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verai-marcel · 3 years

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Sharing is Caring (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur x F!Reader, Charles x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur have been a pair for a few months, and he's fully aware that he claimed you when you were still getting to know everyone in camp. When he notices you and Charles talking together amicably, he gets an idea and can't let it go. He only hopes that you would be willing to go along with it.

Author’s Notes: Been a while, huh? Just a random idea I had late one night, and it wouldn't leave my head. So in this fic, I’m thinking Arthur is incredibly proud of you, your beauty, your energy, your everything, and wants to show you off. He secretly gets off knowing that you chose to belong with him, and that he’s being such a great guy by letting you enjoy yourself with others. He could be a possessive and selfish man, but instead, being as giving as he is, gives to you what lesser men wouldn’t be able to handle: your freedom to indulge in some fantasies, and as a byproduct, some of his fantasies as well.

Tags: hotwifing, smut, dirty talk, rough sex, blow job, doggy style, paizuri, Charles x F!Reader, Arthur x F!Reader, unedited

AO3 Link is here, my friends.

Word Count: 3589

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Arthur took a short break after carrying around bales of hay for the horses to fondly watch his lady walk around camp, getting her own chores done. When she caught his eyes, she smiled brightly at him, just for him, and his heart leapt with joy. She had only been here a few months, but within the first week, he had made his move, uncharacteristically bold with the new gang member while she was still learning about everyone. Something about her made him nearly feral with desire.

Luckily, she had felt the same way about him.

Now he watched as she turned her glowing smile to Charles, and he saw him nod his head to her, a gentle smile on his face in response. He would have been just as good of a partner to her, Arthur thought. He would have treated her kindly, worshipped her body just as he did—

A mental image came unbidden of her lying on the edge of a soft bed, her legs spread wide open, and Charles standing at the foot of the bed, taking her with strong, steady thrusts. He quickly shook his head of the thought, but although he turned back to his work, the idea percolated in the back of his mind.

***

You had noticed Arthur acting a bit strangely these past couple of days. As you went about your daily routine, it seemed like he wanted to say something every time he managed to run into you, but he could only give you a simple touch on your arm and a shy smile before heading back to work. It was as if he was hiding something, and after being with him for the past few months, you had learned to read him a bit better, but you weren't even close to figuring out why he was being so dodgy lately.

You finally had enough and went to ask Charles.

"You notice something strange about Arthur lately?"

He looked at you, raising an eyebrow before he replied. "Does he keep looking like he wants to ask you something and then runs away?"

"Yes!" you answered, glad that someone else had noticed. "Is he hiding something from me? Should I be concerned?" The pitch of your voice rose with every word as worry creased your features.

"Don't worry wildflower," he said soothingly, "I'll talk to him."

You nodded, glad that Arthur had such a good friend. "Thank you."

He nodded and wandered away to look for Arthur, while you suddenly realized that he had called you by a pet name, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him.

***

It was towards the end of the day when you saw both Arthur and Charles coming up to you. Arthur looked a bit chagrined while Charles just walked beside him with a sympathetic glance every now and again. They both stopped in front of you, and Arthur took off his hat.

You were a bit wary because of the serious look on Arthur’s face.

"Darlin'," Arthur started, but quickly became silent, staring at the ground for a few seconds, then glancing up at the sky as if he was praying for strength.

"Yes, Arthur? You know I'll listen to whatever it is you have to say. You'll suffer no judgement from me."

He smiled at your reassurance. "Then, would you be willin' to, um, come to the hotel. With both of us?"

You can't say you were expecting that. Glancing over at Charles, you put two and two together. They must have talked about this before, and only now did Arthur have the courage to ask you such a thing. To be honest, before you had paired up with Arthur, you had imagined having a night with Charles, the mental images bringing heat to your cheeks. Even now, your eyes were drawn to those broad, muscular shoulders and those thick arms that could lift you with no problem.

"Sure," you finally answered, much to Arthur’s relief.

Charles looked satisfied and nudged Arthur with his elbow. "See? Nothing to worry about," he said before nodding towards you. "I'll see you both tonight."

He walked away to leave you and Arthur alone. You looked up at your lover, both excited and confused. He had never shown any interest in sharing you before; in fact, you hadn’t even thought of the idea yourself until they had brought it up. The question must have shown on your face, for Arthur stepped closer to you and took your hand. Looking around to make sure no one was around to notice, he took you further into the forest away from camp so he could talk without being interrupted.

"Ask your question, darlin'," he commanded gently.

"Were you waiting to share me? Or was this a sudden whim of yours?"

Arthur leaned back on his heels a bit, scratching his chin. After a few quiet moments of self-contemplation, he finally spoke, low and soft. "A bit of both. Saw how friendly you was with Charles, and I'd trust him to take good care of you."

He stepped closer to you and touched your hair gently. "I'd like to watch you take your pleasure from him."

A shiver of desire ran through you. Arthur's brilliant eyes stared at you with a lustful heat, and you could swear you could feel your heart about to beat out of your chest.

"He knows I'm sharin' you because I want to show off how beautiful you are, but only to the right people."

“People? Plural?” you asked hesitantly.

“We’ll decide together, but you get the ultimate say. I’d never make ya feel uncomfortable, darlin’.”

Nodding, you felt better about his emphasis on your choice. “Alright, I’ll… I’ll try this.”

Arthur leaned in and kissed your forehead, then pulled back to press his forehead against yours. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

***

Night fell and you were starting to feel anxious, but in a good way. You had been suppressing your carnal thoughts ever since you started being with Arthur, but some nights, when Arthur was out on a job, you’d curl up in his cot, tent flaps tied shut, and you’d shove your hand down your drawers and indulge in some of your more outlandish fantasies. It wasn’t that you didn’t love Arthur, far from it. It was just… while Arthur could make love so very well, you were a little more adventurous and wanted to experience all kinds of things.

You dreamed of being claimed by two or three men together, taking all of them deep inside of you while you came around their cocks. You even had a scandalous fantasy of John and Abigail taking you aside and using you as their personal toy. Your most outrageous idea had been born out of a stray thought, of being on your knees before Charles, John, Javier, and Arthur, all four of them stroking their long, thick shafts as they spent themselves on your face and breasts, their hands petting your hair and holding your hands as they moaned your name in ecstasy.

You shook your head. You hadn’t thought of that idea in a while. It was nearly enough to bring some wetness between your legs, and you took a deep breath to calm your heart. Charles was waiting at the hotel for the two of you, and as you joined Arthur at the horses, you smiled and waved to him, trying not to show your eagerness for tonight.

“Ready?” he asked, holding his hand out for you to mount his horse.

“Sure am,” you said easily as you mounted up. You felt Arthur settle in behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist as the two of you started to head towards town.

***

“You let me know if you suddenly don’t feel like it no more,” he said gently as you got closer to the hotel.

You smiled. Arthur was so incredibly attentive and kind to you. But you wanted this. You definitely wanted this more than you were letting on. Leaning back against his strong, steady chest, you leaned over to kiss his stubbled chin.

“I’m still feeling it, Arthur.” You reached behind you and lightly ran your fingers along the curve of his bulge. “In fact, I’m very much looking forward to both of you,” you purred.

A low chuckled reverberated through you, and the arm around your waist tightened just enough to tell you he wanted you right this second, his hand gripping you possessively.

***

“I had a bath brought up here,” Charles said as he let the two of you into the room. “Figure our lady would like a nice, relaxing wash before we have some fun.”

You smiled at him; he was just as thoughtful as Arthur, so warm and gentle when he wanted to be. As you stepped towards the bath, the two men glanced at each other before coming towards you.

“Let us undress you, sweetheart,” Arthur said, taking position behind you.

You nodded and could only gasp as Charles came forward and kissed your cheek softly as his hands cupped your breasts.

“So beautiful,” Charles murmured before he began to unbutton your blouse slowly. The warmth of the fireplace licked at your revealed skin as he pulled the cloth from your shoulders, sliding down your arms to drop to the floor. At the same time, Arthur had his arms around your waist, undoing the buttons of your skirt, and as that fell, he was untying the ribbon of your drawers, letting them fall as well.

Charles took your hands and led you to step forward out of your pile of clothing. He looked you up and down, your chemise, your stockings, and your boots still on. To your surprise, Charles knelt before you and started to unlace your boots. You placed your hands on his broad shoulders for balance as he helped you remove them.

Arthur suddenly returned behind you, his warmth a welcome feeling to your back. He also knelt down and ran his hands down your legs as he removed your stockings one by one, tossing them aside.

Finally the only thing you had on was your chemise, and Charles turned you around to face Arthur.

“Look at him while I take this off,” Charles whispered in your ear.

You locked eyes with Arthur. He was looking at you with such a lustful curve to his lips, like you were the most gorgeous thing in the world. He was silent as Charles cupped your breasts again and squeezed you gently before moving his hands down to the hem of your chemise. You instinctively reached behind you and wrapped your arms around Charles’ neck, sticking out your chest slightly for Arthur to enjoy. You could see how his erection punched at his jeans, and he reached down to cup himself, almost as if he was willing himself to calm down so he could enjoy the whole show.

Charles slowly lifted up your chemise, giving Arthur a show of your body as he pulled it over your arms and head with your help. He flung it to ground and returned his hands to your body, caressing you up and down your curves.

“Let’s get you all clean, wildflower,” Charles said as he led you to the small barrel bathtub that had been brought into the room. Charles placed his hand into the steaming water to check the temperature.

“Perfect,” he said, and carefully let you step into the tub. You sighed happily as the hot water relaxed your body. You became more relaxed as Arthur and Charles took up positions beside you and cleaned your skin and rubbed your muscles until you were limp and pliant.

“I think she’s ready,” Arthur said, a gentle smile on his face. “Look at my girl, so relaxed.”

You looked at him and smiled back. As you were lifted out of the tub and dried off with a soft towel, you felt like a queen, being tended to with the utmost care. Then Charles carried you off to the bed and laid you down with your rear on the edge, your legs hanging off the side. Arthur sat next to you and caressed your hair.

“Now, I want you to look at me when I tell you, alright? Otherwise you can do whatever you want,” Arthur said.

“Yes sir,” you said automatically without thinking about why you said it.

Arthur let out a low moan. After a moment, he swallowed. “Didn’t know two simple words could get me so hard,” he said, chuckling softly. Resting himself on one arm, he unbuttoned his jeans and freed his aching manhood. He stroked himself slowly, his eyes on your nude body with unabashed hunger.

The sound of shuffling clothing brought your attention to Charles, and you caught your breath. He had divested himself of all of his clothes, his naked body completely revealed. He was so muscular, so well-built, and as your eyes locked onto the girthy shaft between his legs, you knew that he would make you sore the next day.

You couldn’t wait. You spread your legs almost immediately, beckoning him to come closer.

Stepping forward, he took his cock in his hands and rubbed the tip along your slit, spreading your slick around. He dipped in a little bit and then pulled out.

“You’re really tight, sweetness,” Charles said softly as he pressed a finger against your clit and began to stroke you. As you gasped and squirmed, he used his other hand and pressed two fingers inside of you, stretching you out as he continued to play with your clit.

Your hips lifted up towards his touch. “Just fuck me,” you said, panting as you were already reaching the edge.

Both Charles and Arthur laughed.

“Such a vulgar lady,” Arthur teased. “Guess we forgot to wash that dirty mouth.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, but then you gasped as you felt Charles press his cock inside of you. Inch by inch, he slowly pushed forward, and you writhed with pain-laced ecstasy, the burning stretch tempered by his steady strokes on your center that kept you from pulling away.

When he finally bottomed out after what seemed like forever, you felt incredibly full, as if his cock had completely taken over inside of you. You looked down to see where you were joined, and your eyes traveled up Charles’ abs, his chest, then to his face, where he was looking at you with a smug and sexy smirk.

“Look at me,” Arthur commanded suddenly.

You turned to him and saw his devious grin.

“Fuck her,” he said to Charles without looking at him. Arthur’s attention was only on you.

All your heard was an affirmative grunt before you were suddenly being claimed by a very large, very thick cock. You could feel Charles’ hands on your thighs as he gripped you, keeping your legs spread out so he could see himself moving in and out of your wet heat. You could feel the bed shake with every powerful thrust. You could feel your throat growing hoarse with every loud cry you made.

But all you saw were Arthur’s eyes, his pupils blown out with lust as he watched you get fucked so hard that you were breathless.

“Like getting fucked hard, princess?” he growled.

“Yes!” you screamed as Charles gripped your hips, angled himself a little differently and was thrusting into you again, hitting a sweet spot inside of you that made you grab the bedsheets and claw into the mattress.

“Say it.”

“I like getting fucked hard!”

“What a naughty lady,” Charles grunted. “Maybe you should do something about that mouth of hers.”

Arthur grinned and took off his boots before climbing onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard. As Charles pulled out of you, you had two seconds of reprieve before he flipped you over onto your hands and knees and slapped your ass.

“Go to him,” Charles ordered.

Crawling between Arthur’s legs, you let him lovingly grab a fistful of your hair and guide your lips to his cock. You licked it once, twice, before he growled menacingly.

You loved teasing him like this; that growl of his just did things to you that instantly made you even more wet. Taking the tip of him into your mouth, you started to suck on him casually, occasionally stopping to lick the entire length of cock, up and down, before taking him into your mouth again.

You saw Arthur nodding at Charles as he pulled you away from his wonderful cock. That was the only warning you got before Charles slammed into you from behind. You surged forward and let out a strangled cry of pleasure. Charles then grabbed your arms and pulled you towards him, arching your back as he fucked you in earnest, letting your ass bounce off of his hips, his pace increasing as he let your arms go, putting one thick arm around your chest so he could grab one of your breasts, while his other hand reached for your core and stroked you.

“Look at him,” he whispered into your ear.

You locked eyes with Arthur and your heart nearly stopped. He was so blissed out, watching you with so much heat in his eyes that you swear you could catch fire. He was furiously stroking himself, his breaths coming out in labored puffs.

“Make’er come,” he rasped. “I want to see her fall apart.”

Charles stroked you harder, faster, and his thrusts somehow felt deeper as he drove you over the edge. You screamed wordlessly to the heavens, your body going stiff for a blissful few seconds before spasming as the climax worked its way through you. Flying and falling, flying and falling, you felt like Charles’ fingers on your core would never let you go, and every time you thought he was done, he would drive into you again and draw out another shaky spasm from you until you went limp, collapsing in his arms.

He gently lay you down next to Arthur and straddled your body. He took your hand and wrapped it around his cock, then wrapped his big hand around yours. Together you stroked him until he let out a long, lustful moan as he spent himself onto your breasts. He had plenty of spend to coat your skin, and when he was done, he gingerly lifted himself off of you and collapsed at the foot of the bed, completely satisfied.

You were still catching your breath when Arthur sat up, got onto his knees, and grabbed at your hips to angle you towards him. Spreading your legs, he thrust into you smoothly; you were so wet and easy to enter.

“So damn gorgeous,” Arthur grunted as he fucked you. “So dirty with all that spend on ya. But yer my naughty lady, ain’t’cha?”

“Yes, yes Arthur!” you cried out as he pounded into you, his pace increasing with each of your cries of his name.

“You want my spend too, darlin’?”

“Yes, please, please Arthur, spend on me, make me your dirty girl, please!” you begged, no longer caring about how incredibly wanton you sounded.

Arthur moaned at your words, barely pulling out in time before he came, thick ropes spilling from his as he left his mark all over your belly and thighs.

“You a happy lady now?” he asked after the two of you had caught your breaths, still staring at each other in awe.

“Yes, very much so,” you replied. You slowly sat up and looked over at Charles, who was comfortably lying on his side on one elbow, watching the two of you with a happy smile. “Did you have fun too?”

Charles nodded. “I did.” He looked at Arthur. “Thank you. Both of you. I really enjoyed this.”

He stood and started to get his clothes. You glanced at Arthur, but he only shrugged. “I told him he could sleep here tonight, but he said he’d rather let us have some time together.”

You turned back to Charles. “Thank you,” you said, suddenly shy despite all the things the three of you had just done.

He smiled as he pulled up his pants. Walking back towards you, he took your hand and kissed the top of it. “Anytime sweetness, as long as you two will have me.”

***

Once Charles had left, the two of you cleaned up with the now tepid water and cuddled together in the hotel room, sated and happy. As the two of you began to fall asleep, you suddenly needed to know something.

“Arthur?”

“Hm?”

“You ever think about sharing me with anyone else?”

“...”

At his silence, you sat up to look at him in the moonlight. His eyes were closed, but his brows were furrowed, as if he were still thinking.

“Arthur…”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, I do!”

He let out a sigh. “I realized I’m alright with whoever you want, as long as I get to claim you in the end and you say my name when you let go.”

“Why the sigh?”

“I thought… I thought I could only be comfortable with Charles, since I trust him.” He turned towards you. “But really… I just want you to be happy. So whoever you want, I’ll accept.”

Your heart swelled and you reached out to hug him tight. “I love you, Arthur.”

“I love you too, darlin’.” He held you close. “I’ll always treat you right.”

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End Notes: Oh lord, I accidentally spawned a few other ideas in my head after writing this. We’ll see, maybe we’ll have some short smut ficlets if I feel like it!

#rdr2 fanfic #arthur x fem!reader #charles x fem!reader #arthur morgan #charles smith #rdr2 #writing #fanfic #nsft #lemon fanfic

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holdmyowos · 3 years

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Todoroki Family Reunion

A story about Dabi before he revealed himself to Endeavor.

There are two bad words so keep that in mind. Mild violence and action.

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It was nearly Christmas. Fresh snow littered the ground around the houses, with little flakes of snow flittering downwards to join it's brethren on the earth.

Dabi stood outside the Todoroki household. Or, at least, where he thought the Todoroki's lived. He hadn't kept track of the family very well. Why should he? He hadn't thought he'd ever be paying them a visit, that's for sure. Not that he cared much about them. He had heard that Enji hardly ever was home, even during Christmas. That would make this reunion a lot easier.

"Come on Dabi! Hurry up. You promised me you would do this," Toga whined. Dabi rolled his eyes. "Uh, yea, with a knife at my throat... seriously Toga, sometimes you are a bit more than crazy. Besides, my social life is none of your business. How did you drag me here again?" The blond just gave him a wide smile. "You need to talk with them. It isn't their fault for what your dad did." Dad. The word sent chills down Dabi's spine. "My fath-..." He couldn't even bring himself to say that word. "Endeavor is no family to me. We both made that painfully clear the night I left that godforsaken house." He was lost in thought, of another time and another place. "Snap out of it or else I'll knock on the door myself." Toga backed into the shadows in front of the home, hiding herself from view.

He exhaled, his breath forming icy crystals in the air. It reminded him of his mom, and her ice quirk. In the freezing cold, he softly knocked on the door. A few seconds passed. Dabi turned around, starting to leave. "Oh well. Looks like they aren't here. Too bad guess we-" "Nuh-unh! Knock harder!" Toga shoved him back to the door. He sighed, and knocked harder. Another few seconds ticked by. Dabi shuffled his feet in the snow. He started feeling some anxiety. What if this was the wrong house? He didn't exactly have the best reputation. What if a hero lived here and saw him, the infamous Dabi from the League of Villains? Or worse, if Enji really was there?

The door opened and revealed a boy. He was a tall, teenage boy, with his hair split down the middle, two different colors. He had a burn down around one of his eyes. "Anything I can help you wi-?" The boy stared down at Dabi, noticing his burnt skin and tattered clothes. "It's a choice, kid," Dabi said, acknowledging his gaze. "Anyway, wrong address." Dabi turned around to leave, and Toga sighed from the shadows. A male voice behind the boy called out. "Who was that at the door?" Dabi kept walking away. "No one. Wrong address." The teen started closing the door. "Shoto? Natsuo? What's going on?" Dabi stopped in his tracks. That was his sister's voice, and his brother's name. He turned around, and knocked on the door again. Shoto, was that his name? He being there had thrown Dabi off, and he was surprised that even hero students got Christmas break. They had a few run ins with each other, but it was obvious that Shoto had not recognized him. Also, Dabi had never connected the strong U.A. student with his little brother, Enji's 'chosen child'. The more he thought about it, the more sense it had made. If he was a U.A. student, did that mean Shoto was trying to follow in Enji's footsteps? Dabi took a step away from the door. This family had him feeling all kinds of conflicted emotions. He decided he was going to leave when the door swung open.

Fuyumi come out of the door this time. "Let me guess, still wrong address?" She joked. "Still trying to decide," Dabi responded truthfully. Toga gave Dabi a thumbs up. "You seem familiar. Were we classmates or something?" Fuyumi questioned, tilting her head. "Something like that," Dabi replied, shivering. The young woman gasped. Dabi was sure she had figured out who he was, but he was wrong. "Where are my manners making you stand out there in the cold? Come on in." She stood aside for him to pass, motioning her hands for him to go inside. Reluctantly, he passed the threshold. Natsuo entered the room. "Excuse me, I have to borrow my sister here." He gave an apologetic smile towards Dabi, walking ushering her out of the room. As she was going, she called, "Please sit down, when I get back I'll have some tea for you!"

Dabi looked around. What a big, fancy, rich house. He couldn't believe he used to live somewhere like this. The two in the other room started talking. Dabi overheard their 'private' conversation. "Fuyumi, what are you doing? You can't just go letting homeless people into our house! He'll steal stuff, and then he won't leave!" Dabi snickered. He didn't look that bad, did he? "I think he's a friend from elementary school," she replied. "Look, guys like him spell trouble for people like us. I know it's near Christmas, but really?" He stomped away angrily.

Dabi bent down and looked at a photo on an ornate dresser. It was the whole Todoroki family, all smiling. Enji, Mom, Fuyumi, Natsuo, Shoto, and Toya Todoroki. That was from a long time ago. Dabi pointed to Toya. His hair color was different back then. How things had changed. Why did he care? That whole photo was staged. Enji would have never allowed Shoto near the rest of the family.

Fuyumi entered the room with a tray of tea, looking slightly more wary of Dabi than before. "That's our older brother, Toya," she said, sadness filling her voice. "What happened to him?" Dabi had to ask. "One day he just... left. He was tired of... of the way our father treated us." She lowered her volume. "I think my father and him may have fought and, well, honestly Natsuo thinks... he thinks father may have burned him to death. And to be honest, I wouldn't put it past him. I mean if you were my childhood friend, I'm sure you already knew that. Anyway, such a bad thing to talk about with my guest! What brings you here?" "Umm..." Dabi struggled for a reason. "Just wondering..." Shoto walked in the room. Dabi's heart started pounding. Shoto looked at Dabi as if observing him, from head to toe. Hopefully, he won't recognize me, Dabi thought. "What ever happened to Mom?" Shoto tilted his head. "Who's mom?" He inquired. "O-oh your mom. That's her in the picture, right?" Dabi regretted coming here. They would find out who he was, and who he'd become, and hate him. Damn Toga!

"What did you say your name was again?" Shoto asked , catching on. "Actually, I never said." Dabi snapped back, standing up and spilling the tea Fuyumi had brought. "And I think I will be going now." The tension in the room was high. "Wait. I think I do know you." Shoto grabbed Dabi's arm in a quick action, knocking over the family picture, scattering glass all over the carpet. "Natsuo! He's with the villains! Help!" He shouted. Crap. He started trying to freeze Dabi in place, but Dabi jumped away from Shoto just in time. "What's got in on? Shoto why are you attacking him? He hasn't done anything wrong! Quit it he's my guest!" Fuyumi grabbed her brother Shoto, hugging him tight so he couldn't use his powers without accidentally getting her too. He apparently didn't have to hurt her, and used his ice powers anyway, shooting ice from his fingertips, freezing Dabi's leg. Natsuo showed up. There were too many people here. In a panic, Dabi shouted, "Toga!" And shot flames from his fingertips, melting the ice. Suddenly, the world was still. Everyone was silent. Except for Shoto, who was struggling against Fuyumi. She must have been really strong to keep that boy at bay. "What's wrong with you? He's a villain! He's Dabi, and he work with Toga, and Tomura Shigaraki, and the rest of the League of Villains! Don't just stand there Natsuo, help me!" He shouted. Instead, Natsuo helped Fuyumi restrain Shoto. Dabi backed away, towards the door. Blue flames still danced on his fingertips. "Back off, Shoto. Don't you know who that is? Look at his quirk for heaven's sake! His burns!"

Shoto's eyes widened in understanding, and he stopped wrestling with his siblings. Fuyumi reached out to Dabi and held his burnt arm. "T-Toya? I-is- could it possibly truly be you? What happened?" Dabi shrugged her hand off. "Enji made me like this. You thought he killed me? Well, he only killed the good half. The proof is written in my skin." Dabi opened the door, fire blazing around him, little bursts of blue anger and sadness, and slammed the door shut. "Come on Toga, let's get out of here." Dabi took off down the alleyway, happy for the snow, the small flakes cooling himself off. When Dabi was a safe distance from the house, he waited for Toga to catch up. "So, maybe not the best family reunion, but you tried, right?" Dabi walked by her side silently. Yea, I tried.

#Bnha #fanfic #dabi #toya #toga #todoroki #mha

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365daysofsasuhina · 4 years

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[ @sasuhinabigflash2020 || Day Thirteen: Show No Fear ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Uchiha Shisui ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

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“Sasuke...when was the last time you left the house…?”

Looking up from a scroll he’s reading, Sasuke gives his cousin a questioning glance. “...why?”

Arms folding, Shisui perks a brow at him. “Because it seems like the entire time I’ve been back, you’ve been holed up in here like a mouse under three feet of snow. Doesn’t seem much like the Sasuke I knew.”

At that, Sasuke sours a few degrees. “You know damn well I’m not the Sasuke you knew.”

“I don’t mean in regards to growing up and the trauma you faced. I mean in terms of shying from something difficult.”

“...excuse me?”

The elder Uchiha looks him over thoughtfully. “...why are you here, Sasuke?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I mean here. In Konoha. I’ve been playing my fair share of catch-up, but from what I’ve heard, it sounded like you were dead set on razing this place to the ground not too long ago. Then suddenly you changed your mind? Why?”

“Not really something we can discuss with a light chat,” Sasuke counters, eyes dropping back to his reading.

“Because it seems to me,” Shisui goes on, clearly ignoring the cue to drop the matter, “that you’re scared of something.”

There’s a long pause before Sasuke looks back up. “...I’ve heard a lot of stupid things in my time, but that takes the cake, Shisui. What the hell do I have to be scared of?”

“You tell me,” is the simple counter.

“I’m not scared of anything here.”

“Then why aren’t you doing anything beyond hiding away in here?”

“I’m not hiding -!”

“I’ve heard how you’ve been avoiding everyone you knew like some kind of plague. And I know I don’t know how things went with most of them...and those I do know of, not nearly as well as you do,” Shisui offers, holding up a hand at Sasuke’s tensing. “...but it seems pretty obvious to me you don’t want anything to do with them. But my question is...why are you still in Konoha if it seems to be making you so damn miserable?”

“...that’s rich, coming from you. Konoha’s underbelly stole your eye and left you for dead, and you haven’t done a damn thing to change things.”

“I was fifteen when that happened, and things were a lot more unstable than they are now,” Shisui rebukes. “Now I am all for taking out some trash, but not in the ‘burn Konoha to the ground’ kind of way like you suggested in the past. There’s some rotten shit in this village, even after Danzō and Hiruzen have been removed. But there’s also a lot of innocent lives and people just trying to survive. Which I think you’ve come to realize. And I think that’s also why you came back at all: to try and salvage what’s left of the place you remember as a kid. There’s still things in Konoha worth fighting for. But you don’t seem to be doing much of anything about it.”

“I’m -!” Sasuke’s mouth clamps shut, suddenly aware he’s not sure what he wants to say. “...we’ve both got our own shit to sort out. You spent half your life alone, blind, and bearing a hell of a lot of dirty secrets. I spent mine following every wrong path and person willing to take advantage of me. I killed my brother. I let Orochimaru and Obito and Akatsuki use me to try and find what I was looking for in all the wrong places. It’s been, what...a few weeks since the war ended? Sorry if that’s too much time to try and sort out everything that’s happened the past ten years.”

“I’m not saying for you to drop all inhibitions and pretend nothing ever happened,” Shisui retorts, exasperation in his tone. “But the thing is, you’ve got to take that first baby step sometime. The longer you put it off, the harder it’s going to be. I know you have issues with your classmates. Some...a hell of a lot more than others. But isn’t there anyone you can think of to at least make that initial effort with? Anyone at all? And no, neither of us count,” he adds as Sasuke opens his mouth a bit too quickly.

Shifting to a half-hearted glower, Sasuke looks aside. Truthfully, given how much he retreated from others not long after even joining the Academy...he’s given very few of his classmates any thought beyond those who ended up on his team. And for now, they are the last people he has any inclination to connect with. “...I don’t know. I didn’t exactly make many friends growing up.”

“Shocking,” Shisui counters flatly, ignoring his cousin’s scathing look. “...tell you what. Just...go out for the afternoon. You don’t even have to talk to anyone. But gods above Sasuke, you have to experience more of Konoha than this house. You want to save it, right? Change it for the better? Then don’t be such a stranger to it. People are already wary of you given your status of missing nin, no matter your reasoning behind it. The more you hide away and give them the cold shoulder, the harder it’s gonna be to convince them that what you want to do here is for the betterment of the village. They’ve got work to do to re-earn your trust...but so do you. Otherwise you’re gonna come off as an asshole shoving his weight around without really knowing Konoha. You ‘abandoned’ it. So come back. Truly.”

“Tch…” In all reality, it was Konoha that abandoned him, but...he knows Shisui is right. He’s not scared of the villagers, but rather...apprehensive. As his cousin notes, he isn’t on the best of terms with them, nor them with him. He’s already so damn tired, so worn from all he’s gone through. The thought of picking up yet another cause, another battle, has been daunting.

...but he’s not afraid. He’s not about to let Konoha think it scares him.

So, after a moment of silent internal debate, he rolls up his scroll, tying the parchment shut before getting to his feet. “...fine.”

“Atta boy. Show no fear, eh?”

That earns a cool glance, but no verbal retort as he heads for the door and into the large, empty expanse of the clan compound. To his annoyance, the autumn sunlight actually makes him squint.

...maybe he has been cooped up too long.

Mentally preparing himself for the glances, gawking, and glowers, Sasuke follows the forming path between the lone Uchiha household...and the village proper. Thankfully it leads into quiet residential neighborhoods first, and not the noise and bustle of the village belly.

Even so, a few residents look up from their yards and their porches. He considers cheating a bit and using a henge, but...that largely defeats the purpose. Instead, he ignores the eyes on him and just...keeps going, winding his way around the quieter parts of the village.

Hi no Kuni is just on the brink of tumbling from Autumn into Winter, a definite chill in the air. Mulling over the fact that it will be snowing soon, Sasuke almost misses a soft inquiry of his name.

“...Sasuke-kun?”

Stopping a full pace later, he blinks before turning. There’d been a subconscious tightening of his muscles at his name and the suffix, fearing Sakura. But the tone was too soft, too gentle to be her demanding bark for attention. Instead, he sees someone he admittedly almost forgot existed: Hyūga Hinata. One of his classmates from back in the day. But despite her aging since he last even looked her way, he never forgets a face. “...Hyūga,” he offers in reply.

At his acknowledgement, she steps a bit closer. Her outfit is accented by a long coat and a scarf. “...sorry, I…” A pause. “...at first, I...wasn’t sure it was you. I haven’t seen you much since the end of the war.”

You haven’t seen me at all, he wants to counter, but thinks better of it. She’s just trying to be polite in addressing his complete ghosting. “I’ve been staying home a lot.”

“...I see. Going for a walk…?”

“Though I’d get some fresh air.” The meaningless small talk is slowly bringing an itch in the back of his mind, demanding he leave. But this is what Shisui was talking about: dipping his toes back in. And who better than someone he barely remembers, let alone has any reason to detest?

At his reply, she smiles. “It does a person good,” is her agreement. “I was just on my way back from visiting Tenten-chan. She lives out here, in the residential district.”

...he’s not sure what to say to that. “...I see.”

“...I…” Another pause - is she always so hesitant when speaking? “...forgive me if this is a little, um...forward, Sasuke-kun. But aren’t you...cold?”

He blinks. In truth he did completely skip over any preparation for his little outing, too engrossed in Shisui’s nagging. “I��m fine.”

“Are you sure? I have a spare -?”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

His blunt, almost callous reply earns a flinch back, clearly not expecting it. And for some reason, Sasuke finds himself immediately regretting it...but unsure how to take it back.

“...o-okay. Um...well, I...guess I’ll leave you to your walk.” Somehow, her voice seems even softer, almost...sad? “Have...have a good afternoon, Sasuke-kun.”

He grimaces as she walks past him. Fix this, idiot! “Hyūga.”

She pauses, glancing back.

For a long moment, jaw clenched, Sasuke battles with himself over what to do. And to her credit, Hinata waits patiently, if not without a fair share of confusion. “...I...wasn’t snapping at you.”

Large, pale eyes blink. “...I understand -”

“No, I…” He sighs, a hand running back through his hair as he thinks. “...I’m still...adjusting. And...I’m not very good at...this.” A hand gestures vaguely, not...really explaining what this is.

But Hinata seems to comprehend, brightening just a hair, turning to face him fully. “...it...must be strange,” she agrees gently. “I know we, um...we never really spoke. And I regret that. Surely being here is difficult for you, given…” She fades out, appearing unsure how much she should say. “...but I just...wanted you to know that you’re welcome here. I can’t speak for...for everyone. And maybe not everyone feels that way. But Konoha is your home, so long as...you choose it to be. And I hope things improve for you. If you need anything, please just let me know. I’d be glad to help.” She offers another smile, this one far warmer than the first.

In spite of himself, Sasuke stares at her for a long moment in genuine surprise. “...thanks,” is all he can muster in reply.

“I hope to see you around more often,” Hinata adds, hands folding at her front. “Don’t let your apprehension hold you back, Sasuke-kun. Everything is changing. And...you should be able to take part in it, too. You helped protect this chance at change, after all.” She then gives a small, polite bow. “Enjoy the rest of your walk.”

Still not sure what to say, he nods in return, watching her go. That was...not what he expected. And in a way, he can’t help but be thankful that was his first encounter: odds are anything else would have been far worse. Mulling it all over, he eventually decides to then cut his adventure short. Not very long, but...well, he wants to keep it from being ruined by anything else. And he can always have another go some other day.

...maybe he’ll have a chance to try that again and not be so...well...that.

Blegh, still not fully caught up, but...at least falling no further behind? :’D This is a bit random and not precisely what I was aiming for when I started, but...I think it turned out all right. I’ve never written Sasuke and Hinata’s very first encounter post-war. Ones soon after, but not the first. Not sure I got it quite how I wanted, but I mean...this is a random event drabble, not the fic itself. So I guess I can forgive it xD One of the key things about SH to me is 1. Sasuke’s lack of interaction with Hinata pre-war, and thus having no qualms about her, and 2. Hinata’s sweet nature and what I’m sure would be understanding once she heard even the barest of details concerning what he went through...let alone everything she ends up knowing (down the road) in this story. You bet your bonnet that as a member of a large Konoha clan, and someone of import in that clan who had her own share of difficulties with both internal and external politics, she’d be one of the first to rally with Sasuke for change and justice. But that’s just my two cents, and at 2am no less, so take them with a grain of salt :P On that note tho it is definitely time for bed lol - thanks so much for reading, and I’ll see you next time!

#sasuhinabigflash2020 #shbf2020 #sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #uchiha shisui #a light amongst shadows [ canon verse ]

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aquilaofarkham · 4 years

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title: half spent was the night rating: mature (canon-typical violence, blood, coarse language) summary: Upon receiving an ominous invitation, Trevor Belmont, Sypha Belnades, and Alucard attend a strange wedding during a winter night where not everything is as it seems and the veil between the living and the dead is thinner than ever.

AO3

DECEMBER 24

The scroll sits on his desk, unopened and untouched amongst scattered piles of books and other papers left neglected for some time. Sparingly, Alucard’s train of thought will latch itself onto it while he sets about completing another mundane chore of the hour. It’s only when he enters the study does his gaze drift away, drawn towards the piece of rolled parchment held together by a red wax seal. Even from a distance he sees its emblem—a sparrow carrying a branch of mistletoe in its beak.

How seasonally appropriate, he thinks, looking more sullen than usual.

Alucard received the scroll the same way most ghost stories begin. There was a sound at the castle entrance that he could not ignore. Knock. Knock. Knock. Each pound echoing throughout the corridors like a persistent drumbeat. The steady beat within his own chest quickened, his ind a flurry of quick, presumptuous answers to his one question—have they returned? Yet upon opening the massive door, he found nobody. No familiar face, not even a messenger. Only what they left behind.

Another wayward glance towards the parchment. Alucard can still smell the cinnamon and roasted chestnuts as strong as it was when he picked it up the day before. He’s tried to bury the memory of his father. There’s no sense in dwelling over dead things. But something he said a long time ago haunts Alucard now more than ever. A warning about strange parcels that might be left on his front doorstep.

“If ever in late December you receive a letter sealed with a sparrow and a mistletoe, do not open it.” Those words used to confuse Alucard. Why should Dracula fear a simple letter? Until he discovered much later that the warning was never meant for the castle lord himself, but for his wife and child.

He knows his history and is fully aware of the story behind such a letter. Yet ominous memories and facts from the past are not enough to dissuade Alucard’s innate sense of curiosity—one of many traits he inherited from his mother. He is an adult now, and ghosts do not scare him. They only cause him melancholy.

Tired of his own hesitation, Alucard picks up the scroll and breaks the seal with a sharpened nail. The parchment feels soft under his fingertips, surprisingly so. He unravels it and reads, just to confirm his suspicions. First, he notices the calligraphy; familiar, recognizable, most likely commissioned by a monk. Yet the lettering hasn’t been in popular use for centuries. Then the message itself:

Thou art cordially invited to attend the joining of Lady Sofia Cel Tradat and Sir Darius Lupei in holy matrimony on the thirty-first evening of December. The celebration of this blessed union between houses shall be witnessed at Castle Cel Tradat upon sundown.

Stationed at the very top of the invitation are two crests, one that shows a feral wolf holding an arrow in its fangs. Beside it is the very same sparrow with the same mistletoe. Alucard sits at the desk, his chin resting upon his fist thoughtfully. There are two normal reactions one can have when receiving a wedding invitation. First being joy, then apathy. Indifference. Alucard feels neither. It’s not fear that grips him, yet the ink words creep through his bloodstream like the very same ghosts who reach out to him. Not fear, but instead an odd sort of resolve.

He leaves the study and makes the long, cold trek through the freshly fallen snow then down to the underground archives. The newly built staircase creaks under his weight but Alucard is light on his feet. Large portraits obscured by curtains displaying the Belmont crest surround him as he descends. Maybe one day he’ll finally unveil whatever’s behind those curtains. The hold itself hasn’t changed much—perhaps a bit neater, better organized, and with less bloodstains.

The mirror is where he left it: centre of the room near the directory. Alucard runs a hand across the cracks in its glass then over the newly engraved runes along its frame. Hopefully everything will work. Hopefully they will hear him this time.

Who knows how long it’s been since Trevor Belmont last greeted his days with a gruelling hangover—an awful habit, which he doesn’t miss. The groan that escapes his lips as he stretches upon his makeshift bed is one that comes from a night well slept, not a headache that pounds away behind his eyes. Bright winter sunlight streams in through the slight opening of the canvas. The wagon feels cramped but also warm and safe.

Trevor sits up, surrounded by their provisions, and sees Sypha right where he left her. Close by his side, securely curled up within her own little fortress of blankets. The sight amuses him, especially since she’s the only one who can walk through snow while wearing nothing but sandals upon her feet. A few more minutes sleeping next to her won’t hurt.

Something rattling inside the wagon catches his attention, causing Trevor to jump slightly. Must be a rat trying to steal what little food they have left. He grumbles at this slight morning annoyance before lazily pushing aside every container in order to find this little devil. It’s a wonder how Sypha can sleep through the sound of boxes and heavy burlap sacks being tossed about. Trevor finally reaches the source of all that noise: a thin rectangular travel case shaking on its own.

Funny... He thinks, not terribly concerned with its sudden jerking movements. The rat probably found a way inside and now can’t get itself out. I don’t remember packing this. Trevor opens the lock only to stare down into a pile of broken glass, as though whatever was in there had already been shattered beyond repair. But he saves his expletives for when the shards come to life, dancing in the air before they form a small mirror. Trevor stumbles backwards and stares into his reflection—awestruck, confused, a little bit panicked. It soon dissipates until he comes face to face with familiar golden eyes.

“Can you hear me, Belmont?” Asks the vision of Alucard... if it really is Alucard. Trevor might still be asleep, and this is only some wishful dream. “Let’s try this again. Can you hear me?” No answer yet; Trevor needs a moment to settle on one question at a time while they’re spinning in his head.

“... a nod of the head or a simple ‘fuck’ would be helpful.”

“How are you doing this? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m using the distance mirror from your family’s museum. With the repaired runes, it can once again be used for communication as well as observation. Only with other distance mirrors, of course.”

Oddly enough, this is all beginning to make sense to Trevor. “That’s why you looked so... cracked. When did you even pack this thing in our caravan?”

“Right before you and Sypha left. I thought I could surprise you both.”

“Well, you sure as shit surprised me.” He taps one of the levitating shards and watches it spin back into place. “This is the strangest thing...”

“You’ve seen far stranger.”

“Trevor, why are you talking so loud...” Complains Sypha, her words slurring together as she forces herself out of a heavy sleep. Her half-lidded eyes open wide at the sight of Alucard in the mirror. He smiles, glad to see the absence of bandages on her arm and shoulders. After exclaiming his name, she climbs over Trevor, shoving her hand into the side of his face (not on purpose) in an excitable attempt to get closer. So much for feeling tired.

“Is this another distance mirror? Why is it smaller? Or is it meant for travel? Are you using the one back at the hold?”

“Good morning to you as well, Sypha. Has this one gotten you into any trouble lately?”

“Actually, she gets me into trouble more often.”

Sypha ignores Trevor, entirely fascinated by this ground-breaking method of communication. Already her frantic mind begins to conjure up ways in which it could help the Speakers. “How are you, Alucard? And why have you waited so long to speak with us like this?”

Alucard doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he wasn’t waiting all this time. That he’s tried over and over again, yet could never reach them. It doesn’t matter; he can see them now and there are more important matters at hand. “Poor management of time on my part. I’ve actually reached out because I am in need of assistance.”

“With what?” We’ve done away with one existential threat to humanity, don’t tell me there’s another already. Trevor holds his tongue, biting back his irritable thoughts. He’s gotten better at it; maybe one day he won’t even acknowledge them.

“It would be better if I showed you.”

“That means we would have to travel back to the castle.” Sypha’s point is valid, but she doesn’t make it sound like a hardship. In fact, Trevor and Alucard think they hear the slightest hint of excitement in her voice. Why shouldn’t she be? There’s still much within Dracula’s laboratories and libraries which she hasn’t yet uncovered with her own eyes hungry for more knowledge. Trevor on the other hand feels a twinge of apprehension. True, the castle has been subdued but the Belmonts have always been taught to remain wary of a vampire’s abode. At least he trusts the new lord of this one.

“I realize how tall of a request this is, as I presume you two have been traveling for some time now. But I would prefer it if I saw both of you in person.”

Alucard’s stoic, near professional composure cracks when he catches a better view of Trevor’s face. There it is again—another one of his wry grins. The kind that forms on its own whenever the Belmont is about to say something stupid. Yet those who live in glass houses should not throw stones. Alucard has also said his fair share of stupid things directed at Trevor. While he would be caught dead if he admitted to this, he’s glad to see that unmistakable smile along with the man behind it.

“Aw you missed us, didn’t you? You can say it, we promise we won’t judge.”

Sypha clasps a hand over Trevor’s mouth before another syllable can crawl out of it. “It would be no inconvenience to us, Alucard. We will leave now and be at the castle within the next day or so.”

“I look forward to it. Safe travels.” Alucard’s last words before he’s left staring into his own fractured reflection. At the same time, countless of miles away from the castle, Sypha and Trevor watch as the mirror shards gracefully return back into the box until they’re needed once again.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask if he’ll be preparing dinner for us.” Trevor’s little quip is rewarded with the sudden feeling of Sypha’s foot pressed against his lower back. Giggling, she gently pushes him towards the front.

“Up you get. Remember, you’re still in charge of the reins.”

“Easy now, I was just asleep.”

“You woke up before me!”

Their wagon is situated between two towns, yet close to neither of them. All that surrounds them are trees, fields, and mountains— everything blurs together in a painting of deep greens and the endless white of snow. But Wallachia is not a terribly large country and they always know where to go.

DECEMBER 25

Sypha blows into her cupped hands, warming them while they drive down yet another road that cuts through dense forestry. Skeleton trees all around, straight as the bars of a cage. There’s the sound of fresh snow crunching beneath the horses’ hooves coupled with the caw of a nearby crow or two. It’s like those damn birds will never leave Wallachia, even in the coldest seasons. She recognizes this pathway, as does Trevor. He remembers to say good morning to his beloved tree (perhaps his oldest friend) and makes the incorrect assumption that Sypha can’t really hear him. Just as she thinks he can’t feel her arm tighten around his.

The road begins to widen and soon they arrive at the gutted remains of a family’s legacy. Trevor huddles into the fur of his new cloak, breathing out a soft huff of frozen air. There used to be a sharp pain that gouged its way into the very pit of his chest whenever he looked upon these ruins. Like the tip of a needle that’s been shoved into the still burning embers of a slowly dying fire as a cruel joke. A reminder that he never left his home behind.

Of course, Trevor never allowed himself to show it— not consciously. It hurts less, now that the manor is in better hands. At least the walls are still standing. Maybe one day while he’s still young and able, he’ll put down the Morningstar, pick up a hammer, and get to work.

Soon another structure comes into view, far more imposing than a pile of old stones. Standing as tall as the mountains, a maze of spiked towers and bridges going in all directions. Dracula’s castle was once filled with an ever-present orchestra of steam and working gears. These days, it remains unnaturally silent —as though it shouldn’t really exist.

Trevor and Sypha believed that before. It’s strange to think and even stranger to admit, but they’re glad the castle exists, all due to its current lord. A few more trots forward and they already see him waiting patiently by the grand steps leading up to the massive front door. He greets his two guests with a smile.

“Welcome back.”

Sypha is the first to jump out of the wagon and run towards Alucard, joyfully exclaiming his name. His body goes stiff, his expression more surprised as she suddenly wraps her arms around him. He was expecting a friendly “hello” or “it’s good to see you again”. Perhaps it has been too long.

“Oh... I, ah...” Alucard returns the embrace not uncomfortably, but stunned, nonetheless. “It’s... nice to see that both of you are in good health.”

“You’re looking rather stately as well.”

“Yes, well...” He searches for a better response to Trevor’s comment only to find himself empty-headed and feeling more awkward than before. They hold themselves so casually, speaking as old friends should. To his relief, Alucard regains his equilibrium and tries matching their nonchalance. “Come in. We have much to discuss.” He turns to the castle, leaving Trevor and Sypha a bit put off.

“Right to the ugly business, eh?”

“We were hoping to tell you about our travels... at least a little.”

Upon hearing the utter dejection in Sypha’s voice (coupled with the always recognizable snark of Trevor’s), Alucard stops. He faces them with a soft, penitent gaze. Always speaking too soon, more from the head, less from the heart, much to his and everyone else’s detriment. “And you shall. I want to hear everything. Every adventure, every mischief... but I’d rather not delay any fur—”

Trevor raises a hand. “It’s fine, Alucard. Just tell us what you need help with so badly.”

“Then it will be our turn to talk your ears off.”

Still wounded by his own unintentional single-minded thinking, Alucard manages another smile. “I would like that very much. But as you said, let’s get this... ugly business out of the way first.”

They follow him up the snow-covered steps, cloaks and robes billowing in the cold breeze, wondering how “ugly” this business really is.

“Need a hand up there?”

“I will be down in a moment. I just need to find it...”

Trevor and Sypha have already heard those exact words—multiple times, in fact. They can’t even see Alucard as he searches the shelves that curve around them in a perfect circle. It’s not that there’s no enjoyment to be found sitting in Dracula’s library, marveling at every book and tome amassed over centuries while they wait for his son. But one can only stare up at each level spiraling higher towards the heavens for so long without feeling the slightest bit bored. Trevor is far more antsy, still getting used to the castle as a whole.

The very antithesis of what Sypha felt the moment Alucard led them through the door. She mentally congratulates herself for keeping the excitement in check, despite her growing desire to comb through every forbidden page until her fingertips become bloody and raw. Hopefully there will be time for that should she and Trevor decide to extend their visit.

“Here it is,” announces Alucard from some unseen level. Before either of them can stand up, he jumps—or rather glides down and lands on two feet with poise while holding a book that barely fits underneath his arm. The pages, so thick they’re near to bursting out of their binding, have turned brown and tattered along each edge. Even sitting from afar, Sypha notices these minuscule details before Alucard can join them on the cushioned bench. Trevor tries to get a closer look at its cover but with the obstruction of Alucard’s arm and the old lettering, he has difficulty making out the title.

“You wanted us to come all this way for some light reading?” He asks as the dhampir squeezes between him and Sypha.

“No. I wanted you to come all this way to read this.” Reaching into a pocket of his robe, Alucard withdraws the letter. It looks deceptively harmless in his hand. He unscrolls it and waits for the message to be read by new eyes. In the silence, Trevor touches the parchment between his thumb and index finger slowly, thoughtfully, and with the right amount of care. Just as Alucard did when he first received it.

“This feels new... but no one writes invitations like these anymore.”

“I recognize this calligraphy. It’s ancient, isn’t it.”

Alucard interjects, significantly more comfortable with the letter’s presence now that others have examined it. “Mid 12th century. Not entirely ancient, but old enough to remain somewhat alien to our own time.”

Trevor sits back and leaves the scroll to Sypha’s capable hands. “So the Cel Tradats obviously know their history. They want to show off their nobility and wealth through the wedding of their daughter Sofia. Well done to them and to her. What’s the issue, then?”

Without giving either side of him a slight glance, Alucard begins flipping through the book. “Sofia Cel Tradat has been dead for two centuries.” Said as though it were a simple fact. Expressions harden as everyone’s collective gaze settles on a page with gold and red lettering that shines in the light. Painted vines creep along the sides like the ones sheltering the Belmont manor.

“Sometime during the late 12th century, a minor civil war broke out between two noble families—the Cel Tradats and the Lupeis...” Alucard’s fingertip ghosts over the exaggerated sparrows and wolves that intermingle with the surrounding vine.

“The dispute concerned territory in the Carpathian Mountains. Eventually, money for the Lupei family ran completely dry and they had already suffered more losses than the other side. So they were forced to surrender on their own volition, but as a sign of good faith, the patriarch offered to marry off one of his sons in an effort to unite the two houses. Lucky for him, the Cel Tradats had a daughter named Sofia who was of age and yet to be wed.”

“You mentioned something about lack of funds,” interrupts Trevor. “Did Lupei really want to unite the houses or was he just looking for a sizable dowry?”

“That may have been the case, but it’s not important to us.” Alucard lets his annoyance drip off every word. At least it’s a sign that Trevor’s been paying attention thus far. “Despite the arranged marriage, it’s said that Sofia grew to admire her fiancee in the weeks leading up to the wedding.”

“However...” Sypha voices just what Trevor is thinking. There is always some sort of “however” with these particular stories.

“Not everyone was happy with the arrangement, especially on the Lupei side. The matriarch thought this entire affair was a sign of weakness. Her husband had lost the war, willingly surrendered, and was now marrying off her last remaining child to the enemy. She hated them all and saw only one way to restore honour to the Lupei name.’

The wedding ceremony itself was perfect and both parties behaved. But during the celebration, Sofia Cel Tradat was stabbed by a Lupei assassin while the rest of her family were either poisoned or assaulted themselves. They wouldn’t even spare her husband from their blades. There was no mercy for traitors of their house.”

“That’s terrible...” Sypha’s voice is low and her gaze unfocused, turned away from the open book.

“It does not stop there. Despite bleeding out, Sofia watched as her entire bloodline was being destroyed and became consumed with rage for the Lupei matriarch.” Alucard turns the page to an illustration that might as well have been ripped from the Belmont’s family bestiary; two women engaged in a violent clash, one with blood covering her open mouth as though she were a vampire.

“Sofia stumbled towards Lady Lupei, knocked her to the floor, and tore out her throat with her own teeth and fingernails. During this, any Cel Tradat who wasn’t dead yet started attacking the nearest Lupei. That night, Castle Cel Tradat was filled with over a hundred people, but only a small handful of guards who saw what happened walked away alive.’

‘Since then, those who pass by the abandoned castle on the last day of the year claim to see lights and hear music coming from inside. Every December, nobles and lords receive the very same invitation in your hands. Those foolish enough to accept are never seen again. Dracula always warned my mother and I in case one ever found its way to us.”

He closes the book, his palm lingering atop the front cover a second longer. “Seems Sofia Cel Tradat finally found the Tepes family.”

An air of silence, thick and unavoidable, once again passes over all three as they let the story sink into their thoughts. Trevor is the first to speak up after letting out a less-than subdued “fuck” under his breath. “That’s quite the winter ghost story. But how does it concern us?”

“I’ve decided to accept her invitation.”

Sypha narrows her eyes; perhaps she misheard Alucard. “You just said those who do that are foolish.”

“It must have been foolish of me to oppose my father, yet I did it anyway. I’ve accepted because there might be a way to help Sofia. It’s been said that when a person dies while deep in the throes of an intense hatred, a curse is born upon that soul, forcing them to remain in this world. Reliving the very moment of their death over and over again until something changes.”

“You’re talking about exorcising the spirit of a centuries old bride who ripped out her mother-in-law’s throat with her own bloody teeth.” It’s no surprise to Alucard or Sypha that Trevor would speak so plainly. Exorcism must have been his family’s bread and butter, along with the more common business of bestial slayings.

“You make her sound like a monster.”

Trevor contemplates for a moment, resting his elbows on both knees. “Not exactly. Shit, I honestly respect the poor girl for what she did. Still, she sounds like a force to be reckoned with.”

“You could be right. But this curse clearly isn’t any fault of Sofia’s. She was betrayed; the attempt on her life and the lives of her family occurred during her own wedding. Of course she would want to take immediate revenge. The fact that this event took place during Yule might have also contributed in some fashion.”

“Why do you think so?” Inquires Sypha.

“Originally, Yuletide referred to the days between winter solstice and the new year. During this time, it was believed that a veil separating the seen from the unseen world grew thin. This allowed for certain things to pass through—ghosts, the Wild Hunt, and the like.”

Sypha perks up at the mention of such a festivity. “I know the Wild Hunt. We never celebrated Yule, but my family used to hear stories about it from locals whenever we traveled... then again, they were always meant to frighten the younger ones so they would go to bed earlier.”

“That does not surprise me. There are less than savoury tales involving the Wild Hunt. I remember my father entertaining us every dark midwinter’s night with stories he heard himself. In any case, Sofia doesn’t deserve to continue suffering like this. I believe there’s a way for her soul to finally be put to rest.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing. What do you need us for?” Trevor doesn’t mean to sound cynical, but the tone of his voice says otherwise. He’s still trying to shed that former version of himself.

For your companionship. “From my experience, there is always strength in numbers. And I don’t know what to do or where to start... not really.”

Trevor gives him an empathetic nod. He himself knows what it’s like to give off the illusion of knowing—he’s practically mastered it. Though Trevor never thought he would hear Alucard of all people admit to something like that. “Then I guess it’s back down into that museum you love so much.”

“So, will you help me?”

“What do you think our answer is? No? We’ve already done this before, one more time shouldn’t hurt. Besides, I’ve never been to a wedding. Should be fun.”

“Sypha?” He looks to her for a similar response. She stays quiet for a moment, uncharacteristically so, but raises her gaze to match Alucard’s.

“We did not come all this way just to leave again.” Sypha rolls up the invitation before handing it back to Alucard. “Now would you like to hear about our travels over a hot drink?”

Neither man wants to refuse her offer, especially not Trevor. Letting out a sigh of what sounds like relief, he stands up and follows Sypha to the door. Alucard would join them, another introverted smile on his lips, until the smell of cinnamon and chestnuts returns. It briefly lingers in the air until something changes. He fiddles with the parchment, his senses slowly overwhelmed by the creeping stench of rotting flesh.

Trevor and Sypha are already out of the library before either of them can smell it as well.

DECEMBER 27

Sypha Belnades gets to tell her stories. The evening of her return to Castle Dracula, she’s quick to fill Alucard’s head with tales of the somewhat heroic deeds she accomplished alongside Trevor. Every road their humble little caravan came across, they disposed of the remaining night creatures who continued to plague the shadows, stumbling from place to place, searching for their next prey. Lost, hungry, and with no master they could crawl back to. Killing them was almost a mercy. The duo had found themselves in far direr circumstances with certain men of the cloth who brandished false words and insidious influence than they did with fangs and claws.

There are the softer stories. When the two of them wore crowns made from wildflowers and were convinced by other Speakers to join in their celebratory practices. Sypha still makes light of Trevor’s two left feet, despite his honest attempts. Then as reparation, she recounts the day when she took him to the beaches of the Black Sea and how he stared in awe at the open waters with their hues of lapis lazuli and turquoise. Awe and a sense of peace he thought had been forever lost to him. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t need to.

Alucard’s gaze instinctively glances to his side and sees a familiar blush warming Trevor’s cheeks.

All three spend the evening in content spirits, despite the dark task that lies ahead of them. Yet now as Sypha sits at one of the worktables in Dracula’s bright laboratory, combing through tome after tome, a pervasive feeling dulls her usually sharp focus. It’s not boredom, god no. She could never get bored in a castle like this. It’s more of a melancholy; not as intense as that night down in the Belmont Hold when Trevor offered his dusty blanket to her and they sat together in the glow of a single candle. Yet it makes her just as tired, just as depressive.

Sypha’s finger flips over another heavy page, her eyes half-lidded, skimming over the words. I feel like I’m slowly turning into Alucard by the day, she thinks, a little bittersweetly.

In the midst of her daze, she hears a rough yet understated voice coming from behind her. It reminds her of rich coffee mixed with more than a hint of whiskey. She enjoys both, much to her own surprise. “You’re a hard person to find.”

“What makes you say that?” Sypha closes the book, an easy smile on her face, and turns around to face Trevor.

“Thought I’d find you down in some corner of the archives.”

“I like it here. The castle gives me something different to look at... and something different to think about. You might disagree.”

Trevor awkwardly scratches the back of his head; a way of confirming Sypha’s assumption. “At least it looks, err, neater than how we left it.”

“I think Alucard has been busy since we last saw him.” A pause, then a change of topic. “Did the Belmonts ever receive one of those invitations?”

“Not that I can remember. Either they were destroyed, or we never got them since Yule wasn’t something we celebrated.” Despite the tense way he carries himself close to Dracula’s scientific instruments, Trevor aimlessly wanders around the laboratory while speaking. He’d be lying if he said there wasn’t something about these contraptions that fascinated him.

“I doubt Dracula ever celebrated it either.”

“Maybe those spirits saw a kinship with him. Creatures of the night always flock together, remember? Like flies to an open stable.”

“That is disgusting.”

“But an apt analogy, no?”

“No.” Sypha laughs, causing Trevor to join in. It quiets down before dying completely when that pervasive feeling comes back, souring the mood. The expression in Sypha’s eyes and on her face changes—it no longer feels right to smile. As much as she appreciates Trevor’s attempt at a casual conversation, somehow it feels wrong to make light of their mission. She looks to the floor, wondering if she should really get back to work.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing. I’m just tired.”

“I’ve heard that excuse before.”

“Really, nothing’s wrong.”

Trevor still won’t take that as a good enough answer. He’s far more perceptive than most believe him to be. “You’ve gone quiet and you’re staring at your feet. That means something’s eating away at you. What is it?”

“It...” Sypha crosses both arms across her chest, encasing herself in a cocoon made from her own baggy robes. “It is difficult to put into words.”

“You’re not happy here.”

“No! I am! And I’m happy to see Alucard again. But it always seems like all three of us are brought together because of a monster or dire situation.”

“Always? It’s only happened twice.”

Twice is enough. A sign, or rather an omen of patterns that have yet to happen. For Sypha, twice is one too many. “I only wish for us to be like other friends. Spend time together without worry or urgency and do things not involving some threat to humanity.”

Her lamentations are reasonable, and they spark a twinge of empathy within Trevor—perhaps even revelation. What he wouldn’t give to have all three of them settle down and live their lives without blood caked underneath their fingernails or the threat of being ripped apart by something inhuman. But whatever unseen higher power must have said no. Sypha was right (again); god truly does hate them.

Trevor tries to rationalize as best he can. “Maybe it’s alright if we’re not like normal friends. You have to admit, none of us are particularly ‘normal’ people to begin with.”

Sypha cocks an eyebrow. “Are you calling me strange?”

“I’m calling everyone strange, myself included.” She doesn’t know how that answer is supposed to make her feel better, yet it does. Trevor always has his own peculiar way with words. His eyes then briefly light up as he reaches into one of the pouches attached to his belt. “Almost forgot. I came here to give you this.” Something calls from his hand before dangling from a thin chain—a six-pointed star made from silver, the bane of every night creature.

“A Magen David?” Sypha takes the necklace and holds it in her palms, unfortunately cracked and turned dry from the frigid air outside. It’s simple, maybe even the simplest piece of jewelry she’s ever seen, but it feels heavy. Sacred.

“Found a couple of those down in the Hold; enough for all three. They’re meant to protect the wearer. Went looking for them last time we were there but couldn’t find any in time. It’s not much...”

“It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Trevor almost returns a smile to Sypha until a knife plunges its way into the centre of his back—at least it feels that way. A sharp pain that slowly dulls while coursing through his body as easy as the blood in his veins. He grits his teeth behind closed lips, trying to hide the discomfort but like Trevor, Sypha is perceptive.

“Everything alright? Did you injure yourself?”

“Might have. My fucking back and chest have been itching to be the death of me for a couple days now.”

“I didn’t know you were that old,” Sypha giggles. Trevor’s reaction is amusingly frustrated.

“I’m not.”

“You should speak to Alucard about your pain. He might be able to help.”

“Well, I did plan on finding him but how would he know what to do?”

“His mother was a doctor. He might have inherited some of her knowledge.” Trevor heads towards the door, even when Sypha isn’t finished talking yet. He needs to listen and hopefully learn from this last piece of advice. “You could also use this opportunity to settle your differences.”

She receives a flippant scoff in response. Typical. “I’ve already settled my differences with him.”

“You know what I mean, Trevor.”

He does, but only after a moment of thought. There’s no witty comeback, no stubborn retaliation, and no self-preserving denial; only acceptance. He and Alucard haven’t really made up—not in the way that adults are supposed to. Some things need to be settled through words and not only through vaguely charitable acts. Trevor leaves Sypha to her own work with the tentative hope that Alucard will feel just as willing.

The castle is alive.

Dracula said this to his son the day he took him into the engine room. Adrian was getting old enough, thus it was about time for the boy to learn. Despite his grand stature looming over everyone and everything, Dracula always felt dwarfed by the massive gears and pumps emitting billows of steam. His son even more so; like a mouse amongst the giants that breathed life into his own home.

But the lord of vampires was secure in the knowledge that Adrian wouldn’t remain a mouse for much longer. Soon he would have power, duties, and responsibilities. Which was why Dracula felt it necessary to show him the very ribcage of the castle along with its ever-beating heart stationed at the front—a geometric device hovering above a pedestal that rotated on command without a single touch of one’s finger. A bloodless, meatless organ in which Dracula poured his very intellect and soul into.

Now it means nothing. Pieces of black iron and dirtied gold lay scattered upon the very altar that once held them. Worthless. At least to a stranger’s naked eye. Alucard holds up one of the triangles against the bright winter sunlight pouring through the towering windows. It seems as though he’s done this a hundred times before and always comes to the same conclusion: the castle cannot be fixed.

And yet it remains alive, now more so than ever. Alucard noticed this immediately. In his efforts to create the perfect machination that bent to his every will, Dracula must have miscalculated. For when does a home feel truly alive? When there are beating hearts residing within its walls.

Alucard almost loses himself in his own thoughts—a common occurence—until he hears footsteps close behind. Followed by an exasperated “fucking finally...”

“You still know how to announce yourself.” Without turning around, he places the castle’s broken heart back with its brothers and sisters as the familiar presence draws nearer.

“And you’ve still mastered the art of sulking off by yourself.”

“What do you need, Belmont? Usually you don’t come to me willingly unless you want to say something important or crude.”

“It’s not all that important.”

“Then it must be crude.”

Another flinch from Trevor, which Alucard notices out of the corner of his eye. But the hunter manages a smile. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” A second mildly humorous jab almost makes its way out into the open until Trevor receives a look which tells him he should choose his next words very carefully, so he does. “I do need your help with something.”

“Yes, I can see that now.”

“How?”

“You’re slouching more than usual, and you seem discomforted.”

Sure, if you want to use that term. “It’s my back and chest. Must have been all those nights sleeping in that cramped wagon or swinging around the whip, but I’m worried it’ll get worse before it gets better. You know more about medicine than anybody else so...”

Alucard’s cold expression melts; did he just hear a hint of bashfulness in that last sentence? How interesting. Normally Sypha’s the only one who can bring out that hidden side of Trevor. It’s more than enough to convince Alucard. “Alright. Let me have a look at it.” He walks down the altar steps and gestures for Trevor to follow him.

“Wait, just like that?”

“I’m not cruel, Belmont. And I can’t have you injured right before we make our way to Castle Cel Tradat.”

They leave the engine room, which bears more of a resemblance to some grotesque art installation with melted gears and pillars that have hardened over a period of time than a well-oiled facility. “Is that why you’re up here? Trying to figure out how to move this thing so we don’t have to travel like regular human beings.”

“We’ll arrive fine enough using that old wagon of yours.”

“But is it actually possible to get the castle working again?”

Alucard leads Trevor into a different, smaller room filled with more books, more glass vials, and decides to leave the question open-ended. He would have answered a while ago: “this castle is as dead as the man who created it”. Now he’s not so certain. “Sit up on the table.” A convenient way of diverging the subject, to which Trevor thankfully doesn’t pry about any further.

“Am I your first patient?”

“Only if you don’t count childhood toys and small animals.”

Trevor glances over his shoulder at Alucard, whose hands are hovering dangerously close to his body. He lets out a regrettable chuckle. “That wasn’t meant to be taken literally, right?”

“You will be fine. You said it was your back and chest that hurt the most, correct?” Trevor mumbles out a presumable “yes”. Alucard reaches around, placing his fingers upon his ribcage just below his left breast. His touch is firm like a doctor’s yet gentle like a friend’s. He presses into the soft flesh. “Breathe into this hand.” Trevor’s breaths are shaky despite his efforts to keep them long and deep. His ribs barely move due to the pain. He’s stiff, understandably so not only because of his ailment. Alucard tempers his hold on him.

“You’re very warm,” he says with a smile (grateful that Trevor can’t see it else he’d have to explain himself). But his statement is true; he can feel it even though the worn fabric. A comfortable, soothing warmth. If he’s not careful, his hand might sink into the hunter, followed by the rest of himself.

“Is that some kind of diagnosis?”

“No. Just an observation.” Perhaps a compliment as well if Alucard swallowed his lingering pride and just admitted to it.

His hands continue their course along Trevor’s back muscles, searching for any abnormalities, any sources of his irritation. He thinks about every scar and bruise he might have passed over. How many are small; small enough to heal on their own? How many did Trevor have to stitch up with his own bloody, trembling fingertips? As Alucard reaches the other side of his chest, he dismisses any questions concerning past scars. He knows Trevor wouldn’t want to talk about that—not with him. Not yet.

“Well? Am I going to live?”

“Oh, absolutely. It isn’t that serious. A few displaced ribs, that’s all.”

“... sorry, my ribs are what?”

“When you strain your body too much or have poor posture, your ribs can slide out of place. It’s common and easily fixed. I’m shocked this hasn’t happened to you sooner.”

“You know, it’s bad bedside manners to insult the patient.”

“And you would know a lot about manners.”

“Enough to fill a book.”

Alucard tries to hide his smirk—and another snide remark. A very short book, maybe. Adjusting the positions of his hands, he forces Trevor to sit up a bit straighter. “Start counting. You’ll feel much better before you reach ten.”

Unlikely, but Trevor plays along. “One... two... three... four... fi—Jesus fuck!” It lasts for only a few seconds, the feeling that every bone in his body has been broken apart then hastily put back together. At least it’s short-lived. Hand presses against chest as Trevor takes a breath, vocalizing his surprise and whatever’s left of the pain through long-winded gasps. Alucard pats his back, rather pleased with himself.

“Go rest and try not to move too strenuously. You’ll also need to hold something cool against your ribcage. I suggest a damp cloth.”

“Thanks.”

“No need. You could have done it yourself.”

“I still appreciate the help.”

Alucard could let things lie; he’s been blunt and honest with Trevor enough already. Yet his next question won’t leave him alone until it’s let loose. “Why did you come to me? Was it so we could bury the hatchet together?” He pretends to busy himself with another task, unable to watch Trevor’s expression—and unwilling to show his own. The response he receives is... unexpected. A strange sort of comfort.

“I buried that hatchet the moment you decided to stop swinging that needle of yours at me. I just enjoyed pushing your many, many buttons.”

“... I acted like a spiteful brat, didn’t I? You can say so.”

Still feeling tender from the sudden rearrangement of his bones, Trevor joins him as they stand in front of a cabinet filled with things both scientific and occult. Consolation is not the strongest suit of his. There was so little of it during his own life, giving it seems almost alien to him. But he tries. With a simple touch on Alucard’s shoulder, he tries. “We both did. At least we can admit to it now.”

Words stop there, for the moment. Trevor remains at Alucard’s side in an unsure manner. Is this how it’s done? Have they finally made up? Buried the hatchet as they put it? In the midst of his over-thinking, he remembers why else he sought out the dhampir. “Here.” Trevor slips the same Magen David necklace into his cold hand. “Sypha’s got one as well. Thought it might help us when we’re inside the castle.”

Alucard stares down, entranced by the piece of silver in his palm, prompting Trevor to say something a bit too revealing. “Once when I was fifteen, I tried to do some good and handed these around to local communities, so they’d be protected. Made them from sticks and twine I picked off from the roads... felt stupid doing it.”

“Efforts to commit good deeds are never stupid.” Alucard retorts, his voice softer than usual.

Thanks for the vote of confidence. “I managed to get a rabbi to bless them. They actually worked fine until...”

“Until what?”

“Nothing. Forget about it.”

The word “pogrom” tastes like bile in Trevor’s mouth. He’d like nothing more than to spit it out and stomp on it until it’s nothing more than a stain upon the stone floor. But he wants to leave this meeting with Alucard on a much lighter note—or as light as he can make it. “I’ll leave you to... whatever it was you were doing.”

“Trevor...” Before either one can realize what was just said in place of “Belmont”, Alucard swiftly regains his stoic composure. “A bath might also help. With your ribs, I mean.”

Trevor snorts. “Sure. For my ribs.” He leaves the room, determined to own the last witticism spoken between them. Alucard lets him have it, but not begrudgingly. He’s more focused on how the Magen David hangs perfectly in the v of his shirt’s neckline, sitting against his bare skin. It feels warm atop the scar, though that could be from when it was held in Trevor’s hand.

DECEMBER 31

The hunter, the scholar, and the former sleeping soldier make good use of their time. When the day comes and they follow the sun as it descends across the sky, each carries an arsenal of their own. Sypha’s head is full of new spells as though it might burst. Alucard’s sword is sharp enough to cut a single drop of ice water in half. Trevor’s belt is heavy with blades large and small, resting next to his beloved Morningstar. He might as well be married to it.

The Magen Davids hang off their necks, swaying and dangling with every bump the wagon drives over. Tiny pieces of armour they’ve put most of their faith in, but not all of it. The rest goes to each other for support, protection, and morale.

Up in the Carpathian Mountains, the wind blows differently. Through the dense woods, it howls and batters against the wagon’s canvas covering, blowing ice into exposed eyes and exposed skin. The three shelter themselves into the furs around their shoulders as best they can hoping to either wait out or outrun this squall. Then the mountains become quiet and clear the deeper they venture, like a graveyard in the dead of night. Not a single falling snowflake to obscure their vision. Until they turn round another corner on the road, kicking bits of snow and dirt into the ravine below.

The travelers hear Castle Cel Tradat before they see it. Jovial and celebratory music that cuts through the silence, growing in volume as they drive closer—just as Alucard described it. The castle itself seems humble; stout with thick walls and a set of four towers on each corner. Not a ruin similar to the Belmont abode and nowhere near the profuse architectural opulence of Dracula’s. From a distance, the dim torch fire that lines the entrance look like fireflies in the darkness.

They leave the wagon at the foot of the bridge; any closer and they fear something might happen to the horses. Trevor takes a moment to pat their snouts and gives them a few dried apple rings before catching up with his companions. In a rare sight to see (at the suggestion of Alucard no less), all three are dressed in the same dark tones save for their halos of grey fur.

“Someone should tell him we’re going to a wedding, not a funeral.” Trevor whispered to Sypha before they left. He soon realized the mistake of his comment. Perhaps they are attending a funeral and they’re the only ones who know it. As they make their way down the bridge alongside other attendees comprised of both ghosts and unfortunate living nobles who never bothered to read up on their history, Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard wordlessly hope they won’t end up betraying themselves or their true intentions.

“Invitation,” demands one of the gateway guards. Alucard slips the rolled-up parchment out of his coat pocket and presents it. “And these two?” Just as the guard makes eye contact with Trevor, he carefully hides the Belmont crest beneath the folds of his cloak. No particular reason, only an old habit.

“My guests. I assume guests are permitted?”

The guard pauses for a thankfully brief moment. “Go on in. Straight through the doors.” Alucard and Sypha bow out of respect, but Trevor glances over his shoulder as they ascend the front steps. It all feels too easy; he didn’t even check for weapons. The Cel Tradats must have been incredibly trusting or woefully naive that night they all died.

It’s a short walk to the grand hall. If it weren’t for the stench of old blood clouding Alucard’s heightened senses, he would assume the place had been untouched by death. Dresses and fine tunics move across the tapestries in a thick haze caused by candlelight smoke, one can barely see to the other side of the room. Cinnamon, winter cranberries, and pine tree furs line the tables alongside an endless multitude of food. Sypha has never seen so much meat or drink in one sitting. If the butchers and farmers of Targoviste’s most bountiful markets could witness this sight, they would weep as though on their mother’s deathbed. People laugh, cheer, and dance upon the centre floor. They live like they’ve never lived before.

Trevor quickly takes hold of Sypha’s wrist and the back of Alucard’s coat. “Don’t eat or drink anything,” he warns in a dire tone. Neither one needs an explanation as to why. Rather than join the revelry, they hurry off to the side out of sight.

“Look. Up at the front.” Alucard is the first to find Sofia overlooking her merry subjects, seated halfway between the Cel Tradats and the Lupeis, now an envoi of both houses. A sparrow and a wolf. Full rosy cheeks, brown irises deeper than the richest chocolate, and long red hair like a river of blood. Her husband with wide eyes and an even wider smile is almost as beautiful as his wife.

“They seem so happy.” And unaware, Trevor thinks to himself.

Sypha chimes in with her own opinions. “There wasn’t much written about Darius Lupei in the history tomes. Apparently, he was an idiot... but at least a loving idiot.”

“One of us needs to warn her. But don’t make a spectacle of it otherwise this entire room will be thrown into chaos.”

“What about the assassin?”

“We will need to find them as well without drawing any attention.”

“So, we stop Sofia from being murdered and the whole night goes on without a hitch.” There’s skepticism in Trevor’s voice, which doesn’t surprise Alucard. “Is that supposed to bring peace to her soul along with the rest here?”

Sypha turns to Alucard and waits for an answer. He’d say “yes”, but it would be dishonest of him to even think that he knew what they were doing. “I don’t know. But it’s worth it to try.”

Trevor lets out a heavy breath; a common response when he doesn’t feel like analyzing the gritty details of a plan. “Not exactly a traditional exorcism. I’ll go warn Sofia.” Barely a step forward and Alucard already stops him.

“I said don’t make a spectacle of it.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you have as much subtlety and tact as a kitten drunk on milk.”

Sypha mutters “he does have a point” under her breath to no avail as Trevor turns to her, shocked and a little insulted. “You have to admit, Trevor, negotiations are not your strongest skill. You’re better at ending fights with that whip than you are with words.”

“Traitors. The both of you.”

Alucard’s golden eyes narrow with growing frustration. “We don’t have time for petty squabbles. I will go speak with Sofia.”

Trevor places a palm against his chest and holds him back. “She’ll take one look at your fangs and start screaming about a vampire in her court.”

“Boys...”

“Can you keep your voice down?”

“I am keeping my voice down!” Trevor’s short-lived outburst carries itself throughout the hall, attracting the attention of a few confused onlookers. Fortunately, they return to their own little worlds while the music plays on. Alucard and Sypha push their hunter towards the nearest wall, silencing him with their hands.

“If we let you walk up there and request an audience with the bride, will you please be quieter?” Trevor nods, which is enough for them. An unseen clock ticks ever closer to the fated moment between Sofia and the assassin’s dagger; it would be better if they hurried. Alucard and Sypha let go, exasperated but willingly.

“I’ll watch your back in case something happens.”

“I’ll search for the assassin.” Alucard pulls Trevor in close. “Please do not make me beg for you to not fuck this up.”

“When have I ever?”

A sharp inhale, then Alucard decides to let it be. The two men set off in opposite directions while Sypha’s cheeks burn hot with irritation towards both of them. She hides behind a pillar and keeps an eye on Trevor as he navigates himself through the sea of dancers. Her fingertips tingle with fiery embers and the cold prick of ice, yet she holds back. Not yet and if all goes well, not tonight.

“You seem to have your hands full with those two.” A different voice speaks up. Sypha ignores the comment, assuming she had just received a snippet of some unrelated conversation. That it wasn’t meant for her.

The same voice speaks again. “Friends of yours, I presume.”

Still composure turns into masked panic. Sypha’s heart thumps against her ribcage in an almost painful manner. She could stay focused on the tuff of Trevor’s fur cloak as it weaves as it weaves amongst moving bodies, or she could make absolutely certain of one thing: how much did they hear?

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop on strangers.” She does not face whoever’s talking.

“It’s also not polite to refuse a bride and groom’s generosity.”

Sypha remains where she stands, but glances at the crowded tables against her better judgement—one woman, not quite elderly but past middle age, stares at her with friendly curiosity. Sypha tries to avoid another instance of eye contact. “I am not hungry.”

The woman laughs. “You don’t have to eat anything, though it would be preferred if you did. Just come and be present.”

Impulse pushes against intuition as Sypha struggles with herself. If it will please the woman (and possibly shut her up), then fine. She can watch Trevor just as easily from the tables. Finding an empty yet claustrophobic space on one of the benches, Sypha squeezes in between a happy drunkard and her sudden enabler. Already her body wants to close in on itself or leave altogether.

“There. Now I’m present,” she mutters bitterly.

“Well you’ve got quite the tongue... that’s meant to be a compliment, love.” Sypha gives her a hesitant smirk, which fades the longer she speaks. “Though it can’t be easy putting up with two men who have so much pride.”

Sypha scratches the tip of her index fingernail along the table wood until it nearly falls off. She isn’t in the mood for conversation, even with a harmless ghost who seems to understand her. Still, the urge to play the woman’s game is too much and Sypha has just the response for her. “It is easy enough. Find something that gently wounds their pride and they are like puppies with their tails tucked between their legs.”

The woman chokes on her gulp of ale before letting out another laugh that sounds too big for her thin frame. Personally, Sypha didn’t think the joke was that funny but she appreciates the reaction. “And I would not trade either of them for anyone else in all of Wallachia.”

A few drops of the woman’s drink might have somehow made its way into Sypha’s veins, but she speaks truthfully. She’s always let the truth be heard; it’s molded her into the person she is now. Honesty makes her and those around her stronger. So perhaps she should save this particular truth for the ones who need to hear it most.

All these unfocused thoughts cause Sypha to drift away from what’s important, what matters right now in the moment. Only the woman’s next inquiry brings her back, but not in the way she wanted. “Is that why you’re not with your family right now?”

Sypha’s stare drives daggers into the woman’s throat while she sits there and simply drinks her ale, aware and uncaring. “Doesn’t surprise me. You don’t really belong with the Speakers anymore, do you? Bit of an outsider. There are other scholars of magic, of course, but none quite like you. That’s another compliment. It might be best that you stay away from them for a while... maybe forever.”

Fire and ice surge their way through Sypha’s hot blood, begging to be released. Anger dulls her senses along with her movements. “I will never abandon my people.”

“You already have, love. You abandoned them when you agreed to join that hunter and the bastard son of a vampire.”

Sypha’s first instinct is towards violence. She wants to slap the woman with the backside of her hand or wrap her fingers around her neck and squeeze as tight as possible or place an iron hot palm against her cheek and give her something to talk about with her friends and neighbours. But none of it would matter. Sypha tears herself away from the table and regains control. The castle’s deceptions will not get inside of her so easily.

Only now does she notice the smell of sour fruit, moldy bread, and rotting meat being picked apart by greedy flies. Flies to an open stable.

If Alucard were thinking straight, he would have found the assassin by now. If he had found the assassin, this night would be done and the three of them would be on their way back to Castle Dracula. If they were back home, he would be in bed savouring his first peaceful sleep now that he’s no longer alone. But none of those wishes have come to fruition. Alucard’s search leads him away from the wedding feast and down into one of the side corridors. Darkness has never given him much trouble, yet here it blurs his vision. If only he held a torch or even a simple candle.

“Lost, sir?” Alucard turns to face a tall woman with broad shoulders dressed in the same funeral-coloured garb as he. There’s rouge upon her sharp cheekbones, dark hair held back by a golden pin, and demeanour cold yet polite. She must be the Lupei matriarch.

Alucard’s immediate response is to bow courteously, despite his hand twitching closer to the holt of his sword. He could consider Lady Lupei to be the real assassin, but she would never dirty her hands in such a direct way. Killing her now would only quicken the oncoming madness. Better to make an excuse than to act on rash thinking. “Apologies, my lady. I simply wandered off for some fresh air. If you will pardon me—”

“No, I do believe you are lost. You’ve been lost for some time.”

“I’m sorry...?” Her steps towards him are slow, calculated. She keeps a coldly gentle expression on her serene face. Alucard tries to look past the Lady, his eyes searching for the warm glow of the grand hall. He sees nothing, only more of the same corridor he finds himself trapped in. The song of his sword waiting to be unsheathed rings louder in his ears.

“I know you like to think it wasn’t your fault. Once your father went mad, there was nothing more you could have done to pull him back.”

The tip of Alucard’s fang grazes his lower lip, drawing blood. Just a drop, but the taste of metal floods his mouth. “You know nothing of me or my father.”

“But I do know. When you get to live as long as I do and see people for what they truly are, you come to know a lot of things. How you lie to yourself and those around you. How you think it will help mask your guilt and shame.”

“There is no guilt!” Alucard’s voice suddenly cracks. Lady Lupei continues to descend upon him as a shadow—like his father did that night of the blood moon. “My hand was forced... I had no other choice.”

She laughs; more out of bitterness and anger than amusement. “You’re just like my husband. Nothing but excuses.”

“Leave me be, damned spirit.”

“When your father’s ashes scattered to the winds, you should have turned that very same stake against your own heart. Why not do it now? You have your blade, so finish what you started.”

Alucard feels his hand grow heavy. He looks down and sees the silver of his blade trembling. Steadying himself, he knows how to use it. Forget his previous hesitance; if Lady Lupei is in his presence, then better to end this cursed night now. If only she were still here. Raising his head, he realizes that he’s been left alone—and with no easy way of returning. Alucard turns in both directions; the corridor has no end in sight. The castle, its ghosts, the curse, none of them are through with him yet. He sheathes the sword back in its place and follows the faint sound of music.

What’s the polite way of saying “your mother-in-law is about to brutally murder you”?

Trevor snakes a path across the floor, resisting the increased urge to push everyone aside and march straight up to Sofia before pulling her away. Knock the goblet out of her hand, spilling expensive wine all over her pretty wedding dress. She’d struggle, kick about, possibly curse like a sailor in their faces. A small price to pay for sparing her from a violent fate. It would be so easy if they all moved out of the fucking way.

Closer now; it seems he’s been getting closer for hours. The floor feels soft beneath his boots. Yet she’s still out of reach. Maybe if I just shout at her. Trevor remembers the “promise” he made to Alucard and Sypha, but to hell with it. They want this night over with as much as he does.

Something crashes into him. Trevor spins around, thrown off his already weakened equilibrium, and is carried away from Sofia by one of the dancers shoving himself into his arms. “You’re a handsome one!”

“Would you let me go...”

“Come and dance! It will clean that scowl right off your face.”

“Thank you but no thank you. I need to—” He doesn’t care for his protests, no one does. They hand him off from dancer to dancer; it’s a miracle he hasn’t tripped over himself yet. In his disorientation, Trevor is struck by a familiarity. A much better time than this. He said he didn’t want to dance, never learned it enough as a child so it would be at best humiliating and at worst painful as an adult. The Speakers convinced him otherwise—they always manage to. Placing a crown of wildflowers atop his head, he turned away so they wouldn’t see how red his cheeks grew. He couldn’t hide it forever, not when Sypha took his hands and lovingly teased him. That night felt like a dream blessed enough to be real. It felt like something he’d been missing for so long.

“It felt like home.” Trevor stops, unsure if the voice came from him or one of the dancers. He’s not given the luxury of time to think or resist when he’s thrown into another’s arms, then another’s.

“You miss that feeling. You miss having a home.”

“You miss being part of a family.”

“You can have a home here. You can stay if you would let yourself.”

“Come home.”

“Mother? Father?” There’s a warm sensation in Trevor’s stomach that burns and aches. Home, family, and stay meld together spoken by the sickly-sweet tones of the dancers and the voices of two dead Belmonts. His worst nights after crawling into the very bottle he emptied at a local tavern were never so terrible.

“Trevor! Trevor, look at me!” Cold hands press on either side of his head, dragging him away from all the suffocating bodies. Eyes shut tightly; he now finds the will to fight back.

“Fuck off of me! I want to go home!”

“Trevor, it’s me. Calm down.” He tears open his watery eyes and feels his heartbeat slow when Sypha wraps her arms around him. Trevor holds her, terrified that she might fade as all the other ghosts will. Even more scared of what he had contemplated.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry.”

“It’s just the curse. You’re alright.” Sypha repeats it until Trevor can believe it himself. He catches a glimpse of Sofia—does she know? From the way she laughs and clings to her husband’s side, she evidently may not.

“Sypha, where the hell is Alucard?”

“Honourable allies of the Lupeis and the Cel Tradats.” Trevor, Sypha, and the rest of the party turn in the direction of the announcer. “May I present to you, Sir Darius Lupei of House Lupei.”

“Shit...” They’ll have to make do without Alucard. While everyone else stands at attention, the two of them use this as an opportunity if not a fleeting one. As Darius begins his speech, they run.

“I wish to thank all of you for witnessing this momentous event. Once the Lupeis and Cel Tradats were enemies. Now through this bond of love and marriage, we are made friends and equals.”

“Stop! Sofia! Lady Sofia! Move, you fucking idiots!”

“We need to speak with Lady Sofia!”

All members of both houses stare in confusion at the man and woman attempting a mad dash towards them. “What is the meaning of this?”

“She’s not safe! None of you are!”

Darius takes pause, considering the roguish man’s warning, yet dismisses it just as quick as he heard it. Sypha should have better taken those passages written about the living but small-minded lord to heart. “Must have let all that drink overtake their common sense. Remove them. They shall be dealt with later.”

Sypha and Trevor wrestle with the guards, driving their feet between their legs and beating fists against armour until their knuckles turn a sickening purple. They create more of a spectacle while Darius carries on with his public address. he extends a hand, places it in Sofia’s, and motions for her to stand.

“May I present to our joined courts, my wife and your new lady, Sofia Cel Tradat Lupei.”

Trevor’s vision is momentarily obscured by his own thrashing, though it does not matter. He, Sypha, and the entire castle hear Sofia’s screams all the same. A dripping rose appears on her white and green dress, spreading over her abdomen and turning her fingers a similar dark coloured red. Darius’ own shouts of shock devolve into choking gurgles as knives slash across his throat. The grand hall erupts like a pack of beasts let loose from their cages to attack whoever is nearest. There’s panic from all except Lady Lupei and her house, including the guards that hold Trevor and Sypha. They should have noticed the wolves on their chest plates.

Sypha acts the quickest. One guard shrieks in horror as blue and red ice daggers appear straight through his arms; the other spits blood and teeth upon contact with Trevor’s sword. The two find shelter underneath a table and watch the centuries-old carnage. Sypha never knew ghosts could bleed so much.

They fear the worst for Alucard. The castle with its lies has swallowed him whole. Until another Lupei guard falls dead in front of them, a familiar sword lodged in his back. “Where the fuck were you?” Trevor snarls as a disgruntled dhampir joins them.

“Trying to survive this wedding, same as you both.” Before any of the bickering can start, a far more dire sight begs for their attention—Sofia and Lady Lupei on the ground, their nails digging into each other, one of their mouths spraying blood the louder she screams.

“This is not working, Alucard. What do we do?”

“It’s too late. I don’t know if there is anything we can do.”

“You’re saying we just let this happen, wait until next year, so this whole shitstorm can repeat itself until we get it right?”

“I would prefer to hear a better plan come out of your mouth, Belmont.”

Alucard is being facetious (to ill effect), but Trevor does have something better in mind. He fiddles with the Magen David like a nervous tick. There is no maybe; this will get him killed, he’s certain of that. When has it ever stopped him?

“Clear a path for me.” He’s already out from under the table before Alucard or Sypha can rightfully question him. They react fast, moving in front so he might have a shield. Fire scorches bodies into blackened cinders; limbs fall to the floor with the effortless swipe of a thin blade; Trevor uses his whip sparingly. He doesn’t touch it when he reaches the bride. She turns with wild eyes, blood seeping through the cracks of her teeth. Rivers of red flow from her stomach and down the steps, mingling with the rest. The tapestries did her rage no justice.

“Don’t touch me!” She violently sputters.

“I just want to talk.” Trevor raises his hands, his voice oddly calm. When she doesn’t listen, he removes his cloak and shows her the embroidered emblem on his breast. Sofia’s fury melts into realization.

“The Belmonts...” As Sofia gazes down at her defiled hands then towards her mutilated court, something shatters within. The past hundred years of darkness and repetition make themselves known. “Merciful god, what have I done...” She whimpers, face wet with tears and blood. “What have I done...”

“Sofia...”

“Get away from me! I know who you are! The Belmonts kill monsters. You’re here to kill me.”

“You’re not a monster.” Along with his cloak, Trevor lays the Morningstar and his Magen David by his feet. Alucard and Sypha stay behind with the shaky hope that he knows what he’s doing. “I know what it’s like to lose your family to violence. Betrayed by the very people you wanted to help. You deserve every right to be pissed off and hate them. But you also deserve peace. You shouldn’t have to continue suffering like this.”

“It hurts so much.”

“I know it’s hard. But let go.”

Sofia forces herself to look up. The tears have turned her bloodshot eyes into shining glass. “If I do, will I face eternal punishment?”

“You won’t.”

It’s quiet behind them. No more sounds of the dying or killing. No more broken bones or blood-filled screams. Sofia grows weary, her last few breathes slow. Pieces of skin begin to peel and float like snowflakes. Before they can see how she’ll fade away back into the annals of history, the windows shatter and release a blizzard that had been waiting far too long to break in. It blows through the grand hall, carrying itself around the castle as a cascade of snow, dust, and wind. The last time a curse was lifted in this manner, there were ashes and the disembodied moans of despair.

Then it’s over. The three of them stand in the middle of a dark empty room. Trevor picks up his belongings, leaving the unchanged Magen David for last. There are no words shared amongst them because they cannot find the right ones. Alucard steps up, perturbed by Trevor’s silence. He offers a hand on his shoulder for comfort, mirroring what Sypha once did for him, but his touch is too light for Trevor to really notice.

“We should go.” After such a bout of silence, Sypha’s voice makes them jump slightly. They leave the castle in its true abandoned state and hope never to come back. Perhaps a brief visit at the end of every Yule to place flowers where Sofia used to stand.

Halfway across the bridge, Sypha turns her head up to the snow speckled skies. Shouts of merriment and well-earned victory grace her ears; the arrival of a hunt returning with its spoils. Though she cannot see it, nor is she completely certain of its presence.

“You alright?” Asks Trevor.

“... I thought I heard something.”

JANUARY 1

The first early morning of the new year is always strange, even stranger to spend it alone inside Dracula’s castle. A disheartened hunter, a thoughtful scholar, and a tired dhampir retreat to his library without so much as a “happy new year”. They should sleep and yet they crowd onto the same chair, silently wishing for someone to lighten the mood before shuffling off to bed.

While the other two stare at their feet, Sypha looks around for some topic of small conversation. Her eyes eventually bring her to the top of a bookshelf, squinting at a tiny branch of green leaves which didn’t seem to be hanging there before.

“Mistletoe?”

Alucard overhears her mutter and glances upwards. His explanation is very matter of fact, with no joy. “Sometimes pieces of nature will appear on their own... an old spell put in place by my father to make my mother happy. He never had the need for growing things before he met her.”

Sypha knows the traditions and the good superstitions, despite never partaking in their origins. Standing up (the first one taking initiative to do so), she kisses Trevor’s cheek then does the same on Alucard’s forehead. “Shame to waste it.”

The boys are left in pleasant surprise—and with ideas of their own, especially on Alucard’s part. He doesn’t want to end the night with nothing to say to Trevor. They’ll step into this new year on good footing. Just when the Belmont least expects it, Alucard kisses his opposite cheek. An admittedly risky act on its own accords, but he thinks it was worth it to try.

“I was wrong. You did well tonight.”

Pink faced, Trevor’s gaze never leaves Alucard until he’s through the door and out of sight. “Mistletoe is supposed to be poisonous; you know.” He says to no one in particular.

#castlevania #trevor belmont #alucard #alucard castlevania #adrian tepes #sypha belnades #netflix castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #my writing #*cvfic #its done..... its finally done.....#oh god i hope the read more works

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luckyfirerabbit · 4 years

Text

Jaune Doe: pt 7

(short and sweet, it’s how it came out)

It's been hills and valleys for him the last couple weeks. The nightmares come and go in waves, a few nights on, then off, then on again for a few more. His appetite is inconsistent but he doesn't appear to have an issue with it, though the staff is worried about his weight. But, on the positive side, they've got him off the IV completely and are managing his pain rather well with Ibuprofen. He's up and walking as expected. His concussion is healing as it should as well, but his memory is still spotty at best. Aside from his sleep disturbances his mood is stable, even pleasant, and he's able to tolerate what few visitors he receives with little issue.

Today, however, Jaune is noticeably concerned, lounging in his bed and staring at the ceiling with a sever knit to his brow. His transfer date is coming up and he doesn't know what to do. Pyrrha said she would figure it out, or at least help him do it, but she hasn't brought him anything yet, not even the copy of his file that she promised.

What's going to happen to him? Will they just toss him out? No, no...would they really?

"Knock, knock,"

Jaune blinks out of his troubled haze, reflexively smiling. "Hey, Pyrrha, I was just thinking about you."

"Oh yeah? Good things I hope." Oh my gods, why did I say that? She's starting to second guess herself already.

"You could say that." he lilts his head, noncommittal. "Everything okay? What's in the bag?"

"Well," she knows he's referring to the duffel bag she has in one hand. She approaches the bed and sets it down near the foot of it, asking for permission to sit on the edge before continuing. "I actually wanted to talk to you about your transfer."

"Oh, good. What did you find out?"

"I've got all the information on the hospital campuses available for you right here." she props her briefcase on her lap and opens it, passing him a folder that he had expected to be much thicker. "Most of them are nearby, and a few of them have single occupancy units so you could have some privacy if you wanted."

"That's great, thank you." he takes the papers, seemingly genuinely relieved. "And what about the copy of my file?"

"That's here too." she's still sifting through everything she keeps in the case, producing another pale colored file.

He shows his gratitude through a short lived but heartfelt smile, though the expression kinks with curiosity. "And the bag?"

Pyrrha snaps her case closed and takes a sharp, stabilizing breath at the same time. "I...bought you some clothes. I had to guess your size for the most part, but...yeah. There's some hard-soled slippers in there that should fit you, too, at least until you can tell me your shoe size."

"Pyrrha," he's stunned, "y-you didn't have to do that."

"I know, I wanted to." she can't look at him, focusing on her hands and the way her fingers drum at the edges of her briefcase. "I also wanted to ask you something."

"Besides my shoe size?" the little chuckle at the end sounds nervous.

"Yes," she laughs in turn. "I was wondering...I applied to be your sponsor. If you want...you can come and stay with me."

His brow creases, a mixture of concern and uncertainty flickering in his eyes. His hands fumble with the papers he's holding, eventually settling to let them sit atop his thighs when he draws his legs up. "I...you didn't...why would you do that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," his hand reaches back and cups his neck, rubbing out the anxiety he feels mounting in his chest. He lifts his eyes and meets her gaze briefly. "It's...shit," he pushes his hand through his hair, fingernails in his scalp and catching on a cut he forgot about. "I don't know how to say it without sounding like an asshole."

"Then just say it, it's okay." she assures him.

"What's your angle?" he blurts out, feeling the shame of the hidden accusation immediately.

Part of her thinks she gets it, it's the same part that pushes down the little hurt brought on by his suspicion. After everything he's been through -just the stuff she knows about- how was he supposed to trust her like that? It's a wonder he has any trust for her at all.

Eventually Pyrrha just smiles and waits until he looks at her again. "Like I said before, I just want to help."

He still holds a certain uneasy wariness in his face. "And if I say no?"

"Then that's your choice." she nods once. "I'd hope you'd accept the clothes, though, considering you don't really have anything," she laughs, an attempt to break the tension that she's certain fails, "but you're welcome to say no. I'll still be your advocate, I'll still work on your case and make sure you're taken care of. Nothing changes."

Jaune hears sirens in his head, warnings, some vicious and desperate thing screaming for him to retreat. It's a trap is all he can think, in spite of everything he's seen -he knows- to the contrary.

For a moment the two just look at each other, and Pyrrha eventually takes that as a sign. She eases to her feet, her brief case tucked under her arm.

"Take some time to think it over, and just let me know when you've made a decision, okay? Until then, if you need me, just have someone page me."

He nods. "...Thanks." he offers timidly.

"Of course."

---

Every so often Pyrrha will skip her evening trip to the gym in favor of dinner out with her coworkers, which usually consists of Blake or Billy or Sahv, or some combination of the three. Tonight it's Blake and Yang joining her at Magic Wok. The three of them manage to get a booth tucked away in a relatively quiet corner, the perfect spot to sit and talk without disturbing or being disturbed by others.

"Am I an asshole?"

Blake coughs as her food goes down the wrong pipe, causing Yang to reach across to pat her lover on the back as she gapes at Pyrrha from across the table.

"What on earth makes you say that?" Blake sputters once she's able.

Pyrrha shifts in her seat, uncomfortable under their joint scrutiny. "I mean...maybe asshole isn't the right word,"

"Damn straight it isn't." Yang insists. "That's the last word I'd ever use in regards to you." she looks to Blake. "You okay now, baby?"

"I'm fine." one last cough. "But seriously, why would you think that?"

"Well, like we talked about, I told Jaune I was willing to sponsor him." she prods the tangle of noodles on her plate with her chopsticks. "And...just like you said he might, he got defensive and kind of...shut down."

"So why would you think you're an asshole?"

"Because," Pyrrha slouches, putting her hands in her lap as if she can hide her discomfort. "I just...I hate when I upset people. Especially when I just want to do the right thing."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't take it personally, because you're doing that anyway -that's right, I've got your number, superhero," Blake's felid ears match the asymmetry of her eyebrows, "but I don't believe he got defensive simply because it's you. It's because things are changing for him again, what little stability he has is about to shift and he doesn't know what to do, if there's anything he can do. And that's probably coming from a long time of having no control over his own fate or well being. Then, of course, there's the more than likely possibility of general trust issues."

Yang takes a long draw from the straw in her drink, her brow furrowing as she swallows. "He's probably convinced this is just some elaborate scam, and the minute he agrees to go home with you, all hell's going to break loose."

And part of Pyrrha knows there's not much she can do to change that for him. Jaune would have to discover for himself if she was trustworthy, if what she was offering him was real or some cruel joke at his expense. She shudders at the idea of just how bad he might think things could be, a man who -while drugged out of his mind and mad with pain- still had the wherewithal to be terrified and fight back against those that were trying to save his life.

"If what he went through was anything like," Yang continues, pausing to put a crispy rangoon in her mouth and tuck it in her cheek. She'll gesture with her hand, knowing they both know what she means. "Gods only know the kind of head games he's had to navigate until now. But I agree with Blake, I don't think it's because of you."

"I know, I agree with you too, just,"

"Just you're a micro-manager and this is something you can't change." Blake explains knowingly. "But you've got a good enough head on your shoulders to let it run it's course."

"I certainly hope so." Pyrrha sips her drink. "And I don't want to influence his decision so I'm keeping our visits to a need-only basis."

One golden brow rises. "Want me to influence him for you?"

"Yang," Blake warns gently, half-heartedly.

"No, I'm serious. Listen," Yang shoves down another rangoon and swallows, leaning towards Pyrrha on one elbow. "He doesn't understand the kind of person you are, he probably thinks you're like some fucking unicorn -all mythological and sparkly and too good to be true. Let me talk to him, I mean, you've been meaning for me to anyway, right?"

"True." Blake nods.

"But he should make this choice on his own." Pyrrha reaffirms. "He deserves that."

"He also deserves the best chance at recovery and getting his life back together." Yang counters.

"Also true." Blake chimes, seeming more focused on her food than the conversation.

"And I think you can give him that chance, Pyrrha. Hell," she laughs, easing away, back into her own space in the booth. "If it weren't for you, I might not have met Blake, so you basically saved my life."

Pyrrha blushes and tries to hide her face, failing miserably. "I just got you the referral."

"Semantics." Yang waves her hand in dismissal. "So let me go to bat for you, just this once, and I promise I won't use my impeccable charm for evil ever again."

Blake laughs, almost choking on her food again. Once she's able to she quickly swallows.

"Come on; I kind of feel like you owe me after not letting me curb-stomp your ex."

"Yang," Pyrrha exhales hard, appalled more so at herself for the effort it takes not to laugh than at Yang for the comment. "He wasn't that bad,"

"Bullshit." Yang points a finger at her, sharp, decisive.

Blake clears her throat, takes a quick drink. "Being in denial doesn't change the truth of the matter, Pyrrha, it would be better if you just accept it."

"I've gotten better at it." she admits meekly. "Just...I don't think anyone deserves to be curb-stomped. Believe it or not, I'm not a huge fan of violence."

"Well I am," Yang's finger has changed to her thumb and points back at her, "and as far as I'm concerned, a man who hits his wife deserves a helluva lot worse."

Pyrrha sighs and smiles. "And while I appreciate how fiercely protective you both are of me, it isn't necessary."

"You heard her, down girl." Blake nudges Yang with an elbow.

Yang tucks close to Blake, diving face first into the crook of her neck. "Woof,"

"Oh my god," Pyrrha groans, "check please,"

#Jaune Doe #jaune arc #pyrrha nikos #bumbleby #blake x yang #blake belladonna #yang xiao long

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angelicorn · 4 years

Text

FFVII Remake Analysis Chapter 1 (2/2)

Continuing from this analysis.

Before Cloud can explain to Jessie his relationship with Tifa, the elevator arrives and Barret shoves him aside to enter. The matter of Tifa is left in the air and we don’t get any info about her from any of the characters. Cloud reverts back to hardened and closed off body language—he crosses his arms and stands noticeably a distance away from Barret and Jessie in the elevator.

In the next scene, we learn that their group is called Avalanche and that there have been assassination attempts on an old man’s life—we can assume the old man is some executive or president of whatever company is responsible for the construction and maintenance of the reactors supply power to the city. Whether Avalanche was responsible for the assassination attempt is unknown.

Barret makes an elaborate speech in the elevator about the planet being sucked up dry by these reactors. We learn they’re a group of extreme environmental activists. Cloud was a part of SOLDIER who is closely affiliated to the company in charge of the reactors and he was hired to help Avalanche infiltrate and destroy one of the reactors.

Regardless of Barret’s distrust and attitude towards Cloud, he’s still out here giving a recruitment speech. Jessie’s probably heard it many times. She shrugs when Cloud looks at her, and then as Barret grows more passionate, evident by the increasingly volume on his voice, Jessie covers her ear.

As the player—man, do we have respect for a guy who’s passionate about a cause—Barret actually cares about the planet, what a softie. And while he may not actually approve of Cloud, he still gives Cloud the chance to decide to join their cause. Ofc, in typical Cloud fashion, he rebuffs Barret, but the emotional distance seems to lessen. Back when Barret said “we can’t afford any more mistakes,” he included Cloud in that “we” and from that point on, they work as together as a team, with the rally talk in the elevator serving as some form of initiation.

Cloud leaves the elevator, Barret basically warns him no funny business or he’s dead, and a few moments after that, we see this:

How very touching—and from this moment on, the players begin to grow emotionally invested in this group.

Their cutscene banter and battle dialogue with one another grows on the player. Tsundere 1 and 2 is a force to be reckoned with. Together, they’re exhausting, yet entertaining, and that adds more charm to their dynamic. The game pushes you to play as Barret for the hard to reach enemies where long ranged fighters are more efficient to use and the switching of characters in combat adds a sense of camaraderie.

The way this game flows really makes us fall in love with the characters while also feeding us the narrative by showing us rather than blatantly telling us, which isn’t quite as obvious, but makes for a charming and unforgettable gaming experience, is amazing!

Barret and Cloud head down to where they’re supposed to plant the bomb, leaving Jessie a safe distance behind. Tifa’s name is mentioned again.

Tifa—who the player hasn’t officially met yet—seems to be in good standing with this group, after all, Tifa gets the player (Cloud) a job with Avalanche despite his status as an ex-SOLDIER, and is able to convince hard ass Barret to hire him for this mission. This piece of dialogue is interesting as it not only causes us to feel the pressure of trying to live up to one person’s expectations, but two. Barret wants Cloud to prove himself not only to him, but in a way, to Tifa as well. And from the way Cloud reacted to Jessie’s question about him and Tifa being close, Barret dropped Tifa’s name here for a reason. He knows Tifa is someone important to Cloud.

As the player, we feel indebted to this childhood friend who talked the player character up to such a hard ass. We don’t want to let her down by doing a half-ass job, do we?

However, in typical Cloud fashion, he reiterates that he isn’t one of them and that he’s only in it for the money.

Minus brownie points from Barret. He angrily tells Cloud to finish the job and we watch Cloud set the bomb with annoyance. However, this event triggers another headache with flashes/visions of something ominous. This leaves us wondering just what exactly happened during his time with SOLDIER that is triggering these flashes and headaches.

Cloud sets the bomb and we are given our first choice. 20 minutes or 30. Either choice gives us a wise crack from Barret, which is typical and expected, but entertaining to hear. Cloud senses danger approaching and Barret takes Cloud’s hesitation as betrayal—which isn’t unreasonable. Barret was likely wary of Cloud from the start.

Cloud and Barret end up fighting a weaponized, mechanical scorpion and, after all the battle banter, they win and head for the exit.

Amidst their escape, Cloud manages to rescue Jessie, who, for new players who are unfamiliar with the FFVII compilation, gives us an impression of a possible love interest, however the dialogue between the two is a little...questionable? Jessie flirts, Cloud doesn’t react. At one point, during the escape, he tells her to shut up and climb. This leaves us with the impression that maybe he isn’t really interested. But we must play on to find out more. And, while Cloud may not be showing much interest, the players certainly have the autonomy to like her as much as they want.

We come across a short scene where Barret tells Jessie to go on ahead and not to worry about him because he’s got Cloud with him. Although he uses SOLDIER boy in place of Cloud’s name, we can sense an increase in trust from Barret’s end. Cloud corrects Barret by saying that he’s an Ex-SOLDIER boy, verbally disgarding the SOLDIER title and stepping into a role that Barret & co. can depend on to do the job.

Cloud and Barret make it into the elevator and the bomb explodes, but the damage is minimal, perhaps just enough to cause the reactor to stop working. However, we see Heidegger and the old man make the decision to destroy the reactor. The weapons inside destroy themselves and everything in it, causing the building to crumble. But why’d he choose to destroy his own reactor? What kind of plan is up his sleeve by doing so?

Barret is noticeably distressed in the elevator, but upon seeing how calm Cloud is, Barret tries to settle himself down. Imitation is a form of flattery. Perhaps Barret is learning a thing or two from our favorite merc?

Cloud saves Jessie one more time, does an awesome hero jump and they escape before the reactor blows up on itself, cutting power out from the city.

Chapter 1 is over and we can’t help but agree with Jessie when she says:

Information we learned this chapter:

Barret, Biggs, Wedge and Jessie are a part of an environmentalist group called Avalanche.

Cloud former SOLDIER turned merc who is helping Avalanche infiltrate a reactor owned by his former employer.

This reactor supplies energy to the city.

The reactors are bleeding the planet dry and Avalanche is trying to stop that.

Tifa is someone from Cloud’s childhood who got him a gig working for Avalanche.

Tifa is also someone important to Cloud evident by Jessie’s question about her, the flashback, and Barret’s mention of her name during a crucial part of the mission where Cloud must prove himself.

Genuine questions we’re left with after playing Chapter 1:

Why did Cloud leave SOLDIER?

Why does he get triggered with flashbacks and painful headaches?

What is Tifa’s relationship with Avalanche?

Who is the girl in pink that we see in the intro and when do we meet her?

Who is that old man and why was there an assassination attempt on him?

What will happen to the people in the city?

Why is Cloud so aloof and cold to the people around him?

Is Barret cool with Cloud now or...?

Is Jessie into Cloud? (lol)

Is Biggs into Jessie? (lol)

Is Cloud into Tifa? (lol)

Final thoughts:

After playing chapter 1, from a new player standpoint, we can recognize that the game uses rhetorical appeals to convince us to feel and think in certain ways:

Cloud seems like an unreliable narrator. Now, I understand that this is a game and Cloud wouldn’t be considered a typical narrator or the story, but since we are taking control of his character and playing as him, we are experiencing this story through his perspective, which makes him a special kind of unreliable narrator. He withholds information, like when he tells Barret he’s fine even after experiencing a headache and weird flashback/vision. he hesitated to explain his relationship with Tifa when he has a flashback of her, he doesn’t have Barret’s full trust, he left his former employer and typically sides with the enemy, even if it’s just a one time gig. We don’t know much about Cloud Strife, but based on his interactions with the other characters so far, he’s hiding things about himself from others and from the audience. The game plays out to make us question Cloud’s credibility as the protagonist and makes us examine the story on a deeper level (character interactions, music, quests, etc.) to help us come to our own conclusions.

I love this style of storytelling as it leaves room for our interpretations and for us to explore the story through other characters besides the main character, through flashbacks, through quests, npc conversations, etc.

#ffvii remake #ff7r spoilers #final fantasy 7 remake #ff7r reactions #analysis

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7deadlycinderellas · 4 years

Text

if the summer of our lives could just come again, ch12

AO3 Link

In Kings Landing

Ned does not like King’s Landing any more in this life than he did in the previous.

He spends the days trying to navigate a world he barely understands, on advice from his daughter which may not always hold true. He makes sure to eat the evening meal with her every night, to try and heed her advice, and to see if there’s anything either of them can do to help the other.

When he’d spoken to her about not understanding how Littlefinger had come up with money for the tourney to celebrate his appointment as Hand, she just shook her head.

“That’s one of his skills, making money appear out of nowhere. I know he’s in debt to the Lannisters, heavily, but I wonder sometimes if he is to any of the other great houses. “

Littlefinger bothers her, Ned can tell, but she won’t say why. He thinks back to what she told him and Catelyn, and wonders if it was the whole truth. He tries to be wary of the man as much as he can.

Today, Sansa appears morose as soon as they sit down to eat.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“What? Oh, it’s nothing you should concern yourself with. “

Ned can’t tell if he should. Whether or not she’s being honest or if he should pry. He can’t read Sansa nearly as well as he used to, and it makes his heart ache.

Truthfully, she’s still thinking over something that happened earlier that day.

Her and Myrcella had again been playing cyvasse, Lady sitting neatly at Sansa’s side. Tommen had come by, and Sansa had spotted a bruise on his neck. Tyrion had left her and Myrcella to their game earlier and it was just the three of them in the little corner of the gardens where the table lay.

“How did that happen?”

Tommen had tried to shrug it off, but she had pressed. The bruise creeps up his collar onto his chin, and it’s shaped vaguely like a hand.

“Archery practice. I didn’t get out of Joffrey’s way fast enough, so he just kind of shoved me.”

“Hard enough to leave a bruise?” Sansa implores.

She hears Myrcella next to her make a noise.

“Anything that gets in Joffrey’s way is liable to get slapped aside.”

Sansa’s heart sinks. She should have known she wasn’t the first one Joffrey had enjoyed tormenting. Tommen was kind and gentle and plump and had probably made a very easy target. Right now he was even carefully scratching Lady’s ears.

“Don’t you tell your mother about this? You’re her children-”

Myrcella makes another noise, one from deep in her throat. It almost sounds like a laugh, but a rough, angry sort of laugh that ought not come from a girl her age.

“We are her children, and she loves us. Just it always seems that she loves Joffrey most.”

Sansa opens her mouth but no words come out. Tommen starts going on about how he just needs to get better and stronger, and then Joffrey won’t be able to push him around anymore, but she’s not listening. She knows it’s not true. Joffrey loves to bully people, but she never thought it might extend to his own flesh and blood.

Soon she will be taller than him, she thinks vindictively. Maybe he’ll think twice before picking on those smaller than him if they’re with someone who isn’t.

Later in the day, she manages to corner Tyrion for a few moments after he leaves from eating his dinner.

“Did you know that our Prince enjoys hitting his siblings?”

Tyrion’s responding sigh is deep and resigned.

“I’ve never seen it, but it does not surprise me. Our prince is rather fond of reminding others of his position in relation to them.”

“I assume your sister knows about this?”

Tyrion turns his head, so he does not quite meet her eye.

“I believe so, she has always had a weakness in seeing the bad in her eldest babe.”

“Well what about their father?”

“I don’t think our Grace has thought of much outside of his cup and his sword in many years.”

Sansa stares at him, and Tyrion feels the same disquiet in his gut that he did when she whispered that name in his ear. The corridor they are in is deserted, but she keeps her voice low.

“His real father,” she intones, voicing with a lilt sounds almost as though she was rolling her eyes.

Gods above, Tyrion thinks, after what she had said about Tysha, this somehow doesn’t surprise him at all.

Sansa’s voice is kinder when she continues,

“Myrcella speaks of both her uncles with great affection, has Jamie shown any attention to either of the boys?”

She does have a point, he thinks. Jamie always did have a special spot in his heart for Myrcella, after paying his eldest hardly a thought.

“Perhaps he should,” she adds, “Unless he wants Joffrey and Tommen to end up more like you and Cersei rather than you and him.”

Sansa hears the creak of a door opening somewhere, so she steps and pivots before taking off, Lady trailing at her heels. She’s supposed to be with the Septa right now. Sometimes, if she sits far back, she can see training yard from a window.

At Winterfell

Arya didn’t even realize that she’d gotten blood on her hands until the three of them returned to Winterfell and Robb had rushed forward. She acknowledges the red stains on her hands, with a dim,

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s not mine.”

She watches out of the corner of her eye as Bran and Jojen join the group at the gate, as Meera goes to the both of them. She only hears bits of their conversation,

“Just like you said before...not too worried...it’s not like she ever liked me that much any way…”

None of them pay much attention as Rickon wanders up, away from Old Nan, to join them too. He regards the wildling woman curiously, as he had with Karsi and the girls, before merely accepting them as another part of his life.

Her heart pinches when Robb is interrogating Osha. She remembers that Osha had stayed with Rickon for years, had protected him until the end.

The other woman is shaking now though.

“You aren’t the first to end up here, Do you think there will be more?”

Osha’s words come out stuttered,

“I don’t know. Please, I’ll serve, I’ll be your prisoner, just don’t kill me, and don’t make me go near the witch,”

She says, pointing to Arya, fixing her with a look of disdain.

Robb laughs softly.

“It will be fine, I’ve never seen Arya willingly go to the kitchens unless she was sneaking food.”

Arya feels the look like a slap, and afterwards, spends minutes trying to wash the blood from her hands. It shouldn’t upset her really, but she did just kill one of Osha’s friends in front of her.

After supper, she drags Gendry off into the Godswood. It had once been Ned’s favorite place to think, and the children have joined in on it. The two of them sit pressed together under one of the trees in its center, as the sun begins to go down.

“I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not, any of it.” Arya insists, slowly, “But I’m so sick of feeling like killing is the only thing I’m good for. Growing up, I never wanted to be a killer. I just wanted to keep people I loved safe. “

“You did that though, didn’t you?” Gendry asks her. She’s resting her face in the crook of his neck. He’s missed this, really. The little intimacies that have gotten harder to come by. He can already see the faint blush that appears on her cheeks every time they so much as hold hands.

“I guess so, “ Arya muses, “But there must be other things I can do to help. “

“Talk to your mother,” Gendry tells her, “She’s the Lady of the keep, and with your father gone she must have double the work. Your brother may be the Lord in name right now, but he’s obviously not ready to do things on his own. Lady Catelyn spends most of the day with him, she must have work that she gets behind on.”

Arya doesn’t respond, she just thinks on his words. Before they get up to leave before the wood is bathed in total darkness, she turns and leans to kiss him, just once. The night hides the scarlet of her cheeks.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with a wife who has barely begun to grow into a woman yet.”

“It’s not all bad.” he insists, “I wasn’t exactly beating girls off with a stick before. I had nobody at all. Now I do have you, even if you’re not ripe.”

Arya makes a face, and thwaps him lightly on the nose for comparing her to a piece of fruit.

“Well you’re not exactly at your peak yourself. Did you bring that stupid helmet you made with you?”

The next morning, after breakfast, she goes in search of Lady Catelyn. She finds her in Ned’s solar, looking over a bunch of papers and looking frazzled.

“What are you doing?”

Catelyn doesn’t even look up once she registers the voice as belonging to her younger daughter.

“Autumn’s nearly here. We have to send out orders for the harvests to begin. We’re going to ask for a larger percentage to be set aside than usual, and there also adjusting the household numbers for the extra people…but I’m supposed to be meeting with Robb to receive the messenger from White Harbour, and I…”

Arya cuts her off.

“Let me look over the numbers.”

Catelyn stops and meets her eye then.

“Go. You remember, Septa Mordane always said I was good with numbers, and would be able to run a household no problem. Let me work on this while you help Robb. You can check all my sums before anything goes out. “

Catelyn looks at Arya as though seeing her for the first time. Then she nods, and stands, putting one hand on Arya’s shoulder, before leaving the room.

Arya takes the seat, glances down at the mess of papers on the table, before taking a deep breath, and cracking her knuckles.

“Well, let’s see what we can make of all this.”

The hours go by, and at some point, Catelyn returns. She looks over the papers with only a small bit of surprise. When Arya makes a move to leave the roof, she asks.

“Arya? If I had had you help me with this all before, would you…”

Arya smiles.

“No eleven year old is excited by paperwork. In the end, it might have done something for me, but I would not have been appreciative of it in the moment.”

And with that, she leaves.

Catelyn was right on, it turns out. The white raven from the Citadel flies over head less than a week later.

Bran sees it from the training yard, and puts down his bow, to leave for the rookery, as fast as his crooked leg will carry him.

Jojen stands too, and with a nod to Meera, who’s showing Willa how to hold her spear with both hands. Follows after him.

“You think she’s ready?”

“It’s an easy job. After us, it only has to get to the Last Hearth before it’s job is done. “

Bran takes out Una, the largest of the raven chicks, and holds her between his hands. He watches the path that the white raven is making, and briefly his eyes turn white, before he whispers to Una, “fly north”.

He releases the bird, and she takes off in the direction of her pale sister.

Stopping to catch his breath, Bran asks Jojen,

“Want to take a ride before dinner?”

Jojen’s gotten better on his horse fairly quickly, it turns out. He’s patient with it. Bran has been riding for so long, that his struggle to get into the saddle still vexes him more than he’d admit to most.

“It’s just that it’s all new, “ he admits, “I knew exactly how to deal with it before. Want to walk? You can’t. You can roll over or crawl if there’s something for you to grab. If your stomach starts to hurt randomly, you probably haven’t gone to the bathroom in a while and you can’t always feel it anymore. Try not to trap your feet and legs under you, you won’t know if you injure them. Now I have to figure out different things every single day it seems.”

Jojen nods, understanding a bit.

“Growing up, I knew I could drop and seize from a vision pretty much any time. I never even really learned to swim properly because Father and Mother were afraid I would seize in the water and drown. I’ve never gone out without a tether.”

They ride at a comfortable trot for a while.

“I had another dream last night,” Jojen says.

Bran stops abruptly and looks at him.

“How come you didn’t tell us at breakfast?”

“Because I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Jon Snow was there, on the far side of the wall. He was in chains, and being led somewhere. There was a weirwood tree where they were going, but it sort- looked wrong. Like I saw it there, but knew it couldn’t be.”

Bran’s eyebrows furrow in thought.

“We’ll talk about it with everyone later, but first I think we need to go and tell Davos before he leaves.”

It has been decided that the best way to approach the topic of letting the wildlings through the wall would be to have Davos go in person. Osha’s arrival has been fortuitous to the plan. As a tenant of her imprisonment, she will accompany him to tell her story to the Night’s Watch.

Robb had tried to assure her that she would not be harmed if she was accompanied by Ser Davos, but she still shook and fought, but had no real recourse to refuse.

“Seeing Osha now is strange, “ Bran says, “It reminds me that when I met her before, I was small enough she could carry me on her shoulders. Which means I still am that small, even if I don’t feel like it.”

“Meera used to do that,” Jojen says, uncharacteristically wistful. “when I was too small to even wade properly through streams. She would just pull me onto her shoulders and go across no problem. It does sort of make you feel like-”

“Cargo?” Bran asks. Jojen nods. He’s quiet still, contemplative.

Bran takes a deep breath before his next words.

“After you died, before, it tore Meera up. For ages after, when we were in that cave, she seemed lost. Didn’t seem to know if it was all worth it-”

I agree with her now, he suddenly realizes.

“I wanted to make her feel better, but I didn’t really know how.”

He curses himself for it now. For having been so possessed by the idea that he was broken, that he’d forgotten he still had hands that could have touched her, and words that could have comforted her.

“I didn’t know then that I had also lost a brother.”

Jojen remains silent for a long time.

“Growing up, Father and Mother always listened to my dreams and visions. They always knew they were important. I think Meera sometimes thought that meant they favored me over her. I don’t think she ever saw herself as she was. Strong and healthy and clever, she the eldest child, and we didn’t know if I would even live to adulthood.”

“You might now,” Bran tells him, “You did die before, but you were killed by wights, you didn’t die of an illness. You still could grow up, grow old.”

“I’ll remember that the next time Meera steals the sausage off my plate or throws acorns at me while I’m trying to read.”

“I said she grieved you, I didn’t say she suddenly wasn’t your sister.”

They finish up their ride, and then return the horses and go to find Davos.

The older man is reading a letter when they do.

“Ser Davos,” Bran begins, “Jojen had a vision this morning, and we thought you should hear of it before you leave tomorrow.”

They go over everything again, and Davos nods in understanding.

When they leave, to join the others for supper, it suddenly hits Bran.

“The weirwood you described sounded like the one we found.”

Meera wrinkles her brow,

“But it just looked normal from the outside, why would it looks so strange in his vision.”

“Maybe something’s happened to it this time around.”

Bran is quiet for a long time after, while the others are chattering with speculation.

When they all get up to leave, he hangs back and reaches out to touch Meera’s arm. When she pauses and looks, he glances off to one side. He doesn’t have to speak.

There’s a little alcove outside the Great Hall, between the tiny, rarely used sept and a couple of planted trees. The leaves on the trees are turning already, and it’s clear and light enough still that the glow reminds Bran of the weirwood. Once the others have gained some distance, he asks her quietly,

“Do you remember what my uncle said to us when he left, why he said he couldn’t come to the wall with us?”

Meera stills for a moment, thinking. She’s sitting cross-legged beneath the tree, twiddling with a blade of grass between her fingers.

“About being marked, and because of that, he couldn’t cross it anymore without affecting the magic on the Wall?”

Bran bites his lip before his next words.

“I’m marked too.”

Meera’s eyes fly open.

“You think that’s-”

“There’s no way to know, but it makes sense. The others were too far away to descend upon it at once, but it didn’t even take a year until they breached it. That’s why I told Karsi and the girls that they shouldn’t be able to get over the wall any time soon.”

Meera shuts her eyes, suddenly looking very tired. The whole sequence of events have become such a mixture of anger and fear and shame inside her mind that at any moment it all threatens to come spilling out. She tosses aside the bits of grass she’s been toying with, and tries to change the subject.

“Has Una made her trip yet?”

“She’ll make it before midnight. I’ll warg into her before bed, and when I get up.”

He sits down beside her, carefully.

“I’m worried. She’s my first. What if she gets shot or eaten? What if everything I’ve learned is wrong and she can’t find her way home?”

Meera had reached out to steady him when he sat down. Her hand lingers over his, her thumb rubbing circles softly over the joint where his thumb meets his wrist.

“She’ll be fine Bran,” she tells him, “Ravens find their ways home all the time, without our help.”

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #time travel fix it #gendrya #fic

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harrisonstories · 5 years

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The police stopping the show in Cleveland, Ohio and ordering The Beatles to leave the stage (15 Sep. 1964)

The Beatles and Me On Tour by Ivor Davis Excerpt #4 (another long read):

GEORGE’S COLUMN improved dramatically in the next few days as a result of events in Cleveland on September 15 and in New Orleans the following day – or “The Battle of New Orleans 1964,” as I called it in my report, which carried the headline, “Beatles Sing On as Fans Charge.”

First, however, came Boston, a week earlier, when the local police were charged with brutally treating fans like bowling pins. They had ridden their horses through the crowd to try to disperse the charging fans, who then began screaming obscenities at them. It was a serious overreaction by the cops, but not an uncommon one, because no one had ever before dealt with the firestorm that was the Beatles.

It was like a bad dream from the beginning. Exhausted, we had landed droopy-eyed and heavy-limbed at three o’clock in the morning at Hanscom Field in Bedford, Massachusetts (instead of Boston’s main Logan International Airport), and before the engines were even switched off, the state police stomped onto the aircraft. With a heavy, “we’re in charge” almost militaristic force, they pushed the Beatles into a waiting car for the fifteen-mile ride to the downtown Hotel Madison, close to the Boston Garden. We followed in the second car to the hotel, then through a back service-entrance and onto a freight elevator to the eleventh-floor suites.

As we arrived, Mal [Evans] shouted, “Where the fuck is Ringo?” We looked around and realized we were one Beatle short. No sign of Ringo. Apparently Ringo and Derek [Taylor], in all the pushing and shoving, had been left at the airport. Ten minutes later they arrived at the hotel entrance and jumped out of a cab. Ringo raced into the elevator up to his room; Derek spotted me and said, “I need ten dollars to pay the driver, can you lend me some cash?”

“The police were truly awful,” Derek said – and the next day he got a stern rebuke from Brian [Epstein], ever wary of upsetting municipal police forces. At the conclusion of the Boston concert, Brian made a point of calling the major press outlets to publicly thank law enforcement for its splendid efforts.

Then it was on to Baltimore, then Pittsburgh – and then Cleveland, where it was clear the police force had decided nothing was going to sully their reputations when the Beatles came to the Public Auditorium. The atmosphere was much more tense than I had seen at any of the other venues – the police, like vigilant headmasters, marched down the aisles, batons clenched in hand, yelling at concertgoers, “Stay in your seats.”

As soon as the warm-up acts were over, the Beatles bounded onto the stage – guitars on chests like they were bulletproof vests. They had hardly hit their stride in front of the crowd of 12,000 with “All My Loving,” when a wave of fans leapt to their feet and moved inexorably towards the stage.

A brass railing gave way as the kids pressed forward. The police pushed back as the fans swept on like an unstoppable tide. In charge of security and fearing that his men would be crushed, Deputy Inspector Carl Bare, in his military-style uniform and soft-peaked cap, marched onto the stage mid-song, waved furiously at John to stop playing and then pushed the surprised Beatle aside.

He confronted George – almost nose to nose – waved his arm menacingly and ordered, “Get off.” He grabbed the microphone, turned to the audience and bellowed, “Sit down. Sit now.”

The crowd booed, John looked furious, and then Bare’s colleague, Inspector Michael Blackwell, joined him on stage, authoritatively motioning to the group to leave. When the band didn’t move, he literally shoved George and Paul off stage.

Hopping mad, John spotted radio reporter Art Schreiber standing in the wings. “Come with me, Art,” the incensed Beatle said. “We went up to the green room,” remembered Schreiber. “I locked the door so no one could get in to interrupt.

“John was fit to burst. Then I phoned my radio station and put John on live to talk about the madhouse and what was happening. ‘The police are a bunch of bloody amateurs,’ John indignantly repeated. ‘This has never happened to us before.’“

Schreiber, frankly, was delighted with the unexpected turn of events. While his rival WHK was promoting the concert, his station, KYW, was getting the scoop.

Back in the auditorium Derek strode to center stage, stepped in front of Bare and Blackwell and took the microphone. “Please stay in your seats,” he urged the crowd. “The Beatles want to play for you, but you mustn’t stand up. If you don’t stay seated, you can all go home. The show is over.”

The fans booed heartily, but Derek’s words helped calm things down. As order was slowly restored, he turned to Mal, who was standing by Ringo’s drum set and was preparing to dismantle them. “Get them back quickly,” he urged Mal. After a seventeen-minute interruption, the Beatles walked back on stage to uproarious approval from the crowd. The band retrieved their guitars and seamlessly picked up where they had left off.

Blackwell gave his side of the story in the next day’s local paper: “I don’t blame the children. They’re young and they can’t be expected to behave like adults,” he said. “And I don’t blame the Beatles – there is nothing wrong with their act. But if we hadn’t stopped it there would have been serious injury. One little girl was knocked down in the charge, and there were 300 other youngsters about to trample her.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, still smarting from the Cleveland disruption, we arrived in New Orleans at three o’clock in the morning to the kind of sticky tropical weather that soaked your clothing through to your skin just walking from car to hotel lobby. Events had taken an unexpected Keystone Kops turn before we had even gotten to the Congress Inn.

First, the helicopter that was to whisk the band to the hotel had a flat tire, so an emergency call had to go out for limousines. Mistakenly, the limos raced to the wrong airport – showing up at New Orleans International Airport instead of Lakefront Airport. When the Beatles were finally picked up at the right airport and sped to the hotel with red lights flashing and sirens wailing, their limo took a wrong turn, tried to reverse and hit a police car. Fortunately, the only damage was the limo driver’s bruised ego.

At show time that evening, things went seriously wrong. To avoid the chaos that had gone down in Cleveland the night before, the police officers who were dispatched to City Park Stadium for security created a “safety zone” between the stage and the seating. They designated an empty stretch of grass that ran some 35 yards from the front row to the stage as a no-man’s-land. The idea was to keep the spectators sitting on the grass well away from the band so there was no way they could invade the stage. What’s more, a makeshift, three-foot temporary fence was hastily erected to further deter anyone from daring to move closer in.

It looked sensible at first, but just moments after the Beatles launched into “Can’t Buy Me Love,” fans sitting on the grass in the first five rows suddenly – and almost in unison – jumped up, trampled over the barrier and surged forward to the foot of the stage. The police, caught unaware, reacted hastily. Helmeted cops on foot and dozens on horseback galloped into the sea of bodies as they tried to block the tide of onrushing kids.

It was utter chaos. Every few minutes, a new wave of shrieking teenagers tried to storm to the front of the stage, and some even managed to clamber onto the stage to touch the Beatles. Mal and Neil [Aspinall], accustomed to coping with these juvenile onslaughts, tried to gently pry them off the lip of the stage, but the fans attached themselves like leeches.

I watched in disbelief. The cops were swearing, and at times the situation seemed totally out of control. Hooves were flying about. I saw two girls, trampled by a horse, writhing in agony. The faces of several hysterical girls were masked in blood, others lay crumpled in heaps, crying and moaning like wounded soldiers on a field of war.

As the Beatles played on, stretcher-bearers lined up to carry the wounded behind the stage, where red lights were flashing nonstop as the ambulances roared back and forth between stadium and hospital. “Police were playing football with the kids,” George later observed, “and we just kept playing.”

My eyewitness story that ran in the Daily Express got the biggest headlines of the entire tour. “Screaming girls and youths charged the stage during the Beatles show last night and turned it into the Battle of New Orleans 1964,” read my report. “More than twenty youngsters were treated for broken noses, arms, and cuts and bruises, after the wildest scene of the whole Beatles American tour.”

THE UPSIDE was that after all that unexpected drama, George’s column started to show more teeth. His version, penned by me, kicked off with a rather light-hearted comment about the way the gentler British bobbies handle things, compared to the heavy-handed tactics of their American colleagues: “It will be nice to see the friendly English copper again. American cops take some living with.”

Then the column took off:

“In Cleveland, without asking us, two senior police officers marched on stage and stopped our show completely because they said the crowd was getting out of hand. The safety curtain was pulled down, and we were ordered to our cars. With the cops shouting, ‘The show’s over, fellows, this is where we take over.’ It’s never happened to us before.

“But that’s the trouble with American cops – they’re over-enthusiastic, whether it’s for stopping shows, hurling us into cars, baton charging the crowd or just asking 30 autographs at a time.

“Anyway, we didn’t go to the cars because we had only done two numbers and the kids had paid nearly two pounds apiece to hear ten songs. We were hustled offstage much against our wills, and we went to the dressing rooms.

“When our press officer Derek Taylor walked on the stage to protest, the police told him ‘Don’t bug us or we will arrest you.’ The scene backstage, onstage and among the audience was complete confusion.

“Then the police allowed Derek to make an announcement. He said: ‘The Beatles have come thousands of miles to sing to you and they are bitterly disappointed that they are not allowed to. Do you want them back?’

“‘Yesssss,’ roared the crowd of over 12,000.

“‘One girl has been trampled,’ Derek announced.

“’And two more have fainted. We don’t want this to go on do we?’

“‘No,’ the crowd yelled back as if as one.

“Derek told them that if they behaved themselves we’d come back and finish the show. The rest of the show was one of the mildest ever. The fans stayed in their seats, frightened that if they got excited the show would be stopped for good and all.”

Then George’s column switched to more mundane tourist glibness:

“I had always imagined Basin Street and Bourbon Street – where Louis Armstrong and people like Pete Fountain started playing for their supper – would be roads you could walk down late at night and hear the echoes of jazz coming from the clubs. But Ringo told me that the Jazz Quarter is fading away. There are many clubs, but most of them have gone commercial, and have tried to attract tourists.

“There are still a few real jazz clubs going, and maybe after the show tonight we’ll get a chance to see one or two. If we don’t get spotted too quickly, that is. But that’s the story of the tour. So many American cities, but not much chance to see them very closely.

“I’m not complaining. It’s our working way of life.”

#ivor davis #john lennon #paul mccartney #george harrison #ringo starr #the beatles #derek taylor #brian epstein #mal evans #carl bare #the beatles and me on tour #1964 #i'm fascinated by how insane the touring years were

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welcometophu · 5 years

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Into the Split: Havenhill 8

Twinned Book 3: Into the Split

Havenhill 8

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“Jefferson’s almost here.” Sakura speaks slowly, as if each word slides out along a magical current. Her gaze is unfocused, and both hands hang by her sides, fingers spread. She curls one hand, and a soft zing slithers over Nikolai’s skin.

Seth’s grip tightens.

“The wards are tight, and nothing dangerous is close, other than her.” Sakura’s gaze drifts to where Mattie sits on the steps, darkness wrapped like a haze around her in the daylight. Nikolai doesn’t remember Mattie arriving, and she’s silent now, her lips twisted sour and pursed, elbows on her bent knees. She glares at Sakura, who looks away again, staring at a spot in the air. “Val, if you want to join me, we’ll be fine. There are no holes.”

Val kisses Alia’s cheek and moves to join Sakura just as Jefferson’s truck rumbles into sight. Jefferson parks and emerges, calling out, “Sorry I’m late.”

“You are just in time.” Alia gestures to Pawel, who hesitates before joining her and Jefferson by the stairs of the house. Pawel’s fingers stretch and flick, as if he’s trying to sink his fingers into the rise of magic around him. He only lowers his hand when Val covers it, nudging him down.

As they approach, Mattie rises and circles away from Alia, her gaze dark and wary. “Bedrock,” Mattie murmurs. “The other is not nearly as progressive as you, nor is she as strong. Yet. She will be.” Mattie cocks her head, frowning. “She hates me, and yet she is safer to be around. Interesting.”

“How much do you remember of the other worlds you’ve seen?” Carolyn asks. She reaches for Mattie’s arm, a small pause before her fingers close around the other woman’s wrist to grip her tightly.

Mattie’s expression twists, but she doesn’t flinch away. “Very little, other than your,” Mattie admits. “It isn’t so much a memory I can recall, as one that slides in and takes me unaware in a moment, like deja vu. I couldn’t send you to seek another person who might be bedrock, but I will know one when I see them, if I met them before.” She tilts her head. “Or killed them.” Her gaze drifts to where Alia watches her carefully. “I wouldn’t do that again. But it does something to a world when one of the underpinnings is removed.”

“Every path leads to a world, every world is probably overrun by Shadows in its own way, some worse than others,” Pawel mutters. “There are lynchpins.”

Carolyn turns, raises a finger to her lips. “Sh. You’re observing, not teaching. Consider this a silent research position for the moment.”

“What, exactly, are we doing?” Seth pushes his glasses up his nose with his free hand, holds them there with the tip of his middle finger. “Because neither of us grew up with ritual magic. And we haven’t exactly learned any while trying to stay alive. Not attracting attention from the Shadows was a much higher priority.”

“The only ritual Mages we have here are Pawel, Sakura, and Val,” Carolyn points out. “This isn’t so much a ritual as a… combining of forces. We all have some kind of link to traveling, or to the Dreamscape. We punched through it from our home to here. I just want to try to punch a hole back, without going through it. I’ve already tried a few things on my own.”

“Can we sit down for this? I want to be comfortable.” Nikita lowers herself to the ground, ending up sitting with her back against Heather’s chest, and Heather’s arms around her center. She cranes her head back to kiss Heather’s cheek.

Seth grins and tugs at Nikolai, and yes, that actually does sound like a good idea. They take up a position opposite Nikita, Nikolai’s toes almost touching hers. Seth sits with his knees bent, and Nikolai in the space between. Seth leans forward and wraps his arms around Nikolai’s center, his head a weight against Nikolai’s shoulder, his body warm and welcome.

It brings to mind a lot of other thoughts that aren’t helpful at all right now. Things they haven’t really had the luxury of privacy to explore since arriving in Havenhill.

“We’re going to have a house to ourselves,” Seth whispers against Nikolai’s neck. Because of course Seth knows what he’s feeling.

From the bright flush on Heather’s skin across the way, and how she buries her face against Nikita’s neck, Nikolai is pretty sure his emotions are available for anyone to read who can. Lovely. “Remind me of that later, and don’t distract me now,” he whispers. Seth laughs in a whisper of warmth against his skin.

Yeah, that’s just as distracting as Nikolai thought it would be.

Carolyn coughs, and points to the space around their feet. “Mac. Mattie. Come on in and we’ll just—if you guys could hold onto them, and onto me, I’ll try to open up a connection home. I’ve already tried Traveling here and it’s—it’s not what I’m used to. None of my pictures seem to be of anything here, and I tried art from here that someone showed me, and it just feels like art. Like it’s nothing special. So I think this is something where I really need art from home to work, but I need that art to be of someplace here. Or I need to make my own art.”

Nikolai lets the words wash over him as if they mean something, which they really don’t. “What do you want us to do?”

“Mac’s a Teleporter, and Mattie knows how to move through shadows. I want them to lend that to me. You and Nikita are Dreamwalkers, which means if you let loose, you should be able to interact—”

“No,” Seth cuts her off. “That’s how you rip holes in the world and let Shadows in.”

Carolyn goes silent, crouches in front of them. “How else are we going to get home?” she asks quietly. “There isn’t a door. I want to make a door. Or find a way. Or something. I don’t want to let the Shadows out of the Split. In fact, I want to explicitly avoid that, which is part of why Mattie’s here with us. But if we don’t make that hole, I don’t go home. Pawel never sees his son again. I never see my twin. Alaric never sees his family. We’re stuck. So I’m asking you to do exactly that, but in a controlled way. Which is where you and Heather come in, right? Keeping everything under control.”

Nikolai isn’t sure that has clarified anything in his mind. But Seth’s hands slide under his shirt, just above the waistband of his pants, and fingers press against his bare skin. “So you want us to do something like when we got rid of the Shadows,” Seth says, pressing the words into Nikolai’s shoulder as he speaks. “Bringing dreams to life.”

“In order to help me bring my illusions to life, yes,” Carolyn says. She rocks back on her heels, still crouched, arms across her knees. “Do you think you can do that?”

Not really, no, or rather, Nikolai doesn’t think he wants to. But Nikita watches him quietly, and he may not be an Empath, but he sees the tension as she waits for his response. Fine, he can try.

Nikolai nods, and feels Seth do the same behind him.

“Then let’s get started.” Carolyn shifts to kneel on the ground, her wallet in her hands. She has a small stack of papers that she shuffles through, finding one that she places atop the stack. She waits until Mattie and Mac are arranged, touching the shoulders of Nikita and Nikolai, while they reach for Carolyn to complete the circle. When she smiles, it’s drawn tight with lines around her mouth. “These are pictures of people from home. I’m trying to reach my twin first.”

She stares at the picture, her brow furrowed in concentration. Nikolai can’t feel anything; he’s not even sure there is something to feel. But after a few minutes she sighs and lowers her hands.

“Nothing,” she says. “I can’t even make an illusion. There’s no connection from here to Kit.” She doesn’t say anything else, just shuffles to the next picture in her stack, and stares at it again.

It goes on until Nikolai’s stiff, his legs cramped from how he’s sitting, his shoulder aching from reaching for Carolyn. Nikita makes a pained sound, and they all change position, with Nikita, Nikolai, and Carolyn forming a triangle at the center, Heather and Seth behind each of their partners, and Mac and Mattie at the spaces between Nikita and Nikolai. It’s easier this way, as Carolyn shuffles through more pieces of paper, the lines around her eyes furrowing deeper in her frustration.

She makes a low noise, and lowers the stack as her head drops. She presses fingertips to her brow, massaging. “I’ve tried so hard I have a headache. I tried Kit, Sera, the library, Sam, my room, Rory, Pawel’s living room—which is where we started—and this random picture of Nate that Kit shoved into the stack at some point. None of them seem to connect. It’s like… this is just art. Really good art, but just pictures in the end.”

She holds up a piece of paper. The picture is almost photographic, of a dark-skinned girl with heavy braids around her face, and an impish grin. The girl has one hand raised, as if she’s reaching out of the page.

Nikolai recognizes her from the dream.

“I’ve got Del left,” Carolyn says.

“Why didn’t you start with her?” Pawel asks. “She was with us when—”

“Because the idea of matching mind to mind, or however this works, with Del is kind of terrifying,” Carolyn says quickly. “She’s not always in her right mind, depending on what’s happening. On the other hand, sometimes she’s in the Dreamscape, which could help us right now. The thing is, if she’s in the Dreamscape, and no one is with her, she might not be sane. We’ve anchored her there before. If she got stuck on the way through… well, she could still be there.”

Nikolai glances at Nikita. Her tongue is peeking out before she catches her lower lip in her teeth, chewing lightly. She meets his gaze and nods, and Nikolai knows that brief dream was shared, and Nikita remembers it as well.

“Is Del another Dreamwalker?” Seth asks.

“Not exactly, but she’s somewhere on that side of things.” Carolyn sets aside the other pictures, holds only the one of Del cradled in her lap as she stares down at it. From this position, Nikolai can see the image clearly, and for a moment, he swears the picture winks at him.

He pulls back, almost lets go of Carolyn.

The image slowly rises from the page, forming into a girl crouched in the space between them. She is incorporeal, one foot planted squarely where Nikolai’s knee is, the other somewhere around Nikita’s crotch. She looks at Carolyn and smiles, then reaches out to draw a line down Carolyn’s cheek. Her lips move, then her brow furrows and she stops speaking silent words.

“Hang on,” Carolyn mutters. She screws her eyes shut tightly, and Nikolai feels a small tug against his skin. He twitches, and lets his power bleed out, as if this is a dream he has control over.

The girl—Del, he supposes—turns to look at him, her head cocked. “Oh. There are more of you,” she says. “And fewer at the same time. Did you lose the dragon?”

Nikita exhales roughly, and the world snaps into being around them. A forest, full of dark trees and darker recesses beyond. The house is still here, somehow intermingled with the new forest, the two occupying the same space. Del is still insubstantial, as is the new world that’s come to them. When Nikolai leans forward, Del’s fingers skate across his forehead, then down his nose, barely tickling as her finger presses into his space.

Carolyn’s eyes flicker open. “This is as far as I can take us.”

“What did you think you could do, open a doorway home?” Del tsks, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “That won’t work, not unless you slip between, slide through the Split. And that’s dangerous, unless you have a guide.” Her gaze drifts to Mattie. “The right guide, not one that’s broken beyond repair.”

“I’m not broken. Supposedly I’m fixed,” Mattie says mildly.

“Depends on who you ask,” Del replies. Her gaze drifts to where Val and Sakura sit with Pawel, and her head cocks, brow furrowing before she smiles, the lines disappearing from her face as she relaxes. “I have someone for you,” she says, pointing one finger at Pawel.

He blinks, and Val leans to murmur something to Sakura. Pawel points a finger at his own chest, and speaks slowly, as if he’s not sure Del will hear him. “You have something for me?”

She laughs, a bright, joyful sound that has a sharp edge before it fades. She wags her finger at him. “That’s not what I said.” Her attention shifts abruptly, dismissing him as she spins around, arms out, then stops facing Carolyn.

The ease in her expression fades, twisting into concern. “Kit worries about you,” she whispers. “And Sam worries about me. But I know you need help getting home. When you find your way into the Dreamscape, I’ll be here, and we can get back out together. Come find your path to my meadow. But be careful—the Shadows are moving, and the Split is growing. If it breaks apart entirely, you could be lost. You need to find her.” A small smile. “Isn’t it handy that I found her first, and now she wants to find you, too? But be careful. She’s hungry. And she’s not a vegetarian.”

“What, does whoever she is eat people?” Seth asks. He cuts off abruptly with a small hiss, fingers going tight where they rest against Nikolai’s hips. “Oh, is she—?”

“In the Split?” Del asks. “Yes.”

Carolyn raises one hand to her head, and the image around them wavers. For a moment, reality is more solid than the dream, and Nikolai tries to grab onto the dream. A small sound from Nikita, and pain thuds behind Nikolai’s eyes. He closes them involuntarily, and Seth exhales.

“She’s gone, and I think I’m going to puke.” Carolyn pushes roughly to her feet, stumbles a few steps before Pawel catches her. They barely make it to the side of the house before Carolyn is on her knees, retching.

Nikolai doesn’t blame her. The thud behind his eyes travels up and back, wrapping around his head and squeezing hard. He brings his knees up and lowers his head, breathing into the dark space it makes. Seth’s hand on his back and the soft calm he exudes is the only thing that makes it bearable.

“That went well,” Mattie mutters.

“I hope that was sarcasm,” Seth says. He rubs small circles across Nikolai’s shoulders, and Nikolai presses back into the touch, unwilling to raise his head or open his eyes.

“I’ll get Genevieve,” Jefferson says quietly. There are footsteps before he pauses. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad I didn’t have to knock any of you out. I’m sorry it sounds like you’re stuck here. I know what it feels like to not be able to go home again. Even if it’s safe here—even if the people are great—it took a long time for it to feel like home. But speaking from experience, your life will be better if you try to settle in now. Don’t fight it.”

Footsteps again, then the rumble of the truck, fading as Jefferson drives away.

There’s quiet for a moment, broken by rustling movement.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Mattie says.

“I’ve never seen magic work like that,” Mac adds.

“It’s a variation on calling fog,” Sakura says. “You should be able to open your eyes now; it’s darker.”

Nikolai looks up cautiously, blinking into the dim light. It isn’t exactly foggy, but there seems to be a thin layer of darkness over everything.

Mattie seems pleased as she stands and stretches. “This is my kind of place, now,” she says.

“We’ve spent a lot of time trying to learn how to combine our skills,” Val says. “We aren’t Weather Witches, but we can learn from them, and create rituals to mimic certain abilities.”

“I think the people of Havenhill are better at that than most Talents at home,” Pawel says. He offers a hand to Carolyn, to help her rise. “I’d be interested in observing your ritual development, and discussing how you’ve chosen to adapt to these new techniques.”

Nikolai stands slowly, leaning back into Seth’s touch. They all gather close enough to see clearly through the dim light. “I think I need to go lie down,” Nikolai says. Without the light, it doesn’t feel as much like someone is shoving spikes into his eyes, but his head still aches, and he can feel his pulse in his ears.

“You’re not the only one.” Nikita shades her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temple.

“We have plenty of time.” Pawel’s voice is low, words carefully chosen. “We need to think about what Del said, and it seems as if we will be here for a while. I hope that Del will pass the news that we are alive and well back to our families and friends at home, and that she is able to stay sane in the Dreamscape long enough to help us. But for now, we will settle in, and work towards making a plan for our return.”

His smile is strained when he turns to Alia, his hand out. “Thank you for your hospitality. It seems we will continue to impose upon you. I would appreciate being able to utilize your resources for research, and would be more than happy to provide any information for your historians that I can, in return.”

Alia clasps his hand. “You are welcome in Havenhill, Pawel. May it feel like home.”

It sounds like a blessing, and Nikolai chooses to take it as such. The others look worried still, Nikita curling in close to Heather, her head tilted to lean against hers. Mac budges up to the other side of Pawel, and together she and Carolyn nudge him toward the house.

Nikolai, on the other hand, finally feels like he can breathe. Like other options have been taken away, and there’s nothing left hanging over him. Like he doesn’t have to worry about suddenly being whisked away, and can just enjoy the moment.

Seth steps away, taking Nikolai’s hand and tugging him toward the smaller of the two houses, the one that will be theirs. “Come on,” Seth says, as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Let’s go home.”

Nikolai would follow Seth anywhere, but going home sounds like the best thing Seth has ever suggested. “Let’s go home,” Nikolai echoes as he agrees, and follows as Seth leads.

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#welcome to phu #welcometophu #into the split #phu twinned #twinned #its havenhill

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heller-obama · 5 years

Text

Operation Newsboy

It’s still Saturday, so I still made the deadline I made for myself! (it’s still around the time I usually post but still)

Also, actual plot this time! Yay!

Here’s the prologue, chapter one, chapter two, and chapter three if you hadn’t read them

Chapter 4

Words: 2,204 (it’s really because the newsies plot started too)

Warnings: uhhh child labor, child abuse(?) kinda not really, cursing, this chapter isn’t as good as the others

Editing: just grammarly because this is super rushed sorry

***#***

Barry’s Flash suit cowl hung behind his head, his face of absolute shock. To Wally’s own shock, there was something new about Barry: there was a scar running from the corner of his eye to between his nose and his lip. It was thick and pale against his tan skin.

“Wally? What the hell? Why are you in 1899?” He asked, running his hand through his hair.

“I’m here--I’m here with the Legends. What happened to your face?” Wally asked, unsure of how he felt about these circumstances.

“I’ve told you the story before,” He grumbled. “You know I don’t like to talk about it.”

“No…Barry, you haven’t.”

“Wally, don’t drag that into this,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re…oh. Oh.” Realization dawned on Wally. “Barry…humor me. Where’d you get that scar?”

“You know how!” He said, probably a bit louder than he should. Wally gave him the just-do-it-you-big-idiot stare. “Fine! The knife fight over newsie turf, okay? Jeesh!”

“Oh, dammit,” Wally muttered. “I told you I was here with the Legends. This kid was killed when he wasn’t supposed to be, and he was supposed to ignite a strike that’d end child labor…We’re here to save the kid.”

“What do you mean, ‘end child labor’? That’s still a thing in 2017, Wally. Let alone the 20th century.”

“It’s the time ripples. This kid I’m protecting dies, then he doesn’t set off a strike in two days, and child labor isn’t abolished like it was supposed to be, in the ‘30s.”

Barry just stared at the guy he considered his brother for a few seconds.

“So…” Wally tried to break the silence. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“The goddamn Thinker,” he muttered. He didn’t offer any more insight.

“Would you look at that?” Wally teased. “The great Barry Allen, cursing like a sailor.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled and playfully punched Wally’s arm.

##*##

When Wally made it back to the Lodge(it didn’t take that long considering he ran there and back), the boys were all sitting on their beds cross-legged, mischievous grins plastered on their faces.

“Oh, no,” he muttered when he saw the boys.

“Oh, yes,” they all said.

“So why’d youse run out of ‘ere like that, eh?” Race asked.

“Uh…” Wally couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Youse got yourself a nickname now!” Romeo crowed.

“Speedy!” The boy who slept under Race, Sniper, called.

“Yeah!” All the boys yelled.

“Ey! Quiet down, I’s tryin’ to sleep ‘ere.” Finch said loudly.

“A’ight,” the boys mumbled.

And despite himself, Wally could feel himself smiling as he fell asleep.

##*##

Manhattan, New York

July 13, 1899

“Wally! Wally! Wally! Wally!” Wally groaned and rolled over in bed. There was a tinny voice shouting in his ear.

“Waaaaaallyyyyyyyyy!” The voice shouted, even louder this time. “Wally! Get your ass out of bed! That’s an order!” Finally, Wally stirred and recognized Sara’s voice from the comms in his ear.

“What?” He whispered, wary of waking his new friends up.

“You remember why you’re there, right? Save Jack Kelly, save the child labor ban! He’s supposed to be killed soon!”

“How long?” He whispered, shaking the sleep out of him.

“Fifteen minutes, max! Let’s go!”

Wally slipped out of bed, walking as silently as possible to the door. He opened it, then slipped out.

“Eh, New York’s fine for those who got a big, strong door to lock it out.” He could hear Jack’s voice, presumably talking to Crutchie. “But, I tell ya, Crutchie, there is a whole ‘nother way out there!” Wally stayed in hiding, not wanting to intrude on whatever conversation was going on up there. He looked around, checking to see if there were any nefarious people hanging around. But there was no one.

Jack’s voice cut through his thoughts once more. “They say folks is dyin’ to get here. Me, I’m dyin’ to get away, to a little town out west that’s spankin’ new.”

Wally’s jaw dropped. He knew that the newsies danced on random occasions, but singing? He didn’t expect that. He sat, knowing that the time assassin wouldn’t kill Jack with Crutchie around. And if Wally had anything to do with it, then he wouldn’t kill Jack at all.

“Close your eyes. Come with me. Where it’s clean and green and pretty.” Wally could hear all of Jack’s dreams laid out bare for two unexpected people to hear.

“There’s a life that’s worth the livin’. And I’m gonna do my share! Work the land! Chase the sun! Swim the whole Rio Grande just for fu-u-un!” Wally felt slightly guilty listening to something so personal, but it was worth it of he could save his new friend.

“Just hold on, kid, ‘til that train makes Sa-anta Fe.” The morning bell tolled, and Wally scooted towards the ladder to the roof. “Hey, Specs! Racer, Henry, Albert, Elmer! Get a move on! Them papes don’t sell themselves!”

Wally waited for Crutchie to climb down the ladder before he made his move.

“Oh, hey, Wally,” Crutchie said.

“I, uh, need to talk to Jack,” Wally said.

“Oookaaay,” Crutchie walked into the Lodge.

Wally started climbing the ladder, then had an idea. “Hey, Jack, I need to talk to you!”

Jack stuck his head over the ladder. “Okay?”

Wally finally reached the top of the ladder. He was at a total loss about what to say to Jack, given that he came up here on a whim. “It’s, uh, about selling spots! You, uh, haven’t told me where to sell. Or how to sell. Or who to sell to…”

Jack looked completely off-guard. “Youse…just come sell with me. I’ll teach ya the ropes.”

Secretly, Wally was happy. With or without the strike, he had an excuse to stay by Jack’s side all day. Suddenly he heard a slight noise, like a pebble being dislodged off a roof. Wally whipped his head around, but there was nothing in the pre-dawn light.

Jack was looking at him with one eyebrow raised. “Sorry, I thought I heard something.”

“Is that all?” Jack asked.

“Yeah,” he said and cleared his throat. “Uh, after you.”

When they walked through the roof access door, everyone was out already, in front of the Lodge, waiting for Jack, Wally supposed.

Wally was trailing behind Jack like a small puppy, but when he pushed open the front door, he did not get what he was expecting.

As soon as Jack stepped out of the threshold, he started singing. Again.

“It’s a crooked game we’re playin’, one we’ll never lose. ‘Long as suckers don’t mind payin’, just to get bad news.” Jack sang.

Before Wally could say anything, the other newsies joined in, too.

“Ain’t it a fine life, carryin’ the banner through it all. A mighty fine life, carryin’ the banner tough and tall. When that bell rings, we goes where we wishes, we’s as free as fishes, sure beats washin’ dishes. What a fine life, carryin’ the banner home-free all.” An unfortunate rich looking lady and her friend walked by, perfectly posed to get incessantly hit on. Which is what Romeo and Jack immediately did, of course.

“Well, hello, hello, hello, beautiful,” Romeo said.

“Woah, step aside, Romeo. Nothin’ more concerns you here.” Jack said, shoving his friend out of his way. “Mornin’, miss. May I interest you in the latest news?”

“The paper isn’t even out yet,” she said.

“Oh, but I’d be delighted to deliver it to you poisynally,” Jack said, stepping closer to the pair who was about to walk away.

Her friend looked like he was about to do something that’d probably get him a black eye, but the lady held up her hand. “I’ve got a headline for you: ‘Cheeky Boy Gets Nothing For His Troubles’.” She retorted.

Jack just walked away, still eyeing the lady.

“Hey, Crutchie,” Finch said, “what’s your leg say? Gonna rain?”

Crutchie shook his bad leg experimentally. “Uhh…no rain. Oh-oh, partly cloudy, clear by evenin’.”

“They oughta bottle this guy!” Finch cried.

“Yeah, and the limp sells 50 papes a week, all by itself.” Race added.

Crutchie looked slightly offended. “I don’t need the limp to sell papes. I got personality.” He stopped, and Wally had a feeling as to what was going to come next. “It takes a smile that spreads like butter, the kind that turns a lady’s head.”

Wally stalked over to an empty corner, trying to find an empty space to talk with Sara. “Hey, Sara,” he said into his comms.

“Wally? The kid’s not dead, is he?” Sara’s reply came quick.

“Thanks for believing in me, Sara,” he joked.

“Update? Did you find our time assassin?”

“No, but I think I heard him on the roof earlier, right after you said he was going to murder Jack.”

“Of course he was there. You kinda have to be present to assassinate someone. And since—is that singing?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I think we’ve found a group of people weirder than us, Sara.”

“Hey, what’s the holdup? Waiting makes me antsy, I likes livin’ chancey!” Finch yelled.

“I’ll take your word on that,” Sara said.

Suddenly(and finally), the group started moving, to what Wally hoped was Newsie Square. “Gotta go, Sara.”

“Alright, just remember to be safe.” The mic crackled, and Mick’s voice came over the speaker. “Hey! Tell that little punk I want my dollar back!” Wally could hear Sara slap him on the back of the head. “Shut it, Rory.” Wally grinned as he ran to catch up with the newsies.

Much to his chagrin, they didn’t arrive at the square. It was a couple of nuns handing out coffee and biscuits. Oh, thank God! Wally thought. I’m starving! He made a mental note to either buy or steal--preferably buy--some food later, to supplement his speedster diet.

Finally, after some singing, dancing, and gymnastics, the newsies finally made it to the circulation gate.

“Hey, look, they’re putting up the headline!” Finch cried.

“I hope it’s bloody, with a nice, clear picture!” Specs replied.

“YEAH!” The boys chorused.

The headline was not, in fact, bloody or with a clear picture. It really read: ‘TROLLEY STRIKE ENTERS 3RD WEEK’. The boys all groaned.

“The trolley strike? Not again,” Elmer whined.

“Man, three weeks of the same story.” Race added.

“They’re killing us with that snoozer.” Finch jumped in, too.

Just then, two decently dressed guys wearing bowler hats that couldn’t be that older than Wally walked up. “Hey! Step aside!” they yelled.

“Oh, dear me!” Race mocked. “What is that unpleasant aroma? I fear the sewers may have backed up during the night.”

Wally figured these guys weren’t exactly buddy-buddy with the newsies.

“Or could it be…” Crutchie began, and everyone joined in.

“The Delancey brothers!”

“Hey, Oscar!” Finch called, walking up to the one with no vest on. “Word on the street says you and your brother took money to beat up striking trolley workers.”

“So? It’s honest work.” Oscar replied. Some of the newsies scoffed.

“By crackin’ the heads of defenseless workers?” Albert butted in.

“I take care of the guy who takes care of me,” Oscar replied.

Wow, it really is a dog-eat-dog world here, Wally thought.

Race got into his face. “Hey, ain’t your father one of the strikers?”

“I guess he didn’t take care of me.” Oscar pushed Race.

But before Race could retaliate, the other Delancey started attacking Crutchie. “Hey, you want some of that, too? You lousy crip!” He stole Crutchie’s crutch and shoved him to the ground.

Immediately, Jack was on him. He snatched Crutchie’s crutch back. “That is not nice, Morris!”

“Hey, five to one Jack skunks him!” Race cried indignantly, while Albert helped Crutchie up. Wally could feel his body tense up with anger.

“One unfortunate day, you might find you have a bum gam of your own,” Jack continued. “How would you like us picking on you, eh?” Jack turned towards the newsies. “Hey! Hey, maybe we should find out!” He turned back and whacked Morris in the shin with the crutch, and then spun around and whacked Oscar, too. Despite himself, Wally hissed in empathy. The newsies, however, cheered.

“Wait until we get our hands on you!” Oscar threatened.

“You gotta catch me first!” Jack yelled and took off like a shot.

“GO, JACK!” The newsies, including Wally this time, cheered. And then, inevitably, they started dancing again.

“PAPES FOR THE NEWSIES! LINE UP!” An older mustached man yelled.

“Mornin’, Weasel! You missed me?” Jack called at the front of the line.

“The name’s Wiesel,” the man spat.

“Ain’t that what I said?” Jack smirked. “I’ll take the usual.”

“100 papes for the wise guy,” Wiesel called to the Delanceys.

“How’s it going, Weasel?” Race said.

“At least call me ‘mister’.”

“I’ll call you sweetheart if you spot me 50 papes, huh?”

“Drop the cash and move along,” He said threateningly, but Race wasn’t intimidated.

He slapped a few coins on the lockbox. “Whatever happened to romance?” Race said wistfully.

“50 for the Racer. Next!”

The and the other boys went, making various ‘Weasel’ jokes.

Finally, it was Wally’s turn. He said nothing, just lightly placing a quarter on the box.

“Ah, a new kid, huh?” Wiesel said.

“He’s called Speedy,” one of the younger newsies Wally hadn’t met yet called.

“50 papes for Speedy!” Wiesel called.

Another new kid behind Wally with black hair went next. “Would’ya look at this? Two new kids in one day!”

A smaller kid popped out from behind him. “Hey, I’m new, too!”

“Don’t worry, kid, it rubs right off.” Race called.

Albert went next, making a crack about Wiesel getting into the movie business.

The new kid caused some ruckus about being short a paper, which Jack quickly resolved.

Within seconds, Jack was already trying to strike a deal with the two boys.

Wally was only half-listening, really. He was looking around the square for someone who didn’t belong. So far, the most suspicious people he saw were the Delancey brothers and Wiesel, but they didn’t exactly scream ‘time assassin’. Plus they already had a history with the boys, so…jackasses? Totally. Inter-time period assassins? No.

“Newsies! Hit the streets! The sun is up, the headline stinks, and this kid ain’t getting any younger!” Jack yelled.

Then Wally, Jack, and the two new kids, Davey and Les, headed out into the streets, gearing up for a day of selling.

#Jamie writes stuff #operation newsboy #I kinda based Barry's scar on an injury I got one time #because I was bored and because I had no other ideas #newsies #jack kelly #Katherine plumber #crutchie #crutchie morris #morris delancey #the delancey brothers #Albert dasilva #romeo #legends of tomorrow #Wally west #Barry allen #fanfic #fanfiction #writeblr

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virmillion · 6 years

Text

Some Kind of Magical - Chapter 2

Chapter 1 / Chapter 3 / Masterpost / ao3

Warnings: Past violence, let me know if you have any more

Words: 4449

Patton splits off from the other three, carefully using the warmth of their words to build a barrier around his heart. No telling how strong it’ll need to be tonight, but he can obliterate that bridge when he gets there—his dad isn’t supposed to be home quite yet. Picking up the pace, Patton pushes his black and blue glasses higher up his nose, trying to quell the rising terror that always accompanies his walks home.

The number of wild animals crawling out of bushes to greet him is less than reassuring—at this rate, they’ll follow him all the way back and his dad will use them as target practice. Patton shoes them off with handfuls of dried fruits from his bag, regaining his solitude by the time he reaches the front door. Thankfully, the house appears quiet, an unheard of occasion as of late. It’s a rare day when he isn’t greeted by furious yelling or pointedly aggravated silence—if Patton didn’t know better, he’d swear there was some sadistic being testing his resolve in striving toward pacifism.

“Please be okay, please be okay, please dear Cethyphyirr be okay,” Patton chants to himself, tripping up the stairs on his untied shoelaces. He ignores the gaping frame where his bedroom door had been just that morning and drops his bag to the floor, fooling himself into thinking it would be enough of a barrier to protect him. Without so much as a glance at the sea of garbage and mess at his feet, Patton wades through the clearest path to his closet door—still attached, praise Ceth. Shoving the shelves and weapons to the side, he removes the poster blocking a shallow hole in the wall to reveal a little cove of various babbling critters.

Tarasques and shedus and jorogumos alike peer out at Patton, each a different age and each recovering from some injury or another. Patton unrolls a cloth bandage, tearing it in the middle with his teeth and turning to the turtle-like tarasque. He patches up a hole in the shell, using his other hand to scoot aside the baying freybug that’s ventured out of the hole. The jorogumo skitters up his arm with several hairy legs, the face-like markings on its back seeming to wink at him.

“You guys are lucky this cavity came with a size charm, you know that?” Patton sighs, watching his hand shrink each time it enters the gap to escort out another animal. The shedu’s tail puffs up, consuming a majority of the opening and growing into the space. It blocks Patton’s access to the other creatures until he can nudge the creature back to shrink down again. “Yes, Dad, absolutely I should go into Resolute,” he mutters. “Certainly, my one true calling is taking up arms against the creatures that I want nothing more than to protect. How ever do you do it, figuring out exactly what’s best for me? Even teaching me to solve my problems with my fists, to the point that my friends already know they have to restrain me.” Patton grits his teeth, clenching his hands into fists as his jaw begins to ache. He only stops at the whimpering of the freybug, which backs toward the nest with a wary focus on him. Slowly, his fists relax. “Really, Dad, you truly are a wonder to behold. One to rival the Ejnathryk itself.”

“Patton Thyrrdyn!” A furious voice bellows from downstairs. Patton holds back a groan, quickly and methodically replacing the poster behind the weapons and shelves. The last creatures vanish just in time, as the name is repeated louder and closer than before.

“Hey, Dad,” Patton says, descending the stairs to look at the man in the front entryway. “What can I do ya for?” He feels his pulse quicken for the ever-present dread that his dad might find the hidden creatures, but this rage doesn’t look like that of a betrayed father.

“Care to explain why there’s dirt tracked in here?” The panic recedes, leaving only a slight irritation at such a loud yell for such a trivial complaint.

“Guess I didn’t notice. Sorry.” Patton turns to head upstairs, to escape before the discussion inevitably turns to TryMyts, but nothing can ever be quite so simple.

“Did they discuss Trytsu selection today?” The edge in his voice alone is enough to make Patton hesitate. “Don’t worry. I know you’ll pick the right one.” He pauses briefly, watching Patton back away with a nod. “I only want what’s best for you, kiddo. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“I know.”

“So, any ideas for dinner?” A stab at conversation, and a poor one at that.

“No, but Logan, Roman, and Virgil are supposed to come over later. We were gonna try to get started on planning our TryMyts projects.”

“Who?” A hollow sigh takes up residence in Patton’s chest, begging to be released in a show of sheer aggravation. His dad has met all three of them several times over, and this is just an act to prolong the dying conversation. This information is the only thing keeping Patton from melting down into a stereotypical heap of groaning teen annoyance.

“Logan Thylktor, Roman Thyrrak, and Virgil Thriyv. We’ve been to each other’s houses a bunch of times, and you even met Virgil’s mom at orientation for senior year TryMyts stuff, remember?”

An ugly frown toys with his dad’s mouth. “The adoptive parents that don’t understand their place. Yeah, I remember those two.” It would be so easy for Patton to remark on his own mom’s absence, or how ridiculous it is to be upset that two people would willingly take in someone not related by blood, or how well-functioning the Thriyv household is, but he doesn’t. With thinly pressed lips and a slight dip of his chin, Patton retreats the rest of the way upstairs.

In his room again, he could easily get a head start on his project, or even on putting a dent in the mess on his floor, but that would be too easy. Instead, he lifts the lid from a glass box of miniature trees and grass, hidden in an unmarked crate beneath a heat lamp in his closet. After a moment, something small and green glides from one of the branches, its mottled red tail streaking behind. Patton allows that same wistful smile to cross his face, twin to the one that always appears when his healing creatures test out their reparations—rehabilitations, as it were. The amphiptere, a little winged serpent, finally comes to a rest at Patton again, concluding its tour of his room by wrapping its tail around his finger. The other hand, resting on the floor at his side, promptly stings with the dull pain of a bite.

“Hey,” he scolds softly, looking at the little beaked basilisk peeking out from his pile of clothes. In Patton’s defense, sometimes the mess is convenient. The reddish brown scales glow as it makes a muted guttural sound, its eyes barely cracked open. Damaged neurotoxin gland, a difficult fic to be sure, but that doesn’t mean Patton isn’t trying. The eyes, having long since recognized Patton as a protector, rather than a captor, avoid his gaze. Paralyzing its closest acquaintance probably isn’t the best course of action. Patton idly observes the progress of each of his creatures, whiling the time away until his friends can get over and ensure that his dad won’t barge in.

“Patton? Those Loman and Rogan kids you were talking about are here.”

He doesn’t bother to correct the names—the flub was probably intentional, anyway. Aimed at getting a rise out of Patton, prompting a reaction, proving he didn’t raise a broken boy that would never belong in Resolute. That what everything’s always been about, is trying to force Patton to stretch the extra three inches to fit in a six-foot mold. “Send them up, please.”

Of their own volition, the creatures return to their tanks and crates and corners, hiding from the people they don’t know well enough to trust. Only Patton is allowed to be graced with their presence, exclusively due to his persistence in trying to help them.

“Wish they’d stay out so I could meet them,” Roman comments on his way in, watching the speckled tip of the amphiptere’s tail vanish into the closet.

“Yeah, well.” Patton shrugs, nudging the door shut with his foot and clearing a path through the rubble of clothes on his floor. “Do we want to wait for Virgil?” Rather than answer, Logan drops his weight in papers to the ground, leaving Roman to carry the conversation on his own. Patton’s eyes track the motions of a few flyaway papers, floating gently like fallen butterflies.

“His mom said he didn’t come home this afternoon, and his mother was busy with a meeting, so his mom said he might stop by later, thanks for our time, but she really should be getting back to her notes.” Mid-sentence, Roman’s voice shifts up an octave in a remarkable imitation of Virgil’s mom. At least, as remarkable as the imitation of an adult woman can be, given that the imitator is a teenage boy.

“So basically, we’re on our own without the sarcastically comedic comments?”

“More or less.” Roman joins Patton and Logan on the floor, bringing his comparably meager supply of books with him. With one last sigh, Patton braces himself for the onslaught of work they have ahead of them. By the time a shadow falls over the small window on the far wall, he’s long since stopped paying attention to the outside world. He blinks, trying to force his hazel eyes to focus on what’s in front of him, to make sense of the endless lists and bullet points.

“What about this? A battle for glory in a ring of deadly creatures, lit by Cethyphyirr to symbolize your creation of a new existence into the world of an official Trytsu?” A decent suggestion from Logan, which lies in direct conflict with the neat scrawling on the paper he holds up—schematics for a Rehabilitate project. Patton squints at the paper, trying to comprehend Logan’s cramped handwriting—despite his penchant for artistic pursuits, he could certainly stand to improve his legibility. Although the situation might be less than ideal, it’s not the worst idea to circumvent Patton’s dad’s refusal to accept a non-Resolute Trytsu.

As Logan repeats himself for Roman to scribble the battle idea onto his notepad, Patton copies the written plan down in his own pages. “Hasn’t the whole ‘glory of Cethyphyirr’ thing been done before?” Roman pokes his cheek with an eraser, sticking his tongue out. “Not very original of a TryMyts, no offense.”

“First off, nothing is original,” Logan says, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “Second, even if it’s been done, it hasn’t been done by you, which is what would make it stand out. Third, the point of TryMyts is not to be original.” He unfurls his remaining two fingers to gesture with his entire hand at Roman. “Every student might well do the same project, provided the result is worthy of finding a place in their Trytsu, be it that of their parents or a new one. Yours doesn’t have to be special. It just has to be effective.”

“But originality is what makes people stand out! What would you say if someone told you your work was boring, or had been done before?”

“In all likelihood, I would embrace the challenge of outdoing a previous accomplishment, though that should hardly be any of your concern.” The sparkle in Logan’s eyes sends a jolt through Patton’s spine, an inevitable debate waiting to ignite. “Suppose, Roman, that you were to do something entirely original. How, precisely, might you intend to pass off such a thing to your parents, if you don’t have the perfect grades to back it up? They will assume you won’t succeed if you haven’t succeeded already. Better yet, if there’s never been a safe trial run of your supposedly ‘original’ TryMyts before, how can you guarantee Pib’s safety when you attempt it?”

Patton is already on his feet and scurrying out of the room before Roman can come up with a retort, letting Logan’s triumphant debate-mode voice fade behind him. He makes up some excuse about getting snacks, the argument rapidly escalating and drowning out his mumbles. Of course, he already knows there’s no extra food lying around the house, but that’s beside the point. Even some ice to let melt on his tongue would be enough, just something to drown out his racing thoughts over Virgil’s absence. Suffice it to say, Patton was less than thrilled to hear about Virgil not making it home, even more so that he didn’t make it to the study session. He just needs a good distraction, is all.

Take an injured rabbit for example, on its side mere feet beyond the front door. Patton jumps down the last few stairs, ready to sprint outside and help—until his rescue is interrupted.

“Hey, kiddo, how’s it goin’?” Eyeing the suspiciously pink glow on his dad’s face, Patton shrugs noncommittally, desperate to keep his gaze off the rabbit. “How can you not know? Any project breakthroughs? Any of your little friends planning to betray their heritage and change Trytsun?”

“I don’t know, no, I don’t know, gotta go,” Patton says, bouncing between his feet and trying to squeeze past his dad. No dice, as the man has him trapped between the railings at the landing of the stairs.

“What about that Thriyv kid? Did his parents decide to keep their faux-altruistic ways out of other people’s lives for once?”

“I really don’t know. He might be over later, but I’m not sure.” For a split second, Patton lets his eyes dart to the door, where the rabbit remains. A pair of eyes gleams back at him in the darkness.

“Hey, hey, eyes on me, kiddo. Right here.” His dad grabs his shoulder, forcing his attention to snap back. “I just want what’s best for you, you know?”

“I know.” Ignoring the desire to remark on the peculiar way of showing affection, Patton finally slips under the arm braced against the wall. The eyes outside are closer than before. A dish of water, that’s all he needs, just a few seconds to get to the rabbit and get it hydrated and get it upstairs to safety. An ideal plan, simple enough in its success, if the faucet weren’t so slow, if all the dishes weren’t dirty, if his dad had moved sooner, if the rabbit were still warm. With his dad having disappeared to do Ceth knows what, Patton sinks to his knees beyond the door. The eyes have vanished, leaving only the vague sense of being watched as he carefully cradles the rabbit’s hind leg, snapped beyond a point of reason.

“I’ll help you, promise,” he murmurs, doing his best not to jostle the poor thing as he takes it to his room. Roman and Logan appear completely unsurprised as he sets about wrapping the rabbit’s leg and dribbling water into its mouth with a straw. The other two carry on with their discussion of possible TryMyts ideas, a relaxing backdrop of sound as he works. For however little it’s worth, the rabbit’s eyes slowly brighten, its body heat returning over the course of far too many minutes.

“Patton, I think we’re going to head out,” Logan says, jolting him from his concentration. “Our parents will be expecting us soon, and we don’t want to impose.”

“No problem,” Patton replies, barely taking his eyes off the twitching rabbit. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Roman agrees, offering a wave as he follows Logan out through where a door should be and down the stairs. Patton waits for the click of the closing front door, counting the moments that follow. After seven seconds, the inevitable complaints present themselves.

“Why did they have to stay so long?”

“Don’t know.”

“What are you doing?”

“Homework.”

“What?”

“Homework!” An edge of aggravation laces through Patton’s voice. This whole charade is as ridiculous and unnecessary as ever.

“Okay!” A twin spear of irritation lingers with his father’s response.

“If you need me to be louder, don’t go off at me for complying,” Patton mutters to himself, wishing he could slam the door shut. Of course, it doesn’t exist anymore, probably burned to high Ceth by now, in the name of his dad’s twisted ideas of what being in Resolute truly means. As the echo of a pitiful excuse for conversation fades, the annoyance on both ends slowly dissipates, the chasm of a closet remaining silent. With a careful parting of the obstacles, Patton places a finger into the charmed gap, watching his fingernail shrink down. The sudden visibility reveals all of his little friends curled up on top of one another, happily dozing away. To the quiet hum of the heat lamp’s whirring, the amphiptere huffs hot air out to match the warmth on its back.

Patton replaces the mess he’d sifted through earlier to disguise his creatures from sight, pleased at how well the posters and boxes blend in with the whirlwind of clothes and papers and projects. There, on the floor of his closet and slumped against the door, is how the morning sun finds him, an obnoxious beam on his crusted shut eyes. It takes a few slow, exhausted blinks for Patton to gather his bearings, before he jumps to his feet.

Mutterings of “gonna be late” and “crap crap crap” and “Ceth please lend me your speed” chase Patton around his room as he tugs on the first pair of shoes he can find. The clothes from yesterday will have to do, Patton decides, shouldering his open bag and running out the front door. Granted, the stolen bedroom door is a nuisance as well as an invasion of privacy, but it certainly allows for a conveniently fast exit. Down the sidewalk and onto the pavement, the pale sun overhead offers the smallest modicum of warmth for his shivering arms, coated in goosebumps. Twin birds flock behind him, cawing anxiously for their usual morning treats. Patton obliges, scattering a handful of raisins on the ground behind him as he sprints for the school. The last dregs of students filing into the building that rapidly crowns his horizon forces his legs to beat faster, his heart rate pulsing through every last nerve ending.

“Ceth, please, just a little faster,” Patton heaves, flinging his body into the building with reckless abandon. He collapses into his usual seat in his classroom—thankfully near the front door—and lets his head loll back as the teacher closes the door behind him.

“Late start, Thyrrdyn?”

“You could say that.” He lets himself laugh with the other kids, certain the bright pink burn of exertion is spreading rapidly across his face.

“Well, you sat down before I could shut the door, so I suppose I’ll let it slide. This time.” The telltale wry grin Patton sees toying with the teacher’s lips is enough to know he’s off the hook, with no bad blood to show for it. As the attention of the class reluctantly drifts back to the front of the room, turning minds toward pretending to learn, Patton tunes it out. He can get it all from Logan or Virgil later, rather than strain his willpower to be engaged now. More important of an issue is considering whether his room and reputation are safe, should his dad decide to snoop around while he’s gone.

The poster was definitely blocking the size-charmed nook, and he almost certainly knocked over the shelves and weapons in his rush to get out. At the very least, the mess should deter any would-be paternal inspectors of that odd spiderweb crack in the wall. There has to be something more, something else he’s forgetting, or he wouldn’t have this lingering sense of dread that something’s missing. Once more through the checklist, the heat lamp was on, the closet door was shut, the mess looked organic, everything important was contained behind closed doors, so everything should be fine.

“The rabbit!” Patton hisses, rapping the side of his fist on his desk. He darts his eyes around furtively, thanking Ceth that no one seemed to notice his outburst, but one mercy doesn’t solve another. He was helping the rabbit, Logan and Roman left, the mini-interrogation with his dad, and he passed out on the floor. The rabbit was probably long gone by the time Patton woke up—with any luck, it had at least partially healed. With any luck, it would know to hide itself, or get out while it still could.

With every moment that the teacher discusses whatever it is the class is supposed to care about, Patton feels his pulse pick up. If he could just run home, double check for any incriminating evidence, he could reassure himself and not have to fear his dad’s wrath. The bouncing of his eyes and the tapping of his feet aren’t exactly comforting ways to fidget, not to mention how they seem to agitate the teacher, but Patton can’t particularly find it in himself to care.

“Patton Thyrrdyn, do you have something you would like to share with the class?” He jolts, eyes wide as they focus on the imposing adult.

“Um, no, Myjhyrr. Sorry, I didn’t—Sorry.” Patton pulls his lips between his teeth, biting down until they tingle and the color drains away. Prodding the little teeth-shaped indents with his tongue, he smiles sheepishly at the teacher’s wary look. With a glare of warning, the teacher continues the lesson.

Maybe he could leave at lunch and be back by the next class, if he just sprints a little faster than his lungs would like to allow—but no, no, that wouldn’t work. The higher ranking people in charge of the school started assigning teachers to block off the exits months ago. Patton is well and truly trapped, and there’s nothing he can do about it. If he could just get to the door—

“Thyrrdyn! You know as well as I do that your record will tolerate very few further complications, and I don’t suppose you desire to toe that line. If you don’t want to repeat this year, I suggest you sit up, face forward, and pay attention.” It’s a bit difficult to discern what, exactly, is so pointed in the teacher’s words, but something in there makes Patton’s blood boil. The worst he’d ever done was give Than a much deserved nosebleed, and that’s hardly any of the teacher’s business to share in front of the whole class. As if they didn’t already know, didn’t already spread rumors to make him sound even worse, like he planned the attack instead of losing his grip on pacifism. At this rate, someone might well end up with a pencil stuck through their arm. Maybe a pen, just to spice things up from last time—which, in Patton’s defense, was an accident. It wasn’t his fault Than set his arm on Virgil’s homework after being asked repeatedly to stop. And besides, Than’s arm wasn’t the only casualty that day—Patton lost a perfectly good pencil.

At the teacher’s withering glare, Patton lets his eyes fall to his paper, covered in unintelligible doodles and half-hearted notes. Might as well pretend to pay attention now, if only to perfect his acting for when he’ll have to feign innocence at home. No time like the present to start coming up with an alibi. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Patton was forced to be dishonest, anyway. He doesn’t necessarily want to hurt anyone, but if the good of the many outweighs the good of himself, of course he’s going to pursue the former.

By the time Patton reminds himself that yes, little white lies are okay in a few choice circumstances, the desks around him are empty, save for the kid asleep in the back corner. The teacher comes to a halt in front of Patton, an incessant clicking sound coming from beyond the desk. As the teacher begins to once more reprimand Patton for not paying attention, the clicking solidifies into the recognizable sound of a pen being shuttered and reopened far more rapidly than necessary.

“Thyrrdyn—” click “—you—” click “—need—” click “—to learn—” click “—to pay—” click “—attention!” Click click click. “I’m going to have to write you up if this continues.”

“Oh, no, there’s really no need for that,” Patton says, eyes trained on the infernal clicking pen. “Just an off day, you know?”

Click click. “It better be. Go on to your next class, but one” click “—last thing.” Click click click. “You’re aiming to switch into Rehabilitate, yes?” Click click.

“Yeah, but how did you—”

“Not—” click “—important. What is important is that I have a very close connection to the TryMyts advisors, including Myjhyrr Ryhanthyrri. It would be a shame if he were to find out about your poor aptitude for a place in the Rehabilitate Trytsu.” Click click click click.

“There’s really no need for that,” Patton repeats, wincing at his lack of more extensive protests. “I’ll do better, I swear, I just need to get the ball rolling on this year. Diving headfirst back into school and all, yeah?”

With a heavy sigh, the teacher’s eyes fly to the ceiling. The conversation needs to end soon, if Patton is to get to his next class on time, and they both know it. By some miracle, the clicking stops. His head hurts. “Look, Thyrrdyn, I just need you to pull your act together, alright? I’ve heard great things about you from other teachers, past violence excluded, and ideally I’d hoped you would keep it up for this final year. I don’t want to have to be the one to hold you back and make you redo your TryMyts, but I will, if that’s what it takes. Get it?”

“Yep.” Patton is already sidling toward the door halfway through the teacher’s hypocritical lecture, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “I will absolutely work on that in—whoops, sorry!” He dodges a student shoving their way into the room, half-wishing he could take back the apology when he realizes it’s just Than. No, nope, none of that, clean record in front of this teacher from here on out. Patton is nice and friendly and pacifistic and will act accordingly.

“Don’t disappoint me, Thyrrdyn.” The teacher sighs as Patton darts into the hall, out of earshot before the ominous warning can reach him.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 3 / Masterpost / ao3

#sanders sides #patton sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #violence mention tw #some kind of magical #labhwrites #mine

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jessikahathaway · 7 years

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Into Eternity - Part II

A/N: Sorry I’ve been so absent lately. This is my attempt at forgiveness. Please enjoy this update.

Living in the palace is hell. People had to be kind to you, because you were the future Queen. Any kind of disrespect would be suicide. But you saw through all the fake smiles and compliments.

They hated you.

Genuine and raw hatred.

You confided in Jin many times, he was one of the few people you spoke to in the palace, but he was only able to offer you his apologies.

“I’m sorry that life here is difficult for you. Maybe you should speak with Jimin about it,” he suggested. You sighed and gazed down at your ring in displeasure. It had been four months since your wedding and your husband had spoken to you three times. Once during your wedding night when he said consummation of the marriage wasn’t necessary quite yet. Second, in the hallway when he saw you were lost. THe final time was when he was leaving for his trip to another kingdom for a whole moon cycle. You had waited outside the carriage and kissed his cheek before he went.

“I’ll see you when I return, my dear,” he said, gathering himself inside the cabin and shutting the door.

Jin look at you in disbelief. “You mean to tell me you’ve only spoken to your husband three times since you’ve been married?” You simply shook your head, dismissing the conversation. You weren’t particularly upset about it or anything of the like. You just wanted out of these damn clothes and to be able to take a deep breath. It felt like you were drowning in everything. Jin seemed astounded. “How does that happen? Jimin isn’t mean or cruel, I just don’t understand.”

You shrugged and stood, eager to finally shed your clothing.

“Goodnight, Jin. Thank you for listening,” you said, genuinely feeling grateful for the outlet.

“You’re welcome, Y/N. Anytime you need me or God’s light, I’m more than happy to help,” he said. You gave a small smile before heading to your room for some much needed rest.

---

The following morning you were awoken early so you could attend a town meeting in place of the King and Queen.

“They’re far too busy to go, so my dear, you must go in their stead,” one of your handmaidens had said earlier.

The ride to town was uneventful and bumpy. You only had one guard with you who seemed to be falling asleep. Quality care indeed. Any member of the Royal family should have at least ten guard for a walk. However, you said nothing as you got out of the carriage and headed towards the seat above the crowd in the square. It was eerily quiet. Once you were sat with you catatonic guard the insults came flying.

“What the hell is she doing here?”

“She’s got about as much say in the Royal family as we do!”

“Damn wench!”

“Where’s the King and Queen?”

The shouting was thunderous and everyone was screaming at you. You wanted to fight back and them them where to shove it, but these would all be your people one day. You had to be kind to them.

“Please, the King and Queen are very busy working tirelessly to ensure all of your futures are bright. My husband is away and isn’t able to join me today.”

The crowd scoffed at your attempt to appease them.

“Your husband is just as useless as you!” one shouted. The crowd hollered in agreement, cursing you and Jimin for not solving their problems. Finally, it was all too much.

“ENOUGH!” you screamed. The crowd became still at your outburst. “I am Park Y/N and I am your future Queen. I will not stand to be disrespected this way,” you said, standing to your feet. You walked down the stairs, away from your guard who was still nodding off. “You will be under Jimin and I’s protection one day. You must have faith in us. Believe in us. Jimin is not useless, nor am I. I grew up in a household with barely enough food to stave off starvation. Now, I am married to the crowned Prince. I have power. I want all of you to be happy, as does my husband. You are our future. So please, let me try,” you begged.

The crowd was silent. You wondered if you should apologize. But what good would that do? Suddenly, a small girl approached with a smile on her face.

“I want you as my Queen,” she said, offering you a flower. You smiled and took it, placing it in her hair gently.

“I would be honored to be your Queen,” you said, lifting her into your arms. The crowd began cheering and chanting, all want to hold your hand or bow before you. You smiled softly and continued with the meeting.

---

Jimin had arrived to the Northernmost Peninsula in his kingdom. Lords and Ladies had gathered to see him, although they were confused when you weren’t by his side.

“Thought you’d use this opportunity to show off Y/N,” Jimin’s personal guard, Jungkook, stated.

“It’s too risky to bring her here yet. Too many people are wary of her to begin with. Plus, she always looks sick. A little off putting for a party,” Jimin said, approaching the castle. His friend, Lord Taehyung had approached from the door to embrace him.

“Ah, Jimin. Good to see you. Jungkook-ah, you’ve gotten bigger,” he chuckled before pulling him in for a hug as well. “Terribly sorry I couldn’t make your wedding,” he said as the three men entered the palace.

“You were out of the country, it’s understandable,” Jimin dismissed.

“Although, I was hoping to get a glimpse at your bride. Is she not here with you?” Taehyung asked, obviously disappointed.

“You know it’d be a bad idea Tae, too many rustled feathers,” Jimin said walking at a brisk pace through the familiar setting. Taehyung and Jungkook rushed to keep up with their friend.

“Should you be bowing to those kinds of threats! You’re the future King!” Taehyung exclaimed. Jimin sighed and turned to face the two younger men.

“Her safety is first in my mind. People didn’t accept her well. It is in her best interest to stay away from the public for now,” he stated firmly. He didn’t like discussing you. It made everything much too real. He was a married man. He would have to make an heir soon...

“But wives aside, how have you been?”

The conversation after that turned mundane and Jimin let his mind wander... He was lost in his own head, thinking. There was so much to think about. He could no longer avoid his situation. You would be involved now.

Jimin had a secret. Something very few knew about. He had never laid with a woman before. Although he was no virgin. The Crowned Prince had only been with men, and he was okay with that. He’d never desired a woman the way he did his fellow man. Did women disgust him? No. They just didn’t excite him. However, he did have to admit you were very beautiful. Woman had been throwing themselves at him since he became of age. However, when you had kissed at the wedding, he had found your lips rather soft and kissable. But the look on your face had frightened him. You had looked so utterly tired and hurt. Living as a peasant in the castle was hard, he saw how the maids treated you... It was hard to watch you lock yourself away in your own head. And what had he done? Sat back and pretended that everything was fine...

“You seem awfully focused on something,” Taehyung teased. Jimin broke out of his stupor and shrugged.

“A lot on my plate,” he reasoned. Jungkook snorted and rolled his eyes.

“As we were discussing, when is your father stepping down?” Jungkook asked.

“Probably before first frost, his health is poor and he is determined to see his grandchild,” Jimin said, rubbing his face. Taehyung’s eyes bulged.

“Grandchild? But-” Jimin cut him off quickly.

“I know, Tae, but the line can’t end with me. I won’t allow it,” he said. Jungkook rubbed his chin contemplatively.

“You could always have someone else do it... Or, her, respectively,” Jimin shook his head.

“I won’t allow another man to lay with my wife. This heir will be my child.”

Taehyung and Jungkook look at their friend with concern.

“How will it work?” Taehyung asked, looking towards his Prince with questioning eyes.

“I’m in no rush, and neither is she. We barely speak regardless, she may hate me,” Jimin said, biting his lip in anxiety. His parents had wed them because of her beauty, he knew nothing of her personality.

“May I make a suggestion?” Taehyung offered, raising his hand for affect. Jimin sighed and nodded in acknowledgment. “Well, it’s a strange thought but about about you get to know her before worrying about an heir? She’s the one carrying the thing.”

“Baby,” Jungkook corrected. “Not thing, hyung.” Taehyung waved his hand dismissively before continuing.

“You may wind up liking her enough to as where making a child with her doesn’t seem so impossible.”

Jimin thought for a moment. It made sense. The two of you were together for life, you should know each other well enough to rule along side one another.

“Noted. But I came here because you said it was dire for me to get here for as soon as possible,” Jimin said, looking at Taehyung.

“Ah yes, the reason for our meeting is simple,” Taehyung started.

“If it’s simple, why did you demand Council with me?” Jimin sighed, annoyed.

“Because, they’re back,” Taehyung said with a dark look in his eyes.

The room became tense.

Jungkook looked between the two in confusion. “What do you mean?” he asked. Taehyung and Jimin looked at Jungkook with shadows filling their eyes. “You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jungkook mumbled, starting to get more and more concerned. The quiet in the room was suffocating.

“Hunters, savages practically. They’re back in the region. They’ve been cast out since we were all young. However, they’ve been growing bolder. There was an attack near the border of our territories in the South that had all their markings,” Taehyung stated, looking towards the window.

“They’re less than human .They kill, rape and pillage. Destroy without restraint. They are nothing but creatures that thrive off of misery and agony. They should’ve been extinguished years ago,” Jimin growled. “I don’t want my family to exist in the same world as them.”

Taehyung nodded in agreement. “My men await orders, what do you suggest we do?”

Jimin thought for a moment. “Let’s wait,” he stated. “We don’t know how many of them are out there. Send scouts first, then we can think about how many soldiers are needed and what areas require the most amount of protection.”

“There was news of them heading towards the Royal provence. Aren’t you worried for you mother and father, as well as Lady Y/N?” Jungkook asked.

“It could be a rumor, I don’t want to place all of my coins in one place. Plus, Namjoon-hyung and Yoongi-hyung are still there. She’s in good hands,” Jimin stated. Suddenly, a maid burst through the door.

“Prince Jimin! Lord Taehyung!” She tripped and fell, she must’ve been running a long time. The boys all gathered around, Jungkook helping her to her feet.

“What is it? Speak,” Taehyung ordered.

“It’s Lady Y/N, she said, panting. Jimin came forward, a frown on his brow.

“What has happened to my wife?” he asked looking concerned.

“She’s here.”

#Into Eternity #Jimin #Park Jimin #BTS #Bangtan #Bangtan Boys Jimin #Taehyung #Tae Tae #Kim Taehyung #bangtan sonyeondan #Jessika Hathaway #Park Jimin Smut #Park Jimin series #Jungkook #Jeon Jungkook

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roslinadama-sinequanon · 7 years

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Sorry about the last Christmas in Connecticut post. My original “keep reading” post froze so I went to another screen to re-post and forgot to hit the “keep reading” icon. Wish Tumblr had a way to delete a post. But it doesn’t so I’m re-posting. Grr.....

CHRISTMAS IN CONNECTICUT-PART FOUR

“Mmmm…. “Andy gave a soft groan. “You weren’t kidding, this does feel great.”

“I’m surprised you’ve never done it before. “

“No, never. I had no idea you liked this kind of thing. Do you do it a lot?” Even after all this time together there were still things he was learning about Sharon.

“Once or twice a month. But I’ve never done it with anyone, just on my own. It‘s a great way to alleviate stress.”

Certainly better than bottling it up inside. She didn’t make the accusation aloud but the undercurrent was certainly there in her tone. Andy wisely chose not to argue the point.

“You know, “she continued. “Maybe if we do this more often it could even help with your blood pressure.”

“Better than those stupid pills. “

“Andy, you still have to take your pills.”

“I know, I know.”

He hated the little hitch of fear in her voice. His collapse a few months ago, even though it had turned out to be much ado about nothing, had really done a number her.

“Since you’ve never done this before, what made you decide to give it a try?”

“Gavin.”

“My Gavin?”

“Do you really have to call him that?”

His disgruntled response drew a soft laugh from Sharon. Gavin was gay and Andy knew it. He had nothing to worry about on that front. But a jealous Andy Flynn was an adorable Andy Flynn. “You consulted with Gavin?”

“Well, he is one of your best friends. He knows what you like. When I showed him the website of the resort he said I had to book some time in the spa for a massage. The only massage parlors I know anything about are the ones we used to raid back when I was on Vice in the 80‘s.”

Sharon’s hand tensed in his then quickly relaxed.

“What?” he asked, turning his head to look at her. She gave him a little smirk.

“I thought you were going to say the parlors you used to go to.”

Andy snorted. “I have a long list of sins but being serviced at massage parlors is not one of them. Of course that doesn’t mean I don’t know the kinds of things that went on there so if you’d like to do a little role playing---”

”Andy!” she cut him off squeezing his hand hard. “Please remember we are not alone.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry guys.”

Both massage therapists laughed. Andy didn’t really seem very sorry at all.

“Well, anyway, Baker was right. Who would have known that having hot rocks pressed into your back would actually feel good?”

“I thought it sounded strange the first time my massage therapist suggested it too,” Sharon said. “But I’m glad you listened to Gavin. A romantic couple’s massage is the perfect way to spend our afternoon. My muscles could use a break.”

They were both lying side by side holding hands though on separate tables, naked, save for a strategically placed towel over their buttocks. Warm fragrant oils were massaged into their skin, ylang ylang for her and sandalwood for him and hot smooth stones pressed out all the aches and pains in their muscles. Candles created a soft glow and soothing music a sense of calm and peace.

It was just what they needed to cap off three days of nearly constant activity. After day one on the alpine slopes, yesterday had been spent cross country skiing through the woods and open fields surrounding the inn with the rest of the family. Sharon was in very good shape. She worked out frequently, swam almost every day and took yoga and a body barre class, but her muscles were still protesting the vigorous activity. Cross country looked easy, but it was actually a lot of work, a great cardio vascular exercise.

And after all that, this morning they’d had a big breakfast and the whole family, except for Ricky and Rusty, hit the trail along a bluff of the frozen river to try out some snow shoeing.

Much to Sharon’s delight Ricky had offered to teach Rusty how to snowboard and Rusty had actually accepted the offer. It had been a rocky beginning between her boys. Rusty had been wary and intimidated by her older, confident and accomplished son and Ricky had been suspicious and jealous of the boy she had come to love and wanted to make her son.

Ricky’s reaction to her adopting Rusty had been appalling to Sharon. She’d always prided herself on having raised two kind and compassionate children. But, with a little manipulation by his jealous father and the protectiveness that came from being the only male with a mother and a sister, Ricky had come off as petty and condescending and worst of all for Sharon, lacking in empathy for a boy who had been raised without all the love and care and material advantages that Ricky took for granted.

But as shocked and upset as she’d been, she’d also known right away that while it was Ricky speaking, the words coming out of his mouth were pure Jack Raydor. Once she’d cut through Jack’s bullshit, laid it all out to Ricky and appealed to his better nature, he had come around as she’d hoped he would. He’d made an effort with Rusty and offered him an olive branch which, happily, Rusty had accepted. And he’d done it again today with the offer of the snowboarding lesson. Ricky was turning out to be a pretty decent big brother.

++++

“I’m so relaxed, I almost feel like I want a nap.” Andy settled heavily on their bed once they were back in their room at the inn.

It was a beautiful room, very romantic. A king sized canopy bed covered in luxury linens was strategically placed directly across from the fireplace. Thick plush carpeting warmed their feet and French doors opened out to small balcony overlooking the twinkling lights surrounding the frozen pond.

“Mmm…” Sharon hummed. “I can think of something better. How about we try out that Jacuzzi tub?”

“Really? “ Andy’s eyes lit. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Sharon grinned and shook her head at how quickly that perked him up. She used to think Andy was so unpredictable, but when it came to sex he was very predictable. Predictable and insatiable. Not that she was complaining. Since they’d become lovers Andy had reawakened her libido making her burn in ways she’d never known she could burn. She wasn’t ashamed to admit that she’d become quite insatiable herself.

Andy stood and looked at his watch.

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” She asked.

“No…uh…No. I just. I think I‘ll start a fire so the room will be warm when we‘re finished.”

Sharon’s eyes narrowed. She could always tell when Andy wasn‘t being completely truthful. A knot tightened in her stomach. The look on his face was one she unfortunately knew all too well.

No.

She quickly shoved her suspicions aside with a shake of her head. Andy was not Jack. He did not have ulterior motives for bringing her here. He didn’t have a poker game waiting for him or another woman tucked away somewhere.

“Okay, well, I’ll go start the tub then.”

Andy nodded then got to work at the fireplace. He was still working on getting a fire blazing when his cell phone rang. He answered the phone and glanced toward the bathroom at the sound of the female voice on the other end. “Yes…uh…Yes tonight,” he agreed. “But I said I’d call you. Please don’t call me again, my girlfriend is with me. I don’t want her to know what’s going on.”

“Andy…”Sharon called from the bathroom. “What’s taking you so long?”

“I don’t start many fires in LA,” Andy called back. “It’s taking me a while to get it going.”

“Well hurry up, it‘s lonely by myself in this big tub. I think I‘m going to have to get started without you.”

Andy froze at the quick image of Sharon pleasuring herself that flashed into his brain, a shot of desire piercing him right in the groin. No way he wanted to miss that.

Quickly he rushed into the bathroom.

A slow sexy smile curved on Sharon’s lips. “I thought that might get your attention,” she drawled sensuously.

Andy could hardly speak. Sharon was leaning back in the bubbling water, hair piled up on her head. Candles lined the edge of the tub and she teased him by biting the tip of one of the chocolate covered strawberries they’d been given at their massage while her fingertips ran up and down her chest

“Andy?” She questioned when he continued to stare, mesmerized by the finger moving down her breast. “Would you care to join me?”

“What? “

“I said would you care to join me?” Her thumb came dangerously close to her nipple and all the blood rushed from his head into his cock.

“Oh, hell yeah.”

Sharon giggled again watching him tear off his clothes as fast as he could. Yep, her Andy was extremely predictable.

****

“So, as far as role playing goes, is this the kind of massage you were referring to?”

“Oh Christ, yes.” Andy’s head fell back on a groan when Sharon’s hand closed over him, sliding up and down his rigid length. “So good Shar.”

“I thought you might like that.” She rose slightly to nuzzle into his neck, giving a surprised gasp of pleasure when one of the jets sent a powerful surge of water between her legs. “Oh God Andy, when we buy a house we have to get a tub like this.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

Through the haze of pleasure her hand was creating between his legs, he let his mind drift with satisfaction at her reference to their house hunting. He was well aware that he’d pushed the matter a bit by making the decision to put his house in Valencia on the market so he could find a place closer to her Los Feliz condo without consulting her first. He‘d figured that if he discussed it with her she might try to talk him out of it. She was trying so hard to keep the last tiny bit of the wall that she’d shielded herself with between them, and he was trying equally hard to tear it down, slowly, brick by brick.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love him, he knew she did. She was just scared. She’d been let down so badly in the past it was completely understandable that she’d have trouble letting a man, even one she loved, completely into the life she’d so carefully constructed for herself and her children. She’d been very open with him about that and he’d tried to be respectful of her request to take things slow. But because of her reticence he knew that if things were going to move forward in their relationship he would most likely be the one to have to take the initiative. And so he had, by putting his house up for sale and tentatively broaching the idea of moving in together.

Sharon had definitely surprised him with her response. Not only hadn’t she flatly turned him down, she’d suggested going out to dinner to discuss the matter and before their shrimp potsticker appetizer had even arrived she had agreed to start looking for a home they could purchase together. And when his Valencia house had sold more quickly than he’d thought it would Sharon was the one who had suggested that he move in with her, this time into her bedroom, while they continued to look for a place to buy together. A place big enough for the two of them, Rusty, and enough room for their visiting kids. It was everything he’d wanted. Well, almost everything. But he’d also worried that he’d pressured her. He was getting what he wanted, but was she really getting what she wanted?

Those worries had been alleviated after the first house they’d gone to look at together. Sharon had been so excited and enthusiastic as they toured the home, already planning how she was going to decorate it. Ultimately they hadn’t bought the house because it was infested with black mold, but it had shown him that Sharon was just as excited as he was about buying a house together.

“Andy, did I lose you?” She nibbled on his earlobe while gently cupping and stroking his balls.

“No, not all. “ Damn. When she spoke like that, all sultry, low and throaty, his body responded with liquid lust. “I was just thinking, maybe we should take this into the bedroom.”

“I think that’s probably a very good idea.”

TBC

#sharon raydor #andy flynn #shandy #Major Crimes #christmas in connecticut #Shandy Christmas #shandy love #sharon and andy

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soergel-brad · 7 years

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All You Hold Dear

The following story is featured in volume VII of the digital magazine “The Talefeather.”

Askold Storme grabbed Segoh’a by the neck and pulled him ilms away from his face. “You’re short again, kitty.”

“We have nothing left to spare, you demand too much of us.” Segoh’a said through clenched teeth.

Smiling, Askold slapped Segoh’a on the cheek, then threw him to ground. The crowd of villagers around them murmured uncomfortably as Askold addressed Segoh’a. “You seem to misunderstand our agreement. You don’t spare anything. Hells, you don’t own anything anymore. This whole village here? You’re allowed to live here because I am kind enough to allow you.”

Laneh rushed to her father’s side and helped him to his feet. His throat was red with the imprint of Askold’s hand. She wanted nothing more than to claw Askold’s eyes out, but knew she wouldn’t live long enough to finish him off.

Askold stared at Laneh for a long moment, his eyes moving across her figure. “How about we strike a deal? I take your pretty little daughter home with me, and I forget about all the things you and your pissant village owe me?”

Laneh bared her fangs as Segoh’a pushed her behind him, separating Askold from her. “We will get you your gil and supplies, but you will never touch my daughter.”

Laneh’s mother, Yano, pulled her away from Askold and the other bandits, back into the crowd of villagers.

Askold scoffed and smirked, then punched Segoh’a in the nose. Segoh’a grunted in pain as blood ran down his face. He clutched his nose and looked at Askold with nothing but disdain.

Askold spat on Segoh’a’s face and said, “What don’t you understand about this? You don’t tell me what I will and won’t do. Quite the opposite, friend.” He walked a small circle around the bloodied Miqo’te as he continued. “So here is what you’re going to do. You’re going to farm, trade, scrounge, and beg for the money we’re owed. And if I come back and you’re short even one gil, I’m going to cut my losses on this shiteheap of a town, and burn it all to the ground.

The bandits grabbed the sacks of gil, food, and clothing, mounted their chocobos, and rode away.

Yano helped Segoh’a to his feet as Laneh grabbed a cloth to staunch the blood flow.

Holding the cloth to his nose, Segoh’a turned towards Yano. “What are we to do, Yano? Those blackguards have taken nearly everything from us.”

Voices rose in agreement from the crowd. Yano lifted a hand to quiet them as she spoke. “We will give them what they desire. To refuse would doom us all. Laneh, I want you and Ohteh’sae to gather what few supplies we have left, we need to carefully ration if we are to survive the coming days.”

Laneh and Ohteh’sae left for the supply hut as Yano told the rest of her clan to return to their homes.

The door to the hut creaked as it opened, revealing a paltry amount of food. Laneh grabbed a sack of dried fish and the few eggs left to them as she spoke. “We have to do something Ohteh’sae. My father is right. If this keeps up, we’ll starve.”

“Yes, but you’ve seen their numbers, their weapons. Surely we cannot fight them.” Ohteh’sae picked up the remaining supplies, some popotos and a large sack of wheat. “And besides, it is not for us to decide.”

The two carried the food to Laneh’s home, where Yano carefully separated what was left into small meals, which she gave to the head of each family. After she was satisfied, Yano pulled Laneh and Ohteh’sae aside.

“These rations will last us naught but a week. I take no joy in this, but I require you two to join the hunt tonight.”

Laneh furrowed her brow and gritted her teeth. “Mother, we shouldn’t let those men grow fat off our hardship! We need to stand against them.”

“Laneh, know your place!” Segoh’a said as he sat up from his bed.

Yano gave Laneh soft smile and put her hand on Laneh’s cheek. “Daughter, I admire your convictions. But you know little of the world outside our village. For years our clan lived as nomads, never with a place to call our own. Not long after you were born, we found this valley. Since then, we have lived in seclusion, hidden away from the world. The land has provided us ample bounty, keeping us from having to open trade with any nearby town, aside from what we need for Askold’s demands. If they were to know of our existence, it would only be a matter of time until we were routed from these lands, left with no place to call home.”

“But those bandits already know of our village! What is stopping them from telling anyone?” Laneh said in frustration.

Yano shook her head. “Those men see us as a resource. They have no desire to give away such a precious source of food.”

“But we –“

“Enough.” Yano’s face grew sterner. “We will free ourselves of them. But we cannot blindly fight back. Such rashness would lead us into death. We need time to prepare, to learn of our enemy.”

Laneh wanted to rebut her mother, but knew that it would be a fool’s errand, as her mother was the matriarch of the village. No decision made without her consent, no one to dispute her rule.

Later that night, the village gathered outside the communal hut to discuss the hunt.

“Due to the demands of the bandits, our younger will be joining us on the hunt tonight. We will work as usual, but I ask each family to watch over kin, as the younger know naught of the lands outside the valley.” Yano said as she began to hand sacks of equipment to each family.

The villagers left the valley en masse, with only one family staying behind to keep watch over the village and those too young to hunt.

The night proceeded as normal, each family split into groups to prey on a certain region outside the valley. Laneh’s family traveled closely with Ohteh’sae’s, venturing into a forest that bordered a nearby city.

Laneh and Ohteh’sae had never been on a hunt before, but they had trained for months as they were almost of age. Sometime after the groups had split, Laneh and Ohteh’sae regrouped in a small clearing in the forest.

“How is it, finally getting to hunt with your brothers?” Laneh asked.

“Grueling. They think me unfit to even wield a knife.” Ohteh’sae said, as he sat under a tree. “How have you fared?”

Laneh grinned as she sat next to him. “I caught a boar, without help from my mother or father.”

A look of disbelief flashed across Ohteh’sae’s face. “Really?”

“Well, it was quite young. And father did actually put the beast down. But I hobbled him myself!”

Ohteh’sae chuckled. “That’s quite impressive. I guess that’s better than I…”

The two froze as they heard leaves rustle nearby. From the brush emerged a hyur man dressed in plain clothes, with a friendly look on his face. He had short cropped brown hair, kind green eyes, fair skin, and a slender build. He looked directly at them and smiled.

“Greetings fellow travelers. I am afraid that I have become misplaced from my route. You see, I come from a far off land and have made my way here to trade. Mayhaps the two know of a nearby village where I could find some business, or just rest my weary bones?”

The two miqo’te said nothing, but backed away a few steps.

The man smiled and shook his head slightly, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth. “Excuse me for being so forward. My name is Medwin. I come from a city called Ul’dah. Surely you’ve heard of it?”

The two stopped backing away, but stayed silent. Medwin pulled a haversack off of his shoulder and opened it towards the two, showing them the contents. Inside was a horde of treasures the likes they had never seen. Trinkets, baubles, rings, crowns and more shifted in the container as Medwin tilted the opening towards them. Wary, but curious, Laneh leaned towards Medwin to get a better look.

“You see, I am quite the renowned goldsmith, and I have been making my way to Limsa Lominsa to sell off the rest of the wares I have created.” Medwin said as he looked up at Laneh. “I see you’re quite taken by one of my pieces, perhaps you would like a closer look?”

Laneh looked at Medwin and began to speak but Ohteh’sae interposed himself between them. “We aren’t interested.”

Medwin smiled as he looked down and rummaged through the sack. A moment later he pulled out an ornate onyx amulet attached to a long golden chain. “This is what caught your eye, miss?”

Laneh nodded. “It is beautiful. What is it?”

“This is one of my finest pieces, the setting and chain forged from rose gold, the crystal cut from a shard of aetheryte.” Medwin replied as he lifted the necklace up to Laneh’s eye level. “I couldn’t allow myself to let such a masterpiece sit idly on some noblewoman’s neck, so I sought a skilled thaumaturge to imbue it with extraordinary power.”

“What kind of power?” Laneh asked with wide eyes.

Medwin’s smile broadened. “The power to best any adversary.”

Ohteh’sae turned to Laneh and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her a few steps away. “Laneh, we have to leave. You know better than anyone what we are supposed to do when we come across an outsider. If Yano finds out we even spoke with this man, she’ll make sure we regret it.”

Dragging Laneh along, Ohteh’sae sprinted away from the man as fast as he could, doing his best to leave a false trail for the strange man. As Laneh ran with him, she looked back at Medwin. The hyur man smiled as they left, stood upright, and took a bow.

After some time spent covering their path and making false trails, Ohteh’sae stopped and turned to Laneh. “What were you thinking? That man could have found out about our village! He could be working for that bastard Askold for all we know!”

Laneh scowled and shoved Ohteh’sae. “I am not solely to blame! It’s not like you ran off at the first sight of him. And you said my name right in front of him!” Ohteh’sae’s face went flush as Laneh continued. “You saw the riches that man had. If we could get our hands on such wealth, perhaps even Askold would leave us be.” In truth, all Laneh thought of was using the power of that amulet to crush Askold and his men.

“So you thought to steal from him?”

Laneh looked downwards and was silent for a moment, then said, “It doesn’t matter now, we are rid of him. We should return to the hunting party.”

The two made their way back to the meeting spot, catching a rabbit and collecting some wild berries along the way. Together, Laneh’s and Ohteh’sae’s groups traveled together, foraging for more food. When Yano was satisfied with their finds, the group returned for the village. Sometime later the other hunting parties made their way home, many of them returning with ample bounties.

The villagers met in the communal hut and pooled together all of their spoils. Laneh helped some of the other villagers separate the food into categories. Yano stood before all of them and began to speak.

“Everyone did well tonight. If we are able to continue this through the week, we will surely be able to trade for the money we need, as well as have enough food to last for some time to come.”

Mahkah, the head of one of the families, stepped forward and spoke. “And what of Askold? We cannot keep this up forever. What of us when the bountiful season passes, when animals are scarce and the trees’ fruit even more so?”

Nodding, Yano continued. “You are right Mahkah. That is why next week, when the bandits return, we will survey them. We will observe how they travel, where they come from, and where they leave themselves vulnerable. This will take weeks, perhaps months. But when we learn of their weaknesses and how to exploit them, we will free ourselves from their grasp.”

The meeting continued with the food being separated into three groups, one for storage, one for trade, and the final for Askold. Then Yano took small groups of villagers around the town to assign them tasks for the next encounter with the bandits. After nearly everyone has been given a place, she took Laneh and Ohteh’sae to the entrance of the valley.

“You two are to watch them as they arrive and leave. The valley path is narrow, so their formation is likely to change here. I suspect this may be the place where they are most vulnerable.”

She then showed the two to the places they would hide, in the trees on either side of the entrance.

The next two days passed without incident. The nightly hunts brought more food, and the villagers continued to prepare for the next meeting. Segoh’a departed the village the next morning to trade their wares for coin.

Late that day, as Yano was tending the crops, Laneh approached. “Mother, I am worried about father. He is usually returned by now.”

Yano did not turn to her daughter. “Often these trades may take time, he will return as soon as he is finished.”

“What if he has come across some monster? I think that I should go look for him.”

Standing up, Yano turned to Laneh and put a hand on her shoulder. “Your father is a resourceful man. Were I to think him in danger, I would be searching for him myself. The closest monsters are malms away, why do you think we value this land so?”

Not long after their conversation, one of the villagers sounded the town bell, signifying the arrival of visitors. Most of the townsfolk hid in their homes; Yano, Ohteh’sae, Laneh, and a few others met in center of town. Down the sole path to the village proper rode Askold and his men. They halted their chocobos as Yano addressed them.

“You are early. Our agreement was for one shipment each week.”

Askold gave Yano a solemn look and said, “Yeah, about that. I’m here for something else. It seems one of my men was a little too enthusiastic while we were out hunting.”

He motioned to a man in the back. The man trotted his chocobo forward until he was only a few yalms away from Yano. He then turned to pull a large form off the back of his chocobo.

The body of Segoh’a fell limp to the ground, a bloody wound gaping in his neck.

Laneh’s whole body grew cold as realization washed over her. She began to shake as she looked at her father’s lifeless form, her eyes blurring as they filled with tears.

The bandit leader scanned the crowd and said, “I would like to formally apologize. You see, my men can be a little overzealous. We are a hungry lot.”

Laneh began to scream as she lunged towards the bandits. Ohteh’sae and another villager held her back, but only just. Yano knelt down to Segoh’a’s corpse and began to run her hands through his hair, saying nothing.

“Due to the unfortunate situation we have here, I’ve decided that we will forego the debt you owe us. I am sure that this will be a trying time for you, but let’s all try to stay focused, shall we?” Askold said as he looked to Laneh. “I can assure you that this was an accident, but let it be known that if you try to retaliate, your fate will be much worse than this man.”

Motioning to his men, the bandits began to leave. Before following, Askold looked to Yano and said, “We’ll see you next week, as normal.”

With that, the bandits were gone. Yano silently wept over Segoh’a as Laneh stopped struggling against the two holding her back. Laneh collapsed to the ground, her face in the dirt as she wailed. A moment later, her mother pulled her up and held her. They mourned the loss of a loved one, as the other villagers attended to Segoh’a’s body.

They buried him that night, many of the villagers consoling the two. Despite this, Yano still instructed everyone to meet in the village center for the nightly hunt. Yet again, the younger of the tribes were sent out to hunt, as only the most infirm or unable were left behind.

As the groups began to split, Laneh ran off on her own. Ohteh’sae gave chase, but lost track of her soon after.

Laneh sat under a large maple tree and sobbed into her knees. Sometime after her tears ran dry, she heard a branch snap nearby. She went silent and still.

From behind a tree emerged Medwin, wearing the same clothing and kind smile as before. He looked to her and gave a knowing nod.

“Well hello again, Laneh. I never thought I would see your face again.”

Laneh wiped her face with her sleeve. “Medwin? I thought you were just passing by?”

“That I was, but it turns out that there are some affluent customers in the area, so I decided to stay for a while.” His face grew worried as he approached. “Oh my, are you alright? What has happened?”

“They killed him!” She began sobbing again as she buried her head in her hands. “They killed my father!”

Medwin knelt down and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Laneh. It is always difficult to deal with such horrible loss.”

They sat there for a moment as Laneh calmed down. She remembered the amulet that Medwin had shown her earlier and looked to him. “The necklace you showed me days ago, do you still have it?”

He pulled his haversack off his shoulder and rooted through the contents, pulling out the familiar jewelry. “As a matter of fact, it seems that I do.”

“And you said that it is enchanted so as to let me best any foe?”

“Indeed, a powerful enchantment has been laid upon it.”

“I need it. I will pay any price!”

Medwin thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t wish to take advantage of a child that just lost her father.”

“Please, I need to avenge him. He cannot have died just for us to live oppressed under such a monster.”

“How am I to deny a request so noble?” He slowly dropped the chain into Laneh’s hand.

“Thank you Medwin! Please, allow me to pay you. I do not have much, but what I have is yours.” Laneh said as she pulled a small leather sack from her belt.

Pushing the pouch away, Medwin frowned. “Thank you child, but I cannot accept this.”

Laneh pushed the pouch back. “Take it. I would pay any price to see that man brought low. And you told me of how expensive it was to enchant. I would be the one taking advantage if you were to give me this for free.”

Medwin’s face softened as he accepted the pouch. “If you insist.”

Laneh stared at the necklace. “How does it work? What does it do?”

“Ah yes, I supposed I should tell you that.” he gently grabbed the necklace from her hands and turned it in a particular way. “All you needs do is pull the stone from the setting and speak the command words.”

“Command words?”

“’Go forth.’ Once those words are spoken, a powerful beast will appear, crushing those before you.”

Medwin handed the necklace back to her and she stuffed it in a pocket.

“Thank you again, Medwin. How can I repay you for such generosity?”

He smiled again and said, “It is payment enough knowing that I am able to aid someone in such dire need.”

The two stood up and parted ways. Laneh returned to the group, no one asking her where she had gone or why she was empty-handed; to them, she was just grieving in solitude.

The next few days passed quickly. Laneh worked as hard as she could to provide for the village. She knew that soon they would be free, and then they could truly prosper. Ohteh’sae had approached her multiple times, asking if she was alright. Each time she put on a brave face for him, knowing that soon she would have retribution.

The night of Askold’s reckoning finally came. The bandits rode into the village as normal, with many of the villagers waiting in the center to give them their demands. Laneh was waiting in the trees as she was told, Ohteh’sae nearby. She watched as they passed and waited for them to come to a stop, then climbed down the tree and began to sneak towards them.

“Laneh, what are you doing?” Ohteh’sae whispered at her.

She hushed him and told him to stay in the tree, then ran off as quietly as she could. As she approached the clearing to the village, she began to hear the conversation in the town center.

“Listen, bitch. I know you’re still broken up about what happened, but that doesn’t excuse you from your obligations.” Askold was off of his chocobo, holding Yano’s collar in his clenched fist.

“Our obligations are your whims. Every week you ask more of us, and every week we provide more, but it is never enough.” Yano said calmly.

Askold glowered at Yano and then slapped her across the face and threw her to the ground. Laneh abandoned all sense of subtlety and broke out into sprint the moment she realized what was happening.

“Askold! Get away from my mother!” Laneh screamed as she burst into the town center. She stopped in between the bandit lord and her mother, her hand clutching the amulet.

Askold chuckled to himself quietly and then lifted a hand to strike Laneh. Before he could bring it down, Laneh ripped the gem from its setting and shouted “Go forth!”

A pale red beam of light burst forth from the jewelry as a shock wave hit everyone. Askold was forced to the ground and Yano was pushed a few ilms back; somehow Laneh held her place. The light shone bright like a star, sending a pillar into the air. Moments later, the light subsided, a cold darkness following it.

A void, black as pitch, began to grow from the center of the gem. As it engulfed Laneh’s hand, she felt a numbing cold creep up her arm. Instinctively she dropped the gem to the ground, the void growing ever larger. Soon it was a few yalms in width, where it ceased to grow and instead began to release wisps of blackened mist. From the void erupted a long, slender hand, grasping at the ground. Once the hand found purchase, it pulled itself up, revealing its entire form.

It was a grotesque thing, a long spindly body, taut, leathery bat wings, a skeletal face. The beast was nearly twice the size of Askold.

Laneh looked on in horror and awe. Medwin had not lied to her, surely such a fearsome creature would be able to fell these horrible men. Soon she and her mother would be free; all of her friends, everyone. It was time for her revenge.

Almost immediately after emerging, the beast fell upon Askold, tearing at him with tooth and claw. Askold screamed in agony as the winged monstrosity flayed him alive, crushing his bones and eviscerating him.

As the lifeblood and gore of their leader rained down on them, the other bandits panicked. Some shot the beast, others ran for their lives. Laneh was disgusted but ecstatic, the man who tormented her life, and the lives of those she cared for, was finally dead.

Askold was dead in only a few moments, but by the time he spent his last breath, nearly a dozen more horrors had crawled from the void created by the gem. Some of them looked identical to the first one, others completely different.

The horde crawled from the darkness and fell upon the men. Some of the winged beasts plucked men from their saddles, carried them hundreds of yalms into the air, and then dropped them to their deaths. Villagers looked on in terror as the bandits hit the ground with a sickening crunch. The ones that couldn’t fly lumbered on two or four legs, picking the men up in their gigantic hands and either crushed them outright, or tore them in two.

After watching with mouth agape for some time, Laneh noticed that even though most of Askold’s men were either dead or gone, the beasts did not cease their rampage. Some continued a path out of the valley, while most turned on the villagers. They crushed houses and people alike, tearing through them without regard. Fires broke out across the village as houses collapsed.

Laneh’s eyes grew wide as she began to panic. She turned to her mother and helped her stand, right as a winged monster picked Yano up with its large talons. Laneh pulled at her mother with all the strength she could summon, but her grasp was not strong enough. She was pulled with her a few yalms into the air, only to slip from her mother’s hand. Laneh’s leg twisted unnaturally as she hit the ground, falling into a heap.

She pulled herself up and looked to the sky. Her mother was nearly a hundred yalms up by now. She screamed as she saw the monster loose its grip on Yano. Laneh looked away before Yano hit the ground, rubbing her face in the dirt, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Oh, Laneh. My poor, poor girl.” A familiar voice spoke next to her.

Laneh lifted her head, still sobbing. Medwin was standing over her, as though he appeared from mid air. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She put forth no effort to stand, so he held her upright.

Laneh wiped her eyes and looked to him, he still wore the same kind smile from before.

“What happened, Medwin? They are killing everyone! The boy you saw me with earlier, have you seen him? We need to escape!” She cried, pulling at Medwin’s cloak.

Medwin looked past her, at the chaos unfolding all around, and gave the scene a sincere smile.

Looking at Laneh, he grasped her arm tightly. “Do you hear them Laneh? Their screams of pain? Their agonized shouts as they breathe their last? That sound is the death knell of all you cared for, everyone you have ever loved. All you hold dear, ended by your own hand.”

Laneh felt a sharp, cold pain in her chest. She looked down to see a short blade sticking out of her abdomen. A hand grasped the blade handle, pulled it free, then stabbed her again. She feebly clawed at Medwin as she slowly fell to ground, her face filled with grief. Medwin continued to smile at her as she collapsed, and she thought she saw a glowing, red sigil flash in front of his face before quickly disappearing.

The last things she saw were the remnants of her village, burning to cinders, and the bloodied corpse of Askold Storme staring vacantly at a star filled night sky.

#The Talefeather #FFXIV #story #final fantasy

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