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enter-fandom · 5 years

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The Long Road (Part 5)

Fandom: The Hobbit Pairing: Thorin x Reader Rating: General Warnings: General, Canon Compliant Violence Theme: N/A Request: N/A Words: 1,453 Status: Part 5 Notes: Spiders. Spiders and forests and muddy heads. I am SO SORRY this took so long to post, to those of you who read it. Life has been so hectic of late, and I really do apologize. A lot of my wait was because I like to be ahead, and I just finished part 6 a few weeks ago, and am now working on part 7. I will try and be more consistent. And now, On with the tale.

You woke the next morning to unexpected warmth, the hum of bees flying through the space and the chatter of voices. You thought, for a moment, you were back at camp, at the Faire, but the prickles of hay under your skin quickly dashed that thought, and you roused more fully, blinking at Thorin’s coat wrapped snugly around you. Standing, you straightened your armor and stretched, before taking the coat to return to Thorin, finding him with the others at the door, Bilbo close behind. With a silent nod of thanks, you passed the garment back, turning your attention to Gandalf.

“The last person who startled him was torn to shreds,” he cautioned, looking over the Dwarves in warning.

As he headed out with Bilbo, you took space next to Bofur to watch out the window, shaking your head some. Beorn was intimidating even at a distance, tall, broad, and built of lean muscle that could rip even an Orc to pieces of he so desired. There were clear signs of the bear in his features, and when he mentioned going near the Goblins had been stupid, you laughed at how right he was, barely managing to keep Bofur from sending the first pair out. “That's not the signal,” you hissed, giving him a look.

“It's not?”

You shook your head, and Gandalf glanced over his shoulder, an almost relieved look that none of you had revealed yourselves yet. Gandalf continued, admitting that several of you were Dwarrow, and you waited, sensing the time was right, “Dwalin and Balin.”

The pair went, and Beorn shifted his axe, but did not brandish it, eyeing the pair warily, before asking, “How many?”

“In the Company? Sixteen, including Bilbo and myself.”

Oin and Gloin went next, Beorn watching beleagueredly, “And what are a Halfling and a Wizard doing travelling with fifteen Dwarves?”

“Actually, there's only fourteen.”

Dori, Nori, and Ori managed their way out next, Ori barely managing not to trip over his own feet, allowed to go as a trio to push Bombur out on his own. Halfway there. Without waiting for instructions, Fili and Kili made their way, smiling despite the sight of the shapechanger before them. As if emboldened, Bifur and Bofur scrambled out, tugging Bombur in their wake and earning a sigh from Gandalf. You'd tried, at least. Moving from your perch, you glanced to Thorin, gesturing to the door.

With a nod, you both joined the rest, Beorn's eyes lingering, before gesturing back toward the great house, “It seems I am to have a party.”

You hunched over the large table, eating as you listened to the talk around you. Your heart went out to Beorn, and when he mentioned Mirkwood, you nodded. He was not wrong about Thranduil and his kin. They would not be hospitable, but there was fear you had little choice. When Beorn agreed to help you, there was silence from the rest, but you offered him a smile, “Thank you.”

Despite knowing it was the best way, and being glad to not have to walk, you weren't overly fond of the fact that you were about to be on a pony. While you loved the animals, and had wanted to learn to ride as a child, you'd never gotten the chance to. It wasn't until you were an adult and began working Faire that you had the opportunity to learn, and while competent, you weren't often enough on horseback to feel truly comfortable. At least with you there, Bilbo wasn't the only one grumbling about it even quietly.

It was quicker, as well. On foot, it might have even been enough of a delay to keep you from reaching the mountain in time. You rode with silence and haste, to reach the mountain and flee the Orcs who might yet follow, until danger no longer felt as if it were at your back, the company already chattering and singing around you.

Their more merry spirits lifted your own, and your voice rose softly at first, growing in strength as they fell silent to listen.

Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme; Remember me to one who lives there, For she was once a true love of mine. Tell her to make me a cambric shirt, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme; Without any seam or needlework, Then she shall be a true love of mine. Tell her to wash it in yonder well, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme; Where never sprung water or rain ever fell, And she shall be a true lover of mine. Tell her to dry it on yonder thorn, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme; Which never bore blossom since Adam was born, Then she shall be a true lover of mine.

“Is there more, lass?” Bofur broke the spell of silence, glancing back at you from his place ahead, curious eyes looking at you.

You shrugged, “There are other versions, and an answer as well, from his former love. In response to his impossible requests, she asks some of her own, and says once his are done, so hers will be. It's rather sad.” They nodded, but didn't ask for you to sing the rest, instead lifting their own songs, some familiar to you from the books.

You traveled in such a way to four more sunrises, before reaching the borders of the woods, an ominous feeling seeping into your bones. You knew what waited, the loss of the path, the great spiders, and at the center of it all, Thranduil. You could only hope to not fall victim to the forest’s spell, to keep your wits about you. Uncertain of your success, you shifted nervously, gaze moving fitfully between the forest and those you called friend. Fear had touched you on the Quest so far, but this? It was not a monster you could fight.

In you went, quiet and focused, telling yourself the story in your head. The deeper you went, the harder it became, feeling trapped and muddled. What day was it? Had it been a day? You'd stopped to camp but had it truly been time? The air was thick and stale, and it wasn't until you came to the river once more that you felt your wits about you. The bridge was out. You had to find a way across.

You nearly fell, pulled up to safety by strong hands and when you looked up, you briefly saw the smiling face of your stepfather before it shifted, Thorin watching you with quiet concern. It was a trick of the forest, yet still it pulled at your heart. He had taken you to your first Faire as a teen, gifted you your first sword, the one now at your side, and taught you to use it. He never said it with words, but considered you his own.

He had talked at length with you about fantasy, broadened your knowledge of authors, and teased you over your love of Hobbits. He never did get to see your love of Dwarves.

You watched as Thorin drew his bow, aiming at the white stag in the distance, dread in you though you weren't sure why. “No.”

The arrow missed, Bilbo musing that it was bad luck, and you scoffed at Thorin's response.

Nobody saved Bombur from the fate you nearly faced.

It was much the same after that, disorienting, stifling, you trudged on, unable to truly help carry the sleeping dwarf, and not envying the others in that task. You didn't hear the voices, but you knew. You knew something was coming, but what?

The path was left behind you, despite Bilbo's protests, and deep in your mind you saw the wisdom of his words, but still you followed Thorin, better than the Dwarrow, but far more lost than Bilbo.

He went up, while you circled, hand on the hilt of your sword as you tried to find what watched you, what would have been a piercing shriek dying on your lips as the Spider claimed its prize.

The Dwarves fought in their webbed prisons, and you felt woozy, listless, dropping to the forest floor and already feeling the bruises. Kili cut you free, and you pushed yourself up with roots and branches, defending yourself though you put up little fight. Bundled along by the group as you moved until the elves showed, a brief moment of relief, despite knowing what came next.

The soldiers raised a brow as they searched you, confused not only by a human among their captured Dwarves, but the contents of your pack. It was returned to you all the same, and you sighed, unsteady on your feet as you began to walk.

#the hobbit #reader insert #Female reader #multiple parts #part 5 #eventually thorinxreader #Thorin Oakenshield #thorin and company #thorin

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d2diamond · 7 years

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Happy Halloween 1st

Halloween 1st. Better known to the rest of the world as October 1st, but really, let’s be real here, it was the first of Halloween, and everyone knew it. Especially those that lived in Mystic Village.

Mystic Village was one of many hidden realms that co-existed with the humans, but just outside the human eye. It’s where the unusual, the different, and the non-humans lived.

Which included, but was not limited too, one Katsuki Yuuri, and his family. The Katsuki’s Yu-topia were well known as one of the largest coven retreats in Japan. Both Toshiya and Hiroko coming from long lines of witches, so it was of no surprise that their own children would grow up to be so powerful.

Mari, though deadly in her own right, preferred to stay home with her parents to help run the coven. She helped with local and foreign guests as they came and went from the retreat. Some human, some not. She wasn’t a huge fan of the quad footed guests, but as long as they didn’t rip any of the furniture to shreds, she tolerated it.

Yuuri on the other hand, own and operated his own shop in town. A little place where one could buy a potion, get some needed herbs (most grown in his private gardens), or perhaps a spell or two or find a charmed trinket. It’s wasn’t huge by any means, but he liked it that way. Small and cozy. Just like him.

Although it was a four-story, slightly lopsided building, it was skinny. Yuuri’s store was on the base floor and second floors. His office and apartment on the rest. Yuuri loved the place as it was filled floor to ceiling with the books he had found over the years. The many loved plants in pots, while some were stuffed in jars. The many bottles of various sizes, filled with a variety of potions, each labeled in fancy script and topped with decorative stoppers. Each made by his own hand. His pride and joys.

It was a beautiful day when October first rolled around. The sun was out, and the wind brought the promise of a light chill and a change in the leaves. It sent a pleasant chill down Yuuri’s spine and put a smile on his lips. October the first was when the magic in the air picked up and with it the anticipation of the month’s festivities and fun.

Yuuri unlocked and opened hinged windows, pushing each one as far open as his arms would stretch out. After, he leaned on the window sill, and breathed deeply in the fresh air, taking in the scent of change. The scent of life as it reached its perfection in the garden in the back, and on the trees of apples in his front yard. The smell of death of the foliage and of the summer season filled his senses. The magic prickled his skin giving him goosebumps.

“Ahhhh,” he sighed with a smile before he stepped back into his small shop.

He moved with grace through his shop, his eyes wondering over the shelves with the empty bottles for patrons to choose their own if they wanted. His fingers of his left hand flitted across the baskets used to fill with bundled dried and bound herbs, like sage, rosemary, thyme. Whatever people needed for their own potion making, or just to flavor their favorite dishes.

Yuuri adjusted a black velvet pillow that sat in the plush, wingback chair that sat next to the largest bookshelf. A shelf that overflowed with many different size tomes. It was clear that a holding charm kept the thing upright and not toppling over from the weight and size. Yuuri tapped the small tea kettle that sat on a small octagon table nearby. The pot would fill with the customer’s favorite brew on demand, with matching cups and sauces were ready for use. At Yuuri’s touch, the kettle steamed, available for use.

It was Yuuri’s morning ritual. Ready the shop. Making sure one of the few cauldrons was filled with the latest pumpkin spiced juice for those who wanted a sample. Then check on the other on the floor he had filled with chicken bones for spells and pets. *Not for Dogs* the sign above read.

Yuuri summoned his broom and swept out the morning dust out the front door and smiled back at the Jack-o-Lantern that sat near the door and smiled at you as you entered. Its empty eyes would watch people throughout the small shop and alert Yuuri if someone decided if they didn’t feel like paying for the product that may have ‘accidentally’ slipped into their pocket.

A raven had made it’s home in a dried gourde that rested on top of a shelf of odds and ends, and despite Yuuri’s attempts, it now lived with the witch.

Minako, the local kitsune, told him it would be best to leave the bird be. Having been chosen as the raven’s home was said to be a good omen. Since the bird didn’t dirty up the shop, Yuuri left it. Eventually, he named it Poe. Not very original he knew, but it was easy enough to remember, and the bird seemed to respond to it when he called.

“Good morning Poe,” Yuuri said as he walked over to the cauldron of pumpkin juice. Freshly made that morning. “What kind of day do you think we’ll have?” he asked the bird, who only watched him walk around his store, getting things ready, but not answering. Yuuri just gave him a look, shook his head with a smile, and went on about his routine.

It was the sound of something getting knocked over that caught Yuuri’s attention. He turned quickly to see a small orangeish cat with both stripes and spots sitting up on the window sill of the open window. It was unusual looking for a domesticated house cat. Far to exotic.

“Hello? Can I help you?” he asked. The cat looked him up and down, as if evaluating him, then turned his head away like it didn’t care. “Okay,” Yuuri said and turned back to his business. “Let me know if you need anything,” he concluded.

When he was done and felt happy with his shop, Yuuri snapped his fingers, and the closed sign in the window flipped to open. Then he manually unlocked and opened the stores front entrance. He could have just waved his hand to do it, but he enjoyed the feel of the lock sliding out of place, and that first nip in the air when he opened the store. It was always refreshing. .. Except for this time, no sooner did he open the door, he was knocked over by a large white and silver wolf with blue eyes.

“What the…” he said as a smiling hound looked down at him. “Hello?” he asked tentatively.

The wolf jumped back, and in the process changed forms. At first, the man was completely naked, which really took Yuuri for a surprise.

“Hello! I’m Victor Nikiforov, I’m looking for my friend… OH there you are Yuri!” the now, tall, handsome stranger said.

He flipped his silver hair out of his eyes before he waved at the cat that hissed back at him. He looked down again, and his demeanor faltered. With a quick flip of his wrist, clothes appeared, and Victor was wearing a simple shirt and pair of jeans. A massive heart-shaped smile took over his expression, and he reached down to help Yuuri off the floor.

“Yes, here I am,” Yuuri said slightly perplexed. Victor looked at him for a moment confused. He looked at the stranger, then over to the cat that was now climbing over a bookshelf and down into the armchair, then back to Victor. “Are you talking to the cat?”

“Oh yes, that’s Yuri,” Victor said as if it explained everything. “I didn’t catch your name though,” he purred leaning forward into Yuuri’s personal space.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” he said as he pulled back a little.

“As in the Katsuki Yuuri?” Victor asked. “Owner of Be Witchin’” It was the name of the shop. Not very creative, but it worked for Yuuri.

“One in the same,” Yuuri replied. He couldn’t help but notice how Victor kept inching forward. Was it the canine part of the man, seeing as apparently, he was some kind of werewolf, or anthropomorphic, or … No had to be a dog thing.

“Just get your shit already old man,” came a new voice from the back.

Where once was a cat, was now a blond-haired, green-eyed boy sitting in the wingback chair glaring daggers at Victor.

“Oh, right. I guess I forgot,” Victor said with a smile. “I heard you might have some sunscreen for vampires,” Victor said.

Yuuri looked at him for a moment, wondering why he would need such a thing. “Aren’t you a werewolf?” he inquired as he stepped back and over to a bookshelf filled with bottles.

“Well yes, but it’s for a friend,” the werewolf said with a smile. Victor leaned over and rested an elbow on a shelf, his head on his hand as he gazed down at the witch.

Yuuri looked at him, and it was then he noticed the two small puncture wounds in the crook of the stranger's neck. “Friend huh?” he said slightly disappointed. “You should tell your friend to leave less obvious hickeys then,” he added before he pulled a black bottle off the shelf. “This has an SPF of 1000, it’ll keep them from burning up in the sun.” He handed over the bottle and then walked over to the counter. “Was there anything else?”

The werewolf placed a hand over the wound on his neck, and his face went pale, while shock replaced his smile. A snickering could be heard from the corner.

“It’s not what you think,” Victor blurted. “My friend Christophe, he’s a vampire, gets a little hungry and…” but before he could finish, he felt a sharp pain in his back.

“Stop whining you old fool. Let’s just pay for it and get out, I’m hungry,” the other Yuri had made it up to the front of the shop, and was glaring at his companion. How a werecat and werewolf got along, or kinda got along in this case, was beyond Yuuri.

“It’s alright,” Yuuri said with a small smile. He rang up the werewolf and bagged the small bottle. “How long do you and your friends plan on being in town?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, we plan on being here all month! We heard Mystic village has the best festivals,” Victor said, while the werecat just rolled his eyes. He too was wearing a t-shirt, with a tiger on it, and some black ripped jeans.

“What kind of cat are you? I don’t recognize the domestic,” Yuuri asked the boy.

“I’m not a fucking domestic cat! I’m a Bengal!” he hissed.

“Actually Yuri, you’re a domestic Bengal. A Bengal tiger is much larger and doesn’t have spots,” Victor argued which only earned him a hiss from the blond.

“Well, I look forward to seeing you again then,” Yuuri said.

For a moment they all just stood there not speaking, until the smaller Yuri growled and yanked the shirt off his older friend. Once they were out the door, the blond changed back into his cat form and ran off, while Victor waved and smiled.

Yuuri waved back and kept watching, but it was the call of the raven that spooked him to turn away. Once he looked back, both of them were gone.“Happy Halloween first,” he whispered to himself and then went into the back to work on some potions for the day.

#Yuri on Ice #Witch Katsuki Yuuri #Werewolf Victor #Werecat Yurio #Halloween AU #WerePeople have magic #October 1st #yoifantasyweek2017 #Deleted 2nd part #Going to be a stand alone

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moosofconfusion · 6 years

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Phantasmagoria 2

A man kneels in front of a cobbled together altar. Bones of animals and dried plants decorate the stone structure alongside low burning candles that give off very little light. The room is near pitch black aside from those faintly glowing candles that shift with every whispered prayer the man gives, casting dancing shadows of the man’s hunched form onto the walls. A chill breezes through the room. The wind blows out the candles, plunging the room into total darkness. The man goes silent and does not move. Another presence, dark and powerful, makes itself known in the small subterranean room.

“What is it that you seek from me, mortal?” A deep, rumbling voice asks. It sounds as if it is coming from everywhere at once. Bouncing off the walls and pressing into the man’s ears like the pressure of the deepest waters. The man takes in a shaky breath and closes his eyes against the darkness before speaking.

“There is a man who travels and leaves death behind him everywhere he goes. He killed my family and now I am on the run from those who believe me responsible. I beseech you, My Lord, to give me aid in hunting him down.”

“And why should l give you aid? My land is that of death and this man is growing it.”

“When I sought council with the priests of your Twin they said to direct my prayers to you. They said that you I may be able to bargain for your aid. I have nothing to my name but I gladly give you myself. I do not care for my own future but I will not die before my family has been avenged.” Silence reigns in the room after the man finishes speaking. He dares not move. The pressure remains.

“I will send my agent to you but you must convince her yourself to help you on this quest of yours.”

“Thank you, My Lord. Truly, thank you.” Laughter fills the room. An oddly pleasant sound that shakes the man’s chest as if it were coming from him.

“You may not be thanking me later when you meet her.” A brief pause. “This is the only aid I shall offer you. If my agent does not help then you are left to your own devices once more.”

“And if she ends up helping me?” The man asks, a hesitant tremor to his voice. The is a whisper of fabric shifting against itself.

“Then you owe her a debt and upon your death, whenever that may be, your soul shall not rest but instead will serve me. Are these terms acceptable?”

“Yes, My Lord.” There is another gust of wind and the pressure lifts. The man heaves out a heavy breath. Pushing every molecule of air from his lungs. He stands on shaky legs, blood just now returning to them after hours of kneeling before the altar. With a quick glance around the darkened room he leaves. His footsteps echo on the stone steps that lead up and out of the cavern that holds the altar. The sun has dipped low beneath the tree line since his arrival to the secluded altar. The creatures of the day have begun to return to their homes while those who thrive in the night are stepping out from theirs. The forest is nearly silent. No one from the nearby town remains out and most travelers would be keeping to the road that is miles away. A thin path winds its way through the forest, marked only by small oddly colored stones and ware from the scant number of people who visit the altar. The man starts down this path with careful steps. His dark brown boots leave deep imprints in the rain wet soil. Leaves of reaching branches deposit droplets of water on his shoulders as he brushes against them.

It takes an hour for the man to return to the town, picking his way through the forest and onto the road before following that back the rest of the way. The town is sluggish in the evening light. Shops are beginning to close up and people are returning to their homes. He slips into the inn after a pair of burly men. The barkeep calls out greetings to them all, following that up by asking if she could get them anything to eat or drink. The burly men reply with drink requests and drop themselves into chairs at a nearby table.

“Evening sir!” the barkeep says again with a wide smile as the man settles atop a stool at the counter. He smiles shakily back and rests his elbows on the counter, made from a dark wood harvested from the nearby forest.

“What can I do for you?”

“How much is a room?” he asks

“A room is two silver a night so a week will run you a gold and five silver. Basic morning and evening meals included,” she replies. Her smooth drawl causes the words to flow together pleasantly. The man winces, hand going down to a small pouch at his side. His fingers press into it, counting the coins kept within. He bobs his head in a series of short, choppy nods and pulls the coin required to stay for a week out of the pouch. He places it on the counter and slides it over to the woman behind the counter. She beams, snatching it away quickly.

“Wonderful.” She disappears for a moment beneath the counter, only the top of her platinum blonde hair visible. When she pops up she is holding a polished silver key between her thumb and forefinger.

“Glad to see you’re going to be sticking around. We don’t often get travelers as cute as you,” she says as she hands him the key with a wink. “Your room will be the last door on the right up the stairs. If you want company feel free to ask. I get off at midnight.” Beneath the layer dirt and dust from having traveled with little protection for days his pale skin flushes a delicate pink. He ducks his head and strands of long deep brown hair that had escaped from the tie holding the majority of his hair back fall forward into his face. An uncalloused hand, dirt caught beneath otherwise well cared for nails, reaches out to take the key from her with a mumbled word of thanks. The woman laughs and pats his arm before wandering off through a door behind the counter that leads to the kitchen.

The man turns the key over in his hand a few times, turning his head to look over at the stairs. He heaves a sigh and goes to push himself away from the counter when the woman returns. She places a plate in front of him, a small dark leaf salad and the lightly charred leg of a fowl resting atop it. The steam rising from the bird tickles the man’s nose, bringing with it the scent of fresh rosemary and thyme. Curious eyes dart up to regard the smiling woman.

“The name’s Evanna Harrison,” she introduces, holding out her hand towards him. The man blinks slowly then seems to shake himself from his thoughts. He extends the hand that is not holding the key and smiles softly as well.

“Malcolm Walk. Ter. Malcolm Walter. It’s a pleasure. Thank you for your hospitality.” He stumbles over his words, eyes darting away from the woman briefly. Evanna quirks an eyebrow but does not comment. Instead she places a fork by the plate’s side, her smile softening to something smaller and almost pitying. Malcolm hides his answering smile, tiny and self conscious as he takes the fork and begins to pick at the offered food. The salad is bitter greens, chosen for nutrition over flavor, with a drizzle of something tart and flecks of a sweet berry. It is painfully reminiscent of what his mother would have brought to him after one too many meals missed. All of his time spent in the library reading and researching and otherwise being ‘an entirely too cultured wretch,’ a phrase always affectionately said by whichever family member sought him out after his younger sister coined the phrase at the precious age of thirteen. Malcolm blinks away the gathering tears and forces himself to focus on the general din of the conversations around him. Willing away happy memories that are more painful than pleasant right now.

The conversations that pervade the common area of the inn are all of the mundane, everyday ilk. Idle chatter about crops and work, town gossip about lovers new and old. A few comments about passersby. Some describe Malcolm himself but the tone and words surrounding it are curious above all else. Malcolm strains his ears to listen to the hushed, fearful whispers that flitter about the inn amongst everything else. References to an intimidating man who passed through not two days prior, laden with weapons. He spoke to no one, did not even stay for the night, simply walked through town and left those who saw him shaken and uneasy. Malcolm finishes his meal quickly, thanking Evanna with a dip of his head and a more confident smile, before retreating up the stairs and into his given room.

Like the rest of the inn the room has a rustic, homey feel to it. A small fireplace rests on the far wall, a light wood desk and matching chair tucked into a corner just to the left of the fireplace, a window looking out onto the rest of the town just left of the desk. There is a single bed pressed against the wall to the left of the door. A heavy quilt in warm browns and golds lays folded at the foot of the bed, breaking up the monotony of the stark white sheets. Above the head of the bed is a small table the same light wood of the desk and chair on the other side of the room, a brass candle holder with a whole, unlit candle resting atop it and a flint and tinder beside it. Malcolm wanders over to the desk, running his hands over the smooth wood almost reverently. He pulls back the chair and takes a seat. With careful movements Malcolm undoes the ties to his pack and rests it on the ground beside him. He retrieves a leather bound tome that looks to be too large for the small sack to carry. From a separate pocket he pulls out a small inkwell and a quill that is missing the majority of its feathers from years of use. He rests them beside the tome on the desk then stands and wanders over to the table to retrieve the flint and tinder.

Once the fire is roaring in the fireplace, giving off enough warmth and light for Malcolm’s liking, he settles down at the desk again. The gold thread inlaid over the cover of the tome glows in the firelight. Though it spells out no title or author name the thread depicts an intricate diagram of concentric circles and sharp, connecting lines. He opens the tome and flips through uneven pages, some yellowing and others blinding white in their newness. Dark swirls of ink decorate the pages. The size and shape of the letterings differ with nearly every word. A multitude of languages makes up the text of the tome though the newer pages are more consistent and appear to be a mishmash of translations and notes on what is written on the older, yellow paper. Eventually Malcolm stops at a page marked only by a thin strip of leather. The man picks up the quill but does not dip it into the ink just yet. Instead he taps it on the side of the white page while he reads the words aloud, one finger of his left hand skimming just beneath his place in the sentence.

Malcolm spends hours sitting at the desk, reading and notating and translating as he goes. His hand moves with careful, practiced easy over the page though his eyes never leave the original text. It is long past nightfall when Malcolm raises his head. He blinks away the strain in his eyes and stares blankly out the window. In his hand the quill drips ink onto the desk. With a shake of his head Malcolm looks down and rapidly wipes away the gathered ink with the cuff of his shirt sleeve. Similar stains of varying age pepper the length of the sleeve, oddly sized blotches that stand out against the grey cloth. He taps the quill on the edge of his inkwell, dislodging excess ink back into the glass container before setting the quill on the desk between the open tome and the inkwell.

The man drags himself away from the desk, scratching at his neck and yawning widely. His jaw pops with the stretch and he winces at the stab of pain it results in. After locking the door Malcolm begins undressing, taking off his light overcoat and folding it to rest atop the quilt at the foot of his bed. He repeats the process for his shirt and pants, running his hands over the high quality fabric and sighing sadly at the snags from brambles and caked on mud. He digs the coin purse out of the folds of the stacked clothes and pours out what remains of his coin. Two gold, a silver, and five copper stare back at him. With a sigh Malcolm returns them to their pouch and hides it amidst his clothes once again. He flops down onto the bed and worms his way beneath the covers and stares at the ceiling.

In this room in an inn in a town he has never been to before, fire burning contently opposite him, Malcolm’s mind drifts back to his family’s home. He wonders who will take it over now, with cousins married off to other lords and ladies scattered across the country. The staff who work there will probably leave, most of them loyal to his family but not loyal enough to keep the house functioning with no one to pay them. Though he does not know what was in his parents’ wills, if his mother left him the house or his father his share of the cartography business he helped finance or they had any contingency plans put in place in the event of the family’s untimely extermination. Malcolm chokes back a sob at the grim thought and rolls onto his side. He stares into the fire and listens to the crackling of wood, the shuffling of drunken footsteps up the stairs, and the muffled shouts and promises as people leave for the night.

#writing #moo writes #original fiction

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