#i need to strangle them both and put them in the blender and throw the blender into the sun

[rivilu]

I've missed this weird little freak so much (it's been like a week)

[lisinfleur]

Ravished - Chapter Three: Queen in the North

Author's notes: man, I gonna be beaten because of this chapter. I feel like I picked Ramsay Bolton, placed on a blender with Viking's clothes, some Jofrey flavored spices and voilá! Erik Draupnirsson. This man is a bastard!

Warnings TRIGGERING CHAPTER! Visual rape, described violence against woman, abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, violence, mentions of death, dismembering, treason and pretty much more. +18 PLUS

Words: 4.895

You never felt yourself so lost.

Erik had held you under his hands until Ubbe's image disappeared on the horizon. You were still marked by the terrible fight you put against his fingers when he made your thralls to put you into your mother's wedding dress.

The beautiful dress you thought would be yours in the most sublime moment of your life. Placed in front of the mirror, you saw each piece of that dress being mounted and your hair being brushed, your appearance changing, until you looked like the most beautiful pearl in the snow of the North.

But your eyes were empty.

The color in your iris had disappeared and your face was wet all the time. It doesn't matter how many times the thralls had dried your face, there was always some new tears rolling down as if your soul was disappearing drop by drop, trying to flee for the terrible fate your body was locked into.

After you were ready, Erik came into the room, looking at you with a bright smile on his face, raising your face towards his, obligating you to see him.

You were barely moving for more than blinking, but when one of his thralls tried to take away Ubbe's ring from your hand, you closed it looking furiously to the woman.

"Don't you dare to touch it!" You yelled, causing the thrall to become little.

Something inside of you was still fierce. Something inside of your chest wasn't totally dead. And Erik took your hand in his hands brutally pulling it, hurting your body to look at the ring in your finger.

For a second, you thought he would cut out your finger with the ring, but he just caressed the jewel in your hand, looking at you from near it, causing the shining of the metal to reflect in his damn cursed hazel eyes.

"I'll let you keep it, as a sweet memory of what will never be yours. Someday this ring might be useful. Keep a piece of your king for when I rip his body into pieces this one can remain in the North." he said, pushing your hand away. "Now come. You're beautiful and I don't wanna spend the freshness of your perfume with this stupid conversation."

His steps took the way to the door and your eyes found your own reflect once again.

You were so similar to your mother now... Did she felt this way on her marriage day as well?

"I said come." Erik's voice echoed again, threatening.

And you had no choice but following him into the principal hall of your castle.

Your memory remembering you of each laugh, each kiss, each moment you desired to last forever with your precious, gentle and kind king that refused to take you as his before you could really belong to him.

Oh, gods, how you wanted to have laid yourself with Ubbe. How you wanted your body to had belonged to your beloved king. Now, in a few hours, it would be stolen from you in a terrible way.

In a few hours, your world and your dreams would be destroyed.

In a few hours... Or a few minutes.

There was no feast, no guests, no reason for you to be on that dress but Erik's sickness. There was only your father, some papers, and ink. The right over his lands and everything that made Erik his legit son in law was there to be signed and your father gave you the feather with an icy gaze in his eyes.

"Sign it. And do me the favor or bear him a child, a male child, before I go into my grave! At least I could think your useless mother gave me more than just disgust."

And there was your answer. She couldn't be different from you. Who could be happy being married to a bastard like your father? Who could have been happy with a man who couldn't thank the gods not even a single time for his food, his life, his lands, his wife... His daughter.

You signed the papers, but your eyes looked fiercely to your fathers and for the first time you saw him looking back into your (y/e/c).

"That's where you are, in the end. And old fat envious boar that couldn't handle the fact his prick wasn't able enough to make a male child, selling your daughter's womb after being the reason why the gods closed your wife's. Faking to yourself that this bastard you call son in law is your own blood when you know he is here only for lands and a warm cunt. Betraying your king and all the vows you did to lay your head on your empty bed tonight hearing the screams of despair from a daughter you will have raped under your roof by a man you allowed to do it. You're killing my dreams, father, as you did to my mother. And I might die under this monster's hands, but I'll be watching from Fólkvangr when your king comes to avenge me. Because unlike these two pigs I have around me now, Ubbe is a man and a man of word. He said he will come back and he will. And when he comes, I will gladly receive his sacrifice of blood. And I will gladly serve his mead and wait for his time to meet me on Freyja's halls or claim me to his side at the Valhalla who awaits the men like him and rejects despicable creatures like both of you!"

You never felt so empty. Your words took every weight you ever felt in your heart from your father's contempt for you, every drop of guilt. It was never you.

It was him.

But your ears captured a clapping sound and you looked aside to see Erik's sarcastic face while he was clapping his hands, applauding your words.

"Bravo!" he said "Wonderful wedding vows, my love. Did you wrote them for yourself or it just came into your mind right now? You're amazing!"

His hands continued clapping, reducing its rhythm until the claps disappeared and only his disgusting smile remained. He walked forward one or two steps, touching your lips with his fingers, causing shivers of despair to go down through your spine.

"Fólkvangr... Freyja halls... Such a beautiful place. What makes you believe that a filthy whore like you could ever touch your toes on that clean and bright place? Uh?" he continued, bringing tears to your eyes on breaking your most minimum dreams or hopes with his meek ironic tone "Oh, no, no, no... Fólkvangr is for bright women, loyal warriors chosen by Freyja itself. And the Valhalla is not for disgusting, immoral, vicious traitors like your precious Ubbe, no..."

You took a breath to answer him and defend your king but he placed two fingers over your mouth, hushing your voice.

"Sh... Shh. You made your vows, my love. Now it is time for me to make mine. Listen, precious treasure, because you are right... Your dirty king will come back and when he comes I'll be here, waiting to clean the world from his disposable existence. But until there..." he tilted his head; his steps pushing you against the wall, cornering you between the table and the wall. Your father doing nothing but put the papers you signed together like nothing was happening in front of his eyes.

"Until your beloved king comes back, your precious little body will be mine, sweet bird. And I will use you. I will satisfy myself from you until I'm tired of fucking your pretty warm cunt, as you said."

His hand slid through your face and you saw your father leaving the room.

You heard the door being shut behind his back and the thralls leaving.

And your eyes got wide when you noticed Erik wouldn't even wait for you to be in your room...

"And I will start fucking you right here, as the filthy whore you are"

His hand grabbed your hair causing you to squeak in a mixture of pain and despair. And he turned your body, throwing your torso violently against the table where the papers were before. His free hand pulled your waist behind forcing your body to bend and so he took your arm bending it until your hand was placed in front of your eyes. The beautiful ring Ubbe gave you still shining for you to see when you felt Erik's hand leave your hair, destroying the dress behind your back, ripping it apart, touching your naked skin.

He slapped your ass cheeks making it burn. And so you felt his weight over your body.

He forced your hand against your face and mumbled on your ear before you could feel him forcing his cock against your virgin womanhood.

"Remember him, sweet bird. That's all you will have from your precious Ubbe now: memories… Nothing but the memories and plans I will crush, one… By… One".

In a single push, he destroyed everything, making your voice echoes in the room in a strangled squeal. Your sore body started moving under his thrusts, shocking his hips against your ass, pushing, stretching, hurting...

You could hear him grunting, you could feel him sweating, moving, breathing.

Your eyes were frozen at the ring, lost, trying not to drown into tears while your memory was trying to travel to your tree. Your secret place and Ubbe's arms... his kisses... his promises...

He would come back.

He needed to.

"You're so fucking tight!"

Erik's pace became intense and so your cry under his body when, in a few more thrusts, he pushed himself strongly and entirely, spilling his disgusting seed in the depths of your body.

The sobs took you when you felt his body collapsing over yours; his panting breath causing you nausea when hitting your naked neck.

You moved underneath him, trying to force his body out of yours, but he just pushed you stronger against the table.

"Who told you we're done, love?" his voice invaded your ears, sharp.

And when he started thrusting once again, you knew your suffering would be long.

And so...

 You started praying.

--

When Erik finished, it was already morning again.

Your body was sore and tired, marked with his teeth, his hands and his seed all over your skin.

No one dared to get inside that room.

No one dared to help you.

And no one dared to question when he opened the door, leaving as if he hadn't raped your body for hours, destroying all the beautiful dreams you had built for that moment.

You slid to the ground, covering yourself poorly with the rags of your mother's dress, and cried for a long time. Your fingers tightly pressing the ring of your beloved king in your hand.

You weren't dignified of him anymore. Erik has taken everything from you. But even then, you would find a way to frustrate his plans and warn Ubbe of what they were planning.

You dragged your wounded body to the nearest wall and used it as support to get on your feet, walking slowly and poorly to your room. You locked the door dismissing any thralls.

Slowly you filled your bathtub with water and some herbs to help with your pain. You left your mother's ripped dress on the ground and dove your sore body into the water covering yourself completely, resting on the bottom of the tub where not even the sound could reach you but the few bubbles leaving your nose to disappear at the surface of the water. You learned, with the fights of your parents, how to spend a lot of time without breathing underwater, just because you didn't want to hear them screaming or your mother being beaten.

So you lost yourself in your thoughts, looking at the surface of the water, thinking about what you would do to blow Erik's plans...

But you took too long and one of the thralls thought your locked door could mean something. So he called his master, as a good dog, barking to any shadow of danger around his owner.

Erik broke your door kicking it down. In one second you were staring the beautiful empty surface of the water; in the other, Erik's face appeared on the water mirror and his hands went into the bathtub, pulling you violently out, throwing your body on the ground, causing all your pains to come back at once.

He was so furious...

"Oh, don't you dare to try it! Don't you ever dare to try it! Did you listen to me?" he yelled, gripping your hair again, shaking your body to force you to look into his hazels

"I was just... bathing... I..." you tried, whimpering.

"I know exactly what you were doing, you bitch! No! Did you listen to me? You will not flee from me or try to kill yourself! You're my property and I decide if you live or die! If I want you to die, I will decide how! You belong to me (Y/N)!" he yelled again.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself! I was just bathing!!" you yelled.

And so his hand found your face, heavy, slapping hard as once your father did because of him.

He raised you by your neck, looking to your burning face and the purple mark that was forming on your jawline.

"You... will never lock a door once again, did you hear me, love? Doors open from now on. And I want one of my slaves by your side on each of your bathes. A male one, just to be sure that he will be strong enough to force you out of the water if necessary. SATYR!" he yelled his favorite slave...

The one you hated the most.

"Follow her. Wherever she goes. And if she tries to kill herself, prevent her to do it. By any necessary means!"

He nodded and from this moment on, you weren't alone anymore.

Satyr followed you the entire day, walking around you to wherever place you wanna go. Erik dragging you to his bed whenever he wanted and for the entire nights, fucking your body senselessly, hurting you every night for you to try to heal in the time between.

Your life was a mess and after the first months, you were almost mute. Your body was skinny and you were tired. Your shame disappeared: to be naked wasn't a problem anymore. You knew Satyr had already seen everything and your husband didn't have problems about fucking you in front of his eyes so what was the matter?

Six months had passed and no sign of Ubbe back on the horizon or any means for you to destroy your father's and Erik's plans. You were starting to become hopeless.

Your eyes have lost completely their color, but in exchange, your skin had earned purple tones all over your body where Erik used to press too much.

Or from the spankings.

You were really thinking about taking your life now. Maybe running into the iced lake under your tree. Satyr would never be able to reach you before the ice was broken under your feet or, with some luck, he would be dragged by the cold water with you and die as well.

"What do you look so intensely at this lake, love?" Erik's voice came when you were seated at the margin of the frozen lake under your tree.

"Mother used to tell me stories under this tree" you said, "It is a special place from my childhood."

You knew that hiding would be worst.

"Living from past. Tsk. Come. We have visitors".

You followed him, ready for more of that stupid rebellion against the crown that was already being spoken in open mouths inside your house. Earls were coming from all the north to talk about the idea of separating the North or taking the crown. There were so few people loyal to your beloved king...

But this time it wasn't a normal visitor.

"We don't care, Ármóðr!" your father's voice came and the name called your attention. "They're a bunch of brats and the North needs a real leader!"

Earl Ármóðr, your uncle, half-brother of your mother you didn't see long ago. A loyal man, who told you a lot of King Ragnar's stories and how he went to the lands of England besides the king.

When your eyes found him, he knew something was wrong.

"Sweet (Y/N)... You look just like your mother".

It wasn't a commentary. It was a hidden message you got perfectly.

You were looking just like your mother: dying day by day as she was before you. However, you smiled at him, giving Erik what he wanted: a meek wife.

Your words giving your uncle more than your father and stupid husband could understand.

"It couldn't be different, my uncle."

You had her same destiny and Ármóðr's eyes went from you to Erik's before he smiled again.

A  bastard. Just like your father.

You served the meal for the guest and your family, serving all of them of mead. And your uncle could see the marks in your neck and arms while you were serving him.

But when you came with the mead he couldn't avoid noticing the king's ring in your finger.

"How did you get this, my niece?" he asked and you didn't even need Erik's gaze to lie.

You knew your uncle would see through the lie.

"A mere symbol of the king's favor for he liked what he had when received in our lands. Nothing really important, my uncle" you said, satisfying Erik with your answer.

But your eyes seemed to have learned from Ubbe's and were screaming the ring on your finger was pretty more than just his favor.

It was his love...

A love that your uncle could see into your eyes.

At the end of the lunch, your uncle stretched his back.

"It is a pity, but since you and I don't agree, my brother, I'll leave back to my lands. May (Y/N) take me to my sister's tree? There is a time I don't speak to her."

Your father just motioned his fingers and Satyr got up to follow you.

You and your uncle walked silently for all the way to that place, taking the horses by their reins, without mounting them, exchanging eye glares that slave couldn't understand.

But your uncle knew he only had one chance to know the truth and you knew it would cost you dear.

You had one chance to warn your king. But it would cost your life.

Erik would never forgive your betrayal. But if your uncle could warn Ubbe, your life would have worth the price to save your beloved king.

So when you reached the tree, you started walking into the ice of the river.

Satyr looked at you, alert.

"Lady  (Y/N), don't make me force you to the margin. Lord Erik told me to use force to prevent you to get hurt if necessary." his voice echoed, and you just continued, causing him to start walking towards you. "Lady (Y/N)! Come back here right n-".

His voice choked when your uncle's blade cut his throat in a single strike.

Ármóðr's eyes were on yours when the body of the slave reached the ground. You knew you haven't too much time.

"What is he doing to you? What is that bastard doing to you, my dear?" he said, touching your face, but you took the ring from your finger, separating yourself from your best and warmest memory, putting in into your uncle's hands and looking into his eyes.

"He loves me, uncle. And I loved him with all my heart. My only regret in this life was not to have belonged to my king when I had the chance. Take this ring and make it reach him. Tell our king what my father and my husband are planning. Warn Ubbe about what happened here and tell him to leave the North, go back to Kattegat and set up his army. There will be war and his life is in danger. Tell him, my uncle. Tell him." your eyes were filled with tears.

"What about you, my flower?" he asked, and you smiled.

"I'll find him in Valhalla, uncle. I'll find him. Now go." you pushed him towards his horse. "Go!"

He mounted.

You could already hear the noises of Erik's horse, probably coming after you, annoyed you took so long to come back.

"GO!" you yelled, slapping your uncle's horse, forcing him to leave you behind in a run for Ubbe's life.

You grabbed the knife on Satyr's body, but before you could cut your own throat with it, Erik jumped from his horse, holding your hand. Causing your cry to become a scream of frustration when he pressed your fingers against the cable of the blade, forcing you to let it go, almost breaking your fingers with the anger he pressed them.

His furious hazels saw your uncle's horse going away and he twisted your hand, missing the ring in your finger.

"You filthy whore..." his voice sounded threatening, but you spat on his face.

"You traitor bastard! I hope Thor strike you dead and may Frey dry my womb before I can bare you a child, you monster!"

He punched your face this time, causing you to fall dizzy in his arms. So he put you over his horse, running back home, throwing you into your room and screaming for his slaves to bring him chains.

"Chain this bitch to the wall! Arms and neck. Let her legs free to be open. Want you to be treated as a whore? So a whore you'll be from now on!"

He left, and you fought his slaves with all the strength you still have while they were chaining you to the wall of the room as he said them to do.

In the principal hall, your father was questioning Erik what was going on and without cutting his steps, he ordered some men to come with him, remounting his horse.

"The bitch you call daughter sent your brother in law to the king. I'll go there clean up her mess and warrant she will not destroy everything! You were right and so was she: Your damned wife served for nothing but to birth a seed of disgrace! That snake will be confined to my room now and don't you dare to release that bitch!"

"Why should I? Go, before Ármóðr ends up fucking everything! Go!" your father pushed him and Erik left with some men after your uncle.

The hours passed slowly and the night was already high when he came back, breaking into the room and rolling Ármóðr's head to your feet, filling your eyes with thick tears when he pushed your head towards your uncle's dead eyes.

"Look what you made me do!" Erik yelled "From now on, you're not my wife. You're my whore. My slave. And I'll be sure to make you suffer the worst this world can offer. Look closely at this dead eyes, (Y/N). Soon it will be Ubbe's eyes in front of you!" he said, kicking Ármóðr's head and clenching his hands. "Now, this is for betraying me, you damn bitch!"

From the first punch forward, you felt your heart empty of hope. The more your mouth was filled with blood, the more you felt the words vanishing from your tongue. There was no hope and no god was listening to your prayers.

You were lost, just like your uncle. And soon, Ubbe would be lost as well.

--

In the middle of the north, two weeks later...

The sound of horse hooves caught Ubbe's attention and he looked behind to see a young man over a white horse, coming as a bullet through the road.

He passed through him running as if the world depended on his mission, leaving Ubbe behind in his slow trot, worried with what could be making that man run so fast.

However, before he could disappear on the horizon, the horse made a turn and the man came back, stopping and rounding Ubbe's horse before stopping in front of him.

"Name the three kings of Kattegat," the man said, snooty, causing Ubbe to look at him curiously.

"Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Ivar Lothbrook", he said, "And who is questioning?"

But the man ignored his question, questioning over it, and so Ubbe understood it could be a code, giving the man's words a little more of attention.

"And how are they known through the world?" the man said, waiting for his answer.

"The Quiet Beast, The White Shirt and The Boneless" he answered, looking into the men's eyes.

There wasn't in his words the names for what they were being called between the rebels. The man's shoulders became tense and he sighed, begging the gods he was talking with the right man.

"The noble Earl Ármóðr, from the Northern lands of Albedar, my master, has a message for his king. What is your name, young man?" he asked.

Ubbe straightened his horse, looking at the panting man in front of him.

"I'm Ubbe Ragnarsson, The second son of Ragnar Lothbrok, King of Kattegat by my birthright, first between my brothers. And the recipient of your message," he answered, extending his hand to the man to receive a small parchment written in a poor calligraphy of someone who wrote as fast as it was possible.

"All hail King Ubbe, All hail the Lothbroks.

Sadly I won't be able to see my king's glory once again since this message will reach your hands while I will be probably feasting with your noble father if the gods allow me to.

From the last Earl loyal to your highness at the North, I beg the gods this warn can reach you..."

Ubbe's eyes were running through those lines in disbelief. He was with Ármóðr not long ago and now that letter said he would probably be dead by now?

"The Earls in the North aren't making true vows. They are rebelling against the crown and my brother in law Bolduir and his son in law Erik are now the leaders of this riot. They intend to claim the crown by war and sealed alliances behind my king's back even marrying my niece with this bastard they intend to settle on my king's place. (Y/N) will probably be suffering the consequences of her brave actions of loyalty telling me all that happened since you left her kingdom so I could warn you, my king.

Here is the ring your highness gave her as a proof of our loyalty and the reality of these cruel words. Believe us, my king, your life is in danger and so is the crown.

Come back to Kattegat and prepare for war and may the gods make you stronger to defeat all your enemies and crush their terrible intentions.

If it's not too late by the moment this message reaches your highness, I beg you for my niece's life. I die with honor and pleasure, serving your noble highness with loyalty until the end of my days."

Near the signature, over the seal of wax, there was the ring he gave to (Y/N) as a symbol of their love now broken by that terrible news.

She was married with that bastard Erik and worse than that, suffering for her loyalty in the middle of so many snakes; her father mislead him and he fell like a fool.

Ubbe grunted in anger looking at the young messenger dressed as a slave.

"What is your name, young boy?"

"I'm Ully," the young man answered and so Ubbe touched his shoulder.

"You're a free man now, Ully. Take this with you and go back to Kattegat as fast as your horse can run. Tell my brother Hvitserk to prepare for war and show him this when you ask to talk to him. He will know it is a true message from myself" he said, giving Ully a necklace Hvitserk once gave him as a protection and a bag of gold for the travel.  

His brother would recognize the piece with no mistake.

"As my king commands." the boy said, taking the necklace and the gold and leaving at the same accelerated pace he arrived.

Ubbe turned the horse back, leaving at the same pace.

He remembered to have seen some crows at the nearest farm and for some gold coins, the woman from that farm allowed him to send one of them addressed to Ivar.

He watched the crow flying in the air before his eyes could reach the metal ring back in his finger.

He knew he should go back to Kattegat and remaining in the North was too risky. But his precious (Y/N) wouldn't be there for him if he waited that long.

He pressed the ring in his hands and kicked his heels on the horse, causing him to start running at a faster pace towards Bolduir's castle.

He would rescue his precious (Y/N) even if he had to start stopping the rebellion in the north by killing her father and that bastard that dared to steal her from him first.

Do you like my work and want to support me?  Become a Patreon or Buy me a coffee!

Tagged ones:

@akamaiden @attorneyl @awesome-hedgehog @awishmyheartmakes @bang-kim-bap @bluearchersstuff @captstefanbrandt @clumsywonderland @directionlessbuthappy @feistybaby @funmadnessandbadassvikings @grungyblonde @happylittlepuppydog @honestsycrets @igetcarriedawaywithyou @ivarswickedqueen @lokigoddess @lol-haha-joke @mcuimxgine @milbethmorillo @mslothbrok @naaladareia @natalie-rdr @neeadinghugs @nothingeverdies  @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @rabeccablake   @readsalot73  @sodanova @starrmoondaisy @tephi101 @tintinhufflepuff @therealcalicali @vikingsandetc @wish-i-was-a-mermaid   @witchesandfairytails

Want to be tagged? Ask me! And add me on Twitter to receive the notifications from there!

[hellfireprince]

@bornhybrid I was struck by painful inspiration (also, Aryan blending his phones was something I needed for some reason. And also I need Alex always being the one either of them goes to to vent).

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, son, but don’t you think you should be talking to Hope instead of… avoiding all of society?” Alex suggested with concern as he watched his son throw all four of his phones into the blender.

“Dad… I am quite obviously not in the mood to talk to anyone,” Aryan said pointedly.

“Yes, an uncharacteristic declaration for you, don’t you think?” Alex asked.

“I’m a spontaneous guy.”

“Yeah, about that, not that I mind but a little warning before you appeared on my doorstep might have been appreciated Aryan.”

"Well we can't always get what we want, can we Dad?!" Aryan snapped.

"Wow, this has really rubbed you up the wrong way, hasn't it bud?"

Aryan didn't reply, just switched on the blender and watched with a glare as the blades started shredding the phones. It was things like this that made Alex feel sorry for his son, and regret letting him live with his mother and grow into the business man he was now. Aryan needed a serious break. His son didn't willingly appear on his doorstep in the middle of the year and declare he wasn't talking to anyone for the rest of the month unless something had really snapped in his life.

"Hope you backed those things up," Alex muttered. "And you better be buying me a new blender. Don't need to be drinking battery acid next time I want a juice."

"I'll buy you whatever you want," Aryan huffed, flicking the blender off when he was satisfied by the amount of carnage his phones had suffered and stomping for the door. "I'm going riding. And shooting. Don't answer the phone!"

"How can I? You just made confetti out of them all."

"Don't answer your phone!"

"You know, people do occasionally want to talk to me..."

"I'm leaving Dad!"

Alex sighed as Aryan stomped out the door, shaking his head. His son had never been particularly good at expressing his emotions, but he was doing a particularly good job of repressing them today.

"He just up and left last night! He's not answering his phone, no one's seen him at work, he hasn't talked to anyone. I... I know it's a long shot but... have you seen him? O-or heard from him even?"

Hope sounded close to tears. Whether they were angry tears or worried ones, Alex wasn't sure, but she probably had a right to both. Aryan hadn't told him that his wife didn't know he was coming down to his father's place.

"That's... not like him," he said eventually, avoiding her question for now. There was no doubt a reason why Aryan didn't say anything to Hope before he left. "Did something happen, Hope?"

"No Alex, he just disappeared off the face of the Earth because he felt like it," Hope snapped sarcastically before she sighed. "Sorry. I... I'm just worried about him."

"I know sweetheart, it's alright. Tell me what happened."

"I... we got into a fight. A big one. Raven was arrested and he got angry at her and left her to walk home because he apparently wasn't capable of even talking her into the car. Anyway, I called him out on it and... this is not the sort of thing a father probably wants to hear about his son but... I told him he was abusive."

"Hope, I don't think-"

"You don't see it Alex! He's not physical or anything like that, but... I grew up with this stuff Alex. He's controlling, he's angry, he never thinks he's done anything wrong, he's... really horrible to her sometimes Alex."

Hope was right, Alex wasn't there, he didn't see anything like this. But he wouldn't put it past Aryan to be... too intense with a daughter who didn't like to follow the rules.

"I'm sorry. I wish my son was better than that. I believe you Hope. I... doubt he did though?"

"He just... he just shut down Alex. It really hurt him. He doesn't... he doesn't want to be like that and... I think I scared him."

"I bet you did," Alex muttered, peering at the window at the sound of hooves approaching and seeing his son returning. "I'm sorry Hope, I haven't seen him, but I promise I'll let you know if I do. And I'll make sure he knows you're looking for him."

"Thank you Alex. I'm... I'm sure he's fine, I just... considering the circumstances..."

"I understand Hope. Try not to worry, he'll show up. Make sure you give me a call if he does, alright?"

Alex hung up from his daughter-in-law with a sigh as he watched Aryan lead the horse back to the stables before stomping inside.

"Feeling better?"

Aryan shrugged as he sat down, only to complain loudly as Alex watched him upside the head.

"Hey! What was that for?!"

"Your wife is worried sick about you, idiot! I just had to lie to woman this close to breaking down because she doesn't know where her husband is!"

"I've been gone one day, not two weeks," Aryan huffed. "She can't be that worried."

"Literally everything you've done in the past twenty-four hours has been out of character, of course she's worried!" Alex snapped. "Now, do you want to tell me your side of this story?"

"I told you not to answer the phone," Aryan grumbled, rubbing the back of his head and glaring up at his father. "Clearly you already know what happened, what good is me telling it to you again?"

"Because Hope did not paint you in a pretty light Aryan, so if you think there's something that's going to make it better, I suggest you voice it."

"Dad, the whole reason I came here was to get away from all this!"

"Aryan... you have never run away from anything, I refuse to believe that you became a coward over night." Alex sighed, sitting down opposite his son. "Just start from the start."

"Raven was arrested. Trespass and vandalism," Aryan muttered. "Just... stupid teenage stuff. It was late, I went to pick her up, I was... pretty angry at her. We got snappy at each other and she stormed off. I tried to get her in the car, but... I didn't. It was wrong, I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have let her walk off, or I should have followed her... I didn't. Like I said, I was angry."

"You got home without Raven?"

"Hope was... furious. I thought she was going to strangle me. So we got into a fight as well and... she said I was abusive. I... I've never hit Raven, I've never hurt her, I-"

"Aryan."

Aryan fell silent at once from the look on his father's face, some sort of mixture of sorrow and disappointment.

"You have been incredibly fortunate in your life not to have grown up around physical abuse," Alex said carefully. "But you wouldn't know emotional abuse if it danced naked in front of you, because you did grow up with that. Your grandfather groomed the hell out of you. When you were a kid, he manipulated you to no end, and nothing your mother or I did changed that. It wasn't until you were an adult and he was sending you off to the military that you started to dislike him."

"Well... he was a good businessman, he showed me how to-"

"He was abusive. He made you dependent so you wouldn't believe your mother when she said he was a bastard."

"I haven't done that to Raven! She isn't dependent on me, she's the exact opposite!"

"You've used the same tactics Aryan! She's just not as receptive! You piled on expectations and pressure, you made a careful network that will always contact you if she gets in trouble, you control her finances... I really hoped I raised you better than that. I failed you son, I'm sorry."

"Dad, I didn't... I'm not... that stuff's just what people do! I'm just worried about her!"

"Aryan, you try to control her. And you fell for it when you were a kid, you thrived under that pressure, you modeled yourself off your mother and grandfather. Raven has not. And you need to change quick smart Aryan, or you are going to lose your daughter."

"How did this happen?" Aryan groaned, rubbing at his face as if he was exhausted by the whole ordeal. "I've tried so hard to be a good parent. I tried to be a good father, I really did!"

"I know Aryan. And I know you love your daughter, which is a hell of a step up. But if you keep pushing your expectations on her, you're just going to push her away even more. She's not suited to your world. She's her mother's daughter, and you need to give her room to grow into the remarkable woman she is going to be."

"She might not be suited to it, but she lives in it! There are rules to my world, there are expectations!"

Alex shrugged as he got to his feet, pressing his phone into Aryan's hands.

"I would have thought your family was more important to you than the views of your business acquaintances," he commented quietly. "At least, the man I thought my son grew into would think so. Call your wife Aryan. Then go back home and fix your mess. Never run away from something like this again."​

[asheva]

A New Soul

What happens to her happens to him. But what if this worked for any strong physical sensation, not just pain? Alternatively, a certain changeling learns a lesson in love. Set during Roaming Charges May Apply.

Read it at my AO3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332195) or below.

The abandoned hallways of Arcadia Oaks High — eerie in the dappled darkness of a waning moon — were perfect for his jaunts. Sometimes, one just had to have a…change of scenery. Strickler relishes the sensations of his true form, feeling stronger than he had for days. His clawed feet make a pleasant clack on the worn vinyl as he stretches his legs to their full stride. It was risky exposing himself, given the chance of tardy cleaners or one of the teachers returning, but such was his mood tonight.

He brushes his steel mantle lightly, fingers testing each edge, carefully as not to cut, before selecting the sharpest of his knives. With a lazy flick, he lodges it in a nearby poster. The keen blade neatly cleaves the love-struck Romeo in half. How appropriate, given the current situation. He went to all the trouble of raising a powerful troll assassin and yet the boy still lived! While Strickler could appreciate Angor’s strategy of patient study — far superior to Bular’s brutish tactics — he strongly suspects the assassin was toying with him as well. Unhindered, the Trollhunter sought a dangerous path that spelt disaster for all changelings. Ignorant child! How could he hope to defeat Gunmar, Gunmar the Black, the greatest of all Gumm-Gumms? Yet the possibility remained, and with it the chance that the Nursery would fall. That was something Strickler could not allow. Sighing, he frees his knife from the wall.

Suddenly, without warning, the changeling is struck with a profound feeling of suffering. His blade clatters to the floor, and his knees sink with it. “W-What…” Strickler gasps, clutching his side. Beneath his hands, his muscles spasm in ways unfelt in this form. Had Angor finally found a way to harm him? Summoning his will through the Inferna Copula, Strickler commands a vision of the troll assassin. He is met by the sight of dripping tunnels and a dais made from piled flotsam. The sewers under Arcadia, if he had to guess. So that was where the troll took refuge. Through Angor’s eyes, he sees a half-carved golem figurine and the rhythmic dip of a sharp blade. The assassin is completely absorbed in his work. An attack on his ringbearer seemed unlikely, then. But what was the cause of the pain? In a burst of green, he shifts back into his human guise. The phantom feeling hits him harder, drawing his breath out in small huffs. He immediately recognises it as the desire to retch. Trollkind — for all the unpalatable “delicacies” they consumed — are rarely struck with nausea. This resilience extended, in part, to the half-breeds or Impure. Even in human form, Strickler was only mildly inconvenienced by the sensation. It should be impossible for this to debilitate him so, unless…

“The binding!” The changeling yelps, forcing himself to his feet. Shoes, not claws, resound, as he tears down the hall towards the staff carpark.

***

A few minutes, one squashed goblin, and several ignored traffic regulations later, Strickler pulls up outside the Lake residence. Neither the wrath of Gunmar nor a raging Gronka Morka could drive him from the car and to the house more quickly. Shifting from foot to foot, he raps on the door sharply. No answer. “Barbara!” Strickler cries out, hating the desperation that creeps into his voice. The binding of fates was a brilliant strategy to control the Trollhunter, but he could not shake the thought it was ill-considered. As he knew from experience, humans were incredibly vulnerable creatures. If someone wanted to strike him down, it would be as simple as harming the woman while she slept. Granted, the Trollhunter was in residence most nights, but even Jim’s budding fighting skills would not suffice. He is honestly surprised Angor had not thought of it. As expected, the assassin was already testing his bonds. Fortunately, the mental compulsions bound with the Inferna Copula were enough to prevent any deviation from the ringbearer’s command…for now.

Strickler knocks again, more forcefully this time, leaving small dints in the paintwork. Was she still at the clinic? No, Barbara mentioned she had the rest of the day off after a fortnight of double shifts. The silence worried him, yet he knew — by virtue of his continued existence — that she still lived. Finally, he hears a reply, although faint and strangled. “One moment…urgh!” The magical echoes of suffering strikes him through the bond. Breathing slowly, Strickler grabs the door frame to steady himself. It would do them both no good if he was vulnerable to attack. He hears her now, shuffling towards the entrance. The changeling quickly straightens as the lock clicks. Barbara, still dressed in her medical scrubs, peers out. Framed by the dark wood of the portal, she is as pale as Myrddin’s cursed daylight. The fine copper strands framing her face are slick with sweat. “W-Walter?” Barbara squints into the cult-de-sac, swaying slightly.

“I…uh…was in the neighbourhood.” It pains him to smile, but after centuries of disguise and deception, very little discomfort shows. He punctuates his greeting with a slight shrug, inwardly cursing his lack of a good excuse.

“This isn’t r-really a good time,” she rasps, coughing at the words. Bile burns at the back of his throat. How unpleasant.

“Barbara, you look dreadful!” Strickler delivers his lines as naturally as possible, eye twitching. He closes the distance in a stride, pushing the door open ever so slightly. His eyes flick behind her, scanning for unseen threats. “Please, let me give you some assistance. It’s the least I could do.” She holds his gaze with those soft doe-eyes, red-rimmed and bagged with exhaustion.

“What have I done to deserve you?” She smiles weakly at him. Her misplaced trust unsettles him, but any unnatural feelings are soon replaced by another wave of nausea.

“Here, allow me.” He proffers his arm. She tucks against him and together they stagger towards the lounge room. The lights are dimmed and soft pop plays from an old radio on the bookshelf. He sets her down on the lounge, shifting the cocoon of blankets already in residence to make room.

“Ugh, thanks,” Barbara groans as she rolls on to her side. The changeling tucks her up again, smoothing the blanket across her shoulders. There is a chipped coffee mug of wine by the lounge. A spicy-sweet Riesling if he was any judge. A bowl accompanies the mug, half-eaten, with the spoon sticking straight up in stiff gloop. “It’s not food poisoning,” Barbara mutters from under the blanket, “just a bad batch of mac and cheese.” She laughs weakly. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.” He raises an eyebrow. To think, he, centuries-old changeling and leader of the Janus Order, could have been vicariously poisoned by cheesy pasta. Ever paranoid, Strickler checks the bowl for Trollish substances. Nomura may have been banished to the Darklands, but many of the Order still favoured her tactics. He finds nothing detectable, but the thought irks him.

Continuing his investigation in the kitchen, Strickler wades through a mire of dirty saucepans and stockpots. The blender, so conveniently and beautifully loud, dangles from the fridge by its cord. Still bubbling away on the hob, judging by its pungent tang, was the culprit. “Things have been crazy at the clinic,” she sighs, stretching out further. “I just wanted something comforting.” He sniffs the pot, immediately rebuking. There is a familiar odour. Fit for a troll, dare he say? It smelled of murkuun, the small balls of rat meat fermented in its own fat for several moons. Something he only tasted once — at knifepoint, in a Troll province under Capua — and never wishes to taste again. How a human could possibly recreate such a horror was beyond him. “Jim makes it look so easy.” Barbara sighs, sinking back into the lounge.

“And where is young Jim?” he inquires, although he already knows the answer. Ojos del Salado was an unforgiving realm and its overlord just as ruthless. With luck, the old volcano would deal with the changeling’s little problem.

“Still out camping,” she replies, sighing deeply. “I just don’t know anymore.” The changeling hums sympathetically, privately frowning. It would not be long before the Trollhunter exposed him, destroying Strickler’s budding relationship, or worse, broke Barbara’s heart. Put simply, it would be easier if the boy just vanished.

With Barbara having expelled most of the offending meal, Strickler figures she could use something to eat. The cupboards are well-stocked trove of exotic ingredients. Pickled ginger, saffron threads, Spanish cheese, to name a few. He should thank Young Atlas for that. Jim’s cooking was indeed superb: comforting, delightful, yet inventive. Much like the Trollhunter himself. A shame those skills would never flourish. The changeling settles on some battered soup tins from the bottom cupboard. It was unlikely anyone would miss these. Grimacing, he selects the most palatable of the bunch. The 'Cream of Chicken' squidges out in a solid, gelatinous, can-shaped lump. He hesitantly tastes it, gagging at the mush coating his tongue. Far too salty and artificial. Raiding the fridge, he finds some milk to dilute it. Now it smells…fairly edible. Changelings were voracious by nature, even at only a few decades old. While he had long since sublimated his needs to a human-like level, he could do with a good meal himself. Finally, he tops the steaming bowls with a few springs of freshly-snipped parsley. Not bad, for all its humble origins. The changeling was nothing if not good at disguising. As an afterthought, he throws the tins in the trash. Always hide the evidence. “Dinner is served,” he says with a wide smile, passing Barbara the soup bowl, “Just what the doctor ordered, I hear.” She chuckles lightly, then coughs as the air catches.

They eat in relative silence, save the soft clank and scrape of soup spoons. Strickler experimentally tries a spoonful of soup, then frowns as it fails to quench that persistent, annoying tickle in his throat. The binding was already becoming inconvenient. He watches her carefully over the rim of his bowl. She sips slowly at first, grimacing as broth irritates her raw throat. Yet, the nausea he sensed through the bond diminishes as she devours the soup. Soon, his dry, scratchy throat quietens. “Mmm. That was pretty good, Walt,” Barbara says, finishing the bowl. She runs a finger around the rim, “I feel… a lot better.” And he knows this to be the truth: their bond is quiescent now. She winks at him and the changeling could not help but beam. He feels…useful? No, that wasn’t quite it.

“Just something I threw together,” he replies, feigning modesty. Truthfully, her praise warms him, far more than the hot soup. He goes to takes her bowl, when a hand curls around outstretched arm, pulling him closer. Thrown off balance, his knees hit the edge of the lounge and he tumbles into her. Before he can right himself, her soft lips brush his, a gentle caress of appreciation.

CRACK! The bowl shatters under his preternatural strength. Barbara jumps at the sound and their noses bump together awkwardly, breaking whatever spell had overcome them. “Sh- sorry,” Barbara laughs uneasily, “I…better take that.”

“Oh, how clumsy of me,” his tongue intones automatically, while his mind reels with the kiss. He lets the bowl slip into her waiting hand, still stunned. Barbara shimmies out of the blanket and all but runs into the kitchen, cheeks burnished red. Strickler touches his lips, as if to ward off the sensation growing there. He had experienced kissing, lifetimes ago, but never like this. Never with the emotional sincerity that burns in his chest now. Gunmar take it, this was meant to happen the other way around. He was meant to be the one in control.

Unable to stop his steps, he follows her in the kitchen. Sauce and soup are splattered everywhere. Looking up, he can even see pasta shells plastered on the ceiling. Barbara is a tempest, a whirling flame of embarrassment. “Idiot, idiot...” she mutters under her breath as she aggressively stacks the dishes in the sink. Freed from its binding, her fiery locks lash like Medusa’s coils. Strickler pauses under the archway, unsure of what to do. This is still new to him — despite the advice he frequently gives. Uncertainty fades into resolve as he watches her unravel before his eyes. He spins her around, hands firm on her shoulders, stilling her movements. Barbara’s eyes widen like the proverbial deer-in-headlights.

“You are utterly enchanting,” he says, voice low and rough. The Morka take him for falling for this woman, this human. Someone who should have been a stepping stone, nothing more. All that frustration, that conflict, and, surprisingly, desire he compresses into a single, blistering kiss.

His hands are gentle but firm, his mouth consuming. Their teeth clash and in the heat of the kiss, he accidentally bites her lip. Pain spikes through the bond, mixed with something unfamiliar. Strickler scolds himself for his fervour, expecting Barbara to pull away. Surely humans didn’t enjoy that. If anything, the fierceness goads her on. Her fingers dig into his sides, pulling them both further over the counter top. Inspired, he bites gently, more of a nibble this time, and she melts against him. The taste of blood and bile is most unpleasant, but the thought enflames him. Trollkind are aggressive in their lovemaking: a play for dominance, with both sides feigning defeat to lure the other into overstepping. But that was not the human way, at least not normally. Yet a half-breed he was, and his warring natures certainly made things interesting. That being said, perhaps next time he would acquire breath mints.

That ridiculous thought wrenches him from his impassioned haze. He is suddenly aware of the precarious situation. Two adults — well, one human and a changeling — bent over a kitchen bench, necking like teenagers among pots and pans. His skin itches furiously. Tendons bound within corded muscles twitch, eager to stretch and change. Twin points of pressure bloom on his skull. Foolish, foolish! Strickler breaks the kiss, breathing hard. What in the Darklands was he thinking? Splayed in front of him is evidence of his zeal. Barbara’s glasses are askew, her lips dusky red and slightly parted. Her eyes, normally blue as the sky, are completely consumed by black pupils. The changeling can only imagine what he looks like. His front incisor aches, and he wonders if he had chipped it in his passion. He’d need to get that looked at. Truly a shame Gladysgro had been slain. She was an excellent dental hygienist. A cursory brush of his lips reveals a smear of red. He can still taste it, and that dances a little too close to his true heritage for his liking. It seems almost deviant. He was content to leave that for changelings like Nomura.

The silence is becoming uncomfortable. Was it too much? The unfamiliar feeling swells again through the bond. Stronger than before, as if duplicated. It wasn’t pain, but something equally as burning. Breathing out sharply, Barbara brushes the hair from her face. “I didn’t say stop.” She crosses her arms in a play of anger, but the impish smile betrays her.

“May I suggest somewhere more comfortable, then?” He suggests with a lopsided grin. His back was starting to twinge and, judging from the bond, Barbara’s was no better. Besides, benchtops were hardly romantic. He sweeps her into his arms, cautious this time, controlled, gentle.

“Hey!” She giggles, playfully hitting his side.

“Would you rather I leave you in kitchen? I do have several history papers to mark.” He deadpans while studying the nails on his free hand, knowing this will annoy her.

“Ass,” Barbara replies with no venom, allowing him to carry her to the lounge. She pushes him back lightly, making room for her to drape over him. Her weight, although light, compresses his chest. It is enough to remind him of stone hands and the first scorching crackle of his changeling magic. It is far too hot now. The cursed blankets twist underneath him, forming knots that dig deep into his spine. His hands stiffen, ghosting her side. Hers are on his shoulders, just resting, but they carry a weight of memories. An eldritch halo. The passage from dark to dark, and dark to light. Two worlds forever barred and only centuries of servitude to console him. He had only survived by adapting, by taking what he could control and bending it to his will. Making the best of a bad situation. Even his guise no longer felt unnatural. In fact, he hardly phased, unless the situation demanded it. Many of his ilk were disturbed by his interest in humanity. He would change their minds. He would rebuild the world for all his half-breed brethren. A chance for a life unfettered. And it starts with her, the woman tucked tightly against him. She is beautiful. Her scrubs have rucked up, exposing a creamy expanse of freckled skin, glowing with heated pleasure rather than illness. She is a radiant Aglaia, and he her supplicant. He surrenders to her, shoulders sinking back and brow softening. Truthfully, he had surrendered long ago.

She initiates a second time. A cautious kiss, a mere press that deepens into a flowing dance. Barbara softens him, tempers the fire inside. Her hands smooth his sides before settling at his nape. She twines her legs through his, not entrapping but encircling. He follows her movements, trying to learn the steps to their waltz. There is no set choreography, save a shared tenderness. They break rhythm, shift weight, dipping and spinning in tandem. Fuelled by their closeness, the bond fizzes with warm tendrils of energy. For a moment, there is no Trollhunter, no assassins, no Gunmar, no Order. But only for a moment. After some time, Barbara falls away from the dance with a gentle brush of her lips. Strickler opens his eyes slowly, afraid that this might have been some pixie-dream. “Oh, that was…” Barbara exhales, resting her head on his chest. Tentatively, he circles her in his arms.

“Exceedingly good?” He jokes, flashing a wry smile.

“I was going to say unexpected,” she huffs, butting him lightly. She looks away, shoulders tensing. “Was it? Good, I mean? I haven’t kis….”

“Barbara,” he interrupts, gently cupping her cheek. “Never apologise. That was perfect.” And this time, he truly means it. Not some lines he delivers to play a role, but an honest expression of emotion.

“You’re a good man, Walter." The words sting him. If only she knew. His keen ears pick up the chug and rattle of an old scooter down the street. So Jim had survived Gatto’s Keep. Hardly surprising, given the Trollhunter’s track record of near misses and lucky scrapes. Strickler had warned Angor not to underestimate the child, with good reason.

“I… should leave,” he says reluctantly. It would not do have the Trollhunter find them in a compromising position. Or perhaps it would? Changelings use any tactic to bring victory, and Strickler would do anything to unsettle his enemy. Besides, he enjoys tormenting the boy, if only to shake that idiotic innocence from his head. Gunmar would not be so forgiving. But lying here, content, in the arms of a woman he lo…strongly admired, Strickler couldn’t care less. And yet…

She hears the scooter as well, now idling in the drive. “Yeah…” Barbara sighs. They go about tidying their appearances, with minimal success. She re-ties her hair, finding her discarded glasses between two pans in the kitchen. Strickler fixes his sweater cuffs, straightens his jacket, which is hopelessly crumpled. Finally, he checks to see if his favourite pen is still inside the pocket. “Coffee? Tomorrow lunch?” Barbara asks as they reach the door.

“Sounds delightful.” He kisses her hand, a chaste reminder of the evening’s events. Heart warmed by the fire they kindled, he steps out into the chill of early evening. For the first time, he wonders if they have any future together. It is weak of him. There was still so much to achieve for his half-breed brethren. Yet, this, this is what he was fighting for.

And he would let nothing get in his way.