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viking-raider · 3 years

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The Immortal Sky - Part VI *Mature*

Summary: A decision is made for the next step in your and Henry’s journey, and the events that happen afterwards, will have lasting consequences for everyone involved.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/You

Word Count: 9,773

Chapters: I II III IV V

Warning: Futuristic!AU, Dystopian!AU, Language, Angst, Fluff, Dark themes, blood, torture, kidnapping, interrogation, imprisonment, mentions of past violence and sex

Inspiration: I’ve always wanted to write something like this.

Author’s Note: Tell me what you think! Thank you to @wondersofdreaming for being lovely, being my beta and putting up with my crazy muse! You’re amazing!

Even though you woke up in bed alone, you could hear Henry shuffling and rummaging around the room. But, you didn't open your eyes or move as you listened to him. You didn't want the magic that had culminated between you during the night to vanish, ruined by Henry forcing you to return to London with him, and starting another blow out argument.

That wouldn't end with another round of atomic sex.

When the room was quiet again, you rolled over onto your back as the sound of the toilet flushing filled the room and the sink came on. You sighed, looking out the bright window, the sun starting its slow ascent into the sky.

“You're awake.” Henry's chipper voice said as he came out of the bathroom, fully clothed. “How'd you sleep?” He asked, smiling at you.

“Better than I have in the last several days.” You replied, forcing a smile back at him.

“Same.”

He could see the conflict inside of you amplify so much more, and felt his heart grow sore. The magic was started to evaporate into the air between you.

“I don't want to rush you. But,” He sighed, carding a hand through his curls. “It's a long walk to where we're going, and only so many hours in the day.” He told you, fidgeting and chewing on the corner of his lip.

You hesitated for a moment, sighing heavily, before throwing back the duvet and getting out of bed. “I want to take a shower first, if that's okay with you? It's been a while since I had one.”

“Of course.” Henry nodded, hoping the hot water would help soothe you some.

Nodding, you took your previously discarded clothing and took them into the bathroom, softly closing the bathroom door behind you, just needing a moment of privacy. You put your clothing aside and stared at your fragmented reflection in the mirror, the tired smudges under your eyes and the just plain tired and melancholy shine to your eyes. Letting out a hard breath, you started the shower, and even though the water was still cold and heating up, you stepped underneath the icy spray, shivering once before just standing there and letting it wash over you.

Your body was so sore and worn out from walking and the ongoing situation, but you could also feel the throb between your legs from having sex with Henry; it wasn't entirely uncomfortable or painful, but it was unmistakably and noticeably there, none-the-less. The water finally heated up and you washed yourself the best you could with the meager options to do so.

“Yeah?” You called out, at Henry's soft knock.

Henry opened the bathroom door. “This is the only towel the room has.” He said, holding up the towel he had dried himself with the night before.

“Oh, thanks.” You smiled at him, turning off the shower and stepped out, taking the towel from him.

“Of course.” He smiled back at you, then actually dared to kiss you on the cheek, before going out again.

You felt a flutter of butterflies swarm your stomach at the warm touch of his soft lips on your damp cheek; it felt nice. Drying off and getting dressed, you joined Henry back in the room and found him opening his backpack, removing your shoes from inside. Smiling, he held them out for you to take, which you did, your fingers brushing as you did. The air between you and Henry was starting to get thick again, you could feel the anxiety inside of you start to grow, wanting to bolt and run for Bristol; Henry be damned. Henry was also on edge, trying to fight the feeling to grab you and throw you over his shoulder, marching you both back to London, to end this rising disaster.

But, both of you fought it.

Henry opened the room door for you and you stepped out into the hall, before going down the stairs and returning the room key to the front desk, a woman was running it this morning, the previous front desk clerk nowhere to be seen. Both of you paused at the hotel entrance, taking a deep breath and exiting into the cool morning air.

“Let me see.” Henry said, pulling out his mobile and bringing up the Runner map. “There's a supply store right over there.” He pointed across the street to a store front, the front window boarded up with plywood. “See if we can scrap up some breakfast.” He suggested, throwing you an encouraging smile.

“Okay.” You nodded, but didn't smile back.

Crossing the street and opening the supply store door, a soft chime of a bell as you did, the supplier appeared from the back, giving you and Henry a look, but didn't say anything to either of you. You roamed around the makeshift shelves lining the space, while Henry found where they stored the food and grabbed a couple of things, for breakfast and the trek. Going back outside, you and Henry found a relatively intact park bench and sat down, splitting a blueberry muffin and a bottle of water for breakfast.

Sighing, when the food was gone, you got up and turned towards London and started that way. Henry stared at you for a moment, still seated on the bench. His lips slightly parted as he watched you start in the direction of the capital city, he was thoroughly surprised by your decision to return to London with him, without him making you, or doing his best to convince you into it. It made his heart both skip a beat, that you had chosen him, but also stop, because you had chosen him over your brother.

Frowning, Henry stood up, he had already made his choice, a long time ago. So, he caught up with you as you continued to walk down the cracked and uneven sidewalk, grabbing the back of your elbow and pulling you to a stop. You turned to look up at him, your face was angry, but your bottom trembled with held back tears. Sighing softly, Henry folded you up into his arms and hugged you against him, letting you cry yourself out into his chest.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered softly, stroking your hair. “But,” He cleared his throat. “You're heading in the wrong direction.”

“I know which way I'm going, Cavill.” You replied, sniffling up at him.

“I know you know where you're going, love. But, you're not going in the direction you want to go in.” He clarified, pressing his lips to your warm forehead.

“I picked you. Mikey knows the bullshit he got himself into.” You huffed, frustrated you were even talking about it. “Made bed and lie in it, all that jazz.” You told him, rubbing at your eyes.

Henry smiled down at you, tipping your head back a little bit more and kissed you soundly on the lips, before putting his hands on your shoulders and turning you towards Bristol. “We are going this way, Nugget.”

“Henry.” You sighed, shaking your head.

“Neither of us will be able to live with the choice of just going back to London.” He replied, softly. “You won't be able to live knowing you could have prevented your brother's potential death, and I wouldn't be able to live with knowing you chose me and possibly resenting me for it, and I can't stand the thought of him getting hurt.” He explained to you.

“Stupid as he might be for becoming a Runner, in the first place.” He added, with a roll of his eyes.

“You're really going to go to Bristol with me, to get my dumbass brother?” You asked, turning back to him, and lifting a skeptical brow; sure he was just testing you.

“Yes.” He nodded, giving you a serious face.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” He retorted, lifting his own brow. “I told you, why.”

“I don't believe it.” You replied, folding your arms.

Henry narrowed his eyes at you. “You just want to hear me say, I love you.” He chuckled, seeing straight through you.

“I did.” You grinned at him.

“You silly girl.” He sighed, smirking. “Come on, we only have so much time to reach the next safe place.” He said, kissing you again, took your hand, and started walking towards Warmley.

“And, I love you.”

It had taken a while, and many things had come to light, but you and Henry finally made it to Bristol.

“So, how do we find him, now that we're here?” Henry asked, resting his hand on the small of your back protectively, as you both stood to the side of the bustling street.

“I have no clue.” You sighed, for the first time, you were starting to feel discouraged. “What do you suggest, High Marshal?” You asked, looking up at him with half a smug smile and half pleading with him.

Henry took a deep breath in as he looked around, biting his lip. He had been thinking about how you both were supposed to find your brother once you arrived, ever since he decided he would go with you to Bristol in search of him. You couldn't just start asking anyone and everyone, it would invite more attention than Henry wanted to attract, especially with people out looking to harm you.

“I might know someone.” He sighed again, rubbing the side of his tired face.

“Who?” You asked, blinking at him.

“Someone I went to school with.” He explained, taking your hand and leading you through the crowd. “He was once a Beta Marshal, until he was found to be letting Runners through his Sector, for a portion of their profits. He probably would have just been fined for it, if he hadn't attempted blackmailing an Alpha Cleric that was presiding over his case. So, he was stripped of his offices and banished to Bristol.”

“I'm just not sure if he's still here, or if he's even still alive, for that matter.” He told you, side eyeing a guy that tried to nudge him in the ribs. “It's been nearly three years.”

“Well, how are we going to find him?” You asked, pressing closer to him.

“Most people that held a high office that have been banished to Bristol hide in the lowest Sector, to try and avoid others they might have sent here themselves.”

“And you know all of this, how?”

“I'm a High Marshal, it's my job to know these things.” He replied, gripping your hand even tighter as the crowd thickened.

You thread your way through the Sectors, until you reach the unguarded and trashed gate of Sector Fifteen. Bristol had a trashy vibe to it as you walked its crowded streets, but the almost empty streets of Sector Fifteen were, by far, worse. The dark, dank and foul smelling air hung heavily in a haze, that made your eyes water and the back of your nose sting. You could feel Henry's body tense beside you, going into full protective mode, on high alert for anything out of the ordinary, for any possible and would be threat to either of you.

“Who is this guy?” You whispered to him, too frightened to speak any louder.

“Ramsey Kellan.” Henry replied, his jaw tight.

“Lost?” A raspy voice asked from behind them.

“No.” Henry growled back, turning towards the voice. “Looking for an acquaintance.”

“Oh, and who might that be?” A sleazy and rail thin man replied, looking you and Henry over.

“Ramsey Kellan.”

“What do you want with Remy?”

“That's between him and I.” Henry hissed, glaring darkly at the other male.

“I'll tell ya where to find him.” He answered, his eyes shifting over to you. “For a price.” He chuckled, showing a mouthful of black and missing teeth as he grinned at you.

“Or I could just beat it out of you.” Henry barked at him, his hand practically crushing yours.

“Hey, no need for violence, man.” The guy huffed, looking disappointed. “He lives over there.” He pointed down the street to a dingy building, over half the windows were missing from it. “Third floor.”

You expected Henry to turn and start that direction, but he didn't move, staring after the guy as he walked away. Only when he vanished from view, did Henry turn on a dime and started inside. You climbed the three flights of stairs to Ramsey Kellan's floor, looking at the name on each of the flat doors until you finally came up to the scuffed door with 'Kellan - 309' on it in black, block letters.

“Stand right there.” Henry told you, pointing to a spot beside the door. “Don't say anything or make a peep.”

“Why?” You asked, narrowing your eyes up at him.

“Because I asked you too.” He replied, heaving a sigh and looking at you, the pinnacle of his exhaustion showing through his blue eyes.

“Fine.” You sighed back and did as he asked.

Taking one more deep breath, Henry lifted his fist and knocked on Kellan's door. It took a moment before the door jerked open and a thin male appeared. He looked at Henry for a moment, his expression angry, before it widened with shock and horror.

“Cavill?”

“Kellan.” Henry replied, looking the former Beta Marshal over.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ramsey asked, blinking at his former colleague.

“Looking for you.” Henry answered, folding his arms over his chest.

“Don't tell me the straight laced Henry Cavill has fallen from grace?” Ramsey laughed, thoroughly amused at the thought of it.

“Not exactly.” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “I need your help finding someone here in Bristol.”

Ramsey's look hardened some and he shifted uneasily. “Who?”

“A Runner for Jaxon Quinn, Michail Keagan.”

Ramsey gulped thickly, his eyes shifting around, unable to meet Henry's stern glare. “I can't help you, Henry.” He mumbled and started to close his door.

Henry's hand shot out, preventing Ramsey from closing his door. “I know that's a load of shit. You've had the low down on every Runner there is, and I know you still do. So, you're going to tell me where to find him.”

“And what do I get out of it?” Ramsey hissed back. “Last time, I lost my job and my livelihood. This time around, I’d lose my life. So, what can you give me, Cavill, in exchange for the information.”

“Maybe, I tell the Marshal Council you helped me bring down one of the top Crime Bosses England has. Perhaps with a word like that, from a High Marshal with ties to the Cleric and Royal Councils, it could get you back into London.” Henry told him, keeping his voice low, but stern.

“You think you could do that?” Ramsey asked, sounding desperate and surprised.

“Only if you tell me what I want to know.” Henry told him, narrowing his eyes. “And if you lie to me, I'll make sure Crime Bosses and Bristol are your last worry.” He added, the dangerous threat dripping from his voice.

You heard the gulp and whimper that came out of Ramsey, you saw the sheer look of evil on Henry's face as he said it, and had to slap a hand over your mouth to hide your giggle, biting your lips. You were terrified and surprised by the pure authority Henry had pulsing off of him, even more so than usual, but part of you was also turned on by it.

“Come in, I don't want the neighbors to hear this.” Ramsey said, opening the door again.

Henry turned his head, looking at you, then motioned to the open door. Nodding at him, you pushed off the wall and stepped in front of him, giving Ramsey a tight smile as he blinked at you, surprised.

“Who the hell is this?” He snapped, looking over your head to Henry.

“None of your business, so move.” He barked back, pushing Ramsey out of the way.

You shyly smiled at Ramsey as you slipped by him, after Henry, who breezed into Ramsey's flat, looking around it with unmasked disgust. He turned in the middle of Ramsey's living room, tightly folding his arms against his chest, glowering at the former Beta Marshal, with screaming High Marshal authority. You felt sheepish as Ramsey closed his flat door and turned towards Henry, standing between them, in what could easily be no man's land.

“What do you want, High Marshal Cavill?” Ramsey asked, with smug mockery.

“I want you to tell me where I can find Michail Keagan.” Henry replied, the crease between his brows deepening. “He's an Adjutant Runner for Jaxon Quinn, here in Bristol.”

“You can't just waltz into a city like Bristol, and start demanding people tell you where top Runners are at, Cavill.”

“That's why I came to you, Kellan. You're already doing the waltz, so tell me where he is.”

“And if I don't?” Ramsey asked, narrowing eyes at Henry and rolling his shoulders.

Henry's arms dropped to his sides and he took three giant steps towards him, suddenly reaching out and nabbing Ramsey by the shirt, then slamming him against the nearest wall. Ramsey grunted, all the air left lungs as his back connected to the concrete wall. He was dazed for a second, black and flashing spots in his blood shot eyes, blinking rapidly to clear them away, and trying to focus on the rage he felt coming off of Henry.

“I'll beat your face in.” Henry hissed, his teeth gritted and blue eyes smoldering.

Your mouth dropped open, blinking at the rage Henry was exuding as he pinned Ramsey to the wall. It was no wonder that the blue of a flame burned the hottest. But, you were worried that Henry might actually harm Ramsey, and as much as you wanted to find your brother, you didn't want anyone getting hurt for it.

“All right, all right!” Ramsey squeaked and slumped against the wall, practically shrinking before Henry. “I'll find him for ya.” He gulped, frightened and shaking.

“Good.” Henry replied, his voice low, and moved away from him, still tense.

Chewing on his lip for a moment, before slowly sliding along the wall towards his coffee table, where his laptop was sitting, Ramsey flipped it open and sat down on the couch, he typed quickly, his fingertips clacking on the black keys as he squinted at the screen. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure everyone in the building could hear it, while you watched him work. Henry stood in place, eyes burning into Ramsey, like it would make him work faster, as seconds felt like minutes and minutes felt like hours.

“It looks like this Runner is living in Sector Three, while he's being trained to be an Adjutant Runner.” Ramsey finally said, rubbing at his face. “With his handler, Knox Monroe. Who is a very hardcore Runner. I really wouldn't go messing about with him.”

“Why?” You dared to ask, eyes darting to Henry.

“Knox has brought in more revenue than any Runner, for the last five years running.” Ramsey replied, looking up from his laptop screen. “He was caught, once, and the Hernandez family bailed him out.” He looked up at Henry. “You know how serious they have to be about him, if they're willing to keep him in such an elevated state, instead of tossing him out of Bristol on his ass.”

“I do.” Henry nodded, his expression and body language never changed, but there was a small twinge in his stomach. “Where in Sector Three are they at?” He asked, without hesitation.

“Are you--” He started to protest, but stopped, seeing Henry's face, and took a deep breath. “Sector Three, block twelve, there's a pub there, the Black Bone. Knox frequents it often enough and I'm sure, with how close a handler is to their Runner, he'll bring this Keagan with him. All you have to do is use your special High Marshal skills and stake the place out, until they show up.”

Henry shrugged his shoulders and rolled his neck, processing all the information that Ramsey had given the two of you. “I hope you're not lying, Ramsey.” He sighed, settling a tired eye on him.

“I'm not, Henry.” Ramsey sighed, rolling his eyes at him. “Especially, if you can get me out of this hell hole.”

“We'll see.” Henry huffed at him, turning back towards the door. “Come on.” He said to you, opening the door and letting you step out into the hall first.

The man you and Henry encountered walked around the corner of a building, moving out of your sight, but peeked around the corner, watching you and Henry enter the apartment building he directed you too. Narrowing his eyes at the building, he quickly turned away and hurriedly walked through the streets of Sector Fifteen. Rudely bumping into people to get them out of his way, before he finally reached the nearly pristine gate to Sector Fourteen, flashing his pass ID at the guards and breezed through as they opened the gate for him.

Swinging around a corner and kicking open the door of a bar, he sallied up to the bar, slapping his palms to the sticky and worn counter.

“Gideon, where's Aries?” He asked and leaned over the counter, reaching beneath it and grabbed the neck of a bottle that was there. “I need to talk to him.” He added, sitting back and spinning off the cap of the whiskey bottle.

“He's upstairs, where he always is, you dumb-fuck.” Gideon, the bartender, barked back at him, yanking the bottle out of his hand as he started to chug it down. “So, get fucking lost.” He barked, wiping the head of the bottle off with the hem of his shirt and secured the cap back on, storing it in its previous place.

He smiled up in Gideon's face, winked at him, then shoved away from the bar, twirling on his heels towards the back of the bar. Yanking open a hidden door in the wall, stomped his way up the stairs and pounded on the closed door at the top. After several minutes of relentless pounding, the door swung open to a burly male.

“Fuck you want, Atlas.” He hissed at him, his lip curled with distaste.

“I need to see Aries.” The man, Atlas, said, licking his lips and looking back at him. “It's important.”

“Get lost, Atlas.” He huffed and started closing the door.

“Who is it, Danny?” A voice in the room behind him called out.

“It's me, Aries!” Atlas yelled back, grinning smugly at Danny. “I have some information you might want!” He added, pressing through the door.

“Let him in.” Aries sighed, slumping back in his high backed chair. “What is it, Atlas?” He groaned, watching Atlas sashay into the room, picking through the various bottles strewn across the long, black table, until he found one that was reasonably full.

“There was a guy and a chick, in Sector Fifteen.” He said, taking several deep gulps of the clear liquid. “Huge fucker too, and she was a teeny thing. Cute..”

“What's the point, Atlas?” Aries huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't have all night.”

“Well, it was the girl, you see.” Atlas replied, leaning against the edge of the table. “She looked familiar, and I don't mean, seen her in the whore house, familiar either.”

“I care why?”

“Because, she looked like that girl you got a memo on from the higher ups.” Atlas answered, grinning at Aries with smug confidence.

Aries's hand dropped from his face and looked across at Atlas, studying him. “Danny, hand me that memo tablet.” He said, holding his hand out to him, without taking his eyes off of Atlas.

Danny left the room for a quick moment and returned carrying the black, sleek tablet and carefully rested it in Aries's hand. Aries closed his hand around it and the screen came to life, he messed with it for a few minutes, before sliding it across the table to Atlas.

“Her?” He asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“Looks like her.” Atlas nodded, bending over the tablet.

Aries snapped out of his chair and strode across the room, yanking on a jacket. “Where did you see them?”

“Sector Fifteen, they were looking for Kellan.” Atlas explained, twisting around to follow him as he moved around the room.

“Fucking Ramsey.” Aries huffed, angrily. “Get him out.” He barked at Danny and pointed at Atlas as he made for the door.

Aries stormed down the stairs, shoving open the hidden door and scaring the new patrons that had come in after Atlas had gone up. He paid them no mind as he stormed out of the bar and towards Sector Fifteen, hoping to get to Kellan's flat before you and Henry left. But, he knew by the time he did get there, that you both were long gone. He still went up to have a visit with Ramsey though, wanting information.

“Aries!” Ramsey squeaked opening the door and found him there. “How's it going, man? It's been a--”

“Cut the shit, Kellan. Tell me where she is.” Aries hissed, cutting to the chase.

“Who?” Ramsey frowned at him, genuinely confused.

“The girl that was seen here today, with another fellow.” Aries explained to him, his eyes darkening.

Ramsey blinked at Aries a couple of times, his brain struggling to compute what Aries was saying. Who was the girl with Henry? He thought, his chest tightening. He refused to tell him who she was, and he seemed seriously protective of her. She must be someone of importance if Cavill was so protective of her, if Aries was so interested in her.

“I don't know who she is, Aries. Honestly.” He mumbled, running a hand down his face. “She came with a former colleague of mine.”

“And who might that be?”

“Henry Cavill.” Ramsey blurted out, obediently. “He's a High Marshal for the City of London.” He explained to him. “He came to me, with her, looking for a Runner. A Runner called Michail Keagan. He works for Quinn and is being trained by Knox. In Sector Three.”

“There's an active High Marshal in Bristol, looking for a Runner?” Aries asked, looking thunderstruck at the notion.

“Yes, Sir.” Ramsey nodded, gulping and fidgeting in place.

“Hernandez is going to lose his fucking mind.” Aries replied, raking a hand through his hair and turning on his feet. “I have to warn him.” He said to himself, already planning on going straight to Sector One to warn Hernandez about it, and you being in the city.

Within their grasp.

“Mr. Hernandez, Aries Novak to see you.”

Benji Hernandez looked up as he hunched over his desk, arms braced against the dark cherry wood. Rubbing at his tired face, he pushed off the desk and waved his hand for Aries to enter, rounding his desk to drop into his high-back leather chair.

“You can leave, Johnny.” He dismissed his assistant, then motioned to a chair before his desk. “Sit, Aries.”

“Yes, Sir.” Aries nodded, obediently and quickly taking the offered seat. “I have some very important information for you, Mr. Hernandez. I'm sure it'll make your day a sight better.” He rushed out, a bubble of excited and nervousness energy.

“What is it, Mr. Novak?” Benji sighed, lifting a brow at the other man.

“That girl you've been looking for,” Aries grinned, making the Devil look like a sweetheart. “She's here. In Bristol, of all places, and with a London High Marshal!”

Benji blinked at Aries a couple of times. “That little bitch is here, in my city!” He growled, his shoulders tensing.

“Yes, sir. She very much is.” Aries nodded, smiling even more. “One of my men saw her and the High Marshal at a former Beta Marshal's flat not three hours ago, in Sector Fifteen.”

“Where are they now?” Benji hissed, leaning forward, hand reaching for his phone.

“Kellan said, he gave them directions to the Black Bone pub in Sector Three. They're looking for Knox and his new Runner, Keagan.”

“Why are they looking for the two of them?” Benji asked, narrowing his eyes at Aries.

“He doesn't know, neither of them told him the reason behind it, just to tell them where they could be found.” He explained, rubbing his sweaty palms on his thighs, being near Benji had always given him the shakes, mostly because he knew what he was capable of.

Benji picked up the black receiver of his phone and pressed it to his ear with his shoulder, punching the glossy numbers with the tip of his index finger. “Ashe, I want you in my office. Now.” He barked into it, then slammed it back down into the cradle. “Aries, get out.” He huffed, jerking his head towards the door as he got up out of his chair and strode across the room to a table of decanters and glasses.

“Do-don't you wa--” Aries started to stammer.

“I don't want anything out of you other than what you've already given me, Mr. Novak.” Benji answered, cutting him off, as he poured himself a drink. “Unless, you're withholding something more?” He asked, turning back to Aries as he brought the full glass to his lips.

“No-no, sir!” Aries yelped, the blood draining from his face.

“Then, get the fuck out.” Benji huffed, rolling his eyes and downing the rest of the strong brown liquid.

Nodding his head, like a broken bobble-head, Aries pulled the door open as a man on the other side raised his hand to knock. The two men gulped and nodded at each other, then traded places.

“Ashe!” Benji called out, sounding a bit happier to see him than he had been to see Aries. “Come in and close the door.”

Ashe gave Aries with a short nod and closed the door on him. “How can I be of help, Mr. Hernandez?” He asked and folded his arms behind his back, giving Benji his full and undivided attention.

“There's someone of great importance in my city and someone else that can cause some other issues with her. I want you to go down to the Black Bone pub in Sector Three. I don't want you to grab them as soon as you see them. Watch them, then when they leave, grab them and bring them back here to hold.”

“Of course.” Ashe nodded. “Who would that be, sir?”

Benji crossed back to his desk and removed a tablet from his drawer, turning it on and flipping through it for a moment, before holding it out to Ashe. “That's her. She was in Twist's warehouse in London, waiting to be sold, when someone came in to look at Twist's collection, picked her out of the line-up and purchased her.” He explained to Ashe. “Not five minutes after purchasing her, Twist's warehouse was raided by the Marshal Council.”

“Come to find out, the guy who purchased her was working for the Council. Ordinarily, that wouldn't be an issue, but being that she was purchased during a Council Raid, she's a witness and can fuck my family's entire operation in London. So, I had a hit put out on her, if she's dead, she can't testify. Which would make the consequences of the trial less disastrous.”

“So, you want me to kill them?” Ashe asked, studying your face on the tablet's screen.

“No, I want you to bring them back here and put them in holding.” Benji replied, leaning back against the edge of his desk. “I want to find out what I can from them. See, if they know anything about the trial Twist and his men are being sent too. We might be able to cut out a few more people from the jury and not take such a massive hit to our operations.”

Ashe nodded and handed the tablet back to his boss. “I'll get on it right away, Sir.”

“Good.” Benji smiled, pleased.

“Eat.” Henry said, setting a plate of food in front of you.

“Why?” You frowned at him.

“Because, you look suspicious and it's hard to look suspicious when you're eating something.” He told you, handing you a fork and knife. “We don't need any attention to be drawn to us, while we wait for Knox and your brother to show up. So, eat your food and leave the room watching to me.”

“You're the boss.” You chuckled, nudging his knee with yours.

You and Henry had entered the Black Bone pub twenty minutes before, ordering food and drinks, while Henry put his vast experience of surveillance and undercover work to use, taking regular bites of food and sips of water as he pretended to stare at the flickering tv screen mounted above the bar top, showing some sporting event that took place in Bristol. While his actual attention, from his peripheral vision, was on the single entrance and exit the pub had. No one had come in or gone out since the pair of you entered the half packed establishment. You had already done a quick sweep of the patrons that dotted the place, none of them were your brother or looked like the picture of Knox that Ramsey had shown you just before you left his flat, in Sector Fifteen.

“There's enough grease in this to oil a car.” You commented, pushing the food on your plate around with your fork.

Henry's face broke out into a massive grin, his shoulders shaking as he laughed at your comment. “We already know you purr like an engine.” He teased back, making reference to the sound you had made the night before, as he pleasured you.

“Oh, dear god.” You giggled, your face hot with embarrassment. “Henry.” You grinned at him, shyly.

“It's the truth, and you know it, Nugget.” He chuckled back at you, his shoulder gently brushing yours as he leaned in to kiss your cheek.

“You wag that tail, like you're a Puppy.” You teased him back, rolling your eyes at him.

Henry had opened his mouth to make a comment to that, when the bell above the door rang and the door opened. His mouth snapped shut and his body language changed from that playful relaxation, to suspicious and high alert tension. His blue eyes darted to the new patron as they stepped into the pub, a male, about Henry's own height, but slimmer, though by no means less built. There was an air about him, that Henry felt on the other side of the room, a professional air, but that could be a by-product of the life he lived before being marooned in Bristol. But, Henry wasn't completely sure of that, and cast his eyes back to the tv, as the man scanned the room.

“Don't look over there.” Henry hissed as you started to turn your head towards the door.

“Sorry.” You mumbled and took another sip of your water. “But, you don't like him.” You pointed out, feeling how rock hard the muscles of his side were against yours.

“I don't let anyone in here.” Henry replied, forcefully relaxing himself. “Other than you.” He added, the corner of his lip twitching up into a soft smile.

“Well, as long as that's true.” You chuckled, resting your hand on his thigh.

Henry rested his hand on top of yours and gave you a sweet smile, squeezing it gently. “Since I met you.” He whispered, softly.

“Aw.” You cooed at him, turning your hand into his.

Squeezing your hand again, Henry turned his eyes back to the tv, watching the new patron move from the door to the bar, motioning to the bartender and ordering something to drink. The longer the man was there, the colder the feeling running up and down Henry's spine got, making him shiver with worsening paranoia.

“Are you done with your food?” He asked, looking at your plate.

“Yeah, I'm done.” You nodded, pushing it away from you.

“All right, we're going.” He said, standing up.

“But,” You started to protest, but the look on Henry's face said it all.

Nodding, you got up and followed him out of the pub, trying to keep up with his long strides as he hurried down the street, before taking a sharp turn into an alleyway. You frowned at him as he stopped at a brick wall.

“Come here.” He motioned you closer with his fingers. “Take this.” He pulled a plastic room key out of his back pocket and slipped it into your front pocket.

You frowned up at him, shaking your head. “What are you doing?” You asked, getting an anxious feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“Meet me back at our room.” He told you, lacing his fingers together. “If I'm not back in an hour, do not come looking for me. Stay in the room, don't answer the door, unless you are sure it's me.” He instructed you, quickly.

“Henry?”

“Give me your foot.” He rushed you.

“Henry?”

“We don't have time, so give me your foot.” He barked at you, gritting his teeth as he tried to hold his temper.

Gulping, you placed your foot into his cupped hands and he boosted you up, to straddle the top of the brick wall. “Henry?” You panted, your anxiety turning into panic, realizing he wasn't going to follow after you.

“You'll be fine, just do what I told you to do.” He answered, taking a calming breath and squeezing your ankle, trying to reassure and calm you, as he looked back to the entrance of the alleyway and saw the guy from the pub appear.

“Go now, I'll be right behind you.”

“And if you're not?” You gulped, hands shaking.

“I will be. Now, go.” He told you. “I love you.” He whispered, softly.

You glanced up at the approaching man as he started towards you and didn't look all that happy. “I love you too.” You whimpered back, then disappeared on the other side of the wall.

“Good girl.” Henry sighed to himself, turning to face the guy, his quick footsteps echoing off the brick and metal surrounding the alleyway as he rushed Henry.

Henry had enough time to tense up his body, before Ashe bull rushed him, sending them both into the brick wall Henry had just sent you over. Grunting as his back connected to the bricks, knocking some of the air out of his lungs, Henry slid his body to the left as Ashe's fist came out and breezed by his head, crashing knuckles first into the grimy bricks behind him. Ashe howled and growled, drawing back his scrapped and throbbing hand, ugly black and purple bruises already forming on the swollen and bloody digits. Taking his distraction, Henry jabbed his own fist hard into Ashe's unprotected side, feeling his ribs crack under the force of his blow, and making Ashe double over, then drove his knee into Ashe's gut.

“I do mean to ruin your day.” Henry laughed, grabbing a handful of Ashe's blond hair and forcing his head back. “But, you're not going to get your filthy hands on her.”

“I'm afraid to disappoint you, but we will get that wee bitch.” Ashe panted, hand reaching into his back pocket and yanked something out of it, pressed it to the side of Henry's thick thigh and pressed a button on the side.

Henry's entire body became rigid and trembled, his eyes losing focus and twitching as several hundred volts of electricity coursed through him. Clicking the stun stick off and watching Henry slump against the wall and slide to the ground, Ashe stood up, flipping the stick in his hand, then pocketing it again, before removing his mobile from his front pocket.

“Hey, Sully. It's Ashe.” He chuckled, squatting down in front of an incapacitated Henry. “I didn't get the girl, but I did get the High Marshal, and I'm sure after a 'talking to' he'll fork over where to find her.” He explained to his handler, giving Henry a gloating pat on the cheek.

“I know he's not ideal, but he's a fucking High Marshal, think of the shit he knows, other than where the girl is? Benji won't be that pissed off about it, we'll get her once we've talked the good Marshal into telling us.” He laughed, poking Henry in the chest.

“Sweet! Send the boys over. He's a beast.”

A few minutes later, a group of guys arrived in the alleyway with Henry and Ashe, flanking Henry, who was still out for the count, and hauled him out of the alleyway and into a van, before speeding out of the Sector, back to Sector Three, where Benji and his team waited to interrogate him on where you were now hiding.

Your lungs were burning, by the time you ran back to the room you and Henry had rented in the Sector when you arrived. You hoped with all you had that Henry would be there waiting for you to open the door with some witty remark on how long it took you to get back, with your nugget sized legs. But, he wasn't and your already throbbing heart felt like it had been sent through a paper shredder. You let yourself into the room, locking it behind you and paced the room, a million worst and best case scenarios running through your head on why he wasn't back yet.

“Come on, Henry.” You gasped, chewing your lip to bits and wringing your hands. “Please, knock on the door.” You begged, staring at the room door. “Please, please, please.” You whimpered.

But, the knock never came. Not an hour later, or even three hours later.

You considered going back out to look for him and half opened the door to do so, before shaking your head and closing it again, knowing Henry would be pissed if he found you weren't there when he got back, or if you ran into each other on the street. So, you stayed locked in the room, restlessly pacing or staring out the window, hoping to see him approaching the building from the sidewalk five stories below.

“He's fine.” You mumbled to yourself, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “He's just toying with me. He's just standing in the hall, waiting for me to bolt out of the room, so he has something to tease me about. Claim I'm not good at listening.” You tried convincing yourself, hugging his shirt to your chest.

“The jerk, he can wait out there all night, for what I care!” You yelled, hoping he heard you.

A stinging slap rang out in the air and Henry's scruffy cheek burned, like it had been singed by molten lava. Henry grunted as another burning slap connected with his other cheek, snapping his head painfully to the side.

“Wakey Wakey, Mr. Cavill.” An overly jolly voice cooed inches from his face. “Nap time is over.” The jolly voice turned sinister. “I think our sleeping beauty needs a little more help walking up, Emilio.”

“Doable, Boss.” A deep voice laughed.

Henry's eyes flew open and doubled over with a weak gasp as an iron blow struck the center of his chest, and the audible creaking of his ribs. He whimpered and moaned, a thick string of drool dripped from his lips. He leaned forward in the metal chair he was tied to, his arms bound by the wrists around the back of the chair and his ankles tied to the front legs, that like the back legs, were heavily bolted to the cement floor.

“Good morning, Henry.” Benji smiled at him.

“Ho-how--” He panted, trying to get air back into his screaming lungs. “How do you kn-now my n-name?” He gulped the thick saliva in his mouth down, his throat sore.

“I know to you, Mr. Cavill, Bristol is just a back water, shit-hole. But, we do have a great deal of the same technology you Londoners do. So, fingerprint identification isn't a foreign concept to us.” Benji sighed, shaking his head as he walked around Henry.

“Where am I?” Henry gasped, sitting back and flexing his arms, testing the strength of his bonds, only to get a stiff punch to the face.

“Easy, Emilio.” Benji called, patting Emilio on the shoulder. “We don't want to tire Mr. Cavill, before he can be so nice as to answer our questions.”

“I'm not telling you shit, Hernandez.” He growled, jerking his body in agitation.

“Oh, how intuitive of you to deduce who I am.” Benji laughed, stopping in front of Henry. “You must be a top notch High Marshal in London.” He smirked, taking a seat in a chair several feet in front of Henry. “Well, I know you are, I've read your files and your work history. You have quite the prowess for undercover work, used to be SWAT as well, before transferring to Homicide.” He said, reaching back for the tablet one of his men was holding, taking it from him.

“What was it that you transferred, Mr. Cavill?” He asked, scrolling through files that should have been private and sealed.

“Get fucked.” Henry barked at him, his broad shoulders straining.

Benji chuckled, then cleared his throat. “Says here, while on a raid in London's Sector Thirty, there was a shoot out in a warehouse and you were injured, almost died as a result.” He rested the tablet on the thigh of his crossed leg.

“I'm not telling you where she is.” Henry said softly, staring Benji straight in the eyes. “So, you can save your breath.”

“Oh, it's not my breath you'd want to save, Henry.” Benji said, lowering his voice and resting forward. “It's yours.” He grinned, his brown eyes lighting up. “I wonder, if that wound still gives you trouble?” He inquired, drumming his fingertips on the back of the tablet.

Henry didn't say anything or move, just stared Benji in the eye, his lips sealed. The Crime Boss could do whatever he liked to him, he wasn't going to tell him where you were, even if it ended up killing him. No matter how much pain they caused him for it. Henry would protect you with his body and his life.

“Do what you will.” He told Benji, resolved and at peace.

Benji's eyes darkened, realizing that he wasn't going to be able to 'sweet talk' or coax Henry into volunteering the information about your whereabouts. He knew it wasn't going to work, but had given it a shot anyway, hoping Henry would be intelligent and want to save his own life and a good amount of pain.

“All well.” He sighed, shrugging his shoulders at Henry. “Where was that wound?” He hummed, turning back to the tablet. “Abdomen, left side. Through and through—oh! It took out one of your kidneys! Well, it's a good damn thing you're a High Marshal with a father in the Cleric Council and a mother in the Royal Council! All that money, power and influence, so you could get the best organ transplant care.” He said, shaking his head and enlarging a photo taken of Henry, not long after he had surgery to treat his injuries.

“What was it?” He asked, looking up at Henry. “Organ donor? Organ regrowth or an Organ replacement?”

“What's the difference?” One of Benji's men blurted out, without meaning too.

“Well, you see.” Benji laughed, in an uncommonly good mood. “An Organ donor is when some nice and caring person donates their kidney to the recipient. Organ regrowth is when a large team of doctors and scientists grow a new kidney for the person that needs it, and organ replacement, is a device, made out of hardware and biological software to look and function like the required organ or body part. Think of it as the kidney equivalent to a prosthetic leg.”

“All of which are insanely expensive.” He added, then looked back at Henry. “So?”

“You obviously have access to all my medical reports, so why bother.” Henry hissed at him, unamused.

“Because, I want to have a conversation with you, Mr. Cavill. So, satisfy my curiosity.”

Henry licked his lips, his upper lip twitching as his anger slowly built in the pit of his stomach. “Replacement.” He growled out, his hands squeezing into fists, cutting off most of their circulation.

“So, a special, bionic kidney for the special High Marshal.” Benji sat up straighter, his eyes and face bright with wonder and interest. “I want to see it!”

“Sir?” Ashe gasped, head snapping towards Benji.

“I don't mean cut him open, you idiot!” Benji barked, the sparkle of his face dimming with his flare of annoyance. “The scar, you brain-dead buffoon.” He yelled, throwing the tablet at Ashe. “Cut his shirt off!” He snapped at Emilio.

Grinning, Emilio grabbed a box cutter off a metal table covered with various items and approached Henry. Sliding up the razor-blade, Emilio grabbed the bottom hem of Henry's grey short sleeve t-shirt and slid the paper thin blade up, cutting through the thin fabric. Henry winced, hissing and bared his teeth as the tip of the blade nicked the skin of his sternum, a thick bead of bright red blood dripped down his chest, disappearing into the patch of hair of his belly; the elastic band of his boxer briefs soaking it up.

Emilio tore away the rest of Henry's shirt and discarded it, as Benji stood and closed the gap between them, seeing the neat and thin scar above his left hip, a slightly puckered dot of scar tissue in the center of it, where the bullet entered. Pressing his lips together, Benji rounded Henry's chair and made him sit forward, straining his arms and saw the thick scar on his back, from the surgery to remove his damaged kidney and replace it with the engineered one.

“Fascinating.” He cooed, touching his cool fingertips to the burning hot skin of Henry's back. “I wonder?” He hummed, then promptly sucker punched Henry in the back, landing it squarely on the scar.

Henry howled in agony, arching his back away from Benji, the cut on his chest bleeding more as the skin of his sternum stretched. His breathing was ragged as Emilio jabbed his fist into Henry's stomach, almost choking on the air stuck in his throat, eyes watering furiously.

“So, it does hurt.” Benji laughed, pressing his fingers into the forming bruise and moved back around to see his anguished face.

“Let me punch you in the fucking kidney, and tell me how it feels, you piece of shit.” Henry barked, spitting at him.

Emilio clocked Henry across the face, opening a gash on his cheekbone and snapping his head sideways, making his neck ache and throb. “Spit at him again, and I'll cut your fucking tongue out.” He growled, grabbing a handful of Henry's sweat soaked curls and yanked his head back, making his scalp burn.

“Where is she, Henry?” Benji asked, pulling out a handkerchief and wiped the wad of spit off the tip of his shoe, before tossing the square piece of fabric into the bin. “This will go so much easier, if you just tell us where she is.”

“I'm not going to tell you, so you can do whatever you want with me.” Henry wheezed, glaring up at Benji. “Torture me. Kill me. I don't care. I'll never tell you anything.”

“Are you sure you want to play this game, Henry?” Benji asked, stroking his jaw as he regarded him.

Henry's body went slack and slumped in the chair, mentally centering himself for the pain and chaos that was no doubt about to rain down upon him. All so he could keep you protected, and god he hoped you were. Henry prayed that you had listened to him and went back to the hotel room, baring yourself inside until, and if, he was able to get back to you. He feared that Ashe had more people with him that saw you go over that wall and followed after you, tracking you back to the room, if you even made it that far, and were somewhere in the building he was clearly in, being tortured as well. His Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed down that overwhelming fear. He couldn't let that negativity breed inside of him or it would tear him down and he would lose to Benji and his torture even faster.

“I'm not telling you, where she is, or even where she might be.” He replied, finally. “For all I know, she's nowhere I'm aware of. She's an extremely self-willed girl, and doesn't listen. So, even if I were to tell you where I think she is. She couldn't be. She could be anywhere at this point.” He told him, almost smugly.

“Bristol is a big place.” He added, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Emilio got a running start and the punch he landed square to the center of Henry's face, busting his nose and blackening his eye. Henry coughed and spit a mouthful of blood to the floor, his chin resting against his bare and bloody chest.

“Why are you and she in Bristol?” Benji asked, lifting a brow at him.

“To fuck your mother.” Henry replied, spitting blood at him, but came up short.

Picking up a long object from the table, Emilio swung it into Henry's stomach, and if the chair hadn't been bolted to the floor, it and Henry would have been sent flying backwards with the force. Henry wavered forward, slack and groaning in pain, shaking his throbbing head to try and clear it.

“I'll ask you again, why are you here?”

“Again, to fuck your mother.” Henry rasped, clearing his throat and licking his lips, tasting the cooper of his own blood.

Benji looked up at Emilio and nodded.

Grinning, Emilio dropped the pipe on the table with a clatter and retrieved his box cutter, his preferred method of extracting information from difficult people. The smallest shutter went down Henry's spine as he approached him, pressing the sharp tip to his jean-clad thigh. Henry growled deep in his throat, gritting his teeth and flexing his arms as Emilio slowly pushed it into his leg; breathing heavily and teeth tearing into his bottom lip, blood dripping down his chin.

“We can do this for a very long time, Mr. Cavill.” Benji said, crossing one leg over the other and tilting his head as he watched the blade of the box cutter disappear into Henry's meaty thigh. “Even after we find her. But, I find it curious that a High Marshal would go to such lengths to protect a Slave he bought, even if it was part of a sting operation.”

Henry blinked at Benji, the searing pain of the blade cutting through skin and muscle momentarily forgotten.

“Oh, yes. I know it was you that bought her from Twist. That you were the one that was undercover at the warehouse. It's all in the paperwork.” He explained, motioning to the shattered tablet laying on the ground. “The report your superior typed up after the fact, your own reports while undercover and afterwards. A high bred, high standing Londoner, with a life and connections anyone and everyone would die for, protecting some Slummer that was just part of the job.”

“Why are you protecting her?”

“Like you said,” Henry answered through clenched teeth. “It's my job. I'm supposed to protect her until she testifies.”

“Nothing more?” Benji poked.

“Nothing.” Henry seethed, his dull fingernails cutting into the skin of his palms.

He wasn't going to show or give away that he loved you, that would only cause more issues and add to the endless list of things Benji and his men could use against him, to torture and torment him into give you up. No, he buried those emotions and thoughts so deep inside of himself, it was as if they never existed to start with, building an iron-clad fortress around them and you.

“She means nothing to me, other than getting her to testify against you, then send her back to the hell hole she was born to and I can get my life back.”

“Well, if you tell me where she is, I can let you go.” Benji replied, regarding Henry. “I'll even have one of the boys drive you back to London, safe and sound, and you can go back to your job as a High Marshal.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Henry laughed at him. “My job is to stop you, and you'd let me freely continue to do so?”

“Yes.” He nodded, pressing his lips together. “All the Councils of London have been hindering my family's business for decades, and we're still sitting fat, happy and rich here in Bristol. So, one little High Marshal, like yourself, won't even be a thorn in my side. What do you say, Henry? Give us the girl and we'll have you home by morning?”

Henry leaned forward, never breaking eye contact with him. “No.” He said, softly, but with clear malice.

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mari-beau · 3 years

Text

GIVE ME A REASON: PART ONE -A Rogue One Fanfic

So… This is my playing with Jyn and what happened Post-Scarif in my headcanon where Cassian and Jyn survive. Sort of a companion piece to my fic ‘Partners’ (in that it takes place in the same sort of AU).

Title: Give Me A Reason: Part One

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Jyn Erso POV, Cassian Andor

Pairing: Cassian/Jyn (mostly pre-ship?)

Spoilers: Rogue One; Episode IV A New Hope

Setting: Post-Rogue One AU (Cassian & Jyn live); Also during/post A New Hope

Warnings: None? (references to scars/wounds and some hurt/comfort, angst? Half-nakedness? Jyn being a bit of an overprotective b****?)

Words: 1283

Summary: Jyn’s entire universe has been turned on its head, so maybe she’s clinging a little too hard to the one thing she feels certain of (strangely enough) as she tries to figure out her place in the galaxy. And maybe she’s being a little overprotective of a wounded captain.

There was a buzzing in Jyn Erso’s head. It cut through the blissful haze, sharp and shrill.

No.

Was her first and only thought. The buzz stopped.

Mmm, better. She turned her face into the fragrant warmth of bare male skin, and sleep settled back over her like a blanket.

Another shrill buzz tore that pleasant blanket of contentment off her with a jarring shock.

Fine.

She opened her eyes, found her companion still fast asleep -which was good, he needed it- realized the buzzing was the door chime and made her best attempt to slip out of the bed without waking him. Fortunately, his sleep over the past few days had been more akin to comatose unconsciousness, and he didn’t even stir.

Son of a Vekrak.

Jyn looked around the small military quarters but ultimately gave up. Her clothes had disappeared when she’d woken up in the infirmary, replaced with a medical tunic and pants, which were currently in a pile buried beneath other dirty clothes in the corner of the room. But any body parts the sight of which would scandalize most species, were covered, and as for others, well that was whoever was disturbing her nap’s problem.

And she had to get to the door to cease the annoying buzzing alarm before the idiot disturbed her companion as well. Or else, she might not be responsible for what she did to them.

Not if they caused Cassian Andor any harm, in any form, even if it was just waking him up.

Jyn tapped the door controls a little harder than necessary, but preempted another buzz of the chime, the intruder standing in the hall with their finger raised to the outside controls.

It was a woman, in Alliance uniform, who promptly came to attention. Why exactly, Jyn couldn’t guess. Jyn may have led a tragedy of a suicide mission on behalf of the rebellion, but she hadn’t officially joined up, had no rank (or probably right to even be) on the Yavin 4 base.

Oh.

The formality of the woman’s response was to mitigate her obvious surprise and discomfort. Her blue eyes wandered about rather frantically, taking in Jyn’s appearance, the quarters behind her, the bed with the (hopefully still) sleeping captain who looked like he’d been through a war, which he literally had. Her eyes went back to Jyn, avoiding her face, lingering a little bit too much on the non-soldier’s bare legs. Apparently, the undergarments she had borrowed from Cassian’s meager stock of clothing did not merit ‘decent enough to answer the door’.

It wasn’t like they were too tight, revealed too much… Okay, so the sleeveless undershirt was thin enough that Jyn’s nipples probably showed through, but while it probably fit Cassian pretty snug, it was not like it was skin tight on her. And the undershorts were likewise a little loose, which had forced her to roll the waistband down to below her hip bones. But still… Hadn’t the woman ever seen another woman sleeping in a man’s undergarments?

Blue eyes darted to Jyn’s rat’s nest hair, fell to her mostly exposed shoulder, the one with the angry looking blaster scar, still fresh, pink and aggressively thickly textured.

Jyn sighed. Honestly, could she blame the woman for staring?

“Can I help you?” she asked, taking pity on the soldier.

“Uh, yes, uh… Miss Erso.” The blue eyes finally settled on Jyn’s face and the woman seemed to steel herself to face the uncivilized heathen. “I’ve been sent with a request from Command for Captain Andor.”

Jyn narrowed her eyes as the woman’s gaze slid past the half-dressed civilian again, this time for more than a glance at the man lying in the bed, who was even more naked than Jyn was, as she’d left him in just a pair of undershorts, a lightweight blanket only covering his hips and upper thighs. Parts of him were still covered in bandages, his skin discolored with bruises both dark and faded, a fresh blaster scar on his side to match Jyn’s. Nearly every vulnerable part of him was exposed. But the base was on a farking jungle moon, and while the higher ups’ quarters likely had decent environmental controls, it could get stifling in the lowly spy-captain’s small room, especially with two bodies squeezed into the same narrow cot.

But Jyn wasn’t about to sleep anywhere else. For her own sanity, she had to be close, until she was certain he could protect himself again. He was too vulnerable as he recovered from his Scarif injuries. He was too vulnerable to be ogled by some Alliance messenger girl.

Putting a hand on the doorframe, Jyn moved to fill the space as best she could with her petite body, blocking the other woman’s view of Cassian as much as she could.

“He can’t take any of Command’s orders,” Jyn said, knowing the underling didn’t deserve her disdain but unable to keep the bitterness from showing. Cassian had given everything just short of his actual death to the rebellion. “He’s on medical leave.”

Force, he couldn’t yet stay awake for more than a handful of hours a day, could barely stand upright, let alone walk more than a few steps.

“They want you both to come to the ceremony this evening,” the messenger girl said hastily, slurring most of the words together as Jyn reached for the door controls to close it in the soldier’s face.

Jyn hesitated, completely thrown. “Ceremony?”

“To recognize the heroes that defeated the Death Star. And to honor those who lost their lives, in that battle. And on Scarif. As the only Alliance survivors, Command wanted you and Captain Andor to be present.”

Jyn rolled her eyes. What difference to the dead did it make? Why should she care about appeasing Command’s conscience? It wasn’t worth dragging Cassian from his recovery to be paraded about so the Alliance could feel good about itself. Jyn had done what needed doing, just as Cassian had, just as the others had. It was pain and sorrow and death. And no amount of ‘thank you for your valor’ or whatever bantha shit would make it better.

The satisfaction, the only justification that soothed Jyn’s conscience, was that they had done the job, had defeated Krennic. But what if Cassian needed more to assuage any survivor’s guilt he’d been accumulating? Beneath that stoic exterior of his, she sensed a very soft, troubled soul.

“I’ll tell the captain when he wakes,” Jyn said. “It’s his decision. He might not be up to it.”

“I’ll inform Command that you may be absent.” The soldier shifted her weight. “It starts in 3 hours.”

Jyn frowned. “That’s kind of last minute.”

“Well, once the decision was made to evacuate, there was a bit of a rush to-”

“Evacuate?!” Force, you hole up in a man’s bed for a few days and you lose all touch with the outside world.

“Uh, yes. The Empire is sending a fleet as fast as possible to destroy Yavin base.” It was apparent on the woman’s face that this quick task someone had sent her on was turning into a conversation she hadn’t bargained for. “Someone should be around with your evacuation unit assignment soon. Captain Andor will probably either be grouped with his Intelligence garrison or…” Another glance at the unconscious wounded man (which Jyn didn’t know why it irked her that someone dared look at him, but it got her temper up fierce). “Or he’ll be put in with medical evac.”

The soldier had made no implication either way, and Jyn didn’t even bother asking whether she’d be assigned to the same unit as Cassian. Because it didn’t matter what the Alliance said, Jyn wouldn’t be leaving his side.

Read Part Two

#fic: Give Me A Reason #Rogue One #fanfiction #rebelcaptain #Jyn Erso #Cassian Andor #but like mostly Jyn in this chapter #hurt/comfort #possessive!Jyn #this is going to be multiple chapters/scenes #but like I needed to get it out before moving onto the trash 'mission fic' that's plaguing my imagination

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98prilla · 4 years

Text

Abductions, Past and Present

AO3

...

He looks up at the sound of quiet footsteps coming down the ramp, only half surprised to see Virgil, who wraps a blanket around his shoulders, before sitting down beside him with his own, head deep in his hood, dark eyes shining as he looks up at the stars.

“How is he?” Comes the soft question. Patton looks up at the stars as well, a soft breath escaping his lips.

“Lost. It must be terrifying, to go from having no choices, no power to make your own decisions, to having complete control over your life. He doesn’t know how to use that, anymore. Doesn’t know what to do with it all, what to do with himself.” Virgil huffs, arms wrapping around his knees.

“Yeah. I was… a bit like that. When I first joined up with you. It seems silly, now, that I was ever scared of you, Pat, but I was. I was terrified, what would happen, when you found me.”

…

He hadn’t been invited on board. Patton and Logan hadn’t even known he was on board. They’d had a brief stopover, to refuel, on his home planet, spent barely twenty minutes there, total, at the small waystation, not many people enjoyed spending time near the presence of wraiths.

Virgil himself included.

He doesn’t know, still doesn’t know, how he found the courage to sneak aboard, when no one was looking, it wasn’t all that hard, he just slipped into the shadows and slipped into the hold, trying desperately to contain his fear so it wouldn’t spiral out and affect anyone else, so it wouldn’t seep through to them, so they wouldn’t notice anything amiss.

He hated the planet, after all. Hated the cold cruelty of the place, the eerie darkness, the icy fear always trickling down his spine. They fed off negativity, off fear, and there was no one easier to scare and frighten and torment than him. No one to protect him, from the others. No one to stay for. He saw a way out, and he took it, intending to simply slip off at the next stop, whatever that was, and find a way for himself, maybe beg, do simple chores for pay, do something. He hadn’t intended to be found.

He’d been hiding out for maybe a week, in the storage hold. He was cold and hungry and tired, huddled in the corner, behind some crates, curled around himself, shaking. He’d felt fuzzy and strange, and realized that was probably due to the whole not eating thing, but he couldn’t find the bravery to go scope out, to scrounge for food, he just had to hope they’d set down soon.

An arm on his shoulder had woken him. He’d screamed, hoarse and cracked, woken out of his light, fitful sleep, warm hands on him, and he was afraid, waiting to be thrown into a nightmare, into whatever hell world they’d chosen this time, curling tighter, arms coming up to cover his head in the meager defense he could provide for himself.

“please… please don’t… please… s-sorry, s-sorry…”

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s ok, I’m not gonna hurt you, kiddo. You’re burning up, when was the last time you ate anything?” He’d shrugged, scared out of his mind, breath speeding, because he was caught, he’d been caught, and what were they going to do with him?

“dunno. L-last st-op. Imma… wraith.” He mumbled, waiting for the fear, the derision, the pain.

“Oh, baby. Can we get you upstairs?”

“What… what’re y-ou gonna do, w-ith m-me?”

“Get some food in you, to start, and some water. Then get you all cozy on the couch, with plenty of blankets and pillows, something to bring down that fever of yours.”

“Y-you’re not m-m-mad?”

“Of course not. You were scared enough to stow away, to leave your own planet behind and hide out in a ship you had no idea how friendly or cruel the occupants of it were. I think that speaks for itself, kiddo. I’m not mad. I just wanna help, ok?” Patton had asked, and he’d hesitated for a long moment, before nodding.

“O-ok.” He’d realized his teeth were chattering, flinching as he felt arms around him, lifting him gently, as he passed out.

It had taken him a long, long time, to open up to any of them, to say anything without prompting, really, he was quiet and meek and half shadows, most of the time, unable to keep his form physical with the endless fear creeping through him. No one was allowed to touch him. Not even Patton. Any sudden movement sent him tearing from the room, and he spent most of his own time locked in his own, still convinced that they would send him back, jettison him off, kick him off at the next planet and never look back.

It was Logan, oddly enough, that wore him down. He always said what he thought, always pointed out the obvious, always answers with the truth, no matter how hurtful or blunt it is. That pure… obliviousness… to the concept of deception, was what finally convinced him, that they truly did want to help, wanted to let him have his space, wanted to just… be there.

He’d never had kindness before. He didn’t understand, kindness. He didn’t understand why they were being so nice to him, when he hadn’t done anything besides flinch and hide and recoil from their touches, their gazes, their attentions.

That’s what had led to him sitting on the middle of his bed, huddled in his blankets, shaking as he sobbed, not looking up at the soft knock on his door, letting out something that might have been a strangled ‘come in’. For once, he didn’t flinch away, as Patton entered the room, as he sat down on the very edge of the bed, looking at him with soft concern and warm care, and he just… broke. He fell into Patton’s arms and just broke.

…

He comes out of his own thoughts at Patton slipping a hand into his, and he smiles wryly up at the moon, shaking his head.

“sorry. Just…” He trails off with a sigh, closing his eyes for a long moment, trying to steady himself.

“I know, Vee. They’ve come so far, already. And you… I’m so proud of you, Virgil. I really, really am.” He looks away, face red, hiding the small smile in the blanket around his head, smile growing as Patton rests his head on his shoulder, nuzzling against him.

“Pat, you’re making it really hard for me to nostalgically mope.” He mutters, Patton laughing softly against him.

“Good.” Patton says, wings uncurling and stretching out behind him as he yawns.

“Should you head in, Pat?” He asks, amusement coloring his tone, as Patton shakes his head.

“Roman wanted to stay outside. I wanna let him get as much fresh air as possible. aThey’ve been… confined, for too long, Virg. They’ve been through so much, I just wanna let him have whatever he needs.” Virgil smiles fondly, laying his blanket on the ground behind Patton.

“Alright. Lay down.” He orders, gently pushing Patton’s shoulder, who goes over with little resistence, a little giggle, stretching one wing out, resting Roman atop it, curling his other wing over him as he lays down, holding him close, Roman’s hands gently curling into his feathers, nuzzling against them, snuggling into the softness. He smiles as Virgil tucks the other blanket tight around them, before leaning down and kissing the top of his head softly.

“I’ll keep watch, Pat. Sweet dreams.” In the blink of an eye, Virgil vanishes into the shadows, though Patton knows he hasn’t gone far.

“G’night, Virg. Love you.” He mumbles, already slipping asleep as the cozy warmth seeps into his bones.

…

He wakes up screaming. For the first time in a little over three years, he wakes up screaming, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth, swallowing down the sound, choking on it, praying no one else has heard him, he doesn’t want to bother them, and he buries his head in his hands, trying to get a grip, because it wasn’t real, he knows it wasn’t real.

The white hospital bed. Firm, cold shackles against his upper arms and wrists, holding them tight to the armrests of the chair. An IV in his arm, pumping him full of vitamins and minerals and a mild sedative, something to keep him still against the sharp stings of pain as they carefully peel off every scale. He watches in quiet, morbid, fascination, as his arms turn from gold to crimson, as he starts to shiver, even the heating light they have on above him not enough to keep him warm, against the blood loss.

It’s still another hour before he’s hazing in and out of awareness, another half hour before they call a stop, binding his injuries with curt, steady motions, guiding him back to his small room, nothing more than white walls, floors, ceiling, a hard bed, a warm blanket, it must be night, because the uv rays are off, as they emotionlessly deposit him on the bed, as always, locking the door behind them without a word.

Tomorrow they’ll take more scales, until he doesn’t have any left. He'll be sick and shaking and unable to keep any food down, they'll hook him to more IVs to keep him alive, until his scales start to regrow and just when he’s starting to feel alright again, they'll pluck him clean once more.

That’s his life. That’s all it’ll ever be. A sickly, half conscious life, hazed over with fever and pain, dying slowly from lack of contact, lack of socialization, lack of touch.

…

A knock on his door has him jolting, a strange foreboding in his chest, a tightness to his lungs, and he hears someone speaking, but they sound a million miles away, and he’s petrified, he can’t seem to move a single muscle, he’s frozen in place, though his mind is screaming at him, to do something, anything, he can’t, as his vision swims, he can’t.

All he can hear is the chiming tone that tells him its time to get up for the day, to put on his loose, white clothing, to quietly eat his meal, to sit on the bed and wait silently for them to come retrieve him, to keep his eyes down and his hands in front of him, to make no motion until told, otherwise they’ll be forced to retaliate to protect themselves, regardless of whether he’s attacking or not.

He's never attacking. He’s too scared, too well trained, to attack, to try anything, at this point, he knows it would be useless. Even if he bit one, two of them, sent them shaking and convulsing to the ground, there would be more, and he can’t fight through them all, can’t make it out of this facility, wherever it is, doesn’t even know if they’re on a planet or drifting in space, and there’s no point to resisting. Better to be compliant and meek and do as he’s told.

Another soft knock, voice a bit louder, more concerned, gives him enough, shocks his mind, his system enough to break out of his stupor, to move, to stumble, stagger, trip over his own feet through a tilted, spinning world speckled with dark spots, to make it to the door, fumbling with the locks before finally managing to undo them, knowing that voice will somehow make this better, will somehow keep all of that from happening, will somehow get him out of here, where there’s no space and air and light and he can’t breathe or see or speak.

The door opens and he falls, though warm arms catch him, the voice inhales sharply, speaking, though he still can’t hear, he should be able to hear him, he can get the sense of what he’s saying, but not the words, and dimly he registers the arms moving, scooping him up, off the ground, and he clings to the voice, as they carry him somewhere else, somewhere open, more space, before sitting down, though not letting go.

He registers counting, a slow, steady rhtym, one he knows, one he uses, one he tries to emulate now, in fits and starts, feeling a hand softly running up and down his arm, shivering as it touches his scales, phantom pain making him flinch, and the movement stops.

“N-no… D-d-don’t…” He can’t choke out more than that, but they seem to understand, resuming their gentle up and down motion, especially light and gentle over his scales, slowly soothing him, because no one besides his crew, his friends, his family, are allowed to touch them, and only they have ever been this gentle with him, and as his breathing finally starts to even, his heart rate starts to beat normally, copying the rhythm it can feel from the warm body pressed against his, his vision starts to clear, and he slumps forwards, the tension leaking out of him as he presses his head into Logan’s chest, trembling as he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Janus?” Comes the soft, quiet question, and he nods, even that motion takes too much effort, too much energy, but he summons his words anyway.

“yes. ‘M here.” He mumbles, feeling Logan’s own relieved breath, his arms wrapping securely around his back, holding him close, as he realizes tears are slipping down his cheeks, unbidden. “sorry. Didn’t… didn’t mean to wake you.” Logan shushes him, slowly rocking him back and forth.

“No. I’m sorry. I should have realized, today’s events would be triggering. One of us should have checked up on you, after you settled Remus.” He shivers, folding tighter against Logan, exhaustion from the fading adrenaline and panic attack shattering his normal walls.

“If he hadn’t been there… Lo, if he hadn’t-“ He breaks off, choking on his words, on his fear. “I can’t do it again. I c-can’t… I didn’t know, then, but I do, now, and I c-can’t-“

“Shh, shh, shh, I know, I know, Janus. But you don’t have to. You will never, never have to go through that again. You’re safe, you’re safe, Janus, and we, I, will never let that happen to you again. I promise.” Logan murmurs, gently running his thumb in circles against Janus’s cheek, the other wrapped around his waist to keep him steady. “I promise. I’m not letting go, alright? Get some rest. I’ll keep anything from harming you, while you sleep, I promise.”

“N-not… Y-you and P-patton and Vi-rgil, c-can’t let them… can’t h-ave y-y-you-“ He can feel Janus already starting to drift, unable to hold on to awareness, after such a strong attack, plus his already elevated exhaustion and worry and stress, his words making his heart ache, because despite everything, Janus was focused on them, worried about them, getting taken, keeping them safe.

“We’re all ok, Janus. No one is going anywhere. No one is leaving. No one is going to hurt them. I promise.” He murmurs, relaxing himself as he feels Janus’s breath even into deep, long, inhales and exhales, going fully limp against him, smiling down at the sleeping Naga, at the trust and faith his friend has in him, to not need locked doors to keep him safe, when Logan is right there, watching over him.

He forgets, sometimes, where Janus has come from. How long, he spent in that endlessly cruel monotonous captivity.

He came so far, so fast, and even now, he masks his pain so well, hides behind that wicked smirk and smooth surety, and its so easy, to forget when they first got to him nearly eight years ago he barely spoke a single word for three months, nearly convincing all of them he was mute. It took him longer still, to understand choices, they had to introduce them slowly, starting with ‘would you prefer A or B' type questions before moving to open ended ones.

It's easy to forget, just how brave he is, acting as their inside man when necessary, posing as a buyer to get onto smuggler's ships, playing the part he hates more than anything, no doubt terrified beneath the surface, because if anything went wrong, in most cases, they wouldn’t be able to get to him in time. But he never backs down, never says no, and Logan knows that Janus would rather perish than fail to free whomever they held trapped, and it scares him, his reckless, fast paced bravery, scares him. Because he is just as terrified of losing Janus as he clearly is of losing them. It makes him hold on a little tighter, continuing to rub Janus’s back, to murmur softly to him, keeping him company through the rest of the night.

@fortheloveofjanus

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mandadoration · 4 years

Text

hound - ix.

summary: As you go around the galaxy collecting your bounties, things are easier between you and Mando, but there’s some kind of uncertainty that swells about the nature of your relationship. Greef Karga calls you out on it as well.

word count: 3, 676

pairing: mandalorian x mandalorian!reader

Warnings: canon-typical violence,

a/n: This is more of a montage sequence? If that makes sense. a/n at the bottom!

chapters: i | ii | iii | iv | v | vi | vii | viii | ix

Read this on AO3

You don’t know how long it’s been when you wake up, but this is the first time in a while that you’ve let yourself slowly get up from sleep instead of waking up disoriented, so you savor it. You had fallen asleep so fast in all your armor that your neck is sore, but you feel more alert than you have in days. It’s not just your body that feels relieved. Your mind is lighter without having your fears locked up inside you.

The Razor Crest is no longer up in the air, and the engines are off. You sit up, stretching and groaning when your spine lets out a satisfying series of cracks and pops.

“Sleep well?” comes Mando’s voice. His head pops up from the top of the ladder leading up to the cockpit. “You woke up just in time. We’ve landed on Atris.” He climbs down the ladder and throws you a packet of pills. You read the label. “I couldn’t find any rations, but I managed to scrounge up some vita-caps and hydration tablets,” he explains.

“These are expensive,” you say hesitantly. Vita-caps and hydration tablets were usually for emergency situations or last-ditch efforts, not because you were too lazy to find food. He shrugs.

“And we’re about to get paid.”

“I think it’s a crime that vita-caps taste so bad,” you note dryly.

“You’re still on that?” Mando asks. After you had swallowed down your meager breakfast, you two had made quick work of getting ready and debriefing each other about the bounty. It was some old droid that had gone rogue, but had valuable information that would’ve let some people in very high places know about some behind-the-scenes romping that went on. This one was an easy job that made a decent amount of money. The conversation between you two had flowed smoothly, your good mood uplifting Mando’s. But the muggy, humid air of Atris has started to sour it.

Mando swats at a cloud of insects as he pushes past the brush, and you pull your boot from the sinking mud of the undergrowth.

“Yes, I’m still on that!” you huff. “Could you imagine that you’re starving, desperate for any kind of food, and your only option is a pill that tastes like the way coarse sand feels?” Mando groans, but it’s half-hearted and obviously for show.

“If I’m starving,” he says, “I would be grateful that I won’t die. No matter how bad it tastes.”

You scoff. “I refuse to believe that you would do that. You complain the most! Next to me, of course, but I--”

He shushes you and halts when he hears a rustle. After a moment, it rustles again, this time accompanied by the squeaking of hinges. You look at Mando, and Mando looks at you, and then you both raise your vambraces and shoot out your grappling hooks. A disgruntled, robotic shout scares birds from the treeline, and more complaints start when you two start reeling the protocol droid in. “That was very unnecessary! Honestly, bounty hunters are so rude.”

“Well, that was easy,” Mando says. He nudges the droid with his boot, distaste seeping into his tone. “We didn’t even have to get to town to find it.”

“You don’t have to do this,” it says mildly. It doesn’t even try to resist you as you haul it up and point you electrostaff at him.

“You’re right,” Mando responds. “We don’t.” But he slaps a pair of cuffs on him and nudges him back the way you came. You don’t think the cuffs are needed for a droid that was meant for translation and communication, but you have a hatred for droids anyways, and you take some kind of sick pleasure in watching it try to keep balance without the use of its hands as it treks through the soft earth. Mando turns to you and picks up the conversation right where you left off. “But I do agree with you that they aren’t the best tasting.”

“Thank you!”

The protocol droid is confused.

“Good thing that took like, what, two hours max?” you ask him. You go through the main processor of the protocol droid and deactivate it before stuffing it in a random cabinet somewhere. It’s clunky and you hope that hadn’t crushed anything important. There was no use in wasting carbonite on him, and honestly you don’t even know if you could safely do that. “You know where that gang member is? Carluis?” Anxiety starts creeping up on you at the memory of Desdre betraying you, of Pretre drugging you up, but you stamp it down before it can creep up too far.

“I managed to track him down,” Mando says. He scrapes the mud off his boots with his vibroblade. “Bastard isn’t even trying to lie low. Apparently, he’s taken over a small fishing village in past the asteroid belt in the Aegis Prime system.”

“A fishing village?” you repeat. “Why? Wasn’t he some big shot spice runner for that little gang he was in?” You take off your cape and finger the frayed and fried hem, but ultimately fold it back up and place it on top of your threadbare blanket. You’ve thought about splurging and buying a cape that was fireproof, but you had decided you liked the burnt look. Made you look roguish.

“Key word being was,” Mando grunts, switching legs to dig out mud from his other boot. “I think he’s gone crazy from withdrawals. Took it out on the nearest community.” You hum.

“So when you say ‘taken over’--”

“He’s basically having his own little dictator moment,” he supplies. “So we get in there, cuff him, stick him in carbonite, and hopefully we’ll be on our merry way to the text target. Freeing the village is just a bonus.”

Things are never as easy as you wished they were.

You and Mando had decided to be stealthy and let the village know you were there to help, but it had looked like they had seen your armor and your weapons and started screaming their heads off, ignoring how Mando had hissed reassurances, thinking that you were also coming to kill them. It also looked like Carluis had time to prepare.

“Kriff off!” Carluis screams, and throws a spear at you that you smoothly step out of the way for, but you have to jump out of the way for the makeshift flamethrower he’s made. And now half of the village is on fire. Because the buildings were made from reeds and wood, the flames leap from hut to hut, eating up a path. Mando has been tasked with evacuating the villagers. He’s ushering people into the treeline, going into burning buildings to try and salvage the most important items, but otherwise yelling at people to leave it behind. That leaves you to deal with the maniac. At this point, he’s screaming incomprehensibly, something about prison and traitor whores.

Most of his body is covered with salvaged metal and some kind of leather, so your medshots are essentially useless unless you can get close enough to exposed skin. With the chaos going around you, you really don’t want to spread the fire any further with your own flamethrower, and people were still running around you, making it too risky to use your blaster.

It’s been a while since you’ve gotten to use your electrostaff.

You sling it off your shoulder and into your hands and activate it, the cold crackle of electricity making the air around you tingle as purple light joins the reflection of the fires. Carluis must recognize that you mean business when his lip curls into a snarl and aims his flamethrower at you. Before he can shoot it, you send out your grappling line, and it catches, and you sharply tug, throwing off his aim so that flame licks at the already-burnt grass at his feet.

“Mando!” he howls, and grabs a stray spear with his free hand to cut the line.

“Nope!” you call out, flourishing your staff. You aren’t normally one to talk during a fight, to talk at all, really, but you’re having fun. Besides, taunting him would only give you more of an advantage. “I’m the other one.” You lunge forward, the tip of your staff crackling as you sweep his feet from under him. He jabs blindly as he goes down, but it bounces off your vambrace and out of his grip. Carluis rolls away, scrambling to get up and away from you, but you’ve shocked his legs and they’re weak. You stroll after him, adrenaline pumping through your veins. He’s quick to give up, the fight leaving him as all he focuses on is surviving. He bulldozes through the random debris, but fires he’s started trap him in the center of the village.

Mando is done with evacuating the village, who are now hiding in a small clearing, and rushes to find you. He knows the village is done for. Whatever fuel Carluis had used wasn’t burning out fast enough, but luckily, the trees are out of their range. He follows the screaming into the village center, where you’re dancing around him as he swipes at you with a small carving blade. He’s wondering if you’re hurt, and he hopes not, but he knows your penchant for getting hurt, but you’re still agile, and if he tunes out the roaring of flames and the cursing of your bounty, he hears you giggle. You’re playing with Carluis, he realizes, and although he’s not the one to waste time and is all for efficiency, this is the first he’s seen you really enjoy yourself. So he stands back and watches.

Mando wonders if you’ve always been like this. Toying with your prey and poking and prodding to aggravate them instead of keeping up a stoic facade to maintain professionalism as you struggle to survive. But that isn’t to say there’s no method to your game. Carluis is a big man, and that’s not including his defensive gear, all hard muscle and protective fat, and he’s got a good foot on you. Even for Mando, dragging him back to the ship would be a difficult feat. You’re tiring him out, using his size to your advantage as you force him to move to keep up, shocking him once in a while to make sure he doesn’t just give up and start running. Eventually, you dig your staff into his side, shocking him for a good three seconds before he falls, limbs shaking.

You hold the staff under his chin, dangerously close as a warning, and kick the flamethrower far out of his reach. You scan him for any more weapons. Mando walks up behind you and throws a pair of cuffs at him.

“Cuff yourself,” he says, and then to you, “Good hunting.” Carluis scowls, but puts on the cuffs anyways, and you haul him to his feet. “But refrain from playing with your food, hm?”

Although Carluis had put up a fight again when you forced him into the carbonite chamber, you had tased him just as Mando had pressed the button, willing him into submission for long enough to freeze him. It’s so much easier to work with someone else, especially when you work well with Mando.

“Next stop?” you ask him. When you turn to look, his hand is halfway in the air like he was grabbing for something or reaching for you. You look behind you to see what he might’ve been aiming for. “What are you--”

“Sorry,” Mando says, “there’s, um, well--” He drops his hand and it swings by his side. He’s flustered and it’s cute how he’s stumbling over his words. “You had, um, ash. On your helmet.” He motions to your head. “Like right, um.” You awkwardly swipe at your helmet. “No, let me- let me just…” You tense up as Mando wipes it off of your helmet.

“Uh. Thanks.” You stare at each for a second before Mando turns away and goes up the ladder.

“We’re going to Ajan Kloss!” he calls down.

Ah that’s right. You have four more bounties to get.

It’s almost laughable how easily you and Mando were good at not talking about things. But you are too preoccupied with trying to ignore how the humidity of the jungle moon was making you sweat to ask him what the kriff happened back on the ship.

“I hate the jungle,” Mando finally complains. “It’s too humid, and there are bugs everywhere.”

“So you admit it,” you grunt out. You swear that a fern or something had just moved on its own, but you’re too busy trying to discreetly wipe away the sweat around your neck. This was such a downside to the Mandalorian life. Why did bounties always go somewhere awful? Couldn’t they go somewhere nice and preferably climate-controlled? Is that too much to ask? It’s always too hot or too cold or not enough air or, Maker save you, lava.

“That I hate the heat? Yes.”

“No. That you complain a lot.” Mando swats at you, and you laugh. Conversation flows so easy between you now, the back and forth banter natural and easy. When you go to retaliate, he’s suddenly gone, your hand going through air where had attempted to playfully jab him. “What the--” Mando’s yelling catches your attention. He’s being dragged away, some vines wrapped around his legs as he claws for purchase, branches snapping.

“Mando!” You immediately chase after him, pulling out your staff as you struggle to keep up. Whatever this plant was, it seemed to have tracked you for a while, the vines slithering back the way you came. You speed up, staff crackling, as you jab it towards the thickest vine. An awful squeal pierces the air, but it lets Mando go and goes up some tree. You catch bend over to catch your breath as Mando groans and flips himself on his back. You stifle a laugh. He’s covered in dirt and grass and what you hope is mud, but you did see a large animal some ways back.

“I’m okay,” he grumbles. “Thanks for asking.” Mando gets up and tries his best to clean himself up, but he just ends up smearing it around. You tuck your staff away, and use the end of your cape to wipe off his visor so that at least he can see. Before you can think about it, you affectionately pat his helmet before you once again being your trek to the last known location of your bounty.

Luckily the bounty, a female Ootoolan, was half-starved and came without any issue, although the heat ended up being too much for her, so you hauled her over your shoulder back to the Razor Crest. On your way there, however, another figure jumped out of the brush, waving a crude sword and babbling in some alien language and pointing to the figure on your shoulder. When you squint, you recognize him as the Devronian that was also, conveniently, part of your list of bounties. You shoot two medshots at him, accounting for weight and height, and he goes down quickly.

The look you give Mando clearly says that you expect him to carry him.

Four down, two more to go.

It’s almost suspicious how easy it was to get all of your bounties, even the other pair that was trying to outrun the Razor Crest on foot, that even Mando is a little on guard. But you aren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so you just attribute it to a stroke of good luck and move on. It’s not until Mando lands down on Nevarro that he finally relaxes. They’re quick to start unloading all of the carbonite slabs off of the ship and the singular droid as you and Mando enter the cantina. Greef Karga greets you warmly.

“Mando and his Hound!” he boasts. “You’ve made quick work! I’m impressed.” Your eye twitches when he refers to you as Mando’s, but you stay silent and slide into the booth, throwing the tracking fobs onto the table. Mando sits next to you, and although he sits a respectful distance from you, his knee leans against yours hesitantly, waiting for you to pull away, but instead you press back. People are whispering about you again, glaring at you in distaste. Probably because you two had taken most of the pucks.

“Easy,” Mando says smoothly. “Almost suspiciously so.” Karga laughs.

“Of course it was easy!” he says, fake surprise lacing his tone. He leans in close. “Two Mandalorians? Especially of your caliber and reputation? It’s no wonder it was easy.” He slaps the table.

“Our payment?” Mando asks. Karga digs into his pockets and pulls out credits, counting them out and sliding it over to you. Mando takes them and tucks them into his bag, intent on counting them out later away from Karga’s eyes. You watch with furrowed eyebrows as Mando moves to leave.

“Aren’t you going to ask for more bounties?” Karga asks, speaking your mind. “I’ve got plenty that I’m sure will catch your eye.” Mando shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving the guild?”

“I’m not,” Mando says stiffly. “And before you ask, neither is Dog.” Maybe you’re destined to always be confused whenever you’re in the same room as Greef Karga because Mando definitely did not talk to you about this. As far as you were concerned, you thought that you would continue the same song and dance of chasing bounty after bounty until one of you bit the dust or Mando got tired of keeping you around. Karga stares at Mando, then you, then back at Mando with an unreadable expression.

“Vacation, Mando?” he asks. Mando tenses.

“Just a break,” he corrects stiffly. “No questions, remember? C’mon, Dog.” You slide out of the booth with one last look at Greef Karga.

“Attachments are dangerous, Mando,” Greef Karga warns cooly. “Especially in this line of work. Don’t compromise yourself.” Attachments? What was he talking about? But Mando leaves before you can give him a questioning look, and you have no choice but to follow after him.

When you get to the ship, you finally speak up, “Why didn’t we take any pucks?” you ask quietly. Mando hands you your share of the credits as he talks. You tuck them away without counting. You trust Mando to give you a fair share.

“I told you, we need to pick up some supplies and get some more stuff before we go out--”

“That’s what you told Karga,” you interrupt. “We aren’t low on anything. Sure, we can refuel and get more supplies, but we usually take pucks anyways.” You cross your arms and stand in his way so that he can’t move past you. “Is it that attachment he mentioned? If you have, like, a secret family that I don’t know about, that’s fine and all, but just don’t lie to me--”

“No, it’s not that. What are you-- Why would I even have a secret family? I don’t--” Mando cuts himself off with a sigh and puts his hands on his belt and leans against the wall of the Razor Crest. “It’s just… We’ve been working non-stop,” he says carefully. He’s thinking about his words. “And while I wouldn’t mind taking on more bounties, I’ve never worked with another hunter this long before.” You tilt your head and motion for him to continue. “So I thought- What I’m trying to say is that I think- Well, actually maybe I should’ve asked you about this--” You spare him.

“You want to take a vacation,” you say for him. You shrug. “That’s fine.” Mando watches you as you start gathering your stuff and folding it to put into your bag later. “You should’ve just told me.” You start making a list in your head. You’ve been sharing rations with Mando, but you were out, so that means that you need to get more with the money you got from the bounties, you can afford to get some more and maybe catch a ship out of Nevarro back to your usual Guild hideout. Or maybe Mando would be nice enough to drop you off. You hope that the good parts of the rumors that’s been circulating about you have reached there by now. That would help with work. “Would it be possible for you to drop me off on in the Yavin system?” you ask him.

“What?”

“Yeah, I don’t have a ship, so I was wondering if--”

“Where are you going?” You blink up at him.

“Um, you said you wanted a break, right? So I’m… leaving?” Mando stays silent, and you start to get flustered. “Um, it’s okay, I’m sure I can get a--”

“No! That’s not what I meant,” Mando says, laughing nervously, but he gathers himself and clears his throat.

You bristle. “Well if you think I’m just going to wait here for you to get back, you’ve got another thing coming--”

“I want you to come with me,” Mando finally explains, and you nearly drop your bag. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he starts. “But I was thinking about how, uh, hard you work and, um,” he’s losing steam as he keeps talking. “I guess I forgot to ask if you even wanted to come with, but I actually do need to get some supplies for the ship, and I thought it’d be nice if, you know, uh, came with and, wow okay I did not think this through--”

“Okay.”

“What?” You drop your bag back on your cot.

“Okay,” you repeated.

“‘Okay’ as in I did not think this through or--”

“‘Okay’,” you stress, “as in I’ll come with you. But also yes, you did not think this through.” You smile, and you know Mando is too. You’ll forgive him this time. Besides, you like it when he rambles.

Maker knows he rambles on enough for the both of you.

a/n: I know this chapter was a little boring in terms of plot, but I took this chapter as a time to really develop their growing relationship a little further in an almost mundane way because let’s face it, taking care of each other’s wounds? Carrying them through the streets while they’re unconscious? That’s like. Tier 5 in terms of relationships I’m pretty sure, and they skipped all of that so….

Hound Tag List: @knockbeforeyouspeak @gothtechie @killtherandomness @cyraris @lustriix @softspacecowboys

#mandalorian reader #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #din djarin reader #din djarin x reader #my writing #din djarin #the mandalorian #mandalorian #mandalorian imagine #fic: hound

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shannygoatgruff · 4 years

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The World Over - Part IV

a/n: Sorry it’s taken me so long to update this. I’m a slow writer with some things and I hit a bit of a stumbling block...however, I think I’m past it now. Hope you enjoy!

Catch Up Here

Part IV - The Nameless Girl & The Faithless Priest

It had only been three years since she left Winterfell with her father and sister, yet Arya Stark felt like she had aged twenty. The corruption in King’s Landing, all of the bloodshed she had seen on the King’s Road and all that she had endured in the House of Black and White had managed to turn her youthful spirit into something that she no longer recognized. This thing, this person she was becoming, was not someone she liked very much. This new version of herself had become detached, cold, and guarded. How she longed for the days when she was once the impish little girl of the North.

Still every bit as impulsive as before, Arya now knew how to hone her skills. Through her various teachers, fighting instructors and learning to survive while traveling through Westeros, she had learned how to watch and stalk her prey, strategize, and wait for the opportune moment to attack. Arya Stark was no longer the wily, hotheaded, passionate, little girl; she was now patient, dangerous, killer that harbored a penchant for revenge.

Arya sat alone on the beach, away from the camp of Wildlings. Annoyed with their crude language, grunts, and stares, she longed for time to herself. She needed to plan how she was going to escape them and leave Braavos for good. There were still many names on her list to cross off, but her work in this city was over. She had learned all she could from the Many-Faced God and it was time to put that knowledge into action, but not in Braavos. The God of Death had plans for her spread his teachings throughout Westeros and she would need to move soon if she was going kill Cersei Lannister and eventually get back to Jon, on the Wall.

Feeling the warm breeze on her face, she looked up at the setting sun and rising moon. Now, she found it hard to image the Westeros skyline with two moons, when as a child she could see it so clearly in her mind’s eye. Her imagination must have been just one more thing that coming south robbed her of – leaving Winterfell had already taken so much from her; her family, her home, herself. Why not her imagination?

Arya closed her eyes against the breeze and the sound of the waves crashing. Toes buried deep in the sand, she lifted her head toward the sky and tried to reclaim some of her childhood memories. She could almost put herself back in her childhood nursery with her siblings, seated on the floor between Bran and Robb while Rickon sat on Sansa’s lap. She could hear Old Nan’s voice recounting the tale of the famed two moons of Westeros, “One day there were two moons in the sky, but one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat. A thousand, thousand dragons poured forth and drank the fire of the sun. That is why dragons breathe flame. One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return.”

When Old Nan would talk, all of the Stark children were left on the edge of their seats.

Arya actually felt goosebumps on her skin at the thought, the same way she did as a child remembering the tale. How exciting that all seemed…fire breathing dragons. All of the children thought that was the best story they had ever heard, except for Sansa, who thought it was utterly preposterous. “That’s not true at all. Dragons come from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. That is just some made-up tale from the tribes beyond the Narrow Sea,” Sansa had corrected their Nursemaid.

Arya had rolled her eyes at her older sister and throwing a wooden toy at her that nearly missed hitting Rickon. That stunt had caused Sansa to tattle, because Sansa always tattled, and Arya had bolted upright and chased her older sister around the grounds of Winterfell at breakneck speed. If Sansa would have just taken back what she said about dragon stories being stupid and for boys, and that Arya was a boy for liking such ridiculous legends, then she wouldn’t have gotten chased.

She felt her lips turn up into a smile when she remembered hearing that her mother was looking for her antics of running around the grounds like a banshee. In an attempt to hide from her mother, she ran to the stables to find protection in her brother, Jon. Together, they hid in a haystack looking at the sky talking about the dragons and the two moons of Westeros. As the sky started to darken from light to dark blue and the twinkling stars began to dot the black, Arya looked over at her brother and asked if he thought the stars were the eyes of the dragons that had died before them.

Jon simply shrugged and mussed her hair, to which she gave him the biggest hug a girl of eight could give her big brother. Jon didn’t make fun of her or tease her too badly. He listened to her and let her dream. He encouraged her and gave her courage. He let her imagine and be wild. Jon believed in her.

If things were only as simple as believing in dragons being born of the moon and hiding from her mother in the hay with Jon.

Jon. How she missed her eldest brother. Jon Snow was the one person in all of the Seven Kingdoms that understood her. He got her even more than her father did. Always her ally Jon felt more to her like her real sibling than a half-brother. Parentage or station be damned, he understood what it was like to be an outsider and never once treated her like she couldn’t be anything in the world that she wanted to be.

Arya could feel herself cringe at the words coming from Septa Mordane’s lips as she would stand over Arya pointing her finger at her in disapproval, “No matter the House, the role of the Lady remains the same. It is a Lady’s must learn needlework – being able to embroider your House’s sigil is a skill that will be left up to you and ladies-in-waiting. Straight lines are imperative. Imagine your husband’s banners marching off to war and with an unrecognizable sigil. Really, Arya, I expect more from a Lady Stark of Winterfell.”

Well, who wanted to be a Lady?

As a Lady, her duty would be to have her father match her to a Lord or Steward of a prestigious house to secure an alliance. She would be expected to bear her husband many children, boys, gods be good, that would carry on her husband’s house’s name so they may be strong wardens and banner-men if ever called on by their Liege Lord or the by the King, himself. Where was the honor in that?

Arya would have rather been swallowed up by dragon fire than have to endure that. Sansa was the one that was interested in all of that stupid stuff. She was the one that wanted to be married to a dumb prince, that would leave her to go off to battle while she sat at home sewing him a flag with their House sigil on it. Arya had always imagined herself being in the battle fighting side by side with the prince.

As the wind shifted Arya’s head turned slowly at the sounds coming from her left. The fine grains of white and gold sand began to carry on the breeze causing her to squint to avoid getting it in her eye. Hands in the sand, she carefully felt around for something, anything, sharp to use as a weapon. The blond Wildling had taken Needle from her leaving her virtually defenseless. If she were going to protect herself from a threat, she was going to have to rely on her cunning to do so. She would need to devise a plan to get back her blade and away from these people to carry out her mission.

Heavy ropes bound his hands and feet making it even harder to walk on the sand. He was hungry, thirsty, and felt as though his limbs were about to give out at any second. His left eye was swollen shut, it was sure to have an infection from the wound he had sustained during the shipwreck and he was sure that his right shoulder was dislocated by the awkward way his arm hung lower than his left. But, he would not show any signs of pain. He would not give them the satisfaction.

Holding his head high he smirked as he was forcefully pushed toward the group of men sitting by the fire. With a smirk on his face, Heahmund Bishop of Sherborne gave a mocking bow toward the man sitting in the middle, “Heathen King.”

Ivar smiled pleasantly at his prisoner, “Bishop Heahmund! What a welcomed surprise.” He let his eyes sweep over the man’s appearance and shook his head at his injuries, “You don’t look well. Having a rough time?” Ivar returned his gaze to the fire and resumed poking it with a stick, “It seems as if your god has forsaken you, yet again. While my gods…they continue to show me favor.”

Bishop Heahmund blinked intense blue eyes before raising his bound hands to his forehead to swat at a sand fly buzzing near his face, “Forsaken me?”

“Yes. Your god has delivered you back to me – brought you all this way, mostly unharmed, through storms and shipwreck, miles from home only to end up here,” Ivar waved his hand around the beach to signify their unknown land, “on this beach as my slave once again.” Raising his water skin to his lips and taking a long slow drink, he made a show of wiping the cold liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, “It seems I’m his favorite son now, Bishop. Not you.”

Heahmund ran his tongue over his dry, cracked lips at the sight of the skin of water. He had to still himself from lurching forward and pulling the pouch from the heathen’s hands. He could almost feel the cool liquid in his mouth, soothing his dry burning throat, but he wouldn’t move. No matter how much his body ached for water, he wouldn’t give the heathen the satisfaction. Instead, the bishop stood tall and looked around the meager camp unimpressed, “And it seems to me, heathen, that the Lord God is punishing you for all of your sins. Your army is scarce, ships in ruin. You hardly have enough food or supplies to care for those in your company. Yet you believe that you are favored? It is your hubris… “

“Enough!” Ivar’s voice carried down the beach causing Arya to turn toward the noise. He let a low chuckle escape his lips, “Take the Christian over to the remains of the ships and tie him up there. I have not decided his fate, yet.” He looked over to Hvitserk who was holding the Bishop under his good arm, ready to take him to his new spot on the beach. “Fetch the slave girl to look at his wounds.”

Heahmund smiled and ducked his head in a bow at Ivar before being yanked off in a direction away from the camp. Letting his eyes roam around the Viking’s meager base he made note of weaknesses in their defenses, and possible escape routes. Once he was settled he would have more time to watch and plan how he would once again get away from the heathen horde.

Arya watched silently as the blonde Wildling led the new prisoner over to the wreckage and tied him to the mast of a ship. Where did these people come from? Everything she had witnessed from them went against everything she had ever been told about their kind. They traveled by ship, they had prisoners…were not they supposed to be nomads that traveled through snow-covered mountains on foot? Didn’t they kill everything in their path? Why would they take a bound prisoner and tie him to a ship? Was this man special? A deserter perhaps? Wouldn’t that be more reason to kill him?

She was roused from her musings as the blond man quietly approached her stopping just short of where she sat to look out at the ocean. He didn’t say anything to her, instead, he breathed in the salt air and released it slowly. He squatted next to her and ran his hands over the sand, picking up pebbles before he stood and tried to skim them over the rolling tides.

“You need to heal the Bishop,” Hvitserk said flinging his first pebble against the rolling water, knowing this was a futile exercise, but happy to have something to do other than look at the girl. Talking to her was frustrating. He couldn’t understand her, and she did not attempt to try to understand him. The more patient he tried to be in communicating with her, the more stubborn she seemed. “He has a cut on his head.”

Arya turned to him with furrowed brows and blinked, “Where’s my sword?”

“I think his arm may be broken.” Hvitserk finished touching his arm in an attempt to try a different means of communication with the native peasant. “Ivar wants you to fix the Christian Priest – who knows why. And it is time to check on Ubbe. Then you may eat,” he rested his hand on the hilt of his broadsword as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

Arya smiled, “Yes, my sword, Needle. I want it back.” She slowly started to stand, wiping the sand off of her legs and hands. “It is very important to me,” she placed her hand over her heart, “It’s mine and I want it back.”

Hvitserk looked at her stance and tilted his head slightly. He raised his hand to his chest and lifted his chin, “Hvitserk,” he dipped his head in her direction for her to repeat her name. Whatever she had said before was too many words for him to try to pick out which one had been her name.

Arya rolled her eyes. What he mocking her or trying to tell her the location of her sword? All she needed him to do was to take her to it. She folded her arms against her chest and looked toward the camp, “Where is Needle?” She spoke slower and louder for the Wildling to understand her.

“Nee-del?” He nodded in her direction with a smile. He pointed to his chest again and dipped his head, “Hvitserk.” When the slave didn’t respond, he shook his head in frustration. “Never mind,” he gently turned her around by the shoulder and headed her around in the direction of the campfire. “Come, you need to see about Heahmund, then check on Ubbe.”

Bishop Heahmund was silent as the two figures approached him from further down the beach. Trying to hide the disdain in his face at the sight of one of the sons of Ragnar, he let his gaze fall on the small girl that accompanied him. She was unfamiliar to him, but judging from her look she was no one of import; probably the slave the heathen Ivar spoke of, though she did not have the look of a Northmen.

“Nee-del,” Hvitserk said turning to Arya, “Bishop Heahmund is a prisoner. Tend to his wounds.”

Upon hearing the name of her sword, Arya looked back at the blond man in front of her, “Yes. Needle. Where is my sword?”

Bishop Heahmund looked at the child quizzically, holding his head a slight angle. The language she spoke was odd, but he thought he was able to pick out a word or two. What she spoke reminded him of Latin, Frankish and a Romanian language he had studied some time ago. “My sword?”

Arya turned to face the priest, her eyes growing large in hope. “Do you speak the common tongue?” she asked, praying to the old gods and the new that he did. Already twelve moons had past and she still knew little to nothing about the people whose company she kept. She didn’t know if they were friend or foe. She hadn’t yet decided when she left if she should add the one that didn’t walk to her list, or if she should leave them in peace. More importantly, she needed to know if they had heard any news on her brother Jon Snow at the Wall.

Kneeling beside the bishop, Arya stretched her fingers toward his arm and watched as he pulled back his shoulder with pride. This movement received him a swift kick in the boot from the blond Wildling, “Are you always such a shit?” Arya yelled, turning her head toward Hvitserk, “This man is hurt and you’re kicking him.”

Heahmund let out a soft laugh as he licked his dry lips. He raised his hand to signal that he was fine. He thoughtfully planned out how to form the words he wanted to say to her, mixing the languages that hers most resembled. He could only hope that she would be able to understand him, “Yes, he is. He is a heathen and has no compassion in his black heart.”

Arya looked at the dark-haired prisoner and considered his words. His words didn’t mean much, they sounded more like a toddler learning to speak. His sentence structure was off, and some of the words did not make much sense, but there was still enough there that she was able to piece together what he was trying to say, “You can understand me?” She watched intently as he thought about what she asked and then nodded slowly. Excitedly, she sat up on her knees and placed her hands on her lap, leaning forward to grill him, “Are you all Wildlings from North of the Wall? How did you end up in Braavos? Have you heard any news of the Knights Watch or what’s going on in the North? What about the Lannisters?”

“You can speak to the slave?” Heahmund watched as Hvitserk pulled the slave girl to her feet. Instead of answering the other man, he remained impassive, looking out at the ocean. “Answer me, Christian!” Cutting his eyes up and to the left, the priest smiled before gently bowing his head and saying prayers of thanksgiving to God. Not only had he been spared from drowning in the storm, but he had been brought to a camp where there was someone with whom he could communicate. If the heathens couldn’t talk to her that was not his concern.

“Until you feel like being more cooperative, your wounds will have to tend themselves,” Hvitserk said roughly pulling the slave girl away toward the fire where the others sat, no doubt to tell Ivar that the Bishop could communicate with their captive.

Heahmund sat uncomfortably against the mast watching the dying embers of the fire. Judging from the placement of the moon in the sky, it was still the small hours of the morning. The Viking encampment was quiet with only a few warriors on patrol. His hands were bound awkwardly, mostly due to the dislocation in his shoulder and the pain in his eye was unbearable, but he would not complain. These small pains were his penance for being weak of body and spirit.

During the storm that brought the ship to this island, there had been times when he had doubted that God would see him through and he had been ready to give up and surrender to death. Instead of praying and believing in God’s plan, he allowed weak thoughts to enter his mind and for the briefest moment, he had almost considered calling on Odin or Thor to calm the storms so that the ship would not capsize.

How could he, a priest, a bishop even, fathom asking a false god for help? He wasn’t a man that feared easily and could not recount another time when he felt desperate. Even still a truly devout man would never consider calling on a savior other than his own. Here he was a warrior for God, and there he was acting like one of the scared sheep in his flock instead of the shepherd.

A warrior for God – that was an oxymoron. The Gospels of the New Testament, devoted to the miracles of the Son of God, the Lord Jesus Christ, explained how He came to the world as the Lamb of God to die for cleansing men of all sin. It was because Jesus paid the ultimate sacrifice man’s sins were forgiven and he could live life eternal in Heaven with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The miracle of Jesus’s birth, life, death, and resurrection is what put an end to God’s display of wrath toward mankind.

Learning these lessons in seminary, and being one of the few that could read the Holy Bible, Heahmund, Bishop of Sherborne fully understood the Word of God. But, the part he could never fully wrap his mind around was why he could never put down the desire to raise a sword and follow the Word. When Rome came to him and told him they wanted him to be a warrior priest, he should have refused, citing that an all-powerful God could raise and destroy an entire nation in a blink of an eye did not need men to raise an army in His name. Or that Jesus, in the New Testament, was a peaceful man and never raised arms. So why, would God need soldiers? But, he didn’t question. He answered the call without hesitation. He picked up his Bible and his sword and pretended not to see the hypocrisy.

But he kept quiet because otherwise, he would have to admit to himself how much he liked the art of war. There was something about being the first one on the battlefield that made him feel powerful. When he commanded an army, he felt more of a sense of purpose than he ever felt leading a church. He would much rather take a life than say a prayer to try to save someone’s immortal soul. Heahmund was born to kill – doing so for God, just seemed like a worthy cause.

He wasn’t a pious man, he was killing machine. He was a captain that needed an army and what better army to fight for than God’s? If that meant that he had to spend time in seminary and study the teachings of the church, he didn’t mind. Men like him, that had a certain, proclivity for the finer things in life, found that the cloth provided him with all that head desired. The church provided him food, shelter, land, station, respect, wealth, and though he would never outwardly admit it, women.

He liked hearing the sound of the blade tear through the soft flesh of a man’s neck. He liked the feel of his steal as it so easily pierced a through a soldier’s belly. He enjoyed the irony smell of dirt and blood that carried on the breeze in the morning, the day after a fight as they walked the battlefield looking for survivors. He even enjoyed watching his fellow soldiers as they mercifully put wounded warriors out of their misery as they scoured the grounds. While he preferred the adrenaline-driven feel of battle, watching a blade pierce through a squirming body and the life force slowly leak out was always a welcomed sight.

But he was nothing like the heathens. He was righteous. Though a God-fearing man, he was not religious, even though he was a priest. Birth order and circumstance forced him into a life of the cloth. Being born the youngest son of Lord Harrowing it was his birthright to join the church, just as it was his eldest brother Hannud to inherit their father’s land and title and his other brother, Harlund, to apprentice for a King’s Knight. Although he would have been more suited for the knighthood, Heahmund understood the importance of duty, and his duty demanded that he follow God and the church, no matter what he wanted personally.

If he were honest with himself, Heahmund would admit that his love of war far overshadowed his love of God. But, as a good Christian and most importantly a priest he had to make everything in his life about the concept of God. His flock wouldn’t know or care if he didn’t fully believe, only if he could make them believe. As long as they believed that he could save their immortal souls that were what was important. It didn’t matter that he was committing sins of his own by bedding every attractive woman in town – he would convince her that she could pray to the Virgin for forgiveness. Nor did it matter that he committed atrocities when he fought – he did all of these things in God’s name.

So why did he hate the Northmen so much? Everything they did out in the open, were the things he did in the dark and repented to God for in shame. Why should those Godless men have the right to live the way that he was meant to, if only he were so brave, and who were they to tell him that he wasn’t brave? What moral code did they live by? They didn’t believe in duty. They didn’t know what it was like to have to give up everything you wanted because it was what was expected of you. Heathens didn’t have a duty, and because of that, they lived in chaos. All of their chaos led to…freedom.

Too much of this freedom made these heathen Vikings think they could do whatever, whenever they pleased; take from whomever they saw fit. They had no rules. No governance. They needed law and order. They needed God. They were lawless, loveless men without a moral compass. And prisoner or not, he would be that morality for these poor sinners or kill them all.

@a-mess-of-fandoms @oddsnendsfanfics @waiting4inspiration @simsadventures @inforapound @dreamlesswonder86, @cornishdawn-blog @naaladareia, @alexa4040 @naaladareia; @youbloodymadgenius @ivarthebloodyking @xbellaxcarolinax

#ivar lothbrok #ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #vikings fanfic #vikings fandom #vikings fanfiction #Viking GOT crossover fic #danerys targaryen #hvitserk #arya strak #The World Over #usershannygoatgruff #shannygoatgruff #shannyland #ivar's heathen army

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mysterioushedgehog · 5 years

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Awesome close read of bookJaime/bookBrienne relationship.

https://www.reddit.com/r/asoiaf/comments/1dl37d/spoilers_all_brienne_and_jaime_an_indepth/

V. Knights in Shining Armor

The previous post in this series demonstrated how Brienne's relationship to Jaime subverts the typical male/female relationship in Westeros. Jaime gave Brienne a sword and a fight instead of roses and kisses. For Brienne, there's much symbolic importance in Jaime's gift of Oathkeeper. It represents a chance for her to redeem herself and Jaime's honor. More importantly, the sword grants her the ability be self-sufficient instead of relying on male gallantry to accomplish her goals (as most women are forced to do).

Another way their relationship subverts gender roles is that Brienne and Jaime have taken turns playing the rescuing knight and maiden to be rescued. At first, the references to traditional gender roles are mostly ironic:

Armed men lined both sides of the brook... “Well met, friends,” [Jaime] called to them amiably. “My pardons if I disturbed you. You caught me chastising my wife.”

“Seemed to me she was doing the chastising.” (ASOS 21/Jaime III)

Later:

After the second time he fell from the saddle, they bound him tight to Brienne of Tarth and made them share a horse again. One day...they bound them face-to-face. “The lovers,” Shagwell sighed loudly, “and what a lovely sight they are. ‘Twould be cruel to separate the good knight and his lady....Ah, but which one is the knight and which one is the lady?” (ASOS 31/Jaime IV)

And:

The eyelid was swollen, but Jaime found he could force it open halfway. Qyburn’s face loomed above. “How did you come by this one?” the maester asked.

“A wench’s gift.”

“Rough wooing, my lord?”

“This wench is bigger than me and uglier than you. You’d best see to her as well. She’s still limping on the leg I pricked when we fought.”

“I will ask after her. What is this woman to you?”

“My protector.” Jaime had to laugh, no matter how it hurt. (ASOS 31/Jaime IV)

Then Jaime does take on the chivalric role of male protector by preventing Brienne from being raped by the Bloody Mummers (ASOS 31/Jaime IV) and rescuing her from the bear in the pit (ASOS 44/Jaime VI). But what distinguishes Brienne and Jaime's relationship from the knight/maiden trope is that they are essentially equal. They've each in turn assumed the role of rescuer and rescued: Brienne saved Jaime from being recaptured by the Starks. Jaime prevented Brienne from being raped. Brienne kept Jaime's spirits up after he lost his hand. Jaime rescued Brienne from the bear pit. Brienne goes off to redeem Jaime's honor. This basic equality was evident when each (amuthingly) kept trying to protect the other in the bear pit:

“What are you doing here?”

“Something stupid. Get behind me.” He circled toward her, putting himself between Brienne and the bear.

“You get behind. I have the sword.”

“A sword with no point and no edge. Get behind me!” (ASOS 44/Jaime VI)

Afterwards, Jaime again ironically casts himself as Brienne's hero, but without the nasty edge:

“Her name is Brienne,” Jaime said. “Brienne, the maid of Tarth. You are still maiden, I hope?”

Her broad homely face turned red. “Yes.”

“Oh, good,” Jaime said. “I only rescue maidens.” (ASOS 44/Jaime VI)

There's always been some mockery mixed in with Jaime's 'flirting'. He behaved similarly to Catelyn Stark while he was a prisoner of war. But at a certain point, he starts to actually care about what Brienne thinks of him. Jaime became aroused in the Harrenhal baths when he saw Brienne naked, though he dismisses it as evidence that he's been celibate too long (ASOS 37/Jaime V). He then tells her his greatest secret though he's not sure why ("Why am I telling this absurd ugly child?" ASOS 37/Jaime V). After he tells Brienne about Aerys's plans to burn down King's Landing with wildfire:

The wench looked ridiculous, clutching her towel to her meager teats with her thick white legs sticking out beneath. “Has my tale turned you speechless? Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar. Something.” (ASOS 37/Jaime V)

After that moment of honesty and intimacy (Jaime bares pretty much everything to Brienne) in the bathhouse, he starts to suppress his urge to be mean to her (ASOS 44/Jaime VI). When Brienne learns about the Red Wedding, "She looked so miserable that Jaime almost found himself wanting to comfort her." (ASOS 62/Jaime VII). He even compliments her appearance at one point:

“Blue is a good color on you, my lady,” Jaime observed. “It goes well with your eyes.” She does have astonishing eyes. (ASOS 72/Jaime IX)

To be clear: this isn't simply a case of 'shipping Brienne and Jaime. I think their changing relationship is significant for their character development. Brienne's growing regard for Jaime, a disgraced knight, echoes her disillusionment with knighthood. Jaime's growing regard for Brienne, a naive idealist, has changed his attitude towards knighthood in a positive direction.

Just as he used to defend Cersei from rude remarks, he chivalrously defended Brienne from Ser Ronnet:

Jaime’s golden hand cracked him across the mouth so hard the other knight went stumbling down the steps. His lantern fell and smashed, and the oil spread out, burning. “You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne.” (AFFC 27/Jaime III)

Jaime is so disgusted by Ser Ronnet that he "charged Red Ronnet with the task of delivering Wylis Manderly to Maidenpool, so he would not need to look on him henceforth" (AFFC 30/Jaime IV).

Contrast the above to the deterioration of Jaime's feelings toward Cersei. Back at the beginning of their journey, Jaime defended Cersei against Brienne ("'You will be courteous as concerns Cersei, wench,' he warned her" ASOS 1/Jaime I). But in the Harrenhal baths, Jaime compares her favorably to Cersei "Brienne caught him before he could fall. Her arm was all gooseflesh...but she was strong, and gentler than he would have thought. Gentler than Cersei," (ASOS 37/Jaime V). Unlike Cersei, Jaime can rely on Brienne, who is kinder and more selfless. Their relationship is far less one-sided.

VI. Warrior, Maid, Strangers

In AFFC, Jaime becomes increasingly disenchanted with his beautiful twin. He's still physically attracted to her, but realizes what a terrible person she is:

Of late, Cersei always seemed to have a flagon of wine to hand, she who had once scorned Robert Baratheon for his drinking. He misliked that, but these days he seemed to mislike everything his sister did (AFFC 16/Jaime II)

Besides comparing her unflatteringly to King Robert, he also compares her to King Aery when she watches the Tower of the Hand burn:

The green light of the wildfire had bathed the face of the watchers, so they looked like nothing so much as rotting corpses, a pack of gleeful ghouls, but some of the corpses were prettier than others. Even in the baleful glow, Cersei had been beautiful to look upon (AFFC 16/Jaime II)

And:

Cersei had never taken kindly to being balked, he knew that. Softer words might have swayed her, yet of late the very sight of her made him angry. (AFFC 27/Jaime III)

Maybe falling out of love with Cersei was inevitable. Jaime's journey with Brienne has changed him so much that even self-absorbed Cersei has noticed:

"...What did they do to you?”

“They cut off my hand.”

“No, it’s more, you’re changed.” (ASOS 62/Jaime VII)

Jaime himself feels like a different man. He's lost everything that made him who he is:

...Half the court no longer seemed to know him. I am a stranger in my own House. His son was dead, his father had disowned him, and his sister... she had not allowed him to be alone with her once, after that first day in the royal sept where Joffrey lay amongst the candles. (ASOS 67/Jaime)

The cooling of Jaime's relationship with Cersei is connected to the evolution of his relationship to Brienne. Her idealism about knighthood has actually rubbed off on the cynical Jaime--a change that irritates the hell out of Cersei, who is more interested in having a co-conspirator than a hero by her side:

[Jaime] Once a man puts on that cloak, it changes him.”

[Cersei] “It certainly changed you, and not for the better.” (AFFC 12/Cersei III)

The twins have become estranged from each other. Remember that Jaime joined the Kingsguard for Cersei, that he tried to kill an innocent child for Cersei. Now he is a stranger to her:

He was your twin, your shadow, your other half, ...Once, perhap...No longer. He has become a stranger to me. (AFFC 12/Cersei III)

And she has become a stranger to him:

I thought that I was the Warrior and Cersei was the Maid, but all the time she was the Stranger, hiding her true face from my gaze. (AFFC 30/Jaime IV)

Embracing knighthood has distanced Jaime not only from Cersei, but from his father as well. Jaime rejected Tywin's offer of Casterly Rock and Lady Margarey's hand in marriage. Astonishingly, the notorious oathbreaker and kingslayer asserted the priority of his vows as a knight and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard even over loyalty to his House:

“I am a knight of the Kingsguard. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! And that’s all I mean to be!” (ASOS 62/Jaime VII)

This is a significant change. When Roland Crakehall found Jaime standing over Aerys's body, "[h]e had not seemed surprised to find Aerys slain; Jaime had been Lord Tywin’s son long before he had been named to the Kingsguard" (ASOS 11/Jaime II). In AGOT, Jaime thought it was more important to avenge Tyrion than it was to remain at his post as kingsguard. Now Jaime prioritizes his duties as Kingsguard over his family duties.

Later, Cersei attempts to seduce him in the White Tower and he rebuffs her advances, telling her he won't have sex with her in that particular place (ASOS 72/Jaime IX). This is interesting since he had no problem violating the sanctity of a sept and his own son's wake in order to fuck his sister. Yet he refuses to do the same in the Lord Commander's apartment. Jaime is taking his position as Kingsguard very seriously.

(Continued in the comments)

#braime

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storm337 · 5 years

Note

"You poor thing. Why would anyone do this to you?" with Host >;3c

@septic-dr-schneep A continuation of this, because I just can’t get this scene out of my head.

Even with the help of the Googles, it takes Iplier hours to clean the creature up and begin treating the copious amount of wounds. Dark hears distressed beeping through the door on several occasions, typically preceded or followed by very human gagging. Iplier is a skilled doctor, a professional of experience, and Dark has to wonder how bad the beast’s injuries are to move the doctor to such sickness. He waits in the hall, impatient and agitated, and listens to the deep growls from within and the soft muttered words of their resident physician as he works frantically outside of his element.

When Iplier does let him back in, eyes red-rimmed and masks layered on his face, the first thing Dark registers is the smell. It isn’t remotely decent, not to mention pleasant, but vastly improved from when Dark found the thing prowling the hallways. The rot and decay that clung to it has dispersed but hasn’t quite yet disappeared from the room at large. He coils his aura tightly around him again, stealing his resolve, and approaches with the same firm quick steps as when he first met the creature.

Its head is propped up on one of the tables, cushioned with layers of towels and blankets to make it semi-comfortable and keep the edge of the table from digging into its throat. The rest of its large body lays on the floor, protected from the cold linoleum only by a meager sheet. The rise and fall of its side is labored and uneven, every inhale a struggle and every exhale a pain. It is still quite filthy, but the wounds on its back and rump have been cleaned, shaved, and bandaged. The wings are untouched, as far as Dark can tell, still sprawled across the ground in large rusty heaps, but a big of dull gold is beginning to peek through. An IV is stuck in the back of the creatures paw, and then further up in the crook of its elbow, the thin tubes and flimsy metal pole the bags hang on looking so small in comparison. Fresh gauze adornes its face, anchored to its limp ears, stray strands of black hair obscuring much of its features.

It is, nevertheless, a familiar face. Dark has no doubt his friend is aware that this creature is here; maybe he foresaw its arrival days ago, but he hasn’t yet left his room to come and investigate. After this visit, Dark decides he will go check on him.

For now, he is preoccupied with the version of the Host in front of him, looking marginally better, but still quite terrible. The Googles work to haul the strange metal muzzle off for disposal. The doctor has disappeared, perhaps to quell his rolling stomach, and Dark relishes the brief moment of privacy and peace. He closes the distance between them, his aura spinning out in long shadows and petting at the Sphinx, crawling up his paws and exploring his form, ruffling his feathers and smoothing down his rumpled mane.

“You poor thing,” Dark murmurs, placing his hand upon the Sphinx's nose, running his fingers up and down the bridge as he had done their first meeting.

The motion rouses the creature, but only marginally. Drugs cloud his fevered mind, fighting his infections but also dulling his perceptions. The Host turns his head slightly, ears flicking weakly, picking up on Dark’s voice but just barely. He settles again as Dark continues his gentle petting, sighing deeply and relaxing for the first time in weeks. He kneads at the blanket, large claws poking small holes into the fabric. A rumble starts in his chest, not a growl but not embodying the strength or the pleasure of a purr. A content noise; a thank you for the rest, for the lack of pain, for the safety.

“Why would anyone do this to you? Who would be able to do this to you?”

Dark doesn’t expect an answer any time soon, but he does expect one eventually. For now, he reaches up to swipe the hair from the Host’s face, clearing his bandages, and pushing the strands back, patting the top of his head gently. For now, the Host will rest and recover, and Dark will turn on his heel and walk briskly away, his aura reluctantly trailing after him.

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acradaunt · 5 years

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EON Playthrough - Week 4

As suggested by last week, ever since getting subclasses, the rotation pool has grown ever larger. Perhaps too large, slowing down levelling to where I'm well below what it expects. This resulted in me making the rather dubious decision to fight the 9th stratum boss at a meager level 50-53, when I imagine the recommended is about 58-60, as all three regional FOEs remained as red.

Still, my stubbornness made me take four attempts to kill the guy, trying different tactics of varying offense and defensive. In the end, Laura frontline Combat Medic-ing beat out actually trying to block his nasty moves with Protector or Zodiac. I don't think Protector was by any means a bad choice, it's just that when the assface panics four of the five party members, your options are to use Healing Touch or to just wipe.

My reward for that was to be greeted by another full-on boss within about twenty minutes. So my efforts to get better gear before doubling back and taking out those FOEs was punched right in the face. Barf. Honestly, I've spent the majority of EO-time this week running around and cleaning things up and getting those awkward tiles on the map in FOE territory, so forward progress has been fairly minimal.

Iris the Protector/Imperial: The main idea with her is that she can use free turns to use a Drive attack and use that Heat Guard make her even better as a meatshield. Also, she was literally in EOIV as an Imperial, so it's only fair. However, the fact is, I didn't even HAVE a Drive Blade until like minutes ago. It's definitely a good fit for her, but things just haven't worked out that way yet, partially because I'm a cheapass. Doubly poor for her, both 9th's boss and 10th's midboss suffer from extreme quickening, getting radically more difficult as the fight goes on. Protection just cannot keep up with bosses who suddenly start taking multiple turns per turn midway into the fight. The only viable option is to carefully whittle them down to about 40%, and then just blow the everliving crap outta them in 3-4 turns. Slow and steady just can't mitigate enough or do enough damage. It's annoying because quickening isn't really a thing often in EO; apart from both Nexus' 4th stratum boss and side-region boss both having it to lesser, more reasonable degrees, the only real instance I can think of is friggin' Star Devourer. Possibly Undead King did? He didn't unlive that long to really know what he could do. It's fine when they take a second action after a set amount of turns (5th boss did this), but when they start doing it every turn, with stronger results? Not really fair.

Klein the Hero/Imperial: Regiment Rave is without a doubt absolutely nuts in terms of damage, but thinking about it, it's somewhat fair. It's a turn-end move, AND its damage comes largely from the rest of the party piling on. If anything goings wrong with anyone, it does fairly blah damage. In those regards, it's basically a stronger but more easily stuffed Link. Like Iris, the Drive Blade hasn't come into play yet, and for him, not sure if it will. Regiment Rave might be all or nothing, but when it is, it's likely stronger than a subbed Drive could hope to be. Its upside and downside is being fire-based, and I'm guessing both 10th's midboss and boss are gonna be wholly immune to that. So he's probably taking a break for a while.

Juri the Survivalist/Harbinger: Apart from her usual job of running nighttime gathering jobs (so you can immediately re-harvest those points when midnight strikes), after taking a good hard look at the 9th's enemies, Juri was a perfect fit to counter nearly every last one of them. Adept at avoiding hitting particular (frontline) targets and the toughest two enemies being easily crippled by Leg Bind and Blind made her exemplary towards the end of the stratum. Not to mention nearly every quest as of late has been simply gather crap from resource points. If you have a Survivalist and dumped them when stratums 5/7/8 were awful to them, look at bringing them back for the 9th.

Kahna the Landsknecht/Harbinger: Yeah, she squarely cracked into the main rotation. Linking is great for quickly subduing random monsters, but she's been performing questionably during bosses and FOEs. Yet I still keep using her. Hmm.

Coral the Landsknecht/Protector: Honestly, hasn't seen too much use since subclasses arrived. Dunno why, as while Kahna is definitely better for randoms, when I've taken her to bosses, she always seems stuck using her subpar Shield Breaks to keep things open for Erika and Olga, barely having time to contribute herself. Coral's at an unfortunate position where she's not as strong as Erika/Olga, and not as versatile as Laura. Landy's Force skill is decent enough, but it sure lacks the oomph of perfectly restoring everyone or killing just everything on screen or completely stealing a foe's turn. It's the same 'slow and steady isn't good enough' problem Iris has.

Laura the Medic/Landsknecht: It seems like in pinch situations, she's going to basically be a frontline debuffer, while Leon runs the healing & buff duty. While she's not as good or as durable as Coral, the potency of Healing Touch is somewhat ridiculous, having torpedoed the two brand new bosses strategies utterly.

Adam the Medic/Zodiac: Unlike Laura's reckless nonsense, Adam does so-so damage in the back, and has multi-hit options. Better for random encounters and those with massive physical resistance, but kind of a waste of TP during FOEs and bosses. They both fill niches, so I'm actively using both. Never at the same time, though. Two Landsknechts work great together, but two Medics sure don't.

Leon the Sovereign/Ronin: As mentioned on Laura, Leon tends to do more HP healing by buffing than the Medic actually does. It's not enough though, as he can't do a thing about ailments or binds, outside of the tremendously unreliable Prevent Order, and even then, it's too late to actually remove the ailment. Or take a mortally wounded character from almost dead to full health. He's more keeping things between okay and good; any critical situation and he's absolutely useless. The idea of Ronin was for him to Air Blade or Arm Bind or at least have SOME kind of offensive move, but he rarely ever has time, and I've also been too much of a cheapass to buy another quality Katana, so he's usually not even using one. He also can't revive at all, which sucks, but I guess not as bad as in IV or V, where Nectars required ultra-rare materials, which are now handed out daily on the world map. By the way, I LOVE map-gathering points. It saves time and money, and actually lets you get useful materials and rare drops without spending weeks running old points and fighting harmless enemies. It just cuts out needless tedium, and you get them only after you're done with the area, so it's not really giving you free stuff until after the prime-time has past, so gathering runs still do have a time and place. Just a lot more dangerous a time and place.

Kagura the Ninja/Ronin: Giving her Ronin suddenly made her do alright damage. Actually, genuinely great damage. Her array of ailments makes her pretty ideal for randoms and getting conditional drops. She would be really good now, if, ironically, Erika hadn't gotten over her own crippling frailness and there wasn't a fight for the back-row slots, with Laura, Leon, and Klein all being row-hoppers. Still, conditionals mean better gear, so I think she's keeping a spot in the rotation.

Erika the Ronin/Gunner: Definitely the workhorse of the entire game so far, Erika's finally getting over her frailty issues and remains a ludicrous source of damage. Gunner subclass and its Double Action is kind of hilarious, as it lets Charging Thrust and Sheath Strike hit twice and get massive Stance refills. I imagine it cuts both ways though, with Helm Splitter/Haze Slash/Horizontal Slash taking 4 Stance points away, but I frankly rarely use them, usually sticking to Arm Strike and Volt Stab and the rare risky Stone Thrust.

Olga the Gunner/Ninja: The other, far more recent, immovable pillar of the party, Ninja hasn't been quite as beneficial as Erika's Gunner, but -2 TP to all moves and better evasion have done plenty for her endurance. I initially planned on Ninja for mass backrow binding, but after learning that creating clones disables your Force meter, I dunno if it's worth it. Double Action and especially Riot Shot are amazing, with the latter being a 'free turn' button, something I'm obviously going to be needing in the extremely near future. I think more than anything though, her being the only person who can use a gun has kept her locked firmly in place, along with getting awesome guns at the exact right time.

Tate the Arcanist/Harbinger: Sorely disappointed. I expected to see pretty big numbers from her shiny new ice Scythe, but, uh, no. After demanding a leg-bind or other evasion down to hit, it still only does barely 60x3 hits. Pretty pathetic. Combined with a form of healing I don't find reliable at all, Arcanists just plain aren't my style. I think she's sitting things out from here, and'll stop getting all that free after-quest XP.

Stella the Runemaster/Protector: Seems like she might be useful for the 10th stratum. The shield helps MASSIVELY with her previously awful survivability, and her TP pool is large enough for her to have some sustain during FOEs/bosses by now, moreso with judicious use of Force. Damage is still iffy, all considered, and the Charges both take a turn and seem to absolutely suck, unlike V's Warlock.

Terra the Highlander/Protector: Like Tate, has been sucking down all the free XP but hasn't done anything since forever ago. Now that she's got ways to handle single targets, she's probably pretty good again, just hasn't found a way in. I'm probably missing out.

Yai the Pugilist/Ninja: Repeat previous statement. Pugilist needs a lot of both Skill Points and TP to be useful, and I'm getting to the point where she's probably almost there. Perhaps like Erika, she's over her ridiculous frailness by now, but I just don't see any circumstances where she'll outperform Olga. Actually, y'know, obvious answer. Olga's stupidly slow. Sure, she binds great, but after I've already been trampled that first turn. As with Terra, it's less about overall usefulness and more about not seeing a great Cestus or Spear come along that's kept them on the benches and Olga off them.

#Etrian Odyssey #Etrian Odyssey Nexus #EON #EOX #EO #EO Nexus

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hotniatheron · 7 years

Text

Request: Gimme some of that jedistormpilot with an Arthurian AU twist?

for @chutzpahhooplah

She is the daughter of Jedi and Queens. Royalty and mysticism, she is the one the galaxy charges the restoration of balance with. She wields the sword and strikes the final blow. She takes the throne and kneels at the feet of her people. Those who have been abandoned know that true evil is turning a blind eye to those in need. She is a Warrior, but her title as Queen is Benevolent One. She who grew up without love is bursting with it, and seeks to protect the galaxy from darkness, to keep it at bay with the Light bursting from her fingertips. All are free to sit at her table and partake.

Long ago in a galaxy far away, there were two twins borne of a dying queen. It is her light that thrums through them, bright and powerful, that strangles the darkness of their father like a snake. Her twins are born with thorny brambles around their hearts, so they can live and fight and rage, rage against the dying of the light. Her dying breath was an oath of justice sworn against a lover turned hated adversary.

Poe is the one crowned in starlight, most of his life spent drifting through the sea of stars, their cores pulsing in time with his heart. The Force does not reside in his veins, he was not chosen, but the sanctified blood of the rebellion flows through his heart. He is the one that chooses, his crown is a helmet streaked with the bright red of honor for the fallen. He is not king, he does not command the galaxy, but deep in the misty forests of Yavin IV stands a temple ingrained with the blood of his ancestors. His hair, the color of the soil, with the shape of the vines. Eyes, brown like the silt of the riverbed, twinkling like sunlight on placid lakes. Poe Dameron is not a king, but the galaxy loves him more than any other, this child of the earth and water so eager to soar towards the stars. So his wish is granted, and he becomes the crux of a new era, the heart of the resistance. The flame of rebellion. His name would be Ruler of Avalon were this a different galaxy, not so long ago.

The twins circled each other like a binary star, so close and yet one burns brighter. She, the one clad in white and with rivers of dark brown hair, is white hot. Angry and tempestuous, stubborn, brave. She is born with fire in her heart and a head held high with royal resolve. He, the one raised in a meager lifestyle, who knows that there is no honor in being poor, only hardship and a tenacious desire to survive out of spite to what life has granted you. One who will never bow because he knows what it’s like to be on your knees, subjugated, scratching in the dirt for a living. So he is the one to pick up the sword to defend the right to stand unbowed. She is the Queen and he is the Lionheart.

Finn, oh blessed one, pure of heart and most worthy. The one who has the Lightsaber placed into his hands, and who wields it without pause. Brave and loyal, the title of traitor cannot be placed on him. There is no crime in shedding darkness. It is not wrong to protect your heart with righteousness and love. (Love, love, love, that you have never been able to share. And now you are able to share it with Rey, the Ruler, and Poe, the Sword. Now there is you, the Light, to fill the gaps inbetween). Rey is crowned by the Force and Poe, the stars, but it is Finn who wears the crown of the people. Finn who holds their hearts in the palms of his hands, and breaks the chains of the First Order out of love for them. Finn, most noble and beloved, you are a Knight. It is you who will strike the killing blow against the the darkness.

The twins are not the ones to defeat the darkness. They drive it out, send it running, but they fail to kill it. Fail the send it scurrying back to the shadows of the galaxy. They do not defeat it, but they set the foundations for those who will. They forge the sword, they establish the kingdom, they become legends that inspire the knights. It has always been this way. There are those who reveal the Light, and then there are those who wield it.

#HAY BOO I LOVED WRITING THIS HERE U GO #star wars au #fic asks #my writing

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kathleenseiber · 4 years

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IV delivery dramatically ups TB vaccine’s power

Delivering the tuberculosis vaccine intravenously makes it more effective than the standard injection into the skin, a new study with monkeys shows.

Worldwide, more people die from tuberculosis (TB) than any other infectious disease, even though the vast majority receive a vaccination. The vaccine just isn’t that reliable, researchers say.

Now, the new findings in Nature suggest that simply changing the way doctors administer the vaccine could dramatically boost its protective power.

“The effects are amazing,” says senior author JoAnne Flynn, professor of microbiology and molecular genetics at the University of Pittsburgh Center for Vaccine Research. “When we compared the lungs of animals given the vaccine intravenously versus the standard route, we saw a 100,000-fold reduction in bacterial burden. Nine out of 10 animals showed no inflammation in their lungs.”

Flynn’s team tested several routes and doses of the only commercially available human TB vaccine, Bacille Calmette-Guérin (BCG), which is made of a live, weakened form of TB bacteria found in cattle.

The BCG vaccine is among the most widely used vaccines in the world and has been around for 100 years, but its efficacy varies widely.

Nearly full protection

The idea for an intravenous TB vaccination came from earlier experiments by the study’s other senior author, Robert Seder, at the Vaccine Research Center at the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases. Seder showed in both animals and humans that the malaria vaccine is more effective when delivered intravenously.

To test whether the method of administration matters for TB, Flynn and colleagues separated their colony of monkeys into six groups: unvaccinated, standard human injection, stronger dose but same injection route, mist, injection plus mist, and finally, the stronger dose of BCG delivered as a single shot directly into the vein.

Six months later, the researchers exposed the animals to TB and monitored them for signs of infection.

Monkeys are extremely susceptible to TB. All of the animals who received the standard human dose had persistent lung inflammation, and the average amount of TB bacteria in their lungs was only slightly less than in the monkeys who received no vaccine at all. The other injected and inhaled vaccines offered similarly modest TB protection.

The intravenous vaccine, on the other hand, offered nearly full protection. There was virtually no TB bacteria in the lungs of these animals, and only one monkey in this group developed lung inflammation.

“The reason the intravenous route is so effective,” Flynn explains, “is that the vaccine travels quickly through the bloodstream to the lungs, the lymph nodes and the spleen, and it primes the T cells before it gets killed.”

Can IV TB vaccine work in people?

Flynn’s team found BCG and activated T cells in the lungs of all the intravenously vaccinated animals. Among the other groups, BCG was undetectable in the lung tissue and T cell responses were relatively meager.

Next, the researchers plan to test whether lower doses of intravenous BCG could offer the same level of protection without the side effects, which mostly consist of temporary inflammation in the lungs.

But before researchers can test the method in humans, they need to know that it’s not only safe, but also practical. An intravenous vaccine requires more skill to administer and carries a higher risk of infection.

“We’re a long way from realizing the translational potential of this work,” Flynn says. “But eventually we do hope to test in humans.”

Additional authors are from the University of Pittsburgh, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Harvard University, and Vir Biotechnology. The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, the National Institutes of Health, and the NIAID Intramural Research Program supported the work. PARI Pharma GbmH provided the aerosol vaccine delivery device.

Source: University of Pittsburgh

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trendingnewsb · 7 years

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Facing poverty, academics turn to sex work and sleeping in cars

Adjunct professors in America face low pay and long hours without the security of full-time faculty. Some, on the brink of homelessness, take desperate measures

There is nothing she would rather do than teach. But after supplementing her career with tutoring and proofreading, the university lecturer decided to go to remarkable lengths to make her career financially viable.

She first opted for her side gig during a particularly rough patch, several years ago, when her course load was suddenly cut in half and her income plunged, putting her on the brink of eviction. In my mind I was like, Ive had one-night stands, how bad can it be? she said. And it wasnt that bad.

The wry but weary-sounding middle-aged woman, who lives in a large US city and asked to remain anonymous to protect her reputation, is an adjunct instructor, meaning she is not a full-time faculty member at any one institution and strings together a living by teaching individual courses, in her case at multiple colleges.

about

I feel committed to being the person whos there to help millennials, the next generation, go on to become critical thinkers, she said. And Im really good at it, and I really like it. And its heartbreaking to me it doesnt pay what I feel it should.

Sex work is one of the more unusual ways that adjuncts have avoided living in poverty, and perhaps even homelessness. A quarter of part-time college academics (many of whom are adjuncts, though its not uncommon for adjuncts to work 40 hours a week or more) are said to be enrolled in public assistance programs such as Medicaid.

They resort to food banks and Goodwill, and there is even an adjuncts cookbook that shows how to turn items like beef scraps, chicken bones and orange peel into meals. And then there are those who are either on the streets or teetering on the edge of losing stable housing. The Guardian has spoken to several such academics, including an adjunct living in a shack north of Miami, and another sleeping in her car in Silicon Valley.

The adjunct who turned to sex work makes several thousand dollars per course, and teaches about six per semester. She estimates that she puts in 60 hours a week. But she struggles to make ends meet after paying $1,500 in monthly rent and with student loans that, including interest, amount to a few hundred thousand dollars. Her income from teaching comes to $40,000 a year. Thats significantly more than most adjuncts: a 2014 survey found that the median income for adjuncts is only $22,041 a year, whereas for full-time faculty it is $47,500.

We take a kind of vow of poverty

Recent reports have revealed the extent of poverty among professors, but the issue is longstanding. Several years ago, it was thrust into the headlines in dramatic fashion when Mary-Faith Cerasoli, an adjunct professor of Romance languages in her 50s, revealed she was homeless and protested outside the New York state education department.

We take a kind of vow of poverty to continue practicing our profession, Debra Leigh Scott, who is working on a documentary about adjuncts, said in an email. We do it because we are dedicated to scholarship, to learning, to our students and to our disciplines.

Adjuncting has grown as funding for public universities has fallen by more than a quarterbetween 1990 and 2009. Private institutions also recognize the allure of part-time professors: generally they are cheaper than full-time staff, dont receive benefits or support for their personal research, and their hours can be carefully limited so they do not teach enough to qualify for health insurance.

This is why adjuncts have been called the fast-food workers of the academic world: among labor experts adjuncting is defined as precarious employment, a growing category that includes temping and sharing-economy gigs such as driving for Uber. An American Sociological Association taskforce focusing on precarious academic jobs, meanwhile, has suggested that faculty employment is no longer a stable middle-class career.

Adjunct English professor Ellen James-Penney and her husband live in a car with their two dogs. They have developed a system. Keep nothing on the dash, nothing on the floor you cant look like youre homeless, you cant dress like youre homeless. Photograph: Talia Herman for the Guardian

The struggle to stay in housing can take many forms, and a second job is one way adjuncts seek to buoy their finances. The professor who turned to sex work said it helps her keep her toehold in the rental market.

This is something I chose to do, she said, adding that for her it is preferable to, say, a six-hour shift at a bar after teaching all day. I dont want it to come across as, Oh, I had no other choice, this is how hard my life is.

Advertising online, she makes about $200 an hour for sex work. She sees clients only a handful of times during the semester, and more often during the summer, when classes end and she receives no income.

Im terrified that a student is going to come walking in, she said. And the financial concerns have not ceased. I constantly have tension in my neck from gritting my teeth all night.

To keep their homes, some adjuncts are forced to compromise on their living space.

Caprice Lawless, 65, a teacher of English composition and a campaigner for better working conditions for adjuncts, resides in an 1100 sq ft brick house near Boulder, Colorado. She bought it following a divorce two decades ago. But because her $18,000 income from teaching almost full time is so meager, she has remortgaged the property several times, and has had to rent her home to three other female housemates.

I live paycheck to paycheck and Im deeply in debt, she said, including from car repairs and a hospitalization for food poisoning.

Like every other adjunct, she says, she opted for the role thinking it would be a path to full-time work. She is so dependent on her job to maintain her living situation that when her mother died this summer, she didnt take time off in part because she has no bereavement leave. She turned up for work at 8am the next day, taught in a blur and, despite the cane she has used since a hip replacement, fell over in the parking lot.

If she were to lose her home her only hope, she says, would be government-subsidized housing.

Most of my colleagues are unjustifiably ashamed, she said. They take this personally, as if theyve failed, and Im always telling them, you havent failed, the system has failed you.

A precarious situation

Even more desperate are those adjuncts in substandard living spaces who cannot afford to fix them. Mindy Percival, 61, a lecturer with a doctorate from Columbia, teaches history at a state college in Florida and, in her words, lives in a shack which is in the woods in middle of nowhere.

Lecturer Mindy Percivals mobile home in Stuart, Florida. Her oven, shower and water heater dont work. Photograph: Courtesy of Mindy Percival

The mobile home she inhabits, located in the town of Stuart, north of Miami, was donated to her about eight years ago. It looks tidyon the outside, but inside there are holes in the floor and the paneling is peeling off the walls. She has no washing machine, and the oven, shower and water heater dont work. Im on the verge of homelessness, constantly on the verge, she said.

Percival once had a tenure-track job but left to care for her elderly mother, not expecting it would be impossible to find a similar position. Now, two weeks after being paid, I might have a can with $5 in change in it. Her 18-year-old car broke down after Hurricane Irma, and she is driven to school by a former student, paying $20 a day for gas.

I am trying to get out so terribly hard, she said.

Homelessness is a genuine prospect for adjuncts. When Ellen Tara James-Penney finishes work, teaching English composition and critical thinking at San Jose State University in Silicon Valley, her husband, Jim, picks her up. They have dinner and drive to a local church, where Jim pitches a tent by the car and sleeps there with one of their rescue dogs. In the car, James-Penney puts the car seats down and sleeps with another dog. She grades papers using a headlamp.

Over the years, she said, they have developed a system. Keep nothing on the dash, nothing on the floor you cant look like youre homeless, you cant dress like youre homeless. Dont park anywhere too long so the cops dont stop you.

James-Penney, 54, has struggled with homelessness since 2007, when she began studying for her bachelors degree. Jim, 64, used to be a trucker but cannot work owing to a herniated disk. Ellen made $28,000 last year, a chunk of which goes to debt repayments. The remainder is not enough to afford Silicon Valley rent.

At night, instead of a toilet they must use cups or plastic bags and baby wipes. To get clean, they find restrooms and we have what we call the sink-shower, James-Penney said. The couple keep their belongings in the back of the car and a roof container. All the while they deal with the consequences of ageing James-Penney has osteoporosis in a space too small to even stand up.

James-Penney does not hide her situation from her class. If her students complain about the homeless people who can sometimes be seen on campus, she will say:Youre looking at someone who is homeless.

That generally stops any kind of sound in the room, she says. I tell them, your parents could very well be one paycheck away, one illness away, from homelessness, so it is not something to be ashamed of.

Ellen James-Penney teaching an English class at San Jose State University in California. She tells her students, youre looking at someone who is homeless. Photograph: Talia Herman for the Guardian

I hung on to the dream

Many adjuncts are seeking to change their lot by unionizing, and have done so at dozens of schools in recent years. They are notching successes; some have seen annual pay increases of about 5% to almost 20%, according to Julie Schmid, executive director of the American Association of University Professors.

Schools are often opposed to such efforts and say unions will result in higher costs for students. And for certain adjuncts, any gains will come too late.

Mary-Faith Cerasoli, 56, the homeless adjunct who captured the publics attention with her protest in New York three years ago, said that in the aftermath little changed in termsof her living situation. Two generous people, a retiree and then a nurse, offered her temporary accommodation, but she subsequently ended up in a tent pitched at a campground and, after that, a broken sailboat docked in the Hudson river.

But there was, however, one shift. All the moving around made it hard for her to make teaching commitments, and in any case the pay remained terrible, so she gave it up. She currently lives in a subsidized room in a shared house in a wealthy county north of New York.

For Rebecca Snow, 51, another adjunct who quit teaching after a succession of appalling living situations, there is a sense of having been freed, even though finances continue to be stressful.

Author Rebecca Snow, now retired from adjuncting, has moved to a small apartment just north of Spokane, Washington. Photograph: Rajah Bose for the Guardian

She began teaching English composition at a community college in the Denver area in 2005, but the poor conditions of the homes she could afford meant she had to move every year or two. She left one place because of bedbugs, another when raw sewage flowed into her bathtub and the landlord failed to properly fix the pipes.

Sometimes her teenage son would have to stay with her ex-husband when she couldnt provide a stable home. Snow even published a poem about adjuncts housing difficulties.

In the end she left the profession when the housing and job insecurity became too much, and her bills too daunting. Today she lives in a quiet apartment above the garage of a friends home, located 15 miles outside Spokane, Washington. She has a view of a lake and forested hills and, with one novel under her belt, is working on a second.

Teaching was the fantasy, she said, but life on the brink of homelessness was the reality.

I realized I hung on to the dream for too long.

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