwhile, some tourists sporting designer clothes and clutching Gucci bags and exited a helicopter that had landed on the pad next to the hotel. They are probably the kind of clientele to whom this swanky place caters. Trekkers like us return down to Namche Bazaar to get ready for the hike to Deboche the next day.

DAY 4: Namche Bazaar to Deboche (10 km; altitude: 3,500 m. – 3,850 m.) The nice thing on this trek is that every day seems to top the previous one in terms of sight-seeing, and every time when you think it can’t get any better, it does. The fourth day of trekking was no exception to this rule. First, the wide path winding its way leisurely at even altitude along the slope above the valley floor, afforded broad views of Nuptse, Lhotse, Everest, and Ama Dablam. The occasional stupa and prayer-flag garland provided a lovely man-made accent to the landscape. For reasons that escaped us, this section of the path was the only one along the entire trek that was in good condition, which shows that it can actually be done. But the drawback is that it makes the awful sections of trail look even worse, and there was a terribly dusty, rocky, and steep section down to where the trail meets the Dudh Koshi stream at Phorge Tenga. It was lunch time when we arrived there, and the restaurant chosen by our guide was, according to general consent, the best lunch spot along the whole trail. In the early afternoon, we tackled the long steep climb to Tengboche. Although taxing, we particularly enjoyed this portion, for two reasons: first we were practically alone on the trail, and second the scenery dominated by Mt. Kangtega (6,782 m.) was sublime.

Kangtega is an enormous hulk of a mountain, so complexly shaped that it constantly changes its form as one’s angle of vision changes—first it looks like a huge dome, then it appears to have a split summit, then it turns out to be horn shaped. Emerging on the pass that is home to Tengboche monastery counts as one of the greatest wow-moments of the trek, if not of my hiking life. The arena of the vast mountain theater, topped by Taboche, the Everest massif, and Ama Dablam was sublime; the natural beauty was complemented by shining white stupas, prayer flags, carved wooden arches, and the monastery itself that added to the overall attractiveness of the vista.

Inside the monastery we were impressed in a different way: the sumptuous orange, red, and yellow tones of the temple interior, the wall paintings and thankas, the drapes, and the shadows on the floor created a flawless impression of harmony and peace. I kept taking pictures with the iPhone, completely forgetting that it was forbidden inside the monastery (and signs warned of 24-hour surveillance to enforce the ban—fortunately, nobody came after us for this breach). We snapped a group photo of the four of us before the spectacular backdrop and then finished the day’s hike by descending to Deboche. The lodge there was a lot more basic than the Yeti Mountain Home in Namche Bazaar, but it was still miles better than some of the dorm facilities we had passed that day, smoky, dark abodes with nary a sense of privacy. So, we shall not complain although the stove in the dining room went cold at 9 pm despite our pleading, and we had to repair to our rooms.

DAY 5: Deboche to Dingboche (10 km; altitude: 3,850 m. – 4,350 m.) We set out at 9 am for today’s hike. After a short while, we came to a suspension bridge where about 100 trekkers were bunched up. We speedily passed them and continued ahead of the pack, but the extra pace, trying to put some distance between us and the gaggle, took a toll on me. About 1 ½ hours into the hike, I suddenly experienced shortness of breath and had to sit down. This was a warning sign not to take things at too great a speed and to make sure to keep breathing deeply; I had been talking animatedly to Liang for about 20 minutes while hiking vigorously, and the prolonged shallow breathing had taken the stuffing out of me. I vowed not to engage in lengthy conversations while under the strain of hiking uphill at such an altitude. We had a long lunch break at 11:30, sitting in a sunny spot right underneath Ama Dablam. Then we set out on the second half of the trek, which was varied and interesting, with only moderate uphill portions. We saw the first glimpse of Dingboche at around 2 pm, and half an hour later we were at our lodge. The room is one further step down even from yesterday because electricity is on only for a short stretch, from 8-10 pm. Also, there was no hot water for washing. The tough part of the trek begins here. From Dingboche, we saw Ama Dablam from a different angle, but the mountain is still incredible seen from this perspective.

DAY 6: Acclimatization hike (2 km; altitude: 4,350 m. – 4,550 m.) We spent the second acclimatization day by going up on a ridge above Dingboche to enjoy the views. We had not expected to see such a fantastic panorama and dramatic vistas once we gained some height above Dingboche. In the end, it turned into a photographic feeding frenzy. Halfway up to the viewing point, our friend came across a granite slab jutting out from the slope and we all took turns posing heroically upon it.

After this, we continued to climb in great spirits until we reached the viewing point garlanded, as usual, with colorful prayer flags. From this spot, we could see Lhotse (8,516 m.), Makalu (8,485 m.), as well as a host of other peaks, including the holy Taboche (6,495 m.) and Chalotse (6,440m.), the latter two mountains looking like identical twins. We descended slowly because the trail was dry and dusty and it was easy to slip. Holding each other’s hands, we made it safely back down, and soon afterwards we enjoyed our lunch of pizza, soup, and noodles, while drinking copious quantities of masala tea. After lunch, we headed over to the “Himalaya Café,” where we ordered a lovely cappuccino (if you spent 400 rupees you got a free charge of an electronic device) and a pot of an Himalayan berry tea that had a tart, sour taste. The place was comfy and warm, so we spend the whole afternoon there, until the time came to return to our much drabber lodge, the “Bright Star.” The only source of warmth there was an iron stove that was fed with dried yak paddies. It took forever for them to light up, and the stinking smoke filled the whole dining room until our eyes were watering. Yak paddies may be an ecological solution as fuel but they are inefficient and provide minimal heat. To make matters worse, the hot bed bottle provided to us for the night was leaking and after only an hour or two of sleep I woke up to feel clammy wetness spread in our bed, while the room was as chill as the outside temperature. I lay awake for the rest of this miserable night.

DAY 7: Dingboche to Labuche (9.5 km; altitude: 4,350 m. – 5,050 m.) We left for today’s hike at 8:45 am. For once, the weather was not great. It was overcast, with a chilly wind blowing most of the time. I wore the underlayer pants, gloves, and hat all day long. The trek was again very scenic, as we followed the valley further back toward the southwest side of Nuptse. The climb was pretty gradual, except for about an hour after lunch, when we climbed more steeply, from about 4,700 to 5,000 meters. At this point, we were huffing and puffing like locomotives in the thin air, taking frequent breaks. After Thukla Pass, we continued on for another few kilometers over even terrain. Not too much was happening along the trail today, and we also took fewer pictures than before because the light was flat under the overcast sky. Our lodge, it turned out, was an Italian research station called “8000 Inn” (but everybody refers to it as “The Pyramid”).

We had gotten lucky here. The rooms were rustic but nicer than the two previous places we had stayed at, plus there was electricity in all rooms at all times, and although shared, the toilet and shower facilities were decent.

DAY 8: The Pyramid to Everest Base Camp and back (14 km; altitude: 5,050 m. – 5,364 m.) My night was torture again. After 1:30 am, there was nothing going, despite taking Benadryl. I had this strange sensation that I could not breathe properly if I fell asleep, and every time I almost nodded off, this feeling of hyperventilating took hold of me, making it impossible to sleep. I finally gave up trying at 5 am and went downstairs to read the news (I had purchased internet connection) and to sip a cup of hot coffee. I was naturally a bit apprehensive about having missed two nights’ sleep in a row because today was going to be the biggest day of the trek, with the push for Everest Base Camp and then coming back again to this lodge, a hike of at least 14 km, all above 5000 m. Also, I had a splitting headache by the time it was 6 am, so I took two Advil. Fortunately, they did have an effect, and the headache soon got better. We started our day’s trek at 7 am. Right away we climbed up steeply from the lodge, not following the main trail but rather going on an alternative route which took us up on an incredibly scenic ridge which was dominated by the gorgeous pyramid of Mt. Pumori (7,145 m.) bathed in early morning sunlight.

We found a good spot and held an enthusiastic photoshoot. After this, the trail skirted a steep slope and was for stretches rather sketchy and narrow. After a while, we joined the official trail to Gorak Shep, and here it got really crowded, with scores of trekkers going both ways and with the occasional yak caravan squeezing by on a rocky and narrow trail. We were now on a moraine, and the going was really rough over small and large boulders without anything that could be called a trail. We arrived at Gorak Shep, the last dwelling before the Base Camp, at 9:30 am, and everyone agreed we should just push on to the Base Camp without stopping. This was a great decision because we now had the trail and, eventually, the Everest BC all to ourselves. About a mile before the base camp, the summit pyramid of Everest peaked up behind the shoulder of the mountain. But mainly, the actual head of Everest remained hidden. If you want to see the whole mountain, you need to climb on top of one of the surrounding mountains, or approach Everest from the Tibetan side.

By contrast, Nuptse presents itself from its best side here, literally. While on the approach so far, Nuptse looked less like a mountain and more like a ridge that extends from Lhotse, from where we stood, Nuptse elegantly showed its merengue-twisted top. We arrived at the Base Camp at 11:45 am and only saw one or two other hikers. Here our guide, Lal, gave all of us a big hug in celebration of having reached our goal. Afterwards, we explored the wider base camp area. There was not a single climbing party there and no tents.

Lal explained that the weather was too cold, making for worse rather than more favorable ice conditions, plus the winds at the top were so strong at this time of the year that climbers would be blown right off the ridge. But down here at the Base Camp, the weather was splendid for a visit. The sun was out, the sky was a deep azure, and some puffy clouds floated by, allowing for maximum visibility and making the terrain look as spectacular as it possibly can. On the way back from Base Camp, we finally met the throngs of fellow hikers I had dreaded to encounter earlier. Our guide had done a splendid job timing our approach to EBC so as to be ahead of everyone else. We were back in Gorak Shep at 1:30 pm and had a small lunch there. The previous night, we had decided to skip the early-morning trek up to Kala Pathar to see the sunrise, as originally planned. According to our guide, the gain in view (a little more of Everest) was not worth the enormous expenditure of time and energy, getting up at 4 in the morning and then climbing up to 5,500 m. before having to hike all the way down to Pangboche--a monster day. In Lal’s experience, people generally regret the Kala Pathar trip. Moreover, skipping Kala Pathar meant that we’d be able to stay one more night at “The Pyramid,” a much more comfortable (aka less uncomfortable) place than the accommodation at Gorak Shep. So, the decision was made, and we never looked back. From Gorak Shep we retraced our steps over the endless-seaming moraine of the Khumbu Glacier, the “trail” consisting only of stones, boulders, and rocks.

About two hours later, this bad stretch of trail gave way to a smoother path, allowing us to speed up, heading toward the “Pyramid” at full steam. It was quite amazing how easy descending was compared to going uphill. We arrived at the “8000 Inn” at exactly 4:30 pm, 9 ½ hours after we had set out. It was altogether a fantastic and truly memorable hike, one that I will fondly remember for a long time to come, and also one that does give us a little bit of bragging right.

DAY 9: The Pyramid near Lobuche to Pangboche (15 km; altitude: 5,050 m. – 4,000 m.) For the third night in a row, I slept really badly. After 2 am, there was nothing going. After laying awake for two hours, I put on the headphones and listened to music for another 2 hours, without sleeping a wink. Finally, when I could not take it anymore, I got up and started to get ready for the day. After breakfast, the man running both the “8000 Inn” and the research station built next to the Inn, invited us to take a look inside the research facility. It was astounding how much scientific instruments and gear was assembled there was to study the climate and investigate pollution related issues. But working in this environment, no matter how pretty the site was, would be impossible for me because the pyramid was not heated, and it was bone-chillingly cold in there. It’s hard to imagine that scientists would put up with these conditions for up to 10 months per year—that’s dedication! Although the sun was shining, it was bitterly cold when we set out at 8:30 am, and the wind was so strong, it stung my eyes to tears. It took about one hour into our downward hiking until I began to warm up. Today, visibility was splendid and the scenery going down was as interesting, if not more so, than seeing it coming up. At Thukla Pass, we spent some time inspecting the collection of memorial stupas erected in honor of the many mountaineers in the Khumbu region who had died during their climbs or descents (an astonishing number of them perished after already having achieved the peak).

The scenery kept getting better and better, and when we reached the valley floor leading to Pheriche, it was amazing to stand at the base of the two soaring peaks, Taboche and Cholatse.

We took our good time with lunch at Pheriche, spending almost 1 ½ hours at the inn there. Then we were off again for the last stretch down to Pangboche. The trek continued to be very pleasant and inspiring, as we rejoined the Dudh Koshi river valley and faced gorgeous Ama Dablam from the side. On the last stretch of the trail, the Nuptse-Everest-Lhotse trilogy swung again into view, and the low-hanging clouds added a dramatic touch to today’s iteration of the view. We reached “Everest View” lodge in Pangboche at 3:30 pm and were cordially greeted by the owner. The news that there was a reliable, hot gas-shower in our own unit rather made us giddy. Dinner was delicious. They made such a big effort to spoil us in this place, including lovely table decorations, serving a tasty, well-cooked and beautifully presented three-course meal, and being attentive throughout. From our perch in the dining room, we were treated to a spectacular sunset. It was a fitting ending to a great day.

DAY 10: Pangboche to Namche Bazaar (12.5 km; altitude: 4,000 m. – 3,500 m.) This marked the 4th night in a row that I have barely slept. These hours laying awake, trying to breathe deeply but repeatedly finding myself gasping for air without finding a proper breathing rhythm, are long and dreary. Breakfast seemed a long way off at 2:30 am, but it did finally arrive, and when it did I enjoyed it very much. The table was once again laid out beautifully, and we were served homemade rolls and even some freshly cooked dishes, as well as porridge, eggs, and juice. Really quite sumptuous and served in a room with a great view over the mountains. Today’s hike was going to be 6-7 hours, all the way back to Namche Bazaar. Along the way, we enjoyed again the scenery we’d seen on the way up, but now, the light was different and the sky was full of drifting and dissolving clouds, adding an extremely pretty touch. Something about breakfast bothered me, digestively, and near Deboche, I had to make for the bushes. But, the discomfort only lasted until lunch, and there were no further problems. We passed Tengboche under a beautifully cloud-dotted sky and once again enjoyed the harmonious blend of culture and nature around the monastery complex there. Then came the protracted descent to the valley bottom at Phorge Tenga. When we had come up here 8 days ago, we had hardly encountered anybody, thus making this one of my favorite stretches of the trek. Now, going down, we encountered many trekkers coming toward us. We stopped at the same restaurant in Pharge Tenga with the spectacular, fresh mint-tea and the best pizza of the valley. After lunch, we climbed up that awful, steep, worn-out, dusty section of trail, until we reached the level track that skirts the mountainside toward Namche Bazaar. The clouds got progressively more picturesque, framing and embellishing the snow-topped mountains (esp. Thamserku).

The shutters kept clicking until our arrival in Namche Bazaar.

The scenery was so picturesque, it felt like we had walked into an Albert Bierstadt Painting (the painting below is titled “Rocky Mountain Landscape,” 1870, though I’m pretty sure the Rockies don’t look like this).

DAY 11: Namche Bazaar to Lukla (18.5 km; altitude: 3,500 m. – 2,850 m.) Finally, that night, I slept well, due to the lower altitude. Breakfast was scheduled for 6:30 am, and we left the lodge around 7:15, heading down the trail toward Lukla. Measuring at 19 kilometers, this was the longest segment of the entire trek, hence our early start. Today, I hardly took any pictures because we were getting lower and lower down into the valley, with fewer scenic highlights. Also, the weather was turning overcast, washing out contrasts and making for a more hazy, unexciting scene. We had lunch at the same place in Phakding where we had eaten our first lunch. It was our last meal with the usual choice of egg fried rice, vegetable chow mien, fried potatoes, mushroom soup, and pizza. The last stretch of the trail toward Lukla went uphill, and toward the end it got quite steep. This was the ultimate fitness test, but we passed it with flying colors. In fact, we all were walking at such a fast pace, I sometimes wondered if our guide could keep up. It was good he did, for shortly before reaching Lukla, Lal called to us from behind, because we had taken the wrong branch in a fork of the trail. We had followed the refurbished, smoother of the two trails, whereas we were supposed to follow a delapidated branch. I expected that our friends, who had gone on ahead of us, must have also missed that fork as well. And indeed, as we slowly continued on the trail, looking down from time to time, we spied them retracing their steps. We called to them, and five minutes later, they had rejoined us. Together we pushed on for the last kilometer, and at 4 pm we arrived at the Lukla Yeti Mountain Home, where the setting sun was bathing the beautifully decorated yard in gorgeous colors.

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sparxwrites · 7 years

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(the stardew valley au for critical role that no one asked for, but i wrote anyways, bc i’m a sucker for found family / healing narratives, and because the idea of percy and cass learning to love each other and themselves, whilst working a farm and making friends with the locals, was too good to pass up. will i write more of this? who knows.)

[ao3]

Cassandra was the one driving when they finally arrived. In the passenger seat beside her, Percy was curled up, sleeping shallow and fitful – seatbelt off, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes rolling under the thin, bruised skin of his eyelids. The faint, green glow of the truck’s dials made the pale skin and sharp angles of his face look sickly, threw the purple of his newly-acquired scars into sharp, unpleasant relief.

Outside the truck, now the engine was off, it was eerily silent, and oppressively hot without the air conditioning running. Used to the steady traffic noises of the city, and the relative chill of Maine, mid-spring rural Alabama was alien in every possible way. She could remember vacationing here as a young child, but that was years ago, distant enough that she had only had hazy memories of a quaint farmhouse, overgrown fields, running through grass well above head-height in a muddied sundress as Julius called after her in alarm.

The farmhouse she’d parked behind looked significantly more dilapidated than the one from her memories. Parts of the roof were bowing in, and there were weeds growing through the cracks between the stones. The fields looked much the same, though the darkness and the unfamiliar sounds of nighttime animals added a layer of unknown menace to them.

Or perhaps, she thought, that was just her. She’d never been afraid of the dark as a child, after all, but now…

“Percival,” she whispered, tearing her eyes away from the night outside the window, and looking back to her sleeping brother. “Percival, wake up. We’re here.” When he didn’t wake, just twitched in his sleep, she reached out and shook his shoulder. “Percy-”

There was suddenly a hand around her wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise against the sensitive tendons on the underside. She managed not to cry out, but only by merit of biting her lip nearly hard enough to bleed as she wrenched free of Percy with as much strength as she could muster. He didn’t try to hold her, but she recoiled from him nonetheless, as he stared at her, uncomprehending and confused, with the blank, terrified eyes of a cornered animal.

“…Sorry,” he breathed, after a half-heartbeat. Recognition returned to his eyes, and the tension draining out of him as his shoulders slumped. “I didn’t mean to- I- bad dreams. Sorry.”

Cassandra said nothing, stayed with her back pressed against the driver’s seat window. Though there was guilt in his eyes, her wrist still throbbed as she rubbed at it gingerly. She hadn’t noticed initially, when he’d arrived to drag her away from the Briarwoods’ clutches, but there was something different about him. He’d always been the strangest out of all of them, Percival, but now… there new violence, a new instability to him now that unsettled her.

Not that she hadn’t changed, too, in the years they’d been apart – just in a different way. Perhaps she was a hypocrite, for being so hesitant around him, when there was little doubt she was barely recognisable too.

When it became clear she wasn’t going to respond to his apology, Percy winced, and then sighed. “Did anyone see us arrive?” he asked, eventually. scrubbing the sleep from his eyes with unsteady hands. Despite his nap, he looked like he’d barely slept, eyes red-rimmed and the bags under them just as dark as they’d been before.

“Brother,” said Cassandra, quiet, exhausted. She’d been driving for over twelve straight hours. She just wanted to rest. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid? We’re half a country over, surely they’re not going to have trailed us that far.”

Even as she said it, though, she thought of Percy’s new scars, the hunted-rabbit look in his eyes and the tremor to his hands. Of Lady Delilah’s jewellery heavy around her own throat, and Lord Sylas’ hand clamped tight enough to bruise around her shoulder.

“Did anyone see us arrive?” Percy insisted, a note of almost-terror to the urgency in his voice – and, not for the first time, Cassandra wondered what the hell had happened to him whilst she’d been in the Briarwoods’ care.

She sighed, scrubbing at her own face and struggling to keep control of herself in the face of grinding exhaustion. “No. No, I- the property’s a little ways out from the town. I turned the headlights off, though, as soon as we got close. Unless anyone was waiting for us, we shouldn’t have been seen or heard.”

“Should’ve left the car out by the road,” muttered Percy, dragging a hand through his hair. “Hidden. Someone might have heard-”

“What’s done is done.” It came out sharper than she’d meant – and, in the silence that hung heavy between them in the aftermath, the dark pressed in even closer around her. She felt like she was suffocating. After holding everything in for the week they’d spent running, up into Canada and then back down to the only family property that could have conceivably been overlooked by the Briarwoods’ eagle gaze, she felt like bursting into tears. “Please, just- let’s go inside. Rest. We can work out what to do in the morning.”

Percy hesitated, and then bowed his head. “You’re right, of course. Sorry. Let’s… get in. Get you to a bed.”

His attempt at brotherly affection fell a little flat, between the awkward space separating them and the something still lurking behind Percy’s eyes, but Cassandra was too tired to care. She simply nodded, and slipped out of the car before he could say anything else.

The front door was locked – though, given the holes in the roof, and the broken windows, it afforded little in the way of security to the place. Still, the spare key was in the same place she remembered from her childhood, beneath a plant pot tucked into a gap in the wood store. It was a little rusted, a little weathered, but it still fit the lock well enough when she tried it.

By the time Percy had bundled their belongings out of the truck – two duffels and a backpack, a pitiful collection of whatever they’d managed to beg, borrow, and steal on the way there – she’d managed to get the door open, with a little shoving, and was poking around inside.

The entirety of the upstairs, and most of the downstairs, was unsalvageable, she was disappointed to discover. Between the caved-in ceiling, cracked windows, and general creeping rot and plant life, everything other than the entrance hall and downstairs master bedroom was uninhabitable. The ruined kitchen did, however, have several unspoilt cans of food, and the wardrobe in the bedroom had clean, if musty, bedsheets, so she supposed it could be worse.

“In here,” she called, softly, when she heard Percy's footsteps in the entrance hall. A moment later, she heard him grunt, quietly, as he set the bags down on the floor. “This is the only weatherproof room in the whole place.”

“Marvellous,” Percy muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. For just a second, Cassandra heard the old version of her brother in the clipped irritation and dry sarcasm of that single word. “Well, at least we have a bed, I suppose. You should get some rest.”

Cassandra, already in the midst of toeing off her shoes and getting ready to collapse onto the waiting mattress, paused. “What about you?” she asked, the curiosity in her voice flattened somewhat by exhaustion as she looked over her shoulder at him.

Shrugging, Percy flapped a hand at the bed, and let the corners of his mouth twitch up a little when Cassandra slumped face-first onto it with a soft groan. “I slept on the last leg of the drive,” he reminded her. “Besides, I won’t get back to sleep, after- right now. I’ll keep watch, in case anyone comes nosing around, do a little exploring, see if there’s anything useful lying around. Don’t worry about me.”

She hummed, low in her throat, sounding unconvinced even as she pulled the blankets on the bed over her curled-up form. “Are you sure?” she asked, eyelids already fluttering. The drag of sleep, now she was somewhere soft and warm and relatively safe, was inexorable, pulling her down, down…

“Positive, Cassie,” said Percy, gently, though her eyes had already drifted shut, breathing evening out almost immediately into the steady rhythm of a deep, exhausted sleep. “Get some rest. You deserve it.”

He got no answer, other than the faint, unnerving cry of some unknown animal, far beyond the walls of the decaying farmhouse. Sighing softly, Percy settled down cross-legged on the floor next to the bags, and began rifling through them – searching for an extra layer to ward off the faint, damp chill in the air despite the heat outside, and a torch to last him until daylight finally, inevitably arrived.

#critfic #cassandra de rolo #percy de rolo #percival fredrickstein von musel klossowski de rolo iii #critical role #critrole #fic #i am Fond of this #i may write some more tbh #even if it's just a little #i have Ideas

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