#and stalk them with a ferocity that's bordering on worrying

[ghcstao3]

Hi I know this is silly but what if soap and ghost had friendship bracelets and someone stole soaps and ghost who said he didn’t care about them (he never took his off) goes feral tracking it down for soap who was inconsolable because he lost something ghost trusted him with.

Have a lovely day

firstly!! apologies for getting to this so late. secondly!! not silly at all this is so cute

-

There’s nothing particular about the day other than the fact that Ghost’s first thought upon seeing Soap, is that the sergeant looks like shit.

His mohawk is unkempt in spite of the risks Soap already runs bordering the edge of what is considered regulation, and there’s bags under his eyes that tell Ghost he hasn’t slept, at the very least since the day prior.

Ghost waits too long for his liking for a moment available to pull him aside and sort out the matter. No matter the issue, a distracted sergeant isn’t ideal for carrying out their duties.

When Soap barely reacts to Ghost grabbing his arm, Ghost figures there must be something properly wrong.

“What’s going on with you?” Ghost asks, his voice kept low.

Heartbroken, Ghost thinks, is the right word to describe how he feels when Soap looks up at him with a deep exhaustion.

Soap only shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, LT. Just a bad day, s’all.”

Ghost huffs. “You and I both know that’s bullshit, Johnny.”

Soap sighs, shrugging off Ghost’s hold. He scrubs at his face with the heels of his palms, and while that might otherwise help to disperse some of his worry—Soap only seems to tense further.

“I know you said you don’t care, but…” Soap sighs again, his shoulder slumping as his arms fall back to his sides in defeat. “I lost the bracelet. Someone took it or somethin’ and it’s… it’s missing. I’m sorry, I—“

“Johnny,” Ghost cuts in, “you don’t have to apologize. It happens.”

“Aye, but it’s still—“ Soap suddenly pauses and shakes his head, arms wrapping around himself. “I still feel bad.”

“You said someone took it?”

Soap’s eyes snap to Ghost’s, widening just momentarily as he processes the question. Slowly, though, he nods.

Ghost hums. That’s something he can certainly work with.

“Then don’t let it mess too much with your head,” Ghost says. “You’re not helpful to anyone like this.”

Soap’s brows drawn together, the pout on his lips pulling into a frown��but he doesn’t have the chance to get a word in, not before Ghost is patting his shoulder and stalking off with a new task in mind.

* * *

Guilt, Soap thinks, has always been an ugly emotion.

It’s not something he experiences often, and while this seems like something far too small to feel such anguish over—he can’t help but feel like the shittiest person in the world. He’d lost something Ghost had given to him, trusted him with, even if he had said he doesn’t care what Soap does with it.

It had been on top of his things when he went to shower. He knows it was, because it always is, but this time when he goes to get redress it’s gone. And he panics. He worries the rest of the day and doesn’t sleep trying to find it.

Then Ghost notices, Ghost finds out, and that guilt increases with ferocity. Even when Ghost seems so calm about it, so unbothered.

Soap’s feet drag throughout the day, even after his talk with Ghost. He tries to act like everything is fine, and can’t help but feel immense relief when he’s finally allowed to return to his room, about ready to collapse from exhaustion.

And there, sitting neatly on his bed, is the bracelet.

No note accompanies it, nor is there any sign of anyone having really been in his room beyond the bracelet, but it’s still there. It isn’t lost.

Though weary, Soap can’t help the small smile that appears on his face.

He supposes he should’ve known better than to think Ghost didn’t care.

[twilights-800-cats]

<< Allegiances || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || From the Beginning >>

Chapter 6

“But… why, Mothwing?” Feathertail asked, sorrow choking her mew.

Mothwing stared back, her amber eyes hazy. “I… I’m so sorry, Feathertail. It’s where I belong.”

Feathertail stared helplessly at Mothwing, feeling as if her heart was clawed to pieces. The murmur of the crowd around her meant nothing, their hazy faces flitting to and fro as the world spun beneath her paws. All that mattered to her was Mothwing.

“I thought you belonged with me?” Feathertail managed.

Mothwing’s eyes looked hurt. Some part of Feathertail felt satisfied by that, that Mothwing was finally realizing what she had done and how it was hurting Feathertail. But deep down she knew it wasn’t the right thing to say.

“I love you, Feathertail,” Mothwing whispered. “But… I belong in the medicine cat den. It’s what I want to do.”

“Even if it means leaving me behind?” Feathertail struggled to breathe, her chest tight with pain. “Forever?”

Mothwing trembled. “StarClan chose me.”

The moth’s wing sign was undeniable. Feathertail had been terrified it might come since Mudfur first began teaching Mothwing medicine cat ways, and some part of her had hoped it never would. StarClan, why?

“Mothwing!” called a voice. Falcontail appeared through the haze, his yellow eyes sharpening on Feathertail like claws. Feathertail felt too wretched to care about how the gray tabby looked at her. “Mudfur is calling for you.”

Mothwing blinked at Feathertail, her eyes full of emotion. Feathertail couldn’t look into them, not without feeling like something important was being torn from her body. She stared down at her paws instead, willing for anything to make the pain stop.

When she dared look up again, Mothwing was gone.

“It’s her path,” sneered Falcontail, leering down at Feathertail. His lip curled. “You were never meant to be together. If StarClan hadn’t called her… I would have seen to that.”

Feathertail watched him stalk away, wondering how she could feel any lower. She sank onto her belly and tucked her muzzle beneath her paws, drowning out a wail of sorrow and pain with the grass beneath her, until darkness swallowed her whole.

———————————————————-

Feathertail woke with a cry, her body searing with pain. She was lying on her side, the sunlight warming her pelt, and everything hurt. Hazily, Feathertail pushed away her nightmare and tried to recall what had happened.

We were caught in a storm, and… swept away, she figured. The water had been too powerful to fight, and then there was the cliff… The sound of water was still in her ears, but the storm was clearly over if the sunny, cloudless sky had anything to say about it.

Panic clutched Feathertail’s chest. We fell! She thought. She fought against the pain to sit herself up, her muscles sore and screaming. Feathertail tested each leg, finding that nothing seemed broken, just bruised. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she scanned her surroundings. Where are the others?

She was lying beside a calm pool of water, flooded over its banks with debris from the tree that had fallen with them during the storm. Feathertail could see the splintered remains of the trunk sticking up from the water.

The clearing here was rather open and circular, with one side bordered with tall cliffs. Feathertail winced as she realized how far they’d fallen – the flooded river they’d found cascaded down from those cliffs into the pool; a shimmering waterfall that filled the whole clearing with the sound of crashing water. She could spot a trail that they might have taken down here, had the storm not caught them.

Feathertail looked around the clearing, searching for the others. Oh StarClan, what will happen if one of us is dead? She recalled Stormfur’s limp body floating in the water and a flash of fear rocketed through her. Oh, don’t let him be dead!

But she had made it out alive – the others might have, too. She spotted her littermate’s sodden body beside a hunk of old bark. Feathertail stared at his flanks until she was sure she saw him draw breath. She sighed with relief. That’s one.

As soon as she’d spotted one, she seemed to find the others – Nightpaw wasn’t too far from Stormfur, and Shadepaw was a tail-length away from him. Mistyfoot lay on her side, water streaming from her pelt as she struggled to move. Crowpaw was a thin shape near Stoneheart, whose eyes were glazed with pain.

Feathertail forced herself to her paws, thanking StarClan that they were all alive at least. Her muscles protested, and she nearly buckled and fell. Groaning, she dragged herself over to Mistyfoot, nudging the ThunderClan she-cat until one deep blue eye opened.

“Are you hurt?” Feathertail demanded.

Mistyfoot groaned. “I’m sore,” she reported, after a moment. “I’ll live.”

Relief filled Feathertail, chasing some of her own pain away. She padded over to Stormfur next, lapping at her littermate’s ear until he woke and coughed up a mouthful of water.

“I’ll taste that for a half-moon,” he complained, his voice thin.

Feathertail purred with relief. She made her way over to Nightpaw and Shadepaw, who were helping one another to their paws. Shadepaw winced as she put weight on one of her legs, but decided confidently, “Just a twist, it’ll be okay.”

That left Stoneheart and Crowpaw. Feathertail trotted across the sodden clearing, stumbling over the pain in her own limbs. StarClan above, are we all okay? What luck!

Crowpaw was staring at the sky, as if it had betrayed him, breathing roughly. Feathertail looked to Stoneheart, who was struggling to get to his paws. To her horror, Feathertail could see from here that his shoulder wound had reopened. Oh no; it looks worse than before!

“Shadepaw!” Feathertail cried. “Shadepaw, Stoneheart’s wound!”

Shadepaw limped over as quickly as she could. Feathertail’s worried words had roused the others enough to push past their own pains and stand, all eyes turned to Stoneheart.

“It’s open again,” Shadepaw reported with a heavy sigh. “And with all that dirt and water…” The apprentice turned her eyes to the others. “If we don’t find something to treat it with, infection is imminent.”

“I can hardly move it,” Stoneheart complained. He tried to get up, but failed, groaning in pain and frustration.

“Then don’t!” Feathertail insisted.

Shadepaw nodded in agreement. “I think something’s cut it even deeper, Stoneheart,” she meowed sadly. “Right to your muscle.”

Mistyfoot padded forward, eyes filled with worry for her littermate. “Can he walk?” she asked.

Shadepaw frowned. “He shouldn’t,” she meowed. “We can’t risk the damage getting any worse, or he might not be able to use that leg again.”

“Great!” Crowpaw growled. His wet fur was slicked to his sides still, but Feathertail imagined the lean tom bristling with indignation. “Just our luck! Stuck in this desolate place, with no prey, no medicine, no shelter…”

“Quiet,” Stormfur growled.

“He’s right,” Nightpaw murmured, padding up to Stoneheart. “This has been a disaster – we should turn back.”

Feathertail frowned, worry blooming in her. If Nightpaw thought things were bad… “Crowpaw, that’s not fair,” she insisted. The last thing the group needed was Crowpaw sowing seeds of doubt. It’s not our fault the storm came! Why can’t you just be grateful that we’re all okay? “That storm formed so quickly, no cat could’ve prepared for it!”

“We have no idea where we are!” Crowpaw went on. “Who knows what’ll come after us if we wait for nightfall to figure it out? None of us have the strength to--”

Stormfur’s amber eyes blazed. “I said quiet!”

The group quieted, all eyes turning to Stormfur. The big gray tom was staring - not at the journeying cats, but at the clearing around them. Feathertail, confused, followed his gaze, peering into the scrubby bushes and stones. What’s he looking at?

Something shifted.

Feathertail started, her heart beating in her ears. What was that?!

She wasn’t the only one to see it. Immediately the group huddled together, claws unsheathed. They surrounded Stoneheart, who could only groan in protest at being protected. Feathertail fluffed out her fur, glaring into the shadows for any sign of movement, her claws scraping against the stones.

I might hurt from ears to tail but I have enough strength to protect the others! She thought fiercely. I won’t let anyone hurt my friends!

There! A shape detached itself from one of the boulders, coming into the sunlight with bright eyes. Feathertail drew in a breath, her ferocity fading into confusion. “It’s… a cat,” she murmured.

After the first came another, and another. All three were small, lean-bodied cats, their stride long and confident over the stony ground. Feathertail noted the oddness of their gait and realized that it was because their back legs somehow seemed longer than their front. How does such a thing happen?

The cats stopped a tail-length away, seeming unconcerned by the hostility of the intruders. One stepped forward – a she-cat, her tabby pelt mottled with… was that mud? Feathertail blinked in surprise. These cats are covered in mud!

“Who are you?” the she-cat asked mildly.

Feathertail glanced at the others. What would they say? What could they say? No matter what, though, they had to avoid a fight – none of them were in any condition for that, especially not Stoneheart. Eventually it was Stormfur who stepped forward.

His size seemed to intimidate the smaller she-cat – she stepped back with wide eyes as he approached. “I’m Stormfur,” he meowed. “These are my companions – Feathertail, my littermate, Shadepaw, Nightpaw, Mistyfoot, Stoneheart, and Crowpaw.”

The three strange cats blinked at one another, and then back at Stormfur. They said nothing. Feathertail frowned. Can they even understand us?

“We come in peace,” Mistyfoot assured, stepping forward beside Stormfur. Feathertail couldn’t help but note just how their pelts brushed. “We were swept away by the storm.”

“The storm…” the she-cat repeated it. Something in the strange cat’s eyes flashed. Feathertail felt a twinge of unease as the she-cat took a step closer and bowed her head. “I am Brook Where Small Fish Swim, but you may call me Brook – come. You have wounded, and we can tend him.”

So they do understand! Feathertail felt her stomach flutter with relief.

“Should we?” Nightpaw asked.

The group looked back at Stoneheart. The gray tom had struggled to his paws, but couldn’t stand without leaning on Shadepaw’s shoulder. Mistyfoot took her place immediately – the younger cat couldn’t bear Stoneheart’s weight long.

“I don’t see we have any choice,” Shadepaw hissed. “I have no idea what the plants up here do. If they can help… Stoneheart needs it. Now.”

“I don’t like this,” Crowpaw growled, his tail dry enough to bristle. “Who are these cats?”

“We are the Tribe of Rushing Water,” Brook meowed cordially.

Feathertail blinked at the small tabby in confusion. Did she not understand the meaning of privacy?

Brook seemed unfazed by the looks she was getting for butting in. She nodded at Stoneheart. “You are badly wounded,” she pointed out. “The storm carried you here. Let us help you.”

“We don’t have much choice,” Stormfur sighed. “Lead on.”

“How far is your… Tribe?” Feathertail asked.

Brook’s tail flicked towards the waterfall. “In the cave behind the Rushing Water,” she explained. “Not far at all. Come.”

Feathertail pressed herself against Stoneheart’s other side as she and Mistyfoot helped him stand. Brook and Stormfur led the way up a small stony path that ran alongside the cliff and disappeared behind the waterfall. The other two Tribe cats took up the rear, flanking Nightpaw and Crowpaw without much care for the way Crowpaw was glowering at them.

The roar of water grew louder and louder, the spray misting the cat’s pelts. Brook waited for them at the mouth of a large split in the cliff side, the inside of which was shrouded in darkness.

“You walk the Path of Rushing Water, forsaken by the storm,” Brook meowed as they approached the mouth of the cave. Her amber eyes rested on Stormfur. “Do not worry – you will be safe here. The Tribe of Rushing Water welcomes you.”

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Ceaseless Discharge

In which Cassandra gets stung by a monster. Also there’s quality Cass and Eugene brother-sister content in here 👌👌

Word count: 6414

TW: Blood, vomit

———————

A crunch echoes in the darkness. Cassandra freezes in her cot. The moon is full, but the night is overcast, so she strained to see in the darkness when she sat up. A small cluster of bushes lined the clearing she was sleeping in, along with gnarled old trees that cast needle-like shadows across the grass from the firelight.

When she listened, there are no bells or hoofsteps, so it can't be a carriage approaching. Besides, this doesn't sound like the clatter is wheels on a dirt path, but a rasping scrape over gravel.

Movement in one of the further bushes. The clouds part. A shaft of moonlight glints off something shining among the leaves and brambles.

It's nighttime. She’s the only one awake in the camp. She’s heard tales of a beast stalking the countryside: the Fen Lion. A ghost, a monster, a hoax, depending on who you ask. It'd make an awfully good story if she saw it. That was the plan of this excursion, anyway— The King wanted to rid the kingdom of the creature stirring terror, and Rapunzel’s answer to that was to find it and ask it nicely to leave, or at least settle down. Of course, that dragged Cassandra and Eugene into the “quest”, as well, which was why they were sleeping out in the middle of the woods in the first place. Rapunzel had said something about the creature possibly having answers to the Black Rocks, which was a horrible way to convince them to agree, yet here they were.

Cassandra stood up slowly. The dying fire only provided some visibility outside the perimeter of the camp, so she had to squint—not that it helped. She had to go check out the sound, though. It could be a threat or someone in trouble. Or maybe she was just really curious, plain and simple.

She liked to do things thoroughly, so she grabbed her sword and slunk out of the fire’s glow and into the woods. She made sure to keep low and in the shadows, hoping the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath her boots weren’t as loud as she was hearing them.

Silent as a ghost, Cassandra paused just at the edge of the brush where she swore she heard the rustling. If she listened very carefully, she could hear something breathing.

She wondered if it could hear her heartbeat, which seemed to thunder in her ears.

Instead, there is a whimper. And then, slowly, something poked out of the dense cluster of leaves. Cassandra’s breath catches.

It isn’t the Fen Lion, but it is a wolf. It’s yellow eyes seem to glow in the dark, but as it swings its head from side to side, looking up and down the road, Cassandra can’t help but think that it looks scared. The wolf just looks so sad. Her heart goes out to it.

She stepped a little closer. After hesitating for a moment, she extended her hand. The wolf sniffs it; it’s definitely a flesh-and-blood animal, not a ghost.

“What’s wrong?” She asked. “Can I do anything?”

She wasn’t actually expecting an answer, but it replied with a strange combination of yelps and rumbles. Suddenly, clicking fills the air, and it goes silent. It glances up and growls. Cassandra looks up, too.

Good news: She found the Fen Lion.

Bad news: She found the Fen Lion.

It was a lot bigger than she was expecting, as tall as the trees themselves, which made her wonder how it had taken them so long to find it. It was also a lot less lion and a lot more snake because it had a flat, serpent-like head and was covered in iridescent scales that glinted in the moonlight leaking down from the canopy of leaves overhead. A tail with a menacing barb at the end flicked back and forth in the dirt. Eyes a color Cassandra has never seen before narrowed and, suddenly, there’s a large paw pinning her to the ground.

Cassandra tried to yell, but had no choice but to shut her mouth when razor sharp claws pressed into her flesh. She clenched her jaw, feeling utterly helpless as the creature weighed her down.

The Fen Lion rotated its head like an owl would, which doesn’t sit well with Cassandra’s stomach. She squirmed again, but the talons press harder and she hisses in pain.

“What do you want?” She spat with as much ferocity as one could muster when pinned beneath a giant monster that could kill them with one swipe.

The Fen Lion tilted its head to the other side, then a giant frill opened up along its neck, bordering the skull like a mane.

Maybe that’s where the name came from, then...

Colors flowed through the scales like a waterfall- red, blue, green, purple, yellow, pink, orange, red again; Cassandra felt like she was being hypnotized. She struggled once more, but was halted when a sharp pain seared through her left side. She looked down and was horrified to find the creature’s stringer embedded in her flesh.

The Fen Lion tipped its head up and almost seemed to be smirking smugly at her. It made a series of clicking noises and wrenched the stringer to the side, causing Cassandra to whimper in pain. She began to worry if it was going to kill her or gore her with its tail, but then the tip pulled out with a small spurt of blood.

The Fen Lion lifted its claws from where they had Cassandra pinned and stepped back. Another animalistic smirk twisted on its snout until Cassandra can no longer see it when inky black spilled over the scales and camouflaged it with the night. She can only stare in shock at where it used to be and listen to its footsteps walk away.

There, Cassandra lays until dawn. By then, the bleeding has stopped and she can see the wound clearly- it’s a tiny little thing, only around the size of her thumb, but had a mouth of red flames and drooled pus down her waist. At least, she thought it was pus. It did look a little too dark to be such a fluid, but it also wasn’t red, so it couldn’t be blood. When Owl flew down at her weak whistle, he took one sniff and reeled back in disgust.

“Great,” Cassandra grunted. She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt like they were made of ten ton lead. “This is just great...”

Owl hops onto one of her arms and peers into her tired eyes with a hoot. She glowered at him.

“No, I don’t need you to go get Rapunzel and Fancy Pants.”

Another hoot.

“No, I’m not going to tell them!”

Another, this time with more skepticism.

“God, why do I even try talking to you in a crisis situation?” Cassandra grumbled. “I’m fine. It can’t even be considered a cut.” She abruptly pushed herself up, sending colorful stars bursting across her vision. She blinked rapidly to fend them off from consuming her. “See?”

Owl gave her an unamused look. She shooed him away before standing up, at least finding that a little easier. But then she takes one step forward and nearly keels over again. The “I told you so” hoot from her avian companion doesn’t help, either.

It was going to be a miserable day.

———

They saw the creature on a cliff. It was perched on a pillar of rocks further in the distance, hunched over like a lurking vulture. When it noticed the group gawking at it, it sat back on its haunches and raised its long neck and large frill.

“Oh, look at that,” Eugene said. “I wonder if that’s why it’s called a ‘Fen Lion.’”

His voice sounded a million feet away in Cassandra’s ears. She wanted to focus on his words, on Rapunzel’s amazed comments, on Max’s breathing, but she couldn’t think about anything but the colorful eyes boring into her very soul and the hole festering in her side.

———

Monday.

It’s been two days since the run in with Fen Lion, and Cassandra has cleaned up her wound pretty well, yet she woke up feeling like she had a fever. She moaned softly and lifted a hand quaking with tremors to press against her forehead; it was quite warm, much to her dismay.

“Ugh...” She groaned. “Fuck this...”

After wallowing in bed for ten more minutes, she finally hauled herself out to put on her damned lady in waiting dress. Luckily, the exertion from doing so woke up her muscles, and the feverish feeling diminished into mere warmth behind her eyes once she splashed her face with some cold water.

Perhaps the day wouldn’t be so bad after all...

———

Tuesday.

Three days since the run in with the Fen Lion, and Cassandra’s fingernails feel like they’re shooting out of her fingers. They only stop hurting when she grates them against a solid surface. Rapunzel deals with the sound it makes when she does so while cleaning her room until she can’t anymore and politely asks her to stop. Cassandra obeys and stops.

Twenty minutes later, Cassandra starts again without even realizing it.

Rapunzel doesn’t say anything this time.

———

Wednesday.

Four days since the run in with the Fen Lion, and Cassandra feels itchy and achy all over. First, it starts at the site of the injury and she accidentally makes it bleed when she rips off the bandages and scratches desperately, then it spreads to other parts of her body until it feels like she had rolled in poison ivy.

“Uhh... Cass?” Rapunzel said at dinner.

“Yeah?” Cassandra replied.

“Are you okay?”

Cassandra blinked at her. She lowered her hand from where it had been itching her neck for at least five minutes straight. The marks it made glowered a seething pink in the open air.

“Yeah.” She said again.

“Cassandra has fleas,” Eugene said helpfully.

“I do not have fleas.” Cassandra growled as she scratched behind one of her ears like an itchy dog.

She didn’t have fleas, but there was something under her skin, making its home in her body. She wanted to claw her flesh open and rip it out, and such a lust for that violent alternative scared her.

———

Thursday.

Five days since the run in with the Fen Lion, and Cassandra thinks she’s turning into it. Her insides are beginning to burn.

———

Friday.

Six days since the run in with the Fen Lion, and fangs are growing in over the teeth that are already there—flat teeth, human teeth. Those have to go.

Her joints ache from kneeling on the cold stone floor of her bedroom; even the thin cloth of her lady in waiting dress does not dispel the chill.

The scales don’t come in right, growing into her skin, itching and scratching. She rakes her long, hooked nails over her ribs until she rips her dress and draws blood and yellow pus.

New joints bristle beneath her flesh, as itchy as the scales.

There are bruises on her wrists and wasted biceps, purple and yellow. No fault of anybody- her skin has become so delicate that even the gentlest bump against a surface leaves a mark.

Fever chills, seizures, blood from her bitten tongue, staining her blankets and drying in a crusty mess on her face.

She bars the door to her room and tells a passing guard with the most human voice she could muster that she would not be turning up to work that day.

———

Saturday.

Seven days since the Fen Lion ran off to a new location, and Eugene was strolling the halls of the castle after third training with the guards. An oncoming storm caused them to end early, which was fine. That meant he could go see Rapunzel sooner than usual.

However, on the way there he finds Cassandra in a dark corridor that was lit only by the crackling torches thanks to the dark grey, nearly black clouds outside. She was clenching a basket of clothes she was supposed to wash, and leaning against the wall. Such a moment where she let her guard down was a strength for Eugene in their ongoing feud over who could insult the other the most, so he quickly slid into the opportunity at full force.

“Too weak to even carry some clothes, Cassandra?” He teased. “And here I thought you were strong! Here, let me.”

He took the basket of clothes without permission or waiting for a response, and found that it was way lighter than he expected. He internally laughed; this was too easy!

He opened his mouth to make another remark and essentially gain another point on his side, but stopped when he realized that Cassandra hadn’t snapped at him or yelled or even taken a swing. She showed no signs of annoyance or anger.

“Cassandra?” Eugene waved a hand in front of her face- no reaction. “Cass?”

Eugene set the basket down and leaned over. Cassandra’s cheeks have an odd color tinting them. He also notices her eyes are kind of glassy and she’s…hot. Like, fever hot. He bends closer and sets his hands on the girl’s shoulders to steady her, and he can feel her shaking slightly. She opens her mouth and pants like a tired animal, and her teeth look really sharp. Glinting.

Cassandra reached out and gripped his arms for some kind of grounding, and her nails start tearing his sleeves. But that isn’t normal, is it? No, because she has claws and there’s a tiny hole with black, root-like veins in her side that Eugene can see when her shirt lifts up slightly.

“I think something is wrong with me,” Is what Cassandra whispered hoarsely right before she goes unconscious in his arms.

———

Saturday.

Seven days since the run in with the Fen Lion- since the Fen Lion ran off to a new location— since the Fen Lion stung its prey, and there’s an unconscious girl in Eugene’s bed and claw marks on his neck and back.

The rumbling, fire breathing sky is pouring out rain, and the wind was howling as if the kingdom was falling beneath its elemental talons. Raindrops that had to be as big as oranges pattered against Eugene’s bedroom windows loudly, making him worry that they may break, but he quickly turned his attention to the bigger issue at hand.

Cassandra is struggling to stay awake. She’s breathing harshly and blinking her eyes rapidly, fighting to keep away black spots from her vision—or maybe it was to keep back tears. Eugene would have teased her for the latter option if it weren’t for the intense worry he was feeling. Cassandra looked like death itself. Her skin was paler than usual, except for her cheeks, which were dark red from fever. Her face was soaked in sweat, plastering tendrils of damp black hair to her forehead. Not to mention the obvious claws and fangs and seemingly-infected hole in her side.

“Cassandra, can you hear me?” Eugene called out. He sat down on the side of the bed, carefully brushed back her sweaty bangs, and placed a wet cloth on her forehead. Doing so elicits a small noise of relief through grinding breaths and feeble whimpers. “What happened to you?”

“F-Fen Lion,” Cassandra panted. Her eyelids flutter shut for a moment, but she forces them back open. “It-it stung me. During th-the night.”

Eugene grimaced. He wouldn’t say he was surprised, though; hiding a possibly-venomous and fatal wound was very in character for Cassandra.

“Geez, Cass...” Eugene muttered. “I should get the doctor and Rapunz-”

“No—” Cassandra reached out and grabbed Eugene by the sleeve. “I-I d-didn’t just let you c-carry me here for y-you to blow it.” It was impossible to see her as threatening when she was like this and her voice was shaking so badly her words could barely be discerned. Eugene gently eased her back into a lying position, but she kept talking. “Y-you can’t—you can’t—” Her eyes become very cloudy. Eugene quickly swipes up the rag, which had fallen off, and dabs Cassandra’s hot face with it.

“Easy, Cass,” He murmured. “Breathe.”

“You can’t tell anyone.” Cassandra finally forced out. “P-please. You c-can’t.”

Eugene went to argue, but then he saw the look in Cassandra’s eyes and broke. He looked away in defeat.

“Geez, don’t give me those eyes—” He sighed. “Okay. Fine. I won’t.”

Cassandra manages a weak, thin smile.

“Thank you.”

Moments later, she blacks out from exhaustion. Eugene tucks her back under the blankets, places the rag on her forehead again, then goes to see Rapunzel. He keeps his word, however, and tells her that Cassandra went on a last minute excursion with a battalion of guards that were short handed. It would take her a few days to get back, he said.

Rapunzel buys it.

———

Sunday.

Nine days since the Fen Lion ordeal, and now sometime after midnight. Cassandra is asleep in Eugene’s bed as Eugene sits by a lantern and sharpens a sword. He couldn’t help but constantly glance over at the girl he was harboring in worry, which nobody could blame him for. Especially when she began to writhe and whimper.

“Cass?” Eugene put his tools down instantly and went to the bedside.

Cassandra rolled over and stared up at Eugene with eyes he’s never seen the color of before. They looked almost like a mix between silver, red, and blue, and were filled with tears that Cassandra didn’t have the energy to hold back.

“S-something is wrong,” She croaked.

Something was wrong, Eugene knew, and not because of the illness. He, too, could hear the subtle cracks and pops of Cassandra’s bones.

The wings came first.

They started out as little bumps that Eugene saw bulging underneath Cassandra’s shirt, but then they grew out and out and out until the shirt ripped and the skin ripped and they burst free with a splattering of blood.

Cassandra was now rocking back and forth on her knees and elbows as the wings awkwardly flapped on her back, heavy from all the fluids and cocoons of flesh swaddling them. She made a pained noise no human could make, and scales began to devour her skin. Each part of her they tough gets reformed- muscles twisting and turning, tendons reconnecting, bones snapping like twigs and reshaping entirely. It was all too much for her. She lost herself to the pain.

—

Eugene clawed wildly at his face when his friend’s blood splattered into his eyes. He rubbed vigorously, trying to watch and see and monitor what was going on, but he was momentarily blinded. All he could do was listen to the cracks of bone and tear of flesh and squelch of blood and sobs of pain, and maybe even thank whatever deity that he couldn’t see.

Eventually, the noises died down, replaced by rustling and low, very nonhuman sounds. Eugene opened his eyes and stared at the creature on his bed.

It was...small. Small for a monster, at least. It had to be only slightly larger than Max and could comfortably fit in his room. Firelight glimmered against raven black and navy blue scales. Mahogany and amber speckled the folded mane of frills around the neck. The eyes were the same indescribable color from before.

“Cass?” Eugene called out cautiously.

It- the thing- Cassandra looked at him and blinked. Then, she looked at her talons and screeched. She scrambled off the bed in a panic, tripping over her own tail in the process, and smashing into the wall. Watching her stagger around and then writhe on her back with her legs flailing awkwardly in the air genuinely made Eugene laugh- he couldn’t help it! As worrying as it was to see his friend and little sister figure turn into a giant (well, moderately sized) monster, this was priceless.

And then a guard knocked on the door and ruined it all.

“What’s going on in there?” The voice demanded.

“Uhh— Nothing!” Eugene called out. He frantically tries to shut up Cassandra, but she was too caught up in her monster panic attack.

“Open this door!” The guard ordered.

Eugene obeyed, but just opened it enough to where he could just peek his head out. He attempted to reason with the guard, but the man stormed inside with his weapon drawn to find...nothing. Nothing but a trashed room, of course.

“I told you!” Eugene said after a moment of bafflement.

“What happened here?” The guard asked.

“I was training. And it got a little out of hand.” Eugene answered.

The guard looked at him like he was crazy and then sidled out without another word. Eugene quickly closed the door, locked it, then turned around frantically. In the corner, he saw a shimmer and, suddenly, Cassandra appears in a mishmash of pale green and purple scales.

“Neat trick.” Eugene commented.

Cassandra can only reply in a chirp.

———

Monday.

One day since Cassandra has become a scaly, color-changing, draconic creature, and Eugene was taking her through the forest where the Fen Lion had been, hoping to find some way to reverse the effects of being stung.

When they arrived at the spot where Cassandra’s blood was dried in the grass, Cassandra tipped her snout up and sniffed the air. Then, she clicked at Eugene and tossed her head towards her back. For a moment, the man is very confused.

“Do...you want me to get on?” He asked, slightly unsure.

Cassandra clicked again, so Eugene straddled her back as if she were a horse and not a beast that could kill him with one swing of her deadly claws if she wanted to. Before he could ask what this was about or even get a proper grip on her scales, the creature catapulted forward, nearly launching her friend off of her back.

Headed straight for a cliff side where the Fen Lion was last spotted, which dropped into another section of the woods below them, Eugene began to question Cassandra’s sanity, even if she had wings (which she didn’t know how to use just yet); however, she leapt at the last moment, although that still didn’t make this first time dragon-riding any less traumatizing.

Eugene gripped onto Cassandra’s neck with the tightness of a drowning man clutching onto the edge of a boat, and the quake that jostled through both their bodies assured him that they had landed on something. But Cassandra’s mobility did not last for long, for within the next moment, they were again airborne for another fleeting instant of terror. It seemed that, as Cassandra’s animal senses had been heightened, she could detect a grove better and far more secretive than she could have ever discovered as a human. And, Eugene had to admit, she did seem more agile and able within this state.

“I think you’re getting too comfortable in that body,” He had said mere hours ago. It seemed as fitting now as it did when he had first said it- after he woke up that morning to Cassandra relaxing in a ball in the corner of his room. But now, after being like this for just ten or so hours, her harmony with the body of the monster seemed complete, almost natural. Yet this time….this time things were different.

The jerk of the next landing sent Eugene’s thoughts and upcoming worried internal monologue flapping away with the rustling leaves Cassandra had disturbed upon her fall. Eugene looked about and saw an archway made of bark, where two branches of different trees had reached together and woven around the other. It was a magnificent sight, for the trees around them were of some mysterious species that he had never seen the like of before. Boughs twisting elegantly about themselves, and their roots jutting up and out of the ground to curl around those near. Their green leaves, shaped as majestic crowns, whistled in the gentle winds. Above, the trees sprang into a canopy, as if shielding its very existence from the outside woodland world.

“How did you find this place?” Asked Eugene, impressed with the girl (could she even be referred as such?), yet rather worried.

No chirp or growl replied. Instead, Cassandra moved onward, totally aware of all her surroundings- but was she aware of her own mind?

Indeed, Cassandra struggled, trying hard to concentrate as she propelled herself forward. She could feel her human consciousness slipping farther away with every step she took. If she could not soon learn how to muzzle the inner animal and be the alpha out of the two of them, she feared she would lose her sanity forever.

But when there came a faint odor upon the air, her mind fogged, and her last effort in fighting back the thoughts of the monster failed.

All at once Cassandra reared, and Eugene was thrown to the ground. Brown tumbled before his eyes, and he tossed back his bangs to watch in horror as Cassandra excitedly sniffed at the air, burnt orange and scarlet flickering through her silver and dark blue scales like fiery embers. Drool began to pour out of her mouth. He could see one of her eyes at his angle, and what reached out from Cassandra’s colored socket frightened him: an insane gaze of hunger, licking at the air it smelled.

He pushed back the fear, gaining his footing on the ground of the hidden forest. Slowly, he approached Cassandra.

“What do you smell?” He tried, hoping that his voice would force his friend’s senses to return to her.

But her reply came in an angry growl, and though every bone, muscle, and nerve within Eugene screamed for him to back away...he moved closer.

“Cassandra...it’s me. Eugene. You’re okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

And for a moment, the true eyes of the monster seemed to flash with Eugene’s answer, but a savage darkness regained the creature quickly, and it sped off under the archway of the trees.

“No, Cassandra! Wait!” Eugene cried, racing after the girl.

There were so many winding paths, closed in by the density of the woods, and Eugene soon found himself becoming lost. It seemed that the wood was a labyrinth, narrowing in some tunnels, others ending abruptly by rows of trees. Yet there were still few pathways for any visitor to stray through; though, as Eugene soon discovered, some of the roads twisted about into areas he thought looked the same as other places he had already passed. This forest...it felt like a place where humans should never roam.

Just as he thought he had lost himself completely within the woodland maze, Eugene heard the trickling of rushing water. He guided himself along by his ears until he spotted, between a patch of trees, a spring which filtered lightly along two small waterways. Along the muddy bank were talon prints far too big for a regular animal. His companion wasn’t completely gone yet.

Eugene did not have time to pat himself on the back for solving his missing dragon problem, however. He needed to find out what had happened to Cassandra- both with her being what she was now and what just happened. He doubted that the confusion of this place had bothered her ability to navigate, for it was in an animal’s nature to be able to sniff their way out of any dangerous circumstance. Yet, what was it that Cassandra had smelled on the air? Eugene could detect no odor other than the scent of the rain sticking to the leaves and bark in the cold morning air. Although, he had nowhere near the amount of olfactory cells she had, so it was no wonder he didn’t catch onto what she noticed.

Eugene no longer had to rely on his muddy path when he heard a shuffling noise coming from further ahead. In an upcoming clearing, the fire orange and caramel brown and ocean blue dragon was hunched over some object. Eugene approached slowly as to not startle her, but when he came to Cassandra, he was the one who was horrified.

Cassandra crouched over long dead travelers, the smell of their clothes and hair and flesh a putrid perfume. Eugene nearly vomited but he composed himself within an instant. What exactly did Cassandra think she was doing? Her jaws ripped at the leather armor and garments covering one ancient man, the rotting flesh exposed to the cooling rain that continued to drench their bodies.

“Do you know what you’re doing? Don’t you dare!” Eugene yelled, running up to her.

Cassandra turned and, lowered on her haunches, growled insanely at his figure. She rattled her stinger on some rocks as a warning not to come any closer. Deep red bubbled through her scales, and Eugene halted mid-step and backed away only a few paces. His friend had truly become deranged, he could see.

“Stop that right now! You’re not like this! This isn’t you!”

Cassandra ignored his presence and dug her maw back into the decayed flesh. She tore at all her teeth could reach, feasting upon the dead victim with a passion that scared Eugene. How would he ever….

“Cassandra, do you understand what you’re doing? You have to stop right now. If you don’t, you’ll just be another monster, just like the thing that made you into this.”

Eugene didn’t mean for his words to come out like shards of glass, but maybe the harshness of his tone would make Cassandra realize what exactly she was scarfing down and bring back her human mind.

It didn’t.

No, instead, Cassandra snarled like a wild dog with rabies. She flexed her claws in the dirt before rising up on her hind legs to her full height, easily towering over Eugene. She spread her wings and flared her ruff, letting dark red billow through her scales. Even in the dull, grey lighting of the rainstorm, her eyes still glinted with the ferocity and hunger of a feral beast.

For a long moment Eugene wondered who he was even looking at anymore. Was that Cassandra? Or was it the creature? Had she lost herself to the beast within? It seemed that way, with her claws primed for blood and her jaws dripping with gore.

And yet? He held out his hand. He held back a flinch as blood dripped to his fingers and palm, held tight to the ridges on her back with the other arm as red smeared up across the scales. He held her face, held his breath, and held tight to all the courage he could muster.

The beast he was clinging onto let out a long, guttural snarl that vibrates Eugene’s rib cage as he’s pressed against the thing’s softer underbelly. Hooked, barbed black claws raise up and hover mere inches away from his back. He feels blood and drool and maybe some foam drip onto his head and run in gooey trails down the back of his neck.

The deadly talons flex, just barely tear the fabric of his shirt, and then fall down limply to the monster’s side.

Cassandra, and Eugene was sure now that it was still Cassandra, stooped down to press her head to his chest. Though mute in this form, he could see the grimace on her mouth and imagine the words she was longing to say.

“I’m sorry”

Eugene gently strokes one of his quivering hands over the top of Cassandra’s head. He murmurs to her softly and it doesn’t matter how softly he speaks because he knows she will always hear him soothing her.

For a long time, man and monster stay tangled in an embrace. Eventually, though, Cassandra pulls away so she can revert forms and be free from this animalistic insanity that shrouds her mind.

The transformation is forced and as painful as the first one that day, but it leaves behind more throbbing and burning in her exhausted muscles. She blinks away black spots and then shook her head, like she was trying to expel the remnants of her feral thoughts. Her horns and webbed frill remain in this form, along with her tail, which is tucked in between her legs like a scared dog’s. Ironically, she’s not trembling in the form with flesh and no clothing. Eugene immediately shut his eyes and put his cowl on her, buttoning and tying it securely, seeing Cassandra was a bit too out of it to do it herself or even be embarrassed over her nudity.

“Are you all right?” Eugene asked. The rain is beginning to lessen its brutality as it lashed against their bodies.

Cassandra did not respond. Instead, her face became rather pale, which was impressive given that she was already ghost white. More concerned than curious, Eugene raised a hand as if to draw her attention up to his eye level. However, in that moment, Cassandra buckled to the opposite side, a line of vomit splattering from her lips. She sank to her knees, clutching her stomach. As she rocked herself, Eugene placed a hand against her forehead.

“I’m not feeling that great,” Cassandra gurgled through cringing lips.

“You’re not kidding.” Eugene said, “Must have been...”

He stopped because Cassandra retched again, so she most likely didn’t want to be reminded of what exactly she had done in her feral state. It didn’t help that she was still wet with blood, gore, and goop from decayed human flesh. She vomits once more.

“I’m just gonna...sit here for a moment.” She panted.

“That’s alright.” Eugene assured her, rubbing her back and quickly pulling her messy hair out of the way. “It’s okay, Cass, it’s okay. Just get it out.”

She was trying. She was trying really hard but it came to a point where her body felt like it didn’t need to throw up anymore and was ready to start feeling normal again. But she wasn’t ready. She became so desperate to purge the human flesh from her stomach that she half-mutated one of her arms and shoved monstrous fingers down her throat just to make herself vomit again.

“Cassandra!”

Eugene grabbed both of her wrists, feeling one of them shift back to normal beneath his fingers. Cassandra is crying, struggling to breathe over an oncoming panic attack that’s taking over her mind, just like the inner monster had.

“It’s okay, Cass. It’s okay. It’s over now. Nobody is going to hurt you, I promise.”

Cassandra whimpered and shook her head as tears spilled over.

“Other people aren’t going to be the ones doing the hurting.”

Eugene stared at her in disbelief as she sobbed below him.

“It’s like I was hallucinating,” Cassandra started softly, “I couldn’t control myself anymore. I smelled meat and thought I saw something, so I went after it. Eugene, I was hunting them.”

Cassandra put her head in her hands and shook it miserably. Her frill droops and fades into a mix between deep blue and pale green- sadness and fear, if Eugene had to guess.

“Oh god, Eugene, I’m a monster. I’m no different than the other creatures!”

“Don’t say that.” Eugene said firmly, “You are not them.”

“I chased the people I saw,” Cassandra whispers hoarsely, “I chased them to the ends of this place and they ran from me. They were scared of me.”

“You won’t be like that.” Eugene assured her. “It’s alright. I promise.”

“No,” Cassandra croaked, shaking her head softly. “No, no it’s…s’not alright, is it? For you to be-”

“Cassandra, honey,” Eugene interrupted softly with a sigh.

Suddenly, there’s hands cupping either sides of her cheeks and she flinches, then waits for her neck to be snapped. It’s the fate she deserved. But, instead, her chin is lifted and she makes eye contact with Eugene kneeling in front of her.

“Whatever you’re going to say, save it.” He said. “There’s no use, because you’re not going to get rid of me.”

“But-“

“But nothing.” Eugene stopped her. “If you think you being infected with some dragon gene that turns you into a creature is going to be the defining factor that ends the dynamic we have going on, then you must be crazy AND too weak to hold a basket of clothes.”

That prompts the smallest laugh out of Cassandra. She sniffled and leaned forward, collapsing into Eugene’s arms. He practically pulled her into his lap, but she couldn’t really care. She was dying to be held after all that’s happened, and Eugene seemed happy to comply with that need.

“Plus,” Eugene went on. His fingers stroked delicately through Cassandra’s tangled hair. “Okay, actually, first- we seriously need to get your a proper hairbrush. What is with this bedhead style?”

“Shut up,” Cassandra growled. She quickly shut her mouth when she felt her monster rumble within her and she buried her face against Eugene’s chest, trembling again. The arms around her hold her even closer, more securely.

“Anyway,” Eugene continued. “It’d be a huge bummer if I couldn’t tell people my little sister was a dragon...hybrid...thing.”

“Your...sister?” Cassandra echoed. She peeked up at Eugene, but whipped her head right back down when she saw that stupid smirk on his face.

“What should I call you? You’re clearly more than a friend.” Eugene mused. “Just not in that way. No offense, but I would NEVER date you.” He paused. “What about platonic significant annoyance?”

Cassandra snorted against his chest. She could scales bristling back up along her shoulders, but she couldn’t bring herself to care at that moment.

“No, I- I like sister.” She said shyly.

“Sister it is, then...sis.”

“Don’t wear it out.”

Eugene shifts her in his arms, but doesn’t let go. She feels him press a kiss to the top of her head and her ears flame red.

“We’ll get through this, Cass. I promise.”

“I’m just- I’m so glad you’re okay,” Cassandra whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do if I-“

“It’s not going to happen,” Eugene answered definitely. “I’m okay and you’re going to be okay too, Cass. You’ll see.”

If it were anyone else speaking these words to her, Cassandra would have never believed them. But Eugene, with all his frustrating flaws, was different. And maybe, just maybe, one day Cassandra would be able to see herself the same way he saw her.

[englass]

The Hand That Feeds

Pairing(s): Joseph Seed & A Monster (???)

Warning(s): Blood, Dead Bodies, Suspence, Horror(?), Supernatural Elements.

Word Count: 5,961

A/N(s): This was originally supposed to be a Halloween fic, but I didn’t get it out in time and got caught up doing other stuff; so... I��m posting it now instead 😅Also! Happy Birthday @seedlingsinner !!!!! 🥳🎉🎂💖 I’m really sorry I didn’t write anything for you, but I hope this makes up for it, hun!! 😬💖💖💖💖💖

- - -

There is a crisp chill in the air, a teasing nip that plays between the trees in the early hours of the morning. The mountains shrouded by an ominous stillness, an aching anticipation that casts a withering glance over the flora, and pressurises the fauna into a tight silence. The autumn moon is unusually bright, a golden glow of cold warmth that beckons monsters from the shadows of towering trees. With painted grins and wisps of midnight, dancing to haunted tunes in the wind’s quiet breath, they writhe from below in a giddily, twisted greeting. 

Skittish deer tread with a hurried caution, eager and wary of the new danger that has sidled into the already tense County with salivating maws. Rabbits and foxes scurry urgently into their respective burrows, praying with flicking ears and twitching noses that they will be spared this night’s patrol. Grizzled bears of mighty stature and shortened tempers do not so much as huff into the chilling air, vanishing into the back of rocky dens with a respectful fear.

Even the Judges, rabid wolves fused and mangled by twisted drugs, nature’s noble guard turned traitorous war-machine, whimper and cower behind the bars of their cages. Their distant eyes are blown wide, torn ears pulled as flat as they can go against their heads in a pleading submission; looking like abused puppies waiting for the next beating.

Members of the resident cult which created the canid abominations look on with a perturbed curiosity, glancing to their peers in muted question. Even the prisoners housed in their own separate cells, getting what little rest they can while apprehensively awaiting their fateful turn at the infamous trails, grip the cool bars with sweaty palms and flickering gazes. One cult member clangs a metal pipe against one of the cages, snarling at the once fearsome canines to shut up.

They merely ignore them.

With a sudden bellow the wind wails, pained and ailed with a sound unlike any other chasing its current. The Judges tuck together tightly, bundling into corners with a flurry of frenzied whines and whimpers. Each huddling over the other in a vain attempt to distance themselves from the harrowed sound – distant and near, everywhere and nowhere – that swallows the County in a foreboding fever.

The wide and open plains of the valley, stretching for miles upon miles in a wide and grand gesture, shrinks in on itself; claustrophobic and vulnerable. The rivers and winding terrain of the Henbane bares no better. The water that weaves by with a joyful wave now slowing to a jolted crawl, hesitant to risk even the slightest brush against the darkened shore’s edges. Even the areas and creatures blessed by corruption, poisoned by a blissful chemical that ravages all it touches, pause in their homely madness to listen in on the warning cry with a fleeting lucidity.

Those still awake, soldiers and leaders on both fronts of the County’s civil war, also stop to listen in on the howl. Turning to the distance and their respective peers with tight expressions. Old superstitions, creeping like folkloric monsters, taking centre stage at the forefront of their whirring minds.

Yet, not all are concerned by such worries; their beliefs an impractical shield against the unknown, and the unholy that stalk its shade.

Although the local cult’s oldest founder may stand tall, rifle posed at his side as he scouts his given territory with a critical and cautious eye, and the youngest may tuck himself safely away within the walls of his rustic home with taboo comforts, the middle and ruling founder does neither. Fearless amongst the whispers that kiss across the trees, cold warnings foolishly unheeded, as he travels through the thick woodland with a cool resolve. A wheelbarrow covered by a stained and dirty tarp, filled with a caring offering, pushed steadily along in front of him; creaking over flimsy sticks and dying leaves. 

Other than his own steps and the subtle squeal of the wheelbarrow’s wheel, the silence hangs like a swinging body. The chilling atmosphere wound tight into a strangling hold that refuses to let up, only tightening the more you seek to escape it. Not that the prophet, Joseph, does so. Instead, he only walks deeper into the thicket. Gaze hardly wavering as blinking dashes of light turn and watch with open jaws, following with whispering breaths until he eventually comes to a small clearing. The moon’s golden shine a halo that bars the woodland’s shadows, holding them at bay.

It is a mere break in the tree line, nothing overly noteworthy about it; other than the turned over grass and what appears to be torn fabric abandoned near the centre. An odd shimmer, reflective of light touching liquid, faintly catches on the ruined blades of grass in speckled sparkles everytime the prophet moves even the slightest amount. Stains of an unknown colour painting the destroyed fabric in dark, but faded streaks. Splatterings reminiscent of a child flinging a drowning paintbrush on the remains of what might have been someone’s clothing; buttons pulled from their stitchings, and what looks to be some sort of a badge or branding now muddied and frayed with time.

Joseph does not attempt to make the latter out.

The charismatic leader, unaware of the tension that prowls the woodland just as menacingly as the monsters that inhabit it, comes to a stop just short of the centre of the clearing. His gem blue eyes staring blankly down at the shredded clothing before turning to the tarp-covered wheelbarrow; his hands relenting in his firm grip to fall at his sides, straightening himself. Ominously the moon casts a blinding glare across the preacher’s tinted glasses, blanketing his expression in an unreadable mask, as he reaches to grip the tarp and, with a flourish, yank it off and behind him.

There is a stuttered breeze, a shaky breath that rustles the leaves like a haunted windchime; ting-ing around the clearing like a ceremonial bell. The unseen occupants at the edges of the woodland, hidden behind and between the spindly trees that seem to stretch on forever, hissing a hungry appreciation at the meal that has been so graciously put on display before them. A silver service so grand and appetising that the saliva runs like a fetid stream; a banquet worthy of the darkest of creatures.

Three bodies, bent and blanched and broken, make their home in the bloodied wheelbarrow, a small bath of coagulated blood pooling at the base. Tough flesh and stiffened muscle the main course in this disturbing meal. The clothing, though now soiled and damp, still hugs what remains of the unfortunate souls that have become this night’s offering. The banner in which they fell under, be it Resistance or Eden’s Gate, bearing no deterrents while under judgement.

Joseph’s expression remains unchanged, unbothered by the deceased members of, not only the opposing Resistance but, of his own following. Two of the three that make up this crude dish found to be unworthy in their fickle devotion to the Project; and in turn to the love of the Father. It is a pity, truly, but such shaken resolves’ have no place within their community; their sins a disease that does nothing but spread the fear of doubt. Converts the worthy into instruments of slander and distrust. In their case, such a disease had only one cure. 

Yet, their departure is not a vain one. For although they were found to be unworthy in life their deaths do hold a semblance of worth in the nourishment their bodies may provide; a suitable meal for the unholy abomination that roams the County with a silent footfall. A consuming fury left in Its wrathful wake, devastating in Its own divinity, and monstrous in the horrowed tales that follow It in murmured tellings. A might and ferocity that is never seen, but only heard of. A legend that might not quite be a legend.

With a weighty exhale Joseph steps back, grass bending under foot with a distant sound; suffocated by the tension that lines the clearing and waits with a bated breath. Anticipation mounting as the shadows edge a little closer, jaws opening wider in crooked smiles as they gradually reach out from between the trees with raw-boned claws toward the slowly retreating preacher. Unassuming as their firefly eyes glow a misleading white between the creaking limbs of the living woodland; safe and beckoning. A tempting refuge to be found within the widely dilated, and giddily ravenous confines, of their eternal hunger. A special kind of purgatory for the lost and unwanted in this forsaken land.

If only he would step a little closer...

A sharp cry slashes through the County, tearing up the air with a brutal shriek that has its denizens – mortal and otherwise alike – pausing with stilted breaths. A high and wailed noise that has hunters spinning with raised guns and dancing eyes, animals cowering with frantic whines and thundering hearts, and the shadows that haughtily prowl these fiendish nights shrivelling in on themselves with drying maws and sharply constricting eye-lights. A paranoid worry urging the unknown into a testing submission.

There are bigger monsters than them in this County, after all.

Joseph stands by the border within the clearing, still and tense; just out of reach from the once greedy claws that were so eager to grab a hold of him. Swallowing thickly the preacher feels himself trembling, nerves vibrating rapidly as fear rushes through his bloodstream like a drug. His eyes planted across from him to watch as the shadows move and undulate, crawling away as a high pitched hiss drags across bark with lazy talons. Snapping twigs and crunching leaves a toll that has the creatures already here backing down with hanging heads and fleeing forms.

With his form trembling, fingers twitching from the chill that has taken him, Joseph steels himself. A quick inhale held as his hands loosen and then ball into tight fists, nails biting into his palm as he steadies himself; resolute. There is no need for him to be afraid after all. He has faith, and with it he knows that they will not hurt him. Despite how instinct may scream otherwise.

There is a deathly silence that has taken over. Blanketing the clearing with a spider’s web of pressure that is not so easily levied. Joseph watches as a silhouette, darker than the shadows that followed him here, begins to take shape between the trees. A hulking creature that makes neary a sound as It slowly comes closer. Stopping just before the moon’s luminescent glow can touch It, barely grazing through the shade that the towering trees see fit to veil It under. 

The shadows that have not quite left, hungry for the vicious slaughter that is no doubt about to take place, sway with a non-existent breeze. Antsy in this unexpected turn as time passes by like a dying man; agonisingly slow. 

Although the tension is high, the autumn air nippy, and ultimately with his life potentially on the line, Joseph smiles softly at the hidden creature. Head tilting curiously as he regards Its shielded form with a kind eye. Anxiety abandoned as he dons his given mantle, reaching out with a tender tone and parental patience as he gently starts to speak to It; a long time coming. 

“My child…” he murmurs with an edge of delirious awe, “you’re here. I must admit, I grew worried when you didn’t turn up the last time I was here. I feared the worst.” There is a heavy, but slow breath; a hiss of air as the creature shifts. Joseph knows It is watching him, and his smile gets a little wider. “Please,” he gestures loosely, carefully, “I know you must be hungry. There is no shame in what you must do, just as there is no shame in what I must do. There is no judgment between us, for it is all a part of God’s will, of his great and divine plan. And who am I to deny such a calling?

“So please, won’t you come and eat? Won’t you let me see you…?”

Another dragging hiss, low and gravelled, crawls across the clearing. A monster in itself as the night’s chill creeps a little closer, brushing bone as its caress slips past and under the skin in venturing touches. There is a subtle clicking layered under the serpentine sound. Intermingled between the throaty rumbles that claw to the surface when Its hiss is pitched too low, bordering too close to an actual growl; a warning without words.

For a fleeting second the preacher entertains the idea of walking up to It, coaxing It out of the darkness and into this fulfilling night with hands outstretched; open and accepting. Ideally it would be a beautiful and symbolic moment. A true exchange of understanding as he made a step toward saving this poor creature from Its damnation. However, the reality of such an action would be far more gruesome.

Joseph may be hopeful, a little naive when under the presence of his unwavering faith, but he is not a fool. A monster is still a monster, just like a sinner is still a sinner. It is all a matter of control. Of owning your sins and resisting the temptations that call to them with domineering appetites. It is about management and acceptance, pledging to be better than the sins that make a slave of you. At least, that is what Joseph tries to teach.

Instinct, in theory, is not all that dissimilar. With enough time and patience, the right incentives, even the most terrible of creatures can be tempered and made to heel. His older brother’s pet wolves are an example of that. Yet, natural instinct is still a very different beast to conscious sin. Such things are harder to correct and manage with a feral mind, after all.

Thankfully They are not as feral as others may first believe them to be.

There is another rumbling breath, heavy with a buried rattle, before the creature moves; slow and almost cautionary in Its approach. The moon’s ethereal touch gradually urging the creature into its warm glow, and finally into Joseph’s sight. His breath hitching at the ivory snout that emerges from the shadows that cling to It so lovingly. Possessive in their hold as their tendrils are pried away to reveal an open jaw with bared fangs and cleanly picked bone; Its eyes empty save for the sentient abyss that calls Its sockets home.

A menacing hand, clawed and gangly, slips through the darkened tree line and into the light. Gripping onto the nearest tree as if to pull Itself free, digging into the bark with a sudden splinter, as Its other hand tears across and into an opposing tree. Holding Itself up between the two of them with a guttural sound as Its skeletal head hangs to the side; bowed, but not submissive. 

The captured preacher watches as Its jaw opens a little more. A puff of cold air huffing from the chasm of Its maw, before Its claws loosen in their crushing hold on the trees; the creature’s hands languidly sliding down the scratched bark It has abused in order to rest on the grass beneath It. For a few tense seconds It holds there. Head turned to the side, still watching the prophet with voided sockets, before it moves again; stalking slow and low out into the clearing. Taking Its time as Its skinny, but large, body fully emerges from the surrounding forestry. Shadows desperately stretching as if to pull It back; to tempt It home into their fervid embrace. It ignores them. Non-existent eyes piercing through the pious fanatic that stands so bravenly before It. Creeping ever closer with a building swab of saliva drooling from between the gaps in Its bared teeth.

Its hands drag with every step, knuckles brushing the ground as Its claws curl into Its palm. A sway in Its prowl, skull rolling with Its smooth, but heavy movements. Unconcerned as It treads across tattered clothing, barely tilting Its head in acknowledgment, as Its quadrupedal form comes to a measured stop beside the prophet’s gift. Another puff of cold air once more bleeding between the gaps in Its teeth. 

From the original distance held between them, to nearly beside him, Joseph had forgotten just how large the creature was. Its head, ducked but no doubt looking up at him despite their lack of conventual eyes, comes up to about his chest. Its body tucked under Itself in a hunch that makes Its movement look unnatural. It’s appearance weak and feeble looking; submissive and uncomfortably awkward. It is a great deception that Its sedated pace only seems to strengthen.

The black quill-like feathers on the back of Its neck, iridescent like a magpie’s under the shifting glow of the moon, raise much like the heckles of a dog. Standing on end as they vibrate, shimmying to create a rustling sound. It mimics the shake of blowing leaves in windy weather, or even the threatening rattle of an angered snake’s tail, as Its head finally turns to regard the preacher head on; the chasm of Its nose as dark and absorbing as the sockets of Its empty eyes. 

With the same cautious and measured movements that brought It here, the creature raises a gangly hand. It brushes the side of the wheelbarrow, the side of Its boney limb sliding up against the metal, until Its hand reaches the rim; fingers flexing curiously when they are met with open air, before curling steadily over it. Using the wheelbarrow as leverage as It pulls Itself up onto Its hind legs. The wheelbarrow tipping just slightly under the weight, as It looms hauntingly over the preacher. Stepping closer until Its free hand comes to grab Joseph’s nearest wrist; Its thin hand taking up near enough all of his forearm, as It bends Its head down towards him. 

Despite the doubt that gnaws worriedly at him, poisonous and dangerous, Joseph does not move. Letting the creature hold his arm as Its cold skull presses into his shoulder, rubbing and nudging against him in an affectionate looking display. A strange move when compared to the monster that had stalked towards him so hungrily not mere minutes ago.

Admittedly, the prophet once more has the urge to touch the beguiling creature; to reach out to It with a loving embrace that promises the salvation that Joseph so desperately wants to give It. Yet, this sweet display is a trap that Joseph dare not be baited into. A devil's trick to test and judge him; just as he judges those he feeds to It. 

Unhurriedly the creature continues in Its presses, dipping lower to press higher; turning and pushing, sliding up under his chin– Joseph freezes, his heart skipping in its rhythmic beat as his throat tightens under a harsh swallow. Sweat beading down his face and into his beard, as Its mouth fits snugly around his neck. Moving closer until It cannot unhinge Its jaw any further. Teeth grazing tormentingly against Joseph’s jugular as It hisses frostily; stringy saliva dribbling onto Joseph’s shirt, dampening it coldly against the bare skin beneath. 

To his credit the preacher does not jolt, nor does he even make an attempt to escape the creature’s hold, despite how much fear and the instinct it adheres to tell him otherwise. Instead he allows It to breathe against him. Goosebumps pebbling his skin in response to the unnatural chill that bleeds from It; a dry bite of winter dread in the impassioned throws of a summer worry. All of Joseph’s restraint going into being as still and non-threatening as possible; submissive and pliable in the void of this creature’s lost eyes.

It’d be more than unfortunate to fall at such a momentous interaction, after all. To perish while his divinely given duty lay incomplete, and this unfortunate creature is left to remain eternally condemned. 

Besides, Joseph knows – just as surely as he knows the voice of his Lord – that their hold is not a malevolent one; only acting out as a warning and display to the dangers that such a monstrous form can inflict when pressed and tested. Reacting to the instincts that drive them in the name of self-preservation and survival; to the hunger that beckons them like a lustful siren on the shores of eldritch planes. Too tempting to ignore the allure, despite the frenzy that will blanket and consume them once they get a taste.

Yet, they do not succumb. Even as the foolish preacher mindlessly raises his hand to touch the chilled ivory of the creature’s skull – Its breath stopping to mimic the sudden stillness of the air around them; the wilderness frozen in a tense moment of paralysing alarm – It does not listen to the urges that surely compel It.

It merely stands, with Joseph in Its hold, as the shadows rear up among the trees with wide firefly eyes; pale lights warbling like the flame from a melting candle in the darkest of hours. Eager and famished and slobbering at the remains this creature among monsters will surely leave for them, these unknown vultures of the dark; unseen but forever lurking in the blood of cursed moralities and haunted existences. Horrors alive in the eyes of maddened minds.

The victims of such horrors however, do not appreciate their stalkers’ voyeurism; nor their displays of such corrosive loyalty (eternal as the void and just as consuming). 

There is a low rumble, a rise of something thick and tangibly raw; an emotion painted with threatening strokes and wounded lines. The creature’s feathers raising lazily with the sound, vibrating as they start to stand on end; their rustling getting louder and louder and quicker and quicker the higher they rise. The rumbling getting deeper and deeper along with them. A low base that begins to thump like a raging pulse through the earth and Its skull; Joseph’s own hand and arm quivering under the vibrations. The creature puffing heavily against the preacher’s exposed throat as if Wrath itself was the one upon him; breathing pure rage into his skin and around his neck. A noose fashioned by carnage and a trembling maw of teeth.

A noose that when dropped-

It snaps. Teeth scraping against each other – sharp like cutlery squealing against a plate – as It tears away. Barely catching the skin of Joseph’s neck as the creature throws Its head high, back arching as It shrieks around a strangled, weezing roar; cuttingly pained and excruciating. Claws nicking at Joseph’s arm as It pulls away from him, holding Its head tightly as It screams up at the heavens; bone screeching on bone as It grips and rips at skin that isn’t there. 

Shadows quickly falling silent as It turns Its wrath upon them, sockets blazing with a bitter hatred that defies understanding – a deep resentment that only It grasps and battles with; hidden demons thrashing recklessly beneath Its skin – as Its head lashes back and forth around the woodland that surrounds them. Screaming at all that lurk within the tangled limbs of the labyrinthian woodland. Hand suddenly striking out at the forgotten wheelbarrow, claws swiping savagely at the metal – blades squealing against pipes – as it is knocked to the ground; bodies tumbling onto the turned-over soil as the blood spills like a shattered bowl of sauce. 

All the while It shrieks. Volume gradually dying as It starts to slump from Its imposing height. Falling back onto Its hunches, curling into Itself like the feeble creature It pretends to be, with a sighing wheeze of a hiss; the sound tired, but layered above a throaty rumble. Another warning to the shadows that stand by like overzealous spectators. Hands returning to cradle Its skull, claws catching in the dip of Its sockets as It stares off daringly into the silenced night; at the audience that watches them with captured breaths. 

Their roar of applause is nothing more than a quiet whimper.

And the preacher does not fair much better.

Hesitantly, with a quaking hand, Joseph touches where their teeth had grazed. Fingers brushing weakly over the same space that the creature’s mouth had been not even a moment ago. Swallowing thickly as a shudder runs down his spine; the chill of their skull still lingering on his palm, the swift terror of their explosive outburst still coursing through his blood, the sheer anguish in their fractured scream still ringing in his ears; so pained and lost and scared… 

Like a child. A child unaccustomed to the brutality of their own emotions, ignorant to the dominance it can hold over even the most placid of souls; lashing out. Blinded by a lack of control – instinct taking over – until the rage fades into a hollowed chasm, filled with a ravaging regret and a damning despair.

A guilty conscious at play; even when there is nothing to feel guilty of.

Joseph understands, though. They are merely misunderstood. Lost within the clutches of this gluttonous curse, unable to escape its tangled coils despite how much they may struggle. Desperately in need of aid and righteous guidance in order to free themselves from this voracious disease; and Joseph can help them with that. He is the only one that can help them with that.

Yet, even so, the reality of such a close encounter, as sudden and aggressive as it was, leaves Joseph feeling uncharacteristically weak and fragile; disturbingly human. Once so untouchable, so sure and steadfast when stood upon his given pedestal; resolute when challenged by the non-believers and unflinching when creating examples out of the Judas' of their community, now left to tremble and face the adversary to his morality. Alone, once again, in a cruel and uncaring world; at the mercy of a wild society, ruled by monsters, fighting for their place within the highrises of the food-chain. A constant game and battle that his brother John knows better than most.

He pauses at that. Watching as the creature ducks away from him, retreating until It turns to slowly grip and lean over the abused wheelbarrow; snuffling suspiciously at the discarded bodies as It stains Its ivory snout in specks of brownish-red. Its random tantrum cast aside and forgiven, excused by the narrative that Joseph spins and weaves and convinces himself to believe in. His assumptions made fact under the weight of his conviction and justification. 

The thought of his brother however, of both his siblings and his followers – of his family – is a lingering one; as persistent and gripping as an emotion. He had never considered the possibility of things going awry; of him never returning to any of them again. So unwaveringly confident in the plans whispered to him, in the bright and sin-free future promised to him and his brothers. Joseph had never considered the torture his departure would surely cause them, the questions he would leave behind if that close encounter moments ago had ended differently.

After all, he never tells them of his late night wanderings; never tells them about the many exchanges he has under innocuous starlight. Just like he has never told them of his secret meetings with their biggest opposer. Of their time spent in silent comforts and comfortable silences, their once tense encounters turned soft and rueful under their mutual truce. His beloved Deputy, a beautiful and misguided soul for him and him alone to save. A sweet secret shared only between him and himself; their vulnerability his to protect, their honesty his to cherish, their soul his to love and possess; just as much as his is theirs.

They may not even realise it yet, may not see the grander picture at play, the interwoven future those small moments are creating for them, but it is there. It is as real as his congregation. As real as the night’s cold and disgruntled nip. As real as the creature appraising his gifted offering with an open jaw; a low clicking purring in Its throat like mumbled words. 

Joseph loves his brothers, dearly so, and without a doubt would do absolutely anything for them. However, it would seem that there are some secrets that are worth keeping. Despite the dangers that may come with them.

Joseph truly is a selfish man.

With a fresh hesitancy in his heart, his unfaltering faith giving leeway under his rattled confidence, the prophet takes a step forward. The crunch of grass and scuff of dirt unmistakably loud in the empty clearing; the wind nothing more than a ghostly breath.

The once eager audience, so hungry for the thrill that only a raw kill can bring, salivating over the temptation of such savagery and bloodshed, are nowhere in sight. Forced back into the deepest confines of a tormented mind. Suppressed by a shaking will desperate to hold on to at least a semblance of its true self. The instinctual compulsion that they invoke, that they are, temporarily silenced by their unwilling host; a cursed mortality haunted by demons that only It can see.

Languidly, not even acknowledging the approaching preacher, the creature reaches out to curl Its boney fingers around one of the dead cultist’s arms. Unhurriedly dragging it until the body is almost beneath them. Shifting to hunch over the body as drool begins to wet Its teeth, head lightly swinging as if looking from one spot to another; quietly deciding which part to start with first. Its head stills in the movement however once It notices the bare arm still in Its loosened hold, covered with religious tattoos and crudely branded scars.

There is a brief rumble, a deep purr misconstrued as a thoughtful hum, when Joseph comes to a halt beside the creature. The sound fading into an uneasy silence as the preacher grows apprehensive. The impulse to touch Them once more rearing its head with a newfound itch; a scratching want to try again. One that the prophet debates internally for nary a minute, before he makes his decision.

Cautiously, with residual fears speaking up with whispered warnings, Joseph places his hand upon the creature’s skull yet again; fingers trailing smoothly along the groves and indents to spread flat across Its ivory bone. The creature holds still at the touch; Its exposed jaw twitching ever so slightly as a familiar clicking sound starts up again. Too high pitched to merely come from the knocking of bared teeth against one another, and more on par with the rapid clicking of one's tongue. Although, oddly more guttural. As if it were an actual vocalisation and not a manufactured sound; a natural means of communication.

Gently the prophet’s digits curl against the bone, brushing it softly as he starts to straighten them. Repeating the motion to lightly scratch at the creature’s head like one might a beloved pet; a small display of affection and offered forgiveness.

With a few more clicks, tapped out between the fangs of an open maw, the creature’s head lowers; Joseph’s hand never breaking contact as he runs it up and through the creature’s iridescent plumage. Entranced by the shimmer in Its dark feathers between his fingers, as It slips Its jaws around the stiff arm in Its hold. Teeth pressing down, coming together until the bones begin to bend and struggle; gradually starting to splinter and snap under the pressure. A faint pink staining the pale bone of Its teeth as It tears through the rigid flesh; squished and stripped away as the creature starts to bite and pull and chew at the toughened muscle. Curiously gentle, despite Its earlier aggression. 

“That’s it,” Joseph praises quietly. “That’s it, my child. It’s okay. You are safe here, you are safe with me. There is nothing to fear, for you know I do not judge you. I would never judge you. I know you are merely misunderstood, that you are here for a reason. What that reason is, I do not know for certain. But, what I do know is that there is no shame in this. There is no shame to be found in this consumption. You are doing us a service, you are doing me a service, and that should be thanked and celebrated…” 

All the while Joseph strokes the creature. Hand petting and running through Their pretty feathers as the other comes up to bury itself beneath Their charcoal fur. Continuing to soothe the creature with silent words of praise, religious devotion, and the quiet hum of his favoured song. Watching with a passive smile as the creature starts to feast on his offering. On the corpses of those proven unworthy in the eyes of his Lord; dirty lambs from both his own family and the Resistance’s.

With the squelching of flesh and sharp crack of bone, guttural rumbles growling contently through the clearing, the self proclaimed Father glances to the side; gaze drawn to an unusual glimmer that he had not noticed before. Concealed by the torn scraps of clothing that rest like forgotten memories, not even a couple of steps away from him. Joseph had thought nothing much of the shredded material when he had first entered the area, paying it only a few lines of acknowledgment and nothing more; but now that his priority is accounted for and fed, the preacher finds himself paying it a bit more mind. And, interestingly enough, there is something about the clothing that sparks a feeling of recognition in him.

With his hands still affectionately petting at the creature, never pulling away, Joseph walks around Them to come closer to the ruined uniform; its olive green colouration blending in well with the turned-over grass and dirt. The origins of the unusual shine that had caught his eye finally becoming more noticeable and distinctive the closer he gets: a lone feather, dark as the abyss, but prismatic under the moon’s hallowed glow, innocently peeking out from underneath the dirtied fabric; its familiar shimmer bringing a soft frown to the preacher’s face the longer he looks at it. His hands falling away from the creature as he takes a tentative step towards the aged and shredded clothing.

It is then that Joseph notices a muddied name badge. Discoloured from the rest of the uniform, but still visible despite the fraying material and the stains that decorate it. The stitched lettering intact and surprisingly legible.

The preacher’s eyes go wide at the sight. Mouth opening slightly as he reads over the name on the badge. Quickly frowning before he turns to his monstrous companion, who is already looking at him. Instead of the shock that should strike him in that moment, the unbelievable and possible horror that should grip and keep him away from Them, Joseph instead walks towards Them. Hands arrogantly reaching out to take Their head into his palms. Fingers curling around Their lower jaw as he coaxes Them closer towards him; allowing the prophet to press his forehead against the bridge of Their snout.

The creature’s characteristic clicking starts up again, quietly and questioningly, at the action.

“My child, this truly is a day to be celebrated,” Joseph starts with a breathless quality. “To think that you would bless me with such a gift. That you would choose such a time as now to reveal yourself to me. To reveal your true self to me…” The prophet trails off with an airy chuckle, gently shaking his head; rubbing it absently against Their own. “I cannot quite believe it. My dear child, my sweet misunderstood creature…”

“My darling, darling Rook.”

[araneaes-order]

Angels We Have Heard Ch. 3

Last Herald-Mage Fanfic

Follow up to In the Bleak Mid-winter my “fix-it” rewrite of the canon ending. (’Cause, C’MON!!!) This is several months later, because no way these two aren’t gonna meet up again.

In the Bleak Mid-winter | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 |  Visit my master list

Word Count: ~2025

Rating: Mature for themes of suicide and substance abuse and stuff, I don’t know, I try to err on the side of caution, I think it’s fairly fluffy really

Tags: Canon mm, ^attempted suicide, ^substance abuse, comfort, mourning, singing

On AO3.

Chapter Synopsis: Van drags Stefen along on an excursion.

They had to cross the river to reach the temple, which meant crossing over the rickety bridge again. Vanyel fought the instinct to keep checking over his shoulder to make sure the Bard was following him and hadn’t disappeared into the darkness or a cloud of his poisonous smoke. He suspected it would be what drove the Bard to bolt, if he felt Van was hunting him.

He didn’t know for certain what ghost he’d seen when Van had walked into that fog of dreamerie—though he could guess, as if this wasn’t strange and complicated enough—but from the instant he’d caught sight of him the Bard had been tense as a wild thing lured from its den. Shy, untrusting, prickly.

It had stung when the Bard had pulled away from his touch, even though that sort of selfish concern should have been the last thing on his mind.

He could still feel the radiating darkness from the other side of their bond and it worried him so much because it was so familiar. And that vial he’d had, with its familiar smell—Vanyel’s blood still ran cold.

:Oh, Van.: He could feel the sorrow in her thoughts. Bad memories of dark days, not that he’d had the wit or opportunity to go hunting down argonel or anything else as potent. The river had almost worked. Then a blade when they hadn’t let the river take him.

The other side of this river, they were walking on brick and cobblestone again and even for so small a distance the air smelled fresher.

“You know your way around,” the Bard commented from behind him, with a blandness that spoke more of his suspicion than he might have meant it to.

Van flinched, because having found the Bard the implication had finally struck him. He’d been to Tithes, passing through often, back and forth to the Karse border and other places. He’d likely been through when the Bard had still been there, as a boy. For all he knew he’d been there the day he’d been taken, passing the men who’d taken him, wrapped up in the battle to the south, never knowing what was bleeding away from Valdemar to the north, never knowing what was happening to a child who should have had his protection.

Children. There was no way Stefen was the only one.

He knew the Bard was waiting for an answer, but he suspected the young man just felt hunted again, thinking that Van had been watching him, or had had someone else doing it.

“I’ve passed through this city before,” he said, trying not to let his own guilt weigh in his words, afraid the Bard would mistake it.

“Here?” he sounded surprised.

“On the way to Karse.”

“Ah. Didn’t know we were on the way,” he said musingly. “Not back then. The main road doesn’t pass through south of the river. Didn’t give much thought to what was going on north of it.”

There was no recrimination in his voice or in the emotions leaking from their bond.

The temple door was closed but not barred against the cool night air and they went in, after only a moment’s hesitation from the Bard.

He shrugged when Van glanced at him. “Never been on good terms with the temples,” he said.

Van just smiled and held the door for him. The Bard rolled his eyes and went in first but stopped behind the pews, letting Van lead again.

It was empty, but lit by a few dim oil lights and a row of white candles near the altar. It smelled of incense, sweet undercut by an ashy bitterness, and there was a precious stained-glass window, probably the gift of a wealthy patron. It was all darkness beyond it now, just a mosaic of black and deep gray and blue that sparkled in the lamplight and showed their grim reflections as they approached the front of the church.

Van absently offered his respect to the statues of the Lord and Lady that flanked the altar and looked around. There would usually be a basket—

“May I help you?” It could have seemed abrupt, but the woman, the young woman, sounded sincere in her welcome. She wore the robes of a priestess, and a sweet smile, as she walked out from a room to their right. Her gaze flicked past Van to the Bard and widened in surprise, her smile only deepening. “Oh! I know you. You sing at the corner by the vintner and you run around with all the little ones across the river.”

The Bard shifted uncomfortably, looking like he was about to bolt. Van stepped between them.

“We need candles—” He remembered himself and whipped his hat off, worrying it in his hands and hunching a little, embarrassed to be bothering someone like her in a place like this. “Please, mother.”

She turned that smile on him and he couldn’t deny it was dazzling, making him feel genuinely shamed for the pretense here. Valdir had never been on good terms with temples either.

“Of course. This way.” She gestured back towards the room she’d just stepped out of. Van could see a rough table and bench and a few baskets, some with dried and drying flowers, some with candles. “We have as many as you need.”

He demurred for a moment before he took the invitation and practically scampered to the nearest candle basket, taking out three.

“I don’t recognize you, my son.” Spoken by a woman who didn’t look much older than the Bard—or Jisa. “I’m Mother Caenis. Are you new to our city?”

He flashed her a small, shy smile and bowed his head. “Yes, mother. Just arrived.”

She turned her considering gaze back on the Bard. Seeming poised to say something, she hesitated, and when she spoke he could tell it wasn’t what she’d wanted to say. “Well, you’re lucky to have fallen into such good company. You could do much worse here. Be careful.”

He looked down, abashed—wondering what she’d meant.

“The candles are a penny each. A contribution to the church.”

He nodded quickly and reached for his money pouch. And froze, because he’d given all he’d had to that girl.

The Bard sighed heavily. “Not a copper to your name, yeah? And this all your idea.” Van flinched.

He thought the priestess did too. She touched his wrist. “It’s only a donation. We can always spare a few.”

He’d see a purse of gold delivered to her, or damn his soul for it, he swore, only feeling worse.

In the back of his head, Yfandes’ amusement seeped through.

“We don’t need the charity of the temple,” the Bard said shortly, snagging two more candles and holding out seven coppers. Van knew it wasn’t because he’d miscounted.

The priestess looked at him and bit her lip, not reaching for the money. “Actually—I’ve been wanting to talk to you. There’s a service you could render that would be dearer to the temple than a few coppers—”

The Bard dropped the candles and the money vanished in a clenched fist.

“Too ‘dear’ for me then.”

But now that she’d gone that far she seemed determined to finish. “Those children, the little ones who follow you, the ones you’ve been feeding and keeping out of trouble—”

She was talking to the empty air; the Bard had already turned on his heel and stalked out.

She took a few steps after him, reaching out towards the boy’s vanishing back before her hand fell and she turned to Van, wringing them. “Please. Please, do take the candles. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have. I just—” She looked at him earnestly, radiating distress. “Those children. I see what he does for them. What no one else does. I’ve proposed a school like the larger temples have—that my sisters and I should run one, I mean. We’d feed them, at least they’d get one meal a day as long as they came, maybe even two if we can manage it, and they’d learn to read and write, sums…”

“And the holy writ?”

He hadn’t meant anything by it but she turned suddenly fierce, though she was as ill-suited for ferocity as a kitten would have been.

“Do you think that would be wrong? To try to teach them about hope and love and charity when everything around them is ugly and cutthroat and darkness?”

He raised his hands, still holding his candles. “I’m not the one you have to convince,” he said quietly, and watched her deflate.

“No. No—and I’ve had no luck convincing the children themselves. Or their parents. I thought, the way they follow that young man… if he said something to some of them…” She picked up the two candles he’d dropped and handed them to Vanyel. “I don’t suppose—if you talked to him?” She sounded so hopeful he hated to dash it, but he couldn’t help scoffing at the very idea.

“Your pardon, mother. I have no sway with that one.”

She nodded as though she’d expected nothing more, then forced a smile. It was somewhat pained but still, there was something in it. “Anyway. Please take the candles, with the blessing of the church. And—extend my apologies that I…” She winced. “That I tried to make such a solemn rite into a moment for bargaining. It was just the first time I’ve been able to get close to him.”

He only nodded, understanding that better than he intended to let on.

He knew, despite the haste with which the boy had left the temple, that he hadn’t gone far, and the Bard was lucky for that, since if he hadn’t known already who it was who reached out of a darkened alley between two buildings and grabbed him, it could have gone very very badly for the younger man.

It might have been some awareness of that that had the Bard releasing him and stepping away as soon as Vanyel faced him, or it might just have been his general skittishness. Either way he didn’t acknowledge it, just nodded his head towards the candles. “I told you we didn’t need their charity.”

“She’ll be paid for them, in time. You could say I bought them on credit.”

The Bard snorted. “And you’ll pay with interest too, I wager? Good scam for her.” He fell in beside him and they headed back across the river, side by side now even if neither quite closed the distance between them. There weren’t too many people out in this part of town, at this time of night, mostly just guards on their rounds. They were eyed with suspicion but no one stopped them.

“It’s hardly a scam when she doesn’t know she’ll be paid back,” he pointed out.

“That kind always knows. They have a sense for it.”

“What ‘kind?’” Van asked, glancing at him.

He wrinkled his nose. “Those pious ones. All clasped hands and long-winded sermons about how its better to give than to receive and how the best ones to give to are themselves.”

He blinked. Granted, he hadn’t been scrutinizing her, but he hadn’t gotten that impression from the priestess at all. Just to check himself—

:’Fandes?:

A mental shrug. :Seemed fine to me? Your Bard’s a bit—:

:I know.:

“She just wants to help the children. I think,” he said slowly, giving the Bard a sideways glance. If he wanted to drop it Van would, rather than chase him off the way the priestess had. He didn’t doubt that if the Bard put it out that he didn’t want to be found the children wouldn’t give Van a second chance, ‘man from the song’ or not.

“Help? Sure. I know what help that lot is.” His mouth twisted bitterly.

“She said she wants to start a school. Teach the little ones from your side of the river to read and write and do sums. Give them a meal with the lessons.”

The Bard harrumphed and picked up his pace and Van sped up a bit and took the cue to stop talking.

Continued in Chapter 4

Or on AO3

[kissofmistletoe]

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