#we live squeezed between a mountain and an hill and its full of woods and hills and dolines and it is easy to get lost

[swallowtail-ageha]

A year ago a mentally disabled man vanished from our village and they still haven't found him which is ludicrous to me. They should have followed the seagulls

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Women in Red and the War Machine

Once upon a time there was a tattered world. It was ragged from bombs and bullets and fires and poisons and sickness, a planet torn up by the ravages of long war and longer hatred. But wars can only rage on for so long. Eventually, you run low on people to throw at each other and resources to keep the people armored and willing.

There was a world built from what was left, grown from the ashes and the ruins into something new.

There once was a young woman with a red jacket. She wore it as one of the last engineers trained before schools became fewer and books used for fires instead of reading. She was the last of those learned in the ways of engines, fuel pumps, and water filtration systems. She, like her sisters, walked the earth trying to rebuild what she could with the people that were left.

They called her “Red Walker” and “Bright One” and “sister.” She had sisters of her own but not as many as there had been before. Woman in red, vanished without a trace from off the barren land.

She was fixing a mechanical plow for a village in the west when she heard it. “Another?” She asked softly, “another Red Walker has gone missing?”

The farmer nodded with a sorrowful expression. “She was settling here. She had even given up her red jacket to build a home with one of the villagers' sons but… one morning we went to ask her for help with our plow and she was gone. She left no note.”

The Bright One hummed deeply and nodded. “Thank you,” she said as she finished oiling the hinges of the machine. “I have to be moving on now.”

But she did not move on. The Bright One thought hard on the disappeared girls and the stories of their vanishing. Someone must know what was going on.

She set out to find a grandmother: a master of the sciences and one of her own teachers. The Bright One crossed mountain ranges and streams and bartered and traded to get safely across minefields and around forests that were still smoldering.

Eventually, she came to an enormous woods covered thick with moss and fungus on the forest floor. It was dark as black rot and The Bright One shivered in its wake. “Something evil is here…” She muttered to herself and said a prayer to the ways of the universe.

She entered into the dark. There was a path ahead, it was marked by red trackers the grandmother had set. They were beeping bright lights that let out low sounds every few feet and glowed gently in the gloom.

The Bright One walked the path with a prickling in her bones, unease creeping underneath her skin, and making her hold her breath and glance over her shoulder. There was something thumping in the distance: thump, thump, thump. The earth itself vibrated and animals rustled in the opposite direction.

Something was in these woods.

The Bright One dashed between markers and tried to follow the beeps out toward the grandmother's house as best she could. It was quiet but for the call of birds in the worst ways and a distant thump, thump, thump.

It was hours and hours of walking before The Bright One clenched her teeth and something vibrated up her legs and another crash came from nearby. The thing was close. Too close.

She hesitated for a long moment before twisting in place and hopping off the path. She had to see it. She went toward the deep thumping and crackling of trees and shaking of the land. She didn’t have to run far off the path before she came to a hunk of metal that was as thick as a tree trunk.

The Bright One’s eyes went wide and all she could see was a rusting trunk going up and up. She craned her neck toward the heavens but couldn’t see past the tree cover. She reached out a hand and touched the metal. It was cool and covered in indents and seemed to thrum with life.

And then the trunk lifted in the air and she recognized something like a paw at the end and watched as the leg drove the creature forward. The Bright One looked up again to see something descending from above. Crashing through branches and shaking leaves and coming slowly toward her. It was two, bright, burning eyes. Eyes like embers and explosions and a long dead world.

The eyes had a misshapen snout and metal teeth in the shape of lightning bolts attached.

The Bright One ran. She ran and ran and tried to ignore as a creature as large as God crashed through the trees behind her. Why me? She thought as she cursed her own curiosity and ran harder.

Her lungs were burning and body slick with sweat when she saw it: a small cabin in the woods with several path trackers around it.

“Grandma!” She crowed loudly, “put up your defenses! A war machine of old follows me!”

Nothing but silence greeted her as she crashed through the front door.

She searched the kitchen full with rotten food and the workroom filled with screens and the library with forgotten tea on the counter before banging up the door to the bedroom and seeing something in the bed.

“Grandmother!” The Bright One exclaimed, “something is lurking here. Are you sick? Have you seen it?”

Something shifted and shifted under the sheets and a voice croaked out. “Go to it.” It croaked, “Go to it.”

“Grandma?” She went to touch the shifting sheets and stopped when she realized that the lumps under the covers could in no way be human.

“It comes, little fixer,” the voice said in a hollow metallic clang. “It comes for the rest of you.”

The Bright One backed away as something creaked under the sheets- a painful scraping sound. She ran back to the workroom just as the Thing That Wasn’t Her Grandma rolled out of bed. It was jerry-rigged together in the shape of a person with too many cogs and pistons and something altogether wrong.

The Bright One skidded back to the place her teacher worked and reached for a radio. “Hello?” She called into it, “There is something in the eastern woods. I am Red Walker! It is doing something with us, to the engineers.”

“IT COMES!” The thing that wasn’t her grandmother howled from behind her.

“Please,” The Bright One squeezed her eyes shut tight, “Someone.”

A crash came from outside and The Bright One glanced out of the window for just an instant as jaws the size of whales swallowing oceans and snakes eating entire horses descended.

Everything went dark. The Bright One and the house were eaten whole. ---------------- Once upon a time there was a wandering soldier. She was no longer a soldier and no longer in the business of war.

She carried an ax over her right shoulder with an arm made from metal and wires and made to tear apart others. The Wandering Soldier did not spend much time with others now, but she did collect firewood to sell to villages in exchange for food and not being driven away on sight.

She stopped in her business when she heard the thump, thump, thump of the woods and the voice that came from the dark depths within.

“Hello?” The Wandering Soldier looked left and right until her eyes landed on a red tracker that glowed dimly. A voice shook from the tracker. “There is something in the eastern woods.”

The Wandering Soldier cocked her head to the side and wanted to turn away. She had trees to cut down. She had things to build.

She was not in the business of other people.

“This is a Red Walker!”

The Wandering Soldier paused and glanced over at her right arm. The arm had stopped working the year before and no one had stopped to help her. They cursed her and spit on her for being everything that was wrong with the world. Wasn’t she one of the people that helped destroy it?

“Please,” the voice said. “Someone.”

The Wandering Soldier turned with her ax and faced the deep, fungus-strewn woods. She took a step inside and followed the red glowing lights.

It had been a Red Walker, one of the engineers who walked the earth, that fixed it for her.

She ran deep and long through the brush and over the hills and into the places that are forgotten and angry. There were rumors of something that lurked there. Something that was built to terrify anyone who beheld it. Built in the form that humans had feared since they knew the taste of fear itself.

Most of the war machines had been decommissioned and laid to rest as people turned away from the destruction of the past. But some wanted to live.

Some of them wanted to keep going in any way they knew how.

The Wandering Soldier climbed a tree, one hand after the next, scaling high into the blue depthless skies and when she looked up she saw something sticking up from the land. Red rusted skin. Burning eyes. And a body covered in dents and scars.

A War Machine that still stood.

It stared back at The Wandering Soldier for a moment before turning away again. It did not attack as she had expected. But this thing was much different than any tank or submarine or fighter jet or anything of the past.

She tracked it for miles, following its prints on end to release the engineers from where it had captured them inside itself.

The Soldier lamented her task and questioned it. Did she have to be the one to save them? Could she? But she did not turn away.

After a long, hard week of pursuit the soldier finally found her way in front of the machine and spread her arms out wide. They were in an empty field with no one around for miles.

“Great Wolf!” She screamed to get its attention. “We need you to release those you’ve eaten.” The machine rumbled in front of her, but did not respond. The Soldier lifted her ax, “We need them more than anything.”

The Wolf turned its great mechanical head. “I need them.” It’s voice was deep and disjointed. A voice box dusty with disuse. “I need… maintenance. To continue.”

“Your purpose is no more,” the Wandering Soldier begged. “Release them and I will spare you, change you, repurpose you.”

“Repurpose?” Its voice almost seemed to growl. “Humans do not even know their own purpose. They cannot give me one. Step aside.”

The Soldier took a deep breath, “We can both use the engineers. We can both live. But they must be free.”

“I need them,” it repeated. “Humans destroy themselves. I will keep the best of them safe so they may extend my life.”

The Soldier’s brow folded in. “Safe is not the same as free. I won’t ask again. Set them free or I will make you.”

The Wolf looked down at her, “you?” Something like a cough or a laugh released from its wheezing insides. “You are small and weak. A puny human among other humans who know not know how to save themselves.”

“Perhaps,” she held her ax up, “but I can save them.”

“Enough!”

The Wolf lifted its huge paw and stomped down on the small soldier, but she dove to the side and quickly scaled the leg of the monster with a quick grip. There were very few soldiers left. But she was one with knowledge of destruction and what destruction meant.

She used the laser on her arm to cut open the belly of the creature without hesitation. And watched as its metal parts and wires and panels and oil like blood spilled out upon the earth. The last of the war machines was thus taken apart by a passing human.

She dug through the remains of the metal beast: pulling out an old frail woman who humphed and said it too her long enough. And she pulled out a girl with a red jacket. And then another.

Finally, she pulled out a young woman with a little red hood covering her face. She recognized her voice as she whispered: “you saved us!” The Bright One wrapped her arms around the Soldiers neck. “We have been saved.”

The Soldier shook her head, “You fixed my arm first.” She gave a sad smile, “I was saved first. This is only a courtesy.”

“Well, we are grateful.” She pressed a delicate kiss to her cheek and the Soldier’s heart squeezed like a much younger woman.

“Let me escort you home.” She stuttered and maybe she was defeated as well.

And The Bright One stood and helped the soldier up and the engineers and the grandmother and all the rest left from the belly of the beast to try and fix the world again.

[thecleverdame]

East of Nowhere - Year Two

Sam x Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary:  You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Warnings: language, violence, smut, talk of past trauma

Words: 8.5k

Beta:  ilikaicalie  

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

-

YEAR TWO

One Year, Three Days

“This is the one.” You stand beside Sam in the fading light of the afternoon, the wind tossing his hair around his face. Crossing your arms you pull the jacket tighter around you. You’ve been inside every house in the residential area of Shadow Hill, but none of them felt quite right, not until this one.

It’s at the very end of the cul-de-sac, where there’s more room between the houses, not to mention the edge of the forest in the backyard, which flanks your new home with thick pine woods.

You know just by looking at the outside that this one is the right fit. The deep blue siding reminds you of the color of the ocean in books, a rich blue that feels calm and peaceful.

“You sure this is the one? How do you know?” Sam inquires, tilting his head, trying to determine what makes this place different from the other forty houses you’ve spent days inspecting.  

“I’m not sure,” you shrug, admiring for another moment more, then grabbing the wrist of his jacket, pulling him toward the steps. “It just feels like us.”

Once inside, your instincts are only confirmed. The living room is warmly lit with a soft fire, filled with overstuffed chairs and rich colors. Leading off the main living area is a grand oak dining table, big enough for an entire family. The kitchen is new and sleek, pots and pans hanging from hooks above the island. This house feels like a home, almost like someone’s lived here before.

“I like it,” Sam nods in approval, pouting his bottom lip. “Let’s check out the second floor.” You follow Sam upstairs, finding several bedrooms with large beds, each more luxurious than the last. It’s a far cry from the shitty little hotel room that you’ve shared for the last year.

“Why are there so many pillows?” Sam squints, “no one person could possibly need that many pillows.”

“They’re decorative. I like them.” You smile at him, swinging your hips like a happy-go-lucky child.

“I won’t even attempt to fight you for a room, you choose the one you want.” Sam grins, nudging open the door at the end of the hall, peering in. You frown, a sudden reality hitting you for the first time. “What?” He asks, his smirk falling at your abrupt shift in attitude.

“It’s gonna be a little weird not sleeping in the same room, that’s all.”  You walk past him, inspecting the bathroom, thrilled to see a soaker tub big enough for three people.  The look on his face is hard to read, “I’m used to waking up and seeing you right there, talking and farting in your sleep.”

Chuckling, Sam shakes his head “You don’t even want me to tell you some of the noises you make.” You raise your eyebrows and he continues “Yeah, I’m not the only one who talks in their sleep. Oh, don’t stop, harder....lots of sex dreams.”

“Sam!” You yell, slapping his arm. You drop your eyes out of embarrassment, giggling because you have a pretty good idea of who you were dreaming about. When you look up, there’s a broad smile plastered across his face, chest shaking as he quietly laughs to himself. “I hate you,” you grit slapping him again.

“Who am I to say what it was about, maybe you’ve just been dreaming about a really great full body massage.” He cracks himself up, leaning into the wall for support.

“You’re a real comedian.” You sigh, trapped in the space between embarrassment and amusement. “I want this room, the big one.”

One Year, Five Weeks

You think the house will help to alleviate some of the tension between the two of you and, for a couple weeks it does. Sam has one rule above all others, you don’t separate. You get it, you understand why it’s important that you’re always within earshot. In theory, anything could happen, but the fact is nothing ever happens. Your lives become a mundane routine, planned around books and spells and meals that’s wearing you down day by day.

The little things Sam does drive you crazy and not in a good way. Like the way his spoon always hits the side of his bowl when he’s eating soup or how he chews on the ends of all the pens until they’re twisted into mangled plastic. He leaves the toilet seat up and the milk on the counter and he always has to know where you are, every fucking moment.

“It works better if you use the scrub brush,” Sam recommends, sipping his coffee.

“I like the sponge.” You side eye him, elbow deep in rubber gloves and dirty dishes.

“You know, you don’t really have to do that. If you just wait, they’ll clean themselves.” He leans against the counter, seemingly intent on watching you wash.

“No, I do have to do it. Otherwise, they’ll sit here all day and every time I come into the kitchen, I have to stare at a sink full of dishes.” The organized scientist in you has reared its ugly head. Sam’s a wonderful man in so many ways, but he’s obscenely messy.

“Why are you mad?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m not mad,” you grit, jaw clenched.

“Really? Because you seem angry.”

This is the point in cartoons where steam blows out of someone’s ears. Every bit of resentment, indignation, and sexual frustration is boiling to the surface.

“I said I’m fine.” You turn away from him, dropping a bowl to the floor where it shatters with a sickening crack. “God, damn it!” You scream, clenching your fists.

To Sam, this seems like a massive overreaction, but for you, it’s about so much more than a broken bowl.

“It’s not that big of a deal. You get the big pieces and I’ll grab the broom.” Sam moves toward the cupboard.

That’s when you erupt.

“Sam, for fuck's sake stop telling me what to do! Jesus, I’m capable of cleaning up broken glass!” You shake with rage.

“What the hell is your problem?” He shoots back, both ready for a fight.

“You’re my problem!” You scream. As if it had been planned, you step with all your weight directly onto a sharp shard of glass that cuts into your foot like a knife through butter. You shriek, falling onto your butt, coming down hard on your tailbone with a sickening smack on the tile floor. “Fuck, ow….ow.”

Sam crouches in front of you, with his hand around your ankle before you have a chance to process what’s happening. He lifts your foot up to get a better view and cringes, “that’s deep.”

“Let me go,” you kick at him, not hard enough to do any damage, but enough to get a point across.

“I need to get it out,” he scoffs, tightening his grasp.

“I’ll do it myself. I said don’t touch me,” you hiss, pulling your leg back again. This time, he lets you go, you wince as you scoot away from him.

“I’m just trying to help.” His tone betrays the words and there’s venom under the surface.

“I don’t need your help, I’m fine.”

He watches from the other side of the kitchen as you inspect your foot. He was right, it is deep, maybe three or four inches sunk into flesh. It’s a thick gash that’s pooling blood all over the light grey floor. Your stomach turns a little when you realize that you’ve backed yourself into the corner and have to pull it out of your own foot.

The pain comes without warning as if seeing the injury triggers the physical response. A sharp ache rises from your foot and up your legs and tears well over your eyes before you can stop.

It fucking hurts and suddenly you’re worried maybe you’ve managed to really injure yourself. What if you hit a tendon or actually did some permanent damage? The distress rises to your chest as you break out into a sweat.

The pain spirals and the blood isn’t stopping. God, you hate the sight of blood, it’s always made you lightheaded.

“Sam…” you panic, voice trembling.

“Here, let’s get you up.” Without missing a beat, he scoops you into his arm and carries you to the living room like he’s done it a thousand times before. That’s all it takes for him to forget what a bitch you’ve been; he hears the fear when you say his name and all is forgotten. After jogging to the bathroom, he reappears with a small bag.

“It hurts,” you spit, covering your eyes with your arm. You don’t want to look, the thought of all that blood and glass makes your stomach turn over.

“I bet,” he raises your leg into his lap, blood dripping all over his jeans. He doesn’t seem to care, though. You feel his wide hand slide under your yoga pants, halfway up your calf, squeezing lightly. “I’ll take care of you.”

With those words, Sam bears down, holding your leg still with a firm grip and rips the glass out. Not only is there pain, but more concerning is the steady stream of blood gushing out that is warm and slick, streaming down your heel. You don’t speak, you just make a strangled noise that Sam responds to by squeezing your upper thigh.

Your eyes pop open and the look on his face makes you feel even worse, “It’s bad huh?”

He nods tightly, “You’re gonna need stitches.” When you whimper, he just nods. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember. Gonna get you real drunk first.”

One Year, Four Months

You twirl spaghetti around a fork, coiling the noodles in just the right amount before popping it into your mouth. “Oh my gosh, Sam” you nod enthusiastically, “this is really good.”

“See, I’m getting better. I used the recipe this time,” he grins and you both dig in.

You’ve been swapping childhood trauma stories all night and now it’s your turn.

“We used to go on these camping trips when I was kid. Every year, my dad would pack up way too much shit in the back of our station wagon and drag us out to the middle of nowhere.” Sam sits back in his seat, sipping his beer. He likes when you tell the stories, he always seems fascinated by what was usually your boring, run of the mill childhood memories.

“Your dad’s an outdoorsman?” he inquires, crossing his ankles.

“Big time. He was in the army and when he got out, he spent years teaching wilderness survival. He’d live outside if he could.” You pour yourself more wine, then you continue. “So, he decides that we’re going to the Smokey Mountains for two weeks. He drags the whole freaking family out there, my mom and sister, my cousins and asshole uncle Ted. I didn’t care about any of them, I was so excited just to spend time with my dad. He’d taught me, what I thought at the time was a lot of bushcraft skills, I mean, I was just a little girl, but I knew how to build a fire and get a fish off a line, so I thought I was hot shit. I was desperate to prove myself. I never wanted to be like other girls my age, I wanted to hunt and fish and chop trees. I don’t know, I guess I thought it was the best way make my dad proud. So, we’d been there about a week when I decided that I wanted to go off on my own adventure. I packed a bag and wandered off. My cousin, Ryan, was supposed to be watching me, but he was too busy reading comics and no one else noticed.”

“Oh no…” Sam winces, rocking back in his chair.

“It gets better,” you promise. “I followed the trail for a while and then decided that I was fully capable of making my own way in the world and I ventured off into the woods. I probably walked for an hour before I decided I wanted to go back to camp, but it was too late; I was so lost. I walked in every direction and had no freaking idea which way was out. I was eight years old, with a ‘My Little Pony’ backpack and a pair of pink binoculars. I wasn’t dressed for anything more than a trip to the park and the sun started to go down….I was so scared, Sam. This huge storm was rolling in and when it started to rain, I just remember curling into a ball and crying”

“What did you do?” Sam’s enthralled, picking at the label on his bottle.

“I started thinking about my dad, he always said that if you aren’t finding a solution, you're contributing to the problem. So, I looked for a solution, which in my case, was finding the thickest pine tree I possibly could and crawling underneath. It hurt like hell, I was all scratched up, but I knew it would at least keep me out of the rain. And that storm, God, I hate thunderstorms to this day. It was so loud and there was so much lightning. I remember being curled up in the mud under that tree, freezing, and telling myself out loud that I was going to be alright.  Even as a kid, I knew that I had to make myself believe that I was going to survive and I was capable of handling the situation. It was going to be awful and I was going to cry - but that was okay, as long as I made it through.”

“You were out there all night?” Sam leans forward setting his drink on the table.

“Yup. It was almost twenty-four hours before my dad found me. I was wet and dirty, but I was in one piece. You know he didn’t even yell at me? He just hugged me and told me he loved me.”

“That’s incredible, the whole thing,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’d like to meet him.”

“You will,” you take a sip from your glass, pulling your knees up to your chest, “he’s gonna like you. He’s a ‘get shit done’ kind of guy. You kinda remind me of him.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.” Sam’s been less and less positive as the months go by.

“Yeah, we will,” you confirm.

Sam’s still for a moment, his eyes shifting as his own thoughts rush in.

“When, ah, Dean and I were kids, my dad was gone all the time. My first real memory is being in this smelly, dirty motel room and crying because I just wanted my dad to stay with me. I didn’t understand why he left, you know? Dean must have gone out or something because I distinctly remember that when he came back to the room, I turned my pillow over because I was afraid he’d see it was wet and he’d know I was crying.” Sam loses himself in that memory for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know, four maybe? Young enough that no one in their right mind would leave Dean in charge of me.” He scoffs and takes a drink, “That’s just how it was though. My mom died and dad needed to hunt, needed to fill that void.”

“Sounds to me like he was coping the only way he knew how t,” you suggest. Sam’s talked about his father before and you know there’s never ending layers to that relationship.

“I don’t hold it against him, not anymore. He did the best he could under the circumstances.  For a long time, all I wanted to do was everything that he hated. Just be a normal guy, get married, have a couple kids, and be a better father than he ever was.”

“What? You don’t want that anymore?”

“I’m thirty-three and, forgetting for a moment that we’re stuck in Shadow Hill, I’m deeper into this life than my dad ever was. If you care about people, you don’t make them a part of this life.”

“Maybe you don’t get to make that choice for other people,” you shoot back. “Everyone has their shit, Sam, and I’ll give it to you that your shit is crazier than most, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He gulps down the last of his beer, “I’m going to bed.”

One Year, Five Months

You’re going alone, you’re going no matter what he says because you don’t care about his rules anymore.

Sam’s reading in the living room, so engrossed in The Handmaid’s Tale that he doesn’t really hear you when you square off your shoulders and say, “I’m going for walk.”

He just smiles up at you, completely oblivious to whatever you just told him, “Whatever you want.”

If we’re being a hundred percent honest, you know it’s going to piss him off. But, there’s no way you are both going to survive without a little alone time every now and then. If it keeps up like this, one of you is going to kill the other.

You wander down the street and behind the houses to Miller’s Path, leading out of the town and into the looming pine forest that surrounds every side of Shadow Hill. After walking for some time, you veer off the path, heading toward a clearing in the distance.

You maneuver through the brush, the trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind you of seaside waves; even the color of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft and damp, yet your fingers come away dry.

You tilt your head upward, feeling your hair tumble further down your back; the pines are several stories tall, reaching toward the golden rays of early fall. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. A new smile paints itself on your face, rose-pink lips, semi-illuminated by the dappled light. Before you know it, your feet have begun to walk, body and mind both on autopilot - it's around noon and you don’t think you’ve been gone that long.

You find the clearing, trotting happily back out into the sunlight.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sam’s voice booms, snapping you out of your solitary moment. You whip around to the sight of him standing at the edge of the tree line, his chest huffing and eyes wild.

“What, I’m just...out here.” You’re caught off guard more than anything else, stumbling over your words. Sam’s mad, breathless, nostrils flaring, pissed the fuck off.

“Just hanging out?” He throws his arms up, stepping closer to you.

“I was just taking a walk, I told you where I was going…” You step back, he looks like he might throw you over his shoulder and lug you back to the house himself.

“You’re acting like a damn kid sneaking around. What if something happened to you?”

“Nothing is gonna happen to me. What do you think is going to happen, Sam? Nothing ever fucking happens here. It’s just the same shit day after day and it’s driving me insane. It’s making me resent you and it’s not even your fault, I know that. But, I need to be able to take a walk or go to Tolliver’s or do just one damn thing on my own.”

“Y/N-”

“I’m not done! Let me finish. Look, if I could choose anyone to be here with, it would be you, Sam, it really would. I had no idea I needed you in my life before I met you, which I know sounds nuts and makes no sense whatsoever, but it’s how I feel. I like spending time with you, but I need time to be alone, I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“What if you decide you want to go for a stroll and you never come back? You just disappear. Huh? What then?”

“If I’m going to disappear, it’s going to happen whether you know where I am or not. I could be sitting next to you on the couch and poof, gone. Just like that,” you snap your fingers for added effect and he winces.

“Okay, sure, let’s just throw caution to the wind. You don’t care, right? Whatever happens, happens!” He’s screaming, pointing at you with an accusatory thrust of his arm.

“I never said that,” you glare, “stop being so dramatic! God, I hate you so much right now!”

“Screw you,” Sam, spits, lunging toward you and the next thing you know his mouth is crashing into yours. You’re still in shock, mouth hanging open as his tongue snakes past your lips, meeting your own. He tastes like almonds and salt and it is fucking wonderful. His arms engulf you, enveloping you in a crushing embrace, pulling your body flush with his. You tip your head to the side, mouth opening further to give him full access, a move which he accepts eagerly, his tongue exploring deeper as this kiss becomes less about rage and more about a year and half of sexual frustration. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it occurs to you that despite how good this feels, you’re still pissed. Groaning into his mouth, you place two hands on his chest and push back, parting in a breathless smack. Sam looks down at you, his shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath.

“You kissed me.” You meant it as a question, but instead you’re just stating the obvious.

“Yeah,” he flexes his jaw, “I did.”

“Well...I...” Just a moment ago there was so much you needed to say, but your head is swimming and you can’t think. “I’m not saying that I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t done-”

In the distance there’s a faint noise, growing louder. At first, you both look from side to side, but the closer the sound gets the more you realize it’s coming from above you. By the time you identify the noise as paper fluttering in the air, you can see the mystery object plummeting down toward the ground and it lands with a heavy thud on a patch of grass. You both inch toward it, Sam moving in front you with his arm out, “Don’t get too close.”

You stay behind him until you realize what you’re looking at and step forward as he grabs at the back of your shirt. “It’s alright, it’s just a book.” You bend down and pick up what appears to be a very worn, very old copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“What the..,” Sam’s voice trails off as you show it to him. There’s a feather sticking from between the pages and you open it to reveal a small line of text that’s been underlined by hand.

Glancing up at Sam you clear your throat read the text, “Sometimes the last person on Earth you want to be with is the one person you can't be without.”

“What is that, like Jane Austen?” he asks, completely perplexed.

You suppress your urge to comment on the fact that he recognizes Jane Austen when his face twists. You can watch the flutter of realization cross his face. “What?” You shift the book in your hands, “what’s wrong?”

“Someone’s watching us,” he snorts.

“But,” you hesitate trying to decide what the right questions are, “who?”

“I don’t know, but literature’s greatest hits don’t just rain the from the heavens. That was meant for us.”

“This is freaking me out.” You wipe your mouth, feeling the weight of the novel, and looking behind you.  

Sam’s words sink in; someone’s watching.

He looks from you to the book, then up to the sky. There’s a moment of silence before he loses it. “What is this? A lesson?” he shouts, turning in a circle with his arms outstretched. “We’re listening, we’re fucking listening! Hello?” Nothing. He’s fuming, his cheeks bright red and fists clenched. He looks like he’s ready for a fight and not the kind that utilizes words. He wants to break something, frantic for anything to hit and watch his knuckles bleed.

“Sam,” you reach out, grabbing his wrist. He recoils when you touch him, pulling back as if he’s going to smack you. It’s muscle memory, something dormant left over from too many years of staying constantly vigilant and sleeping with a gun under his pillow. He cocks his fist and you stumble back, nearly falling over as he catches you.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to-” his face scrunches, to your surprise there are tears welling up in his eyes, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

What Sam can’t tell you is the combination of emotions coursing through his veins. He’s so frustrated that he can’t even control his own reactions and it makes him feel painfully impotent.

“I know, Sam,” you drop the book to the ground and wrap yourself around him, pressing your head over his heart, “I know you wouldn’t.”

One Year, Seven Months

After the ‘Dr. Darcy Incident’, as you dubbed it, Sam does his best to give you more space. And just like you predicted, your relationship with him begins to heal itself almost immediately. Time away eases the urge to pick at each other and allows you to enjoy your time together again. It’s a morning like any other, except Sam isn’t there when you wander half asleep down to the kitchen. Sam’s always awake before you, a pot of coffee already brewing by the time you crack your eyes open for the first time. You assume he must need the sleep and try to recreate his normal morning routine, so that by the time he wanders into the dining room, there’s two eggs and wheat toast waiting for him.

“Good morning,” you greet him, setting your plate next to his.

“Good morning,” his voice is low and he blinks at his eggs.

“You still asleep over there?”

“I think so,” being the man that he is, he just throws you an appreciative glance and digs in.  He spends the rest of the day going through his normal routine; run, weights in the basement, then a shower and off the to the library to grab a few books he wants to add to your growing in-home library. By that evening, he’s looking pale, dark circles forming under his eyes. He tells you it’s just a cold and that he just needs some sleep. You don’t think twice. Maybe he’s not feeling well, but it doesn’t set off any alarm bells. The following morning, you’re up earlier than usual, feeling uncharacteristically rested. Lacing up your sneakers, you hit the snowy pavement as the sun is rising over the horizon. It’s a beautiful morning, too cold for a walk, but it’s perfect as you pick up speed out of the neighborhood and head towards town. For several miles, all you hear is the controlled sound of your breath and your feet hitting the ground. You push further and faster than you ever have before, extending your route up the hill past Hill’s Cinema (the one room movie theatre) and winding back down around the city center park. By the time you’re trotting back to the house, the sun is high overhead and the chill of a bitter winter day is creeping in. Covered in a thick sheen of sweat, you head for the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of water and drink it. After a few moments, you happen to see a foot peeking from around the corner near the bottom of the stairs.

“Sam,” you call high pitched. You don’t want to look. The tight grip of fear rises in your chest as you round the corner and find him sprawled on the floor, face down still in his pajamas. Dropping to your knees, you turn him over. The moment you touch his torso, you can feel the sweat soaking through his shirt, he’s drenched. “Sam, can you hear me?” You brush away the damp hair stuck to his forehead. He’s burning up, his whole body is radiating heat. You’re not sure what to do, the only semblance of medical training you have is from watching re-runs of House on daytime cable. Shaking your hands in a panic, you try to mentally put together a list of priorities. At the top of that list is his breathing, so you press an ear to his febrile, damp chest and listen. He’s breathing shallowly, but his heart is galloping a hundred miles a minute. He’s so hot, you know it has to be dangerous, his body temperature must be cooking him from the inside out.

“Sam!” You yell, right at the shell of his ear. He’s three times your size and you know there’s no way you can move him on your own. “Sam! Wake up!”

When he doesn’t move, you do the only thing that comes to mind, you slap him, hard and fast right across the face. He jerks and his eyes flutter open with a groan. Thank God.

“Hey, can you hear me?” You hover over him, his eyes rolling back into this head for a moment before settling on you.

“What?” he slurs, his face contorting.

“You gotta help me Sam, you have to get up.” You move behind him, lifting him into a sitting position and fuck if he isn’t ridiculously heavy, his limp body doing nothing to assist you. “I can’t do this by myself. We just have to get to the shower, it’s right there.”

You grab his face and turn his focus to the small bathroom just off the entryway. “Okay,” he gulps and squeezes his eyes shut, “I’m dizzy.”

“I know, but we gotta do this now. Come on.” You stand in front of him, taking his hands and pulling with every ounce of strength you can muster. With a minimal amount of assistance, you hike him up, his arm grasping at your shoulders. The two of you shuffle down the hall, his weight threatening to take you both down. You get him into the shower, where he collapses onto his butt with a thud.

“My brain feels like it’s boiling,” he rubs a hand over his face.

“You’re gonna feel better in a minute.” In reality you have no idea if what you’re doing will help in the slightest, but he doesn't need to know that. You climb in the tub behind him and he instantly falls limp between your legs, his back crushing your chest as his head leans back on your shoulder. The fever is practically pulsing through him, his cheeks are bright red and heartbeat still quick, threatening to beat out of his chest. With your shoe, you kick at the faucet until a burst of freezing water erupts from the shower head and gushes over the both of you. You both yell in shock as the icy stream soaks your clothes and washes over your skin. After a few torturous minutes, the drop in temperature seems to calm his body. You’re shaking, teeth chattering as you feel his hand grip your knee. He turns his head toward you, his face at your throat.

“This is not at all how I imagined taking our first shower.”

“First?” You laugh, completely exasperated, chin trembling, “talk about presumptuous.”

You wrap an arm around him from behind, squeezing his wide shoulders and kissing his cheek, “You scared the shit out of me, Sam.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “didn’t mean to.”

Once he’s fully coherent, you give him aspirin, find him a change of clothes, and tuck him back into his bed. He grabs your hand as you walk away, pulling you beside him. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You smile, patting his chest “It’s what we do, right? You and me ‘till the wheels fall off.”

One Year, Nine Months

Sam has no intentions of going through your stuff, he’s just out of toothpaste and you’re out for a run. He pads into your en suite bathroom, feeling like a kid who’s trespassing in his parent's bedroom. Neither of you have ever said your rooms were off limits, but there’s an unspoken respect for personal space. He pulls open a few drawers, pushing around lotions and q-tips when he sees it. He knows what the pills are the moment he lays eyes on them. Amelia’s were in the same pink, little plastic case she pulled out of her purse every time the alarm on her phone went off. Looking behind and satisfied you’re nowhere nearby, he pops the case open, to find half the pack empty.

You’re taking birth control pills.

If he’d asked you about it, you would have told him that you found them in the pharmacy a year ago, right after the ‘almost kiss’ and figured that taking precautions was the smart thing to do. You didn’t know where this thing with Sam was going, but it felt like it might sneak up on you someday and you didn’t want any more surprises.

Sam looks at the pills again, weighing out several scenarios until he hears you bounding up the stairs. He hastily shoves the pack back in the drawer behind an open box of tampons. He finds the toothpaste just as you swing through the doorway, sweating and breathless.

“Jesus Christ,” you jump startled at the sight of him.

“Sorry,” he smiles tightly, waving a tube of Crest, “just trying to brush my teeth.”

One Year, Ten Months

You slide on sock feet over the hardwood of the living floor and take a seat at the edge of the arm chair. “I’m going to the greenhouse.”

“You want me to come with you?” Sam glances up from his nest on the floor with a pen between his teeth.  He’s sitting cross legged in front of the coffee table, books and notes everywhere.

“No, I’m good, I need some quality time in with my African Violets.” You tie your sneakers, watching him as he shakes his head and makes a note on an already crowded legal pad. For a moment, you let your mind wander. The intellectual in you, the woman that loves historical fiction and collects vintage copies of the periodic table, can’t help but be insanely attracted to this man.

He will never know how utterly delicious he looks in a v-neck t shirt, barefoot, and lost in some obscure text. Sam’s always a little sweaty and at this very moment, there’s a sheen layer of perspiration right at the hollow of his throat that’s nudging your mind in a thousand directions. It’s been way too long since you’ve had sex, but you don’t hold onto hope because Sam might as well be the president of the Shadow Hill Abstinence Society.

“I’ll bring you lunch,” he offers, without looking up.

“Sounds good, see you later.”

You hop on your bike and enjoy the ride to the greenhouse. It’s on the far side of town, a little over a mile, and you shiver in the cool morning air, your thin coat doing little for the brisk ride.

Green Thumbs, as the sign reads, is a fully functioning hot house as big as a barn. The heat hits you in a wave as you open the frosted glass door, enjoying the smell of the flowers and earth that overtakes your senses. You check on Sam’s plants first, the ones he asked you to cultivate for spell work. You fuss over the Mugwort and water the Lady’s Mantle before moving to your orchids that require repotting. At first, you didn’t know if you’d be able to grow anything, with Shadow Hill wiping the slate clean, but the greenhouse has proven to be space that allows change to stick. Your flowers and herbs grow tall and strong, perhaps better than they should. You lose track of time, surprised when you hear movement behind you.

“Hey you,” you see Sam and turn to greet him with a sweet genuine smile.

Sam gulps. It’s hot in here and you're in a tank top that’s sticking to your sweaty, glistening body. There’s dirt smeared over your stomach and arms and a little just beside your nose. Your hair is a wild mess, barely contained by the failing ponytail. He’s been having a harder and harder time with his own self control when it comes to you, but this is the moment he knows that it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks.

“Sandwiches,” he holds up a paper bag, looking at you with the familiar yet strange look he gets from time to time. You have no idea what goes in that head of his, but you’d like to find out. You wash your hand off with the hose and join him on the small wooden bench for turkey sandwiches. He hands you a bottle of water as you catch his eyes wandering over your body.

You glare at him, “I know I’m a filthy mess.  I promise I’ll shower before I sit on the furniture, okay, dad?”

Sam just chuckles, looking at roses and biting into his food, “You’re so far off base you don’t even know it.”

One Year, Eleven Months, Two Weeks

A deafening crash of thunder rips you from your slumber, as your heart beats nearly out of your chest. The second boom makes you jump, as lightning illuminates your room. It’s so loud, that it sounds as if the heavens might crack open from the power. Rain is falling heavily on the roof as you crawl out of bed and look out your second story window. The clouds look low enough that the far mountain peaks appear claustrophobic at the proximity. Between the flashes of lightning, there’s an inky darkness that sinks into the marrow of your bones. You glance at the clock next to your bed, but it’s black. Great, the power must be out. You don’t like storms. Most of the time, you’re an adult and you can power through it, but this is loud and bright and something feels uneasy and electric all around you. You make your way across the hall and rap at Sam’s door.

After a moment, you hear, “Y/N?” You turn the handle and creep inside as he sits up, shirtless and dazed.

“I um, I just...the storm woke me up,” you shift from one foot to the other, standing in his doorway.

“You want me to get up with you?” he mumbles, trying to shake himself from his sleep.

“No, I’m being a baby, go back to sleep. I’ll read or something.”

Sam throws back the sheets on the open side of his bed, and nods with his chin, “Get in here.”

You don’t hesitate, you crawl in beside him, and he pulls the cover up to your waist. You don’t know if he’s fully coherent or not, but he rolls into you, as if it’s no big deal. His body presses into your side, his face burying into your neck and his hand sliding across your stomach and coming to rest on your hip.

Shit.

You lay like that for a while, now more awake than ever before in your life. Everywhere he’s touching you feels excruciatingly sensitive, like you’re in overdrive. Sam’s breathing hot at your neck just under your jaw and instead of softening with sleep, it’s only getting faster and faster. A crack of thunder roars down from the night sky and you involuntarily jerk. Sam’s hand tightens around your hip, his body pressing into your side as he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

You feel the shift of his head as his lays a soft kiss to the skin of your neck, it’s not a grand gesture, but it’s supremely intimate as you lay here in his bed. He kisses you again, this time moving down a little further, just the tip of his tongue darting out to taste your skin.

Your breath catches in your throat as you tip your head away, giving him more access. His hand moves from your hip back over your stomach, resting his palm just below your belly button.

“Can I touch you?” he murmurs at the shell of your ear. You exhale in a desperate, fractured moan.

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding.

Sam pulls at the hem of your nightgown and before you know what’s happening, it’s up and over your head, leaving you completely naked. He makes a guttural grunt of approval, pleased to see you’ve forgone undergarments. Still on his side, he leans over and cups one of your breasts with a calloused hand, taking your nipple into his mouth. You gasp, his wet tongue sliding over the hardened bud before tugging gently with his teeth.

His fingers play down your abdomen, barely grazing, as his touch sinks lower. You feel his fingers swipe over your sex, the tip of his fingers delicately stroking over your lips. When he feels that you’re wet, he pushes further, coating his fingers with your own slick. The pressure of his finger shallow inside you makes you quiver, your thighs falling apart.

Continuing to mouth your breast, his finger moves upward, out of your pussy to find your clit with expert efficiency. He rubs over the little bundle of nerves, eliciting a buck of your hips.

For what seems like a lifetime, he works your body just like this. His hand between your legs and nipple between his lips. His finger moves back and forth across your clit, rubbing and coaxing soft moans as you rock your hips up into this hand. Sam rolls his tongue over your nipple, then clenches down sending shocks that reverberate in your nether regions.

“I’m going to taste you,” he explains calmly, pressing a kiss between your breasts, moving downward placing his lips at the crown of your ribcage.

“Sam,” you puff, his words only adding to the anticipation, just a vague outline of what’s to come next, leaving him to fill in the details. The caress of his lips travel down your stomach, stopping for a moment to trace the outline of your belly button with his tongue. As he moves lower, he readjusts his body, crawling between your legs, hooking his hand behind one of your knees and bending your legs, using his shoulders to hold your shaking thighs open for him.

There’s a scrape of his teeth over the mound of your sex and you feel his breath before anything else, hot and warm with his face so close to your apex. Then his fingers; Sam uses his thumb and index finger to peel you open, revealing the throbbing little bundle of nerves.

There’s a tight swell of anticipation building in your stomach, but it’s nothing to prepare you for what comes next. With the tip of his tongue, slippery and warm, he scoops up and over your clit, once, twice, three times.

“Sam,” you groan, your back arching as he repeats the same, slow lick, just his tongue and fingers to hold you open. With his free hand, he reaches up, spreading his palm wide over your stomach, holding you down. Without warning, his whole mouth engulfs you, running his tongue flat and hard over the sweet spot that now controls every inch of your body.

Sam’s fantasized plenty of times about what you would taste like, but it’s different, better than he imagined. You’re salty and metallic in his mouth, making him only want more.  He has a plan for this first time, what and how he wants to pleasure you. Between the noises you're making and the insistent thrust of your hips into his face, he knows he’s right on target.

He could do this for hours, incandescently happy with his head in a vice grip between your thighs, with a mouth full of tangy slick.

You don’t know long he’s down there, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? All with his tongue making spine-tingling circles around your most sensitive parts. He knows what he’s doing too, changing his rhythm, adjusting the pressure of his tongue to keep you from coming, he doesn’t want that yet.

He knows you want more, he almost fucks you with his fingers, but he wants the first thing you feel pushing inside to be his cock. He wants you to come for the first time while he’s in you. He wants to watch you pulse and shake while he’s sunk deep. His dick is rock hard, grinding against the sheets as he thinks about it.

“Sam,” he scrapes his teeth over your clit when you call his name, groaning into your pussy. His tongue dips down, teasing between your folds before moving back up to his focus area. All you want is something, anything to fill you up, his tongue, his hand, his cock, the specifics don’t matter.

“You want me inside you?” he asks, looking up from your thighs.

“Please, God yes,” you groan at the sight of him, crawling back up over your body.

He settles his hips between your own, pushing his sweatpants down his thighs. His hand brushes stray hair out of your face and then he kisses you for the second time since you’ve known him. His lips meet yours, diving deep with a scoop of his tongue.

Lost in the bliss of his body weight and mouth, you feel his hand between you, then the head of his cock rubbing over your clit and between your folds. There’s the sweet moment when he presses the tip into you for the first time, slowly sinking as you stretch around him. You moan into his mouth, his kisses deepening as he slides thick and stiff until he’s fully seated.

You feel impossibly full, it’s an incredible sensation that sends pleasure shooting out from where he’s sunk inside you. You wiggle your hips, canting up to his, desperate to take as much of him as you can.

Breathless and panting, Sam’s mouth parts from yours. He reaches up to grab the rung of the headboard for leverage and drops his mouth to the hollow of your throat, kissing sweat soaked skin as he moves, pulling out and thrusting back into you with a force that makes your eyes pop wide.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, reaching for the pillows, the other hand clinging to his arm as his veins bulge with tension.

“You feel so good,” Sam groans as he’s trying his best to make this last. He wants you to remember this first time as intense and incredible, but he’s not sure he can last as long as he’d prefer. You’re so tight around him, like he’s balls deep in hot silk. You’re squirming under him, rubbing your pretty little body up into his like your life depends on it.

He looks down at you, your lip caught between your teeth, naked and straining at the sheets. Sam thinks you twisting under the weight of him is the best thing he’s ever seen in his life. He fucks you hard and slow, pushing all the way in and grinding his hips in slow circles that turns you to into a quivering mess of wet, raw nerves.

His mouth is everywhere, at your mouth, neck, biting at the ball of your shoulder. He moves from those mind blowing grinds to a steady rhythm as the rooms fills with the rolling thunder and the wet, carnal slap of his body into yours. You’re both close, the pumping of his hips faster and harder than before.

“Can I come inside you?” he pants, a growing desperation in his voice.

“Oh God,” you sink your nails into his back, frantic to pull him deeper at the very thought. “Yes, Sam, don’t stop.”

He props himself up on his elbows, his hips snapping fast as your breasts bounce with every thrust. Your nipples are still hard and he can’t help but take one back into his mouth, sucking hard as his hand snakes between your bodies.

His thumb presses over your clit, flicking up and down as he slows his movements. He grinds slow, just like before and you tip over the edge. You come in a glorious crescendo of pulsing nerves and taut muscles, clinging to him like a life raft.

Sam feels it, your body throbbing around his cock as you chant his name. You’re so beautiful, head thrashing to the side, mouth open, lost in the pleasure.

Before your orgasm has completely ended, he’s moving again, quick hard thrusts that make your muscles clench. Sam comes with your name on his tongue, filling you with everything he has, rocking slowly as he empties, twitching inside you. His forehead falls to the crook of your neck as his movements slow to a snail's pace. You rub his back, hands trailing up and down until he’s totally still.

Kissing you, he pulls out then flops onto his back and you lay side by side, silent in the dark as the rain continues to fall in sheets outside the window.

Sam brings your hand up to his mouth, kissing softly. “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

“Me too,” you confess. This has wide ranging implications, none of which you want to think about right now. You’re sated with Sam and pleasure and that’s where you want to stay for the rest of the night. You feel him shift onto his side, his hand over your stomach again, dipping between your legs to feel the wet of your thighs, the product of his hard work and your arousal. “I need to get you into a shower.”

“The power was out…” You glance to his bedside clock which is lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Looks like it came back on,” he sits up.

“Not yet, I want to lie here a little while longer.” When you protest, he moves back to you, pulling you into the crook of his arm where you're both sweaty and overheated. “I just wanna be like this, just for a few minutes.”

“Whatever you want,” he concedes, not five minutes later he’s snoring gently.

But you don’t fall back to sleep. You lie in the dark, as the storm rages outside. You think about Sam and Shadow Hill and wonder if all this will actually last.

-

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[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Mind of Misery: Manipulation, Part 5

[ And so the journey begins.  Three Separate stories to tell here all happening Simultaneously.  Attacking from three fronts, is this the beginning of the end for The Nine?  Please Like, Share, and Follow us!   We are hoping to get new people coming our way, and could use the love! Thank you everyone!!!!! ]

Cast:

[ L.K ] -  Lazarius Kashebahl, Marseille, Raelyndia Duskhollow

[ P.K ] - Kretus Dark

[ V.D ] - Verzatea Duskflame, Pame Myl’Brin

[ J ] - Jursol, Jimba, Mawa

[ T ] - Talisin aka The Boy

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[ J ]   Jursul was pleased as some started to wake up, see the damage and run. The hunt was on. Her prey ran for their lives, with her and the raptors close behind. There was no hiding from these hunters. No mercy.

The raptors screeched and made god awful sounds as they hunted. Screeching and screams filled the air more as one, two, three met their end to them. Raptors were hungry.

One poor man ended up being caught in a deadly tug of war. His body ripped in two by the beast. Jursol used her clawed scaled hand to rip the heart out of one. Holding it up in the air as she laughed, squeezing it tightly till it burst.

Reaching to grab the dead body with her strong arms, she then tossed it into another one. Her screams seeing her dead heartless friend sent a wave of fear though her. Jursol snarled as she pointed a finger at her. Before the poor women knew what was happening, the larger raptor was on her. It’s claws ripping her cloths and flesh. The more she struggled the more the raptor enjoyed the kill.

Once all seemed dead, Jursol sent the raptors to sweep the area again. Making her way back to the others. Jursol could hear the last of the scouts scream as the raptors gleefully ate most of their flesh. They returned to her side making what seemed to be purring sounds.

[ V . D ]   They all truly had come a long way from what was originally the worst day of Pames life. Now she felt more at home than among the apostate hunters society; Though even then home and comfort was in the company of her brother. So where she lacked in kin, she found friendship.

A strange concept, but it helped Pame break away from a mold she was forced to fill out; Isn't it funny how the worst thing to ever happen to her ended up making her more conscious of the lives around her?

A man she once would have intended to slaughter without so much as a greeting was a man she craned her neck for, to gently bump her forehead against his in a show of respect-- Whilst consciously pointing her blade backward so as not to drip blood onto the Inquistors traveling attire or boots.

Once he released her and moved away to bellow for the zandalari -- whom Pame would look out for to determine if she was in need of aid -- the woman straightened herself and cast a wary glance to the top of the hill where last Verzatea lay in wait.

After considering the well being of those three, Pames silver irises leer from beneath her dark hood toward Marseille. With strictly her lips being the most visible aspect of her facade, she'd offer the shaldorei a small smile before bending low to clean her blade off on the robes of the last individual she beheaded.

“I'm fine," she remarks briskly, though her tone wasn't harsh.

After such statement the woman stands at her full height and sheathes her sword, a hand coaxing her hood to pool around her broad shoulders whilst reviewing the area for any other threats.

  The distant screeches of raptors and their play things roused Verzatea to stand, her arms slipping beneath the legs and back of the boy she'd been requested to guard.

With some struggle -- and a lot of panting - the woman manages to stand at full height whilst carrying her unofficial student in her arms. The tall lanky woman wasn't much in the ways of strength, she was an agile fighter who manipulated her opponents strengths and weaknesses while also using the environment of their brawl to her advantage; Strategic and calculated.

Her stamina was her greatest ally now, clutching the child close whilst watching the woods around her. She'd make haste to cross the distance between her and her companions, flustered in the cheeks by the time she does. But certainly not defeated.

"An entire spire, Lazarius?"

Tea muses slyly, shaking her head, soon to eye everyone once she was closer. It was then her concern would pull forth, the destruction surrounding them much more severe than it looked from afar.

"Is everyone well? Must we stop to recuperate?"

[ L. K ]   “...an entire spire Lazarius?”.

He turned his attention to his dear Verza and offered her a grin despite the blood that was splattered across his face from Pames executions.  He would watch the Huntress as she and her companions hunted, and then motioned for Marseille.

“Take the boy..”.

And of course the shade would move toward the confessor to relieve her of her burden.  Easily taking the boy and shouldering him once more.

“No, no rest.  When the Shadowhuntress returns we move.  We are close to the lair now I can feel it...”

[ V . D ]   With the relief of not having to carry anyone Verzatea would excel a shaky breath, her grateful smile most genuine. Gently she smooths her robes down and smooths her hair down, her eyes soft whilst admiring the handy work. Morbid as it may be, a swell of pride always filled Tea when she looked upon the horrors and havoc reaped by her kin; Such a magnificent force of devastation.

"Perhaps we could salvage goods from this camp, unless tainted by the poisonous touch of the Old Gods."

Pame lifted her eyes to review Verzatea, the woman's words rousing curiosity in the kaldorei as she turns to marvel what was left of the camp. In truth, many tents that were further from the fallen spire remained standing. A possible treasure trove laid before them, ripe for the picking.

"Well," Tea falters, "If you don't mind being a grave robber.”

"Its only grave robbing if you're stealing from the honorably laid to rest,"

the apostate hunter snorts, kicking aside a slain bodies arm to clear the path for Verzatea as the Confessor began to wander through the camp.

[ L. K ]   “Anything we take from here would be a waste; we have more than we can carry as it is...”.

Lazarius said motioning to the stalwart Shaldorei who was busy carrying their new baggage.  

“Besides, we have hit two...three if you count our guest; delays already.  I - want- this - thing - off...”.

His words were punctuated by his desire to rid himself of the eye on his side. Lazarius wouldn’t humor the idea of looting when it was made and slowly kicked through the beheaded enemies and burning piles of what remained of their homes.  

He was cross, and equally not getting any more pleasant the longer this went on.

“His mind is heavy; weighed down by the burden he carries...if you would like to stay and look I will follow him...”.

Marseille said as he shifted the boys body on his shoulder and peered toward both Pame and Verza.

[ V . D ]   Lazarius's haughty attitude drew the attention of both sindorei and kaldorei, the two women watching the Inquistor closely now with different levels of concern. Pame knew Lazarius to be ill tempered in high stress moments, she knew that from the hours he'd spent torturing her and breaking down her walls when she was a prisoner.

But Verzatea saw Lazarius's temper in many different lights, in many different situations. Pame remained silent, the unspoken command to remain true to their course had shook the Kaldoreis curiosity. Straightening her posture the woman resumes with reviewing the distant horizon, searching for anything of concern.

Verzatea, too, had been effectively silenced. Her desire to rifle among the junk and find what diamonds lay in the rough was abandoned, along with her spirited smile. Twisting atop her heels the woman marches back to the group, her eyes sweeping the area for Jursol and her hungry hungry raptors.

"Then we must move swiftly. Anything that stands between here and there will be dealt with swiftly. Stop for nothing."

[ L. K ]   The group would remain silent for the rest of the mission as they trudged on heading toward their destination; an unknown laboratory that was somewhere on the western coastline of the one rich and fertile lands of Quelthalas.  The Ghostlands to be more precise.  This place was hidden to even the original Council of The Nine when they were formed centuries ago, and now even to this day; Lazarius had no idea what to expect going there.  

The only reason why he even came across it was because during his hunt for information at the former Kashebahl Estate; he had located some information leading to its discovery.  Thus, they were here. The dark sky above them loomed with the sounds and sights of hundreds of worm like beings and tubular creatures that were hunting.  Hunting for them no doubt.  

But this was not something they could prevent at the moment; they needed to address the true problem here; and that was Lazarius' cryptic message from Raelyndia that manifested itself as a great and powerful eye on his body.

Along the coast line they would find many things that would give them a fair warning of the death that was always near.  Boats and their crew that had shipwrecked and been devoured by undead; plenty of animals that were never lucky enough to make it, and even sea creatures that had beached themselves due to the insane amount of old god tainted beings that were popping up all over.  They walked on though; their destination nearly in sight.

"It should be somewhere near here. . ."

Lazarius said as they reached the edge of the mountain range that would lead into the Plaguelands and on the opposite of that was Stratholme.

"The ledger wrote about 'where the land and sea no longer kiss' and 'having to do with the . . .'"  

Lazarius paused as they came to a complete stop along the beaches.

"It's here. . ."  

He said suddenly and his eyes began to dart along the area above them.  He would peel his vision toward the coast, then back up to the mountains as if he was hearing something that wasn't there; but no, it was his brain going into a frenzy.

"Its here. . .right here. . ."

Lazarius began to pace back and forth with his foot dragging across the ground in a pattern like he was trying to trace over something.  He would cease for a moment while he looked toward the mountains once more.  

"There. . ."  

He said pointing upward toward a rock face that seemed to be in the shape of a leaning hand pointing.  His eyes would follow it over and he would begin walking toward the area that was on a forty five degree angle from it and the sun.  

Converging on where his position would be he peered around.  It was on the part of the grass where the beach and the shore line were almost as one. What was there? Nothing of coarse; he was just standing on a pile of sand looking down at it.  Until he began to roll up his sleeve, past his elbow to get to the part of his flesh that was exposed.  

Once he was above the bandages he would draw the part of his razor blade ring across his arm and pinch on both sides of the cut trying to pool some blood to the surface.  Only a drop or two would spill out due to its thick coagulation, but once it fell onto the sand a sudden surge would begin to quake below them.

As the thick blood slowly pooled against the sand; it would begin to stretch and grow as if it was being pulled in several directions all at once.  The circumference of the circle that it was forming was nearly as large; if not larger than a standard Mages tower.  Woven across the center and face of the circle were several strands that branched out like small webs while others began to form word like shapes, clearly in Shath'yar.  

All of this from just two little drops and soon the entire ground was covered in his blood as it formed this elaborate work of art which was summoning something. Slowly the ground that was shaking would begin to cave in, revealing unto them a great staircase that seemed to spiral down deeper and deeper into the earth without any rhyme or reason.

It was as if it was slowly going down into the depths of the earth below without anyone knowing what was down there or where it could go. Lazarius peered at the stairwell leading into the depths; then back at the rest of them.

"Well. . .I suppose we should let ourselves in. . ."

[ V . D ]   Whilst Lazarius endlessly searched and mapped out the area with his eyes and cryptic rhyme, Pame remained fully alert-- quiet ever still. She'd not speak unless spoken to, her insertions of tid bits and remarks was an unnecessary waste of breath in her eyes; Thus she made use of herself through further observation of the area. She'd be searching for runes or spell booby traps every step of the way, her inquisitive silver eyes burning with concentration.

Being an ex-apostate hunter required being vigilant around enemy territory, abandoned or not. Even the most dormant of hidden locations could be the most dangerous, and from everything she gathered on this Raelyndias woman... They needed to be fully alert, or they were doomed from the get-go.

An unspoken agreement between Pame and Verzatea, it seemed, given the latter watched closely as Lazarius brilliantly solved the riddle and, with such minimal effort, unleashed the grandeur display of everyone's mortal enemy. "Stairs,"

Tea breathes out, chuckling wryly before moving to stand at the edge where the steps meet sand, leering into the ominous darkness with great uncertainty. She had never missed her wand more than now-- there was always great certainty in her abilities when she had her wand and magic at hand without restraints.

Her swords were equally effective in protection, but charms and counter spells to protect her kin were a better bet when it came to an equally damned sorceress like Rae. Alas... They'd all have to brave fate.

[ J ]   Jursol seemed to not mind the risk they were about to take. Her and her raptors silently stood looking and watching. This was not something they see every day! Jursol was a bit excited after everything. The hunt and the kill make her thirst for more. Plus she may have taken a few, samples, off some of the victims.

One can never have enough blood samples now can they. Looking down at the stairs as she peered to the others. She was well aware there could be traps still active. That was a risk she was willing to take for the Nine. Her eyes had a determination in them at this point. Her life has become far more exciting now with them in her life. She liked this very much.

“We must do as we must. Dis be our time, no one else. We be strong together. I not be leaving dis elf to suffer any longer. We end dis now. Answers await is in dis place.”

She said nodding as she waited for orders to enter.

@siidaraykashebahl

@zandalaridruidofgonk

@frompage112

@whatadarkbitch

@pyravari-kashebahl

@thebladeitself

@miss-irascible

To be continued in “In Mind of Misery, Manipulation, Part 6″

[yvette3015]

《千年雨》 | A Thousand Years of Rain

By Julia Beurlet

He finally regained his memory. Although death was hovering, he knew he was indeed alive. The endless desert and dust surrounding him reminded him of what had just happened.

His name is Clyde Anders, and he was a space explorer from NO.07 Artificial Satellite City. Just a moment ago, he landed on Aleph Alpha for a two-hour reconnaissance. The planet had never been explored by humans. Although it was dry, desolate, and lifeless, the atmosphere was similar to Earth. The dry dust made him cough as he gazed at the colourful and legendary lava mountains.

A hoarse and desperate voice came from the radio receiver. It was the captain speaking from the mother ship that just sent his lander off. “Clyde, our spaceship is periodically being attacked by mysterious cosmic dust, and it’s damaging the hull. We have no choice but to leave you behind! I’m very sorry, but time is running out!”

Clyde stood alone staring at his receiver. He was speechless.

Although the team promised him that they would come back, he wouldn’t be able to survive for more than a few hours in a place like this.

Death was imminent. His lips were chapped, his eyes were empty, and his thirst was unbearable. He groaned as the breeze swept him with dust. He held wearily onto a pack of sample bags he brought over and crawled into a large cave. The cave was very spacious, and although its flat ground was covered with dust, the air was fresh and cool. In the middle of the cave, there was a heap of things that looked like ancient cannonballs. As he touched them, they cracked open after making several “click” sounds.

He lay there half-dead for a very, very long time, and after a very long time, he had a dream that it was raining.

The rain trickled down to the ground, bubbled up from little springs holes, flowed into the mossy and ferny cave, and formed pools that would have soaked him if he could drink even a drop of it. He turned his face sideways to sip the water. Slowly, he came to consciousness. A miracle happened! The cave was all wet, and there was water continuously flowing in.

He could see that the entire landscape of Aleph Alpha had changed, and the rain poured down like a torrential waterfall. This dry and waterless planet had finally rained, and it rained fiercely and wildly.

As the rain eased, the lake at the foot of the hill had cast a layer of radiance over the rocks, revealing their true colours: dark red, emerald green, bronze, and many more. Outside of the cave, a strange green substance was spreading. It was growing. It was life!

For the first time in his life, Clyde saw real plants take root in the rocks and grow tentacles like seaweed. He tasted them and got sweet juice all over his face.

The rain that had been falling for many hours had finally stopped. It was wet everywhere and the forest was full of vigour and vitality. The leaves were densely inlaid with crystal drops, the flowers were in full bloom, and the air was full of sweet fragrance.

He returned to the cave and saw that the "cannonballs" were softened by the moisture and seemed to be growing. At that moment, there was a rustling sound coming from the woods, and the air was suddenly full of buzzing and strange noises. Animals, like that of plants, sprang to life after the rain. Was there any intelligent life on such a vibrant planet? He pondered. No. If there were, they would’ve already ruined this harmonious atmosphere.

Humans had started ruining the Earth from more than two thousand years ago, and wisdom had stolen their own homeland! But it’d probably take a long time for wisdom to emerge on this planet.

He turned around and suddenly noticed that the cave was filled with variegated jellyfish that were floating as high as a man. The jellyfish were born from the “cannonballs” and each one of them was contracting and relaxing its bell and raising towards the sky. Then, the last "cannonball" cracked, revealing a large ball that bulged into a frilled skirt. All the other jellyfish leaned towards the newborn and formed a circle around it. They held on to each other on their bells and danced around the newborn jellyfish. Later, they twisted their bodies happily in the creek of the cave as if they were bathing. As they bathed, they were also making rhythmic hums that sounded like human chanting. Magically, Clyde seemed to understood them, and he named them -- Jelly. Then, each Jelly floated and clustered around him. Using tentacles that protrude from their skirt hems, they took turns and touched Clyde. As they touched him, they seemed to be thinking. After they sensed his friendliness, they crowded around him, escorted him towards succulent plant bushes, and stretched out their long arms to suck nectar from the flowers. The largest Jelly -- who looked like the Queen here -- was in rich purple and had gold speckles on her bell. She wrapped a flower with her bell and delivered the dew to his mouth. How pure and sweet! Each Jelly happily took turns and brought food to his mouth. As Clyde gradually got used to their life, the strange friendship between them grew strong.

When the Jellys weren’t dancing or eating, they played games together. The Queen always liked to float on one of the lakes. Over the lake, she looked like a beautiful giant lotus. She called the other Jellys over to join her one by one, and whenever that happened, her beautiful body would shine with great excitement.

It had stopped raining, and the water level in the lake had begun to fall. Patches of dry soil began to form on the ground.

At that time, the Jellys hummed, "The rain comes and goes, and all things grow and ripe." Then they lined up to play new games. Suddenly, they clustered together in a fight and growled in a voice full of terror. It was a battle song, "Fellows, the hateful worms are approaching. The enemies are coming, and we have to unite and defeat them! Never let them harm our future generations! Destroy them!"

The Queen rose from the surface of the lake, but her entire body was sinking heavily downward; she was full of eggs. The Jellys trooped after the Queen into the cave where she would lay her eggs. The battle hymn grew louder and louder as the Jellys closed up every entrance and exit of the cave with their bodies.

The sky became hot and dry, and all the green plants began to wither and fade. As the ground became drier and drier, piles and piles of worms emerged to the ground. They were all wriggling towards the inside of the cave and churning up the soil behind them. The scene was very sickening. Clyde walked up and down and trampled on them but was of no avail. As he wondered how the defenceless Jellys would react to the worms, the worms approached the defensive line! The Jellys bowed into defensive positions and quivered. They gathered up a group power and flashed out an electric arc which made the worms suddenly fell in a heap. But those that had survived rose again and clustered up for another thick wave of attack. The Jellys tenaciously defended their ground over and over again. However, the enemies were as fierce as ever, and the Jellys were extremely tired out.

After another electric attack, one of the Jellys collapsed. Although other Jellys quickly filled up its spot, some worms still broke through the defensive line and crawled into the cave.

Clyde hurried into the cave. The condition there was terrible; the Queen had just laid a large pile of eggs andwas now lying exhausted beside the sample bags Clyde brought over. The round eggs she laid were the same as the “cannonballs” Clyde had seen earlier, except that they were soft and transparent. The Jelly’s eggs were undoubtedly the most delicious food of worms. No wonder thousands of them were willing to sacrifice and desperately launch attacks. The worms which had entered the cave were squeezing themselves into the eggs and were gnawing. Clyde removed the worm one by one with disgust and placed the eggs in the well-knit sample bags. As he zipped the last bag he filled, he heard a shrill whistle from the Queen. The battle was over. The Queen and all the Jellys sang and danced happily. The Jelly eggs in his sample bags had hardened and were no longer afraid of worm attacks. He took them out and carefully piled them up. Then, he lay resting beside the Jellys who were suffering from fatigue. The ground was covered with dust, but soon he fell asleep.

An intense light stung his eyes, and Clyde woke up. The pavilions were gone, and large, shrivelled leaves drooped from the branches. All the plants died in the same way, and the bright, happy Jellys were darkened into little black heaps.

The Jelly’s willpower had become exceedingly weak, and they were humming, “We are a beautiful generation, but all things die, and they leave wisdom for posterity.” The Queen told Clyde breathlessly, "Your companions are coming. I can feel the shock of them coming."

Clyde could no longer constrain his excitement. In the distant sky, there was a faint trace of light. It was a spaceship. By this time, all living things on Aleph Alpha had dried up and died. Everything would turn to dust, and countless seeds, monkeys, and eggs would need to wait until life comes again.

His companions knew that the planet had just rained – a rain that had not fallen for a thousand years -- so they came to rescue him; they were sure he was still alive. When asked by his companions what had happened after the rain, Clyde calmly replied that it was all muddy.

He had made up his mind not to tell the truth. Otherwise, if people knew that there was life on Aleph Alpha, thousands of them would come to investigate it. Eventually, the whole environment would be ruined.

The world on this planet was astonishing. However, the good times were too short, so Clyde wouldn’t let them be trampled upon.

[batwynn]

Worn to Paper (part 1)

He does not move.

Even as the sun dips below the mountain ridge, with its last flair of light setting the peaks ablaze with the amber-gold that gave Beacon Hills its name. Even as the evening bell sounds from the upper levels of town, finally bringing an end to the constant murmur of the open marketplace. And, yes, even when a snarl of hunger protests his refusal to follow the townsmen to the taverns for supper.

Even then, he does not move.

He waits, and the sky sinks into dusty blues, the first freckles of starlight shining brighter and more friendly than any tavern window. It’s only when the lamp-lighters make their rounds, sluggish from the heat of the day and full bellies, does he dare move an inch. Just enough to chance a look through the window he so precariously perched under all those hours ago. Unfortunately, the room remains dark, so he returns to his uncomfortable position with a silent grumble. He’d managed to wedge himself between the stone windowsill that, while lovingly carved with flowers, is also terribly pointy, and a small, slanted ledge designed for sending rain away from the lower windows. Not many could have managed the squeeze, but a good twenty minutes of silent prayers and sheer determination were all he needed before he settled in for the inevitable torture of waiting.

It’s long after the last of the rowdy drunks have passed out in whatever shed or barn they stumbled into, when light finally fills the room above him. By then, his fingers have grown cold and stiff from their grip on the stone, and the bruises he obtained from his earlier climb have started to throb. His entire body protests the sudden tension that claws through his muscles at the first signs of life within the room. There’s no time to stretch his trembling muscles—no room, either—he has a job to do, and his target has finally arrived.

“I will hear nothing more of this,” a woman speaks, followed by the sharp thunk of a drawer closing.

“You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said all evening!”

Frowning, he shifts himself closer to the window, wishing for a less obvious way to see into the room. There was only supposed to be one person in the room, one target. That was all he was told when they sent him on his way.

Someone laughs, but it’s not a cheerful sound. “If you were speaking sense, then perhaps I would listen.”

“Oh? Then explain why that druid had your ear all throughout dinner.”

“I do not have to explain myself to you, Peter,” she sighs, sounding weary. “Can we please discuss this business with Deucalion tomorrow?”

“If you would just—”

“Tomorrow.”

Whatever else is said is muttered under the breath, and quickly swallowed up by the sound of the door slamming shut. From his perch, he listens, hoping for a sign that his target has not left with their company. He has no idea if the woman who was speaking even is his target, but he has to assume that whomever remains in the room must be the one he was sent for. Unfortunately, it sounds as if the room has become empty. There’s nothing else he can hear, no matter how he strains his ears. Which is probably why the hand, that shoots down from the window and yanks him up by his collar, surprises him so much.

He yelps—the village can never know he did that— and kicks out wildly, trying to free himself from their grip before they get a good look at him. He hadn’t had the time to prepare a proper mask, like the other Journeyers. His only protection is a thin fox mask, made of nothing but paper, scraps of leaves, and a bit of twine he found along his journey. It flutters, and threatens to fall from his face as he’s shoved against the wall.

There’s silence, and then a soft huff of disbelief from the woman in front of him. She’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. Long, dark hair that’s gone a bit wild in their struggle, sharp cheekbones with a dusting of freckles, and fierce, glowing-red eyes. Beautiful. Dangerous. Alpha.

He silently curses himself for letting them trick him into this mission, but it’s pointless. He is dead, he was dead the moment he crawled under that windowsill. He was dead the moment he stepped foot out of his village with the intent to kill her. The Alpha Queen.

They hadn’t told him. Why didn’t they just tell him?

“Well this is not what I expected,” she murmurs, looking his masked face over with a sharp frown. “You’re nothing but a child.”

“I—I’m eleven!”

“You’re a child,” she repeats firmly.

“It’s my duty,” he croaks.

“According to whom?”

His mouth remains tightly shut, and he does nothing more than stare unblinking at her. The queen stares back—much more terrifying—and waits. The terrible thing of it is, the words bubble up almost immediately. They threaten to spill forth in some desperate attempt to save himself from the punishment of the elders. Or from her, perhaps. But a traitor is worse than a failed assassin. An assassin is hanged, a traitor is cursed beyond life itself.

“Who would send a boy to kill a queen?” She muses, her eyes sliding from his mask to his dirtied clothing. It was black, when he began his trip. Freshly dyed and prepared for his first Journey. By the time he had reached the town, dust and sun had turned the fabric a muddy gray color. He knows he doesn’t exactly make an imposing figure, as short and grungy as he is, but his plan had involved more not being seen at all, and less direct confrontation with the damn Alpha Queen.

“Do you even have a weapon?”

“Of course I do!” He snaps, before thinking. The hand pressed against his throat tenses just enough to make him wheeze, while the other slips into his pockets and pulls out the blade the elders had given him. Even sheathed, it’s beautiful. With red-black lacquered wood and gold etchings of the Tree of Life, it’s a blade worthy of a true Journeyer. Any other time, any other place, he would have been proud to carry the blade.

But not here, not with that sharp expression on the queen’s face. The queen he was supposed to have killed with that blade.

Gods, this is awkward.

“So this is not some poor joke, then. Not with a blade like this,” she remarks, turning the sheath over in her hand. She meets his eye, and asks, “Do you know how to use it?”

“O-of course…”

“Really?”

He nods, almost shameful, and her eyes finally fade from Alpha red to a soft hazel. It’s not what he expected—then again, none of this is.

“I have decided…” she begins, her gaze boring into him just as strongly without dangerous glow. “I’m going to let you go—”

“You are?!” He bursts out, sending his fox mask fluttering up from his face, and slipping down past his chin. She studies his face, but he sees no recognition in her expression. And how could she know him, after all? He never left his village before last week, never set foot in Beacon Hills before today. The mask suddenly feels foolish—childish—not the same symbol of the strength and pride that the elder’s masks are. Nothing but paper and leaves and stupid, stupid, stupid.

His shame grows sharp and potent, and he doesn’t miss the way the queen’s nose twitches before her expression breaks into a beautiful smile.

“I am letting you go, with one condition.”

He flinches, knowing that she can’t ask anything less than the betrayal of his people. Knowing that if she asks, he may not be strong enough not to answer.

Still smiling, she continues, “Give me a name for you, I wish to know who to call for when I’m in need of favors in the future.”

He blinks, even more confused. “You wanna know my name? That’s it?”

“Your name for your life.” She tilts her head and flashes her eyes at him, letting him know it’s a command, not an offer. “I think that is a fair bargain, don’t you?”

He’s already nodding feverishly before she even asks, willing to take freedom for a few favors somewhere down the line. They couldn’t be that bad, right? She’s a good queen, so everyone says.

Well, and she is letting him go. Hopefully.

Satisfied with his answer, she drops her hand from his throat—no claws, never any claws—and steps back. “Well then, boy assassin, what do I call you?”

Well, this is it. He licks his lips, and offers the queen a sheepish grin. “Stiles. You can call me Stiles.”

______________

It’s only one year later when the royal family is slaughtered, and the castle burned. They say you could hear the screams all the way down in the lower towns. They say that the castle guards fought brilliantly, and bravely. They say that the heads of the king and Queen were tossed into the street, devoid of their crowns and left to rot. They say the children were first. They say they were brilliant and brave, as well.

They say these things until the new king silences them, and then there’s nothing left of the royal Hale family but whispers.

____________

Stiles doesn’t learn of their passing for another five years. It’s not really his fault, honestly. Seeing as he somewhat had no choice in the matter, he can’t shoulder the blame. Mostly. Well, perhaps a bit.

His release from the queen had been all well and good, but he was a wanted man—boy—the moment he failed to complete his mission. Not that the elders truly expected him to succeed, obviously. Any fool could see that Stiles was set up to fail. The why of it was what drove him to return to the village, regardless of the danger it posed. It was… incredibly stupid.

The alarm goes up the moment he passes the outer boundary line, a single sharp burst of sound that every villager knows means one of their own has returned. Usually, it’s means for celebration, for another Journey completed. Another success.

Not this time.

Stiles is met first with surprise, then weapons, then a binding spell that sends him to his knees. He doesn’t cry out—he won’t grant them that—but he does level a glare on the smooth, emotionless masks of the elders who step forward.

“Failures are not welcomed home,” one speaks, his mask’s eyes glowing gold. “Your prey yet lives.”

“Strange, how you would know that,” Stiles hisses, trying to raise his head past the heavy, invisible bonds crushing him. “Strange, how I was sent to be a Journeyer to the Alpha Queen.”

He expects gasps from the villagers, maybe some wide eyes, even a good fainting spell. But no one is surprised. The wives, husbands, and widows continue to glare at him with a familiar bitter edge. Even the other young students stare down at him with bored expressions. They knew. They all knew.

The strength that held him under the window for hours, that kept his mouth shut when the queen asked who sent him, that kept him moving onward towards his inevitable punishment, that holds his head up high, even now… shatters.

“Mieczyslaw, son of none… you are henceforth nameless,” an elder begins, his arms slowly rising above him. “Your worth the sum of your name, you are bound. Your presence not even a syllable on one’s lips, you will be forgotten. Lost. Eternal and nothing, until the last and only sun sets fire to the world. Only then will you be free, and only then can you regain your name.” Stiles feels the spell take hold, sees his reflection fade from the villager’s eyes as quickly as his name slips from his mind. He becomes no one as quick as a lit match.

And a year later, the queen forgets what name to call when the fire reaches her door.

____________________

It’s not the most opportune place to beg, but all the best street corners in the upper town are taken, and there isn’t a scrap of cobblestone that’s without a warm body down in the lower. They won’t stay warm for long. There’s more homeless than sellers, these days, which makes the beggar all the more desperate, more pleading.

“If you could—no? Yes, alright, keep walking.”

They do just that, not looking twice at him.

“Hello, could you spare some… no, of course you couldn’t,” He sighs, thudding his forehead against his knees. It hurts more than it should, but that’s what happens when you’re mostly skin and bones. He keeps his head there, giving up on the delusion that today will be any different than the last 1,800 days. It would be nice, but no.

Fox is invisible. Not quite literally, he’s still there, but he’s not here. People don’t tend to notice him, or remember him once they do. He can buy an apple every day from the seller on the corner of the street, and she’ll never remember his face. Or take his money, half the time. Incidentally, he doesn’t get many apples. Only what’s tossed in the gutters at the end of the day. It’s where most of his meals come from, which makes for some lean times. Sometimes, especially during the winter months, Fox is forced to steal. The spell over him protects him from anyone’s full attention, but he still gets a swift kick to the ribs if the seller catches him out of the corner of their eye. Their instincts are just too strong to ignore the ignorable thing stealing their wares. Sometimes it’s worth it, sometimes it’s not.

Something clatters on the cobblestones in front of him, and he jerks his head up because it can’t be. It is. It’s a coin. Not a small coin, either, it’s a golden round right there on the stones next to his foot. Fox scrambles for it, before someone realizes their mistake, because surely that’s what it is. No one has noticed him in at least five years. It must have slipped through a hole in their pocket.

A whole golden round!

Grinning, he rubs his thumb over the scowling face of Gerard, their ever-angry king. It’s still new to him, as are the dark banners and flags flying over Beacon Hills like vultures over the dead. The way the castle, once inviting and open, seems to have grown cold and empty. Although, perhaps that’s because it is empty, for the most part. Many of the rooms have been repaired, at a great cost to the kingdom, but much of the castle remains unchanged and scarred. Gerard seems to like it that way, if what the whispers say are true. He likes the soot-stained walls, the reminder of just what he was willing to do to ‘earn’ his crown.

Fox has learned quite a lot since his return to Beacon Hills. The journey itself was a trial, trying to survive—to heal himself from the assault of the villagers. For, as soon as he was forgotten, he was a stranger to them. A trespassing stranger. He had barely made it out alive, and with no one to help him, Fox spent years wandering, healing too slowly to do much more than stumble through the woods. Some things, however, never seem to heal. Some wounds need to be kept open.

Fox shakes the thought from his mind, and rolls the weight of the memories it brings right off his shoulders. Today is a different day, today the gods granted him a golden round. He could get a room in the tavern, and a meal! He could buy himself a whole chicken, for eating or maybe even for eggs. He’d have to make a leash and bring it up to the rooftops when he slept but—but, no.

No, he can’t, can he?

Who would sell to him, after all? The rare moment he can catch someone’s attention, it’s never long enough for a transaction. He’s lost food and money to forgetful hands, who take his coin and keep the change. It’s a risk, attempting to buy something, and renting a room would be nothing different. By morning, they’d be after him with clubs and swords for sleeping in a room he ‘didn’t pay for.’

Fox heaves a sigh, and rubs his thumb over the coin once more. A golden round… the first he’s ever held in his own two hands, and completely useless. Looking up, Fox tries to find the finery of someone able to drop such a coin without much notice. They’d have to be rich, probably dressed in blues or deep reds, most likely decorated with those ridiculous fluffy things around their sleeves and necks. What are those even for? Swatting flies? Do the rich have many flies in their fancy homes? Incidentally, what does one do when the fly is swatted, anyway? All their fine, crisp whites will be stained with fly innards. That’s actually quite funny.

Wait, there’s a spot of blue. Focus. Focus.

Whoever it is, they’re making their way through the marketplace crowd too quickly for his eyes to follow. Fox is up and running after them before he realizes it, his bony elbows helping him cut through the hordes of people in a way his voice never could. Invisible people don’t bother with, 'excuse me.’

Dark hair and blue seems to vanish behind a leather seller, the stench of piss and death earning the stall a wide space in the crowded street. Fox skids around the corner, picking up speed as the alleyway before him opens up. They’re moving fast, whoever they are. This is not normal behavior, not for some rich, idiot-lord. They tend to linger and lurk around the market, eyeing the pretty sellers until they’re forced to flirt back because this is a lord, and that’s what’s expected of you. Lords do not run down stinking alleyways after dropping a large coin in the street.

Fox has a split second to wonder if this is, perhaps, a trap, before an arm catches him under the jaw, and sends him flat on his back. He has another second to think, ’ow,’ before a shadow falls over him, and something hits him hard in the face.

___________________

The sky puts on a wonderful show as the sun begins its decent behind the mountains once again, but Derek’s focus could not seem to settle on one thing for most of his journey home. Whenever he thought about what happened in town, it was as though his mind simply slid away from the memory, like oil on water. It’s not until he walks through the entrance hall that he realizes he’s managed to walk all the way home without fetching the carpet Mrs. Marten had sent out for repairs. Grumbling at his unusual show of absentmindedness, Derek creeps down the hall and slips into the first empty room he finds. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light of the oil lamps, but when they do, the first thing he notices is the smudge of blood on his knuckles, and a faint stain on the sleeve of his jacket.

Derek can’t, for the life of him, remember where they came from. Surely he would recall a fight? A brush against one of the sickly, perhaps? It is definitely blood, he can smell it. Casting a quick look around the drawing room he’s commandeered, Derek lifts his arm up to his nose and breathes in deeply.

“What on earth are you doing now?” A voice asks, a sneer evident in their tone.

He doesn’t bother to lift his head, it’s only Lydia, after all. One would think she was used to this sort of thing, after the past four years of his presence in the Marten home.

“I dropped the coin,” he grunts, taking another breath. “It’s as you suggested, I can’t remember anything after that.”

“And that explains the sniffing, I’m sure,” She muses, settling down in one of the ornate wing-backed chairs scattered around the room. “You know mother doesn’t like it when you do that around company.”

“You are not company.”

“The company in the dining room, you imbecile.”

That gets him to look up, studying her with a frown. She doesn’t seem pleased about guests, which isn’t all that surprising considering their usual company ranges from the snobbish man-children aiming to court her, to their snobbish parents aiming to get something from her mother. Why Mrs. Marten continues to entertain them, Derek does not know, but it seems to be another one of those Things You Simply Do.

“What is it?” He asks sharply.

Lydia arches a perfect brow, but her scent give her away. She’s distressed by something—something more than the usual annoying guests. When she doesn’t answer, Derek lowers his arm, and pads across the room to kneel beside her chair. “Lydia… come on.”

“I didn’t want it to work,” she admits, at last. She rolls her eyes at his confused look. “The coin bit, I was hoping it would come to nothing.”

Derek stiffens, anger rushing through him immediately. “Why would you even—”

“Derek, it’s not like that,” Lydia quickly insists. “I’m concerned how this will effect you. Don’t look at me like that, you idiot, I’ve seen what this obsession has done to you in the past. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you arrived here, four years ago.”

Derek unconsciously shrinks away from her, or rather, his memory of that time. He had not been… well. His entire family was dead, burnt or cut down by the Argent family one by one. And Derek saw them—was forced to watch as Kathryn and her grandfather killed his little cousins, his grandmother, his younger brother. Until there was no one left, all lost in flame and blood. He still doesn’t know how he escaped—one moment he’s surrounded by fire, the next he’s in the woods, clutching the parcel his mother had shoved into his pocket before she tore her clothes free and ran towards their attackers.

His mother died on four legs, his father on two.

“Derek.”

He blinks away ash and embers to find Lydia’s concerned eyes staring back at him. She knows where he went, she always seems to know.

“Derek, you…” she hesitates, only for a moment, before she sets her shoulders and speaks, “You forget to eat, even now. You drive yourself mad over that stupid mask—and for what? What will you gain from finding them?”

Derek stands, dragging his fingers through his hair until he remembers the smudge of blood, and glares at his knuckles. “I need to know who it is who failed my family.”

“You don’t know that they did.”

“Then where were they?!” He snarls, baring a hint of fangs at her. If he expects her to cower, she doesn’t. Not Lydia.

“Maybe they died in the fire, derek,” she snaps in reply, waving a hand in his direction. “Have you ever considered that?”

“No… no, my mother had the mask in her hands when the attacks began. She said…” he stalls, trying to remember her exact words. “She said she needed them, but she couldn’t remember their name.”

“So perhaps they died before the fire.”

Derek tucks his hands into his armpits, and scowls at her. He knows she’ll see through his posture, but he doesn’t care. She’s pushing his buttons.

“All i’m saying, Derek, is that you need to try to move on from the damn mask and try to find other things to do with your life.” He snorts, she narrows her eyes. “Don’t you dare scoff at me. I’ve put up with this obsession of yours for years, now. I’m the only one who’s stood by you when you run around the city looking for clues. I’m the one risking discovery by using my—ah—'gifts’ to try to track this mysterious person down for you. I’m the one who has been here, watching you fall apart every time a trail leads to nothing, and i’m the one who has to pick you back up again.”

Derek pulls his arms tighter against his chest. “You don’t have to do any of that.”

“Yes I do!” She hisses. “You're—you’re practically my brother, you utter nincompoop. Of course i’m going to help you.”

“Will you, though?” He asks, hating how his voice comes out sounding small. “With the coin?”

Something softens in her gaze, and she slumps into the chair in the most unladylike way. “I will… but can we just… can this be the last time, for now? Just for a while.”

He doesn’t want it to stop, he realizes. It feels too much like giving up, like letting them down again. Derek knows it’s probably not healthy to think like that, but why start caring about that now? He knows there’s something to this coin trick, especially with the way his memory seems to jump about during his journey through the upper town. If he could just… focus, maybe this will be the last time he ever has to search for the traitor who let his family die.

“Fine,” he agrees at last. “After this, I will let it rest. For now.”

The thankful look she sends him makes something uncomfortable squirm in his gut. He’s still not good with the Marten family brand of concern. Behind all their social masks, they’re fiercely caring about those they decide are worth their time.

“Alright, then,” she sighs, sitting upright again. “I will activate the tracing spell after dinner.”

“We could do it—”

Lydia holds up a hand. “No, we cannot. We’ve been blessed with Lord Wooster’s presence tonight, and i’m not leaving my mother to suffer it alone.” She stands, brushing away some imagined dust from her skirts, and moved towards the door. “Go get cleaned up, and be ready before the bell. I refuse to be seated next to him, and only you can save me.”

Derek huffs out a laugh, and waves her off. It’s not till she’s gone that he looks down at his bloodied hand again, and frowns. He promised. He will go to dinner, of course, but that scent… it’s so familiar, yet…

Derek lifts his arm to his face, and sniffs it again. It’s finally starting to fade, the usual scents of the Marten home already permeating his clothing. Just as it grows faint, something clicks.

He knows where he’s smelled it before—a thousand times, steadily growing less and less potent over time. Until there was a scent no more.

The small fox mask his mother clutched in her hands as the first fire arrows fell through the castle’s window. The mask he pulled from the parcel months later, and with shaking hands, nearly tore apart. The mask that sits up in his room, carefully sealed in a dry casket to preserve the leaves and paper.

Derek curls his claws into the palm of his hand, and growls. He knows exactly who that scent belongs to.

_______

To part 2

[hystericalcherries]

Spring Cleaning

This is part of my Camp Kwami series. Check out the rest here!

Nino walks in one morning looking ragged as he slumps in the seat next to Adrien.

The blonde takes one looks at him and asks, “What’s wrong? You look terrible.”

Alix spears a sausage on her fork. “Yeah, you look like you just crawled out of a grave.”

There’s a low groan just before the DJ unceremoniously drops his head onto the table, forehead making a impressive thud when it meets wood. Adrien winces sympathetically and offers a light clap of the shoulder, it turning into a comforting rub and a soft offer of food when his best friend groans louder.

“Oh, yeah,” Alya agrees sympathetically, “I spent all yesterday afternoon cleaning up too.”

Marinette finally looks from her meal, brows furrowed. “Cleaning up?”

Her best friend sends her a look, borderline on surprise and… pity? “Yeah, cleaning up. You know, for the cabin inspection- the one that's, you know, today.”

Nino finally extracts his face from the wood and absently reaches across the table and snatches a muffin from her plate. “Oh man, that's right- I forgot you got the art cabin, Marinette. It must have totally tanked trying to clean that mess up. How'd you even manage, anyway?”

“I don't-” she stops before she has a chance to start, her mind putting one and two together in record time.

Her friends undoubtedly see the exact minute when realization hits, her face opening up like one of Margot and Camille’s books. She claps her hands on her cheeks and abruptly stands, silverware shaking as she nearly knocks the entire table over. But Marinette is far from noticing, head whipping to the small table where her kids sit, already done eating and chatting among themselves, and to the clock bolted to the wall in rapid succession.

“The inspection- oh no, I totally forgot!”

Then she is flying, at her cabin’s table and leaning over them to urge them up and back to the cabin. They sense her urgency and quickly scramble to clean up their table, allowing her to usher them out of the mess hall with frantic hands and tripping feet.

When they finally get to the cabin Marinette wants to scream.

It looks like a disaster zone, taped off and full of hazard signs.

There is glitter everywhere and not a thing in its place; books and loose papers cover the floor, bed sheets still stretched in their makeshift fort, paint splattered across a few windows, and articles of clothing draped across every surface.

Before she has time to process her hopeless despair, her mouth opens and she's rattling off orders like a drill sergeant.

“Camille, you're in charge of making the beds. Liam and Nicholas, the windows have to be wiped- no paint or anything on them. Spotless.” The boys give her a salute, serious expressions on their chubby faces. “Margot- the books, they need to be off the floor and back in the bookshelf. Émilia, you and Milo get to organize the art supplies- crayons out of the sink and into their boxes.” Floorboards creak as the kids run to follow her directions. “Camille, you're on laundry duty- remember, anything that smells like dead fish goes in the basket. Léo, help her. Oh, and Victoire, you'll need to pick up all the excess trash.”

They all burst into action, following her orders as if their lives depended on it.

When the dreaded call comes from outside half an hour later Marinette nearly jumps out of her skin.

“Keep cleaning,” she whispers loudly, taking her time to walk the distance to the entrance. “We can't fail the inspection- we'll lose points if we do. I'll try to buy some time.”

There are calls of understanding from the kids, still running about like ants who've just had their hill squashed. Margot’s foot gets caught on a bed post and she trips, the pile of books in her hands crashing to the floor with a thud loud enough it has Marinette wincing. Léo quickly bends over and helps the girl to her feet, sorting out the mess by the time Marinette reaches the door. She edges the screen door open and slithers her way out of the tiny crack of space, breathless as she takes in her arbiters.

What she sees has her eyes popping out of their sockets.

The entirety of the camp is outside, following the counsellors and head appointees in a sort of procession. She all but groans because great, now everyone will have a front row seat to watch her fail spectacularly.

She spots Alya, at the front of the group, and sidles up next to her. With a quick look to the inspectors, who, thankfully, seem to still be processing the paperwork of the previous cabin, she leans in close and asks, “Um, why is everyone here? Isn't it just a regular inspection?”

Alya follows her lead and leans in until her head touches Marinette’s, stage whispering, “It's because of your little show in the mess hall- very eye catching, as per usual- and, well, everyone wanted to see if you'd make it in time. It's all very exciting.”

Blue eyes trail over the counsellors, pausing a second too long on a particular blond head and having to look away quickly in fear of turning to mush. She swallows nervously, voice contracting a squeaky quality, “Oh.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng, there you are.” The camp secretary, a woman with a neat bun and glasses, walks the three precise steps to the bottom of the stairs, clipboard in hand. “Let us begin the inspection of your cabin.”

The counsellor in question forces a smile, skipping a step to bar their way into the sure-to-still-be war ground. “Um, why don't we start outside? I mean, you've all seen the inside of these cabins- they're all the same and so boring. We could just glance around out here and wow, would you look at those flower beds- I don't get extra points for those, do I?”

The woman takes one look at the flowers, in full bloom and all but bursting out of the box they're rooted in, and says in a clipped tone, “No.”

Then, without further ado, the group steps past her and into the cabin. Marinette makes a surprised nose, something in between a squeal and a shriek, and runs after them. Excuses are already spilling from her lips, colorful in their exaggeration. “So, funny story! A rogue baboon found its way into the cabin last night and-”

But her words die when they meet air, because what in the world, this is not her cabin.

Firstly, it’s too clean. Secondly, it’s too clean.

Her kids stand in a line, posed in, what she assumes they individually believe to be, a respectable salute to the camp heads. All around them is a shocking scene- beds made, suitcases tucked neatly under bunks, dressers scrubbed, and mountains of glitter mysteriously banished to some other realm. It’s not perfect- for there is still some melted crayons sticking to the lone table’s surface and army of pine cones standing guard at the foot of the backdoor- but, by all that is lucky in the world, it is to her.

“This place is a pigsty,” Chloé says, signifying the arrival of the other counselors, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she eyes the walls and the pictures decorating them. “It looks like a paintbrush got the flu and sneezed all over everything.”

Marinette ignores the girl’s words, harsh and semi truthful as they are, and instead looks to the proclaimed camp director.

M. Damocles is as unreadable as ever and she despairs, already imaging the punishment she'll receive for having the dirtiest cabin in all the world (probably a lifetime sentence to mess hall duty). Thick eyebrows looms over wide eyes, giving him a surprised look that is, seemingly, permanently edged into his face, as he silently takes in his surroundings, turning in a slow circle to better survey it all. Her body hunches into itself as she leans in, holding her breath.

Finally, he stops, straightening his jacket with a small harrumph. Leveling her with a stare, he states, “You pass, but only just.”

It's enough for her and the rest of Cabin Ladybug, and they erupt into instantaneous cheers.

The sound of joy is echoed by the many still lingering outside. The camp heads make their leave when the call is made, four more cabins still in need of their judgement, and leave them to their celebration.

Alya whoops and gives Marinette a side hug while simultaneously high fiving Nino. Chloé leaves with a huff, hands waving a fist pumping Kim out of her way; though no one can hear her snapping remarks, drowned as they are in the cheers.

Her kids are the loudest. Liam, Nicholas and David let out matching yells, deafening and animalistic in quality. Behind them, Margaret and Camille are hugging, nearly toppling over when Milo barrels into them in an effort to join. Léo flops onto a bed, slinking to the floor with an exhausted sigh, and sends Victoire, who claps her hands together happily, a victorious grin. Thomas wraps her left leg in a hug, vibrating with excitement and giggles.

“Congrats, Marinette.” She somehow hears Adrien over the triumphant screech Émilia sings to her right. A hand lands on her shoulder, the weight of it making her feel like she's floating.

Normally, she would smile and leave it at that, but she's feeling strong after this win. She was given the impossible and had pulled out on top- granted, it wasn't as impressive as defeating an Akuma, but the fire running through her body in the afterglow of battle is the same. It leaves her feeling lucky.

So, she surges forward and throws herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck in a hug. He stumbles for a moment, surprised, but the blimp is passed over with the light laugh that bursts out her mouth. Eventually his hands encircle her waist, squeezing, and an answering smile graces his lips.

She's never felt happier.