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haus-seeblick · 3 years

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Suptober Day 1! “Harvest”

My first ficlet for Suptober! Read under the cut :)

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2,218

Tags: Fluff, Disaster Bi Dean Winchester, Daydreaming about hot farmers, Some suggestive language (and swearing), Angelic wheat harvest assistance, The Dom Brow makes an appearance, Sam Ships It, Mini Case Fic

On AO3 here.

“All right,” Dean announces as he stomps into the hospital room, trailing mud with every step. “You’re not gonna have a problem anymore, Randy.”

The man propped up on the hospital bed cushions glares at Dean from under bushy eyebrows. “Well, it’s about time,” he snaps. “First these-- these things terrorize my fields for weeks, then y’all show up and are so useless that they maim me after you’re already on the case, and now I’ve lost the prime window to harvest a year’s worth o’ growth ‘cause I’m laid up in this godforsaken facility. So don’t you tell me I ain’t gonna have a problem anymore.”

Dean sinks down onto the rickety plastic chair next to the bed, moving gingerly to avoid jostling his (probably) dislocated shoulder, courtesy of some extremely vengeful spirits. He fixes Randy with an even gaze.

“Man, I’m sorry about your leg. I am. The spirits had a wider range than we thought and we figured you’d be safe at the house.”

Randy snorts in obvious derision, his scruffy mustache fluttering comically. Dean presses on.

“But, we’ve put them to rest. Your great-grandparents aren’t gonna give you any more grief.” Even if the rest of your family did totally fuck them over.

He stands again, awkwardly, and pats Randy’s good knee. “Sorry about your harvest, though. Can anyone help out? Neighbors? Friends?”

Randy glowers. “I ain’t takin’ no charity.”

Dean quirks his lips and nods. “Right. Take it easy, Randy.” He leaves the still-grumbling farmer behind, following his own trail of mud back down the hallway. A tall janitor lurking around the corner sends him a death glare and Dean tries for an appropriately apologetic smile.

It’s been a real headache of a night.

The pair of spirits haunting Randy Johnson’s wheat fields ended up being way more pissed off than Sam, Dean, and Cas had anticipated. By the time Cas located the heavy brass key to the farmhouse that was apparently tethering the property-line-obsessed spirits to the material plane, Dean and Sam were long out of rock salt. In their retreat, they’d ended up waist-deep in a pebbly creek, splashing and wobbling as they beat off the screeching spirits with crowbars. Dean has an unfortunately-placed boulder to thank for his dislocated shoulder -- he went down hard and clumsy just as Cas reappeared next to the stream, the old key melting dramatically in the bright glow of his palm.

The spirits burned away in a shower of sparks, along with Dean’s dignity.

To top it all off, Dean drew the short straw to go tell Randy the case was closed, and he may have stomped off in a sulky huff before thinking of asking Cas or Sam to put his shoulder right.

Oh, well. At least it’s dealt with. One more night in their more-stained-than-usual motel room, and first thing in the morning they’ll get the hell outta Dodge (almost literally - they’re up in Osborne County).

Dean thinks of a bright July morning on the open road and sighs in relief.

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

He doesn’t get his wish.

“I just feel bad, Dean!” Sam protests as Dean gesticulates incredulously at him. (His shoulder was very pleasantly healed by Cas the night before, and if Dean noticed that Cas’ warm hands lingered a little longer on his skin than was technically necessary for a cursory dislocation repair, he didn’t mention it.)

“God, Sammy, yeah, it sucks about the guy’s leg, but maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole to everyone he knows, somebody’d help him out! It’s not-- it can’t be our problem.”

Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “It’s not about Randy. His fields are part of a huge supply that feeds a ton of people. Do you want people to go hungry, Dean?”

Castiel chooses that moment to materialize directly next to Dean, his nose inches away from Dean’s cheek. He’s holding two steaming cups of coffee and Dean immediately grabs one. Cas squints and tilts his head. “Why does Dean want people to go hungry?”

“Oh my god.” Dean throws his free hand up. “Fine. Fucking fine. We’ll find someone who’s willing to plow the dude’s fields. That’ll be easy.”

Sam opens his big mouth, probably to say something about having faith in humanity, but Cas beats him to it. Still planted firmly in Dean’s bubble, he sends a puff of warm air against Dean’s face as he speaks.

“Oh. I can do it.”

Dean and Sam both look at him. Dean shuffles back a couple steps and wills his eyes away from the guy’s lips. He really spends too much time staring at them.

“Um--” Sam clears his throat. “You can harvest Randy’s wheat?”

“I can plow, yes.” Cas nods firmly. Dean’s first sip of coffee comes spraying back out. He pounds his chest and wheezes.

“Like-- like-- with a combine?”

Cas furrows his brow. “Is that a machine? No, I don’t require machinery. This is a very basic task.”

“Plowing,” Dean says weakly.

“Harvesting,” Cas corrects, tilting his chin down and narrowing his eyes. “Humans have been doing it for a very long time. I used to help, now and again. I can’t imagine the process has changed much.”

Sam slaps his thighs as he stands up from his bed. “Well! Look at that, Dean. Cas doesn’t want people to go hungry.”

Dean flips him off, but it lacks the usual heat.

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

An hour later, they find themselves on the edge of a vast, lazily undulating expanse of gold. They’d skirted the north edge of the field extensively while working the spirit case, since the activity was strongest there along the creek, but in his single-minded focus Dean hadn’t really paid much attention to the field itself.

It’s big. Like, squint-into-the-distance-and-you-can’t-see-the-end big.

“You’re really gonna plow all that?” Dean asks, glancing at Cas. The morning sun is turning the tips of Cas’ hair a chestnut gold.

“I will cut down the stalks, separate the grain from the chaff, and deposit the edible grain into a large truck, which apparently takes it where it needs to go,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “I visited Randy early this morning to make sure I knew which truck it was.”

Sam laughs. “Oh yeah? How’d good old Randy take that?”

“He seemed dubious,” Cas says. “And rude. I assured him that despite his unsavory attitude, he would come home to harvested fields.”

“Very angelic of you,” Sam remarks.

“So how’s this gonna go?” Dean lifts a hand to block out the steadily-rising sun. “You gonna be flapping back and forth? Probably not smart to let the locals clock an angel doing the harvest.”

Cas arches an eyebrow at him, somehow gazing down at Dean despite being an inch shorter. “I don’t flap, Dean. I may have wings, but their movement in the ether is beyond your comprehension.”

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his face away in a show of studying the field to the north, but mostly to conceal the flush of his cheeks in response to that eyebrow.

For Christ's sake, keep it together, Winchester.

“I can’t explain to you how it will look,” Cas continues, oblivious. “You’ll just have to watch. Anything you see will be for your eyes only. I guarantee no locals will ‘clock me.’”

Dean looks back just in time to see the tail end of the finger quotes. Cas is staring right at him, that damn eyebrow still up, a subtle challenge, daring Dean to make a move.

Maybe not so oblivious. Asshole.

Dean smiles sweetly and gestures at the wheat. “All right then. Have at it, buddy. Show us what you’ve got.”

With no further ado, Cas is gone. Dean’s left staring through the previously-Cas-occupied space at his brother, who’s grimacing with an air of great suffering.

“What?” Dean demands.

Sam sighs heavily and gazes out over the field. “You two are so weird.”

Dean’s about to respond with something really witty when Sam perks up and points into the distance. “Holy crap, look!”

Dean follows the path of Sam’s outstretched finger and his mouth drops open. On the horizon, at the far end of the field, there’s a cloud. No-- a mini tornado. A golden tornado. A… sparkly tornado?

“What the--” Dean cups his hands around his eyes like blinkers. Even with the glare of the sun blocked out, though, the tornado is just as bright -- a swirling, racing funnel criss-crossing the field way faster than a combine, or even Baby, could drive.

“Why is it-- what’s the sparkly stuff?”

Sam’s squinting too. “I think it’s the pieces of the stalks he’s separating? And they catch the light as they get tossed around.”

The tornado’s already halfway across the field, approaching them steadily. It’s about as tall as an oak tree, and as it gets closer Dean sees that Sam was right: thousands of little stalks and bits of grain and -- what had Cas called it? -- chaff are whirling and flitting amid the twisting golden dust of the tornado. The effect is a bit dizzying, kind of like that ocular migraine Dean had one time as a teenager, when an aura of tiny flashing spots obscured his vision, right there in his eye yet impossible to focus on.

He steps back instinctively, Sam mirroring his movement, when the tornado grows close to them. It whips past, blowing Dean’s jacket open, and where there was once chest-high golden grain, there’s now just dirt littered with aborted stalks.

“Damn,” Dean whispers. He’s seen Cas do all kinds of badass things, of course, but they’ve been more of the smiting and heavy-lifting variety. This is a new level of cool. In a farmer-y way. This, of course, leads Dean’s traitorous brain directly to images of worn flannel stretched tight over biceps; of a blade of hay dangling jauntily from chapped lips; of long, strong fingers gripping a pitchfork--

“--Dean!”

The pleasantly-evolving bubble bursts. Dean twitches as Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“Dude! Cas is done, come on.”

Dean blinks a few times to bring himself back to reality (a reality with wheat-harvesting angel tornados) and realizes that Sam’s heading north along the field to where a normal-sized, non-funnel-cloudy Cas is standing, brushing off his trenchcoat. Dean follows his brother and takes in the scene; the whole field really has been reduced to nothing -- just a flat, dappled expanse.

“Damn, Cas,” he says quietly as he reaches Cas’ side. His voice comes out strained and a little breathless. “That was some good plowing.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Can replies gravely. He tugs on his cuffs and some wheat dust puffs out. “It was an effective harvest. I disguised myself from mortal eyes -- including yours -- as I transported the grain to the truck, but I trust you saw the rest?”

Sam nods enthusiastically and launches straight into a barrage of questions about the physics and techniques and yadda yadda before Dean has to come up with a response. Yeah, I saw it. Yeah, it got me all tingly. That’s normal. He takes a few deliberate, slow breaths to calm the pounding in his chest.

Still tuning Sam out, he zeroes in on a single piece of wheat still stuck in Cas’ hair. It’s poking up toward the blue summer Kansas sky -- a tiny, trembling link between earth and heaven. Dean sidles up to Cas before he can overthink it. He slips his fingers into Cas’ wild, dark hair and plucks the wheat out.

He throws it on the ground. It belongs to the earth.

Sam falls silent with a choked-off laugh and Cas turns his trademark unblinking stare onto Dean. But this time there’s a slight crinkle to the edges of his eyes. A quirk of his lips.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says again. He reaches out and -- Dean stops breathing -- brushes another piece of wheat out of Dean’s collar. His warm fingers graze Dean’s throat and all Dean can do is watch the little stalk flutter to the ground.

Well. So much for a steady heartbeat.

“Hey, I’ve got stuff in my hair, too,” Sam announces, voice thick with amusement. “Anyone gonna help me out?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the enlightening piece of wheat and points a finger at Sam, leveling him with his sternest shut the fuck up face. He prays his cheeks aren’t flaming.

“If you need assistance, Sam--” Cas says, starting toward him.

“--He’s fine,” Dean interjects hastily. Maybe a little loudly. He coughs to cover it up. Smooth. “Let’s go. I wanna hit the road.”

Sam’s already jogging away before Dean’s done speaking. “I’ve still got the keys,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll warm up the car. You guys can catch up!”

Cas and Dean are left at the edge of the empty field. Dean rubs his neck and shuffles his feet, acutely aware of Cas’ piercing gaze. It’s nearly warmer than the morning sun. “Uh-- that was really cool, Cas. Thanks for letting us see it.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, measured and deep. “I enjoyed sharing that with you.”

Wow. All right. Dean needs to get moving or he’s going to explode. But not before filing that particular comment away for extensive mental perusal later, in the privacy of his bedroom.

He flashes a grin and punches Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, farmer angel. Let’s go home.”

#suptober21 #destiel #minific #i had fun with this #this is the first fic I'm ever posting y'all!#happy harvest

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author-morgan · 3 years

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Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty-four - the redbloods

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

DEIMOS WATCHES THE stars flicker in the heavens above with a heavy heart. Somewhere she’s looking up at the same stars. His thoughts haunted by distant memories from a time when everything seemed so much simpler. He’s kicked himself a hundred times over for how he reacted. Years of telling himself they should have stayed there that night on the beach only to push Lesya away and leave her more broken than before when fate gave them another chance. He closes his eyes with a heavy sigh.

It’s the sight of her in a peplos almost the same color as her eyes that makes his breath catch when he enters the bedchamber in the villa. She combs her fingers through copper waves, twisting some strands away from her face and braiding others, pinning them back in place for the symposium. “What?” Enyo asks, hiding her smile as she notices his lingering gaze in the looking glass.

He steps further into the room, loosening the ties of his vambraces from a day of training new vanguard and scion recruits —all fearless and able fighters, but none could ever match his or Enyo’s prowess and brutality. Deimos throat is dry as he looks at her again. The linen and silk combination is gossamer thin, fitting for her disguise as a hetaera for the evening.

Through the fabric, he can make out the scars on her back and the curve of her hips and breasts. “Not used to seeing you in a dress,” he notes, voice low and rougher than usual. Rough hands settle on her waist and the warmth of his breath ghosting across her neck and shoulder. Deimos watches her eyes slip shut and the soft sigh that leaves her parted lips. “Aphrodite may be envious–” he presses his lips against the crook of her neck, smiling at the shiver she gives.

“Deimos,” Enyo chides, stepping out of his hold before turning to face him —fingers finding the ties of his gold-and-white cuirass. “You still need to get ready,” she reminds him, nodding toward the black himation trimmed in gold lying across the table at the edge of the room as she pulls away his breastplate and sets it aside. Shedding his chiton and greaves, Deimos readies himself for the symposium as Enyo finishes her hair.

A smile creeps up onto her rosy lips when she looks at him —the dark fabric draped and pinned over one broad shoulder, leaving the other side of his chest bare. Enyo reaches for him, fingers brushing across a scar barely visible for the dark hair on his pectoral. It is just as rare a sight to see him without armor or weapons. His hands find her waist again, holding her in place as he cranes down, lips barely touching her own— Deimos startles awake at the harsh cry of a passing eagle. He sits up aboard the ship to Messenia, gaze shifting back to the night sky as his heart twists and aches at the bitter reminds of his and Lesya’s past.

BLOOD DRIPS FROM Lesya’s twin blades as she finds Kassandra to the east of Gla fort. Upon the sunrise, they each decide the last of the Boeotian Champions will fall today. With the Korinthians encamped around Thebes and across the countryside, and weakening Athenian morale from the death of their champions, there is no better time for Sparta to strike. “Is it done?” She asks, wiping her bloody lip on the back of her hand, glancing around Kopais Perch, looking for any sign of Aristaios.

Kassandra nods, eyes flicking from Lesya to the smoke billowing into the air from the fortress —the signal to prepare to march on the Athenians she promised Stentor. “Aye,” she answers, turning and looking in the direction her father had gone —a felucca moves across the lake, “but Nikolaos claimed the finishing blow.”

Lesya raises a brow, surprised to hear any mention of the general after what happened in Megaris all the years ago when her and Kassandra’s lives were first entangled. “He will not come to our aid,” Kassandra says, seeing the question budding in Lesya’s laurel eyes, “he does not wish to sully this victory for Stentor.” Nikolaos’ dismissiveness of the campaign to help his homeland leaves her disheartened but hopeful that her broken family can be made whole again given time.

They both turn back to watch the Gla fort burn, black smoke and flames rising. Regardless of if the Wolf will help lead the charge, the Spartans will war at dawn —planting their sword deep into the heart of Boeotia with the aid of the Eagle Bearer and destruction incarnate.

THE BATTLE ENDS, but the Spartans’ bloodlust has not ebbed with the victory. Lesya strides into the heart of the forward camp, driving a spear adorned with the severed head of the Athenian commander into the ground. Cheers and battle cries echo through the gathering of men. Kassandra looks on, an ill feeling growing in the pit of her stomach —no one should look that at home covered in blood.

Cries of victory get cut short when Stentor exits the tent from convening with his harmost and strategos, his face twisted in anger. Neither his step-sister nor her accomplice had fallen as expected. Defeating the Boeotian champions was meant to be an impossible task, as was facing the blockade against the Korinthian fleet. Now that the region is won, he can not retain the hatred boiling in his blood as he thinks about what could have been if the Wolf of Sparta had stood at his side.

“You killed my pater,” Stentor accuses, picking up his bloody sword and slamming it back into its sheath before ripping his spear from the earth. “And you,” he spits, leveling his spear in Lesya’s direction. She and Deimos deserved to rot in the pits of Tartarus for the atrocities committed by their hands. Pausanias would honor him well for killing both her and Kassandra —assured entry into the Cult for such a deed.

The Eagle Bearer draws the Leonidas spear, following as Stentor paces around them, his body tense like a lion ready to pounce. Enough blood has been shed this day. “It doesn’t have to be this way!” She rasps, trying to convince him their father still lives. He won’t hear it, though. No cry for mercy or plea for peace will change his mind as he looks upon the two women who murdered the Wolf of Sparta. Kassandra sees his spear flash up through the air, quick as a striking snake. She leaps clear of it, though before she can engage, Lesya is in front of her —daggers drawn. The mask of blood she wears like a wreath of victory. Kassandra knows how this fight will end.

Lesya spins around the swipe of his spear —exhaustion from the battle slows him, anger makes him careless. She knocks the lance aside, taunting him, giving him a shred of hope he may be able to defeat her. He thrusts the spear forward again, but this time Lesya rips it from his grasp, snapping the lance over her knee and throwing the broken pieces aside. Stentor stumbles back, drawing his kopis, but it is too late. Lesya closes in too quickly, thrusting one of the daggers beneath his spear arm, twisting the hilt. Stentor drops the kopis, shouting and writhing as a second blade sinks beneath his shield arm. Pulling the blades free, Lesya steps back. He crumples to his hands and knees —blood spurting and sluicing down his arms and gold plate.

The Spartiates surrounding the duel stand aghast. Screaming, she drives her knee into Stentor’s jaw, leaving him sprawled out on his back —a deathly pallor quickly taking hold of him. The ferryman awaits, hand outstretched. “You killed him,” Kassandra breathes, looking down at the unmoving corpse of her stepbrother. She bore no love for Stentor, but it still elicits a strange feeling in her chest as she looks between his corpse and the blood on Lesya’s hands, finding her expression blank —there is no remorse in the former champion’s darkened gaze. The Eagle Bearer stumbles back, a sickly feeling overcoming her as she shakes her head in disbelief, quickly departing before the remaining Spartiates decide to act.

A blackened wax seal on a scroll catches Lesya’s attention. She bends, plucking the message from Stentor’s belt before retreating from the camp and deep into the forest, tracing Kassandra’s path on horseback. Breaking the seal, she unfurls the papyrus. Stentor —the scroll reads in a messy script, the edged still wet with blood. Your work in Megaris has not gone unseen. For your final task, bring us victory in Boeotia — a task even the Wolf himself could not achieve. Then you will have earned your place among us as a Redblood. You are close. Do not waver. The true blood runs red. Lesya’s face twists in anger as she reads over the note again, signed by P. Another moment, and she pieces together who the cultist is. King Pausanias of Sparta.

Kassandra spins on heel, anger flaring in her eyes when she hears twigs snapping underfoot behind her. Stentor’s murder could cost her everything in Sparta. The kings would not forgive the transgression against one of their commanders, even if it wasn’t her blade that took his life. “Do not return to Lakonia,” she spits, nigh unable to meet Lesya’s cold laurel gaze as she slips from the back of a horse. “Brasidas nor I will be able to stand for you against the kings after what you’ve done.”

What I’ve done? Lesya wants to laugh. I sowed the seeds, and you reaped in the harvest. She takes a step toward the Eagle Bearer and watches her tense, fingers flexing as though she’s going to reach for the sword at her hip. “You wanted to know which king is a Cultist?” Lesya waves the scroll under Kassandra’s nose. “Here’s your fucking proof.” She presses the blood-stained letter taken from Stentor’s corpse into the misthios’ chest before turning and taking the road leading back to the Ippalkimon on the back of a stolen silver mare.

Kassandra stares down at the broken seal for a long moment before unrolling the stiff and stained papyrus —reading over the message with a sickening realization. “Lesya!” she shouts, but the former champion is already gone.

[taglist: @wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fucking-dip-shit @elizabethroestone @maximalblaze @balmacedapascal @kitkitvm @dynamicorbit]

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios x OC #Deimos x OC #Alexios Imagine #Deimos Imagine #Alexios Fanfiction #Deimos Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #story: Kryptic #my writing

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sleepyowlwrites · 3 years

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find the word tag LXVI, LXVII, LXVIII

combining tags is like putting together ingredients for soup. except the soup is made of angst and fluff and smiles and blood. I don’t want to eat that kind of soup. but maybe I want to read it. today’s soup ingredient givers are @zmlorenz @josephinegerardywriter and @spacetimewraithwrites

from Ghosty first

link (Anxiety story draft -1)

He didn’t cry because he was so, so sad. He didn't cry because he was heartbroken or because he was lonely, no. Aiden cried because that was how he balanced himself out. There was no one to sing him to sleep anymore. There was no one to hit him and he found himself missing the bruises because they at least made him feel something. Aiden cried because tears were a familiarity, a link to his past, a link to himself. He knew how to deal with them. They reminded him of things, not necessarily good or bad things. They renewed him in a way that sleep never could, though he never truly felt new. Tears were his old friends.

value

stumble (Anxiety story draft 1)

Aiden started walking when her hand fell onto his arm again to pull him forward. He stumbled over his own tongue before finally saying his own.

"It's nice to meet you, Aiden," Ree said with simple sincerity.

drink (Youth story draft 1)

Evie was drawing pictures on Mark’s back with careless fingers, but she paused in the middle of what R was pretty sure was just a lot of hearts to poke at one of Mark’s shoulder blades. “Well, next time tell us you’re a lightweight before you drink, then.”

“I didn’t know,” Mark said again, but in a different color. Maybe a soft blue, like Evie’s eyes.

from Jo

stare (Youth story supplemental)

“I’d rather just cling onto somebody’s back like a turtle shell.”

Daniel tugged at the scarf again. “None of us mind being a turtle for you to be a shell for, but there’s got to be some way for you to retain heat on your own.”

Nyks leaned his head back so he could stare blankly at Daniel. “I can retain heat if I’m completely solid, just like any human being. The problem here is that I struggle to remain solid when I’m cold. The obvious solution is to never go outside in the winter.”

keep (Rain story draft 1)

"Leave me alone! Go back to your palace, you don't belong here!" Darsh stood over Jaino, who made no move to get up from the ground. His bodyguard was clearly uncomfortable, but Jaino motioned for him to keep back. Even if Darsh was angry, Jaino was certain he wouldn't actually harm him.

dive

hear (Blood series)

How Wei Wuxian could manage to sound arrogant and apologetic at the same time, Jiang Cheng didn’t have the energy to spare thinking about, but he allowed himself a very tiny sigh that nobody could hear underneath the sounds of corpses yelling and dying.

from Timespace

lively live (what do you mean I don’t have lively? I love that word. Rain story)

"Everybody knows it, your highness," Darsh said mockingly. "Your magic is too powerful for your tiny, little body and it leaks out and poisons everything around it. The year you almost died, a lot of people did. Why? Because your fire spreads, and it doesn't care who it eats up in its path. You don't even know why it's been a bad harvest, do you? The ground is sick. Every day that you live is another day the life of this kingdom is cut short."

road (Shots)

"Sorry to be so forceful." Jay apologized once they were on the road.

"Sorry to be such a pain." Lexi offered back. "It's instinct and experience taking over logic and situation.”

adore (Youth story draft 1)

Daniel gazed up at him adoringly, which was honestly how he always looked at Nyks, even when the latter was leeching off his body heat and had an arm down one of his coat sleeves. “Are you afraid to get down?”

speak (Summon story)

“That was a Shidha, right?” He still whispered the question rather than speak it aloud. No one answered, and in the silence he became aware of the muted sounds Shae was making from where she was curled up against the far wall.

shatter (Anxiety story draft -1)

“I get scared, like, really scared, really fast. And it's not like being afraid of the dark or afraid of heights or something, where you're worried and nervous. It's like the bubble around you has turned to glass and it only takes a couple breaths to shatter it.

to make proper soup you need: salt, stock, season(ings), and love. @endlesshourglass @ardawyn @writingbyjillian @ryns-ramblings OR ANYBODY that wants to make word soup.

#find the word tag #tag game #writing #sleepy writing #writeblr #sleepyfam #this tag is no longer in use #anxiety story #rain story #summon story #ff: blood series #ff: shots #searching circle

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beck-a-leck · 3 years

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For the kiss prompts, i feel like #23 is too obvious for Fraeger but...

#23 for Fraeger plz xD

I mean, I feel like every time I write Raeger, I end up going on a sensory journey, so I feel like #23 was the only appropriate one for the two of them!

Send me a Smooch Prompt and some characters for all your self-indulgent ficlet needs!

#23 A kiss that tastes of the food they’re eating.

Fritz kicked open the restaurant door – he kicked it gentlyfor the record, it wasn’t like he broke the door down and really what else was he supposed to do? His hands were full, and he was too excited to knock and wait for Raeger to get the door, and it was raining cats and dogs out there so…

Fritz kicked open the restaurant door and loudly proclaimed, “I have procured for us a feast!” before setting the heavy basket down on the countertop.

Raeger raised an eyebrow and surreptitiously checked his poor, abused door for any marks in the paint before pushing it closed behind Fritz. While the farmer shucked out of his dripping raincoat, the chef removed the towel covering the basket and gave its contents an approving smile.

Fritz had done exactly as he had promised, he had procured a veritable feast for them, but he seemed to have forgotten one important thing. “None of this is cooked.”

The basket was filled with fresh produce, fruits and vegetables, a bottle of fresh, creamy milk, and half a dozen eggs, along with a few fragrant mushrooms and fresh herbs. Raeger began removing food, setting it out on the counter, a few apples, leafy spinach, an onion, some peppers, a couple of sweet potatoes, and a small jar of golden honey.

“Well,” Fritz said slowly, coming over to assist in the unpacking. “I was going to cook everything, since our original plan was to go on a picnic, but with the rain forecasted for today…” he shrugged and said quietly, “I thought maybe we might cook this up together. I know it’s your day off, and you’d rather not work today, but—”

Raeger cut him off with a finger pressed to Fritz’s lips. “It’s not work, cooking for you.”

Fritz’s cheeks went red, and he very quickly returned to organizing the food. “Everything’s from my farm. Even the honey, it’s from the last I got harvested from the bee boxes before I gave them over to Elise.” He picked up the jar and ran his finger around the lid. “Should be really good, those bees ate well off of summer nectar this year.”

“I’m sure it’ll be delicious.” He scanned the rest of the produce on the table and reached for the sweet potatoes. “Best to do with these is bake them, we’d better get them in the oven soon if we want to eat them with the rest of the food. As for the others…”

“I was thinking omelets, or maybe a frittata.” Fritz offered. “Something easy, that way you don’t have to work too hard. Heck, even I can cook those if you don’t want to do any work at all.”

Raeger smiled. “That sounds great. Now, what about the apples?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Eat them plain!” fritz picked up one of the apples and polished it on his shirt for a moment before offering it to Raeger. “I won’t let you have these any other way. They’re too good for anything else.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Raeger grabbed a knife from the drawer and took the offered apple. He took a moment to admire the shiny red skin against the blade of his knife before he applied pressure and broke into the crisp flesh. Almost immediately, juice welled up from the cut and dripped into his palm. He could smell the light and sweet scent of the apple and he could only imagine it would tase that much better.

He cut a neat wedge from the apple and offered it to Fritz. He pushed it away. “Nu-uh, first bite’s yours.”

Knowing better than to argue, Raeger took the slice back and put it in his mouth. The skin snapped cleanly beneath his teeth, and the sweet juice coated his tongue. Raeger closed his eyes and smiled as he chewed. An apple was such a simple treat, but there was a certain kind of pleasure that came from eating a perfect one. And Fritz grew perfect apples.

While he chewed, he cut another slice of apple for Fritz and the farmer took it without protest. Piece by piece they shared the apple until there was nothing but the core left. Raeger licked the sweet juice from his fingers as he left to put the sweet potatoes in the oven, and when he came back Fritz was already slicing up the second one.

“These are very good apples, Fritz.” Raeger picked up another slice, and his eye caught something sitting on the counter. He grinned and put the slice down. “But I bet I can make them better.”

Fritz scoffed, a look of mock offense crossing his face. “You dare to suggest that these prize-winning apples need any kind of improvement?”

“I do. And I think you’ll agree with me once I’ve done it. But close your eyes, it’s a surprise.”

Fritz rolled his eyes, but dutifully closed his eyes, and covered them with his hands for good measure. Once Raeger was certain he wasn’t peaking, he opened the jar of honey as quietly as possible and spooned some over an apple slice.

“Open your mouth.”

Fritz did as commanded, barely holding back a cheeky grin. Raeger put the honeyed apple in Fritz’s mouth. Almost as soon as the food touched his tongue, he threw his hands down and opened his eyes.

“Okay, I have to admit, you may have improved the apples. That was a pretty good idea, honey.”

Raeger laughed and rolled his eyes at the moniker, as he licked a bit of honey off his own fingers. The sweetness melted across his tongue and mingled with the faint aftertaste of the apple. He wanted to try a bite of his own honeyed apple.

Fritz was already ahead of him, holding a ready slice with a streak of golden honey on top. Raeger reached for the slice, but Fritz pulled it away.

“Ah-ah, turnabout is fair play.”

“All right, fine,” Raeger opened his mouth to accept the bite, but Fritz pulled the slice farther away.

“Nope, not like that.”

“What, you want me to close my eyes too.”

The farmer grinned, “It’s only fair.”

Raeger rolled his eyes, but smiled and sat back, obediently closing his eyes. What touched his lips was not apple, nor honey. Fritz’s kiss had been quick, but when he pulled away he left behind the faint taste of apples and honey on Raeger’s lips.

Raeger’s eyes shot open to see Fritz much closer than he had been a moment ago. “Fooled you,” he teased before putting the apple slice in Raeger’s surprised open mouth.

“Sneak.” Raeger chewed quickly, not truly savoring the flavor of the crisp apple mixed with the sweet honey, in the back of his mind he was aware of the delicious combination, but he had something more important in mind.

Before Fritz could retreat back to the other side of the counter, Raeger caught him by the chin and pulled him in for another kiss. This one much longer than their first.

And they passed a rainy afternoon trading honey and apple kisses. It wasn’t the picnic they had hoped for, but it was a very pleasant date none the less.

#becky writes things #replies #jake-marshall #story of seasons #sos1 #sos raeger #sos fritz #smooch prompt

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echoes-of-the-clockwork · 3 years

Text

Book Four: War (Gladiolus x Reader) Chapter Ten

From the ledge with the campsite, the path ahead is a ramp running up the face of the cliffside. It appears to be made of wood that has long-since rotted, but is able to still support their weight. Using the wooden ramps, they ascended the cliffside. While proceeding up the ramps, Gladio questioned the marshal. "How long has it been since you undertook the Trial? Thirty years or so?"

"Give or take. I was a lot younger than you are-and far less experienced. It's a wonder I even made it out alive," Cor said.

"This place look familiar to you?"

"Vaguely. The younger me had little mind for taking in the sights."

Before long, Gladio, (Y/n), and Cor reach additional wooden pathways, which they follow to a stone path along the cliffside. From there, they reach the entrance to another cavern within the cliff wall. However, the path was blocked by a flock of wyverns and a few bulettes. The marshal and War readied their weapons, leaping into battle.

The Horseman noticed the shield had yet to summon his greatsword and went to question him, but she watched in stunned silence as he walked over to a destroyed cement pillar and picked it up. She lowered her blade the moment Gladio swung the cement column at the bulette she was fighting against. She shook her head with a sigh. "Show off..."

"Heard that," Gladio chortled slightly, going after another cement column.

After disposing of the creatures, the trio proceed into the cavern. Not far into the cave, they came across another talisman and a wall similar to the one from earlier. Gladio recognized the layout. "Another trial chamber."

"And another chance for the warriors to impart their wisdom," Cor added. "It won't come easy, though-you'll have to earn it."

(Y/n) shrugged her shoulders. "Eh, I'm sure you can handle whatever's inside. Just make sure you come back in one piece."

"You worried about me, firecracker?" Gladio asked with a smug expression.

She folded her arms across her chest with a glower. "Just get your ass moving..."

Gladio knew it was still difficult for the Horseman to speak her true feelings and opted to drop the subject. He proceeds to the new trial chamber in the same manner as the previous one, leaving Cor and (Y/n) behind. The two watched the shield cross a stone bridge spanning the divide of the Taelpar Crag. Once taking a few steps onto the bridge, they noticed a fiery winged creature target him.

Cor watched closely as the enkidu targeted Gladio. (Y/n) did the same, but her attention was drawn away from the fight when they heard the voices of souls echo around them.

"How many moons has it been?" One soul asked.

"Since our last visitor? Far more than I can count," another soul replied.

"Let us see how our latest challenger will fare."

War's attention was drawn away from the fight when she sensed an all-too-familiar presence nearby. She looked around, trying to locate the only being that reeked of rotting flesh. She remained where she stood, knowing she couldn't enter the trial chamber until Gladio dealt with the enkidu. She didn't want to risk him losing his chance to obtain the power he desperately seeks.

Cor noticed her tense form and grave expression. Unlike her, he couldn't sense the dullahan's presence or smell the foul odor it emitted. "What seems to be the problem?"

"The dullahan..." She looked around the area. "It's nearby." Remaining where she was, she continued to search for the monster while Gladio fought his own battle.

Eventually, Gladio defeats the enkidu and proceeds across the bridge. He climbs through a fissure in the cliff wall to enter a stone chamber housing the next power shrine. Akin in design to the first, Gladio proceeds to acquire the power within the second shrine.

"Venture forth, Young Warrior, bearing our hopes and dreams," a soul said, addressing the brute. The shrine vanishes in the same fashion as the first, and the wall beyond it likewise splits and slides open as before. "Look ahead, for the Shield of the King must safeguard our future."

"Leave it to me," Gladio replied.

Cor and (Y/n) rejoin him and they proceed on ahead, battling more spirits dwelling in Taelpar Crag. During their fight, another soul spoke to the shield. "The skills shared by these souls have been passed down for generations. The Shield of the King would do well to put them to good use."

Moving forward, they reached a dead end. More souls appeared, standing against the trio. They struggled against the barrage of enemies, combining their attacks to take them down.

After defeating all the enemies in the room, an exit back to the cliffside is revealed as part of the wall splits and slides open. Before they continued down the path, Gladio glanced at the Horseman. "You're tenser than usual. What's the problem?"

(Y/n) was silent for a few seconds before answering. "The dullahan's somewhere in the area. I never expected it to be down here since no humans live here."

"Can you think of any other reason why it would be down here?" Cor questioned.

"I can think of a couple. One possibility is this is where it's hidden its head. The other is it wishes to harvest the power dwelling here."

"And how would it do that?" Gladio inquired.

"By consuming Gilgamesh."

"Impossible," the marshal denied.

"It may be, but that won't stop it from trying."

"And what if it succeeds?" The shield wondered.

"It'll be even more of a pain in the ass to defeat," she sighed. "Worst case, it will be my downfall."

"Then we better stop it before it reaches Gilgamesh."

The group makes their way down the path and step out onto a ledge within the gorge. Locating a wooden ramp leading around the cliffside, another soul speaks to Gladio. "Thousands set foot on these grounds, all of them fools unprepared for the dangers lurking within. They all meet with the same fate-as will you."

"I don't think so," Gladio retorts.

"Think what you may, but I know otherwise. The Lucis you call home is nothing like the Lucis I once served. Your age has forgotten the horrors of war, coddled by the king and drunk off the complacency of peace. No Shield worthy of defending the True King could be born from such depravity."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he remarked sarcastically.

"Look at the bright side: everyone loves an underdog," Cor said.

The trio proceed across the wooden path, then down another series of wooden ramps, eventually coming to a second stone bridge spanning the chasm. Several large creatures are on the bridge, one being a bandersnatch.

Gladio summoned his greatsword. "Aww. A warm welcome, just for me."

(Y/n) conjured her sword and set her sights on the bandersnatch. Gladio and Cor dealt with the other enemies before helping the Horseman. With their combined strengths, they were able to handle the immense beast.

With the bridge now clear, they could proceed forth. However, the redhead froze when the rancid odor of the dullahan was much stronger than before. The moment she turned around, she spotted the monster as it rode across the bridge. She quickly summoned her crimson-bladed sword, but she was shocked when it rode past her. It was targeting Gladio.

Acting quickly, she tossed her blade and warped, appearing right next to the shield. Using her entire body, she pushed him out of harm's way just as the dullahan used its whip. She swung her sword, deflecting it before it could wrap around her neck. While the dullahan retracted its whip, (Y/n) addresses her companions. "I'll keep it occupied. Go on ahead without me."

"No way in hell you're facing that thing by yourself," Gladio hissed. "Remember what happened last time?"

"I won't let this thing be the reason you fail the trials," she snapped back. "Get moving, Gladio."

Before the shield could retort, Cor spoke up. "Your fight is elsewhere, Gladio. Remember why you're here."

"I know why I'm here," he snarled.

"Then don't get sidetracked."

Just then, the dullahan charged toward Gladio a second time. It used its whip to try and decapitate him, but (Y/n) jumped in front of him. The whip impaled her in the abdomen, causing her to shriek out in pain. She grabbed the spine whip with gritted teeth and used all her strength to yank the monster off its horse. Unfortunately, her actions not only caused it to fall off its steed but also the bridge.

Because of the whip's sharp tip lodged through her gut, she was dragged off the bridge alongside the dullahan. She heard Gladio shout her name as she plummeted deeper into Taelpar Crag. She removed the whip from her abdomen, kicking the dullahan in the chest at the same time. Using her armiger, she attacked the monster and managed to pin it to the cliffside with numerous of swords and javelins. Using a few more weapons, she made sure it couldn't move a muscle. Knowing she couldn't kill it without its head, she could only keep it trapped for a short time.

Detecting the summoning orb in Gladio's possession, (Y/n) dispelled the armiger and teleported. The dullahan screeched out as her body vanished, its cry echoing throughout Taelpar Crag.

Teleporting to the campsite located at the Steps of Solace, the Horseman pressed a hand against her bleeding abdomen. Gladio rushes to her aid when noticing the blood seeping through her fingers. He offered her one of the potions he found earlier, but she pushed it away. "No, keep it. You might need it later."

"I can spare one," he said. Crushing the bottle, he watched as her body radiated with a pale green light. He looked down at her wound and saw it was healed. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine. Thanks," she stated.

Cor stood up and approached the two. "It seems you were right, War. The dullahan is after power."

"Not surprised. Since Gilgamesh is a more difficult target to deal with, its decided to go after Gladio," (Y/n) explained. "But I've managed to get it off our trail for a short while."

"If that's the case, we should get moving."

Gladio placed a hand on the girl's back. "You ready?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."

From the campsite, Gladio, (Y/n), and Cor enter another cavern passageway within the cliff face. Deeper into the cavern, they heard the soul's voice again. "He who protects the king...must boast muscle and mettle, both finely tempered. Should he lack either, the Shield will shatter."

Shortly thereafter, the trio came to a wall upon which a demon-like entity manifests. Known as an inannaduru, it was accompanied by soul of fortitude enemies. Cor and (Y/n) focused their efforts on the smaller enemies while Gladio targeted the inannaduru.

Within minutes, all the adversaries were dead. Once the inannaduru is defeated, its body discorporated and the wall it had been bonded to shatters. "The penultimate trial awaits. Prove to them you're prepared to serve as the Shield of the Chosen King," Cor said.

Soon thereafter, the trio locate the next trial chamber. Gladio unseals the third trial chamber and enters. Like with the previous chambers, (Y/n) and Cor remained behind. The redhead crouched down, feeling slightly weak from the blood loss earlier. The marshal noticed her slightly pale complexion. "So that was the dullahan you mentioned. Never have I've seen such a creature."

"I would be more surprised if you had. Dullahans are only found in the Inner Sanctum. They're a pain in the ass to deal with. Luckily, only one escaped," she said. "Let's just hope Gladio finishes with these trials before it breaks free."

"You think Gladio couldn't handle the dullahan himself?"

"If he survives the encounter with Gilgamesh, I'm sure he could. But for now, I refuse to let any mortal face that monster even with me at their side."

Cor stared into her (e/c) eyes. "Now I understand."

Her brows knitted together. "You understand what?"

"It's not that you don't trust mortals. You don't trust yourself to protect them when in fact you have the power to do so. Why's that?"

She sorrowfully looked away. "I, myself, couldn't protect my own people. Truth be told, my hands are tainted with the blood of the innocent and I no longer trust myself to protect anyone. What right do I have to protect someone with my bloodied past?"

"You learn from the mistakes you made in the past. It's how one grows and changes. From what I can tell, you have changed which means you've learned from some of your mistakes. Keep that up and you'll be able to trust yourself once again."

She lifted her head. "Have you been talking to my sisters?"

"Not recently," Cor answered.

"I see..."

"Why do you ask?"

"Nothing in particular."

Once Gladio completed the third trial, Cor and (Y/n) rejoined him just in time to see the wall located behind the shrine split and slide open. "Nice work," Cor complimented. "Maybe you've got what it takes after all."

"Maybe, but it ain't for you or me to decide," Gladio responded.

"True-and the Blademaster is a more formidable foe than any you've faced thus far."

Venturing through the new opening, the group finds another campsite. (Y/n) held out her hand, igniting the wood that was located in the campfire. While Gladio and Cor rested, she ventured a little ways away from the campsite. Sniffing the air, she could no longer smell the dullahan's presence. She wondered if it had escaped, knowing it wouldn't be able to gain the power it seeks, or if it was waiting to ambush them later on.

After spending some time prowling the area, she returned to the campsite to see Gladio and Cor were ready to move on. They made their way down another series of wooden ramps and heard more souls talking to Gladio. "Come here to die, have you?"

"You looking to die again?" The shield sneered confidently.

"You amuse but do not impress. You lack his conviction," the soul said.

"Whose?"

"He who traversed these caves some thirty years ago. Turning a deaf ear to our wails and wishes, he proceeded unfazed, eyes ever forward. Yet he proved powerless before the general, cast out in defeat. If even he could not succeed, I see no hope for you."

"That guy must've left quite an impression...when he landed flat on his face," Cor said.

"Even the most graceful have small hiccups here and there," (Y/n) stated.

"Indeed, they do."

Making their way down to yet one more ledge, Gladio, War, and Cor soon find themselves at a sealed wall in the cliff face. Unlike previous trial chambers, this one is sealed with rock growth. The marshal stands before the wall and raises his katana. He unsheathes the blade slightly and the rock growth barring the entrance dissipates. Cor sheathes his katana once more and lowers the weapon. He speaks to Gladio without turning to look at him. "Clarus would've tried to stop you, you know-just like he tried to stop me all those years ago."

"How come?" He inquired.

"Because one aspiring to the role of King's Shield can stake his life for none but his liege-not even for himself." The marshal turns to face the brute. ""Do you dare risk all for naught in return?" His words stayed with me. And he was right: I barely made it back with nothing to show for it."

"So, you gonna stop me?"

Cor shook his head. "No, I won't. But I will warn you one last time of the danger you're about to face-just like your father warned me. Once you set foot through that door, there's no turning back-and no one to help you if you fall. One false step, and it may prove your last."

Gladio takes a couple of steps forward. "I'll be fine. Maybe I'll come back with a souvenir." He then turns towards (Y/n). "You're unusually quiet, firecracker. You worried about me?"

"I'm a pretty good actor, you know. Pay me a thousand gil and I'll pretend to be worried about you," she retorts with a grin. It then morphed into a gentle smile, which was a rare sight to behold. She strolled up to him and playfully punched his arm. "In all seriousness, I know you'll be fine. You made it this far. I know you can do this."

Gladio smiled back at her. He placed his hand on top of her head. "Y'know, you should smile more often. It really does make you a hundred more times beautiful."

War was taken aback at the compliment. Although caught off guard, she couldn't help but laugh. "You're seriously flirting at a time like this?"

"I call it "telling the truth," not flirting."

"Uh-huh, sure." The Horseman places her hand on his bare chest, providing him with one last healing incantation. "You've quite the adversary ahead. It'd be rude to keep him waiting."

"Thanks for the healing." Gladio removes his hand from her head. "Wait for me, (Y/n)."

"I'll be right here when you come back."

With one final smile, Gladio enters the chamber to face Gilgamesh. "Just come back alive. Be safe, Gladio," Cor said before the shield was gone.

Even when Gladio was out of sight, War kept her gaze focused in the direction he vanished. "He will, Marshal."

#ffxv #ffxv x reader #final fantasy xv #final fantasy xv x reader #gladiolus amicitia #gladiolus x reader #gladio x reader

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thenightmarecollector · 3 years

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The Angel In The Church

Content warning for gore, religious themes, and graphic violence to a child.

A man drives down the highway in an old sedan. He is running away from something. What it is, we do not know. Perhaps, we never will. He is speeding, dangerously above the limit, but there is nobody there to see it, not on this quiet road on this quiet morning. The light is soft, and almost beautiful, in the just-after-dawn, but he does not see it past the white of his knuckles cramped and clutching the steering wheel, and whatever he keeps looking over his shoulder hoping not to see.

He careens past the open-gated graveyards at the mouth of the road when he turns the corner onto the main street of a frosty little nowhere-town. He does not see her until it is too late. Her name is Celeste Leah Davidson. She is eight and three-quarters years old, and her favourite colour is lavender. Her mother did her hair this morning, and she likes her backpack because of the stars she glued on with her sister. She says they protect her from monsters by glowing in the dark. None of that matters when she is splayed backwards over the front of the car for a second, then under it, out of view. There is a scream held in the air like the last note of a song, suspended. There is a snap, then two dead-still thumps of the tires on the ground over her body, lying in the street.

It takes the man two tries to open the car door, his hands shaking, and he falls to the bloody asphalt, head cradled in his hands as though he cannot bear the light of day.

“Dear God, what have I done?! What have I done?!”

If he is begging for forgiveness- an answer- from the Lord, the Lord does not hear him.

Still, he is aware of whatever is behind him getting closer and closer- an unrelenting pursuer, the constancy of whatever happens after grief. He trembles as he picks up the body from the road, delicately at first, but then rushing as the panic sets in. There’s a quiet crunch from the body as it is shoved into the trunk, and if anyone was watching, they would see the man shudder.

When he is driving again, his knuckles are drenched in blood, and the stains seem to creep into his bones. He scrubs at them, but it never seems to go away.

Something makes the man keep driving, that night. Something just at the edge of his head, on the tip of the devil’s tongue, waiting for him when the adrenaline fades.

The night after that, when he pulls over to the side of the road to sleep, he thinks he hears something. He wakes up in the middle of the night to what he thinks is the girl’s scream repeated in the wind. He tries to rest as little as he can after that, and when the quiet encroaches, he turns up the radio, but all he can find is static. He turns it up all the way anyways, until he starts to hear a voice in that too.

It is the middle of the night, a month in, when he is falling asleep, and the car begins to shake in the middle of the night- thumps and screams from the back of the car. He shakes like a leaf in the wind, slamming his hands into his temples until the light of the radio goes black with his vision cutting out, hoping that it will kill him.

The next night, he dreams of blood- soaking the walls, pooling in the road, filling the earth like a biblical flood. When he wakes up screaming, delirious with exhaustion, he stares down at his hands while the lid of the trunk rattles. At the bloodstains that will not come clean, no matter how long he scrubs them raw in gas station bathrooms. With hands delicate and steady- hands with skill from another life, he pulls out a penknife. Methodically, steadily, he makes a slit along the back of his left hand, and slowly, slowly, pulls away the skin until the edges are turned inside out. If it hurts him, he does not show it- perhaps he is past the point where pain ends already. He stops when the blood loss makes him woozy, and starts again the next morning. For two days in the sedan parked in a field, the man skins his arms up to the elbows, until the only bloodstains are his own.

The next day, he stops at the edge of a town, and finds someone who will take the car for a bundle of cash. When he’s walked to the next one, his shoes are soaked with the water from blisters and blood. His eyes are sunken and hollow. The man who he buys a gun from at the edge of town thinks he might be half-dead already, and says nothing about the gloves of scabs stretching painfully bloody around his knuckles when he is handed the wad of cash.

He shoots himself in a flax field that night at sundown, and they do not find him until harvest that fall, when the combine spikes drive through his bones, picked at by crows in the field til they are bare. When the teenaged boy driving it steps down to look at what has happened, he sees the blue flax flowers growing from where his eyes once were, and the skin cracked dry and rotten-wet in equal measure. He throws up, and the image haunts him every time he closes his eyes for the next month, until they find him hanging in the barn from a rope tied to the rafters, an old wooden chair tipped over underneath him.

The car waits, empty in the used car lot at the edge of town. Two months later, a man walks in and buys it for his son’s birthday. The owner brings out the paperwork. He does not tell the man how he has not had a night’s rest since he bought it- about the dreams he has of blood and skin and knocking in the middle of the night. He does not tell the man about how he swears he sees it shake at night sometimes. He does not tell the man about the one with the scabbed hands and empty eyes who left it behind. Perhaps he does not know how to say it, or perhaps he wants the money, or perhaps he is made desperate by his visions- desperate enough to pass them on to somebody else. He breathes deeply through his mouth when he drives the car over to deliver it, and tries not to think about the plastic shopping bag of skin rotting in the compartment in front of the passenger’s seat, no matter how much he knows the scent will cling to his skin afterwards.

The boy’s name is Dylan, and he knows that his father doesn’t love him- knows that the car is made for him to open in front of his father’s friends, and nothing else- smells the heady, icy stench of rubbing alcohol on his father’s jacket and the sharp glint of eyeteeth in his father’s mouth when he hugs Dylan like he would never do without all eyes on him. Maybe that’s why the first thing Dylan opens is not the door of the car, but the trunk. Maybe he was looking for revenge, but what he finds is salvation instead.

The smell of months of shit and piss and rotting bedsores and the vomit from before the girl knew anything but this is still suffocating even after the trunk is opened, saturated into her skin and the fabric and the very essence of what she used to be. Her fingers were the first to go. “Delicate”, her mother had called them, once upon a time. “Artist’s hands”. She had lasted two days before sinking her teeth into her knuckles and lapping up the blood that swelled there, and another week before starting to rip into her fingertips with her canines. It has been night for so long. A long time ago, her mother told her she was named for the stars. She loved the stars. She does not remember the stars. She does not remember her mother. All she remembers is the infinite darkness, and the stench of her own decomposing and her broken bones healing curled up in the trunk, and the deep, animalistic pleasure of digging her teeth into meat and flesh still warm, still bloody, still breathing.

Her arms are a hollow framework all the way up to the elbows- like a man, lying as carrion in a field for the crows, with arms skinned up to the same spot. Her fingers, as delicately boned as before, are picked the cleanest- smooth white with bite marks across their surface. She had lost the beaded friendship ring from her best friend a day before the accident. The finger that it wrapped around is broken twice, once by the wheels of the car, and the second by her own teeth, sucking the marrow out.

As Dylan staggers back from the trunk, a whisper swoops across the crowd. “Godly,” they say. “Body and blood. A miracle.”

They lift her out gently, and snap all her bones when they splay her out from crumpled on the altar. The knife, good and sturdy from the basement kitchen, slices through the half-decomposed, abscessed skin above her shoulder blades, with the same firm hand as there must be the moment before you bring a chopping knife down on your fingers and slice all the way through bone. Pus leaks out, and the wings- made of white dove, stitched together alive and starved and dried, a frame of feathers- slip in. The meat hooks are pushed through the back of her arms, her collarbones, her sides, her thighs. Cleansed in fire, they brand her skin when they touch it, still hot. The flesh roasts. She has enough consciousness now, full on the communion, to know how to scream again. They hang her from the angled planks of the cathedral ceiling in the chapel, where the crucifix used to be.

A great joy in the parish is always best shared with the community. They hold a potluck in the chapel’s basement, and there is laughter and hymns and prayer. The widow’s son is a talent on the piano- he always plays in the balcony for services- and old Mrs. Hargreaves brings a pot roast from the recipe her mother always used. The girl who used to be named Celeste weeps above, scrabbling with skeletonized hands for a memory the scent rising from the basement brings up, of hiding behind her mother’s skirts, of playing tag on summer days, of dusty catechism books. She cannot remember, and for that she weeps more.

The wine always makes her head hazy, enough to slip away. They always give her a lot of it, to keep her from wailing during the sermons. Every year, for the first communions, they bring up the children to kneel in front of her. When her skin is pierced, they drink of the blood of heaven, and they all lie that it is as sweet as water. Her eyes watch the choir, as though she thinks she is already dead, but still her skeleton breathes, and her eyes blink glassily behind the curtained halo of her hair, tangled and matted with the ends still in the braids her mother carefully brushed out and tied so long ago.

They do not know her name from Before. If they did, they would not use it- would not care.

They call her Heaven now. Heaven Mercy Faith. The angel in the church on Crow’s-Elm Lane.

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yehet-me-up · 4 years

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Into The Ancient Woods - Four

Pairing: fae!Jongin x lady knight!reader

Genre: Fantasy AU

Rating: PG13 - mentions of blood, gore, etc.

Word Count: 2,149

Moodboard (that I’m OBSESSED with) @gingersaysjump

Summary: When your sister is stolen by the Fae King you set out on a quest to save her. But when you arrive in the Kingdom of the Fae, all is not as you thought, and in no time killing the king becomes the furthest thing from your mind.

A/N: I wanted soooooo badly to combine these drabbles into a oneshot but after a few weeks I realized that it’s either going to be a few fun drabbles or... basically a full book’s worth of a plot and there’s no happy middle. 😅So I picked out my favorite bits from the rest of what I wrote and here they are! 😄

One | Two | Three | Four

Too much has been sacrificed to turn back now.

A king needs his queen. The kingdom needs love and blood to begin again. New life to wipe the stains of death away from its’ surface like steam from a mirror. And to do that he needs you. No one else. He’s tried.

Other fae women. Their drops of blood did nothing.

Other mortal women. Their spilled blood had only appeased the curse for a short while.

No, he thinks as he gently sets you on the plush bed, watching the light cascade over your face. No, it must be you. You’re his final hope. The one with the hair the color of fire and the spirit to match.

~~~~~~~

The cell is an opulent one, but it is a cage nonetheless. Now that he has you, he isn't willing to take any chances. The bed may be lavish and covered in blankets - red and gold brocade, warm against the chill that lingers everywhere in his kingdom.

He wonders if you’ll scream at him again when you wake and he smiles at the thought. It’s been far too long since life flowed in this village and he craves the intensity.

His healer already attended to you, removing any damage his sharp and efficient magic did. Exhaustion is the only thing keeping you from consciousness now. He stifles his impatience and paces in front of your cell.

He has questions - hundreds of them, as he observes the gentle rise and fall of your chest.

Who put the flowers in your hair - were they done with your own hand or by someone else’s? A lover, perhaps?

How did you come upon the sword you carry? The mortal kings have long been dismissive of the women in their kingdom. Did you steal it?

Jongin longs to pry open your mind and heart and have a look to see just what kind of woman fate brought him. Decades and centuries of waiting for the prophesied one. Endless years of suffering, now brought to an end. If she accepts me. And this.

~~~~~~

It's midday when someone comes for you again. Unfortunately, it's the King himself. Handsome and devastating and evil.

Though you now know it would solve none of your problems, you still long for your sword to be able to drive it through his heart. If just for the satisfaction of having bested him.

'Would you like to go for a walk, kultaseni?'

You make a noise somewhere between a scream and a whine of confusion. 'Surely you are joking.'

He leans an arrogant shoulder against the frame of the door and smiles at you. 'I am not. You have seen your sister, alive and unharmed. I would like to speak with you and would prefer to do so without bars between us.'

'You're the one who put me here,' you counter. You grip the metal so tightly it bites into your palms.

His expression turns mournful, brows drawn together and his plump, red lips pouting. Irrationally you want to sink into the bottom one with your teeth and pull. Just to taste him. Just to hear him moan and know it was you who caused it. But then the light shifts and his expression is reserved and taunting once more and you swallow the thought.

'Fine. But if you try and harm me, I'll gouge your eyes out with my thumbs.'

He raises a brow and smiles at you, pleased by your comment. 'I'd expect nothing less.'

The castle and the village, in daytime, are disconcertingly similar to your own.

Children play in the town square, their laughter echoing off the cobblestones. Women and men walk to and fro down a path off the center square, carrying baskets of fruit and grain from the harvest. Soldiers stand guard at the palace gates. No wonder they were so cavalier, you think, their threat comes from within. Not from the world outside.

Jongin leads you towards the mountains that rise towards the south. The villagers nod as you pass, watching you with awe. You wonder if everyone has heard the tale. You can almost hear their silent pleas, asking you to be your savior. Would you not do the same, in their place?

Thankfully the path disappears into the trees and you and Jongin are alone once more. Here, he's quiet and contemplative, hands drawn behind his back. You've never seen a man more beautiful. Or more dangerous. His moods change faster than lightning and you do your best to keep up.

He runs a ringed finger along the branch of a thick tree. Its bark is twisted and old, fighting death as the tree reaches towards the sun. 'The forest was so beautiful, in my youth.'

Curiosity gets the better of you. 'How did it come to be cursed?'

~~~~~~~~~

The light through the branches falls on his face and suddenly you can imagine the boy he was in his youth. His amber eyes are shrewd and playful. You wonder what it was like when his smile was easy and unburdened, when he gave of himself willingly and joyfully.

When his choices didn't carry the fate of an entire Kingdom behind them.

You feel your heart soften a fraction and pull back, afraid of being drawn in by him. Even if you understand the source of his actions, even if the women aren’t hurt - there’s still blood on his hands that will never come clean.

‘If you wanted me… if I’m the prophesied queen, why did you take my sister? Why not come for me directly?’

He pauses, a slight blush coming to his cheeks in the golden light. ‘Is it so wrong that I would want my future queen to be able to say goodbye to her family in some way? To the human world?’

‘So you’ll really let her go back? You meant it?’

He folds his hands behind his back, contemplating. 'I'm entirely honest. If you hold up your end of the bargain, I'll hold up mine.'

You watch him, through the trees he looks almost human. His skin is ice white, with none of the bright warmth you'd associate with living. But his features relax in nature, away from the harsh lines of the castle. He’s been just as much a prisoner of the curse as the village, as the woods.

For long moments you both get lost in your thoughts. He pulls a flower from one of the trees and holds it between his fingers. You can only imagine what must occupy the mind of a king of an immortal land. If you make this choice, you will become like him. Trapped forever in this land, trapped forever in this body. Until you choose to die.

'Will it hurt?' you ask quietly.

He looks at you suddenly. 'Are you agreeing?'

His eyes are wide with hope and you imagine him much younger. Being forced to make a deadly choice to save his people. Wouldn't you do the same, in his place?

'Yes.' Your promise is a whisper. 'Yes,' you repeat, stronger, finding your conviction and surrender like air beneath your wings. 'I'll do it.'

Jongin catches you off guard by wrapping you in his arms. In two steps his scent and his body envelops you. His delight is a palpable thing between you, seeping into the marrow of your bones. He pulls back and watches you fiercely.

'I will owe you for this,' he says gently, breath cascading across your lips. 'Forever.'

Even if you didn't know that magic lived in him, you'd be transfixed. His eyes are dark brown, cut through with amber in the bright sunlight. You remind yourself of the terrible things he's done and on instinct you step back.

'You didn't answer my question.'

His hands hang in midair for a moment, as though he were imagining you still in his arms. 'Yes, it will.' His hands fall to his sides and he looks sad. 'I'm sorry for that. Being remade is not an easy feat, from my understanding.'

You steel yourself. 'I've said many times in my life I'd be willing to fight, and die, for those I love. And if this will forever keep them safe, I'll do it.'

Jongin nods. 'You cannot know what it will mean for my people. Centuries of pain ceasing, like blood clotting in a wound.'

No words come, the thought of a lifetime away from your family sits heavily in your mind. But wounds still leave marks, even after they heal. Never seeing your mother and father again. Never being human again.

Some wounds never heal. But for this, you'll sacrifice everything. And perhaps, in time, come to find other reasons to live.

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

The stone dais in the square is empty. Distant noises of battle - swords clashing, men and women fighting for their lives - pound in your ears as you race to complete the ritual before it’s too late. Before all is truly lost forever

Jongin hesitates for a moment before stepping up behind you. He could have remained opposite you, closeness wasn't a necessity to slice your arm. But despite it all, you're glad he's there. The fact that he lives and breathes and feels comforts you. You hope you're still yourself after this night is done.

'Ready?' he asks, softer than you'd imagine.

With his chest to your back like a shield you slide up the sleeve of your overdress, exposing your skin. Fear clogs your throat and you struggle for breath. Fear of pain. Fear of loss. Fear of failure.

You grit your teeth and will yourself to be strong. 'Ready.'

His broad hand wraps around your wrist, holding it out over the circular opening of stone. The bottom is stained with age, with the imprint of hundreds of years of dead leaves. The sun has bleached the rim. With morbid fascination you hold still as he draws the blade against your skin.

The cut is deep, well-placed. You wince at the searing pain and bite down hard on your cheek, but still you don't look away. His face presses against yours and you realize abruptly how close he is. Jongin sets the knife down on the rim and wraps his free hand around your waist, keeping you steady. Held close against him, as if you were lovers.

The blood pools in the base, in drops, thick and red. You should have asked him what the transformation entails. Too late you realize you were so caught up in the loss of your human life, you'd asked nothing about your journey into the immortality.

Moonlight shines, clear and bright, as the clouds above you clear. Like a beacon it settles on the steady drops of blood that fall from the open wound. It's slowing, turning from a steady flow to a trickle. Just when you think he'll take up the knife and reopen the wound, the stone beneath you trembles. A great rumbling starts beneath your feet and you cling to his arm with your right hand. Ready for whatever hell is unleashing upon you tonight.

'Hold steady,' he says.

You nod and press your lips together to avoid screaming. In the silver light the blood in the base shines. It morphs from red to orange to a near white color in seconds. The structure around you drops a fraction before stilling. Your breath comes out in pants and you keep firm as the shimmering moves up the drops of blood, flowing upwards and back into your body.

When it reaches your skin, you feel like you've been stabbed all over. It's like the time you got too close to the fire as a child, when the flames licked along your skin and burned. You can't help the sound of surprise and agony that leaves you as the ancient magic undoes your humanity.

Jongin catches you as you fall, turning you in his arms and easing you down onto the stone. His hand beneath your head cushions you as your body writhes and jerks as though it were trying to evaporate like smoke. He seems to glow himself as he watches you with a look both fearful and intense with hope.

He squeezes your hand and you look down, realizing he's clasped his hand around yours. The world fades at the corners of your vision. The branches of the trees appear menacing in the darkness. The great turrets of the castle disappear as the clouds move over the moon once more. A great bolt of lightning cleaves the sky, striking the dais.

Your head lolls to the side and you watch the stone crack in half. Thunder echos around you so loudly you gasp. As you lose consciousness you hold Jongin's focus, praying that it worked. That his kingdom will be restored. That your people will be free. That he will once again be whole and uncursed.

#jongin x reader #jongin fanfic #jongin AU #exo x reader #exo fanfic #exo AU

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bloodfromthethorn · 3 years

Text

Interrogation

A Musketeers angst fic as a Christmas present to myself. Inspired entirely by @why-this-kolaveri-machi‘s recent ficlet

As Richelieu’s manipulations went, even d’Artagnan had to admit this was a masterstroke. A combination of a few careful rumours, paying off a handful of mercenaries to stage an attack, and the oh-so-careful planting of evidence in his dorm room and suddenly d’Artagnan found himself surrounded by armed Red Guards in the middle of the street with no help in sight. Even when Treville had shown up, shouting something about the King’s orders and the authority of the Musketeers, the outcome had still been a swift, terrifying march to the Bastille and a series of freezing cold nights in a cell with no word from anyone.

In short, d’Artagnan was having a bad week.

The one positive of this whole awful affair was that apparently Treville still held enough sway with Louis to ensure his interrogation would be handled by the Musketeers rather than the Red Guard – keeping any dirty laundry in house, as it were – so he was probably faring better than he otherwise might. At the same time, it meant he found himself faced with the three men he would previously have said he trusted most in the world and being forced to look them in the eye as they questioned every decision he had ever made with open suspicion on their faces.

He shifted in his chair for the third time in as many minutes, wishing he could at least have his hands unbound so he could shake out the stiffness that had taken root. “I’ve told you,” he said again, weary, “I have no idea who Reynard is.”

“There are eyewitnesses who swear to have seen you meeting with him on multiple occasions.” Athos’ voice was stone cold, level and emotionless. Aramis and Porthos had at least had the grace to believe d’Artagnan in the beginning, before the evidence started piling up against him, but it was clear that their de facto leader had harboured no such hopes from the moment the chains were closed around d’Artagnan’s wrists. Richelieu had called him a traitor, and Athos had taken him at his word.

“Then they’re lying. I don’t know anyone called Reynard.”

“Did you know he was under the employ of the Spanish army when you met with him?”

“I never met with him,” he stressed, knowing it would make no difference. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise half a second before the cane in Aramis’ hand flicked against his shoulder; more of a warning than an actual blow, but enough to sting all the same. He hissed. “It’s the truth. I don’t know how to prove it to you.”

“When did you last visit the Rue de la Lièvre?”

He thought for a moment, long enough for Aramis’ cane to come to rest lightly against his shoulder blade. “About a month ago,” he said eventually. “Not long after I arrived in Paris. I was exploring.”

"Exploring? Why?"

It was obvious Athos had immediately assumed he was doing something nefarious, but the truth was simply that Porthos had suggested he get to know his new environment should any more trouble come knocking at his door. It had been good advice and he'd happily done as he was bid - somehow he didn't think that explanation would help.

"I was new to the city. I'd never been to Paris before. I wanted to learn more about it since it looked like I'd be staying."

Instead of shooting off another question, Athos took a moment to lean back in his chair to examine him, his eyes sharp and unreadable. d'Artagnan, half starved and gradually freezing to death, stared balefully back, too wrung out and exhausted to even offer up any malice at the speed with which his so-called friends had turned on him. He wanted nothing more than for this to be over, no matter what the outcome might be.

Behind Athos, leaning casually against the wall with a dark expression heavy on his brow, Porthos opted for a different approach. "d'Artagnan, you haven't eaten in three days. I can see you shivering from here. If you tell us what we need to know then we can help you - get you some food and blankets. Maybe even get you out of here altogether. Reynard isn't worth your loyalty. Let us help."

The act was good, very good. It might even have been believable if it hadn't been greatly overshadowed by Athos' presence looming large and the fact that yesterday, the cane had been in Porthos' hand.

Still, it was as good an opening as any.

"If I knew the answers to your questions, I would tell you. I am loyal to France. I would never betray my King."

I would never betray the Musketeers hung cold in the back of his throat, but invoking their name had historically not gone well during these little chats and d'Artagnan was good at learning from his mistakes. He swallowed it down.

"The first time I heard the name Reynard was when you asked me about him. I have never been to Spain. I have never knowingly had any contact with anyone associated with the Spanish army. I would never betray my country."

He was breathing too quickly, he realised with a start. He forced himself to take a deep breath and cursed himself when it shook. The cane brushed over the back of his neck.

Athos leant forward again with something unshakeable in his eyes. "Before your arrest, you were apprenticed with the Musketeers."

It wasn't a question, but he paused so d'Artagnan nodded.

"You had been with the regiment for about a month."

"Yes."

"Why did you join them?"

Despite his crippling exhaustion, he found the energy to feel a sudden surge of irritation. "It wasn't to uncover state secrets if that's what you're getting at."

The cane snapped sharply against his back with a thundering crack of sound. He cursed breathlessly, writhing until the pain ebbed enough to bite out a better answer. "I needed work and it seemed like a good fit. They were honourable men."

If Athos took issue with his use of the past tense, he didn't show it. "You agreed to risk your life in service of the King for so small a reason?"

"Athos," he breathed out, still shuddering with pain, "You know why I joined."

He had the gall to laugh at that. "It has become very clear that anything we thought we knew of you cannot be trusted. Answer the question."

It was the response he'd expected, but it still hurt to hear. Unbidden, he remembered how Aramis and Porthos had immediately and unflinchingly brushed aside his accusations against Athos when he had first met them, the ardency with which they held their ground against a tidal wave of suspicion. He'd had no misconceptions about his worth relative to their friend of many years, but their willingness to believe the worst of him still managed to catch him off guard.

"I had nowhere else to go. My family is gone and I didn't want to resign myself to a lifetime of farming. The only other skill I have any claim to possess is swordcraft." Although given that one of the guards had broken his finger on his first night here and he hadn't been able to set it right by himself, it was perfectly possible he'd never hold a sword right again. Not that he had any real hope of getting out of prison alive at all.

"You could have been a mercenary. I hear the pay's better."

"I wanted to serve my country."

"Which country is that?"

He sighed, deeply and with feeling, only to gasp in another breath when the cane came down again. He hissed through his teeth and pretended like tears weren't beading at the corner of his eyes. "France."

Athos hummed to himself. “It is very uncommon for apprentice Musketeers to be allowed the seniority you were by virtue of your relationship with us. Did you intentionally manipulate us to gain greater access to the King?”

He forced himself not to flinch and shook his head slowly. These questions were pointless - no one was going to believe a word he said anyway, even if he’d had the answers they were looking for. “No. I didn’t know anything about you when I met you. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have tried to kill you.”

"Why did you come to Paris?"

Not liking where this was going, d'Artagnan's answer was monotone. "My Father was hoping to petition the King for relaxing the taxes in Gascony. We'd had a few bad harvests in a row and people didn't have the money to pay them."

"Did you petition the King?"

"No. After my Father died, I abandoned his mission. I continued on to Paris in search of the man that killed him."

"Me."

"You."

There was a weighted, vicious pause, then, "Do you have any proof that your Father really did perish on that trip?"

The fury that overcame d'Artagnan was so sudden and so blinding that his muscles were trying to launch him out of his chair before his brain could remind him he was tied down. As it was, Aramis' hand caught him by the throat and slammed him back into his seat before he could do anything more than rock it violently forward. "Stay down," he hissed sharply, but softened the threat by turning to Athos and saying, "Porthos and I can confirm that, at least. We spoke to the innkeeper, saw the grave. His story's true."

The marksman's hand stayed curled around d'Artagnan's neck for several strained breaths, evidently a threat. As it was, d'Artagnan did nothing but try to breathe through the searing anger and crippling grief that had torn right through his centre. To be called a traitor was one thing, to question his Father's memory was altogether another.

This was not the time or place to break apart, but d'Artagnan could feel the fault lines threatening to tear open.

"d'Artagnan," Athos started, then hesitated. It was the first sign of uncertainty he'd displayed all day. "We just need to know what information you passed to Reynard, that's all. Tell us that and we can be done here."

He sounded earnest and that somehow hurt more, to know that Athos still cared just enough to not want to watch him starving to death, but too little to actually believe anything he said. d'Artagnan wished he had the strength to laugh. "That's easy enough," he said instead of trying to convince them any longer, "I told him nothing."

Porthos sighed heavily, pushing off from the wall to bring himself level with Athos, looming over the table like a dread spectre. "What is it you're protecting? What's more important to you than your own life?"

d'Artagnan briefly fought a losing battle against the urge to let his chin drop to his chest, his eyes slipping closed under the weight of his own exhaustion. When he spoke, even he could hear how defeated he sounded. "I'm not protecting anything. I don't know any Reynard, and whoever's claiming I do is probably who you're really looking for. If I could prove it to you, I would."

Athos' lips thinned, visibly unconvinced. d'Artagnan flinched a beat before the cane flicked against the meat of his arm and cursed loudly at the sting. "It's the truth," he bit out, letting the frustration shine through. "I don't know the answers you're looking for."

"d'Artagnan, there are four different people willing to swear that you met with Reynard on multiple occasions and we found missives with his name hidden in your room, along with more money than you could ever have made from your farm. Do you really expect us to believe you don't know anything about the Spanish plot?"

If he'd had anything to drink in the last two days, he would have wept with his own frustration. "I know you won't believe me. It's still the truth."

In the corner of his eye he saw the cane twitch, but Athos waved Aramis down before the blow could land. He pushed away from the table with a heavy sigh. "We're getting nowhere today. Let's see if another night here helps to jog your memory."

There was a certain relief in that, free from the threat of the cane and the judgement in his friends' eyes, but it meant another night cold and hungry with no respite. He barely resisted the urge to groan.

"He needs water," Aramis put in quietly. "He'll last without food for another few days but he has to drink if we want him able to talk."

Athos nodded easily, accepting his ruling. "Speak to the guards, make sure it happens." With that he was gone, sweeping out of the room without another glance at the young man he would once have called brother and leaving a thoroughly defeated d'Artagnan to be frogmarched back to his cell by Aramis and Porthos in silence.

His promised water didn't appear for another few hours, when a guard he'd never seen before dumped a bucket in the corner of his cell with a thump. Sunken down on his little patch of straw against the far wall, d'Artagnan didn't react even when the guard cursed his name and spat on the floor beside him, taking care to slam his door with enough force to shake the room. It was one of the least offensive encounters d'Artagnan had had since his arrest; that awareness in and of itself was almost enough to put him off drinking the water after all. As it was, he eventually decided that tomorrow's interrogation would be even more tortuous if he was critically dehydrated at the same time, and he hadn't quite reached the stage of trying to kill himself.

Just as he had for the last however many nights, d'Artagnan spent his time curled tightly in a shivering ball in the corner of his cell, desperately trying to ward off the pervasive chill that swept beneath his door. One of the few benefits of his previous occupation was that the guards were sufficiently wary of him to not trust him with a windowed cell, so he at least didn't have to try to cope with wind and rain pouring into his tiny little portion of Hell, but it was far from comfortable. Frozen stiff and hopeless, he didn't sleep a wink.

The Musketeers were back at dawn, dragging him from his semi-aware fugue state and back into his gloomy little interrogation chamber without fanfare.

"Sleep well?" Aramis asked snidely as he bound his hands firmly back in place. d'Artagnan didn't bother to respond.

Even though he wasn't the one who spent the night freezing in a cell, Athos somehow managed to look even more drawn than d'Artagnan did when he settled himself down across from him. He slid a piece of paper across the table towards him without a word, his face pale and tight.

A glance at the parchment showed a long passage of text with a signature scrawled at the bottom, followed by a very official looking seal. Unable to reach for it and far too weary to try to interpret the scratchy handwriting at a distance, d’Artagnan just returned his gaze to Athos and waited for the inevitable question.

“Do you know what this is?”

“No.”

“Do you recognise the handwriting?”

In an attempt to not anger Athos in the first few minutes of the day, he obliged him by casting a more searching glance over the page, but came away none the wiser. “No.”

“Do you recognise the seal?”

“Red Guard. Richelieu, maybe.”

The cane, back in Aramis’ hand, grazed against his collarbone. “Cardinal Richelieu.”

It was a testament to d’Artagnan’s sheer strength of will and his desire to not make things worse for himself than they already were that he was able to restrain himself from hissing, Like you give a damn. Instead, he clenched his jaw, and kept silent.

Seemingly satisfied, Athos withdrew the paper to look at it himself. “This is the sworn statement of Gaspard Vincent - a resident on the Rue de la Lièvre."

"One of my witnesses," d'Artagnan said lowly, starting to connect the dots.

Athos hummed in agreement. "He claimed that he had hosted you and Reynard on several occasions, under threat of retribution should he reach out to the authorities."

"Claimed?"

There was a long, still pause during which d'Artagnan doggedly crushed the hope threatening to spark to life in his chest. Eventually Athos sighed. “He recanted his testimony yesterday morning. Twelve hours later, he reconfirmed his original statement.”

There was no doubt something meaningful there, but d’Artagnan was starving and exhausted and he had absolutely no desire to play Athos’ games. “Meaning?”

The cane rested carefully against his shoulder, a gentle caution to watch his tone. That he hadn’t already received a blow was… unusual. “It means we have reason to doubt his word.”

“Why did he reconfirm?” There was a telling pause. “You think someone threatened him, don’t you? You’re just trying to work out which way the intimidation went.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell us that he only testified against you because he was being threatened?”

d’Artagnan couldn’t help momentarily raising his eyes to the heavens as though to plead for strength. “I’ve been telling you that for five days.”

“Buying off one witness wouldn’t explain everything else. We found evidence of treason in your room d’Artagnan.”

“You really think someone with the power to make a handful of witnesses appear on command couldn’t get into my room? I wasn’t even there the day I was arrested.” The cane snapped harshly against the meat of his back, but he forced himself to keep his voice level. With bruises layered over bruises, he found it faintly remarkable he could still feel the pain at all. “I spent that entire night in The Wren, watching your back when you decided to drown yourself in a wine bottle. Do you really think it’s an impossibility that someone snuck into the house when I wasn’t there?”

He heard the cane whistle through the air, but Athos flicked a hand up and the strike never came. d’Artagnan breathed out slowly. “You were in The Wren,” Athos confirmed quietly, his eyes far away and distant as though he was only just now realising this fact. “I remember you being there.”

If his hands had been free, he thought he might be tearing his hair out in frustration. “Why on Earth does that make any difference?”

When no immediate response was forthcoming, Porthos inched forwards to fill the silence. “It makes a difference because another witness claimed you met with Reynard that night.”

d'Artagnan blinked, breathed, then surprised himself by laughing sharply. "Of course they did."

"I-" Athos started, then halted uncertainly. He threw a wild look in Aramis' direction, clearly thrown. If he hadn't already known, d'Artagnan would need no more evidence that Athos had entirely forgotten about his presence in the inn that evening.

Porthos' hand landed on his shoulder, steadying. "We need to talk to that witness. No sense hammering d'Artagnan any more today if we're not sure about those statements."

For something that seemed as though it should have been a thrilling redemption, their session ended with remarkably little fanfare after that. Athos and Porthos disappeared before Aramis had even got him untied, and it was clear the marksman had absolutely no intention of offering him any further information. He had a vague sense that the man thought they had already said too much.

d'Artagnan knew that pressing for answers was futile and as likely to backfire on him as help, but all he could see was Athos' lost expression when he'd realised a second witness had been caught lying. Despite everything, he found himself turning to Aramis just before his hands came free. "Did he hesitate? When Richelieu called for my head, and I was arrested- Did he hesitate?"

His voice sounded raw to his own ears, and maybe that was why Aramis didn't immediately lash out. The tears shining bright in his eyes might also have had something to do with it.

"We all did."

There was nothing he could say to that that wouldn't hurt them both. He walked back to his cell in silence.

What followed was an awful lot of nothing. He heard nothing more from the Musketeers for three full days, but his outlook did brighten substantially when his now-daily bucket of water was joined by a hunk of bread and cheese, and a small collection of blankets was quietly deposited in his chilly corner. It wasn't comfortable by a long shot, but it was miles better than what he'd had and it was a strong sign his future might hold something more substantial than a slow, miserable death and an unmourned grave.

With so little contact with the outside world, he had no real idea what to expect when a guard appeared in his doorway and ushered him out without an explanation. For all his new-found comforts, he still wore the weight of days without food and water, spattered with bruises and aching in ways he hadn't known possible, so when he was led through a door into the sunlight he could do little more than blink, half-blind and confused. The guards flanking him retreated in silence and it was only after he watched them leave that he turned his head to see Athos, Porthos, and Aramis standing before him.

All three of them looked unsure of themselves, clutching their hats to their chests and watching him warily.

"What's going on?" He rasped, though he was starting to catch on quickly. He’d initially assumed he had been led into an inner courtyard for whatever reason, but as his eyes adjusted to the light it became clear he was standing in the square that fronted the prison. Well beyond the Musketeers, he could see the bustle of people going about their business like always. The guards wouldn’t have left him here, Musketeers or no, unless they no longer felt the need to keep him contained.

After an uncertain heartbeat, Athos stepped forward. “Your name has been cleared. The King has issued a pardon, and an apology for your treatment.” He hesitated, then added softly, “We need to apologise too.”

d’Artagnan considered that for a moment. He thought about every bruise he could feel prickling against his skin, every harsh word, every sleepless night, took a deep breath and held it. When he felt steady enough, he met Athos’ eye. “I’m free to go?”

“Yes.” He untucked a bundle from beneath his arm and held it out carefully - d’Artagnan’s sword and pistol. “The rest of your belongings have been returned to your lodgings.”

He had to force himself not to recoil at Athos’ nearness, but he reached out to reclaim his weapons all the same, tucking the belt back around himself like an old friend. He half-wanted to scorn the offering, but it was his Father’s sword and no amount of spite was worth losing it now; the moment it was back in its rightful place, he felt strength starting to leech back into his bones.

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis started, sounding wrecked, only to cut himself off when his eyes snapped to the marksman’s.

He looked around the three of them for a moment, taking in their guilt, then made a careful sidestep and walked straight for the main gate without a word. None of them tried to stop him, but he heard at least one of them suck in a sharp breath as he marched forcefully past him; he tried very hard not to take any satisfaction from finally, finally having the upper hand.

As cornered as it had made him feel, his friends’ ambush had served one purpose: he knew where he needed to go to collect his things. A quick stop during which he was viciously grateful his landlord and lady weren’t home, and he was free to put the garrison and its Musketeers at his back and start walking.

He was gone from Paris by nightfall.

On AO3 here

#angst #unhappy ending #Fic #fanfiction #fanfic #my fic #the musketeers #d'artagnan #crossposted on ao3 #bbc musketeers

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Text

The Haunt of Redemption (5)

Sequel to: A Path I Can’t Follow

gif belongs to @endiness

Chapter 5: The Past Has A New Face | Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: It has been months since your last encounter with Cal, at that time he was a fledgling Inquisitor. In an ironic twist of fate, you cross paths and blades with him once again, and he’s keen on turning you into an Inquisitor as well—unless you bring him back to the light first.

Tags: Dark Side! Cal Kestis, Inquisitor! Cal Kestis, Redemption Arc! Cal Kestis

Also posted in AO3

Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 | Previous: Chapter 4 | Next: Chapter 6 | Masterlist

5 of ?

A part of you wanted to calm down and subtly scan the area for enemies; the other wanted to just keep running until you find your way back to the ship.

The cacophony of animal sounds continued to sing through the woods. Your hearing hoped for rather than searching for any manmade sound—a twig snap, rustling of plants or leaves, anything. You moved on when there was nothing.

You attempted to reach Cere again, but there was nothing.

“Aw mother of fuc—!” you hissed, but were quickly cut off by the sound of the leaves crunching against the forest floor.

You sharply turned around, lightsaber ignited for nothing, but you continued to listen for it.

Come on, [y/n], forward. You coaxed yourself in your mind.

In the distance, the sound of an explosion echoed and reached the forest where you stand now. You haven’t exactly prepared your heart and mind for the worst yet. In truth, you never prepared yourself for something like this to happen so soon.

The first thought that came into your mind was the Yewa Docking Bay.

“Lora… Kaleen…” you gasped.

Eventually, you found the main path again and followed it.

Yes! You thought. You’re so close now.

The fragment of hope that you held came and went when one of the TIE Fighters fired a shot in the forest—its blast was coming to the general direction of your obstacle course, presumably trying to flush you out of the woods and into a clearing. The shot was somehow close to your current location, dust blanketed the path ahead as well as the path where you came from.

“We can’t be trapped here, BD, we gotta go!”

The ominous snarl of a lightsaber caught you frozen in your tracks. The source was unseen but you can feel it close to you. Taking cover from behind the rock, your thumb searched for your saber’s switch as you prepared for a surprise attack.

You stifled your coughs, careful to not give yourself away to any potential enemies, as you fanned out of the haze that enveloped you.

Stalking the forest floor with a great deal of caution, you held your lightsaber defensively in front of you—the way you held it made you look like a scared Padawan learner in a basic defense stance. Your heightened sense of space caused you to turn around and find a dark silhouette standing in the other side of the wall of dust. You stood your ground, gripping your lightsaber well and positioning yourself in a stance.

When the smoke finally cleared, the figure revealed itself but only for a short second—you didn’t even get to catch a glimpse of whoever it was. The figure disappeared with the haze. Confused, your eyes frantically searched for the figure among the trees.

You feel someone standing so close behind you, their lips could be felt within a mere inch from your ear.

“[y/n]…”

A twirled attack was easily deflected. As soon as your eyes registered the sight of the person in front of you, a whirlwind of emotions flooded you. Never have you ever felt so unsure what to feel that you wish it’s was just as easy as picking one emotion out as you please.

“Hello there, [y/n],”

You’re absolutely dumbfounded. Your breath shuddered as you attempted to suck in air, your eyes widened even with your sights narrowed at the person you thought you knew all this time. You were focused in examining his entire person—he was far beyond the Cal you last saw in Koboth, you barely recognize him with the dark gradient in his and his stubble.

Your heart skipped a beat.

On a tremendous level, you hate to admit that you find him appealing.

Well, fuck me sideways. The expression of your own voice in your head was a combination of frustrated, smitten, and growing hysteria.

Cal completely understood your predicament right now. He could sense your resolve fluctuate, the confusion and shock factored to it. He smirked at the discovery, there was a glint in his green eyes full of intent.

While in a convergence of blades, you afforded to take a good look at how much he’s changed before he pulls away for the next attack. You caught yourself before you fumbled to the floor, you cannot allow him to get the upper hand.

The last time you traded strikes was seven months ago, you wonder just how good he’s gotten all this time… and you were about to get a firsthand demonstration.

Based on his movements, he never strayed from the lightsaber form he’s been originally using ever since; there were hints of new attack patterns and techniques that you’ve never seen before. You wagered that they’re something that he picked up from his training.

“I see you’re still sharp. Impressive,” he purred.

You shifted your weight on your deflect and pushed him out so you could step away from him to regain your bearings. However, you’re not as sharp as he thought you were. The sudden reunion affected your emotions, then subsequently your movements in the duel; it was a struggle for you to conceal it from him, eluding him was a challenge in and of itself. If he managed to touch even a fiber of your clothes, his Psychometry will trigger and he’ll exploit whatever he’s harvested against you.

The shrubs, the trees, and the rocks became your allies all at once; aiding you in eluding this fearsome, youthful Inquisitor. There are some parts of the obstacle course that you may use to your advantage—such as the large, fallen logs whose bottom gaps are sizable enough for one to slide under, all the while concealing you as you make your escape or hideaway.

Cal followed suit, this was no different from the various environments he’s faced in his past campaigns. By the time he got to the other side of the log, you were nowhere to be found—little did he know that you were hiding among the tall grass, prowling closer as he stalked through the path.

“You didn’t really kill those people back in Magyon, you were manipulated!” your disembodied voice rang in the trees.

He looked around, searching for you while you continued to banter.

“Oh, is that what you tell yourself at night, when you go to sleep? Is it because you don’t want to face the reality now?”

Like a predator, you come springing out, lightsaber at the ready, but this is an Inquisitor you’re facing right now. You’ll have to up your game a bit more. A rush of energy flowed across every vein in your body, granting a burst of power and strength when trading strikes with Cal. You went with a flourishing attack until his deflection brought both of you leaning sideward to the ground; still improvising and maximizing the environment, you quickly pulled away and then skidded your boot hard against the earth—particles of the soil pricked Cal’s eyes and caused him to break from his form.

Just when you thought you had the chance to finally deal damage at him while he’s open, you stood corrected as he blocked you at the last minute while half-blind.

“Fighting dirty, aren’t we?” Cal hissed, you expected him to be vexed, but there was a mischievous purring in his voice.

“Just a style I peppered in!” you snapped back.

Cal patted off the dust that caught in his eyes. You afforded him the dignity of recomposing himself before you could attack again. You wonder if he felt that you couldn’t bring himself to strike him down—meaning, actually fatally wounding him with your saber.

He may not have vocally expressed that he was mad, but you saw it in the way his attack patterns shifted and evolved. The blows got heavier and the strikes were stronger; he even zoomed around the battlefield the same way Trilla and the Ninth Sister evaded your attacks back then! He refused to let the distance close between you. It was getting difficult to dodge him, but more so in getting close to him just to swing at him.

“Huh, I thought you’d see that coming,” he sniggered, expecting you to be able to catch up with him even though he’s zooming from point to point.

You were slowly getting nauseous as you spun in place, anticipating him and from where he’s going to attack you. Your defense was slowly breaking as he tires you out, but he saw that you’re refusing with all your willpower.

Stay still, goddamnit! You hissed in your mind, desperate but mostly annoyed with this new trick. Personally, you hated this when you faced either the Second or Ninth Sister.

“For how long will that endurance of yours last?” Cal jeered, his figure disappearing and then appearing here and there.

“As long as it takes until I knock you down!” you barked.

“You were always the achiever between the two of us,” he stopped his teleporting, he splits his saber and throws both of them to you.

That was a more extreme throw-attack compared to any of the Inquisitors you’ve faced. Luckily, one saber is enough to deflect both—credit is due to your dexterity. When one of the sabers returned to Cal’s hand, the second found its way to the connector and a quick twist sealed them together.

Your next move was your undoing. Coming at a running attack, he takes the chance while you’re still off guard—he extends his hand to you and suddenly you couldn’t move your entire body.

You are literally frozen—saber hand pulled back, seemingly ready for an overhead attack. You try to pull away but you just keep bouncing back into place.

WHAT?!

“How did you—?”

“You’re not the only one mastered the Force-Halt,” he snickered, quite proud of himself to break the news to you.

Short, panicked breaths escaped your lungs; you tried to move even just a finger but you could only do so much as twitch and that’s that. Cal approaches you while you remain as steady as a statue. A steely glower intently fixates on you. The closer he gets, the more out of control your heartbeat became.

Was it fear?

Were you actually stimulated by this?

Cal brings his hand to you. The first thing that came into your mind that he’s going to use one of his abilities on you. Your entire person shifted left and right, as if trying to scamper free from this hold, but to no avail. He ignored your helpless escape attempt.

He ran a gloved finger across your cheek. His touch was something you longed for, but this felt different—it was from someone you knew, but it still felt strange. He withdrew his finger, motioned his hand to turn and your entire body rotated in the same direction as his hand. You didn’t realize that you’ve already reached the first half of the course—where it’s close by the ship and in view of the town below.

“No…!” you sobbed when you saw towers of smoke waft from the settlement.

Standing behind you, Cal sweeps your hair to the back of your shoulder, exposing your neck, he brought his lips close to your ear; you could’ve sworn you felt the hairs of his stubble prickle on your cheek, the warmth of his breath blowing at the crook of your shoulder, hence the hairs on your nape stood.

“You know, I could make this all go away,”

He didn’t expect an answer and continued on.

“After they’re done with that quaint, little town, we’ll find the Mantis next and we’ll take the Holocron from Magyon.”

“You wouldn’t!”

In your mind, you still focused on breaking free, you pondered if his Force-Halt was exactly the same as yours that he simply copied or if he’s managed to improve it to overpower yours.

“You don’t believe me? They all follow under my directive. If you come with me, everyone—especially those in the Mantis—shall be spared for sure, and perhaps those who aren’t dead yet in the village,”

“And if I don’t?” you hissed and he smirked in reaction.

He slightly bends over so his face is level with yours, the gap between his lips and your face is just as thin as a thread when he turned his face to you as he spoke. His eyes trailed up and down, studying the contours of your face, the beads of sweat that riddled your temples, and the way your eyes struggle to avert from his gaze.

“You and I will watch the whole town burn and capture the crew, they’ll be charged with sedition by the time they’re caught. Either way, I’ll still get the Holocron one way or another,”

“Oh, so you’re making me choose who dies and who lives like how the Grand Inquisitor pitched it to you? How generous. Not exactly a win-win for either party, though,” you snapped.

He smirked at your rebuttal, he wasn’t—in the slightest bit—offended. In truth, he missed your sarcasm. Oftentimes, he imagined what life would be like if you were in the fortress at Koboth, either as an Inquisitor initiate or just a plain captive.

“I see your snark aged well,”

You scoffed a prideful chuckle, “You aged well.”

“So, [y/n], what is it going to be, darling?”

The sound of the greater waterfall crashing nearly muted the explosions of the cannons’ impact to the buildings in the settlement and the thousands of voices screaming in pain until they vanished into silence. You focused on the waterfall—it was a crazy idea, but it was your only choice. You could feel his influence ebbing, you’re surprised to find that it was shorter than you expected; you took the opportunity right away—once you’ve broken free, you jabbed him on the abdomen with your elbow, catching him off-guard and then bolting it towards the edge. You looked back over your shoulder one last time.

“GET READY FOR A DROP, BD!!!” you howled as you dropped to the water.

Cal recomposed himself, ran to the edge and peered over at the river. The thick spray of mist fogged his view of the water itself, practically cloaking you as the craziest, improvised escape plan ever hatched has been executed. There was no visible sign of you in the water from Cal’s point of view. Stormtroopers come running through the forest eager to report.

“Sir, they’re gone!”

“What do you mean gone?”

“The Jedi’s ship! We lost it when it took off!”

Frustrated, he resorted to having the town garrisoned first. After that, Cal made it absolutely clear that he’ll find you no matter how far in the galaxy you’ve gotten. The Stormtroopers led him out of the forest and escorted him to the town where he prepared his business.

The impact was sharp, you let the wild current of the river carry you downstream, your head popped into the surface every once in a while to get some air—before the rapids knock your head back under the water. It wasn’t long until you’ve reached calmer waters. You swam up to the surface and finally got a chance to catch your breath.

“Cere? Come in, Cere!”

“[y/n]?! Where are you? Imps sieged the town and—!”

Relief washed over you—aside from the cold water—when you heard Cere’s voice loud and clear. You swam to a shoreline downstream to continue your conversation.

“Listen to me, it’s Cal! It was all Cal,”

“You don’t mean…?”

“I’ll explain everything in the ship. I’m in the river after the bigger waterfall, are you near?”

“Kid, wear anything darker and we might mistake you for a boulder in the water!” Greez cut in just to get his joke at you across.

Greez’s jokes always boosted the beacon of hope that Cere’s voice personifies. The engine hum of the Mantis became louder and louder, you could feel its thrusters blowing at the water and trees around, but you couldn’t see it.

“Merrin, of course!” You exclaimed, recalling that she can cloak the ship.

Emerald glitters flickered as the Mantis gradually materialized on sight. Merrin and Cere appeared on the end of the entry ramp and kicked down a ladder at the edge.

“Hurry, [y/n]! I’m not supposed to reveal ourselves!”

You swam close to the suspended ladder and climbed as the ship slowly maneuvered to face forward and then disappeared into thin air again thanks to Merrin’s magic. The invisible Mantis darted through the skies, heading off-planet before the enemy discovers that they’ve been eluded. Your knees felt wobbly from the altitude and so dragged yourself to the seat in the cockpit to really catch your breath.

“You mind telling us now what just happened back there?”

“I’ll explain in a sec,” you raised a weak hand at them, gasping for breath as the adrenaline was too much for you to handle.

Despite being physically exhausted, your fingers worked their magic whenever they touch the buttons on the dashboard; you were optimizing the speed thrusters for your getaway—and you perfectly knew that Greez doesn’t like it when you get closer to the middle part of the dashboard.

He slapped your hand going for the button that will activate the top speed of the Mantis’s throttle.

“Whoa, whoa, hey! What the heck are you doing, kid!?”

“What, you don’t plan on getting away? An Inquisitor’s fleet just terrorized the town!”

Greez, Cere, and Merrin exchanged glances as you prepped the Mantis for the trip. You punched it and the captain had no choice but to accelerate and get the hell out of the planet before the Imperials find their missing ship.

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writingamongtheroses-archive · 4 years

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Heart

I decided to do some Hell’s Studio, inspired by @homesteadchronicles‘s Character Tuesday prompt of Labor and @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s prompt of Better than This.

‘Daemon’ burst down the door with a snarl. He hoisted up the Daemon plush he had brought up, looking through its eyes. The room, he was guessing, used to be some type of break room. He had tracked Suzie down into this room when he felt something terribly off, only to find spell guards hiding the way here. (Which took a lot of rage to break through.) And now he was here and...

Well. There had definitely been some type of fight.

Like everywhere in the studio, there was ink splattered everywhere, but most of it had been tracked or slid through, footprints tracked all over. Broken furniture had been thrown around. His smile slipped off when he saw an ax. The blade was dark with ink blood.

What was Walt’s weapon doing here?

A weak wheeze punctured the silence of the room. He looked down, his grin sliding back on.

There, at his feet, was ‘Peace’. Her eyes were wide with terror with a massive gash in her chest bleeding black. The gash was messily done, sentencing the poor toon to a long and painful death. Ah. So that explained the ax.

A snarl curled her face. “G-Get away-” June Simmons snarled. There was a sputter of ink blood and the anger turned to terror. “H-Help...” Sunny Buss pleaded, practically paralyzed with the fear of popping back into ink. “Help us...”

‘Daemon’ crouched down, making sure they could see every tooth. “Why should I help you?” He cooed, reaching out to toy with a lock of her hair. “You three have been a thorn in my side for too long, little Sunny...”

“I don’t… I’m so scared… she made me like this, th-the Other Alice… I just want…” She was crying now, and it was interesting to see crystal clear tears instead of the ink.

“Where’s Wolfie?”

“The girl...Suzie, she took him back-”

“Not that one. My Wolfie.”

Sunny whimpered. “Max- he killed him...and she- she harvested him...” She screamed when ‘Daemon’ roared, sharp hot anger rolling through his systems. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Help- I don’t want to be in this body anymore! I’m better then this!”

She was and it certainly wasn’t her fault. ‘Daemon’ had no idea what Max had done to his Peace after he had been banished into the pipes. But he knew she was warped, forced to combine with her two voice actresses, driven into madness over perfection. He wasn’t sure how one of Peace’s clones had survived, since he had found the... remains of the others.

“I suppose… I can fix this.” ‘Daemon’ growled as he picked up her melting body. He didn’t have much time. She would turn into a puddle and he’d lose what he needed most from her, never to get it again. He snapped his fingers and the ink swallowed up into a portal, spitting them out into a hallway in Level 9.

Shocks of pains rolled through his system as he started to walk, heading to her lab. He growled when one particular nasty shock hit him hard. “Break those stupid spell guards if you wanna live!” He screeched.

Sunny nodded frantically, mumbling something under her breath. The pain stopped and Daemon was able to enter.

The lab was stained with the inky remains of ‘Peace’s victims. There was a Daemon cutout, although it’s eyes were scratched out. He wondered why it was there before the plush’s eyes landed on something.

A black heart, lying in a petri dish full of ink.

He set Sunny on a table before wandering over. ‘Daemon’ didn’t even have to touch it to recognize it. It was Wolfie’s heart. His Wolfie. Some part of his Peace must remain, if it hadn’t been eaten yet.

This was perfect.

There just happened to be a perfect clone of his two friends, as well as a certain little great-granddaughter of Walt Klasky, their creator, happening to be wandering around. If he fused the hearts in their bodies, he would have his friends back. And with his fusion with Suzie, he would be whole.

(And then he could remove that little nuisance that called himself Daemon Demon) And then he could rip off Max’s Soundberg’s head.

Grinning at the perfection of the situation, ‘Daemon’ grabbed an nearby ax. He turned around, finding that, somehow, Sunny was still alive. “Don’t worry, Miss Buss. I’ll have all of dis mess Joey put us through fixed, I just need somethin’ from ya.”

She looked at him, seeing the axe in his hands. “W-what do you need?”

“What 'Peace’ needed to be beautiful again.” He raised the axe above his head. “All I need is yer heart.”

#hell's studio #flash fiction friday #writblr #writeblr #wip #story

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todorokiaimee · 4 years

Text

Blues In The Night 20. House Of The Rising Sun

Previous Chapter | Chapter Song

Night had finally fallen upon the Tokyo sky. Outside, the city was eerily still, a blanket of white snow covering the landscape. Shoto stood in his dimly lit office, his heterochromatic eyes dark as he suited up for his mission. Determination radiated off of his body as he pulled on his combat vest, all the while staring at a framed photo of his beloved Aimee perched on his desk. Tonight was the night. He was going to bring her home safe.

After putting on his wrist guards, Shoto turned to grab his utility belt. Turning it in his hands, his fingers rested on a new addition: the bag of homemade gris-gris Aimee had made him for Christmas. A good luck charm to keep him safe. He lifted the small pouch to his lips, giving it a light kiss. I’m coming, my love.

As Shoto clipped the belt around his hips, there as a light knock on the door. “Come in.”

The door opened to reveal his father Enji, fully suited up in his hero gear, complete with his beard of flames. “We’re ready, son.” Shoto nodded, walked past his father and out the door.

The father and son walked down to the agency’s garage in silence. There, all of the missing person task force was waiting in their hero costumes, quietly talking amongst themselves. Endeavor cleared his throat, all eyes turning toward him. “Everyone has already been given their travel groups and should have the coordinates for the warehouse. We’ll all take different routes to avoid suspicion before entering the woods. After that, we’ll travel on foot to avoid detection.”

The heroes nodded, prompting Endeavor to continue. “Our current count of victims is sixteen. Sidekicks, your objective is to remove the victims from the area and transport them to a safe zone. The rest of us will engage Lafayette Dubois and whoever else is in his ranks. I doubt he’ll go down easily. Any questions?” He paused, looking around the room for any takers. “Alright, let’s go get our girl.”

With a few cheers of encouragement, the heroes broke up into teams, getting into separate Jeeps. Shoto shared one with his father as they set out on their journey. Shoto didn’t say a word the whole ride, silently brooding as he fiddled with the gris-gris on his belt.

Endeavor sighed as he stole glances at his son. He knew just now badly he ached for Aimee’s safe return, possibly even scolding himself for letting her kidnapping happen in the first place. Unfortunately, comfort and encouragement was not his forte.

Soon the heroes reached the woods, turning off-road and into the forest. After a short bumpy drive, Endeavor parked the Jeep tucking the keys into the visor. As the pair got out of the car and into the powdery snow to hike the rest of the way, Enji finally spoke up, bringing Shoto out of his thoughts.

“Shoto, when we raid the warehouse if you see Aimee grab her and get her out. Do not engage the enemy. I know we shouldn’t be biased as heroes but fuck that. She’s our top priority.”

Shoto turned to his father, a flicker of warmth flashing in his tired eyes. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Fluttering her eyelids, Aimee slowly regained consciousness. Her limbs felt heavy and incredibly weak. Her mind was foggy as she took in her surroundings: cold metal walls, hospital beds, and random machines and tech equipment. When Aimee reached to hold her throbbing head she was met with the bite of handcuffs on her skin, finally remembering the predicament that she was in.

“Oh, look who’s up?” Aimee turned her head slowly to face the voice. There she saw Lafayette sitting beside her bed, chopping up white powder on an aluminum tray with a razor blade on a side table. “You’re not nearly as fun when you’re passed out, but still just as pretty.”

Aimee stared at him blankly as Lafayette lifted the tray to his face, snorting a line of the substance. “WOOO! That’s the good stuff!” He laughed as he wiped his nose before looking back over to Aimee. “Where are my manners? Coke?” He smiled a wicked grin offering up the tray.

Aimee only blinked groggily before shaking her head, “Pepsi.”

A dry chuckle escaped Lafayette’s throat as he placed the tray back on his side table. He licked his lips with a smug look before violently flipping the table over, its contents falling to the floor with a crash. Aimee jumped in her bed, trying her best to turn away from the dangerous man. The villain then grabbed her face roughly, her plump lips forcefully puckered as his he squeezed her cheeks.

“You really are a pistol,” he whispered menacingly. “I’m going to enjoy making a mess out of you.”

Aimee screwed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the worst when she heard the opening of a door. Lafayette jumped back from her hospital bed, picking up the mess he left on the floor as Aimee’s father, Colonel Faurie walked over.

“How’s she’s doing? I heard a ruckus.”

“Well... she’s awake, Boss. A little feisty though,” Lafayette chuckled. “She knocked over my table and everything.” Aimee growled at the man as her father stood by her bedside.

“Baby girl, if you can’t behave I’ll have to sedate you again,” Colonel Faurie said softly as he stroked Aimee’s soft curls, only for her recoil away from his hand.

“Don’t touch me,” Aimee barely whispered.

The Colonel sighed, dropping his hand, “Lafayette, go get The Doc.”

The man grunted in response before walking out and bringing back the doctor. He checked Aimee’s vitals in silence as her father looked on, Lafayette retreating to the other side of the warehouse.

Aimee took in a shaky breath, willing her voice to be strong despite her wavering body, “What are you doing to me? I have the right to know.”

The Doc looked over to The Colonel, his eyes asking for permission. With his nod of approval, the doctor looked Aimee in the eye with a soft and kind voice, “You’ve been given a serum that forcibly activates your quirk. We’re studying how your cells react and harvesting them to create a drug that can give people certain quirks for a period of time. It takes a long time to render enough samples. That’s why you’re physically exhausted. Your quirk has been activated for hours.”

Hours? No wonder I’m so weak. Aimee’s eyebrows knitted together as she looked over to her father, desperate to understand his involvement. “Why is this so important to you Daddy? So important you’d hold your own daughter captive…”

“I couldn't save her,” Colonel Faurie whispered, his head hung low.

“Couldn’t save who?”

“Your mother.”

Aimee paused, confused by the sudden turn in the conversation. “Mama? There was nothing you could have done for her. You weren’t even there.”

“I was there.” The Colonel took a deep breath, running his large hand down his face, revealing a look of utter sorrow. “We were both in the bank, waiting in line. We had a few errands we had to run before we picked you up from school. In the interest of time, I decided to walk across the street to the pharmacy to pick up your mother’s prescriptions. The next thing I know, I heard this great explosion.” He grimaced as he balled his fists by his side, Aimee listening intently. “I ran out of the pharmacy just in time to see the bank building begin to crumble. I tried to get to her. I moved as much debris as I could, but my quirk was useless. If only I had super strength, or time reversal, telekinesis, ANYTHING! I couldn’t help her. I was useless to my Nettie.”

“Daddy--” Aimee tried to interject, before being cut off.

“If I had this drug then, a drug that would let me use other useful quirks even just a few hours. It would have made all the difference. That’s why when the military was given Overhaul’s research on quirk enhancing and removal, I knew I had to find a way to combine the two. So I recruited my old neighborhood friend Lafayette to get compatible subjects for me and hired the Doc.” Her father sighed as he took her hand in his, his eyes hopeful. “This drug is going to save people. Imagine how effective my soldiers would be with multiple useful quirks.”

Aimee shook her head in disbelief, her large eyes showing only pity for her lost father, “But at what cost?”

“Uh, Boss…” Lafayette’s voice spoke up from the other side of the warehouse. “Something’s up.”

“What do you mean something’s up?” Colonel Faurie turned to see Lafayette over by the security monitors.

“There’s something on the radar. It’s real close.”

“Why the hell are you just now saying something?!” his boss growled.

Lafayette shuffled his feet while he sniffed and rubbed his nose, dusted in a white substance, “I was… busy.”

The next instant there was a deafening crash, dust and debris flying into the warehouse. A flash of green appeared in the giant hole left in the wall. “Nobody move! I am here!” Pro Hero Deku had busted through the wall with a mighty punch. Endeavor and Shoto ran into the building after him, scanning for their missing treasure.

“Aimee?! Where is she?!” Shoto bellowed as he searched the room, other sidekicks flooding the scene as well. Endeavor made quirk work of blocking the targeted exits with his hell flame, ensuring the offenders wouldn’t escape in the chaos.

“Shoto?” Aimee murmured, turning her head toward the commotion.

Before Aimee could locate her love, her father sprung to action, covering her head with a blanket. “Shit! Get the subjects out of here! Doc, save the research!”

Flustered, The Doc did as he was told, scrambling to collect all the charts and vials into his short and stubby arms. After gathering as much as he could carry, he ran for the back exit. Before he could reach the door, the window was broken in, glass flying everywhere. Looking up, the doc saw Eraserhead and Shinsou swinging on the scene with their capture weapons. The duo landed in front of the doctor, locking onto him with tired eyes. Aizawa activated his quirk, his low baritone issuing his threat, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be…”

The doctor knew he was caught and didn’t put up a fight. He lifted his hands in the air, dropping the files and vials to the floor. The Colonel growled low in his throat as he watched the brains behind his plan surrender. He couldn’t let his plan fail. He was growing desperate to see this through, “Damn! Lafayette! Get Rid of them!”

“On it, Boss!” Lafayette activated his quirk, turning his sights on the heroes.

Shoto braced himself for a fight. His blood was boiling. Now there was no doubt that Colonel Faurie was involved. Before he could launch an attack was pushed aside by his father, “Go find Aimee, we got this!” Shoto nodded, skating off on his ice to search for his love.

As Deku and Endeavor fought against Lafayette and his dark tendrils, the other sidekicks had started to evacuate the victims. Seeing the walls starting to close in, Colonel Faurie knew he had to get out while he could. He quickly released Aimee’s wrists from her handcuffs and lifted her into his strong arms. Aimee moaned weakly, pulling against his shirt, “Daddy stop this… please…”

The Colonel shook his head, running for an exit while cradling his baby girl in his arms. “I have to finish what I started.”

Shoto skated high above the chaos on his ice, searching desperately for his beloved. At last, he caught sight of her dark curls, being carried away by her father. “Aimee!” He yelled, shooting a massive ice wall in front of The Colonel, effectively blocking his path.

Colonel Faurie turned to face the hero, his face resolute as Shoto skidded to a stop in front of them. The duel quirked hero’s lips pressed into a thin line as he took in Aimee’s condition. She had a bandage on her forehead and she looked physically weak. He wanted with every fiber of his body to take her from her monster of a father, but it just wasn’t safe. Who’s to say her father wouldn’t hurt her if he got too close? He also couldn’t risk accidentally hitting Aimee with his quirk by attacking the man. He would have to talk to him down. “It’s over Colonel. Hand her over.”

“Shoto…” Aimee called out faintly. It damn near broke his heart.

“Boy, I can’t deal with you right now,” The Colonel’s bushy eyebrows furrowed, growing anxious. “I have to do this. My Nettie…”

“Daddy…” Aimee pleaded, pulling on her father’s shirt. “Mama’s gone. There’s nothing more we can do for her.”

Colonel Faurie knew he was cornered. There was no way he could out battle the hero and he also didn’t want to put his baby girl in any more danger. Still, he stood his ground, unwilling to let his dream go.

“Please, Colonel. Don’t make me hurt you,” Shoto braced himself, settling into a fighting stance.

“Daddy, look at me,” Aimee placed a small hand to her father’s cheek, bringing his brown eyes to hers. “She wouldn’t want this.”

The Colonel looked into his daughter’s eyes, the same large expressive eyes as her late mother. He tightened his grip on his daughter, wrestling with his feelings, until a mysterious warm feeling washed over him, suddenly setting him at ease. “Nettie…” He said, barely a whisper. Tears pooled in his eyes as he nodded slowly, knowing what he must do, “Okay.” Kneeling down, The Colonel gently laid Aimee down on the cool ground before placing his hands on his head in surrender.

Todoroki let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. After quickly looking over Aimee for any wounds, Shoto reached into his utility belt and handcuffed Colonel Faurie. With a heavy sigh, The Colonel called out, “Stand down, Lafayette. It’s over.”

Layfayette looked over to see his boss had surrendered. A man that was supposed to be his meal ticket. His ticket to the good life. His ticket to freedom. His brow furrowed as he shook his head, a long black tendril snaking over across the warehouse to The Doctor, snatching the discarded vials of mysterious elixirs. “Nah, man. I ain’t going back to jail.”

He brought the vials to his lips, drinking them all before hurling the glass bottles at Deku and Endeavor. He let out a deep hearty laugh as his body began to morph and change, his eyes wild with power.

“Ah, fuck.” Endeavor mumbled before he was pelted with stronger and thicker shadow tendrils. They cut his skin like knives as they whipped around him.

Deku jumped and dodged the tendrils as best he could until suddenly his body went numb. He fell harshly to the ground with a groan, his eyes wide with panic. “What the hell is going on?! I can’t move!”

“Deku!” Endeavor lunged at the villain, ready to fire more flames only to watch Lafayette disappear before his eyes. “What is this?!”

“It’s the vials!” The doctor called out, still bound in Aizawa’s capture weapon. “He’s using the subject’s quirks! He could have any one of sixteen new quirks now!”

Shoto’s lips pressed into a thin line as he carefully scooped Aimee into his arms bridal style. “I’m getting you out of here.” He began to run across the warehouse to the exit until he saw a sight that made him hesitate. Enji, grasping at his neck, his lips slowly turning blue. It appeared as if some invisible force was choking him. “Father!” He bellowed, unsure of what to do: get his love to safety or help his father.

Lafayette then reappeared, now a literal giant. He towered over Endeavor, his shadow tendrils now as thick as tree limbs. Even though he was visible again, the invisible force tightening around Endeavor’s neck still remained. Without sparing a glance, the villain shot a black tendril from his back, lifting a paralyzed Deku high into the air. Lafayette wrapped a tendril tight around the young hero’s neck to match the one around his own. Just as Aizawa and Shinsou jumped into the fray, they were also easily tangled and subdued by the dark shadow vines.

“Shoto…” Aimee’s frail voice caught his attention as he looked down at her. “He’s using my quirk. Let me help.”

Shoto couldn’t help the utterly confused look that covered his face. “You’re in no condition to help. I have to get you out of here.”

“They need help,” Aimee pleaded, pulling on his hero suit. “Cut me.”

“What?!” Shoto looked down at her in shock.

“Use your ice. They don’t have much time.” Aimee patted her thick thigh with her hand, indicating the perfect spot.

Shoto grimaced but he knew she was right. They had seconds, maybe. Even Endeavor’s flames had gone out, due to his lack of oxygen. Kneeling down, Shoto propped Aimee up against his chest as he activated his quirk, forming a sharp icicle. He lifted it up above her plush thigh, but he was still frozen in place. How could he physically hurt the love of his life? Break her soft chocolate skin? Especially, after he just got her back in his arms?

“Shoto now!” Aimee cried, pulling down his hand with all her strength. She activated her quirk as her eyes locked onto the murderous villain, the cold icicle slicing deep into her flesh.

Lafayette yelled out, instantly dropping the heroes from his grip to grasp his leg. “Not again!” He groaned before turning around, spotting Aimee on the ground, an icicle protruding from her thigh in the same place as his mysterious wound. “You little bitch!” He seethed, charging towards her. Shoto instinctually created a wall of ice to separate them from the villain. Aimee held her breath and screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the blow, however it never came.

“Detroit Smash!” Deku yelled as he punched Lafayette in the side, catching him by surprise. With the villain distracted by Aimee’s assault, he had deactivated all of his borrowed quirks, Deku regaining control of his body.

“Let’s finish this,” Endeavor growled, rubbing his neck. Activating his quirk, Endeavor took aim at Lafayette shooting scorching blue flames. “Flashfire Fist- Jet Burn!”

Lafayette yelled as he tried to block the flames with his tendrils, wincing away from heat. It was then that, Aizawa and Shinsou wrapped their capture weapons around the Villain, Shinsou jumping on his back, “I’m gonna need you to chill, you ugly bastard!”

“What the fuck--” That was all it took, Shinsou had Lafayette under his mind control, the villain going stiff.

Endeavor stopped his attack, seeing that he was finally restrained, giving Shinsou his nod of approval, “Thanks, it would have been nice if you did that sooner.”

Shinsou let out a dry chuckle, “I was a little busy. Anyway, we’re not quite done. Midoriya?” He turned to the green-haired hero. “I don’t want Ugly getting jostled and breaking free of my quirk. Will you do the honors?”

“My pleasure!” Deku flashed a bright smile before throwing a One for All punch into the Villian’s face, effectively knocking him unconscious. “That should do it.”

“Did… did I get him?” Aimee breathed softly.

Shoto chuckled lightly, his eyes on his fellow heroes celebrating their victory, “Yes, my love. You got him.”

The peppermint haired hero looked down and his pleasant look was instantly washed away with one of terror. Aimee’s face had grown pale and she can barely keep her eyes open. “Aimee!” Shoto patted her face to get her attention, his heart racing once again. The ravenette only moaned in response, alarming the man further. Looking down her body, Shoto realized their grave mistake. The wound on Aimee’s leg wasn’t healing, her warm crimson blood staining her dress and pooling onto the floor.

“Damnit, Aimee! You’re past your limit, aren’t you?” Shoto’s eyes were wide with panic as he cradled Aimee to his chest.

“I’m sorry… I had to... do... something…” her voice trailed off despite her best efforts.

“Stop the bleeding and get her out of here now!” Enji urged. “We’ll clean this up until the authorities arrive.”

Shoto ripped the hem of Aimee’s dress to create a tourniquet, tying it tightly around her thigh. As gently as he could, he scooped Aimee back into his arms bridal style before running out of the warehouse and into the snow. The hero ran as fast as he could, trying his best to keep Aimee from being jostled. He had to get her to a hospital and fast.

“Cher… I’m cold,” Aimee’s soft voice whispered as she fought to stay conscious.

“Shh, I’ve got you, my love,” Shoto cooed, trying his best to keep his panic from his voice. “Stay awake for me. I need to see those big beautiful eyes.”

Damn it! Shoto cursed himself in his mind for ever agreeing to her stunt as he activated his quirk, gently warming Aimee in his arms. I just got her back. I’m not going to lose her again. The hero then began to skate on his ice in hopes of making better time to the Jeeps waiting in the forest.

Shoto let out a quick sigh when he finally caught sight of the black car waiting in the snow. Gingerly he placed Aimee in the passenger's seat, buckling her in before jumping into the driver's seat. “Stay with me Aimee,” he pleaded with no response. He drove through the forest with a vengeance until he reached the main road, speeding all the way to the hospital.

He jumped the curb as he pulled into the Emergency Room entrance before exiting the car and pulling an unresponsive Aimee into his strong arms. “Someone help her please!” the hero shouted as he ran into the lobby. “She’s unconscious and has lost a lot of blood!”

Doctors and nurses ran to their aid, quickly putting Aimee onto a gurney. “What happened?”

“She’s been given unknown experimental drugs and has exhausted her quirk and she has a stab wound to her thigh.” Shoto stood by his love, petting her hair with shaking hands as the doctors looked over her vitals and examined her wound.

“It looks deep, we’re going to take her to the O.R. just in case.” Shoto nodded weakly as he stared at Aimee’s unmoving face, hot tears pricking at his eyes. The doctors then wheel her back, Shoto following suit until he was stopped at the O.R. entrance. “We have it from here sir. We can’t let you past this point.”

The hero hesitated, not wanting to be away from Aimee for another second. Leaving a tearful kiss on her forehead, Shoto reluctantly took a step back, knowing he had to let the doctors do their jobs.

Hours go by as Shoto paced the ER waiting room. The other victims had also been admitted to the hospital arriving via ambulance, Endeavor and Deku rushing into the hospital shortly after. Unable to wait another minute, a disheveled Shoto walked up to the receptionist. “Is there any news? Anything at all?”

The receptionist sighed, this was the fifth time he had asked her for information. “I’ll check the system again.” She typed away at her computer, pulling up Aimee’s file. “It looks like she’s out of surgery and has been transferred to the ICU.”

“What’s her room number? I have to see her.”

“Unfortunately Mr. Todoroki I can’t give you that information. I shouldn’t have even told you this much.”

“What do you mean I can’t see her?!” Shoto scoffed, his temper starting to rage. “I filled out all of her information for her paperwork. I brought her here. I’m not a stranger off the street!”

The receptionist sunk down in her seat, her hands tied by policy. “I’m sorry but only family are allowed in the room.”

Family? This poor woman has now lost the last remaining family in her life. Her last blood relative anyway. Shoto had to be there for her. He needed to be in that room. “She’s my fiancé! I’m her family!”

He pounded his fist on the counter before he felt a large hand grip his shoulder. Looking up, he saw his father’s concerned face, Enji’s voice direct and sure as he addressed the receptionist, “We’re her family.”

The displays of raw emotion from the heroes moved the receptionist. She let out a sigh, looking over her shoulders for any other personnel. With the all-clear she leaned forward, whispering to the peppermint haired man, “Room 463.”

Armed with the coveted information, the Todorokis ran to the elevator, taking it up to the fourth floor. Getting out, they searched the halls until they found room 463. Walking in, the men finally laid eyes on Aimee.

The breath was knocked out of Shoto’s chest as he took in her frail form, hooked up to all sorts of tubes, wires, and machines. Taking in a shaky breath, he sat in the chair next to her bed. He gently took her hand in his, kissing her knuckles. “I’m here, Beautiful.” Just then, the doctor walked into the room, Shoto immediately standing, “How is she? Will she be okay?”

The doctor sighed, an apologetic look on his face, “She’s stable but she has lost a lot of blood. Because we don’t know what drugs she was given there was only so much we could do for her or risk making her worse. Unfortunately, now all we can do is wait and hope she comes to.”

All the color drained from Shoto’s face at the thought of Aimee never waking up. Turning away from the doctor, he made his way back to his beloved, kissing her cheek. He didn’t realize he was crying until he saw his teardrops on her face.

“She’ll wake up soon,” Enji said softly, moving to stand beside him. “She’s not the type to keep us waiting. She’s a spitfire after all.”

Days go by, Shoto never leaving Aimee’s side. Fellow heroes as well as former classmates all came by to visit the hospital room periodically. They brought the distraught hero food and well wishes as he waited and willed Aimee to wake up. They also updated him on the conclusion to the missing person cases. Lafayette Dubois and Colonel Faurie were deported to an American Prison, The Doc receiving a lesser charge for testifying against them.

After another long day of waiting, Shoto let himself fall asleep in his chair beside Aimee’s hospital bed. A few hours later, Aimee’s eyes finally began to flutter open. She groaned slightly as she took her in surroundings, finally locking in on Shoto’s sleeping form. “Cher?”

Shoto mumbled as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, awakened by her soft voice, “Aimee?” It wasn’t until his heterochromatic eyes focused on her face that he realized her eyes were finally open again. “Aimee!” The hero jumped out of his chair holding Aimee’s face between his palms, he couldn’t believe his eyes. “You’re awake!” Tears of joy began to stream down his face as he peppered soft kisses across her cheeks. “Thank God you came back to me, Baby…” He whispered, earning a small smile from the ravenette.

“I missed you.”

Shoto chuckled between his quiet sobs, “I missed you too.” Wiping his face, he gave Aimee another sweet kiss to her hand before rushing out to get the Doctor.

Within a few minutes, he returned with the doctor in tow, moving to sit back by her bedside. The Doctor gave the couple a smile before looking over her chart, “You lost a lot of blood so you may be a little weak for a few days. Other than a scar, you should have no permanent damage.”

Scar? Aimee carefully lifted her bedsheets to see a thick bandage on her thigh. She hummed as she carefully touched the tender area, wondering what it must look like.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” Shoto whispered in shame, his head hung low. “I scared your beautiful skin.”

“Stop. I asked you to do it, mon cher,” Aimee squeezed his hand in hers. “Besides, now I can really be part of the Todoroki Clan. I have my very own scar.” She giggled weakly, earning a small smile from the hero.

“You’re a very lucky woman,” the doctor interjected on his way out of the room. “You gave your fiancé here quite a scare. He never left your side.”

Aimee quirked a brow, looking over to her beau as a pink blush began to form across his cheeks. “My fiancé huh? Did I miss something?”

The hero only let out a chuckle as he rose to his feet, leaning over the ravenette with a smirk, “Don’t worry. I intend on asking you properly soon.” With that, Shoto closed the distance between them, placing a deep and passionate kiss to her plump lips, which Aimee happily returned.

Epilogue

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davidfarland · 5 years

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Creating a Sense of Wonder in Your Fantasy

There are all kinds of fantasy novels. If you’re a genre writer, the first one that you might think of is Sword and Sorcery, or perhaps High Fantasy. Typically, these are fantasies set in some sort of medieval world, much like Tolkien’s, but the authors may have very distinctive voices.

Yet there are lots of other possibilities. We can have fantasies set in contemporary settings, science fiction fantasies such as Star Wars, fantasies set in historical settings, and complete otherworldly settings that defy categorization.

Whatever brand of fantasy you’re writing, the key emotional need that the reader is coming to have fulfilled is most likely wonder. In short, the reader wants to experience a sense of wonder, to see something strange and new and grand.

That’s not always the case. Some people read Tolkienesque fantasies in the hopes of feeling a bit of nostalgia, of renewing the experience that they felt when they first read Tolkien. This has always seemed a bit odd to me. I’ve seen readers who want to retreat to worlds where there are elves and dwarves and magic all put together in combinations that they’ve seen a dozen times. In short, there isn’t any real sense of wonder to that literature anymore. Instead, it’s something of a safe haven from the real world. In most such novels, nothing bad really ever happens to the protagonists.

For me, such novels just don’t work. Part of the joy of reading Lord of the Rings the first time was the sense of wonder that it aroused. So in order for me to enjoy a fantasy, it has to have more than just a familiar world peopled by familiar character classes, with your mundane conflicts between light and dark. I yearn for something unexpected.

I long for some strangeness in my fantasy, some terror and beauty and inventions that I’ve never seen before. Unfortunately, not all authors are able to deliver the goods. Have you ever read a fantasy novel and found that it wasn’t fantasy at all? A few years ago, a novel came out that was all the rage. Critics loved it. It was beautifully written and had all of the right social messages, but the world was a stock medieval fantasy setting. There was plenty of swordplay but no wizards, no magic, no inexplicable wonders to the world. In short, I read it and thought, this could just as well be set in London in 1400. In fact, it would have been far better if it had been set in the real world. As it was, the book was more social commentary than anything else.

As a young writer, I had a couple of friends who wrote fantasy in a similar vein, and when they sent the books out to editors, the comment that they got was often, “Lacks magic.” That’s a catch-all phrase that means, “It lacks a sense of wonder.” I’ve seen people try to fix such fantasies by adding a magic system—usually a pedestrian one—and that doesn’t really save the novel. It’s not magic that the novel needs, it is wonder!

Here are some approaches that people take to creating a sense of wonder in fantasy:

Create a unique and interesting world. This might be done by imagining a whole new world, including animals and plants; or it might be done by combining some culture from our own world with other fantasy elements. For example, I might create an entire world based upon magic that works, using an Aztec culture. Similarly, in creating that world, there may be all sorts of inventions—new legal systems or social systems, changes to basic laws of physics, and so on.

Create a magic system unlike anything seen before. In my Runelords series, I researched every magic system that I could find before I devised my runic magic system. Yet there are plenty of interesting sources for magic—natural features such as pools or trees might be magical; gods might grant powers to men; and so on.

Deal with characters in a way that is realistic and fascinating. So often when authors attack a fantasy, they create stock archetypes. If you look a little closer to home, you might well find some interesting models. For example, you might try basing a character on someone like Gandhi or Hitler—or try someone who has far less notoriety but who somehow intrigues you.

Whatever method you choose to try to arouse a sense of wonder, just remember that your story is never about the system of power, it is more about the right use of power. Whether your characters get their power by transferring attributes from one to another, as I do in the Runelords, or by biting one another on the neck, as in a vampire novel, ultimately the core of your story will be not “how do I get power?” but “what’s the right thing to do with it?”

***

If you'd like to learn more about wonder and how to increase it in your story, I wrote a new book called Writing Wonder. This book defines what wonder literature means, and how to amplify the level of wonder in your story so that you can draw readers in. Writing Wonder is available on Amazon in paperback for $14.99. You can learn more here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1082226084.

Here is a short story written in the world of the Mystarria called Barbarians. This short story is one of a few that I have written in prequal to the Runelords series. You can find more of my short stories for $.99 on Amazon under my name, David Farland.

Barbarians

The smell of guts and dust and horseflesh told the tale: running steeds at dusk, a tight corner on a narrow mountain road, a carriage rolling over the cliff.

Dval stepped to the margin of the rutted dirt road and stood beneath a sprawling live oak. In the gloaming darkness he spotted wreckage a hundred yards downslope: a fine black carriage rested on its side without a door, so that it opened like the nest of a weaver bird. The carriage was of barbaric make—Mystarrian. They were a clever people, but did not understand the ways of true humans.

Instantly Dval crouched low, lest any survivors spot him, and pulled his dagger from its hip sheath. The handle of his obsidian blade felt comfortably familiar in his hand.

Near the carriage, trunks had tumbled open, spilling dresses and undergarments, while a pair of mangled horses lay broken over boulders. One animal struggled to breathe, while the other had given up the fight.

The driver had been thrown far downhill and lay wrapped around a tree, preternaturally still. Dval wondered what treasure they might have left behind. He knew that he should run and tell his uncle what had happened, for he was the leader of their tribe.

But the lure of treasure called. Dval bounded down the hillside, his leather moccasins whispering through dry grasses. The only sounds were the songs of cicadas among the scrub oak, and the distant screech of a burrow owl. Overhead, stars glimmered dully in a smoke-filled sky.

The smell of smoke worried him.

On the plains in the distance, crimson flames burned in a crescent, as if Fire itself had shaped a scythe to harvest the fields to the Mystarrians. Winds from the sea swept the scythe steadily westward.

The sight of flames filled Dval with foreboding. He had not yet heard of the “grey fleet” that had been sighted near the Courts of Tide. He had not heard of the inhuman “toth” and their strange ways. Yet all the events that would shape his destiny had been set in motion that day.

When he reached the wagon, Dval checked on the surviving horse; its cavernous breaths thundered in and out. Its back was broken, and it could barely lift its head, but it smelled him and stirred, a whinny that was part scream, then turned enough to see him. Dval rested one hand on the horse’s chest, to calm the poor creature. As its breathing eased, Dval studied the fine carriage—black lacquered wood without any markings. He found a door on the ground. Silver inlay in the black lacquer outlined a man’s face with a beard and hair made of oak leaves. He recognized the symbol of the king of Mystarria.

He found a guardsman near the wreck—a young knight in fishmail and helm. The fine steel would be worth a fortune, he knew, and the soldier wore a gold ring. Dval worked the ring free from the man’s fingers, put it on.

Farther downhill laid another woman, a young matron, with glazed eyes peering up into the stars, as if to ponder eternity.

Dval smiled. Keep pondering, woman.

The wounded horse cried. Dval loved horses, so he drew the knight’s bastard sword from its sheath. The blade was made of strange metal—a dull silver, neither northern steel nor brass. It was extraordinarily light. Runes inlaid along its length were like nothing made by men. The strange geometric shapes gleamed like silver fire in the starlight. This was a duskin blade, at least four thousand years old. He tested the blade’s edge with a thumb. It pricked like a wasp sting. Blood throbbed out.

Dval wondered where the blade had come from. Duskin blades were usually found at least a mile underground, in ancient tunnels.

He addressed the dead knight. “You’re a lucky man to have such a fine blade.” Then he saw how the man’s tongue hung out between his teeth. “Well, not that lucky.”

He strode to the horse, plunged the blade in its neck.

The horse lay down its head wearily, as if in relief, and the scent of copper filled the woods as it bled out.

He imagined its spirit galloping away in fields of dreams.

Hoping for more treasure, Dval went to the overturned carriage, climbed the axletree, and peered inside.

At the bottom lay a girl, cradling an injured arm. She looked up and gasped. Deep-red hair framed a heart-shaped face, cheeks stained with tears. Like some northerners of legend, she had brown speckles on her face. He’d never seen freckles before. Her large green eyes engulfed him, pupils wide and black, filled with terror. She was a daylighter—one who could not see in the dark. She could not have been more than nine, two years his junior, perhaps three. Her left leg lay askew, badly bruised, possibly broken.

“Weir bisth dua?” she asked, trembling. Dval did not speak the uncouth tongue of Mystarria, but guessed at the question.

“Dval,” he said, pointing at his chest.

She tried to repeat it, using one of her own words. “Val?” Close enough. He nodded. She pointed to her own chest: “Avahn.”

If I crush her skull, he realized, they will think she died in the wreck. I can take their

treasure. . . .

He peered around for witnesses. Everyone else from the wreck seemed to be dead. He did not see any reason why she shouldn’t die, too. Their people had been at war since before either of them had been born.

But he felt guilty. He was in their territory. One of his uncle’s blood mares had been high on the mountain slopes, grazing in the lush alpine grass, but had “wandered” down into the hills, as they did to give birth.

When he’d told his uncle that the horse was gone, he’d said. “Are we not poor enough?

Go find the mare, you fool.” Always that sneer in his voice.

Dval hadn’t expected the horse to wander far from camp, but moccasin prints suggested that his cousin had actually driven the mare away as a prank.

He was trespassing in this land; the penalty for getting caught was death.

A cool wind blew down from the icecaps above, whispering over him, raising goose pimples on his arms.

A mournful howl arose from the woods downhill—a low moaning sound that ululated, then tapered off. It was the hunting cry of a dire wolf. The wolves in the Alcair Mountains were as large as ponies, each weighing as much as three hundred pounds. In winter they followed herds of shaggy elephants that roamed the Kakolar Plains, but in the summers they often foraged into the hills to hunt for elk.

Sometimes their cries were filled only with ravening hunger, but this wolf was telling others that it tasted the scent of blood.

Dval crouched, frozen in indecision. If he left the girl and kept searching for his uncle’s lost blood mount, the wolves would finish her. He could simply come back and plunder the wreck later.

A deep growl sounded nearby in the oak forest, not more than a hundred yards away. There was no time to climb a tree.

Dval scrambled for safety into the carriage. The girl shrieked and shrank away. He was Inkarran after all, with skin and hair as white as aspen bark, and ice-green eyes that could see in the night.

He knew few words in her tongue. “Gud,” he said, pointing at himself. “I gud.”

She nodded, and tried to rise, but startled at a low growl outside.

They froze, trapped inside the carriage, while wolves began racing around it, panting, heavy paws mincing dry grass. A wolf howled, high and eager, inviting others to the feast. Dval raised a finger to his lips, begging the girl to keep silent. She nodded, then gently laid back down on the floor. Though she stiffened when her arm moved, she did not cry out. There was only one entrance into the carriage—the broken door above. Dval stood with sword raised upward, prepared to thrust.

For long minutes dire wolves growled and ripped at the dead outside, sometimes snarling at one another. He could hear padded feet circling the carriage. Dozens of them. Let there be enough to feed them all, Dval silently prayed to his ancestors.

He gripped the hilt of the unfamiliar sword so tightly that it felt as if his muscles with it. Long after he ached with fatigue, he stood peering up.

To relax vigilance is to die, he heard his uncle’s warning.

The girl hardly breathed.

Suddenly heavy paws scrabbled against the frame of the carriage above, and Dval was unprepared for the wolf that leapt through—a large black one, with grizzled hair turned to mist by starlight.

Dval stabbed upward blindly.

The girl shrieked. The dire wolf yelped in pain, scrabbled backward, and blood rained down. The girl kept screaming.

Did I kill it? he wondered. But the blow had not been deep. The beast would probably only be wounded.

An injured dire wolf will attack again, he knew, if only to prove its fierceness.

Outside, other wolves growled and yipped excitedly. Some sniffed at the carriage while others circled.

A second wolf put its paws up on the carriage and whined, sniffing at the opening. Dval jumped and lunged hard, taking it beneath the throat. It leapt away. Wolves danced about the carriage and growled in a frenzy. The girl shrieked some more.

“Shut up!” he shouted. “Fear draws them!” But the girl did not understand.

He slapped her face, shocking her into silence. “A rabbit screams like that when it wants to die.” He explained, but she did not know the ways of the forest.

Sometimes, when one faces a bear, the best thing to do is to sing. It confuses the animal and shows that one is not afraid. So Dval shoved the girl and sang now, an old battle dirge.

“I was born to blood and war,

Like my fathers were a thousand years before.

Sound the horn. Strike a blow.

Down to death or glory go!”

Wolves whimpered. One barked at the carriage.

Faster than a serpent, a wolf leapt up into the doorframe. Dval lunged with his blade; the wolf bit it. Blood spattered, but the blade twisted in Dval’s hand. He lunged, struck the wolf’s leg, but the beast growled and snapped. Fangs sank into Dval’s shoulder, close to the neck, crushing more than piercing.

Dval shoved the blade up with all his might, driving the creature away. His vision blanked; he stood blinking, blood in his eyes.

At his side, the little girl began to sing in her own crude tongue. Her voice caught with fear at first. It was not a battle song, but a lullaby, such as a mother might sing to a child to frighten away imaginary wights. As she sang, her voice grew in strength.

Sometimes, a song does not just show courage, it lends it, Dval realized.

He wiped spatter from his eyes. His shoulder was running thick with blood. He feared that it would only attract wolves, or that he would pass out.

The girl continued to sing, and struggled to her feet. She put her right hand around his, as if to hold hands.

In Dval’s land, when a woman took a man’s hand, it was a proposal of marriage. Was it the same among her people?

They were both too young, only children.

There was terror in her eyes still, and fierce intelligence. Her lower jaw quivered with determination.

She only seeks comfort, he thought.

She pulled up her skirt, drew an ornate dagger, its silver hilt crusted in gems. It was a pretty weapon, such as a wealthy merchant might carry. She peered at the opening above, as if to do battle.

Avahn waited for the wolves and wondered at her situation.

On sighting the gray fleet, her father had sent Avahn and her mother to safety in the mountains. But safety is an illusion.

Avahn’s mother had been thrown out the door during the wreck, and the silence of the woods spoke eloquently of her fate. Avahn didn’t want to look outside, see the inevitable.

Grief is invisible, but it bears a tremendous weight.

She didn’t know where she was, how to get home.

She wished that she were a runelord, that she had an endowment of strength. Her father had suggested that she take one, but . . . something always stopped her. Sometimes, the vassal’s heart stopped when the facilitators drew his strength away, or he would grow too weak to breathe. She’d never wanted to put someone through that.

Avahn knew little about wolves. The Wizard Goren said that a dire wolf is not afraid of a man. A lone man makes good prey. But he’d once said, “The smell of metal frightens them, especially if more than one man is near.”

Avahn and the boy were vastly outnumbered, but she determined to show no fear, even though her heart pounded as if it might break. Perhaps someday, if she grew to become a powerful runelord, she wouldn’t be so swayed by fear. Today was not that day.

The boy was bleeding badly. She knew that he might not be able to protect her much longer. There was nowhere for her to hide in the carriage.

She studied him. Dval was not huge. Like most Inkarrans, he was lanky and pale in the starlight. Only his calves were dark, for they had been tattooed with a tree, one that bore totems giving the names of his ancestors. He wore little besides his moccasins—a summer kilt, a necklace of wood beads, earrings made of dyed cotton.

Another wolf leapt up on the carriage and peered in; Dval lunged, but it leapt away so fast, it seemed a creature of mist and dreams.

Once, from her mother’s castle at Coorm, Avahn had watched a silver fox out in a field on a green morning. There were mice in the field, and the fox danced about tufts of dry grass.

Any mouse that stuck its head outside its burrow risked getting eaten.

Their only hope was to stay inside. She thought about the Master of the Hounds, Sir Gwilliam. When given a new litter of wolfhound pups, he’d spanked the largest and explained, “Every pack of dogs has a leader. To control the pack, you must control their leader.”

She tried to warn the boy: “Val, we must kill their leader.” She jutted her chin up toward the opening. He shook his head, not understanding.

We only have to make it until morning, she thought. My father will send soldiers to look for us.

She did the only thing she could. She sang.

Five more times that night, wolves attacked, and Dval managed to strike deeply and drive them away, but with each hour his strength waned, and Avahn didn’t know how long he could continue.

Near dawn a crescent moon climbed overhead, spilling silver light down so that it glistened like a spider web.

Avahn worried. The grey ships had come to the Courts of Tide, and she’d seen fires in the valley shortly before dark. She did not know who set them.

All that she could do was keep singing.

When the sky began to brighten and the smell of morning dew filled the air, the leader of the pack came. It was a great wolf, larger than the others. It lunged through the doorframe without preamble, snarling and snapping. So quick was the attack that Dval struggled to repel it, thrusting his blade awkwardly.

Avahn was thrown backward, and the wolf made it halfway into the carriage, shoving Dval to the ground. It focused on the boy, bit him on the head.

Without thought, Avahn lurched forward and plunged her blade deep into the wolf’s neck. Its fur was so thick, she wasn’t sure how deep the wound was, but hot blood spurted from a vein at its throat, and the wolf yelped and snapped at her, and Dval scrambled away. The wolf’s strength was so great, it whipped its head sideways to bite her and slammed her into the wall of the carriage. She heard wooden struts crack from the impact, even as her ears began to ring.

Unconsciousness came so swiftly and completely, it was like falling into a deep dark bottomless pool. She struggled to remain awake, but struggling was no use.

Dval stabbed at the monster wolf, though he was on the floor. The light blade flickered up, and entered the beast’s torso as cleanly as if it were a sheath.

The wolf growled and twisted its head away from Avahn, and he struck thrice more, slashing now.

The wolf growled and backed away, leaving the entrance open to the starlight. Outside, the creature snarled ferociously and jumped about, like a hart struck by an arrow.

Other wolves yapped at it, and Dval waited for it to come back, for a wounded wolf was more dangerous than a bear.

But it raced about erratically, then gave a lonely howl just outside the carriage, a howl that made the wood paneling shiver. The beast couldn’t have been ten feet away. Dval could hear it panting louder and louder, as if it were growing more fatigued by the moment. Dval’s head was bleeding now, along with his shoulder, and he could hardly stand, but he remained on his feet, fixed his eyes on the opening overhead.

The pack leader is dying, he thought. But that seemed too . . . hopeful.

He waited for it to leap into the carriage again, but instead heard it get up, panting heavily, and wander toward the woods.

We all hide from death.

For many long minutes Dval stood waiting.

He felt he could stand no longer and began to float in and out of consciousness. If they come for me, he thought, I will be standing still.

So he held his striking pose, as dawn came. Nuthatches chirruped outside in the forest, and mourning doves called. Flies began to buzz inside the carriage, spinning, spinning, in lazy circles, and Dval’s head spun with them.

He waited, a monument.

I am stone. He told himself. I am stone.

The final attack came in the later afternoon. Dval must have fallen asleep on his feet. He wasn’t aware of a scuffle on the carriage or even a shadow filling the opening above him. All he felt was a tug as he was jerked from the carriage by his topknot.

He swatted with his sword in vain. A giant had grabbed him, and now held him dangling with one hand, while he wrested the sword away with the other.

Dval would have preferred to face more wolves.

The giant hurled Dval to the ground. He rolled and struggled to rise, but the giant slammed one huge foot onto Dval’s ribs, pinning him. “Stinkende theif!” the creature boomed in a voice more guttural than a bull’s.

It was a hill giant, nearly nine feet tall, from the land of Toom. He was as burly as a great bear, and had to weigh a thousand pounds. No matter how Dval squirmed, he could not wrest free. Dval squinted up into the impossible sunlight. The giant’s hair was as blue-black as ink, and he wore rat skulls braided into his beard. He stank of rum and sweat and unnamable nastiness.

Dval closed his eyes, blinded by the sun. Other Mystarrians surrounded him, men with drawn swords. Dval smelled of woods and crisp mountain air. These men stank of ale and grease and cities.

Some shouted at him, and one ripped the stolen ring from Dval’s finger while another man, with tears in his eyes, salvaged the duskin sword, taking the relic in both hands. Dval did not understand all of the accusations leveled against him, but one man drew his sword and strode forward, intent on taking Dval’s head.

Dval gritted his teeth and bared his neck. He stared into his executioner’s eyes as befitted a man who was no coward. The soldier raised his tall sword high, brought the blade down.

“Stobben!” the girl shouted.

The sword veered and bit into the ground near Dval’s head.

Dval looked up in time to see a knight in fishmail help the girl from the carriage, while six others circled Dval, eager for the kill. They forced him to sit on the ground in the sunlight, where his skin would burn and his eyes could not see.

They pulled the bodies of the wolves that he’d slain together, and laid them side-by-side. The pelt of a dire wolf was valuable. Few men had ever killed five at a time.

Avahn found her mother’s body downhill. Wolves had mauled it and pulled it into the shadows under the oaks. Only a bit of blue dress identified the corpse.

One of her father’s guards covered it with a forest-green cloak and tried to pull Avahn away, but she stayed rooted, let the tears flow long and hard while flies buzzed about. The soldiers kept the Inkarran boy on his knees, in the sun. In the bright light, she could see his hair like braided silver, running down his neck. The wool earrings were as crimson as blood. Many bites and scratches marred his smooth skin.

She begged them to let him go, but Captain Adelheim said, “He’s more than Inkarran. He’s Woguld. They’re all under a death sentence. Only your father can stay the boy’s execution.”

“He saved my life,” she said.

“He was robbing corpses, and he would have killed you,” Captain Adelheim said.

“But he didn’t,” she said vehemently.

One of the men mourned, speaking of her guard, “Sir Hawkins had grit in ‘im. Can’t believe he’d just die in a fall. He was too much of a man for it. The kid likely bashed ‘is skull with a rock!”

Sir Bandolan the giant sang of the boy in that grumbling, nonsensical way of theirs:

“Wicked he be.

Evil he does.

Why, oh why?

Because, because!”

“Right, lads,” another of Adelheim’s men agreed. “Let’s bugger him up.” He kicked the boy, knocking him over, and others cheered.

Avahn stared hard at Captain Adelheim. He was a fair man, with a red beard and piercing blue eyes. His frame and features were flawless. Silently she begged for compassion, but he just shrugged. Avahn whirled and slugged Dval’s attacker in the gut.

The soldiers all roared in laughter. “Careful there, Pwyrthen,” one said, “or the princess might drop her aim a bit.”

The soldiers backed away, then, leaving the boy to gasp on the ground like a landed trout.

Avahn got one of her mother’s riding cloaks and put it over him, then settled at his side, prepared to beg her father for the boy’s life. She feared that it was in vain. For two hundred years they’d fought the Woguld.

Seeking to distract their attention from the boy, she asked Captain Adelheim, “Did you see the men from the gray ships?”

His expression became grave in an instant, and the words seemed to wound him like an arrow. Softly, he said, in a voice husky with alarm, “It wasn’t men on those ships. There were monsters that came off them, things like reavers, with black leathery skin, and philia hanging like worms off of their head plates. But they stood up on two legs, like giants.”

She tried to picture such a creature, but her imagination failed. Captain Adelheim continued, speaking softly, as if afraid to admit this. “Three years ago, your father sent out an expedition to the ends of the earth searching for new territories. Legend said that there was a land beyond the Carrol Sea, and there have been hints of fertile plains and rivers filled with gold. But no ships that landed had ever returned. So your father’s scouts went, and they too never returned. Now, I think we know why. Now, we’re the ones that have been discovered. . . .”

“So the creatures landed?” she asked. “They’re the ones who set the fires?”

“Their ships never beached,” Captain Adelheim said. “The creatures just stepped off them, into the water, and walked on the bottom of the sea until they reached the shore. Yes, they set fires. But none of those beasts will ever return home.” He paused. “We call them toths.”

“Toths,” Avahn repeated. Fangs.

Avahn had never seen a reaver, only their skulls. She could not imagine what a toth might look like.

There is a moment in every person’s life where they recognize that they are going to have to survive through hard times. The night fighting wolves had seemed terrible, but Avahn knew in some deep part of her, that it was only the beginning.

At midday, the King of Mystarria came--a plump man with sandy brown hair and a dark crown carved from oak, and robes of royal blue. He rode in with thirty men, circled Dval, studied him.

The king’s face was pale and drawn. He glared at Dval, and though he spoke to others, he growled with subdued rage.

In the hills above them, Dval heard a woodpecker tapping. Peck peck. Peck, peck, peck, peck.

It was Woguld warrior speak, made by tapping a sandstone pebble against a tree. “We are here.”

The king and his men did not seem to notice.

Instead, the Mystarrians argued.

King Harrill was filled with grief at the death of his wife, and he strode over the field of wreckage like an angry badger, like a storm in the brewing. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed from lack of sleep, blazing like meteors. He’d been fighting all night, and now he paced restlessly, moving one direction first, changing in an instant. He went to the body of his wife, looked down at her remains, as if to fix them in his memory. The wolves had been at her, had ripped open her torso, eaten her liver first, ripped off her face.

As he gazed down, by degrees he seemed to collapse in on himself, as if every breath hit him like a blow. At first his face was hard with grief, then pale with shock, until at last his expression went blank and only loss was left in his eyes. Until that day, he had been called Harrill the Cunning, but many argue that on that day he became Harrill the Mad.

Avahn watched him, and could do nothing for him, for she felt the loss as keenly as he.

“My love,” he said at last, taking her hand and kissing it. “Until we meet again. . . .”

Suddenly there was a snarl at the edge of the woods.

Avahn whirled to see a wolf, the huge leader of the pack, come limping from the shadows. Crimson blood matted the fur on its chest, poured down its right leg to its paw. It lunged, blurring across the clearing. Knights shouted in warning and Sir Adelheim’s sword came ringing from its sheath.

The wolf raced toward her father and leapt, a heavy growl escaping its throat. Any common man would have fallen beneath its attack like a helpless doe. But her father was a runelord, with endowments of grace and brawn.

He did not cry out in terror or back away from the fight. Instead he ducked from the attack and leapt at the wolf, mailed fist swinging.

With three endowment of brawn, he slugged the beast. The air cracked as he hit, slamming into the wolf’s skull. Bits of bone and blood went flying in an arc, and something wet spattered Avahns’ face.

The giant wolf fell, its body a dead weight, and it did not move any longer.

King Harrill stared down at it for a long moment, as if trying to understand where it had come from, why it had attacked.

Finally he growled and whirled on Dval, raging as if the wolf were the boy’s fault, and shouted. “Why is that . . . bastard still alive?”

“He saved my life,” Avahn answered reasonably, stepping forward, so that she stood between her father and Dval.

“More than likely,” her father argued, “he’s the one who caused the wreck. They do it all the time, spook our horses at sunset, steal our crops in the night, murder travelers in their sleep. They’re barbarians, not even human.”

He shoved past Avahn, went to Dval, pulled his own battle axe, and raised it high. The boy, dazed and forlorn, did not cry out in fear. Instead, he spit at the king’s feet.

“No!” Avahn warned Dval, for she knew better than to test her father’s wrath. The boy raised his chin and offered his neck, glaring.

The king withheld the blow for a moment, then shook his head in admiration. “Oh, this one has spirit,” the king laughed. “I like him. I like him a lot, but I’m still going to kill him.”

Avahn shouted at her father, “Da, I trust him. We can trust him.”

“He’s a barbarian,” her father argued. He prepared to take the killing blow.

She stepped in front of the boy. “You train your knights for years, never knowing if their hearts will remain true in the fog of battle. This boy’s heart is true.”

The king jutted his chin toward her, and the giant Sir Bandolan grabbed Avahn’s shoulder, pulled her from harm’s way.

Her father drew back his axe, prepared to swing.

In that moment, time seemed to slow and the world went quiet. King Harrill hesitated.

Up in the forest above, a woodpecker pecked, and in the distance a squirrel called from an oak tree.

The king stopped, peered uphill curiously.

“Hear that?” the king whispered to his men. He grew wary. His eyes danced left and right, as if he were thinking faster than a water strider could dance above a pool. He whirled and searched uphill, to where green oaks spread over the dead grasses, casting deep shadows.

He shouted, “Come on, you bastards! I hear you up there. May you all taste my wrath this day!”

There was no answer from the silent woods for a long moment.

Suddenly a single archer stepped out from behind a tree. As a warlord of the Woguld, he wore a crimson breechcloth. A white silk cape flowed over his shoulders like a waterfall. A “sunmask” adorned his face, a silver mask with a face like an elk’s, with broad antlers, and black-glass covered eyes to guard against bright light. The blue tattoos of the warrior’s family tree wound around his calves, naming his ancestors and their deeds. He was glorious to look upon, regal and perfect.

He stood with his great bow, red as blood, its wings flaring wide, and nocked an arrow.

The king laughed and rubbed forefinger against thumb, the sign for “trade.” He pointed to Dval.

Avahn did not know whether her father was offering to buy the boy, or to spare his life for a price.

To Dval, it was the worst of insults. The folk of the Woguld did not trade in slaves.

Every man served his clan. The warlord up above them was his uncle, and Dval felt certain that his uncle would order his men to waylay these barbarians.

Instead, his uncle drew the bow and fired.

The arrow sped toward them, and Dval thought, “He will kill their king!”

Yet even as the thought came, he realized that the arrow was winging toward him. A flash to his side, a heavy thud—and Dval went flying from harm’s way, his face skidding into the leaves. The girl Avahn had shoved him, thrown him to the ground as the arrow whistled past.

Now she sat, holding her arm. Blood flowed from between her fingers, down her shoulder. His uncle’s arrow had lightly kissed her flesh.

Dval’s uncle called out, “Dval, what kind of fool are you? Do we not have enough enemies? You must save one?” Always that tone. “The friend of my enemy,” the uncle roared, “is my enemy!”

His uncle spat, turned, and strode into the stark shadows under the trees.

For a second, Dval knew the sorrow of one who has been dispossessed.

Yet Dval watched his uncle, and did not know who was more a barbarian—his uncle, the northerners around him, or Dval himself.

Perhaps we are all barbarians, Dval thought, struggling to be human.

Only one person here seemed truly human—the child Avahn, who crouched stoically, holding her wound.

After that, no one threatened to kill Dval. Apparently now that he was cast out from the Woguld, his death sentence was rescinded. By trying to kill him, his uncle had saved his life.

The soldiers gathered their dead in silence and rode down from the mountains into the forbidden realm.

Avahn took Dval’s hand. Together they rode down to the sprawling rat-infested cities of Mystarria, to her home at the Courts of Tide, where the war fires of the Toth still burned.

#writingtips

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