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sabraeal · 3 years

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Climb to the Rooftops

[Read on AO3]

Written for @another-miracle; a birthday fic that is COMING OUT ON TIME would you look at that (though I am definitely doing some fancy footwork to make it work out in both time zones 😂 Yixin asked for the Post-Rescue Tanbarun Tree Scene for WFB, and then I said, I could give you that, but what if I told you about a secret scene instead...

And then Yixin told me to write whichever one was Obi POV

He knows her.

That’s what keeps running through his head’s hamster wheel as he clomps up the student center steps. He knows her; he’s always known her. If he reached out on that park bench, if he’d grabbed her with both hands and just said, don’t leave me--

He would have been laid flat on his ass, courtesy of that mean right hook her dad taught her before he bounced. And there’d be another demerit on his record to boot, one more instance of anti-social behavior to make him even more unadoptable than he already was. Doc was always destined to go to a loving home, complete with cozy hideaways and towers of books, with warm firesides and even warmer grandparents, and he...

Well, he wasn’t meant for anything like that, no matter who he clung to. Sometimes shit just happens, and no wishing on stars thirteen years gone can change that.

It’s good to see her though. He’d always wondered what happened to his muppet girl, whether she’d gone off and had her happy ending just like she said she would. And now he knows she did.

He glances down at the peanut butter canister in his hand. Well, at least for a little while. That’s the thing about happy endings; they don’t really stick.

Obi hesitates, one foot poised over a step up, his hand wrapped around a ruddy safety rail. “Um, Doc.”

It takes her three steps to bounce to a stop, just enough to let her look down instead of up or across. He’s got double vision for a moment: Doc in the here and now looking at him with so much hope and anxiety that he’s half-afraid she’ll shake apart like a Hot Wheel in a blender; superimposed over the little girl in his memory, round face beaming up at him and her worries far behind her.

She’s got more freckles now, though most of them are hidden beneath her coat, fading without the direct application of summer sun. More inches too, though not as many as he’d given her in his head; for once he’d given more benefit of the doubt than nature could provide. And her hair-- well, that’s the same. Red. Fluffy. Muppety, too, if it’s the morning.

“Obi?”

He should really be paying attention to this conversation he fucking started, instead of just staring at her like a creep. “I just wanted to check in.”

“Oh.” She goes rosy under the freckles he can see, shifting the urn from her hands to her elbow. “I’m-- I’m fine. I’m glad that we could find--” one arm juts out, trying to encompass both them and the containers-- “everyone.”

“Yeah, I got you, but I meant...” He angles a pointed look over her shoulder. “Why are we going up?”

Doc’s jaw drops, and he sees it, the way panic crests right behind her eyes.

“Not that I’m suggesting we don’t.” He takes the next step slow, just enough to put them on equal standing. Except it doesn’t, it puts him a little above her; the beginning of really looking down. His heart flutters in the exact way it shouldn’t when he’s carrying human remains. “I’m just saying, if we’re going to carry geriatrics up a few flights, the elevator’s better for their hips.”

He expects her to laugh at that one, or maybe even roll her eyes, but instead Doc breaks out into a full-body Chihuahua tremble.

“Obi.” Her eyes are so big in her face they might swallow him whole. “We can’t take the elevator.”

“We...can’t?”

Her head jerks in the scarcest side-to-side. With one long, steeling breath, she informs him, “We’re going to do something a little illegal.”

His brows raise. “Illegal?”

The urn bobbles treacherously as her hands fly up between them. “Only a little!”

“You cashed in your favor with me,” he repeats slowly, savoring the thrill that zips through him with every syllable. “To do something illegal.”

Doc deflates with all the gravitas of a popped kiddie pool. “I’m sorry, I should have asked if that would be okay. Especially with, um...”

She’s far too polite to say, your presumed preexisting criminal record, Doc just hasn’t realized it yet. Not when she doesn’t know for sure whether it does exist or not. It’d be easy to help her along, but it’s kinda satisfying to watch her flounder, fishing for the pieces of him she does know.

“If it’s a problem,” she says finally, lifting her eyes to his. “You don’t have to--”

“The only problem is how hot that is, Doc.” He wraps a hand around the rail beside her, leaning in close enough that her eyes nearly cross watching him. “Are you gonna get into your old field hockey kit and punch a girl up there too?”

She blinks, heels clunking into the concrete rise. “I don’t think it would fit. The skirt would be too short, at least.”

Are you sure, he wants to say, stretching every last inch over her, but instead he rumbles, “Honey, you’re saying all the right things to me--”

“Hey.” A finger presses into his nose, hauling his words up short like a pileup. “No call list.”

“Ahh.” Her mouth twitches as he pulls back, rubbing at his nose. “Haah. You know I hate that.”

“Then stick to the list,” she informs him pleasantly. “Besides, are you really trying to flirt with a girl in front of her grandpa?”

“Well.” He holds up the tin, giving it an experimental shake. “You think they’d mind?”

There’s a quality to the silence in the stairwell that clues him in to the fact that he’s cocked up real good this time. First with the tomb joke, now asking if grandma might be watching from beyond the grave, objecting to his game. At least he knows he never had a chance; otherwise he’d have to go take his hopes out behind the woodshed--

“No,” she hums, confident. “They’d like you.”

It’s a good thing she doesn’t get it in her head to try the nose trick again; it’d push him right over. He can survive a lot, but four flights is pushing it. “Doc,” he huffs, scratching the bristle at the back of his head, “I don’t think--”

“Well...” She’s thoughtful when she puts her back to him, bouncing up the next couple of stairs. “Opa would. Oma would think you needed to be fattened up.”

He laughs, but even to his own ears it sounds busted up, wings broken. “Sounds like my kind of lady.”

“Ugh,” Doc sighs from one landing up. “She’d love that you said that.”

“That just makes her even more--”

“Don’t.”

RESTRICTED ACCESS, the doors says, bright red letters fading against the plastic sign. ALARM WILL SOUND.

Doc’s been bullish these last few flights, pushing a pace that makes him want to remind her he’s a hitter, not a runner, but now--

Now she shuffles on the stairs, daunted. “Do you think it will really...?”

Obi thinks this might be a private university, funded by mommy and daddy’s pockets to keep their babies safe, but alarms go off all the time. Unless this building has a rent-a-cop watching daytime TV down in the atrium right now, it could take hours for someone to answer the call, especially mid-afternoon on a Saturday.

“Who knows.” He’s not sure what she’s got up her sleeve that involves two dead people and a rooftop-- especially when even Doc is quick to admit it’s got at least a toe on the wrong side of legal-- but it probably won’t look good if they’re interrupted, even by the Diet Coke of the law enforcement vending machine. “Maybe you should plan to keep the fancy speeches to a minimum.”

“Eulogies.” Her thin fingers flex over ceramic, white where they press in. “You mean a eulogy.”

“Gesundheit.”

Doc turns her head, real slow, letting him soak in every drop of her disapproval. Well, that’s one pigtail successfully pulled.

With a breath so deep it makes her pea coat really earn the name, Doc nods. “Right. Okay. I think...”

Obi expects some dithering, some real soul-searching doubts being dragged out for airing right here in the stairwell. Doc likes that sort of thing, taking everything out of her head so she can fold it all up real nice again, but instead--

Instead she barrels across the landing, plowing right through the metal door, a whole stretch of gray winter sky stretching out before her. There’s one blink, two, and then-- well, the sign wasn’t kidding. The alarm does, in fact, sound.

He catches the door with a hand; it’s weighted, ready to swing right back into place and-- if he knows his doors-- lock right behind her. Not that it’d be a problem if he meant to stand around on the stairwell and act as look out; a role he’d be happy to play if that’s how Doc wanted this whole show to run. But right now she’s slumped at the ledge, every last ounce of her usual moxie wrung out.

Maybe she might tell him to stand back, that this is something she’s got to take on alone, but Obi knows every aching line of that pose by heart. A car can keep going for fifty miles once it hits empty, but that just means you’ll never know when the tank runs dry. That’s where she is right now, stalling out at her limit.

And that’s what he’s here for, to push her that last inch over the finish line. Besides, he can’t just stand back, not when he’s grandpa’s ride.

“So.” There’s a shim in a corner-- a naughty thing to have around an emergency door like this, but Obi’s not about to tattle. He’s perfectly happy to wedge someone else’s problem right where the paint’s flaked off the door. “What’s the problem?”

Doc blinks, one hand trembling on grandma’s lid. “W-what?”

He settles grandpa on the ledge, arms folded around him, taking in the sprawl of buildings below. Clarines isn’t as big as one of those state universities, but it makes Tanbarun look like a college playset instead of a campus. Both of them have those stuffy brick and marble buildings they like up here, the kind that say academic and too good for you loud and clear, but whereas Obi’s walked across Clarines for thirty minutes and still never hit the edge, it looks like he could lap this place in twenty. No wonder Doc was miserable here; the real mystery is how she managed an entire year in this fancy rat cage.

“There’s got to be one.” He knows better than to look at her; if he’s going to make her talking about feelings, the least he can do is give her the privacy to have them. “You were all gung-ho a minute ago, ready to do your thing even if you had to punch out a cop to do it--”

“--I didn’t say that,” she murmurs--

“--but now you’re just standing here.” He shrugs, chancing a glance from the corner of his eyes. “Looking lost.”

“I just...” She shifts, head twisting toward him, he doesn’t need to meet her gaze to know it’s wild, desperate. “It doesn’t feel right that they don’t go together.”

It’s his turn to stare now, lost. “O...kay.”

“What if...” Her teeth fold over her lip, worrying at places already worn. “What if I left them go, and they don’t find each other?”

“Ah...?” It seems like a bit of an oversight now, not asking what the plan is, but he ventures, “You mean...the ashes?”

Her mouth twists up, annoyance in every wrinkle. “It sounds weird when you say it like that.”

“No, no, I’m just...” He glances down at the tin between his arms. “I’m just putting things together. There’s nothing wrong about how you feel, Doc. Not like anyone’s really written a book about how this works.”

She looks up at him, so guileless. “Of course they have, Obi. There’s a whole section in the bookstore for it. It’s just that they’re all written by charlatans and quacks.”

Whatever the conversational version of whiplash is, Obi’s experiencing it now. For a minute all he can do is stare, taking in the abject disapproval rumpling her face, and then he-- he--

He laughs. Because this is what he’s into. The sort of person who pumps the breaks and spins the conversation 360 without even a courtesy ‘buckle up.’

“Listen, I’ve been thinking...” He taps the top of the tin, the metallic ting drowned out by the blare of the siren. “What if we just...mixed them? Then when you release them--”

“--They’re already together.” Doc blinks up at him, eye shining like he’s her savior, the center of her world, the answer to her cosmic question--

The way she really shouldn’t, when she already belongs to someone a hundred times better than he’ll ever be. Not when she’d never mean to get his hopes up.

“Thank you, Obi,” she breathes, a smile dawning on her lips. “That’s exactly what we need to do.”

Like all his good ideas, it’s easier said than done. On the ground, it’d been breezy, the sort of gentle push he’d come to expect from New England right before it got its first good snow, but up here--

“Here, take this.” Obi shrugs off his jacket, hurriedly pushing it into Doc’s boneless hands, but it’s too late-- they’ve already lost a bit of grandma. “Hold it up.”

She stares down at it, thumbs rubbing over the leather in a way that makes his shoulders itch. “Hold...?”

He swings out one arm-- the one not holding a geriatric-- yanking it wide. “Like a wind screen. I don’t want to lose Oma’s pinky toe or something.”

Doc blinks, stretching the coat between her hands. “Pinky toe?”

“Wouldn’t that make you cranky in the afterlife?” he asks, shaking more of Oma loose in a lull. “Losing a toe? Or a finger. Like just the last knuckle. A bit of your nose.”

The leather starts to ripple as the wind spins back up, and Doc stomps a foot down on the end of it to keep it from smacking up into his face. He appreciates the effort; it’s hard enough trying to pour from a large container to a small one without his zipper clocking him over the eyebrow. “Would that really matter?”

He shrugs. “To some people, probably. I got plenty of nose to spare.”

Doc mouth curves shyly, hunching down to hide behind his coat. “I think it’s fine just as it is.”

“Haah.” It’d be nice if she could give him a heads up when she plans to make his heart pound like that. “Think you might be the first to think that.”

“I don’t know,” she hums, eyes electric with some mischievous spark in their depths. “Maybe I’m the first to say so, but you certainly weren’t getting any complaints a few nights ago--”

He huffs. “Drunk college girls aren’t exactly arbiters of taste, Doc.”

She fixes him with that steady stare of hers, the one that’s so earnest it makes his heart make a bid for freedom through his throat. “I think,” she says, each word weighed before she lets it free, just like a good scientist, “that they did just fine.”

He smothers a whimper into a sigh. “Maybe your grandparents don’t mind me flirting,” he mutters, hunched over that stupid peanut butter tin, “but I’m sure they wouldn’t like you returning the favor.”

She blinks, head cocked. “Did you say something Obi?”

“No,” he says, just a little louder. “Just talking to myself.”

“You know--” he sets down the urn, wiping the sweat off his forehead-- “this would have been a lot easier going the other way.”

“We can’t.” Doc’s mouth twists up into that troublesome knot. “Opa always said he never wanted to be in one of those big fancy vases. And even if he would never know, I...”

Obi sighs, hanging his head. “Yeah, I know, I get it, just...complaining to complain. You know how it is.”

She stares down at him like he’s a fish on a dock telling her about the dangers of air. He shakes his head, stifling a laugh. Of course Doc wouldn’t get it; she could lose a limb and she’d still be thankful for the other three. Probably point out how much better things were now that she didn’t need to keep track of all of them. He might complain like it was as easy as breathing, but Doc-- Doc would take every last uncharitable thought to the grave.

Haah, give her some time. A few more months around him, and she’d discover some things to complain about. People always did.

“So,” he says, picking grandma back up. “Why here?”

Doc blinks. “Huh?”

“You know, on top of the roof of the campus center at one of the prestigious universities on the East Coast?” He raises a brow. “I know you used to go here, but most people just settle for leaving dog shit on the stoop when they want to send a ‘fuck you,’ you know.”

Doc unleashes a sound that can only be termed a squawk. “What? What do you mean most people--?” She shakes her head. “No, I don’t-- I mean, it’s not supposed to be a, um...”

“Fuck you?”

“Ah...yes. That.” She grimaces. “They met here. And when I tried to think of places they might want to be...”

Her words drift to a stop, but it’s gentle. They don’t abandon her, leaving her high and dry, but she just...stops saying them, letting the wind carry them away.

“I couldn’t think of any place else,” she admits, fingers tightening in the leather. “They always talked about Tanbarun so fondly, and I...I always thought it sounded like paradise.”

“But the roof?” Obi asks, incredulous. “Is it just easier to scatter the ashes, or...?”

“It’s where they met,” she repeats, like that makes any sense at all. “They used to have movie nights up here, played on one of those reel projectors,”

Her gaze swings out over the concrete like she could see it; all the hippy bean bags piled up, big screen pulled down and movie hardly able to be heard over the wind. Not a bad picture, he’ll admit. Wholesome, just like he’d expect out of the people who raised this Precious Moments doll of a person. Doesn’t really explain Mukaze, but well, shit happens. Half the people who raised him don’t deserve the person he’s become either. “Nice story.”

She’s hardly here with him, eyes hazy and distant, stuck in a past only she can see. “That’s what I always thought. I always wanted...” Her voice trails off again, but this time her smile falters, topping like china from a wobbling shelf. “I always wanted to have a story like that too. But it, um, didn’t really work out that way.”

He shouldn’t say anything. He’s not some neutral party, here to give her that impartial, unbiased pick-me-up she wants to hear, like telling her won’t rips a strip right off his back, so-- he should keep his big mouth shut.

But he’s never been good at any of that being smart shit. “It’s not like you didn’t have your own meet cute, it just wasn’t here. It was, er...”

Huh, now would you look at that. He’s never actually asked.

“At a record store,” she supplies slowly, like she has to think on it too. “Between the aisles after I missed my bus. No--” she laughs, more bitter than he’s ever heard her-- “after I chose to miss it.”

“See?” he hums, vibrating the knife deeper. “That’s already a good start.”

Her lips press thin. “I suppose...”

“No supposing about it.” He taps grandpa so the ashes sit flat before he starts another pour. “If I know anything about your Oma and your Opa-- and I don’t know nothing besides what you told me--” and what he saw a decade ago, sitting on that park bench-- “I don’t think they care whether you met your person at a rooftop movie or in a Walmart--”

“Record store.”

“They have CDs too,” he informs her, just as prim as Doc gets with him when she indulged the one pedantic bone in her body. “But the point is, they wouldn’t care where it happened, they just wanted you to find what they had.”

“I...” She deflates, the leather bowing over her legs. “I know. I think they used to worry that I wouldn’t, especially since I wasn’t really, ah...”

“Looking for it?” he offers.

She nods, relieved. “Yes, that. After my parents, I think they expected a much more, um, active interest in...anything. And I wasn’t.”

He doesn’t need to hear her say it to know that there’s more to it than that, that what she means to say is, and I don’t think they understood.

“Well, nothing for them to worry about anymore, is there?” She blinks up at him, alarmed, and he adds, “You and chief are kind of a done deal right?”

“Ah!” It’s hard to tell with the wind slapping both their cheeks red, but he could swear Doc’s blushing. “I don’t-- it’s not-- we haven’t really talked about--” she heaves a heavy, resigned sigh-- “I mean, I...I guess?”

“As done as it can be without getting PR involved.” He gives her the sort of eyebrow Kiki might. “I’m sure that if they’re out there floating on clouds or whatever, or, i don’t know, free energy in the universe, molecules just bumping around...they’re happy for you.”

“Right.” Her reply’s so faint he nearly misses it, but the wind that snatches it away carries it right by his ear. “Yeah.”

“All right, I think I’ve done as much as I can do.” Obi levers himself to his feet, brushing off his lap before handing her the tin. “You ready for this?”

Doc stares down at the canister, jaw set, the same way he’s sure it looked right before she threw herself out a window. Certainly looks the same way it did when she tried to bean Itoya with her purse.

“Yeah,” she breathes, fingers tightening around the metal. “I think I am.”

The wall’s not tall, but neither is Doc; she has to go up on tip-toe to throw an arm over it, the wind already pulling at the ashes laying loose at the top. Her brow furrows, mouth working for a good minute before she manages, “It’s time to say goodbye, I think.”

Obi stares. Sure, he’d said to keep it short and sweet, but if it’s taken this long for the rent-a-cop to hustle up, maybe she can spare the people who raised her more than--

“Thank you.” He’d thought it might be hard to hear her over both the alarm and the wind, but somehow all her words fly true, brightening the air. “For...everything. I don’t really know how you...”

Her breath catches, but her eyes are clear, no tears streaking down her face. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? You did everything and more. But I think...” She sniffs, taking a moment. “I think I can take it from here. I’ll miss you, Oma. And Opa...”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I forgive you. For whatever still needs forgiving. Rest well.”

Her hand tips, just the barest degree, and the ashes scatter, wind whipping them past, twisting high over the quad.

“Hey.” Obi steps up beside her, shrugging his coat on over his shoulders. If it’s a little gritty-- well, good thing Doc thing thinks Oma would like him so much, because part of her might linger until the next wash. “I’m pretty sure it’s super illegal to scatter human remains like this.”

“Oh,” Doc hums, shoulder bushing his arm. “It absolutely is without a permit. I was not joking about the slightly illegal thing.”

Obi grins. “Well good thing that no one ever came to check on the--”

As if summoned by the mere mention of potentially having something approaching good luck, the door bar rattles, accompanied by some creative cursing.

“Who the fuck is leaving this open?” A gruff yet feminine voice demands, as if she might be able to shake down the universe and pick up the answers from what fell out of its pockets if she just rattled it hard enough. “Bill, is it you? God, what did I say about using the roof for your smoke breaks--?”

The door swings all the way open, and there she is, a security guard with shoulders that could have dropped straight from the Lowen family tree. Obi would take a picture if he wasn’t sure that would get him thrown in the campus drunk tank.

She takes one glance at them, then another angrier one. “Who the fuck are you?”

“UM,” Doc shrills informatively.

“No, wait.” One broad hand waves in front of her. “I don’t care. What are you doing up here?”

Doc flounders in the face of authoritarian disappointment-- which is fine by Obi. This is his wheelhouse, after all. It’s nothing to reach out, cinching Doc’s waist against him, grin wide. “Sex, obviously.”

If it were possible for a body to choose the time and place of its expiration from this earthly dairy aisle, Doc’s mortified stare suggests she might curdle on the spot. “Obi.”

The guard’s glare is a study in skepticism, taking in the both of them, and then the concrete wasteland around them. “Here? With your clothes on?”

“It’s our kink.”

“Please,” Doc mutters against his shirt. “Don’t talk.”

The guard spares them one last weary look and sighs. “You know what? I don’t care. Just get out.”

Doc certainly doesn’t need to be told twice. Obi’s got his mouth open, what can’t you let us finish first about to spill right out, but her small hand clamps around his, and she drags him right off the roof.

“SORRY,” she yelps as they pass. “WON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN.”

“Yeah,” Obi agrees with a grin. “Next time we’ll fuck on some other roo--”

Doc pauses for one moment, just long enough to raise a finger and inform him “DON’T.”

This time he lets her drag him off, grinning.

They’re halfway down the stairs when Doc finally slows, her cheeks reaching a shade of red that looks more lipstick than lobster dinner. Her hand wraps tight around the rail, and it’s not until he saunters down the last couple steps to stand beside her that he realizes-- her eyes are screw tight, breath coming in ragged bursts.

“Hey,” he murmurs, trying to ignore the spark of alarm zipping under his skin. “Did you just realize we could have used the elevator?”

Her fingers, already wrapped tight around his palm, squeeze. “Obi...”

The muscles in his arm lock, the way he’s sure lizard tails do, right before they drop them off and run. “Doc?”

Her head turns toward him, and when her eyes flutter open, they’re bright, clear. “Thanks. For being there.”

“No. No, no,” he murmurs, his fingers spasming against hers. “You’ve got it all wrong. I should be the one thank you for letting me. No one...”

No one has ever asked me to be there, he doesn’t say. No one but you.

It’s too much when she’s looking at him like this, like he’s not just a stand-in but her first choice. Like there’s more to how he feels than some one-sided over-investment. It brings him so close to feeling like someone, like the kind of guy who might be her person--

And maybe he could have been, if he hadn’t let some asshole rip her right out her arms in the middle of the night. If he had a record of being something other than a professional disappointment.

The grin doesn’t sit right on his face when he says, “No one’s ever asked me to get rid of a dead body before.”

Doc blinks, then rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she sighs, tugging his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Back to the hotel?”

“Well,” she wheedles. “That. And I dropped the tin when the guard surprised us...”

“Ah I see.” He slips his hand from hers, grin finally sitting the way it should. “So we’re adding evidence removal and obstruction of justice to our list of crimes.”

She tips a dubious look back at him. “Are you complaining?”

“Doc,” he breathes, pressing a hand to his chest. “I would never. I’m touched that you would even think that I could--”

“Come on, Obi,” she laughs, hopping down the steps in front of him. “I’d like to do this sometime today.”

His mouth curls as he watches her back. “Your wish is my command.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #The Wide Florida Bay #modern au #ans #this has been a scene I've had on my radar since I started plotting out this fic #i knew that Tanbarun Arc needed to end with a request #but a request to come back to this old college didn't make sense #so i wanted to make it purposeful rather than a promise #an invitation to stay in her life #and I knew she'd cremate her grandparents #but hadn't done anything with the ashes #so i wanted to drop the hints in the sanddollar fic hoping someone would seize on it #but the sand dollar part proved too interesting 😂#though not to worry i'll be coming back to that part too #but when Yixin asked for this Joanna was like ASK HER IF SHE WANTS TO ASHES SCATTERING PART THOUGH #SO HERE WE ARE

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growup-thatbeautiful · 3 years

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sad but not alone

Ahsoka and Rex post-order 66 fic

Word Count: 1,382

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, death, angst

Please let me know if you want to be on a tag list!

This is for @radbatch !! Happiest of birthdays! (Ik i’m late, but i wanted to do a little more) Share the Ahsoka love a little :))

Ahsoka doesn’t ask for help when she needs it. That’s something Rex has known for a very long time. It’s something all of the Jedi share, he’s learned. Cody has come to him countless times, complaining about General Kenobi’s recklessness and sleeplessness. Now is one of those times that Ahsoka isn’t asking for help.

It’s not like Rex is in some mentally stable place either, though. He’s probably one of the least qualified people to give advice in the face of an intergalactic crisis. Force, he just lost all of his brothers in a matter of hours. For the first time, he’s truly alone. No, he reminds himself, Ahsoka’s still here. Ahsoka, who’s so young and has had so much pain bestowed upon her, who treated every single man under her like a person, not a clone, who used to laugh with General Skywalker to distract the rest of them from death.

If he’s lost all his brothers today, she’s lost everyone slowly over time, taking the blows she’s been dealt standing tall. He doesn’t know what’s running through her head right now, but whatever it is he wants to be there with her for it. She’s the only person he’s really seen grow up, and he would be lying if he said he isn’t impressed with the fighter she’s become. But the Jedi aren’t supposed to be fighters, they’re supposed to protect peace. Peace, an idea he’s not even sure he could recognize.

If there’s one thing the 501st taught him, it’s that having someone to be sad with is better than having no one to be sad with.

Fives had been big on that. When they lost Echo, they had spent countless hours together, sitting in the silence of hyperspace. Rex would open his mouth to say something, maybe try and help Fives get through the loss, but he genuinely had nothing to say then. He still doesn’t have anything to say, but he still talks to Fives all the time. Ahsoka says that it’s healthy and that he could be out there listening. Rex doesn’t know if he believes her, but it’s a nice thought.

They walked away from the grave together, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow that they didn’t try at all to cover up. No one was supposed to survive that crash. That alone had given them the time they needed to build the grave in the first place.

It had been Ahsoka’s idea. The duty of burying the dead usually fell to clones below Rex, but he tried to be there most of the time to say goodbye. It’s always a sad occasion, of course it is. Saying goodbye to someone you’ve fought beside is never easy. Today was different. They didn’t lose in a hard-fought battle. Those men didn’t die protecting the Republic, they died with weapons pointed at their beloved Commander.

Ahsoka didn’t take the job lightly. Each body she found in various levels of destruction she treated tenderly, rearranging cold, dead limbs into peaceful, sleeping positions. Wiping the blood away, really just smearing it around. It breaks Rex’s heart how familiar she is with these motions. He’s no stranger to them either, and he would never make Ahsoka do it alone. For each of the brothers that he finds, the names fall off his lips like the meditative prayers of Kenobi. There’s so many of them. If it was ever eerie to see something so close to his own face staring back up at him, dead, that’s worn off. Years of this have made sure of it.

“Rex.” It’s one of the first things Ahsoka’s said since the crash. He follows her haunted voice, stopping when he sees why she called out.

Jesse. His helmet is cracked, a canyon through the Republic’s crest and Ahsoka’s paint, splitting it down the middle. His body is wrapped around himself, curled up like a child, like he was hiding from the screams and chaos. The armour on his chest is stained red, and his neck is bent at a broken angle. It brings Rex to his knees, hitting the floor hard. He doesn’t notice the impact, too preoccupied with the blinding and overwhelming pain from inside and the feel of tears streaming down his cheeks.

Ahsoka is on her knees beside him, a comforting hand on his back where he’s doubled over, making these terrible hitching noises in the back of his throat. He knows that whatever he’s feeling Ahsoka can feel too, and he doesn’t want to be the one to hurt her even more, but he can’t help it. The waves of tears keep coming until there aren’t any more, and he’s left with scratchy eyes and red cheeks. Through it all, Ahsoka stayed by his side. He looks up at her to see his tears mirrored on her face, quiet and impassive. One of her hands is facing palm up, resting on her knees, and she’s whispering soothing words for Jesse. Or Rex. Or both.

They help each other to their feet, ignoring the battle pains. The helmets are set up on pikes, the most they can do. Ahsoka leaves her lightsabers in the snow with the dead. Rex doesn’t have the energy to think about that significance.

They build a camp in a cave a little ways away, figuring that it’s better to be safe and wait it out a few days in case anyone comes looking. Rex doesn’t actually think that anyone will, and he’s pretty sure Ahsoka doesn’t either. But this isn’t a battle that they can recover from easily. No, they have to take a second to regroup.

Ahsoka starts a fire and Rex grabs some ration bars that he grabbed from the wreck. They sit side by side, shoulders pressed together tightly, reassuring each other that someone is there.

To his surprise, she opens up before he can ask her. It saves him the trouble of figuring out what to say. “I can’t feel anything. I’ve always had the force beside me, inside me, and now it’s out of balance. It’s like there’s this gaping darkness that was never there before, and I don’t know why. I don’t know if-“ her voice breaks here, and she covers her mouth, hiding a sob.

Predictably, she pushes through. “I don’t know if I made this happen. What if it’s my fault? It’s never felt this…wrong, and, stars, I can’t feel Anakin. It’s not the same as when I left the Order. Then it was distant, but he was still there with me. Now that part of me feels broken and painful. I think he’s gone.” A quiet confession by the fire, her face lit in shadows. It doesn’t surprise Rex as much as it should, but he knows the Padawan-Master bond is strong. If she says it, it’s true.

“I’m scared. Rex, I don’t want to be alone.” He knows this takes a lot for her to admit this. She’s usually the epitome of strength, never letting her guard down in front of the people counting on her. It’s a habit that she most likely picked up from Obi-Wan. Force knows it’s not Skywalker’s style. He can’t just leave that hanging, though.

“Hey, kid, it’s alright. You’ve been lost before, yeah? You’re gonna find your way again. Everything’s going to work out.” The last sentence falls flat. He’s not even fooling himself. “And maybe things won’t be okay, but we’re still us, right? I’ve still got my Commander with me, and you’ve still got your Captain. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

“Look, I can’t pretend to understand the force, but I know that, so far, it hasn’t led you wrong. Things are changing in the galaxy, and we can’t control that, so we might as well be along for the ride. I know you, Commander, and you’re not going to let this change you. Sure, you’re gonna grow with it, but you’ll always have what he taught you. What they all taught you. What I taught you.”

“So, trust in the force.” It’s something he’s heard General Kenobi say a million times to his Padawan and Grandpadawan. “Let it guide you. I’ll be right there with you.”

“Thank you, Rex.”

“Of course, Commander.”

#ahsoka tano #ahsoka star wars #ahsoka #ahsoka and rex #rex #captain rex #commander tano #commander rex #order 66 #post order 66 #ahsoka fic #ahsoka tano fic #rex fic #clone wars #clone wars fic #nxvna writing #nxvna post

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princesssarisa · 3 years

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Cinderella September-through-November: "Aschenputtel" (1922 Lotte Reiniger animated short)

While I've been trying to explore the various Cinderella adaptations in chronological order, I have to backtrack almost thirty years to cover this version, because I hadn't known about it until now. Thank you, @ariel-seagull-wings, for sharing it with me!

German filmmaker Lotte Reiniger was an innovator of animation in the 1920s and ‘30s, and with her distinctive style of animating backlit cardboard cutouts in silhouette, she created some of the most unique and beautiful animation of her era. Her 1926 film The Adventures of Prince Achmed is the oldest surviving full-length animated film, preceding Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs by eleven years, and by using multiple planes of glass to create a "layered" effect in her films, she effectively invented the multiplane camera, a decade before Disney made it famous.

This 13-minute Aschenputtel (Cinderella) is one of Reiniger's earlier animated shorts. It opens by establishing the art form to the audience, showing a pair of hands cutting a piece of black cardboard into the shape of Cinderella, who comes to life. The intertitles between the scenes also remind us constantly of how the silhouette animation is created, as they always say "Snip, Snip" before describing anything new. Unsurprisingly, this German adaptation is based on the Brothers Grimm version of the tale, not the more familiar Perrault version. Instead of a Fairy Godmother, Cinderella gets her finery from a tree growing on her mothers' grave and two birds who live there, and beforehand, a flock of friendly birds also helps her to pick out lentils from the fireplace ashes at her Stepmother's command. It's not an exact depiction of the Grimms' version, though. Cinderella's father is nowhere in sight, nor do we get the backstory of how the magic tree grew, the three balls are reduced to one, and Cinderella loses her slipper by chance, not because the Prince had the palace steps smeared with pitch. There are also two details borrowed from Perrault. Besides fine clothes, Cinderella also receives a coach and horses: the magic tree transforms one of the two birds into a coach topped with a plume of feathers similar to the bird's crest. And while the Grimms' Cinderella leaves the palace of her own accord to be home before her family, here she's instructed by the birds to leave when the clock strikes one. (At least she gets to stay an hour longer than most Cinderellas). As in the Grimms' version, though, the Prince does follow Cinderella all the way home, but here she doesn't hide from him; instead he sees her from behind, but doesn't recognize her in her rags.

When the Prince brings the slipper to Cinderella's house, the Stepmother shuts her in the cellar to prevent her from trying it on – this is the first of the adaptations I've seen to have the Stepmother lock her away at this point, though as we'll see, it will be a recurring theme in later versions. Then, in a disturbing moment straight from the Grimms' version, one of the Stepsisters cuts off half of her foot to make the slipper fit. (Even performed by a cutout in silhouette, it's a shocking sight!) The Prince starts to ride away with her, but just in time sees her foot dripping with blood, and when he takes her back and tries the slipper on the other sister, he catches her with the knife and stops her from pulling the same trick. Then the two birds open the cellar door to reveal Cinderella. When Cinderella is revealed as the Prince's love, the Stepmother is so angry that she literally bursts (her whole body rips in half!), becoming one of the few versions of the character to be killed off. Cinderella and the Prince then ride away on his horse, kissing, while the birds fly happily around them.

The delicate beauty of Reiniger’s world of silhouettes is enchanting, perfect for a fairy-tale retelling. The moment when falling leaves from the tree shower Cinderella and transform into her ballgown is especially magical, in every sense of the word. It’s also remarkable how much personality and emotion are conveyed by characters who lack colors or clearly defined faces and who never speak. Cinderella herself is appropriately beautiful, graceful and sweetly vulnerable, while the Prince is likewise handsome and tender, in sharp contrast to the comically grotesque figures of the pompous, fat Stepmother and her ugly daughters (one fat, one skinny, as in several future adaptations). The exotic design of Cinderella’s bird friends, with quail-like crests on their heads, further enhances the feeling of fantasy. Only the English intertitles between the scenes fall ever-so-slightly flat, as they’re written in fairly clunky, unpoetic rhyming verse, and at one point the film’s age is revealed when the Stepmother calls Cinderella a “slut,” using the word’s older meaning of “a dirty, unrefined woman.” Whether the original German intertitles are any improvement or not I don’t know.

This is one Cinderella that definitely deserves to be better known. Its delicate atmosphere of magic and unique beauty, combined with touches of humor and a little bit of Brothers Grimm-style darkness, is masterfully brought to life by a true genius of early animation.

@ariel-seagull-wings, @superkingofpriderock

#cinderella #fairy tale #cinderella september through november #aschenputtel #animated short #silent film #lotte reiniger #silhouette #animation #tw: foot mutilation #tw: blood

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butterflies-dragons · 4 years

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You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts.

I always thought that both, Sansa and Arya have sun and moon imagery around them. But if I have to choose then I would say that Sansa is the sun and Arya is the moon; and after my last re-read of Fire & Blood, I just confirmed it.

As I said before, several Targaryen sisters duos described in Fire and Blood are very similar to Sansa and Arya, as if George wanted for us to have the Stark sisters in mind while discovering all these Targaryen ladies:

Visenya and Rhaenys

Rhaena and Alysanne

Aerea and Rhaella

Baela and Rhaena

Let’s talk about the last ones, the twin daughters of Daemon Targaryen and his second wife Lady Laena Velaryon: Baela and Rhaena.

In 116 AC, in the Free City of Pentos, Lady Laena gave birth to twin daughters, Prince Daemon’s first trueborn children. Prince Daemon named the girls Baela (after his father) and Rhaena (after her mother).

—Fire & Blood

Baela’s description matches Arya Stark

At ten-and-four, Baela was a wild and willful young maiden, more boyish than ladylike, and very much her father’s daughter. Though slim and short of stature, she knew naught of fear, and lived to dance and hawk and ride. As a younger girl she had oft been chastised for wrestling with squires in the yard, but of late she had taken to playing kissing games with them instead. Not long after the queen’s court removed to King’s Landing (whilst leaving Lady Baela on Dragonstone), Baela had been caught allowing a kitchen scullion to slip his hand inside her jerkin. Ser Robert, outraged, had sent the boy to the block to have the offending hand removed. Only the girl’s tearful intercession had saved him.

(...)

Baela’s time on Dragonstone had been more troubled, ending with fire and blood. By the time she came to court, she was as wild and willful a young woman as any in the realm. (...) Baela lived to ride…and to fly, though that had been taken from her when her dragon died. She kept her silver hair cropped as short as a boy’s, so it would not whip about her face when she was riding. Time and time again she would escape her ladies to seek adventure in the streets. She took part in drunken horse races along the Street of the Sisters, engaged in moonlight swims across the Blackwater Rush (whose powerful currents had been known to drown many a strong swimmer), drank with the gold cloaks in their barracks, wagered coin and sometimes clothing in the rat pits of Flea Bottom. Once she vanished for three days and refused to say where she had been when she returned.

Even more gravely, Baela had a taste for unsuitable companions. Like stray dogs, she brought them home with her to the Red Keep, insisting that they be given positions in the castle, or be made part of her own retinue. These pets of hers included a comely young juggler, a blacksmith’s apprentice whose muscles she admired, a legless beggar she took pity on, a conjurer of cheap tricks she took for an actual sorcerer, a hedge knight’s homely squire, even a pair of young girls from a brothel, twins, “like us, Rhae.” Once she turned up with an entire troupe of mummers. Septa Amarys, who had been given charge of her religious and moral instruction, despaired of her, and even Septon Eustace could not seem to curb her wild ways. “The girl must be wed, and soon,” he told the King’s Hand, “else I fear that she may bring dishonor down upon House Targaryen, and shame His Grace, her brother.

—Fire & Blood

As you can see Baela and Arya shared a lot of similarities, both are wild and willful, both short of stature, both wear short hair, both like riding, both prefer the company of the common folk instead of the courtly life, both admire the muscles of a young blacksmith’s apprentice, both seek adventures, both make their Septa’s despair, etc.

Later Rhaena will marry her cousin Alyn Velaryon, born Alyn of Hull, a legitimized bastard, but the marriage was stormy.

Rhaena description matches Sansa Stark

As young girls, the twins had been inseparable, and impossible to tell apart, but once parted, their experiences had shaped them in very different ways. In the Vale, Rhaena had enjoyed a life of comfort and privilege as Lady Jeyne’s ward. Maids had brushed her hair and drawn her baths, whilst singers composed odes to her beauty and knights jousted for her favor. The same was true at King’s Landing, where dozens of gallant young lords competed for her smiles, artists begged leave to draw or paint her, and the city’s finest dressmakers sought the honor of making her gowns.

(...)

It was Jace who came to the fore now, late in the year 129 AC. Mindful of the promise he had made to the Maiden of the Vale, he ordered Prince Joffrey to fly to Gulltown with Tyraxes. Munkun suggests that Jace’s desire to keep his brother far from the fighting was paramount in this decision. This did not sit well with Joffrey, who was determined to prove himself in battle. Only when told that he was being sent to defend the Vale against King Aegon’s dragons did his brother grudgingly consent to go. Rhaena, the thirteen-year-old daughter of Prince Daemon by Laena Velaryon, was chosen to accompany him.

(...)

She would of course wed whomever the king and council wished, she allowed, though “it would please me if he was not so old he could not give me children, nor so fat that he would crush me when we are abed. So long as he is kind and gentle and noble, I know that I shall love him.” When the Hand asked if she had any favorites amongst the lords and knights who had paid her suit, she confessed that she was “especially fond” of Ser Corwyn Corbray, whom she had first met in the Vale whilst a ward of Lady Arryn. Ser Corwyn was far from an ideal choice. A second son, he had two daughters from a previous marriage. At thirty-two, he was a man, not a green boy.

—Fire & Blood

As you can see Rhaena and Sansa shared a lot of similarities, both are ladylike, both love the courtly life, both are linked with a (bastard) Joffrey, both lived at the Vale, both are linked with singers, both are linked with Knights and Tourneys, both are dutiful, both are betrothed with a Knight of the Vale, that already had two daughters, etc.

As Ned promised Sansa a betrothal with a high lord, kind, gentle and strong, Rhaena asked for a not too old, not too fat, kind, gentle and noble husband. She married Ser Corwyn Corbray, who had a great reputation as a warrior, so much so that his father gave him the ancient Valyrian steel longsword of House Corbray, Lady Forlorn.

Later Rhaena will lost her husband, Ser Corwyn Corbray. He would be killed during some succession war at the Vale, which is kind of similar to the events developing at the Vale with Alayne Stone, Harrold Hardynd and Robert Arryn.

Much later Rhaena will marry Garmund Hightower, the younger brother of Lord Lyonel Hightower, by whom she will have six daughters.

The Sun and The Moon: The Contrasts between Baela and Rhaena

The contrasts between Baela and Rhaena are very similar to the contrasts between Sansa and Arya:

Rhaena was slender and graceful; Baela was lean and quick.

Rhaena loved to dance; Baela lived to ride…and to fly, though that had been taken from her when her dragon died.

Yet even here, the council encountered difficulty and division. When Leowyn Corbray said, “Lady Rhaena would make a splendid queen,” Ser Tyland pointed out that Baela had been the first from her mother’s womb.

“Baela is too wild,” countered Ser Torrhen Manderly. “How can she rule the realm when she cannot rule herself?” Ser Willis Fell agreed. “It must be Rhaena. She has a dragon, her sister does not.”

When Lord Corbray answered, “Baela flew a dragon, Rhaena only has the hatchling,” Roland Westerling replied, “Baela’s dragon brought down our late king. There are many in the realm who will not have forgotten that. Crown her and we will rip all the old wounds open once again.

The sisters reacted to these lickspittles in vastly different ways. Where Rhaena delighted in being the center of court life, Baela bristled at praise, and seemed to take pleasure in mocking and tormenting the suitors who fluttered around her like moths.

Lady Rhaena proved to be as tractable as her sister had been willful.

But despite their differences and living separated for years, the twins never had a bad relationships, it seems they were good friends, worked together and comforted each other.

The good relationship between Baela and Rhaena also gives me hope about a reconciliation and the development of a better and close relationship between Sansa and Arya.

Baela’s Dragon

Baela’s dragon, the slender pale green Moondancer, would soon be large enough to bear the girl upon her back…

(...)

Even more than boys, however, Lady Baela loved to fly. Since first riding her dragon Moondancer into the sky not half a year past, she had flown every day, ranging freely to every part of Dragonstone and even across the sea to Driftmark.

(...)

So it came to pass that when King Aegon II flew Sunfyre over Dragonmont’s smoking peak and made his descent, expecting to make a triumphant entrance into a castle safely in the hands of his own men, with the queen’s loyalists slain or captured, up to meet him rose Baela Targaryen, Prince Daemon’s daughter by the Lady Laena, as fearless as her father.

Moondancer was a young dragon, pale green, with horns and crest and wingbones of pearl. Aside from her great wings, she was no larger than a warhorse, and weighed less. She was very quick, however, and Sunfyre, though much larger, still struggled with a malformed wing and had taken fresh wounds from Grey Ghost.

—Fire & Blood

Baela’s dragon Moondancer “danced” with Aegon II’s dragon Sunfyre. Despite Aegon II’s win against Baela, before dying and being eaten by Sunfyre, Moondancer wounded Aegon II’s dragon so much that it never flew again and died not far later. Moondancer sounds as fierce as Nymeria, Arya’s direwolf has no fear of other wolves and men and became a savage killer.

So, Baela Targaryen being so similar to Arya Stark and having a dragon named Moondancer, and Arya being a water dancer, convinced me that Arya is the Moon.

Rhaena’s Dragon

Rhaena’s egg had hatched a broken thing that died within hours of emerging from the egg, Syrax had recently produced another clutch. One of her eggs had been given to Rhaena, and it was said that the girl slept with it every night, and prayed for a dragon to match her sister’s.

(...)

Known as Rhaena of Pentos, for the city of her birth, she was no dragonrider, her hatchling having died some years before, but she brought three dragon’s eggs with her to the Vale, where she prayed nightly for their hatching.

(...)

Even more grave were the tidings from the Vale, where Lady Jeyne Arryn had assembled fifteen hundred knights and eight thousand men-at-arms, and sent envoys to the Braavosi to arrange for ships to bring them down upon King’s Landing. With them would come a dragon. Lady Rhaena of House Targaryen, brave Baela’s twin, had brought a dragon’s egg with her to the Vale…an egg that had proved fertile, bringing forth a pale pink hatchling with black horns and crest. Rhaena named her Morning.

(...)

And everywhere that Rhaena went came Morning, her young dragon, oft as not coiled about her shoulders like a stole.

(...)

During the first quarter of 135 AC, two momentous events were the occasion of great joy throughout the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. On the third day of the third moon of that year, the people of King’s Landing woke to a sight that had not been seen since the dark days of the Dance: a dragon in the skies above the city. Lady Rhaena, at the age of nineteen, was flying her dragon, Morning, for the first time. That first day she circled once around the city before returning to the Dragonpit, but every day thereafter she grew bolder and flew farther.

—Fire & Blood

Rhaena lost her first dragon the same way Sansa lost her direwolf Lady, but later Rhaena got another dragon that she named “Morning”.

Sansa is heavily associated with Dawn, the moment immediately before the Sun comes. I wrote about it here.

So, Rhaena Targaryen being so similar to Sansa Stark, having lost her first dragon but getting another one that she named Morning, and Sansa being heavily associated with the Dawn, convinced me that Sansa is the Sun. This lovely parallel also gives me hope that Sansa will have another direwolf in the future, that maybe she will name Dawn.

#Sansa Stark #Arya Stark

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heademptynothoughts · 3 years

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My Heart’s Always Yours

A Willex Princess Bride AU

ch. 1

Chapter 2: New Beginnings

Five years later…

Alex was numb. He was betrothed to the Prince of Florin and he couldn’t care less. How could he bring himself to care about anything when his true love was gone? It didn’t matter how much time had passed, he would always be numb, always be yearning for the love he lost. It’s not like he could’ve said no to the Prince anyways. When His Highness Prince Caleb Covington picks you out of a crowd and proposes, what other answer is there but yes?

While his parents still didn’t approve of two men together, they were exceedingly happy with their family’s new found status and as such only occasionally muttered about the wrongness of it. But their son was soon to be a prince and so they kept the worst of their comments to themselves.

Caleb (His Highness had insisted that Alex just call him Caleb) had moved him into the castle shortly after their betrothal. He believed it would be best that Alex begin to learn the ins and outs of being royalty right away and also admitted to wanting to keep him close. When Alex told Caleb that his heart would never truly be his, that he would never love him, Caleb nodded in understanding and said that he hoped in time he would at least come to care for him, but that he didn’t expect anything of him.

As Alex prepared for his official introduction to the Florian people, his thoughts couldn’t help but drift to Willie and he prayed that he would be forgiven for this betrayal. Enough time had passed that to most it would have seemed fine, but Alex’s heart ached at the idea of being with anyone but Willie. His name was announced and Alex took a shaky breath before stepping through the doors and walking out onto the carpet laid for him in the crowd. The faces around him were blurry as he tried to keep his breathing steady. Everyone was bowing to him but Alex couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stand there frozen, all the while wishing he was back on the farm with Willie in his arms. An impossible wish.

Afterwards, Alex decided to go for a ride. Being on horseback was the only time that some of the numbness disappeared and he was able to clear his mind. A sort of serenity fell over him as he rode further away from the castle, but his peace was soon disturbed by a small group of travellers. They were in the middle of the trail and as he got closer Alex saw that the group was made up of a pretty blonde woman, a sleeveless man with a lute strapped to his back and rapier sheathed at his side, and a smiling giant.

The blonde seemed to be the leader of the group. As he stopped in front of them, she told him that they were circus performers on their way to the castle for the Prince’s wedding, but they’d gotten lost and were in need of directions. Before Alex could respond though, the world went black.

———

Alex regained consciousness to the sound of strange voices and it took him a moment to realize what had happened. He tried to keep his breathing even and himself as still as possible so his captors would think he was still knocked out.

“What are you doing over there?” a deep voice called out. Alex assumed it belonged to the giant.

“Putting the plan in motion, moron,” the woman responded, “This is the Guilder crest, sworn enemy of Florin, remember? When the Prince’s husband-to-be’s horse returns to the castle, they’ll assume that Guilder took him, and when his body is found on the Florin-Guilder border those suspicions will be confirmed. I hired you to help me start a war and this is how we do it.”

Alex tensed, his breathing starting to become shallow. He had thought that maybe he would just be held for ransom, but this? His death as the catalyst for war? He willed himself to be still once more and hoped no one had noticed the clues to his being awake.

“I just don’t think it’s right, killing an innocent boy,” the giant said.

The woman scoffed, “Well it’s a good thing I didn’t hire you for your brains then, isn’t it?”

The third member of the party spoke up, “I agree with Reggie.”

The woman’s voice drew nearer, “I’m sorry, did I ask for your opinion? Don’t you worry your pretty little heads about it, I’ll be the one to kill him,” there was a pause, “Oh, and boys? Never forget that I’m the one who raised you from the filth you’d been living in, I’m the one who gave you purpose when you had none, and I’m the one who’s kept your pockets lined and your bellies full. Do you really want to go back to your old lives? Hmm… didn’t think so.”

Alex heard the two men grumble to themselves as the ground beneath him began to sway. The sound of waves crashing filled his ears and Alex realized that he was on a boat.

———

Alex learned that the woman’s name was Carrie, the giant was Reggie, and the other man was Luke. After he had feigned waking up, Reggie had sat him up and bound his hands. It was late at night now, the sky dark but full of stars; if Alex had been out here under different circumstances he would have marvelled at the beauty of it.

Carrie sat across from him smirking. “We should be at the cliffs by dawn,” she said as she glanced at Luke who kept looking behind them, “What? What is it?” Carrie asked him.

“I think we’re being followed.”

“Well that’s completely inconceivable,” Carrie laughed, “There’s no way anyone from Florin could’ve caught up to us so quickly.” She leaned back, relaxing more against the boat.

Alex gulped, trying to put on a brave face, “This plan of yours will never work, you know. Caleb will find me and when he does you’ll be sorry you ever tried something like this.”

Carrie flicked her hair, “Whatever you say, little prince.”

Luke was still looking behind them worriedly though. Rolling her eyes at his paranoia, Carrie asked him what he kept looking at.

“We’re being followed,” Luke stated, “There’s a boat behind us.”

Reggie turned around to look and Carrie got up as well, “I already told you that would be inconceiv— oh.”

With his kidnappers distracted by the boat in the distance, Alex took the opportunity to attempt an escape, jumping off into the water. He wasn’t the strongest swimmer, but he hoped it would be enough to get away safely. The splash he made going into the water was rather loud though, which immediately alerted the group to his actions.

“Don’t be an idiot!” Carrie called out, “The water’s full of shrieking eels!”

And just like that, Alex heard them. His heartbeat sped up as he realized what a grave mistake he’d just made. The eels were so loud his ears began to ring. There was movement in the water around him, but he couldn’t see anything. Alex knew the eels had started circling and it was only a matter of time before one of them got him. He started thrashing, too panicked to swim properly. He hoped that his death would be quick, that he would soon be reunited with his lost love. An eel launched itself at him, jaws open, and Alex screamed. But the pain he was expecting never came. Reggie had grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back into the boat.

———

Dawn was breaking as the boat neared the Cliffs of Insanity, the other ship following close behind. There was a rope hanging off the cliffside. Luke put a harness onto Reggie, strapping Alex on Reggie’s back before strapping himself on his side. Reggie lifted Carrie to strap her to his front and started climbing.

A masked man dressed all in black began to climb as well, quickly gaining on them. Carrie yelled obscenities, urging Reggie to go faster. When Reggie pulled them all onto the top of the cliff, Carrie quickly got out of the harness and ran to cut the rope. Alex had been set on the ground, Reggie keeping an eye on him. As the rope fell off the cliff, they all looked down to see if the man following them had fallen. Somehow the man was still holding on, fingers gripping tightly to a small ledge in the cliffside.

“Inconceivable!” Carrie stomped her foot.

Luke glanced at her, “You keep using that word, I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Carrie shot Luke a dirty look and began walking away, dragging Alex with her. She called out to Luke, “Stay behind. If he doesn’t fall to his death before making it to the top, use that blade of yours to stop him in his tracks. Meet back up with us when it’s done.”

“I’m really more of a musician than I am a fighter.”

Carrie and Luke exchanged a meaningful look. “We both know that’s not true,” she said and continued to walk away.

Reggie put a hand on Luke’s shoulder before turning to follow Carrie, “Be careful.”

Being pulled away, Alex looked back to see Luke fidgeting with the sword at his side. He wondered what would be the better outcome for him: Luke or the mystery man. Whatever the case, he hoped it would all be over soon.

tag list: @herequeerandcantdrinkbeer @julieandthequeers @flamingfawkes @sunset-sweeerve @williexmercer @thedeathdeelers @evilittlecrow

#in case you were wondering the title is a song by Arkells (same title)#lmk if you want to be added to the tag list :)#jatp #julie and the phantoms #willex #the princess bride au #alex mercer #willie jatp #carrie wilson #reggie peters #luke patterson #fanfic #jatp fanfic #my fic

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besanii · 4 years

Note

"Am I too Late" for wangxian for the shattered mirrors au? ❤

One day, a year into the Sunshot Campaign, there are no more letters.

It shouldn’t unsettled Lan Wangji as much as it does, because they are both busy with the war effort. Every day is an exhaustive repetition of training, strategising, fighting⁠—both quick and dirty skirmishes, and long, drawn-out battles—and reconnaissance that leaves Lan Wangji physically and mentally exhausted. He retires to his tent at night and draws comfort from the stack of letters he keeps wrapped in a waterproof leather satchel by his bed, reading new ones as they arrive, and rereading the rest in the days in between.

He knows Wei Wuxian would eventually be summoned back to Yunmeng to lead the troops on his home soil, and perhaps that is what has kept him too busy to write, but it is no less disappointing to sift through his daily letters and not find Wei Wuxian’s untidy scrawl on any of the envelopes.

A month passes, then two. By the end of the third month the unsettled feeling in Lan Wangji’s stomach has turned to concern for Wei Wuxian’s well-being. As easily distracted as Wei Wuxian can be, he has never gone for more than a month without at least sending a quick note to reassure Lan Wangji of his continued safety. This, coupled with the increasingly dire reports coming from the Yunmeng front, is enough to drive Lan Wangji half-mad with worry.

And then the messenger arrives.

He’s dressed in Yunmeng purple, and carries the silver bell around his belt to mark him as a trusted member of the royal household, but Lan Wangji does not recognise him. The letter in his hand, however, is stamped with the nine-petaled lotus, the imperial crest of Yunmeng Jiang, and Lan Wangji takes this from him with dread.

Qishan Wen marching on Lotus Pier.

Emperor and Crown Prince gravely injured.

Requesting reinforcements.

He clenches his fist to stop it from shaking, crushing the letter as the blood roars in his ears and his heart drops into the pit of his stomach. A heavy weight has clamped down around his chest; every breath burns in his lungs.

He turns on the messenger.

“When was this written?” he asks, voice low and tight with the effort to stop it from wavering. “When did this happen?”

The messenger prostrates himself on the ground.

“Three months ago, Er-dianxia.”

“Three months?” Lan Wangji repeats faintly. The ice in his veins boils over into fury and he advances on the messenger with murder in his eyes. “Why was this only delivered now?”

The messenger cowers.

“With all due respect, Er-dianxia, we had to find a way to sneak out of Lotus Pier past the blockade of Qishan Wen soldiers,” he says. “We kept to the hidden roads and rode three horses to death to get here. Three teams were dispatched. One to Gusu, one to Qinghe, and another to Lanling. I am the only survivor.”

Lan Wangji stares at him for a long moment, still trembling, his fury bleeding out into steely resolve. He turns to his generals.

“Gather your best men,” he orders them. “I want one hundred men to ride with me to Lotus Pier immediately.”

“But Dianxia,” one of the generals protests, “we are still fending off Qishan Wen troops on this front! We cannot spare a hundred men to answer a call that is three months old! And you can’t possibly go yourself, as the field marshal!”

Lan Wangji is past caring.

“Any protests will be taken as direspecting authority and the offender will be executed,” Lan Wangji says. “Now go!”

He stares down at the crushed letter.

Wei Ying, where are you?

Am I too late?

// buy me a ko-fi //

#hey nonny nonny #asks #wangxian #mdzs #shattered mirrors au #my writing #this is gonna be listed as pre-war because i'm lazy and don't want to create another section haha #angsty #sort of #follows immediately from the previous one #kind of #i might add something in between #we'll see

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alleiradayne · 4 years

Photo

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.

Some urban legends never die.

Part III - Unsolved Mysteries

Summary: Sam, Dean, and the reader head to the Old Dutch Cemetery. Warnings/Tags: General elements of horror and fear, graveyards, coffins, sorta-not-really-death... Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Word Count: 5,385

The Impala jostled over the transition from street to gravel path as Dean turned for the graveyard. Tall, stout trees lined the trail to the Old Dutch Church, their long sinuous branches reaching out as though to grasp and pull unwary travelers into the shadowy depths of the surrounding forest. A chill ran down my spine as the car lumbered on, descending into the darkness, and a foolish sense of fear filled my stomach with dread. I had vanquished many vengeful spirits with Sam and Dean. The last decade of our lives had been nothing but. And yet, something about the case had me on edge.

Around a shallow bend in the path, the church materialized from the darkness atop a hill as the Impala’s headlights flashed across it. Dark windows and a distinct lack of exterior lighting shrouded the building in impenetrable black despite our approach. The car climbed the steep hill, and as it crest the top, I saw a thick stone wall and a tall iron gate in the distance.

“At least we’re alone,” Sam mentioned as he followed the church.

“Good,” Dean started, then squinted through the windshield as we neared the gate. “Is it open?”

“I’m guessing the graveyard isn’t maintained if the church is abandoned,” Sam stated.

As he pulled up to the gate, Dean put the car in park and climbed out. Sam and I followed, and between the three of us, we managed to pull the gate apart wide enough for the Impala to pass. Dean returned to the car and, as he pulled into the graveyard, that chill, loitering beneath my skin, clawed deep into my bones. The Impala entered the great yawning maw and slid into the belly of the beast.

When I remained still too long, Sam ushered me along with a reassuring hand at my shoulder. His wide stare betrayed his crooked smile, and that creeping dread seeped into the very marrow of my existence.

“This feels too easy.” I had intended to speak with more conviction, but my voice faltered.

“Don’t jinx it,” Sam retorted.

“I’m not trying to,” I said as I rubbed an ache in my left arm. Drawn to the darkness, I scanned the graveyard from edge to edge. “I’m… something feels off. Like we’re forgetting something.”

He turned to me then, and the warmth of his large hand enveloped my shoulder. An odd sense of calm replaced my looming anxiety. And his voice assuaged my worst concerns. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together. I’m here, Dean’s here. You know what you’re doing, too. I believe in us.”

And I believed him. I didn’t just know it to be true, but felt it, like that deep ache in my bones. But the case, the urban legend. It all had me on edge. Despite my oscillating emotions, I smiled a wry smile and looked up to him. A slanted ray of silvery moonlight illuminated his own crooked smile, and the last of my concerns receded to the edges of my mind. “Thanks, Sam. You’re really good at that.”

He turned for the car as Dean stopped up the path. “At what?”

I followed with a skipped step and said, “Making a lady feel special.”

His subtle smile turned into a devious smirk I’d not seen on him in age. “Good. You are,” he said. A hitch in his breath hesitated his next statement, but then he turned to me once more and said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while, but I’ve been feeling pretty shitty myself since Chuck.”

Dean remained in the car, illuminated by the glow of his cell phone. Safe, for the moment at least, I figured it couldn’t hurt to hear Sam out. “What’s on your mind?”

“Dean and I care a lot for you,” he stated as he closed the space between us. He scoffed before he said, "But I… Dammit, we weren’t supposed to be in fucking graveyard when I finally told you… and especially not on a case. I’ve wanted to say this for months, but we haven’t taken a break, and I never get five minutes with you alone—”

“Sam.”

His teeth clicked shut at my interruption. A thick swallow bobbed his throat before he said, “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

“I can tell,” I replied with a short laugh. “But I get it. I am, too. I’ve… felt the same way for a while.”

Despite the darkness, his entire face brightened at that. “Really? Like… how long?”

I turned for the Impala and said over my shoulder, “Longer than I care to admit.”

He trotted to catch up to me at the trunk. When he opened his mouth to speak again, the driver’s door opened, and Dean’s boots crunched on the gravel. Before he squandered the moment, Sam slipped his hand to the small of my back and whispered in my ear, “We’ll talk more later?”

I sucked a breath through my nose as I bit my bottom lip but managed a quick nod as Sam straightened. There is a reason I don’t play poker; Dean spotted the obvious a mile away, his approach slowing and his glare narrowing on me, then on Sam, who had busied himself on his phone.

“What’s going on?” he grumbled as he unlocked the trunk.

Sam hardly looked up. “Hm? Nothing, just waiting for you. C’mon, let’s go,” he said as he grabbed a shovel and flashlight, then strode away for a set of plots.

Dean’s glare fell to me then, as though he measured me under a microscope, and I shifted on my feet. “Y/N…”

“What?!” I squeaked, then cleared my throat. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” he declared as he rummaged through the trunk. “You look… do you need to take a leak or something?”

The surge of sensations from Sam’s attention passed, and I stilled. “No, I’m fine. Just… graveyards, right? This whole case has me kinda freaked.”

Look, I’m not dumb, and I know Dean isn’t either. But thankfully, he let my half-truth slide and grabbed a shovel. “You know the drill. This’ll be quick once we dig it up.”

I took the shovel from him, then the flashlight. “Got it. I’ll start helping Sam look for this needle in a haystack unmarked grave.”

“Good idea,” he replied. “I’ll catch up in a minute. Need to grab a few more things here. Go on ahead.”

With my shovel shouldered, I turned and hesitated. Headstones sprawled to the opposite tree line three hundred yards away, and between them rolled a thick mist. Cloud cover rolled in almost as if it were on a schedule. Darkness masked the moon and plunged the graveyard in a night so deep, and my flashlight flickered like a tiny shivering candle flame.

One foot in front of the other. That was all I needed to do. Just walk. Read headstones. Find the unmarked grave. Not that hard. Lost count of the graves I've dug up over the last decade. Like I mentioned earlier, Sam and Dean changed my life—for the better—the day we met. Digging up graves happened to be a part of the gig.

As I traipsed through the graveyard, headstones passed beneath my flashlight, materializing out of the dark mist. The light lingered long enough for me to see any sort of epitaph, then moved on, the stone vanishing into the fog once more. My mind wandered as that monotonous repetition seeped into my muscles, weary and aching. Hypnotized by the swinging flashlight—left, right, left, right—the graveyard faded away, the headstones ceased to exist, and I wandered aimlessly.

"Over here!"

Sam's booming baritone echoed through the darkness, a bodiless voice carried on a bone-chilling gust of wind. Another shiver coursed along my spine, and my flashlight quivered in my white-knuckled grip. Strange trees and unfamiliar headstones surrounded me, appearing and vanishing in the thick mist that languidly coiled through the graveyard. Sam's voice breached the silence again, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Each echoing thump of my heart beat faster than the previous. Each breath filled less and less of my lungs, shallow and thin. And each thought muddied the waters further as I waded through the muck until not a single coherent idea remained. Silence settled in, stilled the graveyard's night sounds, and death's icy breath lashed out at me.

Long seconds stretched so thin, one tick of my watch marked an entire lifetime. As my heart raced, its sharp staccato strikes drowned out the world. A moment, one terrifyingly calm instance of hyperawareness passed before I realized that thumping no longer beat in my head but from through the ground and into my chest. Horse hooves raced in the distance, and with each expeditious plot, they neared.

Pressure. A shift in the air behind me snapped my instincts into action. I wheeled about and brought the shovel to bear only to find more of the thick graveyard mist ambling between headstones and trees. Sam's voice echoed again. And again. And again. I tried to call back, but no sound escaped my throat, dry as the desert in a drought. Though desperate to move, my feet refused. Rooted in that hallowed ground, I firmly remained where I stood, my head spinning.

That was until I heard the most terrifying sound in recent memory.

The blood-curdling bray of a horse screeched through the night air, so shrill and ethereal. Impossibly sustained, the cry lingered an eternity. That haunting melody accompanied the thundering hooves’ rhythm, both building in a wild crescendo until out of the mist burst the stuff of nightmares.

Black as pitch, a horse bearing a headless rider barreled through the graveyard straight for me. Fire fanned from the steed’s wide eyes, and smoke blacker than his coat roiled from his nose. Bones and ligaments jutted through his muscles, and his jet black hide scored with whip lashes, runnels of blood, and burns beneath crimson and iron tack.

And yet, the horse paled in comparison to its burden. Astride the cursed beast sat a giant of a man clad in green armor so dark, it was nearly black. He wielded a fiery whip that cracked like thunder with a flick of his wrist, and in the other hand, he manifested a flaming cannonball. He hefted it high over his head—the empty void where his head should have been—and aimed.

Never in my life had I run so fast. Like lightning, I leaped through the graveyard, racing for whatever outlet I could find. Reaching tree branches snagged my coat, my jeans, and one sliced a gash across my cheek. Pain and fear fueled my survival, and the last ounce of hope I had desperately clung to echoed once more, so much closer.

“Y/N?!”

Sam’s shout distracted me a second too long; the fiery cannonball singed my hair as it hurtled past my head and destroyed a headstone. Graveyard turf caught my toe as I threw my arms up to shield myself from flying stone, and I crashed to the dirt face first. Blood poured from my nose and soaked my shirt as I scrambled to my feet. Whitehot pain rolled in waves across my face, and tears blurred my vision as I searched for my thrown flashlight and shovel. Thundering hooves closed on me, drawing closer and closer until my hand seized the metal grip of my shovel. I torqued my entire body and swung the bladed end with all my might.

The rider’s whip coiled high above his shoulders, then unfurled with a wicked snap of his arm. Inch by inch, the flaming bones rolled to me until time raced to catch up. The last foot disappeared in a single heartbeat. An earth-shattering crack of thunder rattled in my teeth as the bone whip wrapped around the steel shaft of my shovel. He snapped it from my hands with little effort and freed his whip, then raised it again for another strike.

Despite the fact that I knew I had no chance of escaping, I ran. Thunder rolled once more as the whip descended upon me. Sudden clarity steadied my heart as death’s icy chill breathed down my back once more. Final heartbeats counted down my last seconds as the whip’s scorching grasp coiled about my neck. Where time had once moved too fast, it slowed again, creeping until it stopped.

The world faded away to nothing. No sound, no light. No racing hooves or hearts. No shrill horse’s cry. No fire and no ice. No pain. Suspended in a nothingness sea, I drifted aimlessly. Lost. Even time’s relevance ceased to exist. The threads of my consciousness unraveled as though tugged by anxious fingers. Soon, I knew that I, too, would unweave until I remained nothing but a mere memory in other's minds.

Then a cry pierced the silence, muted, as though it belonged to someone else’s. Desperate, I focused every conscious sensation that yet belonged to me on that singular sound, a siren’s salvation, and clung to it. The voice thinned and focused, sharpened as though I dialed in on the perfect frequency until it burst through the emptiness and rendered me senseless.

And then I fell. Hundreds of thousands of feet, I descended, plummeting faster and faster as the shout continued to grow. Another voice joined, bellowing my name as I sank. The onslaught of vertigo ravaged every fiber of my pitiable existence as I tumbled through space and time until my mind and body reunited. Reality returned in a blossoming of flashlights, two men shouting in shock, and a freshly dug grave into which I dropped the final five feet. I screamed as I crashed onto the exposed coffin, then collapsed in a heap.

My first gasping breath dragged in dirt and grave rot, and I choked. Before I could string a coherent thought together, two sets of hands grasped me by the arms and hauled me from the grave. They set me on my feet, but I collapsed to the ground, sprawling on my back and stared up at a clear, cloudless night sky.

A cascade of brilliant stars dotted the emptiness, teaming with ancient light. Cool, clean air filled my lungs for the first pure breath I’d taken in a century. Clarity followed, and my first thought echoed between my ears like a struck church bell.

Did I just cheat death?

“Y/N?”

Sam’s strength slipped beneath my shoulders and legs as he hauled me into his lap. His face, knotted and twisted with worry, flooded my vision. “Y/N, are you okay?”

Inventory. No sliced cheek. No burnt hair, no broken nose. Most importantly, no burned lashes on my neck. I started a few thoughts before I settled on, “I think I’m fine.”

He seated me on the ground once more and sat beside me. Dean knelt as well and placed a stable hand on my shoulder. “What happened? One second, I was right behind you, and then the next, you were gone.”

The chilling scream of an undead horse echoed in the furthest recesses of my mind. “I saw it. The…” I stuttered as I motioned to my head. “He had a whip of bone engulfed in flames and a fiery cannonball.” I paused, seized by the memory of such fear. “He... he ran me down—”

“That’s it, I’m putting an end to this shit right now,” Dean interjected as he hopped into the grave.

Sam and I leaned over the edge as Dean pried open the old pinewood box. Wood splintered and popped as he made short work of the rotted enclosure. But then the top snapped free and fell aside to reveal nothing and everything all at once.

Ash and black scorch marks marred the entire interior of the coffin. “What the fuck?” Dean spat. He sifted through the ashes, flinging them about, searching. “No, this can’t be right, there has to be something—”

“Dad did it.” Dean and I both turned to Sam. “Thirty years ago, he had the same idea we did: roast the bones, send the spirit on.”

Dean turned back to the box and stared. A long minute passed as thumped his crowbar on his thigh, the gears in his head churning so hard, I swore I heard them. Then he replaced the cover and crawled from the grave with Sam’s help. He dusted off his jeans but remained silent as he paced, deep in thought.

I grasped Sam’s hand and hauled myself up to stand beside him. His warmth enveloped me as I curled into him, and he held me close. With a reassuring squeeze, he asked, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I will be,” I sighed. “I think I…”

The thought trailed off as Dean began shoveling dirt back into the grave. “Son of a bitch ghost,” he spat with a violent stab of the shovel. “Fucking piece of shit curse.” Another stab. “Stupid fairy jerk.” Another stab. “Lame ass urban legends!”

“Dean!” Sam insisted, “what the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?!” Dean barked. “We gotta get out of here and figure out what to do next before this circus freak shows up again.”

Sam sighed as he smoothed his hand across my shoulders and said, “You can head back to the car, I’ll help—”

“No!” I declared, far louder than I had intended. “Sorry, no. I’ll…” I spotted my shovel and flashlight lying not three feet away from me. Unwilling to question how either object had returned with me, I hefted both. “I’ll help. I need something to do.”

Concern clouded Sam’s visage, but he shrugged and made room for me to dig. As I started in, fresh memories flooded my mind’s eye, and I did my best to relive the moments as clearly—and objectively—as possible. Undead horse. Crimson tack. Headless rider. Fiery whip and cannonball. Green armor that could easily be mistaken for black.

“He was wearing green armor,” I stated.

Dean froze at that. “Green? Like the Gawain legend?”

“I assume so,” I replied as I continued shoveling. “I think we’re still on the right track. It’s an amalgamation of urban legends. The Hessian, the dulachan. Gawain. A fae-cursed german soldier that fought against the colonies during the American revolution. Not sure how the English legend plays into it though.”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” Sam said with a grunt. “Maybe being decapitated by an enemy soldier during a war is close enough to match the English urban legend.”

“Could be why he only comes back once a year,” I agreed.

Dean shook his head. “Let’s just get this grave filled and figure it out back at the motel.”

With a sense of finality on the topic, we continued to shovel. As I worked, I couldn’t help but lose myself in thought to the point where I hardly recalled shoveling. A filled grave stood before me less than half an hour later. Wordlessly, we gathered up our things, then turned our backs on the grave and started for the car.

No more than fifty yards from the unmarked headstone, Sam stopped first, frozen solid. I lurched to an awkward halt beside him, my hand held fast in his. I looked up to him and asked, “What’s… Sam?”

He stared straight ahead at the car, then looked at me. “Didn’t you hear that?”

“No,” I said as I turned to the Impala, then back to him. “What are you talking about?”

“C’mon, Sam, let’s—”

I heard it then; the relentless cry of a terrifying horse careened through the still graveyard. Dean had heard it too, his thought suspended, unfinished. The echoing bray of the horse faded as a fresh thundering of hooves clamored in the distance.

“Get to the car!”

My shout startled Sam and Dean into motion. The first hundred yards passed, but beating hooves pounded in from all sides. Another terrifying whinny screeched through the night, and in the last hundred yards to the car, my nightmare returned in full force.

The undead horse and its rider materialized from the mist and leaped the car’s trunk, heading straight for us. I screamed and skidded to a halt, then twisted to run back into the graveyard. Sam and Dean followed, catching my shorter gait in a few sprinting strides. With one final look over my shoulder, I spotted the headless rider gaining on us and shouted.

“We can’t outrun him!”

Ahead, Dean pointed at a wide paved path on the far side of the graveyard. “Follow that road! I’ve got an idea!”

“INTO THE WOODS?!” I screeched.

“Trust me!” he shouted back as we reached the road and turned towards the treeline.

I trusted Dean with my life. But he had not seen what I had. Just as the thought crossed my mind, an iron ball of fire lobbed past Dean’s head and landed in the asphalt, spraying dirt and rock. Dean leaped the divot and checked back over his shoulder. “Seriously, who throws fucking cannonballs at people?!”

Without a second to retort, we rounded a sharp curve in the path that twisted around a copse separated from the forest. On the other side sat a fork in the path, our only options left or right. At the last possible second, Dean darted right, and we followed. The road narrowed considerably, too small for a car to pass. Asphalt transitioned to dirt, and thick forest trees encroached. No light from the moon or stars penetrated the dense canopy above.

I checked behind me to see the rider and his nightmare steed gaining ground, no more than fifty yards away. “Dean, what are we doing?!”

He searched the trees, the path as his head whipped about, but I knew he saw nothing but the same desperate hope of salvation I sought. Thundering hooves counted down the final moments of our lives, one gallop after the next. Though I had seen dire situations hunting beside Sam, Dean, and Castiel over the years, none compared to the complete despair I felt in that moment, running ragged through the woods from the Headless fucking Horseman.

An urban legend was about to kill us. A friggin' fairytale told to scare kids.

Dean skidded to a halt so suddenly, Sam and I blasted twenty yards past him. I spun about gracelessly and gripped Sam’s arm for leverage. Behind us, Dean stood in a pool of opulent moonlight illuminating the dirt path through a clearing in the forest canopy. Beyond the lighted path, the rider and his horse closed the distance so fast, Dean risked losing his chance to escape.

"Dean, what are you doing?! Run!" Sam bellowed as he started for him.

"Sam, no! Stop!" I pleaded as I ran to catch him, but his legs proved too long and too fast for my own.

Despite his speed, I knew he'd never make it. An unseen force hindered him, as though the hands of the dead emerged from the ground and snatched at his ankles. He reached for Dean, his entire body straining and stretched to its fullest. The horse’s hooves pounded the dirt only a few yards away, but Dean stood fast, head held high and feet planted. And there in the darkness, I understood.

Dean knew something I did not. Something worth its weight in gold. Literally.

Heavy coins landed in the dirt as he backed into the shadows and flung his arm in a wide arc. Like so many shards of broken glass, they scattered. Each tumbled and turned end over end, glinting and glittering as they flipped and rolled to settle in the dirt.

With Dean's final cast of the dice, time stood still. He distilled everything that transpired that night in that singular moment. I watched helplessly as Dean stood defiant in the shadows, and Sam failed to reach him. The horse leaped the final feat as the rider raised his whip, coiling high over his shoulders. Hooves breached the moonlight as the rider brought down his arm in eternal judgment, the flaming lash his gavel. Horse and whip bore down on Dean, crossing the golden coins’ threshold and thoroughly bathed in brilliant moonlight. My last hope of salvation incinerated, and in that final second, I screamed.

But that second never came. In a single, raging beat of my heart, time, and reality reunited, and I hardly believed my eyes. Smoke and cinders smoldered at the horse's hooves, engulfing him and the rider to headless shoulders as though fire had caught dry tinder. The nightmare steed cried out its ethereal scream. The rider raised both hands, whip, and a new projectile brandished high until consumed by the squall. And then a turbulent gust scattered the ashes as though they had never existed.

My scream faded as it echoed through the woods. Sam whipped about, terrified eyes searching for me in the darkness. Found, he raced to me, and I grasped onto his arms. One massive hand cupped my cheek as he looked me in the eye, searched for any sign of injury, and begged for reassurance. I dove into his embrace then, unwilling to stand alone any longer. All my anger and fear drained in the safety of his arms as though it ran through a sieve.

A soft clinking of metal drew my attention past Sam, and I saw Dean gathering up the golden coins at his feet. He returned them to his pocket, then headed for us, dusting his hands on his thighs along the way. When he reached us, his typical smile spread across his lips, and he spoke.

"That's one way to waste a ghost."

"Is it…" I asked, hope clouding my better judgment.

"It'll buy us some time," Sam said with a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder. "We need to get back to the motel and figure out what's next."

Dean started back for the car first. "You know, I'm starting to wonder if it's a tul—"

"It's not a tulpa, Dean," Sam spat as he followed, urging me along beside him. "Seriously, we've only ever seen one of those things."

Dean shook his head and laughed sardonically. "It's got all the signs. A big ol' mess of urban legends and myths. An entire country that believes in it. And real power. I mean, did you see that thing, it damn near ran me down." When neither of us responded, he turned over his shoulder and his ridiculous grin faded. "What?"

"You could have died," I stated.

Of course, he shrugged. "But I didn't," he said as he pointed to his pocket. "Back up plan."

"Speaking of which," Sam said before I could give Dean a piece of my mind. "Where'd you get that idea?"

As we neared the fork, Dean jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at me. "That website. I looked up a little on each legend and found the dulachan is sort of banished for a hot minute if a gold coin is tossed in its path. So I figured, why not try twenty gold coins?"

"Try?" I repeated.

At the fork, he stopped and turned to face us. "I had a hunch."

A hunch. I knew what that meant. He had no clue. One or twenty, Dean had not the faintest notion if a gold coin would stop the spirit. No additional research. No supporting theories. Nothing. Just a fucking hunch and the confidence of a man with a death wish.

I opened my mouth, intent on giving Dean the tongue-lashing of his life. My hands shook as I parted from Sam, trembled as one coiled into a furiously extended index finger, and the other balled into a tight fist. Unbridled heat twisted in the pit of my stomach, contorted my face, and rattled in my throat as I began to speak.

But cold dread drowned my rage, and my words succumbed to that torrential fear. A ghastly pale man astride an equally pale horse rounded the sharp corner past the fork, less than twenty yards behind Dean. No clop of hooves announced his approach, no horse’s chuff, no clatter of tack. Silent as the dead, he followed the path and stopped only a stride short behind Dean.

I gawked openly, as did Sam, and when neither of us spoke, Dean glanced over his shoulder only to startle and shout as he leaped to my side. “Christ, man, don’t sneak up on a guy like that!”

The pale rider’s gaze lazily drifted down and stared each one of us in the eye. Otherworldly, he appeared as though he had been ripped from his timeline and placed in ours. A three-point hat covered his long hair tied back with a thin leather strap, and a once-fine wool coat covered his linen shirt and felted vest. Thin gloves sheathed his hands, holding the reins. Heavy wool pants draped loosely down the thigh to gather at the knee where thick stockings tucked in beneath. Wide-buckled shoes with short heels completed the ensemble.

A gray layer of ash covered the rider, his clothes, his tack, and his horse, most terrifying of all.

“Good evening, my lords, my lady. Would any of you know the way to the schoolhouse? I seem to have gotten lost again…”

I glanced at Sam, who shook his head, then Dean. He cleared his throat and said, “We’re not from around here.”

“Pity,” the rider said. A twitch of the reins shifted his horse down the path to his right. “It’s always this fork that gives me trouble. Mayhaps the right will prove correct this time.” With a gentle prod of his heels, the horse obeyed and began walking once more. “A good evening to you all.” He tipped his hat as he passed, then turned ahead for the trail.

The sudden need to confirm my suspicions gripped me like a vice. Talk about a wild hair.

“Wait!” I squirmed from Sam and Dean’s arms and followed the rider. “Who are you?”

The horse turned broadside as the rider’s glassy stare fell upon me once more. Though I knew the answer before he spoke, my fingers and toes burned with anticipation.

“I’m the new teacher. Ichabod Crane.”

He turned back to the path with a final touch to his hat, and his horse started ahead once more. The dark depths of the forest swallowed him whole, vanishing as though a figment of my imagination.

Wordlessly, I returned to Sam and Dean, who also said nothing. A stunned silence followed us the remainder of the walk back to the car. Without anything to pack up—I made a mental note to recover our shovels and flashlights, lest they be found later—Dean slid in behind the wheel and started her up. I slipped into the backseat, beyond exhausted and unsurprised to find Sam there as well. Unintrusive, his fingers slipped between mine, and I clung to him, an anchor in a sea of madness.

Dean grasped the steering wheel, white knuckles twisting over the leather and a thousand-mile stare gazing through the windshield. When Sam tapped him on the shoulder, he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then wrenched the shifter into drive.

Through the gate and past the church, we returned to the main road. Small town Sleepy Hollow passed us by as though we drifted through another world. Halloween decorations no longer appeared quaint or impressive; grisly murals and disturbing effigies hooked into fresh memories, and I looked to Sam for solace. For comfort. For grounding.

And it worked. Kaleidoscope colors diffused the dull gray world around me. Only Sam and the distant, soothing rumble of the Impala remained. Though fear roiled in the pit of my stomach, a renewed sense of hope tempered that heat. Special. I’d meant it in jest earlier. Sam didn’t make me feel special. He helped me feel. In a world where I blocked out so much, he managed to give me something worth feeling again.

Just like that, the Impala undulated up and over the driveway as Dean turned into the parking lot of the motel. In his spot before our door, he snapped the shifter into park and slumped back in his seat. A long moment of silence stretched between us all until he sighed.

“Son of a bitch.”

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quirkykayleetam · 4 years

Text

Cursed Silence

A 3.6K Witcher Sick Fic with Ill Jaskier, Hurt and Worried Geralt and some fun plot stuff of my own; a mild reinvisioning of Bottled Appetites if Yennifer hadn’t been involved, but Jaskier’s life was endangered another way. Behold! The AO3 link is now here!

“Oh gods, this is it! I am paying the price for my life as a libertine. Luck and mercy have deserted me and I am now doomed to pain forever!”

Jaskier winced and covered his eyes as Geralt pulled back the curtain from their bedraggled upstairs room.

“See?” he moaned “Even the light assaults me cruelly! And sound, the call of my life, is nothing but agony.”

“You would think you’d shut up then,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier tried to sit up and tut in affront, but only ended up falling back to the blankets instead.

Geralt glance at his fri… traveling companion. Judging by the amount he drank last night, Geralt figured he had a splitting headache and a roiling stomach. It would pass. It wouldn’t pass without dramatics--that was Jakier--but it would pass all the same.

“We only have the room ‘til lunch,” Geralt said, moving to leave. If he slammed the door a little harder than necessary to hear Jaskier groan, that was his own business.

…

Geralt had to admit that Jaskier played the part of the hungover rake well. When he stumbled down the stairs of the end, his doublet was artfully unbuttoned to show just the right amount of chest hair. He blanched at the sausage Geralt offered him, opting instead for a broth so watered down it smelled more like bowl than soup.

Throughout the meal, he kept stealing glances at Geralt. The Witcher tried to ignore him, but finally the tension became too much.

“What.”

“We don’t exactly have pressing matters in the South, do we? We’re just moving on because that’s what we do. More people to see, more evil to fight, more good to do for the delight of the land!”

“What are you getting at?”

“We couldn’t, perhaps, linger one more day to nurse the headache of a dear, famous bard who needs his beauty rest to sing the praises of the White Wolf of Rivia?”

Geralt huffed.

“Fine. But it’s your coin.”

He turned to leave, wondering if there was a secluded area close enough by for hunting. With Jaskier sick, they would make slower time when they did leave and would need more provisions for the journey ahead.

He also did not fail to notice the small smile on the lithe bard’s face even as Jaskier sunk further onto the bench. Geralt hoped Jaskier could get some rest before he face-planted into his soup.

…

“Jaskier!”

The next morning Geralt jerked the curtain so hard it ripped off its rung. The Witcher threw it at Jaskier, pole and all, who barely groaned as it hit him in the stomach.

Jaskier was doing better, Geralt thought the night before, watching the bard cavort wildly. Sure, he stayed closer to the fire than normal and seemed to have some trouble remembering the words to his old songs, but when Geralt turned in for the night, Jaskier remained downstairs. Geralt’s last look saw the bard downing a toxic-smelling red concoction the innkeeper handed him while scanning the crowd with crazy hazel eyes.

“Geralt, I’m dying.”

“Dying in a grave you dug yourself, staying up half the night with a belly full of booze!”

“I happened to mention my ills to the innkeep,” Jaskier moaned. “Aches and pains, that kind of thing. He said he had just the cure: something about mulled wine and herbs. It numbed everything, Geralt, and I didn’t want the pain to come back.”

“Yeah, alcohol does that. Numbs you now, makes you feel it tomorrow.”

He stalked to his saddle bags, feeling Jaskier’s pleading eyes on his back.

“No,” he said.

“What?”

“No, we are not staying another day for you to drink yourself to another oblivion. I’m getting Roach. Be downstairs in an hour or I will leave you.”

This time when Geralt slammed the door, he could have sworn he heard Jaskier sob.

Geralt was beginning to pace when Jaskier finally stumbled down the stairs. His clothes were rumpled but decent, his eyes glazed over but open. The biggest sign of his distress was his hair. Usually perfectly styled, it was now ruffled in ways that made Geralt think of nights spent in sex and debautery.

When Geralt slept badly, his white hair stuck to the side of his face in greasy strips like Roach had licked them. Of course that wouldn’t happen to Jaskier. Half asleep, bow-legged, and weaving from side to side, he simply looked beautifully dispossessed.

As the pair began their travels, Jakier shot a wistful shot at Geralt’s horse. Sure, the swaying movement of riding wouldn’t help his stomach, but he would give up all his gold and probably his trousers to rest on the animal rather than treading on his unsteady feet.

Geralt noticed.

“Don’t touch Roach,” he said.

Jaskier groaned.

…

Blessed silence.

Geralt never thought he would have too much of it. Now he had to glance behind him every two moments just to see if Jaskier was still on his feet.

To his credit, the bard was still keeping up. Geralt slowed his usual pace to give the man a break, noticing when Jaskier’s moans turned into whimpers and then heavy breathing, but he kept going. If Jaskier was going to make his life harder with drink, Geralt wasn’t going to entirely ease his pain. Jaskier did not complain. He shouldered his lute and limped after the Witcher, his face set in determination and hurt.

They were deep in the forest, when Geralt suddenly heard Jaskier slow.

“Ger...Geralt...I can’t…”

Geralt swung off Roach immediately, ready to relent and let the bard ride the rest of the way, but he immediately stopped.

Jaskier was a trembling mess. It was cold outside, chill enough to leave frost on the tips of branches and leaves, but the bard sweated through his jacket. He huddled doubled over. With one hand, he clutched at his throat.

“Can’t breathe, Ger...I don’t know…”

With that, Jaskier’s eyes rolled back into his head. Geralt barely caught him before he fell to the ground.

It wasn’t just drunkenness; Geralt could tell as soon as he touched Jaskier’s paling skin. The bard was burning up from the inside. Even mostly unconscious, he whimpered each time Geralt had to shift Jaskier in his grip.

Cursing, Geralt didn’t know whether to spend more time settling Jaskier on Roach’s back or dashing off to get help.

There wasn’t a mage or a medic in the town they left. Geralt could get Jaskier there in hours, but the Witcher might not be able to do anything but watch Jaskier pant in agony. The bard needed medicine, a cooling bath, Geralt didn’t know what else. He just didn’t want to see Jaskier in any more pain. Or worse.

Golden eyes set on the horizon, he set off as fast as he dared. Every pitiful sound Jaskier made echoed through Geralt’s entire body.

Hee had done shit all to help Jaskier. Hopefully now he could persuade someone else to do more.

…

Dawn crested the hill behind Roach as Geralt finally spotted a town within reach. The village was a sizable, a good sign, though not a certain one. He patted the horse tiredly, glad that Roach hadn’t bucked at riding through the night. In the saddle beside him, Jaskier did not even whimper. The bard had stopped making even the smallest sounds long ago. The only thing keeping Geralt going was that he could see Jaskier’s weak, stuttering breath in the cold.

Geralt swung down beside the first open door he saw, that of an inn. The innkeeper was sweeping out the debris from the night before and took the Witcher’s coin.

“Doctor? Mage?” He inquired huskily.

“Mage. North side of town. Not sure if you can pay him though.”

Geralt jingled his bag of coin. The innkeeper shook his head.

“He’s one for strange deals and bargains. Some folk say he’s fair. Others say wiley. Keep your wits about you, Witcher.”

Geralt thanked the man with another coin, but couldn’t give a damn about his wits. He’d lose them all if he could keep Jaskier alive.

He found the mage easy enough. While the man didn’t set up in a castle like some magicians, he made his profession clear enough; his three-story workshop was made of shimmery black stone that could only be enchanted. Either that or the man had spent lifetimes mining and shaping obsidian from the land’s farthest shores. Geralt figured he couldn’t rule that out.

Tying Roach to a tree outside and cradling Jaskier in his arms, he kicked at the ornate wooden door until someone answered it. Enough kicking, he supposed, and he could knock the bloody thing down, but it swung inward before Geralt had the chance.

“Witcher.” A spry man of indeterminate age, oaken skin, and jet black hair dressed blacksmith’s garb greeted him. “Please, come in.”

…

The wizard could clearly see Geralt’s purpose. He motioned the Witcher to a room on the third story with tightly shut windows, a fire in the hearth, and a bed for Jaskier. Geralt laid the bard down somewhat reluctantly. He wanted Jaskier to get better, but he didn’t trust wizards, however benign they seemed.

The wizard cleared his throat and Geralt turned to face him, keeping his body between the mage and Jaskier’s unconscious form.

“So,” the man began, “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blavikin, has traveled all this way to…”

“Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“Pardon me?” the wizard said. He took a step back but looked more intrigued than insulted by the interruption.

“Can you heal him?” Geralt said, his voice a low growl.

“Are you sure you can pay my price? Surely someone must have told you…”

“Yes,” Geralt said.

“Why?” The wizard’s eyes twinkled.

“I’ll do anything.”

The moment the words left Geralt’s mouth, he knew they were true. Maybe he hadn’t chosen this life, but it was his and he was well suited for it. Jaskier was soft. He enjoyed fine cloth and finer wine. He deserved to sing in a palace and sleep on silk sheets every night instead of cavorting around with a twice-damned Witcher.

“It’s Vale’s Fever,” the mage said. “Comes on like the common flu, just quicker, until it steals the victims voice. Has it gone that far?”

Geralt nodded.

“Jaskier… He said he couldn’t breathe.”

“That’s it then,” the wizard said, turning from Geralt to examine the potions on his work bench in the corner. “I’ll give you this, I’ll tend to your friend, Jaskier, and save his life if I can, but only for the work you give me. I’ve got a workshop downstairs where I smelt metals important to me. For twelve hours of manual labor, I’ll give you twelve hours of medical care for your friend.”

“And the nights?” Geralt asks. “What happens if he needs help during the night.”

“Not my problem,” the wizard said. “Days for days is all I offer.”

“Fine,” Geralt growled. He wasn’t bednurse, but if he had to see Jaskier through a few feverish nights without throwing things at the bard, he supposed he could do it. “Show me where to start working.”

“Ah, ah ah,” the wizard said, holding up a finger. “That is simply the deal to save the man’s life. His voice on the other hand…?”

It took all of Geralt’s control not to slam the wizard into the glimmering stone behind him.

“What about his voice?”

“Terrible thing about Vale’s Fever. Most of those who survive never speak again. That I can restore magically…”

“What’s your price?”

“I’m a fair man,” the wizard said liberally, showing Geralt his palms. It didn’t soften the Witcher’s temper. “A voice for a voice is a fair trade, wouldn’t you think?”

“Fine,” Geralt said. “Do it.”

“Don’t you want to hear more about the process?”

“No,” he said darkly. “I stop talking and the bard sings again. Works well enough for me,”

No one but Roach will miss it anyway, he thought. And Jaskier without a voice? That would be like a bird without wings or a Witcher with purple hair. The bard might as well be dead as mute.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t swat the wizard’s hand away as he moved forward and tapped Geralt’s throat.

Magic flowed through the Witcher, causing Geralt to fall forward and clutch his throat. It felt like all the air inside of him suddenly expelled itself in a whirlwind of vacuum. He felt dizzy, but wouldn’t give the wizard the satisfaction of seeing it. Straightening, he opened his mouth to test the spell, first trying a whisper, then a curse, then a bellow. No sound came out.

The wizard smiled. Geralt glared. Together, they went downstairs to the workshop.

…

For five days, Geralt labored under the mage’s command. For the most part, he tended the bellows, keeping the wizard’s massive fire stoked to extraordinary temperatures. Whatever he was smelting, the mage needed it constantly, consistently scorching and he was ready to leverage the Witcher’s enhanced strength and endurance to keep it so.

By the end of each day, Geralt arms ached with exhaustion. His hands and forearms were black with ash. When he washed that layer of grime away, it showed only open burns from the flames that made him wince and curse. Each day he wanted to demand leather gloves or more than the small waterskin he was given from the mage, but each night he forgot to do so in his rush to Jaskier’s side.

“Better,” is all the mage would say. Geralt had to take his word for it.

From sundown to dawn, the Witcher sat in the hard backed chair by Jaskier’s bed. He used clean clothes to wipe the sweat off the bard’s forehead and clutched the slender man’s arms when he seized in his sleep. Each day it became harder and harder for Geralt to stop his head from drooping onto his chest during the quiet moments of the night, but he fought off the urge with every spark inside of him. He couldn’t do anything else for Jaskier, so he would sure as hell do this.

On the fifth night, Geralt caved. His limbs felt like leaden turnips. Jaskier was making sounds again, but shivering under the sheets. Geralt crawled in bed next to him, wrapping his arms around the bard.

“Be warm, dammit. Be well!” he thought with force and ire as his eyes closed.

Jaskier relaxed as his fever dwindled, curling closer to Geralt in the dark.

…

As dawn flooded the chamber the next morning, Geralt awoke to a familiar pair of hazel eyes.

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way,” Jaskier said sleepily. “But normally when I wake up with a headache in a strange room, not remembering how I got there, I’m not in bed with you.”

Geralt glared.

“I’m glad you’re alive, you stupid git,” he thought, but he couldn’t very well say it, so he got up and started packing their bags, taking extra care not to manhandle Jaskier’s lute.

“Ah, so the sleeping beauty awakes!” the wizard said with a flourish, bursting into the room.

He turned to Geralt.

“The Vale’s Fever is cured and your friend is upright and speaking. I take it that you are satisfied with both of your deals.”

Geralt grunted his assent, trying to subtly motion Jaskier to go. Sadly, subtle was not exactly in Jaskier’s vocabulary.

“Deals? What are you talking about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the curing and all. But Geralt, what the hell did you do? Because if it was something daring, I have a great need to sing about it and if it was something, reckless I have a great need to berate you about it dunk me in a lake. Or something. I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You’re infinitely creative.”

The wizard laughed. Geralt wanted to strangle him. Possibly he wanted to strangle Jaskier too, but the wizard was definitely his priority.

“Nothing of the sort, my dear Jaskier. Our Witcher friend simply engaged in a modest trade. Your illness often leaves its victims mute. He swapped his voice for yours, nothing fancy.

“Switch it back.”

“Pardon me?”

The Witcher stared at Jaskier as well, both because the bard was advocating for madness and because it was probably the shortest sentence Geralt had ever heard him say.

“You heard me. Undo the deal. I was unconscious and did not agree to it so make it, I don’t know, poof. Vanish. Go off into the air.

“Yes, I tend to use my voice a bit more liberally than our dear Witcher, but it’s for publicity. If it wasn’t for him saying things that mattered, we would both be dead four times over. Besides, I’m the normal person tagging along here. My songs are important, but come on, I’m not. The last Witcher you’ll see this age? That is. Geralt has a purpose or a destiny or whatever you want to call it that won’t get my teeth kicked in and he damn well needs a voice for that.”

“Very well,” the wizard said. “It’s your voice.”

He strode forward to touch Jaskier’s throat, but Geralt blocked his way.

“No,” the Witcher thought sternly.

“You heard the bard,” the wizard said. “You’re the important one.”

Geralt shook his head.

“You really want to argue with that?”

The Witcher nodded.

The wizard looked quizzical, but stepped back, raising his hands. With a gesture, the windows by the bed burst open and wind filled the room.

Geralt felt air rushing into his lungs. It felt like a punch in the gut, but he was ready for it this time.

He whirled on Jaskier.

“As soon as we get Roach, I’m going to kill you,” the Witcher growled.

“Can you at least let me get a meal first? And maybe some ale? I’ve always dreamed of dying with a full stomach and, hey, it’ll make it harder for me to run away.”

Both travelers looked at the mage in shock.

He shrugged and smiled, easing Geralt’s aches with another gesture and soothing the burns on his hands with a wave of his palm.

“You,” he said, “have proven yourself worthy of magic without a price. Those who would, without question, sacrifice all for another, deserve all in return.”

This time, Geralt didn’t hold back from slamming the man into the wall behind him.

“So this is what you do,” he said. “You ‘test’ people. Now tell me, who are you, shitbag, to determine who is and isn’t worthy.”

“Why, I’m a wise, discerning…”

Geralt pressed his forearm into the man’s windpipe.

“No. You’re a manipulative ass who gets off on playing power games by pretending it’s authority. You shouldn’t help people because they deserve it. You should do it because they need it. How many people have died from diseases you could have cured because they were too scared to pay your price? How many children have lost their mothers because they didn’t have someone to plead for them?”

“Now be reasonable,” the wizard said, his voice slightly less bold. “You work for pay. You’re not just out there slaying monsters because someone needs to do it.”

“Actually, we’ve missed several meals to that ideal,” Jaskier said, moving to his pack. “Ended up staying outside in wretched weather too. It’s not like Geralt finds something killing people and decides to ignore it just because folks aren’t putting up a bounty. Honestly, I think my profession gets us more money in the long run.”

“Fine,” the man said. “Let’s say I’ve had a change of heart. I’ll try your way. For one year, anyone who asks an honest boon of me will get it, free of charge or deals. What do you say to that?”

Geralt stepped back, letting the man’s boots touch the floor.

“I’ll see you in a year, wizard.”

With that, he snagged his bags and turned to go.

…

Jaskier trailed behind Geralt as he untied Roach and mounted the horse.

“Out with it,” Geralt said.

“Thank you for saving my life. Again.”

“Contrary to what you might think, you are important Jaskier, which is why from now on you’re going to tell me when you’re sick and not just drunk off your ass!” the Witcher snapped.

“Hey, I tried!” Jaskier said. “And have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re not exactly the most sensitive person on the continent. I was just trying to keep up with you!”

“Even if it kills you!”

“Apparently so!”

The pair glared at each other before Jaskier shouldered his lute and fell in perfect step behind Roach and Geralt, like he was meant to be there.

“Now, I appreciate you willing to take the extra hit for me, but I’m a little insulted that you don’t think I can make my living with just my glorious looks and extraordinary lute skills. My songs are my strong suit, don’t get my wrong, but I don’t have to sing them. I could sell them off line by line, the tune first, of course, then the words. I’d have people humming tunes before they even knew what they were about! Just think of it…”

Geralt sighed. Once Jaskier got going he wouldn’t hear a lick of silence for the rest of the day. The Witcher had to bite back a smile at the thought.

Thanks for all those who made it to the end of my first official fan fic! Tagging @redwingedwhump and @wanderingcas

#Netflix Witcher #Sick Fic #Exhaustion #Fever #Voice Loss #Jaskier #Geralt of Rivia #Burned #Bed Sharing #Insults as a Love Language #Wizard OC #Illness #Magical Healing #Whump #quirkykayleetam writes #Hurt/Comfort #Fanfic

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themousefromfantasyland · 4 years

Text

The Ballad of Lenore

The Dead Travel Fast

By Gottfried August Bürger

Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

This is an old ballad written by german poet Gottfried August Bürger. It was later referenced in Bram Stoker's Dracula, as Jonathan Harker cites "For the dead travel fast", here translated as "Bravely the dead men ride through the night."

Charles Dickens too alludes to this line in A Christmas Carol, during an exchange between Scrooge and the ghost of Marley ("You travel fast?" said Scrooge. "On the wings of the wind," replied the Ghost.)

The Aarne–Thompson–Uther Index classifies this tale as 365: "The DEAD bridegroom carries off his bride"

Up rose Lenore as the red morn wore, from weary visions starting; "Art faithless, William, or, William, art dead? Tis long since thy departing."

For he, with Frederick's men of might, in fair Prague waged the uncertain fight; Nor once had he writ in the hurry of war. And sad was the true heart that sickened afar.

The Empress and the King, with ceaseless quarrel tired, at length relaxed the stubborn hate which rivalry inspired. And the martial throng, with laugh and song, spoke of their homes as they rode along. And clank, clank, clank! came every rank. With the trumpet-sound that rose and sank.

And here and there and everywhere, along the swarming ways, went old man and boy, with the music of joy, on the gallant bands to gaze. And the young child shouted to spy the vaward, and trembling and blushing the bride pressed forward. But ah! for the sweet lips of Lenore the kiss and the greeting are vanished and o'er.

From man to man all wildly she ran with a swift and searching eye, but she felt alone in the mighty mass, as it crushed and crowded by.

On hurried the troop, a gladsome group. And proudly the tall plumes wave and droop. She tore her hair and she turned her round and madly she dashed her against the ground.

Her mother clasped her tenderly with soothing words and mild:

"My child, may God look down on thee. ⁠God comfort thee, my child."

"Oh! mother, mother! gone is gone! I reck no more how the world runs on. What pity to me does God impart? Woe, woe, woe! for my heavy heart! "

"Help, Heaven, help and favour her! ⁠Child, utter an Ave Marie! Wise and great are the doings of God; ⁠He loves and pities thee."

"Out, mother, out, on the empty lie! Doth he heed my despair,doth he list to my cry? What boots it now to hope or to pray?The night is come, there is no more day."

"Help, Heaven, help! who knows the Father ⁠knows surely that he loves his child. The bread and the wine from the hand divine shall make thy tempered grief less wild."

"Oh! mother, dear mother! the wine and the bread will not soften the anguish that bows down my head, for bread and for wine it will yet be as late that his cold corpse creeps from the grim grave's gate."

"What if the traitor's false faith failed, by sweet temptation tried? What if in distant Hungary he clasp another bride? Despise the fickle fool, my girl, who hath ta'en the pebble and spurned the pearl. While soul and body shall hold together, in his perjured heart shall be stormy weather."

"Oh! mother, mother! gone is gone, and lost will still be lost! Death, death is the goal of my weary soul, crushed and broken and crost. Spark of my life! Down, down to the tomb. Die away in the night, die away in the gloom! What pity to me does God impart? Woe, woe, woe! for my heavy heart!"

"Help, Heaven, help, and heed her not, for her sorrows are strong within. She knows not the words that her tongue repeats. ⁠Oh! count them not for sin! Cease, cease, my child, thy wretchedness, and think on the promised happiness. So shall thy mind's calm ecstasy be a hope and a home and a bridegroom to thee."

"My mother, what is happiness? ⁠My mother, what is Hell? With William is my happiness, ⁠without him is my Hell! Spark of my life! Down, down to the tomb. Die away in the night, die away in the gloom! Earth and Heaven, and Heaven and earth. Reft of William are nothing worth."

Thus grief racked and tore the breast of Lenore, and was busy at her brain.Thus rose her cry to the Power on high, to question and arraign. Wringing her hands and beating her breast, tossing and rocking without any rest, till from her light veil the moon shone thro', and the stars leapt out on the darkling blue.

But hark to the clatter and the pat pat patter! ⁠Of a horse's heavy hoof! How the steel clanks and rings as the rider springs! ⁠How the echo shouts aloof! While slightly and lightly the gentle bell. Tingles and jingles softly and well. And low and clear through the door plank thin comes the voice without to the ear within:

"Holla! holla! Unlock the gate; ⁠Art waking, my bride, or sleeping? Is thy heart still free and still faithful to me? ⁠Art laughing, my bride, or weeping?"

"Oh! wearily, William, I've waited for you, woefully watching the long day thro'. With a great sorrow sorrowing for the cruelty of your tarrying."

"Till the dead midnight we saddled not. ⁠I have journeyed far and fast, and hither I come to carry thee back ere the darkness shall be past."

"Ah! rest thee within till the night's more calm. Smooth shall thy couch be, and soft, and warm. Hark to the winds, how they whistle and rush thro' the twisted twine of the hawthorn-bush."

"Thro' the hawthorn-bush let whistle and rush. ⁠Let whistle, child, let whistle! Mark the flash fierce and high of my steed's bright eye, and his proud crest's eager bristle. Up, up and away! I must not stay. Mount swiftly behind me! up, up and away! An hundred miles must be ridden and sped ere we may lie down in the bridal-bed."

"What! Ride an hundred miles tonight. ⁠By thy mad fancies driven! Dost hear the bell with its sullen swell. ⁠As it rumbles out eleven?"

"Look forth! look forth! the moon shines bright. We and the dead gallop fast thro' the night. 'Tis for a wager I bear thee away to the nuptial couch ere break of day."

"Ah! where is the chamber, William dear, and William, where is the bed?

"Far, far from here: still, narrow, and cool; ⁠plank and bottom and lid."

"Hast room for me?"

"For me and thee. Up, up to the saddle right speedily! The wedding-guests are gathered and met, and the door of the chamber is open set."

She busked her well, and into the selle she sprang with nimble haste, and gently smiling, with a sweet beguiling, her white hands clasped his waist.

And hurry, hurry! ring, ring, ring! To and fro they sway and swing. Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground, and the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

Here to the right and there to the left, ⁠flew fields of corn and clover, and the bridges flashed by to the dazzled eye, as rattling they thundered over.

"What ails my love? The moon shines bright. Bravely the dead men ride through the night. Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"

"Ah! no;— let them sleep in their dusty bed!"

On the breeze cool and soft what tune floats aloft, while the crows wheel overhead? Ding dong! ding dong! ’tis the sound, ’tis the song:

⁠"Room, room for the passing dead!"

Slowly the funeral-train drew near. Bearing the coffin, bearing the bier; and the chime of their chaunt was hissing and harsh, like the note of the bull-frog within the marsh.

"You bury your corpse at the dark midnight, with hymns and bells and wailing. But I bring home my youthful wife to a bride-feast's rich regaling. Come, chorister, come with thy choral throng, and solemnly sing me a marriage-song. Come, friar, come, let the blessing be spoken, that the bride and the bridegroom's sweet rest be unbroken."

Died the dirge and vanished the bier. ⁠Obedient to his call. Hard hard behind, with a rush like the wind, came the long steps' pattering fall. And ever further! ring, ring, ring! To and fro they sway and swing. Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground, and the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

How flew to the right, how flew to the left, trees, mountains in the race! How to the left, and the right and the left, flew town and marketplace!

"What ails my love? The moon shines bright. Bravely the dead men ride thro' the night. Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"

"Ah! let them alone in their dusty bed!"

See, see, see! by the gallows-tree, as they dance on the wheel's broad hoop. Up and down, in the gleam of the moon, half lost, an airy group.

"Ho! ho! mad mob, come hither amain, and join in the wake of my rushing train. Come, dance me a dance, ye dancers thin. Ere the planks of the marriage-bed close us in."

And hush, hush, hush! the dreamy rout came close with a ghastly bustle. Like the whirlwind in the hazel-bush, when it makes the dry leaves rustle. And faster, faster! ring, ring, ring! To and fro they sway and swing. Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground. And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

How flew the moon high overhead, in the wild race madly driven! In and out, how the stars danced about. ⁠And reeled o'er the flashing heaven!

"What ails my love? The moon shines bright. Bravely the dead men ride thro' the night. Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"

"Alas! let them sleep in their dusty bed."

"Horse, horse! meseems 'tis the cock's shrill note, ⁠and the sand is well nigh spent. Horse, horse, away! 'tis the break of day. ⁠'Tis the morning air's sweet scent. Finished, finished is our ride. Room, room for the bridegroom and the bride! At last, at last, we have reached the spot, for the speed of the dead man has slackened not!"

And swiftly up to an iron gate with reins relaxed they went. At the rider's touch the bolts flew back, and the bars were broken and bent. The doors were burst with a deafening knell, and over the white graves they dashed pell mell;

The tombs around looked grassy and grim, as they glimmered and glanced in the moonlight dim.

But see! But see! In an eyelid's beat. Towhoo! a ghastly wonder! The horseman's jerkin, piece by piece, dropped off like brittle tinder!

Fleshless and hairless, a naked skull, the sight of his weird head was horrible. The lifelike mask was there no more, and a scythe and a sandglass the skeleton bore.

Loud snorted the horse as he plunged and reared, and the sparks were scattered round. What man shall say if he vanished away, or sank in the gaping ground?

Groans from the earth and shrieks in the air Howling and wailing everywhere! Half dead, half living, the soul of Lenore fought as it never had fought before.

The churchyard troop, a ghostly group, close round the dying girl; Out and in they hurry and spin through the dance's weary whirl:

"Patience, patience, when the heart is breaking. With thy God there is no question-making. Of thy body thou art quit and free. Heaven keep thy soul eternally!"

#halloween #ghost stories #gothic horror #gothic #the ballad of lenore #lenore #horror poem #horror poetry

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

Text

Song For Autumn: Away || Morgan & Deirdre (pt.2)

TIMING: The weekend

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: A day trip with antiquing, horseback riding, and apple picking takes a surprising turn.

CONTAINS: violence, gore, death

The Old Town Living History Museum was two hours’ drive and several towns past White Crest. In addition to touting people in full historical reproduction dress, hand pressed apple cider, and demonstrations on everything from blacksmithing and farming to dance and cooking, it had a number of genuine antiques on display that were a little easier to get their hands on than anything they would find in more of a ‘don’t touch the glass’ museum. Morgan reached over the console and squeezed Deirdre’s hand. “I know we’re here for a very important mission but we don’t get out of town much, and I trust you to tell me if, for any reason, you don’t feel okay while we’re walking around, so I think that we can also enjoy ourselves a little. Or a lot, even. You can tell me all kinds of good, nerdy things about farming, and I read on the website that they have hayrides, and a restaurant that recreates genuine eighteenth century recipes, and there’s even wildflower picking, apple picking, it’s a whole thing, they really care about getting other people engaged with these older and different ways of being. Which is good, since somebody’s wool comb is about to get a new way of being with me.” She kissed Deirdre’s knuckles. “What do you think?”

As it turned out, the type of comb Morgan needed could be found at...Deirdre squinted at the sign; some living history museum thing. To her, it looked exceptionally bizarre. Like a place pulled from time, except for the cars, and the people walking around in modern dress and the, well, everything else. “Humans are so strange…” she mumbled, unbuckling herself and leaning across the console to kiss Morgan, though her eyes remained stuck on the scenery around them. She wasn’t sure why humans saw value in a place like this, gawking at the things that were done in the past. Deirdre couldn’t wait to escape her days of churning butter, and these people seemed enthused to watch some woman in historically accurate attire getting fatigued doing a job that would take a machine minutes to do. Or were they the ones churning the butter? Deirdre stepped out of the car, looking around with mounting confusion. She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Bewildered, she moved to her girlfriend’s side in shock. “Restaurant..?” Deirdre shook her head, finally processing her words in the car. “Fates, no. I’m done with oatmeal. I don’t need any more of it.” Although, she considered, if this was an establishment trying to make money, they probably wouldn’t serve gruel. And so, maybe she was safe from the terrors of it. Deirdre sighed, peeling her gaze away from the museum and on to her girlfriend; who was both a much less confusing sight and a much prettier one. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. This place is just---” Laughter cut Deirdre off, and she snapped around to look at the source: a tour group being enthusiastically led into a barn. “--odd. Very odd.” She wasn’t sure how great wildflower picking--an activity she loved as a child--would be with a group of humans watching her. If she wanted hand-pressed cider, old fashioned farm life and hayrides, she’d just go back to Ireland. Then again--Deirdre turned back to Morgan. Ireland didn’t have Morgan, and her girlfriend was more than enough to enjoy any amount of strange, dated activities. “It’s no grave robbing…” She smiled and leaned in, “...but I will accept any reason to steal you away. It’s nice being out here together, it’s nice being anywhere together.” She kissed her; long and deep and as much as she could before some upbeat actor told them about bonnets.

Deirdre reached for her hand, “Let’s go in then, yeah?” She pushed the doors to the museum open, which summoned a far worse feeling of anachronism inside of Deirdre than the exterior could ever hope to--but unlike how Dolan manor had simply been a hodgepodge of time periods, the museum seemed strangely insistent on looking as dated as it could be, while also---”I see they’ve installed lighting fixtures.” They also had brochures. Deirdre picked one up and occupied herself with flipping through it.

“Do they not have living history or reenactments or Ren Fairs in Ireland?” Morgan asked. Deirdre was bristling with confusion, as if they’d stepped into a nonsense world instead of an obsessively maintained historical settlement. “It’s a little niche, but I’ve always wanted to go to one. It’s so easy to forget that people back then were also...people. They were dumb and they had lame problems, and theses glorified novelty acts like baking your own bread were commonplace and nuanced. It can be nice, to a point, to see how different things were, and how much the same. At Deirdre’s kiss, Morgan rose onto her tiptoes, all but falling into her girlfriend’s body as they kissed. “I like being with you too,” she whispered, her smile lopsided and drunk with affection.

She didn’t quite have her feet when Deirdre led them inside, but stumbled behind, still dazed and delighted. Beyond the gate, the open-air settlement looked like the set for some BBC Drama. There were houses in white-painted wood and well maintained brick, women in straw hats with heavy baskets, and horses and buggies trotting through the street. There were animals smelling and squawking in pens, clangs of hammers at wood and anvils, the murmur of a happy autumn wind and cut through it all were screaming babies and ringing cell phones and plastic stroller wheels. Steam rose from every other chimney and Morgan was almost glad to not be able to smell it, so she could imagine steam, hickory, or spices coming from those hearths as much as she liked. She peered over the brochure with Deirdre, looking for the map, when a shadow stopped in front of them.

Morgan looked up. “Oh! Good morrow, or I guess, good day? Hi?” The shadow belonged to a woman around their age, who sported a large straw hat that was probably great for working in the sun, but not so much for letting Morgan strategize her movements with Deirdre in peace.

“Good day, and welcome,” the woman said, goodnaturedly. “Prithee, may I help you find your way, travelers?”

Morgan exchanged a look with Deirdre. Wandering around was supposed to be half the fun, but it wouldn’t hurt to know where they needed to end up. “Uh...sure! I was looking, uh, for the sheep? There’s um, demonstrations on preparing wool in the afternoon, right?”

“Aye, indeed! Right this way.”

Morgan lingered, waiting for directions to be given, but it was soon clear that the woman meant for them to follow her. She shrugged at Deirdre, silently asking for her input. It would be rude not to follow, right?

“Well, all you had to say was that you’ve always wanted to come,” Deirdre smiled, laughing her qualms about the place away. If Morgan wanted to be here, that was all she needed to know. If she thought churning butter was interesting, then Deirdre did too---or she didn’t, but she did fully support Morgan’s interest in it. Nothing about the way humans once lived their lives was interesting to her, but everything about Morgan was. Even if her old home had been just this, with an Irish paint over it, she was excited at the prospect of exploring it with Morgan.

The brochure only served to fill her head with more ideas. The wildflower picking did seem nice, now that she was reading about it. And the map showed off labels of various activities that sounded more interesting the longer she started at the text. The blacksmithing demonstration was set for an hour from now, and there was a real sewing circle they could join in to hear the town’s (scripted) gossip and make poorly stitched abominations. There was a carriage ride and-- “Aha, they do have a butter churning demonstration.” Deirdre pointed it out on the brochure, delighted by the correctness of her instincts, though blinded by it just the same. By the time she looked up, Morgan had already finished her conversation with the reenactor and was looking at her. “Oh, uh…” She nodded, and moved back to Morgan’s side, anchoring them close together as they followed behind the woman. The pictures of the orchard on the property was, admittedly, quite gorgeous and the promise of keeping the apples they picked (provided they pay) was tempting. It was where Deirdre wanted to suggest they go first, or after, maybe--or something. It was strange to be off to the wool so soon, it felt more like the last thing they should do. Despite the minor upset to her burgeoning plans, she nudged Morgan excitedly as they moved through the grounds. The order didn’t really matter, even if she would have preferred not to be carrying around an object of ill-gotten origin with them while they looked around. Although, she figured, it probably would make exploring more exciting. “People have died here,” she whispered in Gaelic as she leaned down to press a kiss to Morgan’s temple. She tried to point out a few of the places where she was pulled the strongest, but felt strange under the woman’s backwards glances--as if she was afraid they’d wandered off somewhere. She withdrew her hand and was content enough to press herself into Morgan, and pepper affection where she could as they walked.

“We should get some cider after this,” she suggested, shifting around to try and pull out the brochure she haphazardly stuffed into her pocket when they started moving. “I hear autumn is the season for it, after all.” But before she could pull the glossy paper free and figure out where the cider was, and where they were being led, a thick wooden door slammed open and the woman was gesturing them into an old stone house. Deirdre glanced back at the way they’d come, and realized she had no idea how they were supposed to get back. It seemed to her then, that they’d be stuck with this strangely nosey woman for a while, especially if she insisted on leading them everywhere. “Thank you,” she smiled tightly, stepping inside.

Morgan stayed latched to Deirdre as they walked, reveling in the firm safety of her grasp and the delight of their surroundings bristling around her senses. She eyed Deirdre at her words in Gaelic. “Show me?” she said back. And then in English, “Anything good?” She wasn’t sure how the death pull worked with places, or how differently they felt next to her, but even if Deirdre’s senses sometimes yielded horrible visions, they also lead them to good hiding places and sometimes beautiful discoveries in a buried bone or some abandoned minutiae of a life like an engraved pen or a receipt from a fancy chocolate store. There weren’t any ghosts, at least not that Morgan could see yet, which boded well for the place, overall, though it might have been nice to talk to one that didn’t want to murder her. But there didn't seem to be time to stop, at least not yet. Apparently all the wool-working stuff was way in the back, and Morgan didn’t even have time to admire the (probably?) faux graveyard in front of the church and the social cliques that seemed at least half-genuine. Several of them stopped to wave at them as they passed, and Morgan, confused as she was, waved back awkwardly.

“Ooh, we should!” Morgan replied. “Maybe a quick detour? Or we could go to the orchards for a little bit before then? Pick some apples, find some nice ripe ones to take home for turnovers, cobbler, pie…” She batted her eyes coyly. She could see the heavy tops of the orchard trees from where they stood, and several couples milling out proudly with old-fashioned buckets brimming with spoils. She couldn’t eat any, but it would be fun to gather a stash, and Deirdre almost certainly had a story or a practical secret to go along with it. But before she could say, ‘thanks, we got it from here!’ the barn door was being rolled open, seemingly just for them.

“Oh my stars!” Morgan didn’t have Deirdre’s banshee control, even when she was bracing herself for impact. And despite Deirdre’s observations about the performance town, she hadn’t been prepared to see the headless ghost standing under the lights. She laughed, searching the room for a sign this was just a Halloween decoration, some obscure historic custom she knew nothing about and would be eager to learn, but--nope. She was, without a doubt, the only one who could see the man without turning the color of her eyes. “It’s just so beautiful in here!” She said. “And that lamb is so adorable! I mean, just look at it!” She turned to the woman at the spinning wheel. “What’s the cutie’s name, uh, prithee?”

The lamb was named Jeremy. The spinning woman was Dolly, and the woman who had appointed herself as their guide, still lingering in the doorway with her tight, starched smile, was named Prue. There was a man who strolled in from some unseen door in the back who said he was Ben, and suddenly Morgan had more names than she could keep track of and more of a crowd than she wanted for what was supposed to be some very casual theft. Circling back later was looking like a better idea, but more people were coming in, peeking at what was inside and joining in the fun. Morgan tucked herself into Deirdre and rose on her tiptoes to kiss her cheek, lingering to whisper more Gaelic in her ear, “Ghost. Bad or good sign?”

Despite charisma that rolled naturally off her tongue, and confidence that pulled her motions instinctively, Deirdre was not one for crowds. Or people, most days. And certainly not one to be forced into some demonstration of something she already knew about. But the woman, and the other woman, and also the man, were looking at them expectantly. And now people whispered and came around to watch whatever display was going on. And though it was funny to Deirdre that humans could be so curious they would just turn their attention to whatever strange thing was happening around them, she didn’t want to be stuck in some gawking circle of people. She was not, and never would be, an easily-amused human. Her pride didn’t enjoy standing there, just as much as Jeremy didn’t—being a creature that disliked isolation from his herd. Not that anyone else seemed to notice Jeremy’s stress; his bleating probably sounded cute. “Well…maybe I’ll show you after,” she frowned, “and we can just go to the orchard next…” But she didn’t feel right.

“Ghost?” Deirdre squinted, glancing around the room. She’d been so distracted by the lamb and her own discomfort that she missed the gentle tugging right in front of them. “Good, right?” She turned to Morgan and bore confusion, and then a shrug. “Is it a good ghost?” Their Gaelic conversation drew stares from Prue, who, in fact, hadn’t seemed like she stopped staring at them. Not until Deirdre met her gaze, and she turned away as if suddenly shy. “What’s her problem?” She tried in English, shaking it away. It wasn’t the first time someone had a vested interest in them; scorn or jealousy or confusion or admiration. The situation simply drew Deirdre’s sensitivities, and as much as she hated crowds, she hated being stared at when she wasn’t trying to be—and especially in a crowd. She was equally as perturbed by the child jumping up and down to her right, and the older couple to their left that couldn't decide if they wanted to stay or go someplace else.

“It would depend,” she continued, sighing as she leaned down to press a kiss to Morgan’s cheek. “On what it looks like, right?” If it was a ghost that was going to chat them up the moment it realized Morgan could see and hear it, then it was bad. If it was one dressed as old as the actors were, then it was relic, and probably good. Deirdre paused. “Them.” She blinked. “They. What they look like. Not it.” She shook her head, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered to Morgan, but it felt like one of those steps she needed to take to be better. “But we are already here, we might as well stay.” Despite her discomfort, there was far more she would bear for Morgan’s sake. And, truly, this couldn’t have been any worse for her than any new situation was. If she could learn not to throw anyone out a window at a children’s birthday party, she could handle some demonstration on wool preparation. “Do you see the comb anywhere?” She asked Morgan, looking around for herself. It seemed, however, that the more curious she got, the more Prue’s gaze burned into her. Deirdre turned to her, smiled and winked, but whatever amusement she felt, wasn’t shared. She couldn’t help but feel like she was the one breaching some social ruleset, and being unaccustomed to the atmosphere they were in, Deirdre withered and kept her attention forward.

Morgan squeezed Deirdre’s hand, appreciative and encouraging as she corrected herself about the ghost. “No. Head.” She explained in Gaelic, nodding slowly in the direction of the figure. He had a cloak on, but the cheap Party City kind, not something one of the actors or even the original inhabitants would wear. Definitely a patron of the enthusiastic variety. There were plenty of them milling around, one was even in the crowd with them. The headless ghost raised a finger to where his lips should have been, ssshh. And pointed at Morgan, or somewhere behind her? As he gestured, Morgan could spot the modern finishings on his belt, that included a novelty buckle from a TV show that was only a couple of years old. Morgan didn’t know enough words to explain this, so she settled with, “New.”

The headless ghost, from wherever his head rested, seemed to hear her and pointed more emphatically again at Morgan. Did he not want to be talked about? Did he think literally anyone else here could understand them? Morgan couldn’t tell, so she wrapped Deirdre’s arms around her, playing the affectionate girlfriend (which wasn’t much of a play at all) and snuck a peek at what was behind her while she brushed Deirdre’s hair back in tender strokes. There was nothing, only Prue and the elderly couple, who had decided to go to the smithy after all.

Dolly, the spinning woman, welcomed everyone in and went on with the history of woolwork and how it was done. Everyone was encouraged to come close and Morgan, seeing an opportunity, edged her and Deirdre to the side of the room where most of the tools seemed to be, and a little away from the families and well-dressed nerdy teens. As she shifted, she noticed how tense Deirdre felt, coiled like a spring. “Do you wanna to step out, babe?” She asked gently, her eyes flickering up, reading whatever cues Deirdre’s face was leaving her. But something else caught her attention. Prue, still...staring at them with a lot of...focus, was the only word for it. She didn’t seem disgusted or hateful, not yet anyway. Just...intense, like she was trying to study them. “I’m gonna need a distraction anyway,” Morgan whispered, turning back to watching the wool. Dolly had just taken a rather intimidating looking carder from a sheath at her hip and was showing off how the work was done. It was definitely iron and definitely a lot heavier than Morgan would’ve expected a woman almost her build to be able to work with so much ease. “You, go. We meet in apples?” She whispered, letting her sidelong glance emphasize that she was open to other suggestions for their plan. Dolly held out the carder for the audience to admire. “Mind ye, ‘tis sharp!” She said cheerfully. When she came by them, Morgan only gave a polite nod and a smile, and watched with relief as it went down in front of a table, almost within reach. Maye it would be a good thing that they were getting this over with.

Burning with curiosity, Deirdre let her imagination fill in the visual gaps. A headless ghost wouldn’t talk, which suited her just fine, but a recent headless ghost meant something was wrong--excitingly wrong. She could say she respected the pageantry of murder in a themed museum, even if decapitation was tired. But either way, a murder meant there was something fun for her to find around here. More fun than wool, anyway. The thought pulled her lips into a lopsided smile. “Did he die here?” Deirdre asked, “in this room?” She knew Morgan wouldn’t really be able to tell, not unless the ghost was gesturing secrets to her, but she’d asked for the sake of her own thoughts. With renewed interest, she surveyed the room. Which corner would their ghost have died in? What tool did the killer use? Though under Prue’s gaze, her delight withered quickly. She couldn’t help but feel she must have been doing something wrong, and maybe it was getting excited about murder. She didn’t belong here. Deirdre sighed, watching the carder settle on the table. “Do you want that distraction now?” Distractions she could do, chaos was always hers to incite; she couldn’t do much just standing there, pretending to be as awed and entertained as the people around her. She spared one more glance back at Prue, shooting her another ill-met wink before she turned her attention back to Morgan. “Don’t keep me waiting ‘in apples’ for too long,” she pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

Jeremy was a nervous creature, like most sheep were. A shrill, chilling, inhuman shriek was enough to set his fear ablaze. And it was exactly the sound Deirdre let slip from her lips as she jumped back, spooked by an invisible threat. “Bee!” She offered her reason, not that it mattered much under Jeremy’s panicked bleating. He kicked, desperate for escape from the room as Deirdre stumbled back, bumping the table as she tried to find her own. She knocked a number of tools to the ground as she scrambled to leave, trying to yell something about a bee allergy over Jeremy’s cries. But the moment she was sure everyone’s attention was on the lamb, her acting fell apart and she strode out of the room with a grin. She would’ve liked to stick a knife between Prue’s eyes before she left, but such desires she could quell in the name of helping Morgan and getting a few apples out of it. Pulling the brochure out of her pocket, she folded the flimsy paper back until the part of the map that outlined the path from where they were to the orchard was the only visible face. She left the map under her feet, in one way to help guide Morgan in case she’d get lost, in another to make her feel better about leaving her girlfriend behind--even if this was her plan. With a skip, and delight in each long stride, she left for ‘apples’.

Morgan gave Deirdre one more squeeze, affirming yes, do it now, and soaking up a little more affection before they parted. It would only be a few minutes, with any luck, but chaos was a funny thing. Deirdre’s shriek rattled more than just the lamb. Two people near them ducked, covering their ears, a toddler started to wail, and that was before Deirdre knocked into as much furniture as possible. “Oh, honey! Be careful!” Morgan stumbled away from her and towards the table. Everyone was rushing to wrangle Jeremy, who was already kicking a few shins and scaring the rest of the children.

“Mommy, make him stop crying!”

“Maybe we should go…”

“Did she say a BEE?”

Morgan picked up the carding comb from the table and dropped it into her bag with ease. This far in the shadows, no one could possibly be paying attention. When she was done, she went back to clutching her chest and panting, as if the whole thing had taken the wind out of her with fright. “Oh, honey, don’t go,” she called lamely. Then, laughing awkwardly to everyone else, “...I think I’m just gonna--” and gestured that she would show herself out. The other visitors in the room seemed to agree and started milling out, ready to move on to something less stressful. Morgan tried to push herself into the middle of the pack, no longer anyone special, just another face to be forgotten before the next group found their way in.

“You, there!”

Definitely not a thief.

“Prithee, did you get the carder, Ben?”

Definitely not the kind of woman who would take an antique iron wool comb and just dump it in her conveniently sized bag. Morgan would never. Except Morgan had, and despite her best efforts, Morgan found herself cut off at the door by the spinning woman, Dolly. “Not so fast,” she said. “I would like a word, Miss.”

Morgan tried to edge around her. “I’m really sorry about my girlfriend. We came prepared, obviously, but she had a really horrible allergic reaction as a kid and they just make her really afraid still. I hope Jeremy feels better--” But Dolly was clutching her wrist, too tight for Morgan to slip free.

“T’isn’t about the bee that I should like to speak on,” Dolly said, her tone still matter of fact.

“Let go of me. Now.” Morgan replied, twisting her arm away. But Dolly’s grip was strong, and Morgan struggled to put even a few inches of distance between them.

“I would very much like to, Miss,” Dolly said, throwing her back into the barn with a strength a woman her size should in no way have. “But I’d been holding your hand a lot longer than you realized.” She descended on her, elbowing her in the stomach and pinning her against the wall. A knife came out of her belt and slashed through her sleeve. No blood. She had to twist Morgan’s flesh to make dark blood ooze out of the wound. “I’m afraid we don’t welcome zombies in these parts.”

It was with great impatience that Deirdre remembered how dull everything was without Morgan. Even the sweet apples she plucked—stole—after sneaking into the orchard had suddenly turned sour. The bright, green and carefully maintained grass had become a murky swamp in her eyes. And while she knew she was being entirely too melodramatic, she also didn’t care. Her life was simply better for Morgan’s being in it, and activities she loathed always became enjoyable with her presence. Even as she tried to wait around like a sensible person should, sat against one of the trees, eating her terrible apple, she missed her girlfriend. As the time between their departure grew, Deirdre missed her more and more until the feeling was unbearable. She stood and threw her apple aside, marching back the same way she snuck in; around some old house and over a bit of flimsy fencing. But where she should have come round the corner to face the rest of the museum, she found Prue smiling at her. Deirdre stepped to the side, and Prue followed, blocking her path. She stepped to the other side, and Prue followed again. The game grew tiresome quickly. “Fates, bother someone else, prune.” She sighed and shoved the woman out of her way, stepping on to the bright pathway leading into the Orchard. From there, she remembered it was a series of rights, and then a straight walk back to the wool demonstration, where Morgan must have gotten held up. Where she— Prue stepped out in front of Deirdre again, thin knives pulled for her dress, clutched tightly between her fingers. She stepped forward, forcing Deirdre back into the darkness between houses. It occurred to her then, after her impatience settled, that something was wrong. It wasn’t the knives that bothered her, she didn’t care that Prue had begun pressing one of the blades to her abdomen; it was the fact that Prue was meant to be at the wool demonstration. Yet, she was here. Which either meant she’d snuck out, or the demonstration was over with. And if the demonstration was over with…. “Where’s my girlfriend?” Deirdre hissed, earning her a sharper press of Prue’s knife.

“Prithee,” Prue chirped, a facsimile of the polite woman who’d lead them around in the first place. She dug her knife in further, not wanting to puncture skin just yet, but adamant that Deirdre fall back into the shadows. Deirdre guessed that she didn’t much enjoy public scenes, and there was something funny about a woman who had just enough sense left not to murder in front of children. It was that way that Prue and Deirdre were very different. “Prithee,” she tried again, “wouldst th—“

“Oh, shut up.” Deirdre growled, gripping the woman by the shoulders and shoving her aside and out of the way. The action jerked Prue’s knife forward, and as it stuck out of Deirdre’s abdomen, the banshee knew exactly what the searing pain she was feeling meant. She gasped, steeling herself as she stumbled forward onto the path. Blood spilled between her fingers, where she held the wound, her plum dress quickly claimed by the color. She pulled the blade out in her quivering hand. The small knife was entirely metal, where a handle would’ve been, the metal was braided and pulled back to the blade to make a loop, just the right size for Prue’s delicate fingers. Every inch of it burned Deirdre. She dropped the knife and staggered into the crowd, clutching her stomach as if she’d eaten something rotten. Her one safety was the knowledge Prue wouldn’t dare chase her here, but she couldn’t do much for the trail of blood she was dropping. At first, she tried to kick dirt over it, but quickly realized the action was both time consuming, and terrible for her already challenged balance. “Morgan!” She yelled, the crowd wincing away from her. “Morgan!” There was no way, with how her voice travelled, that Morgan wouldn’t be able to hear her. But just hearing her might not have been enough. Deirdre’s body lurched, and she fell against the side of some building. She raised her hand and pushed herself steady, leaving her blood stained against the grey stone. It didn’t matter to her how much her body protested, how badly she was bleeding or what manner of hunter was chasing her, she would find Morgan, and she would make sure her love was safe. “Morgan!” She called again, resuming her trek back, teetering from one side to the other.

The first rule of fighting was don’t die. The second rule was don’t get knocked on your ass. Morgan had already failed the first nearly six months ago, and as Dolly struck her again, knocking over her bag, she nearly failed the second. Morgan’s head cracked against the barn wall. This was bad. If Dolly was a slayer, then what was everyone else? What about that woman who’d been staring at them? Had Deirdre even made it to the orchard? A blade bit through Morgan’s joints. She sank to her knees, mind scrambling for something to fight back with. She’d already broken the spinning wheel and the posts on the enclosure. They hadn’t done anything to stop the woman, who had dodged every attempt she didn’t simply shrug off. Morgan was running out of options.

Then she heard her name, carried on the wind in its frightening, inhuman timbre. “Deirdre!” Morgan cried back, loud as she could. “In here!” But Deirdre only called her name again, louder.

Behind her, Dolly cringed at the harshness of the sound, dropping her blade. This was Morgan’s chance. She picked up the iron comb from the ground and brandished it like a bat. Dolly saw it all coming, picking up her blade and dodging, feinting her way until she had the chance to nearly sever Morgan’s right arm. Morgan let her. The pain bit almost sweetly through her body and it brought Morgan close enough to do what she wanted.

“I am not your fucking voodoo doll!” Morgan screamed. She swung the comb into the woman, eyes squeezed shut as the iron spikes made contact with her face. Blood flooded Dolly’s white cap and collar. Morgan struck her again, steeling herself against the soft, wet sound of her skull caving in. Dolly kicked Morgan away, screaming, and Morgan took her chance. She scooped up her bag and ran, still holding the bloody comb as she entered the street. “Deirdre!” She called. They had to get out of here. They couldn’t even risk holding still, or hiding, not with hunters around. “Deirdre—!”

She saw her slumped against one of the buildings, clutching her stomach, a dark stain spreading down the front of her dress. For a moment, Morgan considered working her way through every actor in period dress, swinging the comb in her hand until all of them were puddles on the ground. She could do it. If it meant paying back whoever had wounded her, it would be worth it. And if they didn’t make it out of this alive, she just might. But humans were backing away, getting wise to the lack of performance in this theater, and Ben was coming around the side of the barn with a sharp looking scythe in his hands. No time, lucky for them. Morgan ran to her, her right arm still dangling at her side and her jacket growing splotched and heavy with dead blood.

“S-some date, huh?” She said. There was no keeping the fear out of her voice, or the frustration at not having enough arms to hold her safely. Morgan wheezed through her teeth, looking furtively around them. “We need to get out of here,” The only question was how.

To hold Morgan in her arms again was the greatest relief. Deirdre brought her in close, holding her as tight as she could despite her body’s protest. “Hey there,” she cooed, “you know, stabbing aside, I’ve had a wonderful time.” She smiled, reaching for Morgan’s hand, trying to ease her out of the tight grip she’d taken around the bloody carder. Gently, she took the now-weapon from her hand and slipped it inside Morgan’s bag. “It’s okay,” she murmured, pressing her lips against her cheek. The world had begun to blur and spin seconds ago, and she knew that she probably looked as terrible as she felt. Of course, where appearances were concerned, Morgan looked like she was nearly missing an arm. Deirdre peeled the fabric of her jacket back and inspected the wound. “Hold your arm up, my love. It’ll heal faster that way,” she pressed another kiss to Morgan, leading her hand to do as she was asking. Her own wound didn’t look nearly as bad as a severed arm, but iron had a funny way of ruining a fae’s health. She felt feverish, and like her soul was slipping out with each gush of blood. She watched Ben approach them with his scythe, clearly intending to do more than mow grass with it, and spared her energy to look at their surroundings. Buildings had swirled into incomprehensible blobs, the sun was both too bright and impossibly dim, and Deirdre had no hope of telling the retreating humans apart from the spots in her vision. But off to the side, she knew without a doubt there was a horse—a large, black horse with a comically tiny cart attached to its harness. The creature was calm, if not a little bored pawing at the dirt; she didn’t know by which miracle the horse hadn’t startled from her yelling, but she imagined some combination of hearing impairment and its blinders had saved it. She glanced over Morgan and back at Ben, who appeared torn between helping Dolly and pursuing them, taking slow steps as he must have been thinking it over. She’d make the choice easier for him.

“My love,” Deirdre kissed Morgan again, using her as a crutch when they parted to help her hobble towards Ben. “I need you to go cut the harness off that horse, okay? Keep the reins and the blinder, just cut everything that’s leaving it attached to that cart.” Shakily, she pulled a knife from her jacket and offered it. “Approach it slowly. I’m going to get a saddle from the barn and then I’ll join you, okay? Okay.” She left Morgan reluctantly, though her body was relieved to have both of its hands to press against her wound again. She looked at Ben, and figured he must have had something valiant to say, he certainly looked like he did, but she couldn’t much hear him over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Instead, she steeled herself and shrieked, watching his body crumple and his grip on the scythe slacked. Under any other circumstance, she would have delighted in taking her time, but eager to get back to her girlfriend, she kept screaming and stumbling forward until his life spurted out of him and he fell. She did the same to any unfortunate actor that crossed her. She did the same for Dolly, who had been trying to squirm away. She stopped only when her body lurched again, and the wound claimed the last of her energy. She heaved, taking the saddle she’d been eyeing off its rack and then...dropping it. Her body stiffened. Fire and agony grew around her neck, her back pressing against the soft body of Prue. She reached up to grab the iron wire she was being choked with, burning her fingers as she tried to find relief. But there was none, and the wire tightened. It was only by the memory of torture she had endured, and the thought of Morgan, that she was able to fall forward and swing her elbow into Prue’s nose. She stumbled free and snapped around, hand clasped over her throat as she willed her vision to steady. By the time the barn was no longer a pit of fuzzy dark brown shapes, Prue was gone. Deirdre groaned and plucked the saddle off the floor, limping her way to Morgan and the horse.

Prue hadn’t done anything that would last, but she had done just enough to make talking a chore, and between her stomach and her neck, screaming was a task Deirdre knew she wouldn’t wake from. She set about fastening the saddle, climbing on first and offering her hand to Morgan. “Sit in front, I need you to hold steady on the horse.” The saddle was for Morgan, after all, keeping balance on a galloping horse was hard enough for the experienced. “It’ll be okay,” she croaked. She felt like she was dying, which wasn’t true yet, but she felt like it anyway. “We’re not dying here. We’ll just ride out. It’ll be fine.” Through blurred vision, she could see actors grabbing pitchforks and shovels, calculating their plans. She swallowed, hissing in pain. “W-when you’re ready to go, j-just squeeze your legs on the horse and it’ll move. And then just lift up off the horse and squeeze again and it’ll go into a…” Her sentence trailed away, her body slumped, and the rest of it would just have to be Morgan.

Morgan was starting to suspect that nothing good ever happened when she and Deirdre split up. All of their two-second breakups had been agony, and when Constance had attacked the house, Deirdre had been hurt, and in the minutes it had taken Morgan to get the old deaf horse going, Deirdre was stumbling out with burns on her neck and hands. “What--what happened, what are you doing? Stop, you’re hurt! Your fingers!” She tugged on Deirdre to stop messing with the saddle, to let her at least try to climb on first, but she was afraid to hurt her even more. The front of her dress was soaked through, and the more she scanned her for iron burns, the more she found. Morgan whimpered, swallowing down tears. They didn’t have time for comfort, they needed to make it out of this alive. “I fucking hate this,” she whispered. She picked up Ben’s scythe from the ground and took Deirdre’s hand, placing herself behind her girlfriend on the saddle. “Like I would ever let you be a meat shield for hunters,” she hissed. She pressed a kiss to Deirdre’s cheek and took up the reins, wriggling in the saddle to get comfortable as best as she could. Karen’s ninth birthday party had been horseback riding, and then Michelle had copied her with the same idea when she turned ten. Morgan’s legs had been even shorter, her anxiety even more out of control, so this should be a breeze, right? Her girlfriend was bleeding out, she had a scythe in one hand, a barely reattached arm, and they were riding for their lives, but not so different from little kid’s birthday parties!

The hunters seemed to be making up their minds and taking a slow approach, fanning out and readying weapons tucked into their belts and slung on their backs. No time to get to picky about this or wait for certainty to smack her on the head. People did this in the movies all the time, and so could she.

“Just hang on, babe, okay? I’m gonna take care of us, but I need you to hang on.” She squeezed Horsey just as Deirdre told her to, and off they galloped.

Going back the way they came would put them into contact with too many opportunities to be struck or blocked off, so Morgan made for the orchards. The other patrons made way for them. Cell reception was so bad here, there wasn’t anyone to call, which should have been a big fucking clue, in retrospect. “Are you still with me, babe?” She whispered. “You said I get a head’s up when you’re gonna die, so I’m thinking, this is just gonna be a weird and wacky story for us to tell our friends in a couple of days. What about you, huh?” She tried to put pressure on Deirdre’s wound, but her hands were too full. But they were close. Maybe if she could get Horsey to ride faster, she could lose them in the trees or-- “Fuck!” Or they could shoot her in the back with arrows. They could do that too. Morgan grimaced and squeezed Horsey with all her strength, flicked the reins for all the good it would do them, and continued--right into the path of Prue.

Morgan would have been happy to trample her down, but Horsey only screamed, rearing up and almost knocking them over. Another arrow into her back. So this was the plan. Morgan shoulted wordlessly and held tight to the reins, steering Horsey around, but he would only pace and circle and pant, growing more and more anxious.

“Thou must not leave this place, I fear,” Prue said smugly.

“Shut up.” Morgan swung her scythe, just barely missing the mark.

Prue stepped closer, daring her to try. “Thou art a devil against nature and divinity, and thou must--”

Morgan swung again. And this time, she did not miss. Or she would have if Prue hadn’t given up and thrown herself to the ground. Fine.

An arrow landed by Horsey’s feet, frightening him to life again. They were flying into the trees, trampling over the neat rows of apples and berries. Arrows whistled like rain around them and horse hooves followed like thunder. It was all Morgan could do to hang on to Deirdre and Horsey at once. She did her best to steer them towards the parking lot without being and easy target, but Horsey was running on his own fear, darting and panting with nothing but burning intuition to guide him. Morgan put her hand out to the trees and caught the first apple that sank into her palm, hurling in backwards blindly. Then another.

The trees thinned and Morgan had begun to hope, when Prue stepped into view once more, cutting into one of Morgan’s thrown apples with her bloody iron knife.

“You evil bitch,” Morgan whispered.

She didn’t put out the scythe until she was right on her. The blade came down, cleaving a deep gash that went from her face to her neck. Prue staggered behind them, moaning a deep, rattling cry as she flailed for a way to staunch the wound. But her blood was spraying over the honey yellow and green tints to the apples and rivering down her dress.spilled down her dress and rained onto the grass. At this point, Horsey gave up and bucked hard enough that Morgan went flying, taking Deirdre down with her. She landed on her back, knocking into an apple tree hard enough to crack the trunk. She didn’t remember dropping her scythe, but it had to be, well...somewhere. “Hey,” she whispered, wincing as her spine worked slowly to right itself. “You still with me? Babe…?”

Deirdre didn’t have an awareness of much anymore. From beyond the great expanse of fuzz and fatigue, she could hear Morgan’s voice, and something that sounded like a storm. But she was on the world’s bumpiest bed, and sleep was hard to find between each jump and turn. Vaguely, she remembered something about a horse, but memories bleed into each other, and the only horses she knew were the pale kind that marked generations on her family’s farm. All of them were deaf. Her bed jerked again, and she jumped against her upright pillow that reeked of blood and Morgan. Her eyes fluttered open to find Morgan’s arm dangling as if tethered by only a singular thread. “Your...arm…” she croaked. That seemed serious. That seemed like something they needed to fix now. And Deirdre ached to; she wanted to rub away all the black blood and pain and fix it all. She tried to reach up, but her arm refused. When she tried again, the world returned to its darkness. There, the bed continued to jostle, visions of her farm continued to plague her, drawing fever to her. Her sense of the world dimmed until all she knew was Morgan, and the strage, terrible, jumpy bed she was in. “I’m so tired…” she tried to explain, then tried the next thought that occurred to her. “I love you,” she said, “I love you so much. Everything is better with you, I’m better with you. And I’m tired, Morgan. I’m so, so tired.” And this bed was terrible. Thankfully, she found her new bed to be better. After, of course, the strange bit where she felt like she was flying, and then the other bit where it was like her body was cracking. But once both sensations settled, she welcomed the new, soft, steady bed.

Face in the dirt, Deirdre didn’t respond to Morgan because she didn’t hear her. She was still, finally, and that was all she’d wanted. In her head, there were horses and meadows and Morgan, her love, and apples and-- Prue. Deirdre stirred. She pressed her palms to the mud, trying to lift herself only to slip and welcome the ground again. “Where--” She tried to speak, but her throat was tight, and her voice sounded wrong even to her own confused ears. She just needed a moment, and then she’d be fine. Just one moment without the jostling bed, or Prue trying to kill them. Just a moment with her head down in the dirt, trying to regain herself. That was it. She was so tired it felt like she was dying. She wasn’t. But it felt like she was. Unfortunately, communicating that was a harder task between not knowing where the bottom half of her body was and the ghost of iron wire burning around her neck. “Alive.” She groaned, lifting a hand to point at Prue, who was swaying like wheat in the wind. Like there was music. Deirdre could have sworn she heard it too. “Sleep.” She pointed at herself. “Dead.” Her hand fell. “Love you.” Just a moment.

Morgan crawled up to her knees. The fall had knocked the arrows further into her back, and she was finding it difficult to breathe. She coughed, wiping away the dark stain from her lips. She felt for the knife Deirdre had given her, lodged at least part of the way through her thigh. Morgan pulled it out and approached Deirdre, feeling along her body for broken bones. “This isn’t how we die, babe,” she whispered. “That would be such a shitty story, okay? But maybe--” She reached behind her and pulled an arrow from her shoulder, then another from the small of her back. The worst ones would wait, but maybe her healing could get more of a move on already. “Maybe we can think about it when we get back to the car.”

But Prue was in fact, inexplicably, alive. One bright eye stared out from the red ruin of her face, and she still had that iron little knife. Step by staggering step she walked towards them, blade raised. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” She hurled the overripe apples on the ground her way, which burst and splattered her body with rot. Prue may as well have not felt them at all for how much she flinched. Morgan tucked her half severed arm closer to her shoulder. It didn’t feel as loose anymore, but if she could swing with more than one hand…

“Thou. Art. A Devil,” Prue hissed, gritting her blood stained teeth with every word.

“Careful,” she called. “I bite.” The next apple burst on her head, which did give Prue a second of pause. She had to wipe the browning meat of the apple from her eyes in order to keep going, which bought Morgan a little more time to stay close to the ground while her body connected her joints.

The trees were quiet. It was only them here, now. The others were reassuring the humans, or tending to their dead, or trusted this monster of a woman to finish them off. Considering how close she was getting to them, with how much blood was coming down her body, it was no wonder. Morgan crawled forwards, still coughing as her body struggled to fix itself. When Prue was right on her, arm poised to stab, Morgan reached out with both hands and pulled her leg out from under her. Prue didn’t hit her head, but her kicks fell on numb, zombie limbs. Morgan pinned them down with all her strength and let her flail and slash at her until she felt the right kind of relief in her arm that meant it was whole again. The next time her blade came, Morgan snapped her wrist. She caught the next arm and brought it to her lips, going so far as to pinch the soft flesh of her arm between her teeth. For the first time, Prue screamed with fear.

“You’re right,” she rasped, “That is way too good for you.” In went the knife, straight into her heart until Morgan press it no further.

Morgan didn’t stop to see the light come out of her eyes. She picked herself up and stumbled back toward Deirdre and their fallen things. Picking everything up upset all the arrow-tips still in her body, but there was no stopping now. People would hear Prue’s screams, maybe even recognize them. If they hadn’t, they would know something was wrong when she didn’t come back, eventually. Morgan had to get them away from this place before all that came crashing down. She clutched Deirdre tight to her chest and started walking.

#wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #song for autumn #gore tw #death tw #wickedswriting

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