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leotatombs · 6 months ago

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Sarmatian Daughter

Dagonet x Original Character

Chapter 1 - 452 AD

In the year 452 AD, the Roman Empire stretched its iron grip over much of the known world, but its insatiable hunger for power drove it ever forward. Not content with the lands they had conquered, the Romans sought more—more territories, more resources, and more subjects to bend to their will. The vast reaches of their ambition knew no bounds, and their methods were brutal in their efficiency.

For decades, the great Roman generals had set their sights on the Sarmatian tribes, extracting boys from their homes to serve as soldiers in the Roman army. The process was ruthless and unyielding. If no boys or young men were available, the Romans’ orders were clear: take a girl. Yet even in these dire circumstances, few survived the journey to the Roman encampments. The unlucky ones faced death, abuse, or abandonment, while only the most resilient were given a chance to train alongside the boys.

Many years had passed without such a fate befalling the Sarmatian women until midsummer of this fateful year.

On a sweltering day, Roman scouts arrived at a remote village nestled on the edge of a dense forest. Their contingent already included seventeen boys, but Rome’s quotas were relentless. This village, populated largely by the elderly, women, and children, was not spared. Among them were two girls, one aged fifteen, the other in her early 20s. One was tall and wiry, the other small, scrawny, and visibly pregnant.

The commander’s eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the village. The pregnant girl was dismissed without a second thought, her fate sealed by her vulnerability. His gaze settled on the wiry girl, who stood with her head bowed in resignation. To him, she was a potential soldier, though she appeared more suited for domestic life. But orders were orders, and there was no room for sentiment in the eyes of the Empire.

“There are no boys here!” the village elder’s voice cracked with desperation. “We have nothing of value!”

The Roman officers, impervious to the pleas, moved toward the girl. Her mother clung to her, tears streaming down her face. “She is to come with us,” the commander declared, his voice brooking no argument.

“Why? She is a girl—no use to the Romans. She can barely hold herself up! Please, she is all I have.”

The officer’s face remained impassive as he responded, “Get your things. We leave at once.” The girl’s fear was palpable as she finally looked up at him. With her only possession-a horse, the village’s sole means of transport—she was taken. Her journey to the Roman fort in the southern half of Britain had begun, a journey that would test her very will to survive.

About an hour into the ride a tall boy with dark green eyes rode up to the girl. Looking at her before initiating a conversation. She was his age or perhaps a bit younger with hair as like the darkest night, he could see a splash of freckles from her temples down to a small portion on her cheeks. He couldn't see the color of her eyes for at the moment they we downcast and staring at the bracelet on her left forearm. "That's a beautiful bracelet." He said breaking the silence. Her head snapped up and he could finally see the color of her eyes. They were a deep brown but at some points when the light hit them just right they looked almost red, he had never seen such eyes before. She looked at him for a moment before speaking "Th-thank you. It was a gift from my brother." He held out his hand indicating that he wished to examine it closer. She placed her arm into his hand so he could see it closer. It was an intricate piece of leather that had been carved, burned and twisted to depict a horse among the knot work. "He is very skilled," he said amazed by its design, she smiled at the compliment. "Rowan was always creating things like this." Her smile faltered and she grew quite again, the boy noticed her use of the word "was" but didn't press the matter. He smiled again and held a hand out to her, "Dagonet" The girl looked up at him before grasping his wrist and he to hers; "Thea."

——

During their initial days together, Thea and Dagonet found solace in the small, shared moments away from the grueling demands of training. As the years passed, these moments became their sanctuary, where they could connect beyond the rigors of their duties.

Over the next decade, both of them changed in remarkable ways.

Thea’s dark hair, once cropped short, grew long and wild, streaked with reddish highlights from countless days in the sun. She had grown to 5’6”, no longer the scrawny girl she once was. Her body had transformed into that of a strong, curvaceous woman, with a toned physique hardened by her trials. The freckles on her face had faded, save for a few that still graced the bridge of her nose. Her skin bore the marks of her journey—scars that spoke of battles fought and survived. One scar, curving along the left side of her lips, softened her otherwise fierce appearance.

Dagonet, too, had undergone a transformation. Standing at nearly 6’5”, he towered over everyone, including Thea. His once-boyish frame had evolved into a formidable presence, muscles honed by endless training and combat. His hands, roughened by years of wielding swords and axes, and his face, marked with scars from countless skirmishes, only added to his imposing figure. Yet, his eyes retained the softness that Thea had first seen—a gentle contrast to his hardened exterior.

Their bond grew deeper with each passing day. Though they never spoke of it openly, their feelings for each other were evident in every shared glance and touch. They spent their free moments together, hidden away from the prying eyes of their comrades and the harsh gaze of their Roman overlords.

On a particular evening, after a grueling day of drills, Thea sat alone on a grassy hill, the remnants of daylight painting the sky in rich hues of orange and purple. The beauty of the sunset contrasted starkly with the harshness of their daily lives. Dagonet approached quietly, settling beside her without a word. They watched as the sun dipped below the horizon, their silence a comfortable embrace.

Thea’s voice broke the quiet, soft and contemplative. “You know, sometimes I imagine what life might have been if I had never been taken. A small house, a family, simple joys and struggles. It seems like a distant dream now.” She closed her eyes, her sigh a gentle exhale of longing.

Dagonet, his gaze fixed on her profile, responded with a contemplative tone. “I think about those dreams too, but what I cherish more are the people I’ve met along the way—like you. I’ve realized that what matters isn’t where we started but who we become and who we share our lives with.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to ensure their words remained private. “I’ve come to understand that as long as I’m with the person I love, any dream can be made real. And I want to make that dream a reality with you—if you’ll have me.”

Thea opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. Her heart swelled with a mixture of relief and affection. “You’ve always had me, Dagonet. I’ve always been yours.”

In that moment, as the last light of day faded into night, their silence spoke louder than any words. It was a promise of shared dreams and a testament to the love that had quietly grown between them.

——

When the time came for the knights to be paired with their new commanding officers, Thea was one of the last to be assigned. Her frustration simmered as she watched one by one, her fellow knights find their new roles. “I will not be left behind, Dagonet!” she shouted, her voice fierce with determination. “I refuse to be stuck here and grow useless. I am a knight just like you!” Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, her dark hair whipping around her face as the wind picked up.

Dagonet, standing beside her, tried to calm her. “Thea, getting angry won’t help. We have to wait for our turn.” He knew how futile it was to argue with her when she was in this state.

In their heated exchange, they hadn’t noticed the approach of another figure until Thea, caught off guard, spun around, drawing her sword. The metallic clash of steel rang out sharply through the valley as her blade met another sword. Her eyes widened in surprise as she faced a Roman officer, his blade raised defensively.

Realizing she had nearly struck him, Thea quickly lowered her sword, her breath coming in quick, nervous bursts. “I’m so sorry,” she began, but the officer raised a hand to silence her.

“I overheard your words,” he said, his gaze intense. “Is it true that no one chose you?”

“Yes, sir,” Thea replied, her voice steady despite her agitation.

The officer studied her for a moment, his expression shifting from stern to contemplative. “What is your name?”

“Thea.”

A faint smile touched the officer’s lips, though Thea was too wary to trust it. “So, you claim to fight as well as any man? I want to see for myself. You and I will spar. If you prove yourself, I’ll take you under my command. If not…” His gaze turned almost mischievous, “you’ll turn in your sword and return to Rome. I’m sure you’d make a fine wife for some wealthy patrician.” He smirked as he walked away from her.

Thea’s face flushed with indignation. “How dare he!” she muttered in her native language. Dagonet, grasping her shoulders, forced her to look at him.

“Do you know who that is?” he asked urgently. “That was Arthur Castus, my new commanding officer.”

“The Arthur? Rome’s new protégé?” Thea’s eyes widened in realization. Her apprehension shifted to a new kind of fear—fear of what would happen if she bested him.

Two days later, the training grounds were cleared for a crucial match. Both combatants stood ready, though this would not be a fight to the death—only to disarm. Thea’s heart raced with adrenaline, her nerves steeled by the thought of finally proving herself. If she could defeat Arthur, she could secure her place as a knight and forge a path to freedom with Dagonet.

Arthur entered the arena, taking a deep breath as he prepared himself. He searched Thea’s face for signs of fear but found only calm resolve. She stood with a steady gaze, betraying no hint of her inner turmoil. The air was thick with anticipation as Dagonet, alongside Bors, watched from the sidelines. Dagonet’s heart pounded, knowing that Thea’s success or failure could determine their future.

Arthur raised his hand, a challenging grin on his face. “A new challenge,” he announced. “Let’s fight without armor. It will be a true test of skill.” He began to remove his armor, and Thea followed suit, shedding her own gear until she stood in her tunic and vest. The warm breeze swept over her, making her hair dance around her face.

Arthur’s voice took on a taunting edge. “Prove yourself now, Thea, and join my knights. If not, you can either go to Rome and become a wealthy man’s wife or return to Sarmatia.” His smirk was a clear provocation.

Thea didn’t hesitate. With a swift, practiced movement, she charged at him, their swords clashing in a flurry of metal. Arthur, momentarily caught off guard, stumbled back as Thea’s blade met his. They moved in a deadly dance, exchanging blows. Arthur’s sword aimed for her left shoulder, but she ducked, narrowly avoiding the strike. She pivoted and swept her feet, catching him off balance and sending him crashing to the ground.

Quick as a flash, Thea straddled Arthur, her sword poised at his throat. “Women are good for nothing else?” she demanded, her breath coming in heavy gasps.

Before Arthur could respond, two Roman officers seized Thea from behind, dragging her away from the fallen commander. She struggled, her anger and frustration spilling over. “Release her!” Arthur ordered, his voice sharp.

The officers obeyed, and Thea was roughly shoved to the ground. Arthur approached, offering a hand to help her up. “You fought well,” he said, his tone shifting to one of respect. “Will you fight with me and my knights?”

Thea, her gaze shifting from Arthur to Dagonet and back, took his hand firmly. “I will,” she said, her voice steady with newfound resolve.

As she rose to her feet, a sense of triumph filled the air. The battle had been won, and with it, a new chapter had begun.

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leotatombs · 6 months ago

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Deal At the Crossroads

Supernatural OC (No Pairing/No Warnings)

____

This one is sad, not going to lie. I wrote this years and years ago when my mom got a pretty bad diagnosis, and then 3 more followed. This was a way of coping with what I was going through at the time. I’ve recently revised it after my mom passed away and now I think it’s time to share it with the world. I’ve been so nervous to share this as it was a way for me to heal with all the trauma from my mom’s illnesses. It was such a difficult time. Sadly my mom passed away in 2020 from these illnesses but from 2013 till 2020 she put up one hell of a fight and didnt give up even when she wanted to so badly.

So be gentle when commenting on this please. Thank you.

Just an OC trying to make a deal to save her mom. It’s long so buckle up!

Indiana

She stood at the crossroads, just like the book said. The tattered book had been a lucky find on a dusty shelf at a garage sale. The owner had practically shoved it at her, his hands trembling slightly.

“Take it and leave,” he’d said, his voice low and urgent. “I don’t want money. I just want it out of my house.”

The chapter—Chapter 11, to be exact—on summoning a crossroads demon had been oddly specific. They could only be summoned by burying a container of ritual items: a photograph of the summoner, graveyard dirt, a black cat bone, and yarrow if you had it handy. All of it had to be buried at the exact center of a crossroads.

The instructions didn’t say where the best crossroads might be, so she decided to perform the ritual back home, during a visit to see her family. Indiana, after all, was nicknamed the “Crossroads of America” for a reason. Her family thought she was out with friends for dinner, but instead, she was here—kneeling in the dirt, about to sell her soul.

The dirt road she’d chosen looked like it hadn’t seen a car in decades, flanked by dark fields and dense woods. Only the occasional sound of a cricket or the distant cry of a barn owl broke the stillness. Her flashlight cast flickering shadows as she knelt in the middle of the crossroads and began to dig. The earth was hard-packed, but at least it wasn’t paved over, which made it easier to work with her small, rusted trowel.

Three feet down—that’s what the book demanded. Sweat dripped from her forehead despite the cool night air as she finally finished the hole and placed the box inside. Her heart pounded as she carefully pushed the dirt back over it, stamping it down with shaky hands.

She hoped she was doing this right. She hoped this would work.

Nothing else had.

Doctors couldn’t help. Medicine had failed. She’d prayed—oh, how she’d prayed—but it was obvious God wasn’t listening anymore. Her mother’s pain was a constant, unyielding force in their lives, a shadow that grew darker with each passing day. She couldn’t bear to see it any longer.

This was her last option.

Ten minutes passed, and she was still waiting. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, the flashlight beam wavering as her grip on it tightened. Her breath was visible in the cool air, a reminder of how alone she was.

She glanced down at her watch for the sixth time, the glowing numbers mocking her. “Alright!” she finally shouted, her voice cutting through the stillness. “I’m here! I—I want to make a deal!”

The silence stretched, pressing in on her like a heavy weight. She wrung her hands and shifted again, her heart racing. This had to work. It had to.

What would they look like? The thought crept into her mind as the minutes dragged on. The book hadn’t said anything about appearances. Would they be monstrous? Or maybe they’d look like the red, horned devils she’d seen in childhood cartoons? Growing up in Catholic school had planted vivid images of hellfire and brimstone in her mind, even though she hadn’t been to church in years.

Her breath hitched as she realized how little she knew about what she’d just done. Was it even real? Was she wasting her time?

After what felt like hours, she sighed and knelt down again to unearth the box. If this didn’t work, she’d need to come up with another plan—somehow.

“Whatcha doing out here all alone, Sugar?”

She froze.

The voice was smooth and playful, but it sent a chill racing down her spine. Slowly, she stood and turned toward the source. A beautiful woman stood just a few feet away, her lips curled into a sly smile. Her dark hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders, and her sharp eyes glinted in the moonlight.

“Oh, I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, glancing around nervously. She didn’t see anyone else. “I thought I saw… something. Maybe a deer or—or something like that. Must have been my imagination, so I’ll j-just go.”

The woman tilted her head, her smile never faltering. “Don’t you want to help your mamma?”

Her blood ran cold. The words hit her like a punch to the gut, freezing her mid-step. She turned back slowly, her legs trembling. “How do you…?”

“Isn’t that what you want?” The woman stepped closer, “To make your mamma all better?”

The flashlight slipped from her hand as the woman’s eyes flashed a deep, unnatural red.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, stumbling back.

The demon laughed, a low, melodic sound that seemed to echo unnaturally around them. “Isn’t that why you’re here? Because there is no God?”

The demon sauntered forward, her movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. The woman stumbled back, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. Her mind was reeling—this was real. This was all real.

How was this happening? How had it come to this?

But then her mother’s face flashed in her mind—frail, pale, and wincing in constant pain. That image ignited a spark of courage within her. She straightened her back and forced herself to stand tall, trying to calm the trembling in her hands.

“I’m here to make a de—”

“A deal,” the demon interrupted smoothly, her crimson eyes glinting like embers in the darkness. Her smile widened, exposing perfect teeth. “Yes, I know. Your mother’s health for your soul.”

She swallowed hard but nodded. “And my mother will be completely healed? No other disease will take her, and she’ll live a long and happy life?” Her voice was shaky but determined.

“Of course,” the demon purred. “Completely healed. Immune to all other sicknesses.”

The offer was almost too good to be true. She hesitated, her breath fogging in the now-frigid air. “Alright… how many years do I get?”

“Standard is ten,” the demon said, her tone laced with false sweetness. Then her smile turned sharper, almost predatory. “But that’s not how THIS deal works.”

Her stomach dropped. “W-wait, why? What happened to ten years?” Her voice rose, tinged with panic.

The demon’s expression shifted, annoyance flickering across her features. The air around them grew heavier, colder, and the faint scent of sulfur filled her nose. “Oh, sweetie pie, that’s not how these things work.”

The demon’s smile vanished, and her tone hardened. “That’s the deal, sugar. Take it o—“

And then, she was gone.

The woman stumbled back a step, her eyes darting around the crossroads. The shadows seemed deeper now, the night pressing in on her from all sides. The stillness was deafening, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves in the wind.

“Was that it?” she whispered, her voice trembling. She glanced down at her hands, turning them over as if expecting to see some kind of mark. “Did I just sell my soul?”

She didn’t feel any different. No burning sensation, no oppressive weight on her chest. Just the same gnawing dread.

And then, a voice—a low, smooth drawl—cut through the stillness.

“Hello, love.”

She spun around, nearly dropping the flashlight. To her left, where the woman had stood moments ago, was a man. He was immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air around him. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence and amusement, his lips curled into a smirk.

He wasn’t frightening—not in the way she’d expected a demon to be—but the way he appeared out of nowhere confirmed he was anything but human.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice wary and her heart pounding.

The man tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Crowley. King of Hell.” He stated mater of factly

Her breath hitched. “King of Hell?” Her mind immediately conjured up the only king of Hell she’d ever heard of. “Does that make you the Devil?”

He arched an eyebrow, clearly amused by the question. “No,” he drawled. “I’m not Lucifer. He’s rotting in a cage where he belongs. As of right now, I’m the one in charge.” He gestured casually with one hand, as though being King of Hell was just another day job. “And as of right now, I’ll be handling this deal for you.”

She blinked, her mind spinning. “But what about the woman—”

Crowley waved a hand dismissively, cutting her off. “Don’t worry about her. She wasn’t going to give you a good deal.”

Her stomach twisted with unease. “And you will?” she asked, her voice laced with skepticism. “How do I know I can trust you? That you’ll keep your word?”

“You don’t,” Crowley said simply, shrugging as if it didn’t matter.

The air between them grew quiet. He watched her closely, his dark eyes studying every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. She bit her lip, her thoughts a whirlwind. This was her mother’s life on the line. Could she risk this?

Crowley smiled again, slow and calculated, as though he could see the battle waging in her mind.

She was young—just 23 years old—with short dark hair that curled around her face and dark eyes framed by long lashes. Crowley knew everything about her: an artist, passionate about traveling, accomplished in her career too. Far too young to be making deals like this.

Typically, he worked with older clients, people who had lived long enough to feel desperate or jaded enough to gamble their souls. Someone this young? It was unusual. Even the Winchesters, those meddling morons, were older than her when they first crossed paths with Hell. But a deal was a deal.

“You remind me of two idiots I know,” Crowley said casually, his sharp eyes watching her every move. “Always willing to give up their lives for each other. If I had a soul, I might find it touching. You’ll probably meet them soon enough. Some of my dealings overlap with theirs.”

She stiffened slightly, but her expression remained calm. He could almost smell her apprehension, though she hid it well beneath her composure.

“I’m in need of an assistant,” Crowley continued, his voice light, almost conversational. “The King of Hell can’t be expected to handle all his errands alone, now can he? And I thought, why not hire an intelligent career driven individual to help?”

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “You… want me to work for you?”

“I do believe that’s what I just said.” Crowley smirked and started to pace around her, his polished shoes crunching against the gravel. She didn’t move a muscle.

“So,” he said, spinning on his heel to face her again. “Your mother lives. She’s healthy, happy, and will never want for anything for the rest of her life. That’s the deal.”

She swallowed hard. “How many years do I get?” she asked softly.

Crowley’s smile turned sharper, predatory. “Oh, darling, you misunderstand. I’m not taking you in ten years. Your soul is mine right now. You’ll go on living, but you can never see your mother again. Those are the terms.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Never?”

“Never,” he confirmed, his tone unyielding. “As of this moment, your mother will think you’re dead. To the rest of the world, you’ll simply… disappear. You’ll be free to live, but never with her.” He paused, watching her expression crumble, and then added with deliberate care, “Oh, and being my assistant? It will grant you certain… qualities.”

“Qualities?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “You mean like… a—a demon?”

Crowley chuckled. “To put it bluntly, yes.”

Her knees felt weak. She looked down at her trembling hands. “Can I at least… say goodbye?”

“No.” Crowley’s voice was firm. “We’ll handle your disappearance. It has to look authentic. A car accident, perhaps. Something believable. Your mother will grieve, but she’ll heal, and she’ll have a long, happy life. That’s what you’re buying with your soul.”

Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She thought of her mother—no more hugs, no more early morning coffee chats on the porch, no more spontaneous convertible rides or belting out Christmas songs in the middle of July. Her throat tightened, and a sob escaped her lips.

“Shall we seal the deal?” Crowley asked, his tone almost impatient.

She hesitated, glancing around. There was no one else here, just the two of them, alone in the middle of rural Indiana. She wiped her eyes, steeling herself. This wasn’t about her. It was about her mother. Her soul meant nothing if it couldn’t save the person who meant everything to her.

Slowly, she nodded and extended her hand.

Crowley laughed, a low, amused sound. “Oh, sweetie, that’s not how we seal the deal. A proper deal is sealed with a kiss.”

Before she could react, Crowley leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was brief, yet binding, sealing her fate with a finality that made her stomach twist. When they parted, he smiled darkly.

“Welcome to the family, Brittany, I’ll be in touch,” he said smoothly. And then, with a faint whiff of sulfur, he vanished.

She collapsed to the ground, her body wracked with sobs as the weight of her decision crushed her.

————

The next day, a body was found along a rural road—a car accident victim. The remains, charred and unrecognizable, were identified as hers. She watched from the shadows as her mother and stepfather arrived at the hospital to confirm the body. Her heart shattered as her mother’s anguished cries filled the sterile hallways.

————

Three days later, there was a funeral. Some of her ashes were buried in the small cemetery beside her grandfather’s plot; the rest were taken home, where her mother kept them on the mantle. Crowley allowed her one brief return to the house to gather a few things, but there were rules—no taking anything that would raise suspicion.

She slipped into her old room, the familiar pumpkin-spice scent of the house overwhelming her. Her cat, Tally, backed into a corner, hissing and growling. “Tally, it’s me,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It’s okay, baby.” But the cat wouldn’t come near her.

She filled a small duffle bag with sentimental items—photographs, a blanket from Mrs. Shoda, two favorite books, a few sweaters, and little trinkets her mom wouldn’t notice missing. Walking through the house one last time, she said goodbye to every corner, every memory.

Her stepsister’s room was the hardest. The girl was only ten, still so young. She would never see her grow up.

Returning to her room, she picked up a piece of paper and wrote a small note to her mother, finishing it with their special quote: “Let’s fly, McFly.” She tucked the note into her copy of Timeline by Michael Crichton and placed it back on the shelf.

With a final, shuddering breath, she picked up her bag and disappeared, the faint smell of sulfur lingering behind.

Her room would eventually be cleaned out, the note discovered years later. It said nothing about Crowley or the accident—just a simple thank you and a declaration of love.

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