#ive been toying with what feathered wings would look like for a long time and never like it enough to keep in the design

[birdkittenn]

thanks for the change in design, you piece of shit machine

#rambles #the pattern on the back was always meant to be reminiscient of wings #ive been toying with what feathered wings would look like for a long time and never like it enough to keep in the design #so i guess the solution was machine wings. awesome #we'll see how long this lasts #the seal tail is also new. i just like water

[quillandink333]

Scarlet Carnations ~ Epilogue

BotW Link X Zelda ~ Detective AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.7k

WARNINGS: death, murder, loss, trauma, blood and gore, terrorism, organized crime, self-harm

Summary: Inspector Zelda Hyrule, assisted by the faithful Constable Link Fyori, is infamous for cracking the most confounding of cases in a town dominated by crime. Her latest assignment is to solve the murder of her own godmother, Impa Sheikah, the late CEO of Sheikah Tech. Incorporated, while staying under the radar of the dreaded Yiga organization.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII • Epilogue • Masterlist

The first couple of weeks following the incident that had taken my long-lost mother from me was misery in its purest form. Link and I didn’t speak, not even by phone, during that whole stretch of time. In fact, I could rarely bring myself to answer the phone at all. The memory was still too vivid, the wounds still too fresh.

He’d gotten off scot-free in the end as he’d been deemed to have acted in the defence of others—namely, of me. It wasn’t long before I learned of his plea, that if I hadn’t come along quietly, I would have suffered the same fate that he’d brought upon her, and they had believed him. How I felt about this was still something I was struggling to wrap my endlessly pounding head around.

As dark and deep as this seemingly bottomless pit of despair that I’d found myself plummeting down was, however, someone did eventually toss a rope down for me. The time I spent apart from Link gave me the opportunity to properly reconcile with those whom I myself had wronged: Auntie Purah and Paya. The former and I found comfort in our mutual grieving, and even as Paya had never really known my mother well enough to mourn her loss (though, arguably, it seemed no one had ever truly known her), she was more gracious and understanding than I or anyone else would have been, which only made me regret even more deeply my past transgressions toward her.

One day, during one of our continual conversations, she shifted to the topic of the Yiga leader’s executioner. How she could even think of him at a time like this was beyond me, but I digressed. I told her everything from start to finish. It was the first time I’d allowed myself to talk to anyone about it at length. As I spoke, she listened calmly and carefully. Despite what I’d have liked to believe, she had always been the more levelheaded one out of the two of us, save for when it came to discussing things about herself.

By the time I finished, I’d begun bouncing my still healing ankle back and forth, which I’d crossed over my other leg to keep it from touching the ground. I didn’t stop even after I noticed what I was doing.

“It’s painfully clear to see how conflicted you are about all this.” Coming to sit beside me on the sofa in the Sheikahs’ sitting room, Paya placed an affectionate palm on my thigh, bringing its restless jittering to a halt. “I understand how hard this must be for you. But the way I see it, there’s only one question you need ask yourself at the end of the day.”

Whatever she was about to say, it wouldn’t be an easy pill to swallow, would it? I straightened my posture. “And what would that be?”

“Between the two of them, who do you think was the better person?”

She was looking me dead in the eyes, her hand still resting upon my leg. I uncrossed them.

I’d never thought to compare the two before. What reason would I have had to do so? But now that she’d mentioned it, I hadn’t realized how few memories I even had left of my mother, and the ones that remained were blurry and vague beyond any hope of being recovered. If only she hadn’t left me with the Sheikahs all those years ago, maybe I could have remembered more clearly what kind of person she had been.

On the other hand, Link had always been there for me. Even during the times when circumstances had driven us apart, the thought of him was what had kept my flame burning strong and hot throughout each arctic day, and what had protected me from myself, keeping me from doing the irreparable. He had stayed by my side to the bitter end.

No matter how I’d reflected back on that day previously, the sight of his steely, focused stare and the sound of his crazed breaths, short and sharp, had been ever dominant. But now, I recalled the way those eyes had then glazed over with unadulterated horror. How his arms had shivered as they’d clung to my broken form and how they’d continue to cling for what would feel like millennia until the rest of his unit would finally stumble upon the scene.

My stepsister-of-sorts gave my leg a soft squeeze as I looked back at her with a tremor in my lip. “He s...saved me,” I whimpered. “Didn’t he?”

After a month apart, I made plans with Link for a night out on the pier, where we would celebrate the end of the Organization. The ice cream I’d promised him was at the top of my list of priorities for the evening. Tonight was a dessert-first night anyway, I’d decided. From there, we went and found ourselves a bite to eat at a seafood restaurant within walking distance. I’d hoped eating with him would feel like old times, but he hardly spoke a word throughout the whole meal. I tried lightening the mood with some banter, but this proved ineffective when he brushed off everything I said with mere one or two-word replies.

It wasn’t until I’d gotten us both a bit of something to drink that he finally broke the silence. “Have you...” he started, but lost the confidence to continue.

I perked up at the sound of his voice, wanting to hear more of it. “Have I...?”

“A-Ah...” His fingers poked at the copious amount of chips piled onto his plate next to the practically untouched fillet of fried fish. “I was just wondering if you’ve thought about what you’re going to do now, since...you know...you’re not a detective anymore.”

“Ah, right. That.” I took another sip of my drink, its contents long having fled my memory. “Actually, my auntie talked about it with me and she said she’d consider letting me inherit the company once I’ve acquired the proper education. So to answer your question, I’m thinking about going to school for engineering.”

His brows rose. “Oh! My, that’s—” He cleared his throat. “That’s brilliant. I’m happy for you.”

I thanked him with a hesitant grin, then asked, “How about you? Do you plan to stay on with the force, or...?”

“Ahh, well...” What little there’d been of an upward turn in his lips vanished. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. It’s something I’ve been mulling over for a while now. Whether to stay on and honour my father’s work, or...whatever other options are available, I suppose.”

“Do you want to hear what I think?” He raised his head. “I think you should do whatever you think would make you happiest. That’s what you’re father would have wanted, I’m sure.”

This finally, finally, got a real, unsubdued smile out of him. And I intended to milk that smile for all it was worth.

After dinner, I dragged him back down to the arcade on the pier, where I managed to ring a few laughs out of him while we were still a bit tipsy. We steered clear of the toy gun target-type games, favouring other stands like the ring toss where he won me a plush frog that I could only just get my arms all the way around. His aim was spectacular, especially for someone who wasn’t entirely sober. Not only that, but I could never have imagined how sweet and charming he would be like this. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though we’d gone back in time again. That, or the light from the setting sun was playing tricks on me.

But by the end of the evening, he’d reverted back to that quiet, reclusive version of himself that I’d quickly grown to detest. We were out on the docks now, facing the sea. The breeze carried a mist of saltwater within its bows. I breathed it in, soaking up the feeling of it hitting me softly and coolly in the face. A hint of pink in my partner’s cheeks caught my eye, and I wondered whether it was the cocktails or my arms, which were currently wound about his waist from behind.

“Beautiful sunset,” I tried, hoping I could get him to spare me a glance at least. “Isn’t it?” But to no avail. He only continued to gaze westward at the rippling flames reflected in the water. “Hey...” Before I knew what I was doing, my palm had found the warmth of his cheek, and there was hardly an inch or two of distance between the tips of our noses. Without giving myself time to think, I tilted my head, leaned in, and started to close my eyes.

But when I realized he wasn’t doing the same, I halted. On the contrary, he’d been leaning back and away from my advances, his back so rigid and shoulders so stiff it were as though he would sprout wings and bolt were I to make any sudden moves.

“What’s wrong?”

A harsh, jagged exhale. “Zelda, I just can’t—” He grabbed both my wrists and wrenched my arms off of him. “I’m sorry. We can’t do this.” He was bent over the railing, arms folded in on each other. “Not now,” he said, dwindling, “after I’ve gone and...murdered your only family.” A weary chuckle shook him by the shoulders before he raked his hands through his wind-tousled hair.

I fell into quiet thought for a moment. Then, taking a long, thorough breath, I placed a feather-light set of fingertips atop his own. “That woman was never my family.” I’d made up my mind. Figuratively or otherwise, my real mother had moved on a long time ago. And it was time I did the same.

Link must have seen the resolve in my eyes or heard it in my voice, because now he was looking back at me openly, his body turned to face me. Though there was still an air of uncertainty lingering about him as he ran the crease of his cuff between his fingers again and again. But when I brought my arms around him and held him close, he sank into my lips, returning my embrace at long last. A lone pair of tears fell from my eyes the moment they fluttered closed—a culmination of all past ordeals—and as they fell, I couldn’t help but smile.

#my writing #fanfic #botw #zelink #botw zelink #zelink botw #link x zelda #zelda x link #botw link x zelda #botw zelda x link #zelda pov #detective au

[98prilla]

Deathworlder Down

Next

Previous 

AO3

based on @delimeful wibar

Warning for some disturbing imagery/body horror this chapter. Virgil’s having nightmares.

...

Fear.

 Pounding, aching fear.

 Shadowy figures surrounded him, discussing him in words he could almost hear, hushed voices he could almost understand, and it grated at him, it hurt his ears. He tried to cover them, but found he couldn’t move, not a muscle, his eyes were open but he couldn’t even blink, his fingers wouldn’t even twitch, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, but despite his panic his breathing remained steady and even. The shadows moved closer, their whispers growing louder, echoing in his head, screaming tempests against his ear drums, and he wanted it to stop, he needed it to stop, but it just grew louder, and louder, and then it was the suited beings again, holding a scalpel, and he screamed, as his chest was sliced open, the flesh peeled away to reveal the organs beneath, his heart visible through the blood leaking from him, and he realized though he was screaming in his mind, he wasn’t making any sound, his vocal chords as paralyzed as the rest of him, and he couldn’t look away, as they started ripping out his insides, tearing him apart, the pain splintering through his being, blacking out his vision, and he tried, he tried desperately to writhe and claw and fight his way free, but couldn’t even lift his head, and he was aware of them adding new parts, shoving metal and wires and circuit boards into him, the pop and crackle of electricity against his skin shocking him, sending him into spasms that somehow defied whatever drug they’d given him, back arching at the intense, radiating heat flowing up his spine, and he finally did break free, break out of whatever drug they’d used, a keening, desperate wail shoving past his lips as he shoved himself off the table, as he snarled and clawed and bit and slashed, anything, everything, to get free, until he’d fought off the beings, his breathing ragged and uneven as he looked at the monster they’d made him, all mechanical parts and twisted limbs, broken bones and spasming muscle.

 “Virgil?” Suddenly a shadow Logan was there, looking down at him, head tilted and eyes empty, hands strangely still, assessing him like the specimen he was and he shuddered, twitching uncontrollably.

 “No. That isn’t Virgil.” Patton, voice hollow, and he screamed again, because his feathers were torn from his body, bent and broken nibs trickling blood down his wings, though he didn’t seem to care. “Virgil wouldn’t do this to me. And he did.” He shook his head, trying to deny it, but memories rushed back, his hands, moving against his will, the metal twisting around his bones, jerking him around like a marionette, Patton, begging, pleading, but he couldn’t stop, the single thought in his mind echoing destroy, destroy, destroy. His hands, ripping handfuls of feathers, feathers flying around the room, getting stuck in his grinning teeth, his manic laugh, his twisted soul.

“No… nonononono…” He curled tight on the ground, ignoring the fire racing through him, the intense, burning, heat, trying to make sense of this, of anything, noticing for the first time his hands were stained red, seeing Patton’s agonized face in his head, his hands on his throat, pressing down, down down-

 “Virgil!” Roman’s voice rocked his world, and suddenly his eyes snapped open, hissing at the sudden brightness, too confused to understand anything, vision blurry, from tears, he realized, his breathing stuttering in and out, barely enough to keep from passing out, his throat tight, barely a pinhole of space for air to wheeze in and out of, his chest felt so tight, so constricted, and there wasn’t enough air, and he was hot, why was he so hot, the wires, the wires twisting through his veins, no, he had to get them out, they would make him hurt them, hurt Patton, he couldn’t hurt Patton!

 He started scratching at himself, clawing at himself frantically, uncaring of the wetness slipping down his face, he had to stop it, he couldn’t-

 Bloody feathers, crushed neck, broken wings, shattered body, he couldn’t-

 Hands. Hands on him. He hissed, growled, tried to shove them away, but he was weak, so weak, he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t get away, and they were stopping him, and he was going to hurt everyone, he had to let go, he had to stop himself, he was just a monster, just a toy, just a broken sack of bits and pieces that didn’t even fit together right anymore, why couldn’t they just let him stop?

 “please. Please, I can’t, I can’t, I won’t, i… i…” He doubled over, curled into a ball, shaking so hard his teeth were chattering, feeling as if he was shattering into a thousand pieces, broken and stomped on and wrecked.

 “kiddo. I need you to breath.” He flinched back, away from Patton, eyes wide with fear, shaking his head frantically, as he scooted away, the grip on his hands letting him go.

 “n-no… no! I’ll h-hurt y-y-you they’ll m-make me h-h-hurt-“ he broke off, running out of air, all of it dedicated to keeping the spots in his vision from growing larger, from taking over and plunging him into black.

 “virgil. You have never, never ever, hurt me. And they can’t hurt us, anymore. Do you remember that? We’re safe now, remember? You broke us out of there, and kept us safe. You’re safe, Virgil. We’re safe. We’re ok. We’re ok.” Patton repeated softly, using the gentle chirp of his native tongue, ruffling encouragingly when Virgil finally looked up at him, struggling for a few moments, before tentatively chirping it back.

 “We’re… we’re… ok.” He echoed slowly, tongue thick in his mouth, head pounding, it hurt to think, it hurt to do anything, but he forced his mind to remember, to remember what he was missing, flashes of a slim, multi armed figure, of a bulky, scaled one, of a… a ship, and he managed a slightly larger, shaky breath.

 “M-Mindscape?” He managed, and Patton nodded, eyes soft with worry.

 “That’s right, kiddo. You got sick, do you remember that?” He remembered feeling not great, but that was normal. He remembered being dizzy, but that was all. He shook his head, feeling confused again, feeling slow and tired and hazy.

 “That’s ok, Virgil. I just wanna help, ok? Will you let me do that?” Patton asked, taking a small step closer. “Will you let me help?” His gaze flicked to the others in the room, pulling at a dull memory, at familiarity, he knew them, knew them and they didn’t spark… fear. Not quite. But the scaled one’s gaze was sharp and angry, and the crystal one’s gaze was sharp and piercing, and both sent unease tingling down his spine. But Patton was asking, and he trusted Patton, and if Patton trusted them, then they couldn’t be bad.

 “O-o-Ok.” He managed, letting out a soft sigh when Patton closed the distance between them, resting a hand on his leg, and instantly, the fight and stress drained out of him, eyes fluttering shut.

 “You’re gonna be ok, kiddo. I promise.” Then nothing.

…

“He's hotter, Lo.” Patton said, voice shaking, as he felt Virgil's forehead. Sweat coated his skin, and he was panting for breath, shaking, obviously in pain, not just from the lines of red up and down his arms, where he'd started clawing at himself, before Roman stopped him. “he’s getting worse."

 “We need to get him to drink. He’s severely dehydrated. I… hate to suggest this, but IVs may be the best option here. I know, it will cause added emotional strain, but his body does not have the strength or resources right now to fight off this illness. And I’d rather have him be upset or afraid than… than dead.” His words caused Patton to draw in his feathers, shrinking to nearly half his normal size, and he buried his face against Virgil’s side. Roman’s scales shifted, scraping against each other as they flattened, conflicting emotions racing through him.

 He didn’t like Virgil. Didn’t trust him, wouldn’t have him here, if it had been up to him, but the thought of him… dying, still sent a spike of unease through him, one he could pretend was just for Patton, who was so attached to Virgil.

 “ok. If it’s the only way, ok.”

 He disinfected and bandaged Virgil’s arms first, before letting Roman shift him back onto the couch, fetching the medical supplies and hooking up the bags. Finally, he was standing over Virgil with the IV line in hand. All he had to do was insert it. He found himself incredibly resistant, now, to the idea, now that he actually was doing this, mind flashing to the moments he’d seen in the vidi, the pain and agony that had accompanied nearly every experience with a needle, but this was different. This was to help.

 So he swiftly located the vein on the human’s wrist, slipping the needle in and securing it with gauze and tape, relieved when Virgil did no more than moan slightly, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball. He doubted the reaction would be so placid when he actually woke up to find a needle in his arm, but that was a future worry.

 “Alright. That should help hydrate him, as well as give him some of the basic nutrients he is sorely lacking in, as well as some very moderate medicines. I doubt anything we have would do him any harm, but I don’t want to take chances and accidentally make things worse. Patton… you need to sleep.” He added, looking at the disheveled ampen, who shook his head.

 “No, no, no! I have to stay! What if he wakes up?”

 “He won’t for a few hours, at the very least, which is long enough for you to get some sleep. You haven’t slept since we found him.”

 “Well neither have you! You’ve been pacing yourself silly!” He sighed, shoulders slumping.

 “Alright. You’re right. If Roman stays on watch and promises to get us if anything changes, will you come rest with me?” he asked, knowing Patton wouldn’t turn down that offer, not with how rarely he was willing to offer tactile comfort, but they could both use some, right now.

 “Ro? I know you don’t like him, but-"

 “I’ll take care of him. I promise, Patton.” Roman swore, kneeling down so Patton could hug him, smiling as he butted against the underside of his chin, before stepping back, chirping an ampen thanks, hesitantly following Logan down the hall and into his room, Roman hearing the door slide shut.

 He let out a low breath, scales flattening as he tried to calm himself, staring down at Virgil’s unconscious form.

 “I don’t know what to make of you. I will never say this out loud again, but you terrify me. And I will not lose another family, to humans. But… every time you panic or lose control or lash out, it’s always at yourself. It’s always to protect Patton. You always choose to harm yourself over any of us, but you’re still a human, a death worlder, a dangerous, violent, creature.” He said, though it sounded much less convincing now, that it usually did in his arguments with Logan or his silent fuming.

 Virgil moved slightly, his breath hitching, and his face creased, as if sensing Roman’s displeasure.

 “no… please… m-mom…” Virgil mumbled, trying to reach out to something that wasn’t there, something only in his mind, and after a moment, Roman realized Virgil was crying, curling tighter.

 He’d known Virgil had been stolen off his planet, but he’d never thought about the implications of it. He hadn’t considered that Virgil had clan, would have a mother or a father, that he’d lost everything, to aliens, without even having a chance to fight to keep it.

 Roman knew how it felt, to lose everything, in the blink of an eye.  

 “and then you go and say something like that.” He sighed, shifting into the chair left beside the couch, hesitantly reaching out to brush back the human’s hair, mimicking the motion he’d seen Patton do countless times, to soothe or relax the human, surprised as Virgil instantly settled, a shaky breath escaping him before his body seemed to go lax once more, leaning into his touch.

 “this doesn’t mean I like you. It’s only because I promised Patton.” He grumbled, not moving away, despite himself.

#sanders sides #wibar au #wibar #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #sympathetic patton #sympathetic roman #sympathetic logan #sympathetic virgil #anxiety attack #flashbacks #trauma #abuse #nightmares #Blood #injuries #mild body horror #accidental self harm #angst #virgil angst #angst for days #eventual happy ending #sickfic #sick virgil #disturbing imagery

[eternalstrigoii]

Unfettered IV

Original; I, II, III Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Forest Dark Fey Reader; Philip x Aurora; King John is Everyone’s Dad (reprise)

                                                       “And you raised them all?” John asked Udo with a twinkle in his eyes.

The whole of you left the tribunal together – the trio of the royal family as well as the council-five of you. You were pleasantly surprised when members of the gentry murmured apologies in passing, a few of them even daring to meet your eyes, especially considering Borra spared them no details of what he’d seen done by poachers – or what he’d done to them in retribution.

Azarias heard none of it, and that pleased you immensely. Nearly as much as Aurora’s impromptu decision to go home for the night, whether or not John and Philip desired to accompany her (they did wish to, and they were).

Borra’s hand was on your back, and you tucked your wings against his as best as they would allow you to, strained as they were from remaining upright for so long. Your pinfeathers practically sagged, and it didn’t help that they could hardly rise to bristle when a girl barely older than the red-haired one Maleficent had grown quite fond of ran out from one of the shops directly toward you.

“Here!” she held out a length of fabric to you, nearly the same shade as the new-dawn of your dress.

You were touched, but very confused. It was hardly long enough to wear, even wrapped.

“For your wings,” She said like she could tell you needed the context, “they seem tired.”

Your eyes met hers, and you swore before the phoenix that, had you not cried all of your tears when they carried your pain, you might’ve shed some.

I wouldn’t know how to sling them if I wanted to, you thought, though you thanked her quietly with your hands over hers all the same. She was a beautiful girl, redwood-brown like your mother, with a circlet of braids like Aurora’s in her long, dark hair.

She even smiled at Borra before retreating, never once hesitating to give you her back.

Skies, maybe you were fostering peace. They had every right to fear you, and yet their children swarmed to Udo like a train of ducklings, and you looked to the man you loved with a length of soft fabric in your grasp. He knew more about binding wounds and making slings than you did.

He fanned it out, right there in the middle of Ulstead, and wound the middle of it like a brace around your shoulders. It pressed flat against your back to keep from damaging the impermanent paint on your chest, and he paused to look at you before winding the fabric around your wings. “You’ll tell me if it hurts.”

You rose on your toes and gently bunted horns with him. “I will.”

He was careful, practical. A sling could not disrupt your plumage in any significant way, so your wings were mostly braced at the joints to sit aloft. It had to be tightened on your left one, since it had nearly no strength, and you wore its support thick like a bandage around your arm.

You folded them, and the flutter you felt in your tired muscles made you flinch. “The tendon,” you offered before he even asked. The sensation of its displeasured jump never ceased to make you bristle.

He ran his fingers over it gently. Neither of you could do anything about how tired they were, though you were grateful for the caress of his talons through your feathers all the same.

“It’s pretty,” Ini offered, which meant that it looked strange.

You gave her a theatrical shrug. “I still have my wits.”

Shrike laughed entirely to herself, and you half-fanned your wing like you intended to hit her with it, not that it wouldn’t hurt you more than her.

Philip broke stride with his wife to bring the remainder of your collective individually-papered treats. “Here, we should celebrate.”

You and Ini took them without hesitation. She was nearly as fond of palace sweets as you were, though it took the pleased flutter of your eyes when you bit into cinnamon, cardamom and sweet anise to inspire the other pair to join you.

“Swear it’s not poisoned with rowan?” Ini joked, and made the others of you stop short.

“Considering I bought them for myself,” Philip replied, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smile he had to force down, “they wouldn’t have thought to, no.”

Borra half-growled, and the smile the prince tamped rose up again.

You shook your head fondly and toyed with a curl at the end of Philip’s well-preened hair. “You should know better.”

“Do you?” Aurora teased. The immediacy of her response gave you pause; they, too, had inside jokes, the likes of which even John smiled at.

“Do I what?” Philip asked in a faux-haughty voice.

Aurora lowered hers, tried to smooth it, and the playful glint in her eyes betrayed that they were mimicking their respective mothers. “Know better?”

This was how it should’ve been, you thought. They were young, they deserved to be happy and in love. They deserved to run wild through their kingdom, as they did – Philip moving to take her in his arms and Aurora bolting like a deer in the tall grass, making him laugh as he gave chase. The impropriety of it warmed you – and John, as his face could never lie. They had duties, yes, but you were not the only ones seeking peace.

You glanced to Borra’s wing as it curled around you, and you pointedly slowed to offer up the end of your pastry.

There was no one else in the world when he took it from you. When he deliberately brushed his lips against your fingers, cradled your hand in his palm. Kissed them. The warmth that filled your chest began to travel, and you became newly and intimately aware of how different things were from how they’d been when the tribunal began – than when the day started.

Perhaps he was, also. You certainly made no effort to deny yourself the thrill of pleasure down your spine when he guided your hand to his chest, as though you didn’t have the impulse to caress him.

His heart beat against your palm. You pressed yourself against him, soaking in his warmth – basking in the safety of his grasp and how lucky you were that you, of all people, were allowed to reside there. Welcomed. You were his, and he was yours.

“I love you,” you reminded him. Part reminder, part promise, without any hidden subtext about how you hoped the night would progress.

He smiled, and the glint in his eyes made your traveling love-warmth pool low in your belly. “And I, you.”

You spent so long displeased by the idea of him striding around like a peacock with the knowledge that he’d made you beg that it made you feel foolish now that you had. In every version of your fantasies, he made you beg. Made you shake. Bedded you so well and thoroughly it’d make your belly quiver just to look at him afterward.

But there was no striding, no smirking, no fluffed wings. Just his thumb tracing your knuckles while you rested your hand on his chest, and you smiled as you pressed your cheek against the weathered leather at his shoulder.

Ini broke stride with you and threw Shrike a glance, “Seems we’ll have to make plans of our own tonight.”

You could not generate wind with your wings, but you certainly tried. They flapped like a clipped bird, and, this time, it made them both laugh.

Your face didn’t heat. There was no shame in your failure to do what you might’ve once; your wings were tired, but they moved. Your heart was heavy, but it beat. And, just as the young king and queen of Ulstead ran like children for the enchanted bridge (right into a flock of eager flower sprites), Borra kept to the earth at your side.

The sun lowered beyond the peaks of the moors, and you were happy.

                               Under the cover of night, twelve men assembled in a long-dark smithy. They were each given a crossbow and two iron bolts. Only a handful remained within the kingdom, and they were woefully short on time.

“If you do not return,” Azarias stood before them with the moonlight glinting off his polished buttons, “your family will be given high honor for your dedication to the cause. If you do, and you can prove to me that you fired the killing shot, you will be paid the creature’s weight in silver. Have I made myself clear?”

He knew several of those men carried weapons that were not iron. He anticipated only one of them might return, if they succeeded.

The odds were not in their favor. And that meant his plans were thoroughly fool-proof.

“Do not fail me,” he said, and his dark eyes glinted like dying embers in the pale light. “Do not fail your families or your kingdom. We are our people’s last defense.”

“You don’t truly believe that, do you?” the youngest of them asked with a note of open fear.

“Have you not seen the way they look at us?” Azarias had to stifle a smile. “The queen may have been raised by a noble savage, but the rest are wild animals let loose among us; it’s only a matter of time before they grow fond of our blood.”

The youngest of the men thought he stifled the chill that ran up his back. He didn’t.

“Which one is it?” another asked, his crossbow already loaded.

“You will know it when you find it,” Azarias replied.

He did not imagine they would survive their journey, but he would not discourage them from bringing back more than one of you – especially if one of them was troublesome little you.

                                          As soon as the drum-beats began, you danced.

You would’ve danced whether or not he was with you, but it was a great reassurance to have him there. You hadn’t tried to call anything from the earth since you returned – you weren’t even sure if you could. You had been so sick for so long that the idea of dancing at all, let alone twice in the same week, was as much a Celebration of Life as the dance itself. (Your people would forgive you for your weakness, but that did not mean you could forgive yourself – how stupid you were not to embrace your place in this world wholeheartedly before it was nearly vacant.)

The whole of your gathered people moved like the same great beast. It was as though you’d all arranged it, though you’d never spoken a word. The force of the drums made the earth tremble in time with the pounding of your feet. The dance was an instinct as much in the individual as it was in the whole. It was like the rise and fall of your mother’s dawn song – words you didn’t know the meaning to, but could still sing.

Your wings protested their shift and cant. There was a dull, pounding throb in your knees, and you had no intention or desire to withdraw. Even those of you who were not warriors outright did not shy away.

But your joints must’ve betrayed you a time and a half too many; Borra’s arm ensnared your waist. His wings fanned against yours, and, without thought, you were moving with him. Your back was to his chest, your hips flush against his, and the pounding of the drums matched the rhythm of your heart.

Your lips brushed his ear when you turned your head. “Like this?”

It took him a moment to recall the conversation you’d had in your nest several days ago – it felt like a lifetime already. As though the raging heat of his body against yours didn’t betray him as much as the firelight glinting in your eyes.

He traced his talons along the hem of your dress, followed its path from where it was bound in itself at your chest to where it was fastened with leather twine at your knee. When he turned his head to yours, your lips nearly brushed. “Are you ready?”

You had no intention of nearly doing anything tonight, so you kissed him. Right then, right there, the both of you already moving together.

His hips rolled against you, a low sound of desire rumbling from deep within his chest. The parts of him that weren’t already stone-hard were certainly soon to be, if you had any say about it.

You were tangled in one another when you stumbled back to your nest. You couldn’t find the hold-fast to his armor and you didn’t want to stop to ask. He made that low, heated purr against your mouth, and you whimpered into it.

“Wait,” he cautioned, and you let your hands fall. He took care of it for you, tossing piece by piece into the layer of soft down on your floor – his and yours, brown-sheened black and pale, sandy-tan.

You let yourself settle back on your bare feet. Let yourself pause to admire all of him as he was bared as though you didn’t see him without his armor at night – as though this, you, him, there, would be fundamentally different from the intimacy you’d already given one another.

He did the same for you, gathering your hair as you traced the plains of his chest under your fingers. The ardor of want and the slow-burn of love built together into an all-consuming blaze, and you pressed a gentle, loving kiss just under his jaw that became a path down his neck.

“Let me go first.”

You kissed a path down to his heart and let your lips linger there for a moment before you nodded. Whatever he wished.

It took him a breath’s pause to release you and undo the shell-button at your hip. You ran your hands over his arms while you watched him, thumb-traced the puncture-scar where Percival struck him with an iron bullet.

When your dress came loose, you let it fall. You watched his beautiful, sandstorm eyes drink you in; he brushed his fingers over the sword-scar at your hip, let his cupped palm lift along your side as though he wouldn’t feel the patterning of your flesh.

But this wasn’t about the tragedy of your shared pain. Not even close.

His lips began at your pulse. He kissed one side, and then the other. He kissed a path down your throat to the hollow of your collarbone. (You shivered, lightly, at the heat of his hands as they roamed your back.)

He kissed the steady pounding of your heart. Traced a path along your vital points until he was on his knees before you, and you held him against you when he kissed your belly, ran your fingers lightly through the ends of his hair.

“Want me to lie down?” he asked.

“I want to,” you murmured. You wanted to be his. Held and loved and made love to; you didn’t need your wings getting in the way of that.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” His horns brushed your skin and you pet them – they were dry and rough and that saddened you; you should’ve been taking better care of him, this beautiful, wonderful man who took such good care of you.

He waited for your affirmation, lips lingering on your skin. Your eyes gave him pause, so you had to hold him to keep him from withdrawing.

“I’ve been selfish, haven’t I?”

“Never, Cas.” He brushed his thumb over your hip.

“All this time, you’ve done nothing but wait for me. Care for me. Keep me safe.”

“Shh.” He rested his cheek against you as though basking in the warmth of your skin as you did, his. “I wanted to.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Why should it be?” he traced one of the scar-patterns on your back, his eyes lifting to hold yours. “I love you. Let me.”

You ran your thumb along his cheekbone, cradled his jaw. He kissed the heel of your palm, careful not to bump you on his horns. “Will you tell me if you want me to stop?”

“Yes,” you murmured. You were still hung up on how painfully unfair it was that you had run from your feelings for so long and yet there he was, on his knees, worshipping you. Like he hadn’t held you almost every time you cried. Like you hadn’t made him suffer alongside you.

He didn’t feel that you’d made him do anything. He kissed your belly, and then your hips. He kissed the soft down between them, your inner thighs, and then, so sweetly, the parts of you that you’d longed for him to touch. He didn’t ask you to lie down if you weren’t ready, though you clutched his hair when his tongue brushed right where you hoped it would. The sound of your delighted gasp gave him chills.

You did lay down so he could kiss the rest of you. Down your thighs, over the scars on your calves and back up them. He slotted your legs over his shoulders so he could settle between them, and you bit your lower lip when you realized that it wasn’t going to be like you thought it would be at all – the hot, harsh rutting that would leave you kiss-bruised and pleasantly sore was not what he intended to do with you, the passion in your dance aside.

He held you like you were sacred, his hands cradling your hips. Your skin brushed against the down at the joints of his wings. Every kiss was long, slow and hungry; his tongue did things that made you arch and squirm. You whimpered and he pressed closer to you, picking up on the finer points of your body language that even you weren’t aware of. He tasted you as though you were the relief of an oasis and he could hardly believe it was not still a mirage.

“Not yet,” you whimpered when you started to feel like the light, sweet brush of his tongue against your bundled nerves might push you too close. “I want you, Borra.”

He groaned softly, and the heat of his breath against your center made your hips rock toward him. “Oh, stars, I want you inside of me.”

You didn’t think he would’ve moved more quickly if you’d begged.

His trousers joined the rest of your clothes, and you felt your skin flush at the sight of him fully bared to you. In your fantasies, you were not so far ahead of yourself when he undressed – he wasn’t so ready for you.

By the Phoenix, he was beautiful.

The nest crinkled as he settled his weight against you. He was patient; he eased into you little by little as though your hips wouldn’t buck and you didn’t cry out into his shoulder when he rocked back a little in retreat like he was teasing you.

“Let me be gentle,” he whispered, his voice strained.

“I don’t want you to,” you whined.

“But I do.” He put the brunt of his weight on one arm so he could press your hip into the down. “There’s a way I want to do this, Cas. I want be good to you.” He advanced a little more, and you were suddenly flush with him. He was nestled inside of you, so close that your skin touched, and you couldn’t form a coherent response to how warm and how full you were. “I want to be good for you.”

There was absolutely no doubt in your mind he would ever need to worry about that. Stars.

He gave you a moment to make sure it wasn’t too much, that he wasn’t going too fast, before he started to move with you. You weren’t the only one with fantasies, though it could’ve made you laugh to imagine that you, who had been avoiding your feelings for so long, imagined the hot, hard and rough parts while he, who could’ve taken you whenever he so pleased, wanted to make love to you this way. He wanted to prove to you that he was worthy of you, that your feigned apathy was unwarranted – he knew who he was, he knew why you hesitated, and he believed that he could be someone you wanted to love regardless of whether or not you loved him already.

You cradled his jaw when you kissed him.

He could’ve rut you into the down and you would’ve come apart enthusiastically. You’d wanted him to, but this – this honey-sweet love that you hadn’t imagined, the natural rhythm that developed between you as easily as breath – this was also wonderful. It was so wonderful. Your fingers crept into his hair and his tongue parted your lips. You whined, and he shifted, and your eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Cassia,” he breathed against your lips. You never thought the sound of your name would be so sweet.

“I love you,” you whispered, all devotion.

“I love you, too.” His voice was low and rough and it made pleasure lap your body like the tides. You curled your toes and squeezed his hips with your knees. Your fingers traced his shoulder, and then your lips forged a path down the other side. You stopped to kiss a spot at the hollow of his throat, and you couldn’t have resisted the mischief that seized you if you tried – you bit down softly, pressing a love bite to one of the places between the stone-patches on his skin.

His hips snapped up into yours and robbed you of all sense. You swore your insides quaked.

He started to draw back – to apologize, to check in with you – and you tangled your fingers in his hair. “Do that again,” you whispered against the leaf of his ear.

He did. You dug your nails into his shoulder; left sweet, stinging cuts against the back of his neck.

You did not hear your people singing out at the bonfire. The words that would’ve been so familiar, changed so that your human companions – and the two that weren’t – could learn them.

“The dark is deepest before dawn,” your elders sang as though in prayer – because it was as much their prayer as it had been the song of your mother’s people when it was in a different tongue.

His breath caught on a groan. You quivered around him, drove your hips against his. “Harder,” you whispered, “Please, I need you.”

“From the ashes of the old day, the sky will brighten before long.”

The union of your bodies as natural as the marriage of the forest and the desert in the canyons and the peaks. You clung to him and he, to you. The sight of his tawny hands on your earth-dark hips stole his breath.

“The phoenix rises.”

“Cassia,” he warned you in a whisper.

“Don’t stop,” you replied, “please, don’t stop.” You were flush with his warmth, certainly not honeying anymore. Sweat bloomed on your skin, and you moaned out loud when he lapped a bead of it from the column of your throat.

“The phoenix rises.”

“Yes,” you whispered, gripping a handful of his hair. So good. You were panting, and the warmth of his breath fanned your chest in between hot, hungry kisses. Every delicate, loving little sound you made set his nerves aflame. Somehow, he found your hand and laced his fingers through yours. You squeezed them as tightly as you were able. You couldn’t warn him even if you wanted to – the tension in your belly was so tightly taut that you could hardly fathom it would release. You could hardly fathom a moment when this, you, him, there, did not exist.

“The phoenix rises!”

You were there, and then he was, and you gripped him tightly at the new flush of warmth inside of you. Your body was soft and receptive and you pushed your hips against his harder, begging, pleading, asking, demanding to join him on the other side. He didn’t stop moving. He didn’t stop when the taut cord that was your tether snapped, and you felt as though your pounding heart might just burst. He didn’t stop after, and you had to muffle your cry against his shoulder while you clutched him with your trembling legs. You were falling, falling from the sky with wings that could not carry you.

He kept you aloft. As though he’d ever let you go.

You did not know that all throughout your camp, the tap-roots of all the trees became entangled. You did not know that you tore their spindly, woody limbs straight out of the ground – thickened them, sharpened them, made them surge skyward. Thorns long enough to wield as a dagger lashed branches around the trunks of trees, made them into vines that grew flush and green with new life. You did not know that the song stopped as though a great power had been summoned – that Aurora gripped Philip’s arm, and John pressed the child who’d been lounging in his arms against him as though in their defense. Roses the size of royal dinner-plates bloomed in the warm blush-pink of new love, choking the hot air with their perfume as their velvet-soft petals unfurled.

Your heart pounded against Borra’s chest while he kissed you. You lay together in your afterglow, the air beyond the heat of his body making you tremble until he drew the thick furs over you both to keep you warm. He kissed your lips, your cheeks, your throat, your chest. You quivered around him, and the little roll of his hips offered to carry you back to the very heights of the skies again.

“I love you,” you whispered. Your hands were so tightly interlaced that you didn’t imagine you could ever let go. “I love you,” you said again on another breath as he shifted, running his hands over your ribs and your sides and fanned them out over your wings to make sure your half-folded limbs caused you no pain.

It was so tender, so kind, that you nearly cried. You threw your arm around his neck and brought his lips back to yours.

“What just happened?” Philip asked, daring to look toward your elders.

For a moment, no one spoke. No one knew save for Ini, who noticed that the two of you were suspiciously absent.

And then she laughed, so high and so hard that it sounded like birdsong in the dead of night.

                                      In the darkness of Borra’s remembered dreams, you burn.

You know, now, that you knew little of your first waking week – you knew that it took you a full day to stir; that you were dressed in desert red when you threw your iron-fevered body into his arms. You knew, you remembered, that you recoiled from John; how Borra eased you back into the unfamiliar softness of the royal bed. How your wounds seared. That you had been so fatigued you did not believe it was him, there, with you. The unabashed fury on his face when he saw the severity of the unhealed puncture through your wing.

The parts that were mentioned only briefly were the parts that still haunted him.

He had not slept the whole of that first night on the moors with them. His body would not allow it; they were strangers in a foreign land – a land that he knew only because of the blood shed upon it. Your people arrived for war. Now they slept, exhausted and restless, in the trees – a great many of them as deep into the heart of the moors as Maleficent.

But he waited on the banks of the river. He waited for cannon-fire. Tomb-bloom powdered spears. He waited for the cavalry on horseback, the infantry on foot, even lone aggressors crossing with ropes and dinghies. He did not sleep despite being found by a willow sprite that he’d saved nearly a month before; the little creature curled into the crook of his neck for safety and he pet them lightly along their flattened wings with the pad of his finger.

He thought of you. He thought of you without thinking of you by name.

So many were gone – dark fey and moor-folk. Your kinsmen, your father.

He began to think that you were, as well.

He did not admit those feelings to himself because he waited for violence to erupt. He could not acknowledge the profundity of the pain that the very thought caused, lest it doom everyone. He would weep for you when it was safe to do so. Your glinting eyes, your lovely hair, the fact that he had tried to kiss you only once and never made contact with your lips.

In the blackness just before dawn, while he perched with his wings supported by the branches, he touched one of the baubles you’d taken out of your hair before you’d vanished. It was painted, once, but had been well-loved. Your mother was an artist, revered among her people – she made all manner of things for herself and for you and for everyone who’d take them. The paint had long since worn pale, but it had worn off entirely in the two moons it had been bound to his armor.

And he admitted, even though it felt like an iron blade split him from his throat to his belly, that he loved you.

By the stars, he loved you. And you could not just vanish.

When Philip’s chestnut horse appeared at the banks of the river, he sat upright. He took the little being in his palm, rousing them from their peaceful slumber, and placed them safely in the boughs away from harm. He barely knew the boy, though he knew Maleficent trusted him; there was still a burn on his neck from the tip of his blade.

He landed, swift and silent, to meet him at the banks of the river.

“One of yours remains in the castle!” he called, for he still thought Borra was something of a king.

All who’d come with him were accounted for, whether it be that they’d returned to the nest of origin, remained with him on the moors, or perished.

There could’ve been a reasonable explanation, but that was not the thought that seized him. You loved a strategist, a tactician – he spent the bulk of his time weighing odds.

There should have been almost no chance that it was you, yet he knew it was. He hoped it was. He did not admit it to himself, but it did not stop him from ignoring Philip outright when he said something about finding Maleficent.

He did not linger long enough to be told where to go. He found it all the same, the etched door with the secrecy-gap in it, standing open in the early-morning sun.

It stunk of death.

Fury burned in him well before he landed. He landed, folded his wings close, and stepped through the low, open door, ducking his head so as not to be hampered by his horns.

It stunk of death so terribly he nearly choked.

Aurora’s godmother may have given the fey who perished in those jars the dignity of a proper burial in their tomb-bloom fields, but the smell of their sacrifice remained. The smell of hot iron clung to everything, the sickly-sweet floral essence that drenched Ulstead in the smell of burning flesh.

The sound of burning flesh remained, just beyond where the lovely young queen knelt in her circlet and her embroidered gown, the creamy white-gold of it splotched with dark rust.

He had not been sickened by that sound since he was young. He had worked through it – confronted the fear of physical pain as well as the pain itself, though it hadn’t stopped him from flinching when Philip pressed the tip of his blade into his throat, and it certainly didn’t stop him from wanting to recoil then.

He would never admit that, for a moment, he had wished – more than anything – that it was not you. That it was not your skin against iron that he heard, that it was not your blood he smelled. Your blood you were drenched in. Soaked to the skin.

For the first time in an age, he faltered, though he went to you all the same. He lingered near Aurora, his jaw set, trying not to breathe.

He seared with hate when he saw the iron collar, the shackles, the plate. Had it been only two days ago that he swore he would kill that boy – the one who’d just come for him? The one who’d lured him away? He could’ve, still. Maybe. If this was a trap, it was a cruel and twisted one. His thoughts fled like flock of songbirds disturbed; hating the boy had no purpose. He did not even look at Aurora, did not hear what she said when she spoke. He waited – every muscle in him was tense – for her to move so he could place his foot on the ledge of the iron cage and gather you from it.

You were dressed as you were when he last saw you just outside the meeting-cove. The sunshine yellow of your dress was blackened-brown with your blood, especially along your sides, and you were limp. Your skin burned. He had never felt flesh fevered like yours.

And then he saw your wings, and that became the truest test of his resolve.

You did not move. You did not shift even when you were lifted and your crooked bones caught in the narrow door. You did not make a sound. Aurora moved to help, and he let her steady your battered limbs as you were carried from your prison. He stifled himself when he felt your still-bleeding wounds, your blood like tar binding his skin to yours.

You were not breathing. You were not breathing, and he did not breathe until the thing he was strangling in his chest was the echo of his pulse in his ears and not another wild cry.

“Borra?” Aurora sounded so much like a child, lingering away from you both with her bloodied hands quivering. “Who is she?”

He said nothing, at first. There were no words. They had not made words to describe the weight of you in his arms, the way horror and hate and rage and agony swirled together in him. The memories of you, your bright eyes glinting, your curls loose, your gold-veined wings canted before you took off for home with the others, were as stained with your heat-thickened blood as his skin.

He did not acknowledge that his fingers trembled as they laced in the fabric at your sides when he gathered your iron-hot body into his arms.

He caught the sound of your hitch in breath by accident. A gentle breeze could’ve thrown him off his feet; he lifted you, pressed his ear against your chest, and heard it again – the soft, dull throb of your pulse, the echo of your shallow breath. So close, he had been so close to losing you – completely, forever – that the relief that overcame him when he knew that he did not could’ve brought him to his knees.

Thank you, Conall, accompanied the breath he took against your skin.

You never realized how deeply he had to fear for you to trust them as he did. Had he not believed you might die during the journey back to the nest – had he not believed taking you to the moors might mean departing for your final resting place – he never would’ve lingered, with you, in Ulstead. He never would’ve accepted the young queen’s guidance through the too-narrow halls, ignored the looks of shock and horror on the faces of the humans you passed. He never would’ve laid you down in a bed so large it engulfed you, though it couldn’t fully hold the span of your wings.

Ancestors, before the phoenix-goddess herself, your wings.

Aurora bustled around the room like a serving-girl herself, gathering pillows from any surface that had them. She called for chairs to be brought from the great hall, more pillows from the guest rooms, and she made piles of them on either side of you. She intended to pile them to cushion and support your broken wings for you.

You did not know he’d grabbed her wrist like a vice when she moved to touch them. Even he did not know that she felt his hand tremble – the darkness of your plumage made into mats where you’d bled, the white flash of bone through a point in your mid-wing, the odd angle at which the thumb-claw of the right one sat.

The man you loved had seen bloodshed. He’d seen violence and war and hatred for your people nearly as long as he’d been alive.

The worst that he had ever seen, by far, struggled for breath in a royal bed.

You were immobile for nearly the whole of that first week. You woke regularly to eat, though he spent much of that time sitting vigil at your side. He was not the only one – Udo came, Ini, Shrike, the people of the forest, the elders, Maleficent herself – but he was the one who remained.

He held your fingers while the fever ebbed from your skin. You were hotter than desert sun, hot like powdered iron staunching the air in your kinsmen’s lungs. You trembled when you were uncovered, so you wore blankets to your chest. One of your arms was folded across your stomach, the pallor of your cracked talons nearly as painful a contrast as the ring of bright burns on your wrist. His thoughts were more violent then than they had ever been – Ulstead can’t be trusted. Poachers, murder, slaughter, you. The moor-folk they’d rescued were smaller in number than the ones who had been taken, your father had been shot in the back, your kinsmen were fired upon before they ever reached the shore, and you…

You.

You were peaceful. A waking dream. His memories of you nestled in the high branches of the forest’s canopy with your braids laced together in a high twist, the gold in them glinting in the pale light of the filtered sun like the glimmer in his skin, bled into the imagined ones of how your voice grew hoarse from pleading. Every image conjured inspired others – wringing Lickspittle’s neck, returning to the courtyards to finish off the royal guard, following through on his promise to bring Ulstead to its knees.

His thoughts then didn’t compare to the memories you’d shared. There was no imagined retaliation to the thought of you weighted with chains; in the darkness and the violence of his dreams, he was powerless to save you.

You’d burned with iron-fever in that bed, when he and John sat beside you. John did not dare touch you; the king was wrought with guilt well before he had plans to make amends.

Borra needed to feel it when your skin tempered. He needed to see when your breathing deepened, evened, in response to the elders’ balms. You snored, once, and the abruptness of the sound had made John startle.

The man you loved laughed under his breath. Lowered his head to kiss your battered wrist. You didn’t stir with pain; the violence of your memories hadn’t yet claimed you, and if he’d known that they would, he might’ve better cherished the sound.

You were so beautiful, even then. Your earth-dark skin, the softness of your parted lips, the contrast of your sharp cheekbones. How beautiful you’d always been – dressed in a green deeper than the forests, swaying in your long skirt on the fringes of the dance. You never joined them, and he never knew why. He’d wanted to. He thought you were restless and hoped that you’d express it in some way that was familiar to him – but you hadn’t.

Hollow bombs, like poplar fleece, exploding into clouds of powdered death. The ashes of your kinsmen – people you’d known your entire life, people he’d known all of his – slaughtered in the air, slain on the earth, rent with swords and axes and riddled with iron bullets.

The whole battle was as terrible as the quiet sound you made when they set your wings. He had not been able to stand by and watch, sound asleep as you were. Even with them cushioned and spread, Maleficent stood with your elders to make sure they would set – that they would not be rendered wholly unusable. She’d healed you three times in that bed, though you only knew of one.

The night was dark and cold in Ulstead. The moors danced with life – glowing flowers, luminescent mushrooms, dancing will o’ the wisps. As deeply as it pained him to hear the little catch of your breath, the quiet hum of pain you made when your wings had to be re-broken to set, he was glad you didn’t wake. His teeth set, his jaw tightened, and the mist in his eyes spilled over when he rested his palms on the weathered stone to shift his weight. One sound – you barely made one sound, and it tore the whole of his heart to pieces.

You pressed him closer as you slept. You stirred, though at first, you knew not why. You curled your fingers in his hair, guiding it back from the leaf of his ear. Your touch soothed some of his tension – he was tense against you, muscles locked like he waited for poachers in the trees above the river. Your body was soft against his, pliant with sleep, and you shifted just enough to press your cheek against his temple – adjust his weight so that you might try to fold your wings around him.

He didn’t expect to wake so gently from the tumult of his dreams. They bled into his waking thoughts – violence and terror and iron and death – until his half-lidded eyes met yours, and the familiar curl of your smile betrayed that you thought of no such things.

You were safe in his arms. Safe, warm, loved. He was a part of you, now, and you of him. It was only natural that you adjust your grip on him, fold your arms around his shoulders like you had when you couldn’t get him close enough to you. You’d both shifted since then, but he was as eager to return to your arms as you were to his.

“I love you,” you whispered, just for him.

He kissed your pulse. His weight settled comfortably against you, the warmth of him soaking into your skin. You drew the covers closer around you both, encouraged him to tuck his head against your neck.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your skin. For soothing him as he soothed you, for loving him, for letting him be the shield at your back, and so much else.

“Peace will not come easily,” you replied, your voice still sleep-soft, “but time will be kind. To both of us.”

You could almost believe that there would be a happy ending when the tribunal closed. You could almost believe that your wings might heal like he hoped they would, and it was simply because you were love-warmed with his body fit to yours. You were sleepy, but not tired; the bonfire had long since burned dark, yet the thrum in your veins kept the dance’s rhythm.

You wished, with all your heart, that your father could’ve seen you with him. Seen the way he smiled at you. The way his wings fit to yours, the ease at which he matched your steps. Your heart was light, and you were warm –

And you heard something, in the distance.

The snap of twigs.

Your heart jumped into your throat. It’s John, you thought, though you squirmed to press yourself closer. John, or Philip, or Aurora waking in the night, that’s all.

Borra listened. You sought his eyes, and you were grateful when you saw that they were still open – alert, as though your heart wasn’t pounding near his ear. You were afraid to let him go, but you were afraid to stay in place. He listened without focusing on you the way you did on him, and you forced yourself to calm – to steady your breath so that you, too, could hear what he did.

Boots on the needle-softened earth. Not far. No, not far at all – too close. Whoever they were, they were too close to all of you.

Borra sat up slowly, nearly soundless. He touched your chin, though you moved to rise with him – to grab your clothes and dress alongside him.

“Stay here.” His voice was softer than a whisper, meant just for you.

You shook your head. No. Paralyzed with fear as you had been, you were not going to let him walk out into the unknown by himself.

His eyes told you why he wanted you to stay, as though you didn’t know. He would not see you harmed – he would not let you be taken from him.

But fear was a ball of iron in your chest, and you burned with it throughout the whole of you. You clung to his hand until he brought your knuckles to his lips and, gently, briefly, kissed them.

He didn’t repeat himself. He thought you would listen.

But you didn’t. You were a breath behind him when he stepped out onto the softened earth, and you were never happier for the forest’s downy under-layer beneath your bare feet. He couldn’t waste the extra time to convince you not to follow; he spread his wing before you to keep you at his back. You were fine with that; you would rather cover him than allow him to be fired upon. You didn’t realize what a stupidly self-sacrificial trait that was, or how familiar it would be, to him, in the natural space between the moors’ old trees.

He kept to the earth for you, flight-immobile as you were. You moved like you used to, swift and silent, parting only from him so you could keep to either side of the path between the trees lest you need the cover.

Torches flickered in the gaps ahead. Several. The weight of fear in your chest began to sink, and you let it claim your face when you looked to him.

He held your eyes for a heartbeat. Go. Turn back and wake the others.

You nodded, though you had no intention of doing it. You would not leave him. You had been running from your problems for so long – you ran from loving him, you ran from the pain of losing your mother, you ran from yourself when you couldn’t handle stifling your feelings – you would not now. Even if Philip had a weapon and your people had numbers, there were more of them than him, and your wings weren’t entirely useless.

He leapt into the low branches with a familiar half-beat of his. He moved between the trees as easily as he did on land, and it gave you no envy to watch him even if you could only follow from below, a shadow passing through the darkness with your wings folded at your back.

“It’s a big one, isn’t it?” one of the younger men spoke to the others. “It’s not…” He nudged one of the little, glowing mushrooms on the ground with the toe of his boot like it might bite him.

Another, larger man glared daggers at him.

“What part of killer of men don’t you get?” a third asked in a half-whisper.

“If the bastard offered to pay its weight in silver for a little one, I’ll stick a bolt through him too,” a fourth added.

“Quiet,” the larger man hissed.

A bolt. Its weight in silver? Killer of men.

They’d come for Borra.

You dared take your eyes off them long enough to try to find him in the trees, as though he wasn’t a better hunter than you – as though he didn’t know where to find the advantage of high ground, if he was anywhere close to you. You didn’t even know how many men there were, you’d only seen four—

One of which was, suddenly, nearly at your face. The younger one, whose eyes widened when he saw that you weren’t a part of the tree you stood behind, who scrambled backward and raised his crossbow.

That was one way to strategize, you supposed, draw fire from him before you had no idea what the second step of that plan was supposed to be.

“It’s here!” he yelled, scrambling to load and cock the bow before you shifted. Before you ran. King Henry killed your mother while she tended peasant children. Ulstead’s infantry shot your father in the back while he covered Maleficent.

You did not make a conscious choice to do what you did. A flame-flicker of fury rose inside of you, made the tired muscles of your belly quiver, and your talons scraped against the bark of the tree when your fingers curled.

The roots of the pines tore themselves from the earth, thick and thorned and no longer belonging to the trees. They grew a flush of green, budded and bloomed with dense, dark flowers the red of hate.

And your tall, free-standing rose vines lashed around the younger man, engulfing his crossbow. Engulfing him. You jerked back your hand, and the no-longer-roots yanked him off his feet.

They fired in your general direction.

You were no warrior. The paint on your chest was marred – impermanent. But you fit your body against the trunk of the nearest tree, and you felt the earth shift beneath you.

“Forgive me,” you whispered to the pendant on your chest.

The curse of your family’s death by good intentions ended there and then.

You cast your arm wide – roots turned to climbing branches dressed with thorns sharp enough to use for a dagger. You choked them in the perfume of your flowers as the iron queen soaked Ulstead in bitter tomb bloom dust. You weren’t angry, you were furious, and the sound that left you when you ripped sentient whips from the very earth was nothing you’d ever made before.

One. Two. Three. Four. They fired upon you in waves, shot into the pines, shot into the darkness. None of them struck. Their eyes were not as keen as yours; you engulfed the first one in the earth, dragged him down until he was no longer warm. The second – the large one – you snatched off his feet. Your thorns struck deep into his middle, thoroughly embedded, and you flung him with strength you did not know you, or your extended limbs, possessed.

Others joined the remaining two. Five and six. They had a clearer shot of you, and so you ran into the forest.

You ran in the opposite direction than you thought he’d gone.

You did not know the moors, you did not know the land, but you knew yourself. You knew the bare earth beneath your feet. You knew that if you tensed your body just the right way, if you exerted unnecessary force in the muscles of your wings--!

You tried to make the leap and failed. You fell painfully short and landed on your chest in the bramble. But you still rolled, forced yourself up, threw yourself behind the trunk of another.

Thwip. Thwip. Iron bolts flew past your settling braids.

“It’s over here!” someone yelled.

Someone ran toward you.

Branches rose with the sweep of your hand; you turned your wrist and curled your fingers, and your dagger-thorns joined with the whips of your root-vines. They ensnared him fully like a shroud, and you let the tangle of them around the body fall.

Three more.

You didn’t know about the six who were being watched by your mate. You didn’t know until their heads perked at their companions’ cries – and Borra cut them off before they could join the others in hunting you.

He landed between them and you with his great wings spread, swift and silent. His eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight, bright like an animal’s night-shine. They saw his horns, his breadth, his size, and fear twisted in your heart though you didn’t know why.

The man you loved was smarter than most would ever give him credit for. When they moved to cock their weapons, the beat of his wings threw them off their feet. He launched to draw their fire – flew in sharp, erratic dives that cut the air like a sword.

They didn’t have the capacity to fire more than a dozen times between them. Several shot at once, and without regards for their missing bolts, reloaded.

You ran through the trees. You knew you’d gotten turned around – you had gone West, then somewhat North, and you thought you were going East but you couldn’t be entirely sure. The river toward Ulstead was to the East – that was the point from which you needed to orient yourself in order to find your way back to camp afterward.

Wait – the moon. If you could see it through the trees, you would know where you were. You wouldn’t be running blind. (Your hands were trembling, and you listened too closely to the rustle of small animals in the branches – the breath of tiny fey close to the earth.)

You almost relaxed when you saw its full, silver glow through the high boughs. You might’ve, had someone not run full-force into your back.

You hit the ground hard. Their arm was around you, and there was a blade at your neck – iron against the swath of your scars.

You dug your talons into their forearms. And you pulled.

Flesh rent. Hot blood welled to your fingers. It stung.

The blade withdrew. You called the roots from the earth, but that didn’t prevent you from staring down the end of a crossbow before you’d had the chance to shift your weight off of your wings

“Azarias better be counting the wings,” said the man who intended to fire upon you.

Rage engulfed you like a fever. You were sick of little, cowering, iron-studded men – so sick of having the people you loved torn away from you, sick of hiding, sick of cowering, sick of fear, sick of fighting. You were tired of begging for peace, of begging to be recognized as a living, breathing thing, that you didn’t even have to move to call your roses from the very depths of the earth.

They didn’t bloom. They just ensnared. Ripped. Tore. Shredded.

Your jaw was set. You swallowed hard and brushed the silent tears off your face with the back of your forearm.

Never again. (You stood, didn’t even brush the dirt or the conifer-shed off your skin.) Iron-blooded little men would never steal from you again.

The man you loved vowed to show them no mercy, and yet, he did. Time and time again, Borra spoke loudly only to act with respect for them that they did not return. And you would not (spindly vines rose to meet your steps, flush with life; their thorns weren’t as long or as sharp and their bloom-buds were small but, still, they flowered – blush-pink like lost innocence, the white of forsaken peace) afford them the satisfaction of taking his life when they were too weak and too cowardly to successfully take yours.

They shot him from the sky.

Again.

It was different, in Ulstead; the gravel against his stone-hard skin stung but didn’t rend. It was a bullet, then, not a bolt, and it hit him in the arm, not the side. This was just a graze wound; he was smart enough – fast enough – to cast back his wing to narrowly avoid the strike, but he still went down, hard, on the soft-packed earth. Blood bloomed on his naked skin. The wound, though shallow, stung.

He got back up regardless. Even if it meant keeping his hand to it. There were six of them and two bolts left unaccounted for.

They did not get to use either.

Branches cracked and twisted as they changed. They became thick, thorny ropes, raised high into the air like poised snakes with their fangs at the ready. A tremor ran through one of the armed men as he cocked and fired upon them.

You caught his bolt and whipped it back. Through his chest and the chest of another.

“Cas.” Borra fanned his wing to slow your approach.

Your sentient thorn-vines snapped around the body of another. Buried deep, wrung him like a wet cloth. You snatched another from the earth, slammed him into the body of a tree, and when that didn’t seem to be enough to finish him, you did it again.

“Cas!” He took hold of your wrist. Their blood, on the thin skin of your scars, made you burn iron-hot.

You saw his blood, and even as you moved to make sure he was alright, the hatred and the fury in you lashed out without control. Your branches surged through the earth, ripping trenches in their wake. They went higher, higher, and then struck the rest of the fleeing men down as though they were no better than a rabbit in a fledgling’s talons.

He took your face in his hands, the warmth of his blood on your cheek nearly enough to make you recoil. A heartbeat passed before you lifted your eyes from his side, and you wished you hadn’t.

He brushed his thumb over your skin, imploring you with his eyes. “Stop.”

“They shot you,” you whispered, though you were surprised by the violence just below the surface of your breath.

“You’ll regret this.” He pressed his horns with yours, encouraging your traitor heart to lodge itself in your throat.

I won’t, you wanted to reply. They’ve earned this. They deserve it.

“I know you, Cassia.” He knew you’d hold his beautiful eyes while he held your face, while his wings made a shield around you as though your roses hadn’t deepened in color where they bloomed – the pink of love at war with the red of hate.

You hated that you had to press your lips together to stop them from trembling. You put your hand against his wound, and seeing him flinch made your heart burn over.

“I am so angry,” you whispered, though your eyes betrayed you. “I would rather be angry than afraid.”

“Let me help,” he softened his voice even further, brushed his sideways thumb along your cheek to catch whatever tears came.

You leaned into his covered palm, let his blood dry on your skin. You couldn’t feel your branch-limbs any longer; they’d sagged back into the belly of the earth. There were paths in the needle-down that had been thoroughly disturbed, little hills and mounds of earth where they’d resettled, and you hated to admit that he was right – that the suddenness of your violence stunned you.

You wanted, more than anything, to tell him that you did not think he could. But was his hold on you not proof that he could? Or the fact that you were no longer trembling – that you had seen that violence and responded in kind without cowering in fear? Of course he’d helped you, you’d be foolish to think otherwise.

But you were angry, and frightened, and so very tired.

“Azarias sent them,” you whispered. “He put a bounty on you. The killer of men. He would’ve paid any of them who killed you your weight in silver.”

You wished he hadn’t held your eyes, because you saw the flicker of sadness behind the cloak of his fury. He pressed you close against him, wrapping your body in his as though you were the one in need of a shield. His arms around you were so familiar, his pulse against your chest setting the tempo for your breath. You told him that they wanted him dead, and he still tried to soothe you.

“Don’t go into Ulstead with me tomorrow,” you whispered. “Please.”

He rested his hand on the back of your head. The warmth of his breath stirred your hair, and you reveled in it. You reveled in him as though there wasn’t an air of finality in the way you held one another – as though you knew he intended to listen to you as well as you had, him.

“Everyone I love has been taken from me, Borra. Please.”

He was silent for another heartbeat. “The last time you left on your own, I nearly lost you.”

You couldn’t even protest that you wouldn’t be on your own – he knew that. He knew you’d be safe with them, that your feelings were as motivated by your own selfish desire to protect him as his were to you.

You sagged against him, linked your fingers in his hair, and tried desperately not to cry.

It took so long for you to compose yourself that he shifted his arms around you, held you closer like he intended to support the joints of your wings. He held your shoulder and your hip, your body engulfed in his, and you were reminded all over again of the freely-bleeding wound on his side.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered. “Come back to bed.”

There would be no more time for sleep, you presumed. Not when he held you like he did – like he would be willing to surrender if it kept you safe. You would have to plan, if you went to Ulstead together – you would have to know your odds.

“Do you trust me?” he murmured into your hair.

“With my life.” Without question or reserve.

“Then trust that I will not leave you. Ever. For any reason.”

You closed your eyes and pressed your hand to his neck, keeping the warmth of his skin against yours. “I trust you,” you repeated. “Not them.”

He could no more argue with you than you could with him. His rested his jaw against your temple, the curve of your horns pressing into his cheek.

You returned to your nest together, almost as though nothing had ever been wrong. Your people were still asleep in their beds, your mortal friends having retired to Aurora’s nature-palace in the heart of the moors. You took the woven water-jug and cleaned the wound on Borra’s side, rinsing it well and wrapping it in your dawn-purple wing-cloth. He didn’t stop you – not from your tending, not from guiding him to lie down beneath you so you could curl against him under the furs. The warmth of him seeped into you quickly, and your tired eyes grew heavy again.

“I love you, Cas,” he murmured. You were glad there was sleep in his voice; that meant you could sleep, too. That meant you could rest your head on his chest, and he could wrap his arms around you, and you could tuck your body safely against his as though your weight would keep him tethered.

“I love you, Borra,” you murmured into his chest. “Forgive me for tonight.”

He toyed with your hair lightly as he fell asleep. The brush of his fingers over your jaw betrayed him, and you raised your hand to hold his there before it fell.

Forgive me for tonight, you thought, and for what I am prepared to do tomorrow.

#Borra x Reader #Dark fey #Unfettered #cw: Really Smoopy Love Scene; Murder Is A Coping Mechanism; mild gore?; trauma mention

[hinabes]

Hardtack Backstory

A story about requests, the present and value.

I. Stormy Night

“Hey! Stop right there! Yes, you!”

The man huffed and strode towards me while waving his flashlight and baton, the swaying beam of light dispersed and blurred by the rain.

“Restricted area ahead, turn back now.”

His stern voice was betrayed by hints of unease and anxiety; mixed with the intermittent pitter-patter of raindrops, it was almost unintelligible.

I reached for the dagger at my waist on instinct, only stopping myself reluctantly as I remembered a warning I had received. Awkwardly, I opened my mouth to speak.

“Mo… Please move aside.”

If I’d done as I had many times before, I could have silenced a human this fragile and weak with a mere dagger or single bullet.

But I couldn’t that night. Not then, at least.

Frustrated, I tilted my head in the hopes that the rain could wash away those annoying warnings and rules.

Perhaps the rain wasn’t heavy enough, or I really was paid too well; in any case, I suppressed the urge for violence.

I continued racking my brains for a way to get past him without hurting him.

“There are dangerous fallen angels up ahead, got it? Go home.”

The man bent down to look me in the eye. As if he came to the wrong conclusion from my appearance, his voice softened and carried hints of warmth.

The next moment, that warmth was gone, battered by the icy raindrops. A sharp blade pierced the man clean through the chest, lifting him up.

“ROAR——”

A terrifying howl tore through the night sky, echoing further and further even through the veil of rain.

“Ru...n…”

As if the situation only just caught up to him, the man forced a sad smile, arm stiffly lifting up before dropping weakly.

I wasn’t sure if it was because of the man’s sudden death or a fallen angel killing someone right before me, but I became even more upset than before.

It could have been both reasons.

Even if I didn’t care much about humans, seeing such a scene unfold before me once again angered me.

Squinting to glare through the darkness, my eyes locked on the monster on the nearby street. I crushed the biscuit in my mouth as I took out my pocket watch, and with a click, I started the timer.

“Eleven thirty-three, mission begin.”

II. Refusal

“Great work.”

Her pet in her arms, a bereaved White Truffle sat facing me.

“I thank you for your aid, on behalf of the citizens of Lupa City.”

“I don’t need it.”

I didn’t beat about the bush. As I pointed towards the black debit card on the table, a certain man who had long since died came to mind.

“I’m just here for the money. The lives and deaths of humans don’t concern me.”

After a brief pause, I added.

“But if that would get me more money——”

“Miss Biscuit is such a funny person.”

White Truffle’s mouth curved into a slight smile as her expression relaxed. While speaking, she slid a token towards me.

Inscribed onto the token were white feathered wings and black ram’s horns, with an underlying metallic sheen; it was petite, yet extremely detailed.

“I’ve got another mission for you, if you’d be interested.”

“What’s this?”

Picking up the token, I toyed with it in my hand, fond of both its appearance and the slight warmth it gave off.

“It’s the Perigod Institute’s authentication token; display it at any organization associated with the institute whenever you require aid. This is the downpayment for this mission, should you accept.”

“Any organization?”

I stopped toying with it and placed it back on the table.

“Apologies, but I’m not interested then.”

I picked up the debit card and packed up, preparing to leave.

White Truffle didn’t seem to anticipate my decision. She blanked before asking, looking puzzled.

“You’re not going to ask about the mission details?”

“The concept of ‘help’ spans a wide range.”

I took out the debit card and waved it in front of White Truffle.

“It could be simple or complex. If it’s simple, why would I need this? Exchanging favors is always so much more annoying than monetary trade.

“If it’s complex, I don’t need it either, as it implies it’s going to come at personal cost.

“Also, having this card marks me as some kind of authority figure, which I’m not used to. Money is so much easier to deal with.”

White Truffle didn’t expect this answer from me. She pondered silently before rubbing her forehead, apologizing.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have probed you like this. Black Truffle was right, I’m not suited for this kind of conversation.

“So, to put it simply: I want to hire you as a member of the Perigod Institute security department.”

III. Awkward Kindness

“Isn’t this great? That… uh… Parry… Parry something?”

The bartender spun the cocktail shaker skillfully and soon a dark blue bubbling mix was slid across the table.

“Perigod.”

I downed the glass in one gulp. The icy drink slid smoothly down my throat, creating a burning sensation once it reached my stomach, spreading outward swiftly.

I enjoyed this feeling of slight drunkenness where I was still fully conscious.

“You know I’m bad at this type of tongue-twisting vocabulary. I’m not that well-learned after all.”

The bartender shrugged noncommittally, serving up another icy drink.

“It would have been a great chance to rid yourself of this kind of lifestyle. Why did you refuse?”

I sensed a certain something in his voice.

I’ve encountered this type of “something” in the human world many times, some genuine, some false.

I didn’t particularly mind or care, since the intention was about the same no matter which it was.

I’ve known this bartender for a long time. When we first met, that man I called “master attendant” was still around.

These were two of the very few humans I thought were special.

Normally, I would have stayed silent and waited for him to change the subject so that I wouldn’t have to contemplate such cumbersome things.

Alas, this time the bartender clearly did not want to end it here.

“You should think about where you want to go from here, Biscuit. Tang wouldn’t want…”

His sentence was cut short and he fell silent as his mouth was jammed.

“There won’t be a ‘next time’.”

With a poker face, I withdrew my pistol and wiped the muzzle clean of saliva using a tissue.

The bartender’s expression stiffened abruptly, changing many times between breaths before he calmed down again.

Then, as if nothing happened, he mixed another cocktail and served it to me.

“I sincerely apologize.”

His tone was earnest, his expression serious.

Contemplating our past battles together - the three of us - I lowered my gaze to avoid looking at him as I accepted the glass and downed it.

“Give me the newest intel.”

“...Right!”

I sighed silently, sensing the gradually lightening tone of the man, whose name I didn’t even want to recall.

You died far too soon; all these remaining humans are all so boring.

IV. Unexpectedly

Thunderous gunshots rang out; sparks and shrapnel flew.

The man before me paled drastically. The wall to the right of his head was pumped full of smoking bullet holes, but he held a forced smile.

“Please calm down, Miss Biscuit, I’m just a messenger.”

He took a deep breath and politely handed me a name card.

Without sparing it a glance, I flung my dagger and pinned the name card to the ground by his boots.

“Where is... Hu Jing?”

I narrowed my eyes as I looked through my memories, before finally recalling the bartender’s name.

“Mr. Hu is fine. Boss merely hopes to propose a trade with Miss Biscuit.”

“What kind of trade?”

My voice lowered as I suppressed my rising bloodlust.

I didn’t care about humans, and the one who had battled by my side and made me years of drinks was no exception.

“Boss says Miss Biscuit and Sir Tang have killed many back in the day, and one has to pay for the blood on their hands eventually. Alas, Sir Tang is long dead and chasing such old debts isn’t a good look, so there’s just one thing Miss Biscuit has to help with for Mr. Hu Jing to return.”

But I did care about the idiot named Sir Tang, even if he did always make me call him “master attendant”.

“To clear your debt, Miss Biscuit, Boss asks you to kill for him as many men as you have killed his.”

Hu Jing had stayed by Sir Tang’s side for such a long time, after all, I should do him a favor sooner or later.

“...If you investigated me, you should have known that I only hunt fallen angels now.”

I took a deep breath, keeping myself from remembering those bloodstained years of laughter intertwined with pain-filled screams, and enunciated each word.

The man, or perhaps the one he served, seemed to have anticipated my answer and followed up without a hitch.

“Boss says, just as I am but a message, Miss Biscuit is but a gun.

“It’s the same trigger being pulled, be it a human or a fallen angel.”

I stared down the man stock-still. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his cheek.

And then--

I spoke.

“You’re right.”

Before he had the chance to relax.

I continued.

“It’s the same trigger being pulled, be it a human or a fallen angel.”

The gunshot rang out thunderous. Blood splattered and it hit the ground with a thud.

Looking at the lifeless form of the man, I fished out the token from my pocket, White Truffle’s words coming to mind.

“It’s inevitable a time comes when you need help, so keep it with you even if you don’t intend to use it.”

Shaking my head, I chuckled to myself.

“You were right, humans really are so boring.”

V. Hardtack

Gloriville is a big place; glorious and prosperous.

Naturally, there’s going to be unspeakable darkness and filth.

Some say fallen angels are the greatest enemy of mankind.

This may not be true.

For fallen angels only kill.

Not only do humans kill, they tyrannize.

“From today onwards, they’re history.”

As White Truffle cuddled the puppy in her arms, she stood on the rooftop overlooking the crackling flames and spoke calmly to Hardtack beside her.

“Mr. Hu has been rescued as well, with nothing to show for it but scratches.”

“...Sorry for the trouble.”

Habitually, Hardtack spun her dagger in her hands.

“No worries, I’ve got money, lots of money.”

White Truffle turned to “glare” at the girl beside her and said sternly.

“But money can’t solve everything, that’s why I need you. You’ll be at the forefront of trouble from here on out.”

“No skin off my back.”

Hardtack refocused, sheathing her dagger and reaching her hand out to White Truffle.

“As long as I don’t have to deal with humans.”

“Perigod’s security department will only be dealing with fallen angels, I can promise you that.”

White Truffle smiled and accepted the handshake.

Her puppy hopped onto the ground and nuzzled up to Hardtack’s leg.

“Do you want to see Hu Jing?”

As if she just remembered, White Truffle reminded.

“He’s currently at a hospital run by the institute.”

“...No need.” After a moment of hesitation, Hardtack shook her head. Carefully, she removed the old bracelet on her wrist and replaced it with the Perigod token.

“Let’s talk work. What exactly does this security department do.”

“Hunt fallen angels, enforce the security of the research institute, and cooperate with other departments in fallen angel-related matters when needed. Though, of course, you don’t have to.”

“Sounds good.”

The girls stood shoulder to shoulder and walked towards the institute, back facing the flames.

“Right, there’s someone else in the security department, with you, there’ll be a total of two members.”

“A human?”

“No, a food soul. Her name is Braised Noodles.”

Translation Notes

She’s not released or announced in any way but yknow.... I just wanted to do a short one for practice lol

Names

Hardtack’s Chinese name is “compressed biscuit”, that’s why everyone calls her “biscuit” as a nickname

The bartender’s name is Hu Jing, surname Hu.

Hardtack’s (dead) MA’s name is Tang(?). I’m not fully sure, the messenger calls him “Tang Jun”, while the Jun could be part of the name, it could also be the japanese -kun or the chinese “Mr/Sir” honorific, it being more respectful in chinese context I think. Considering how “respectfully” the messenger addresses Hardtack and Hu Jing, and how Tang is likely on the same level of “importance” as his own boss, it’s probably a honorific.

Ch2: “black debit card”

Not debit card as in modern day debit cards, but more like a gift voucher? A card that means money without physically being money? Not sure if credit or debit is the better word to use here, or another word entirely.

Ch3: “His sentence was cut short and he fell silent as his mouth was jammed.”

If it wasn’t clear, Hardtack shoved a pistol in his mouth!

Ch5: “Not only do humans kill, they tyrannize.”

The original sentence translates literally to “Not only do humans kill people, they eat people.”

Googled “eat people” (in chinese) to make sure it meant what I thought it meant, and the definition is “The oppression and exploitation of the poor in the old society”

Oppression........... compression........... compressed biscuit...... aha...

This has nothing to do with anything its just fun thing i found while translating

Ch5: “White Truffle turned to “glare” at the girl beside her and said sternly.”

“Glare”, as in, White Truffle is blind

I really like the parallel of the requests!

White Truffle: paid attention to the token > kill FAs > didn’t anticipate her answer > treats her as a person

messenger: ignored the name card > kill humans > anticipated her answer > treats her as an object

made more obvious in chinese as the word used for “token” can also mean “tablet”, “medal” or “mahjong tile”, but most commonly “playing card”, but I also wanted a word that implied something small enough to be a bracelet charm and it was getting confusing with the black debit card in the same scene

#food fantasy #ff hardtack #ff hardtack biscuit #translations

[allmouth]

for the first time since their arrival, liv and hunter are alone; airyana only now just leaving to take a walk (get an autograph from commander shepard for me! he’d joked). now, hunter crawls into the hospital bed beside liv, curls up as close to him as possible. he strokes his feathers, carefully, and after a long silence, hesitantly speaks up. “i... feel like i should rejoin the war effort,” he says, with an almost uncharacteristic seriousness. “i know i won’t make much difference, but...”

livithia  has  only  had  two  thoughts  since  arriving  upon  the  Citadel,   broken  and  burned,   clutching  his  terrified  son  to  his  chest:   he  failed,   and  Commander  Shepard  was  right   (   —   not  that  he  never  believed  him  at  all,   like  most  people.   As  a  matter  of  fact,   Livithia  has  been  one  of  Commander  Shepard’s  most  outspoken  supporters,   and  has  worked  tirelessly  since  the  man’s  “death”  two  years  ago  to  gather  resources,   supplies,   knowledge  on  how  to  fight  a  war  without  the  only  man  who  saw  it  coming   ———   and,   he  understands  now  that  it  could  never  have  been  enough.   )

He  wishes  that  the  knowledge  could  be  a  comfort,   but  the  only  thing  that  he  can  see  are  the  dead  bodies  of  his  parents,   his  children,   his  people,   the  ruins  of  his  planet.   (   There  are  other  alula  who  were  off-world  at  the  time  of  the  attack,   he  knows.   He  has  seen  one  or  two  here,   on  the  Citadel,   a  doctor  and  a  merchant  who  could  scarcely  believe  that  their  prince  had  made  it  here  in  almost  one  piece,   and  he  has  children  who  were  off-world  as  well   —   including  the  only  of  his  children  who  was  not  an  alula,   an  asari  named  Lyvea.   Regardless,   he  cannot  shake  his  feeling  of  loss,   utter  hopelessness.   There  is  nothing  left  of  Croone,   and  the  dead  cannot  be  brought  back.   )

Airyana  was  so  adamant  that  he  receive  medical  treatment  once  they  arrived,   but  he  refused   ———   until  he  collapsed  in  the  marketplace,   shortly  after  purchasing  a  replacement  mask  for  his  son  who  couldn’t  bear  to  abandon  the  alula  tradition  of  only  showing  your  face  to  family.   (   Livithia  can  no  longer  bring  himself  to  care,   doesn’t  mind  the  stares  and  murmurs  from  other  aliens.   )   When  he  awoke,   with  Airyana  pressed  into  his  shoulder,   gently  weeping,   Hunter  holding  his  hand  and  his  talon,   the  true  extent  of  his  injuries  finally  occurred  to  him.   He  could  feel  his  wings  bandaged  and  wrapped  behind  him,   could  tell  that  they  had  been  broken,   could  see  bandages  around  his  chest  and  legs  and  feet,   could  feel  the  cannula  in  his  nose.   (   At  least  he  couldn’t  feel  any  pain,   but  he  attributed  that  to  the  IVs  in  his  arm.   )

His  son  and  his  love  both  looked  so  miserable,   so  disheveled,   and  it  broke  Livithia’s  heart  to  be  the  cause  of  it.   He  allowed  Airyana  to  remain  for  a  while,   stroked  the  boy’s  face,   even  preened  his  feathers  a  bit,   before  gently  suggesting  that  the  boy  go  get  something  to  eat,   get  some  air,   get  out  of  this  stuffy  hospital  room,   hm?   We  were  never  meant  to  be  so  cooped  up,   my  boy.

The  boy  protested,   because  of  course  he  did,   because  he  is  Livithia’s  son  and  he  has  always  been  so  strong-willed  and  stubborn-headed   ———   but,   eventually,   he  relented,   because  he  is  intelligent  as  well  and  more  than  likely  understood  that  his  father  wished  for  a  few  moments  alone  with  Hunter.

Get  an  autograph  from  Commander  Shepard  for  me! 

❝   Commander  Shepard  is  here?   at  the  hospital?   ❞

Someone  on  his  team  got  hurt,   Airyana  offers,   with  a  touch  of  that  boyish  rebellion  in  his  voice  and  arms  folded  across  his  chest.   (   He  truly  does  not  wish  to  leave.   )

❝   ———   ah.   I  see.   Offer  him  my  condolences,   but  do  not  trouble  him  too  much,   son.   Although,   I  would  like  to  speak  with  him  whenever  he  is  available.   ❞

With  a  nod,   Airyana  finally  departs,   and  Hunter  wastes  no  time  in  crawling  into  his  bed,   curling  into  his  side,   gently  stroking   (   what  remains  of   )   his  feathers.   Livithia  pillows  his  cheek  atop  Hunter’s  head,   embraces  him  with  as  many  arms  as  he  is  free  to  move,   closes  his  eyes  to  relish  this  moment  as  much  as  possible   /   to  pretend  that  he  is  back  home  in  his  nest  and  not  confined  to  this  dreadfully  uncomfortable  bed.   Tears  threaten  from  behind  his  lids,   but  to  cry  now  feels  selfish,   so  he  swallows  them  down.

I  feel  like  I  should  rejoin  the  war  effort.

Livithia  wishes  more  than  anything  that  this  were  another  joke  that  he  could  laugh  at,   reply  with  Wouldn’t  that  require  doing  real  work?,   but  he  can  tell  by  the  way  that  Hunter’s  voice  softens,   falls  heavy  onto  his  chest,   that  he  means  it,   and  it’s  more  than  Livithia  can  stand.

I  know  I  won’t  make  much  difference,   but   …

❝   ———   enough.   ❞   

Livithia  sounds  more  like  a  father  than  a  worried  lover,   but  it’s  the  only  way  that  he  can  hope  to  maintain  any  semblance  of  control  over  himself.   His  arms  tighten  around  Hunter,   and  he  presses  a  lingering  kiss  to  the  top  of  the  man’s  head.

❝   You  are  more  capable  than  you  have  ever  given  yourself  credit  for,   my  love.   Should  you  wish  to  fight,   you  have  my  undying  support,   and  my  firm  belief  that  your  contribution  will  be  anything  but  small.   However,   ❞   here,   he  falters  a  bit,   swallows  past  the  growing  lump  in  his  throat,   ❝   if  you  are  only  doing  this  because  you  feel  as  though  you  have  something  to  prove   …   then,   I  would  rather  you  did  not.   There  are  other  ways  to  assist  that  will  not  put  you  in  danger.   I  cannot  bear  to  lose  anyone  else.   ❞  

then,   lightheartedly,   with  a  smile  on  his  face  and  in  his  voice,

❝   Besides,   Airyana  has  been  holding  on  to  your  identification  tags  since  I  was  admitted   —   and,   between  you  and  me,   I  do  not  believe  that  he  would  let  them  go  easily.   I  have  seen  him  toying  with  them  when  he  thought  me  otherwise  disposed   —   and,   since  you  couldn’t  possibly  rejoin  without  those   …   ❞  

#dreamseat

[bosstoaster]

Wing au?

(whoops, sorry this took so long.  These are closed, everyone, but this one deserved answering)

I) Shiro has always been proud of his wings.

These days, there’s not much point to wings.  They were little more than an evolutionary leftover.  At one point, wings were useful tools for surviving in the wild, gliding away from danger more than outright flying.  Now, they stayed tucked against people’s backs, only making themselves known in fashion or when anyone accidentally bumped someone with them and had to apologize for spilling their coffee.

Shiro had a phase where he was determined to fly with them.  Nevermind that he’d been eight and they’d been little more than tufts of down.  He’d jumped off of everything he could climb up, from furniture to trees and, one one occasion, he’d nearly made it off the roof.

Eventually, the impossibility of Shiro’s dream settled in, but he never stopped wanting to fly, and he never stopped loving his wings.  They were a sleek black, shiny and resilient, and Shiro kept them well exercised when most people let the muscles atrophy.  While he still couldn’t fly, he could create a gust of wind strong enough to make most anyone stumble, and he’d won more than one stupid teenage dare about gliding distance.

Still, if his wings couldn’t get him airborne, Shiro was going to find a way.

II) The Galaxy Garrison was that way

(Read More Below)

Shiro found the same feeling of thrill in flying a machine that had ignited his young imagination.  It wasn’t quite the same, but it was the closest Shiro could get.  He could soar in simulations, could part clouds with the wings of his plane.  Could look down and see the world, so small below him it was like toys.  Like the rest of his life was playing along, and this was reality.

The Galaxy Garrison was where Shiro could finally spread his wings, physically and metaphorically.  It was where he meet like-minded people, who looked up at the night sky and thought I belong there.  It was where he met Keith, whose drive to touch the sky might have been greater than Shiro’s own - or he was simply less reserved about chasing it.

Shiro pushed forward, fought for opportunity, excelled.

Shiro learned how to fly.  And like his eight-year-old self had always believed, he was good at it.

Looking up at the huge stretch of the night sky, Shiro fell back against the roof, his wings as extended as they would go.  Sitting next to him, Keith absently flapped his own wings, brown and clay-red like the desert that surrounded them.

“I’m going to apply,” Shiro decided, still looking up.  He could easily pick out Mars and Venus in the night sky, but what he wanted was farther than that.  Much, much farther.

Keith hummed, unsurprised.  “That’s a long time to have to keep your wings tucked,” he pointed out, eyeing where Shiro was taking up half the roof with his wingspan.

Rolling his eyes, Shiro sat up and flattened them to his back.  The primaries trailed against the wood of the shack’s roof, sending a shiver through him.  “I’ll manage.  It’ll be worth it.  Kerberos, Keith.  The first people to the edge of the solar system.  I have to try.”

“Yeah,” Keith agreed.  “I would too.”  He curled his legs up to his chest, one wing splaying out toward Shiro.  The reddish tips just brushed against the center of Shiro’s back, over where his wings were tucked tight.  “I’ll miss you, you know.”

Shiro laughed softly.  “Getting ahead of yourself.  I’m barely graduated.  Who knows if they’ll want me even applying.”

“That won’t stop you,” Keith replied.  “And they will.  There’s no one better.”

Keith might have been competition, but he was too young yet, still two years out from graduation.

“Seniority matters,” Shiro reminded him, eyes closed.  When Keith’s feathers brushed his own, Shiro pushed his wings back, like a cat leaning into petting.  Feather to feather contact was okay with Keith, especially when he started it.  Skin to skin was a different story.

Rolling his shoulders, Keith glanced back at the cluster of lights on the horizon that was the Garrison.  “Then the brass are idiots.”

No arguments there.  Shiro still smiled, charmed at Keith’s defense.

Finally, he spread his wings further, using his longer wingspan to wrap around Keith’s shoulders like a blanket.  “I’ll miss you too.”

Keith’s smile was bright, for the second before he hid it in his knees.

III) The months-long journey to Kerberos was painful

Shiro had lived in apartments and condos for most of his life.  He’d spend hours in class with his wings shivering and twitching, trying to keep them in as small a space as he could.  But he’d never gone longer than a few days without getting the chance to fully stretch out and flap, if only for a minute or two.

The Daedalus was simply too small to allow that kind of movement.  Even when Shiro wasn’t wearing his bulky suit that covered his wings completely, he could only get about half-open before he was in danger of hitting equipment.

It didn’t seem to bother either of his teammates nearly so much.  Commander Holt reminded him to keep up his exercises, which were supposed to help keep his muscles from atrophying.  He kept his own up every day, but didn’t seem to have the same constant itch to flap that Shiro struggled with.

Matt was even worse.  He barely cared, laughing at Shiro’s mounting frustration.  “You can fly in zero grav back at the Garrison,” he reminded Shiro fondly.  “You need to do it here, too?”

“You don’t feel trapped?”  Shiro had never been claustrophobic, or else he’d never have survived training.  Cockpits tended to be small, especially with anyone with a larger wingspan.

Considering, Matt shrugged one shoulder.  “Yeah, kind of.  I miss going on runs.  But I don’t mind keeping my wings tucked.  I usually keep them there anyway.”

Baffling, but not unexpected.  Most people were that way.  Shiro just didn’t understand how.

When they finally landed on Kerberos and set up the equipment, Shiro closed his eyes and imagined being able to spread his wings.  To hang on the edge of this planet, tips of his feathers as far apart as they could go.  Imagining taking a running leap and pushing off, using the lack of gravity to glide into the stars, momentum going on forever.

Letting go of the childish fantasy with a sigh, Shiro opened his eyes.

And saw a ship above them.

A ship that wasn’t one he recognized.

“Run!”

IV) Shiro has never needed it, but the wings had another benefit: Combat

Gripping the blade in his hands, Shiro’s breath came in short, desperate gasps.  That was two, so this was-

There was a vicious hum as Myzax’s weapon burst toward him, slamming through the rock pillar and throwing up a cloud of dust.

Three.

Ducking around from his cover, Shiro kept his wings tucked, streamlined as possible as he tried to gain ground.  Myzax held out his staff, taking back the ball, which hummed and stayed in place, recharging from the last volley.

That didn’t make his opponent less dangerous.  That didn’t make Shiro closer in size to the monster in front of him.

But he had one trick that Myxaz didn’t.

Right before he got into striking range, Shiro crouched, then snapped his wings out and flapped. At the same moment, he sprang up, getting more height than he had any other time in the fight.

Myzax’s head started to pull up, following the fast move too late.

Shiro was already bringing the blade down, slicing over his face and sending the monster crashing to the ground.  His wings stayed out, giving him a soft landing, and Shiro was able to kick the energy weapon away and hold out his blade in clear threat.

There was a long pause.

Then, the audience erupted into screams and roars, losing their minds.

Shiro had won.  Shiro had won.

And he continued to win. Even when his feathers dulled and failed to grow back, even when stark white lines of scars crossed the flesh, even when his face was sliced open and blood drenched his face and neck.

But once, his armored, sworded opponent was faster than Shiro expected, more devastating with his attacks.  He fought like Shiro, the battle itself a show, the killing blows swift and nearly merciful.

Shiro still won, but the opponent got him in the back, stabbing in and twisting, cracking the fragile bone.

Shiro still won, but his arm hung from tatters of muscle.

Shiro still won, but he collapsed to the dirt floor, bleeding out quickly.

Staring up at the bright lights and listening to the cheers and screams fading, Shiro thought this is how I die.

Until the very bottom of a robe brushed what was left of his wings,and a clawed hand grabbed him by the jaw.

One look at Haggar’s smile told Shiro he would not die today.  But he would want to.

V) Haggar took his wings

Staring in the mirror of Keith’s little shack, Shiro’s stomach flipped.  

He didn’t recognize the man in the mirror.

The deep scar cut over his nose, merely the most visible with his clothes on.  It lengthened his face, aged him, making Shiro wonder just how long he’d been gone.  White bangs fell into his face, brushed back by metal fingers.

And his wings.

His wings were just as mechanical as his left hand.  No longer black and glossy, they were the same silver and dark grey material as the other prosthetic.  Where they’d been one streamlined piece, now there were fewer feathers, jagged and shining.  These weren’t for flying.  They were weapons.

These weren’t his wings.  These weren’t the tufts of down he’d grown up with, that he’d glided with as a teenager, that he’d learned to spread and tuck by turns at the Garrison.  This was like having living swords strapped to his back, a sick mockery.

Stumbling out into the light of dawn, Shiro clutched his metal wrist and stared out, watching the shadows of his false wings grow over the sand.

“It’s good to have you back,” Keith murmured later, when he found Shiro staring.

“It’s good to be back,” he replied, but it was numb.  Shiro wasn’t back.  Not really.  Only pieces of him.  His wings were gone.

Keith swallowed, his clay-red wings brushing over the metal.  Shiro could see it, but he couldn’t feel it.  He ached for that contact, the kind Keith would always allow, but that he could never offer again.

“We need to talk,” Keith said.  “Come back inside.”

In a daze, Shiro followed.

The false-wings tucked against his back, far more comfortable there than the real ones had ever been.  

Shiro had no desire to spread these.

Bonus)

The Black Lion had wings.

Shiro had noticed, idly, the difference in design when Allura had shown them the holograms.  But it didn’t register until this moment.

The Black Lion had metal wings, each of the shining primaries long spread wide.  They were red where Shiro’s were black, but otherwise so similar.  The same in the ways that mattered.

Stepping forward, ringed from behind by the other four lions, Shiro’s heart reached out, and felt another’s meet him there.

The Black Lion roared in greeting.

Shiro spread his wings for the first time since waking up.

It was time for them to fly.

#Voltron #Shiro #Hot Astronerd #BT Memes #BT Writes #Anonymous

[magic5ball]

Nature Trail to Hell Arc IV: Megamart of Darkness (3)

Chapter 3: … And Put Up a Megamart

           It was like Christmas day all over again! For the first time in my ten year existence, someone had screwed up that wasn’t me! I never even realized this could be a possibility up to that point. And you bet your toenails I absolutely reveled in it.

At first they were honking like mad, protesting how I might work for Wegmart or somesuch (it had happened before, apparently). But all ol’ Bokrug had to do was give them a glare and they shut up good. I could understand why, though. For the Elves, apologizing is a fancy affair, with them all lining up in front of me, each kissing my swollen kneecap one at a time while I towered above them, laughing. I would have settled for a plain old “I’m sorry.”, but you know what they say, Elves will be Elves.

           One hour of kneecap smooches later, Birthday Boy stood in front of me, surprisingly dignified in his stupid hat. The rest of his flock (drove? Pack? It really is hard to decide what to call a group of these guys) formed a half-circle behind him, like his own personal orchestra (though geek choir would be more appropriate).

“Come now, o’ vagrant” he said, lifting out a wing for me “We must journey to the outskirts of the cursed lands so that you may know the direness of our situation.”

He pointed to the forest. I groaned, not exactly in the mood for walking.

“Fear not. We have procured some edibles to sustain us on are strenuous trek.”

An Elf wandered up to me, carrying the so called ‘blessed sustenance’ in their beak.

“Within this bag is the blessed manna bread, which will sate your hunger for your entire journey, as well as the meat of sacred to give you unspeakable strength, should the situation require it.”

All I saw was a half-eaten bag of beef jerky with a stale doughnut hole inside.

“The Blessings of Bokrug be with you!” the Elves honked, their half circle shifting into a path straight to the woods.

Birthday Boy didn’t start explaining until we reached the trees, a trial in and of itself. See, if it wasn’t cringe-inducing enough he had to explain everything to me in that dated voice of his, no, he just had to make everything rhyme!

           “Long ago in the Days of yore,” he began, “’Twas blessed land where we bore-our young, who pooped as they pleased in pristine ponds ‘til they turned algae green. It was this algae that we ate, from hours seven ‘til eight, when wily hours twist the day to darkness. And those who’d venture on yonder path, fed us wholesome grain, or faced our wrath, like the bull thistles blooming on a summer’s day.”

Somehow, he managed to keep his honker running the. Whole. Way. There. By the time we got to our destination, I knew more about LARP geese history than about my own family.

But where was there, you might be asking? Well, as Birthday Boy would say-

“’Till one day we encroached the wrath of wastrels longst strayeth from good path. Who sought paradise’s golden fruit as their own. We lost, o terrible tragedy, yet followed somber reality, as our greatest ally betrayed us, and the great pond of yore became asphalt.”

For those reading this who can’t quite get Birthday Boy’s pretentious picture, we had arrived at a parking lot. Now, even young me had seen a fair number of lots in his time, but never one this big. It stretched over the horizon, a never-ending desert of streetlights and maybe some handicapped spaces. (Which, if we kept walking any longer, I was probably gonna need.)

“Go forth child, and understand, who tooketh away our promised land.”

           As we walked across the parking lot, I couldn’t help but notice Birthday Boy waddled a bit behind me now. Something was coming up at the edge of my vision. At first I thought it was just a mirage, seeing all the heat radiating off the asphalt, but as we got closer, it became too big to be fake. Not tall in the usual way, though: heightwise it was only about three stories tall. But widthwise, well…

The darn thing seemed to go on forever.

What stood before us on that sweltering summer day was a giant rectangle painted so white it practically blinded me, its’ only other features being a sliding door, above which was a set of bold red letters, each the size of my house, proudly announcing the store’s name: a name I knew well from years of being stuck in a dressing room as my Mom forced me to try on just one more sweater before winter set in:

                                                    WEGMART

Birthday Boy spoke, his voice now as hushed as a goose voice could be (which was still subtle as a sack of sledgehammers). “Now we tread carefully with fear. If you are caught, I cannot help you here.”

           Conveniently enough (though it shouldn’t have been that surprising, considering where we were) two rows of cars formed a path to the place, like guards lining the world’s blackest red carpet. In other words, the perfect place for a goose to hide under. Walking down this path (only half obeying Birthday Boy’s instructions: I tread carefully, but I’m a Tostig and if you know Tostigs, we never tread with fear, at least not when we can help it) I found it kinda weird how this place made out to be this evil fortress of ultimate horrific doom didn’t have so much as a security camera to keep me out. The only thing between me and those automatic sliding doors was some wrinkly old guy wearing a blue traffic safety vest: the Wegmart Greeter Guy. For those not in the know, the Greeter Guy is this shtick Wegmart does where they employ some old guy who’ll work for pennies so visiting shoppers can be reminded of their own mortality. Something seemed a bit… off about this one, though. There was a broad grin on his face, too broad for a man his age; right hand raised in a perpetual wave at nothing. Seemed fake, though I figured this was yet another one of those byproducts of the high cost of low price or whatever they were saying on the news.

           I couldn’t step one foot past him before I hit something. Hard. I’d say it was like glass, on account of it being completely invisible, but really, it was more like hitting a steel wall that also gave you the worst case of static shock in the universe. Of course, young me being young me, this didn’t register until he’d waltzed into that deathtrap so many times he couldn’t feel his limbs. Heck, it wouldn’t surprise me the only reason I didn’t try to enter Wegmart a few more times was because by the last time, I was so zapped outta my head I stumbled into the cars by complete accident, giving the one Birthday Boy was under a static snap so strong it exploded in a ball of fire.

“Fool!” honked the goose “Do you not realized that your knaveous action could very well have delivered me to a premature encounter with dread mortis?!”

           I did not. And if it weren’t the fact he was explaining the situation to me, I don’t even think I would have cared that much. All I wanted was to go home, play video games, and spend the rest of the summer sleeping this crazy adventure off.

Fortunately, (or unfortunately depending on your tolerance for Shakespeare) Birthday Boy was fast regaining his composure.

“As you can see, they’ve torn asunder Holy Mountain. Sacred stream has become drinking fountain. A wicked grinning barrier they have erected. So long it stands, from elfin magic they are protected.”

“So… you mean to tell me that the greeter guy is some kind of magic energy shield thingy stopping you guys from getting your home back?”

“Your answer ‘tis acute. Now we must be astute.”

I saw a little black object flying in the sky. On account of the bright sun, I couldn’t see it clearly, but it freaked the everloving feathers off of Birthday Boy.

“Flee!” he honked, waddle-flying for the woods. “Every elf now for himself!”

Something shot out from the thing: a little foam dart, not unlike the kinds I had in my toy aero guns (or had, until I discovered real ammo.) It landed inches from my foot. A second later, it did something no foam dart should do: it started dissolving the ground with a hiss. As if on cue, the sky around me started to darken. Looking up, I could now see the mysterious black object was a toy RC helicopter.

Thousands of them, all armed with those same dissolving darts.

“We must escape now!” Honked Birthday Boy “Those curs wield the dread power of Shampow! A power you could not hope to understand, one long forbidden from the clutches of man!”

“Yeah, I get the idea!” I cried as we ran all the way back to the stock pond.

           We didn’t reach there ‘til sundown. When we did, Bokrug was first to speak to me.

“I trust you know the direness of the situation?”

“Well, yeah. But I still don’t see how I fit into all this. You guys look pretty powerful on your own.”

“While we have had some success in hit and run missions-“ He gestured a wing towards the shopping carts and tiki torches wielded by his brethren “-We have lossed far more than we have gained. Only by penetrating the heart of darkness, and seizing the blessed water that once flowed through our LARPing grounds might we hope to end the conflict once and for all.”  He said to me. “As you witnessed, our sacred LARPing grounds have been overtaken by the evil known as Wegmart. Using the limitless power of the Greeter Guy, they have erected a massive magic-proof barrier we cannot cross.”

“And how do I fit into this?”

“There is but one thing that can pierce Wegmart’s barrier: An artifact of a bygone age known as the Baldwin 60000. But in order to steal this artifact, we must first animate it with a mysterious artifact known as gold dust.”

“Still not seeing how I fit in.”

“Gold dust, however, is an incredibly rare thing. The only satchel known to exist was only ever possessed by the man who founded this great land: A man named William Penn! Technically, he acquired it from the natives… Among other things, but that is a story for another time.”

“And where the heck do you get gold dust?”

“You shall find it in the pockets of the great man himself as he surveys his city!”

“Hold on! So you’d want me to climb to the top of City Hall, and pickpocket a national hero when you have a thousand little goose friends who can FLY?! How does this make any sense?!”

Said thousand little friends glared at me.

“I would suggest referring to them as ‘Elves’.” Bokrug whisper-honked. “In honesty, I find the distinction quite trivial myself, but it is a touchy subject for them. But! You are correct: that is indeed the most logical path, but as it would happen, city hall is covered in spikes. Birdproof spikes. Seeing as you are partially human, I have faith you just might be immune.”

“Huh! I always figured those spikes were leftovers from William Penn’s rebellious phase!”

“As truth would have it, they were made to keep away those who would sully Penn’s temple of tolerance.” Bokrug and his brood turned to face me. “So, Watterson Tostig, I must humbly ask of you: Are you up to the task? Will you help us?”

I thought long and hard at that- maybe longer and harder than I’d ever thought in my LIFE up to that point. F-Bomb had warned me birds were a bunch of sellouts, giving up their form so they could live on the surface. But they had problems, BIG problems. And, well, maybe I’d run away from things a bit too much that summer, sappy as it might sound. Maybe it was time to lend a hand to guys who didn’t have any, even if they weren’t real dinosaurs.

“Alright,” I nodded. “I’ll do it.”

Bokrug bowed his head. “Thank you, Watterson Tostig.”

On cue, a trench-coated man emerged from the woods, pushing a shopping cart with a pair of fire extinguishers strapped to the back of it. It took me a moment to realize the ‘guy’ was just four geese stacked on top of one another, like in those old cartoons.

“Our envoy shall take you to as far as City Hall. After that, may your Lord’s grace be with you.”

But before I got in the shopping cart, there was one last question I had to ask:

“Say Bokrug, why’d you have your little friend take me to a death trap to explain the situation when you did it yourself just fine?”

The bandit-masked goose shrugged. “You seemed to me a visual learner.”

I rolled my eyes. This guy was starting to sound like my teachers!

#My writing #Nature Trail To Hell #bokrug #geese #grocery store #parking lot #shopping cart #gold dust