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nemo-of-house-hamartia · 7 months

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In The Heat of the Moment Chapter 5 - Awakening of the Hunter

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4,

Words Count: 12077

Warning: Mention of Suicide; Physical Violence;

BYRON January 1868, London The wind blew in the forest around him, a subtle whisper that carried the promise of a gelid night. The gloomy penumbra of the early sunset permeated the air around him, and if not for the blanket of snow that covered all that surrounded him, he would have not been able to see anything as clearly as he did. Keeping his rifle in his hand, his grip sure and steady, despite the thick gloves around his hands, Byron Harrison let his gaze wander around with slow attention, deliberately scanning his surroundings with a precision that came from habit. Not even the crystal of snow covering his auburn lashes like lace were enough to impede his search. Thick puffs of vapor came out of his mouth, as the chilly air pricked on his cheeks mercilessly, giving them a painful red tint that had nothing to do with bashfulness or strenuous effort. Yet, nothing, not even the torpor in his arms and legs, could sway him from his task. He cared not about discomfort. He cared not about pain. All he cared about was the forest in front of him, and the prey that was hiding in it, the elusive trophy that would finally bring an end to his continuous searching. “Come out, you fucking bastard,” he whispered, turning around to get a wider visual, the crunch of the snow under his boot filling the stillness around him. “I know you are here,”

Ears were keen on capturing any sign, any hint, anything that might show him where that arsehole was hiding. His breathing was controlled, his heart steady in its beating as he slowly turned his eyes toward a silvery bush ahead of him. A low rough laughter raised from somewhere on his right. Byron raised his rifle and shot, the deafening sound breaking the surreal silence. He waited until the echo died down, as stillness had found lease once more among the trees. But he knew it was not peace. There would be no peace. Not until he had shot every single one of the bullets he was carrying with him. Not until those bullets had found their way through that bastard’s heart. Byron tensed his ears again, eyes searching with the same careful attention, waiting for a signal that he knew would come. The laughter continued, reverberating all around him. Mocking him. Deriding him. He blinked rapidly, to clear his eyes from the tears swelling up. “Show your bloody mug, you son of a fucking dog!” he growled, a sound that had nothing of human and all of the beast he was trying with all his strength to restrain. ”Show yourself!” And as always, like clockwork, the man showed himself.

His pristine blue eyes were twinkling in the dark, and what can only be described as a devilish smile was plastered on the man’s face a face crowned by dark hair, disheveled hair, hidden under a dark beaked hood. With the heavy cape of the Assassins weighing on his shoulders, the man stood between the trees, the snow crunching under his feet as he got closer to the Master Templar. Byron reloaded the rifle with quick, precise hands, took aim again, and shot. And shot. And shot. And shot. One bullet after the other flew in the darkness of the night, each of them landing straight through the heart of the mocking Assassin. The man laughed again, unfazed, and with each shot his laughter grew in intensity, to the point of sounding almost hysterical by the time Byron had finished his bullets. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Leviathan” The words were as derisive as the tone was scornful, cutting through him like the sharpest of blades. Fury pervading every single fiber of his body, Byron took out his revolver and kept shooting and shooting in his rage, until the chamber clicked empty, and no more bullets were left. The low laughter rang all around him, echoing from every hidden corner of that godforsaken forest, reverberating through all that he was, deafening in its intensity. It got interrupted only by another deafening shot. One that Byron didn’t shoot. Straight through his heart, from the revolver that the Assassin was holding, the bullet had passed right through him. His face jerked back, just in time for his desperate eyes to see the bullet hitting its true target: ghosts, holding each other desperately, almost unrecognizable for how deformed they were in the silent scream that was leaving their mangled mouths. But Byron knew them. His soul recognized them before his eyes did.

The scream of agony that left Byron’s mouth was primal in its pain, obscene in its rawness, a wounded animal screaming his curse to the sky in its misery. A scream that followed him in the waking world, and his eyes flashed open, as he tried to grasp for air. Beads of sweat that had nothing to do with heat were running down his brow, as he tried to readjust his view through the dark of the room. But he couldn’t. Everything appeared nebulous in front of him and, he soon realized, it was because his eyes were filled with tears. “You cannot kill what’s already dead,” He heard that voice in his ears again, a hazy memory now, still taunting him. His brow furrowed as he covered his eyes with a callous hand, trying to drown the lump of anguish that had tightened his throat to the point of making breathing torture. His whole chest felt as if hot iron pokes were nabbing at him, piercing him like merciless arrows, in a grotesque imitation of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Pain was tearing him apart. Taking a long breath, he rose from his bed, oblivious to the hiemal air around him or the freezing floor underneath his bare feet. He felt nothing. Nothing at all, aside from the stupor caused by those goddamned nightmares that chased after him like rabid dogs. He headed for the drawer where a small basin sat, already filled with water, and dipped his rough hands in it splashing his face, uncaring about the gelid droplets that ran down his neck and damped his wool shirt. It felt good. It was good. Real. Almost a self-inflicted slap back to reality. Taking another deep breath, Byron allowed himself a moment longer of leniency for his soul, his mind fighting its way out of the merciless tides of dreams and memories, to anchor himself to the world, to make port where his heart could finally acquiesce once more. It came to him in the form of a silvery laughter and curious eyes and freckled cheeks. An image of gentle peace, a small flickering light in darkness: the harbinger of a warm dawn after a long hyperborean night. Despite having found his port, when he raised his gaze to look into the mirror hanging over his basin, the man looking back at him had none of his usual composed certitude.

The man in the mirror looked more like a madman: sunken eyes, dark in the soft penumbra of the room, an ocean where a perennial storm never ceased to be, dangerous waters just beneath the sea green surface; all over his face the heaviness of the years had started to show, in those wrinkles that torment and pain had chiseled mercilessly into his features. His head full of auburn hair still kept wavy and long - a quirk he carried over from his years in the Navy- had started to go gray here and there; on his beard and moustache too, time had started to make its presence known. He felt older than he looked, as if he had lived more years than the ones he had actually been granted by fate. Another deep breath. He splashed more water on his face, hoping to erase the fatigue coming from sleep. “Sleep,” he scoffed. He hadn’t been able to have a restful night of sleep in years. His eyes trained automatically toward the only photo sitting on his desk - the only personal touch in his otherwise bare bedroom- and his heart sank in his chest. He took the memento as gently as his callous rough hands allowed -careful, as he always was with anything connected to it - and caressed the small, precious faces looking back at him. He wished, with all his heart, he could see those smiles again. Hear that laughter again, smell their perfume in his nostrils, feel the solid weight of their bodies against his for one last embrace. Feeling the pain throbbing in his chest with every single beat of his tired heart - how many nights he had prayed that it would stop beating altogether, to find some respite from that life - he put the frame back to its place, hiding it from view, trying to suppress the yearning that, he knew, was the greatest enemies in the war that forever raged in his heart whenever he was awake. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Levathian,” The voice echoed again in his ears, as it always did. Taunting him. Ridiculing his pain. “I cannot,” Byron growled, gritting his teeth as his eyes turned dark. “But I can take away your future. I can destroy your legacy, all which you held dear, just as you have done with me.”

A sudden knock on the door tore him away from his thoughts. “Yes?” he spoke, his tone curt. “My Lord? Do I have your leave to enter? Victor Dorianr’s warm voice - now a gentle murmur rather than the booming toll of a bell, as it always was - immediately put him at ease. “Come, Victor,” he allowed, as he moved away from his desk to greet the man. The door opened, and the Master Templar entered, candid fresh snow on his black hair and heavy fur-lined coat. Fastened at the high collar was his Templar cross, the metal shining even in the darkness. Byron’s eyes narrowed, tensing: Victor was there on Official Order business. He looked as the Frenchman closed the door carefully behind himself before turning to face Byron, his dark eyes inquisitive. “Forgive me for interrupting your slumber, My Lord-” “No need for apologies, Victor. You are always welcome here…and I was already awake, anyway. What’s the reason for this urgency?” “Forgive me for the late hour, but I got a telegram. From Crawley. Our wait has been fruitful. We captured two Assassins that came to the house, just as you predicted,” Byron felt his blood chill in his veins. For the first time since waking up, Byron allowed himself to smile. But there was none of the warmth that came from pleasure. “Do we know if they are the ones responsible for the explosion of Brewster’s laboratories?” The Frenchman shook his head. “Non, Monsieur, no one has started to interrogate them. Master Barclay was the one duty when the Assassins had broken into the house, and he is now holding them captive and awaiting your orders.” Byron took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with callous fingers. Markus Barclay, the thorn in his back ever since the young man joined their ranks. He knew why the Grand Master had seen reasons to assign him under his attendance, and he knew he was the only man for the job. Still, had he had the chance to decline that obligation, he would have done so in a heartbeat, and passed instead the “honour” to Ambrose. ”Wake the rest of the men and then wait for me without. Have my carriage ready. We need to leave at once if we want to reach Crawley before sunrise,” “Very well, Monsieur,” he said, holding up for a second. “Is there something else, Victor?” “Nothing urgent or pertaining to our current mission, and you know, God forbid if I dare not pry into your privacy, Monsieur, but if I may be so impertinent, you look…harrowed,” he murmured, his voice turning as soft as the light in his eyes. “Lack of sleep, Victor,” Byron answered curtly, clearing his voice, with all the intention to not explain himself. “Nothing that laudanum cannot help with, and nothing you need to worry about. Now,do as I ordered. We mustn’t waste a minute. We need to run against the dawn.”

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The journey to Crawley took longer than Byron cared for, but with the weather playing against them, he knew they would have been delayed anyway. At least, he thought, it had proceeded smoothly, and with Victor’s low chatter to fill the time, he was inclined to find it even pleasant. The Frenchman always managed, with his quick wit and gentle voice - almost lulling when it wasn’t so loud, it could be heard a whole town away - to distract him from his ghosts, at least for a little while. However, the moment the carriage had stopped and he had been able set foot out of it, he welcomed the cold winter air of the night against his face and the soft snow falling in big flakes all around them. Nothing like the freezing chill of darkness nipping at one’s cheeks to keep one’s senses awake and alert. His favourite hunting weather. As much as it resembled the one he always saw in his nightmare, he felt none of the helplessness that derived from the inevitable, the unchangeable. Instead, he felt all the empowerment from being awake, and in control of everything that was around him. As he walked down the empty street, the fresh snow crunching under his boots, his eyes immediately found the house - a one-floor old cottage, its red bricks appearing black in the dark of the night, the roof torn down here and there, weighting on the structure in a way that it reminded Byron of an old man carrying a basket, his back curved by life and time. All the windows were black, empty sockets on what could only be described as a dismal facade, with no sign of lanterns or candles anywhere. No one had lived there in a little while. Byron turned to look around, his eyes scouring the surroundings of the small neighbourhood, a habit he never lost since his travels in the Arctic. He saw nothing, aside from a whole line of old houses not so different from the one in front of him, nothing that would cause him to be on alert. But something in his guts - an instinct, almost an extra sense that he couldn’t explain into words - told him that there was something just staring at them, waiting in the darkness, standing as still as waters in a tranquil pond. It was a fickle feeling, almost air shimmering in a faint glow, a whisper in his ear. None of the other Templars following him gave him a sign of having felt it as well. But he could sense it all the same. “Victor,” Byron murmured, his gravelly voice echoing in the empty street.

The Frenchman was at his side at once, ready to comply with his order. “Make sure to keep the place restricted. Do not let anyone get closer to the house - no passerby, no nosy neighbours, no one. If trouble should arise, if anyone were to show their face around here-” he added, eyes cold and void as the sky above. “-you know what to do,” Victor nodded with solemnity, swallowing hard. “Oui, Monsieur,” While hearing his subordinate relay his orders to the rest of the squadron, Byron turned his attention to the house once more, hatred seeping in his chest the longer he stared at its weathered walls, as puffs of condensed breath raised from his lips with each breath he took. The place where Ethan Frye and his broods lived. His attention was soon caught by the Master Templar responsible for sending him the message, emerging from the dark door like a magpie peaking from inside its nest. “They are inside, My Lord. We were awaiting for your arrival,” said Markus Barclay, straightening his back and tilting his chin up, as he came out to welcome the older man while giving him a cocky smile. Byron answered the smile with a long impenetrable look as he walked across the threshold of the small house without a single word of greeting. Complete darkness enveloped him immediately, despite the door still being open behind him. “Light,” he whispered, and before he had the time to add anything else, two candles had been lit by the young Master Templar. The feeble trembling light brightened the small corridor, allowing Byron to get a better look at his surroundings. As nondescript as it was from the outside, the house was just as unremarkable on the inside: old walls once covered in what could only be assumed to be quaint patterns were now presenting stains from mildew, peeling off here and there to show the bare bricks; cobwebs were hanging at the corners against the ceilings, and the wind, slipping through the decaying timber of the doors, carried with it a mournful moan, almost a messenger of what was about to come. A ghostly sentinel for a family that was no more. The boards of the floor protested with each step he took, creaking as he moved toward the quarters where the two Assassins were kept prisoners. He caught a glimpse of a frame where an old small ambrotype hung: a man, not much younger than Byron himself, was sitting on an armchair, a small smirk - barely perceptible -plastered on his lips, beard unkempt and eyes twinkling with what could only be interpreted as pride. Byron’s jaw tensed, teeth grinding as he contained the ever-growing fury coursing through his veins each time he saw that smirk, the very same that taunted each night in his nightmares. He welcomed the fury, and allowed it to warm him like a blazing fire: it was a never-ending flame that kept him going ahead.

Next to the man in the hanging picture were two children, no older than twelve years of age: the girl standing straight, shoulder squared, looking ahead of herself with the same proud eyes as the man sitting beside her, her dark hair hanging in long braids at the either side of her head; the boy facing away from the girl and the man, brows knitted in a despondent gaze, mouth turned downward in a rebellious grimace, the same dark unruly hair as his father, hidden just beneath an old worn-out paperboy hat. Both children’s faces were riddled with freckles, while none appeared on the man’s sullen face. He perused those small faces with meticulous attention, almost dissecting every single detail he deemed essential, etching them in his memory. Then, he forced himself to continue walking down the barely illuminated hall, until he reached where the two Assassins had been kept captive. When Byron entered the room, his gaze was immediately trained toward the two tied-up figures sitting on the floor. He studied them intently, their tied bodies forming a stark, dire contrast against the innocence of the children’s room where they were being held. Both Assassins were in their mid-thirties and, he noticed, were donning the dark robe of their Brotherhood, the hoods lowered on their shoulders to show hard faces and cold stares in their anonymous faces. They were docile. Far too docile, for his taste. “What happened to their blades?” he asked, gazing just above his shoulder toward Markus. “Confiscated and secured downstairs, My Lord, along with all their pieces of equipment. I personally saw to that.” Byron nodded, turning to face the two captives, eyes narrowed in an attentive, silent gaze as he studied the two captives: no scratches, cuts, hematomas, or ecchymoses could be found anywhere on their person; no sign of struggle. No sign of a fight. He stared at Markus for a long moment, his face painted in a mask of wariness before redirecting his attention toward the Assassins once more. “You know who I am?” Byron’s gravelly voice was low, a whisper cutting right through the chillness of the air around him. Nothing transpired from his face, the candle in his hands painting deep shadows all across his face. The woman in front glared at him, defiant of him, but Byron could see, even in the flickering light of the candles, fear was creeping into her eyes, dancing with the rabid hatred she had each time she looked at the iron cross hanging at his neck, her attention fixated on the symbol etched at the center of it. “You are the bloody Leviathan,” she seethed, vomiting his moniker as if it were a curse underneath her breath.

Byron's lips stretched in a chilling smirk. “Then you know why I am here.”

The woman spat on the ground, the spittle just inches away from Byron’s shoes. The other Assassin, captive as well, tied next to her, shook his head at his companion, eyes silently pleading with her to stop and stay quiet. Byron’s eyes twinkled for a moment, his face impassible, calm as ever. “We know. Like we both know that you won’t let us get out of here alive. You Templars know no honour, no compassion, no clemency, not even for the one you declare to protect! All you bastards know is greed and lust for power! And you, Leviathan…you are the worst of them all. No one has ever survived an encounter with you. So why would I cooperate with you, you bastard?” Byron stood silent, untouched by those words that found no retort. But deep within, he felt his guts turning and twisting with barely suppressed rage at the sight of the two Assassins, a rage that churned like the bubbling waters of the oceans during those bleak winter storms that always stole hope from the sailors unlucky enough to find themselves at sea. His rage has nothing to do with them, but all to do with the symbol they had hanging at their belts. “It is not my… proclivity to offer mercy to your kind. It is indeed true. But-” he murmured, a smile appearing on his lips, that didn’t reach his eyes. “-I bear no ill will to either of you. All I want is a piece of information. Just one small piece of information, and you will walk away from here with all your limbs attached together. I am offering you the possibility of leaving this place alive…if you tell me all you know about the whereabouts of Ethan Frye and his offspring.” The woman spat again, gritting her teeth in ire. “Do you think me dense or soft in the head? There is no promise you can spew that I would believe, no word you say that I would trust! We will not talk! In no way in Hell, we will ever betray the Creed! You won’t know anything about Ethan Frye or his children! Never! You can torture us, cut us, and dice us to pieces, we’ll never talk, you bastard son of a who-“ The booming sound of a revolver going off shattered the air of the room, its deafening blast echoing against the worn-out walls, gunpowder filling the nostrils with its acrid smell. Byron’s steely gaze never left the eyes of the Assassin still alive, his hand still holding the smoking gun pointed toward the dead woman, now a lifeless husk, a hole the size of an orange marking her forehead where the bullet had entered, with bits of flaccid pale brain matters, blood, and splintered bones had flown all around.

Byron moved the mouth of the revolver toward the other Assassin, his face impassible in front of the spectacle of gore lying in front of him, unfazed by the blood that had sprayed against the hem of his leather coat. He barely wrinkled his nose when he felt the pungent foul odour coming from the still-bound man who, had soiled himself. Blood, gore, shit and gunpowder. A side of his life he had come to accept as normal, regrettably so. “Now…let’s try this again, shall we?” Byron asked again, his voice dropping again to a chilling murmur. “Where are Ethan Frye and his offspring?” The bounded man whimpered, his whole body encompassed by a tremor as the realization of what just happened pushed through his veins like ice. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes completely shut, keeping his breathing steady, but failing altogether. “Th-they are hiding in London,” he blabbered, the words pouring out like a river. “Ethan reached out to us yesterday and sent words about a plan to assassinate John Elliotson as the initiation for his son and daughter-” At the name of the Assassin, Byron narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring at those words, bile burning the back of his throat. His fist clenched out of reflex, his grip growing tighter with each passing second. “How does he plan to do this?” he growled. The Assassin whimpered, eyes fixed on the mouth of the gun still pointed in between his eyebrows. “God forgive me... Oh God, forgive me,” he muttered, between one sob and the other. “We-we have an insider at Lambeth, acting as an informant. A nurse.” “Who?” Byron pressed, with steely determination in his voice. The Assassin hanged his head in shame, biting his lip until he tasted the metallic tangy taste of his own blood. “Emily Millburn,” he sobbed, wringling in the tight rope tied around him. “I beg you, do not hurt her! She is a widow, and only has her little boy as her family! Please, I beg of you! She has nothing to do with Ethan!” Byron took a deep breath, nodding as he allowed the information to settle in his mind. “We are done here,” he murmured, turning toward Markus, who was still standing there, silent witness to the whole scene, as he tried, with all his might, to make himself as small as a rat and just as unnoticeable.

Without a single word uttered, Byron handed him his revolver, his order clear in its silence. Markus’ dark eyes widened, his lips quivering as he tried to focus his attention on Byron. “Lord Harrison, I.. I don’t understand. He-He has told us what we wanted to know-” Byron stared at him longer, eyes unblinking, piercing through his resolve like a needle in the canvas.

“This is a lesson I want to partake with you, Master Barclay. A lesson about honour and loyalty,” he whispered, each word laced with indignant contempt. “I appreciate qualities like loyalty, I find it to be the very base upon which all is created. And this man, despite his questionable judgment in terms of alliances, despite being nothing more than a vermin of insignificant consequence…this man has loyalty aplenty. For. His. Creed. So much so that he had no qualms in lying, straight to my face, about a dead man’s whereabouts-” At those words, Byron saw the Assassin’s eyes go wide with inconceivable terror. “-knowing fully what the consequences would be. Knowing fully well that while loyalty has a price, defiance has an even greater cost,” Byron pushed the revolver into Markus’ hand once more. “Now, kill him, Master Barclay. I won’t ask it another time.” Markus swallowed hard as his whole face transformed, skin turning the colour of curdled milk, his body reacting almost against his will, weighting like lead. He made the mistake of looking for one moment into the eyes of the Assassin sitting on the floor. The silent plea of mercy was there, written in watery dark eyes. Markus took a deep breath, hands pervaded by an uncontrollable tremor. The gun went off again, the bullet finding its way through the skull of the remaining Assassin.

Byron looked once more to the desolated rest of the two Assassins, his face not letting transpire a single emotion. If anyone were to look upon him, one would have thought him bored by the whole ordeal. But this would have been the furthest from the truth. He turned toward Markus, whose face was covered in sweat, mouth puckered in a grimace, about to either retch or pass out. Byron narrowed his eyes as he walked just by him, his footsteps heavy, deliberate, implacable. He stood by the Master Templar without so much as to deign him of a glance and when he spoke, Markus flinched as if slapped in the face. “I do not take insubordination leniently, nor do I condone it. Question my orders one more time and I will make sure that no one will ever find you ever again. You have taken an oath. The Grand Master has seen fit to give you a second chance and by his ordinance, I will comply with his wishes and make sure that you follow through with it; I will see you abide by it by any means necessary, or I swear on what I hold most dear in this life, I will make you regret the very day you have set foot inside the Manor. Understood?” Markus turned to look toward the man who was towering over him, his voice a squawk that died in his chest before it could even find the strength to pass through his lips. A shaky nod was all that he could muster.

Unimpressed with the response, Byron walked past him, never turning to face either the Master Templar or the slaughter of the room. As he found his way out of the small house, the silence that surrounded him was deafening. Not a single one of the Templars that had accompanied him to the small house in Crawley dared to speak or even look him straight in the eyes. As he walked in the corridor, he noticed again the ambrotype that had welcomed him inside. It took it with a swift hand and hid it in the internal pocket of his jacket. Another memento. Another step further down that path that called him each day and each night of his life. He quickly went down the corridor, and crossed the threshold, breathing in the cold air of the night with gratitude, letting it feel his lungs with its purity. Raising his face to the sky - now starting to brighten with the colours of dawn at the horizon - he closed his eyes, allowing the soft snow to fall all over him, gently caressing his skin. It was incredibly welcomed, after all that had just happened.

He let his mind clear itself, trying, as it always happened whenever violence permeated his thoughts and hung to him like a tick to a dog’s coat, to find a moment of light amidst all that darkness. To find his port again. Keeping his eyes closed, he heard Victor walk towards him, recognizing him distinctly by the sound of the man’s step, light and fluid against the snow-covered pathway. “Did you find what were you seeking, Monsieur?”

Byron shook his head, lowering his head and opening his eyes to look at the Frenchman. “Not entirely, I am afraid. Those Assassins are willing to lie even in the face of death and go to the grave to protect the whereabouts of a dead man. But the liars always weaves their best stories with truth, and we got something that the Grand Master will find useful,” “Then, a successful mission indeed, if I may be so bold,” Victor cheered, without daring to ask any details that couldn’t be shared with him. Byron appreciated his discretion, the deferential respect he had for the rules and hierarchy within the Order, his unwavering loyalty to what the Tenets of the Order prescribed, and also his penchant for brutal honesty. While most would find the lack of edulcoration in his words disagreeable, Byron was particularly grateful for it. He wished he had more men with such moral strength working for him. “A partial success, yes,” he conceded. “Nevertheless, I will return to London immediately to inform the Grand Master of the current situation and after that, God Willing, I will be able to rest,” And then, if nothing more were to happen, I will finally see her again, he thought. “Very well, Monsieur. Your commands for us here?”

Byron’s shoulders tensed once more, as he stood pensive for a moment. “Finish to search the house and find any manner of evidence that might be connected to the Assassins’ plans. Frye surely had information that would be useful to us. Keep Markus with you, Victor, and keep a close eye on him: I trust no one else but you with this particular task. And once you are done, before you head back to London-“ Byron turned to look at the small house, hatred seeping into all his being like a poison spreading in his veins with every heartbeat. "- Burn this whole shack to the ground and then spread salt upon the soil. I want to see this place erased from the face of the Earth.”

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“This is not what I signed up for, Brudenell, bloody hell,” Ambrose Harrison thought, as he rubbed his eyes trying to chase away his drowsiness, absolutely disgruntled. Again, he cursed under his breath the man who had sponsored him when he had first been offered a spot in the Templars, taking a cigarette out of his pocket and tapping the filter against the tin box before lighting it up. The first taste of tobacco felt good against his tongue, but not enough to brighten his mood. The day had yet to start properly - the sun was barely rising upon the horizon - and he was yet to have a cup of strong coffee to chase the excess of the night before away. But that hadn’t stopped the news from arriving sooner than he liked. And he had liked that news even less once he got to White Chapel to witness them in person. He still couldn’t believe it. Kaylock had been taken down by a couple of miserable ratbags with more brawns than brains, half his gang was dead against the track of the train station, and the other half scattered the Devil only knew where. He knew he would be in for a long day.

He let out a low growly sound of displeasure as his gaze embraced the corpses of all the members of the gang that had been slaughtered during the gang fight, while his men were busy shouting away curious passersby and bribing away any “peeler” that might have come snooping around to report to Whitehall Place. Not that it would matter, considering the amount of officers that were already on the Grand Master’s own payroll. Still, he thought, a few more quid spent on those blokes -with more mouth to feed than hair on their balls- were a good way to ensure absolute silence and discretion. That or a gun against their head. He was open to either solution indistinctly. A flash of brilliant red at the corner of his eyes caught his attention. Blighters. Splendid. 'Old Man’ Roth had sent some of his dupes to help with the works. “Oi! Lads!” He shouted to the group of newcomers. “Chop-chop, we don’t have the whole mornin’! Start lookin’ around and see if you find anythin’ - ANYTHIN’- that might lead us to understand how the bloody fuck we ended up like this!”

“My my, such reprehensible language, Master Harrison,” Ambrose heard a low husked voice reprimanding him. “I do wonder what your brother would think of such…crude display of uncouthness,” It took Ambrose every smidgen of patience to not roll his eyes to the sky at the sound of that voice. Instead, he straightened his back and turned around to face Phillip Starrick, all wrapped in a heavy wool coat lined with slick black fur, his golden cross hanging from the bandeau around his neck. Despite being incredibly early in the morning, the young man appeared to be as fresh as a rose, and -Ambrose couldn’t stop himself from thinking it - just as pretty. “I’m here to bring results, Lord Starrick, not playin’ the elegant Lord,” he grumbled, turning to blow the smoke of the cigarette away from the young aristocrat. “What are you even doin' here? Don’t you “My Lords” usually wake up after the cock has sung its tune?” “Why, Master Harrison, you offend me with your words. I am a most diligent worker, and when the news reached the Manor, the Gran Master saw me fit to oversee the operations alongside you. Consider these Blighters I brought with me as a gesture of goodwill toward a fruitful partnership in discovering what happened here,” he murmured, giving the older man a long look before turning toward the gruesome spectacle in front of them. “Do we have any lead about who caused all of this?” Ambrose shook his head, returning the younger man's look. “Not yet, M’lord. My men are workin' on interrogatin' whoever witnessed the whole fight. We tried to circumscribe the Station, but we arrived too late and whoever caused this mayhem had already left,” Phillip listened intently, his periwinkle eyes gazing with attention around him.

“My Lord! My Lord!” Ambrose heard his name being called from the other side of the railway. One of his own -Bradley, judging from the booming voice - was running toward him, his usually good-natured face now a mask of barely contained stress. “What is it, lad?” “My Lord, you need to come at once,” he gasped, between one breath and the other. “We-We have found it. Kaylock’s body. It’s…It’s-” Ambrose stood silent for a moment, taking a deep breath, and clenching his jaw in frustration. “Show him to me,” he murmured. Then he turned toward Phillip. “I advise you stay here, M’lord. It might be a gruesome affair, the lot of it,” The young Aristocrats waved his hand as if to dismiss his concern. “Fret not, Master Harrison, I am not a delicate daisy that cannot hold the sight of a corpse,” he murmured, shaking his golden curls with a pretentious look etched on his oval face. “It wouldn’t be my first,” Once again Ambrose fought the impulse to roll his eyes to the sky, and answer him with a mordant remark; instead, he refocused his attention on the young lad and followed him to the location where Kaylock’s body had been found, his thoughts redirecting toward the gang leader. So the man had indeed been killed after all.

For a brief moment, Ambrose had hoped not: their differences notwithstanding, Rexford Kaylock had been a good friend of his, always ready for a brawl down at the pits, always up for a wager and he was yet to meet a man that could hold his beer like he did. But despite the man’s cunning, Ambrose knew that his penchant for playing with his food before eating it would have been his ruin, sooner or later. Once in front of the corpse of the man who had once been his friend, Ambrose said nothing, his face almost impassible if not for the furrowing of his thick brows. Now he understood the distress on Bradley’s face. Kaylock hadn’t been just killed: he had been slaughtered. Nose was broken with such strength the bone was showing from the skin; slashes all over his upper body, and open wounds showing the shiny sinew and the bundle of muscles, in some places so deep that you could see the indentation of the weapon even on the bone. He couldn’t determine if it had been a butcher knife or a smaller blade to cause all that. All he could see was that the stroke had been deliberate, unforgiving, inexorable. Ambrose turned toward Bradley and took him aside, bringing him closer enough to preserve the secrecy of his words. “Take away his body and see that he’s buried properly,” his voice was just high enough to be heard by the man. Ambrose took two pouches filled with money and gave it to him. “Give this to his widow and this one to the undertaker, and make sure to have some of my men guardin' his grave after the burial, at least until we figure out who in the fuckin' hell has done this." “Understood, My Lord,” Bradley nodded, lips thin in a grimace of distress as he left to do as he had been ordered. Ambrose growled, taking out another cigarette and lighting it up, hoping to calm his annoyance down.

He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be there at all, playing nanny to the young Blighters who had still to make their bones in the field, and, on top of that, counting the dead after whatever the hell had occurred in the night. A disaster, in his opinion, more than avoidable, had that stupid man listened and stood put, as he had been ordered, instead of getting more and more tangled up with whatever bollocks he had found himself into. Bloody affair, the lots of it. The sound of cold wind blowing did nothing to soothe his spirit or cover the shouting of the people busy working on the site - all myrmidons from his own regime - to bring away the corpses and, in a miraculous turn of faith, find someone still alive with the answers they sought. Ambrose stood a moment longer to oversee the young Blighter when he heard the rustling of a heavy cloak just beside him. When he turned, he found Phillip gazing intently toward the group of men who were carrying Kaylock’s corpse away. “Quite the gruesome spectacle, judging from how the leader of this borough has been rendered.” The aristocrat murmured, his periwinkle eyes observing without fear. “Kaylock wasn’t killed by a dabbler. The pisspot that did this knows how to wield a knife,” “Any theories?” “Not as many as I wished. My money is on a showdown, maybe a settlement of scores between Kaylock’s men and some goddamn Clinkers. They’ve been a pain in the arse lately, so I wouldn’t rule out an escalation. Anyway, until we figure this out, I gave the order to have Keylock’s body to be guarded after his burial.” “I didn't know that corpse snatchers were still residing in the East End of our fair city?” “They don't," Ambrose retorted, putting out his cigarette with his shoe. " No, what I fear is that people might take revenge against him. I don’t put it above them to desecrate a corpse. At this point, I can’t exclude anything. What about your voices, Master of Secrets? Any hint?” Phillip smirked at that name, shaking his golden ringlets. Ambrose couldn’t help but notice how they resembled the colour of ripe wheat in summer. “Forgive me, m’lords,” they both heard a voice behind them.

Ambrose turned and saw young Zachary Handerson approaching them, a small bowler hat in his hands in deferential respect, his fresh face crossed in distress. Ambrose shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The young boy couldn’t be a day over twelve. He knew he had joined the Blighters out of necessity and need for money, and after a talk with Old Man Roth, he had been assigned to Kaylock’s men. But Ambrose could see that the lad had a gentle heart, and was not accustomed to all that violence. He had no place among them, and yet, here he was, doing the job of a man when in truth, he was no more than a child. “What do you need, lad?” Ambrose enquired, his voice much softer than usual. “Forgive me, M’lord,” Zachary fumbled in his words. “I- I was the one that gave the alarm when the whole chaos happened. I was here when the fight started,” Ambrose’s brows raised in surprise, as he turned fully to face the young man, his attention entirely devoted to the young urchin. “Did you see what happened?” “Aye, sir,” the child murmured, raising his eyes but immediately turning them down when they met Phillip’s haughty gaze. Through some gentle nudging from Ambrose, the youngling was able to recount all that he had seen, all that had happened.

Both men listened intently, keeping whatever comments they had for themselves. “It was a bloodbath,“ Zachary ended his tale, cheeks pale from having to remember everything his young eyes had seen. “And those who didn’t die, become turncoats! They all rallied behind the young Rook, sir!” "The Young Rook, you say?” asked Ambrose, his bushy eyebrows frowning. “Aye, sir! That’’s what they called themselves - the chap and the missy- Rooks! Bloody furies, the two of them were! They swooped in with their men and even sized Keylock’s old train!” the young lad said, his face animated at the memories. Ambrose exchanged a look with Phillip, their expressions a mirror. “I assume it would be too much to ask the direction the train has taken?” said Phillip, his words tinged with frustration. When no answer came from the boy, Ambrose gently dismissed him with a few golden coins for his help and looked as he quickly retreated into the bustling crowd, the shock of the recent events still etched on his face. “It appears we have a new player in this war of gangs,” murmured Phillip. “Nothin' to be concerned about. I'll regroup as many Masters as I can and have them surveillin' each of London’s main stations. A train can't vanish out of thin air like that. They’re bound to resurface again.” “- assuming that those miscreants are still well within the city borders. We must find out who is controlling these “Rooks” and what their intentions are. We need to ascertain if this was a single instance or if it is part of something much greater,” Ambrose stared at the young aristocrat at the younger man. “You think this could be connected to the Assassins,” Phillip kept his silence, turning to look toward the trains that were still parked in the station. “I have my theories, yes,” he murmured, as his eyes scanned the surrounding before turning and walking toward the entrance of the train station, Ambrose walking at his side. “Lift the circumscription and see that your men bring order around here as fast as they can. We have already attracted far too much attention than what the Grand Master would have liked.”

“What about you, Master Starrick?” “I will need to have a word with Roth regarding his men,” murmured Phillip, as he walked toward the carriage parked just outside the station, awaiting for him. “We need to find a replacement for Kaylock, and if it is true that these peons have turned coats and joined these “Rooks”, we will need more discipline as well,” With a subtle movement, Ambrose grabbed the young aristocratic’s wrist, slowing him down in his walk. “Phillip, wait," he whispered. “We need to talk,” Phillip turned to look at him with indignation burning in his light eyes. Yet, Ambrose noticed the blushing appearing on the younger man’s cheeks, as it always did whenever he called him by his first name. "It's “Lord Starrick” for you, Master Harrison," he hissed, as he looked around to make sure that no one saw them. "And no, we don't need to talk. Not now. Not ever!" The older man smirked underneath the bushy mustache, lowering his eyelids with a look that said everything and yet nothing. “We do, Phillip. You and I have unfinished business,” Phillip yanked his arm away from the other man’s grasp. Their eyes met for a moment too long: forest green against periwinkle blue. For a moment, Ambrose felt as if he was looking at the immensity of the sky on a clear sunny day. “No we do not, Master Harrison! We have nothing unfinished! Now, if you will excuse me-“ “I can’t let you get back to Roth, Phillip. The man is off his chump.” Phillip’s nostrils flared in disdain at those words.

“I would mind your words, Master Harrison. You are not the Grand Master, to dispense tasks and commands as it pleases you, nor your are my superior in rank. Maxwell Roth has been a trusted associate of the Order, long before your tenure, and I will not have you disrespecting him or question the Grand Master’s decision." Phillip shot back, his voice filled with aggravation. Ambrose sighed, frustration building up in his chest. The Young Lord could be as stubborn as he was cunning, whenever it came to the man responsible for training all the Templars’ underlings. And he never knew how he felt about that stubbornness, what motivated it. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know, lest he was not to like the answer. "Very well, “Master Starrick",” he blurted, his voice tinged with mockery. “Go back to all your affairs! But don't let your pride blind you! Do not trust Roth! His loyalty may be as wavering as that of the men that today have sworn fielty to the Rook, and mark my word, we will all pay the price if that loyalty will fail." Phillip's expression shifted to one of contemplation, and for a moment, Ambrose saw a flicker of doubt in those usually steadfast eyes. But it was quickly replaced by determination, a brand new flame burning bright. "I'll handle my responsibilities, Master Harrison," Phillip replied, a steely resolve in his voice. "As you should handle yours. Good day to you," As Phillip walked away, Ambrose watched him go without following him any further. He took out another cigarette, and lit it up, hoping that tobacco -the sweet poison he couldn’t go without - would also help tainting the swirling feelings that Ambrose always kept sealed and well hidden behind the guise of authority and duty.

——————————————————————————————————

Byron felt nervous. He had been to Starrick Manor innumerable times throughout the years - certain times with such regularity, the Grand Master oftentimes jested that he should consider taking up residency directly inside the Manor; and yet, that time, it felt different. Uneasiness stirred within his chest as he clutched the small package he was holding with attentive carefulness in his hand— a collection of rare tomes of her favourite tales—and he took a moment to gather his thoughts. Three years. It had been three years since he had last seen her. Three years of letters, three years of incertitude in not knowing how she was in fact faring, if she was safe and sound, protected, loved as she had been loved within those walls. Three long years since his protégé had to flee the country because the danger in London had stricken too close for comfort. He gritted his teeth at the memory, his hand closing in a tight fist. Never the Assassins had been so bold. Never so foolish as to try something that most would have thought to be a suicide. A reckless move for which he had made sure they would pay. In full. But not enough. Not enough.

Byron relaxed his jaw and shoulders, as he tried to relinquish the raging energy that always pervaded him each time he thought about that night. He took a deep breath and allowed himself to focus once more on what was ahead of him, as he resumed his walk toward the doors of the library. He allowed himself to take a quick glance in the mirror and adjusted a small lock of hair that had fallen out of place, before turning toward the library once more. The closer he got to that room -one of his favorite places in the whole Manor- the more he could hear the soft melodious voice of a violin coming from behind the wooden panels. A distant melody, a gentle one, beckoning him like a siren, inviting him to leave all that worried him behind. “Angels We Heard on High”. Byron allowed himself the indulgence for a tiny smile: a little out of season, considering that Christmas had passed already, but he knew that, if it was for her, she would be playing Christmas songs and carols all year round. He knew that, if it was up to her, she would have all the lands constantly covered in a soft blanket of gentle powdery snow, protecting everything from the bitter frost, as flora and fauna alike would wait until the warm kiss of Spring came to wake them all up again. He opened the door, ever so slightly, and felt his heart leaping in his chest at the sight of the young woman who was playing the violin, eyes closed as always to let herself be entirely transported away in the land of arpeggios and symphonic poems, the melody coming straight out of her soul, as if she was indeed singing the praise of this life to the Angels above. His dear Dorothea.

After the immense tragedy that had burned his heart and rendered it just ashes, she had been one of the reasons why he hadn’t lost his path, why he hadn’t lost his way amidst desperation and discomfort. His Morning Star, the herald of Dawn after the long cold winter night that was his grief. A purpose, after all that had been lost. Sitting on the sofa, just opposite the young woman, was her cousin Phillip, his whole attention focused on her as a good-natured smile made his sharp face much more amiable than what he usually presented to the world. A gentle grin, ever so sweet in nature, appeared on Byron’s lips, before he even realized it; but he had no intention of stopping that smile from growing larger. Because in truth, what he saw in front of him were the echoes of a moment long gone: a memory of two young children who would sit on that sofa together as they read for hours through Byron’s old journals of his time in the Arctic, bombarding him with questions after questions, their curiosity insatiable. It was a familiar sight, the comfort of a long lost home and family finally found again, of peace sought after a long journey across the whole sea that was his life. Odysseus finally returning to Ithaca, prepared to find peace for his tired heart.

Careful now in opening the door as quietly as possible, he put a finger in front of his lips when he saw Phillip turning to look at him. The young man smirked and nodded, keeping his silence. Byron took his hat off with respect and placed the small package as he awaited for the young woman to finish her song, her fingers dancing along the strings with the easiness that came from practice. Such a soothing sight, it was. As the last notes flew in the air, he finally spoke. “This sound was incredibly missed, Princess,” he murmured, his gravelly voice just loud enough so that she would hear him without startling her. “Byron!” Dorothea turned to look at him, eyes wide in surprise as her whole face seemed to be lit up by his mere presence. Without hesitation, Dorothea left her violin and bow on the nearby table and ran to the Master Templar. With careful attention- as gentle as his own strength allowed - Byron took the young woman's hands in his and brought them to his lips, softly placing a long kiss on her knuckles. “Oh, how I missed you! My eyes see with joy! My heart sees with joy!” she murmured, eyes twinkling with barely contained tears of unbounded happiness at the sight of her mentor, after so many years far away from one another. “As do mine, darling child. As do mine.” he whispered back, feeling a small lump forming in his throat at the sound of her voice, his heart swelling in his chest. “Thank you for bringing her home safe and sound,” he whispered to Phillip, his voice filled with a gratitude he couldn’t contain, his eyes not leaving Dorothea’s silvery ones for a single moment. The young man raised his brows in surprise at the gentle tone and responded with a small bow of his head. “I just did what every devoted man would do for his beloved family,” He chuckled, before turning to look at his cousin. ”Well, Dora dearest, I thank you for gracing me of your time and company this evening, but it is high time I return to my duties and shall take my leave." “Oh, cousin, please! Do not leave just yet!” she pleaded. “No no, I do insist, dearest. Besides, I believe you and Master Harrison will have a lot to discuss, after three years away. But-“ and he turned to refer to the older man, his periwinkle eyes piercing the Master Templar’s sea-green eyes. “If you were to spare a few moments for me afterward, I have something to discuss with you regarding our latest endeavors,” Byron’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. Despite the placid calm of his voice, the urgency in the young man’s gaze couldn’t be denied nor ignored. “As you wish, Lord Starrick.” He conceded. “Splendid! I shall await you then. I have a few details to discuss with Aunt Annette before - we truly should take into consideration renovating the library in Dover,” he turned to face Dorothea once more and kissed her hand amiably, before smiling one last time. “Sleep well, darling Cousin. I will call you soon,”

Then, nodding to Byron, he took his leave, closing the door behind him. Byron’s eyes immediately found Dorothea’s again, and he felt warmth once more spreading from his chest to the rest of his whole body. “I have missed you, Byron,” She giggled, daring to engulf him in the tightest embrace her arms allowed. “These halls were empty without your laughter to fill them, Princess,” he murmured, returning the embrace in full. He dared to lay a small kiss on the braid on the crown of her silvery blond hair, resting his lips against her hair a moment longer. With eyes closed, he allowed himself to be completely enveloped by her presence, to stop time and thoughts from running around in his mind, to live in that small moment of warm joyous innocence. To feel her breathing, healthy, alive, safe, and sound. Cradling her face in his hands, he examined her thoroughly, his stormy sea green eyes piercing straight into his protégé’s as he looked at every small wrinkle, every freckle, every single detail of her face with almost punctilious attention. A frown appeared on his heavy brows when he found the small scar under her eye, white and healed after so long. He blocked the memories from returning to him before she could read them all over his face. “You look thin, Dora. Have you not been fed while in Sturefors?” he murmured instead, his voice sounding more like a growl than a whisper, as his gaze fixed on her cheeks, not as round as he remembered them to be. Dorothea shook her head, with a sad smile. “I have been, Byron. My family at Sturefors has taken the greatest care of me during my sojourn there. But the Famine hit us. It hit us all. The last two winters were the most cruel I had ever had the misfortune to experience, but we were lucky. The food was less than what we had when I first arrived, but we still had food.” She paused for one moment, lips trembling at the memories that came flooding her of all the people she had seen dead on the side of the street, starvation, and the unforgiving winter cold the cruel executioners of their fate. “So many others didn’t.”

Byron pursed his lips in a grimace of utter displeasure at the news, the grip around her tightening almost out of instinct. He had always been against her departure from London, three years prior, believing that with him around, no hurt could ever come to her. But he had been powerless in front of the Grand Master’s will, his hands bound as he himself had to put her on a ship and send her to hide deep in the forest of the North. And now, he wasn’t happy to see her return less than she had been before. “Why didn’t you write to me about this?” he whispered, his voice stern in his question. “To what end? Not even you and your strength of will could ever stop the turn of the Seasons, or Nature and her whims, my dearest mentor,” she jested, hoping to see the deep frown on his brow disappear altogether. “I could have arranged for your return, Dora. You know that all I needed was one word from you - one command - and I would have come and brought you back home myself. The Baltic Sea, with all its maelstroms and currents, would have not stopped me. You know that.” “I know,” she acquiesced with a nod, a bashful grin appearing on her face. “I know, Byron. No woman on this Earth could ask for a better Mentor and Guardian; No woman could ask for a most formidable Bulwark. But I could never ask that of you. You had duties here that were far more important than having to personally come and collect me. How could I ever deprive the Grand Master of his Right Hand?” Byron took a deep sigh, before returning her grin with a lenient smile of his own. He gently patted her cheek with his hand - large enough to cover her whole face - in a reassuring gesture. Had it been to comfort her or himself, he didn’t know. “You are wise, young one. And stubborn, if I do say so myself,” he added, eliciting a silvery laughter in Dorothea. “ But yes. You here now, and I will personally see that we shall bring you back to good health,” “You sound exactly like Father now,” she giggled, her laughter returned by a small, tired smile. He saw her looking up at him and saw a sad light appear on her face, as her eyes looked at his face with attentive care, mirroring the way he had been gazing at her a moment earlier. He knew what she was seeing because he saw the same thing each time he gazed into a mirror: the deep black shadows that had appeared underneath his eyes; the wrinkles on his forehead that didn’t disappear when his face wasn’t frowning; the scar on his cheek and nose, a memento of the fight that should have brought him peace, but did not. “Time hasn’t been kind to you as well, Byron. What happened to you?” she asked, bringing her small hands to his face in a comforting gesture. “The last three years have weighed on me like the Sky on Atlas’ shoulders,” he thought, stopping his words from reaching his lips. He sighed, slumping his shoulders ever so lightly and shaking his head. “We both have faced our deal of misery during your absence, Dora,” he just murmured, covering her hands with his and pressing them against his cheeks, as he tried to grasp all the comfort from that gentle touch, a balm for his restless soul. He didn’t dare to add anything, not wanting to let his burden become hers.

Not yet. Not just yet. He wanted, for a moment longer, to preserve that sweetness of temper and innocence of spirit that had already been taken away from her, three years prior. He wanted, for a moment longer, to feel as if the world was a hopeful place, untouched by sufferance, immaculate in its candor: a pristine dawn, with the promise of a glorious day ahead. When he saw her eyes turning sad and her lips pouting, he gave her a small smile and patted her cheek. “Do not be troubled for me, dearest child. Such is life.” he whispered, daring to give her a small kiss on her forehead. “But now, no more talk of sorrow or sadness. these rooms have been left bereft of your voice for far too long. So, if you would be so kind as to entertain a request from your old Mentor, and fill these ears with joyous chatter and a peaceful melody, you would make me immensely happy.” Dorothea pursed her lips, eyebrows frowning in apprehension. “But I do not wish to keep you from your business with Phillip, By-“ but the old man brought a finger to her lips, gently silencing her. “Whatever he has to say, it can wait. This cannot, my Princess.” He murmured with a warm smile. "Not after three years." Dorothea’s frown transformed and her round face lit up with sweet, uncontrollable mirth. Without even waiting for him to sit down, she quickly picked back up her violin and bow, ready to comply to Byron’s wishes. Gracing him with another smile, eyes and nose crinkling in her joy, and taking a small bow, Dorothea started her melody, one that was dear to both their hearts. A lullaby of the North.

A lullaby about cold winds and chilling waters, of rocky mountains and green forests that met the slate-blue churning sea…of memories and answers so deeply hidden, one would need to get lost before being able to find them. Byron took place on the small couch, letting himself sink in the cushion, feeling as if all that was weighing him down was suddenly being lifted up from his shoulders by those notes that had started to fly like birds in Spring. He couldn’t remember when it had been the last time he had sat and just listened to music, without shunning it from his heart. It almost felt as if a lifetime had passed, a whole horizon away. But after so long, he felt as if he could finally be able to fully breathe once more, to breach through the waves and stop fighting that tide that was always there, in each of his thoughts, ready to swallow him whole and drag him in open dark waters. His low baritone voice found its way out of his throat, humming at first, then louder, accompanying her violin with a song, a soft smile appearing on both their lips. "Yes," he thought, looking at her with soft eyes filled with a sentiment that he thought was long buried under the snow of his grief. "The Harbinger of Dawn indeed."

——————————————————————————————————

Time had passed far too swiftly. After almost two hours of complete bliss, entrapped as he had been between her tales of her adventure in the North and reading together the books he had brought her, Byron had bid Dorothea goodnight. He had promised her that they would travel together to Dover soon, for a small outing at sea together, just like how they used to when she had been but a young child, all cooped up in the halls of that Manor that faced the sea. After so many promises he had to uphold for duty, he was finally content to keep a promise that didn’t involve hunting down those bloody Assassins or finding a way to set his business in order. The moment he closed the door of the library behind himself, however, he felt the darkness of the hall fall on him the same way rain poured during that gloomy autumn afternoon, when the sun would not show itself at all and would set over the horizon far too soon. He wished for a moment to not have granted Young Lord Starrick his time, if anything, to preserve that moment of peace a little longer. But his word was binding, for better or worse. When he raised his eyes, he immediately found the young man waiting at the end of the hallway, standing against the stained glass window that faced the inner garden, where the orangery stood, a lit cigarette in hand. At the sound of rustling robes, Phillip raised his face, and looked intendedly toward Byron, as he approached him: despite having seen forty-five springs already Byron Harrison still stood tall and powerful as he had done in youth, even more so after the years spent at sea had chiseled him into a man of exceptional hardness of spirit, one that rivaled the strength of his character and the potency of his body. Eyes like the storms, and fiery auburn hair, wavy like the ocean on a windy day, it always felt as if Poseidon had deigned to walk the Earth, bringing with him the full strength of the Oceans. Phillip couldn’t help but look at him with eyes filled with reverential respect. He had no trouble imagining why people whispered his name with either deference or terror laced in their voices: Byron Harrison was someone that one would always want on their side, for good or for worse, and if by misfortune, his favour was to be lost, to pray to God for a quick painless deliverance, instead. “Thank you for acquiescing to my request for a small interview, Lord Harrison, I know how much it would cost to cut your time with Dorothea short,” Phillip murmured, keeping his voice low as he offered him a cigarette.

Byron shook his head, refusing the offer. “What do you seek of me, Lord Starrick?” he muttered. “I assume your brother has informed you about what happened today?” Byron shook his head, eyes narrowing as his shoulders tensed. “Kaylock is dead. The Blighters that reported to him had all but disappeared and according to witnesses, they have joined side with someone called “The Rook”. Not only this, but from what my sources have related to me, there had been chaos in the factories and we have lost our stronghold, Spitalfield. It appears we-“ he cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “-we no longer have control over White Chapel." Byron listened intently, unblinking, as Phillip reported to him all that had happened. A whole borough lost. “Has the Grand Master been informed about this?” It was Phillip’s time to shake his head. “While the severity of our loss is considerable, we are still evaluating if this “Rook” and his gang are just miscreants trying to cause mayhem in White Chapel alone as a borough, or if this is indeed the Assassins trying to officially strike and breach into the city.” Byron turned pensive, and brought his large hand to his chin, stroking his auburn beard. First Croydon, with Ferris and Brewster killed, and the Piece of Eden lost. Now Kaylock and White Chapel. While not the most important of the boroughs under their control, Byron could see trouble brewing. “We need to recover all the men we have lost,” he murmured, after a long moment of silence. “We cannot let our numbers dwindle. Speak with Roth. Have him send out scouters to pick up more men and intensify the training of the lads that will join the Blighters from now on. We will need to raise their wages as well,” Phillip’s lips curled in a grimace of abhorrence. “Why paying them more? They are just scum, Master Harrison. Parasites that would sell their own mothers and wives and daughters, if they can get a profit from it. Why giving them more resources that we can instead reinvest in something more fruitful?” Byron looked at the man with eyes void of any light, chilling in their gaze.

“Your disdain for them clouds your judgment if you think of them as nothing more than fleas on the coat of a dog, an annoyance. Disposable. Unimportant. Never forget that these men are paid to do our bidding, but there is no loyalty to us if not the one our purse can buy. And they have numbers on their side, and this, combined with their desperation is their greatest strength, whether they realize it or not, and it can prove to be the cause of a whole pandemonium, if not controlled.“ He took a deep breath, before talking again. “Never underestimate what desperation could make a man do. As for this “Rook”…I assume you have already sent out your “ghosts” around the city to gather more information?” Phillip nodded, a light of solemnity painted on his sharp features. “Good. I will speak with the Grand Master at the earliest and discuss a proper strategy.” "I will ensure to keep you informed of any new information that may come to my attention." "Very well," he murmured, and with a small bow, he took his leave, making way toward the stairs that would lead to the ground floor. But he stopped before he could descend, clenching his fist. “Lord Starrick.” “Yes, Master Harrison?” “Not a word to Dorothea,” he murmured, his tone one that didn’t allow the possibility of compromise. After the young man nodded in agreement, Byron finally took his leave, his heart heavy. Not yet, he thought, looking above his shoulder, toward the library. Not just yet.

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER - Homeward Bound ]

[NEXT CHAPTER - "A Touch of West" ]

*pokes head out of the borrow*

OMG I AM FINALLY DONE. I AM FINALLY DONE.

It was so LONG overdue, but allow me to finally present the latest chapter!!

Ngl, I am so happy to be done with this, and I am so happy with how it turned out!! And I am so happy to finally start to introduce my Templar Squad! I don't know how to explain, but it makes me feel like the story is truly starting rolling! :)

Dear gods, this is truly one of the longest chapters I have ever written! It started as a small chapter, I was envisioning maybe 6k words. I DIDN'T EXPECT TO END UP WITH DOUBLE THAT NUMBER.

good gods, i feel like my brain is mush lolol

But anyway, I truly hope you will like reading it as much as I loved writing it!

--Nemo

#assassin's creed #assassin's creed syndicate #Assassins #templars #jacob frye #dorothea starrick #Byron Harrison #Phillip Starrick #Ambrose Harrison #In The Heat Of The Moment #my ocs #Nemo Writes #Mostly Ocs for this chapter but it's needed #the story develop in parallel lolol

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tinderbox210 · 2 months

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Diving Into Waves Over Deeper Waters

Another playlist. I’ll keep adding more songs to that I find fitting.

#orm x oc #orm x elena #orm #elena chase #music #fanmix #playlist #my fanmix #made this mostly to encourage myself to write the next chapter #i do have 1/3 of the chapter done so that's progress #i just love to make playlists and making covers #reminds me i still need to finish my Terra Nova and Lucket playlists

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rxttenfish · 25 days

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update on caecilian: if you thought the first chapter was long, you should know that its going to be one of the shorter chapters in this

#all the care guide says is 'biomass'#monster prom #yeah i do have this planned out #and what each chapter specifically involves #i just. need to write them #and god theres a lot of writing #so much is happening in the second chapter alone #and by that i mean #mostly still me establishing things that will be important later #and also two-three general activities that are getting done together and match in theme #like this chapter is all talking about One Thing #not Many Things #its just a lot of this one thing #so not a lot is Happening but a lot is happening #also yeah theres like ten thousand ocs technically in this #oops all merfolk!#oops all npcs i need because im talking about a kingdom!

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pitiable-arisen · 2 months

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WIP WThursday :3c

Tagged by the wonderfully talented @bostoniangirl21 I tagged people yesterday. So, whoever reads this should post something they're working on too :> (feel free to tag me so I can read it!) I've been working btwn Sifkni, Estinan and Finnki's storry, because they're all in the same universe (technically I have a few more OCs in Sifkni's realm. Blomma is there. And Another character I haven't really shared yet, Luna Freewinter). (Yes, I have an OC problem)

Anyways, enjoy this small thing from Finnki's story

---------------------------------------------------

“Turning in that bounty, Thane?” Irileth held a mug to her lips as she watched Finnki. Finnki nodded. “Meant to turn it in yesterday. Made it in late. Fell asleep at the temple.” She tried to stifle her yawn. “I heard from my guards. Is he okay? The khajiit?” “I hope so. He is resting. Danica said he should recover. I hope he does.” Finnki sat down next to Irileth. “What will do when he does? Does he have family here? He is far away from Elsweyr.” Finnki pursed her lips. “Well, I'm not sure. He can stay with me until he’s well enough for travel. I did rescue him against his will, so.” She sighed. “It’s my responsibility if he doesn’t have anywhere to go.” “Too good for your own good.” Irileth shook her head. “Have you heard anything about your father?” “He is back in Valenwood. With his family. It’s become increasingly hard to send letters to Dominion controlled areas. With the Civil War. I wish he hadn’t moved away.” “You’re telling me. I’ll remain at Jarl Balgruuf’s side, regardless of the direction the war goes.” Irileth leaned back in the chair. She looked over at the Jarl and his steward.

#Im struggling with this chapter #so i may end up being scrapped or changed around idk #I need J'Med to get better and I need Finnki and J'Med to get together. which almost doesnt happen.#MY sweet babies deserve all the happiness....#Finnki is half bosmer and half nord. she looks mostly wood elf with smaller ears and has the strength of a nord.#J'Med is a Cathay-raht. i think.. i should know my OCs better LOL

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retiredcultistredux · 10 months

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NO! Fluff!! I'm So Sorry!!!! D:

Ester!! Why do you even want to summon void termina Anyway? He's dumb. And kinda stinky.

tw//blood

Prince Fluff: "...I'm sure I'll adjust to it once we get this blood cleaned off. I don't think it's actively bleeding anymore, but the stains are still here, obviously...and I did lose a bit, so I'm a little lightheaded. Not to mention the pain...though, I don't know what it is, but with Kirby patting my head...it's like the touch is healing me slightly. Maybe he has some sort of healing ability..."

Kirby: "I--I do, poyo...? O-Ok, I'll keep up the comforting pats, if it's really helping! ...Ester is...such a meanie..."

Prince Fluff: "...I know. Anyway, uh...I wouldn't insult that Void Termina guy while Ester can still hear you. I don't think he--"

Ester: "I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT--"

Ester's now angrily ranting about how you're very wrong and Void Termina is 'literally the coolest guy aside from Javez I mean seriously why would you even think to say anything otherwise'. ...Guess that means he's distracted? He's still got Hyness caught in that shadowy appendage thing, though.

#Event: Chapter 1 - Fading Minds & Breaking Hearts #story #ask #thevalkyriewarrior #blood #3 am gang 3 am gang #this is. kinda rushed #and even then it took 40+ minutes to get this posted #sorry for wobbly lines and kinda rushed stuff lol #anyway kirby having some sort of healing touch?? headcanon he can do that #or at least it's like. a developing ability #mostly because this isn't supposed to be a lethal injury and I need a plot point to keep fluff alive #and it needs to make semi-logical sense. so. yeah. don't question it #kirby #kirby star allies #kirby au #kirby fanart #kirby series #kirby oc #hyness #kirby hyness #prince fluff #ester #i know not all of them are drawn but ester has dialogue and. too lazy to untag hyness #but also too lazy to tag javez because he's mentioned One Time. idk man don't question me!! but do send asks lol #ask blog #ask-the-retired-cultist #retiredcultistredux #retired cultist redux

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watatsumiis · 1 year

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im very interested in that capi hybrid reader blurb yeah

Woo! It seems there are a few people interested so it seems I know what I'll be working on next !!

#I already have a prologue and half of a chapter 1 but I just need to reformat it to be X reader #As opposed to X OC jshdjsj #Being a longer piece it'll definitely have more of me projecting onto the reader's role but I'll try to keep things mostly ambiguous #General barks #Asks

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despairforme · 2 years

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❝ Ain’t nobody got time ‘fer that. ❞

#[ oh i feel the pain of going into a tag and NOT finding what you're looking for ]#[ i have the longest blocklist bc nnoitra's tag is MOSTLY weird things like ]#[ readerxnnoitra stuff which i never want to see in my life ]#[ then there is the random post to just hate on him ]#[ and then the people who thirst for him or call him a powerbottom fjfjfjfj ]#[ never want to see those posts either ]#[ ANYWAYS ]#[ i feel p OK today ]#[ better than yesterday at least ]#[ i have a lot i need to do today thooo ]#[ going to a party later and they asked me if i could bring a cake so ]#[ ask and you shall receive ]#[ nnoitra is excited about that he loves cake ]#[ big sweet tooth man <5 ]#[ TBH i just wanna finish writing the first chapter on my star wars oc story :V ]#[ buuuuuuut i'm feeling my rp blogs as well ]#[ hmm hmm ]#[ anyways hope you're all doing good guys! :D ]#despair for me. ╱ in character.

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smolalienbee · 2 years

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their dynamic is so funny to me. jask’s dialogue can be boiled down to “congrats, you look like shit!”

#bee stuff #mare!jask fic #slowly chipping away at this fic #mostly im just blocking out scenes and throwing random bits of dialogue at the doc #there's just #so much investigation #and all these OCs #and keeping track of all this information is difficult af #and i also need to make sure that yanno the relationship between geralt and jask actually develops over time too #already 3.2k into the 1st chapter tho and half of it is still a complete mess

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cuz-reasons · 2 months

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Terrible news I'm 7k words into another super self indulgent fic and I think I've barely even scratched the surface of it

#gotta finish the wing fic first tho but thats almost done being written #ive got a good back log on that so i have some time before i really need to start writing the chapter im on #but i had another idea and its gotten away from me #it also indcludes my ocs so ik it wont be as popular but i wanna write it so here we are #its got a wack ton of time travel shenanigans gotta say #the idea is simple #ingo gets sent home but hes way way too early and now hes at his childhood home with his parents and an 8yo emmet #meanwhile 8yo ingo got shunted to where adult ingos supposed to have gone and hes with adult emmet #and now both groups are trying to get the ingos to their correct times #i mostly put my parent ocs in there cuz i already have a clearish idea/timeline of like childhood events with them #and also i like writting them and wanna do more with them #this wouldnt be like 'canon' to the like larger story with them but still #im having fun writting this so here we are #maybe ill post it sometime after the wing fic is done #cuz i do wanna post it cuz ik there are some ppl who like my ocs and just cuz i think the premise is fun #anyways #enjoy my midnight ramblings

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15000bugs · 10 months

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just four 1k word scenes left 💪 tbh thats not so bad. but i will probably end up >1k for two of the scenes.. and maybe <1k for one of them.. just based on content idk!!!! anyway sorry i keep rambling about my self-imposed deadline that means nothing anyway bc the stakes are nonexistent LMAO

#the only stakes are #after july 4th i will probably be in too much emotional upheaval to finish the chapter bc podcast #so i will try to get it done BEFORE then instead #also im going to the beach on either the 3rd or 4th sooo i might be bringinf my laptop and publishing on the night of july 3rd #from the condo lol #after this i need to write more oc stuff!!!!!! i have so many other writinf projects i want to work on. so many short stories #and then ill get back on the multichap fic grind after like a month or two of hiatus #ALSOOO hopefully the rest of the scenes will be easier to write #the next one will be fun and mostly dialogue whcih is always good for me #and the last one will be miserable which im thrilled for (also it has more planning and some dialogue ive already written)#teeheehee #okay im done goodnight

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soapybutt17 · 1 month

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The Next of Kin

Summary: Simon needed to update his contact information, as dodgy as he was for giving everyone even a glimpse of his private life, he did so. Who would have ever thought that it would become handy after an injury left him high on painkillers and needy for his girls back home. Character: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Wife!Reader. OC Daughter (Cassandra "Cassie" Riley). John Price. Word Count: 1,615 Chapter Warnings: Mentions of Injuries. Drug Consumption. Slight Angst. Mostly fluff.

Masterlist || Request are Open

It was the annual checkup in the base, something that Simon had dreaded the most knowing what it entails. Not only was his current and past injuries being monitored but he was all too certain about the wacky doctor would also make an appearance to check on his mental state. It wasn’t a fun time as any of his other team mates point it out to be.

“Should we update your emergency contact, Lieutenant Riley?” The nurse had inquired dealing with his medical records.

A part of him wanted to say no, but remembering what was waiting for him home, he could not allow himself to break his wife’s heart as well as his own daughter if the time ever comes that he dies in the middle of battle. He would want to ensure if ever that was to happen, you would know and hope that you would move on.

“Yes,” He agreed accepting the clipboard and pen handed to him.

Without an ounce of hesitation, he wrote your name and your number under his emergency contacts.

His handwriting was decent and readable at best, chicken scratch at worst as Johnny had eloquently pointed out during reports. But there was this special care with the way he wrote your first name and his last name that you were more than happy to take as soon as you married all those years ago. Your number was ingrained to his brain as he wrote it, having forced himself to memorize in the event he didn’t have his personal phone with him and simply a burner phone for missions.

What truly took him a second to write was the blank space dedicated to his relationship with you. No one knew he was in a relationship, nor did anyone know about his marriage. It took him a full two minutes before he found himself slowly opening the flood gates of his personal life that he had tried his best to hide from the world.

“Never knew you were married, Lieutenant.”

“Never planned on letting anyone know about it.” He spoke honestly, the cold demeanor and tone enough to stop the conversation from going further about his personal life.

Little did Simon know that the upcoming mission would lead to him having to make use of the emergency contact.

When you had begun your relationship with one Simon Riley, you had always accepted that he would always be gone for uncertain amounts of months in a year, you had accepted that part of him. How mission would always mean the world was a little safer from the dangers of man. You accepted all the big and small flaws that came with Simon and even in your eventual marriage and the birth of your daughter, you had come to accept the danger that would come in missions that would place him badly bruised or beaten beyond repair. You would always be there to tend to each and every single wounds and be the shoulder for him to cry on when he was good and ready.

But nothing could have ever prepared you for another unknown call coming from your phone. You’ve always expected it to be your husband, checking up on you before the mission begins like he always does. But the voice of an unknown man was the last thing you would have expected.

He called himself John Price and you know the man from your husband’s few conversations when he talks about the people he works with. You had feared for the worst as soon as he had explained that your husband has just gotten out of surgery after a mission. A few broken bones and a superficial gunshot wound. But it was enough to worry you as Simon himself has been asking for you as soon as he was out of surgery and in lucid consciousness.

On most days you were calm and collected, but it was the panic of seeing the worse of your husband that had you carrying your two year old and a baby bag towards your car with a mission. The Captain had asked if you could possibly have someone come get him but you know no one else better to check up on him but yourself and your daughter that was all the more excited about being in the car.

The travel was rather long and rather tedious knowing you and your husband had agreed to live away from the city and away from any dangers that may come to you and the baby while he was gone. You had appreciated the distance, the peaceful tranquility that came with being away from the bustle and noise of the city but not this time. It had meant a longer journey and a more hectic one since the base was all the way across the other side.

Once you had arrived to the base, all eyes were on you. Many eyes had lingered on you when they heard your last name. You know for a fact that your husband’s name and reputation beholds him, but you never knew nor did you ever try to question to what extent. It unnerved you more was how avoidant everyone had been of you aside from one of the soldiers tasked with bringing you and your daughter to your husband.

Outside the infirmary room was a rugged man. The man exudes an air or control and intensity and rugged strength, but not as much as your husband did. His posture was upright, suggesting discipline and years of military training. Dressed in an all too familiar tactical gear, he gives off a no-nonsense vibe that immediately commands attention.

“Ma’am, my name is John Price.” The man introduced the moment he caught sight of you.

You spoke your name and your daughter that was surprisingly all too mum in the whole situation, you were surprised that she wasn’t crying at being in an unfamiliar environment like she usually was.

“It is best to assume that you two are Simon’s wife and daughter, I presume?” He inquired.

You took a moment to think if it was alright to agree with his statement. Knowing your husband and the array of precaution he had come to give you, you were uncertain if you could trust the man with such a fact.

“Yes.” You spoke, dealing with the consequence later as there was something more important that needed your attention. “How’s he doing?” You inquired wanting to change the subject now.

“Stable. A little loopy from the drugs, but he’ll make a fast recovery.”

You nodded, hesitation of asking if you would be allowed to see him now in his state.

“He was looking for you.” He opened the door for you and you were welcomed with your husband in bed with his mask still on.

“Dada!” Your daughter squealed upon the sight of your husband groggy still.

You watched as his head turned to look at you and your daughter.

“Love…” He grunted wincing at the pain that you were certain that was coming in full force now.

“I’m here, Baby.” You whispered approaching him, cupping his cheeks gently. “Me and Cassie are here.” You assured trying your best to hide the tears that were fighting to fall at the sight of him.

When Simon Riley had opened his eyes, the first thing that he had come to notice was the pain that surrounded his entire body. The next thing that he noticed was the warmth that wrapped around his calloused hand.

Turning his head he saw the most beautiful sight that he had the fortune of seeing in his life. His wife and daughter. The more pressing matter was the fact that you were asleep in an all too familiar uncomfortable plastic chair with one hand on him, and your other arm held onto your baby sleeping on your chest.

“Baby…” He grunted harsher than he intended.

Slowly blinking away, your eyes immediately turned down towards your daughter before your eyes met his own.

“How are you holding up?” You inquired immediately, trying your best not to wake your sleeping daughter still cradled snuggly on your chest.

“Like a bitch.” He muttered appreciating being able to swear with his daughter still asleep. “But I’ll live.”

“I’m glad.” You sighed, rubbing his hand tenderly. “I was so worried about you when your boss called me. I thought something worse has happened.” You whispered.

“I didn’t really want to worry you—or have you see me like this.” He muttered.

“I know.” You nodded gently letting go of his hand to cup his cheeks that still was covered with his mask. “But I’m still as glad to be here right now knowing you’re alright. Me and Cassie get to see you’re alright.”

At the mention of your daughter, Simon noticed his daughter begin to get fussy from your chest. Gently pushing himself up until he sat on his bed much to your protest, he took your now crying daughter into his arms, gently laying her onto his chest and how quick she was sated in his warmth.

“Daddy’s here, Angel. I’m here.” He began to whisper, pulling off his balaclava to kiss his daughter onto top of her head. “I’m not going soon for a while. I promise.”

He has yet to tell you about the doctor’s insistence that he takes a few months off. It would be something he would tell when you get home. Once he finishes up with the paper works, he’ll let you know of the good news. For now, all that’s important was he had you and his daughter here with him, even in his most vulnerable state.

#cod mw2 #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley fanfic #fem reader #simon riley mw2 #simon riley x female reader #cod fic #mw2 fic #mw2 x you #mw2 x reader #ghost riley #simon riley fluff

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peachesofteal · 5 months

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Dead Disco / Chapter 10

Dead Disco masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 3.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Relationship issues, anxiety, self loathing, crying. Angst. Brief mention of asshole ex. Eating related issues. Mention of prescription medication, mental illness and depressive/manic episodes. Pre established throuple. Darling is her/your own tag/warning. Excessive internal monologue. You held onto the hot pan too long, and now you’ve been burnt.

"Look at me."

"I can't." You keep your eyes clenched tight, so tight it hurts, lungs burning inside your chest.

"Yes you can, darling. Just open your eyes." Simon's voice is soft, an entreating melody, grit and gravel smoothed out with the gentleness of his words. You get lost in it, the soft murmuring, the easy request, and when you open your eyes, he's still right in front of you, thick palm on the back of your neck, Johnny by his side. "Good girl."

"I'm sorry." You whisper, and Johnny's brows crease, his fingers brushing along your cheek.

"Ye dinnae have anything to be sorry for, darling. Ye never do."

"I didn't-" you gasp for a breath, and Johnny shifts, moving so that you're in front of him, sat between his legs, back against his chest. His hand holds yours, nestling above your breastbone.

"Breathe with me. Ye can do it."

"I didn't- I wanted to be better. Be different. I didn't want you to see." You try to explain, try to make sense of it for them. Simon's fingers intertwine with Johnny's, his other hand still firm on the back of your neck, your body cradled between them, in the space that once never existed, a space that now feels like it's been carved out just for you. Johnny pushes closer, holding you tight, and Simon leans forward, forehead touching yours, voice barely a murmur.

"We've always seen you, darling."

The floor is a fairly comfortable spot to lay.

It’s comfortable enough, you suppose, as you lay on your back with your eyes fixed on a spot along the ten-foot-high ceiling. Maybe you could paint the ceiling. With clouds. Or a night sky. That might be cool.

Voices vibrate through the flat, locked door the only thing separating you from them, Johnny’s tone pitching with increasing anxiety, Simon’s cadence soothing, and calm.

He’s calling your name. Calling you darling. Calling you anything to try to get you to come to the door.

You’re overreacting.

You’re a fool.

You close your eyes. A night sky might be cool. You could do a lot with the stars, or maybe even the milky way. Get some greens and greys and cobalt in there. Make it look like a long exposure photo. And the moon, you could certainly paint the moon. You’d have to find a ladder tall enough though. And you’d probably need help. You haven’t painted from a ladder in years, not since you did that one mural for-

“Darling.” It’s Simon. Again. And again, and again, again. Darling, darling, darling. “It’s getting late. Will you open the door?" You keep your eyes closed, but for a minute, your mind fractures, splitting in two, confusing emotions and thoughts bubbling up to the surface.

Don’t think about it. Don’t.

“No.” You croak out in a whisper. It’s quiet, but he hears it. You know he does.

“Please. I need to know you’re alright, at least.”

You held onto the hot pan too long, and now you’ve been burnt.

It’s late. The streets are probably mostly empty. You could run down them, if you wanted. You could take a train anywhere. You could take a plane, even, go on a vacation. Go somewhere nice. Go somewhere tropical, maybe get a cute rental, spend some time in the sun or by the oc-

The thoughts are rapid fire. They spill over, trying to patch up the expanding wound in your heart. They grow and twist, convincing you it’s a good idea, the best idea, to just slip away for a little bit. To go somewhere you don't have feel this, where you don't have to know this as well as you do.

Don’t think about it. Pack it up. Put it away.

Johnny’s eyes haven’t left your face. His fingers stroke from the crown of your head and hairline to your temple, your cheek. He’s staring at you like you’re something precious, like you’re a piece of gold, something marvelous he’s never seen before.

“What is it?” You ask, half asleep, drowsy in the bed. You’re still wrapped in a post orgasm haze, cocooned in the soft and sweet of their attention, affection, and Johnny only smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to your forehead.

“Ye’re so special to us. Ah love ye. Did ye know that?” You shrug, ducking your face away, pressing it into his shoulder to avoid his eyes.

A wave of longing crashes over you. It swells in your heart until tears prick in your eyes, and you take a deep breath to steady yourself.

It’s so much. So much more than you ever imagined. So much more than you ever thought you could have.

“She doesn’t.” Simon says over your shoulder. His hand sits on your waist, the touch firm. Grounding. Like a tether to their world. Their love. You turn, nose pointing up towards the ceiling, looking at him through your peripheral, your fingers intertwined with Johnny’s, holding onto them both. Seeing them both.

“Tell me again.”

The TV in the living room is on.

You can hear it’s faint murmur, some movie playing on low volume, the guys undoubtedly sitting stiff on the couch, waiting for you to appear.

You stare at the dark, nearly blackened trees that you’ve painted onto canvas, long, broad brushstrokes taking up too much space, bark texturized to appear burnt, nearly dead, forest scourged by a disease or fire, you’re unsure.

“It starts to chafe us.” Us. Us, he said. Us. Him and Johnny. Right?

“It doesn’t seem fair.”

You’re unsure of everything right now. Unsure about how you should feel. Unsure about what’s happening inside your head.

“-sometimes I worry… about it being the right thing…” The more you think about it, the more you start to lose your grasp. Were those his exact words? Did he mean something else?

For the first time in a long time, you think about one of your ex's. You think about a person who made you feel so small, so much like a burden, a horrible, unwanted responsibility, all the time. You'll never have what regular people have, he said. No one will ever be able to put up with this fucking circus. No one will want this.

Was he right?

You should have gotten out. The sentiment replays over and over in between your ears, the awful, miserable doubt and fear and sadness picking away at you until you can feel yourself starting to compartmentalize it all, trying to sort it into neat little bins, trying to keep the weight that is sinking to the bottom of your soul from drowning you, trying to build a wall around your heart.

It’s not conscious. It’s like you’re not even in the driver’s seat anymore, not feeling the full effect of your emotions, not letting it in.

It’s how you felt, when you packed your bags the last time. How you felt when you checked into the hotel, like you were on autopilot. Buried beneath a mountain of feelings but enclosed in a glass cage, segregated from it all.

You should have gotten out.

“I said I was listening.”

“But I don’t want ye to listen. I want ye to talk, darling. I want ye to tell us how ye’re feeling. We can’t do this if ye’re not able to communicate.” Johnny’s voice is steady, but there’s a hint of anger behind it, a small flare just starting to light. It makes you angry, that he’s getting angry, and it churns in your stomach until you’re biting out a retort.

“I communicate just fine!”

“Do ye?” He snaps, exasperated, your head jolting backwards with wide eyes. “Because from where I’m standin’ it feels like ye’re trying to be stubborn on purpose. Like a child.”

“A child? You’re calling ME a child?” The air in their apartment is suddenly paper thin, and you hold your breath as Johnny watches you with that same, unchanged, irritated expression.

“Alright. This is over. We’re taking a break from this conversation.” Simon tells you both, fingers sliding over your shoulder, the touch meant to comfort, reassure, but you jerk away.

You eye your purse, your keys on the counter.

“I’m just gonna go home.”

“No.” He rebukes, and Johnny pales.

“No, darling. Ye just got here, and we missed ye so, so much. I’m sorry, I dinnae mean-” Johnny pleads, crestfallen, and it makes you feel worse. Like you’re failing him. Like you’re failing at this. Like you’re not good enough for it, for them. “Please?” He adds, and you wilt, silence falling over the three of you again, awkward and wrong.

“It’s alright.” Simon says. “If you want to go. I’ll take you home.”

“I can get home on my own.” You try not look at him, finding mundane details in the floor, the sink to stare at instead of their faces, resisting eye contact until Simon steps directly back into your line of sight.

“I’ll take you.” He steps closer, and like there is a magnet pulling you into his orbit, you respond, tilting your face backwards, letting him see everything. The tears. The anger and sadness. The confusion. He’s intentional with his movements, letting you anticipate everything, the movement of his hand, the bend of his body as his lips come down to press against your forehead. “Tomorrow, alright?” He asks and tells with the words, seeking permission, giving command. Tomorrow, you’ll talk. Tomorrow, you’ll get it sorted. Tomorrow, you and Johnny will apologize. And you’ll try again. Like you always do.

You nod, because the promise of tomorrow, the assurance that this hasn’t all come crashing down, is the only way any of you will be able to sleep tonight.

“Tomorrow.”

They both straighten on the couch when the door clicks open.

“Hey.” Johnny says softly, hopefully, and Simon says nothing, just watches you like you’re a wounded animal that might try to flee at any moment. On edge. Vigilant.

Your mind turns, but nothing comes out of your mouth. No response. No acknowledgement. Just empty silence that feels like a thousand pounds, all laying on top of the three of you. Suffocating you. Killing you.

You beeline for the bedroom.

Running away. You’re running away. Are you really going to run away?

The memory of the hotel haunts you, the awful, empty pit in your stomach that could have swallowed you whole, the dark curtains and dark room enveloping you in a never-ending spiral.

All you wanted was to be found. All you wanted was to be home, with them.

All you wanted was your home, the one you built, made, suffered for, with them. The one that you carved out inside your own bones to hold space for two others, not just one. The home that you completely changed your life for, the love that you believed would see you through it all.

The love that was always them first. The love that you barged in on, knocked walls down, forced yourself inside of. The love that they held for one another, before they ever held it for you.

Your head feels like it's underwater.

Did you make a mistake? Should you have sent them away that time? Should you have fought yourself harder?

The bed calls to you. It begs you to lay down in it, to burrow yourself beneath it's soft sheets, curl up on top of it's ridiculous mattress. Get lost in it. Be found in it. Let your boys curl themselves around you in it, let them kiss you softly and make you promises about how much they love you, or how they understand the way you feel.

If you close your eyes, you can almost see the future. Minutes would pass before Johnny crept inside the door, scoping it out. Doing the recon. Looking for you. His heart would soar when he saw you in the bed, his fears allayed, and he'd hold you so tight you'd think you were suffocating.

If you were lucky, Simon would come and turn your brain off. Johnny would pass you to him and he'd bring your deepest insecurities, your worries to light, dragging them out to be exorcised and vanquished, by the only men capable of doing so.

Is that what you want?

Should you have gotten out?

“There she is.” Johnny coos above you, warm palm cradling your cheek. You blink, fog encasing your mind struggling to clear, and you push yourself up onto your elbows.

“What-“

“Happened?” Simon finishes from where he kneels next to the couch, concerned eyes trained on yours, not missing a beat.

You blink. What did happen? Did-

“When was the last time ye ate something, darling?” Johnny asks, not unkindly, palm at your back to relieve the pressure from your elbows, moving you into a sitting position so he can take the spot on the couch behind you, effectively wrapping you up in his arms as Simon settles on the other side.

Shame curdles your stomach, hot embarrassment flaring in your veins. You avoid peering over Simon’s shoulder at the disarray of your kitchen, wincing when you realize he’s sitting on a pile of your dirty clothes.

“I had breakfast.” You whisper, but Simon shakes his head.

“When?”

“Yesterday.” You try to adjust, to sit more upright, but the sudden movement has your head spinning, and your palm covers your eyes, little groan in your throat.

“Easy.” Johnny soothes. Your water bottle is in his hand, and he unscrews the lid for you, lifting it to your lips. “Slow sips, darling. Not too much.”

It’s easier this way, you realize. Easier to do what’s being asked of you, easier to listen than to think. After a few sips, Johnny pulls the bottle away, and wide fingers stroke your cheek.

“This is what you were talking about. A few weeks ago.” Simon murmurs, concentrating all his focus, all his attention, on you, fingers still caressing your skin gently. Lovingly.

“I didn’t mean for it to get so bad this time. I… usually have a better handle on myself.” You try to lie, but Simon cocks his head.

“Do you?” His fingers hold up the scrap of paper, the one with your note to yourself scrawled across it.

‘You HAVE to, or you’ll regret it.’

You bite your lip, but Simon’s thumb presses into it, rolling it out from beneath your teeth, as Johnny rubs your arm, lips soft against your temple.

“I’m going to take you home. To ours.” Simon tells you slowly, each word deliberate “Johnny is going to clean up your apartment and pack you a few things for the rest of the week.” When you don’t answer, brain slow to catch up, Johnny murmurs in your hair.

“You have to agree, darling.” Simon watches, silent for a moment before he answers the unspoken question, still cradling your face with one hand.

“You can trust us.”

“Where are ye going?” Johnny asks when you appear from the bedroom, hesitant steps keeping him far enough from your body, desperation written all over his face.

“Out.” Your answer is short, sufficient. It feels like it’s coming from another person. You still think you might be underwater.

“Out? No… we need to talk and-“

“I don’t want to talk. To either of you.”

“Darling. Stop.” Simon tries to cut you off, but you turn sharply, away from them both, backpack swinging on your back.

“Ye canae run away from this, from us.” Johnny pleads. “We need to talk about it. Communicate. Like we promised.”

“Like we promised?” You hiss, sizzle of anger breaking through the ice that’s frozen in your veins. “The promise that we made to always tell each other how we’re feeling, the one that he can’t honor?” You jerk your thumb towards Simon, who tries to take a step towards you, only for you to retreat. “Don’t corner me!” you snap, and against your attempt at control, your voice breaks, sob welling in your chest.

Don’t think about it.

“It’s alright.” His hands are palms out, cautious. It’s supposed to make him look like he’s not a threat, make him seem harmless. But he’s not harmless. This gaping hole in your heart says so. “We don’t want you to leave.” He implores. “Please. I- let me explain.”

“There’s no need. Everything is pretty clear.”

“No, it’s not.” Johnny argues. “Just, let Simon at least tell-“

“Tell me what? Tell me how it’s not fair? Does it chafe you too, Johnny? You also thinking what’s the right thing? Because it’s an us thing, right? You and him. It’s an us and me. It’s the us that I suffer for.” Your voice crests, and Johnny flinches.

“I made a mistake.” Simon whispers. “Don’t let my stupidity make you question your place in this relationship. We love you, darling. I love you.” Tears burn at the back of your eyes, and you feel the horror of the truth, the confusion about your love for them, their love for you, searing together into a snarled mess.

“If I left you, the both of you, at the end of the day, you’d still have each other. You’d still be together, and I would have nothing!”

“That’s not true. We canae exist without ye.” Johnny sounds broken, hopeless, but you blow by it, dancing around Simon to pull your prescription bottles from the kitchen cabinet by the sink.

“If I died tomorrow-“

“Do not say that.” Simon cuts you off. “Don’t ever say that.” His knuckles are white at the edge of the countertop, expression stricken, and Johnny looks horrified. They both watch you like they’re afraid of what you might say next, what you might do, and nausea pools saliva on the back of your tongue.

Don’t think about it.

You close your eyes, and search for that underwater feeling. That untouchable feeling, the boxes being packed away in your mind, and try to cling to it, try to shut up the incessant stream of doubt and loathing and everything going wrong inside your head.

They don’t need you. They have each other.

You chafe them.

Don’t think about it.

“I need…” You trail off, trying to take a deep breath. Trying to organize your thoughts. Trying to hear yourself through the noise of everything else, through the searing pain that’s ripping through your heart.

“It’s alright, darling.” Simon murmurs, encouraging you. “Tell us what you need. Whatever it is.” Johnny’s face has shifted from despondent to hopeful, eyes wide and locked onto yours, while Simon waits, his normal steadfast and patient demeanor nowhere to be found, instead he’s more anxious, more nervous than you’ve ever seen.

You close your eyes again. Your voice shakes when you finally speak.

“I need a break.”

#dead disco #peaches writes #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #ghost x reader x soap #female reader #john soap mactavish #simon riley #johnny mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghoap

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cooliestghouliest · 4 months

Text

PUTTY, chapter one

(chapter one), (chapter two), (chapter three)

PAIRING: virgin!Eddie/former cheerleader!Reader

SUMMARY: Eddie has a little brother. Eddie’s little brother has a babysitter.

SERIES TAGS and C/W’s: mutual pining, experienced!Reader, inexperienced!Eddie but he’s eager to learn, mostly sub!Eddie, insecurities and self doubt, narcissistic and/or absent parents, jealousy, mean basketball players, hurt/comfort, they smoke weed, eventual smut (18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI), uniform kink, dirty talk, foot jobs, hand jobs, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), public sex, sex toys, unprotected PiV. more to be added as this progresses!!!

WORD COUNT: 3.7k+

A/N: hi, my friends!!! this is a rewrite/repost and has been edited for a (hopefully) smoother, more enjoyable read. fun fact that this was one of the first Stranger Things fanfics i ever wrote. it was originally titled She Was Straight From Hell, But You Could Never Tell, and featured Eddie alongside an OC. i’ve changed it to be reader-insert, because that seems to be more in my writing wheelhouse nowadays. this fic will be multiple parts — it begins with backstory, but will eventually branch off into a universe of little smutty ficlets where Reader will corrupt virgin!Eddie as much as humanely possible.

—

Eddie hadn't known about the existence of his little brother until two months ago, when Al Munson showed up in the middle of the night with a small child in tow. Eddie didn't even know his dad was out of prison again, and yet here he was, in the flesh, a little boy with a mop of black curls resembling Eddie's own cradled in his leather jacket-clad arms.

Al was lucky Wayne was working or else this family reunion would have gone south fast.

While Wayne wasn't Al's biggest fan, Al was Eddie's dad, and Eddie would always hold onto as many moments with his father as he could get, no matter how sparse, and no matter how much of a self-serving piece of shit asshole Al Munson truly was.

But Eddie didn’t see it like that. Eddie saw it like this: His dad lived a hard life. His dad struggled with addictions. His dad lost a wife, just as Eddie had lost a mother. His dad tried his best with what he had.

Deep down, Eddie knew these were all just sorry excuses, but he kept that truth tucked away, not wanting to deal with the reality that Al truly only cared about himself.

He already had one dead parent. If he cut his dad out of his life, he’d basically have two.

"When'd you get out?" Eddie asked, stepping aside so Al could enter. His eyes followed the child, brows furrowed. The trailer was always Al's first stop on his freedom tour and the older man had always brought some sort of baggage along with him -- never a little kid, though. What the hell kind of trouble had his dad gotten into this time?

"Few days ago," Al replied, heading for the living room. He placed the sleeping child down on the worn sofa, then straightened and faced Eddie. "Listen, son, you gotta do me a favor. I'm not out long this time. I might've robbed an ATM or two last night. I'm kinda on the lam."

Al didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish at his wrongdoing.

Eddie was used to this. Even when Al was a free man, he was never a free man for long. He didn't think his dad knew how to coexist among non-inmate citizens. Eddie didn't think his dad even wanted to. Prison was a creature comfort for the elder Munson. Eddie wasn't necessarily mad at that fact. He was happy when Al was locked up, because then at least he knew where his dad was. Otherwise, Eddie worried his father would eventually get himself into a situation he wouldn't be able to get out of, and Eddie would really never see him again.

Eddie was also used to Al showing up after months and months, sometimes even years and years, such as now, always asking for favors.

"Who is that?" Eddie asked, pointing towards the couch, not being able to ignore the other human in the room any longer.

"Yeah, that's kinda what I need your help with.” Al rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, no way to do this other than to just say it. That there's your little brother, Eddie. His name's Oliver. And I need you and Wayne to look after him while I'm gone."

"My... what..." Eddie stammered, face scrunching up. He expected Al to burst out laughing and admit he was just fucking around, and that this tiny sleeping stranger was actually just the kid of a fellow convict buddy. Maybe it was said convict buddy’s turn to rob ATMs tonight, leaving Al the babysitter. Irresponsible. Unlikely. And, turns out, untrue.

With Al's silence, Eddie knew his dad’s admission wasn't a joke.

Eddie was beyond confused now.

"Dad, how... you've been in prison for six years!"

"Conjugal visits," Al answered with a bit of a smug shrug.

Eddie shook his head in disbelief. "What the fuck? Wayne can't afford another kid that's not even his... and I'm in school still, I can't watch him... this isn't... I don't know how..."

But Al was already making his way to the door.

"I know you'll figure it out. I can always count on you, my boy," Al prided, tone cheery as if the favor he'd just asked of Eddie was to give him a quick ride somewhere or find an old family recipe.

Al wasn't acting like he was ditching another Munson offspring off on his older brother. He was treating this like an issue of minor importance, just a little speed bump on an otherwise flat road.

Al Munson was not an upstanding person. Never had been, never would be. Because of this, Eddie shouldn't have been surprised or appalled, but here he was, standing with his mouth agape. Surprised. Appalled.

His dad was out the door with a lighthearted, "See ya 'round, son," and Eddie was left speechless in the middle of the living room.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Wayne got over the new addition to the Munson household fairly quickly.

While he'd been livid at first, calling up all of Al's old friends he'd still had the numbers of to try and find out where his dumb shit of a younger brother was, Wayne eventually became resigned to the idea that he now had another little boy to rear and mold.

What else could he do?

Wayne took care of his kin, especially if they were innocent bystanders and had no say in being born in the first place. He'd raised Eddie, and although he knew the boy had his struggles, he didn't think he'd done too bad of a job.

Eddie never went hungry, always had clothes to wear, a bed to sleep in, and Wayne was the one who haggled Eddie's van down to a reasonable price so the boy could pay for it with his lunch box salary.

Wayne knew about the weed and the pills, but so long as Eddie stayed smart about where he was selling and who he was selling to, he didn't much mind Eddie's unconventional line of work. It helped his nephew stay somewhat social, and Wayne knew how important that would be for Eddie's future. If the boy was nothing but a lone recluse his whole life, he'd probably end up just like Al. Nobody wanted that.

Eddie was just about grown now. Sure, he was rearing twenty and still in his senior year of high school, but Wayne had an inkling that '86 would be Eddie's year.

Wayne had always thought about selling the trailer and buying an RV with retirement money once Eddie was out on his own. He wanted to travel the country for the remainder of his life.

The idea that he'd have to raise up another wild Munson for the next fifteen or so years caused a knot to form in his stomach.

Would Wayne even be around for that much longer? He may have been relatively healthy, and he was only in his mid 60's, but Wayne wasn't an idiot. He knew anything could happen at any time.

Wayne knew he needed help this time around. He figured he could count on Eddie here and there, but Eddie needed to focus on school this year if he planned on finally walking the stage. Because of this, Wayne decided to enlist the help of someone on the outside. Someone with experience.

So, he posted an ad in the Hawkins Post, looking for a full-time nanny for a five-year-old boy to start as soon as possible, and waited for a response.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Wayne didn't have to wait long.

Two mornings following the job post, shortly after he'd returned home from work, he heard a knock on the trailer door.

When he answered, he saw a pretty young thing standing on the front stoop.

"Hi!" you greeted, then immediately began to ramble. "Are you Mr. Munson? I hope it's okay I just showed up... there wasn't a number listed, only an address, and I didn't know if you wanted me to write a response and mail it, but the ad seemed maybe a little urgent, so I thought, hey, what's the harm in just... showing... up..."

You trailed off, feeling silly for word vomiting during your first impression. He was watching you with a small smile, eyes flickering with what looked like amusement, especially as your cheeks began to color to the soft red of embarrassment.

Listing no number on the ad was intentional. He hadn't owned a rotary phone in about ten years, after having tried to cut back on bills, and he knew not just anyone would make the trek to Forest Hills for a potential job offer. He’d figured only committed applicants that wouldn't waste his time would follow through.

"I have a lot of experience," you continued on at his silence, almost as if you couldn't help it, compelled to divulge all the information you could in the first three minutes of meeting. Wayne found it endearing. "I used to babysit for three different families when I was in high school. And I have two little sisters. My mom and dad worked a lot growing up, so I spent a lot of time with them. Didn't get paid, but... I made sure they didn't die or anything..."

From their brief interaction thus far, Wayne knew he succeeded in his method of weeding out flakes. You were obviously serious about the position. He felt he was a decent judge of character, and he'd learned in life that sometimes over-explaining was synonymous with caring.

"Sorry," you said, forcing out a little laugh. "I guess I could have just introduced myself. You didn't really need to know all that." You shot your hand out, giving your name. "I'm here about the nannying gig. Um, obviously. That is, if I didn't already scare you off."

Wayne took your hand in both of his own, shaking it. He placated you with a grin. "It's a lot harder than that to scare off a Munson, sweetheart. Let's go inside and meet Olly."

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Although Oliver Munson was only five, he had a spectacular vocabulary and a limitless imagination. Wayne knew the boy was a little charmer, quite like how Eddie was when he allowed himself to be, when the teenager wasn't drowning himself in existential teenage angst and nonsense.

You fell under Olly's spell almost instantly.

And it seemed the little boy had fallen under yours as well.

Oliver didn't stop talking to you while you were there, and didn't stop talking about you after you’d left, asking when you’d be back and if next time you could take him to the trailer park's playground and maybe you two could watch G.I. Joe or He-Man together afterward.

Wayne had taken your number down before you’d left and had told you he'd be in touch soon.

Later that evening, after Eddie had gotten back from his club meeting at school, Wayne took the trip into downtown Hawkins to use the payphone and ask you if you wouldn't mind starting as early as tomorrow.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

You were far from struggling for money.

Your father was a sought-after criminal prosecutor for the entirety of Indiana. Your mother was a real estate agent for high profile clientele who came from old family money; her father was CEO of a day trading business, and his father before him had been the same.

Although you likely would have never had to work a day in your life and could live a comfortable existence off of inheritance alone, handouts and the humdrum of an All-Play-and-No-Work lifestyle was never a dream of yours. That sounded so cookie cutter, so monotonous, so boring.

You liked to feel a sense of accomplishment. You liked setting goals and reaching them. You didn't want to freeload off of money that was gained from the capitalistic professions your parents were a part of. You wanted to be in control of your own finances and be the author of your own future, not have it already be etched into stone simply by being just another rich kid from Hawkins, à la the likes of the Carver's or the Cunningham's or the Harrington's.

You were ecstatic when you got the call from Wayne, asking you if you’d be willing to start the following day. He left for work at 2PM, so you’d have to be there before then, and would need to plan on staying until Wayne's nephew got home around six.

If you were to be completely honest with yourself, you felt a bit nervous, but the job itself wasn't the reason why that writhing feeling accompanied your excitement.

You had more than ten years of babysitting experience under your belt, and you were eager to get back into a job you actually enjoyed as opposed to trying out different careers to see what stuck and what didn't. Having graduated the spring before, you’d been taking an off year to save up money by working odd jobs around Hawkins to be able to buy your own apartment.

You’d worked as a florist for a few weeks, but it turned out your thumb was pitch black instead of green.

You worked as the personal assistant for a group of lawyers from a local law firm, but it turned out they just needed office eye candy and not someone to actually get any sort of work done.

You worked as a veterinary assistant, but it turned out the job was much more than just petting cats and dogs. You couldn't handle it when a sick animal would come in and there would be nothing anyone could do. Your heart broke more at that clinic than it had your entire life.

You were in between jobs when you’d decided to peruse the classified section of the Hawkins post. There, in the shortest blurb on the page, was a listing for a needed nanny, a full-time position offering negotiable pay.

The next bit was where the excitement wavered.

The listing was published by a Wayne Munson of the Forest Hills trailer park.

That had to be Eddie Munson's uncle. There was no way there were two separate Munson families living in the only trailer park in Kerley County.

You couldn't believe that you’d stumbled across this ad, that the geeky metalhead you’d crushed on since your freshman year of high school had a little brother you could be the potential nanny of.

You were two years younger than Eddie, but that hadn't stopped you from losing periods of time to daydreams about the way the wind ruffled his wild mess of curls on breezy days or the way his band tee sleeves always clung perfectly to the soft muscles of his biceps or the way his cheeks dimpled when he teased the other boys he sat with at lunch.

You’d always wanted to introduce yourself, but you didn't run in the same crowds -- you being on the cheer team and Eddie blasting Black Sabbath in the parking lot after his Hellfire meetings. You could never muster the courage. He seemed so carefree, so full of life, so effortlessly funny. Chrissy Cunningham, your best friend, had spoken to him once or twice and had told you how different he was than what other people said about him. He wasn't scary or mean or threatening, and instead was warm and silly and genuine.

But you knew how the people you spent your time around treated people like him. You knew your group of "friends" referred to him as a freak, a Satan worshipper, and did everything in their power to try to bully him into becoming a shell of himself. Thankfully, he never did -- it was almost as if Eddie absorbed the hatefulness and spent it tenfold by mocking the hilarity of the jock hierarchy that ruled the school, as well as using it to strengthen his own ability to embrace every misfit that walked the halls of Hawkins High.

You never introduced yourself because you were afraid he’d think you had an ulterior motive, that you’d be trying to talk to him as a joke or a prank. You knew the company you kept. You were sure Jason Carver had once or twice suggested you do just that, lead Eddie on and make a fool of him in front of the whole school.

You figured it'd be best to just stay away.

But now, you thought finding this ad was possibly a sign from the universe.

Maybe you were getting a second chance.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Eddie was running late.

He was supposed to be back home half an hour ago to relieve whoever Olly's new babysitter was of her duties, but the campaign had taken a shocking turn and Hellfire couldn't disband until it had commenced.

The night finally ended with Will's character decapitating Dustin's, and Eddie had to thwart an actual attack when Dustin leapt across the game table at Will in a bout of rage. Dustin was small but mighty, and Eddie had to physically wrestle the boy off of Will's neck, threatening to banish Dustin from the next few campaigns if he didn’t chill out. Henderson had huffed and puffed but had admitted defeat and apologized to Will for the attempted murder.

By the time Eddie arrived back to the trailer park, the sun had almost set. He pulled his van into his parking spot to the right of the trailer and shut it off. Stepping out, he swung his backpack over his shoulder, but came to a halt when he heard Olly's scream sound from behind the trailer.

Dropping his bag and beginning to run toward the noise, Eddie's heart fell to his stomach. Horrible images of what could possibly be pulling that sound from his little brother pervaded Eddie's mind. He had an overactive imagination to begin with, and something like this verbal cue only egged it on. "Olly!" he shouted, panic raising his voice. "Olly, are you okay?! What’s going on, where are --"

Eddie came to a halt when he found the boy in the backyard with a huge smile spread across his small, sweaty face. Olly had a fake crown on, one made of twigs and leaves, and he was carrying one of the biggest sticks Eddie had ever seen. He had a blanket tucked into the back of his shirt, the cloth a makeshift cape. A thin piece of metal, probably from one of the cars Wayne and Eddie sometimes worked on, was wrapped around his center, acting as armor.

Olly had just been playing.

Letting out a heavy breath of relief, Eddie noticed your frame just off to the side. His eyes started from the ground up, noting the shiny red Docs donning your feet, moving up bare legs that were covered mid-thigh by a short black skater dress, one that hugged your curves in a way that had Eddie’s mouth going dry.

By the time he reached your face, your eyes were wide with amusement.

You’d been watching as he slowly drank you in. He didn't mean to ogle. He had to shake his head a few times to clear it, and when he did so, the face before him started looking more and more familiar.

"Wait," he started, head tilting. He spoke your name, tone riddled with confusion. "From high school?"

You were about to answer when Oliver cleared his throat, obviously not wanting to be ignored or to have his playtime interrupted any longer. You looked down at the boy, who pointed up to his head at his crown. You got the gist -- Olly wanted the game to continue. You could indulge him. You’d been doing it all day, and honestly you’d been having the most fun you’d had in a while.

You turned your attention back to Eddie, fixing your posture and jutting your chin out slightly. "I don't know who that is," you began, voice lilting. "I am Princess Guinevere of Kerley County and this here,” you brought your gaze back down to Oliver, “is my most loyal servant, Sir Olly of Castle Munson."

Eddie couldn't help the grin that broke out over his face at your announcement. He then took a moment to fully take in the rest of your appearance. You, too, had on a makeshift crown, this one made up of cherry blossoms and daisies. You had a flowing blanket tucked into the back of your dress, cascading down your back like a veil.

No fucking way were you, last year's cheerleading captain and prom queen, standing in his backyard playing fucking knights and princesses with his little brother. No fucking way.

Olly broke the silence by shouting out, "Hey, Eddie! Who are you gonna be?"

Eddie tore his eyes from you to focus on his brother. He pursed his lips to one side in thought, trying to come up with a character. He was usually quick on his feet when it came to creative play, but he had just spent the last three hours DM'ing a month-long DnD campaign. His brain felt shot. He was pulled from his introspective reverie by your soft, suggestive voice — no, sorry — the soft, suggestive voice of Princess Guinevere.

"Wanna be my dragon, Eddie?" you asked.

Eddie wasn't exactly sure why that made his breath catch in his throat.

He nodded dumbly, silent, then forced himself to speak because he didn't want to look totally lame in front of a Princess. "Okay. Yeah, I'll be your dragon."

You graced him with a smile before Oliver's tiny but booming voice cut through the air of the darkening night. "HEY! Dragons don't talk!" the boy stomped his foot and hit his stick against the muddy ground in annoyance.

A laugh bubbled from your throat and Eddie grinned, jumping into a wide-legged stance before outstretching his arms, tilting his head back, and roaring.

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