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marril96 · 6 years ago

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The Distance Between Us

Chapter 21: Family Matters

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

You'd spent the majority of the night tossing and turning, and by the time your alarm sounded you'd barely gotten half an hour of sleep which, thanks to the dream you'd had, at least made you feel a little — a teensy, tiny bit — better.

Your nerves were on fire, muscles tense, adrenaline hot in your blood like a drug. Thoughts of Rowena never left your head. Of her voice; so weak, so broken. Of her body; bruised, wounded, cracked like porcelain barely keeping itself from shattering into thousands of pieces.

Images kept flashing in your mind, vivid like photographs.

Purple.

So much purple.

Dark. Light. Hues bleeding into one another like a morbid painting.

What that animal must have done to her to inflict such injuries…

God.

She had to have been in so much pain.

Had she been able to sleep?

Were her thoughts as haunted by what happened as yours were throughout the night?

Did her wounds scream and protest at every little move she made, every breath she took, every vibration of her heart?

It was wrong.

That was the only thing you could think about as you got ready for school and hit the frozen streets.

What Lucifer had done to Rowena was wrong.

He had to pay.

If Rowena wasn't going to make him, you would.

Maybe you were wrong, too, the traitorous part of your brain nagged at you. Maybe you should let it go. They were a couple; what went around in their relationship was their business. You had no right to get involved.

No.

You had every right.

Rowena was your friend. You cared about her. You loved her.

How could you look her in the eyes, knowing there were bruises under her clothes and makeup? How could you face her without at the very least trying to help her?

You'd made up your mind.

No amount of doubt would change it.

She could hate you all she wanted. She could scream at you, call you names, tell you she never wanted to see you again. She could cast you out of her life and never speak a word with you again.

You were okay with that.

It would hurt like hell, but the pain would be nothing compared to what you felt now, watching her let that monster treat her like his human punching bag.

You would rather love her from a distance than mourn her in a casket.

To your surprise, Rowena was at school. You saw her the moment you stepped inside. Your eyes met for a brief instance; she sent a small smile your way, and you responded with a nod, too tired, too fed up with everything to return it. The bruise on her face was painfully visible. You could tell she'd tried to hide it with makeup, but at best she'd made it lighter.

Foundation could only do so much.

Olivette stood beside her, talking animatedly about something you didn't give a damn about. Her little posse was there, absorbing every word she said like the faithful puppies they were. Rowena gave a nod here and there, clearly distracted, head high up in the clouds.

Lucifer was a few feet away, talking to a group of jocks. Laughing as if he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.

Your stomach turned. Fingers twisted into fists. Teeth clenched almost painfully.

He didn't get to laugh after what he'd done.

He didn't get to stand that close to her.

Turning on your heel, you went to look for your friends. Everyone was already there, strangely energetic for this early hour.

Last days of school had that effect on people.

"I see your sister's back in school," you said after exchanging greetings.

Crowley groaned. "Mother wanted her to stay home, but she insisted."

"Stubborn cookie."

"You have no idea."

Oh, you did.

You wished you didn't, but you did. Very much so.

A lump formed in your throat, a nervous one, and you swallowed it.

This was it, you told yourself. It was now or never.

Mustering up courage, you turned to Crowley and said, "Can we talk for a moment? Alone?"

Everyone looked at you as if you'd just propositioned him for sex.

Dean's smirk made it clear that was exactly what he was thinking.

Great.

Fucking great.

"It's important," you said, hoping your tone gave away the seriousness of the situation.

Crowley winked. "You know I'm all yours, girl."

You rolled your eyes.

You should have expected this.

He followed you to a corner, away from your little gang. The last thing you wanted was to alienate your friends, but you had to do it. You couldn't blurt everything out in front of them.

This was for Crowley's ears only.

"So?" he said. "What's so important that the stooges can't hear it?"

Here we go.

"It-it's about Rowena," you said carefully.

He sighed, annoyance flashing over his face. "If this is another one of your inquiries about her past life—"

"No," you quickly said. "This is serious. I swear."

He quirked up an eyebrow, skeptical. Looking for signs of deception, of falsehood on your face. Finding none, he gave a nod. "Alright. Talk."

Relieved, you let out a breath you'd been holding.

Crowley was the king of drama, but he wasn't unreasonable. He could be serious, could be talked to. He and Rowena may not have gotten along, but, in their own strange way, they loved each other as any siblings did.

If anyone could help you help Rowena, it was him.

He wasn't the most ideal choice, but, aside from the police (who could do nothing without a complaining victim) and teachers (whom you didn't trust much with Principal Shurley in charge), he was the only person you had left.

"She lied," you said.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

"She didn't slip and fall."

You gulped. Breathed in and out. It felt like you were betraying Rowena, betraying her trust, by talking about this. She'd confided in you, trusted you with her weaknesses, with her vulnerabilities, and here you were, spilling your guts to her brother.

Because she needed help, you reminded yourself.

Because she was hurt and scared and confused, and her boyfriend was using it, taking advantage of it, to make her into his punching bag.

What kind of a friend would you be if you kept quiet and let it happen again?

Besides, you told yourself, trying to ease your conscience, you hadn't made any promises to keep her secret.

All you were doing was being her friend.

If that was wrong, you never wanted to be right again.

Crowley furrowed his brows. The corners of his mouth curled upward, an amused smirk creeping over his face. "She didn't? Should've known the little whore was lying. Care tell, what did happen?"

Another wave of betrayal swept you over.

Rowena's wasn't the only world you were about to shatter.

Crowley was expecting an interesting story. Something to poke fun and laugh at. To tease her about over dinner and use as a punchline of jokes only he thought were funny.

What was he going to do when he found out what happened?

Would he still think it funny?

No way!

The thought was discarded as soon as it appeared.

Crowley was a lot of things, but he wasn't cruel. He would never do anything to hurt — truly, genuinely hurt — his sister.

"Lucifer beat her."

There.

You said it.

No taking it back. No pretending it was a mistake, a sick joke.

You told Crowley the truth.

And, god, you felt like you wanted to die.

Your heart raced in your chest, pounded against your ribcage like a hammer with almost painful force.

What if you'd made a mistake?

What if he thought you were lying?

Crowley blinked. One time. Two. Stared at you as if you'd suddenly grown horns. "What?"

"He beat her," you repeated, voice as shaky as your hands. "And I think he's done it before. I mean, she didn't say anything, but the way she was acting… I could just tell, y'know?"

Crowley just stared.

Straight at you.

Through you.

Stood still as a statue, those hazel eyes intent, focused.

"She's hurt all over," you added after a moment of silence. "She showed me bruises. There's a lot. He beat her real bad."

Your voice cracked at the last word. Tears welled up in your eyes, prickled at them like needles. Your heart clenched with each beat, a sharp, piercing ache shooting through it. As if thousands of blades had ripped into it, tore through it, bit and ravaged at the flesh.

Crowley remained still. His face, always so expressive, was blank, all emotion gone as if it had never been there. His hands were limp at his sides; they shook, slightly so, then balled into fists so tight his knuckles turned white as chalk.

Was he mad at you for telling him?

Was he mad at Rowena for keeping it a secret?

Or, the thought suddenly popped in, was he mad at himself for not seeing it? For being oblivious to his sister's pain; for taunting her; for poking fun at her injuries, making light of them?

You'd only seen him mad — truly mad — once, when Arthur Ketch had called Rowena a whore — a big no for only Crowley got to call her that. Crowley, with a smirk on his face, had calmly walked over to him and punched him in the mouth. It had earned him a week of detention, but, as he'd said, it was worth it.

She was his sister, and, as such, only he had the right to call her horrid names.

Would he do the same to Lucifer? Would he walk over and punch him — a few times, for good measure? Or would he do something worse?

You couldn't tell for, aside from his clenched fists, he was a blank canvas.

And, despite the absolute loathing you felt for Lucifer, you were scared.

Crowley had gotten a week of detention for hitting Ketch. If he were to attack Lucifer, who knew what the consequences would be?

Lucifer was the Principal's kid.

Laying a hand on him might as well get Crowley expelled.

The only reason you'd gotten away with hitting him was that you'd had witnesses to him grabbing your ass and you'd shouted the phrase "sexual harassment" in the Principal's face enough times for it to sink in that punishing you would be very, very bad for him and the entire school.

Attacking him unprovoked would bode terribly for Crowley.

"She's my friend," you said. "I know you don't like us hanging out, but I care about her and I wanna help her. I just don't know how. She won't go to the police, and I don't think teachers can do much to the Principal's kid. So I figured you might be able to help. Reason with her. Talk to your mom. Do something. Please."

Almost robotically, Crowley laid a hand on your shoulder. You flinched, startled.

"I'll take care of it," he said. His voice was cold, detached. As empty as the look on his face.

A surge of relief washed over you. "Thank you."

"Thank you for telling me the truth."

Guilt still ate at you for that, but you didn't regret it. If given a choice, you would do it again. You would do anything to help Rowena.

"What are you gonna do?" you asked.

"Something," was Crowley's simple response.

Before you could say anything else, the bell rang, and he got lost in the crowd, on his way to class.

Please, don't do anything stupid, you thought to yourself.

Despite that, though, a part of you hoped he would wipe the floor with Lucifer.

Just as the bastard deserved.

*****

You were, as always, looking forward to lunch, but then, mere moments after the bell signaled the end of class, the commotion started and all your excitement was thrown to the wind.

Cold chills slid down your spine as you hurried toward the crowd gathered in the main hall. An inkling of what this was about crept over you; a premonition of sorts, grim, unpleasant, that you hoped with all you had was just your overactive imagination.

It was just a normal high school fight. A scuffle between friends that got out of hand and had accidentally attracted a crowd.

People were cheering and whistling like enthusiastic soccer fans at a particularly intense game. Everyone, from baby-faced Freshmen to towering Seniors, was gathered around the pair of students engaged in a fight. Grunts and yelps were heard, dull sounds that were unmistakably punches. The crowd ate it up like candy, hungry for action, for drama only high school could provide.

What was more entertaining than two teenagers going at it like wild beasts, trying to tear each other apart over something they would laugh at in a few short years?

High school really was no different from a jungle.

You pushed your way through the crowd, hoping to high heavens that you were wrong.

Kids fought.

It was what they did.

Just because you told Crowley about Lucifer didn't mean he—

The thought ended as abruptly as it had formed as your eyes finally landed on the fighting figures and adrenaline, hot, exhilarating, shot through your veins as if you were about to join in on the action.

You weren't.

You wouldn't.

Your body froze in place as if turned to stone, a rattled, mortified statue.

Crowley was pounding on Lucifer. Kicking. Smacking. Punching. He beat on him mercilessly, his bloodied fists landing blow after blow to Lucifer's face.

Lucifer tried to shove him off, tried to hit back, but every effort of his was futile. Crowley deflected his attempts with ease and kept on his assault. His face was contorted with anger, with rage that ran so deep your blood froze in your veins. The earlier blankness was gone; he was mad, and he wanted everyone to know.

He wanted Lucifer to know.

Oh, god.

What have you done?

You knew Crowley could be protective of his sister, but it never occurred to you that he would attack Lucifer like this. In front of so many witnesses.

But then, what did you think was going to happen?

That little worm had harmed his sister. Had beaten her senselessly, without a shred of mercy. Had left her body a mess of bruises that hurt with every little movement.

Crowley wanted him to pay.

As did you.

But at what price?

Lucifer wasn't the one who was going to get in trouble. With his dad as the Principal, and with Crowley's track record, there was no way Crowley could plead self-defense. And even if he did, you had no doubt Principal Shurley would happily enforce the zero tolerance rule, even if it meant having to punish his own son.

Once again, Lucifer would get off with a slap on the wrist. Free to menace, to intimidate, to beat on people in no time.

Crowley wasn't blessed with an influential parent to bail him out of trouble. His mother could only do so much. And his sister…

Would Rowena even collaborate his story? Would she give up her boyfriend to save her brother?

Any other time you would have said yes, but after everything that had happened, you weren't certain.

She wanted to get back with Lucifer. Even after everything he'd done to her, she planned to run right back into his arms as if nothing had ever happened.Whatever it was he had over her, it was enough for her to risk her safety, her wellbeing to be with him.

Would she be willing to risk her brother?

Was Lucifer more important than her own flesh and blood?

"FERGUS!" came a sudden shout.

The crowd parted, cheers and whispers falling silent as Rowena, with Olivette in tow, rushed forward as if her heels were on fire. Her eyes were wide as she took in the scene before her; her boyfriend bloodied, lying limp on the floor; her brother on top of him throwing punches like a madman.

"WHAT IN BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?!"

A few whistles sounded, joyful, anticipating drama that was about to come.

"Teaching your bastard boyfriend a lesson!" Crowley said, landing another punch to Lucifer's already messed up face.

"Stop this nonsense right now!" Rowena ordered without taking a beat.

Another punch. "I haven't even started yet!"

"Fergus!"

He ignored her, eyes glued to Lucifer, intent, furious. "I should bloody kill you!" He punched him again, then kicked him in the ribs with the point of his leather shoe.

Lucifer grunted. His hands instinctively clasped over the aching spot and he curled up like a baby on the floor.

"Stop!" Rowena screamed.

Crowley swung again, but before his fist could hit its target, Rowena grabbed onto it and pulled him back.

"I said stop!"

He shook her off, whipping back to glare at her.

"What is the matter with you?" she demanded.

"What is the matter with you?" Crowley countered. "Why are you defending this wanker after what he's done to you?"

Rowena swallowed, hard, taken aback by his words. Then, in a voice she struggled to keep steady, she said, "He hasn't done anything."

"Are you stupid? Has his smacking you around dumbed you down? Take a look at yourself, woman!" Crowley looked at her face, at her barely covered bruise. "How many more of these do you have? I was told there's plenty."

Rowena flinched as if struck. Instinctively, she pulled her turtleneck further up her neck and crossed her arms over her chest as if to protect herself. Her eyes found yours, face contorting with anger. "You told him?"

Guilt bit at you like acid. "I had to."

"No, you bloody didn't!" she screamed. "You should have minded your business!"

"This is my business!" you argued. "I'm your friend, and I'm not gonna stand there and let that bastard abuse you."

"He didn't—"

You held up a hand. "Don't! Just don't!" In a softer tone, you said, "He's hurting you Rowena. It's wrong."

"It's my life!" Rowena said. "You had no right to get involved."

Maybe so.

But, no matter the consequences, you were glad you did.

"Well, I did," you said with a shrug. Not regretting a thing.

"You're crazy if you think Lucifer would ever lay a hand on her," Olivette said.

You snorted. "Figures you would defend him."

She shot you a murderous look. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You know damn well!" you snapped.

Before either of you could say another thing, Crowley spoke up. "This bastard doesn't give a damn about you, Rowena."

She looked at him with hurt in her eyes. "And you do?"

"You're my bloody family!" He sucked in a breath. Willed himself to calm down. "Is living out your mean cheerleader fantasies worth putting up with beatings?"

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Really?" He raised a questioning eyebrow. "This hasn't got anything to do with Scotland?"

She clenched her jaw.

Crowley huffed bitterly. "Thought so. You deserve better. This lying, cheating wanker is beneath you. Where's your self-respect?"

Olivette laughed. "You're not buying this shit, are you?"

"Shut up, Olivette!" you said. Now was not the time for her quips.

"Why? So you losers can make up lies about Lucifer?" She turned to Crowley. "It's not enough that you beat him up. Now you wanna ruin his reputation, as well."

"He does a bloody great job at that himself," Crowley told her.

"Oh, please! You're just jealous."

"Definitely. My knickers are shaking from so much jealousy."

"You're hilarious," Olivette said sarcastically. "I wonder if his dad — you know, the Principal — will share your sense of humor."

"I don't know. Dear ol' Chuck seems like quite a comedian," Crowley quipped.

"Will he find it funny that his son hits his girlfriend?" you said.

"He'll definitely laugh at the slander charges he'll file if you two keep this bullshit up."

You rolled your eyes. "Of course you'd say that, considering."

"Considering what?" she demanded. "If you've got something to say, say it to my face, bitch!"

"You know what? I think I will!"

It was time.

No more secrets.

No more holding back.

"Rowena." You turned to her. Gave her the pleading puppy eyes. "Crowley wasn't lying to you when he said Lucifer was cheating."

Rowena swallowed. "I know." Regret flickered over her face as she quickly glanced at Crowley. Guilty. Apologetic. "He told me he was with other girls."

The ecstatic crowd gasped, eating up the drama, the tension, the new gossip that would spread around with lightning speed.

"Did he tell you any names?" you asked.

She shook her head.

You sighed.

Okay.

Here we go.

Gathering up your courage, you said, "I saw him with Olivette."

Rowena's eyes widened with shock, with surprise so raw, so genuine it was heartbreaking. "What?"

"This is bullshit!" Olivette instantly exclaimed. Rowena looked at her with murder in her eyes, and she said, "She's lying!"

"I'm not lying!" you said. "I saw them. Well, heard them. Remember when you were sick a few weeks ago? They were in the bathroom, talking shit about you. I heard them kissing."

"Who knows what you heard?"

"I know!" you snapped.

"Is it true?" Rowena demanded.

Olivette raised an eyebrow. Surprised. Defensive "Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Yes, I am," Rowena said firmly. Her voice was cold, detached. Tranquil fury on the verge of explosion. "Are you fucking my boyfriend?"

"Rowena—" Lucifer finally spoke, struggling to raise himself up on his elbows.

"You be quiet!" she snapped.

"What, you don't believe me? You're taking the loser's word over mine?" Olivette asked.

"I'm her friend," you said. "I'd never lie to her."

"Honey, you're nothing but grime under her shoes," she said condescendingly.

"No, Olivette," Rowena said. "I'm starting to think that is what you are."

"Are you serious?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Well, it's hard to tell. After all, most of the time you do look like a joke."

And there it went.

Olivette's true colors were out.

"I suppose it takes one to know one," Rowena retorted.

Olivette chuckled bitterly. "You know what? I'm done playing. Yes, I fucked your boyfriend." She stepped forward, got in Rowena's face. "I've been fucking him ever since you two got together. He's not my particular type, but when he became yours, he got so much sweeter. You know what they say about forbidden fruit. It's the best."

Rowena set her jaw. Clenched her teeth tight. Narrowed her eyes into slits, angry, dangerous ones, a wild, heavy storm brewing inside them.

You thought she was going to curse her out, but, instead, she shoved her away, turned on her heel, and ran. Ran as fast as her wounded body would let her, as far as it would carry her. Away from the whistling crowd and the bitter betrayal.

Every nerve in you screamed for you to follow her, but you remained in place. She needed to be alone for a bit. Needed to cool her head, blow off some steam. Your presence would only further upset her.

You'd done enough of that for one day.

Crowley stared after his sister. Then his eyes fell on the smirking Lucifer and he landed one final punch, knocking him back down with a grunt.

"Stay away from my sister!" he said, the threat clear in his voice. He turned to Olivette and, raising a forefinger in warning, said, "You, too."

She raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You gonna beat me up, too?"

"If I have to."

"You'd hit a girl? My, are you a gentleman."

"Darling, you're not a girl." He stared her down, smirked right in her face. "You're a backstabbing cunt."

"What is going on here?" one of the teachers demanded, pushing his way through the crowd.

Great.

Here came trouble.

*****

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#rowena #rowena macleod #spn #supernatural #crowley #spn family #fergus macleod #fanfiction #my fics #rowena x reader #high school au

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onegayastronaut · 6 years ago

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I’ll Always Be Here (Nell Crain x Reader x Luke Crain)

Requested by anon: When Nellie died, you and Luke bonded a lot in the process of Nellies funeral being put together. You believed everything Nellie said about the house, and you believe look too. You go with him to burn hill house. All Nellie can do is watch as she struggles to get you both out, she’s screaming but you just can’t see her. In her mother's delusions and Poppy’s evil mind, you two get locked in and dragged to the red room. Her siblings escape, you don’t. You wake, dead in the house in a crying Nellies arms.

Words: 1684

You stood by the open casket looking down at the love of your life. How strange, you thought. Shirley did a really good job, it seemed like Nell was just lying there. The logical part of your brain knew that Nell would not wake up, but damn it if you didn’t wish this was all just a big joke and Nell would just sit up and smile at you.

You were so busy trying to remember the last time Nell smiled at you that you barely noticed Luke come up next to you. “You miss her too, don’t you?”

“I miss her smile. But I think I miss her voice more.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Luke managed to let out a small smile and patted your back. “Want to get out of here before my family starts fighting?”

“I don’t think I can. If I leave, I’m never going to see her again. I’ll be alone. If I stay here, I can pretend that Nell is going to leave with me. Please, just let me pretend a little bit longer.”

Little did you know, Nell’s ghost was standing behind you as you looked over her body. She came up next to you and tried to brush a tear off your face, but found that her hands did nothing when brought up to your face. You had no clue that she was standing right there with you, and it broke her heart. “I will always be with you, (Y/N). Remember when I promised that I would never leave you?” When you didn’t respond, Nell started crying herself. There was nothing that she could do now to make you feel better.

After the funeral service, you decided that it would be best to go to a bar and get flat out drunk. It always seemed to work with Theo so it might be worth a try. You headed on foot towards the bar that you saw on the way to the funeral.

Your fifth drink in, you noticed the door open, and when you turned to look, Luke had come in. Groaning, you put your head on the bar table. Being in a bar was not a good idea for a recovering addict, and you didn’t want to see Luke relapse again because of you. “What do you want Luke?” You hated how your voice slurred when you talked. That being said, you hated a lot of things about yourself.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Luke touched your shoulder in a light effort to get you out of the bar.

“No, I’m not done yet.” You leaned away from him and gestured towards the bartender.

“Yes, you are. Come on.” Luke’s voice was a lot firmer now.

“No, I’m not leaving until I can’t feel anything anymore.” You felt anger rise up like a ball of fire from your stomach to your chest. Getting up, you placed a finger on Luke’s chest. “I’m not going anywhere until I feel better.” The world seemed to tilt under your feet, and the last thing that you saw was how the light reflected off the floor of the bar.

------

The first thing you felt when you woke up was how warm you were. For a second, you felt like everything was going to be alright, and that Nell was just in the other room and that she was going to come in any minute now. This was immediately dispelled by a headache when you opened your eyes. Remembering how you treated Luke, you immediately moaned and covered your face. Just what you needed, adding embarrassment to grief.

Before you knew it, you heard a knock on the door. Luke opened the door a little bit and peeked over the door. “How are you doing this morning? Feeling better?”

“Firstly, what are you doing here? And no, I’m actually feeling worse if that’s possible.”

“Well, I made you some food if you’re interested.” Luke waved a plate of bacon and eggs at the door.

It took about half an hour for you to find something to wear. Your apartment felt too quiet, too empty without her here with you. Roughly wiping the tears on your face, you finally managed to make it out of your room. Luke was already eating at the table and smiled warmly when you came in. He pushed a plate towards you without saying anything, and the two of you ate for a while without saying anything.

“Would you like to spend the day together?” Luke looked sad but hopeful. “We’ve both lost someone very important to us, and I think that we can help each other try to find some sort of normalcy.”

“I don’t think I will ever feel normal again.”

“Me too.”

---------

Weeks after the funeral, your phone rang in the middle of the night. You already knew it was Luke -- you were too depressed to talk to anyone else. Besides, no one else could possibly understand what it was like to understand what losing Nell felt like. Luke was the only one to understand that a part of you had died along with Nell at Hill House. That was why his idea of going to that cursed house and burning it to the ground made sense.

The two of you made your way to the house in silence. When you looked at Luke, his face was set like stone. You could only imagine how he felt, going back to the house where his sister died, a house that pretty much ruined his family. For you, it was a way for you to possibly get the closure that you never had the chance to have.

When you finally arrived at Hill House, it was darker and more run down than you ever imagined. You couldn’t help but hate this house on sight -- it was the place that had taken Nell away from you. Luke took two crates of gasoline out of the trunk of his car and started walking towards the house. He looked back expectantly at you, and you followed him inside.

The inside of Hill House was more desolate than you could have ever imagined. It was apparent that the house had fallen into disrepair long ago, and that no one had been here in years. Luke immediately started splashing the gasoline all around the floor of the house, and you had the lighter in your hand. When Luke was finished, he came back to stand next to you.

“Ready?”

“Are you?” You weren’t sure if Luke was prepared to let go of this house.

You lit the match and dropped it to the ground. There was a burst of flame that spread across the floor and disappeared as quickly as it came. You felt a chill go down your spine, and you knew that somehow, you had upset Hill House. Nell had tried to warn you, but you didn’t know that the spirits (or whatever was in this house) were so powerful.

Little did you know, Nell was standing right in front of you, trying to tell you to get out of the house. “Get out, (Y/N)! Please, I don’t want you to die in here too!”

Not hearing her, you felt a sudden urge to walk upstairs. You didn’t have to look back to know that Luke was following you up the stairs.

Nell was walking beside you the whole time, trying to tell you to not go, screaming, crying. She knew where the voices in your head were trying to get you to go, and she didn’t want you to die the same way she did. But Poppy’s voice was too strong. The red door was waiting for you, and there was nothing Nell could do to save you.

You don’t know exactly what you were expecting when you first stepped into the Red Room. The emptiness and loneliness that you felt as soon as you stepped in made it feel like you couldn’t breathe. Life without Nell felt empty, and all you wanted to do was to stop breathing.

Little did you know, the Luke had his own nightmares to deal with. Luke had to deal with yet another relapse, and this time he barely made it through. By the time he woke up, you had stopped breathing. Luke ignored his dizziness and tried to clear your airways and tried CPR. All Nell could do was to hold you and hope against hope that you would make it out of Hill House alive.

You could feel Luke trying to bring you back to life, but you didn’t want to go back. The feeling of his hands faded quickly way. For the first time in what feels like forever, you could finally see Nell. Her beautiful face was so clear such that it felt like she was actually there with you. The only downside was that you could see her crying, so you instinctively reached over to comfort her. Much to your surprise, your hand actually made contact with her face, and Nell opened her eyes.

“(Y/N)? Can you hear me?”

“Nell? Is that really you?”

“It’s me. But now that you see me, it means that Hill House killed you too. I tried to tell you not to come here, but you couldn’t hear me. I’m so sorry I let you down.” Nell started crying again as she talked.

“No, no babe listen. This means we get to be together here forever.”

“But I didn’t want you to die.”

“Nell, any life without you in it is not worth living. As long as I am with you, I am happy. I’m happy now because I finally get to be with you again.” You sat up and gave Nell a small kiss.

After a while, Nell finally stopped crying and just rested her head on your shoulder. It almost felt like old times -- almost. Nell seemed content to stay in your lap forever, and you certainly were not about to complain. You were finally back where you belonged -- with Nell.

#nell crain #nell crain x reader #nell crain imagine #luke crain #luke crain x reader #luke crain imagine #the haunting of hill house #the haunting of hill house imagine #the haunting of hill house x reader #thohh #thohh x reader #thohh imagine

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chromecutie · 6 years ago

Text

Not A Ghost - part 15

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst @ra-ra-rasputiin @holamor @empressme-bitch @marvel-is-perfection @hazilyimagine @marvel-forever-17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash @whitewitchdown @master-sass-blast @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

-------------------------------------

The first practice session with the lightbulb wasn’t a total bust, Rhonda swore to herself. She blew through a good chunk of the playlist, enjoyed a lot of the music, and had been able to make the bulb flicker with more regularity. Some of the flickers were even reasonably bright, but she couldn’t keep it steadily lit. If nothing else, the music kept her from getting too frustrated and smashing the bulb on the floor. Slipping it back in its box, Rhonda decided to call it a night before her husband came looking for her, hoping she could keep him from asking to see her progress.

Retracing their steps back toward the kitchen, Rhonda took in details about the house as if they were new--and some details were new. Old wallpaper had been replaced in some spots, mismatched but with the closest replica prints anyone could find. In some hall that had classrooms, Rhonda walked by a big glass case and had to stop.

It was her.

There was a large framed photo of her from her earliest days as official X-Men. It had been taken eleven or twelve years ago. Younger Rhonda was beaming proudly in her yellow uniform, striking a pose that was as noble and heroic as it was plain goofy. One hand was on her hip and the other straight over her head, blasting an arc of blue-green lightning, and one leg stretched in a high kick with pointed toes. Her hair was pulled back in a dyed blue-green ponytail--with bangs.

“They had to pick a picture with bangs, huh?” Rhonda muttered.

Neatly folded on a shelf under the photo was her spare uniform. The case was a memorial. The photo was flanked by plaques that told how Rhonda Reese Rasputin was “lost in the line of duty” and some poetic phrasing about knowing the cost of mutant safety and how important it is to be part of X-Men. Rhonda rolled her eyes. “Who wrote this? Fucking Scott?”

A few of her personal items were in the glass case--some black leather dance shoes, sketches Piotr had drawn of her, and a lot of photos of her with friends and students she tutored. Lots of smiles, lots of shenanigans. There was one from Halloween one year where Piotr had worn a long blonde wig, a pink dress, and carried Rhonda in a bag with a puppy ear headband and a black nose painted on her face. She remembered how hard she’d had to convince him to be Paris Hilton, and when he finally agreed, she used it as proof that he liked her and asked him on their first date. There was also one of her favorite photos from their wedding. They had their pieces of cake and Rhonda stretched on tiptoe to shove a piece in Piotr’s mouth. There was buttercream frosting smeared on half her face; Piotr had tried to give her too big a piece, and half of it had fallen right back onto the plate.

Rhonda chewed her lip, emotions surging, but hard to identify. Was she touched? Angry? Sick? Betrayed? She couldn’t even decide if she felt one emotion or everything at once. She blew a big huff and kept walking for the kitchen.

The next few days followed a pattern. Rhonda tried to be social, but sometimes someone would say or do something or move or stand in a certain way that made her lungs freeze, ready to fight. Then, humiliated, she would hide in her room, the gardens, or her practice room for a few hours. Every day, she spent time with that damn lightbulb, and every day didn’t quite get it to stay lit. At night, she would have some quiet time with Piotr in their bedroom before taking a sedative and fall into (hopefully) dreamless sleep. The times she skipped or forgot the sedative, she would wake up in a cold sweat, trying to fight Piotr until she remembered where she was. The bruises, scabs, and calluses faded, the dark circles under her eyes lifted, her coloring started coming back. She looked more like a person and less like some creature that hadn’t seen the sun in half a decade. But the general hardness in her expression remained.

Piotr did his best. He spoke with their closest friends and X-Men teammates and gave them a brief rundown of what she had been through, so she wouldn’t have to answer the same questions over and over. He laid down a few new rules:

If you’re a telepath, keep your mind a mile away from Rhonda’s. For the love of everything good, if you do read something in her mind, don’t comment on it.

Don’t startle her. She will fight.

Don’t ask about the tattoos or scars.

Don’t comment on how strong and gifted she used to be, or how she’s lost her gifts now.

These things seemed like common sense, but after the incident with Cable, and how Scott tried to push for a full debrief directly from Rhonda, Logan tried to crack a joke about her tattoos, and Kurt tried to prank her out of old habit, and nearly got a shiv in his gut for it, Piotr felt a need to establish some rules to make things easier on everyone. Also, no one knew when she made or started carrying a shiv around the house, or where she kept it on her person.

A mission or two came up for the X-Men, but Colossus didn’t go. He felt it was still too soon to leave his wife for an indefinite length of time. So, they managed without him.

Of the veteran X-Men, Ororo was the most helpful. She and Rhonda were close friends, and used to train together all the time. With some persuading, Rhonda agreed to let Ororo work with her in the makeshift practice room, but she still wouldn’t set foot in the Danger Room.

“What is it, Rhon?” Ororo asked during a practice session. “Yesterday you were so close to having a steady light, and today it seems like you’re not focusing.” She kept a respectful distance, hands on her hips in a relaxed posture.

Rhonda puffed out her cheeks in a sigh and turned the lightbulb over in her fingertips. She struggled to find words, “It’s just...I didn’t think about how hard it would be. Coming home.”

Ororo said nothing, patiently waiting for her friend to continue.

“I didn’t even know how long I had been gone, and I come home and Piotr’s got a girlfriend and he seemed happy with her. And Ellie’s an adult now, and I just...is there even room for me in these people’s lives anymore?” She paced the room. “It’s just so messy and fucked up, should I not have come home?”

Frowning with concern, Ororo tilted her head and reached to touch Rhonda’s shoulder, “Oh, honey, you can’t think like that. Listen, nobody is happier to have you home than Piotr and Ellie. And me. You have to know that.”

Rhonda stared past the bulb in her hand at the floor. When she met Ororo’s eyes again, she said, “Come see.” With a beckoning twist of her hand, she led Ororo to the glass case that had the memorial.

They looked at it together, Rhonda taking in new details she had missed before. Near her dance shoes was her favorite hoodie she used to wear to warm up for dance. There were a handful of mix CDs--from back when people did that. One of the photos was of her and Ellie as a kid, when they had painted their nails black together. Rhonda clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth before saying quietly, “The other day, Piotr told me he will always regret that he gave up looking for me.” She tapped a fingernail on the glass at the photos of her early X-Men days. “But it wasn’t just Piotr. Everyone gave up on me. You all were picking out flowers and an empty casket to bury and what crappy pictures to put in this thing and I was--I fucking--” she huffed, then sniffed. “I fell for some shitty deals, is what I did. This inmate or that guard promised to get a message outside for me, and they didn’t, they were never going to.” Rhonda shook her head, voice dripping with venom. “I still fell for it every. Single. Time. Like a fucking idiot.”

Ororo noticed the lightbulb in Rhonda’s hand as it hung at her side. It was glowing, and only getting brighter.

Rhonda read from one of the plaques, “The worst day on the job is when not everyone makes it home.” She rolled her eyes, “Please. Did Scott write this?”

“I did,” Ororo replied, hurt.

Rhonda slapped her free hand flat on the glass, mouth twitching. “I’m still living the worst day on the job! The one time I really needed the giant X on my chest to protect me--” she rapped her knuckles on the glass in front of her old uniform, her volume climbing “It didn’t. In fact, it made things worse.”

She raised her right hand, only now noticing the bulb was glowing bright enough to make Ororo squint. Pushing up her sleeve with her left hand, to show the Xs on her forearm, she shouted, “Do you see these fucking--”

The lightbulb shattered, sparks flying.

Ororo was quick to shield her face, but a few shards of the glass nicked Rhonda’s cheek, only narrowly missing her eyes. Blood beaded and trickled in thin rivulets from the nicks. They both froze, looking from the metal fitting in Rhonda’s hand to the tiny shards on the floor to the big framed photo with the lightning spiking from her extended hand.

“You lit it,” Ororo said.

Rhonda tossed the fitting into the trash can across the hall, scowling when she returned to the case. “I want my stuff out of here.”

Brushing back her white hair, Ororo nodded, “I think I have keys.” On her big key ring of work keys, she found the one that opened this case and slid the front panel open.

While Rhonda snatched her dance shoes, hoodie, Piotr’s sketches, CDs, and most of the photos, Ororo made a small whirlwind just powerful enough to pick up the shards of the lightbulb to bring them to the trash as well. Rhonda was right behind her with the plaques and framed photo.

It hurt to see her friend so angry, even though she knew it wasn’t just about the plaques Ororo had written. She stopped her before she could shove them into the trash with a vengeance, “Wait.” She held out her hands for the plaques, and Rhonda begrudgingly handed them over. When she raised the photo to dump it, Ororo said, “Piotr picked that picture. He said it was his favorite.” Her eyes welled up with tears. Cradling the plaques in one arm, she swiped away tears with her free hand. “He told me that was the day he knew he was in love with you.”

Rhonda lowered the photo and looked at it again. Those bangs were terrible, the hair dye wasn’t fresh, but the young woman in the photo was so excited to work on a team and make the world safer for mutants, and to do it alongside her best friend and the man she loved. That young woman was so sure of her purpose, and nobody could shake her from it. Rhonda’s throat closed up as she fought to not let any tears slip. She didn’t mean to rage at her best friend like this, or trash her friends’ well-meaning sentiment. She was just tired of feeling broken and weak. After a few long breaths, she handed the photo over to Ororo.

“No one would fault you for being angry,” Ororo watched Rhonda gather her things, and her moment of hesitation before grabbing the uniform. “We were wrong. We messed up. That hurts. But we’re doing our best now.” She sniffed and wiped away another streak of tears.

Rhonda nodded slowly. She took the rest of the photos from parties and tucked all the flat things between her hoodie and the dance shoes. The glass case was empty except for a little dust and a few dead spiders. “I’m done with memorials.”

That much was loud and clear. “I’ll put these somewhere else,” Ororo nodded. “What about your face?”

It took Rhonda a minute to realize her face was bleeding from when the glass hit her. She rolled her eyes and shrugged, “What’s another scar?”

“Clean it at least, please, Miss Rub-Some-Dirt-In-It.” They both chuckled, then an encouraging smile spread over her face. “Hey Rhonda? You lit the bulb.”

Rhonda beamed, glancing away and back to Ororo before whispering, “Yeah,” as if saying it aloud would jinx it. She hugged her things to her chest, and headed back to her room.

#colossus x oc #piotr rasputin x oc #colossus #piotr rasputin #longfic #ororo #storm #x men #deadpool

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trickkombowerskru · 7 years ago

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The Locker Next To Mine-Patrick Hockstetter Imagine

Request: No here is the 14th day of the 25 days of trickkombowerskru! (yes I know I’m late I apologize, but I have been swamped with catching up with things plus finals, and it is now past Christmas meaning I didn’t catch up when I wanted to, but I do have all the hcs I have to post for this event after this written, I just have 4 more imagines to do) which goes to the amazing @pattycake-hockstetter and she wanted a oneshot with something like where the reader and Patrick Hockstetter have lockers next to each other and they progress to friends through a handful of interactions

Warnings: None

Well that was some of the worst news you could possibly receive. You had just been told, or rather warned, that this year your locker would be located next to the infamous Patrick Hockstetter's.

You had managed to avoid him this long and the last thing you wanted to do was get onto his radar. You heard the stories of all the girls he ended up there, how he would stalk them, flirt with them, get handsy, and how the ones he finally wore down he would fuck and throw away.

Your locker being next to his was unfortunately a way to paint a big red target on your back for him to see. You manage to stay hidden for about two weeks , maybe catching a glance from Patrick here or there, but overall succeeding in your goal. But of course everything had to come to a halt and today was time for your luck to run out. Taking a deep breath you get to your locker opening it and quickly throwing in your books, grabbing your supplies you would need.

You noticed Patrick was at his as well, doing god knows what, and you'd definitely didn't want to look over and see. You close the door and make your way out of there as painlessly as you possibly can, sliding into your seat in math beside your friend Kelsey.

"Hey girl."

"Hey. Let me just say I am so sorry you got stuck next to that."

"I know it sucks."

"What kind of stuff do you think he has in there? Have you seen it?"

"No and I'd really rather not."

"Oh what if you broke in? It'll be a good way to see."

"Yeah it'll be a good way to see my body in a casket when he kills me for looking through his stuff," you warn her.

"Awww come on dude. Aren't you at least a little curious what he hordes in there?"

"Not really. I am trying to stay off his radar. And breaking into his locker would do everything to put me in the center of it."

"Just think about it."

You roll your eyes, but give her a "Fine" to get her to drop the subject.

The class ends and you get to your locker, and to your unfortunate surprise Patrick is leaning against his, looking in your direction. As if he's waiting for you.

You try to ignore him grabbing all you need, but as soon as you finish he shut the door closed, making you jump a bit at the noise.

"Ya know next time you plan to go through my stuff, maybe don't do it in a class you have with my buddy," he says ending in a chuckle making you curse at yourself that Kelsey had to open her big mouth in a class you forgot you shared with Victor Criss.

"I was never actually going t-"

"Oh believe me Sweetheart I know. You were too scared I would kill you," he cuts in adding another horrible nasally laugh making you on edge.

"Because you believe all that shit about me. You don't even know what I have and haven't done. So how would you know if I bite or not?"

"I-"

You know Patrick could practically smell your fear.

"Relax I'm not pissed."

"Y-You're not."

"Well I won't be....if you tell me your name."

"Y-Y/N," you say and curse at yourself yet again for still stuttering.

“Y/N.....I’ll see you around.”

“Sure,” you agree, saying anything you need to to get him to leave.

He walks away over to his fellow assholes and you breath in relief, hoping that it was just a one time exchange , but you figured it wasn’t.

You now always felt his eyes on you, even if he was’t speaking, it never lessened the uneasiness. A week later he spoke again turning to you, with that creepy smile of his.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“You got pen?”

“Oh....Uh yeah.....,” you say rummaging through your bag.

“Here,” you say giving one to him.

“Thanks,” he ends with a wink to you.

He takes it and walks away heading down the hall to whatever class he had,

A few days later you two speak again.

“Did you do the homework for Snoresinger’s class?,” he asks referring to Miss Moresinger’s math, the only class you two actually shared

“Yeah. I mean I fell asleep before finishing and sped through the second half this morning before I left, but I did it.”

“Good enough. What did you get for 7 and 12 ?”

You look through your locker seeing the paper,”

“7 I got X=36 and 12 I got ab=124″

“Cool. Thanks,”

“I didn’t think you actually did homework,” you joke

“Yeah like I said the first time, there’s a lot of shit you don’t know about me Princess,” he tells you after scribbling down the answer, making you cringe.

“You don’t like being called Princess, do ya Princess?”

“Even if I answer to that question, either way, I know you’ll still call me Princess.”

“Well maybe you know some things about me after all. Thanks for the answers Princess,” he smirks.

You roll your eyes as he walks off, well at least he was being friendly. well as friendly as Patrick could be anyway. You didn’t question it, but thanked God you didn’t end up on his “hump em and dump em” list.

Over the next few weeks small conversations take place here and there, gradually lowering the levels of anxiety being around him used to bring you. Your next full conversation however doesn’t happen until almost the end of the month.

“Hey Princess, I saw you and your little friends out on the field a few days ago, never took you for a stoner.”

“I’m not I only smoke after a big test and sometimes at parties.”

“Well it looked like good shit. Would ya help me and the boys out and tell me your dealer?”

“It’s Jesse,” you say with a slight smile.

“No shit?” he asks kinda shocked since Jesse seemed like the last person who would be a dealer.

“Yeah, you gotta show him the money up front for him to hook you up, but he does work in tandem so if he’s too busy you can also get it from Ellie or Riley, same shit for the same price.”

“Awesome, I’ll be sure to have Vic look into that for us.”

You nod as you head off to your next class of the day.

Patrick is waiting for you about a week later leaning on your locker door.

“Holy shit Princess,” he says chuckling at the end.

“What?”

“That weed....God Damn.”

You laugh at this as he moves off your locker door.

“Just for that tip off I think you should come hang with us later, you already got in good with the boys,”

You laugh again assuming he’s kidding.

“”Oh you’re serious?”

“Sure am Princess what do ya say?”

“You want me to hang out with you and your gang?”

“Why not?”

“Well for one thing look at me,” you say gesturing to yourself and your seemingly “wouldn’t hurt a fly” appearance.

“Two I’d really really rather not get hit on by Henry, and three could you imagine the shit that would get spread around?”

“Oh please since when do you give a shit what people say?”

“I’d rather not get labeled as a gang slut,” you tell him honestly

“You won’t.”

“Only girl hanging out with the 4 of you? I totally would.”

“Oh come on Princess, if it makes you feel any better no one would say it to your face,”

“If I say yes will you stop?”

He just laughs.

“I don’t have to kick the shit out of anyone do I?,” you joke.

“Nah we were just gonna drive out to the quarry and fuck around, maybe get drunk, or smoke the last of our stash.”

“I have been under a lot of stress lately, and that does sound pretty nice.....fine “

And you did, you had an awesome time surprisingly, finding out that you could drink both Henry and Vic under the table.

Not knowing that that day would be that start of an odd, yet beautiful friendship between you and the 4 toughest guys in school, basically becoming a 5th member of the gang.

#it 2017 #the bowers gang #patrick hockstetter #patrick hockstetter imagine #patrick hockstetter x reader #owen teague

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thejollyroger-writer · 6 years ago

Text

Bottom of the Ninth, Two Outs, Full Count

Part Two of Opening Day, Starting Pitch, which is a prologue for Love, Baseball, and Other Things (Part One // Part Two)

Also on AO3

WARNINGS: This story contains both Millian and abusive Swanfire. Sorry if that's not your cup of tea, but this is a prologue, and I'm obsessed with traumatic backstory. This also contains death of a character, grief, alcoholism, verbal and physical abuse, and abandonment. It starts exactly where part one left off.

Thanks again to @welllpthisishappening and @profdanglaisstuff for prompting this story into existence, @ultraluckycatnd for reading over it, and @kmomof4 for flailing so much over this little verse that has become the only thing I can think about. If you'd like to be tagged for future installations, let me know!

(also, sorry there's no cut, I'm on mobile and apparently Tumblr hates me anyway.)

-----

By the time Milah’s birthday rolls around in the middle of April, he has the ring tucked inside a box of letters from his brother and a reservation for the night she turns 26 at her favorite restaurant across town. He even bought them a night at the quaint little hotel next to Washington Square, so they don’t have to trek back across the river to get home that night. And he has the whole thing planned out: dinner, then a show at the Walnut Street Theatre before taking her dancing and taking her back to the hotel through Independence Square, finally lit up for spring, where he’ll stop and ask her to marry him. It’s a perfect plan, really, and he realizes when he calls the restaurant two nights before to confirm the reservation that he has never been this excited for anything in his life.

His friends can tell, too. David is happy for him, planning to propose to his own girlfriend while they’re on their post-graduation vacation, and Emma pokes fun at him regularly about the smile that is always on his face.

So when two uniformed officers knock on the door to his apartment three days before Milah’s birthday and ask if he’s Killian Jones, emergency contact for Milah Smith , it takes all his strength not to lose the contents of his stomach all over their finely-polished shoes.

“Yes, I am,” he says, pulling himself together enough to talk to them, to make sure that he’s not overreacting. “Why, has something happened to her?”

The way their emotionless faces seem to fall at his question causes him to lose his balance, and he reaches out to hold on to the doorway before he falls at their feet.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Mr. Jones,” the one to his left says, and Killian doesn’t fail to see the irony behind the fact that his name is Marry . “I’m afraid Milah was involved in a car accident on the Ben Franklin Bridge this morning, and by the time the paramedics got to the scene, there was nothing they could do for her.”

“Oh, god,” he groans, his shoulder hitting hard against the doorway, the only thing keeping him standing. “No, no, no, no.”

“We’re terribly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” he chokes out, starting to close the door before the men standing on the other side of him see him fall apart. But once the door closes, he loses the strength to stay on his own two feet, and he falls to his knees, his head resting on the cool wood of the apartment door.

In losing Milah, he lost everything. Three days from spending the rest of his life with her, and now he would have to live with the question of whether she would have said yes for the rest of his life.

Of course she would have said yes , he tries to convince himself, but it’s useless. He’s learned to never assume even the easiest of things, that’s how he’s survived everything that’s happened so far in his life. So that little voice in the back of his head keeps telling him over and over that there’s a chance she may have said no.

He has no idea how long he stays seated against the door. He does know that the sun has swung across the sky and begins to shine brightly through the front windows, and that by the time he pulls himself back onto his feet, his legs are numb.

He wishes the rest of him was just as numb.

So that’s exactly what he makes happen.

It started with one glass of whiskey, then turned into three, then six. By the time David and Emma come back from visiting their mother for the weekend, the sun has turned the sky a dark shade of crimson, and he is passed out on the couch, what remains of the last glass still in the cup his hand is wrapped around.

“Killian!” David yells, rushing across the living room to make sure he’s okay. He’s breathing, but refuses to budge, and once Emma finds the now-empty bottle of Jack on the counter, they figure out why.

“I hope he’s okay,” Emma comments, adding the bottle to the pile of recycling under the sink. “He usually doesn’t drink this much, and especially not whiskey.”

“Either something happened, or he just randomly decided he was in the mood for half a bottle of Tennessee whiskey.”

“Well, given that he usually refers to it as ‘number 7 swill,’ I doubt he decided just on a whim.”

David turns his eyes down to Killian, his whole face painted with worry, but there’s nothing they can do for him until he regains consciousness, so they leave him there, returning to the piles of papers they left spread across the kitchen table. They study in silence for a few minutes, the ticking of the clock over the stove driving Emma insane, so she speaks, her eyes flitting up to her brother for just a moment.

“I, uh, need to stay here again,” she says quietly, her eyes glued to the paper in her hands so they don’t have to reach what she knows is a worried glare from her brother.

“Neal again?”

“For fuck’s sake, David, don’t say it like that.”

“When are you going to leave his sorry ass for good?”

“I love him, David. I know you know this, and I know you understand. And he loves me, too, he just has some issues he needs to work out and everything will be just fine.”

“Everything is not just fine , Emma,” David growls, his back teeth grinding together angrily. “You think I don’t notice the marks he leaves on your arms? The fact that you’re always crying after you talk to him? You need to leave him, before he does something that he can’t just apologize for.”

“I can’t just leave him,” she says, her voice soft, and when she adds, “Not anymore,” he drops the textbook he was balancing on the edge of the table.

“What does that mean, Emma? Are you— did he—”

“I’m pregnant, alright?” she says bitterly, throwing the paper in her hands back down on the table so she can hold her head. “I’m almost three months pregnant, and I’m too afraid to tell him because I know when I do, he’ll just leave. Is that what you wanted to hear from me?”

“Christ, Emma,” he whispers, and as soon as he realize that her shoulders have started to shake with silent sobs, he pushes his chair back to walk across the table and wrap his arms around her. She turns in the seat, burying her head in his shoulder. “I can’t — I’m sorry.”

While they stay like this, David shedding a few tears for his sister, as well, Killian begins to slowly wake on the couch, head pounding and stomach churning, and when he slowly makes his way to the kitchen to find some water, he is surprised to find David and Emma, but when they see him, they begin to break away from each other.

Sitting down across the table from them, taking very careful sips out of his glass, he finally says, “I take it this means you heard about Milah.”

When they both seem to be more confused by this statement, he realizes he must have made an error.

“Is she alright?” David asks, and somehow Killian smiles instead of breaking down once more, but it only lasts for the quickest of moments.

“No, quite the opposite, actually. She was killed this morning in an accident on the Ben Franklin.”

“What a fucking day,” Emma says under her breath as David moves back across the table to pull his friend in for a hug.

Four days later, the day after Milah would have turned 26, they hold her funeral in one of the nicer churches in town. After asking Liam and David to wait outside, to give him a minute alone with her casket, there is nothing comparable to seeing her laying there, lifeless, surrounded by silk and flowers. Pulling the small velvet box out of his pocket, his hands grip the edge of the wood, the only balance he can find.

“I was — I was going to give this to you,” he chokes out, doing nothing to stop the stream of tears that fall down his face. “I still… I’ve been trying to decide whether I should give it to you, or keep it as a reminder of just how damned much I love you.” He reaches up to tuck his index finger under the buttoned collar of his shirt, pulling out the chain that holds his mother's ring. “But I think, now that I'm here and thinking about it, that I will keep this, both as a keepsake of you, of the years we spent together, and a reminder that my life has been torn apart one too many times from letting people into my heart.”

He holds the ring out in his palm, staring down at it for a moment before he closes his hand around it, feeling the edges of the diamonds cutting into his palm.

“I love you, my darling,” he whispers, leaning down to press his lips against her forehead, a sob fighting its way up his chest when he feels the coldness of her skin against his.

The pain overtakes him. He spends the next three days numbing himself, a dangerous combination of rum and whiskey and whatever else he can find in the apartment, only leaving the confines of his bedroom to find the next drink or relieve himself. On the fourth day, Emma, Neal, David, and Mary Margaret are sitting around the table in the kitchen, actively ignoring the subject of the grieving man who has locked himself away from the world.

Emma knows that David is worried about him — he’s told her that much at least a dozen times since Killian first told them of Milah’s death. The fact that her friend is struggling so much, so obviously, and no one is trying to reach out to him, though, just angers her.

So she decides she can’t take it anymore.

“Christ, enough of this,” she says, slamming her empty water glass down on the table. “That man in there needs help, and if I have to be the one to give it to him, then I will be.” She pushes her chair back, jumping to her feet, but before she can walk away, she feels Neal's hand wrap around her wrist.

“No.”

She whips her head around to face him. “Excuse me?”

“The darkness that took over Neal's face lightens, but his grip on her wrist does not. “He'll be fine, just give him time. Stay here.”

“What? No, he's — he's not okay, Neal. And on the off-chance that he is, he can be the one to tell me that, not you.”

Even if David wasn't watching his every movement intently, he would have noticed how hard Neal pulled on Emma's arm to get her to step back to the table.

“I'm not gonna tell you again, Ems,” he growls, his fingers beginning to leave marks on Emma's wrist. “I don't want you to go in there.”

“Good thing that's not your decision to make,” David says, his whole body tense, but when Neal snaps his head to face him and he sees some of the tension leave Emma's shoulders, he knows it was the right moment to step in.

“Well, it certainly isn't yours.”

“That is my sister that you have your hand around, if you'll remember.”

“David, please,” Emma says softly, and Neal smiles up at her, though that smile scares her more than anything else.

“Yes, David, please,” Neal repeats, the wicked smile still spread across his face when he turns back to him. “Emma knows how this works, and she knows what happens if she doesn't listen to me.”

“You son of a bitch!” David yells, jumping out of his seat angrily enough that it clatters to the floor behind him.

“David!” both Emma and Mary Margaret yell, but he's already halfway around the table, his hand flying out to grab the front of Neal's shirt.

Neal still hasn't let go of Emma's wrist.

“You're going to take your hands of my sister and never, ever touch her again, do you hear me?”

Neal is still smiling.

“And what, exactly, are you going to do to me if I don't?”

David pulls him out of his seat using the front of his shirt. His hand around Emma's wrist tightens further.

“See, that depends on just how angry you make me, because right now, I want to rip your fucking throat out.”

Mary Margaret has turned so white in her seat that Emma fears she may pass out — but she seems to be the only one that's noticed.

“Can I — can I ask you something, Nolan?” Neal asks, his voice free of any of the fear David was hoping to instill, but Emma feels the way his hand trembles. “Why the Knight in shining armor act all of the sudden? This can't be the first you've learned about me — “

“David, please ,” Emma begs, but David either fails to hear her or chooses to ignore her, taking the bait he's laying in front of him.

“She's pregnant, you bastard,” David practically yells, the secret that he's been trying so hard to keep, not even sharing it with Mary Margaret. “She's carrying your child and you're too goddamned selfish to care about it one bit.”

“David,” Emma whispers, and she is finally able to pull her hand out of Neal's grasp, that's suddenly loosened.

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret says at the same time, her big brown eyes full of both excitement and sadness.

Neal turns slowly to Emma, who has covered her face to hide the tears that have started falling, and David finally releases his fist from his shirt. “Is he — is he serious, Ems?” He has the nerve to soften his voice so much, to suddenly take all of the anger it's always full of away, and it just hurts her all the more. She's so afraid of his anger, his temper, his fear of commitment, but he's —

She nods, a glimmer of hope lightening the pounding in her chest. Opening her eyes, she darts to look at him, and she can tell that he is thinking over something.

And then he shakes his head, raising his hands in surrender, and backing away from the table. “I’m not — I can’t —” he sputters, but his coherency is gone. “I’m sorry.”

The three of them watch, stunned, as Neal grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and walks out of the apartment.

Everything is silent. Still. David and Mary Margaret are too afraid to move, knowing that as soon as they do, everything will crumble.

Emma will crumble.

But instead of either of them breaking the silence, disrupting the stillness, it comes instead from a bright-eyed and uniformed Killian Jones coming from his bedroom. The three of them dare to move enough to turn their attentions towards him, and when he finally senses the tension that has filled the apartment, added only by his escape from his bedroom, he raises his eyebrows in question.

“Where are you going?” David asks the question they’re all thinking.

Emma asks the other: “Are you okay?”

He pushes the front of his hair back to slide his baseball cap over it. “I, uh, have a game. I can’t wallow in grief forever, so I’ve decided instead to focus on my pitching game. It’s what…” his voice drops off, his eyes falling to the floor as his hand reaches up to grasp the same chain that always hangs around his neck, which they all see holds another ring beside his mother's. “It's what she would have wanted.”

The engagement ring , Emma realizes. It's what Milah would have wanted.

For a moment, Emma is inspired. Sure, it took him four days to get there, but he's pulled himself back together after losing Milah — and really losing her, not just having her walk out like she knew Neal was going to do. He's turning the energy he's been using to destroy himself back into something more productive.

She can do that, too.

Grabbing her jacket off the back of her chair, she slings it over her shoulder and follows Killian out towards the living room.

“I'm going with him.”

“What?” Mary Margaret asks, at the same time David says, “Stay here, we can talk about it.”

She turns to Killian, his bright eyes lighting up the shadow the brim of his hat lays across his face, and shakes her head, turning back to David.

“I don't want to talk about it. It's over. He did exactly what I expected, so there's nothing to even talk about.”

“Emma—” David starts, but she walks out of the kitchen, leaving the three of them bewildered.

“No,” she calls through the doorway. “I'm leaving.”

“Yeah, uh, me too,” Killian says, a million questions on his lips, as he follows her out of the apartment.

Their walk down the steps and out to the street is silent, and it continues that way for a few blocks, Emma's hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket and Killian's fidgeting with the strap of his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

He has almost decided on how to ask the question lingering on the tip of his tongue when she speaks instead.

“I'm really proud of you, d'you know that?”

He turns to her, but her eyes are still set on the sidewalk at her feet.

“Come again?”

“Your whole world crumbles down around you, and you took a few days to grieve before you pull yourself back up and focus on something productive.”

“Thanks?” he asks, her words igniting a warmth in his heart that he wasn't sure he would ever feel again. “I watched my father drink himself half to death after my ma passed, and when I looked in the mirror last night, I realized I was doing the same thing. The only thing I ever wanted in life was to not end up like my father, and I saw myself doing just that.” He tugs at the chain around his neck, threading his pinky through the ring that has just been added. “And that's not what Milah would want. She always told me to — to stick with the things I enjoy the most, and I realized the reason I stopped focusing on my pitching game was in hopes of finding a career to sustain us. Now that I… now that I no longer need that, I can go back to doing what I love without the fear that it's going to be enough.”

Emma has no response to this, so they walk in silence again for a few more moments.

“Neal's gone.”

Killian breathes out a small chuckle, though once it's out, he can't figure out why. “How long do you think it will be this time until he comes running back?”

Emma flattens her hands against her stomach, but since her hands are in her pockets, Killian doesn't see it. “He's not coming back this time.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, for one, David threatened him. I believe the exact promise was to 'rip his fucking throat out,’ and I wouldn't put it past him to follow through on that.” They both allow themselves to laugh at this, a small release of some of the tension built around them after all that's happened in the past few days.

“And for two?” Killian asks, and when he sees Emma turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye, he returns her gaze.

“He’s too afraid of commitment to stick around and become a father.”

She watches as Killian's eyes grow wide before turning down to her stomach, a smile growing across his face.

“You're pregnant?”

He's relieved so see her begin to smile, too, as she nods her head. Stopping them on the sidewalk, he wraps her in a hug — and she realizes just how excited she really is, even if Neal is no longer in the picture.

Maybe it's even better this way.

“And you know you're not alone, right? You have David and Mary Margaret to help you, and me.” He leans back, his arms still wrapped around her shoulders, and when he smiles at her again, she believes for the first time since she saw that positive sign that everything might actually be okay.

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fanesavin · 6 years ago

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The first arrivals for the coronation are spotted at the docks and the games are begun.

[ Part 1 ]

Miguel had been travelling for awhile - he had just gotten the invitation to the coronation recently - soon after deciding to return to the Forty Isles. So he made his way to the Capitol and sent his fleet on it’s way back home, Miguel kept only two of his crew with him, that was more than enough for him. The over-sized broadsword at his hip and the way his muscles popped when he crossed his arms usually stopped any trouble before it began. That meant that Miguel de la Cardero Reyes Ojeda Lopez was waiting at the docks when his older brother arrived. There was an apple in one hand, and a smile on his face as he joked with his remaining crew and discussed the possibilities of the coronation. For all the world he looked like a silly young man, someone who hadn’t had the time or the capacity to be bitter - not yet. Though his demeanor was light, his eyes were sharp, and as soon as Iann set foot on the docks Miguel grew tense.

His mocking smile faded once his casual survey of the docks made Iann spot his youngest brother. The little two-faced oaf (Blessed Lupita please forgive) was on the bottom of the rock staircase that would lead up into the Capital walls. He looked sweet and jocular and approachable - and Iann knew quite well he was none of these things. He felt a warm surge of pleasure to watch Miguel’s shoulders bunch ever so slightly, when they met eyes. Miguel was subtle, but Iann could handle that at least. He’d been handling it for about 30 years now. He strolled over, wide sweeping steps that forced the fishmongers to go scurrying aside for him. He got closer, giving one of Miguel’s similarly tense men a cheeky wink, as he nipped the apple from his brother’s hand, and bit into it. “I didn’t realize they remembered to give you an invitation. Nor did I realize you would bother to attend, my little brother. The Sea Awaits,” he added, as a belated formal greeting.

Miguel smiled at his brother - he had lost count of how many layers of subterfuge they were playing, how many games they ran at once - and he couldn’t tell if his smile was real or fake. Did he love his brother? Maybe. But did he love other things far more…? “Fortunately, I was within reach of their birds. And on my way back to the Forty Isles, the rest of my fleet has gone on ahead. I can go home with you, right Iann?” He couldn’t very well say no, not when the travelling son wanted to return home. “Good weather for sailing,” he gave the formal response as he smiled up at the warm sun and the few fluffy white clouds. “Good weather for a coronation too!”

The sound of a voice called down from the ship, a woman dressed up in decorative armour standing on the edge. It was clear from the way she was standing that she wasn’t there by her own choice. Nor were the men standing around her entirely friendly. ‘If you insist on bringing me here, I would suggest you get me off of this damned ship,’ Collette called down to the man prancing about and calling himself all sorts of titles. She didn’t care that he was talking to another man. Their titles were pathetic.

Iann instinctively smiled back, then congratulated himself for letting his little brother set the tone. Or did Iann already do that, by taking his apple? It tasted like fish and tar, but Iann ate it anyway. “My flagship is your servant, little brother,” Iann said in an offhand way, although he remembered quite well what happened the last time he let his brother board his flagship. This time, Iann wouldn’t eat any of Miguel’s supposed delicacies, no matter what intriguing foreign land he liberated them from. Before Iann could talk about the coronation though, he heard a call up from the deck of the Freewind Flagship, and his idle smile turned into an amused (if slightly tense) grin. “Ah - come little brother - come meet my prize.” Iann motioned for Miguel to follow, and he eschewed the gangplank his Officer offered to put down for the Lady. “No, no. Put her in the crate casket,” he said, motioning to the pulley. A rope was thrown down to him for the pulley. “Like cargo. White Lady, if you would be so kind as to sit in the casket and I’ll be happy to bring you down to the docks.”

Miguel didn’t have the energy to mourn the loss of his apple. Instead he over thought what its theft could mean. Did Iann trust food from Miguel again, did Iann trust food that Miguel didn’t want to give? It was information that could be useful to him and he filed it away for later review. There wasn’t any poison in store for his brother, not anytime soon. Not of origin from Miguel at least. He had other plans for Iann. “Prize?” One of Miguel’s eyebrows went up and he glanced toward the Freewing Flagship. He heard the woman’s voice but he didn’t see her. “What did you do, Iann?”

Collette’s jaw clenched and she made no movement for the longest moment. She glared daggers at the man even as she relented and sat in the crate like a hound. She swore that any degradation she would face under this man’s thumb would be returned a thousandfold. She hadn’t killed better men just to become an bauble.

Iann looked haughty and stern, losing his cheer for a brief moment as he gazed at Miguel with a somewhat pitying look. “I’m doing what is my right, Miguel,” he stated, soft and calm. The cheer was back when he felt the casket shift under Collette’s weight. “And you know the legend of the White Woman of the North, hm? This lovely thing claims to be her. I found her and she is mine. A good omen, wouldn’t you say?” And a beautiful claim to tout in front of Miguel no less, hopefully give his little brother landlubber legs at the implication of Iann’s gain. “You know what? It is good weather to sail today, you’re right.” He carefully lowered Collette down to the docks, and then extended a hand to help her out of the casket. “My Esteemed Lady, may I present my youngest brother - Miguel de la Cardero Reyes Ojeda Lopez of the Forty Isles.

Miguel’s face tensed for a moment, but then he gave a tight smile to the supposed White Woman of the North. She could be an invaluable piece in the fight against his brother - Miguel had no doubt about the hate in her eyes. Miguel ducked his head in greeting, but made no move to touch her hand in the usual way to greet a woman. "My esteemed lady. Just call me Miguel, I’m at your service. What may I call you?”

She would have been easy to spot once she got deeper into the capital having a small group of followers and escorts. Not that Cassandra felt she needed the protection particularly, but things got a bit more difficult when you brought your toddler to the coronation. But she had her reasons. When she spot sight of the familiar ships Cassandra moved her horse down towards the docks, at first just watching the brothers from behind in quiet. Her expression was placid listening to them and even watching the ‘prize’ that Iann brought down like cargo. Cassandra sighed and shook her head, still atop her horse with Adeline’s pony not far behind, “And so the grand reunion begins.” She called out, “It’s amazing what a coronation can do. Even for the brothers of the Forty Isles.”

Collette ignored the hand of her captor as she climbed from the crate. She didn’t even look at him, her eyes trained on the man he was trying to introduce her to. 'If you’re blood to this fool, then you are likely little different.’ She finally glanced at her captor. 'But if you’re half as skilled, you may call me White. Or War.’ Collette was for friends. And in this place they were few and far between.

Trust Cassandra to bring a horse onto the docks. Iann had seen her out of the corner of his eye (how could he not, sitting on her beast) but waited until she deigned to acknowledge them. In truth, he’d learned to appreciate the Grand Lady of Summerset, and despite her ailing House it was a good match between her and Juan Carlos. Their poor middle brother never wanted to rule or fight or anything other than travel and raise a family. But what lit Iann’s dark eyes up was the sight of the little Princess on her pony. “My Lady,” he said with a flourishing but quick bow to Cassandra, but then he stepped closer to Adeline. “Ahhhh, my beautiful angel. Such good things I’m rewarded with and I’ve only just set foot on land. My beautiful little niece,” he cooed over her. His love for her was as immense as his love for his own children; in fact, there was one moment where Iann had tried to steal her out of Summerset to join his own brood. Cassandra had stopped him then - and that encounter had been a valuable one that made Iann only love Adeline more, and even love Grand Lady Cassandra as well. She knew that her daughter was enchanting. He ignored Collette’s insults - they were normal by now and pedestrian at best - and then made more introductions, glad to hear Collette tear his brother down as much as she tried to do him. “Lady White, this is Queen Cassandra of Summerset, and her little Princess, my niece Adeline. And Miguel’s niece as well, I’m sure.”

Miguel raised his head and nodded at Lady White. “Then I’m pleased to meet you, Lady.” As he brought his head up he saw the small love of his life riding her pony next to her mother. Miguel wanted control of the Forty Isles, that was true. But another truth was that Miguel couldn’t have children in the traditional way. Iann had already sired plenty. But he would pass the Isles to Adeline, or her children - when the time came… if the time came. Miguel nodded to Cassandra. “At your service, sister.” And then his face lit up even more, turning him into a cheerful, jovial uncle. “And hello darling Adeline!” He stood close to his brother, crowding the little princess, fawning over her.

Collette turned to watch the woman on the horse and clasped her hands in front of her. It was alienating to be so far away from the colder places of the North and without a weapon. These people seemed at home here, even if it wasn’t. Collette neither knew nor cared about that. She just wanted to go home, free to fight.

Cassie smiled briefly to her brothers-in-law, lip curling just a bit more as Adeline received the attention she was so used to, but while the brothers cooed over the princess Cassandra looked a bit more intensely at the lady Iann had brought out. Her brow furrowed, and she got off her horse approaching Collette just a few steps closer. The stories of the white woman of the north were not overly common in Summerset, but Cassandra knew of them none the less. She gave a brief nod to the other woman in greeting. If she really was the White Lady, there was something a bit more ethereal to her than any of them. “I don’t know how he managed it.” Cassandra spoke. “But certainly we can do better than a cargo hold.” Her eye narrowed slightly, “Even apparent heirs forget their manners, time to time.”

'Even I can be bested by numbers, it seems.’ Collete glanced at Iann then back at this 'Queen’. 'And I’ve never met a man who remembers his manners.’ Though she seemed stiff to Cassandra, she offered a rare but courteous and restrained smile.

Iann hoisted Adeline off her pony, covering her in soft beardy kisses. “Seeing you makes me miss my own,” he confided fondly at Adeline, who looked nothing like her father, or his own children. He handed the pony’s reins to Miguel to keep the animal calm, as he continued nuzzling the child. And he watched Cassandra and the White Lady make their acquaintance. “She is my guest, but sometimes I like to tease her,” Iann said, smile crinkling his eyes. “She is free to wander where she pleases of course. But Lady White will return to me, once this is all over.” War indeed. War had no place in a city aching for peace. She was uncomfortable, so far away from her cold home. Among people who craved anything other than more battles and bloodshed. If she was who she claimed, she was an intriguing thing, if a little singular-minded.

Miguel fumed a bit at being handed the pony’s reigns. But he could be patient, he would get a chance to snuggle Adeline too. Instead he stepped toward Cassandra, the Lady of Summerset and smiled just as sunnily as her title. “Is there any new of your husband? I would be grateful to hear about my brother…”

“Too true.” Cassandra laughed at Lady White and her comment, she turned slightly watching Iann take the young girl down from her pony, her lips thinning for a brief moment, “I don’t see what you need her for.” Surely, if Iann had been strong enough to overpower her, it’d make the Lady somewhat a moot point. She took in a breath being asked about her husband and returned to the horse waiting patciently behind her. Cassandra pet the beasts nose soothingly and shook her head, “Very little. He does as he likes and this…crusade is something of a pet project.”

Collette remained silent, even as her captor claimed she had some freedom and the woman claimed that she was useless. It prickled under her skin to think that this minor setback was enough to crush the image she had earned for herself. It was insulting that she was defeated but even more insulting that she was no longer considered worth showing off. Turning away from the group, Collette started her way along the docks.

“Ahhhh Juan Carlos and his righteous crusades…” he sighed; and yet he turned a blind eye to the requests that came from Juan Carlos to the Forty Isle Treasury, to fund his soldiers and crusades. What did it matter? It kept their middle brother busy, and Iann and Miguel were both constantly bringing new treasures back to the Forty Isles to keep them well-monied, well-positioned. That was one thing he could credit his youngest brother with at least; the boy had an eye for precious things. Just as he did; and so in response to Cassandra, he tactfully handed the daughter to the Princess’ governess, and then replied simply, “I need precious and rare things, and the Lady White is precious and rare.” He watched her turn and stride away, her head held high. “There she goes. Watch how she strides - proud and beautiful, no?”

Cassie watched as Collette did practically marched away. Cassandra could hardly blame her, but if she was as far away from home as everyone was eluding, Cassandra didn’t know where Lady White could possibly be finding any solace. Still, she decided to follow suit, and stepped back up into her horses saddle, “Well, I’m going back towards the castle. I’ve had enough sea air. You’re welcome to join.”

The colour of Collette’s hair drew people’s attention to her to the point that the fishermen whispered behind their hands. She felt exposed. Battlefields where she was a ghostly flash of blood and silver were one thing. Bustling docks were another. Especially dressed as ostentatiously as she was.

“I shall be along shortly,” Iann announced, glancing at Miguel out of curiosity to see what his brother’s plans were, should he choose to announce them. “I have some business to attend to on the Docks.” He really did mean it, too. The Forty Isles had their businesses forged on all ports and dockyards along the coast of Bluesprings, as well as lands beyond.

Miguel nodded. He had explored the Capitol plenty. And while he loved the salty air, he was ready to explore the castle. “Then I shall accompany our dear sister and niece to the castle.”

Collette glanced over her shoulder at the upperclass group as they split off from each other. Small mercies that her captor hadn’t insisted on dragging her away from the frankly unpleasant and dull docks to be shown off, yet. She returned her attention to some shells and dried seaweed snacks a little girl in rags was trying to sell her. 'I’ll take them all.’ But as she reached for her purse, she remembered that her captor had taken that from her, too. So she unclipped the golden brooch pinning her cloak and offered it to the little girl. 'Take it. Please.’

Prelate Theodore closed his hand over Lady White’s wrist, not threateningly, but to forestall the child eagerly snatching the brooch. “Perhaps some payment that would be of less … foreign currency for the young one,” he said, letting go again. “Please, allow me.” He opened his own purse and pressed three clover-minted coppers into the girl’s grubby hand, her eyes going round as she thrust forward her shells and snacks in return and scampered away calling for her mother in a high, excited voice.

Collette tensed upon feeling someone’s hand enclose around her wrist, half expecting it to be her captor. But when she heard an entirely different voice and accent. She glanced up at the stranger, her jaw flexing. Her swallow was visible. She barely had time to reach out before the basket was shoved into her hand. Tugging away from the stranger, she stepped back and clipped her brooch back on in silence. When she looked back up at him, she flicked her chin up in defiance. 'The brooch is doing nothing of worth. At least the girl would’ve benefited.’

Fane was unaccustomed to the warmth of Kingdoms such as these - sun was an infrequent occurrence for those hailing from lands further North in the realm. Shielding his eyes against the rays he studied the lay of the city limits before glancing at a few of the advisory companions that had joined him on the trip South. There wasn’t much for himself that he’d brought, his were a relatively simple people but there were some goods for trade regardless. “I’ll see you at the Castle nearer the ceremony, don’t concern yourself with my whereabouts before then” with this he stepped onto the plank leading to the docks glad for the welcome feeling of solid ground under his feet and not several tonnes of unstable oak. Warm food and drink would be a welcome relief after the journey.

Prelate Theodore inclined his head, clasping his hands behind his back. The neat, stark lines of his heavy clergical habit in charcoal brocade made him look like a solemn raven, his voice modulated and precise. “The brooch would benefit the charity box of the Cloverry, should you be inclined; in the hands of that child, it would only have drawn the attention of bigger, more predatory eyes.” He regarded Collette for a moment before saying, “Do you hail from the North, Lady? Is it the coronation that has brought you so far from home?” Prelate Theodore accompanied his own questions with a polite introduction. “I’m Theodore Aynesworth, the Prelate of the Cloverry.”

Collette kept her chin up, unwavering under the judgemental gaze of a powerful man. She’d faced powerful men before. 'The North is my home.’ She glanced towards Iann only to find that he’d disappeared into the crowd of fishermen. A small mercy. She then turned back to this 'Theodore’. 'Then take the brooch.’ She slipped it back out of her cloak and thrust it towards him. 'Help the people.’

Fane glanced at the rush of colour and noise around the docks figures of all shapes and sizes busy dealing with several other far more notable arrivals than he. He drifted in the crowd, mindful of his purse attached securely to his belt his free hand resting on the hilt of his blade non-threateningly. Until he noted the familiar garb of one individual in conversation with another young lady. Gravitating towards them he purchased an apple from one of the merchants and approached taking a bite from the ripe fruit as he observed the interaction with the woman curiously.

“Very generous of you, Lady.” The glitter of the brooch disappeared into the dark cavern of his purse, which he snapped closed with a sharp click. “Especially in these times when there’s hardship everywhere.” The Prelate looked over the ships in the harbour, giving Collette space to maintain her dignity; provincials, unaccustomed to the way that the clergy carried themselves, often got defensive and felt they were being judged when they were simply being … observed. The Cloverry valued very highly the qualities of observation and analysis in its order. In looking around, Theodore caught sight of a more familiar Northern face, and his own austere expression creased into a smile. “Lord Savin!” he greeted the war hero. “Here, I have one of your countrywomen at hand. Come, stand next to her and radiate some of that chill in your bones.”

Fane finished chewing a mouthful of apple pulp and swallowing it down before inclining his head out of customary politeness to the two individuals. “Prelate, quite the occasion to bring us all together wouldn’t you say? Who would’ve thought we’d live to see a unification such as this,” his eyes turned then to the women introduced as one of his own though he stepped into the circle. “The North eh? Any region in particular? I may know of it.”

“Praise unto the Whole,” Theodore intoned crisply; despite his devotion to the church, he wasn’t one for long, groaning prayers and invocations. When speaking with Lord Savin, however – a man whose House had been of stalwart support to the Cloverry – a nod towards piety was expected and welcome. “The Highest Raj and the Quiver of Houses will require all of our dedication and commitment. Are you planning any significant time spent in The Capital, eh?” That would mean a sizeable entourage of House Savin. And the Prelate liked to stay informed of any tradewind shifts in the demographics.

Collette watched as the holy man took the brooch without question and wondered about where exactly that wealth would go. Trickle down the lines without ever touching the ground? That was the way she’d heard such men gathered their wealth. She turned to leave, only to be pulled into another meeting with another person. She tipped her chin when the newest stranger addressed her. 'The North. There’s no need to split hairs.’ She didn’t want to address the fact that it was the entire North she’d called her home. Nor did she wish to address who she really was when that meant exposing that she’d been defeated. She reached into her new basket and picked out some seaweed to taste.

“Aye, praise be,” he answered in kind. His House over the generations had members belonging to the Cloverry and Fane himself had a healthy respect for the faith even if he wasn’t particularly so devout himself. The Prelate was a powerful figure in his own right. “That he will,” because how long would a King last without the support of his followers? “But no, I don’t plan to stay for an extended period of time. These climates are far too temperate for me and mine… We’ll likely be burnt to a crisp by morrow,” he smiled in relatively good humour all in all even if it likely would be the truth. “Well the whole North is as good as any, and I suppose you feel similarly? Can’t wait to return to the Northern wilderness eh? M'lady?” He wasn’t sure of her name so he stuck to general titles for the time being.

'I don’t think I’ll be returning to the North anytime soon.’ Collette wanted to, though. With all her heart, she wanted to walk the icy fields again. She wanted to feel the bitter chill against her cheeks. But some men would rather cage beasts then let them wander free. 'But I would hope to,’ she said, offering the Northerner a politer smile than she’d offered the Southerners around here.

Prelate Theodore watched groups of servants make their way from the docks towards the courtyard of Bluesprings Castle, carrying chests emblazoned with House crests. “Looks as though more banners are arriving,” he remarked, flicking a stray twist of jute from his shoulder as some porters went past him bearing roped-up boxes. “It’s not going to be the most lavish of ceremonies considering the coin put aside for restoration and relief, I warn you both – but then again, Northerners never do care for anything too elaborate, do you?” Theodore purchased a gold-striped pear from another child hawking its wares, polishing the fruit against his sleeve. “I’ve heard stories, Fane, that you’ve one cousin who freezes all his wine before serving it at banquets. The way that the North intended, is that the reasoning?” The Prelate smiled at Collette as well to include her in the conversation, but didn’t press any further interaction with her, instead taking a neat bite out of his pear.

Maya counted the boxes again and then a third time. She huffed a sigh. Someone had forgotten to pack the spices. If she was to bake what she had been ordered to they would have to purchase more at the marketplace, which would be expensive. Something was going to get their ass kicked when they returned to Blackspire. For now though the only thing to do was speak to her master about it. When Maya approached he was in conversation with a man and a woman. She curtsied and said, Beg pardon Lord Savin, sir, madame, there’s a bit of a problem with our baggage.“

"No?” Fane studied the young lady with a curious eye wondering why she might not return back to the lands of their people but now wasn’t the time to ask. Perhaps if he ran into her at a later point he would inquire more. “Well, we shall be returning after the festivities and if you are in need of transport there will likely be space - a few of our party wish to remain in the Capitol for a while longer.” An open invitation never hurt he supposed but he’d have to learn more. Fane’s smile grew a little wry at the mention of elaborate festivities, “I know little of the ostentatious ways of life so a simple affair will suit me just fine, but aye, my younger cousin likes to chill his vintages. Though I wouldn’t say it’s the way they intended it, more to contrast the warmth of our food.” Speaking of which one of the kitchen staff that had come with him for the event came up to him, “excuse me a moment Prelate, m'lady…” Turning to step aside for a moment just out of earshot of the former gathering “what appears to be the issue Maya?”

Collette turned away from the strangers and headed towards the stairs towards the larger city but caught herself as her foot touched the bottom step. She glanced around to find her captor. Though she couldn’t see him, she knew his men were following her. No one would let a trophy wander off alone. Not when his brother knew her true nature. Instead, she turned to sit on a small rickety bench beside the only tree and patch of green that lived beside the dock.

“Please, Lord Savin, attend to your business. I’ve matters of my own that require attention.” The young woman who’d come to speak to her master seemed concerned about whatever it was, and by the time the Prelate turned to leave them to talk, Lady White had departed without another word to apparently go sit by herself. He tucked that piece of interaction away, heading from the docks back towards the Castle.

With business finished, Iann strode down the docks to take him back to the stone stairs, leading up to the Capital walls. He noticed Inquisitor Savin, who seemed occupied with his own affairs. There was also a Prelate (the name escaped him; they all looked the same to Iann: boring and austere) who Iann gave a polite nod to in greeting. A glance at one of his men (Knight Harrison was attending to his own squadron on the Freewinds, and would join Iann later) who nodded a chin over to where Lady White was sitting and sulking. “Prelate,” he said, pausing by the Prelate. “She is my guest,” he said, without any finery or preamble. In that decorative finery he’d tricked Collette out in, he knew she stood out, and likely caught the Prelate’s owlish attention, even if it was just briefly. He walked over then, not minding if the Prelate followed or not. “You didn’t get far, my Lady,” he said with a bland congeniality. He offered an arm. “Come, it’s time to see Bluesprings Castle. I know you hate everything that isn’t covered in ice and snow, but the Castle is something of a marvel. It’s stood here for over a thousand years, through all sorts of wars, even the old ones with dragons. Nothing has destroyed it yet.” He looked over at the Prelate in case the owl had something else to add; the Cloverry loved their endless details and dates of history.

Collette only looked up when her captor approached with is undying enthusiasm. It would almost be charming if it weren’t on the face of a viper. She stood, straightening out her decorative outfit. 'I didn’t want your spies to become panicked. We all know what they’d do it they thought they lost me.’ She offered the slightest ground by taking his offered arm and following him. 'Castles are only as good as the men inhabiting them.’

Prelate Theodore kept pace with the Driftwood Heir, giving the man a sidelong look as he claimed responsibility for the Lady White. “Your guest seems discomfited by the warmth of our Capital,” he said, letting Cardero read into that should he desire to. Still, he was headed in the same direction that it seemed Cardero was, and chimed in as if on cue: “–in fact, the cellars and catacombs beneath Bluesprings Castle were built with coldmarble stones from the North, quarried and transported here in Fell Year 64.”

Right on schedule. Iann listened with quiet amusement as the Prelate prattled on as if he simply couldn’t help himself. He was surprised that the White Lady took his arm, but didn’t consider it a win; in fact, he almost hoped it was a strategy. The only thing that had thus far made him doubt the White Lady’s claim as the legendary Woman in White, was that she behaved utterly like a commoner. Brutish and unsubtle, like a hammer rather than a knife. Then again, perhaps that was why the commonfolk’s name for her was The Commoner’s Warrior. “Yes, yes, you are only concerned with honour and integrity, and so on and so forth,” he said to the White Lady, tiring of her proselytizing, as if she were the only one in the world who could ever possibly understand those concepts. For a month now, it was all he ever got from her. “She’s from the North, no House affiliation.” That much was obvious, Iann believed, from the way she spoke and carried herself. “But I do love a good bit of driftwood, as it moves between the currents.”

Collette raised a brow at Iann, a sound of almost maternal or mentorly disapproval leaving her. He seemed not to understand exactly what she embodied. Nor had he seen her in her true glory to judge her so. Her defeat had been the work of men who didn’t know the meaning of honour. 'My Northerness doesn’t affect my appreciation for anything. Nor does it stunt my intellect.’ Her eyes flicked to Fane as if making a point. Everything was a battle but not everything required a strategy.

“Have you been insulted, my Lady?” Iann asked, mild and surprised. “A thousand sugar apologies on a golden plate. Unless of course, you disapprove of such extravagance. You two would like each other, if you actually managed a conversation. Both very attuned to the acetic as the only worthy way of life…” he frowned slightly as he looked down at the Lady’s armour. “Where’s your brooch gone? Did you lose it, my Lady?”

The Northern woman continued to ignore him, cold as her land of origin, but the Prelate hadn’t become one of the highest of his order by being rattled at rudeness. Or judgement. “The Lady has very kindly donated her brooch to the work of the Cloverry,” he interjected at Cardero’s question. “She hasn’t lost it as she navigates the currents, have no fear.”

Collette eyed Iann for a long moment. 'You’ve insulted me by taking me from my home. I doubt anything you could say could insult me anymore.’ She glanced at the Prelate, her fingers ever so slightly tightening around Iann’s arm. 'The clothes you’ve put me in are already worth more than the commoners of this city put together. The brooch will feed a hundred families.’

Prelate Theodore said mildly, “Alas, we in the South haven’t adopted the practice of calculating the worth of our people in clothing and jewels. But your generous gift will be portioned most carefully to those requiring the aid of the Cloverry, and the High Raj.”

“You see?” Iann said, as the Lady once again plunged into another lecture, as if it were all just that simplistic, and she alone had clarity of mind. “She talks of nothing else, just as you do, Prelate. Perhaps she can join your order.” That last bit was entirely a joke, and patted The White Lady’s hand as they reached the city walls. “I’m glad to hear that I can no longer insult you. I suppose the only thing left to do now is praise you.”

'Mercy,’ Collette said, her mouth twisting in a way that could’ve been considered a slowly growing amusement. 'I would die if you praised me.’ She watched the Prelate as he told her the people would benefit from the brooch. Good. She had hoped the real people down in the streets would benefit. 'Perhaps you wouldn’t be trying to defeat your own brother or kidnapping poor defenceless women if you shared my beliefs.’

“I don’t want you to die,” Iann said, in shock that was both surprised by her tease, but also the truth. He wanted to ask if she even could die, but didn’t want to ask that in front of the Prelate. Instead Iann laughed. “Defeat my brother? I’m afraid you misunderstand, dear Lady,” he said, with a nod at the soldiers who opened the doors for him. “What beliefs are those? We have a Prelate here, and he enjoys hearing the ideas of belief. Prelate, if she accidentally blasphemes, take it in the good spirit of the day and don’t throw her in your nunnery.” Iann was joking again, in that last bit. The Cloverry, despite the Forty Isles not being particularly affiliated with it, was certainly not known for its oppression. But to reassure Collette he added, “Unless you’d prefer a nunnery over my company.”

Prelate Theodore hadn’t minded the Driftwood Heir amusing himself by pretending to matchmake the clergyman and the Northern woman – Cardero was known for his puckish sense of humour – but the Lady White’s insistence on believing herself the only person with noble intentions wasn’t quite as entertaining. “I’m certain she would find our nunneries beneath her notice, and most unpalatable to her tastes,” he said, giving the two of them a smooth bow. “Please, if you have any needs prior to the coronation ceremony, don’t hesitate to ask.” And then he diverted down a narrow corridor, heading to a meeting with the Ever Widow. There was much for them to discuss.

Collette made a face when Iann told her that he didn’t want her to die. It was usually the opposite sentiment men she’d faced held. But then again, he was the first to ever succeed in defeating her. 'I’d pity the nunnery that tried to contain me.’ She was about to tell Iann and the Prelate her moralistic and honour bound ideals when Iann was drawn away.

Maya took a step with Lord Savin to the side. She stood with her back completely straight, a habit of her childhood that she had never broken. “It seems the porter forgot to load the spice box. I had intended to check myself the baggage before we left, but I…” she hesitated. It likely didn’t matter to him why she hadn’t double checked the baggage. “I apologize sir. I’m afraid as well that this means I will have to ask for coin to purchase spices at the market here.”

Fane didn’t particularly mind being pulled away from some conversations if the importance was great enough. He frowned upon hearing the dilemma at hand, brow creasing as he exhaled. “Well, I would have thought we’d be here a little longer before I was parting with my coin, what spices do you need? And how much do you think you’ll need for them? Perhaps we can see if an arrangement can be made with a few of the nobles in town, they’ve likely all brought some of their own wares to trade while they’re here.”

“Ginger, nutmeg, cloves and cinnamon,” Maya replied. At the idea of making some arrangement with other nobles she shook her head before she could think better of it. Quickly she added, “I’m likely to get a better price and with fewer strings attached if I simply go to the market. I shouldn’t need more than seven and even then I expect to bring you change.”

Fane hummed under his breath but really these were antics he didn’t typically involve himself with. “If you’re sure,” Maya had been in his employ long enough for that he trusted her enough for such trips. Though where he might have typically told her to take the spare the blunder made him a touch less forgiving. “Very well, I’ll give you eight and bring me the change back when you have what you need,” taking his coin purse he counted out the necessary coin and held it for her to take. “I’ll walk with you some of the way. I need to familiarise myself with the city once more…”

Maya nodded. She was certain. While from what she had seen of Lord Savin he didn’t often play the game of politics. The unfortunate thing about that game though was that people didn’t always ask if you wanted to play. This was especially true at an event such as a coronation. It was better for her to simply go down to the market and avoid any potential strings that might come with an arrangement with another noble. “Thank you sir, ” she said with a dip of her head rather than a full curtsy as she took the coin. Her brows furrowed when he suggested they walk together. “You wish to walk with me sir?” she asked. Despite her months in his employ she did not know him well. Like most nobles he didn’t fraternise much with the servants. She worried a little, what he might be implying by his willingness to walk with her seemingly as an equal.

Fane was more or less correct in her measure. Navigating the murky politically tension fraught waters of the Capitol wasn’t wasn’t one of his favourite pastimes. And while Fane didn’t spend much time with the staff, he did make a relatively concerted effort to know those who worked or served him in some capacity. It wouldn’t do to completely ignore their existence considering the well-being of his house was founded on the well-being of the people that served it. So as she questioned what he said he looked at her strangely, “no need to look so shocked lass, we’re headed in the same direction,” he said by way of explanation with a nod to the main road leading up from the docks. “I assure you, I don’t plan to lurk like your shadow, I merely thought it made sense since we were both headed the same direction…”

Maya did fully curtsy this time. “I apologize again sir. This may be forward of me, but I have served for lords who had no interest in getting to know their servants in any capacity,” she explained before muttering to herself, “And some who took too much interest in it.” She began to walk in the direction of the market. While she was curious about the lord, she knew better than to ask questions. For one it was not her place as a kitchen girl, even one close to becoming the head of his kitchen. For another she might reveal too much in the questions she asked and force herself out of job and home yet again.

Fane waved a little in a fashion to say the repetitive curtsying wasn’t overly necessary nor was he particularly fussy about such matters. “No need,” as always when he spoke it was calm and to the point though he did grimace a little at her mention of Lords being too interested in getting familiar. “I have no doubt you’ve had bad… experiences… But you have no cause for concern on that front, not under my employ…” His slightly sombre expression eased a little into something that for a Northerner could almost be described as being friendly, if not that, kind at least. “I take the stance that if the people of my House know me and mine, it’s only fair I know them and theirs in turn… It’s a lot of people, aye, but it makes for an honest and happier home in my opinion and that’s all I seek in this world.”

Maya made a mental note that he did not stand on ceremony as much as other Lords she had worked for. In her mind, that was more dangerous. It made it easier for her to slip. There were still more than few lessons from her short lived childhood that tended to expose her. She noted too his grimace at her mutter about lords as well. In truth, they had more to worry from her than her from them, but she made no mention of that. “A honest and happy home?” Maya asked instead, “Is that all you desire milord?” Despite his earlier wave off of her curtesy she went with the formal title considering her impertinent question.

Fane let his attention wander a little as they departed from the waterfront and started towards the city gates. The city hadn’t changed overmuch since the last time he was here but it was best to re-familiarise himself with the layout regardless. Despite the royal affairs there was still more than one sign of the hardships the city’s inhabitants had been through. He was brought back from his observations by Maya’s question, “aye, I’m not for the complexities of the Capitol.” He was simple in that regard, some might call him dim or lacking in ambition but in his eyes he had all he needed to get by already.

Maya considered his answer for a moment. She considered too her motto, not the one emblazoned on her family crest but rather the one she had personally adopted years ago. There was no peace in power. “But are the complexities of the Capitol for you?” she asked, switching the subject and object of the sentence.

Fane considered Maya’s turnabout question. “Wouldn’t you say that’s the same question just turned about though? So surely the answer would be the same…” Perhaps it would be, perhaps not he couldn’t rightly say. “You’re rather quick aren’t you?” he’d known quite a few members of his household and while they were all skilled in their own way there was something different about Maya. He just couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was.

Faye had received the summons to the coronation just as every other House had. The raven that had brought it to her hadn’t lingered. The missive had been dropped into her tower unceremoniously after the flapping monstrosity had shit on her floor, cawed at her, and then left without so much as a by your leave. She nearly tossed it into the fire. What care did she have for what went on in the capitol? They cared little for what happened in the marshes. Besides, the last time her family had decided to show their faces, they lost their lives for. Her mother, grandmothers, aunts. All swept up in the fervor of rage and violence that had been sweeping the land for ages. Burned after being captured in battle for their supposed dalliance with otherwordly forces. Which wasn’t the truth at all. Her family were healers. Always had been. And people still came. Rarely these days. But enough that Faye could still get news from town. Most often she didn’t like what she heard. But now, in the end, Faye had decided to go. Who would recognize her anyway? Her only distinguishing feature was the color of her eyes. Otherwise she wore black on black, with a fur-lined traveling cloak, a small, silver circlet around her brow, and a long dagger at her belt. Her horse was sturdy and a deep, dapple grey. A fine animal, he was eager for the trip to town, unlike his mistress. Faye made her way along the marshland paths until she came to the outskirts of the city. Pulling her mount to a halt, she hesitated only a few moments before spurring him onwards towards the capitol.

Maya shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t consider it the same question,” she said, “You may have little interest in the machinations of power, but that doesn’t mean other people don’t see you as threat to theirs. No one ever asks if you want power. They just assume you do.” She immediately that she had said too much. Servants didn’t know about this sort of thing. She might still be able to explain it away though. “I don’t know about quick sir, but it has been said that I may be too clever for my own good,” she replied and adding a shrug said, “But I always figured that was because I was better at haggling.”

Fane looked at the kitchen girl long and hard, far too smart on such matters to have an honest opinion about them and her choice of words? “Machinations 'eh? I’d say you use fancier words than I do. But you’re right, they don’t… Which is all the more reason for us to see this ceremonial business tended to and return back so we needn’t concern ourselves with such plots and conspiracies.” Fane’s lips curled a little as they walked along the road, “hm, perhaps so.”

Maya swore internally. She really should be better about this. “I’ll admit, sir,” she tried to explain, “I heard the last Lord I worked for say it and thought it might make me sound clever.” With a nod, she added, “But I agree, the less time spent in the Capitol perhaps the better. If you have much use for my opinion sir.”

Faye cantered her horse up the road and around the bend, slowing when she saw two travelers on foot. She didn’t recognize them, though she hardly knew anyone anymore. Faye almost stopped to speak to them, but they were deep in conversation. So she merely took her horse in a wide berth around them, nodding a small greeting as she passed.

Fane wasn’t entirely convinced by Maya’s excuses, but if she felt inclined to make them then so be it. “You thought right in that instance,” he agreed deciding that perhaps it was best to go along with whatever she was up to for the time being. “I don’t plan to be here any longer than I have to… of that I’m certain,” the sound of hoof beats drew his attention and he looked up towards a mounted traveller passing by who seemed to take time enough to nod in greeting. Fane found himself watching her curiously and returning the small dip of his head.

After a while, Iann left the White Lady to her own devices. Showing her as a prize had quickly turned sour, as she herself was not particularly lending herself as a trophy, despite her catching beauty and the decorative armour he’d put her in. He had to rethink his strategy, and there was nothing more that helped Iann centre his thoughts than taking a stroll through a busy port city. Port cities were the most cosmopolitan, the most busy and alive with energy from across so many lands. He was a Prince, but it felt nice to be anonymous for a bit, even here in the Capital on this auspicious trip. It felt familiar - and the Capital was larger than most cities in the world-yet-known. “Inquis–” Iann called out when he spotted Savin (the man was tall enough and towered over most) but he was interrupted when he almost walked into a horse curving his way. Or perhaps the horse almost walked into him. “Whoa -” Iann said, reaching out sharply to catch the horse’s bridle and bring it to a sudden pause. “Careful, now.”

Fane hadn’t been anticipating the sudden change of events, he’d heard someone call his title only to see the woman on the horse almost careen straight into the man Fane recognised a moment later. “By the Gods,” he muttered under his breath telling Maya to go on to the marketplace and get what she needed and to find him later. Checking the street was otherwise clear, it was, he hurried over towards the scene of the commotion scanning Iann first and then the woman on the horse and then back to Iann where he held the horse by its reins “are you hurt?”

“I am alive and well,” Iann replied, making quick tutting noises at the horse. The thing about being out in public in the Upper City was that they were mostly left to their own devices among the wealthy merchants and artisans. A lot of bowing and respectful greetings as people hurried on their way. But at the same time, Iann always knew these people were on the lookout for drama as well. Even in the waning of the long war, people still felt an anxiety about their lives and livelihood. And the only way they could expend that energy was by watching Nobles fighting duels, arguing in the streets, clashing their swords, trodding over each other with horses, and so forth. Excitement, once removed, with beautiful Lords and Ladies. The war was certainly painful, but it also provided so much conversation among the commonfolk; and the drama of the nobility was often a good a distraction from the pain of their own humdrum lives. So Iann knew people were watching both warily and almost eagerly, hoping for no altercation, yet also hoping for an altercation to talk about tonight over their suppers. He wasn’t in the mood to humour the people, not today and not with the Inquisitor. So Iann smiled widely, and looked Savin square in the eye. “It’s good to see you again, old friend. And I do mean old,” he said, joshing Fane even thought he knew Fane was hardly bothered by his age. In one way, Iann envied him that legendary long life. In one way. “This horse and her rider only nudged me.” He spoke casually, but he didn’t let go of the animal’s bridle just yet.

“Is this the point I’m expected to attempt to say that’s a relief in a believable fashion?” where his expression around less familiar faces was more stoic here it was a touch more animated, humorous in his commentary of the Crowned prince almost being laid flat on his backside. Perhaps another Lord would have bowed or genuflected but Iann was something of a wayward friend of the Savins so Fane felt less compulsion to show the typical and customarily expected posturing most nobles went through the stages of showing. Plus, considering how many of the man’s bastards were around the city of Mistveil Fane figured he had some right to addressing the man in such a fashion. “And there’s the expected retaliation,” he chuckled moving to grasp Iann’s forearm while patting him on the shoulder with his other hand. “Not old enough just yet to almost be sat flat on my ass in public at least. Now that would be an entertaining tale over dinner.”

Faye’s horse jerked it’s head and snorted as someone caught hold of his bridle. He danced sideways, shaking his head to try and unhook whatever creature had latched onto him. Faye took him in hand, frowning down at the man holding her mount’s reins. “I’d let go of him if you wish to keep your hand. He doesn’t care for strangers.” She looked over as the tall man who’d she’d passed a moment before came over. “No, m'Lord.” Faye tipped an eyebrow at the exchange between the two mean, already regretting her decision to travel here from the marshes. “His,” Faye corrected the man holding her stallion’s bridle.

Fane let his attention go to the woman on the horse, who he now could look at a little more closely. She wore no visible sigil or crest denoting any particular house or affiliation in particular, curious. Fane made it his business to know the houses of most lords and ladies and considering the circlet she wore she was clearly of descent from some house in particular. But what caught his attention most of all was the colour of her eyes. Something that had him tilting his head just a fraction as he peered up at her. “Glad no harm came to you m'lady. Though it’s a shame you didn’t sit him down in that puddle over there… now, that I will admit would have given me a laugh.”

Iann was about to laugh, enjoying Fane’s idea of banter. The man was hardly theatrical about it, but it was there if one chose ti to be there. Iann always liked that Savin gave people the option to see humour in his words, or not. Their choice - granted Fane’s nature, status, and height also tended to clout people’s choices. He said nothing as Fane mocked him openly to the strange woman, and her not-so-veiled threat to him, as she then demurred to Fane in the same breath. Interesting. Iann released her horse, and took a step back, his eyes watching Fane carefully, as he did.

Danny rushed after Iann, having become distracted by some of the rumble. He had been here after all, when the fighting was at it’s worst. Still it didn’t excuse abandoning his post. Armour making loud metallic sounds as he moved he eventually caught up, breath heavy as he stopped. “Apologises, my lord.” He looked over the scene, unsure of what he had missed.

“Not to worry, Ser Harrison,” Iann replied, not looking at his Knight; he could hear the man coming from a mile away. He bowed to the stranger woman and gave the Inquisitor a polite nod, then turned to address his Knight. “Have your men been successfully dispatched?” he asked, referring to the Naval Knights who Harrison commandeered on Iann’s Flagship.

Faye pointedly moved her horse to the side as he was released. “Thank you, m'lord,” she nodded curtly to Iann. She was out of practice with the formalities, and even more out of practice with being looked at as if she were not some frightening oddity.

Fane had sense enough to know where the limits of a situation typically lay. He might not have a mind for the scheming that went on behind closed doors but he had a good approximation of how to diffuse or in certain situations escalate things as and when he wanted to. Fane’s humour in this case was mostly an attempt to balm this woman’s apparent prickly nature. Mostly because she was mounted and Fane would rather not have himself or Iann trodden on. It would be an awful political mess to sort out to explain how the prince had ended up trampled on his watch. As one of Iann’s knights arrived Fane looked over to him curiously wondering how he hadn’t yet boiled alive in his plate. Though as the woman addressed Iann as m'lord he almost snorted instead saying quietly, “your royal highness.”

Danny observed the woman, bowing as Iann did, his head coming far lower however since it was of his station to do so. “Yes, My Lord,” Danny nodded gently, his breath catching quickly, he’d been in far more dire situations in his attire. Running beneath the sun was only temporarily exhausting. “They’re moving as we speak.”

Iann overheard the strange woman’s words and then Savin’s quiet correction, but didn’t acknowledge it. The last thing he had any interest in was incurring anyone’s threats, or Savin’s insults. He shook his head at Danny. “You’re so red,” he commented, pitying the pale-skinned man for his ability to burn. It reminded Iann of Savin himself, when he’d visited the Forty Isles. The first and last time the poor Iniquisitor had done so, despising the heat and appalled by the sun. “Very good, Ser. And please, change into your formalwear,” he said. He’d asked Danny to do so before, but the Knight was so intent on guarding and protecting, he insisted on being in his full plate armour. He really did look magnificent though, large and gleaming in the sun. And that unfortunate plum-red face. “Or at least keep your visor down.”

Faye glanced at the taller man as he made a sound that sounded like he was choking. She even opened her mouth to ask him if he was alright when the words 'your royal highness’ hit her ears. Faye blinked, then frowned. She looked at the man who’d snagged her horse, then at the panting knight next to him. Ah. Faye cleared her throat. Well, if there wasn’t a better way to thoroughly fuck herself before she even got into the capitol, she had no idea what it was. “Apologies, Your Highness.” Faye dipped her head in a more appropriate greeting. “It’s been some time since Ive left home. I didn’t recognize you.”

Danny’s skin burnt with ease but he was use to it, he had stood where they were now a burnt to the point of his lips so dry they cracked open and bled. This felt like little to the man and so he did as Iann’s second suggestion requested. “Of course, My Lord,” he agreed and placed his visor down so that the man did not have to look upon his burning face. Unfazed by this request he stood diligently behind his master as he recieved another apology. Clearly he was widely respected.

Fane observed Iann’s interaction with his knight both admiring and certainly not envying the man’s present choice of attire. Broad chest and barrel armed he was clearly a stalwart fighter. But his attention was far more taken by the woman mistakenly addressing Iann as m'lord. Raised a hand he rubbed a hand over his chin, “and where would home be for you m'lady? I don’t think we caught your name…”

Iann turned slightly, surprised by the woman’s need to apologize. He’d held her horse to prevent it from careening into him further and he’d only received unadulterated hostility in return. He regarded her calmly for a moment before asking, “And why should you recognize me?” He was about to ask where home was, but Fane beat him to it, which was perfectly fine. She certainly seemed more inclined towards the tall Inquisitor anyway. She wore no symbols of identification on her black on black wear, nothing to identify her for any particular House. The circlet, however… Iann’s eyes widened slightly and his breath caught, but he didn’t say anything, curious to hear how she would answer. If she chose to answer at all.

“That’s because I haven’t given it,” Faye said evenly to Fane. “Nor have you asked for it.” Her violet eyes slid to the prince. “One should always recognize nobility.” Feeling slightly put upon, Faye was uncertain how she would be received. But not answering a direct question might raise suspicions where none seemed to exist. “The Wildwood Marsh, m'lord.”

Miguel had accompanied Adeline and Cassandra to the castle. He saw them settled, settled himself, and changed into a more rugged outfit. It made him look like an upper class mercenary - someone who could walk freely between the different tiers of the city and be unbothered by most people. His broadsword ever strapped to his hip. He walked alone, without the two members of his crew, he had temporarily added them to the guards and servants of Summerset - to better take care of Adeline. It was easier for him to defend himself after all. He continued his exploration of the Capitol and kept his eyes out for his brother. Eventually he stumbled across him - along with a few other familiar faces. One an incredibly surprising face. That of the enigmatic and sightly eccentric Faye Lacroy.

"Good man,” Iann murmured to Harrison, when he heard the visor clinking down. It would be better that, then the Knight jogging all the way back down to the Waytried Docks to change on the ship. He could do so later. In the meantime, he could sweat in his armour, as was befitting a Knight’s role. Still, Iann was silently pleased by the near bull-headed determination of Harrison, ever since he’d sworn fealty to the Forty Isles. Iann had yet to determine if he was of any long term value, but thus far Harrison was at least true to his Knighthood. And when the woman announced that she’d come from the Wildwood Marsh, Iann was tempted to look over at Fane at that moment. However, he wasn’t sure if Fane would look back at him. The Wildwood Marsh, though. That could only mean one thing, although Iann had yet to see those legendary purple eyes. So instead, Iann spoke very carefully. “If you please, my lady, entering the Core City on horseback is reserved for Knights and soldiers. We tend to walk there, or if you prefer a palanquin, I can summon one for you.”

Fane paused when the woman spoke of her home, and while there was no major change in his outward demeanour there was perhaps a tad more curiosity with which he regarded her. Of course he’d heard the tales, never believed them entirely but considering the battles he’d fought in the past you could never entirely discredit legend. But every legend began and ended in fiction, until you met the true source of such stories and here was the well of many a haunted tale. “The Prince is right…” he sounded a touch apologetic, “we were on our way towards the upper Keep if you were headed there. Perhaps your mount could be stabled and tended to while you are here in the city?”

Faye took a moment to judge the requests of the prince, just as she took a moment to judge the looks she received from both him and the other man as they recognized her it seemed. “Yes. I think that would be favorable. I am certainly no knight.” As the Inquisitor spoke Faye nodded, “it appears I am, if you’d point me towards the stables, I can see to my horse.”

Iann saw his brother - or more specifically he caught the look on Miguel’s face when he saw the strange woman on her horse. It was a look of plain, raw recognition and Iann then took a further step back from the woman and her horse, suspecting that the more people who’s attention she caught, the more inclined she’d be to flee. Which was the last thing Iann wanted, of course. “Inquisitor, she favours you, and this lowly Prince - and his illustrious ass that you waxed so kindly over - is only in her way. Please,” he bowed to them both, with a flourish of his hand to allow them to pass. Then he knocked on Harrison’s armour and was sure to proceed behind the woman and her horse and Savin as well, as he crossed the yard towards his little brother. “Yes, I know who that is. And yes, that is she.” He frowned, and looked down at his shorter brother. “Tell me a truth, Miguel - have you met her before?”

Danny stayed the farthest back from the group, so far as he could tell they were all men of means and had made the woman their companion so he was by no means inclined to interrupt there conversation with any words of his own. He would remain steady, watching for what was around them to make sure Iann was safe.

Miguel smiled at his brother. “I always speak the truth to my esteemed brother.” And it was true, in his own way. Miguel had never told Iann an outright lie, Iann so seldom asked the right questions. “Truly, I have met her.”

Cassie When Cassandra had finally made it to the castle she had to spend a little while settling into her the chambers allotted for her and her daughter. She was eager to see the rest of the castle, it’d been ages since she made it to the capitol after all, and more and more people were arriving. The toddler loathed to let her mother go, but after changing out of her riding gear Cassandra left the rooms and followed the noise of footseps and conversation. She had to pick up her pace slightly to meet the cluster of people outside, glad to see Iann, Miguel again. But she caught up to Danny first since he hung back slightly – “You think they could have decorated a bit more huh?” She muttered with a smirk, “The trip wasn’t too taxing”.

Putting his arm around Miguel’s broad rounded shoulders, Iann steered him towards the Keep within the Core City. The keep was close to the Bluespring Castle, but not close enough that it didn’t have its own fine selection of taverns. “Come, you must tell me everything,” he said, and then looked at Harrison. “Ser Harrison, please keep us company,” he said, as if Danny had any other place to go. Almost as soon as they started walking again, Cassandra appeared to make her usual arch comment on something she saw to criticize about the Forty Isles way. As he opened his mouth to gently retort (gently, because they were siblings by marriage, and he meant her no ill-will), but even as he did, someone ran by and bodily picked up Cassandra, whisking her down the street towards the Lower City. “Ser Daniel!” he yelled, breaking into a run to follow the kidnapper before they reached the infernal rat-maze that was the Lower City.

Danny looked up to where Iann was, making sure his lord was not looking back before he lifted his visor to take Cassandra in. He had spent most of the trip over looking at her when he was not actively doing his duties as commander of Iann’s navy. Those moments were few and far between but had distracted him greatly. “Not quite enough for the travel required to come?” he asked her. His pace picked up so himself and Cassie had joined Iann and his brother, feeling unsteady about the request, but that unease was replace with genuine fear as someone grabbed Cassandra from beside him, taking her off towards the lower city. He did not need Iann to say anything, responding on instinct he chased after her, the exhausted running from before not at all like the adrenaline rush he had now, his feet coming down firm onto the stone path, his stride strong. Catching up was no challenging but stopping them while they held Cassie was, not wanting to injure her in the process. So rather than remove his sword Danny removed his helmet, hitting the man over the head with the strong golden metal.

Iann caught up soon after - his keen, angry eyes spotted two people watching who turned to run, as Daniel’s helmet cracked the kidnapper’s head with a loud SNAP. The two who ran were clearly the kidnapper’s compatriots, and Iann pulled out two knives from his sleeve, throwing them towards the men. One hit a man in the back, the other glanced off a building just as the man slipped around a corner, likely clambering over a wall to get into the Lower City. “Curses,” he breathed, then turned to pull Cassandra out o the fallen man’s grasp. He didn’t hold her for long though, knowing by now that Cassandra was perfectly capable of standing on her own. “Don’t kill him yet,” he said to both Cassandra and Knight Harrison. “Who are you?” Iann demanded of the kidnapper, hauling him by the collar and giving him a shake.

Danny had not intended upon killing him but stayed silent about this, turning to Cassandra instead, looking to her to see if she was alright, or if she was perhaps in shock from the sudden taking and releasing that had happened.

Miguel was about to say something to Iann when the excitement bubbled up and he sprinted after Cassie and the kidnapper on instinct. Iann’s dependable knight was quicker though. And then Iann took over the interrogation. So Miguel paid attention to his sister, he lightly touched her hands and pat her arm. “Are you alright, sister? Nothing hurt, I hope.”

Cassie was about to respond to Danny when she felt the arms grasp and yank at her from behind. She gasped loudly, quickly escalating into kicks and screams as her assailant attempted to whisk her away. They didn’t get much of a chance though, and Cassandra was thankful for not only Knight Harrison, but her brothers in law that followed. Her heart was racing as she was placed back steadily on her feet, curls tumbled and out of place from the capture. She breathed, staring daggers down at the thief, “I’m fine.” Cassandra spoke coolly. “I just forgot about Capitol life, is all.”

“This has happened to you before, Milady?” Danny said, the formal addressing of her strange on his tongue. He had rarely been around female royalty, it had just never come up before and Danny would not have been shocked if he’d been using it incorrectly this whole time but Cassandra had politely allowed him to be.

“Ser Knight, go make sure that other man is dead,” Iann instructed Harrison to inspect the man who Iann had thrown a dagger at. He glanced at Miguel, who was hovering close to Cassie, as was Harrison. The kidnapper who Iann held managed to cram something into his mouth, and then he began to froth. “What is this - Miguel - ” Iann beckoned his brother, because his bother was more familiar with poisons than he was. “Miguel!” But it was too late, the man was near death. Before he died, he yelled, “FOR HOUSE KESLEY!!” And then he died. Iann stared at the dead man in his hands, knowing House Kesley was an old rival of Summerset. A minor house, but an old one. Iann seethed, and sneered. “House Kesley. I will kill them all. We shall lay waste to their lands.”

Danny nodded to Lord Cardero and moved over to the man he had thrown his dagger at, he was not quite dead but as Danny leaned down and pulled his master’s dagger out his lungs quickly flooded with blood and he died. “He is dead, Milord, I doubt House Kesley got as much as they intended out of this.”

“A long time ago.” Cassandra answered quickly, trying to look closer at the man who had grabbed her. He didn’t look familiar, and she was slightly comforted to know that perhaps, she was not grabbed for being recognizable as well. But then it was clear, this was some sort of retaliation, and her blue eyes darkened slightly. “Not to bright on House Kesley to do this at coronation.” Cassie stiffened, she’d raise hell with complaints if she had to.

Miguel’s eyes narrowed and he crouched by the remains of the would be kidnapper, apparently allied with House Kesley - but why would he yell that if the mission was a failure? It didn’t bring any honor to the house. He stuck one finger in the froth and took a demure sniff. “Mmm,” he glanced up at Iann from where he was crouched. “Not so quickly, brother. There are certain doubts I have. Why would he proudly name his house at a failed mission? As Cassandra says, why at the coronation? If I had to guess, I would say someone was trying to cause trouble today. So close to unification.”

“Thank you, Ser Daniel,” he said, then looked at the knight. “Your quick-thinking has kept the Grand Lady safe,” he proclaimed. It wasn’t necessary to explicitly say that Daniel had performed well - the fact that the Grand Lady was safe, made this point clear enough. Onlookers gawped in fascination, and this time Iann let them enjoy the 'show’. He was angry - livid in fact, at the audacity of his kidnapper. To the point that he wasn’t seeing straight, he was only wishing for revenge. Until of course both Cassandra and then Miguel offered insight that pulled logic over Iann’s rage, like a soft wet sea blanket. Iann looked from Cassandra to Miguel, then back at the dead man. “Of course. Of course, you’re right. So close to unification…” his mouth twisted in a different sort of anger. “House Kesley might try to kidnap Cassandra for some petty ransom, but they would never do something as treasonous as splintering the Quiver at a coronation. Hm.” He thinned his eyes. “How much trouble do they intend to cause, I now wonder.”

Danny only saw the pure leadership that came from his lord, each one of them deciphering what had occurred. This was not something Danny could understand, only capable of brute force and battle strategy. Things like kidnapping were beyond him. “I am glad you did not have to suffer than again,” he said to Cassie.

“Why not spoil the coronation?” Cassandra posed the question. “It’s not as if everyone supports the appointed Raj.” This she had no fear in saying, because what had just happened was clear proof. “People will always favor one house over the other. But I say we let those back at the castle know of the riff raff. As soon as possible.” She crossed her arms, and not because she was overly concerned for the other nobility visiting the castle, but because it was clear to her at least, whoever was prepped for the throne didn’t know how to properly scout their city. She didn’t say this though, and only nodded lightly in thanks to Ser Daniel. For once, she wanted the surprised stares away from her.

Miguel thought abut that for a moment, with pursed lips. Cassandra’s assessment was fair, and her plan was sound. He nodded. He wanted to explore the Capitol some more, but if Cassandra was going back to the castle he would accompany her. “Right, whomever is in charge of such things needs to know.”

“I will feel much better having you in the Keep,” Iann said to Cassandra, and gave her an apologetic look for saying it, in case she rolled her eyes. But she had just been kidnapped, after all. “Let’s go quickly. Ser Daniel, if you would be so kind as to lead the way - with your sword.” The knight could keep his sword drawn for as far as it took to get to the Core City, at least. And it should be enough warning, as well as Miguel’s muscles and both Iann and Cassandra’s respective glowers.

Danny drew his sword as requested of him. These seemed like such extreme measures for an event that was meant to be filled with joy and community and Danny’s heart fell at the prospect of all of this not doing as well as people had hoped. The war had been devastating, returning to that would only hurt people. Still, if it was for Cassie’s protection, then he would not object, leading their was back to the core of the city.

Cassie harrumphed at Iann’s comment and tilted her head towards him, “Yes well you see, that’s where I was headed originally when he just came out of no where and grabbed me.” Cassandra sighed as Danny did what Iann requested, she too thinking it was a little over the top. At least in front of the commoners. There was no need to strike fear into their hearts as of yet. “I really am fine. I should have been watching.” She upturned her palms, “I’m not used to the crowding. But I hope you know,” Cassie arched her brow, “I’m not going to be locked away in some tower.”

Ciara sat sitting in the courtyard with a couple other Ladies, working neatly on stitchwork and chatting idly as they worked. Around them, servants bustled, moving furnishing and barrels, but always giving the ladies space for their work and their privacy. There were mice who knew themselves to be , and those that didn’t - these lovely specimens of the gentry were just that, oblivious to the careful craft of her questions and answers. But a small gesture from one of the maids had her looking up, towards the front gates of the courtyard. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” she said, and when they demurred, she walked over to the source of interest, as Lord Iann, Miguel, and Grand Lady Cassandra arrived just beyond the castle gates, with a knight armed. “It seems the day has hardly started and you’ve had some adventure.”

Miguel stuck close to the group as they made their way back to the castle gates. His hands were twitchy and knees stayed bent. No one would be catching him off guard again that day. “Perhaps a bit too much excitement…” he looked to his companions, his brother and Lady Cassandra. They could explain what happened. Cassandra, and unfortunately Iann, knew him well enough to know that his air of jovial buffoonery was a ruse. But Lady Florent didn’t need to know that.

“These aren’t my towers,” Iann said blithely glancing upwards at the thick, austere towers of Bluesprings Castle that only peeked over the Core City walls. He offered a brief, grim smile at Cassandra. “My towers on the Forty Isles are actually fit for a Queen.” As they crossed the gates and entered the calmer, quieter (but still busy) courtyards of the Keep, Iann exhaled and relaxed. Somewhat. He nodded at Daniel, who could sheathe his sword now. And the moment he turned to the left, the Burned Lady herself was suddenly upon them. Iann smiled immediately, and bowed. “Lady Ciara, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” She wasn’t really; Iann could never keep his eyes off the scars marring her face, tracing down her jaw and under the cloth of her dress. He didn’t look at them due to rudeness or even curiosity, but just an acknowledgement of their existence. Why not see it for what it was? They made her so unattractive, and yet so compelling at the same time. “So you’ve heard what happened in the Inner City. News travels fast. My dear innocent sister-in-marriage here, part of some…yet-undetermined elaborate captivity plot? Here in the Capital?” He huffed in slight frustration. “This displeases me,” he stated, with a sense of expectation.

Cassie laughed, “A captivity plot. Imagine that.” Cassie smoothed her dress, “That’s only for individuals who pose a threat.” She laughed again, because at first glance it really was a hysterical idea. “But it was someone from House Kesley. You may want to look into them.” She advised bitterly. “And if you find or know any other information, do keep me informed. I’m clearly being targeted.” Her lips thinned again at the very idea, “People might think BlueSprings was up to something if more nobles are threatened.”

“News travels so fast it is rarely more than smoke,” Ciara replied, looking from Iann to Cassandra. “I’m sorry to hear that isn’t the case this time. Are you all right, my lady?” She was smoothing her dress and in good enough spirits to be furious, something which boded well. She said nothing of the assassins she’d detected early in the morning, the ones who were dead in the lock by mid afternoon. “It has been a while since i heard from House Kesley, but I will endeavor to find out what I can for you, my lady.” Their displeasure was also noted, well and loudly received, just as was Miguel’s kindly disposition. “We’re all here for peace. I hope you find more of it now that you’ve reached here.” We’re here for peace - that was Avitej’s line, not hers.

Miguel nodded. Ciara’s words were enough for him, for now. “Your concern is appreciated,” he said pointedly at Ciara. And then he turned back to Cassandra and Iann. “I’d like to check on Adeline, if that would please you dear sister.” He knew she was guarded well in the castle - the little princess had far too many titles and too few years to not be guarded well.

Iann regarded Cassandra as she both laughed it off as not being important enough, and then also pointedly said she was being targeted. “Perhaps that is the point of this attempt,” Iann murmured, although not trying to include it as part of the conversation between the two women, or to Miguel. He only spoke to himself, and then rubbed his forehead, his furious frustration growing. He’d arrived in the Capital under Sharma’s request, the Cloverry’s invitation and the promise of unification and peace. And if this botched (and now that he thought about it in retrospect, terribly executed) kidnapping attempt had happened to some other distant House, it might’ve been piquant but easily dismissed news. But it didn’t happen to some random House; it happened to his brother’s wife, and Grand Lady of the fading Summerset. “It is good to see Bluesprings Castle. I enjoy its beauty.” Iann’s tone was curt and abrupt, which didn’t quite match his pleasant words; but the words were as much true as the aggravation he tried to shift away from. Unthinking, he gave Miguel a nod of permission, as if Miguel had ever taken Iann’s orders or heeded his permission

“Yes, I certainly hope I find more peaceful surroundings my remaining trip.” Cassie repeated back to Ciara, clearly still if not shaken greatly annoyed that the kidnapping took place at all. “I’m only glad it happened early on.” At least Cassie could be weary early on, rather than caught off guard much later. “If there are extra gaurds in the castle, I’d like to request them outside me and my daughter’s chambers, at least for the night.” Miguel and Iann might jump to offer their own knights of course, but she felt Bluesprings somewhat owed her. “I’ll take some rest and uh-“ Cassandra sighed, touching her hair as if to ground herself, “Check on Adeline as well.”

The guards would be provided; Ciara would ensure it. She was too powerful a person to trifle with, and besides, from what she knew, Ciara liked her. “Enjoy your rest,” she replied, and then it was just her and lord Iann. “I look forward to see the castle and capital grow in the coming years.” She replied, and gestured for her to walk with him. “How fare the Isles?”

Iann watched Cassandra trailing after Miguel, wondering if she was more bothered than she showed. He tried to relax, but it was difficult. And it was tempting to rub his shoulders, but Iann wouldn’t in public, and certainly not in front of Lady Ciara. “Thriving, as usual,” he said, tone as breezy as an ocean wind. “My children have all left home now. The youngest has a ship of her own. A trireme, really; but she’s taken her crew far. To Promise Harbour, last I’ve heard.” Iann never tired of talking about his children; and aside from his eldest being a Ward of House Savin, he never worried that the politics of Bluesprings would affect them. “Have you ever seen Promise Harbour? It’s beautiful; but the people there are even more enchanting than the sights…” He hummed, and smiled, trying to distract himself. “I spent six months there once, and never left the Harbourmaster’s Palace.” He looked at his boots as they walked. “But enough about me and the stars of my life. How do you fare, Lady Ciara? Dare I ask, or will I be disappointed by the answer?”

“I have not, I have heard many great things about it.” Ciara did not miss the implication of his tone, and was not considered chaste enough to pretend to hide it. “The Palace must have been truly exceptional indeed, to keep you so long.” He asked about her and she smiled. This was the custom. Polite question after question, and the game of words Iann played so well. “Perhaps nothing so grand as wayfaring children, but this tenuous peace has been good for us. My sister has secured a new trade route with Greywald, and Snowdonia has opened their mountain passes. My sister has become grandmother, thrilled with her spring child.” There was no story about her, and that was by design.

“You live such a full and busy life, Lady - and yet still no husband?” Iann said with a bland smile, considering Ciara said nothing of herself. But really, he was thinking about Snowdonia opening up their mountain passes. His Isles dealt in trade routes - and even ones landlocked in Greywald held interest to him as it provided alternate routes and therefore competition for his merchant people’s trades. He hummed. “Perhaps it’s time that I secure a second wife,” he mused, even though only the Potentate-King of the Forty Isles was allowed multiple wives. And technically his father was still alive. “Do you think your sister would agree to an alliance? The Greywald sister. Unless she is one and the same with the grandmother one, in which case…” He shrugged. “Older women dohave more experience.”

“We all find ways to serve our families, do we not?” Ciara replied in kind, and watched the seeds she’d planted grow in his mind. His response was so typical of many men here. You did not make allegiances with women, you married them. Over and over. Some houses allowed polygamy - hers did not, although there were plenty of mistresses with just as much power. She had been raised by four women, all of whom her father had used in his bed and in his politics. “I’m afraid my sisters are all married, although they will be honoured that you suggested it. We can discuss trade deals after the coronation, if you’d like.”

His first marriage was political. He loved his wife, but not with much depth or passion. He loved his children more, and left his wife to her own devices, following in the steps of his own father that way. But duty was what it was; the marriage pulled her House out of ruin, and made the Forty Isles richer. His middle brother married strategically as well; maybe love was there too, but he had, by traditional definitions, married up. The lands of Summerset’s glory was faded during the war, and the Germaine name made a great and powerful allegiance for a brother who would never amount to much. Miguel had yet to marry; but as his two brothers, it was expected that whatever choice he made, it would be of benefit to the kingdom. So Iann snorted at the idea of her sisters being already married, since other people’s marriages hardly ever deterred him from getting what he wanted. He treated this in jest, but all he could think of now, was Snowdonia pass. What perfect time, this sister somehow finding this new trade route, and the mountain pass opening, just as peace was on the cusp of Bluesprings. How utterly convenient. “Well, if they are unavailable then we shall just have to marry each other,” he said, to shift the topic and make it more obviously silly. He wasn’t truly being silly, he was playing the game.

#got au #aka look at me backtracking to the first scenes so we have everything #got scene

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killingxrangers · 7 years ago

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Restoration

Chapter One- October 9th, 2018

Clarke Griffin fell asleep in her bed at her apartment on March 3rd, 2023, and woke up five years in the past, where her father was very much alive and her family was still whole. She still hung out with Octavia and Raven and everyone else every day, and still got into trouble on the weekends. With no clue what happened to send her five years into the past, Clarke decides the only explanation must be she’s been given a second chance to save her father. But she made mistakes during the first attempt at being seventeen, and has the opportunity to repair them- consequences be damned. Everything that went wrong in 2018 she’s going to repair- her family, her friends, Lexa.

Clarke has a second chance, and will do anything to make 2023 better.

“Good morning, honey.”

The words are such a terrifying combination of familiar and foreign that Clarke Griffin jerked awake in the bed the moment those words left his lips. The words were soft, slow and gentle, like he always spoke to her in the morning. He knew she was dead to the world, knew she despised how her mother would rip the door open too loudly and wake her up. That’s why Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s, when Abby was already long gone for her shift at the hospital so it was on Jake to make sure their daughter woke up on time, was Clarke’s favorite.

But this morning, all mornings like this one, hadn’t happened since she was seventeen. Since her father died in that car accident driving home from work late one night and everything in Clarke’s life changed. That was nearly five years ago, and Clarke was close to twenty-three now and living in a completely different city than the one she had grown up in. So why was she suddenly hearing her father’s voice? Suddenly in a much larger bed than the twin sized one shoved in a corner that she’d grown accustom to ever since moving to Baltimore?

“Dad?” The words are choked as she sat up, her eyes blearily from sleep (or tears?), staring at the man from her memories, dreams and nightmares. He looked... so normal. So perfectly healthy and so like the loving man Clarke had grown up under. Nothing like the corpse, too mutilated for an open casket, that so frequently haunted Clarke’s sleep. “D-Dad?”

Jake frowned, stepping into the room more. The room, Clarke realized suddenly, that she had decorated at fourteen. Before than, her parents had painted the room a soft purple when she was ten, with white furniture and inspiration phrases stenciled on the wall. Clarke remembered arguing at thirteen to change it to a ‘more mature’ style, to which her mother responded the room was fine for now. At fourteen Jake had taken his daughter’s side, and convinced Abby to let Clarke do what she wished. Purple changed to grey, the full sized bed with a canopy and the telltale signs that it used to be a bunk bed changed to a queen with an upholstered headboard in the center of the room. The inspirational quotes were covered up, shelves added to accumodate the many pictures of Clarke’s friends, the mementos from boyfriends and vacations.

The apartment Clarke shared with three other people at twenty-two had nothing on this bedroom, this house. That apartment was small and cluttered, Clarke having grown used to sharing the tiny space with another med-student. They all tended to flock together, used to working and studying at hell-ish hours. But this.. this house in an upper class area of DC...

“Clarke, honey, you’re really pale. Are you feeling okay?” Jake spoke again as he placed the back his hand on Clarke’s forehead. The urge to jerk away from overwhelming and she had to force herself to remain still. He looked... so like the man she remembered. He hadn’t yet shaved for the morning, dark stubble lining his chin and cheeks, rough and hard how Clarke knew her mother couldn’t stand. Jake would have just woken up a few minutes ago himself, still dressed in a pair of worn sleep pants Abby kept urging him to throw out and an old college t-shirt. Coffee would be brewing on the pot downstairs in the kitchen, a gross green smoothie in two cups that Abby insisted they all drank in the morning would be untouched in the fridge. She made them before she left for work, and Clarke and Jake used to dump them down the drain, both of them wearing conspiratorial grins the whole time. Abby never knew.

“What... what is going on,” Clarke breathed the question, unable to keep the question in as she stared at her eyes. Tears threatened to spill over and she knew her dad could see them in her eyes. “What.. what’s happening?”

Jake sat on the bed, his hand moving from Clarke’s head to grip her cheek, part of his large hand around the back of her head, his thumb near the arch of her nose. He was worried, Clarke could hear it in his voice. She wasn't acting right by his standards and nothing was right by her’s. “Clarke, baby, Clarke, you’re worrying me.”

He turned her this way and that, checking her over for... something neither one of them knew. This was mental, not physical. Something was seriously wrong in her brain. Last night Clarke had gone to bed as a twenty-two year old med student, her roommate still up studying at her desk at two in the morning. They’d had leftover pizza for dinner again because none of them had the time to go out shopping or even to pick up a quick meal. Money was always short for all of them with no reprieve anywhere on the horizon.

Today Clarke had woken up back in her old bedroom in a large house in DC, where she knew, no matter what age she might be right now, money had never been a thought in her mind. Abby was the chief of general surgery at the hospital, her father the head engineer with a government contract. Clarke had never had a single worry in her mind aside from what her and her friends would be getting up to this weekend. She drove a BMW and had unlimited access to her parents AMEX. Things were good. Great. Until her father died.

“Daddy?”

Clarke hadn’t called her father daddy in years, ever since she deemed herself too old for such a childish term. He’d been dad ever since, but Clarke was scared right now. Any minute she’d wake back up in her shitty apartment and go about her shitty twenty-two year old life.

“Did you sleep okay, baby? You don’t seem sick, what’s wrong?”

How could she say this wasn’t right? This time period and this life and this interaction wasn’t right? He would have been dead for almost five years now. Would have told her goodbye and to enjoy school one morning and never said anything afterwards. Her and Abby’s relationship would deteriorate rapidly and Clarke would lose herself in sex and drugs and alcohol.

“I...” She couldn’t say any of those words, not without looking crazy. Whether this was a dream or not (though it felt so painfully real), Jake wouldn’t understand any of it. So she smiled, threw her arms around her father and hugged him tighter than she probably ever has before, and said, “I didn’t sleep well. Bad dreams.”

Octavia Blake was standing directly across from Clarke, smirking and holding her black school bag that Clarke distinctly remembered they’d always use to smuggle beer into Clarke’s basement. Twenty-two year old Clarke hasn’t spoken to Octavia Blake since right before she turned nineteen. The two of them got into a fight, bad enough to end a years-long friendship (though in all honesty, their relationship had been deteriorating all throughout their first year of college and that first semester of sophomore year. But now, standing before her was seventeen year old Octavia Blake, her best friend since childhood. Her hair was still long and straight, simple compared to the styles she would soon begin to favor.

“Where’d you go last night? I went off with Raven and by the time I came back you were gone.”

Clarke had no idea what Octavia was talking about. Could barely focus on the sentence, actually. She was so engrossed in staring at her friend, her best friend, that all other thoughts escaped her. Standing here, in the crowded school hallway as Clarke struggled to remember her combination lock, she can’t remember why that fight was strong enough to break up this friendship. She’d never felt closer to someone else than she did to Octavia Blake. There had always been something about Octavia, a bond that, at the time, nothing could seem to even rattle.

Octavia shoved Clarke’s shoulder, a habit that had developed early on when Octavia thought Clarke was being particularly weird about something. “What is up with you today? You haven't even said one word to me.”

“Sorry, hi,” Clarke shook her head, forcing herself out of her memories (though, did they count as memories if they’re yet to happen? Soon-to-be memories? Thinking about this was giving Clarke a headache). “I, uh, barely slept last night and I guess I'm still out of it.”

Octavia waggled her eyebrows, something that Clarke remembered used to drive her older brother Bellamy insane, especially as it tended to follow Octavia deciding to do something stupid. “Is that why you left yesterday? Ditched me for Finn, huh?”

God, Finn Collins. Even just thinking about him now caused a pain in Clarke’s heart that she wasn’t ready for. She had forgotten all about Finn Collins as soon as she left for college. He cheated on her senior year and lied about it for months. The truth came out the day before graduation, and she hadn’t talked to him since. The thought of seeing him now, seventeen and handsome, full of that teenage confidence that first attracted Clarke to him...

“Uh, no, uh, sorry.” That sentence was a mess, offering no explanation to why Clarke was out of it or why she had ditched Octavia. She couldn’t recall what last night was, which meant nothing important could have happened for her to remember five years later. Something with the group, or just Octavia? The ringing bell saved Clarke was trying to think of something, and Octavia said bye quickly, moving towards the hallway that housed most of the English classes, leaving Clarke to sort out her combination on her own.

Like last night, the combo was clearly not worth retaining in her mind for all those extra years, and she soon walked away without any books, wandering aimlessly as she didn’t know what class she had right now. All she knew was:

She was seventeen again and a Junior

Her father was still very much alive

She’s still dating Finn Collins

Still friends with Octavia Blake and everyone else

Her and her mother still communicate

She remembered the big things, the stuff that shaped her into the adult she was becoming at twenty-two. Finn cheating, getting drunk during senior prom, that stay in the mental hospital, her mother dating Marcus Kane, accepting the offer at Georgetown for pre-med, Lexa. Clarke wouldn’t even allow herself to think about Lexa fucking Woods right now.

“Griffin, any particular reason you’re wandering the halls without a pass?”

Why is it that, given all the things that Clarke can’t remember, she without a doubt can remember the sneering and mocking tone of fucking Mrs. Pierce. Spinning around, Clarke isn’t surprised to find the same level of hatred she felt at seventeen flaring up now as she looked at the woman, scowling immediately in response. “Going to the bathroom, Mrs. Pierce.” The lie came easily, one she used so many times at a teenager to this very woman and many more.

“If I were to escort you, I wouldn’t happen to find Octavia Blake and Raven Reyes in the bathroom waiting for you, would I?”

And this time, for perhaps the first time, Clarke could honestly answer, “Of course not, ma’am.” She couldn’t help the smirk that came to her mouth despite the statement, and Mrs. Pierce frowned in return. “I just need to pee, ma’am.”

Mrs. Pierce pointed in the opposite direction, towards the math hall, and it clicked a memory into place. Clarke had AP Calculus this period, a class filled predominately with seniors. She didn't hate the class, though she still operated under the assumption that it was impossible to love math. The first time around taking the class, Clarke had rued her mother for forcing the course upon her, because who needed AP calc anyway? But once she reached college and that was one less class to worry about, she couldn't have been more pleased. So, without a response to Mrs. Pierce, she turned and headed towards the maths section, a class she now knew she didn’t share with anyone important enough to her story.

They’d come later, she thought. Octavia in AP English 11; Jasper in art; all of her friends in lunch; Raven in history; Octavia and Raven in Physics... The list went on and on. It wasn't a surprise she did poorly this particular year. Her mother had been on her the entire Junior year, yelling about poor performance and how did she expect to get into med schools went grades like those? Clarke couldn’t fault her mother, despite not listening to what Clarke truly wanted, and it took a decent amount of pull on her mother’s end for Clarke to be accepted into Georgetown to begin with.

Was that was this was, then? A second chance to improve her teenage years? Her adult life wasn’t ideal, but it would get better. She needed to get through med school and then things would get better. She couldn’t think of anything to do now, in this time period, that would improve her life at twenty-two. No matter what she did med school would follow, and Clarke’s father would-

April Nineteenth.

That’s the day of his death. Was that why she had come back to seventeen of all ages? She’d never been more depressed in her life than at that age. It all started with her father, so-

Clarke would stop it. She would prevent him from going to work that day, or leaving at that time. Something. She would do something, anything, to stop him from dying. It was early October now. She had time. She’d be patient, and smart, and would let no one know that she wasn’t seventeen year old Clarke, but twenty-two year old Clarke who lived in Baltimore and attended Hopkins. And she would stop her father from dying.

Hi guys, this is just a super short intro to what this story will be about. It is Clexa, and that’s a relationship that will be explored later on, as it happened to Clarke as an adult and as she tries to fix it now. Other relationships are Octavia x Lincoln, Bellamy x Echo, and Raven x Luna. Let me know what you guys think!

#the 100 #clarke griffin #clarke x lexa #clexa #clexa fanfic #clexa au #restoration #fanfic

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mca-attack21 · 8 years ago

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Dark Moon Part 2

Author’s Note: This is another part of the Stilinski Sis Fic Series. It is based off of episode 4x1. Find the rest of this series and more of my writing here.

The pack loaded into Stiles’ jeep, following Brayden to La Iglesia.

“Okay I’ll ask, who exactly is Kate Argent?” Malia spoke breaking the silence.

“I’d like to know too” Kira added.

“Well, we were at her funeral, so I’d like to know how she got out of a casket that was buried 6 feet under ground.” Stiles remarked refocusing his attention on the road.

“She was never in it,” Scott muttered more to himself than anyone else.

“She was Allison’s aunt, and a total sociopath.” Lydia spoke up.

“You don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t want to,” you said turning to Scott and placing your hand on his shoulder.

“Uh, yes he does,” Malia said forcefully.

“She’s right, you guys should know, you need to know” Scott sighed.

Noticing how Scott paused, you decided to speak up “Okay so Kate was the one who set the Hale fire. The fire that killed most of Derek’s family. Some of them survived like Cora and Peter. Peter was angry and tried to get revenge by killing Kate. He clawed he throat, and we assumed that she was dead.”

“Especially since we then we saw her buried,” Stiles added.

“But we didn’t, remember? The funeral was closed-casket. And when the Calaveras heard that Kate was scratched they went to see if she was really dead. When they found her she was already healing. They kidnapped her and switched the bodies. They were trying to enforce the hunters code when she escaped.” Scott explained.

“Does that make her a werewolf now?” Kira asked.

“I don’t know, they say that the shape you take reflects the type of person you are,” Scott answered.

“What type of shape is total sociopath?” Lydia asked.

Before anyone could answer, Stiles hit something and the jeep started spazzing out, which forced Stiles to pull over. Stiles and Scott hopped out to see what was wrong and everyone else decided to take the opportunity to stretch.

Brayden realized that you were no longer following her and circled back, “What happened?” she demanded.

“We hit something,” Stiles replied from under Roscoe.

“Scott we need to get there by nightfall, it’s too dangerous otherwise” Brayden reminded.

Scott was torn, he needed to save Derek, but he didn’t want to leave his pack.

“Just go” Stiles said.

“Not without you” Scott replied.

“Dude, someone needs to find Derek. We will think of something we always do,” Stiles promised.

Scott still looked unsure but began to walk towards the motorcycle. “Scott?” you spoke up stopping him in his tracks. “Be careful,” you added before hugging him. As he backed away he replied “I will, you too.”

You stood still as you watched your whole life ride away right in front of you. Then you turned around and helped your brother fix his beloved jeep….again.

After a while of tinkering on Roscoe, Kira spoke up “Maybe we should just walk?” Stiles shot her a dirty look, ‘here it comes’ you thought.

“I will never abandon this jeep ever. This jeep is family. It is a part of the pack.

Then Malia turned to Stiles “Work faster,” she paused, “there is something out here with us” she finished.

It was getting dark when Malia finally saw the creature that was out here with us. She instinctively ran after it. Kira grabbed her sword and followed. Stiles was about to go after them when Lydia stopped him “You need to work on the jeep, Kira is with Malia”. He hesitantly returned to work. “Here Stiles, after we attach this it should work for the time being, but when we get back to Beacon Hills we will need to have it looked at,” you said handing him the last of the parts.

As soon as Stiles started the Jeep successfully, Kira and Malia were running back. Malia was holding her side, you could see blood. Lydia was already sitting in the back seat. You opened the driver’s door “Get out” you demanded. “What? Why?” Stiles asked getting out.

“Your girlfriend is hurt, you should take care of her and not worry about driving,” you responded. “Lydia will you ride Shotgun?” you asked.

She got out and sat in the passenger seat and you started driving, knowing already that this was going to be a long night.

Meanwhile, Scott and Brayden finally reached La Iglesia, there was very little light left in the sky so they were using a flashlight to navigate the city. They were about to enter the church when Scott stopped suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” Brayden asked.

“There is something down here,” he paused, “Something not human.”

They continued cautiously. After a while Brayden turned to Scott “Why didn’t you kiss your girlfriend?”

Scott hesitated for a moment “We’re not....It’s just….things have been weird since Allison died,” he said.

“So if you die down here you won’t regret not kissing her?” she asked. When Scott didn’t say anything she continued, “If Allison’s death taught you anything it should have been that life is short and unpredictable,” she paused, “Next time kiss your damn girlfriend.”

They continued walking until Scott stopped again. “What?” Brayden asked harshly.

“I just got a feeling that something was behind us.” he replied. They took a couple more steps before the both heard it the crumbling of bones and a low growl.

“Get ready,” Brayden demanded.

“Is this why you never get that far?” Scott asked trying to see what was coming at them. When the creature was in sight, Brayden shot at it and it disappeared. They hadn’t made it far before they heard the creature again. “Scott, Where is it?” Brayden questioned frantically.

“I don’t know, cover your ears” He replied. She reluctantly did as told. Then Scott let out an Alpha roar. The creature left and a hidden room was revealed. “What is this?” he asked referring to a strange symbol on the wall.

“I think we found Derek” Brayden replied.

“Stand back” Scott said before punching through the wall. What they saw shocked them both.

Back with the pack, you were finally within eyesight of La Iglesia. Stiles broke the silence “You please don’t ever do that again” he said harshly to Malia.

“Do what?” she asked.

“I-I thought you left, I thought you weren’t coming back.” he said softly his vulnerable side showing.

“I wouldn’t leave without you.” she replied.

“Really?” he asked.

“I would never leave without you.” She said as she grabbed is hand. Then she looked at everyone else in the jeep “Them I would leave,” she finished. You giggled slightly at her ability to ruin the moment.

“That’s progress” Stiles announced.

“Speaking of progress, how is your side?” you asked.

“It’s fine, I can feel it healing” she replied.

After a few more minutes you arrived. Everyone jumped out of the jeep. You then saw Scott and Brayden carrying a kid. ‘Oh my god’ you thought.

“Is that him? Is that Derek?” Malia asked Stiles.

“Uh. Sort of.” he responded staring in utter disbelief.

After Scott helped Derek into the Jeep he came over to you, “Hey, can we talk?” he asked.

“Yeah sure, what's up?” you replied.

“It’s just-” Scott started before being interrupted by Stiles “Hey guys we are ready and should probably get going. We need the take Derek to Deaton”.

You looked to Scott, “Can this take a rain-check?” you asked curious as to what he wanted to talk about.

“Yeah sure” he said as he hopped in front with Stiles.

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autolovecraft · 5 years ago

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I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live.

He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

Birch heeded this advice all the rest of his life till he told me his story; and when I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner.

But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness.

He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about.

Birch. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had chosen it, how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was wise in so doing. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you always did go too damned far! The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.

He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had chosen it, how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

God, what a rage! Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last.

He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you always did go too damned far! He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. Davis, who died years ago. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom.

Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. He could not walk, it appeared, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week.

He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation.

I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Birch, being by temperament phlegmatic and practical, did not shout long; but proceeded to grope about for some tools which he recalled seeing in a corner of the tomb.

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rosedamion113 · 8 years ago

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The Crew of the Peregrine: Chapter Two

Read Chapter One Here: http://rosedamion113.tumblr.com/tagged/crewoftheperegrine

The screeching of the tilt lever drove a dagger through Jo’s eardrums as she heaved it forwards. That sound was probably one of the worst she’d ever experienced, and yet she came back to make it daily. In a strange way, it was comforting. It kept her alert as she steered The Peregrine down towards the clouds. They enveloped the aircraft on all sides. She didn’t care much for clouds either, but she could navigate through them without much trouble. Her father used to tell her how much he loved sailing through the clouds. He always felt there was a certain peace and solitude about it; she just found it dangerous from not being able to see.

But the space above them was a different story. To her, the sky was a thousand times more magical from a thousand feet in the air. Dusk was her favorite time to fly. She never got tired of the rainbow of color, from the red bleeding out of the setting sun to the dark purple silhouette behind the stars. That was peace for her. While some people fear the vastness of the cosmos for the way it makes them feel small, it relieved Jo to remember that the world did not revolve around her. Not everything rested on her shoulders, which was ideal as she had enough of her own problems to deal with.

The bow of the ship broke through the clouds and the city of London unveiled itself beneath her. The first thing to draw her eye was the towering Big Ben, the symbol of the great city itself. The humongous clock face glowed in the twilight, and soon countless streetlights ignited around it like fireflies, surrounding the beautiful, golden tower. She adjusted the controls and began heading east to the outskirts of the city: the only place to land a seven-ton airship and not be searched by the royal guard. The ship’s cargo wasn’t harmful by any means, but the Elite would still refuse a few caskets of Chilean fireweed being dropped in the middle of their fair city.

She aimed for a shipping yard that was a few miles outside the city proper, where His Majesty’s security was scarce and the black market reigned supreme. She pulled her watch out of her pocket, wincing as her bandaged hand contorted to grasp the dingy, copper clock. She was in need of a new one, but wouldn’t give this one up for anything in the world. Her sister made her promise to keep it safe. It sprung open to reveal the second hand clicking into place on the twelve. 9:03 pm London time, exactly. She groaned. The Baron was not going to be happy.

Jo slipped the timepiece back in her pocket and prepared to land. She slowed down the ship as they neared an empty space in the yard and lowered it to the ground with all the grace of a ballet dancer. No sooner had she touched down than Matt came through the door, stifling a yawn.

“Another productive day, sir?” she asked, a smile touching her lips.

“Maybe it’s time for a change. A respectful, non-judgmental crew for starters.”

“You couldn’t find one that would work for what you pay them.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. There’s not enough money to go around.”

His tone made Jo turn. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

She waited.

“You’re just not the first person to complain about their salary today.”

“Kate?”

“…yep.”

“You know she’s only messing with you, she’s not really worried about money. And she certainly wouldn’t leave, especially after everything you’ve done for her.”

“I’m not worried about her leaving, I’m worried that it will be awhile before we can all leave together.”

“Meaning?”

“The ignition system had an accident.”

“Again: Meaning?”

“We can’t fly again until we make some more silver. And The Baron’s job isn’t gonna cut it.”

“So let’s make more money in town.”

“That’s the plan, but I’m worried it’s going to be a long time, and the crew gets restless pretty easily if we’re not on-the-go—”

“Matt, no one’s going anywhere. We’re here and ready to help you get this bird in the air again, soon as possible.”

“You can’t speak for everyone.”

“Maybe not, but I can speak for myself. You’ll still have a pilot when the engine’s up and running. And really, what more do you need?” she added, presenting herself.

“Mechanics and a strong-man certainly help.”

Her smile briefly faded. “Take the encouragement, Matt.”

He laughed. “I’ll try, thanks. Go ahead and settle her down. We might be here awhile. Soon as you’re done, pack your weapons. We’ve got a shipment to deliver.”

He headed out the door and Jo set about shutting down the ship. She heard a quick, “And it’s ‘Captain’,” from down the hall, but ignored it and continued working. As she flipped the switches and pulled back the levers, she smiled at the thought of her first encounter with Matt.

* * *

The streets were far too crowded as she slipped out from the alley and onto the main road. She ran past the overpriced suits that adorned the over-privileged citizens of Greenwich Village. She struggled to weave in-between the dozens of excessive petticoats that blocked her way. Behind her, she heard the faint shout of the local constable, but didn’t dare turn around—fearing she’d trip on someone’s giant, ruffled dress. She continued to shove her way past, ignoring the indignant huffs of the women around her, and hoped that no one tried to get in her way. Her head only came up to the chest of most of the people in the crowd, and if someone tried to grab her, she wasn’t sure she could throw them off.

A left, a right, a shortcut between two town homes. She ran for what felt like miles, and still could hear the officers shouting behind her in the distance. A park came into view and she aimed to cut across it. The crowd began to thin as she neared the other side. A gate let out onto a cobblestone street, and Jo could see the start of the docks towards the end of the block.

Just as she made the gate, an officer on horseback pulled up in front of her and aimed his sword at her chest. “Hold it!” he shouted. She froze. “You’re under arrest, by order of the—”

Jo dropped and rolled under the horse’s belly, drawing a knife from her boot as she came up the other side. She slashed the restraints that kept the policeman in his saddle. Before he’d even turned around, she smacked the horse’s hide as hard and she could and he reared up. The officer slid off the other side of the horse and hung by his left leg as it took off through the park. Jo was already halfway to the dock.

She slid to a stop at the water’s edge. Nowhere to hide, and she definitely couldn’t swim fast enough to get out of range of the constable’s pistol. She turned to the airships parked on the docks. The closest one had an open cargo door. She took her first step to run towards it when an ear-shattering crack echoed on the street behind her and a white hot pain encompassed her side. She let out a cry and fell to the ground as another gunshot resounded and whizzed over her head. Behind her, the constable reloaded his pistol as he ran, followed by three other officers with swords drawn.

Jo heaved in a breath and forced herself onto her feet, biting back a cry as she bolted for the open cargo door. Spotting the door controls on the wall to the left, she smacked the button and made for the flight of stairs in front of her which led up to a catwalk. The ramp began to retract and the door was sliding closed as she reached the top. She looked back to find the constable jumping through the door just before it cut off the light from outside and left the room in darkness. A rush of fear surged through her as she heard another shot ricochet off the nearby wall, and a cry escaped her throat. She bit it back and ran for the door at the far end of the walkway, furious at herself for being weak at a time like this. Her hand felt increasingly warm and sticky as the blood from her wound seeped through her fingers. Her head was feeling light and her breath was faster, but she made her way towards what she hoped was the front of the ship.

When she finally climbed up the stairs and stumbled into the cockpit, she slammed the door behind her and bolted it shut before slumping against it, heaving breaths in and out. Tears burned behind her eyes and her throat threatened to close off as she restricted it from sobbing. She stopped. Five seconds of weakness, that was all she was going to give it. She counted: One, Two, Three, Four—

Another shot rang against the door, and a small hole ripped open beside her. She gasped and scrambled away. The constable’s voice bled through the door as he boomed, “Forget it! Back-up is on the way and we will blow open this door if we have to! Give up now or the consequences will be fatal!”

Jo’s head spun around and her eyes scanned over the controls. “We’ll see about that.”

She started flipping switches and powering up the engines. She grabbed the power thrust and shoved it forward. It screeched like a banshee and the ship jumped into the air. Taking hold of the directional levers, she aimed for the open, glittering sea. She grabbed on tight to the hand rail and threw the throttle up to full speed. The ship tilted up and zoomed forward, and she heard a loud thump from outside the door and the officer swore. She steadied herself as she heard the constable again. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Shit, this guy is slow, Jo thought to herself as she banked a hard right and sent the officer slamming against the opposite wall. For a second, she was sure she’d knocked him out, but then another shot fired through the door. How much ammo does he have? she worried.

Another shot went off, and then a new voice came through the door. “I swear to God, if you fire one more shot through my door, I will drop your ass in the middle of the ocean!”

“Back away, sir! I’m in pursuit of a fugitive!”

“You’re in pursuit of your own damn death sentence if you don’t stop firing your weapon in this ship! If you damage any of the instruments in that room or in these walls, we’re all going for a swim!”

There was a moment of silence. “Fine, you open this door and I’ll take care of the prisoner!”

“Thanks.” There were a couple loud thumps, and then a crash outside the door. Jo began to panic and black spots started appearing in the corners of her eyes. She looked for a weapon, anything she could use to fend them off, but there was nothing. She tried sharply turning the ship again, but this time no one fell outside. For a minute, all she could hear was the roar of the engines. Then another crash sounded directly behind her. She screamed and whipped around to find a vent cover clattering to a halt on the floor. She glanced up and found a messy head of red hair and a pair of dark brown eyes peering at her upside-down from a shaft in the ceiling.

“Sorry, did I scare you?”

She stayed silent, eyes wide.

“Stupid question.” For a moment he disappeared, then dropped down from the hole and landed in front of her. As he stood to full height, he looked a lot less threatening. He was tall and lanky, with a sleek, red vest and a holster strapped to his hip carrying a .45 Colt. He briefly fixed his hair and dusted his jacket. “It’s really disgusting up there. I tell my mechanic to do a spring-cleaning or something every once in a while, but I guess he just failed his workspace inspection.” He looked up and smiled at her. His eyes darted to her side, and the smile fell away. “Were you hit?” he asked, his tone deadly serious. She nodded and her head swam. She started slumping to the floor.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said running forward to ease her down. “Just take it easy, we’ve got a doctor on board. She can patch you up.” He reached over her head and eased up on the controls, slowing the ship down to hover in place.

As he turned and ran to unbolt the door, Jo protested, “No, wait! The officer—” The door flew open to reveal the constable crumpled on the floor, eyes fluttering beneath his eyelids.

The man ran to the end of the hallway and shouted down the stairs, “Vinny! Get in here!” before turning around and running back to her. He kneeled down, pulled a handkerchief out of his vest pocket and held it against the wound. Jo cried out. “I know, I’m sorry, but we gotta stop the bleeding. You’re already turning white…Not that I know what you looked like before or anything, I just assume you’re…Lavinia! Where are you?”

Jo felt her head start dropping and began to close her eyes. To her surprise, she felt the pain fading, and the darkness at the edge of her vision didn’t seem so scary now. After all that, all she wanted to do was sleep.

“No, no, no, no. Wake up, come on,” she heard, and a hand whacked her across her face.

Her eyes flew open again. “Um, OW!” she screeched as she cupped her cheek and glared at the man in front of her.

He just smiled back. “That’s what I like to hear. You gotta stay awake for now. Doctor’s coming.”

A girl with long blonde hair and bright eyes appeared at the door, took in the scene with a glance, and knelt down beside Jo. Lavinia, she assumed, pulled her black bag close and took out of pair of scissors. She quickly cut away the cloth around the wound and examined it. “Just a graze, but it still needs stitches. You’ll be fine, sweetie! Use this staunch the blood,” she said, handing the man some white, sterilized cloth. He knelt down and did as she told him.

As Lavinia turned to pull more supplies out of her bag, the man said, “I’m Matt, by the way…So, is this your first time attempting to hi-jack an advanced aircraft?”

Jo side-eyed him. “You mean this hand-me-down from your grandmother?”

“That’s an awfully mean thing to say to someone who’s currently saving your life.”

“She’s the one saving my life.”

“Technicality. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Would I tell you if it wasn’t?”

“Hear that, Lavinia? You’re sewing up a repeat offender.”

“What else is new?” she responded, not taking her eyes off of the needle she was sterilizing. She stuck the needle in Jo’s arm, and almost immediately Jo felt herself getting tired.

“That’s the spirit. So, we’ve established you’re sassy, you don’t get along with the cops, and you know how to fly.”

A mischievous smile spread across his face before everything went blurry. And right before she fell asleep, she heard him ask:

“How’d you like a job?”

* * *

Jo finished shutting down the controls, grabbed her pistol and strapped it to her side. The weapon was a little over the top, but she found the golden insignia of the lighting strike on the side of the barrel caught the eye of anyone she came up against. It was a sign that told them she was not to be messed with.

She headed for the cargo room and walked in to find Matt and John loading the fireweed into bags and throwing them onto the transport vehicle while Kate pumped fuel. As the guys threw the last bag onto the car, Kate and Jo hopped into the front seats and Kate revved the engine. The guys climbed in back while Emerson hit the loading door button and lowered the ramp. Kate steered the vehicle out onto the grass and aimed for the cobblestone street at the edge of the shipping yard, weaving around small cargo ships and people transporting boxes in and out of them. No one made eye contact, but everyone was watching each other out of the corner of their eyes. Jo checked behind them to make sure Emerson closed the hatch. They didn’t have much worth stealing on the ship, but they didn’t want to appear too inviting either.

They hit the street, where makeshift stalls lined the sidewalk selling everything from knockoff jewelry and pocket watches to guns and ammo. None of the shops were permanent, and all could be struck in a matter of seconds should the call come out that the cavalry was on its way. The houses beyond the shops were pretty run down, but even the richest townspeople could be found wandering these streets, looking for some cheap fakes they could pass off as the real thing. Some people came here to hide, some to find others, and some to get a fix of whatever poison they chose to keep their mind out of the real world.

The crew headed northwest, and it wasn’t long before they came upon the one building in the whole quarter that truly didn’t belong. The Baron’s white mansion protruded from the dank shanty-town like a crystal from a cave. It was three stories high and four times as long as the widest house in the district. Ornate, rounded windows adorned the upper floors and a spiked iron gate surrounded the premises. Several years back, The Baron had the brilliant idea to buy a huge chunk of cheap land in the middle of a place no one wanted to live. He used the rest of his fortune to build the perfect home with the even cheaper labor of the local, unemployed residents. To ensure that the treasure within the house didn’t tempt the neighboring criminals, he established the kind of security that never fired a warning shot. Deaths were inconsequential as The Baron was a friend to the British court. The gates were eight feet high and at night, surged with the power of Edison. Windows were only built on the upper floors so as to discourage anyone who got past the fence, and the patrolling guard was managed by London’s finest. No one stole from The Baron. At least, no one who did had ever made it back over the gate.

Luckily, the crew of The Peregrine wasn’t in the business of stealing. Today, at least.

Kate coasted up to the guards at the gate entrance. They searched the vehicle for anything out of the ordinary. As they attempted to open the bags, John waved them off. “No one but The Baron gets a look at the cargo.”

“No one gets in without getting searched.”

“Come on, Ben, you know who we are,” Kate interjected. “We come by every few months. You know the system: only the guards inside get to inspect the cargo.”

“Not today. Open the bags.”

“What’s so special about today?”

Ben paused for a moment before saying, “There have been some attempts on The Baron’s life in the past few weeks. We’re not taking any chances.”

John glanced at Matt, who nodded assent. He undid the bags and Ben searched through every one of them. When he had finished, Kate suggested, “Do you want to burn some of it too just to make sure it’s not actually explosive?” Ben gave her an icy glance and waved them through.

They parked the car on the lot near the front door, grabbed the bags and were escorted inside. Of course, the inside was ten times as lavish as outer perimeter, and when Jo walked in she was reminded of the house she grew up in, even though her parents were never quite as well off as The Baron was.

The man himself stood poised at the top of the stairs, greeting them with a booming voice and a sweeping gesture. “Well, well, well! If it isn’t my adorable little band of errand boys! And girls, excuse me ladies.” Jo stopped herself from rolling her eyes. There were some days when she couldn’t decide whether The Baron was a genius or an idiot, but today was not one of them.

“You’re looking well, sir.” Matt responded with a smile, not daunted by the undermining words of the master of the house. They were used to being talked to like subordinates by him, rather than business partners. It was probably one of the reasons he liked them.

“Why, thank you! I have been trying to get in shape. I was thinking about buying a zeppelin to race in the national competition, but I decided I should be in top physical condition before I tried.”

“Sir, I don’t think athletics are required in a zeppelin race.”

“Oh, hush, don’t take away my excuse to doing something good for myself. Either way, I see you have what I ordered.”

“Yes, it’s all here. If you’re ready, you can come down and take stock, give us our settlement and we’ll be on our way.”

“Oh, there will be time for all of that. For now, why don’t you come up and enjoy a drink with your favorite employer, hmm?” He turned around and started heading for the parlor behind him.

Jo exchanged a look with Matt. While The Baron was usually pleasant (in his own way), he was never this hospitable, and had definitely never extended a glass of his expensive liquor. Matt glanced back up to where The Baron had just disappeared. “That’s very kind of you, but unfortunately we have some other business to take care of, so we really need to—”

“If you want your money,” he called, “You’ll take the invitation.”

Matt hesitated. Jo was equally suspicious, but they couldn’t turn down the money; they had no means of making more while the ship was inoperable. “Drop the bags and come join me!” he called again.

Matt set down the bags and made his way up the stairs. The rest of the crew followed suit.

Inside the parlor were a number of couches and cushy ottomans, along with several polished cabinets full of exotic, useless trinkets that only the ridiculously wealthy would buy. Maps were mounted on the walls of all the places The Baron preferred to do business, from his favorite cities in the Southern Americas to the encampments just south of the Sahara Desert. Most were places Jo recognized—they had been sent all over to pick up other illicit supplies—but there were a few maps that were unfinished. They had no titles and only a few scribbles on the legend, and though the drawings were detailed, there was scarcely a word on them. She’d almost taken them for paintings.

The Baron picked up a bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet seated below the maps, pulled out five crystal glasses, and began pouring a cap into each of them. “Come in, sit down. Normally, I’d have one of my maids serve us, but they’re a little busy at the moment.”

“What with?” Matt asked, placing himself carefully onto a nearby chair. The group took other seats around him, and Jo perched on the armrest of the chair Kate chose. She wasn’t about to let down her guard.

“We have a special guest in the house, and unfortunately they are very needy. Taking full advantage of my hospitality, I assure you.” An annoyed edge crept into The Baron��s voice, but when he turned around, he was his usual cheery self.

“Who’s the guest?”

“No one important. Why is it only you talk to me, Matthew? Why are your companions always so silent and stern?” The Baron handed out the drinks and settled luxuriously on the couch facing them.

“It’s an agreement we have. I do the talking.”

“Well, let’s dispense with the formality. I want to hear what they have to say,”

“About what?” Jo cut in.

“Well, there we go! They’re not dumb after all! Young lady, do relax, I’d just like to know about some of your…adventures.”

“We don’t talk about other jobs,” Matt stated.

“Humor me. Where have you all been that I haven’t sent you?”

“I believe he just said that it’s none of your damn business.” Kate interjected.

“Kate…” Matt warned, always the one for professionalism.

“It’s quite alright. She has a point. Tell you what: We’ll do an exchange. I’ll ask you a question, you answer honestly, and then vice versa. Sound fair?”

“That’s not—” Jo started.

“Deal.” Matt agreed. Jo flashed him a sideways glance, but didn’t continue.

“Fantastic! First question: Where else have you gone in the world besides where I’ve had business deals?”

“North America, Australia, Japan, Italy, and a few parts Asia.”

“Which parts?”

“You owe me a question first. Why do you want to know about us all of a sudden?”

“I have a friend who is interested in you. Which parts of Asia?”

“Mostly in India, a bit in Taiwan, and a particularly strange place in Mongolia. Who’s your friend who’s asking about us?”

“The guest in the other room. Do you have contacts in all of these places?”

“Pretty much. Who is the guest in the other room?”

“How about I introduce you?”

Before anyone could move, a hoard of Elite guardsmen came crashing through the doors and had them surrounded, guns loaded and aimed. Jo’s hand flew to her pistol but as her hand touched the grip, a double-barrel flintlock appeared right between her eyes, and a voice said, “Bad idea.”

Her eyes followed the gun up to the hand, the arm, and came to rest on the dark brown eyes of the woman in front of her.

The Baron scoffed as he crossed behind the woman. “Why Commander Sterling, I do believe these are the ones you are looking for.”

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