#fire... rocks... embers... his majesty's face in the sky...

[tekablade-chronicles-3]

Eat your heart out ! ... But don't mistake one for the other.

+ alt versions below cut

no archetype patterns ( i actually added them on a whim and it turned out to be a great decision, but they kinda hid the details )

and some messing around with colors and stuff

yes, the words ARE actual words ! i spent way too long writing them out by hand... metaphorunes are fun, but when you're trying to make them legible, it's quite tedious haha.

[kelyon]

Golden Cuffs Chapter 28: The Mirror

Check out my cover by @paradigmparadoxical!!

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

The Queens show Belle what they think of her.

Trigger warnings specific to this chapter include verbal abuse and insults, slapping, forced stripping, forced bathing, forced shaving, hair ripping, cuts, woman-on-woman misogyny, body criticism and general mean-spiritedness. Technically what happens in this chapter is more "sexual assault" than legally rape.

Read on AO3

From atop the dragon’s back, Belle could see Rumpelstiltskin’s castle shrinking in the distance. She couldn’t stop looking at her home as it grew farther away from her every moment. All too soon, the castle disappeared from sight and Belle had nothing to look at but the icy peaks of the mountains. 

Regina sat further up the dragon, by the long neck and above the powerful wings that held them all aloft. She rode astride Maleficent like she was riding a horse, her head held high, her back perfectly straight. She was the very image of a queen, powerful and fearless.  

Belle had been stowed near Maleficent’s tail like a piece of cargo loaded onto a wagon. As a dragon, Maleficent had twin ridges of spikes that grew up from between her wings and all the way down her spine. Belle was wedged longways between two ridges, lying on her stomach and looking at the night sky below her. The spikes were bladed like knives and only the heavy clothes Rumple had bundled her into protected her from injury as she lay helpless on the dragon’s body. 

The wools and furs protected her from the cold, from the winds that whipped around them as they flew. Before she left, Rumple had covered her in boots and mittens overcoats and underthings--layer after layer of clothing. Only her face was exposed, and even that was mostly covered by a fur hood and a woollen scarf. Snow lay on the ground, and icy winds blew all around them, but Belle stayed warm. She pressed her cheek to the dragon’s skin, and felt the fires burning inside.     

Every now and again, Maleficent breathed a streak of green fire across the night sky. By that light, and by the silvery light of the moon, Belle could see the landscape below her changing. Slowly, the jagged mountains became more gently sloped. Trees grew out of the snow, spindly things at first, that slowly became a forest of mighty oaks and pines. The trees were black in the shadowy night, somehow more threatening than the glimmering ice and rocks that surrounded Rumple’s castle. They were taking her farther away from him. 

Belle tried not to think about those last terrible moments in the castle, when Rumple had not only allowed these witches to take her, but had ordered her to go with them. He had looked so mournful as he gave the command. His eyes had betrayed his words for lies, but it had made no difference. He didn’t want this, Belle knew it, but it didn’t matter what he wanted, she had to obey what he said. 

He had ordered her to go with Regina and Maleficent. He had given her over to them. He knew she didn’t want to leave him. He knew what kind of evil these two were capable of. He hadn’t wanted to make her go.

But he had done it anyway.

Slow tears rolled down Belle’s cheeks, and the wind roughly blew them away. She looked down at the ground and tried to breathe. In the blackness of the forest, tiny orange dots sparked across the land like embers on a smoldering log. The dragon was crossing over populated areas now. Every one of those embers was itself a fire, a home where people were keeping warm against the winter night. There were thousands of them, laid across the land as far as Belle could see. 

“This is my kingdom,” Regina shouted back to her. “I hold the power of life and death over everyone here!”

Belle felt a wave of pity go through her, a deep sorrow for every man, woman, and child who called Regina their queen. A ruler was supposed to be good and kind, a protector against danger. From what Belle had seen of Regina, she was the danger from which innocent people needed to be protected. In every way but her appearance, the queen of this kingdom was the monster mothers warned their children to fear.  

It occurred to Belle that she should save her pity for herself. For the next three days Regina held the power of life and death over her, too.

“And that’s my palace!” she shouted again, pointing at a massive structure built on the shores of a lake. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

The palace was built like no castle Belle had ever seen. From the air, Belle could see no walls around the building, no keep in the center, no towers or battlements. It wasn’t even made of stone, but of great metal spires that stuck out into the air like a pincushion. The whole thing was silver and sleek and evil. Perhaps one could call it impressive, but all Belle saw was danger and ugliness and wasted expense. 

“It suits you!” she shouted up to the queen. 

Maleficent swooped around the palace in a slow circle before landing in a courtyard. The snow melted underneath her and the grass underneath the snow withered and burned. Servants and guards came out from the castle and rushed across the snow to their queen. 

With a practiced grace, Regina dismounted from her place at Maleficent’s neck and slid down the dragon’s body. She landed on her feet and gave a satisfied sigh. 

“I do love riding you, my dear.” She stroked Maleficent’s black scales.

Wanting to get to the ground as quickly as possible, Belle pulled herself up from her place between the spikes and jumped the short distance to the ground. She landed on her hands and knees. 

Regina laughed when she saw her. “Yes, just stay down there. Keep groveling the whole time and we won’t have any trouble!”

Belle got to her feet anyway, brushing the blackened grass off of her cloak. Behind them, Maleficent transformed again. Poison-green fire flared around the dragon and lavender smoke wafted off of woman as she joined the other two.

“I love flying,” she said with her eyes closed. Smoke rose up out of her mouth as she spoke. When she opened her eyes, they still glowed green. “We must find a way for us to fly together, my darling.”

“Yes,” Regina breathed heavily. She reached for the other woman and they embraced so tightly that light could not have passed between them. Each woman’s hands gripped tightly to the other’s body as their hips ground against each other and their lips snarled into kisses.

“Your Majesty!” 

A man called to Regina from across the courtyard. He looked like he was hurrying toward them as quickly as he could while still maintaining his dignity. An older man, he walked with the self-importance of a butler or a steward. The black and silver uniform he wore was more elaborate than that of the men tending the courtyard, but it was still livery that marked him as the queen’s servant. 

Rolling her eyes at being so rudely interrupted, Regina snapped at the man. “What?”

The servant hesitated before he spoke. He was a short man, Belle noticed, what hair he had was slowly graying from black to silver. Belle was surprised to see that he didn’t seem to be afraid of Regina. He stood up straight as he delivered his news. 

“While you were out, there was a message from King George. He says the prince--”

“I don’t care about princes,” Regina cut him off. “Will this message help me find my step-daughter?”

The old man frowned, but didn’t cower. “No, it’s about the prince’s engagement--”

“Then it can wait. I’m sick of hearing wedding announcements every other day. Everybody in this world is so gods-damned sickeningly happy.” Regina spat out the word.

Maleficent came to the queen’s side. She draped herself over Regina and nibbled on her earlobe as she crooned. “We can be happy too, my love. Even if our happiness looks different than other people’s.”

That seemed to placate Regina. She nodded to Maleficent and then turned to the servant. “Is the Mirror Room ready for another guest?”

“Always, Your Majesty. But--” he fell silent, looking at the ground. 

“Yes?” Regina said icily. “Do you have something to say?”

The old man looked at Regina. He didn’t seem to notice Belle. The sorrow and concern in his expression was meant for the queen and not her victims. “It’s the third time this month.”    

Regina sneered. “Well maybe this one will satisfy me!” She swept away from them all, storming off as the old man and the other servants hurried after her. 

Belle stayed with Maleficent in the courtyard for a moment, watching everyone depart. Then Maleficent gave an exasperated sigh and took Belle by the arm.

“Come along,” she pulled at her. “My beloved will meet us there.”

Belle scurried to keep up with Maleficent’s long and purposeful strides. “Do you always let her brush you off like that?”

“We have an arrangement,” the other woman said. “She is queen in her castle and I am queen in mine. Right now we’re doing what she wants, and that includes what we’re going to do to you.”

The halls inside the castle were cold, polished stone. As they passed, servants and courtiers alike gave them a wide berth. Most of them pointedly looked in the other direction, but a few--mostly women--shook their heads and looked at Belle with sympathetic horror. 

Belle swallowed down her fear. “The old man said you’ve done this before?”

“Lots of times.” 

“But it didn’t make her happy?”

Maleficent stopped in front of a door. It looked no more or less remarkable than any other door in this hallway. Her face was tired as she answered Belle: “Nothing keeps Regina happy for long.”

The queen was already in the room when they entered. She was lounging on a large sofa upholstered with dark purple velvet. She stood up as they entered, her arms raised to embrace Maleficent. 

“Where were we, my treasure?”

“Right were we ought to be.”

The two women kissed with a fiery passion, like each was desperate to consume the other. Belle stepped away from them and looked around the room.

At first, it seemed like an ordinary bedchamber. The bed was large with a royal purple coverlet. The four posts were made of carved oak, black with age. There was a table and chairs for meals, the purple sofa was in front of the fireplace. A large mirror in an ornate silver frame hung one corner, positioned so that it could reflect everything in the room. Ostentatious as it was, the mirror seemed like a perfectly reasonable object for a person like Regina to have in her possession. 

 Belle didn’t start to panic until she saw the chains on the far wall. Iron chains, which would have been at home in any dungeon, hung from rings in the stone in this room. Thick shackles hung from the chains, and there were more items scattered on the floor by that wall. Belle could make out manacles and shackles and other iron implements that Belle couldn’t remember the names for or couldn’t imagine the use of. There was even an iron collar, thicker and bulkier than the one she had worn for Rumpelstiltskin, with a ring in the middle. As she looked around, Belle saw hooks and rings fixed into the walls all over the room, and even hanging from the rafters in the ceiling. 

Belle’s heart pounded. She was going to be sick.

The queens of darkness broke apart. When Regina saw Belle’s expression, she laughed. “You’re not afraid of us, are you?” she teased. “Come now, we can’t be that much worse than the Dark One.”  

“He never put me in irons,” Belle whispered. And it was true. Obeying the cuffs could be a trial sometimes, but the act of  wearing them never hurt her. She could go through her day without being burdened by the weight of them. They were light and golden and lovely, almost like jewelry. They were a sign of the deal she made with Rumpelstiltskin, of the day she had saved her people.

But irons were a sign of slavery. Prisoners were fettered and hobbled. Criminals walked around with their hands bound for the safety of those who detained them. Animals were chained and led around on a leash. And Belle was not an animal. Even in the beginning, even when Rumple gave her his most humiliating orders, he had never made her feel sub-human. Like the cuffs themselves, his orders were a sign of their deal, a sign of her value, not her degradation. 

Regina frowned and stepped away from Maleficent to talk to Belle. “Don’t talk about him any more,” she commanded. “Your master sold you to us. So for as long as you’re here, we are the ones with the power. You will do whatever we say. Do you understand?”

Belle nodded. “Yes, Regina.”

Eyes livid, Regina slapped Belle across the face. The shock was as sharp as the pain and Belle brought a hand to her cheek, her breath suddenly ragged. She had never been hit in the face before. Rumple had never even threatened it. 

“What did you call me?” Regina said through gritted teeth.

“R-regina,” Belle said, and she was slapped again, hard enough to knock her to her knees. She stayed down.

“Who am I?” Regina shouted at her. “What am I?”

“A queen!” Belle shrieked. “The queen! The only queen in this kingdom!”

“That’s better,” Regina said darkly. Behind her, Maleficent leaned against the wall to watch. “And how do you address a queen?”

“Y-your Majesty,” Belle stammered. 

“Exactly. So when I ask if you understand something, you will say...?”

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

“Good. I hope we don’t have to repeat this lesson. Get it through your stupid skull before I have to get angry.”

Was she not angry now? Was this Regina before she got angry? “I--I hope so too, Your Majesty.” 

“And why are you still wearing your travel clothes?” Regina berated her. “It’s rude! Take off your cloak when you get in a room or else people will think you don’t want to stay.” She grabbed Belle by the jaw and made her look into her eyes. “And you do want to stay with us, don’t you, pet?” 

“Yes,” Belle whimpered. She knew better than to say anything else. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then take off your clothes!” 

Regina released Belle so roughly that it threw her to the ground. Rolling with the impact, Belle stayed down and tried to gather up her cloak so she could take it off. But the cloak was fastened around her neck by a brooch. She fumbled with the brooch, but couldn’t remove it while she was wearing mittens. And she couldn’t grip one mitten to take it off while she was still wearing the other one. And the queens wanted her to undress and she was trying but it was so hard.

“Look at the little thing, she’s crying.” Maleficent spoke with only vague interest. “Do you think we ought to help her?”

“I like watching the stupid cow struggle,” Regina said as Belle pulled off one mitten with her teeth. “But we do only have three days.”

She got up from her place on the couch and pulled Belle to her feet. Maleficent came to her as well, smirking like a snake. Together, they pulled the cloak over her head and tossed it to the ground. Regina snatched off Belle’s other mitten and her hat and cast them aside. 

Maleficent took one end of the woolen scarf in her hand and spun Belle around until the whole thing unwound from around her neck. Belle stumbled and Maleficent caught her from behind. She pulled at the coat Rumple had put under Belle’s cloak. The fabric tore with a rip so loud that for a moment everything else in the room stopped. 

In the silence, Belle could hear Maleficent’s breathing behind her--slow and shallow panting. She saw Regina’s chest rise and fall. Belle saw the queen’s eyes glint and her smile become savage as a new idea dawned on her. 

They didn’t speak, these evil women. Belle looked back and forth at both of them and she saw how they understood each other, how they could formulate a joint plan without having to say a single word. It would have been impressive, if she hadn’t known they were planning to hurt her.

Without warning, Regina lunged at Belle. Her fingers were raised like claws, her black-painted nails like talons. She ripped open Belle’s coat, popping out the buttons and leaving them scattered on the floor. Belle’s second layer was a waistcoat made of wool so tightly knitted that Regina had to use magic to cut it open. She pulled apart a third shirt, and then again a forth. Rumple had bundled her in layer after layer, but Regina tore through them all.

Behind her, Belle felt Maleficent doing the same thing to her skirts. She tore at the fabric with her fingernails and used magic when her physical strength failed her. She found Belle’s skin before Regina did and the discovery made her squeal with delight.

“Look at this, my darling!” She ripped a larger hole in Belle’s petticoats. “She’s all my favorite colors!”

Regina came around to look at Belle’s behind. Belle covered her arms over what was left of her bodice and tried to stay still while they poked at her. 

“Look here!” Maleficent cried. Her finger stabbed at a different bruise with every word and Belle bit her lip to keep from crying out. “She’s black and purple and even green! Do you think her whole body looks like this?”

“We saw most of her body earlier,” Regina said dryly. “But I’m curious as to how well-groomed she is. Let’s get rid of the rest of it.”

Suddenly, Belle was entirely naked. All of the clothes Rumple had magically summoned had been magically dismissed. She clutched her arms even tighter around her chest, fighting the urge to crouch down into a ball to hide herself completely. Her heart pounded and she had to fight for every breath. 

But when she looked down at herself, she saw that she was still wearing the cuffs. Regina hadn’t been able to make them disappear. Belle saw them, and let out a breath in an amazed chuckle.

Everything seemed so clear now. Regina couldn’t remove the cuffs. She had no power over them, so she had no power over Belle. Rumple still owned her. She would still go back to him after three days. If she could just endure this, she would be safe again soon. Belle hugged her arms over her chest at the thought. For once, she trembled with relief instead of fear. 

Regina snatched Belle’s hands away from her body. “Don’t cover yourself in front of us! We want to be able to look at what we’ve bought, whore!”

Clearly, she had meant that as an insult. But Rumple had called Belle a whore so sweetly, and so many times, that the word had lost all impact. She was a whore, there was no denying it. She had sold her body as payment for a service.

And Belle didn’t regret it. Becoming a whore had saved her life, had saved the lives of everyone she loved. Being a whore had given her more knowledge and experience and feeling than she had ever expected to have. Even now, even during this trial, Belle would say without question that becoming a whore by making her deal with Rumpelstiltskin had been the best decision she ever made. 

“With respect, Your Majesty, you’re wrong.” Her voice was soft, but steady.

“What?” Regina snapped. 

“You’re wrong. People don’t buy whores. They just rent them for a little while.” She held up one wrist. The golden cuff caught the firelight strangely, so it seemed to glow with its own light. “You don’t own me. I’m expensive, and whatever you paid, it wasn’t enough. I will be going back to my owner when all this is done. And I will tell him what you’ve done to me.”  

For a moment, Regina looked like she had just swallowed poison. Then she threw her head back and laughed.

Maleficent joined in, chuckling cruelly as she held Belle’s face in one hand. “You won’t have to tell him, princess. We’ll leave marks all over your pretty body, so every time Rumple looks at you he’ll know exactly how we’ve tortured you.” 

“And we’ll start by making you look presentable.” Regina waved her hand and a set of iron shackles came clanking across the stone floor from their place hanging on the wall. She picked them up off the ground and held them up for Belle to see. 

The shackles were two separate pieces of iron, one for each wrist. There was a ring affixed to each one so that a chain could be wound through them. The wearer could have their hands bound together or forced apart, depending on the whims of the jailer. 

Without a word, Regina unhinged one shackle and clamped it over Belle’s wrist. She did the same with the other, locking the hinges together with a magical blue glow. The iron was so heavy, Belle couldn’t lift her arms up to cover her body. She stood with her hands hanging like dead weights by her sides. Already, she could feel the rough metal scratching and chafing at her skin. The ugly black shackles covered her golden cuffs completely.

“For now you belong to us,” Regina said. “And we’ll do with you as we like.”

Regina and Maleficent stood on either side of Belle and dragged her over to the mirror, all three of them standing before it. The queens were still magnificent--coiffed and gowned and polished to a shine. Belle stood between them, naked and weak. Her face was tear-streaked and pale, her hair a shambles. She looked so small compared to them, so pitiful and ragged.

“Does Rumple actually fuck you at all?” Regina looked at Belle’s reflection to ask. “I don’t think he does. I don’t think he can even find your cunt under all that hair!”

Without warning, she reached for the curls between Belle’s legs and pulled. Belle gasped, and the pain was so intense she could make no other sound. She jerked her body away from Regina, but fell back into Maleficent. 

Maleficent held Belle against her body with one hand. With the other, she also felt between Belle’s legs, prying her open for Regina’s perusal. 

“Now, I’m sure you have a simply lovely little rose bud,” Maleficent whispered in her ear. They were all still facing the mirror. Belle saw the reflection of Maleficent’s pale fingers running along the folds of her secret places. “But this whole thing is such a bed of thorns, we’ll never get to see it! And we want to see it, pretty girl. We want to see all of you.” 

“Lift her arms up,” Regina said. “I’m sure she’s hairy as a man there, too.”

Maleficent did as her lover commanded, exposing the wiry brown hairs growing in Belle’s armpits.

“Disgusting,” Regina sneered. 

“Do we need to fix her legs?” Maleficent spun Belle around to face her. Her green eyes bore into her as she said, “I only like women in my bed, not farm animals.”

“Let’s make this country girl acceptable to bed royalty.”

They worked in silence. Regina looped a chain through the rings of Belle’s iron shackles and Maleficent hooked her up to a chain wrapped around the rafters. Belle was strung up like a side of meat in a butcher’s stall. If she extended her toes she could just touch the ground, but for the most part she hung there, helpless.

They circled her. Regina held a stiff brush and used it to rub Belle’s body raw from the neck down. Maleficent followed after with a cloth covered in sharp-smelling soap.

“Are you cleaning me?” Belle winced.

“Of course,” Regina said. “I can’t imagine what creepy-crawlies you’ve caught from being near that imp.”

 Using those tools, they familiarized themselves with Belle’s naked body, forcing her open and exposing her to their critique.

“What small tits you have,” Regina grabbed one of Belle’s breasts, pinching her and squeezing at her nipples. “Not very feminine.”

“I don’t know,” Maleficent took Belle’s other breast, so that both of them were holding her at the same time. “I’d call that a good handful.” She twisted and pulled at Belle’s flesh until she cried out. “And sensitive too!”

“You’re hurting me!” Belle blinked back tears.

Regina scoffed and rubbed the stiff brush between Belle’s legs. “I can’t believe you can feel anything under that pelt.”

There were many asides like that. Comments were made about the size of her bottom and her hips. According to them, Belle was both too small and too large to be really attractive. Her freckles were common, her feet were filthy. Her ribs were too skinny and her belly was too round.

And over and over and over they derided her for the hair on her body. Not only the hair around her secret places, but also the fine brown strands on her legs and on her arms and even on her toes. They mocked her for the hair under her arms and for the shape of her eyebrows.

“If Rumple had any taste at all he wouldn’t let his slut run around like a wild thing,” Maleficent said indulgently. “We’re doing him a favor by taking care of you.”

Regina took a wine glass and threw it on the floor. It shattered into pieces and the shards flew up into the air and came down to scrape along Belle’s skin. The shards cut through her hairs and nicked her skin in a thousand tiny cuts.

“Please!” Belle screamed, tears flowing freely down her face. “Mercy, please, Your Majesty!”

Regina just laughed.

Perhaps it was because of her begging, but Regina stopped the glass from shaving between Belle’s legs. The shards cut off most of the curls, but didn’t touch her skin. That was Maleficent’s task.

Maleficent held a ball of a sticky paste that she rubbed in her hands to make it malleable. When she stuck the ball against Belle’s new fuzz, it ripped the hair out by the root. For a moment, Belle’s vision when white with pain. Maleficent rubbed the ball against Belle’s mound, over her lower lips and into her folds. Her touches were followed by the soap, and then a heated oil, but even that soft warmth felt wretched against Belle’s raw and tender flesh. 

Regina came and inspected Maleficent’s handywork. She rubbed her fingers around Belle’s most private places, but that violation meant little compared to the physical agony of being touched at all. 

“Flawless, my love!” Regina reached for Maleficent and they kissed.

The hook lowered and Belle was able to fall to her knees. Her hands were still raised over her head, but she was able to press her thighs together, to protect herself against more molestation, to ease the pain just a little bit. Her breath came in weak rasps, but she could breathe.

The queens turned their attention back to Belle. Her face needed improvement and her hair was a disaster. A hairbrush was summoned and enchanted. It ripped through the knots in Belle’s hair without mercy, setting her scalp aflame with pain. It had been so long since anyone had brushed her hair but Rumple. And these women had none of his patience, none of his gentle tenderness. They were trying to hurt her, and they were succeeding. 

And Belle wasn’t even allowed to cry because it would spoil the cosmetics. 

They coated her face in foul-smelling liquids and powders and creams. They forced her head back and her eyes open and told her not to blink. They poked paint into her eyes and covered her lip and her cheeks in rouge. Regina even rubbed the red powder onto her nipples and between her legs.

“A perfect trollop,” she smiled when she was finished.

Maleficent tapped her fingers over her lips as she thought. “She needs something else, I think. Something--ah!”

She wiggled her fingers and an iron object floated up from the chains by the wall. Belle was too weak and disoriented to make out what it was until she felt it close around her neck with a snap. 

It was the collar she had seen earlier. An iron collar, even heavier and more cumbersome than the golden one Rumple had made her wear for the party. The party seemed so long ago, now, even though it had only been a few hours since she’d left. 

When she saw what Maleficent had done, Regina grinned wickedly. “Now let’s turn her around and let the slut see what she looks like.” 

They pushed her by the shoulders to look in the mirror.

Belle had seen faces like hers before. On first glance she looked more like a painted mummer than a prostitute, a clown more than an object of desire. But she knew she wore the markings of a harlot: A white face to cover blemishes, eyes painted a smoldery black, bright red lips that were an advertisement for what was under her skirts. The magic brush had swept her hair up off her neck in a louse, tousled bun. She looked like she had already been fucked. This was the first time she had seen her face in months and she looked like a wretched stranger.

“That’s better,” Regina purred. “That’s how you should look, you little tramp. But I wonder who you really are.” Her dark eyes peered into Belle’s reflection, but then her gaze shifted to herself. Belle watched Regina’s image in the mirror as she waved her hand and spoke. “Magic mirror on the wall, who’s this creature in my hall?”  

For a moment, the mirror glowed with an unnatural blue light. Belle looked at her face and saw the reflection shimmer, and change, and become--her face.

But it wasn’t Belle as she was now. The girl in the mirror wore no cosmetics. She had no collar around her throat. She wasn’t naked, but wore instead--Belle gasped--her golden dress. Belle’s mouth fell open, but her reflection kept her lips pressed together in a thin line. It seemed that she was fighting every instinct to cry out. Tears welled up in the reflection’s eyes as unseen hands pulled her hair up to brush it. 

“This thing is going to break, Belle.”

The voice came from the mirror strangely, as though it were coming from a long distance away. But then, what longer distance could there be than time itself? Belle knew the voice, knew the night they were looking at. She knew the reflection this magic mirror saw.

“Jeanne,” Belle whispered. She lifted her manacled hands to the glass, reaching out as the mirror revealed the image of her cousin. 

It was the night of her betrothal feast, the night of her first real conversation with Gaston, the night she had realized how terribly unsuited she was for the life that had been chosen for her.

Belle watched herself put on a brave face for her ladies, for her people. She saw her expression of bitter hope at the certainty that marrying Gaston was the only way to save them all from ogres. She watched herself swallow her discomfort and succumb to the ordeal of having her hair brushed. At the time, that had been the greatest physical pain she had ever endured. 

Behind her, Regina and Maleficent stood in silence. Were they seeing what Belle saw? Did they know what night they were looking at or who these people beside her were?

In the mirror, Mathilde was applying cosmetics to Belle’s face, much more tenderly than the queens had earlier. Her friend was always so gentle, and so quick to admire beauty in anyone. 

“Gaston is lucky to have such a lovely bride.”

The image blurred and faded away, leaving Belle to look at her new face yet again. Tears burned hot against her eyes. Thank the gods that the mirror had stopped there. The next thing to happen that night was that Ermentrude had given Belle her mother’s necklace--and there was no way she could have watched that again without bawling like a child. 

She felt rattled and raw enough as it was. 

“So,” Regina’s voice cut like a cold knife through Belle’s heated thoughts. “Gaston has a lovely bride. That wouldn’t be Sir Gaston, would it? The second son of the Duke of the Frontlands?”

Belle knelt on the cold ground, her eyes closed to keep her tears inside. She shook and wept and did not speak.

“Answer me.” Regina said in a soft sing-song that was nevertheless a command.

“Yes,” Belle whispered. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You know, I think I’ve met Sir Gaston of the Frontlands. His father is one of my courtiers.”

Belle opened her eyes. Was that true? She couldn’t remember what kingdom Gaston was from.

“He seems like enough of a man for most women. Didn’t you like him?”

Belle shook her head but didn’t speak.

Beside her, Maleficent crouched down and put her hands on Belle’s shoulders. The gesture might have been comforting, if she wasn’t dragging her fingernails against the scabs on Belle’s back. “Pretty princesses like you shouldn’t ever have to marry awful men. But it’s simply terrible that you had to trade that prison for the one you’re in now with Rumple.”

Still teary, Belle shook her head again. “I’d rather be where I am--where I was. I’d rather be his thing than Gaston’s wife.”

Regina laughed at that. “I hated my marriage too, but there are easier ways to get out of it!”

Belle didn’t answer. It wasn’t worth the trouble to explain, to tell these evil women the story of her village and her people and the terrible danger they Rumple had rescued them from. The terrible fate from which Rumple had rescued her.

“At least my husband left me a kingdom when he died,” Regina went on. “And as soon as his traitorous daughter is brought to justice I’ll finally have everything I want.”  

Maleficent gave her love a sweet smile. “We can tear the snowflake’s heart out and eat it if it makes you happy, my darling.”

“Thank you, my jewel,” Regina said. Her face softened with what Belle thought might be honest contentment. “I can’t wait to punish someone who actually deserves our wrath. But for now, I suppose Rumple’s plaything will have to do.”

In the mirror, Belle saw Regina’s reflection look at her. Belle saw her own sky-blue eyes looking up at the queen in trembling dread. Regina’s red mouth opened to speak, but just then there was a knock on the door.

“Your Majesty?” The old man from the courtyard poked his head in the door. Regina and Maleficent turned to look at him. Belle could see his reflection from her place on the floor. Only too late did she realize that he could see her as well, see her scars and her breasts and her painted, whorish face. 

For just a moment, the man looked at her. His expression held neither desire nor shock. His eyes flickered over her with nothing more than a weary and dismissive pity, no more than one would offer a beggar in the street. 

To Belle’s surprise, Regina didn’t rage at the man, even though her fist clenched and her eyes bulged. “Are you really interrupting us now? When we’re in this room?”

The old man swallowed. “My apologies, Your Majesty, but there is a delegation from King Midas and they are adamant that you hear their message.”

“Do I look like I’m prepared for diplomacy?”

“Darling,” Maleficent said sweetly, “what’s the point of having a kingdom if you don’t bother to rule it? We’re at a perfectly good stopping place with the girl. Why not see what the politicians want? The mood you’re in, it’s very likely they’ll give you everything you want.” 

Regina snorted but didn’t argue. Straightening up, she sneered down at Belle. “Fine,” she said. “But those cheese-eaters better not waste my time. We only have two-and-half days left with the little whore.”

“She’ll keep,” Maleficent assured her. “Shall we keep her chained up while we’re away?”

“You’re brilliant as well as beautiful,” Regina kissed Maleficent quickly before going off with the old man. “You’ll come to my meeting chambers when you’re done?”

“Of course, my love. I would never play with a toy without you.”

Maleficent’s smile lasted until the door closed behind the queen. When she looked at Belle her expression was mercenary, businesslike. She didn’t speak, merely waved her hands around to move the chains that bound her. 

The chains floated in the air and dragged Belle over to the wall. Link by link, the heavy iron looped itself into the hooks that had been screwed into the stone. It was so different than the cuffs. When Rumple bound her to the walls of his castle, Belle couldn’t move at all, and there was no possibility of fighting. In the chains, Belle could lift her arms, but it was a struggle, a heavy weight that burdened her. She had the ability to struggle against her fate, but it was easier to surrender. Belle was still in sight of the mirror, bearing witness to the image of her own misery.

“There you go,” Maleficent said. “That should keep you well enough. Try to take it easy while you can. We’ll be back before dinner.”

In the mirror, Belle could see the other woman wink at her before she shut the door and left her alone.

Leaning back against the cold stone, Belle closed her eyes and took as deep a breath as she could. The chain was slack enough that she could slide down the wall and sit on the stone floor. She took another breath, as deep as she could, which was not very deep at all. She sat with her legs splayed out in front of her. Her arms could move, but they were so heavy. 

It wasn’t forever, she told herself. This wasn’t going to last for longer than three days. It would end, and soon. The queens would take her back, or Rumple would come and get her, or the cuffs would pull her by the wrists and drag her through the forests and mountains to bring her home.  

Belle took another breath and wiped away the lingering tears. Home. When had Rumpelstiltskin’s castle become home? It had been so long since she had left the place where she had grown up. The castle and the village and the people she had given her life for weren’t her home anymore, not really. The face she had seen in the mirror belonged to a different girl altogether, a child whose certainties had all been ripped away from her.

She had new certainties now. As long as she wore Rumpelstiltskin’s cuffs, she knew who she was and what was expected of her. She trusted him in a way she could have never trusted Gaston. She trusted in Rumple’s deal, in his rules and his magic, in the ledgers he kept that always had to balance. She trusted in his rewards as well as his punishments. She trusted that he would make her keep the vows she had promised him--and that she was his forever, no matter who he loaned her to.

Even locked up in Queen Regina’s castle, Belle knew that nothing had really changed. Twisting her wrists under the manacles, Belle could feel the gold scraping against the iron. She still wore her cuffs, even if they were covered. She was still his. Soon, she would be with him again, safe and happy, where she belonged. 

Her head drooped on her shoulders, and Belle tugged on the chain to see if it was slack enough to let her lie down. She had never slept on the floor in Rumple’s castle--even in the beginning, he had given her a bench and a pillow--but now she was too exhausted to notice her own discomfort. Belle stretched out as best she could on the polished stone and closed her eyes to the reflection of herself in the mirror.

With effort, Belle was able to lift her hands up to rub her face. The irons stank of rust and oil and the smells of the other prisoners who had worn these shackles. She took her hands away from her nose, resting her wrists on her body instead. 

Tentatively, Belle reached down between her legs. The pain was a throbbing ache now, her flesh felt warm to the touch. In the mirror, Belle saw that the area was bright pink, like a fresh burn. 

Rumple’s rule was for her to touch herself before she slept, to pleasure herself every night for as long as she wore the cuffs. In all the months she had served him, she had never missed her chance to obey him. Tonight could not be an exception.

Taking a deep breath, Belle gently rested her hand on her shaved mound. Immediately, she hissed at the pain. She wanted to pull her hand away but couldn’t--wouldn’t. She had a duty, she reminded herself. If the queens kept her from obeying Rumple then they had truly won.

Belle couldn’t allow that. She had to pleasure herself. No matter how much it hurt.

With another breath, Belle felt along her tender flesh. It was so smooth and soft she felt like a child--like the innocent at bathtime who had asked what those parts of her were called. The place where husbands go, Ermentrude had told her, and now Belle knew what an incomplete description that was.

Maleficent had covered her with a soothing oil, and that made it easier for Belle to slide her hands over her folds and up to her pleasure spot. She wasn’t wet, but how could she be? Nothing about tonight had been for her enjoyment. No thought, no care had been put in to her comfort. The queens wanted her to be miserable, and they had accomplished their goal.

Under the circumstances, finding pleasure was not only obedience to Rumpelstiltskin, but an act of defiance to the women who held her captive. They wanted her to suffer, so any joy she found would thwart their evil plans. 

Belle took a breath, and tried to bring images to her mind. She thought of Rumpelstiltskin, fantasized that his mouth was on her cunt, a warm and soothing balm. She imagined his red tongue licking across her pink mound in slow strokes, swirling around her pleasure spot. His lips would kiss her in every place that hurt.

Rumple would make it better, she knew. As soon as she could get to him, as soon as she could talk to him and know his thoughts again, his heart--then all would be well. Even if she could only know his body again, she would cherish the chance to pleasure him, to offer herself to him again, to be the vessel for his lusts.

What would he want her to do to him first? As soon as she came back to him, what would he ask of her? Belle wanted to kiss his boots, to give him her fealty and let him know that she still trusted him. Before she had left he had brushed her off, but when she got back it would be different.

It would have to be. 

On the cold floor, Belle spread her growing wetness over her flesh. As soon as she saw Rumple she would kiss his boots and work her way up to his cock. She would suck him into hardness and offer her mouth to him, kissing and licking every part of him he allowed her access to.

Would he miss her, while she was gone? Did he miss her already, as she missed him? Was he thinking of her now, at this moment?

“Rumple,” her lips formed the word without her mind being a part of it. She was calling him, inviting him to look at her. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

Could he see her, now that she had said his name? That was the way it was supposed to work with the Dark One: Say his name once and you let him see you, say it twice and you’re inviting him in. If you say it three times, you’re commanding him to come to you, and woe on you if he didn’t want to be commanded. 

Belle didn’t need to say his name any more than she had. If he could see her now, if he could know what she was thinking, what she was wanting--then that was all she needed. She could say his name again, if she needed to. She could summon him as she had in the war room. She could beg him to take her away from this awful place and these hateful women. 

Or she could obey his order to obey the queens. She could give them what they wanted and come back after three days. Wouldn’t he be proud of her to know that she was up to the task? Belle could do it, she could endure whatever tortures they devised.

Her body jerked and pulsed for a moment. The orgasm was underwhelming but undeniable. She had done her duty. Belle rested her head on her arms and readied her body to sleep. Best to rest for as long as she could.

It might have been a dream, but Belle could have sworn that in the moments before she closed her eyes, she saw a man’s face glowing blue in the magic mirror. 

[rosecolouredash]

Querencia CH. 3

Previous Chapters // PROLOGUE ONE TWO

Summary: A prince and his sword (re)meets a spirit.

Warnings: For once, not much. Just insinuated violence.

Notes: Very much so a filler chapter but there are a couple of lil tidbits that will come up again in the future...take that as you will.

—

CHAPTER THREE

After their rendezvous with Sir Ashton Irwin, Head Knight of the Third Cavalry of Saere and childhood best friend of the prince, Calum decreed that together with his remaining unit, Michael and his bandits, they form the Royal Liberation Army. Their feeling of victory against the witch Estelle’s troops is short-lived when Ashton’s injuries take a toll on his health. The Royal Army travel to the nearest city of Ardglas, on the lakeside of Galatea—a body of water believed to contain magical properties. Though far northeast from their destination of the capital of Waiburne, the royal will stop at nothing to help his best friend.

“Calum, we are losing precious time.”

Ashton let out a series of grunts as the wagon hit a few rocks on the trail. 

The prince looked back down to the knight from his seat atop Peggy, the white mare, who pulled along her injured rider. Not a day into their journey, after meeting up with Ashton and the twin knights Remy and Rome Abal, the leader of the Third Cavalry of Saere succumbed to his injuries from battle. Fortunately, a few of Michael’s men were versed in woodworking. They built a makeshift wagon, with the material available to them from the nearby forests, for the knight to rest on as they traveled. After the discussion of a re-route and Dionne’s expert scouting abilities, the Royal Liberation Army diverted their sights northeast, towards the lakeside city of Ardglas.

“It is better we have you in good health than not at all, Ash.”

The royal knight let out a groan in annoyance since he knew there was truth in what his prince said.

Michael snickered at the two as they continued to argue back and forth. He walked alongside the wagon, enjoying the dynamic between the prince and the leader of the third cavalry. Though Calum had opened up to Michael and his family of bandits considerably from when they first met, the prince stayed quite reserved. It was not until being joined by Ashton that the royal finally broke out of his shell, allowing his smile and infectious laughter to fill the group as they journeyed onward.

“At this rate, we won’t arrive to the city until sundown, Your Highness.” Remy looked towards the sky. He could only assume the time by the location of the sun. It was roughly high noon and the twin knights had yet to leave their captain’s side as they trotted with their stallions beside the wagon, opposite to Michael, in worry. In losing the rest of their unit, the twins feared the same for their leader more so because Sir Ashton was the closest thing to a father figure that the young boys had.

When the prince and his knight broke from their conversation at the comment, Calum noticed how laboured Ashton’s breaths had become. He knew how exhausted his best friend must be and it did not help that the burns from the witch Estelle’s magick were not healing properly, if at all. 

When Dionne had mentioned that she saw the city of Ardglas when she flew ahead to scout, Calum remembered an old tale his mother used to recite to him—how the waters of Galatea, the lake of which the city was built alongside, was believed to be enchanted. Regardless of the truth to the fable, Ardglas became the capital for magical beings. There had to be at least one individual who could heal his best friend.

The prince stared ahead with much resolve in his heart. “Let us make haste, then.”   

—

As expected, it was sundown when the Royal Army made it to the borders of Ardglas. Calum knew his companions were weary from travel and although he wanted to make it into the city to find help for Ashton, he decided that for most everyone’s benefit that they make camp for the night. 

It was dusk when they finally settled in a wooded area they deemed safe—hidden amongst the dense forestry. A number of the bandits were already fast asleep on the ground. The gyphon, Arnie, was curled around his rider while as Dionne gently slept, her face nestled in the feathers of his wing. The Abal twins were also ready to succumb to sleep—their horses, as well as Peggy, rested upright beside the tree that they decided to sit up against. Ashton still lay awake in the makeshift wagon with Calum and Michael at his feet. They sat so that their legs hung out from the edge. The three held a quiet conversation while the two at the foot of the wagon watched the embers of the fire, at the center of the group, spark and burn.

“So we get into the city at dawn—”

Michael scoffed. “Dawn? I’m not sure even half my men will be awake at that ungodly hour. Myself included.”

The knight giggled at the bandit’s honesty. There was something endearing about the so-called King of the Wastelands. Ashton could only thank the gods for bringing him to Calum when he, himself, was not able to be there for his prince. Calum waved off the bandit in a joking manner and then laughed when Michael reciprocated with a flip of a bird.

“Peace, Bandit. Watch how you gesture to our Prince.” Ashton could not keep a straight face and joined in on their laughter even before finishing his sentence.

It was at this moment that their worries seemed to fade away.

They were not an ousted prince, a leader of unruly bandits and the head of an almost decimated unit of knights. They were simply Calum, Michael and Ashton—enjoying one another’s banter and company. It was well into the night by the time the three young men decided to join their group in the land of sleep. Calum hopped down from the wagon—both Michael and Ashton raising a brow at the prince.

“I’m just going to wash up.” He nodded at them, in reassurance, as he disappeared into the trees.

—

On the way to their campsite, he noticed the stream that ran along the cover of trees where they decided to rest for the night. 

Calum knelt by the body of water, staring at his own reflection that was visible by moonlight. It was an odd comfort, for him, to do something as menial as wash his face. It was likely due to the harsh conditions they faced as they journeyed to his homeland. When he splashed his face with the freshwater from the stream—the sound of a second splash caught the young prince by surprise. Calum dropped his hands from his cheeks and surveyed the area to find nothing out of the ordinary. 

Water dripped from his chin as he made no sudden movements.

The warm south wind made the foliage of the trees rustle. The water of the brook gently ebbed and flowed. The surrounding nature was scenic. Or so it seemed.

Calum then stood from his place by the stream. “Is someone there?”

He exhaled slowly, placing a light hand on the hilt of Zephir, in precaution.

Another splash and he whipped his head towards the noise. 

At the edge of the creek, there rested a figure—their arms on the edge of where land met water. Silvery locks pooled to their hips, or so Calum imagined, since their body was obscured by rock and stream. The prince took a step forward when the stranger beckoned him closer—their hand small and fine-boned. “Hello, your Majesty.”

Their voice was gentle and low. 

Another step. “Who—”

“My apologies,” compared to their voice, their laugh was light, like the chime of bells. “This is rather informal of me.”

They smiled faintly at the bewildered Prince. “I promise, I mean no harm to his Royal Highness.”

Once Calum drew near, he was mesmerized by the unnatural colour of their eyes. They were rather pretty—reminding him of polished opals. At the thought, an old memory flashed through his mind. The Prince blinked. Had he met them before?

As if they read his mind, they spoke again. “If I seem familiar, it is rightly so. You were sixteen the last I saw you and I...well, a Naiad never tells.” 

The Hood bloodline was believed to be descended from the gods—a river deity to be exact. The royal family of Saere had always had great relations with the spirits and magical beings of their country, most especially those that presided over bodies of water.

“The winds whispered to me of your journey to Ardglas.”

Calum nodded. He went on to explain his need of a healer for his knight. As he retold his misadventures, from the coup at Waiburne to the witch almost fatally wounding his best friend, the Naiad gazed on with a knowing look in their eyes. “Do not fret, Prince Calum of Saere,” they whispered, a small frown on their face from hearing about the young royal’s ill fortune. 

He paused in inquiry and they continued, “when you head into Ardglas, look for the boy with a golden halo and the girl with a heart on her sleeve. They’ll be able to heal your friend.”

There was no way to explain it but he trusted their words. Breathing a sigh of relief, he smiled at them. “Thank you for the information—”

“Cecile. My name is Cecile.” They bowed their head low, in respect to his status. “May our paths cross again, young Prince, with you in a better place.”

Calum parted with the Naiad—bidding them goodnight and farewell.  

By the time he rejoined the Royal Army at camp, Michael was already asleep in the wagon—gentle snores escaping his lips. Ashton was still awake, not able to sleep until Calum returned. Upon seeing the Prince he tried to sit up more but winced from his injuries. The prince rushed over to recount to the knight his encounter with the river Naiad but not before reprimanding his best friend for hurting himself further. 

—

Back at the creek, the silver-haired Naiad gazed upon the area that the Prince disappeared to. 

“Good tidings to you and your companions on the difficult journey ahead.”  

—

It was dawn when the Royal Army made their way into the city. Michael let out a giant yawn while rubbing the sleep from his right eye. “So you’re going to take the word of a mermaid to look for some golden boy and the queen of hearts to heal, Ashton?”

For the umpteenth time, Calum explained that Cecile was not a mermaid, rather a spirit that presided over the river of the forest. He knew he must have sounded strange but the prince felt he could trust the Naiad’s information and so they reached the city as soon as they could to find the two individuals they described. Still confused, Michael was about to question more when a tremendous sound boomed in the air. 

Flames then erupted in the distance. 

The Royal Army readied themselves and their weapons when a group of citizens came rushing through. Calum caught their attention to ask what was going on. Out of breath, one man gasped out, “Lady Delara, the scion of the black mages has invaded the white mage, Lord Luke’s, domain.” 

After thanking them, the prince sent them away to find somewhere safe to stay. 

Michael looked over their group, a frown on his face. “Great, we just walked into a civil war.”

—

Tagged: @irwinkitten @calpops @rosecoloredash @lilbabycalum @gorgeouslygrace @rainingcalum @cashton-dolan @lockthisheartinchains @americanhorrorstudies @lovableah @cals-eyebrows @quintodosuniversos

[brightlycoloredteacups]

Nearly Dead

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga

Warnings: Violent Imagery

Taggin: @anunhealthydoseofangst @novumlibellum @tiyetiye @salimahbicharara-comun @sammi-faye

Brynhilda looks over a cliff, waves crashing into the rocks. She remembers this cliff, the one near her home. She played here with her brothers while her parents sat and watched in delight. She wraps her arms around herself. “What do you look like mother?” she whispers into the wind, “I can’t remember.”

“Well, I look like this, I think.”

Brynhilda starts, turning around. She stares into hauntingly familiar green eyes. Long black hair cascades over a brilliant red dress, full lips are pulled into a gentle smile. “Mother,” Brynhilda breathes, aware she’s speaking her mother’s language. “My Brynhilda,” She says, opening her arms. Brynhilda rushes to her, letting out a laugh. She can hardly believe it, to see her mother after all this time...Brynhilda squeezes tightly, never wanting to let go. “I’ve missed you.” Brynhilda admits, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You and father, and my brothers.”

“Well maybe if you turned around, you wouldn’t miss us at all.” Came a snide comment. Brynhilda turns from her mother, looking to see five blonde boys staring at her. Her crying worsens, her brothers and father all join in the hug. “I am dead, aren’t I?”

“Well,” her father says, pulling back from her. “You’re nearly dead.” Brynhilda frowns. “What?”

“You are walking in a place between life and death,” He explains. “Your soul is in the balance.” Brynhilda considers his words. “What do I do?” she whispers, not wanting to know the answer. “Tell me what to do.” Brynjar smiles at her. He leans down and presses a kiss to her brow. “If I did that, my Brynhilda, I would be selfish, I’d take you with us.” Brynhilda sniffs, damning the man, “You know only you can make the decision, my daughter” Camila says, wrapping an arm around Brynhilda’s shaking shoulders. Her parents take her to the edge of the cliff. Instead of a sea of water, she sees the men that rose with her from her grave. They’re all looking at her expectantly. “These are our ancestors Bryn,” Her eldest brother tells her. “From the dawn of time to now, to you.” Men, women, children, all of them, grouped in the vast nothingness of the dreamspace. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” Brynhilda admits, she is wracked with sobs now, “I don’t want to be in pain anymore. I can’t, I can’t go on like this. I’m so sick of being miserable!”

“Aw, shit little sister,” Brynki, the youngest of the boys punches her arm affectionately.

“You’re making the rest of us cry.”

Brynjar takes her shoulders in her hands, looking at her with pride “We walk beside you, in life, in death, always. Pain is nothing more than a temporary state.”

“So is happiness.” Brynhilda whispers, thinking of the wasted time she spent with her family, thinking of Ivar. Brynjar’s face softens, he’s going to say something more, but Brynhilda shakes her head. “I just want you to know that I love you and miss you, every day. The ache in my chest has nestled there permanently. But,” A chant begins, low, powerful, simple. Get up, get up, get up. Brynhilda wipes at her face, takes a deep breath and calms herself. “I am Brynhilda Brynjarsdottir, I am no weakling, I must live so that I may see Boggvir dead. This is what I vowed to Odin. We are a family that never goes back on their vows.” Her family moves away from her, smiling, proud. “Best not to start breaking them now, especially not to the All Father.” Her father says. “Allah keep you safe,” Her mother says. Brynhilda nods, trying not to choke. I will see them again, but now, it is time to get up, get up, get up.

Brynhilda awakens, violently choking on smoke. She cries out weakly, something burning her hand. Sitting up, she pulls her hand to her lap, Ivar’s pendant, heated by the flames burns her. She drops it, unable to withstand the pain. She whimpers, looking around her, no way out, there’s no way out. The flames are too fierce, even for me. A beam falls too close for her liking, she scrambles away, not forgetting Ivar’s necklace.

This is an enemy with no weak points, she realizes. I will die here after all, my vow meaning nothing. A slow bubbling anger settles in her belly. She will die without getting her revenge. She will die a coward, burned alive by Eylaug of all people. Eylaug, the disgusting pig. He will boast about her death, he will get glory. Her rage builds. It builds until she begins to shake. It builds until it fogs her mind. It builds until it blinds her. She’d be damned if she let Eylaug claim her death. She cocks her head back, letting out her signature screech, and runs towards the door, she refuses to go out this way.

*

Lagertha approaches the building on fire. “What the hell is going on here?” she demands. “The fighting is finished, why are you burning someone’s house?” Eylaug looks at her, making her skin crawl. He is a man that should be put down as soon as possible. She can hardly wait until her alliance with Boggvir comes to an end.

“We have lain to rest a wraith,” Eylaug tells her, throwing his hands out, proud. He spies the Sword of Kings in her hand and bows, adding, “Your majesty.” An unhelpful reminder of just what he did for her. “Brynhilda is dead!” He yells, turning to his men. None of them look as joyful as Eylaug, “We have done what no one said was possible, we have killed Brynhilda the Death-” he is cut off by a terrifying scream.

Lagertha watches as whoever it was trapped within the flames bursts forth in a shower of embers. The wretch is nearly naked, black from soot. She looks about wildly, huffing, green eyes landing on Eylaug. “By Odin,” He whispers, truly terrified. She cocks it’s head back and unleashes yet another unearthly screech, then charges.

Lagertha watches in horror as she tackles Eylaug to the ground, a man easily three times her size. Some men manage to find the courage to react. They rush her, grabbing the back of her shirt and throw her into the air, away from Eylaug before she can do anything more than stun him with a punch to the face. She lands by Lagertha’s feet. Looking up at the newly ordained queen, half crazed. Lagertha raises her sword ready to defend herself, but she’s outmatched by the sheer strength of this animal. It can’t be human, Lagertha thinks as a powerful kick knocks her to the ground and steals her breath. I will die today, this beast will kill me. Lagertha is proved wrong, it seems the girl only cares about the men that trapped her, she turns towards them, poised for battle.

Eylaug is screaming orders at his men, readying them for a fight. Lagertha motions for her own people to stand down, this was not something she wanted to get involved in.  They all watch the bloodbath in amazed horror.

It is a sight to see. A sort of peace settles over the woman. You were born in battle, made by the dwarves, a machine to wreak havoc on Midguard, Lagertha thinks, impressed by Brynhilda. She strikes with the deadly accuracy, cutting down man after man. When her sword is not enough, she uses the rest of her body, moving to and fro, avoiding axes and arrows. Her fists more than enough to snap men’s necks. None manage to touch her.

When there are no more men left to attack, she throws the sword to the side, staring at Eylaug. Through the smoke, Brynhilda smiles, her prey is vulnerable, she moves in for the kill. He lets out a terrified scream that chokes off into nothingness as she beats him with her bear hands. It’s disgusting, it’s violent, it’s poetic justice at its finest. When she is done, Eylaug’s head is nothing but pulp. She slides off him, throwing her head to the sky in a sort of reverence, unleashing one last powerful scream.

She turns to the last surviving man, a man too terrified to raise his weapon. She approaches him. He throws down his weapons kneeling, but before he can beg for his life the thing grabs him by the front of his shirt and speaks, “You will go to Boggvir,” She says, “You will tell him Brynhilda yet lives, despite the attempts on her life, and you will tell him I am coming to rip his still beating heart from his chest and eat it. He better pray to the gods for mercy, I will have none.” The man whimpers, nodding. She throws him away. He scampers, leaving his weapons behind, wanting to get away from the the demon as quick as his legs will carry him.

Brynhilda straightens, looks about her, and reaches for the Sword of Kings. Lagertha approaches her. She holds to sword up, distrust plain in her eyes. “That is my sword,” Lagertha states plainly. “It’s in my hand,” Brynhilda counters. The soldiers behind Lagertha ready their weapons. “I could have you killed,” Lagertha continues, hoping to persuade the haughty young thing. Brynhilda merely laughs, then says “You can try,” her men ready their arrows, still she is unafraid, Lagertha liked her. “I’ll tell you what,” Brynhilda says. “You find my weapons and armor, and I will give you your sword back.”

“You don’t make demands of the Queen of Kattegat!” Astrid said, stepping forward. “I make demands of whom I wish. My effects. Now.” Astrid takes another step, but Lagertha stopped her. There was something in the child’s eyes that told her she’d kill the entire town if she had to. “You heard her, find her things.” Lagertha orders, the men hesitate. This is not a woman she wants to make an enemy of. “Now,” she reiterates. Her men disperse. “You look hungry,” Lagertha says, smiling. “Let me get you something to eat.”

*

Brynhilda has bathed, her things have been returned to her, and now she stands uneasily in front of the new queen of Kattegat. She notes with irritation she hasn’t been fed at all. “Who are you?” Lagertha asks. Brynhilda refuses to answer. Astrid steps up, irritated with her, “Your queen-”

“I have no queen,” Brynhilda informs her calmly. Astrid growls, grabbing her sword. “I’d snap your neck before you could even land a blow,” Brynhilda threatens. She’s in her element, danger surrounds her. She is delighted to see the look of irritation on the new queen’s face. Astrid makes to rush at her, but Lagertha calls her back. Good, at least someone knows what they’re dealing with.

“Where are you going?”

Brynhilda crosses her arms, refusing to answer. “This would go a lot smoother if you simply answered me,” Lagertha tries for a third time. “For you maybe.”

“I could have you locked up.” She points out. “I just barreled my way out of a burning building and killed a man three times my size with my bare hands, what makes you think you could lock me up?”

That’s it, the look of fearful doubt settles on this imposters face. Could Brynhilda be contained? So far it didn’t seem so. Best not to push my luck, she thinks. No one will come for me if I get into anymore trouble. “I get it,” Brynhilda says, pacing, never turning her back on the queen or the people that surround her. “You want to know if I’m going to cause trouble for you. Despite you aligning yourself with Boggvir, I won’t.” Lagertha opens her mouth, no doubt to say something smart, “I will leave you in peace,” Brynhilda interrupts, “so long as you understand that if you get involved you will die.” Lagertha chances a laugh at this. “I have an army, you fight under no banner.” I’m playing a dangerous game here. I’ve never been good with my words. “There are men that would follow me,” Brynhilda says, sounding much more confident than she felt. “And you are a new queen. People here loved Aslaug, do you think all of them would rise up to help you, the usurper?”

“Queen Lagerther-” another blond woman starts, Brynhilda has to interrupt her. “Enough of this talk!” She barks. “I am leaving, with or without your permission. Get in my way, and you lot burn with Kattegat.”

Lagertha smiles at her, a placating smile. She doesn’t think I’m a threat, I’d love to see her head on a pike. “Really now, what is one small girl with no army of her own going to do?” Brynhilda smirks, “I’m going to conquer a kingdom.”

*

All things considered, Brynhilda feels lucky. The town was attacked, and she survived, she was nearly burned alive, but she survived, and the new queen allowed her to leave mostly unmolested.

She sits in her cabin, looking at the friends she’s managed to make. Rhona, Vigdis, Sigrid, the healer, how odd to think of these girls as friends. True friends.

They’ve had a trying day, so they sleep away the hours. It’s just as well, Brynhilda goes weak for Rhona’s crying. “I will watch over them,” The healer tells her, cracking open an eye. “You’d better, I’d come back to strangle you if you didn’t.”

“You aren’t used to having friends are you?” Brynhilda smiles. “Not good ones, no.” The old woman chuckles. “Go,” She says. “I will tell them of your love in the morning.” Brynhilda nods, looking at the girls one last time. “Tell them,” Brynhilda stops, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t used to having people that would worry over her. “Tell them I will be back, one day.” With that, she slips into the night

*

Ivar cracks open an eye, bright sun nearly blinding him. Well, he thinks, smiling, I’m alive. He pats himself down, just to make sure. His hand closes around the trinket Brynhilda had given him. A troll cross. He didn’t know what the hell a troll cross would do for him all the way in England, but it obviously meant something to her, so it was dear to him.

Ivar smiles at the thought of his love, she was going to shit herself when she found out his mother was wrong. His mother would be happy, and he would be able to prove to his brothers he wasn’t some useless thing that had to be carted around all the time.

He half remembers the storm that took them, by surprise. His father had warned all of them that there was a chance it would happen, but no one really believed him. Ivar blamed the boats, they were shoddily made in haste for the journey. But what boat can the most hated man in Kattegat get with so little money?

Ivar looks and shakes his father’s leg, eager to get going. He finds he can’t keep the smile from his face. He made it to England, he will live to see his Brynhilda, and most importantly, he will be able to kill a Saxon for her. He had a feeling things would go well here.

[oneshul]

Toledote: At Home with Isaac and Rebecca: The Middle Years

(Night in the Desert. Isaac sits alone at a campfire. He drinks slowly from a cup of spiced wine, pokes at the embers of the dying fire, and soliloquizes.)

 Isaac: Father is dead; his chief steward, Eliezer, is also dead. I am alone. Alone as a stone. Just me and this—this wineskin (drinks; the cattle low, moo, meh, and baa) Oh, silence, you—you—woolly fools! Fine company you are, for a master shepherd like me…. Where was I?

Ah, yes: Poppa is dead—and how am I to continue his destiny? I have also heard the Voice of El-Shaddai, the Stander on the Mountain, telling me that I will be “as numberless as the stars of heaven.”(looks up; tries counting the stars) two, three, ten, thirty-four—oh, what’s the use?  Truth to tell, El-Shaddai, or Whatever You call Yourself, I don’t need stars. No (he drinks). After all (he speaks with the careful grace of the truly inebriated), you can’t herd stars; you can’t shear them; you can’t bring them to market in Rehoboth Square. What I need to know (shaking a finger at the sky) is, who will continue the line after me? My strapping son, Esav, that red-haired rascal, or Little Jacob, my deep thinker, so thin that he seems to slip through my fingers when I try to hug him—that Mama’s boy? O’ Nameless One, what a riddle have you posed me! Whom do You prefer? I wish You would choose—(he waits, but no answer comes). Both earth and sky are silent. Well, well, my Father’s God, if you will not help me here, I must wait, and decide myself—but deciding is not my strong suit—let me think (he drinks deeply of the wineskin, leans back against his pillow-rock, and sings softly): “O then let the cannikin clink, clink, clink/ O then let the cannikin clink/ A herdsman’s a man/ A life’s but a span/ Why then, let the herdsman drink!”(He giggles to himself, and sighs)

(A sound from the shadows. Isaac gropes for his shepherd’s-crook, tries to scramble clumsily to his feet, gets as far as his knees) Who’s there, hey? Come and show yourself! (Rebecca crawls from the darkness, pulling her head-covering back from her face) Oh, it’s you, my dear. Come, come, and sit. Have some wine.

Rebecca: If there’s any left in that ‘skin, you mean. It sounds and smells like you’ve been having more than a bit.

(He carefully passes her the wineskin; she sniffs it, sticks out her tongue in disgust, takes a ladylike sip, and shudders)

Isaac (sounding hurt and defensive): Now, my dear, first off, I haven’t had more than a tiny drinky-poo; and, second, it’s no more than I deserve, chasing those nasty little sheep and goats around a hot desert all day.

Rebecca: While I relax in that hot, black,airless goatskin tent, you mean. It’s no picnic for me either, keeping track of those two little boys. What nine-year-olds have you given me! Little Jacob is a dear, always sticking close by his mommy, but our elder, Esav—well, your beloved hellion, Esav, is always running off, trying to shoot that toy bow-and-arrow at the vultures and ravens.

Isaac: Nothing wrong with that. He’s inherited my hunter’s eyes, that boy: he’ll make us proud, one day, as chief of our tribe. He’ll be as big as my brother Ishmael, wait and see. Just feed him plenty of deer meat, the same way I love it cooked: charcoal-broiled fresh over the open flames, juices running down your chin, and well-peppered, smoking from the fire. That will make him hot-blooded and warlike, just like I—

Rebecca (finishing his sentence): --always wanted to be. You know, Isaac, it would be nice if you would spend some time with little Jakey, too. He’s a born shepherd, your son. He was asking me today about how many foals we can expect the camels to bear, come spring. Jacob has a wonderful head on his shoulders: he can figure numbers without using his fingers, and I want to put him to work calculating how much provender we should buy for the herd, come this winter. I know he will be able to do it, your son. Do you think you could give Jakella some attention, too, rather than spending all your time with Esav?

Isaac (not really listening): Yes, Jacob is a good boy—but quiet. Not like Esav. As God lives, how he came crashing through the tent door that day, waving that poor, half-dead quail he snared, when you and I had thought that we could have some quiet time! Ah well, my dear, we really should be going to bed. Esav will be up at the first cock-crow. And the flocks won’t wait….

(The sound of twigs cracking, as if someone is approaching)

Rebecca: What’s that sound? Oh, Isaac, you’re such a fool! I told you we shouldn’t go too far from Rehoboth Village. Everything we need is there, not out here in this uncivilized desert. The grandchildren of Papa’s deceased servants live there—true, they’re not our servants, anymore, but they promised to protect us. They—

Isaac (standing unsteadily, holding his shepherd’s crook in a defensive posture): Never fear, Dearest, I will stand between you and whate’er shall transpire! I am your rock and redeemer, your shield upon the high places; I….

Rebecca: Oh, sit down, you middle-aged fool: you’re drunk (Isaac’s legs give out, and he collapses, dangerously close to the fire). I will go into the tent, and fetch out the poker. I can stand guard while you sober up. I will bring you some guarana-beans to chew upon. Oh, what can a woman do with such a man? (muttering imprecations in her native Aramean, she goes into the tent)

Isaac (mimicking her): “Such a man”! If only—if only you paid me respect, Becky! (He looks at the tent-flap she entered, to make certain that she cannot hear) A man could be driven to drink by such a woman. Oh, to be young again…. But I will see my boy, my Esav, stand as master over all heaven and earth. He is a brave, bold, redheaded hellion, my Esaveleh. So what if Schoolmaster Sar-Baal does not think him clever as—as—Jacob? My Esav will hunt the deserts and hillsides entire, clothed in the leather of a true outdoorsman. I will buy him the finest sword and buckler, bow and arrows, to be found in Hebron Market. He will be the warrior that I never was—that Mama and Papa—and now, this Rebecca, this bossy female, are preventing me from being….

(Suddenly, King Abimelech of the Philistines and his General, Phicol, come into the light. Phicol is bearing a fiery torch.)

Abimelech: Good Evening, Friend Isaac the Hebrew! What are you mumbling and muttering about? I see you have wine by your side. Any to share?

Isaac (scrambling to his feet, but none too steadily, and bowing): Oh, Abimelech, Your Majesty! What an honor to have you and General Phicol grace my humble tent! The wine? (Phicol has picked up the empty skin, sniffed at it, and tossed it away with a grimace) Oh, forgive me, Your Grace! I was having a little—a little—private party.

Phicol (He is a brawny, bluff fellow, who thinks himself clever, but is a thick-headed bully): By yourself? By Ereshkigal, that were a lonely party, indeed! I tell ye, Isaac the Hebrew, had you told me to, I would have fetched along a couple of our finest dancing maidens!

Abimelech: Aye, now that would have been a party worth drinking at!

(They laugh; after some hesitation, Isaac joins in)

Isaac: What business have you with me, this time of night, Gentlemen?

(The three squat down on their haunches; Abimelech plucks a stem of desert grass and chews on it while he speaks, hoping to create an air of commonalty. Rebecca, meanwhile, a worried look on her face, creeps slowly out of the tent, eavesdropping on the meeting, and concerned about his safety.

Abimelech: Well, Ikey, it’s like this, y’see. I’m hearing rumors—and I’m not saying that they’re true—that your shepherds have been shoveling dirt  into our wells (Phicol casually half-withdraws his bronze dagger from its sheathe and turns it, so that it catches the light of the fire). Now, I’m not saying that it’s true, or that it’s not true. But you know, here in these hot climes, water for one’s cattle is rare and precious.

Isaac (suddenly sober, before an accusation): Your Majesty, I can promise you—

Phicol (interrupting): Begging your pardon, My King—to cut to the chase. Now listen, Hebrew. We’ve been letting you people live here, and share the grass of our fields—not that there is all that much. And now, to hear that you’ve taken advantage of our generosity—well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You people have a reputation for all sorts of dirty dealings—pardon me, but I am a soldier, and I speak plainly. Filling in other people’s wells, and such. Shall I bring a couple of squadrons of chariots to attack you, your wife and kiddies? Well, Hebrew? Tell me now, and make it quick.

(He has his dagger out, by now, and is pointing it at Isaac’s throat)

Isaac (fists clenched around his staff, but maintaining his calm and speaking slowly): King Abimelech, may I remind you to muzzle this dog of yours? For hear me, you dagger-bearing loudmouth, I will not stand for this, in the Name of Almighty God!

Phicol: Why, you—

(Phicol makes as if to stab Isaac, but Isaac quickly brings up his staff in one swift movement, , knocking the dagger out of Phicol’s hand, and cracking the soldier on the head. Phicol sinks to the ground, moaning. Isaac stands at the ready to defend himself, holding his staff in front of himself. Abimelech makes as if to pull his own dagger, but Isaac shakes his head, and the king slowly sits down, again.)

Abimelech (trying to make peace): Here now, gentlemen, shall we come to blows over a few blades of grass, a few drops of water? Here, now! Phicol—calm yourself! I say—I order you to retire, Sir!

Phicol (rising and rubbing his head):I do no more than I am commanded, Your Majesty (He salutes, grimaces when his hand touches the lump on his skull, retrieves and sheathes his dagger. On shaky legs, he marches behind his liege king).

Isaac: I will answer, now that I am not threatened—and I declare to you, General: if you bring any armed forces upon my land—land which my father purchased, decades ago, and for which I still hold the deed—I will oppose you, together with four hundred armed servants of my house, and we will defend our homes, our families, and our sacred land. Armed infantry with slings and arrows will be more than a match for your silly horse-wagons. (To Abimelech) Milord King! What do you wish of me, about these wells? As God lives, they are mine: my father dug them, and I maintain them.

Abimelech: We ask only—ask only—that you share them with us. That is—is all.

(Phicol,standing  behind the king, is fuming, but silent, and rubbing his aching head.)

Isaac: Done and done. We are, and will continue to be, good neighbors, Your Majesty. We will dig up and clear out the wells which (looking sharply at Phicol) your soldiers vandalized, by filling them in. However, I will direct my warriors—that is, the protective detail that I will appoint to guard these selfsame wells—to take direct action if your forces threaten them. And, with all due respect, Majesty, do not mistake my courtesy for weakness. Good day (he turns on his heel, and, seeing Rebecca, continues). My Dear, I am sorry that our guests are called away, or they would enjoy some of your homemade—raisin wine, is it? (He hands her his empty wineskin)

Rebecca (staring at the wineskin, and at Isaac): Yes, Husband—I mean, no. (To Abimelech and Phicol) I am sorry that you must leave, Gentlemen; but, my husband is very decisive about these matters. He has more important business to attend than—than yourselves. Good day. (They exit, leaving Abimelech and Phicol alone)

Abimelech (exasperated): Well, I never! These—these—Hebrews! The nerve of them!

Phicol: What did I tell you, Majesty?

Abimelech: Oh, shut up. Can’t you even threaten a man properly? What do I pay you for?

(They exit, unhappily.)

Rabbi David Hartley Mark is from New York City’s Lower East Side. He attended Yeshiva University, the City University of NY Graduate Center for English Literature, and received semicha at the Academy for Jewish Religion. He currently teaches English at Everglades University in Boca Raton, FL, and has a Shabbat pulpit at Temple Sholom of Pompano Beach. His literary tastes run to Isaac Bashevis Singer, Stephen King, King David, Kohelet, Christopher Marlowe, and the Harlem Renaissance.

[brekkingin]

A Little Bit of Magic

A  little ficlet for my favorite artist, @puffy-shirt!!! Some more Ro and Alistair on a sleepy morning with an night adventure.

The world was bathed in sunshine. Her eyes opened to a halo around Alistair’s head, his eyes shut, his face half buried into a pillow. A slow smile crept over her mouth and for a moment, she considered staying in bed.

Her body felt sore from the fight the day before, the howling of werewolves had haunted her dreams. Or perhaps that had been real, their wild brethren pleading to no one, mourning their lost kin to the moon.

Ro pushed the thoughts of wolves and dreams aside, the world too bright for such dark thoughts. She pushed herself up onto her elbows with the intention of rising to stretch and start her day. She could hear the low mutters of “good mornings” outside the tent and the faint smell of breakfast reached her nose, the desire to eat now greater than the desire to lay in bed. 

Without even opening his eyes, Alistair’s arms suddenly wound around her waist and pulled her back down with a grumble. He pressed her back against his chest, face overwhelmed by her curls left down the night before. She could feel his breath tickle the hairs on the back of her neck and she squirmed.

“Alistair-” Ro began, but his voice cut her off, still half groggy from sleep.

“Don’t care. You’re warm and you’re not getting up.” He inhaled so deeply that for a moment, she wondered if her unruly curls would suffocate him. He muttered something else that sounded as if it could have been “you smell good” but the words were too garbled by her mass of hair to be properly deciphered.

He still had his arms locked around her waist, making escape to be quite the challenge. Rather than attempt to break his tight hold, Ro shifted until she was facing him, and pressed a series of slow kisses to his neck. His eyes opened and suddenly their lips collided in a union of passion and morning breath. Ro parted his lips with her tongue and leaned in closer.

It was nearly impossible to think with the way his arms untangled themselves to slide his hands down to rest on her hips, the way his mouth moved in harmony with hers, the way he smiled against her mouth. But the distraction wasn’t complete and she was able to move on top of him, hands against his chest, legs on either side of his body.

She pulled back for an instant, the sun setting the crown of his head alight with gold, his face flushed, lips swollen. The timing was perfect and she bolted from his grasp, a smirk clinging to her lips as she evaded the hands that had fallen from her hips. Hands that reached out to force her to linger in bed longer. For an instant, it worked until Alistair practically tackled her to the ground, a tangle of limbs and blankets.

“Maker, Alistair, we have to get up!” She groaned as he pinned her to his chest, faces inches apart. 

“Not until later, your surprise looks best at sunset anyway.” He replied, a kiss pressed to her nose.

“My surprise?”

“Come back to bed and maybe I’ll tell you.”

He had refused to tell her and then made Ro wait for hours on end, time dragging by until it was late afternoon, curiosity eating at the back of her brain. The sun was finally beginning its descent, golden rays sinking beneath the treeline when Alistair took her by the hand, fingers laced together, and led her into the forest.

They quickly left behind the chatter of the camp, voices and laughter echoing over the trees behind them, until at last a content silence fell that lasted throughout the journey. There was something inherently peaceful about the way the sun filtered through the trees, casting shadows on the ground, the whisper soft wind catching hold of the leaves to make them rustle, the faint call of the birds overhead and beat of their winds as one occasionally exploded into flight.

It was because of the silence between them that Ro heard the surprise before she saw it, the quiet rumble of Earth. As they drew nearer, the sound grew sharper, a roar of thunder that was as ceaseless as time.

Alistair brought her to the top of a gentle slope to see the waterfall as the last of the sun’s rays struck the water. The falls glowed with the color of the sky, orange as the embers of a dying fire, the sun brought to life in the way the water shone. Each drop was infused with light, as if all the hope in the world had come to rest in this place. The drops fell into the pool, ripples in the water, the reflection of the sky a pink tinged with gold.

The grass sloped gently down to the foot of the pool, waters naturally crystal clear, a color that shouldn’t have existed anywhere but in a picture. Lush vegetation surrounded the little haven, more green and vibrant as if the waterfall seeped life into the very ground to nurture this place.

“Oh, Alistair... it’s magical.” Ro’s face broke into a huge grin that stretched from ear to ear, still beholding the falls and their majesty.

“I hoped it would remind you of Redcliffe.” He replied, the very tips of his ears turning red at the mention of the past experience.

Ro laughed, the sound in chorus with the crashing of water. A smirk fixed itself to her mouth and she began to undress, Alistair following suit with that smile she loved so much.

Free of her clothing, she slid into the water, lukewarm from the day, soft as velvet against her skin. It was only a moment before he joined her and they glided through the water as the light sunk beneath the trees and the sky began to darken.

The falls lured her closer, a call she didn’t understand until she was beneath the water. It crashed around her, a violent storm, a torrent of water filling her senses. The weight pushed on her shoulders, a weight like no other, an immovable force. It felt as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders, a truth that struck her there beneath the impossible weight of the water. It was this that she carried with her, this burden upon her back that she bore without complaint, a rock weathering the falls for a hundred years. 

His voice broke her contemplation, rough, awe coloring his words as though he had never seen her before. “Maker, you’re beautiful.” His hands were on her then, pulling her from the weight of the waterfall into his arms where his lips found hers. She still bore the burden, but as their lips met in the cooling night air, Ro was reminded that the world was not hers alone to save.

When they could kiss no longer, he pulled back, foreheads touching, breath mingling. “You know, when this is all over... I’m going to marry you.” The words were low, quiet, but it felt like they had filled the air, filled her very being, even now, after everything he could make her fall in love all over again. “If you’re okay with that, of course I-”

“I would love to marry you.” She cut off his ramblings, her smile slow and filled with lovestruck adoration. Their lips met again while the stars watched from above, two ripples in the pool, holding each other while the world spun on.

[thecrimsonlights]

[Rp-Story] Fel Storm

First Day of the Legion Invasions- He said it didn't matter if that hive fell. In her mind the fall of minor hives meant having to rebuild. Rebuilding took effort and manpower she was not willing to part with yet. Yet. Still rebuilding gave a chance to strengthen and fix what became brittle over use. And odd sense of duality with this thought pattern. The Earthshaper leaned out from the pillar she stood upon and fell. Her arms reached forward as if grabbing the ground before her. The ground rapidly approaching as she pulled her arms into her chest yanking sand, dirt, and rock at her form.

The momentary darkness gave way to twilight painted skies and stars trying to push their way out from behind clouds. She ascended rather than the continued fall towards the now darker sands of Silithus. The stone wings though heavy lifted her higher, it was still a majesty of its own to witness in her eyes. Having learned the motion studying the flesh and scaled kind, now flight was a feat she could do too. It was normal to be flanked by her ‘children’, drakes hatched by her watch when other broodmothers were left dead by their enemies.  

Her eyes narrowed as the smell of fire filled her stone nostrils, and a sharp pain all but punched her in the gut. The Earthshaper hadn't felt that pain in a long time, too long as she saw the cliff ledges of Un'goro pass beneath her. Changing her glide she continued on towards the hives only spotting a few claiming smaller eggs for their raptors. An agreement and deal made with a local troll who made sure her hands gained profit for the use of the hive to hunt in. Regardless the hive was not the one on fire. She could still smell it, her vision obscured by the sandstorm that whipped the landscapes of Tanaris. The ache within still burned that old familiar sting, and the scent of fire still cut it’s way across the sandstorm. Civilizations burn. She commented within her own dark thoughts. Turning the stone bulk of a form towards Gadgetzan the Earthshaper took to a higher altitude for better vision. It wasn't the flames that caught her attention but the skies, the smoke and its tinted color, but mainly it was the otherworldly metals that formed the massive ship before her gaze. Fel as the source of the flames and smoke. Heating the stone around her, the former light wielder sent sharpen stones and descended quickly towards the earth. All that was left where the wings to slow her fall. She pegged demons out of the skies as she descended, until they swarmed ripping the stone from her wings. She fell and they did not attack, why bother when she would seemingly fall to her death.

The Earthshaper looked up at the sky and saw the swirls of clouds. She would not look at the ground the Gods would not accept this death today. Her eyes narrowed seeing a figure dart between the demons the bat like wings that would appear then disappear. She readied her blade then braced for her landing, aiming the great sword down upon the backside of a nearly oversized fel-guard. The beast howled out from the cleaving falling forward with the female elf standing on it’s bloody back. She saw the Horde and Alliance fighting and struggling against the invasion but she did not envy them. ‘This would bode ill if we lost here… though I am loathed to aid them…’ Turning she beheaded another smaller demon that ran up towards her. A slight head tilt as she did not recognize the beast, but she knew the shape of Draenei. Her dance would continue outside the City, she prefered it that way.

However that bat like figure from earlier was drawing slowly closer. Despite the nauseating smell of Fel in the air the Cultist kept her wits about her as she cut the heads off some of those annoying fel-hounds. What did slow her was that pang of burning pain from with inside of her. The dull ache found itself all but sharp and rage filled. ‘That creature? Was that the source?’ she wondered before the next spike of pain ravaged her form. Her howl of pain was drowned out by the demonic laughter from nearby. Shakingly she turned to see the demon she had believed was dead in Outland. In one hand an orb of Fel that was being used to reignite the embers that were left within her stomach, in the other a spear now aimed to finish her off. Pain or not she challenged the attempt at her life summoning the essence of the fallen Harbinger of the Old Gods. Her blade roared to life in Deathwing’s voice as magma spilled from its core to the end of the blade. She turned swift aiming to gut the monster within her gaze narrowly missing him as he forced another jolt of pain.

The demon cackled before feeling his own pain but from behind, it blinked for a moment confused at first but soon realised it could not leave anymore. Dropping the spear only allowed the Earthshaper to eviscerate his midsection allowing for blood and guts to pour forth. ‘See how you enjoy having your insides fucked with…’ she chuckled to herself before plunging the blade into the open wound letting the curse of her chosen power flow into the demon. He stepped forward causing her to back up or be crushed.

“.... This… was not what I expected… I w-....”

“No.” Came a colder voice from behind him, “There is no returning for you… ever.” A sickening crack was heard by those close enough as the demon went limp and fell over face first. A Demon Hunter was standing on his back, blades glowing and imbedded deep within his back. In her hand was a heart, the monster's’ heart as she squeezed the drops of blood from it taking in the droplets for herself. Using the back of her arm to clean her face, she looked towards Lymia them smiled eerily.

“You still live…”

“.... Do…. no… You died because of the Fel-Witch! I watched that creature take your life!” the Earthshaper spat angrily as if this was some sort of trick. She observed the Demon Hunter closely, this one was toned, riddled in the markings like the Betrayer had been, eyes covered. But the hair, the cheekbones, her lips, the voice was raspier but the inflections where there. “Astallia you died… how… why?”

“I was meant for more than the light… I was meant to be more than I am… I’m not weak and needing to be as protected… I can protect you better… I can protect everyone so much better…”

“NO!” She howled back at the words then snarled feeling the whispers rise up from the back of her mind with the doubts of who this creature was. Pushing those aside for a brief moment she raised her blade. “You are not her anymore… my lover wouldn’t have drank the blood of these monsters. She wouldn't’ have become a monster herself. She would have stayed with the light!” Clutching the blade in one hand she summoned stone and Elementium into a new drake to fight at her side.

It was clear there was a disappointed look on her face at this, “..... the lover I knew would have stayed as well, I don't’ need eyes to see how you’ve changed. I have work to do.” Her voice turned from delighted and happy to one that was cold and distant as she jumped back far enough as well as high enough to summon wings and glide towards the next battle.

Lymia stood there Drake at her side still tightening her grip on the blade handle. She heard the giggling of Succubi and the hissing of Fel-hounds then turned. ‘This was their fault.’ she thought before charging in to cut them down. Her last thoughts were sent rumbling like an earthquake across the connection of the forgotten with her rage.

“ Legion... “ she slowly calmed soon after that moment. “Is a threat in Tanaris. It must not spread to the Hives there. Stop them. Then join the Horde as our agents. Do not tell them of your affiliation do not be caught. This is your test.”