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#now bears are more scared of us because we fire twelve rounds into them when they’re just vibing
starry-pierrot · 3 years
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Sleepy Nightguards
Okay! So this is a big one.  Hope you all like it!
@jelly-belly-fish
Jelly was nervous as they clocked in for their third nightshift, they had just started their new security job at Freddy’s Pizzaplex and while all their friends were jealous they were working at the place that basically ruled their childhood; they were this close to being tired of it. Not because the job was horrible or anything but because of the long nights. Jelly wasn’t used to staying up till six in the morning and it was obvious the young adult was having some issues staying awake all night. 
But not tonight! The night before was a nightmare when Montgomery woke them up with a Halloween mask from storage. If it wasn’t for Freddy and the others they were sure they would have had a heart attack right there and then. But tonight they would make it through the night without falling asleep if it was going to kill them and to make sure it didn’t happen they brought a bunch of sugary snacks and soda along with some coffee. Their heart might stop but at least they’d be awake.
Jelly stepped out into the Pizzaplex with flashlight in hand, they were sure the bots were out and about by now mingling with each other. They still weren’t used to them, anxiety taking over before they could have a real conversation besides ‘Hello’ and ‘ Gotta do the job.’ But they continued on as they walked throughout the building. 
Like usual there wasn’t anything different about the building, no kids hiding, no burglars making their way in through the window and no random fires breaking out in the kitchen. They did see the counter was a little sticky with some soda, a day employee probably forgot to clean that but they continued on.
That was pretty much all they needed to do, the place is locked up for the night and no one would be getting in without the animatronics knowing about it. That meant one thing. Or it would if someone hadn’t snuck up on them.  “ Hello,Jelly.”  “ A-aha!” They jumped when a deep voice came from behind them, turning around to reveal it to be Freddy. “ Oh-uh-Hi..” It took a moment for their nerves to calm down. The bear gave a kind but apologetic smile, “ I see you are doing your rounds. Everything good?”  “ Yes. Uh-yeah no nothing weird going on..” They looked off to the side then back to the bear hoping that he wouldn’t stick around too long even if they did like the sound of his voice.  “ Good. I just wanted to check in. I know you’ve been having some trouble staying awake but that should pass eventually.”  “ Yeah it should-look uh I gotta go man the monitors. See ya Freddy!” Jelly sidestepped the bear giving him a small wave before taking off towards the security room. They weren’t ever sure if they were going to get used to the animatronics actually talking to them. When MJ introduced them they were not sure what to think but at least most of them were nice. But the gator and the twins can be shoved in a closet. 
The night continued on as Jelly watched the monitors, eating their candy and drinking their coffee to stay awake as they played on their phone. Sometimes she would catch the animatronics on screen, Roxane coaxing Montgomery into some arcade games while Chica cheered them on. Freddy was seen fixing up the plate placements in the party room while the twins mostly stayed in the playground area. Jelly didn’t realize it but they were getting tired, their head started to bob before jerking awake. A yawn slipping out here and there, maybe they were starting to rest their head against their arms as some YouTube video played on their phone.  What were they watching? The sound faded out- “ Jelly?” Freddy asked as he peaked his head into the security room, it had been a while since the guard had done their last round and while management didn’t make them keep a time card for it (the tech would be an extra 100 to put in the system) Freddy liked to make sure they at least did the bare minimum for their job. But he paused when he saw all the candy wrappers and empty soda and coffee bottles that littered the desk and floor. The bear shook his head and quietly walked in noting that the guard was fast asleep.  Quietly picking up the garbage and throwing it in the bin didn’t take long and when he was done he looked to the guard, they didn’t look very comfortable. The chair was a little too far back and he was sure if they slipped just a little further they’d fall right on their face.  “ It’s always the young ones.” Shaking his head with an amused smile he gently scooped up the guard off the chair, Jelly not making a peep in this process. The guards had dragged in some big bean bag chairs a while back and they were perfect for this sort of thing, walking over Freddy gently put the guard on one of the chairs making sure they were in a comfortable position. He left for a moment only to come back and tuck in a blanket from his room around them, a few of the others had followed him and poked their heads in but he held up his finger to tell them to be quiet.  “Let them sleep.”  ------- @the-pun-sexual-nerd The first hour had gone by quickly as MJ had done their rounds around the complex, the flashlight twirling in their hand as they walked about. Monty and Roxane had decided to go kart racing with Freddy being the mediator, Mj would have joined them but they were feeling like doing something else that was a bit more quiet than a racetrack.  Heading back to the security room they quickly turned on the monitors giving them a quick look over before they set up their phone, clicking on the streaming service they watch Lucifer on. They had recently gotten into the show and were trying to binge watch all four seasons within the week, it was a hyperfixation. Pulling out their snacks they leaned back in the chair as the episode started, it was a few episodes before the finale in season one.  As Mj watched the show they took quick looks from the monitors to the show from time to time and for a while it was all quiet. So quiet in fact they didn’t realize they had another member in the room. 
“ What are you watchin’, sugar?”  The guard squeaked and dropped their chips as they jumped, spinning the chair around only to find Chica standing there looking a little surprised. “ Chica! Jeez you scared me!”  “ Oh-opps.” The chicken laughed, giving an apologetic smile for the scare. Even if these guys were nice they really needed to quit it with being so quiet. Maybe they should get them all bells to put around their necks. “ Sorry about that, hun. I guess I don’t know just how quiet I can be.”  “ It’s okay just...don’t do that again. Please.”  “ I promise! Now what are you watching?” The larger animatronic leaned in to the now slightly moved phone on the desk. Mj quickly righted it and snagged their bag from the floor, luckily the snacks didn’t all fall out and there was still a good chunk of them left. 
“ Lucifer. It’s a tv show about Lucifer who’s a fallen angel and he doesn't like his life anymore so he leaves hell. And he ends up movin’ to Los Angeles and everything is good and great until someone gets killed outside his nightclub and that starts some- “ Dear I don’t mean to be rude but I have no idea what you just said.” 
Mj stopped for a moment realizing they went on another word bender with someone who probably isn’t even programmed to know about any of the themes within the television show. “ Oh-oops. Um-do you just want to watch it with me? We can start from the beginnin’.”
 “ I’d love to!” 
Hours later the two were sitting on the bean bag chairs, the phone sitting on a chair they had pulled over and propped up with a Freddy plushie. Mj had eaten all their snacks and was currently starting to nod off besides Chica.
“ Sweetheart I think you’re falling asleep there.” 
“ No I’m not! I’m awake!” 
Chica laughed and reached over to the phone to pause it, “ I know a sleepy human when I see one. Come on you got another two hours before your shift ends. You can take a nap.” 
Mj seemed to consider it for a moment before they sighed and laid back on the bean bag chair, “ Okay...I am a bit sleepy.” 
“ It’s all that junk food you ate. Makes you all sluggish.” 
“ But soda has caffeine in it. “ 
“ And humans can get caffeine crashes. Next time I’ll bring you a little something that's a bit more healthy okay?” Chica stood up moving the blanket closer to the human and tucking them in much like she would do to a child. 
“ Now get some sleep. I’ll let the others know to leave you alone, okay?” 
“Okay! Night, Chica.” Mj adjusted themselves for a moment before they finally settled down and closed their eyes. 
“ Night, darlin’.” 
-------
“ Zoey we need you to work tonight!”
“What!?” It was currently a Saturday in the afternoon, about four, it was the busiest time of the day. Her and Twigs were already up to their necks in kids trading tickets and stocking at quickly as they could at the prize counter. 
“ Katsu called out, she’s got something going on so I need you to fill in.” The manager didn’t even look up when he addressed her.
“ There isn’t anyone else? You know that's going to be like a fifteen hour work day right?” She’s been here since one and she doesn't get off until closing. That’s nine hours plus the twelve to six? 
“ It’s fine. I already cleared it with Jamie you need to come in tonight. “ Her manager then quickly left giving her no chance to reject the extra shift. 
“ Well shit.” Zoey sighed, it wasn’t that she didn’t like the night shift. No she loved it! But working so many hours was going to be a pain in the ass and she was sure she was going to get a major migraine in the morning. At least she would get to go home and eat before coming back. 
Well there was nothing she could do about it now as she needed the money and she wasn’t about to quit when there were literal talking animatronics at this job. Rolling her eyes she went back to stocking the plushies on the shelf. 
It was eleven fifty five as she clocked in ready to start this ridiculously long shift, at least she would be among friends who would make things fun. But first she had to handle some of her duties such as checking the facilities before turning on the monitors, though it didn’t take long for her to finish. 
“ Hey Zoey! You wanna go play some Mini Golf? I bet we can beat gator boy over there.” Roxanne walked into the security office with Monty hot on her heels. 
“ Oh no you won’t! You wanna start something wolfy?” And they were already starting with a little rivalry, this was fine. Zoey could play. 
“ What, Monty? Are you scared you’re gonna lose?” Zoey shot back with a smile feeling some energy awake inside her. 
“ Oh-ho! Someone is ready to kick some tail! “ Roxanne grabbed Zoey’s hand and began to tug her towards the door, “ Come on, Montgomery! Hurry up or we’ll leave you behind!” 
“ I bet I’ll get there first!” Without much warning the gator sped forward passing the two towards his section of the Pizzaplex, Roxane not wanting to lose scooped up Zoey and threw her over her shoulder before running after the other animatronic. 
“ Whoa-Hey!” 
The run to the golf course was surprisingly smooth considering she was on Roxanne's shoulder, she was gently deposited on the ground when the two arrived just behind Monty. The gator gloated a little but she was quickly given her own club before being tugged out onto the field.
 The three played for a bit all the while Monty and Roxanne shot words at each other, Zoey would say something here and there but she was realizing that the energy she had earlier was starting to give out. Her shots were getting worse too as they continued playing.
It was around hole fourteen that she stopped listening to the two playfully bicker and talk about whatever it was that they talked about. Soon her head was drooping, jerking awake and she tried to pay attention to the conversation. 
“You think their parents would make sure their kid cleans their hand before they touch my mohawk.” 
“ I had kids stick gum in my tail. But hey still gotta love them.” Zoey began to zone out again, this time her head falling forward before she jerked awake yet again. However this time Montgomery noticed. 
“ Hey, you doing okay there, missy?” He asked. 
“ What? Yeah just...a little tired. This is my second shift today and it was busy as hell.” Rubbing at her eyes she gave a yawn. 
“ Swear jar.” Roxanne piped in. 
“ I’m okay, I'm just tired. We can still play.” Zoey picked up her club and began walking to the next hole, the two animatronics looked at each other before following her. Deciding to keep an extra eye on her. 
But it soon became apparent that the human was just too tired to play, Zoey wasn’t the best player at mini golf but her shots were just terrible. 
“ Okay. That’s it.” Suddenly a tail wrapped around Zoey’s waist pulling her closer. Looking back she saw Montgomery giving her a look that said ‘Time to go’. 
“ You can’t be falling asleep on the golf course now. You’ll ruin the grass and your shots suck worse than usual.” 
“Gee thanks.” 
“ Come on I’ll take you back to my room.” 
This made Zoey freeze for a moment before she tried to pull away from his tail, “ Uh-no it’s fine I can just go sleep in the secr-” another yawn, “security room.” 
“ The green rooms are closer. Come on.” Without missing a beat the larger animatronic reached over and scooped her up into one of his arms. Zoey squeaked as her face went red but she didn’t fight it. 
How could she fight someone that was ten times stronger than her and wouldn’t take no for an answer?
Well-that was until she noticed Roxanne smiling at her. Suddenly her embarrassment was even stronger.
“ Okay-uh-Monty come on I can walk! “ 
“ You’re falling asleep on your feet.” 
“ Yeah Zoey. Just let him carry you.” Oh she was going to get smacked later for this she knew what she was doing! Zoey glared back at Roxanne watching her as she stayed behind. 
“ Monty put me down.” Zoey tried one last time. 
“ No.” 
The human sighed and gave in letting the animatronic carry her to the green rooms, not that she had a choice to begin with. It wasn’t a long walk and the room smelled of pizza and some type of air freshener. Monty walked over to the couch and dropped her on it before he tossed a blanket at her. 
“ There you go. Now go to bed, we'll play another round when you won't ruin my grass by falling asleep on it.” Montgomery walked over to the lights and flipped them off turning the room into a dark enough space that would be easy to sleep in. 
“ Okay fine...just wake me up before six okay?” Looking back over at him while she pulled the pillows closer she saw him pause and look back. 
“ Yeah don’t worry.. Good night, little missy.” 
With that he walked out leaving Zoey alone in his room, she could feel her heart beating a little quicker than normal and she wanted to bury her face into the pillow and die. 
But something caught her eye, it was a Montgomery plush. Zoey would later refuse to admit that she had been cuddling with it. 
----
@trollartistry
Today was not a good day.
Nemi yawned as he clocked into his nightshift, irritated and grumpy. The day had been a long one, first he couldn’t get enough sleep as his body just didn’t want to cooperate with him. He was sure he didn’t fall asleep till about three hours before his nightshift which was not enough time for him to be fully rested. Then his drier broke and he was forced to dry his uniform with a blow dryer taking up the time he would usually use to make a decent meal for himself. All he had was some toast and yogurt before he had rushed to his car so he wouldn’t be late. 
He didn’t need management getting on his ass tonight. 
The male gave out half-assed greetings to the animatronics and any other guards stationed with him tonight as he started his rounds, checking the bathrooms, the arcade and making sure no kids were hiding somewhere in the ball pit. It all seemed well and good until there was a sudden commotion just irritating enough to get on his last nerve. Quickly heading to the party hall he found that Moondrop was being berated by one of the other guards, Zoey. Once he took another look around he found that Roxane was yelling at the other animatronic while her tail was slightly colored pink, being held back by Freddy while Monty and Chica were off to the side. 
“ You can’t just dye her fur! You know management would-”
“ It was just a joke!” “ No one messes with my fur and gets away with it!” 
“ Now will you all calm down? There is no reason to-” 
“ENOUGH!”
The room was suddenly very quiet as all their heads snapped to Nemi, the man glaring at them with a scowl on his face. Nemi walked forward, “ I’m not dealing with this tonight. Zoey keep that creep of yours under control. Roxane go wash your tail out before it stains your fur. And everyone else keep it fucking quiet!” The others were clearly unsettled by his attitude as usually he’d be nothing more than a sweetheart but clearly something had irritated the man. 
But before anyone could say anything he stormed off towards the security room, why were they all so chaotic? And it had to be on a night where he was already having a bad day. Angrily sitting down at the security rooms table he let out a long winded sigh and held his head in his hands. At least now it was quiet. 
“ Nemi?” 
Oh for fucks sake. “ What, Freddy?” 
The animatronic bear stepped in the room and walked over standing next to the irritated guard, “ Are you alright? You seem to be upset about something.” 
“ Oh no. No I’m not upset. It’s not like there isn’t some dumb mess I have to clean up that I didn’t make. Or that my dryer broke and I barely ate anything or that-that, I couldn’t take a nap and I’m tired as all hell-shit.” Nemi could feel tears coming to his eyes, quickly wiping them away before they could fall. Why did Freddy have to come in now? 
“...Would you like to take a nap in my room?” 
The question caught the guard off guard, Nemi snapping his head towards the bear in surprise. “ What?” 
“ My room. It’s quiet and the others will stay out of the room. I’m sure Zoey can handle the duties for tonight.” 
“ No.” The bear’s ears roasted upwards as his eyebrows rose, seemingly confused at the rejection. “ No-it’s fine I’ll just-” 
“ Nemi you clearly need to rest.” Freddy tried to argue. 
“ No I’m fine. Just go back out and leave me alone for a while okay?” The man sighed and turned around thinking the bear would do what he asked. He wasn’t about to go sleep in Freddy’s room of all places. 
“ I see we will be doing this the hard way.” 
“ What?” Suddenly Nemi was being picked up. No correct that he was suddenly being bridal carried by Freddy. Nemi felt all his anger and his face flush red all at one. “ Put me down! Freddy!” 
“ Don’t squirm now. You need to rest and if I have to give you a little tough love then so be it.” The bear’s grip was like iron as Nemi tried to get out of it. 
“ Freddy seriously! Put me down right now!” But the bear ignored him as he carried Nemi out of the security room and towards the greenrooms. Nemi just hoped to god that none of the others would see him in this embarrassing state. It didn’t take too long for them to enter Freddy’s room and by the time they entered Nemi had stopped squirming so aggressively having grown tired from his already low energy. 
“ Here we are.” Freddy walked over to the couch and gently set the man on it, but before he could make a dash for the door Freddy had him wrapped up in a blanket like some kind of burrito. Nemi knew this was the type of wrapping they used when there was an obviously overstimulated kid that needed to calm down. 
“ Freddy unwrap me right now! “ 
“ No I don’t think I will. Nemi you need to rest.” The bear was pulling pillows over into a small pile before he gently knocked the man over so he could lay down. 
“ I am not a child!” 
“ No you certainly are not, but you are acting like one.” Freddy knelt down besides him, “ Nemi. I am only doing this because I care-we all care about you.” The bear looked away for a moment, “ I just want you to take care of yourself. You’re stressed.” 
Nemi’s anger suddenly deteriorated as he saw the care in Freddy’s eyes, he could feel his cheeks getting hot with the bear this close to him and if this kept up any longer he was going to say something stupid. “ Fine. I’ll take a stupid nap.” 
Freddy beamed at the confirmation, “ Good. And when you wake up I want you to apologize to the others.” 
The man grumbled but nodded as he finally settled into the couch, Freddy stood up ruffling the man's hair before walking over to the wall and lowering the lights. 
“ Have a good night, Nemi. I’ll wake you up an hour before your shift ends.” 
The man said nothing but Freddy didn’t seem to mind as he walked out quietly closing the door. Nemi Laid there on the couch still frustrated that he was carried like a child and told to go to bed as if Freddy was his parent. 
Wait. 
He was carried by Freddy. 
Like a groom.
No one heard the embarrassed groan that came from the man. 
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firewoodfigs · 4 years
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we might be made of scars, but we’ll be alright
read on ao3 | song: miho fukuhara, let it out 
For @royaiweek day 3: old wounds - thank you mods!! 💕 y’all are amazing ✨ 
(a/n: it’s my first time trying out the “5+1 things” tag, and I thought I’d experiment with another writing style again xD feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated! <3) 
“This one had it coming, this one found a vein This one was an accident, but never gave me pain This one was my father's, and this one you can't see This one had me scared to death But I guess I should be glad I'm not dead” - Stone Sour, Made of Scars
i.
Lieutenant Hawkeye traces the long scar on the back of her calf idly as she changes out of her military uniform. It’s coloured a faded, nostalgic pink, and it reminds her of the innocent childhood that she shares with the Colonel.
She’d gotten it from a bad fall when she was only twelve, and her father’s apprentice had been terribly worried when he witnessed her limping back home. He had rushed over immediately with a first aid kit in hand, before propping her gently on the couch as he pleaded with her to let him take care of it.
It was hard to say no to such an earnest face like his. Having already suffered enough from the long walk back home, Riza wanted nothing more than to rest at that point. Eventually, she relented, though with a hint of distrust.  
Because they weren’t even friends then, and what business did he have being so nice -?
“It might hurt,” Roy whispered before dabbing the damp gauze pad on her wound.
Hydrogen peroxide on open wounds, of course, stung like hell. But for every wince, every grimace, he’d responded with a soft apology, whispering soothing platitudes as he worked on the gaping wound meticulously to avoid causing her further pain.
It was the first time Riza had felt a touch so tender and kind.
Even then, his compassion hadn’t stopped there. After he was done with the bandages he had practically ordered her to bed and appointed himself as head chef despite her objections.
“You can’t be moving around like that,” he said, ushering her into her room while lending his shoulder for support. He had helped her - much to her abashment, and much to his amusement - onto her bed, before commanding her to stay put while he prepared dinner. She obliged reluctantly, fiddling with her blanket while waiting for him.
Not too long after, he came back with a bowl of hot stew and a delighted, affable smile.
“Thank you, Mister Mustang,” she said shyly.
Roy frowned. “Please don’t call me that. Just… just call me Roy?”
She politely refused, telling him that it would be terribly inappropriate to do so, but something between them had changed. Any tension that might have existed previously was beginning to dissolve, and Riza was starting to treat him less like the plague.
Sensing this, Roy continued to stay by her side despite her proverbial disinclination for small talk, hoping to finally befriend the introverted blonde.
Over dinner, then, he’d regaled her with tales of his unfortunate misadventures with alchemy when he first started out and silly jokes that he often made with his sisters. In turn, she had reciprocated with reserved laughters and hunting mishaps of her own and a budding trust.
In the end, the injury became an insignia of when her loneliness ended, and when their friendship started.
ii.
Then, of course, there were the scars on her back that contained deadly secrets, prolix poems and meaningless apologies. To an alchemist, the intricate, complex array might have been beautiful. A transfiguration of sorts, even.  
To Riza, though, it was nothing but disfiguration in its purest, most unadulterated form. Engraved within were memories of pain and abuse and estrangement, and she would have honestly appreciated being able to live without a daily reminder of those.
He had known he was dying, even before Roy returned from the military, and had called this his parting gift. To her, to an apprentice worthy of its power, to the world. Donatio mortis causa.  
Riza thought it was the furthest thing from a present - it was her father’s curse to her, and it would haunt her even after his death.
And when he’d finally passed… Riza had been terrified to show it to Roy.
It wasn’t so much that she didn’t trust him, but - would anger consume him at the realisation that her father had done this to her? God forbid - would he think of her as ugly, marred? Would he still think of her as desirable?
But he was the chosen one; the one that her father had deemed worthy of learning flame alchemy. Ultimately, her desire to assist his goals, his wonderful dreams and ambitions for the future and for the country had outweighed whatever trivialities that might have deterred her from doing so.
With trembling hands, thus, she had unbuttoned her cardigan to reveal the array to him. He’d been speechless. There was a silence that lingered in the thin, dusty air of the Hawkeye manor, but before it could persist he had crossed the distance between them in two long strides.
“Riza,” he whispered. Her hands weren’t the only ones trembling - his hands were, too. She felt it when he rested them on the planes on her back, tracing the grooves of her spine reverently, affectionately.
The trembling hadn’t stopped even when he circled his arms around her waist to bring her into a warm embrace. He had whispered apologies onto her shoulder, then. Blamed himself for not being there to stop his teacher, her father, from doing this to her, for leaving her alone to deal with this. It was a sincere apology, unlike the ones inscribed onto her skin.
Suddenly, the weight on her back had felt a little lighter - perhaps from a burden shared, or from his sweet reassurances.
Either way, Riza remembers it as the night where her trust in him had developed into full bloom.
iii.
Eventually, though, Riza comes to learn that psychological wounds ached more than physical ones. The latter was temporary, but the former - hell, they were indelible, inescapable. This much was heavily reinforced, at least, by the horrors of war that they had encountered during their time in Ishval.
She’d told her superior officer that a gun was good, because it didn’t leave the feeling of a person dying in her hands. It was a partial lie. One that she was willing to let slip from her mouth placidly if it meant that she could be by his side and utilise her gun as a tool for protection, rather than murder and war and genocide.
Because no matter how much she scrubbed her hands after in the sink, she realised that she could never wash away the red on her hands. While the distance between her and her unfortunate victims meant that blood had never fallen on her hands, the entire experience had stained her soul a deep crimson.
It warped her heart; her conscience and morality, and it was a burden that she - no, they - would carry to their graves.
Nonetheless, Riza finds herself sending a short prayer of thanks to any god willing to hear from a wretched sinner like her as she stares at Roy’s peaceful sleeping form. Dreamless slumbers like these were uncommon for the Flame Alchemist, the Hero of Ishval, but it seemed like they were getting increasingly frequent as they progressed along further with the project after the Promised Day.
(Of course, neither of them had come to forgive themselves entirely. They probably never would - for their burdens and sins and iniquities still remained, and would linger on to their very last breaths.)
But their work of atonement and reparation had assuaged their consciences somewhat, even if only marginally. Roy, most of all, deserved this brief respite. He’d been working himself to the bone ever since he regained his vision, and she found herself having to play the role of babysitter less and less.
Riza allows a subtle smile to cross her stern features as she drapes his coat over his tired frame before returning to her paperwork.
iv.
After the war came the burns on her back. They’re splattered across her upper back in irregular splotches of pink; etched with guilt and reluctance and self-reproach.
To say that asking Roy to burn her back was difficult would be a gross understatement. He had already endured enough, and to ask him to use the power bestowed upon him to burn even more skin was akin to putting him through another round of purgatory.
Riza was disinclined to repeat his suffering, but she needed it. Desperately. She couldn’t bear the thought of creating another Flame Alchemist, and the array was literally a back-breaking burden. She’d begged him once, twice before he relented. Very unwillingly.
They’d gone back together to Tobha to do it, back to the now-decrepit Hawkeye estate that held an eerie resemblance to a haunted mansion. In some ways, it was poetically fitting - ending it where it had first begun. The estate bore apparitions of their innocence, their childhood memories, but now it would bear the ghost of flame alchemy as well.
Riza came to learn, then, that whatever she’d conceived of as pain from having hydrogen peroxide dab at an open wound paled in comparison to fire searing her skin. It took all of her willpower to not scream, but she withheld the urge to do so. Even if it meant biting her lips, digging her nails into her palms until they bled.
Like he had once done when they were children, Roy was quick to come to her aid. He came with water ice-cold and embraces lovingly-warm; painkillers and repeated apologies and constant reassurances.
Riza manages to respond to all of this with reminders of forgiveness through her pain. Because for the first time since the needle had met her skin, since the war, she’d felt free. Liberated.
Libera me.  
Roy had allowed her to be Riza Hawkeye - her own person, her own being - instead of just the bearer of a lethal, fatal secret that could kill thousands. Despite how much it pained them both to burn her back, she's never been more grateful.
Had she murmured her thanks, her apologies? Riza’s not quite sure. The memories after are a blur. She only remembers passing out in Roy’s arms and the tender, apologetic kiss on her forehead before unconsciousness had dawned upon her like a comforting blanket to stave away the unbearable pain.
The cold water falling on her skin in the shower reminds her of his warmth after the flames had died down. Riza can’t help but laugh slightly at the distant memory.
It’s ironic - Roy lives up to his moniker for reasons more than one.
v. / vi.
But none of the scars she’s sustained throughout her life can compare to the ones they’d gotten from The Promised Day.
The only comfort through all the hell they had endured was probably the fact that they were now lumped together in the same hospital room. Nonetheless, the quiet solitude of night-time is filled with unspoken apologies and unshed tears. It’s unbearable. Roy can feel the guilt radiating off every fibre of her being despite his blindness, despite the distance separating them -
- and so he orders his subordinate to come over.
Hesitantly, Riza complies. She crawls into his bed cautiously, careful not to jostle the wounds on his hands. They mark her failure. Roy was nearly killed before her very eyes, and she’d been powerless to stop it as the sword pierced through his palms. She wants to cry, wants to wail out loud and mourn for his loss of sight, for how useless she had been in the face of it all -
- but her vocal cords are strained. The only thing that escapes her throat is a soundless sob. Riza forces herself to hold in her tears - you don’t deserve to cry, no, stop - but Roy knows. He knows her like the back of his hand, and so even if she’s temporarily mute he can already hear what she’s going to say; even if he’s blind he can see the tears beginning to glimmer in her ochre eyes.
With a bandaged hand he carefully finds her face and caresses it tenderly. “It’s not your fault, Riza,” he whispers.
There’s a wetness to her cheeks now, like it’s raining. “Please don’t blame yourself,” he murmurs. “If anything, all the fault’s mine.”
As if to reinforce his point, his fingers make their way down - to her jaw, and then to the dressing on her neck. A sigh escapes his lips as he traces the scar underneath, remorse and regret dripping from his fingertips. 
“No -” Riza croaks. Not your fault, Roy.  
“If it’s not my fault, then how could it ever be yours?”
She’s silent again. There’s so much she wants to say - I’m so sorry, Roy, I should have been there, should have done something, can you ever forgive me, I was so afraid to lose you - but the wound renders it impossible.
Regardless, they’ve always had a knack for understanding each other, even without words or eye signals.
He searches for her face again, using it to guide his lips to her forehead. “Not your fault,” Roy says once more for added emphasis. His voice is louder than a whisper this time. It’s filled with conviction and relief and affection, and in their close proximity he can’t help but press a chaste kiss on her messy fringe.
“I was so afraid of losing you, Riza. Nothing scared me more than seeing you bleed on the ground, watching you almost… almost dying.”
They’re both crying uncontrollably now.
“But you’re alive, and that’s all that matters. I might never get my sight back, but I have the Hawk’s Eye with me,” he manages to quip through his sobs. “With you by my side, I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine, Riza. As long as we’re together.”
Riza manages a slight nod under his chapped lips, before reaching for his hand to place a gentle kiss on it. It’s a soothing salve to the dull ache underneath and a promise, a vow. I’ll always be with you, Roy.  
Roy retracts his hand to wrap his arms around her, pulling her body to his chest in a tight, haphazard embrace. Riza feels his heart beating against hers, all life and strength and fervor, and she thinks he’s right.
“We’ll be alright, Riza. I promise.”
42 notes · View notes
roman-writing · 4 years
Text
two, across (8/8)
Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses
Pairing: Hilda Valentine Goneril / Lysithea von Ordelia
Rating: T
Wordcount: 14,256
Summary: Lysithea can barely keep afloat under the workload of giving undergrad lectures and finishing off her PhD thesis. Meanwhile Dr. Hilda V. Goneril is somehow both the laziest person as well as the most successful young professor she has ever known. It’s absolutely aggravating.
Author’s Note: Please be aware that one of the previous chapters has adult content, but that this chapter does not.
Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut
According to Hilda -- whose opinion is the only one that counts in this matter, thank you very much -- they have been dating for over a year. It's very important that they've been dating this long, because Hilda has always refused to bring anyone home if she hasn't been dating them for at least a whole year. Meeting the family is no joke. Especially when it's her family.
They are big. They are loud. They are legion. And they are big. Did she already say they were big? Well, they are.
"Jesus, that man is big," Lysithea mutters under her breath.
Hilda glances around the airport terminal, and immediately spots him. It’s difficult not to. His head and shoulders stick out above the rest of the crowd waiting for loved ones to disembark. 
He wears the same faded plaid and jeans combo from forever ago. Even though Hilda knows from experience that the clothing size is all XXL, he still manages to give the appearance that his broad shoulders and biceps will burst through the seams at the slightest provocation.
He sees her, and waves.
Returning the wave, Hilda sighs. She adjusts her pink-lensed sunglasses, and shoulders both her and Lysithea’s bags. “Yeah. That’s him alright.”
Hilda begins to stride through the crowd towards him. Lysithea trails along in her wake. “Wait. Seriously? That’s your brother?”
“I’m, like, ninety-nine percent sure.”
When they get close enough, Holst envelops Hilda in a hug that lifts her a good foot off the floor, crushing the air from her lungs. She grunts.
“It’s good to see you!” He places her back on the ground, but doesn’t let go of her shoulders. His brow furrows, and he gives her a once over. “Are you not eating enough? Look at you. Skin and bone.”
“Lay off, would you? You sound like Uncle Herrick.” Hilda shrugs his hands off, so she can readjust the bags before they fully slip down her arms.
“You know he and everyone else want to come over this weekend, right?”
“That better be a joke, Holst.”
“You rarely visit, and everyone wants to see the menagerie. Who am I to tell them they can’t see you?”
“I told you: no cousins! No uncles! Just you and dad!” As she lists them off, she drives a finger against one of his bulging pecs, and glowers up at him. “You two are enough to scare away potential suitors as it is.”
Holst is entirely unrepentant. “If they can’t handle me and dad, then there’s no way they could survive you.”
“Oh, fuck off.” 
Throughout the entire exchange, Lysithea has been standing to the side, watching them, silent. When Holst’s head swings in her direction, she blinks owlishly. 
Everything Lysithea thinks, she wears on her face. Every thought. Every passing notion. Even from a distance, Hilda can always tell what's running through her head. If a student asks a question that Lysithea thinks is dumb, her tiny shoulders will hunch up around her ears like she's trying to physically restrain herself from saying aloud what she really thinks.
Hilda likes to play a game. It is a dangerous game. One that involves saying increasingly outrageous things just to see what new expression it might elicit on Lysithea's face. 
So far, she is winning.
Right now, Lysithea looks belligerent. Her lower jaw is held forward the way it does when someone tall doesn’t notice her existence, and nearly walks over her. Hilda had seen that happen once in a grocery story. The man had fled from Lysithea’s wrath like a dog with its tail between its legs, while Hilda had gleefully witnessed the whole thing from the sidelines. 
Holst must notice the look in Lysithea’s eyes, too, for he holds out his hand almost warily. “You must be Dr. Ordelia. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Holst.”
Immediately, the tension melts from Lysithea’s shoulders. She clasps Holst’s hand, and her own is utterly dwarfed by Holst’s massive paw. “Just Lysithea, please.”
Hilda rolls her eyes, and grumbles at her brother. “Wow. Really?”
Holst pulls his hand back, and gives her an innocent look. “What?”
“Why don’t you ever call me doctor? Huh?”
“I changed your diapers.”
“Well, whoop-de-fucking-do. You change one diaper, and suddenly twelve years of academic experience means fuck all.” Hilda tosses him one of the bags. “Here. Make yourself useful, Muscles for Brains.”
Holst catches the bags as though he had been expecting them to be flung at him much earlier. He smiles, and his teeth are as annoyingly perfect as ever. He has always looked like a poster boy for dentistry aimed at young veterans with hereditary gigantism. Square-cut jaw. Brown-eyed. Sandy-blonde hair that’s somehow immaculately coiffed and artfully messy all at once. She wants to ruffle his hair just to mess it up, but she knows it will only make him look better. Curse their good genes. 
He draps an arm around her shoulders, and ignores her squawk of protest to pull her into another bear hug. He kisses the side of her face. “It’s good to have you back.”
“Duh. I’m amazing. And you need to shave.” She shoves at his face to very little effect. “Your stubble is all scratchy.”
Holst lets her go. He runs an experimental hand over his jaw. “Thought I’d go for a clean lumberjack look. Is it not working?”
“Do you have dad’s straight razor at the house?” Hilda asks, waiting for his nod. “I’ll fix you up tonight, then. Now, where are you parked? I need a shower and a change of clothes.”
Jerking his head, Holst begins walking in that same direction. “This way.”
He leads them out and across the parking lot. The pickup truck that he drives gleams like it is owned by a pampered business executive and not a jock wannabe. When Holst tosses one of their bags into the cab, he says, “You two packed light.”
“I had to smuggle seven extra outfits from Hilda’s bag when she wasn’t looking,” Lysithea says, pulling at one of the door handles to open it.
“And she let you live?” Holst lets out a long appreciative whistle. “She really must love you.”
“I like to think so.” Lysithea’s tone is dry, but she flashes Hilda a small smile that warms all the way down to her toes.
For all the vehicle’s oversized cab -- with factory made sides no less, which Hilda has always told him are useless because she’s right -- it has no proper backseat. Trust Holst to buy a utility vehicle with literally no utility upsides. He could fit a whole five more sheep in the tray if he’d bought the model she recommended. What a waste. 
“Smallest goes in the middle,” Holst informs Lysithea as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Normally that’s Hilda, but today it’s you. Them’s the rules.”
Lysithea shoots Hilda an incredulous glance. “You’re the small one in the family?”
“The littlest of them all,” Holst confirms with a grin.
Hilda gives him the middle finger, which only succeeds in making his grin widen. She clambers into the vehicle after Lysithea, who is small enough that she needs a boost to get her up the first step.
“She’s also the only girl. Various aunts who married into the family don’t count,” Holst adds while he does up his seatbelt.
“This explains so much,” Lysithea says in an almost wondrous tone. 
“Yeah.” Hilda slams the door behind her. “Like how it’s a miracle that I turned out so awesome when I was raised by these bozos.”
Holst doesn’t start the car until everyone’s seatbelts are in place. He checks, like an absolute dad. Only then does he turn the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life.
“Excuse me,” he murmurs politely to Lysithea as he reaches for the gear stick. It’s between her knees, and she has to widen her legs a bit so he can throw the truck into gear.
“How far is your family’s place from the airport?” Lysithea asks.
“Forever,” Hilda answers, already gazing out the window in glum anticipation of the long drive.
“About three hours.” Holst flicks on the radio. “Middle seat gets control of the tunes. Don’t let Hilda bully you into picking a pop station.”
“At least there’s one upside to this seat.” Lysithea reaches forward and begins fiddling with the dials. She switches from the news station that Holst prefers and which never fails to bore Hilda out of her mind.
Hilda could have kissed her. Then, remembering that she is allowed, she does just that. She leans over to press a quick smooch to the side of Lysithea’s head.
Lysithea does not stop scrolling through various radio stations. “What was that for?”
“What? Is it against the rules to shower my super cute girlfriend with affection?”
“It is when I’m in the car,” Holst grumbles. He pulls on the steering wheel to round a corner, clearly indicating for the full three seconds as legally required.
At that, Hilda taps on Lysithea’s shoulder. “C’mon. Make out with me.”
Not even bothering to look away from the radio, Lysithea pushes Hilda’s face away with one hand.
Holst chuckles. “Okay. I like you already.”
“I’m very likeable,” Lysithea fires back without a moment’s hesitation. She tunes the radio to a classical station.
Holst’s expression brightens. He does not take his eyes off the road. “Oh! Mendelssohn!”
With a great groan of complaint, Hilda leans her head against the window. “Oh my god. I’m going to die in this dumb truck before we even make it to the hills.”
Her brother and her girlfriend start chatting about classical music, which is normally enough to send Hilda directly to sleep. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Except that now it’s noon, and she’s already had two cups of burnt coffee on the plane. Her leg jitters with caffeine. It’s going to be a long journey home. 
Fifteen minutes into the drive, Hilda is bored. She plays with the lock mechanism on her door, flicking the switch over and over in various patterns in time with the music. She makes it into a game, trying to find the best rhythm. 
“I’m amazed Hilda hasn’t tried to wrest power from the Radio Throne yet.”
Lysithea smooths an absent-minded hand over Hilda’s jean-clad knee. “She can pick the next station in an hour.”
“Thank god,” Hilda mutters. 
"Since you clearly have witch-like powers -" Holst begins. "No offence. I am simply stating a fact."
"None taken," Lysithea says.
"But since you clearly have witch powers, then perhaps you can convince Hilda to write to me more often."
Hilda locks and unlocks the car door a few more times. "I told you: I'm busy."
Holst lifts one hand from the wheel to mime little air quotes. "Busy. Is that what we're calling it these days?"
"Just because I take the time to look after myself doesn't mean I'm not working on a squillion things at once. It's called 'work life balance.' Look it up."
"Never heard of her," Lysithea says.
Hilda sticks out her tongue at Lysithea. "Yeah, I know you haven't, Miss Workaholic."
"That's Doctor Workaholic, I'll have you know." Lysithea turns back to Holst. "And I'll see what I can do."
"Traitor," Hilda says. 
It's not that she doesn't like receiving a constant stream of letters from her brother. It's just that he always comes off as so needy. She would rather be blonde than appear needy. 
Lysithea points to Holst. "Is that also Hilda's original hair colour?"
Holst nods. He runs a hand through his hair, which only makes it appear even more artfully disheveled. "It sure is. She's had it dyed different colours since the age of -- oh, I don't know -- thirteen?"
"Are there pictures?"
At that, Hilda snaps upright from her slumped position. She rounds on Holst with murder in her eyes.
He ignores her, like someone with a death wish. "So many pictures. I'll show you when we get there."
"Thank you. I'd like that," Lysithea tells him.
Hilda mouths at Holst over Lysithea's head. 'I'll kill you.'
She grunts when Lysithea elbows her lightly in the gut. "Don't be a hypocrite," Lysithea drawls. "I've heard it's very last season."
Before long, the cityscape outside gives way to sparse towns, then to nothing but trees and mountains as far as the eye can see. Which isn’t very far. A cold mist clings to the peaks, and flecks the windows as they begin to ascend. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Holst may be the proud owner of a douchebag truck, but he takes every switchback like he’s an old lady driving on the edge of a cliff. If she were the one driving, it would only take them two hours to reach the house.
Hilda isn’t allowed to drive with him in the car for a reason. But she only almost killed them on the road once! And it wasn’t her fault!
Okay, maybe four times. So what?? He’s such a big baby.
When Hilda begins to rummage through the glove compartment to find new means of entertainment, Lysithea absently reaches over to take her hand. Toying with Lysithea’s fingers provides enough distraction for exactly twelve minutes, at which point Hilda bends down to shuffle through her handbag for her phone. She unlocks the screen.
No reception. Fucking typical.
Flinging the phone back into her bag, Hilda crosses her arms with a huff. “For the love of god, please tell me you’ve installed wi-fi at the house.”
Holst pauses in his animated discussion of seventeenth century syncopation with Lysithea to say, “Sorry. You’re going to have to actually interact with family during your visit. It’ll do you good. You spend too much time on your phone as it is.”
Hilda buries her head in her hands. 
She feels Lysithea pat her on the shoulder in a commiserating fashion. “Do you want to pick the radio station?”
Immediately Hilda’s head jerks up. “Yes.” 
Lysithea lets her pick the music the rest of the ride into the mountains, and it’s the best because Holst can’t complain even though Hilda can see his jaw twitching in that way that means he desperately wants to go back to his boring news talk show. But middle seat picks the radio station. Them’s the rules. And if middle seat says Hilda gets to pick the radio station, then that’s set in stone, baby.
Hilda perks up when she finally spots the sign for the village of Locket, which heralds the last twenty minute stretch of drive to her family’s house. The afternoon has well and truly set in now. Hilda’s stomach growls at the sight of the local pub on the street corner. Its familiar faded sign is comforting in the way only unchanging things can be. 
People wave at Holst’s truck as they trundle along the main drag. Despite the mist still dampening the cool air, Holst stops the truck and rolls down his window at one point to exchange neighborly words with Uncle Henrick’s youngest boy, who Hilda remembers best as a sulky nine year old. 
“Who’s that?” Lysithea whispers for Hilda’s ears alone.
“A cousin. I’m related to basically everyone in this valley.” Hilda waves out the window as her cousin peers inside. “Hiya, Hayden!”
Hayden tips his cap back to get a better look at them. “Oh, hey, Hilda! Holst mentioned you’d be back in the area.”
“Just for the weekend,” Hilda confirms. 
“That’s a shame.”
Hilda lowers her voice so that Hayden and Holst can’t hear, “It really isn’t.”
Holst pulls away from the curb, not because someone is behind him -- there aren't enough people in Locket to rustle sheep let alone the will to use a car horn. Besides, chances are that if you honked at somebody, you'd get a telling off from your mother for being shitty to a cousin later that night over dinner. That or you just get into a good honest blood feud over firewood during wintertime.
No, the reason why Holst hurries along is because the sun is starting to set on the mountains to the west, and dad can't cook for himself anymore. Holst apologises to Hayden for as much, and Hayden waves them along with the promise to talk to Uncle Herrick for them about rotating some of the cows over to another field for grazing. 
Hilda hates that she knows exactly what they're talking about. Hell, her first ever degree was in large animal sciences before she realised that she never wanted to stick her arm up a cow ever again, thank you very much. 
The truck trundles along through the village. The main drag of Locket is the only paved road in these parts. Holst turns left and onto dirt. For all that Hilda berates her brother for his poor taste in vehicles, at least his truck can take all terrain. 
The side of her head bounces against the window, dislodging her sunglasses. "Are you trying to hit every pothole between here and the moon?”
“You know it's impractical to gravel everything apart from the driveway,” Holst counters. 
Their bodies sway as he hits yet another pothole. Hilda adjusts her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose with a huff of irritation. 
“I thought it was cute,” Lysithea says. “The town, I mean.”
“Village,” both Holst and Hilda say at the same time.
“It’s not a town,” Holst clarifies, when Lysithea gives them each an odd look.
Hilda nods, but only because the truck’s tyres are bobbing her up and down like a jackhammer. “Town is where the bigwigs live. Or, as we like to call them: ‘townies’.” 
“Jesus Christ,” Lysithea mutters under her breath. “How many people actually live out here?”
“About .09 people every hectare. Which is to say: three hundred and seven inhabitants,” Holst answers.
Hilda’s eyebrows shoot up over the rims of her sunglasses in surprise. “Oh, shit? Who died? Was it Great Uncle Hartwig? My money was on Great Uncle Hartwig.”
“You are vulgar for taking part in that betting pool.”
“But was it him?”
“No, it was not.”
Hilda raps her knuckles against the dashboard. “Damn.”
“Yes, we are all very sad that Great Uncle Hartwig is still alive,” Holst says dryly. 
The dirt road twists and turns all along the hills. They pass paddocks full of cows and mobs of sheep. The grass is so green it makes Hilda glad she'd brought her sunglasses, even though the sunlight is hidden behind the thick mist that shrouds the mountains. 
Holst rounds another bend, and the dirt road gives way to gravel. They drive along for another minute before the house finally comes into view. 
The house is everything that Hilda is not. Rustic, and tidy, and homey. It’s why she always frequents Claude’s bar. She likes the woodsy feel. It makes her feel at home.
Also, Claude is cute, and good company, with great taste in little underground live bands. Plus the drinks are killer.
Hilda undoes her seatbelt, and hops out of the truck before Holst even had time to shut off the engine. She offers a hand to help Lysithea down, and then reaches into the back for their bag. One of the herding dogs comes hurtling from the house towards them, and Hilda has to shoo it away. 
"No, Brindle! Down! Brindle! This is Gucci!!" Hilda pushes the dog away before it can make a complete mess of her outfit, but it's too late. There's already dog fur ingrained into the fabric of her black slacks. She sighs in resignation. 
Lysithea pets the dog when it snuffles around her feet, its tail wagging excitedly. She quickly retracts her hands, though. 
“Oh.” Lysithea scrunches up her nose. “He’s quite filthy.”
“He’s one of our working dogs,” Hilda points out. “We don’t let him in the house. I would recommend washing your hands before eating.”
Lysithea is already wiping her hands off on her skirt. “Noted.”
Holst is the first in the house. He bellows their arrival with a single "We're home!!" while taking off his boots in the narrow hallway that acts as an atrium. While Hilda and Lysithea are taking off their own shoes, they can hear another voice from further inside the house calling back to them. 
Hilda sets their bags down before walking further along. She makes sure Lysithea is following while they traverse the familiar twists and turns of the sprawling single-story farm house. Everything is wood accented. The white-painted walls and panelled floors and exposed beams. Everything is also properly sized for Hilda's family, which means that Lysithea looks like a pale doll walking through a human house. All of the shelving is higher, all the pictures hung at a level where Hilda and Holst can see but which Lysithea has to crane her neck to simply catch a glimpse of. And when they enter the living room, all of the furniture is massive.
Dad sits on his old leather armchair in front of the television. A stack of books and magazines are piles precariously at his elbow. An empty cup of tea teeters atop one the books. The television is on, but his gnarled fingers fumble with the remote for a few seconds while he figures out how to mute it without stabbing a million other buttons at the same time. 
Her father struggles to his feet. He has to push himself up from the chair, painstakingly slow. Hilda bites back the urge to help him; he would’ve hated it. Watching him makes her chest tighten, as though her sternum is trying to meld with her spine. 
He used to stand taller than Holst and just as broad. Her memories of him are always of a man with energy and exuberance to spare. Now he stoops. His hands shake, his fingers gnarled and worn to the bone beneath skin that’s paper-thin. 
Hilda hugs him as soon as he’s on his feet. He pats her on the back, then uses a heavy hand on her shoulder to steady himself. 
“You’re taller,” he says. 
“You’re shorter,” she replies. 
He squints at her, as though suspicious. His eyes are magnified behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Hilda dreads the day that her own eyesight deteriorates to that stage. Dior does not make prescription glasses that thick. Her amassed collection of sunglasses is already in need of a fresh trip to the optometrist as it is. 
His gaze swings past her and lands on Lysithea, who stands behind Hilda. He nods at her, a jerky motion more than anything else, and says, "You must be Hilda's new beau."
Lysithea clears her throat. "Ah. Yes. Hi."
"What he means to say -" Hilda fills in for her dad, "- is 'It's so nice to meet you, Hilda's super cute and awesome girlfriend! My name is Harald! Welcome to my ancestral home, where generations of Gonerils have been born and raised!"
"Don't call me Harald," Harald grumbles. 
"Dad. It's your name."
"It makes me sound old."
"You are old."
"Months without visiting, and then two minutes at home and already you slander your poor martyred father." He gestures at Lysithea and then at Hilda. "You see what I have to put up with?"
Hilda puts her hands on his wrists. "Okay. I'm going to drop you to the floor now."
"My point exactly." Rather than complain, he pats at her arms. "Help me back into my seat."
She does. It takes a while. His legs don't want to support him properly, and his back doesn't seem to want to bend. 
"Where’s your cane?" Hilda asks, when she's finally got him situated back in his chair. She turns to where Holst is leaning in the kitchen doorway. “Holst, where’s his cane?”
Holst shrugs. “I saw it before I left.”
From the sidelines, Lysithea reaches behind a chair and produces a darkly polished wooden cane. “Is this it?”
Hilda takes it, and props it against the armrest of her dad’s chair. “Stop losing this.”
“It makes me look old.”
“Oh my god. Dad.” 
He ignores her. "Hilda, go help your brother make dinner."
Hilda whines, "Holst doesn't need my help. He's fine."
"Actually -" Holst begins from the kitchen doorway.
"Nobody asked you," Hilda says. Then she grabs the bags she had set on the ground. "Besides. I need a shower, and to give my girlfriend a tour of the place."
Dad grumbles, but he's now expended too much energy trying to sit back down to really argue. Once upon a time she would have needed to really wheedle her way out of making dinner, but these days all it takes is for her to be out of sight. Dad can't go racing after her anymore and haul her back over his shoulder to do chores while she pounds her tiny fists ineffectually against his back. Though in truth she wishes he still had that mobility. Seeing him like this is far worse.
Hilda tilts her head to one side, "C'mon. My old room is this way."
"It was nice meeting you," Lysithea says to Harald, who waves her away with a brief smile. 
Hilda has already started off down the hall, and Lysithea trots after her. Behind them they can hear the sound of the television starting up again in the living room. Hilda nods towards various doors and rooms as they go, giving a running notation of what everything is.
"That's the master bedroom. Dad sleeps there. Holst's room is over there. There's the downstairs bathroom for the living room. Here’s my room. It has its own ensuite bathroom, so we don’t have to fight Holst for it.”
“Let me guess -” Lysithea steps into the bedroom, which looks exactly as Hilda remembered. “-They gave you your own bathroom because you spent so much time in it that nobody else could use it.”
“I am insulted you would even suggest such a thing!” Hilda tosses their bags onto the bed, and begins to unpack. 
“That doesn’t mean: no.”
“Anyway!” Hilda changes the topic by gesturing to the room at large while she hangs her outfits in the closet. “This is where I grew up. Surrounded by farmland sans internet. Starved for culture.”
Lysithea joins her in unpacking. “You’re being a bit dramatic.”
“Who? Me?” Hilda pulls out her spare hair dryer, along with a whole host of emergency make-up supplies that were packed alongside Lysithea’s medication case. “But seriously, though. The nearest library is an hour away by car. And that’s only if the rain hasn’t flooded the main road into Locket.” 
“Where’s the school?”
“With the library,” Hilda answers from the bathroom. 
She arranges all of her supplies, and sets down Lysithea’s travel cup on the sink counter so that Lysithea can use it for her morning Routine. When she emerges from the bathroom, Lysithea has neatly unpacked the rest of their things in all the exact places that Hilda likes them to be. 
Hilda points in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”
Mischief crosses Lysithea’s face, and she says, “No, thank you.”
Hilda narrows her eyes. “What?”
With a nonchalant shrug, Lysithea says, “Nothing! I just saw all those picture frames over the fireplace earlier.”
For a moment, neither of them move or say anything. Then, Lysithea makes a dash for the bedroom door. She’s out before Hilda can close her in, and prevent her from seeing said photos. Hilda almost catches her in the hallway, but Lysithea’s height means she’s slippery and sly and difficult to grab hold of. 
Harald barely even glances up when the two of them barrel into the living room. Everything in this house is Goneril-Proof anyway. They couldn’t break things if they tried. And Hilda and Holst had tried before. Many many times. 
On the mantlepiece over the smoke-blackened fireplace, there are a host of picture frames cluttering around the riverstone chimney. Lysithea makes a bee line for them. Most are family reunion pictures. The family is too large to photograph altogether, so they are sectioned off by age group. Hilda is the only girl amidst a mountain of boys. 
“Tell me about this one,” Lysithea demands as she picks one up.
With a sigh, Hilda relents and does just that. 
There are a few other more personalised pictures. Hilda points to each of the ones that Lysithea asks about. There's mom looking young with her sandy-blonde hair before the cancer took care of all that at the age of fifty-two. There's her parents getting married. There's Holst at his first shooting competition. There's a baby picture of Hilda all swaddled up (and the cutest image on the shelf, if she does say so herself). 
Hilda tells stories about each of her cousins. Dad pipes in from the peanut gallery to add corrections or embellishments. About how Hans busted her tooth when they were kids and had to share a bed. About how she waged war on the boys by weaponising cow pats. How she would do anything to win -- scratch, bite, cry, you name it.
Lysithea leans forward on her toes to observer a photo down the back. It's a picture of Hilda at the age of twelve, a baby-faced version of herself that she hardly recognises. Dad had snapped it after her first successful hunt with Holst. The two siblings are frozen in a pose over a freshly killed buck. Holst is looking at her rather than at the camera, a broad smile splitting his face in two.
In the picture, Hilda is caught mid sentence. She holds the rifle easily at her shoulder. Her jeans are torn at the knees. Her hair is dishwater blonde and loosely gathered in a simple ponytail at the base of her neck. Her plaid is baggy and rolled up at the sleeves to reveal her scrawny forearms. Her chest is covered in a high-vis vest. A pair of Holst's dark sunglasses are perched atop her head. She used to always steal them when she was younger. 
Slowly Lysithea picks up the picture. "You look so different."
"Ugh. I know. It's awful." 
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Please. Look at me. I'm wearing -" Hilda shudders in disgust, "- sneakers."
Lysithea’s thumb traces over the edge of the picture frame. “I would’ve liked to have known you then.”
Hilda snorts. “No. You don’t. Trust me. I was a little shit.”
“And you aren’t anymore?”
Making a face at Lysithea, she continues. “Very funny. Besides, you would’ve been, like, seven. And even if you had been my age, I probably would’ve picked on you so hard.”
“I doubt that.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Edelgard would’ve had me assassinated.”
With a huff of laughter, Lysithea says, “I can’t imagine you being mean to me in any lifetime.”
“Listen. That’s flattering. Really. But I’ve seen pictures of you when you were younger, remember? And I know what I was like back then.” Hilda picks up another photo, this one of Holst holding Hilda in one arm, and the Commonwealth championship trophy she’d won at the age of fourteen in the other. Her hair is dyed a sickening electric blue in the photo, and her makeup is way way over the top. 
“Alright, then. I’ll bite.” Lysithea gestures with the picture in her own hand. “Why would you have picked on me?”
“Because you were so cute. Obviously. I mean you still are,” Hilda assures her, to which Lysithea just rolls her eyes. “But back then, I would’ve been super jealous. And also very in the closet to myself.”
“Ahh,” Lysithea nods in understanding. “You’re were one of those.” 
“Yeah, yeah. I got over it. Thank god. Still took me until the age of sixteen or so to realise I wasn’t jealous of other girls, I just wanted to kiss them. And their boyfriends. You know. Because I’m not a coward.” 
Placing the picture back on the mantlepiece, Hilda scrunches up her nose. She runs her finger along the varnished wood, and it comes up with a thick layer of dust. “Ew. Nobody ever cleans around here while I’m gone!”
“At least it’s tidy,” Lysithea points out. She places the other picture back, and discreetly wipes the dust from her own fingers off on her cardigan.
“What’s the point of things being tidy if they’re not clean? Excuse me. I need to go yell at my brother for polishing his Olympic medals, but nothing else.” Hilda turns and starts to march towards the kitchen.
 --
In the end, she does wind up helping with dinner despite her best protests. Lysithea is no help, either. When Hilda pokes her head from the kitchen, it’s to find that Lysithea has sat down on one of the couches and is engaged in conversation with dad. And they seem to be having -- Hilda has to check her sunglasses to make sure they’re the right prescription -- a good time. Unbelievable. 
Hilda’s only consolation is that she manages to weasle her way out of doing the dishes. She only feels slightly guilty when Lysithea and Holst do them together, chatting all the while. She did end up doing the bulk of the cooking, after all. No matter what Holst claims.
Instead, Hilda wanders back to her room for a shower. Short, because the hot water tank at the farm doesn’t last long, and she doesn’t want dad yelling at her on the first day of the trip. When she emerges from the bathroom amidst a billow of steam and wrapped in nothing but two towels -- one for her body, the other for her hair -- Hilda pauses in the doorway. 
Lysithea is curled atop the bed. Her legs are folded beneath her. She reads from a tablet loaded with more books than are contained in most libraries. Hilda knows. She's seen Lysithea's online library account. 
Hilda crosses the room, and jumps onto the free side of the bed. Lysithea does not look up despite the mattress bouncing beneath Hilda's weight. She is utterly engrossed in whatever book she is reading. 
"Whatcha reading?" Hilda asks. She takes off the towel wrapped atop her head, and pats her hair dry before tossing it back towards the bathroom. 
The tips of Lysithea's ears go an appealing apple red. "Nothing of interest."
Hilda immediately zooms in on the blush. It must have been a smutty book, in that case. "Oh, really? That's a shame."
Letting her hand smooth over one of Lysithea's knees, Hilda pretends that it's an idle motion. All the while she watches for a change in Lysithea's expression. The white stockings are fine beneath Hilda's palm. The corner of Lysithea's mouth twitches, and Hilda lets her fingers trail a little further up Lysithea's thigh. Just far enough to play with the edge of her skirt.
Still, Lysithea makes no comment. She continues reading in a valiant effort to ignore Hilda. 
"Soooo," Hilda drawls. Her hand continues to stroke along Lysithea's leg, but never too high to be considered indecent should they be happened upon by snooping older brothers. “Is my humble family abode everything you’d imagined and more?”
Lysithea taps at her tablet screen to turn the page in her book. “It sure is something.”
“Wow. Yikes. That bad, huh?”
“No, not bad. Just different. Not what I expected, knowing you.” 
“Would I fit in better if I wore cowboy boots and assless chaps?”
“I think you would rather die than be caught wearing something like that.”
“You underestimate the lengths I will go to for a bad joke.”
Lysithea snorts in amusement, and turns another page. “Well, if you do, then let me know. El would love a picture.”
“Oh, I’m sure she would.” 
A comfortable silence falls over them. Hilda memorises the pattern of the stocking beneath her hand. "I'm bored."
"Sucks for you."
"Can I go down on you?"
“Didn’t you just take a shower?”
“Yeah? And?”
Lysithea glances at her over the top of the tablet. Then she eyes the door. "How thin are these walls?"
Hilda taps her knuckles against the wall behind their bed. "Like bedrock."
From another room, they hear Holst sneeze. Clear as a bell.
"Surface bedrock," Hilda amends. "Compacted gravel, even. Okay, maybe more like asbestos. But that’s still a rock!"
Lysithea purses her lips, but there's a considering air to that particular furrow in her brow. It's the same expression she wears when she's offered one slice of cake too many, but is still tempted to eat.
"We don't have to," Hilda assures her. She swings her legs over the side of the bed. "I can go blow off steam by splitting wood."
"Is that a euphemism?"
"Nope." Hilda jerks her thumb towards one of the night-darkened windows. "There's an axe and a bunch of logs out back near the porch light. Out here, we always need firewood."
Just as she’s about to take a step towards the door, Hilda feels something pull at the edge of the towel. She turns. Lysithea has reached out and is pulling her back towards the bed. The towel is tugged free, and falls to the floor. Lysithea’s eyes have an intense look that never fails to make Hilda’s pulse spike. 
When Hilda flops back onto the bed beside her, Lysithea sets her tablet aside. She rolls over to straddle Hilda’s waist, steadying herself with hands at Hilda’s chest. 
“You’re going to have to be quiet,” Lysithea warns.
“I can be quiet! Can you?”
As it turns out, they both can. But one of the pillows suffers for it. 
--
Holst cooks breakfast the next morning. Hilda has to cut up dad's food for him, while bickering with her brother over the radio station, and Lysithea queries Harald about the farm. By the time Hilda is actually able to sit down and eat, her own food has gone cold.
Holst slides a cup of hot tea her way. "Here."
"Thanks," she sighs, taking a sip despite its scalding temperature. 
Holst lumbers into the spare seat beside Lysithea. He gently bumps her elbow with his own as he tucks into breakfast. "I thought you might like to go shooting this afternoon."
Lysithea blinks at him. "I've never handled any sort of firearm before."
"Don't worry. Hilda and I can show you the ropes." Holst winks at his sister. "Unless she's so rusty from living in town, that she can't tell which way to point the barrel."
In response, Hilda meets his gaze with a steely expression. "Oh, you're on, pretty boy."
"Excellent. I love wiping the floor with you."
"As if. I'm going to win, and I'm going to do it in style."
Chewing at his eggs and toast, Holst takes a moment to swallow before speaking. He gestures at Hilda with his fork. "You're not really going dressed like that, are you?"
Hilda rakes a hand through her long pink hair. "I said what I said."
He snorts. "Yeah. Alright. Sure."
"You couldn't rock this look, let alone do it while shooting."
Holst's chewing slows. He leans back in his seat, and pats at his mouth with a napkin. "Is that a challenge?"
She grins at him. "You bet your ass it is."
Dad stabs at his own eggs with a fork, and mumbles to Lysithea, "They've been this way since forever. You get used to it."
"If you say so," Lysithea says. She watches from the sidelines with an expression that is intrigued, but in a wary way. Like she half expects there to be bloodshed by the end of the day.
Rising to his feet, Holst tosses down his napkin. He points at Hilda. "You. Me. Bathroom. Now. Bring your girly hair products."
"Oh, fuck yes," Hilda breathes, shoving herself away from the table to stand. 
"Is this really a good idea?" Lysithea asks.
Neither Hilda nor Holst are listening. They are already racing each other to the restroom. Hilda has to take a diversion to shuffle around in her old room for the hair dye she had left behind from her last visit. After a minute or two of searching, she finally finds what she's looking for, and pushes her way into the bathroom, where Holst is draping a towel around his broad shoulders and getting his hair wet in the sink.
"Bleach first," Hilda instructs, leaning over the sink to help him. "We need to get your hair a lighter shade before putting any colour in."
He doesn't even ask what colour she'd picked. "Do your worst, Dr. Gonorrhea."
She brandishes the little bottle of bleach at him. "Call me that again. I dare you."
By the time they finish dying his hair, it's two in the afternoon. Hilda wields a hairdryer and a brush. Not that he needs to have his hair styled. Somehow, it always comes up perfect.
Holst admires himself in the mirror after she has finished. He runs a hand through his hair, which is now the same shade as her own. "Not bad."
“You’re welcome.” Hilda ruffles his hair, which only makes him look rakishly tousled. 
Leaning in the doorway, Lysithea says, "Now you two look like twins."
"Could be worse, I guess," Hilda shrugs and puts the hairdryer away. "Let's go shoot something." 
They take Holst's truck to an empty paddock facing the hills. There's already an Olympic sized skeet range in place there. Dad had installed it years and years ago, and Holst had been maintaining it ever since. 
Hilda takes out the munitions box, while Holst handles the soft shotgun cases. Lysithea follows after them with a wary expression when Hilda hands over hearing protection. 
"Keep them on unless the range master declares the range closed," Hilda says. 
Lysithea immediately puts the hearing protection over her head and ears. "Who's the range master."
"Me," both Hilda and Holst say at the same time.
Holst pulls a coin from his pocket. "Heads or tails?"
"Tails."
He flips it. Glimmer of gold and aluminium, which he snatches out of the air and slaps onto the back of his hand.
Tails.
Hilda pumps her fist in triumph.
“And what exactly does it mean to be a range master?” Lysithea asks slowly.
“It means you have to do everything I say.”
“It means she’s in charge of the safety of the range until she leaves.” Holst starts taking firearms from their bags and propping them up on the stands beneath the firing platform awning. “And that we have to do everything she says.”
“Surely not everything,” Lysithea says.
Hilda points at Holst without looking at him. “Give me five push ups.”
Lysithea watches in horrified fascination as Holst sighs, drops to the ground, and does five push ups.
“See?” Hilda says smugly. “It’s rule number five. Which brings me to the next point: Safety.”
Holst finishes setting up while Hilda gives Lysithea the ‘Goneril Family Gun Safety Talk.’ 1) No pointing guns at other people even if unloaded, or you get a punch to the mouth. 2) No pointing guns in any direction other than down the range, or you get a punch to the mouth. 3) Treat every firearm as if it’s loaded, or you get a punch to the mouth. 4) No alcohol or other intoxicants on the range, or you get a punch to the mouth. 5) Obey the range master at all times, or the range master will personally punch you in the mouth. 
“Why is there so much punching in this?” Lysithea asks after number five. “This seems like the opposite of safety.”
“It’s part of the time honoured traditions of the Goneril Family of Idiot Boys and Also Hilda,” Hilda says, still holding up her hand where she had been ticking off each rule on her fingers. “Lastly, number six: only load a firearm when ready to fire, or you -”
“- Okay. Yeah. I get it.” Lysithea says. 
“Good!” Hilda claps her on the shoulder and steers her towards the platform. “You’re first.” 
“W-Wait. Me?” Lysithea glances at one of the shotguns as though it will suddenly rear up and bite her. 
“Relax. It will be fun. I promise.” Hilda puts on her own hearing protection, the muffs bright red. “Range open!” 
Holst immediately follows suit. His own pair of ear muffs are the same colour and brand, but older and faded from years of use. He drops down into a chair behind them, folding an ankle over his opposite knee, watching with the claybird machine remote in his hand. When Lysithea shoots him a nervous look, he flashes her a thumbs up and a grin. 
Under Hilda's instruction, Lysithea sets the shotgun firmly into her shoulder. Hilda uses her hands to guide Lysithea's legs apart so that her stance is more stable, and then places her hands on Lysithea's waist to steady her.
"Whenever you're ready. Just tell Holst to pull, and go for the claybird." Hilda gently squeezes Lysithea's hips. "And remember: try to keep your movements fluid. Track the target."
"Shouldn't we be starting off with something stationary?" Lysithea asks.
"Animals aren't stationary when you shoot them for the most part. Now, go ahead."
Hilda can feel Lysithea take a deep breath. Lysithea shrugs at the firearm, and then barks out firmly, "Pull."
There's a two second delay before the target zips across the air. Lysithea fires immediately, flinching from the shotgun before she has even pulled the trigger. She would've been blown back onto her butt if Hilda hadn't been standing directly behind her. 
Lowering the shotgun, Lysithea rubs at her shoulder with one hand. "Ow."
"You get used to it," Hilda assures her. "This is a pretty light shell as well. Tuck the shotgun into the meat here -" she rubs at the right spot on Lysithea's shoulder. "- and lean into it a bit. But don't flinch! It’s a bad habit!"
Lysithea’s jaw takes on that familiar bullish slant, and she hikes up the shotgun once more. “Pull.”
She misses. And again. After the fifth try, she finally manages to clip the claybird, which sends a puff of bright purple smoke trailing through the air. Lysithea turns to Hilda and Holst, flushed with pride, and Hilda has to grab her arms and point the shotgun back down the range.
“Rule number two!” Hilda reminds her.
“Sorry! Sorry.” Lysithea grimaces apologetically. “Please don’t punch me in the mouth.”
“Rules are rules,” Hilda says resignedly. And then kisses her.
Behind them, Holst yells, “Boooo! That’s not how the rule works!!”
Hilda flips him off while she’s still kissing Lysithea. By the time she lifts her head, Lysithea’s cheeks have gone pink, and her grip has slackened around the stock of the gun. Hilda taps the shotgun with her finger, and murmurs, “Seriously, though. Don’t break the rules.”
“Y-Yeah. Got it.”  
It takes Lysithea a few more rounds to be comfortable enough that Hilda doesn’t have to keep a steadying hand at the small of her back. But Hilda does so anyway. She strokes her thumb at the divot of Lysithea’s spine. Lysithea’s next shot misses wildly.
“You’re very distracting,” Lysithea mutters. 
“I could be more distracting.”
From behind them, Holst cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Rule number seven: No hands on butts, or you get a punch to the mouth!”
“That’s not a rule!” Hilda shouts back.
“It is now!” Holst stands and approaches one of the other stations beneath the platform. He picks up a shotgun from the rack, and tosses the claybird remote to Hilda. “Pull for me, so I can get a higher score than you.”
With ease Hilda catches the remote. “You talk a big game for someone who still hasn’t beat my high score.”
“Only one Goneril sibling has won an Olympic medal, and it’s not you.” 
Hilda gives Lysithea a quick peck to the cheek, before turning away from her to confront Holst. She crosses her arms. “If I win, you have to take us to the the pub for dinner with your hair the way it is.”
“Fine.” He loads two shells, and then snaps the shotgun into place. “And if I win, then you dye my hair back to its normal colour, and acknowledge that I am The Supreme.”
Hilda rolls her shoulders, cricking her neck back and forth. "Alright. Let's do this."
From the sidelines, Lysithea raises one of her hands. “Do I shoot as well, or -?”
“You see that over there?” Hilda points at a mound of dirt with what looks like a rack of spoons dangling from a steel bar. “That’s a reactive target. Go for those, while I show this guy who’s boss, and then we’ll go back to pulling for you. Or, you can put the gun down, and watch if you prefer.”
“Alright.” Lysithea breaks the shotgun in two, and throws the shells in one of the bins just like Hilda showed her. Much to Hilda’s surprise, Lysithea reaches for another two shells and loads them into the over-under barrels. 
Behind her, Holst clears his throat.
Hilda turns back to him. “Yeah, yeah. Keep your tighty-whities on.”
He shoulders the shotgun. "Pull."
She clicks the button on the remote. A three second delay, and two claybirds zoom out across the air. Holst's movements are fluid, controlled, and precise. He seamlessly tracks the projectiles one after the other, and utterly obliterates them.
"Pull."
In the end, it's a near perfect set. It would have been perfect had it not been for Lysithea sneezing to the side. Hilda could have kissed her, but Lysithea apologises so much that neither Hilda nor Holst believe for a second that it was done on purpose. Holst is a good sport when he's not facing off against family members, and he pats her on the arm good-naturedly. 
Finally, Holst offers the shotgun to Hilda. They swap out the gun and the remote. Hilda takes his position. She rolls her shoulders and adjusts her pink-tinted sunglasses to calm herself. The firearm is a familiar weight in her hands. Even years after giving up the sport, holding a shotgun in her hands feels like breathing fresh air. 
"Getting cold feet?" Holst asks. 
Hilda tosses her head, and sniffs. "You wish."
Lysithea has stopped shooting, and her shotgun is leaning up against the stand. She observes from the sidelines next to Holst. Suddenly there’s a prickle of sweat running between Hilda’s shoulder blades, despite the fact that the air holds a chill, and the mountains are shrouded in dense fog. Hilda wishes that she had opted to wear a scarf along with her classic Burberry trenchcoat. 
Turning back towards the range, Hilda says, "Pull."
It's a perfect set. Hilda celebrates like she’s fourteen again and just won a tournament. Holst drops down to his knees and clutches his pink hair with a groan. Beside him, Lysithea golf-claps politely, even as she assures Holst that she personally thinks he looks very nice. 
Pushing to his feet, Holst concedes defeat. "Guess dinner's on me."
"Damn right it is," Hilda says far more confidently than she had felt just minutes before. She unloads the shotgun, and then hands it back to her brother. "Here you go."
They trade, remote for shotgun again. "You don't want to keep going?"
"After that set? No way. Better to end on a good note." 
Hilda walks back over to stand beside Lysithea, who slips an arm around her waist and leans her head against Hilda's arm. She is warm, and her pale hair is soft. Feeling like she is floating on a cloud, Hilda kisses the top of her head. Hilda can feel a thrill of pleasure working its way into her lungs like she's taken a sip of warm tea. 
Another hour or so passes before the sun starts its descent, and the winds pick up speed. Hilda declares the range closed. They pack up, and clamber back into Holst’s bro truck.  
"Is your dad going to be okay on his own tonight?" Lysithea asks when Holst starts the truck.
"He'll be fine," Holst assures her. "I cooked him dinner already. It's in the fridge, so he can just heat it in the microwave."
The truck trundles its way down the one of many dirt paths that run along the farm to various paddocks. As they pass, a few curious cows lift their heads and watch them go by. The sheep shy away from the noisiness of the vehicle, but are otherwise unconcerned. Hilda strikes up a conversation with her brother about when he's planning on tupping this season and if that new ram panned out. Holst enthusiastically tells her everything about his plans. 
It takes a good twenty minutes to drive down to the main drag of Locket. The farm roads are steep in some places, and Holst drives like an arthritic grandma. By the time they arrive at the pub, the sky has darkened to a dark lavender grey, and Hilda is starving. 
Hilda holds open the door to the local watering hole. Holst goes in first, and is immediately flocked to by a group of local girls. From the doorway, Hilda watches, mouth agape, as her brother does the big bashful gentle giant act, and they all fall for it. Hook, line, and sinker. 
As he’s being dragged away by both hands, Holst mouths over his shoulder at her, ‘I told you so.’ 
Hilda rolls her eyes. She stomps over to a free booth, and sits down, followed by Lysithea, who sits across from her. When a waiter comes over to take their orders, Hilda gets the strongest drink she can find on the menu to go with their meals. 
"God,” she groans. “He's going to be so insufferable later." 
"You two really are related," Lysithea teases.
Hilda shoots her a warning glance. "Don't."
Holding up one hand in surrender, Lysithea grins around her soda. 
Their meals arrive. People periodically wander up to their booth to talk to Hilda. They use small talk and catching up with Hilda after so long as an excuse to snoop. Word of Lysithea has whipped through the small town like wildfire. Hilda does her best to shoo people away with her usual charm, or -- failing that -- painfully sweet passive-agressiveness. 
For the most part it works. There are still those that aren’t the least bit dissuaded, despite Hilda’s best efforts. Luckily, Lysithea is as immune to small country, backwater charm as ever. She takes every new introduction in stride, coolly shaking hands, and nursing her sodas. Meanwhile, Holst is making the rounds. The belle of the ball. As usual. 
Hilda sighs, and orders another drink along with an extra basket of wedge-cut fries. 
Lysithea abstains from alcohol, but Hilda indulges just a little. She doesn’t realise she’s a little buzzed until she catches herself watching Lysithea over the top of her glass, and thinking about all the ways she could try to get Lysithea to sneak around the back of the pub and make out with her. The thought of pinning her against a wall and slipping a hand through a gap in that button down shirt sends a flush rushing to Hilda’s cheeks, and a heat directly between her legs. 
Lysithea is, of course, oblivious. Even after all this time, it takes all of Hilda’s blunt straightforwardness to get Lysithea’s pants off. Or skirt. Whatever. She looks cute in either. She looks cute in anything. And in nothing. 
Someone puts money in the old jukebox, and Hilda is genuinely surprised when music starts to play. She and her cousin, Hans, had broken that piece of junk back when she was seventeen. She could still see the dents from here. Holst must have paid to have it fixed. That, or he will have fixed it himself, like the cool and honourable guy she had always admired, loved, yet also resented.   
Said cool and honourable guy is currently gesturing at them from across the pub. 
“What on earth does he want now?” Hilda grumbles, and Lysithea turns in her seat, craning her neck to look at Holst.
Holst mimes dancing with his beer, and then points at the two of them. 
Okay. His ‘cool and honourable brother’ status has officially been rescinded. 
A few other people have indeed begun to clear a few chairs away to make space for dancing. They are pairing off. One of the girls who had been fawning over Holst earlier is now dragging him onto the dancefloor away from his beer and conversation with cousins. Meanwhile, Lysithea has hunched up her shoulders and is studiously staring into her half-empty soda as though the idea of dancing in front of a bunch of strangers causes her physical pain.
Hilda plays a bit of footsie with her under the table until Lysithea glances up at her. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Fuck Holst.”
The song has changed into something a little more classic yet lively. Old rock with a heavy strain of twelve bar blues. 
Lysithea lifts her head somewhat. Her pale hair is done up in a loose bun at the base of her neck, so that she looks like an escapee librarian from the 1930s. She tucks a loose strand behind one ear. “We could, if you wanted,” she says, eyes darting to Hilda. “I know you like dancing, even if it’s not something in which I typically partake.”
She wants to. She wants to so badly there's an ache in her chest. But Lysithea is watching her with an almost wary expression, like she expects Hilda to leap up and drag her onto the dancefloor without a moment's hesitation. That alone gives Hilda pause.
A few months ago, she would have done just that -- grabbed Lysithea at the first say so, and danced until Lysithea was pink in the face and needed to sit down to catch her breath. Now however, Hilda sits, frozen, in her seat. The old plasticky booth is somewhat sticky against her legs despite the cold. In the summer time it would be warm enough that you would have to scrape her bare thighs off with a spatula. The idea of pushing Lysithea too fast is, as always, a constant fear in the back of her head, like the buzzing of a phone alarm reminding her not to do what she usually does and fuck this up.
"No," Hilda says. "I'm fine."
At that, Lysithea blinks in surprise and -- surprisingly -- disappointment. "Oh. Alright. Do you want another drink? I think I'll get another drink."
The words are on the tip of Hilda's tongue, burning at her throat, wanting to retract what she said. Instead, she holds up her empty glass and waggles it back and forth. "Just water, thanks. I think I've had one too many of these."
"Okay. Be right back."
--
It's not too deep into the night before Holst wanders over to their booth. He shares a few snacks with them. He downs another beer. When he orders a third pint, Hilda holds out her hand for the keys to his truck and he promptly passes them over without complaint.
“Do you really think you should be driving?” Lysithea points out. “You’ve had a few tonight as well.”
Hilda swings the keys around her finger. “Can you reach the pedals?”
Glaring, Lysithea snatches the keys from her. “Give me those.”
In the end, Lysithea is the one to drive them home. The headlights cast the farm road in eerie shadows, and she drives extra slow to try to avoid as many pot holes as possible. 
The downside to Lysithea driving is that Hilda has to sit in the middle (which is The Worst). The upside is that Hilda can keep a surreptitious hand on Lysithea’s thigh the whole way. 
Back at the house, Lysithea takes off her shoes in the long entryway. Holst's muddy gumboots are neatly lined up against the wall beneath the series of wooden coat pegs. Out of force of habit of being on the farm again, Hilda takes off her own stylish boots, and immediately sinks down three inches. It means that the top of her head now barely reaches Holst's shoulders. 
She is seriously considering putting heels back on, when Lysithea says, "I think I'll take a shower."
"Want some company?" Hilda asks. 
Lysithea hums a contemplative note. "I’ll just take an actual shower, thanks."
"Boring," Hilda says in a sing-song voice, but winks at her anyway. "I'll come to bed in a bit."
With a wave, Lysithea wanders off through the spacious living room and down the hall. The house is dark. Presumably dad has already gone to bed. Lysithea leaves on a trail of lights as she goes. 
Holst waits until the door to the bedroom is shut before going after Lysithea and turning off most of the lights in her wake. Another force of habit. Hilda herself had to resist the urge to the same. Instead, she stands by the old chair that her father favours. The leather is cracked and shiny from years of use, but none of them had the heart to throw it out. It’s too comfortable. It holds too much emotional value. 
A knitted woolen blanket is thrown over one of the glossy arms. As a kid, Hilda had always thought that mom had made it. It wasn’t until she was older that she realised mom was truly terrible at knitting and sewing, and that dad had made it all along. 
Despite the long shadows cast over the house, Holst manoeuvres his way back through the living room with ease. The only light is that of the moon, the porch, and the sliver of pale yellowish light from beneath Hilda’s closed bedroom door, where Lysithea is having her shower. Neither of them need light to wander this house. Not when the layout hasn’t changed in over thirty years, and every creaky floorboard is firmly ingrained in their every childhood memory. 
Hilda nods towards him. “You looked good tonight.”
“I look good every night,” Holst says. 
She rolls her eyes. “Shut up, and accept my compliment.”
“Thank you. I will.” The grin slowly slips from Holst’s face. He clears his throat, and rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Hey - uh - can we talk?”
“Oh, no. What’s wrong?” Hilda asks, already expecting the worst. 
“Nothing,” Holst says. When Hilda just arches a cool eyebrow at him, he shrugs and lowers his arm. “I appreciate that you’re just here for the weekend, but we need to discuss dad’s will before you go.”
Hilda darts a look over her shoulder. Lysithea is already in the shower; she can hear the roar of the pipes. Still, the walls in this house are thin. She lowers her voice to a hiss. “Can we please talk about this some other time?”
His brow is furrowed, but he keeps his voice to a low rumble rather than the usual raucous level their family employs. “I don’t understand why you’re so dead against taking ownership of the farm.”
“Because I have things I want to do with my life that don’t involve the latest in Rotary Milk Sheds Magazine.”
Holst brandishes an admonishing finger under her nose. “Now, I won’t hear a bad word said about RMS Mag in this house.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” 
“I can’t keep doing this forever, Hilda. Uncle Henrick and his boys are helping me out when they can, but there will come a time when you need to step up to the plate. Dad won’t live forever.”
“Yeah, thanks. I know that.”
“You wouldn’t even have to visit more often than you already do,” Holst says, and he’s using that annoying older brother voice like she’s six again. “We just need to sign some papers, and then arrange for a farm manager to act in your stead for the time being.”
Shaking her head, Hilda strides past him towards the kitchen. “I need a cup of coffee.”
“We’re out of freeze-dried.”
“Fine! Tea, then.”
He follows after her. He has to duck through the doorway so that his head doesn’t hit the arch. “Caffeine this late at night isn’t good for you.”
Hilda flicks on the kitchen light. She fills the electric kettle with water from the tap, and sets it to boil. “I’m thirty-one years old. I have a PhD. I’ll damn well have caffeine when I want to have caffeine.”
With a sigh, Holst lets it go. He steps by her and makes a start into the dishes that dad has left in the sink, because these days dad is too old and shaky to be cleaning his own chef’s knives let alone running a farm. 
The kettle boils, and Hilda grabs the jar of teabags that’s been in the same place since she was born. “Do you want a cup?”
Holst shakes his head. He has a dish towel draped over one massive shoulder. “No, thank you.”
She pours only a cup for herself, grabbing the bottle of fresh milk from the fridge and adding a healthy dollop. The tea isn’t nearly bracing enough, but it gives her something to do with her hands that doesn’t involve nervously wringing them together.
Warm water sloshes in the sink as Holst scrubs at a plate. “You’re awfully antagonistic this trip. More so than usual, I mean.”
The tea is too hot to drink quickly, but Hilda takes a large slurp anyway. “It’s almost like I expected to be ambushed by inheritance talks the moment I walked through the front door.”
“You’re acting like this is the end of the world.”
“I like what I do.” The porcelain sears between Hilda’s hands. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I worked hard to get there.”
“I know that.” 
Silence settles over the kitchen. Hilda taps her fingers against the mug. Her rings clack. They can hear the hiss of the shower from the other room shut off.
After a long moment, Holst says, “Lysithea’s nice. I like her way more than that last guy you brought home. The short one with the blue hair.”
She shoots him a scathing look. “Gee. Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it like -” He breaks off with a sigh. Pulling the dishcloth from where it is draped over one shoulder, he begins drying everything that he has just cleaned. “I just want to see you settled down with someone nice. And I think she’s very nice. You’re calmer around her. And I think she would make a good addition to the family.”
Hilda lightly swats one of his brawny arms. "You didn't say any of this to her, did you? Don't go scaring her off, you asshole."
"I didn't say anything!" Holst insists. Then he adds, "Yet."
Hilda points to the night-dimmed window. "I swear to god, I will go outside, grab an axe, and cleave you in half."
He waves the white dishtowel in surrender. "Relax."
"I really like her, alright? Don't screw this up for me."
"I wouldn't dream of it." Holst returns to drying the dishes. After a moment, he says, "Dad likes her, too."
That sends Hilda's stomach into a whirlwind of somersaults. Dad had never liked any of her previous beaux before. Then again, most of her previous beaux had been thick country boys, who were lacking in every category except the sack. She has always liked her men to be the same way: big, dumb, and easy to manipulate. 
Lysithea is, of course, none of those things.
And then Holst says, "So, when are you going to propose?"
Hilda chokes on her tea. Her face goes bright red. She doesn't need a mirror to know that her complexion is now clashing terribly with her clothes. She splutters. "That's -! Well, I mean -!"
"Haven't you thought of it?"
"I have," Hilda admits slowly. "And -- not that it’s any of your goddamn business -- but we've, y’know, talked."
"And you haven't put a ring on her finger yet? Oh, Hilda..."
Slamming her teacup on the bench, Hilda growls, "What? Why am I the one who needs to propose here?"
"Well, because you're -" he gestures at her with a wave of the drying towel. "You know..."
Her glower is sharper than the knives on the drying rack. "No, go on. Say it."
Holst has never had a very strong sense of self-preservation. It shows, because he does in fact continue. "You're a very forceful personality. Always have been."
“Forceful personality?! I am a delicate flower!" Hilda stamps one foot on the ground. "And maybe I'm the one who wants to be proposed to! Have you ever thought of that? Huh?"
"It's not me who needs to think of that," he replies dryly. 
That stops Hilda dead in her tracks. Her mouth works, but no noise comes out. Finally, she swipes up her cup of tea, and drains it dry. 
“I am just looking out for you,” Holst insists. “And don’t be an ass. Not about this.”
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” she says once she’s finished.
“No. You should be having it with her.”
She clamps her mouth shut so hard she can feel her jaw ache. “I’m going to bed.”
“Just -” he sighs, “- think about what I said. About everything.”
Hilda shoves the now empty cup in his hands for him to clean. “Good night.” 
--
Hilda sleeps poorly. She tosses and turns all night, and still wakes early enough to see sunlight creep through the window to the sound of distant birdsong. She whittles away an hour by curling up behind Lysithea, and sticking her nose into the back of Lysithea's neck. 
Lysithea remains asleep. She is warm, and soft, and smells like clean soap and freshly washed sheets. Her long pale hair tickles Hilda's face. Hilda wouldn't move for the world.
Eventually however, Hilda is very much awake. And when Hilda is awake, she cannot keep from fidgeting. When she feels her own feet start to twitch, she gets out of bed to ensure that she doesn't wake Lysithea.
Wrapped in a cosy last season sweater, Hilda creeps out of the room. She closes the door quietly behind her, and wanders towards the kitchen.
Holst is already awake. He is cradling a cup of freshly brewed tea. When he sees her enter the kitchen, he blinks in surprise. "You're up early. The pot is on. Do you want a cup?"
"No," Hilda yawns. She runs a hand through her hair, which is still slightly mussed with sleep. "Can I have your keys?"
Fishing them from his jeans pocket, he tosses them to her. "Going to the village?"
She catches them. "Just for a bit. I'll be back in a hot second."
"We need more bread. And can you pick up the mail?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it."
In the entryway, Hilda stomps her feet into a pair of ugly boots that are nonetheless very comfortable, and more importantly she isn't afraid to get them dirty. 
The mailbox for the farmhouse is over a mile away. Hilda doesn't get out of the truck, just leans through the open window to grab whatever is in the mailbox. It's a quick jaunt to Locket through the low-hanging fog. She picks up a few loaves of fresh bread and a local newspaper. 
By the time she makes it back home, Lysithea is awake and having a cup of tea in the kitchen with Holst. Stepping out of the truck, Hilda pauses outside. She can see Lysithea through the mist-clung window; she has dressed into casual clothes, but her pale hair is still cowlicked from pressing against a pillow for so long. 
When Hilda enters the house, and makes her way into the kitchen. She makes a point of putting down the bread, the newspaper, and the letters so she can run her fingers through Lysithea’s hair. It does little to tame the persistent cowlick. 
“Morning,” Hilda says. 
“Hey.” Lysithea does not tell her to stop, though her eyes do alight upon the newspaper. “Is this the local rag?”
"Mhmm. It's not the paper you're used to," Hilda says. Pulling her hand away from Lysithea’s hair, she flips a few pages of the newspaper over. "But it has a halfway decent crossword! Want to do it with me?"
Lysithea surprises her utterly by saying, "How about later? We can do it on the plane ride back this afternoon. Holst was telling me about one of the gentler walks on the farm. Think you can show me around?"
Holst himself has busied himself by taking the loaves of bread -- but for one -- and putting them into the freezer. The one he has kept out, he breaks into, placing a few slices into the toaster to start on breakfast. The moment his name is mentioned, he flips the bag of sliced bread shut, and reapplies the twist tie. "I can have brunch ready for you when you get back."
"Sure." Hilda tugs at a lock of Lysithea's hair. "You ready to go now? You might want to grab a jumper. It's chilly out there today."
A few minutes later, Lysithea is dressed in one of Hilda's oversized woolen sweaters. On Hilda it would have been just slightly too big, masking her bulky shoulders somewhat. On Lysithea, it could have acted as a dress. As they head out, one of the dogs thinks it can join on walkies, but Hilda shoos it away.
"We could bring him," Lysithea offers.
"Nah. He'll just be a pest." Hilda points back to the farmhouse. "Go on, Brindle!" 
Dutifully, the dog trots back, and flops beneath the shelter of the eaves. 
The house recedes as they go on their way. When Hilda had driven into Locket earlier, the fog had been thick enough to obscure the mountains and make the trees loom through like shadows. Now, the sun has begun to burn it away, giving detail to the world once more. Hilda guides them towards the gentlest walk on the property, but still she makes sure to take frequent stops. Lysithea's breathing only grows slightly laboured, but she has sounded more winded in bed to be honest. 
"Uuugh," Hilda's feet squelch through the mud and grass. She grimaces down at her old hiking boots. They keep all the muck at bay, but they also clash terribly with the rest of her outfit. "This is a disaster."
"I kind of like it." 
“Impossible. These boots are horrible.”
“I wasn’t talking about the boots,” Lysithea says behind her in a small voice.
Glancing over her shoulder, Hilda sees that Lysithea is trailing along in her wake. She looks -- and this really is strange -- nervous. Hilda doesn’t stop, but she does slow down slightly. 
"What is it?" Hilda asks. Her eyes narrow. "Did my dad say something to you. Did Holst?"
Lysithea shakes her head. "No. It's nothing like that."
"I'll kill him."
"Hilda, I swear. They didn't say anything. They've been nothing but lovely since we've arrived."
"Hmm," Hilda hums under her breath, disbelieving. 
Lysithea trots a few steps forward so that they walk side by side. She slips her hand into Hilda's and holds her fast. "Though I must admit -"
"Oh, here we go." 
"It's not bad. I just have to say that when we first arrived I was -" Lysithea takes a second to fish for the right word. "- puzzled. This place seemed so unlike you. I had a difficult time reconciling that you grew up here. But the longer we've stayed, the more apparent it becomes. You really are at home here."
"It's the boots." Hilda lifts one of the offending shoes as they walk like she’s goose-stepping. "They ruin my whole ensemble."
"It's not the boots," Lysithea says. Then, after a moment, she adds. "Well, the boots don't hurt."
"They do. Specifically, they hurt my eyes."
"Hey," Lysithea's voice has gentled. She squeezes Hilda's hand to get her to stop. 
They are standing in a clearing. The trees rise up on all sides. The grass is green and lush beneath their feet. Late morning sunlight slants through the low-hanging mist, and through the boughs of the trees can be seen the distant snowy mountain peaks bearing their misty capes. 
Lysithea's words are a soft murmur. "You've been so uptight during this trip. Is there something I can do to help?"
Hilda lets out a long breath she had not known she was holding. It escapes her in a rush of air. She glances back in the direction of the house, but they've put it far behind them. Nobody is following them. They are alone. 
"It's -" Hilda grimaces. "To be honest, I'm nervous."
"I already know that. I am a genius, you know."
Hilda laughs, but it's shaky and short and sharp. She has to clear her throat. Lysithea is still holding her hand, and her skin is cool against Hilda's own sweaty palm. "Every time I've brought someone back home, it's always turned out badly."
"Your family scares them away?" Lysithea asks. “Because I’ve met way scarier people. You remember Hubert, right?”
"Yes. No. Not always." Hilda shrugs. "It's just - nothing ever goes right for me after this step. And I don't want that to happen again. Not this time. Not with you. I kind of like you, you know."
"Yes, I got that impression, thanks." 
“Just a little, though. Can’t have people thinking I’m going soft.”
“Your secret is safe with me."
"So, yeah. I'm nervous. And you know what the only thing I can think of is?"
Lysithea cocks her head to one side.
"That I really really should've danced with you last night." Hilda lightly smacks her own forehead with her free hand. "I've been kicking myself over it all day."
With a smile, Lysithea shakes her head. She turns Hilda's hand over, and seems to be deep in thought for a moment. Then, she says, "We can now, if you want."
"Here?" Hilda gestures to the gently sloping woodland around them. "And without music? What do you take me for? A loose woman?"
"Oh, shut up, and dance with me already." 
Lysithea has to reach up to grab Hilda's other hand and bring it to her waist. Hilda's mouth goes dry. Her heart flops around in her chest in a dumb romance novel kind of way.
She's supposed to be past this point in the relationship already. She’s supposed to be restless and distant. She's supposed to be bored. It terrifies her that she isn’t. 
Lysithea hums under her breath. It's a warm sound, surprisingly light and airy. She tends to only ever sing if she thinks nobody else is around. Even Hilda only hears Lysithea singing softly when they're in separate rooms in the apartment. Usually when Lysithea is in the bathroom for her morning routine, or in the kitchen brewing coffee.
It’s not a dance so much as it’s a sway. Hilda guides them around in small circles to make it more of an actual dance. Lysithea never dances with her in public. Normally, Hilda has to coax her into dancing in the kitchen. She’s only done it in public once at Claude’s three months ago. A trendy new band was opening there, and the bar had been packed. 
The fact that she had been willing to dance with Hilda last night at the village pub is unprecedented. 
“Holst and I were talking last night.”
Lysithea hums an inquisitive note, prompting Hilda to continue.
“Not going to lie, it got a little awkward. He was basically trying to foist off the inheritance onto me. Dad’s not getting any younger, and Holst wants me to officially start to look after the estate. It’s such a pain.”
For a moment Lysithea did not reply. Then she asked, “And what did you say?”
Hilda exhales a long breath that she turns into blowing a raspberry. “Well, he’s very insistent. But I don’t think I can be responsible for something like that. I can barely look after a house pet, let alone a thousand cows.”
“That’s -” Lysithea blinks. “- a lot of cows.”
“You’re telling me.” Hilda leads them around in a slow circular pattern. The long grass catches on the edges of her hiking boots with every step. “Anyway, I haven’t decided yet. I wouldn’t have to move out here for, like, ten years to really take over, but still. It’s a big commitment. I don’t know if I’m ready to give up what I have to come back to this old place.”
“You could be the most stylish farmer on this coast, though,” Lysithea points out.
“Hmm. Tempting. But not very challenging.” 
"It's not a bad early retirement plan." Lysithea adds. "I kind of like the idea of just disappearing off the map one day. Though we would have to put a proper airstrip into Locket for El's jet."
"She can use one of the paddocks."
"I don't think jets work like that."
"She'll be fine."
"You know your brother is just going to keep worry about this until you give him an answer, right?"
Hilda rolls her eyes. "He's always worrying about something. Might as well make it something that will turn out right in the end."
Lysithea furrows her brow. "You never intended to say no to him, did you?"
"I am incapable of saying no. Especially not to a good cause. It's just a part of my giving nature."
Slowing to a stop, Lysithea studies her face carefully. “I hope I’m one of your good causes.”
With a snort of laughter, Hilda asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I -” Lysithea chews at her lower lip, one of her signature nervous ticks. “I may have overheard a little of your talk with Holst last night, and -”
When Lysithea begins to fish around in one of her pockets for something, Hilda’s eyes go wide. She has to turn around and catch her breath. It feels just like that time she was playing rugby in an empty paddock, and was kneed in the gut by her cousin, Hughes.
It's one of Hilda's worst-kept secrets, that she is flustered by genuine romance. The best way to avoid getting all blubbery over even the most cheesy of romance movies is to either a) not watch them at all, or b) tell horrible jokes throughout all the bits that would normally get her misty-eyed. 
It's embarrassing. It’s debilitating. It's something that would've gotten her severely mocked by a horde of male cousins since the age of zero.
“Hilda?”
Hilda peeks over her shoulder as if expecting a zombie to leap out of the bushes. Instead, it’s just Lysithea standing there with a little velvet box in her hand. Which is even more terrifying, arguably. 
“Is this -?” Lysithea tilts the box back and forth like she’s debating whether she should just chuck it and run. “Is this not the right time or place or -? Have I messed this up?”
“No,” Hilda breathes. Then, realising what that sounds like, she hurriedly tries to correct herself. “No! I don’t mean: ‘no.’ I mean ‘No!’ I mean -! Yes! No, it’s not not the right time or place. And yes, yes.”
She is blabbering. She’s too far gone. She can feel a tell-tale burning in her eyes, and has to swallow down a swell of tears. 
Lysithea stares at her, but if anything her expression is determined rather than completely baffled or put off by the way Hilda is rambling. She hesitates for only a second before saying, “I know you like a bit of showmanship, but I really don’t want to kneel down in the mud. Is it okay if I don’t -?”
“Yes!” Hilda is so excited she’s jumping up and down a little in place, and clapping her hands together. She sniffles. “Ohhhh! Open it! Open it!” 
“Edelgard may have helped me pick it out a few weeks ago. Because I’m bad at jewelry, and tend to just go for something I think looks pretty,” Lysithea admits as she opens the box to reveal the ring. 
It’s not gaudy, but it is eye-catching. Rose gold. Diamond. Pink sapphires. Without hesitation, Hilda sticks out her hand for Lysithea to put the ring on. For a moment Lysithea fumbles at the ring to pull it from the case -- it’s pretty firmly stuck in the velvet lining -- before slipping it onto Hilda’s finger. Her touch is warm and soft, and Hilda can’t keep the burning behind her eyes at bay any longer. 
“Please don’t cry. You’re going to make me cry.” 
“I can’t,” Hilda is already wiping at her eyes with her free hand. “Thank god I’m not wearing mascara.”
Lysithea laughs, but it sounds a little watery. She shakes her head with a grin. The silly cowlick still in her hair and the oversized jumper with a plaid collar poking through are so endearing that Hilda can’t help but kiss her. Lysithea’s hands grip the front of Hilda’s woollen sweater to pull her close. 
When they part, Lysithea breathes, “I’m so glad you said yes.”
“Was there any doubt?”
“A little.”
“I’m shocked. Appalled, even. That you could even dream that I would say no to you.” Hilda kisses her again, briefly this time. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t know me at all.”
With a huff of laughter, Lysithea pulls away, but drops her arm to lace their fingers together. She tugs at Hilda’s hand. “Come on. Show me the rest of the walk. And then let’s go home.”
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agapantoblu · 5 years
Text
“Too cold a name” - DC
@superbatweek - Day 3 - Krypton!AU
It was a bad day.
It was a bad day because when they said, we found him, what they meant was, we took him.
Kal was familiar with the process, he’d been for a long time now. Jor-El thought it would enlighten him, rid him of the childish affection of a kid toward mere livestock, so he made sure Kal knew the exact steps in finding suitable Carers and their consequent integration in the Kryptonian society. He hadn’t, ultimately, been happy with the results of his lessons.
It’s brutish, Kal had claimed after seeing it all. Father, please, can you not see it? Jor-El had been disappointed. A feeling he’d grown accustomed with, as the years passed and his son refused to see.
Years later, a scientist of his own, Kal had returned to his father asking how came that the Codex bred Carers out of the Kryptonian race and now they were forced to look for them elsewhere, unable to survive without someone to tend to their children. Jor-El had refused to speak to him for as long as he held such profanity in his mind.
For all its knowledge, its progress, Krypton was dull-eared to any voice that raised against the verdicts of the Codex, the Council and the genetic matrix they’d built in years of work.
Kal had learnt the cold of a turned family at a young age; all except one, of course, because such was the role of Carers, after all.
Martha Kent had been gifted to the House of El, the most excellent among the Guild of Science, for the joyous occasion of the birth of its first heir. Lara, his mother, had held him for a few moments after he’d come to the world before handing him over to the human. After that, Martha had been in charge of his physical and biological needs and Lara had only spent with him the time necessary for his intellectual development. Slowly as he grew, the amounts of time he spent with one or the other reversed and he was made to spend less and less with the sweet woman who’d hold him when he cried and kissed his knees when he scraped them. One day, he was told he needn’t her at all anymore. He’d been twelve and had cried himself sick for days.
Later in his life, he’d investigated whether Martha was taken care of. He found she was still in the communal compound of Carers, for after him she’d refused every child they’d brought to her to raise. He’d used his influence to make sure she was well treated and respected, but for refusing her role she hadn’t been allowed to leave her quarters ever since his last day with her. Jor-El had tried to find out what had broken such a wonderful Carer, but Kal’s words of grief and loneliness and homesickness had been dismissed as irrational.
Kal closed his eyes against the memory of his Ma’. The smell of her skin as she held him to her chest, the sensation of her caresses, the whispered secret lessons about Earth and Kansas and Smallville. He held each word in his heart, still, like a prized possession.
He was pacing, and he forced himself to stop. Displaying nervousness would gather inquiries and he had no mind to waste on them. The room he was waiting in was empty now, but it wouldn’t be forever, and he suspected the amount of cameras hidden around.
His skin still buzzed with nervous energy, though. He’d been waiting, dreading, for this day with no way to stop it for years.
After rejecting Faora, the match made by the Codex, and then refusing his father’s arrangement for him with Zod, of course the Council had summoned him to clear up his situation. He was physically exceptional among his kind, and smart if not to his father’s level. At the peak of his biological development, Krypton demanded that he found a spouse now that it was optimal for him to conceive a child. Why resisting the inevitability of their race?
I wish to pursue knowledge of further worlds, and knowledge alone, he’d pleaded to the Council, a liar to his own heart, and he’d been praised for his devotion to his House’s mission. He’d almost hoped he’d made it, expressed one last form of respect toward his Ma’, refused to partake in the custom that had ripped her from her loving husband, her home and her life.
Then, from the highest rounds of seats, a voice had rippled the silence. A Carer, then. To continue the House of El without distracting you from your pursuits. Jor-El had forbidden him from declining again.
As promised, a Carer had been found for him. Via an algorithm, among the Galaxies. A human, from Sol-3
(“Earth, Clark,” Martha spoke with misty eyes. “We call it Earth.”)
for he was clearly so attuned and at ease with the one who raised him in turn.
Now, only a handful of weeks after the Council’s decision, he’d been summoned to the Carers’ common grounds to meet and retrieve his.
He’d worn the hopefully least intimidating thing he’d found, a long navy tunic with the crest of the House of El embodied in dark red. He ran his hand over the sinuous S on his chest, a symbol of hope.
All he found himself hoping for was to catch a glimpse of Martha as he was there, but even that desire was at war with the knowledge of how disappointed in him she’d be if she were to find out what he was doing. Most of the time, he felt like the S was just an empty mark.
“Lord Kal-El.”
He turned too fast, but he couldn’t help himself. For all his refusal had been respectful and publicly accepted, General Dru-Zod had never truly stopped to stare at him with a sort of hunger in his eyes; if anything, it was just burning brighter after the debacle, fueled with anger and resentment.
Zod had offered himself to go and find his designated Carer, as proof of allegiance regardless of their history. Kal had been worried the poor thing wouldn’t survive the travel.
“Apologies for our delay,” the General continued with a frown. If for Kal’s lack of response or another reason, it was hard to say. He gestured to follow him and turned to walk down the corridor he’d appeared from. “The Carer proved to be more of a challenge than expected.”
Punished, was the first word that runs through Clark’s mind, and he almost threw up.
“How troublesome?” he asked, more to cover the sound of his steps following after Zod’s than out of any will to know.
He recognized the layout of the place, he knew they weren’t headed to the living quarters. They took the turns toward solitary instead.
“It escaped its cage twice during our trip,” Zod relied, voice dry. “We had to put it in further restrains. It’s going to be an hard one to tame, but it’ll eventually make for a Carer worth the effort, I’m sure.”
Something hid in his words, Kal could tell. A bait.
If he’d been any less broken and tired, maybe he would have refused to bite into it. “What makes you say so?”
There, in the sparkle in Zod’s eyes as he stopped in front of a door to look at Kal, in the crook of his lips that resembled a daring smirk, in the straight posture. Here, all of the General was screaming, here is your punishment for humiliating me.
“It had six pups of its own, when we found it.”
Kal tried and failed in hiding the dismay that seized him by the throat.
Pups. Six pups. Children, so many of them, whose parent had been taken from them; whom they had been taken from. Kids who’d be crying and calling for their parent as this one was forced to raise Kal’s instead.
Zod had triumph written in every line of his body. “Fear not, Lord Kal-El, we checked them. All fierce fighters, I assure you, for the inferiority of their nature. You should have seen them try to protect this one. It’ll bear strong warriors for you, without doubt. And if I may share a consideration, this Carer stopped fighting us for the promise that we would not go back and take the pups instead. I’d bet it will obey every order you give as long as you remind it of such a deal.”
You heartless piece of shit! His eyes burned wit the need to carve that sick smile off Zod’s face, and the cameras all around them felt briefly like just a minor inconvenience worth dismissing.
He almost acted on his impulse, but Zod, looking unconcerned, pressed his palm on the scan by the door. It lit up blue and the metal slid to the side.
The human blinked at them, and stiffened.
Kal tried to unclench himself and take a deep breath without being noticed. He could only guess what he looked like, furious and with his eyes shining red. His plan of not scaring the human had fallen through already, it seemed, and it was all his fault for letting Zod use his feelings against him. Another reason for Jor-El to be disappointed on him, if only he’d seen.
He opened his eyes again and the human was still there, coiled, looking ready to pounce like a predator in spite of everything.
They were bound with their arms crossed behind their back by three different sets of chains, at their wrist and at their elbows and just below their shoulders. There was a muzzle holding their mouth closed and around their neck had been placed a collar, thick with circuits of electrical current ready to shock him and connected to another chain fixed to the floor to keep them on their knees. Their clothes were ripped in places and half of their face was swollen, an eye blackened, lips split. A rapid x-ray check revealed two broken ribs that must have been hurting them like fire pooling in their veins, but they had no visible sign of discomfort or pain on their face.
Kal stared and stared, unable to find the words to describe the horror mounting in his chest. The thought of his Ma’ being treated the same way—
He didn’t realize he’d stepped forward until he saw the human straining against its bounds, trying to back up and being forced to stay on the spot by the leash. He stopped himself.
They had dark hair and blue eyes, just like Kal, but they looked tougher, older, like a veteran compared to a recruit. There were a few old scars scattered on his skin and Kal found himself checking again with his x-ray vision, just to freeze when he reached their lower belly.
The human clenched his legs closed tighter.
“You don’t have to do it, you know.” Kal stiffened again. He’d almost forgotten of Zod, but now he couldn’t. The General had come closer and when he spoke, his breath touched Kal’s collarbone and neck. “Everyone knows that the son of the House of El has strange conceptions on Carers.” Zod’s hand found Kal’s back, palm open against the dip in it. “I would tolerate them, if you decided to accept our marriage.” Rather than an affectionate gesture, it felt more like a threat to rip his spine out. “And you could still have this one to raise our children without having to actually mate it, if the thought repulses you so.”
The hand went to his side. Kal turned and shouldered Zod in the chest. “Get off me!”
Zod coughed. The hit had taken him by surprise, but only just enough for Kal to put a step between them before he recovered. Immediately, the General went to grab his wrist. Kal grabbed his neck instead.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he hissed. It sounded more threatening than how willing he really was to carry through with it. The presence of the human just by their feet whet his anger even more.
Zod held his gaze for a short moment longer, before finally pulling himself away. “Do as you wish,” he growled. “When your freak ideas will get you on the wrong side of the Council, I will volunteer to collect your head.”
Kal watched him go. He didn’t bother with an answer because Zod was right: he could only defy the system of Krypton so much before it decided he was to be purged from its genetic matrix as well.
It wasn’t a thought he’d never considered, though, and he shook it off himself fast enough.
He looked down again and, sure enough, the human had been staring at them intently. Too much for someone who hadn’t understood a word, but Clark could see he hadn’t been equipped with a translator yet. Zod’s action, to be honest, had been rather unequivocal.
Kal knelt down in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words coming out in English with only the barest hint of uncertainty. He’d learnt his Ma’s tongue when he still dreamt of returning her to her life, when he entertained the hope that maybe she’d want to keep him even so. “I’ll let you out of your bounds as soon as I can.” The human blinked. Again, if he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Kal envied his blank expression. “I’m sorry for this too, the walk is going to be a bit bumpy.”
The moment Kal gathered the human in his arms, the chain to the floor clicked free from it, but the others remained. He tried not to think about it as he sped through the corridors toward the exit.
***
“Name me, Ma’.”
“Name you? You do have a name, silly.”
“No, no, an Earthian name.”
“Terrestrial, Kal. And what for?”
“So I can use it when I bring you back there!”
“Oh. Oh, you sweet, sweet child. I love you so much, my dear.”
“Then you’ll give me a name?”
“I— Oh, Lord, look over us. Jonathan, that stubborn man, he’d always wanted to name our child Clark.”
“Did you have one? A child of your own?”
“No, dear. I wasn’t blessed with children before you.”
“Can I have it, then? The name Clark? I’ll be a good Clark, I promise!”
***
Kal waited for the doors of his quarters to have closed and locked and for the order for the cameras to turn off to become operative before he placed the Carer down on the bed. He grimaced, regretting that there wasn’t anywhere else soft enough to lay his battered body on, but luckily his discomfort must have been evident for the human didn’t struggle to escape.
Still, he knelt on the floor to make himself look less imposing. “I’m untying you now, okay? It’s going to hurt your ribs when I free your arms, but if we move you slowly it shouldn’t dislodge the fractures.”
He went for the muzzle first. It was humiliating and cruel and he threw it a bit too harshly at the wall when he was done. Second came the collar, and then slowly all three bounds at the arms.
The moment the third set came loose, the human’s fist crashed against Kal’s chin.
He made a face at the sound of more bones breaking. “That was— not a good idea.”
“You motherfucker—”
The human continued hissing. Kal watched him, hands hovering around him, uncertain whether to touch would mean to help or just incite another accidental self-abuse. The words from the man’s mouth had a different tilt from Ma’s, though they were clearly the same and all horrible words Ma’ had strictly forbidden him to repeat. “Would you let me take a look at it?”
“No.”
“Alright!” How stubborn. “I’m just trying to help here.”
Glacial eyes glared daggers in his face. “Is that so? Because they said I was for you.”
Kal made a grimace. “I didn’t have much more say in this than you.” He realized his mistake before another fist could break on his face. “I’m sorry! I know it’s not— It’s absolutely not the same thing, I’m sorry. I apologize.”
The man breathed deep in through his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. Kal watched him unclench his muscles one after the other, and flinch and bring his sane hand to his chest. A rapid check cleared that he hadn’t worsened his injuries much, but that was a small consolation considering how terrible they were to begin with.
“Kelex,” he called. “Get me some healing supplies.”
A chirpy melody of beeps answered his request, and Kelex appeared from the bathroom with the requested box immediately after. “Here, Lord Kal-El.”
“Thank you.”
The human was staring at Kelex when Kal turned back to him. He smiled. “He’s my assistant. And friend. Best friend, actually.” Only friend, he didn’t say, but the human sent him a look that said it had been far too easily inferred. “Whatever. Can I help you with your injuries, now? Or would you rather break something more before we start?”
The look he received seemed rather in favor of the latter, but the human held some kind of self-preservation instinct because he stretched out his broken hand. Kal could see it for the test it was and didn’t complain about the urgency of the ribs. Instead, he pulled a bottle out and started applying the unguent.
The nano-bots in it penetrated the skin immediately and set to work to fix the bones and texture. The human cussed another couple of times, but in less than a minute the hand was perfectly fine again.
Kal offered a sheepish smile. “The ribs will hurt a bit more, I fear.”
***
“Ma’? How is your husband?”
“Good. He is a good man, Clark. With his heart in the right place. Honest and kind and strong. Gentle. Altruist. A bit too bull-headed at times, but never for the wrong things. He used to sing along to love songs at the radio when he helped me in the kitchen, and he named our first cow after my mother. It’s okay, Clark. She was a bad person.”
“Do you think he’d be a good dad for your Clark?”
“Honey. You are my Clark now. There can never be another Clark for me.”
“Would—”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Clark.”
“Would he be a dad like Jor-El?”
“No. Never like that. He’d take our child in the fields to play and teach him how to fish. He’d help him doing homework at the kitchen table and they would play some sport behind the barn in the evenings until they both would be too tired to do anything but go to sleep. He’d be a proud father, Clark, because all he could ever want from his son would be that he exist and be happy.”
“Oh.”
“This isn’t what you were going to ask, Clark.”
“Would he let me stay? When I bring you back, if I ask him please, would he let me stay?”
“… I’m sure he would love to, Clark.”
Would he be my dad, Ma’? Would he be proud of me and teach me things just because they’re fun? Ma’? Ma’? Would he hate me because I took you from him?
“Ma’?”
“Yes, Clark?”
“I’ll apologize to him. I promise.”
“It’s alright, Clark. You don’t have to.”
I do, I do, I do.
***
After helping with his ribs, due to the lack of mobility, Kal allowed the man to apply the oil on the rest of his injuries on his own. It put the both of them more at ease when Kal could take a couple steps and give them air to breath and let the reality crash in.
Alright. This was bad. The worst, actually. Worse than he’d even thought it’d be. Holy fucking shit.
“How do you have six kids without an uterus?”
That is a terrifying look, Kal thought in the instant between realizing what he’d said and the human grabbing on his vest. This time, he managed to keep himself lax, fearing that the other would try and hit him again, but instead the man all but flipped him over his back.
Kal was rather invulnerable, but leaving a dent in the floor still hurt.
The human climbed his chest and sat on it with his knees digging in what would be pressure points of Kal’s arms, if only he had the strength for it. “What do you know about them?! What have you done to my kids?!”
“Nothing! I swear, Zod told me about them!” For a moment, he contemplated freeing himself. Instead, he stopped opposing resistance. His body went soft and accommodated the weight of the one upon him. “He said they were proof you’d make a good Carer and that they tried to fight for you, but he also implied they were still alive when you left your planet. If it’s of any consolation.”
Maybe it really was, because the grip on his clothes loosened just a fraction of an inch, for just an instant. Kal caught the shadow of relief running over the traits of the man, come and gone like a breath of wind, and he let his thoughts ripple to his Ma’ again. Were all humans so loving toward their children?
Lara had been affectionate at times, when Kal proved himself good in his studies, but it had still felt a bit distant, like a teacher with her favorite pupil. The easy love that Martha had given him put all those interactions to shame. And now here this man stood, fighting teeth an nails with someone so much stronger than him, for just the assurance that his kids were okay.
Krypton had gained lots in its quest toward perfection, but it was painfully clear to Kal that they had lost so much as well.
“I’m sorry,” he found himself saying again. “I was just taken aback. This is—bad. Really bad.”
“I would imagine my lack of uterus impedes whatever plan made your kind kidnap me from my house and my family.” The man spoke with precision, poison lacing ever syllable, and his grip tightened again. He leant forward to bring his face closer to Kal’s. “What an irony. They got you the wrong bitch to breed.”
“Fuck you.”
Kal had tried. He’d tried and tried and tried. He had tried to be someone his Ma’ could be proud of and someone Jor-El would stop, even for a single moment, to despise. He had tried to keep to himself, had tried not to hurt anyone, had tried, and still.
Failure. He could feel it carved in his chest.
The man glared at him. He glared with the intensity of someone used to people cowering in front of his rage, the aura of a leader. On his planet, he must have led an army, or commanded a nation.
“The man who took me checked me like you did,” the human enunciated, slowly. “Why didn’t he see?”
Kal frowned.
Zod should have seen. As soon as he’d apprehended the human or afterward, to make sure the injuries hadn’t impeded his reproductive abilities, he should have noticed the lack of reproductive organs apt to gestation. How come he hadn’t? Either he didn’t check for real, but that seemed too big an oversight for someone with his experience, or—
“Piece of shit.” Kal growled a few more insults in Kryptonian when his too-clean English vocabulary extinguished his possibilities. “He knew.”
Of course Zod knew. And how much he must have laughed, realizing the Codex had given Kal a Carer that couldn’t be bred. Three options given and wasted already; once the news would spread, Jor-El or the Council or both would demand that Kal picked, either Faora or the General. Except Faora had accepted a mission on a satellite colony and she’d taken a new spouse so she was no longer an option. No choice to make at all, truly.
The human didn’t have all this informations, of course, but he’d seen the scene in the cell and he tilted his head to the side. “The other one. He wanted you.”
“He was—” Kal floundered for the right word, “—a suitor.” No, that didn’t work quite right. “A choice I was given.”
“And turned down?” Kal nodded. “He didn’t seem to have taken the message.”
“He didn’t. And if you cannot bear children, he’s currently the only option I have left.”
“No other?”
“No.”
“So that’s why he took me anyway; to force your hand. What makes you so important?”
Kal had wondered about it more than once, actually. He hadn’t gotten anywhere close to finding an answer. “I don’t think he’s used to take no for an answer.”
They stood as they were for a while. Kelex paced nervously by their side, unsure whether to intervene or not since his master didn’t seem worried. The many words Kal should be saying flew around his brain, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do, this is a mess, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but his mouth opened and he said, “My Ma’ is human.”
The man kept staring intently at him. It seemed enough like an invitation.
“Kryptonians don’t raise their children during their early years. As long as they’re too young to pursue any art or science or combat skill, they are left in the care of…”
“Nannies?”
“Something like that. Their parents visit for a while, longer periods as the children grow and get more aware. When they’re finally mentally capable of doing without the support, they are returned to their parents and stop seeing their Carers.”
A tiny spasm in the human finger. “Just like that? How old?”
“It depends. I was twelve, but I’m one of the latest bloomers Krypton ever generated.” Jor-El never missed reminding him of such a flaw. “My Carer, she was human. She had a husband on Earth. She taught me English, she lived in Kansas. Do you know it? Have you seen it?”
He knew some eagerness had bled through his voice. The human took it in stride, seemed to consider it. “I’ve never been there,” he said at last. “But I don’t live too far from it.”
“Oh.” Close by to his Ma’s hometown. It felt like a cruel joke of Fate, but probably local culture was a factor that the Codex had taken in consideration when searching for a perfect candidate for Kal. “I wish I could see it.”
The human frowned again. “What happened to your Ma’?”
“She’s still here,” Kal admitted, shame coloring his cheek. “She refused to take more children after me, so they don’t let her out of her quarters. My father thinks she was broken at some point after I was returned to him; he doesn’t understand the emotions that connect a mother and a child.”
“But you do instead?” Mocking, cruel.
Kal closed his eyes not to see the disdain, or he’d admit it was deserved. “I love her more than my own life,” he whispered. “I used to think I’d bring her back to her family, one day.” I never got to tell her goodbye.
“I’m going back to my family!” The answer came in a growl, furious, and Kal took a second to realize it was a reaction to the defeat in his voice.
“I don’t— You can’t. You’re lightyears away from your solar system!”
No hesitance. “Your kind took me here, didn’t you?”
“Our technology is different from—”
“Your technology is literally everywhere around us.” The words fell into the silence, sunk in its depths and settled at the bottom of Kal’s stomach.
It felt sacrilegious to just imagine it: a Carer stealing a ship, leaving the planet, refusing his place and returning home. Krypton’s defeat, the first since so long. “They’d come after you. They’d destroy your planet to send a message.”
“My planet is harder to die than you give it credit for, Alien.”
Alien. Alter. Something other. “My name is Kal-El.”
The facade on the human’s face broke this time. Surprise, unadulterated, widened his eyes. “I just told you I’m going to escape and defeat your race. Did you really just introduce yourself to me?”
“I didn’t do it before, did I?” The situation was already as surreal as they came, after all.
The human let go of Kal’s vest and straightened up a bit. He didn’t raise from his position, kept Kal’s pinned unaware that he was not restrained at all, and studied him once more. He said, “Bruce.”
Kal remembered a story from Ma’s, about an old man who had a shop when she was young girl and who was long since dead. It was how he knew Bruce was a name. It was why his heart soared, for some reason.
“Ye-haw.”
“Excuse you?!”
“… Isn’t it a human greeting?”
Bruce made a weird wheezing sound. Instinctively, Kal checked his ribs but they seemed to have healed completely. When he looked up again, the man’s eyes were different from before. He was still unreadable, but the ice in his irises seemed to have melt a bit. “Will you help me?”
“Help you?”
“Leave.”
“What! No, I can’t—”
“Why not?” Now, Bruce bent over him, caging him completely. “Is there anything worth staying for you? Except for a suitor that is manipulating you into a marriage you refused and parents who left you to a slave until you had enough of a brain not to bore them, of course.”
It hurt, maybe the words or more probably the knowledge that they were the truth. Kal paled and fidgeted, but there was nowhere for him to run without dislodging Bruce and breaking the illusion of dominance that had allowed them to have a talk to begin with.
“My Ma’—”
“This is not her place,” Bruce scolded him. “This is her cage. You used to think you’d bring her home one day? You can do it now.”
“You’d bring her—”
“Yes.”
Ma’ back at home, with her husband, in her farm. Happy and without the unshed tears that Kal had learnt not to point out because it made her voice tremble and her smile dim. A chance, an apology; not enough, of course, never enough for what had been done to her, but still—
“Lord Kal-El, Lord Jor-El requires your presence to the House of El.” Kelex announced, in the broken English Kal taught him to use when he heard someone else use it first.
Kal stiffened. “Did he say what for?”
Kelex beeped for a second. “General Dru-Zod is also present. The matter seems to regard the new Carer.”
“Already,” Bruce commented dryly. “Last chance to decide, Kal. I’ll get out of here on my own if it kills me.”
“It will if you try alone.” Kal took a deep breath. No time to think, no time to elaborate. Feeling, a choice based on emotions alone. Good, he thought. The Council won’t be able to foresee it. “Let’s go. We can pretend I’m dropping you back to the Carers compounds, get my mom and then my ship.”
He was up and going before he was done talking. Bruce cussed in his ears as Kal carried him.
***
“Alfred.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I am a terrible father, Alfred.”
“Far be it for me to deny you’ve been such in multiple occasions, sir, I still think you should cut yourself some leeway. You have exceptionally special children who need different things from the average kid.”
“I failed each and every one of them.”
“At some point in their lives, sir, yes, absolutely. But failure is a punctual event. Life is more of a sport with a progression of sets.”
“Win some, lose some?”
“I’m sure the master is not too familiar with the concept.”
“You’re an ass.”
“I take offense to that, sir. I am very clearly British.”
“It’s Damian’s birthday today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The others—”
“Everyone but Master Jason has already confirmed their presence tonight, but I took liberty of attaching the menu for the night to his invitation. He shall be here, I assure you.”
“That’s— good. I’m glad.”
“Is that so, sir.”
“What would I do without you, Alfred?”
“I shiver at the mere thought, sir.”
***
Martha looked horrible. Her hair had been cut in her usual way, she’d been fed, her clothes were clean and so was her room, but the lines on her face were just so much deeper, so much rougher.
He held her face in his palms with the utmost gentleness, afraid she’d break if he just raised his voice too loud. “Ma’,” he muttered. He was crying.
So was she. “Clark,” she sobbed. “Clark, Clark, my child, my sweet, sweet child, Clark.”
“You look so old, Ma’.”
“You little scoundrel, you—I can’t even get mad, oh, Clark.”
Bruce’s hand on Kal’s shoulder forced him to turn out of her embrace. He expected mockery, maybe irritation, annoyance, but what he found was the gentlest look he’d yet seen on the man’s face. It was compassionate and understanding as he said, “I’m sorry. We really need to hurry up now.”
He was right, of course. The alarms would sound off the moment Martha left the compounds, and even sooner if they wasted too much time and Jor-El and Zod became suspicious. “Let’s go.”
Kelex had loyally slipped out of the robotic personal door of the building and found his ship. He was waiting for them the moment Kal flew out with Bruce and Martha in his arms. He welcomed them with an enthusiastic beeping. “No pursuers, Lord Kal-El!”
“Not yet,” Bruce corrected, and sat down on the co-pilot seat without hesitation. “I’ve seen the others pilot this things. I cannot drive, but the artillery layout seemed rather intuitive.”
“It is,” Kal tried to contain the smile bursting on his lips and sat at the first pilot seat. “Kelex, help Ma’ to strap herself in and then hook yourself somewhere. It’s not going to be a smooth fly.”
Bruce scoffed. “When is it ever?” Kal was impressed to notice that he had the panels all correctly opened and ready for use.
They broke Krypton’s atmosphere just before the other ships settled to pursue them. Bruce took down three skillfully as Kal avoided their shoots. Kelex readied the procedure for space jump, Earth’s coordinated put in. Martha closed her eyes.
They jumped.
***
“B, watch out!”
“Bruce!”
“B!”
“Father!”
“Fuck, let him go, you psychotic—”
“Bruce!”
“B!”
“No!”
“Dad!”
***
For fast as jumps were, it still took them a week and a half to reach Earth, and they did so a bit too enthusiastically after days confined in the small space.
It wouldn’t be correct to say they landed. They crashed, to be honest. Face first into an empty field of perfect green grass, and luckily the cabin was of a sturdier material than Earth’s surface or they’d be all mashed potatoes, as Martha said.
Bruce groaned, cussed and was told to mind his language.
Kal laughed. Lowly at first, then loudly, then louder still until it became an hysterical thing and Bruce had to make him sit down and hold his head between his knees as he took deep breaths and they waited for Kelex to open a path out of the remains of the spaceship.
“I can’t believe I did it.”
“You were very brave and very stupid, yes.”
“Fuck you, Bruce.”
“Clark! Language!”
“Sorry, Ma’.”
There was an old man with a rifle when they climbed out, and a seemingly endless amount of young humans with a wide array of weapons at the ready. They were noisy, spitting cusses or threats, but they all fell silent when Bruce climbed out and took unsteadily toward them.
The smallest one reacted first. “Father!”
Kal blinked. He watched the humans overtake Bruce, arms wrapping around him, hands touching as if to make sure. He watched him reach out in turn, assess each one of them, every bruise on their skin, every limb in a cast. The older man cleared his throat, and the children let him through to assess Bruce’s condition. “It should have been expected that you would find your way back to us, sir.”
“I missed you, Alfred.”
Alfred didn’t answer. He hugged Bruce tightly for the briefest moment, and then he turned to the rest of them. “Guests, Master Bruce?”
“Yes,” Bruce said. “In need of a shower like me, I’d say.”
“We can’t—” Kal hesitated. How to explain? “The Kryptonians—”
“They can wait as I take a fucking shower,” Bruce repeated. “I’ve been manhandled around space for weeks. I will wash the grime off myself and then we’ll see what takes those bastards down.”
Well, that was easy. “Kryptonite.” Bruce’s head snapped in his direction and Kal shrugged, trying to look less awkward than he felt. “I can give you the chemical formula.”
“You really should.” For a moment, they stared at each others in silence. Bruce turned toward the house in front of them. “The shower can wait a moment. Kal, move along.”
“Did I miss something?” someone among the children asked. “Did B found himself a playmate in space?”
“Jason, you’re grounded.”
“You’re not the boss of me!”
Kal hurried to take his place beside Bruce, Ma’ firmly beside him. As they walked, he stole a couple glances behind him and hesitated.
Bruce sent him a glare and an arched brow the third time he caught him doing so.
Kal fidgeted and bit his lower lip before conceding. “These are more than six.”
A long suffering sigh. “Tell me about it.”
***
“What shall we do tonight, dear? Anything you want.”
“I want to go see Zorro!”
“Zorro?”
“Yes! At the movies! All together! Please?”
“My, Martha. How can we say no to such a convincing plead?”
“We cannot, Thomas, dear, of course!”
“Mom, Dad, hurry up!”
“Mom? Dad?”
“M-Mom? D-Da-Dad? P-lease?”
***
“Do you think it’s going okay?”
“Clark.”
“Sorry. But do you think—”
“She’s been inside for only five minutes, Clark. She’s probably not even to the part in which they arrived on Krypton.”
“Right.”
Kansas was bigger than Clark had imagined from Ma’s words. It was wider, in every possible sense. Even with his sight, so much better than humans’, he could space for miles before focusing on something that wasn’t a field of corn or rice. It was quiet and sunny and people were generally nice to each others for no other reason than they’d probably gone through a drought together, at least once.
Bruce’s BMW stood out like a sore thumb, even Clark could tell and he’d only been on Earth for five months.
The Kryptonians had come, as expected, three weeks later but they had been ready. Kal had met them outside Earth’s atmosphere, told them the humans were now armed with Kryptonite, to come at their own risk. Zod had fumed and called him a traitor, Jor-El had claimed him the ultimate disappointment. Lara had just looked at him, eyes careful.
Kal hadn’t stayed. He’d flown back on Earth and with the others waited with held breath to see what would happen.
Krypton had allowed Zod and a squad to try and see if the humans really had Kryptonite on their hands. Most of them, Faora included, had ran back to lick their wounds when it turned out to be the truth. Zod had met Bruce’s spear, fallen, tried a coward backstab after Bruce had spared his life. Kal had snapped his neck.
He’d spent the night puking and crying, refusing to see his Ma’, Bruce his only companion on the floor of one of the Manor’s many bathrooms.
“You cannot be Kal-El anymore,” Bruce had told him. “Clark is a good name.”
“Clark shouldn’t be a murderer,” Kal had objected. “Ma’ would have raised him better.”
“Martha raised her son to do his best to protect others,” he’d been corrected. “Martha knows her son had an horrible choice to make and made it with a heavy heart. She aches for you because she knows this pains you, but she’s not mad at you because she also knows you did what you had to.”
“You wouldn’t have killed him.”
“I would be dead.”
“Bruce—”
“Stop. You’re not like them, Clark. All of us know bloody damn well that you’re not like them. I wouldn’t be here to tell you that, if you weren’t.”
“I’m sorry. For what they did to you.”
“Stop apologizing for what you didn’t do. You broke me out in less than a day since we met. We’re good.”
“Bruce—”
“Stop.”
Bruce had kissed him. It had been awful because Clark tasted of puke. It had been the first, not the last.
Ma’ had learnt to be free again, slowly. Alfred had helped her through the stages, traded stories of war for stories of imprisonment. She’d built herself up again, slowly, before she’d asked Bruce to find Jonathan for her.
Bruce, it turned out, was very rich and also some kind of fighter of the night. Clark wasn’t sure, the children gave discordant report on whether he was an hero or a masked buffoon. Jason said he was a big boob, and nobody had explained that to him yet.
From what he’d found out, Jonathan Kent never re-married, never left the farm his wife had disappeared from. He’d told the police aliens had come for her and he’d been turned away as a drunkard unable to discern reality from his own hallucinations.
Martha had cried, waited a month longer, and then asked to be brought home. Asked Clark to come along. “My son,” she’d reassured as he held her and tried not to cry again. “My beautiful son.”
Bruce and Clark waited in the car. It seemed better than to dump everything on the poor man at once. Time stretched out infinitely as they waited, but the house remained silent.
“He’s going to hate me.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I took his wife from him for thirty years, Bruce.”
“You weren’t even newborn when others kidnapped her. Just because she ended up taking care of you, it doesn’t mean you did this to her.”
“I could have escaped sooner. I could have brought her back so much earlier. I was just too much of a selfish coward to do it.”
Bruce didn’t answer immediately. He had an elbow pointed on the open window and his head resting on his palm. His finger was stroking his mouth slowly, and his eyes never left the house, even though they both knew he could feel Clark’s on his.
“You really don’t see yourself as a victim in this,” he said in the end, slowly. Almost tentatively. He looked at Clark then and he had the same soft look he had when he tried to get one of his kids to stop crying. “You’ve never done.”
“I’m not.”
“Clark.”
“No. No, Bruce, no. This isn’t comparable—”
“Pain shouldn’t be compared.”
“Shut up! You know what I mean!”
“You’ve been brainwashed. Your adoptive mother was taken away from you when you were still a kid. Your parents withheld affection from you since your birth, and they kept on as punishment as you grew older. Your people shunned and ostracized you because you questioned their beliefs, they left you with no support network at all. Your community tried to force you into a relationship you didn’t want and threatened you with worse and worse options to try and get you to give up. Your father and your suitor almost managed to force your hand into agreeing to a marriage that we both know would have ended with you battered and bruised. Jor-El hurt—”
“Don’t!”
A whisper. “We sleep in the same bed, Clark. I don’t need super-hearing to know when you have nightmares.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Of course it’s not. One is slavery, but the other is still abuse, Clark.”
They’d had this conversation already, they never really got anywhere with it. They probably wouldn’t for a long time yet.
The door of the farm opened.
Jonathan Kent walked the distance to the car with a steady stride, steps long. It wasn’t the strut of a drunkard, and he stood tall now whereas he’d been hunching when he’d opened the door for Martha.
Bruce opened his door first, Clark hurried to follow. Jonathan stopped just before him, and stood, watching.
He had clear green eyes and thick skin, cooked by the sun like a brick. He looked old, tired, with purple bags under his eyes. A man who’d suffered for a long time. Clark felt the need to cower, and lowered his eyes. “I’m s—”
“Martha says…” He stopped. He stole a glance to Bruce, but the man made no move to acknowledge it or leave them alone. “Martha says she called you Clark.”
Clark shuffled on his feet. “Yeah, she, uh… She said you two wanted to call your kid that.” It felt wrong, like he was trying to elbow his way in their family, and he hurried up to add, “It’s my fault, I pushed her to. I wanted her to give me a human name and—”
Jonathan interrupted him. “Why?”
Three months ago, Clark didn’t have an answer. It had taken him a long talk with Dick and Cassandra, about adoptions and names and families made of choices rather than blood and genetic matrixes, to get to an answer that felt right. Another few weeks had been needed to stop the terror that seized it at the knowledge.
“I didn’t feel good in my name,” he admitted. “It was the name my parents gave me but they were never really there. They didn’t care. Ma’—Martha did. I wanted her to name me because I wanted her to be my real mom.”
Jonathan kept quiet. The silence was broken by the sound of gravels under boots, and Clark almost jumped three feet in the air and melted into the ground at the same time as Bruce’s arm came to rest around his shoulders.
“There is no rush,” he said, staring at Jonathan the way Clark felt too embarrassed to. “Clark is here to stay, Earth is his home, Martha is his family. Whether you are too or not doesn’t need to be decided on the moment.”
Martha was on the porch now, staring at them anxiously. She had a quilt on her shoulders she didn’t have before she went in. It looked nice on her, it fit.
“Alright,” Jonathan said. “Let’s— Let’s just go in. It’s too hot to stand outside and have heavy conversations about aliens.”
Clark let out the breath he’d been holding since they’d left from Gotham.
“That would be wonderful,” Bruce declared and gently, but firmly, prodded Clark to move toward the house.
***
“So you can fly and you can lift everything?”
“I don’t know if it’s—”
“And you have enhanced hearing and sight?”
“Not more than any other Kr—”
“Are you bulletproof like them?”
“Uh…”
An echo so loud all the bats in the cave flew away screaming.
“Jason!”
“Yeah, he’s bulletproof alright. Next question, Timbers?”
“Laser eyes?”
“Boss-man! Your kids are torturing your pet alien again!”
“He’s not a pet, Stephanie. Everybody, scatter around. Anyone still here by the time I reach ten is benched for a week. One, two, three—”
“They are, uh, fast.”
“Stop letting them drag you around by your ear and try to stand up for yourself. You’re such a pushover.”
“I’m not!”
“Yes, you are. Damian could tell you to carry Goliath around because he’s tired and you’d do it.”
“Goliath’s wings are very small compared to his size, to be honest.”
“Clark. No.”
“But—”
“No. Have some dignity, would you?”
***
Jonathan was a tentative, fleeting thing, but Martha was happy and Clark tried, for her. Bruce played referee, which he shouldn’t have had to, but Clark would never thank him enough for.
That night, Clark flew them on the roof of the barn and they looked at the stars.
“Give it time,” Bruce said. “Being human is hard work.”
Clark didn’t answer. He weighted his wishes against what he’d been taught to want and what had been used against him, then he allowed himself to scoot closer and lay his head on Bruce’s shoulder. He waited, breath held, to be pushed away, but Bruce laid an arm around his shoulders and reached for his waist with the other. He didn’t say anything either, not even when Clark turned his face to his in his chest and they both knew he was wetting his shirt with tears.
“Give it time,” Bruce repeated, after a long time. Clark was half-way asleep on him already.
He didn’t have any nightmares, for once.
***
“Alfred.”
“Yes, sir?”
“The algorithm wasn’t right. If Clark had been any less different from a Kryptonian, I wouldn’t be with him.”
“Sir, allow me a consideration: if you allow the doubt that the algorithm of such civilization might have been right for once to get in the way of what I believe to be the healthiest relationship either of you ever had, wouldn’t it still be the same as letting those people dictate your lives?”
“Uhm.”
“Get some sleep, Bruce.”
“Alfred?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll check on Clark, before going.”
“Very well, sir.”
***
Clark had first sex with Bruce on a day that no child roamed the Manor. It was a unique occasion, and it felt all but coincidental as Alfred himself had taken his first day off since Clark had been around.
Bruce was slow and gentle and touched him all around. He didn’t shy from his desire, he withheld nothing even when Clark broke the side of the bed with his grip, and he gave, he gave, he gave everything Clark cried for in the ecstasy of the moment.
Clark held him, afterwards, and felt his heart swell. He’d been on Earth for a year now, and this— he’d never dared to hope for anything like this, on Krypton.
“You are wondrous,” Bruce whispered to him as they tried again, a different way, a different position, the same overwhelming feeling of need. “Breathtaking. Marvelous.”
“Bruce,” Clark cried, kissing his neck, moving inside. “Bruce.”
“It’s alright, Clark. It’s alright. Come here. Kiss me.”
He did.
***
“The doctors told me I could have no children and now my kid can’t even tell me for sure how many grandchildren I have because he’s lost count!”
“Ma’, please, this isn’t as funny as you think it is. I’m pretty sure I met a guy in the hallway that wasn’t here last week. I said hi because I thought it was Tim but when I looked better he was black!”
“I’m sure Bruce will tell you soon enough.”
“I’m not sure Bruce is keeping score of his kids anymore.”
“Ridiculous, he doesn’t miss a birthday.”
“He has a fancy phone to remind him of those.”
“Clark!”
“What?! He told me that!”
“I swear, you two— Regardless, I want an approximate number at least! I need to know how many people to cook for!”
“I’ll ask Alfred, he probably knows.”
“Say hi to the old man from me.”
“Will do.”
***
Duke was the calmest among the Wayne children and Clark was glad he was there and spent most of his time around him. The kid seemed curious about him, anyway, and Bruce said he had some sort of meta-human gene that meant he could probably benefit from having an alien around to sympathize with what it meant to feel like you weren’t completely human.
Or so Bruce thought. In reality, they ate lots of junk food and gossiped about the rest of the family.
“I’m just saying you could do it,” Duke shrugged. “It’s not like the Kryptonians seemed interested in coming back for vengeance.”
Clark toyed with the straw of his milkshake. “I dunno.”
“Let’s be honest, the world could use a superhero more, especially one that’s got everything super under the sun.”
“I’m pretty sure the only name left up for grab is Batboy and I’m not going to take it.”
“Ugh, no, please. That’d open a window on Bruce’s kinks that I don’t ever want to explore.”
Clark frowned. “What does that—”
“C, listen,” Duke dumped a handful of fries in his mouth. “Just make up your own identity. Just because you and B are an item, it doesn’t mean you need to match in cape too.”
Uhm. “I’d like a red cape.”
“Do it, man. It’s not like you need the surprise effect, you’re bulletproof! Hey, is it true that Jason tested that by shooting you in the balls?”
***
“We’re not doing anything either of us doesn’t want to. If you want something, you tell me and we talk about it. I will do the same. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Clark. This isn’t a trick or a deal or a condition. I love you. I do it regardless of whether we agree or fight, and I’m not going to use this against you, okay?”
“Mmm.”
“Clark?”
“I want… Just… Hold me for a second, please?”
“… Of course.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
“Every time you need me, Clark.”
***
“Clark?”
“Yes?”
“Pass me that tie, please?”
“Take it for yourself.”
“Rude.”
Clark waited, sitting on the edge of the bed. He watched Bruce retrieve his tie on his own, return to the mirror and put it on masterfully, then he outstretched a hand in his direction.
Bruce came to him, no hesitation. He kissed him when Clark lifted his head. “A quick test?” he asked, when they parted.
Ears red, Clark nodded. “Just—needed to make sure.”
“Okay.” Bruce nodded and kissed him again. “Now we need to go. This gala isn’t going to host itself and Superman and Batman will need to go on patrol later this night.”
“Ugh, but I have an article to write.”
“Your fault for wanting a job. I told you you could always be my trophy husband but you said it would give the children a bad example.”
“We can’t both be the parent that lazes around all morning and goes out all night. What will they think of us?”
“That you’re two old saps who are going to be late to their own party. Again.” They both jerked their heads up, and met Dick’s unimpressed stare. “Seriously. You do realize people think you always leave the parties early to fuck, right?”
“Dick.”
“I’m going! But you two better hurry up.”
***
Cassandra didn’t talk much, but she seemed to read Clark’s mind with acute precision, and she didn’t shy away from using that ability.
When he was hurting, before he could even realize he was because he was just so used to the gnawing loneliness in his heart no matter how many people surrounded him, she would appear. Out of thin air, there she would be and she would sit by his side and hold his hand and kiss his temple.
“Clark,” she would pronounce. “Clark Kent.”
She would repeat it until he remembered it.
***
Jor-El sent a message when Clark had been living on Earth for five years.
It was not exactly an apology.
Krypton had been on the verge of collapsing long before Clark escaped from it, but nobody had listened to Jor-El warnings. By the time the message had reached Earth, it had probably already burned out and destroyed itself with all its inhabitants. Jor-El and Lara included.
It was not exactly a plead, either, but the message spoke of a young Kryptonian, a cousin of Clark, who’d been placed in a cryo-pod just born and sent on Earth by her parents and Carer to spare her the fate of their people. There was no request to find her, of course, but the details to localize her were far too many and precise.
“We don’t have to, if you don’t want,” Bruce told him, first thing. “You don’t owe Krypton anything.”
They were all sitting in a living room around the fire. The children were quiet, expectant. Clark was a different kind of silent.
“Clark.”
“She was a baby. She’s been all alone this whole time.”
“I know.”
“She’s no more guilty than I was when Ma’ was taken.”
“I know.”
“Bruce.”
Bruce sighed. “What’s another one, after all?”
Stephanie pumped a fist in the air. “Yas! More girls! Finally!”
Clark chuckled at her.
***
“I thought you were a scientist!”
“I was better as a fighter than a scientist. I could improve some of the tech you already have? Some parts of my ship are still functional and I’m sure Kelex could find a way to make those circuits interact with your computers.”
“Speaking about Kelex…”
“You’re not dismantling him!”
“Okay! Jeez, I just wanted to take a look at his gears.”
“Barbara.”
“I said okay! No dissecting the cute robot! Relax, Clark, I’m not that thirsty for knowledge.”
“Thank you.”
***
Kara, then Kon. Kon had hit a bit too close to home.
Luthor, his DNA used against his consent, a child he never got to see before he was already looking like a teenager, raised in a tube, all alone, always alone.
“You’re not Jor-El, Clark,” Bruce had told him, jaw firm. “But your actions define what kind of father you’ll be.”
It was a big fight, that one. It shook up old fears, of Bruce turning on him because he had disappointed him, of being alone, cut out from everyone. But Bruce came to sleep in their bed anyway, that night, and Clark held him close.
He tried harder after that.
***
“My children like you better than me.”
“Of course they do, I’m actually funny.”
“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“No, alright, alright, you’re so funny, Bruce! Hilarious! Delightful!”
“Where did all this sass come from?”
“A child of yours, probably. Pick one, they’re all equally likely.”
***
Jon was thanks to Lois. Surrogate mother, a small miracle. Clark held him in his arms and let him grab his nose and ears and wondered at how splendid he was. Bruce held them both.
Krypton was an old distant memory, wiped away in ten years of work and love and family.Clark looked at the stars out the hospital window and they were all bright. Bruce was fast asleep on the chairs beside Lois’ bed with his head on Clark’s lap and the world was spinning on his own, for once standing even without its heroes to hold it up.
It was a good night.
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moczothe1st · 5 years
Text
Let’s Play Fire Emblem IV: Genealogy of the Holy War, Part 26: The Julius Formerly Known as Prince
Part 25
Welcome back to Fire Emblem IV! Last week we had started our invasion of Grannvale, coming up to it through the southern Miletos district, and in so doing got to smack the crap out of Tinni’s crazy aunt, who unfortunately managed to get away.  These things happen.  This week, we have to start off by opening the gates that will allow us to proceed north to Miletos itself.  
I’m just gonna say, if you guys wanna stop now, I’m down for that. How about we just move in to Hilda’s old torture castle and set up there? Do we really need to beat the Empire?
Yes?
Shit.  
Ah, well.
Well, to start, we need to take Rados castle, which is thankfully unoccupied after we killed all its inhabitants last week. It’s cool, they were gross people.  Though first, I have Ced grab the village right north of it…
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Behind the Times: Not so long ago, from what I hear, Emperor Arvis himself forbade ‘em. What the devil could’ve changed his mind? Please, I’m begging you, you’ve gotta save our children! Here, this magic ring oughta help you out.
Niiiiiiiiiiice. This pushes Ced’s magic above the 30-point cap, leaving him even more of a killing machine that he already is.  Dude doesn’t even have a holy weapon, he’s just raw badass. Cairpre also continues his path to minor godhood.  
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This kid was level one on the last map, and he’s going to be promoted and breaking skulls right along with the rest of the kids next map. I’m so proud of him.  
Seliph, take the castle and set the story going, my man!
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(Yeah, but he had to be a man named Morrigan, so who really suffered the most?)
Seliph: How could they… how could anyone be so savage…?
Lewyn: And that’s why we’ve got to fight this war to the end, Seliph. This is something you’ve got to understand.
(OKAY WE GET IT JEEZ STOP PESTERING ME DAD)
Lewyn: This is the way of the Loptyr Empire. There’s no place at all for the good-hearted… Now, it shouldn’t be too long before the gate to Miletos opens for us.  
(…. Why…?)
Lewyn: What’s your next move, Seliph?
Seliph: Needless to say, we must march on Miletos. We can’t afford to rest while those children are still at risk. Or Julia, for that matter.
Lewyn: Good. And after that, Grannvale awaits!
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(OH FUCK IT’S ISHTAR)
(Oh, and also Arvis. Man, you have not aged well, buddy. I’d feel bad for you, but you know… the rape and murder and stuff.)
Arvis: Listen, Ishtar. Release the captive children.  I know you care no more for these foul deeds than I do.
Ishtar: My apologies, sir, but I’m on Prince Julius’s-
Arvis: Pay Julius no mind. I’ll be having a word with him soon.
(Funny story, bro, he said the same thing about you last week, and I’m a bit more scared of him at this point.)
Ishtar: But…
Arvis: This is an order from your emperor, Ishtar! Has Julius bent you such that you will no longer listen to the word of your liege?!
Ishtar: N-no. Never, your majesty…
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(Speak of the [Literal?] Devil.)
Arvis: Julius! How dare you-
Julius: Why, Father, it almost sounds as if you still don’t know any better! Old age must be dulling that once-brilliant mind of yours. Why not retire before it grows still feebler? Unless… ohohohoho! Don’t tell me you still seriously believe that you can banish me?
Arvis:  … No. I know better than to try something so futile again. I… have no further objection.
Julius: That’s better. Now, then. Begone! Return to your post and haunt my sight no more. Defending Chalphy is crucial, so don’t fail me for once in your sorry life, Father.  
(Daaaaaaaaaaaamn, son, you just got burned.  Or should that be Julienned?)
Arvis: Y-yes, Julius. At once…
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(God, it’s like every creeper left in the game is all gathering in this one castle to see who can be most sleazy. If Hilda shows up, I’m going to need to stop to take a shower.)
Manfroy: Never would you think this wretch, now clinging only to the ghost of a crown, was once the most powerful man in Jugdral.  
Julius: Ah, Manfroy. Where’s Julia? Have you restored her memory yet?
Manfroy: Your dear little sister is in Chalphy, burdened once more by her old memories. Never have I seen such horror as when she recalled how you, her own brother, almost killed her! Or how her dearly departed mother spirited her clear of the castle and your clutches…
Julius: Indeed… near everyone puts up some defiance to death by my hand, yet Deirdre never so much as flinched in the end. She accepted her own demise, all to save Julia with what little strength she still had.  But Julia possesses the foul powers of that ghoul, Naga, just as Deirdre once did. Nothing is more crucial than killing her now, Manfroy, lest we lose the chance.
(………. Then… why did you need to restore her memories…?)
Manfroy: You overestimate her threat, milord. After all, the Book of Naga remains under the strictest lock and key in Belhalla. Without it, Naga’s soul could never come to dwell within that girl…
Julius: How many times must I explain, Manfroy?! Every last one of the avatars of Naga, the heirs of Heim, must be purged!
Manfroy: Understood, milord. I’ll have my men see to it that Julia is dead by sundown.
Julius: Do not fail me, Manfroy. Now, then, I suppose I’m needed in the capital.
Manfroy: I shall ensure that holding the Miletos territory is the Order’s highest priority. Before the week is done, Your Majesty, the corpse of Seliph shall lie before you.
Julius: Seliph? … Ah, of course. The one the peasants call ‘the scion of light’.  Just as they call me the ‘scion of darkness’.  The alleged eldest son of Deirdre and the alleged true heir to my throne. A fairy tale, told to inspire hope amongst fools.
Manfroy: He is still a threat, milord. The sooner we dispose of him, the better.                      
Julius: Surely he doesn’t truly bear the power of the Crusader Baldur. He couldn’t possibly. I don’t care about him, Manfroy, but you’re welcome to do with him as you will.  
Manfroy: Very good, milord.
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Julius: … Actually, I have a better idea. I want to play a game.  
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Julius: Rumor has it that a small army of fresh sacrifices are headed our way. Let’s see who can claim the life of a rebel first.
Ishtar: Yes, Lord Julius. I’d love to!
(Sympathetic anti-villain~)
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And then the newly arrived enemies start screwing with me, thus ruining the drama of the moment. Anyhow. The army arrayed against us is arguably the worst in the entire game thus far, given they are almost all dark mages. Dark magic still has no disadvantages to anything in the weapon triangle, and a lot of them have status effect staves to fuck our advance over hard. And of course, standing near the castle…
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At first glance, Ishtar actually looks worse than Obvious Final Boss Julius. She’s bulked up considerably since we last met her; her Magic has gone up by six points, speed by one, and resistance by a whopping twelve with the addition of a Barrier Ring to her inventory.  He, in contrast, has generally good stats at everything (and is a damn stone wall with 25 defense and 35 resistance) but he’s slower than her and his Loptyr tome is heavier than her Mjolnir.  Beyond being a stone wall, he appears to be less dangerous than her.
This is a filthy lie.
You see, Ishtar is stronger than her last fight with us, but we’ve leveled up far more than she has since then. She’s certainly still very dangerous thanks to her combo of Mjolnir and the Vantage ability meaning if you don’t kill her in one shot she’ll wreck your ass on all further battles, but that’s nothing new. It just means we’re playing the same damn game of Nuclear Rocket Tag that we were last time, and Arthur is carrying a much bigger nuke than before. Maybe he still only has like a 60% chance of pulling it off, but I honestly can’t believe I did it at all last time.  
And as for that heavy Loptyr tome? It has a little extra trick to it that you’ll quickly come to despise.  
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See that little note, ‘cuts foe’s atk’ down in the bottom left corner? See, more specifically, it cuts the attack of anyone who gets into battle with Julius by a whopping 50%. So before hitting Julius’s again, stone-wall defenses, anyone who takes a swing at him will first have their attack cut in half, at which point he will swing right back with a Holy Weapon that has no weapon triangle disadvantage to anything and is backed up by his maxed out magic stat.  And in his ability list, he has Pursuit and Accost for maximum possible double-attacking potential to go with his very high natural speed, and Wrath to cause his critical hit rate to skyrocket if you do eventually get his HP down below half.  
His 80 HP.  
So yeah, this is the game’s subtle way of telling you ‘DON’T FIGHT JULIUS’. Indeed, the easiest thing to do here would be to let him or Ishtar kill one of our soldiers and then have Cairpre revive them with the Valkyria staff, because they will both leave if one of them manages to win their ‘game.’  Which, I mean, if I get really desperate, maybe, but for the sake of my pride I’d prefer to beat one of them, causing both to retreat. And by ‘one of them,’ I mean Ishtar. And by ‘beat’ I mean, ‘Arthur, it’s time to play another round of Holy Weapon Nuclear Death Tag with your cousin, please try to survive.’  
Oh, and just for fun:
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That’s Julius’s Holy Blood screen. Just in case you didn’t have enough unhappiness in your life.
Now then. First thing we need to do is clear out at least some of the enemies in play here. There’s a whole mess of Dark Mages with some melee fighters scattered among them, and they’re operating with a variety of tools, but the worst, as poor Altena found out, are the ones with Sleep staves. Status effect staves in this game are the worst; they have perfect accuracy as long as the one using them has higher Magic than the target has Resistance. In our hands, they’re balanced by only having 2-3 charges before they break. In the enemy’s hands, they have infinite charges because Fuck You, that’s why. Sleep + Hel + Any Hit of Anything is a very bad situation.  So first step is to work out where they are:
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There, we have a basic cross-reference of where only high-resistance units should go. The dark mages have 16 Magic each, which isn’t much for the purposes of combat but for the purposes of Sleep Staves it might as well be a trillion. Maybe a quarter of our army can go into that crossfire zone without being zapped, and one of them is Cairpre, who can’t fight. On the other hand, he’s also the only person who can wake people up, so his staying awake forever is useful, in its own way.
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Back to full power! And now, we clear out the vanguard and move the team up, making sure to keep most people firmly to the east.  
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There we go. First wave down; the only people in the current batch who can lure out enemies without getting a forced nap are Ares, Fee, Ced, Tinni and Cairpre; Seliph will be able to when he actually reaches the army, but he, Nanna, and Ulster are a bit further back. He had to take the castle and they needed to do some weapon repairs.
End turn!
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Ah, yes, some of them have siege tomes too. Because, again, fuck you, that’s why.
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Cairpre, you’re just getting silly.  But in any event, we’ve now gotten a situation where the only people in the Sleep range are people who cannot be Sleeped, and they should also be drawing in some of the enemies from the west so we can clear out at least one or two of the staff wielders and give us some more movement range. There’s two to the west, and two to the north; the western ones should start moving on this turn now that we’ve cleared out the enemies closer to us. With luck, I can kill them both right away. End turn…
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Okay, not bad. With the positioning of the enemies, I thiiiiiiiiink three of the sleep staffs can be taken out this turn without much issue.  Let’s see…
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That’s one!
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And that’s two, and also all we’re going to get. But the remaining two are going to put some people to sleep, but they won’t be able to get anyone killed.  That’s worth Ares getting a shit level, I guess. What remains is to clear out the final village-burning bandit of the map…
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And killing off this sniper so he can’t kill Fee and ruin everything.
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Good times. All right, dark mages! Please don’t kill anyone. End turn.
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Lame, but tolerable. We will be able to kill one more staff guy this turn; but the second one is being… troublesome.  
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He’s one of those charming robed figures firmly in Julius’s combat range. That is not a fight I want to pick.  Instead, we’ll take this other dude with the physic staff…
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And pull back, trying to lure them out further. Cairpre wakes up Lester to let him do the same, and gets his like seventieth level.
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To the south, we need to clear a path without letting Patty get put to sleep preferably. So I have Tinni try to clear a path, which will let Ced get through to the third Sleep user.
….
She misses. On a 90% chance. Dammit. Seliph, please?
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That’s why we’re putting you on the throne later, buddy.  And now Ced can get through and remove one more stumbling block.
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Beautiful. Only one staff jackass left, and the only people in his range are Tinni and Seliph.  He’ll have to move, and with any luck at all he’ll do so out of Julius’s combat range where someone can take a swing at his dumb face. End turn!
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Heeeeeeeeeey buuuuuuuddy.
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Niiiiice. With that, there’s only seven enemies left total; one guy with a normal tome, three siege tomes, the boss in the castle, and the two far more dangerous bosses waiting for us to get all up in their business. This will be… tricky. But for the moment, we’re safe, so I have Seliph drop in to have a conversation with Tinni.
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(In all this mess, you may have forgotten Lewyn is her dad. He certainly hasn’t been very fatherly.)
Seliph: If you need anything from me, I’ll be waiting over there.
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(You see what I mean about her having a character arc, now? Imagine the Tinni we first recruited saying that. She was so broken down she was going to fight us just because she was too afraid not to. And look at her now, electrocuting her aunt! I’m so proud.)
Lewyn: She didn’t treat you well, did she?
(“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHA…. Oh, you’re serious…? Wow. No. No.”)
Tinni: Day after day, again and again, she would beat and abuse us. She kept on accusing Mother of being a traitor…
Lewyn: Your mother… Taillte…
Tinni: Yes… after the Battle of Belhalla, she and my brother, Arthur, fled to Silesse. I was born there soon after. I never knew my father. I think he must have died long ago…
Lewyn: I see. Then you went to Alster, right?
Tinni: King Blume and his minions came to Silesse, one night. They dragged us away to Alster… Mother never left there alive…
Lewyn: I… you’ve had such a hard life…
Tinni: Mm… Hilda hated Mother so much. I’ve never seen anything like it. Mother coped with so much, trying to protect me from Hilda. She was always in tears, right till the end…
Lewyn: She… she did…?
Tinni: Lord Lewyn? Is… is everything okay, sir?
Lewyn: … Yeah. Why do you ask?
Tinni: It’s your eyes, sir. Are those… tears?
Lewyn: I… no, it’s nothing. This is just a bit of sweat. I’m fine… I… I’m okay…
I like this conversation for a few reasons. First, it gives Tinni a ridiculous +5 magic, which is wonderful for these conversation bonuses and pushes her to her magic cap of 27. But on a story front, you’ve probably noticed that Lewyn has become kind of a douche in the years since the first generation.  This is one of the very few moments where that attitude breaks and he really shows you just how much he’s hurting beneath it all. He manages to hold up the Jerk Attitude for most of his other daughter conversations (he can have one with Fee, Lene, or Tinni if he’s their dad) but this is the only one he breaks down on. Learning your wife was essentially tortured to death will do that, and it probably only hurts more because Tinni isn’t trying to guilt him over it. Just innocently sharing how awful her life has been.
It’s a good, solid, quiet little character moment. I really like those when they’re done well, and I think this one was.
End turn.
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Way to kill the emotion, jerk.
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After murdering that buzzkill, I have to consider the situation.  Ishtar is by far the weaker of the two enemies, but she’s not weak by any means. And unfortunately, anywhere that she can go, Julius can go too, thanks to the Leg Ring in his inventory. Getting them separate is hard.  So what I’m going to do is have Ares, with the Mystletainn in hand, stand on a forest tile in Julius’s range. I will also put Nanna, Seliph, and Dermott near him; with boosts from two Charisma skills, Seliph’s leadership stars, and a forest, he gets something like a 45% boost to his dodging, which even Julius should have some trouble with. And even if he takes one hit, his Resistance is high enough that he should be able to survive.  And from there, I have all of them run past him with Arthur, giving him a similar bonus to his offense and offsetting Julius’s own five leadership stars when he fights Ishtar. With luck, which I seem to be having lately with these big annoying bosses, Arthur will nuke the crap out of his cousin once again.
This might work. Maybe! Or I might die. End turn!
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Gotta admit, the man makes an impression! Ares takes the hit, but survives with 21 HP left, and Ishtar runs up behind Julius, but can’t reach anyone to blast. But we can reach her.  Deep breath. Moment of truth.  Everyone, get her! NUCLEAR ROCKET TAG GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
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I’m hoping you don’t notice how many of my problems I have been solving with Forseti.  Like… all of them. Seriously, of the three hardest bosses in the game so far, Ishtar, Arion, and Ishtar again, Arthur has killed all three of them on his first move, doing the exact same thing.  I have dealt with every serious challenge the game has to offer by nuking it with a wind god.  
If this is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.  
Oh, and hey, why not.
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This kid is going places. 
Now then, not much left on the map to deal with.  I have Lene dance Cairpre, so he can grab one of the two remaining villages.  
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Captain… Nay, GENERAL Obvious: Just a single glance into those eyes of his and you’re gone. You lose yourself. So many of my friends and people my age have all left for Belhalla to serve him… I’ve heard nothing from any of ‘em since.
Oh-ho.  So, does this mean Julius can literally warp the minds of others? It can’t be limitless, mind you, since otherwise he could just mind-rape our army into joining him, but some ability to sway the weak-minded to his side would fit with how so few Imperial citizens are actually protesting the whole… you know. Hunting of children.
On the enemy phase, there isn’t a whole lot left. We have only three enemies left outside the boss, and they’re all carrying siege tomes.
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And hahaha, they’re not super great at picking targets. That was fun.  Now, let’s destroy them!
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Not bad at all! One guy remaining, we can get him on the next turn before Seliph takes that castle. Altena grabs the last village, as well.
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Extremely Morbid Info Master: Hate t’say it, but sometimes, yeh need t’make sacrifices if yeh wanna keep going…
See, kids, this is why you don’t fuck with Info Master. He is willing to make those sacrifices.  End turn!
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Dick.
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… They can’t all be great, Cairpre. You’ve still grown far beyond anything I ever expected. Now, nothing left to do but send the team up north, preparing to go where the story will dictate after we take the next castle. Seliph, care to set things up?
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Lewyn: I hate to admit it, but I doubt we could’ve gotten here soon enough either way. Now, then. It sounds like they’re just finishing up repairs on the Miletos Strait bridge. Ready to move in on Chalphy?
Seliph: Chalphy…. My father’s homeland….
Lewyn: So it is. I’m betting the citizens there will be even happier to see you than usual.  Let’s not make them wait any longer!
Seliph: Indeed! Everyone, move out! Onward, to Chalphy!  
(“We’re not forgetting anything, right? Eh, I’m sure Julia would remind us if we were.”)  
Well. There isn’t a whole lot of this chapter left, but it can take quite a bit of time to successfully pull off, so I do think I’ll stop here. See y’all next week when we head back home to Chalphy! The very first castle we ever had in the game, and now we get to go take it back from another blast to the past, good old Arvis! I sure did miss him.
But my aim is improving.  
See y’all next week!  
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u wanted prompts: steve takes it upon himself to stand outside planned parenthood clinics and fight people who attack and harass pp
Listen, I see and observe your ‘Steve’ upthere, but I raise you Forty Percent of the Marvel Universe because I am bitterabout the current direction of the whole comics thing at the moment.  *Max Rockatansky voice* I guarantee you, ahundred and sixty days out, there’s nothing but salt.  Anyway, if you’ve read my Claire Temple AO3fic that may or may not get more stuff added to it when I feel inspired, thisis technically that universe, but prior knowledge IS NOT REQUIRED, okay goodlet’s do it.  Also I believe that moviecanon only applies to me when I feel like it so everyone is in New York and theAvengers live in the Tower, no one is dead and everything is F I N E.  I dunno, this is only like the first half ofa much longer thing that covers this whole day and, if I had my way, would be afull-blown elaborate media fic with tweets and Trish’s show andeverything.  But here, it’s real long, soI left it alone.  It’s on AO3.
Steve got the call pre-dawn, just as he was leaving the Tower for hisrun.  
“Captain Rogers,” FRIDAY said politely from the ceiling, “you arereceiving a call from an unknown number with a New York City area code.”
“If it’s a reporter, let it ring out,” Steve said, knotting his runningshoes.
“Reporters do not have your personal cell number, Captain,” FRIDAY said,and there was a trace of genteel condescension in the artificial voice thistime that made Steve grin down at the floor.
“Where in the City?”
“Hell’s Kitchen.”
Steve frowned, straightening up. “That might be Daredevil in trouble. You better put it through to my phone. Thanks, FRIDAY.”
“Of course, Captain,” FRIDAY said. Steve’s top-of-the-line, not-on-the-open-market-yet, Jesus-Cap-does-your-shit-phone-even-text-here-let-me-replace-itStarkPhone rang, a jaunty tune that sounded distinctly like the NationalAnthem, and even more distinctly like the foreboding of Bucky getting his asskicked.
“Steve Rogers,” Steve answered, hitting the green button and raising thephone to his ear.
“Um…hi, Captain Rogers,” the voice on the other end saidhesitantly.  “This is Claire Temple, Idon’t know if you remember me, but–”
“Of course I remember you, Miss Temple,” Steve said, grinning.  “You pulled a piece of rebar out of my chest,hard to forget a first meeting like that.” She laughed, the same slightly worn chuckle he remembered from her.  “And it’s just Steve, please, ma’am.  I think once you’ve been up close andpersonal with someone’s lung tissue you can probably skip the ‘Captain.’”
“Fair enough, Steve.  Then, Claireis fine,” she returned, a smile adding an audible lilt to her voice.  “I got your number off Jessica, who I thinkgot it off Matt, I hope it’s okay that I called.”
Steve nodded, automatic and pointless.  “Sure, Claire. D’you mind if I ask what fire’s burning down Hell’s Kitchen at,uh–”  He twisted his watch and squintedthrough the dim dawn light streaming through the wide window occupying a wallof the penthouse entry way.  “What, five-forty-eightin the morning on a weekend?  I thought Iwas the only person who got up this early, ‘cept for Sam.”
“Oh, no, nothing urgent, I just.” Claire stopped and sighed, and Steve pictured her pinching the bridge ofher nose, brow furrowed and eyes closed as she ducked her head—he could tallythe number of hours he’d spent in the Night Nurse’s company on his fingers andstill have plenty left, but he knew the face she pulled when she was frustratedby the way her life was panning out. “Listen, I have a weird fucking request from an old friend of mine whocalled me at five in the A-M, and I don’t have the greatest decision-makingtrack record at that hour, so I called you.”
“We specialize in weird fucking requests here at Avengers Tower, ma’am,”Steve said dryly.  “Unless you ask my PRteam, then we specialize in truth, justice, and the American Way, whatever thefuck that means these days.”
Claire barked a laugh and let out another huff of breath.  “Well, you remember how you got arrestedalong with like twelve other people at that BLM protest a couple weeks back?”
“Sam got arrested too,” Steve said defensively.  It had been a long talk with Nicole when she fished the pair of them out of theholding cell, mostly directed at Steve—Sam, she had said with supreme disinterest,was some other poor sucker’s problem. Nicole, the last surviving member of the PR team assigned to theAvengers right out of the gate, was now the captain of Steve’s personalpublicity squadron, or so she liked to call herself, and she had Opinions aboutthe sort of trouble he usually got into.
“Yeah, but nobody I know has the Falcon’s phone number,” Claire pointedout.  “But so the point is—Jesus Christ,I can’t believe this is what my life is like now.  Anyway. My old friend, she and I knew each other in college.  We haven’t talked much, but it turns out thatshe’s helping to manage and run a women’s health clinic about an hour or sonorth of the City.”
Steve had a sneaking suspicion that this was about to become the nextthing Nicole was going to yell at him for. “Yeah?”
He heard Claire take a deep breath and hold it, followed by a couple ofhollow thudding sounds that he guessed were her head against the wall beforeshe blurted, “She’s been picketed for three days by the local pro-lifejackoffs, and yesterday they were scaring off the girls who came to gettreated.  She needs a couple peoplewilling to play escort.  I already askedLuke but he doesn’t have today free, and Matt wasn’t answering his phone soprobably he’s not back yet, so if you know anyone who can take the day…?”
Head tipped back against the wall, Steve grinned up at the ceiling.  “I can think of one or two.”
“Steve,” Claire said, clearly warning him, “if your publicist comesafter me next–”
“Don’t worry about it, Claire,” Steve said easily.  “Nicole knows what I’m like, and besides, FoxNews started trying to take cheap shots at Bucky again.  Gotta give them something else to talkabout.”
“Jesus Christ,” Claire said again, sounding close to awestruck horror.
“Listen, you text the address of your friend’s place to this number andI’ll see what I can do.”
“This is the worst solution I could have come up with.”
“Cheer up,” Steve said, almost bouncing on his toes.  “This is a win-win situation, your friendgets help and I get to do something more interesting than playing Hide ‘n Seekwith a bunch of fuckin’ spies.”
“Who the hell lets you peopleout in public?”
“I’ll talk to you later, Claire, I’m going to go ask around,” Stevesaid, and hung up on Claire’s inarticulate sound of distress.
Two hours later, a nondescript van spilled out a number of people ontothe asphalt between a line of sign-bearing protesters and the brick façade of alow-slung building bearing a sign that read LacksFamily Planning Institute.  Steve wasthe one to walk up and knock on the still-locked front door of the building,dressed in a pearly grey shirt with #IStandWithPPin purple across his chest.  The womanwho appeared was heavyset, quite pretty, with smooth dark skin and a round facethat was crinkled into a distracted frown.
“Sorry,” she called through the glass, absentminded.  “We’re clo—what the fuck?” she blurted, hereyes snapping up to Steve’s face and the frown melting away into shock.
“Hi,” Steve said, grinning.  “Clairecalled us, said you needed some escorts?”
“Who the hell–?”
“You’re Shauna, right, ma’am?”
“You’re…”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s me.  Could youunlock the door, please?”
Shauna’s hand dropped to the lock and she blindly fumbled the door open,lips parted in confusion.  “Listen,” shesaid as she dragged the door open, “is Claire fucking with me?  I mean…”
“No, ma’am, I got the impression she was running out of options and shehad my number,” Steve said, offering his hand. “Steve Rogers, but you can call me Steve, it’s a pleasure.”
“Shauna Harrison,” she said, numbly shaking his hand, and there was along beat as she stared at Steve and he smiled at her.  Steve, when she had released his fingers,folded his hands behind him in a tidy parade rest, waiting patiently for her tomuster up a sentence.  “If you don’t mindme asking,” she finally asked, “how the fuckdoes Claire Temple have Captain America’s phone number and—is that the Black Widow?”
Steve glanced over his shoulder to where Natasha was smiling at aprotester whose sign read Adoption, NotAbortion.  Natasha’s smile was verythin-lipped and very toothy, like a lioness lazily baring her teeth to a pinnedantelope, and the protester’s sign was trembling a little more than the lightbreeze could justify.  
“Yeah, Nat has some opinions,” Steve said.  “Claire did me a favor one time, she knowssome good folks.  Some other people mightshow up later–”
“There are six of you,” Shauna interrupted flatly.
“Yeah, we picked up Kitty and Piotr on the way.”  Steve raised a hand, and Kitty paused in herserious conversation with her teammate to wave excitedly at him, her hairpulled back into a neat ponytail.  Allsix of them had opted for civvies—Pepper had helpfully pointed out that it wasprobably better to do this as private citizens—but nothing could make Piotr’ssix-three self look less intimidating. Bucky hadn’t even pretended to try for a disguise, dressed in a menacingexpression and a tank top that said Women’sRights are Human Rights in pink block letters, his arm whirring softly asthe plates shifted.  Sam, standing besidehim and watching the protesters slowly evaluate the new arrivals, had droppedhis smile for an expression of outright disdain.  
Steve pressed his lips together to hide a smug grin.  “I’ll keep everyone out of trouble, ma’am.”
Shauna blinked at him in shock, and laughed, sounding baffled.  “Okay.”
“And I think Miss Walker wanted to swing by around noon for an interview,should I direct her to you?”
“Miss—Trish Walker?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Shauna leaned back against the door, one hand pressed to her chest.  “I mean. Sure thing.”
“Great,” Steve said, smiling.  “Ifyou need any help with anything at all, you just grab one of us, all right, ma’am?”
“You know how to escort girls?”
“Yes, ma’am, Natasha has some experience.”
“Of course she does,” Shauna said, and glanced at her watch.  “Well, it’s eight-oh-three, so the first onesshould start showing up soon.  I’ll justgo…?”  She jerked a thumb over hershoulder, trailing off.
Steve nodded, and rested a hand on her shoulder as he gave her his mostreassuring don’t-worry-really-I-know-what-I’m-doingsmile, silently appreciating that Bucky was too far away to offer commentary onit.  “We can take care of ourselves, ma’am,and if you come out and don’t recognize someone working with us, don’t worryabout it.  We’re expecting at very leastHawkeye within the next two hours, and probably some others later today.”
“Naturally,” Shauna said, dazed, turning on her heel to walk back into thebuilding as Steve turned back to the others.
“Are we good?” Sam asked, spreading his hands as if to say sometime today, Rogers.
Bucky, ever willing to call Steve out, just went ahead and drawled, “Wheneveryou’re ready, Stevie.”
“Yeah, we’re good,” Steve confirmed. “Nat, did you say you had Sue Storm’s number?”
“Well,” Natasha said consideringly, “I said I could get ahold of her,that’s… not the same thing, but yes.  Sheand Ben might come give us a hand.”
“Oh, we know Johnny,” Kitty volunteered brightly, gesturing to Piotrbeside her.  “Reed and Sue are out of thestate right now, but Johnny can probably bring Spidey with him, if you can getus in touch with the Baxter Building, Miss Romanoff.”
Steve grinned and nodded.  “Great,go ahead and call them.  I think Jessicais planning to show up with Trish at noon and—is that a car?”  He shifted and looked past the crowd on thegrass and sidewalk.  “I think they’reworried about hitting protesters,” he added, dry, and Bucky made a derisivenoise in the back of his throat.
“Oh, well, I can help with that,” Kitty said, all but bouncing on hertoes.  “I’ll be back!”  And she dove straight through the front rankof the sign-bearing protesters, slipping effortlessly through them as theyyelped in alarm.
“I like her,” Natasha said approvingly.
“Katya does not believe in tact,” Piotr remarked, dry, and Natashagrinned again, just as toothy as before.
“I really like her.”
Bucky drifted up beside Steve, his footsteps unnervingly silent on theasphalt, and said, “So you’re supposed to be keeping us out of trouble today,huh?”
“Well, listen, just don’t actually make physical contact with anyprotesters or cause them any actual injuries,” Steve said.  “We’re here to help the people trying to goto the clinic, not pick a fight.”
“Quick, someone check him for a fever,” Sam called, and there was aburst of laughter that rippled warmly through the air as Natasha pulled out hercell phone.  Kitty appeared on the road,a wide-eyed woman in her thirties holding her hand as Kitty drew them bothstraight through a sign and a set of hedges. Kitty’s lips moved, and the woman laughed in surprise as Kitty beckonedPiotr over, and Natasha bared her teeth at the protesters again, raising herphone to her cheek.  Sam had been politelyflagged down by the young man who worked at the reception desk inside theclinic, and they were having a quiet conversation about the logistics of makingsure the road remained clear.  Bucky wasstill beside Steve, hands tucked into his pockets as a pair of protestersflicked nervous glances at the red star on his bicep.
“It’s going to be a good day,” Steve said, smiling.
“Seventy years and you’re still crazy.”
“A good day.”
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jflashandclash · 7 years
Text
Attrition of Peace
Twelve: Frank
Thank the Gods My Dad is Roman
 Frank was determined to act like everything was normal today. He wanted to pretend he hadn’t spent the first half of yesterday avoiding his girlfriend and the latter half of the day chasing down weasels. No matter what animal he had turned into, he’d discovered weasels were difficult to catch.
Normally, he found his praetor house unbearably lonely. Jason had helped him take all of Jason’s stuff out, and put Frank’s stuff in. Members of the Fifth Cohort had snuck in for sleepovers a few times, but it was huge compared to the barracks. It made him think of his family’s burned mansion in North Vancouver.
At least he hadn’t blown up Camp Jupiter and Reyna could go on her date in peace. Despite all his heroics the past summer, he was still scared of disappointing her.
And he was scared of telling anyone that his stick was missing.
He must have misplaced it. That’s what he kept telling himself, but he kept imagining someone thinking it was a piece of kindling and throwing it in the fire. He’d furtively had the members of the Fifth Cohort go through their guests clothing when they went to the baths last night—just in case. He had known they were going to leave to catch a flight this morning, one earlier than morning inspection, and he didn’t want his stick to do some cross country traveling without him.
But nothing. He’d retraced all of his steps as a bloodhound to see if he could pick up the smell. The scent dead-ended at the Principia, intermixed with the various scents of their new guests. It was like someone had poofed with it. He didn’t know how it could disappear without him knowing. Normally, that thing weighed on him heavier than Sisyphus’s boulder.
This alone time at the praetor house gave him the quiet he needed to panic as he shaved his patchy chin growth and prepared to suit up for the day.
Then a shimmery image of Annabeth appeared in his mirror. Well, not in his mirror. Where the sunlight caught the steam in front of his mirror.
Frank yelped, stumbled backwards, and almost tripped over the toilet.
“Oh gods, it actually got through!” Annabeth cheered. “Frank!”
“Hey Annabeth,” he said, trying to pull his shirt and pants on as quickly and casually as he could. Knowing Annabeth, she wouldn’t even notice, but he could still feel his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I thought Iris Messaging hasn’t been working.”
“It hasn’t!” Percy’s voice came from somewhere behind her. “And Iris hasn’t been giving me any drachma refunds!”
“Percy!” he cried. Just hearing their voices was calming. Maybe they’d have some ideas on how to find his kindling. “It’s good to hear from you two.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have time to digress,” Annabeth said. She turned her face towards Percy and Frank could imagine the chastising look she was giving Percy. She looked back towards Frank, having given him—possibly strategically—time to change. “We’re looking for some demigods. They’re lead by a guy called Axel Pax—”
“He’s here. Why?” Frank said. He felt something squishy on his shirt. He reached down and found shaving cream smeared all over his clothing. He sighed, realizing he’d have to get changed again.
Percy snorted, “Because one of the girls with him went a little Poison Ivy and killed a bunch of mortals.”
“Percy! We’re not sure exactly what happened yet!”
Frank stared at Annabeth’s image. “What?”
Her expression was grim. “It’s not pretty. She’s carrying Backbiter, Kronos’s old scythe, though it could be in xiphos form. We don’t know what’s going on, but they have definitely proven to be dangerous.”
Frank was starting to feel nauseous, like he’d eaten some ice cream. “We just sent them your way on an airplane. Well, most of them. One of them is here, Axel Pax. Their escorts reported that one of them went missing on the way to the airport, maybe thirty minutes ago. A kid named Pax.” Reyna was supposed to be interrogating Axel about his brother’s disappearance right now.
“Be careful of that kid,” Percy warned. “The Stolls said there are rumors he can change into other people.”
Frank’s nausea solidified into a knot in his stomach. He thought about how Hazel hadn’t quite acted like herself when he saw her yesterday morning on their walk to the battlegrounds and on their… detour. And how Hazel left to grab something, only to show up moments later from a slightly different direction. She’d made him so flustered, he hadn’t thought twice about it.
And he hadn’t noticed his kindling was gone during the rest of practice because he was so focused on what to say to Hazel, and so upset she was acting like nothing had happened.
Frank balled his fists. His face felt like it was on fire and he couldn’t decide if it was from embarrassment or rage. “He has my stick. He stole it from me,” Frank realized.
“What?!” Annabeth asked, her face going pale.
“How?!” Percy asked. “You watch that thing like it’s your… well, your life force.”
“It went missing yesterday morning,” Frank growled. He was going to find that Pax kid, turn into a grizzly bear, and smack him around until Pax gave him his stick back and an apology. How dare he impersonate Hazel like… like that.
“Oh gods,” Annabeth said. “Frank, we’ll find them and your stick. When do the others land in New York?”
Frank shook his head. With trying to round up the weasels, run the camp, avoid Hazel, and look for his stick, he hadn’t paid as much attention to their guests’ itinerary. “I’m not sure, but I can find out from Reyna—but I’m not sure how to get in contact with you after. Iris Messaging hasn’t been working and every time we’ve tried to call you—”
Annabeth frowned. “My cell phone malfunctioned after I took some pictures of an Egyptian journal that we’re pretty sure was cursed.”
Frank probably should have asked, but his anger was too distracting.
“We’re pretty sure they used to be part of Kronos’ army, so the Pax brothers will be trained and—”
“You knew they were part of Kronos’ army and you let them into your camp?” Frank demanded.
Annabeth sighed, like she’d had this conversation before. “That’s not important right now. Just know that they could be very dangerous—”
“—same with that Ana girl—”
“—Euna,” Annabeth corrected. “And, Frank…” Annabeth’s expression changed. “Leo is—”
The image shuddered. Annabeth’s image disappeared as something moved in front of his window, blocking the sunlight’s path to the steam.
Frank almost hoped it was Pax, so he could throttle the kid. But he would have way rather heard the end of that sentence. Leo is… what?
“Those punks are dangerous,” the person said behind him. “But nothing you can’t handle.”
Frank was pretty sure he recognized that voice, though it sounded much smugger than usual. Frank turned, wishing people would stop crashing his bathroom.
He just wanted to finish shaving.
The man behind him wore a pair of dark cargo pants, a dark camo shirt, and a bulletproof vest lined with grenades. His combat boots were caked with mud, adding some unneeded decorations on Frank’s white floor. He wore red-tinted night vision goggles and a black bandana with a skull symbol. He was huge, and shouldered an enormous assault rifle, like a HKG36 on steroids. He stared past Frank, at the mirror. With his other hand, he shaved some scruff off his neck with a hunting knife.
Frank decided he didn’t want to use his dinky razor while this guy was shaving with a hunting knife. Frank could go get a knife from his room to try the same, but—with his luck—that would end this conversation faster than getting Hannibal the elephant to storm the praetor house.
“Mars?” Frank asked. Normally, his father looked like an honorable soldier. This guy looked more like an eager mercenary.
The guy must have been satisfied with his shave job, stowing away his hunting knife. “Eh, close enough kid. Ares. I don’t usually come here like this, especially with all you Romans expecting my other side, but this is personal. To both me and my stiffer side, I guess. And to Rome. But Roman aspect won’t handle this as tactfully as I will.”
Ares set his assault rifle down so he could crack his knuckles.
Frank didn’t understand why he was getting so mad at Ares for tracking dirt into his bathroom. He guessed it was Ares’ aggressive atmosphere, but he still felt like going for a loving father-son smack down. Were the Greek aspects of gods more… influential than the Roman?
“Is this about my stick?” Frank asked. He was mad at himself for asking. He didn’t want to talk about it, but the words just slipped out.
Ares bellowed out a laugh. “Oh no. That’s your problem. This is about those two punks, though mostly about the one that can turn part monster. I gotta hand it to him. If I didn’t hate him, I’d say he has a lot of spunk. Waltzing around Camp Jupiter—like he hadn’t killed two praetors.”
Frank dropped his razor. It clattered on the ground. “He what?!”
Ares shrugged, like this shouldn’t have been shocking. “The legion had to lose two praetors for Reyna and Jason to come to office. I’m not sure how he took out the first one, the one that Reyna replaced, but that monster killed the second in an ambush during the Second Titan War. He wore their medals on his military cloak as battle trophies.”
Wooziness hit Frank. Yesterday, he’d practiced fighting with Axel. He could envision the seemingly genuine glee Axel exuded when battling Reyna. Frank remembered feeling stupidly excited when Axel patted him on the back, complimenting one of his strikes. Axel gave off the confident cool of a leader, one that needed impressing.
But he had smelled weird. Frank couldn’t describe it, other than not-human.
“He killed two praetors. And you’re saying he can turn into a monster?” Frank asked.
“Something like that. I don’t really get it. The Leonis Caput is one of Hecate’s weird magic-science experiments. I’m not sure how much of it comes from being a savage freak, but he has a helmet that can turn him part monster now. But he doesn’t have it on him, so you should be able to take him pretty easily. I kinda wish he did, it would be a better fight.” Ares seemed disappointed.
“Gee, sorry,” Frank muttered.
The Leonis Caput. Frank had heard older legionnaires talk about that creature, one of Krios’s lieutenants.
“It’s a shame. Now, if I remember properly, you Romans are all about quests, right?” Ares scratched under his chin. “You got a pen on you?”
“Uh, no.”
“Augh, why do I feel like Romans never have pens?”
Frank scowled. “We’re in my bathroom.”
“Whatever,” Ares growled. He withdrew a grenade that morphed into a pen and went to scribble on Frank’s wall. Frank wanted to yell at him to stop. He’d have to clean that and the dirt on his floor. He wasn’t sure what the regulations were on yelling at your godly parent, but he assumed it would result in more than being grounded.
“So, you’re supposed to be a good tactician and whatever. If you were this guy, what do you think you’d be up to?”
Frank’s mind whirled. His jaw dropped. The Pax brothers had his stick. And Axel was currently with—
“Reyna,” Frank gasped. “Do you think he’s trying to collect more praetor medals?”
“I don’t know. I just hate the guy. It’s why I cursed him,” Ares said and stepped back from the wall.
“Why do you—”
Ares vanished, leaving Frank with a quest scribbled on his bathroom wall:
Bring the Leonis Caput before the council of the gods for divine judgment. Or at least kick his ass. Have fun kid.
Frank stared at the message for a second, deciding something for sure: the Greek version of his dad was a jerk.
Then he realized he was staring when he should have been scrambling for his armor and weapons. Reyna should be strong enough to hold off the Leonis Caput, right? Especially if he didn’t have his helm?
Good ol’ Ares.... such a great dad!
Sorry I’m running late on updates! It’s been a crazy week. Regardless, I hope you enjoy! I’m super excited for next week’s chapter: Axel’s Handicap of Emotional Heartache. Ready for this book to earn its title! XD
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thelovelypatronus · 7 years
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Astoria Malfoy had died a little over a year ago. She had grown ill from a blood disease. It caused her body to weaken until she could no longer leave her bed. She had died in Draco’s arms while their son held onto his mother, begging her not to leave him. Alas, death waits for no one. So she had went peacefully in her sleep. That was all he could have asked for. The knowledge that she didn’t suffer in her final moments brought something of a comfort to the father and son. Draco had remained single for a year before fate had intervened on his behalf. He was sitting in a dark corner of the Hog’s Head, nursing his fifth fire whisky. He was thinking about all that had went wrong in his life. From the giant twat he was as a child to the lonely and depressed adult he had grown to be. Thirty two years old and nothing to show for his life. Well, that wasn’t true. He had a twelve year old son. A beautiful, kind, and loving soul that already proved that he was nothing like his father was at the same age. His best friend was a Potter, for Merlin’s sake. It was more than Draco could say for himself even now. Did he even have any friends? He didn’t think so. The Blonde would forever be grateful to Harry Potter and his wife Ginny. If not for them, he was sure he would have eventually turned his wand on himself. Sooner rather than later. They had saved him that night. When Professor Potter stopped in with his wife for a drink and a chat with Aberforth. Ginny had noticed him in his secluded corner. Sloshed and ready to break down, Ginny must have seen the anguish in his face because she tugged on her husband's arm and pointed in Draco’s direction. Harry had seen something in his eyes, something that reminded him of himself. That look of the world bearing down on your already overburdened shoulders. The couple shared a look, a silent agreement passing between them. They walked over to Draco’s table, one on each side of him, and pulled him up to his feet. “Come with us, Malfoy. We can help.” Ginny whispered in his ear. He followed them out of the bar and into the snow lined streets of Hogsmeade. They lead him down the snowy main street, then turned into a winding drive that lead up to their modest (by Malfoy standards) house. They led him into the sitting room, placed him on the couch where he promptly hugged a throw pillow and sobbed into it. “So….So lonely. So em-empty…” He cried into the pillow while Ginny rubbed soothing circles into his back. Harry had disappeared into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of Ogden’s Finest. If Draco wanted to drown his sorrows, well Harry had plenty of his own to drown as well. War left quite the mark on those that were lucky enough to survive it. If one could even call it “lucky”. It was a good thing the kids were all at Hogwarts, and Lily was staying at Molly’s tonight. They had stayed up until early the next morning. Two bottles were finished by the time the night ended. Feelings were exposed, secrets were muttered under the spell of alcohol. Tentative touches turned into passionate kisses. What started out as a night that was supposed to be cathartic for the three of them, had turned into a night full of wonders and blissful comfort. Harry found that he enjoyed a man almost as much as he enjoyed a woman. Ginny found that two was always better than one. It seemed that Draco had found a place where he fit perfectly. Harry and Ginny however, found that the thing they’d been missing for so long, that thing that seemed just out of reach of their understanding had been dropped right into their lap. That was how the couple became a Triad. How Ginny and Harry had found themselves feeling more complete than they ever thought possible. How Draco and Scorpius had found themselves a family once again, complete with siblings and another two parents. Scorpius had never felt so lucky in all of his life. His best friend was now his brother! What else could he possibly hope for. ______________________________________ “Get out of the bathroom, will you?!” Lily Luna was screaming at the door where she heard the giggles of her older brothers. “In a second Lils. We’re almost done.” Scorpius yelled through the door. She could hear them laughing and whispering. Probably planning out their next prank. It wouldn’t do to end up bald with green eyebrows, yet again. She’d learned her lesson and had created a charm that marked her safe from any unwanted magic aimed in her direction. Hermione had squealed when the then eleven year old had created her own magic. Ginny had smirked. “Well of course! She is my daughter, she would be absolutely brilliant.” Ginny said. The boys had gagged behind their mother's back as Draco and Harry silently nodded their heads in agreement. Ginny was a spitfire and a formidable witch in her own right. After all, she had invented the bat bogey hex. It was no wonder her daughter was growing up to more like her mother than any of them were comfortable with. ______________________________________ It had been two years since their family had expanded. Draco had sold the house where Astoria died. They had moved in with the Potters and the kids had taken to each other as if they’d been raised together. Albus and Scorpius had volunteered to share a room, while Draco had been set up in their bedroom. They shared everything. From their secrets to their bed. It was unconventional but it was family, and most importantly, it felt absolutely right. None of them could ever remember feeling so content as they did now that Draco had become both of their husband. James was now in his seventh year and the head boy. Something Ginny was exceptionally proud of. Something that Harry thought hilarious, seeing as his son's girlfriend was Posey Parkinson, and the head girl. History really did repeat itself, Harry thought. He’d be damned though, if his kids would go through what his parents, and then he’d went through. Albus and Scorpius were fourteen and quite the handful. Draco had already spotted the burgeoning romance, even if his son’s had yet to realize what was happening. Harry thought they both knew but were too scared to make the first move. Lily, the apple of all three parents eyes was now twelve and in her second year. She was top of her class in Hogwarts and loved anything having to do with literature. They all assumed it was Hermione’s doing, as every holiday or birthday found her with piles of new books that she’d devour as soon as she could, all the while screaming her thanks at her very favorite Aunt Mione. The summer quickly ended and before any of them could blink, they were on the way back to Hogwarts. The three youngest sharing a cart and the oldest doing his rounds as head boy. The sorting, the feast, and the walk back to the Slytherin dorms seemed to fly by in a flurry of activity. Unable to sleep and feeling jittery for the new school year, Albus and Scorpius had found themselves alone in the common room. It was two in the morning and they were wide awake. They sat on the comfortable black leather love seat, in front of the green fire burning in the hearth. As they spoke about nonsense and the more important aspects of their lives, their hands, which were resting between them, were unconsciously moving towards the other. It started off with their fingers brushing against each other. That brought along a blush on both boys faces, until that reaction had been seen for what it was: utterly ridiculous. They were best friends, they had no secrets from each other. Why should they be embarrassed over a mutual attraction? When the laughter had died down, they had realized that they had somehow ended up closer to each other. Albus’ legs had ended up comfortably resting on top of Scorpius’ lap. Scorpius had his arm around Albus, who was leaning into his friend. It took them both a second to realize the position they were in. Just like that, the blush was back. This time there were no giggles, instead Albus raised his hand and placed it gently against Scorpius’ cheek while running his thumb across the blondes lips. The moment when from fun and light hearted to charged with electricity. Before either of them knew what they were doing, they had leaned in and their lips had touched for just a moment. Long enough for them both to crave more, not long enough for them to feel as though they’ve had enough. Their very first kiss, and it was splendid. That was how their head of house and potions professor, Daphne Greengrass, had found them. Yes she was his aunt but she had to appear strict, did she not? Two fourteen year old boys, wrapped around each other, sucking face, at five in the morning. What else was she to do? Well… She’d give them five more minutes. There was no greater feeling than that of young love and she’d be damned if she ruined any form of happiness in her nephew's life. She wrote a letter to Draco about her discovery, as she was bound to do. Included were the wishes that he not be too put out with his son. After all, she remembered another blonde haired, slytherin boy who harbored a crush on a certain chosen one. She smiled to herself as the letter disappeared into the green flames of her floo. It was time to go embarrass her sweet little nephew. _____________________________________ Draco had never smiled wider. Well… Maybe he had, the day Ginny and Harry had confessed their feelings for him and asked him to move in. Or maybe it was the day they had legally adopted all of the children so that all three were legal parents to all four kids. Either way, this day was in the top three. His son had found love in a boy who had been his best friend first. If that wasn’t the strongest foundation to build a relationship on, he didn’t know what was. Harry and Ginny had laughed themselves silly, only explaining their reaction at Draco’s confused look. “It would figure, wouldn’t it? The boy was named after two men who had both fallen in love with their best friends.” Harry said as he clutched at his sides. “It’s a good thing he’s nothing like either of them, seeing as how Scorpius’ returns those feelings.” Ginny had chortled. “Our lives are a big fat joke, aren’t they? You think that brother of yours is up there pulling the strings of some grand prank?” Draco was full on laughing now. “Who knows, all I know is that we’ll be adding another room to the house, they're absolutely not sharing a room anymore. That’s for damn sure.” Ginny finished as the three of them sat down to dinner, a glass of wine in each of their hands. “To a peaceful life.” Harry raised his glass. “To a happy wife.” Draco said, a smirk playing at his lips as he dipped his glass towards Ginny. “To happy children.” Ginny said. They clinked their glasses. Drinking to the mundane life they now lived. Each silently thanking the heavens above that their kids would never know the horrors that they had known.
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peopleandrhythm · 7 years
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Episode Two: I Can Feel My Instincts Here for You
The moon beams brightly into the bedroom, casting a bluish glow on the sleeping couple. The comforter abandoned at the foot of the bed, they’re a mess of limbs and sheets, breath coming slow in the swamp air of New Orleans. The woman, body laid awkwardly over the man’s arm, begins to twitch in her sleep, a jolting, restless motion that becomes harsher and harsher as minutes pass. Then, as the bells of a nearby church toll the first of twelve rings, she jerks awake, gasping for breath.
This, finally, wakes the man, who, once he’s gathered his wits, holds onto her shoulders to steady her. “Theo, Theo, hey. What’s happenin’, what’s goin’ on?”
Theo presses a hand to her chest, trying to calm her breathing. “I saw her.”
Confused, the man asks, “Saw who?”
“Hope Mikaelson.” Theo turns to face the man. “Marcel, Hope Mikaelson is returning to New Orleans. Tonight.”
Hayley grips her cell phone tightly and takes a deep breath. After a moment, she slips it into her pocket and steps back into the house, where River, still shaking, is waiting on the couch. “Hey,” Hayley says softly. “So…Hope…Hope’s not going to be able to come home tonight.”
River looks up, wide-eyed. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine.” Truth is, Hayley has no idea if Hope’s fine, but she figures her daughter has earned her trust at this point. She settles on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of River. “I’m sorry she can’t be here for you, but I want you to know that I am. Okay? I can tell something happened to you tonight, and I want you to know that whatever it is, you can tell me.”
River curls in on herself, bringing her knees to her chest. Her eyes are puffy and red. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”
Slowly, Hayley reaches a hand out to rest atop one of River’s knees. The girl twitches, but doesn’t reject the touch. “River…did someone hurt you?”
Shaking her head, River whispers, “It’s not that someone hurt me.” She takes a long, shuddering breath. “It’s that I hurt him.”
“What do you mean?”
After a long pause, River looks up from her knees. Hayley sees for the first time the deadened look in her eyes. “I killed someone tonight.”
  They’re about ten minutes outside of Diamondhead, Mississippi, when Hope asks, “So…what exactly went down in New Orleans fifteen years ago?”
Vincent’s eyes never leave the trees lining the interstate. “Don’t know what to tell you.”
Hope grips the wheel tightly. “My mom never really told me why we had to run, and I didn’t push it, because I knew it was hard for her to talk about. But I’m not really that concerned about your feelings on the subject, so…”
Vincent chuckles dryly. “You know, for someone who never knew the man, you sure sound like your uncle Elijah.”
Something hot prickles in Hope’s throat. “Um. Thanks, I guess. Look, could you just explain the circumstances that led to my father being held prisoner and the rest of my family being trapped in boxes in my attic?”
Shrugging, Vincent says, “What do you want me to say, kid? Your family spent a thousand years amassing an endless list of enemies, people who would stop at nothing to see their end. The people around them, including their friends and allies, got real tired of always being at a disadvantage against a family of unkillable monsters. So someone stood up, made himself into something bigger and badder than anything the world had ever seen. Singlehandedly took down your uncles Elijah and Kol. Your aunt Rebekah got dropped by a massive organization of vampires known as the Strix, your aunt Freya got herself poisoned, and your daddy…well, as far as I’m concerned, your daddy got what was comin’ to him.”
“See, that’s what I don’t get.” She flicks on her blinker to move around a semi. “You clearly hate my dad, which, you know, I guess I can’t blame you, considering I don’t really know anything about him, but then why are you so eager to free him? Why not leave him where he can’t hurt anyone?”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, I know, all these vampires come from all over to celebrate and wreck shop in the city. I get that. But is stopping that really worth saving him? A man you hate?”
Vincent gives her a strange look. “Are you trying to convince me not to help you get him out?”
“No, not at all. I guess…it’s just weird. Don’t think I’m not grateful. I just don’t get it.”
“Well…” Vincent looks back out the window. “There’s a lot more to the story.”
“Well then you better talk fast.”
“What do you mean?”
Hope points out the windshield. A blue sign bearing a gold fleur de lis is rapidly approaching in the early dawn light. “We’re in Louisiana.”
  When River’s done describing the scene in the alley, Hayley’s heart hangs heavy for the girl. She knows all too well the trauma of taking someone’s life, has done it so many times at this point she’s numbed herself to the feeling. But she remembers being a teenager, a kid, really, and knowing that you’ve done the one thing you can never take back. “River…” Hayley moves from the coffee table to the couch beside her daughter’s girlfriend. “I am so sorry that that happened to you. I…I’m not going to tell you that it’s not your fault, because even though that’s true, I don’t think it’s going to be very helpful right now. But what I will tell you is that what you’re feeling right now, the guilt and the sadness and—and the pain, it’ll get better.”
“You don’t know that!” River says, her voice cracking. “You don’t know what this is like.”
With a sigh, Hayley replies, “Actually…I do.” River looks at her in confusion. “I was…thirteen, when it happened. A friend of mine, his parents had this boat at their lake house. A group of us went up that summer, and we raided their liquor cabinet. We all took turns behind the wheel. I was the one driving the boat when we ran into a sandbar. Someone fell out, hit his head on a rock.” She stops talking for a moment, closes her eyes. “He drowned. And it was my fault.”
They don’t say anything for a while. They sit together, listening as the clock on the wall ticks the minutes by. Eventually, River’s voice breaks the silence. “Did you feel it too?”
“Feel what?”
“Right after it happened. There was this…pain. All over my body. It was like anger and fire and electricity, all at once, all over the place. But it only lasted a couple of seconds. Scared the hell out of me.”
As River speaks, Hayley’s eyes grow wider and wider. The reality of the situation hits her like a punch to the stomach, and she has to stand to relieve the pressure. “Oh no.”
“What?” River says, terrified. “What is it? What did I say?”
Hayley paces a little circle by the entrance to the living room. “Oh River…”
“Ms. Marshall—Hayley—please, I’m freaking out over here!”
“I’m sorry.” Hayley shakes her head a bit to clear it. “I’m sorry.” She sits back down on the coffee table and looks River right in the eye. “Listen, River, I’m going to tell you something, and you may not believe me, but I promise you I am telling the truth.”
With fear in her eyes, River whispers, “Tell me.”
“River…I’m pretty sure you’re a werewolf.”
  Hope and Vincent get to the French Quarter just in time for morning traffic, so Hope pulls into the first parking garage she can find and turns the car off. “Alright, sensei. Where to?”
“We’re only a couple of blocks from your family’s home. That’s where Marcel’s been keepin’ him. He used to have him in the cemetery, but the witches didn’t like having an Original around, so he moved him.”
As they exit the garage on foot, Hope says, “Marcel. That’s a name I’ve heard my mom mention once or twice. I remember once, when I was little, she told me that Marcel was like a son to my dad.” She shrugs. “Guess things changed.”
Vincent laughs humorlessly. “That’s an understatement.”
It’s still early in the morning, but already there are musicians in the street, trumpeters and guitarists and saxophonists weaving a soundtrack for the city of New Orleans. Hope can’t stop the smile spreading across her face; live music has always been a great source of joy for her, and here in these streets, among these people, she feels more alive than she has in ages. “Is it like this all the time?”
“Music is the heartbeat of New Orleans. Keeps us alive, keeps us goin’. Sure, things get real crazy ‘round Mardi Gras, but, yeah, you can hear music in these streets just ‘bout every day.”
They stop at a crosswalk, and Hope becomes enamored with a young man improvising on his trumpet. The sound is warm and bright and oddly comforting. As they cross the street, Hope says, “This is strange.”
“What is?”
“I’ve been here for, what, five minutes? But I can’t explain it. I feel like I’m…”
Vincent eyes her. “Feel like you’re…?”
“Home,” she settles on. “I feel like I’m home.”
  “What?”
“I know this sounds crazy—”
River pushes herself off the couch and starts to pace the room. “I can’t believe—I came here for help and this is what you say to me?”
Hayley speaks as calmly as she can. “I know that this is hard and confusing and scary, but I need you to trust me right now.”
“Trust you?” River’s voice is squeaky through her tears. “I killed someone tonight, I can’t trust—” She cuts herself off, claps a hand over her mouth. Her body jerks with the force of her sob.
Hayley takes a few steps over to her and wraps her in a hug. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. I’m so sorry.” She lets River shake for a minute, and when the girl starts to calm down, Hayley holds her at arm’s length. “Look, I’m going to show you something, and I need you to just take it all in, okay?” River nods. “Okay.” Hayley holds one hand in between their bodies and focuses on bringing her claws out.
River’s eyes blow wide. “How…?”
The claws disappear. “Because I’m like you, River. Well, sort of. And there are a million things I need to tell you, a million things for you to learn about this new part of your life, but it is really late, and you’ve had a rough night. So I’m going to drive you home. Tell your parents…tell them you and Hope got into a little fight, and you don’t want to talk about it. Get some sleep. I’ll come check on you tomorrow. Okay?”
River nods, and then says quietly, “What’s going to happen to me?”
Hayley hugs River again, and says into her hair, “That’s something for us to worry about tomorrow. Tonight, rest.”
  The Abattoir towers above Hope’s head, a beauty of brick and wrought iron that tugs at the edges of Hope’s memory. The street around her is bustling, full of chatter and music, but Hope can’t hear any of it, can’t hear anything besides the relentless pounding of her own heart. Her hand starts to move of her own accord; her fingers graze the intricate gate, sealed tight and locked with a sign that warns Condemned, and she’s jolted with the force of a vision. She sees herself, barely a foot tall, in her mother’s arms. Her laughter is sharp and high, and it brings a smile to her mother’s face. Bouncing her daughter on her hip, Hayley walks over to a man in a suit, who kisses both of their foreheads.
She gasps as she snaps back to the present. Vincent puts a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”
Hope nods, eyes wide. “Yeah. Just a memory.” She grips the lock on the gate, and it bursts open in her hands. She pushes inside the Abattoir, Vincent close behind. As they disappear from view, neither of them notice the figure watching them, just across the street.
  As soon as the sun is fully over the horizon, Theo makes her way to the City of the Dead, where a witch or two from all nine covens are waiting for her. Annelise, from the Gentilly coven, speaks as soon as she sees Theo approach. “Is it true, Theodora?”
Theo stops before her fellow witches. “It’s true. Hope Mikaelson is on her way here, if she’s not here already.”
Dominic, a Versailles witch, says, “Five years of planning down the drain.”
“Don’t be such a catastrophist, Dom,” Theo says with an eye roll. “I’ve got Marcel on it.”
Annelise’s eyes go wide. “You told Marcel?”
“Of course I did!” Murmurs of dissatisfaction ripple through the gathering. “Look, if anyone’s invested in keeping all Mikaelsons out of New Orleans, it’s Marcel Gerard.”
“And what if we have to kill her?”
Theo looks sharply at Leanne, one of the French Quarter witches. “What if we do?”
Scoffing, Leanne says, “Theo, you’re sleeping with him. You think he’s not going to know if you break his only rule and kill a teenage girl?”
“I’ve ingratiated myself into Marcel’s circle of trust, if that’s what you’re trying to say, and let’s not go leaping off of bridges before we come to them.”
“Can we get back to the fact that her being here seriously throws a wrench in our plan?” Dominic interjects. “How are we supposed to enact our vision for this city if our biggest threat is just walking around?”
“Which threat is that,” Annelise asks, “the girl or her father?”
The group is silent for a moment. Then Theo says, “No. The witches have no quarrel with Klaus Mikaelson. His downfall and that of his siblings are the fault of Marcel and the vampires. If anyone is to fear him, it’s them. Our problem is Hope. She’s powerful.”
“So what do we do?” Leanne steps forward. “Obviously Hope is here to free her father. Do we wait? Hope they leave?”
With that question, a plan starts to form in Theo’s mind. “No. I have a better idea.”
  The courtyard of the Mikaelson compound is trashed, littered with the debris of broken furniture and the ashes of burned things. In fifteen years, vines have grown wild over the exposed brick, turning the once-grand home into a twisted haunted house. Hope steps forward into the little patch of sunlight that still streams through; it hits her skin like a blanket, and she is drawn under by another flash of memory. This time, she’s toddling around, not quite knee-high, when she’s scooped up by a woman with long blonde hair. She hears angry voices behind her, but the woman says in her ear, “Come with me, my love. Let your silly father and uncle quarrel elsewhere.”
When she snaps to, she murmurs to Vincent, “Wow. I just saw…I’m so used to seeing Rebekah in a box. I’ve never seen her smile before.”
Before Vincent can answer, a voice sounds from the shadows. “You know, Rebekah loved you a lot.” Both Vincent and Hope spin around, searching for the source of the voice. “In fact, your whole family loved you, before I ran them outta here. Which begs the question…” Marcel Gerard steps into view from the balcony above. “…what the hell are you doing in my city?”
  Theo knocks on the door of a suite in the Hotel Royale. After a few moments, it opens to reveal a redheaded man with a beard, who looks at her inquisitively. “What do you want?”
With a tight smile, Theo answers, “I was hoping we could have a word. May I come in?”
“A witch like you doesn’t need to be invited in.”
“I was being polite.” Theo pushes her way into the suite. It’s lavish, with a four-poster bed covered in thick white sheets currently occupied by a naked, passed-out tourist. “I didn’t realize you had a guest.”
The man shrugs. “Don’t worry about what you say in front of her. She’ll be properly compelled before she leaves.”
“Right then, let’s get to the point. Mr. Duquesne, you’ve been coming to New Orleans every year for a decade and a half to celebrate the fall of the head of your sire line.” Alistair throws himself into a plush chair, then motions for her to carry on. “I also know you’ve been…discussing with Marcel Gerard your continued desire to see Klaus Mikaelson not merely subdued, but dead. Permanently.”
“The bastard’s not known for staying down long,” Alistair insists. “One of these days he’s going to be free, and I will not let that happen.”
“I share the sentiment. Which is why I’m here.” Theo takes a deep breath. “What if I told you that Klaus’s only child, Hope Mikaelson, is back in this city, almost certainly with the goal of releasing her father from Marcel’s imprisonment?”
Alistair leaps to his feet. “Is this true, witch?”
“It’s true she’s here, and while I can’t be certain of her motives for returning, what other reason would she have except to rescue her father?”
Pacing the length of the room, Alistair begins to muse, “I told Marcel years ago to just bite that scum and be done with it. Sure, I like seeing Klaus Mikaelson suffer just as much as the next bloke, but this is exactly what I’ve always feared. The Mikaelson family has many reputations, not the least of which being their fierce desire to protect one another. Well, I guess it’s up to me to fix this.” He stops in his tracks, narrows his eyes at Theo. “Why are you telling me this?”
With a noncommittal shrug, Theo explains, “You have a vested interest in seeing Klaus Mikaelson dead. The witches have a vested interest in seeing Hope Mikaelson dead. I don’t see a reason why we both can’t get what we want.”
Alistair moves closer. “Why don’t the witches just kill her then? Why ask us?”
Because Marcel will destroy us, she doesn’t say. Instead, “We have our own reasons for wanting this handled outside of the covens, but suffice to say that a horde of vampires from outside this city stands a better chance at defeating Marcel and his crew than we do.” She turns to make for the door. “But if you’d rather not risk it…”
She hears a heavy sigh behind her, and then, “Wait.” She turns back with a knowing smile and sees Alistair jerk his head toward the girl in his bed. “Let me finish breakfast first.”
  “Marcel—” Vincent begins, but he’s cut off by Marcel whooshing from his perch above to the courtyard in front of them.
“Are you absolutely out of your mind, Vincent?” Marcel snaps. “Bringing her here? Now? When this city is crawling with twice the usual vampires?”
Vincent explodes, his voice echoing in the empty building. “Why do you think I brought her here, Marcel? Huh? Of course it’s a risk, of course I’d rather her stay far away from this place, but since you decided you were gonna sit back and do nothing about the slaughter of innocents that happens every year when these vampires come to town, I decided to do something about it. So yeah, me and her gonna break Klaus Mikaelson free and end this, once and for all.”
Marcel’s eyes go wide. “You think you’re gonna—” He runs a hand over his face in frustration. “You’re damn crazy if you think I’m going to let you do this.”
“You’re talkin’ to the regent of nine covens and probably the most powerful witch in the world, even if she is just a kid. I don’t care what kind of juiced vampire you are, man, we can take you down, at least long enough to do what we came here to do.”
Marcel jabs a hand toward Hope, who’s watching the volatile exchange in silence. “She’s, what, seventeen? She has no idea what she’s getting into, no idea what kind of danger she’s in!”
“Yeah, she’s seventeen. Wasn’t that roughly how old Davina was when you decided to drag her into all this mess?”
Stepping forward threateningly, Marcel spits in Vincent’s face, “I was protecting Davina!”
“An’ I’m tryin’ to protect a whole city full of Davinas! Can’t you see that? If we get Klaus Mikaelson out of this city, we’ll also get every vampire who likes to come and party over his body out, too.”
“If we get Klaus Mikaelson out of this city, how long before he comes back and seeks his vengeance?”
Vincent throws up his hands. “That sounds like your problem, Marcel, considering you’re the one who went and made himself the biggest threat to that family yet.”
Shaking his head, Marcel says, “No. Absolutely not. It’s not happening. Look, I’m sorry kid—” He turns to talk to Hope, but falls silent when he sees that she’s gone. “Where the hell is she?”
  She feels him, feels his heartbeat like a drum, slow and lethargic, signaling his presence in the dark. She abandons the arguing men, walking softly through the corridors of the compound. There’s a door, splattered with old blood, and Hope tries the knob. It’s locked, but after a moment of concentration, she feels the lock release, and turns the knob with ease. She makes her way into the darkness of the tunnels below the Abattoir, letting herself be guided by the sense of his heartbeat. She doesn’t know why she can feel it, doesn’t understand the magic that’s at play, but knows that if she keeps walking, she’ll find him.
It’s a maze underground, tunnels and offshoots and caverns of various shapes and sizes. There are unlit torches spaced periodically along the walls, and with a wave of her hand, their flames come to life, casting dancing glows all around them. Hope follows her feet wherever they take her, surprised when she comes to a stop in front of a stretch of brick wall. This space looks fresher than the rest, not as dingy or worn. She stands back a bit, focuses on the wall. The feeling of his heartbeat is almost too much to bear at this point. Hope raises a hand out, takes a deep breath, and blasts a hole in the wall.
As chunks of brick and mortar go flying, Marcel appears, Vincent hot on his heels. They find Hope staring, unable to look away from what she sees. “Look, Hope, listen to me—”
“It’s strange.” Her voice is quiet, barely a whisper. Marcel falls silent. “You spend your whole life looking in the mirror, wondering parts of yourself are him. His hair has red in it. I don’t know why that’s so surprising. Mine had to come from somewhere. And his eyes…” Hope finally tears her gaze away from her father’s unblinking eyes. Her own are ringed heavily in red. She takes a shaky breath. “They look like mine, too.” Silence reigns as Hope looks back her father, tears streaming down her face.
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sizzlingballs · 7 years
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Just Another Bird in a House
The sound of the microwave beeping hit my ears as the food signaled it’s ready. I carried the leftover burrito down two rooms on the right to my beloved boyfriend with a broken humerus. A familiar song began to fill the air as I was approaching his door.
“Oh, I love this song!” I excitedly shouted as I was turning into his ten by seven-foot bedroom. Peter was laying on his back fidgeting with his enemy of a brace. We decided it looked like it should belong to a Storm Trooper outfit.
He kept his focus on the brace, trying to adjust it out of frustration. “Yay, burrito,” he said with a monotoned voice still looking down.
I want to sing my own song that’s all, started Bird in the House by Railroad Earth, cried the bird and flew into a wall.
“This song is about me,” he softly said. I took notice of the words of the song and instantly knew what he meant.
There must be some way out, he cried. And his desperation echoed down the hall.
I looked up from the burrito and saw streams of tears sliding quickly down his face landing on his collar bone. I rushed to throw my arms around his neck and pulled his head into me. He started crying harder into my shoulder and I could feel the moisture sinking into the fabric onto my skin.
Just another bird in a house. Dying to get out.
He started panting into my shoulder and choked on the air he inhaled. I tried to think of something comforting or helpful to say, but all I could think of was “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
Just another bird in a house. Dying to get out.
For the past twelve weeks, Peter has been healing from a fracture of the humerus from snowboarding. Going from living an active lifestyle to a nonexistent outside life has really affected Peter physically (obviously) and mentally.
Each doctor visit was bad news after bad news, stating how it’s taking longer to heal than expected, three more weeks, six more weeks, and we started PT too aggressive and too soon. At this point, his arm was starting to make a mal-union, bone not healing in a straight line, with a 15-degree angle. The PT helped him start to develop his triceps again which was pushing his unhealed bone forward when the muscle was firing.
For Peter, I think of his situation as if he’s a wild animal being stuck in a cage. An animal which should run free amongst the open fields. In this case, he’s a bird trapped in a house and can’t fly out into the endless blue skies.
I want to join my own kind that's all, cried the bird and flew into a wall.
He continued crying in my shoulder and grabbed me close with his good right arm. I took his hair into my hands and squeezed him closer, wanting to protect him from any pain. Tears began swelling up in my eyes knowing there was nothing I could do and not being able to bear watching a loved one go through such misery.
The man who conquered crashing white waters that many don’t dare ride. The man who climbed giant beasts of mountains to overlook the valleys and lakes below. The man who spent hours and hours on his feet, never stopping. Now, he is the man who stays in his small room out of depression. The man who is handicapped and can’t control his atrophied, broken arm. The man who has little hope left. The man who is trying to grasp the light that’s left.
There must be some way out he cried. And his desperation echoed down the hall.
“I just want it over with,” he struggled to say through his sobs. “There are good and bad days though, right?” he said jokingly, trying his best to be his witty, funny self but then continued to cry into my shoulder.
Just another bird in a house. Dying to get out.
I tried to keep my soft sobs to myself, not wanting him to hear in case of further upsetting him. “You’re going to get better,” I stated reassuringly, “It may seem like you won’t or that you can’t reach the end of the hallway, but you’ll be healed. You’ll come out of this stronger.”
Just another bird in a house. Dying to get out.
My alarm went off on my phone letting me know my lunch break had ended. I cursed softly to myself and brought his head into my neck and squeezed him firmly.
“They can wait. They’ll understand. This is more important,” I softly said into his ear.
After a long shuttle driving on an extremely bumpy twelve-mile dirt road, Peter’s arm was shaken up quite a bit and took a beating. There are those times where he starts to scare himself thinking that anything he does will end up damaging his arm and costing him surgery.
I’m going to smash my way out that’s all, cried the bird and smashed from wall to wall.
“I’m just afraid that my nightmare will come true,” he said after a deep inhale trying to calm himself down.
I tried convincing him that he’s doing everything he can to help heal his arm and push for a faster recovery. I tell him of his future and what he will achieve from this. The mountains he will climb. The rivers he will ride. The people he will hold in his arms. The strength he will regain.
I grab his face and tell him how I love him and I’m always there for him. That he’s never a burden to me. That it’s okay to feel like this. He hugs me and buries his face into my chest.
“I could never have done this without you. You honestly don’t know how much this means to me,” he muffled into my chest.
There must be some way out, he cried. And his desperation echoed down the hall.
I left for work and my feelings immediately set in. The feelings of desperation, helplessness, hatred, anger, and sadness all mixed in a boiling hot stew. My co-workers greeted me and asked how lunch was and I answered saying it was okay. I sat down on the stool and felt tears swell up in my eyes.
Just another bird in a house. Dying to get out.
I immediately jumped off the stool, walked calmly to the stairs leading down to the stock room, quickly hopped down the stairs and ran into the sleeping bag room. I sat on the only chair and buried my face into my hands and began weeping.
Just another bird in a house. Dying to get out.
There’s nothing like the feeling of helplessness when a loved one is struggling.
Time passes, could be weeks or months, it's getting harder to tell. I told Peter the password to my computer so he could watch movies when I wasn't around. One day in the hours following another round of soul crushing news from his doctors -torn bicep, might need surgery- He opens my computer, he's looking around for a movies folder and clicks downloads. A file catches his eye “Just another bird in a house”, he opens the file.
He began to read and quickly realized what it contained, he took each line slowly reliving each moment one at a time. This was an encounter he remembered well and the authenticity and accuracy of my account surprised him.
It was surreal for him to read my narrative of this moment, he thought it was lost forever and now here it was immortalized in type. He felt like he was peering through the looking glass of the soul of another and he knew I felt his pain, if not physically at least I was by his side all along and he knew I understood his endeavor. If you’ve ever suffered in your life, this understanding is worth more than the honeyed words of any quasi-stranger you meet who asks you, “what’d you do to your wing”, he would quickly recount the injury and give a brief summary of his “medical care” and whats brought him to where he is standing in front of them, he smiles with his mouth but his eyes are hollow. “Hope ya get better soon!” He drifts away.             Thanks…
As he reads he's sitting in the same spot we were that day only this time he's alone, he begins crying the same salty tears, he is the bird. He hadn't heard the song in awhile, maybe since that very day. The tune rolls through him as he reads those lonely italicized words. He reads about the aftermath, I never told him how I wept for him that day alone in the sleeping bag room in the shop's basement, if fate struck differently, if he knew how to use an apple computer worth a damn he probably would have found those movies straight away. He might have never known.
He closed my computer and waited five minutes for the song to load on his phones youtube, he needed to hear it. It loads about a quarter of the song in this time and he hits play, the song reaches the end of the first verse and he pauses. The video has caught up to the buffering bar but he's heard enough, it is enough.
He reopened my computer to the document “Just another bird in the house” and began to type right underneath where I had finished, “There's nothing like the feeling of helplessness when a loved one is struggling.” He didn't have a clear picture of what he wanted to say but this was beautiful to him and he was eager to try and capture it the way I had. Rather than interrupt the flow of the piece he decided he would take on the voice of the narrator; me. He wrote about himself in the third person, which was an interesting proof read at the very least. He looked at the clock and saw he has an hour and a half before I got off work, it had to be done before I got off. He didn't care if it was confusing or convoluted, he didn't care you thought it was cheesy or cute or anything else because it wasn't for you. It was for us.
I'm gonna smash my way out, that's all. Cried the bird and smashed from wall to wall.
There must be some way out, he cried. And his desperation echoed down the hall.
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hoitash · 7 years
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Adventure One: Recognition!
That’s right folks, it’s a new year and that means a new series of adventures on our Fifth Fridays! Every month with five Fridays in it gets you part of a series of short stories in your sort of typical fantasy setting! I’m hoping to collect them into anthologies, but for now enjoy them as they come or as they appear in the archives. Also note that these stories do NOT get posted on my Patreon, so they’re just for you for now! Enjoy!
Having washed away the filth and residue of the sewers, William Williams, Sergeant at Arms for Squad Twelve of the Office of Pest Control, Republic City of Wartburg branch, leaned back into the rickety wooden chair within one of the moderately well lit taverns dotting the city’s layout. Tucked in a northern corner of the sprawling city at the western edge of the Confederation of Man, the tavern sat as far from the chugging foundries as any such establishment could. The relatively clean air, coupled with the relatively high ceiling, allowed the man’s elven companion a modicum of comfort as she chugged her way through a tankard of beer.
William raised an eyebrow over a grey eye, the greasy lanterns catching his red hair in the light as he watched the green haired, violet eyed elf gulp down the beer. Sitting on a stool near the two sat a dwarf with a brown beard done up in dreadlocks, his own beer slowly sipped away as he watched the elf.
“Um,” William probed as he tapped at a stained sheaf of parchment sitting on the table between them, a battered pen waiting near William’s own beer, “Leafa?”
The elf sighed and set the beer down, her ponytail swaying slightly as she shook some sense into her head, “Sorry, but I need to get that damned sewer out of my head,” Leafa shook her head some more before grabbing the pen and eyeing William, “So, can you read or write anything?”
William shook his head, “Not a bit. So where do we start?”
Leafa opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again, “Um… I’m not sure. I’ve never taught anyone to read or write before.”
“How did you learn? You had to learn to speak our language on top of reading and writing it, right?”
Leafa slowly nodded, “Right… okay, um, let’s start with this….”
Leafa took the pen in hand and readied it over the parchment. Before writing she turned her head, her eyes narrowed against the dim lighting.
William glanced to the side to watch a weary looking man with rough clothes approach the table. He had the worn look of a man strongly in need of another round and another mark a day to pay for it, his cheeks gaunt and thin frame stooped as he held his simple cap in both hands.
William grinned and adjusted his seat to appraise the newcomer, “Hey there. Can we help you?”
The man swallowed, his eyes on Leafa as he muttered, “You’re… you’re exterminators, right?”
William tapped the brass badge on his chest –as Sergeant he was required to wear it even off duty, according to their superior, “That’s right.”
The man smiled, showing uneven but intact teeth as he exclaimed, “I thought so!” frowning slightly, he glanced at Leafa and continued, “Pardon my interrupting, but I heard the sewer squad has an elf in it. Is that you fellows? The sewer squad, I mean.”
William nodded and gestured to the elf, “Leafa, formerly of the Tall Trees Tribe, now a resident of the City.”
Leafa gave a curt nod, her eyes still wary of the man despite his clear height advantage.
The man managed a half-grin, half-frown as he muttered, “Knew it!” focusing back on William, he continued, “I jus’ wanted to thank you for killing those rats –us night-shifters were gettin’ pretty worried about ‘em comin’ after us on our way to work, so thanks for givin’ us one less thing to worry about.”
“Just doing our jobs,” William said, “but it’s good to know we’re appreciated. Makes going down there a lot easier to bear.”
Leafa and the dwarf, Schild, nodded once. Schild raised his beer in a brief salute.
The man nodded and retreated, his eyes lingering on Leafa until he resumed his seat at the bar.
William turned to the elf and raised an eyebrow, “He seems pretty wary of you. Did you get in a fight here or something?”
Leafa’s ears twitched as she grabbed her beer, “City dwellers tend to be scared of elves, I’ve noticed. They look at us like we’re faeries ourselves, out to snatch their children and set them on fire just to watch them scream.”
William frowned and sipped his beer, “Guess I never thought of that. Out in the Baronies we had elves on the borders all the time. They seemed nice enough, as long as we didn’t bother ‘em when they went on the hunt.”
Leafa took a long pull from her beer and set it down, “You’re used to elves. Most city folks go their entire lives without ever seeing one. Meanwhile the city has the best foundries in the Confederation, so we get the odd dwarf down from the mountains every now and then, so Schild doesn’t garner any attention.”
Schild took a slow pull from his own beer before grunting, “I’ve been in the city longer than you, too.”
Leafa nodded, “Right.”
William scratched his cheek, eyeing Leafa as the dim lighting caught her Church of Man symbol –a blazing sun of outreaching rays surrounded by a circle- hanging from her necklace.
“Leafa?” he asked.
The elf twitched her ears, “What?”
“I know it’s a sensitive subject for your people,” William began, “but as Sergeant I need to know: what kind of magic can you use?”
Leafa sipped her beer, glaring at William. After a moment she set her beer down, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and replied, “My parents are healers by training, and I was learning under them. Healing is really involved though, and I only learned the basic theories of the most basic abilities before I left.”
“So… no Healing?”
Leafa shook her head, “I know the basic guiding tricks all elves learn after they can climb a tree without falling out of it, and that’s it. And no, I won’t show you –magic is a gift from the Sky, not some parlor trick or plaything of the damned faeries!”
William raised his hands in a placating gesture, “I know, I know –I’m used to elves, remember?”
Leafa sighed, her ears drooping as she frowned into her beer, “Right. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” William declared, “I expect you to be a bit on edge on account of us being in a city –never knew an elf to do it, myself.”
Leafa smirked, “Guess I’m a pioneer, like those dwarves who run fishing villages in the Dragon Lands or the idiots trying to sail to Nozama.”
“That’s the spirit!” William cheered, “So how ‘bout we start the lesson while you can still see straight.”
Leafa smirked and downed the last of her beer. Setting the mug down, she explained, “Elves can’t get drunk, so I’ll be fine. Alcohol messes up our powers, but I never use mine anyway.”
William raised an eyebrow, “Drunk or not, it’s still got to affect you… right?”
Leafa blinked a few times, “Fair point. So let’s begin. I learned easy enough, so you shouldn’t have any problem, either –if you’re smart enough to make Sergeant, you’re smart enough to read, as far as I’m concerned.”
William smirked, ignoring the fact he only became Sergeant because he had gotten the job once before by virtue of attrition and blind luck. Once again Leafa took hold of the pen, it’s tip hovering over the parchment in anticipation.
“The Confederate language by and large has a very simple writing system,” Leafa explained, “that’s what the priests always told me, at least –elves don’t have written language and I can’t speak for the dwarves or the Islands’ dialect. Anyway, each symbol represents a sound. String the sounds together in the right way, and you get words.”
William smirked, “I know that much.”
Leafa’s ears twitched, “I have to start somewhere Sergeant. So, the symbols….”
As Leafa started writing out the letters of the human language, William watched and sipped his beer. The night went long and left little time for sleep, but none of the squad seemed to mind, even if William had to carry Leafa back to the barracks at the end of it all.
William sighed as he and Schild made their back to the barracks, William trusting the dwarf’s memory and dark-attuned vision as he adjusted the deadweight on his back.
“Any idea if elves still get tomcats the next morning?” he asked.
Schild grunted, “She does. Every time.”
William sighed again, “Cities are no place for an elf. The ones I met didn’t even like to get too close to the village, never mind enter a building, and here she is working in the sewers. She’ll lose her senses before something even has a chance to kill her.”
“Maybe.”
William smirked, “Well, she had her reasons same as we do. No help harping on it.”
Georg nodded, “You met elves. You know their language?”
William shrugged, grimaced, and adjusted Leafa again, “I know enough of the Black Trees dialect to trade a huntsman some wheat for a fresh kill. I have no idea if Leafa would understand me, since I have no idea where the Tall Trees Tribe lives. Suppose as long as I’m learning to read and write, I should see a map of the continent someday, or at least the Confederation.”
Georg grunted.
“Right,” William nodded, “one thing at a time. Tomorrow means a new day, and a new job,” he glanced to the sleeping elf on his back, “hope she wakes up.”
Georg nodded.
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