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fandom-imagines-stories · 4 years

Text

Evermore

Simon Basset x Reader

Words: 2319

Summary: While residing in the same house, Simon and his wife could not be further apart. His resistance to love may cost him the only thing he holds dear while he can merely stand and watch it fade.

Notes: I love Simon waaaaaaay too much. I have been dying to write for him, so please please let me know what you think!

More period dramas: HERE

I never needed anybody in my life

I learned the truth too late

From this spot, he had a view of the entire garden. He watched as you strolled between the flowers, pausing occasionally to smell a particular bloom. You used to walk together, but now, he could hardly bear to even look at the gardens. Seeing you there sent a feeling through his heart that he could not rid himself of. It was better this way. The happiness that you had felt in your first few months of marriage was an illusion. Simon knew that he could never truly make you happy, no matter how badly he wanted to. Still, these days of silence ate at his soul.

You felt his gaze upon you before you spotted him in a second-story window. Looking up from the rose in your hand, you held his stare with your own, as if daring him to come out from behind his closed doors. This was the first time you’d seen your husband in two days and even when you had seen each other, it was in passing, shrouded in bitter quiet.

You looked away first, dropping your flower and storming back into the house with renewed frustration. From the corner of your eye, you could see him vanish from the window, probably to disappear into his office for yet another day of avoidance. Through your anger, your heart ached. He never explained his sudden hatred towards you. One night, he simply stopped speaking to you. When you confronted him, he’d shouted and shut himself away in his room. No word between you had been uttered since.

To fill your lonely hours, you walked the length of the house. Clyvedon was a beautiful estate and offered at least some distraction from your empty heart. This time, however, your usual path was interrupted.

“Your grace,” You greeted coolly. It was odd to see him in this part of the house, so far away from his usual fortress. He rarely left his office anymore. “I must say, I am surprised to see you away from your desk. You have been married to your work recently.” You put as much venom into your words as you could muster. For a moment, you thought you saw him flinch.

“Y/N, I understand you are uncomfortable with our current situation-”

“Uncomfortable?” You exclaimed furiously. “You think that I am uncomfortable? This is not an ill fitting dress or-or a pebble in my shoe. I saw you in that window and I couldn’t breathe. Even now, it feels like my heart is trying to leap out of my chest and give itself to you, for maybe that will finally be enough for you.” His eyes shifted to the window, desperately trying to escape your hateful stare.

“You are more than enough for me-”

“Then tell me, your Grace,” You spat, “why you can’t even bring yourself to look at me!” You had raised your voice beyond what was proper, but you didn’t care. You wanted him to see the anguish that this forced solitude was bringing you. “Explain to me how we can be making love one morning and by that afternoon, you can hardly utter a word to me. Look at me, Simon! For God’s sake just look at me.”

Whatever his reasoning for coming to you was lost to him now. He could only hear the anger and frustration in your voice. The hatred you must hold for him. While his eyes finally found yours, it felt as though he was looking past you.

“I presume you will be eating in your quarters again.” Was all he said. The return of his indifference was the final straw for you. Having had enough, you charged off to find the furthest place in the house away from him. Simon watched you go in quiet agony, cursing himself for being unable to shut out his affection for you. He told himself again that this was how it must be. If only that was enough.

Wasting in my lonely tower

Waiting by an open door

He wasn’t sure how late it was, but his eyes were starting to burn from staring at documents all night. He could hardly keep them open. Setting his work aside, he ran a hand down his face, trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes, and slowly dimmed his lamp until the light was gone. When he looked up, he found you standing in the doorway, shrouded in shadow. If he didn’t know better, he’d say you looked like a spirit in your white nightgown and tear stained face.

“Why are you not in bed?” He questioned, only half awake himself.

“I came to…” The words caught in your throat, making them sound garbled and broken. You stepped into the moonlight and composed yourself. “I came to say goodbye.” Simon froze.

“What?”

“I have arranged for a carriage to take me back to London at dawn.” You stared blankly at him, your face sunken and despaired. He hadn’t realized the depths of the misery he had caused you until now. “My presence is clearly unwanted and I feel that we may live our lives more peacefully apart.”

“I see you’ve already made up your mind on the matter.” Simon scoffed, the pain your words inflicted fueling anger. You didn’t reply. Instead, you turned and started back down the dark hallway to your quarters. He caught your arm before you got too far. “You cannot just leave.”

“I see no reason to stay, your grace.”

“You are my wife.” He growled. Finally, your sullen exterior broke away to reveal the anger burning inside of your chest, threatening to swallow you.

“Am I?” You jerked your arm away, stumbling backwards in the dark. “Because these past few days I’ve felt like a stranger, wandering these beautiful halls, looking for something in them to keep me here. There is nothing but emptiness and grief and pain and I cannot-”

He placed a hand on your cheek, your words halting on your tongue. You stepped closer into his touch, a touch that you had been aching to feel for days. Simon dipped his head down, bringing your lips slowly to his own.

His movements were fast and urgent, his lips moving against yours like he depended on you for breath. You felt the familiar feeling rush over you. It was the intense feeling you’d felt so many times at the beginning of your marriage, one you had feared you’d never feel again. But it wasn’t enough.

“Simon, wait.” You pushed back, trying to find anything in his eyes that could explain to you why he’d been acting so distant. “Talk to me, my love.”

He tried. He wanted so desperately to be able to share with you his fears, but every time he opened his mouth he felt like that stuttering little boy again. Your gaze pleaded with him.

“Please, say something.” Still no response. You pulled out of his grasp forcefully, that feeling fleeing just as quickly as it had come. “Tomorrow, I am leaving for London. At least there I will not be reminded how little I must mean to you.”

You gave him no chance to reply, vanishing into the dark night while he furiously went back into his office, knocking almost every paper off his desk. Simon craved to follow you back to your quarters and show you what you really meant to him, but his feelings didn’t matter. You were miserable and it was his doing.

Still, the idea of being away from you, the feeling of abandonment sunk into him like sharp claws. It was dark and grim and kept him awake, pacing back and forth in the confines of his office. That night, he did not get a moment’s rest.

I let her steal into my melancholy heart

It’s more than I can bear

Days passed, each one quieter and darker than the last. You were gone. He had watched your carriage leave from his window, solemn and alone. Each day he waited. He waited to hear the rattling of the carriage, the pounding of the horse’s hooves. He left the door to his office open as if he expected you to walk in like nothing had happened. In fact, he hardly left his office at all in hopes that his waiting would conjure you somehow.

It was the fifth day of your absences when he received the letter. Lady Danbury started by inquiring as to why his wife was in London unaccompanied, but it was the end of the letter that sent an icy fear through his blood. You had fallen ill and had doctors in and out of the house for the last two days. While she did not know the severity of your illness she had heard that you had been bed ridden and unable to take any visitors. She feared the worst.

Simon didn’t waste a second readying his horse and taking off towards the city. It didn’t matter how many hours the ride took, he went on without stopping. His horse sped through the city, having little care for the foot traffic around him. Hastings house stretched ominously over him, adding to the dread filling his chest. He didn’t wait for a servant to open the door, he didn’t wait to be shown to your room. He ran through the halls like a mad man only to find your quarters empty.

“Your Grace?” Your lady's maid gasped, nearly dropping the bundle of fabrics she was carrying. “I-I thought you were staying in-”

“Where is she?” He barked, making her jump. He didn’t mean to frighten the poor girl, but he did not have the patients for explanation.

“S-she’s having tea with Lady Danbury in the drawing room.” The girl squeaked. His confusion was quickly replaced by rage and he stormed into the drawing room, Lady’s Danbury’s letter crumpled in his fist. Your eyes widened at the sight of your husband, sweating and disheveled.

“Simon, what are you-”

“Your Grace, how wonderful for you to join us.” Lady Danbury smiled triumphantly.

“Is this meant to be some kind of cruel joke to you?” He snapped viciously. You’d never seen him this way before and, frankly, it frightened you. Lady Danbury didn’t seem phased. “My life is not a game for you to meddle in!”

“Someone had to show you how much you stand to lose, your Grace.” She said, keeping incredibly calm under the circumstances.

“How dare you.” Simon was seething. “You wretched woman-”

“Simon!” You exclaimed, jumping up from your seat. “A word, your Grace.” You opened the door to the garden and waited outside for him to join you.

“I think it’s time for you to leave.” Simon glared. Lady Danbury stood and walked past him with enviable elegance.

“Don’t lose her, your Grace. Not when she’s finally made you believe in love.” She left without further comment.

Simon finally walked out and you resisted the urge to slap him. Your fists were balled at your sides and you were walking furiously back and forth on the path.

“How dare you come here and speak to my guest in such a manner.” You wanted to scream and cry and kiss him all at once. “What on earth are you doing here, anyway?”

“Lady Danbury sent me a lie in order to get me to come here.” He finally let the exhaustion of his ride rush over him and he leaned against the wall.

“And what lie could have been so great to get you to leave your office?” You scoffed. Simon’s face softened.

“She said that you were ill.” He said quietly, his voice betraying the truth. For those few hours before he arrived were the most terrifying he’d ever experienced. “I thought that… I was afraid I would lose you.”

“You haven’t seemed that concerned these past weeks.” You muttered in irritation. Simon’s face fell.

“Do you really believe that?” He asked with such pain in his voice it nearly broke your heart. “That I am not concerned for your well being? That I do not care if you are hurt or-or sick?”

“What else am I to believe, Simon?” You said, exasperated and exhausted with his constantly shifting moods towards you. “You avoid me at all costs when I am with you, you have suspended any affection towards me, and now you tell me that you came all this way because you thought I was ill? I don’t understand you, your grace, I truly don’t.”

“Everything I have done has been for your benefit.” He stepped towards you. “My affection towards you runs deeper than I could possibly explain and that is why I cannot condemn you to a life cast into my darkness.” His eyes did not look through you now. Rather, they pierced down to your very soul. You stood in shock, trying to find the right words to convey your true feelings.

“Simon…” You gasped, laying a hand on his chest to feel his racing heartbeat. “You are not a shadow. You are the moon. Yes, you have darkness. Yes there are parts of you that I do not yet understand, but that does not mean I do not wish to know you. You are the guiding light in my darkest nights. You are my husband and I love you.”

You wrapped your arms around him and brought his lips to yours. It was like your first kiss, hesitant at first, but soon evolved with passion and need. Simon cupped your face in his hands and vowed.

“I will not hide my love from you again. I will cherish you the way you are meant to be. And I will remind you how dear you are to me every moment I can.” He brushed a joyous tear from your cheek. “For evermore.”

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination; @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado; @suckmyapplejacks

#regé jean page #simon basset x reader #simon basset #Bridgerton #bridgerton imagines #period dramas #evermore

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thoughtsofanexcitedspacechild · 3 years

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The question is inevitable. I stop wiping down the ice cream equipment and look up. For the past two years, that’s all anyone’s ever asked me. Now as I sit here, I realize that by this time next year, I’ll be preparing to move. By this time next year, the question “what do you want to study?” will be answered. The thought of growing up and going to college has always been in the back of my mind, but it always seemed far off. Now as my boss asks me the same question I’ve been asked a million times, the answer doesn’t just feel real; it feels tangible.

“I want to hopefully study something in the arts,” I reply. “I’m hoping to study to then get a job as a concept artist for movies and TV shows.”

"Well, you know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m three years old. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with white printer paper spread out all over the place. Half of the sheets are filled and the other half to go. My tongue sticks out in determined concentration as I finish what feels like my fiftieth self portrait today. I’m still not happy with how the hair looks, but I’m getting better with every one I make.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m eight years old. I wait nervously outside the classroom in the aquatic and community center for my first ever real drawing class. I wait until the door opens and file in behind the rest of my peers into the classroom. I find a spot a little further away from everyone else. Once the teacher begins instructing us on how to draw the basic construction of a horse, I immerse myself into the lecture. Soon enough my anxiety melts away as I immerse myself in the drawing. By the end, I’m not quite satisfied with how my horse looks, but I look forward to the next day. There’s still three more days of camp, and I’m ready to get even better tomorrow.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m twelve years old. I’m sitting with what feels like my entire body sunken into an overly plush floral print couch. I watch as Mrs. Scalabrino, a family friend, teaches me how to make a magic loop with the yarn and crochet hook. “I’ve been doing it all wrong! Now I finally understand!” Deb hands me the yarn and hook and urges me to try myself.

This time, instead of having the hook slip through and make a tiny slip stitch, I loop the yarn though and then pull through a final time to create a stitch.

“I did it! I was doing it wrong!”

“It looks very good! Keep going and you’ll be making full projects in no time!” I smile at her compliment and keep practicing.

By the end of the afternoon, I have a long rectangle of clumsily made single and double crochet stitches, but I don’t mind. I’m proud of my lumpy, uneven, handmade rectangle.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m thirteen years old. It’s my first time at Blue Lake Fine Arts camp, and I’m taking my first pottery class. I’m carefully carrying my freshly reglazed pot to the back room of the pottery studio after fixing it for a second time. The first time it got damaged I had dropped it after molding the structure and the second time someone else bumped into me, messing up the glaze and sgraffito pattern and glazing in multiple places. I stayed after class during my recreation time and painstakingly remolded and fixed the intricate glazing pattern.

At the end of the session art show, I’m called to the front of the crowd of visiting parents and my fellow campers. I’ve just won the Outstanding camper scholarship. My cheeks flush furiously with embarrassment, but inside I’m also elated. Even though the pot wasn’t perfect. I was still proud of it. I worked hard to save and fix the pot twice broken, and for once, that work pays off. I look out and see the faces of everyone who was with me on the journey to complete the piece, and I know that that pot will always be more than a keepsake planter.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m fifteen years old. I lay in bed before my first day of high school. I should be worried about my academic classes, and I am. I can’t stop thinking about the homework for my double paced math class and honors biology, and the more advanced reading we’ll do in honors english this year.

I console myself by thinking about the art class that I’m going to take. By chance there was a scheduling conflict with my social studies credit, and there wasn’t a spot to fit it in. I’d have to test out of the class over the summer, but that meant that I could take Art 1 instead. I stay up and wonder what it will be like. Will it be like my art classes in middle school? Will I finally be able to try oil painting? What about ceramics?

I drift off to sleep anxious, but ready to try all new mediums and make more; to be able to create amongst all the chaos that comes with advanced academic studies.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m sixteen years old. I’m almost finished with what was supposed to be my sophomore year, but because of the pandemic, quarantine has made the past month of march even more grey and dreary than normal. The trees outside droop with the heaviness of the recent freezing rain and the sky is a somber grey. I stare absentmindedly at my computer screen waiting for my last zoom meeting of the day to end.

I return to my painting once I log off of our AP Art zoom. I glare at the canvas in front of me. I hate this piece. Even the dull grey color palette outside seems more appetizing than the same oranges and blues that I’ve stared at for the past three months. It’s the feeling in the pit of the stomach when you don’t feel particularly welcome and you know something is off. The dynamic is all wrong and you infuriatingly search the faces of the people there for an answer but to no avail.

I sigh and start to reach for my paints to force myself to push through to a solution, but set them down. “There has to be another way to get through this,” I say to myself as I open my sketchbook against my better judgement. After a quick image reference search, My pencil migrates from the jar to the page. I don’t worry about making it perfect. This piece is just for me.

I sketch out the figures of the boy and girl and boy in the photo, their arms intertwined in an embrace and their lips in a gentle kiss. I make sure her thumb just skims the length of his forearm and that his hand is placed just so on her waist. I step back. We’re getting somewhere.

Long since abandoned for my previous acrylic piece, my colored pencils feel slippery and foreign in my hand. I reach for the tan and brown colored pencils to start, but the bright fuschia red catches my eye. I cautiously begin to apply it to the girl’s face and neck area. Perfect. I don’t stop until the shadows crossing the girl’s face are all shades of pink and red and the boys silhouette is coated in deep blues. What next?

My watercolor palette sits just inches from my paints. I open it and observe my options. I water down a bright pink, an ocean blue, and my untouched cake of deep purple watercolor. I haphazardly splash the pink on one side and the blue on the other, applying purple to blend the area where the two seas of paint mix. I remember an old painters trick of using salt to make cool backgrounds, and apply a generous amount. The scissors come out next, and I delicately cut the form of the girl and boy out. I paste it right on the background and let it sit under a book overnight to press.

In the morning, I observe my work. It’s not perfect. The proportions on the girl’s arm are off and I never quite managed to capture the folds on the boy’s shirt, but I smile. I love it. This is my piece. No one told me to make this. I just did. It’s for me.

My abandoned assignment sits waiting on the other side of the table. I look at it again. This time I do see what’s missing. Like I did while I was working with the pencil, I need to add more depth. That’s why I hate it. That’s why it felt flat and boring. I set my new opus aside and reach for the beaten up acrylic brushes and paint tubes.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

The computer screen finally loads. I'm exhausted and have just returned from a missions trip to the Dominican Republic, but in my blissful sleep back in my own bed, I'd remembered that AP scores had come out while I was away. The three numbers I've waited for loom in front of me:

AP Spanish Language: 5

AP Language and Composition: 4

AP Studio Art: 4

A four.

I stare in disbelief at the screen. I'd expected a three at best. I rush to tell my parents.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

"Yeah, I know," I respond. "But it's so much more than that to me."

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elleselanguitsansfin · 3 years

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Hello all! Just wanted to share a draft for a short story I'm working on at the moment. The 'planets' (cough cough Luna and Sol) are based off of pre-Copernican cosmology, so this is just my interpretation of their characters in a work setting. There's a lot that I want to change but I was curious about what you thought so far!

“Earth!”

Mercury, the memo-boy, comes speeding down the hallway sending papers scattering across the floor. In his hand is a piece of gold note paper, which I know must have come from the boss’ office, which he presents to me as he skids to a halt. “Boss wanted me to give you this. He said it was urgent.” And then as quickly as he arrived, he leaves, tearing down the corridor.

“Jove, what now?” I open the note and read.

Hello Earth! Sorry about the inconvenience, but I need you to do a task for me. A few years ago I gave someone — one of the planets — a package, and I need that delivered to the address below. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten who it was, but it’s an urgent matter so I was hoping you could ask around for me. I would do it myself, but I’m busy at the moment dealing with administration. Did you hear that the council is planning on revoking Luna’s and Sol’s status as planets, and replacing them with two nobodies called Uranus and Neptune? They’re crazy! Anyways, the sooner you get this done, the better. Thanks!

A mysterious package… Well, I suppose I should go talk to Luna first. She’s my closest friend, after all.

I push past the silver door with LADY LUNA inscribed on a plaque, and step inside the dimly lit room. “Luna?” There’s a bluish glow about, and I haven’t quite figured out whether I find it eerie or comforting.

“Yes?” A soft voice that sounds like tinkling bells echoes throughout the office, and I follow it to find Lady Luna herself in the middle of a pond. She’s standing atop a canoe that looks as though it’s been woven by silver threads, with little blue lights surrounding her head, while stirring the water around her with a long staff. Though I’m not in my office at the moment, I can feel my tides shifting.

“I’ve been sent on a mission. Would you happen to know anything about a package the boss gave you, a few years back?”

Luna looks up from her stirring. “No? Should I?” Her pale face wears a concerned expression, and her fingers dance up and down her staff. It’s a tic she has when she worries about something. Apart from her fingers, nothing besides her long hair and her long white gown moves — I’ve never quite figured that out, there’s no breeze in here.

“No, it’s fine, just trying to find someone.”

Her posture relaxes. “Oh, good. I haven’t heard from anyone but you in a while, actually, I was worried I had missed something.” Though Luna and I are close, she doesn’t talk much with the others. They usually only come to her for therapy, because she’s very calming, but otherwise they avoid her because she also has a little bit of a reputation as a lunatic.

“You haven’t, don’t worry.” Then I think. “Actually, there is a little bit of a concern at the moment… I don’t think it’s something to dwell on too much, you’ll probably be fine, but they’re reconsidering yours — and Sol’s — statuses as planets. I don’t know why, they’ll probably not change anything.” I have no doubt that Luna will keep her position, but I see her face shift and know perhaps it wasn’t something I should have mentioned.

“What?! How could they?! My work is so important! It’s because I don’t talk to anyone, isn’t it? They think all I do is follow you around all the time. I’ll show them! Get out!” Her skin remains the same glowing white as it always does, but her fists are clenched and her face is furious. One of her blue glowing orbs shoots towards me, and I narrowly miss it as I slip out the door.

I love Luna, but her moods are all over the place. You have to watch your words around her.

I walk through the cafeteria with the intention of finding Venus, but Mercury comes whizzing around a corner a little too quickly and knocks us, along with his stack of newsletters, to the floor.

“Hey, watch it!” He sounds mad, but Mercury is much smaller than I am so I don’t really care.

“You should watch it. You’re the one that goes way too fast.”

“Can you blame me? If our maker didn’t want me to go fast, he wouldn’t have given me super speed.” He glances around nervously. “That, and Sol’s chasing me because I stole his favourite paper weight.” He pulls a gleaming golden bird figurine out of one of his many pockets. “How was I meant to know he cared about this bit of junk?”

“If it’s a bit of junk, why take it?”

“I’m a kleptomaniac, I can’t help it. Besides, that’s my whole shtick. If I don’t steal everything, who will? It’s the principle of the thing.

“Right.” A thought occurs to me. “Actually, Mercury, has our boss given you a package or anything to look after? Within the last few years?”

“You do realise that nobody gives me anything if they plan on getting it back, right?”

“So that’s a no. Okay, then, well I’ll see you around then, Mercury! Do you need any help getting those papers?” I ask, pointing to the memos scattered on the floor.

“No, I’ll be fine. See you!”

I make it around a corner before I notice one of my shoes doesn’t feel quite right. I glance down. The lace from my right boot has vanished, somewhere—

I go back to yell at Mercury for stealing my shoelace but he’s already gone, not a single paper in sight.

At the end of another long hallway is an amber-coloured door with a sign reading VENUS. I don’t talk to her a whole lot — we’re quite similar, but she causes a lot of drama in the office and it’s a bit of a pain. You see, the thing is: she’s very, very pretty. By that I mean beautiful, and by that I mean drop-dead gorgeous. Venus has a bad habit of making people fall for her, only for them to get their hearts broken, and I don’t know if she does it on purpose or not but it’s fair for me to dislike her a little bit for that. Right?

I push through the door and the first thing that surprises me is the heat. Admittedly, I’ve never been in Venus’ office before. It’s like walking into a sauna, or a rainforest, or a very humid greenhouse. The second thing that surprises me is the amount of greenery everywhere. The walls and ceiling are obscured by plants in all different shapes and sizes, from tiny cacti to enormous monstera plants. Lying on a chaise in the middle of the room, with a sketchbook in one hand and a pencil in the other, is Venus. A large feather fan flaps furiously beside her, which makes a cool breeze strong enough to ruffle her dark curly hair and occasionally flip the pages she’s trying to draw on. She wears an orange dress that compliments her skin, and it looks like a very fine material. Makes sense, considering how hot it is in here.

I slip off my sweater. “Hey, Venus.”

Venus glances up, and a look of surprise crosses her face. “Earth? What are you doing here?”

“Boss sent me. Do you know anything— gosh, it’s so hot! How can you work in this room?” I wipe my forehead with my arm, and it’s slick with sweat.

“Oh no, come sit here! It’s much cooler by the fan.” She drags me by the arm to her couch, where I immediately feel relief from the temperature. I can see her sketchbook now, she’s working on storyboards for advertisements. Venus has a knack for making things look attractive, hence she’s in charge of advertising and sales.

“Thanks. Do you know anything about a package the boss might have given you? A few years back?”

Venus shakes her head, her frizzy curls bouncing. “No, I’m afraid not. Why?”

I shrug. “He just needs it for something. Don’t worry about it.” I get up to go, but Venus grabs my arm again. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I just…” She hesitates. “You’re so good with plants. You have so many, and they thrive. But I’ve been trying to grow my own and it’s just not working. Are the conditions not right?”

“Oh— well, I think this greenhouse effect is good in theory, but it’s a little extreme and not all plants are suited for these kinds of conditions. Maybe you could set up little areas with different, I don’t know, climates for each? And you could research what different plants need to survive.” I have lots of plants, but they tend to take care of themselves.

“Great, thank you so much! I’ve tried asking around, but nobody really seems to care. Some of the interns are having a competition to see who can get a date first and whenever I try to talk to anyone that’s all that ever gets brought up anymore.” Venus looks both happy with the information but also quite dejected. I never really bothered learning office gossip, I just assumed Venus liked having all the attention.

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Venus… if you want, you can find me in my office and we can talk about plants any time you want, alright?” I offer.

She beams. “Earth, that would be brilliant. Thank you.”

I say goodbye, and leave Venus’ room. It seems I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did.

I plan on finding Mars next, but a clamour outside turns my attention to the window. Mercury zips along the path, the same paperweight clutched in his hand as the one he showed me before. Shortly after he disappears out of my line of sight, a tall, bronzed man in a chariot comes racing after him.

“Sol?” I call in surprise.

His chariot screeches to a halt, and Sol turns to me. He says nothing, but beckons for me to come outside. I crawl out of the window, and jog over to where he is. “Hop on, please, Earth. This kid’s messed with my belongings for too long.”

“I— what?” I’m too confused to register what he’s talking about, so he just pulls me up onto the chariot, cracks a golden whip, and the horses with manes of fire pulling the chariot whinny and start their chase again.

“You called me, was there something you wanted to ask?” Sol towers over me, which would be intimidating especially as I know him to have a fiery temper, but he radiates warmth which makes him seem friendly.

“No, sor— actually, yes. Did the boss give you any sort of package to look after? Within the last few years?” It would make sense if he did. Sol is very responsible and one of the more powerful of the planets. However, my guess is wrong.

“No, he hasn’t. He did give me that paperweight, though, and I’d really like it back.”

I laugh. “I’ll talk to Mercury later. Hey, aren’t you meant to be working right now?” Sol is in charge of scheduling, and he has the important role of being the one to chase the night away. It’s not a job that generally has breaks, so I don’t know why he’s out here.

Sol gives a sheepish smile. “I got Luna to cover for me. The eclipse will only last so long, though, so I’m hoping a few minutes will be enough to catch him.”

“Face it, Sol, the boy is too fast for you. Go back to work.” I pat him on the back and he sighs, before bringing the chariot to a slow stop.

“Fair enough. I hope you find who you’re looking for!”

I get off the chariot, and walk back into the building. Conveniently, Sol has dropped me off right next to Mars’ workshop.

Mars has a heavy iron door with his name on it at the entrance to his workshop. Inside is an array of tools and machinery, some of which looks so obscure I can’t imagine what it could be used for. Mars is toiling away at something metal at the other end of the room, which is made evident by the routine CLANG of metal against metal. I have to shout to be heard over the din.

“Hello, Mars!” The clanging doesn’t stop, but he looks up from his work. A few tufts of bright red hair stick out from under an iron helmet. Whether he’s wearing it for protection, or because he just likes armour in general (he’s a soldier every single Halloween), I can’t tell. I realise that if I want to talk to him I’ll have to be beside him, so I cup my ears with my hands and walk up the room.

“Hello” — CLANG — “Earth, what can” — CLANG — “I do for” — CLANG — “you?”

I grab the metal tool he’s using, so I can talk properly. “Two things: firstly, perhaps you could pause your racket just for a moment?”

Mars looks displeased, but complies. “Yes?”

“Thank you. Secondly, has the boss given you any sort of package recently?”

“No.” With that, the work continues, and my hands fly back up to cover my ears to protect them from the deafening noise. I already knew Mars was not one for conversation. He’s like Sol in the way that he’s hot headed, but perhaps he’s more likely to show it, or act on it. He’s usually behind the biggest fights at work, and I know that’s not a rumour because I’ve witnessed it myself. We keep him around though, because nobody is as good at production as he is.

As soon as I’m out of the workshop, I head towards the elevators. Who else could there possibly be? I’ve spoken with Luna, Mercury, Venus, Sol, Mars… what if he forgot? What if he actually didn’t give it to someone, and just left it lying around? I step into the elevator, because I can’t think of anywhere else it could be, and press the button for the top floor where Jove’s office is located.

The doors open with a cheery ding and I stroll through the corridor. It’s easy to see which door is the one I want: it’s wide open, and all around it are golden decorations in the shape of a grapevine. Without bothering to knock, I march through the doorway. “Hello, sir!”

“Oh, don’t bother with that ‘sir’ rubbish. Call me Jove!” Sitting at an elevated desk is a large man, with sparkling eyes and a rosy face. Jove reminds me a lot of Santa Claus, or Father Christmas, in the sense that he’s always cheerful and loves giving away presents. “What’s the matter, Earth?”

“Well, s— um, Jove. Is there any chance you may still have that package yourself? Because I’m sure I’ve asked everyone about it, and I know I certainly don’t have it, so I don’t know where else it might be.”

Jove frowns, a puzzled look on his face, which is so different from his usual friendly smile it’s surprisingly jarring. “Are you sure? Who have you spoken to?”

“Luna, Mercury, Venus, Sol and Mars,” I recite in order.

Jove’s expression changes from a frown to one of understanding. “Ah, I see. I know who has it — makes total sense, really, I don’t know how I could have forgotten. Then again, I suppose you forgot about him too, didn’t you?”

“Who could I possibly have forgotten?”

“Don’t you remember who works in our archives, taking care of everything we don’t immediately need?” Jove encourages.

“I don’t… Saturn!!” My jaw drops, and I am overcome with guilt. How could I have forgotten about Saturn?! I feel awful.

“Don’t worry about it, dear. It’s not that you see him often, anyways. I don’t think he’s been outside for at least a century.”

“Yes, but still…”

Jove gestures towards a tray on his desk. “Have a biscuit, you’ll feel better, and then go and fetch me that package, please?”

I take one, and walk out to go back to the lifts, but there’s an unfamiliar weight in my pocket. I reach into my pocket, and pull out a golden pen, with bands of different coloured metals going around the cap. A sticky note attached reads ‘For taking notes and remembering things’. It’s impossible to leave Jove’s office without a gift of some sort.

I haven’t been in the basement before. It’s cold, damp and dark, and it’s like a maze with shelves full of old files and peculiar artifacts that haven’t seen the light of day for years. I wander around for a bit, and almost walk past a row of shelves when I spot a figure balanced at the top of a tall ladder, leaning against a bookcase. “Saturn? Is that you?” I call out.

The figure turns, to reveal a wizened face with a long white beard. “Yes, that’s me. And you must be Earth.”

“How did you know? I don’t know if we’ve spoken before,” I inquire.

“No we have not, but I know everyone in this building, or has ever been. In fact, I know everything that has ever happened here in all history.”

“Really?”

The old man smiles. It’s a crooked one, but the one of someone who is very wise. “Really. All records are kept here, and I have read every single one.”

That is unbelievable, but perhaps spending so long down here gives you a lot of free time. “Saturn, Jove gave you a package some time ago. Could I have that please?”

Saturn’s face turns to one of knowing. “It is time, then.”

“Time for what?”

He says nothing, but climbs down the ladder and vanishes into the labyrinth. Mere minutes later, he returns with a package, wrapped in Jove’s signature golden paper and tied up with a simple white ribbon. “Take this and follow the markers in bronze to get to the exit. Good luck, Earth.” With that he’s gone again, and I don’t know if he was wishing me luck with leaving or with the package. I follow his instructions and leave the archives, Saturn just as much of a mystery to me as he was before.

The package glimmers prettily in the lights of Jove’s office. Jove welcomes me back with a shining goblet of wine, which now sits precariously on my arm rest, as I am sitting in a chair opposite his desk.

“Thank you Earth, you’ve done splendidly. Now, do you have any idea what this package is?”

“No, I don’t.”

Jove starts to undo the ribbon at the top. “You see, we were hoping we could increase our audience a little bit, but in order to do that we needed to find a place for them to go. I have been conducting some secret research throughout the company and have concluded that you, Earth, are the best fit for this new assignment.” He opens the package fully, and extracts a small box. “This is for you.”

I take the box and open it. Inside is what looks like dirt. “Thank you?”

Jove chuckles heartily. “It is more than what it looks like. From that, you will be the first planet to have people.”

“People?”

“Humans. They’ll learn to live off what you provide for them, and they’ll be full of wild and wonderful ideas that we planets have never come up with before.” His voice lowers. “They may hurt you. They may forget who gave them what they needed and that they wouldn’t be anywhere without you. However, they will be better with you than anyone else and it is a privilege to be able to host life. Not even I have that. Are you willing to accept this assignment?”

My jaw drops, but I close it hastily. “Of course.”

Jove smiles from ear to ear. “Then take the box, choose a place in your office to put it, and see what happens. I wish you luck, Earth.”

With steady hands despite my nerves, I take the box of dirt — people? — and rush back to my office on a lower floor. It’s a calming combination of blue, green and white, and as I scan the room, my eyes fall on a large green area on the floor where I know I’ve got forests, mountains, deserts and ocean. “Africa,” I decide, and place the little box in the middle. There’s a flash, then I feel a tingling sensation, and the box is gone. However, I look closely, and I can see movement that was unlike anything else I had seen before. I was already used to creatures, but never any that were as apparently developed as these. Already they were moving things around and taking parts of plants to make things. Remembering I told Sol I’d talk to Mercury, I decided I could leave my people to their own devices for a little bit. As I slipped out of my office into the coffee room, I made a few plans.

I would treat them with kindness. Hopefully, they returned the favour.

#writing #english #planets #draft #cosmology #aesthetic #dark academia #academia #light academia #academia aesthetic #dark academia aesthetic #have fun i guess

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thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

Sleepy Hollow - Chapter One

Series Master List

Pairings: Sam x Reader, mentions of Dean x Jo

Summary: In 1799, specialized police constables Sam and Dean Winchester are sent from New York City to a small town called Sleepy Hollow to investigate a series of murders. Approached by the town’s council, the Winchesters discover the local residents believe that the murders are the work of a deadly Hessian horseman whose head has been mysteriously chopped off. With help from the beautiful Y/N Van Tassel, Sam Winchester’s investigation takes him further through the dark wood where more murders have been occurring. What Sam does not realize is that the mysterious Horseman is being controlled by someone in a sinister plot to kill the most suitable men in the village.

Warnings: Canon-level violence, murder, smut, horror, gore and a little fluff for good measure.

Words: 40k

Beta: ilikaicalie

This series is completed. You can read it on my Patreon for a monthly pledge of 2.50. This pledge includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content. >> CLICK HERE <<

New York City - 1799

Despite it’s rapidly growing population, the city is unnaturally quiet at night. It’s nothing more than the looming silence of empty cobblestone streets, bordered by stately buildings.

Through the fog, there’s a rapid clanging bell in the distance. Two constables clamor around the corner with their lanterns held high. They both pause to look at each other, listening before following the sounds and disappearing down an alleyway.

For a moment the quiet slosh of the Hudson River is the only sound. Both policemen stand silent waiting for the bell that begins ringing once again, louder this time. They draw their pistols, inching toward the embankment.

“Where are you?” calls one of them.

“Here! Over here!” comes the disembodied voice of a man. They scurry to the river's edge. There’s a man indeed, waist deep in the water with his back to them. He throws his alarm bell aside, struggling to pull something from the murky water. “I need your help with this!” the man calls out. Both policemen hesitate, wary as they watch the scene before them. “Constable Winchester? Sam Winchester...is that you?” Sam stands up to his full height and turns, eyes piercing in the night. Brow furrowing he nods in confirmation. “None other, and not only me.” He goes back to pulling at a heavy object in the water. “I have found something.”

Acting on his own, Sam drags a bloated corpse from the water, dragging it up the bank. He scoffs, shaking mud from his boot.

“It appears to be a man, or rather was lately a man. Thank you for your help,” he mutters wiping his hands with a handkerchief.

New York City Watchhouse - Jail

The jail is dank and cavernous, it’s Sam’s least favorite place to be stuck in. The walls never fail to bring a sense of impending claustrophobia. The body he pulled from the river is laying in a wheelbarrow manned by the two officers that found him at the river. He watches as the high constable lifts the blanket off the corpse.

The high constable takes one look and waves his hand. “Burn it.”

“Yes, sir,” replies a junior policeman, moving to take the corpse down a ramp toward the incineration room. “Just a moment, if I may….we do not yet know the cause of death,” Sam interjects, appealing to reason. “When you find 'em in the river, the cause of death is drowning.” The high constable chuckles, cocking an eyebrow at Sam. This isn’t their first interaction and he prefers Dean to the younger Winchester who always seems to insist on pressing his luck. “Possibly so if there is water in the lungs, but, by pathology, we might determine whether or not he was dead when he went into the river,” Sam explains calmly. Everyone in the room looks to Sam, aghast at the very suggestion. “Cut him up? Are we heathens? Let him rest in peace - in one piece as according to God and the New York Department of Health.”

Sam is about to protest, balling his fists in frustration, but thinks better of it and stops himself. He’s been down this road before and knows arguing will get him nowhere.

Two new officers interrupt the conversation, dragging a bleeding, semi-conscious man into the room. “What happened to him?” the high constable asks.

“Nothing sir,” the officer shrugs as if the man hasn’t already been beaten within an inch of his life. “We arrested him for burglary.”

Sam watches as the two officers throw the man up against the bars of the jail cell, while another opens the cage door. With their leather batons, they begin to beat the man until he’s locked up in the cage. There’s little justice in the world at large but even less in this place. A sad irony that’s not lost on Sam.

Using this moment of distraction to his advantage, Sam follows the corpse into the next room.

The Next Morning - Flat of Sam Winchester

Dean bounds up winding stairs to his brother’s top floor apartment. Sam has turned his residential flat into a makeshift office and in true style, Dean finds him engrossed in a book, furiously taking notes, sketching the outline of what is undoubtedly some new invention.

“I knocked, you must not have heard me.” Dean quips.

“I heard you,” Sam grins, glancing up from his papers with a pencil tucked behind his ear. “But you always find your way inside with no help from me.”

“What is this?” Dean approaches the desk, bending down to look at Sam’s drawing. It’s all intricate lines and careful measurements detailed in the margins.

“It’s an apparatus for magnification,” Sam taps the paper. “It’s going to change the way we look at crime scenes. I’ll be able to identify the details of a wound and in turn, give a better idea of murder weapons and a true cause of death. Not the guessing game the police would have us play.”

“Impressive.” Dean nods in approval. In reality, he has no idea what he’s looking at. This is Sam’s territory, experiments, and contraptions. “Speaking of the police, we’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”

Sam sits back on his stool and sighs. This is what they do now. True cases of the supernatural are rare. An encounter with a ghastly spirit usually turns out to be a combination of ignorance and old world superstition. Almost everything they come across has a scientific explanation, so Sam’s resigned himself to furthering the accuracy of everyday police work.

Sam and Dean live to disprove and debunk. Their reputation has grown throughout the city of New York. After years of working in private service, they were approached by the city council to consult on the backlog of criminal cases the police were ill-suited to solve on their own. That was a decade ago. Now, past adventures with ghosts and ghouls seem like a distant memory.

Since those first days they’ve long been deputized into the department. Now full fledged Constables they are able to skirt many of the normal rules and regulations that govern most civil servants. The Winchesters get the job done, which has afforded them a certain freedom to work using uncommon methods.

They deal in the dark side of men, flesh and blood, mystery and murder.

City Watchhouse - Court

Sam and Dean march along the street leading up the watchhouse. It’s in the heart of the city, a thriving metropolis alive with horse-drawn carriages and men, women and tradesmen, all a whirl of activity.

“You do not have to come with me.” Sam turns back to his brother. “I could end up waiting eons before they allow me to present.”

“I’ve nothing else to do with my day and Johana is upset with me. I prefer your company.” Dean places a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

They stalk past the men held in chains and gibbets, lined up in front of the watchhouse. Sam takes a breath and bounds up the stairs. When they enter the courtroom, there’s a man already presenting.

Sam loathes this day. It’s the bi-monthly assembly open to the public. Applicants, mostly cranks and eccentrics, present their devices for fighting and solving crime. It’s a joke and only serves to discredit the work he’s doing, important, necessary work.

In the front of the room is a row of city officials, the Burgomaster in the center, flanked by the high commissioner and various magistrates and aldermen. Most of the applicants are crowded onto one side of the room, waiting their turn. Sam joins them holding only his notes. “...and in a few weeks, the plague of pickpockets will be a thing of the past!” A sickly looking man with yellow teeth has the floor, presenting what can only be described as a combination wallet and mousetrap. He holds out his invention, demonstrating how to set the trap spring. “Give me a dozen constables, undercover in an average gentleman’s dress…mixing with the crowds where pickpockets are rife!” The man dramatically pockets the wallet. He then produces a fake hand-on-a-stick and demonstrates the business. “A stealthy hand dips into the gentleman's pocket...and…” There is the sound of the trap snapping shut and the yellow toothed man withdraws the fake hand, its fingers chopped off. The officials wince, as Sam suppresses the urge to groan out loud.

“Thank you. We will take your device under consideration, Mr. Vanderbilt... Next!” The Burgomaster calls out. A large man starts dragging a man-sized cage-like contraption to center floor, while Sam tries to get the attention of the officials.

“Gentlemen!” Sam raises his hand stepping forward, towering over everyone else in the room. “The Millennium is almost upon us. In a few months, we will be living in the nineteenth century!” “Wait your turn, Constable Winchester,” the High Constable cautions.

Sam scoffs, unable to hide his disdain. “These devices are unworthy of modern civilization.” “Quiet!” the Burgomaster warns. “Next, I say!” “Thank you, sir!” The large man spreads his arms wide. He turns proudly to his man-sized cage, whose front lowers on hinges for easy access. The floor of the cage is a steel plate. A writing board for signing confessions is attached to the inside of the cage. “I present to you, The Tomkins self-locking Confessional. This device is cheap at the price and will last for years with just an occasional wipe with a damp cloth. It will close and lock when the villain steps on the floor plate.” “Ridiculous,” Sam mutters to himself, dropping books and papers around his feet. Stepping forward he glances over at Dean who’s hand is over his eyes in embarrassment, he knows what’s coming. “Arrest that man!” “Arrest him?” The High Constable looks around in confusion. “What are you playing at?”

“I accuse him of murder.” Sam thrusts a finger at Mr. Tomkins who stares at him in horror. “What the devil are you talking about, you loon? I haven’t killed anyone!” Sam takes two steps toward him and gives him a violent shove in the chest. The large man staggers back into his cage, which self-locks, and at the same time a head clamp descends from the top, gripping his head. His arms flail about as he yells.

Sam slaps a page on the writing board, offering his own pen. “Sign here!”

“The release handle.” The man inside the cage groans and points to the lever.

“Not until you confess.” Sam raises his chin, looking around the room. There’s a muted uproar from the onlookers but Sam holds his ground, waiting for the man to sign the paper before pulling the release handle. Retrieving the paper Sam holds it high in the air. “I have here a confession to the murder of a man I fished out of the river last night!”

“Stand down, Winchester.” The High Constable stands up, slapping his hand on the table in front of him.

“I will not sit down. I stand up for sense and justice. Our jails overflow with men and women convicted on confessions worth no more than this one. Shall we send even more innocents to the stocks?” The High Constable bangs his gavel until he gets silence for the Burgomaster to speak. “Constable Winchester,” The Burgomaster narrows his eyes. “This is a song we have heard more than once from you and your brother, but never with this discordant accompaniment. Where is your brother?”

“Here,” Dean raises a hand, stepping forward to join Sam.

“I have two courses open to me. First, I can let you cool your heels in the cells until you learn respect for the dignity of my office.”

Sam forces a smile, nodding in tacit agreement. “I beg your pardon. I only meant well. Why are we the only ones who see that to solve crimes, to detect the guilty, we must use our brains? To recognize vital clues, using up-to-date scientific-”

“Which brings me to the second course. Constable Winchester, there is a town upstate, two days’ journey to the north in the Hudson Highlands. It is a place called Sleepy Hollow. Have you heard of it?” “I have not.” Sam’s interest is piqued, as is Dean’s, both men listening intently. “An isolated farming community, mostly Dutch. Three persons have been murdered there, all within a fortnight...each found with their head lopped off.” “Lopped off?” Sam steps forward, eyes narrowing.

“Clean as dandelion heads, apparently. Now, these ideas of yours, they have never been put to the test?”

“You have never allowed him to put them to the test,” Dean chimes in.

“Just so, granted. So you take your experiments to Sleepy Hollow and deduce, er, detect the murderer. Bring him here to face our good justice. Will you do this?”

“We shall.” Sam looks to Dean, both already in silent agreement. “Gladly.” “Remember, it is you, Sam Winchester, who is now put to the test.”

#sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #Sam Winchester Fanfic #sam winchester au

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the-awkward-outlaw · 5 years

Text

A New Adventure - Pt. 4

Motion of Things to Come

Warnings: spoilers

Masterlist

Read on AO3

A week has passed since you found Arthur. He’s adjusted better than you thought to life inside your home. Over the weekend, you even took him to the grocery store for your weekly trip. You told him if it got to be too overwhelming to let you know and you’d leave and come back another day, but he took it very well. He asked a lot of questions that attracted funny glances from a few people, but he seemed fascinated by it.

He was even more fascinated when a guy on a motorcycle zoomed past you on the way home. Despite it being February and still the middle of winter, it was a warm day. Not unusual for Utah. People always take advantage of the warm weather when it comes around.

You can tell Arthur’s getting stir crazy in your home, being cooped up all the time, spending long hours alone while you’re at work. Sage, your dog, is his only company. You feel bad, but you just can’t risk him getting into trouble.

It’s Friday afternoon and you decide to take him for a walk in the park where you met him. Since it’s at the foot of a mountain, he’s welcome to explore it. It’s not pretty by any terms, mostly just dead grass and some dried up sage bushes, dormant in the winter, but it’s still outdoors.

Arthur’s mood picks up quite a lot more than you thought it would as you walk down the street towards the park. You let him hold Sage’s leash (you’ll let her off once you actually hit the park). Arthur doesn’t stare as much as he did when you first met him.

Despite his frustrations at being cooped up, he’s been sweet and kind to you. You know from playing the game he has a quick temper, but it hasn’t shown. Perhaps he’s trying to keep it down because he knows how much you’re helping him, how much you’ve already helped him. He’s responding extremely well to the antibiotics.

Once you reach the park, Sage goes running off, barking wildly purely for the fun of it. Arthur watches her with a fond smile.

You ask him what he watched on Netflix today while you were at work. He’s long since finished that history series you started him off with and has tentatively ventured into more adventurous shows. He recently stumbled into the Planet Earth series and has found it fascinating. You’ve come home the last few days to find him sitting on the couch with his journal in hand, his eyes staring amazed at the animals on the screen.

He talks about the most recent episode he saw, one documenting the migration patterns of wildebeest in Africa.

After a short period of comfortable silence, Arthur asks you about your job and if you like it.

“It’s alright,” you say. “I’m just a processor now.” You explain what that is. “But I only have three more months to go before they decide if they want me as an appraiser. I have to take some classes if they say yes and then I can start working from home.”

Arthur’s eyes brighten when you say that you can work remotely. He’s probably just happy to know he’ll have a companion that can actually talk back.

When you reach the cave where he came out of, with the funny drawing that ended up being the portal that brought him here, you both stop.

“You ever think of going back?” you ask, fearing the answer.

“Yes,” he says. “But I don’t know if I can. Not unless I wanna die.” When you ask what he’s talking about, he admits that a few days ago, he snuck out of the house and went back to West Elizabeth. Everything was exactly the way it was when he left. His horse was even nibbling on the same patch of grass. However, he said the full effects of his TB slammed into him. It was as though he’d never taken any of the medicine. When he returned here, he was back to healing and he did feel better.

“Guess that means that unless I wanna die, I’m stayin’ with you,” he finishes.

Your stomach does a backflip. Of course, you doubt anything will ever happen between the two of you. He probably finds you weird or is just uninterested in you in that way. Not that you blame him. It’s not like anyone’s ever found you attractive, desirable or even remotely interesting.

“So I guess when it comes to your world, it’s like a Narnia thing,” you say.

“A what?” he says brusquely.

“Nevermind,” you say quickly. You’ll show him those types of movies when he’s a bit more familiar with movies that have a lot of CG and thick plots in them.

You keep walking away from the cave, following the natural trails around the foot of the mountain. Sage looks back on the pair of you every few moments, wagging her tail furiously.

“Shit,” you say, looking ahead. Further up the trail, you see a pair of female deer grazing. Sage isn’t afraid of deer at all. Most dogs probably would be because of their size, but you’ve lived out here since before she was born and you got her as a puppy. She’s used to deer and she even likes to bark and chase them. One time though, a doe that probably had a fawn hidden close by got mean right back with her and nearly kicked her in the head. It took everything you had to get Sage’s attention and she ran back with a furious deer on her tail.

Arthur just chuckles. “Ah, I wouldn’t be too worried,” he says. “She’s a smart girl.”

“Yeah, but she has her stupid moments.”

As if to prove a point, Sage looks at the deer hard, sniffs and then looks back at you. She trots back to you and then stares hard at the deer again. Then she gives a loud “borf” and the deer look up. Upon spotting you, they leap away into the grass and disappear.

“See? Smarter than you think,” Arthur chuckles.

Suddenly your hands bump into each other as you walk. You both pass awkward apologies and “it was my fault, you’re fine”. However, you can’t help but feel like your hand’s burning where his touched yours.

The next morning, you take him to the Smith and Edwards Hardware store in the south end of the valley. You love coming here, it has all sorts of odds and ends for decent prices. It’s also definitely a store Arthur would like. There’s hunting gear, camping gear, things for owning and riding horses. And most importantly: clothes fit for a cowboy.

After first meeting him, you bought him a couple of cheap shirts and jeans, but they were generic and, as mentioned, cheap. You could tell he didn’t like them and was fine wearing his blue button up shirt.

When you get to the store and go to the shirt section, you spread your arms and say “Mr. Morgan, go find whatever clothes you like and pick to your heart’s desire!”

“Morgan?” you hear a voice say. Turning around, you find a boy in his early twenties maybe. He’s looking hard at Arthur. “Hey, you do look just like Arthur Morgan! Nice cosplay, man! You’re killing it!”

He asks Arthur to take a couple of pictures. Since you’ve introduced him to the widespread functions of phones already, he’s not shocked by the camera in the man’s hand. He is shocked that he recognized him, but he graciously takes photos with him with a flabbergasted smile.

When the man thanks him and walks off, Arthur turns to you. “A’right, spill,” he says.

“What?” you say, trying to sound dumb.

“How in the hell do so many people know me? You knew my name the second you set eyes on me and so did he. What, am I a historical figure or something?” He scoffs at this thought.

“Not exactly,” you say. You haven’t brushed up on the game or video games at all in fact.

“Listen, Arthur, I know it’s not ideal, but I will explain it all when it’s the right time. When you’ve gotten a little more used to… this world, I’ll show you. You might not like it though.”

He just huffs. “Fine. But at least tell me the general idea of it. I deserve to know that much at least.”

You really don’t want to do this in a store where other people can hear you, so you tell him you’ll explain it in the car.

Arthur just shrugs his shoulders and goes around picking out a few shirts and two pairs of jeans. You browse the isles of vintage candy for a moment, stalling to go check out. How in the hell are you going to explain this?

The inevitable comes and soon you’re in the car, driving home with Arthur. He brings the subject up again.

“Okay, Arthur. There’s something called a video game. Video games are a sort of… type of visual story telling but not like movies. You get to play the main character of the game and kind of experience it as if you were them. Well, a couple years back, a game came out that focused on you after things fell apart in Blackwater for the game. It follows you until…”

“Until what?” he says in a deep growl. This is clearly not what he was expecting.

“Well, until you end up… dying.”

He sighs heavily. “It’s the TB, ain’t it?”

You nod, deciding not to go into the complications of the four possible endings in the game. “Yeah. Then the game switches perspective to John Marston a few years after. It won a lot of awards and people raved that it changed the industry of video games. It made a lot of waves. Think about it, Arthur. You’re famous!”

He sighs again and looks out the window. “Famous for dyin’ or bein’ a damn fool, I guess. I think… Dutch has changed, Y/N. When we got back from Guarma, and when we were there too, he just… liked killin’ folk I think.”

You grab his hand and squeeze it reassuringly before you can stop yourself. “I know, Arthur. I’ve played the game. A few times, actually. And I know what happens to Dutch. But you try. You try your hardest to help him see reason and when that doesn’t work to get John and his family out. You’re a good man, Arthur.”

“I’m not, Y/N. You don’t know the things I done.”

“But I do, Arthur. Obviously not everything, but I know a good chunk of it. I know a lot more than you think, in fact. Now I don’t have a lot of faith in people. Think everyone is out for themselves, more than happy to step on the little people. I’ve been one of them for longer than I care to admit. But trust me when I say I know you and you’re a good man. You may have made some poor decisions, but who hasn’t? We’ve all done things, said things, intentionally hurt people and later regretted it. But you try. You try to do better, to make up for them. Besides, no one’s inherently good or evil. We all have both inside us.”

He sighs again and looks at you as you stop at a light. His hand flips up to meet yours and you swear you feel him squeeze it. “Thank you, Y/N. I got real lucky when I stepped out of that cave and bumped into you.”

You’re glad the light turns green so you have an excuse to look away and hide your blush.

#rdr2 fanfic #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #a new adventure #i'm awkward

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thehoneyjournal · 4 years

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Legend Lore Entry #3: Fafnir the Dragon

Your vision fades, and as it returns you realize you are sat astride a small horse, a giant of a Tiefling riding a warhorse at least two feet taller than your own next to you, a massive two handed greatsword slung on his back. He rides with a practiced ease, the dusty mid morning sun illuminating the cobblestone road in front of you. You turn, feeling a lithe elven frame twist in the saddle, looking backwards towards the silver walls of your home as they shrink into the distance.

“What exactly is the point of this excursion, Lethalin?” The Tiefling growls. I am one of the foremost battlemasters of the mercenary’s guild, and I do not take kindly to babysitting a tiny academic such as yourself.”

I frown at the sun, absent mindedly gauging the hours left until sundown, barely acknowledging the rudeness of the meat mountain to my left.

“Mack, You’re here as a deterrent to bandits, mostly. My magic will be enough protection for us both, but the Order of the Vanir would rather us not kill anyone with our abilities if at all possible.

The Tiefling grunts again, frustration evident with the vagueness of my answer.

“Thats all well and fine, but why me and not some other intimidating fellow? I was to travel to Geldorcraft to aid in the defense of the city!”

This gets my attention.

“Did the guild not tell you anything?”

“Well...” I turn to look at Mack, who is squirming in his saddle with what appears to be self consciousness.

“I may not have been fully listening at the time when they gave my assignment.”

I sigh (quietly- this man has a reputation and a capacity for extreme swiftness and violence).

“We are to observe the dragon Fafnir and attempt to make contact with him, in order to see if he will aid the conflict in Geldorcraft.”

There's a long silence, for at least a mile if not more before Mack speaks again.

“And what do we do if the dragon says no to our proposal?”

I shrug- in truth my excitement at getting to see the last dragon in Midgard is somewhat tempered now that I am away from my colleagues and the safety of the city walls.

“I suppose we will see if your reputation is earned then, Mack.”

This shuts him up for the rest of the day.

The rhythm of the horse lulls me into a dull trance, which we elves are known for. The faint echo and scent of magic lingers on the air from the north, even this far away, a whiff of sea water and something darker, like sulfur or brimstone.

We stop for the night, setting a fire. I find a small stream, filling a pot with water before starting the fire with flint and steel. I feel Mack’s eyes on me, as well as the all too common question coming.

“Lethalin?”

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t you using magic to do all that?”

I grin, a memory of Allana’s teachings coming to my mind from when I was but a sapling, being trained in the great halls of the Order of the Vanir.

“Mack, do you shave with your greatsword?”

He pulls back, a look of confusion on his broad, light purple face.

“What? No! Of course not, that would be impractical and dangerous!”

I wait, but see no resolution or realization in his features. I gesture to the water, which has begun to steam and bubble gently in the night air.

“The fire’s hot. The water’s boiling. Simple tasks don’t require dangerous tools. I won’t use my powers for the same reason you won’t use that cleaver on your back to rid yourself of morning stubble. It’s.... what's the word? Overkill.”

Mack’s expression clears.

“That makes sense, I suppose. Like I can’t lift the heaviest weights possible every time I train, or I’d hurt myself!”

I nod, a quick grin crossing my mouth.

“Yep, that’s it exactly”, I say lightly, my tone giving nothing away.

The following 3 days pass without incident, and I find myself enjoying this warrior’s company. He frequently asks questions about life as a magic user, how it works, what it means to me, and other probing questions. I confess, I began to enjoy his company.

Then we met the dragon.

On the third day, there’s a dull rumble in the air- Mack and I are both on edge, seeing the dull red glow in the distance of Geldorcraft. The last messages had told us that the Goddess had ripped the demon limb from limb and that he had run from the field, but his followers had apparently gone into a frenzy for days after the hell spawns ignoble retreat, and the city’s fate was still very much in the balance.

As it turns out, the rumble was not the battle in the city.

Do you know the collective noun for a group of dragons? The word has not been used for a century, not since the grand culling of the wyrms by our Aesir protectors. The word is a ‘thunder’ of dragons.

I submit to you that a single dragon is enough to warrant this word’s use.

I thought the sky had cracked open, as a blast of wind sent our horses into a panic, throwing me from the saddle, the breath whooshing from my lungs. Mack collected his reins, setting his horse expertly, drawing the sword over his shoulder in a practiced motion, holding it easily in a single hand, facing against a mountain of black scales and wings the size of a galleons sails.

Mack jumps off his mount, his armor causing him to land heavily on both feet. His voice is deceptively calm.

“Lethalin? Now’s a good time to get on your feet. Maybe even to use some dangerous tools.”

I stumble up, feeling a bruise already forming on both legs and my side. For the first and last time in my life, I observe the majesty of a fully grown dragon.

Fafnir’s scales are so black they appear to absorb light. At different times they appear as sleek black steel, other times stone. His teeth are as long as Mack’s sword, his claws the same, and both look sharper as his claws have carved furrows into the stone below him just from standing. A glow at the back of his throat signals to that most famous ability of dragons. His wings spread to either side for nearly 50 or 60 feet. His eyes, shockingly, are a piercing green, and each one is as tall as Mack is. I can feel the magic radiating off of this creature like a furnace, and for a moment I doubt our plan. My fear is forgotten a moment later as an impossibly Deep voice rings out from behind the teeth, the dragon’s mouth and tongue somehow framing language better than I ever have.

“Greetings, Men of The East. I welcome

You to my domain, the vast grasslands of Fafnir, last and greatest of the dragons in Midgard.”

I swallow, feeling the lump in my throat. Mack has stood up out of his fighting crouch, the sword hanging from nerveless fingers, some fell magic working on him, numbing him with fear. I feel it to, but fight it down, saying:

“Greetings to you, Fafnir, son of Bolin. Well met, and we acknowledge your greatness. We come bearing gifts for your treasure hoard, and a request if you will allow us smaller beings to take up any more of your time this day.”

A mischievous light flares, and a breath of wind whuffs from the dragon’s mouth, nearly knocking us flat.

“Oho! Flattery! Tis only natural, for I am nature’s fury in all it’s glory and mastery. Your compliments are well received, young one. What is this gift you have brought me?”

My hands are shaking as I produce a tome

from my bag of holding, written in draconic. I hold it up, stepping forward, feeling the ground shake as the dragon brings one its eyes around to blink slowly and peruse my gift. It reads aloud, seeming to savor the syllables rolling off it’s tongue.

“A complete genealogy of the dragons- 8th edition. A good gift, a fine gift! Perhaps now this rumor and legend of me once being a dwarf will now be put to rest once and for all.”

I nod, breathless. The eye suddenly locks back on me.

“And your.... request?”

I swallow my fear, my voice cracking as I blurt out:

“We wish for you to help us find and kill the one they call Prusias, and to help defend the city of Geldorcraft.”

What can only be described as a frown crosses Fafnir’s face.

“I cannot do this, hatchling. No- I will not. Tell me, who is the leader of your coastal city?”

I wince. “Njord,” I say.

The majestic beast bends down, its eye level with mine once more.

“I can tell you know why this is a problem. Those Aesir destroyed my race. I am alone in the world because of them. My brothers and sisters have left for other realms to avoid extinction. Our race will survive, but we were made here, and our ancestral home is now forever denied for us. So ask me for any other boon, hatchling. I cannot grant what you ask.”

Tears cloud my eyes, and I feel a breath of wind on my cheek before the voice rumbles once more, quietly, filled with sympathy.

“I have watched your race’s persecution with great sadness in my heart, little one. Your kind are so long lived and mysterious to those who don’t understand what centuries do to a person. I am glad that you have found acceptance with your companion here. It gives me hope that you two legs will work things out someday.”

I swipe my hand furiously across my face, hoping that Mack can’t see me- a quick glance confirms the sword is now on the ground, his eyes entirely vacant with fear and whatever magic is clouding his mind.

“Will he be okay?” My voice sounds small even to my ears now. A earth rattling chuckle.

“Yes. He will likely remember this as a terrible dream.”

I look up at the dragon once more. A kinship fills my heart, and I instinctively reach out towards the dragon, touching the scales below it’s jaw. They are warm to the touch, like sunkissed rocks, and i scratch along the jaw, right where I would if Fafnir was a cat.

The green eyes close, and a dull rumble fills the air, a humming that is nearly subsonic, felt but not heard. I do not press my luck or ask again for the favor. The dragon gently grabs the manuscript from where it lays on the ground, somehow cradling it in a paw. It inclines its head to me before launching into the air, knocking Mack and I flat to the ground as it climbs into the air. I watch it leave, unsure if I’ve done the right thing. It feels right. The wounds of a hundred years ago are still fresh to beings like me and Fafnir, and I understand his reasons. That will have to be enough.

#Found Lore #legend lore #Miere Notes

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beeblackburn · 4 years

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Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Two

Forwards and charging onward! Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Where the Fight’s Hottest Point-of-View: Leo dan Brock

In battle, Leo’s father used to say, a man discovers who he truly is.

The Northmen were already turning to run as his horse crashed into them with a thrilling jolt.

He smashed one across the back of the helmet with the full force of the charge and ripped his head half off.

He snarled as he swung to the other side. A glimpse of a gawping face before his axe split it open, blood spraying in black streaks.

.. And what Leo is is a Northman in Union clothes. If we’re less generous with him, he’s Leeroy Jenkins. He’s, with respect to FlynnLevy on TheFirstLaw’s reddit, Leoroy Jenkins!!

A lance shattered, a shard flying into Leo’s helmet with an echoing clang as he wrenched away. The world was a flickering slit of twisted faces, glinting steel, heaving bodies, half seen through the slot in his visor. Screams of men and mounts and metal mashed into one thought-crushing din.

With a title like Where the Fight’s Hottest, we were going to get a fight. This chapter’s first half’s all fight and blood, and, man, there’s that crispness and visceral impact of Abercrombie’s battle prose. I make no bones in saying that he’s hands-down one of the genre’s bests, as far as I’ve read. Abercrombie just knows how to make a blow crunch and chop off a limb and make you feel it, be part of the moment.

And this is a great example of it. Just read how claustrophobic this feels, how much only Leo can register hearing because his helmet’s visor won’t let him register any sight beyond the minute glints and flickers of battle. It’s mostly hearing, because Leo himself can’t see past his slit and Abercrombie appreciates a good tightness of voice. All sound and fury in a storm of violence.

A horse swerved in front of him. Riderless, stirrups flapping. Ritter’s horse. He could tell by the yellow saddlecloth. A spear stabbed at him, jolting the shield on his arm, rocking him in his saddle. The point screeched down his armoured thigh.

Riderless, huh. My god, is Ritter another battle-idiot? At least Leo stays on his horse to slaughter the Northmen! Aside from that, let me draw more attention to the way Abercrombie breaks down his sentence structure: short sentences and multiple commas, each carrying their immediate action, because the battlefield’s not a place where long stretches of thought can occur without a man trying to bash your brains in.

He gripped the reins in his shield-hand as his mount bucked and snorted, face locked in an aching smile, flailing wildly with his axe on one side, then the other. He beat mindlessly at a shield with a black wolf painted on it, kicked at a man and sent him staggering back, then Barniva’s sword flashed as it took his arm off.

Stour Nightfall’s standard. So, does this mean Rikke and Leo are going to meet, considering Uffrith won’t predispose her to Stour and Stour won’t be sweetened by Leo’s loving ax to his men’s heads?

He saw Whitewater Jin swinging his mace, red hair tangled across gritted teeth.

1. Whitewater? So Jin’s born near the Whiteflow? Hm, I wonder if it’s a Name like the other Named Men or just a geographical name. I’m hedging on the latter, but it’s an interesting thought. 2. Red hair, huh. I’m not crazy enough to assume that’s Vitari’s Cas (why would he be up North, anyway?) but, given this is a story where the next generation will be focused on, I’m definitely looking carefully for redheads.

He pointed at Stour Nightfall’s standard with his axe, black wolf streaming in the wind. He howled, roared, throat hoarse. No one could hear him with his visor down. No one could’ve heard him if it had been up. He hardly knew what he was saying. He flailed furiously at the milling bodies instead.

Someone clutched at his leg. Curly hair. Freckles. Looked bloody terrified. Everyone did. Didn’t seem to have a weapon. Maybe surrendering. Leo smashed Freckles on the top of the head with the rim of his shield, gave his horse the spurs and trampled him into the mud.

This was no place for good intentions. No place for tedious subtleties or boring counter-arguments. None of his mother’s carping on patience and caution. Everything was beautifully simple.

In battle, a man discovers who he truly is, and Leo was the hero he’d always dreamed of being.

Well! Leo’s certainly no Jezal. He’s a far more wild and battle-hungry shit, and, in some ways, that comparison both elevates and damns Leo. He’s certainly got the glory-hounding that Jezal had, except backed with some legit battlefield competence right away, but at the same time, there’s something terribly more... hidebound about Leo in a way that Jezal wasn’t at the start. Jezal was a noble ignorant pissant because he just wholesale bought into his station and the assumptions that came with it until reality beat him down later.

Leo’s actively killing people and just loving it. Loving being a hero, loving being a leveller of men, loving the simplicity of battlefield politics, one ax swing at a time.

It makes him a more specific character, writing-wise, compared to the more vacuous nature of Jezal at the start, but my god. Leo is no thinking man here. If anything, the remark of heroes and all this battle fury in him makes me think there’s quite a bit of Gorst in Leo before my first thought that he was the next generation’s Jezal (something that I think holds sort of true, Jezal was also an unthinking dumbfuck who thought he was the best ever).

Time will tell if Leo grows past that...

He swung again but his axe felt strange. The blade had flown off, left him holding a bloody stick. He dropped it, dragged out his battle steel, buzzing fingers clumsy in his gauntlet, hilt greasy from the thickening rain. He realised the man he’d been hitting was dead. He’d fallen against the fence, so it looked as if he was standing but there was black pulp hanging out of his broken skull, so that was that.

Hah! I’ve always wondered how axes blades can stay on, despite so much abrasion and blows. I’m glad to see this, for a change. And, man, those beautiful short sections in-between commas, so many quick beats of actions that don’t linger in the moment.

Also, sheesh, Leo. Was there a thought you ever had before you swung.

The standard-bearer was a huge man with desperate eyes and blood in his beard, still holding high the flag of the black wolf. Leo spurred right at him, blocked axe with shield, caught him with a sword-cut that screeched over his cheek guard and opened a great gash across his face, carved half his nose off. He tottered back and Whitewater Jin crushed the man’s helmet with his mace, blood squirting from under the rim. Leo kicked him over, tearing the standard from his limp hand as he fell. He thrust it up, laughing, gurgling, half-choking on his own spit then laughing again, his axe’s loop still stuck around his wrist so the broken haft clattered against his helmet.

A fight’s some messy shit, guys. It ain’t pretty, and Abercrombie gets across that ugliness while writing some really entertaining, quick-paced, in-the-moment battles, another reason why his fight scenes whip.

Leo ached all over: thighs from gripping his horse, shoulders from swinging his axe, hands from gripping the reins. The very soles of his feet throbbed from the effort. His chest heaved, breath booming in his helmet, damp, and hot, and tasting of salt. Might’ve bit his tongue somewhere. He fumbled with the buckle under his chin, finally tore the damn thing free. His skull burst with the noise, turned from fury to delight. The noise of victory.

No one gets out unscathed or without being downright exhausted. When you’re down with where the fight’s hottest, you end up paying prices for being in the middle of war’s forges, hot and spent and full of fire in your throat and body all over. Though, Leo shoves the costs for the victory in the moment...

He almost fell from his horse, clambered up onto the wall. Something was soft under his gauntleted hand. A Northman’s corpse, a broken spear sticking from his back. All he felt was giddy joy.

No corpses, no glory, after all. Might as well regret the peelings from a carrot. Someone was helping him up, giving him a steadying hand. Jurand. Always there when he needed him. Leo stood tall, the joyful faces of his men all turned towards him.

Ugh. He’s worse than Jezal in some ways! Just sees all the glory, the honor, and the victory and doesn’t mind all the dead he made to get it. Admittedly, they were enemies, and their goal’s likely to kill him (Northmen, am I right), but man, Leo’s really got a toxic attitude to violence and the comparison to Gorst only grows stronger from here, given Gorst’s attitude towards loving violence, no matter the butchered meat.

And it certainly makes him a succinct counterpoint to Rikke, who, at least, felt bad for killing someone. That’s practically a unicorn in the Circle of the World. Leo? He’s all for the violence, unthinking violence. He fits comfortably into the typical fabric of the Circle of the World far more. And I don’t think Leo’s coming out of this better than Rikke, personal liking-wise, despite Rikke having tropes I was never predisposed to.

“The Young Lion!” roared Glaward, climbing up beside him and clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, making him wobble. Jurand stretched out his arms to catch him, but he didn’t fall. “Leo dan Brock!” Soon they were all shouting his name, singing it like a prayer, chanting it like a magic word, stabbing their glittering weapons at the spitting sky.

“Leo! Leo! Leo!”

In battle, a man discovers who he truly is.

He felt drunk. He felt on fire. He felt like a king. He felt like a god. This was what he was made for!

1. Welp. There’s that old familiar Jezal arrogance. Leo and Jezal definitely share some character DNA by both being vainglorious nobles wanting to prove themselves for want of glory and honor. 2. Leo dan Brock, huh? That just means we might get Finree and Hal down the road!! Hell yeah, Finree was one of the best parts of The Heroes! I’ll definitely take more of her!

In the lady governor’s tent, they were fighting a different kind of war. A war of patient study and careful calculation, of weighed odds and furrowed brows, of lines of supply and an awful lot of maps. A kind of war Leo frankly hadn’t the patience for.

A problem with every battle: you got to attend to the stuff in-between the battles, the sheer contrast between the simplicity of a battlefield, the quick beats of action sentences, and the longer sentence structures Abercrombie uses here, full of adjectives and attention to the minutiae, and making it clear Leo’s no longer part of a battle and has enough space of mind to deride all the complications of life past a fight.

The glow of victory had been dampened by the stiffening rain on the long trudge up from the valley, doused further by the niggling pain from a dozen cuts and bruises, and was almost entirely smothered by the cool stare his mother gave him as Leo pushed through the flap with Jurand and Whitewater Jin at his back.

She was in the midst of talking to a knight herald. Ridiculously tall, he had to stoop respectfully to attend to her.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, FINREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

I really love the implication that Finree commands enough respect that others have to meet her eye-level instead of her having to crane up at others. She’s done well for herself in the years to come, I’m so proud!

“We don’t need the king’s bloody help!” snapped Leo as soon as the flap dropped. “We can beat Black Calder’s dogs!” His voice sounded oddly weak in the tent, deadened by wet cloth. It didn’t carry anywhere near so nicely as it had on the battlefield.

“Huh.” His mother planted her fists on the table and frowned down at her maps. By the dead, sometimes he thought she loved those maps more than him. “If we are to fight the king’s battles, we should expect the king’s help.”

“You should’ve seen them run!” Damn it, but Leo had been so sure of himself a few moments ago. He could charge a line of Carls and never falter, but a woman with a long neck and greying hair leached all the courage out of him. “They broke before we even got to them! We took a few dozen prisoners …” He glanced towards Jurand, but he was giving Leo that doubtful look now, the one he used when he didn’t approve, the one he’d given him before the charge. “And the farm’s back in our hands … and …”

His mother let him stammer into silence before she glanced at his friends. “My thanks, Jurand. I’m sure you did your best to talk him out of it. And you, Whitewater. My son couldn’t ask for better friends or I for braver warriors.”

Snrrrk. With good reason, Leo. On a serious note, there’s definitely an efficiency of characterization here and you can tell the dynamic between Finree and Leo here, just from this: the sensible mother and the charging-bull heir. A part of me wants to pity Leo because if Black Dow couldn’t budge Finree after she was kidnapped, what chance do his brash and immature words have?

But, at the same time, wait, that fight was just for a farm? I’m getting ASoIaF flashbacks here, and none that suggest anything good of Leo’s sense of priorities. Not that I expected better of his decision-making, but yeesh.

Jin slapped a heavy hand down on Leo’s shoulder. “It was Leo who led the—”

“You can go.”

Jin scratched sheepishly at his beard, showing a lot less warrior’s mettle than he had down in the valley. Jurand gave Leo the slightest apologetic wince. “Of course, Lady Finree.” And they slunk from the tent, leaving Leo to fiddle weakly with the fringe of his captured standard.

Look on the bright side, Leo, at least you’re not the only one who can be cowed by your mother.

His mother let the withering silence stretch a moment longer before she passed judgement. "You bloody fool."

(Winces) I saw that coming too, and Abercrombie’s got a gift for the sharp dialogue. The succinct one-liner.

“Great leaders go where the fight’s hottest!” But he knew he sounded like the heroes in the badly written storybooks he used to love.

Ah, that good ol’ shading of lesser fantasies. And, yes, Leo, you are kind of a dumb, brash hero from a lesser fantasy conceptually, but that’s the thing: Abercrombie’s not gonna let you be comfortable being just that. Finree’s there to make sure of that, narrative-wise, if nothing else. That’s part of why I read Abercrombie: watching him deconstruct, contort, and twist these character archetypes and poking them with sharp steel from all angles.

“You know who else you find where the fight’s hottest?” asked his mother. “Dead men. We both know you’re not a fool, Leo. For whose benefit are you pretending to be one?” She shook her head wearily. “I should never have let your father send you to live with the Dogman. All you learned in Uffrith was rashness, bad songs and a childish admiration for murderers. I should have sent you to Adua instead. I doubt your singing would be any better but at least you might have learned some subtlety.”

Damn, Finree, no pulling punches, I see! All that frankly needs to be said, but I get why Leo feels his courage turn to jelly before the dominant personality Finree is to him.

Also, this does explain why Leo’s the way he is because there is no way Finree wouldn’t have cut down Leo’s growing ego to manageable size, had he still been with her. Though, whoa. Leo was sent to the Dogman?

That. That means Leo and Rikke probably already know each other. Um. Damn, I can’t see them getting along, not with the way Leo is now, but, at the same time, Finree’s already pressed against the walls, military-wise, and Uffrith’s scorched to ash. They might not have a choice, but to work together...

“Won what? A worthless farm in a worthless valley? That was little more than a scouting party, and now the enemy will guess our strength.” She gave a bitter snort as she turned back to her maps. “Or the lack of it.”

“I captured a standard.” It seemed a pitiful thing now he really looked at it, though, clumsily stitched, the pole closer to a branch than a flagstaff. How could he have thought Stour Nightfall himself might ride beneath it?

Yup, ASoIaF flashbacks. Except, where GRRM doesn’t really sell out the better parts of the actors there, Abercrombie here is just pitiless with how much Leo gets dragged for rashness and being drunk on songs and war.

“Listen to what you’re told. Learn from those who know better. Be brave, by all means, but don’t be rash. Above all, don’t get yourself bloody killed! You’ve always known exactly how to please me, Leo, but you choose to please yourself.”

Careful, Finree, you might drag your son away from him climbing Mt. Ego. We don’t want him exercising sensible judgment, god forbid. Admittedly, Finree sounds pretty “my way or the highway,” but, at the same time, she’s hardly wrong and knows her son well enough to cut him down to size.

"You can’t understand! You’re not …” He waved an impatient hand, failing, as always, to quite find the right words. “A man,” he finished lamely.

She raised one brow. “Had I been confused on that point, it was put beyond doubt when I pushed you out of my womb. Have you any notion how much you weighed as a baby? Spend two days shitting an anvil and we’ll talk again.”

SNAP. My god, Finree’s just a treasure trove of cutting quips here. Though, good to know, at least, Leo knew that dismissive remark was lame as shit. Wish he stopped short of saying it though. Masculine egos getting chopped down makes my day, especially since Leo’s basically mini-Gorst now.

“Like your friend Ritter looked up to you?”

Leo was caught out by the memory of that riderless horse clattering past. He realised he hadn’t seen Ritter’s face among his friends when they celebrated. Realised he hadn’t even thought about that until now.

“He knew the risks,” he croaked, suddenly choked with worry. “He chose to fight. He was proud to fight!”

“He was. Because you have that fire in you that inspires men to follow. Your father had it, too. But with that gift comes responsibility. Men put their lives in your hands.”

Had? Is Hal retired or something? He shouldn’t be that old. Maybe he got a war disability and can’t perform his military duties anymore? Where is he?

And, the thing is, Leo, you’re in charge of them. You can’t keep Leoroy Jenkins-ing all over the place and pretend it’s going to work out because...

His mother’s face had softened. That made him more worried than ever. “He’s with the dead, Leo.” There was a long, strange silence, and outside the wind blew up and made the canvas of the tent flap and whisper. “I’m sorry.”

... There’s a price to charging into a fight. Always.

No corpses, no glory. He sank onto a folding field chair, captured standard clattering to the ground.

Another facet of what I love about Abercrombie’s writing? These re-contextualized echoes, always there to pound the POV in the head about how their earlier selves were so naive and foolish until reality snapped its jaws against them. It’s a cleverness of structure I love.

“He has a wife …” Leo remembered the wedding. What the hell was her name? Bit of a weak chin. The groom had looked prettier. The happy couple had danced, badly, and Whitewater Jin had bellowed in Northern that he hoped for her sake Ritter fucked better than he danced. Leo had laughed so hard he was nearly sick. He didn’t feel like laughing now. Being sick, yes. “By the dead … he has a child.”

"I will write to them.”

“What good will a letter do?’ He felt the stinging of tears at the back of his nose. ‘I’ll give them my house! In Ostenhorm!”

“Are you sure?”

“Why do I need a house? I spend all my time in the saddle.”

Okay, I’ll stop ragging on Leo and give him this: he’s got a far bigger heart than Jezal did at the beginning. He’s a bit of a shit to his friends unintentionally, but once he sees he’s fucked-up horrendously with his friend, he’ll give generously for it. Too little, too late, but at the same time, that’s far more than Jezal ever did back at his start. It makes for a nice dichotomy of Leo being a savage, battle-hungry warrior and too much heart. Leo’s that very thoughtless friend who overcompensates when he fucks up and can’t argue out of it.

"You have it in you to be a great man, but you cannot let yourself be swept off by whatever emotion blows your way. Battles may sometimes be won by the brave, but wars are always won by the clever. Do you understand?”

Intense Bayaz vibes here.

“Good. Give orders to leave the farm and pull back towards the west before Stour Nightfall arrives in force.”

“But if we fall back … Ritter died for nothing. If we fall back, how will that look?”

She stood. “Like womanly weakness and indecision, I hope. Then perhaps the rash heads on the Northmen’s side will prevail and pursue us with manly smiles on their manly faces, and when the king’s soldiers finally arrive, we’ll cut them to pieces on ground of our choosing.”

Ha ha, clever, clever, playing onto their prejudices in order to cut them down. However, I don’t think Black Calder, if I’m right on my theory with him as Stour’s father, will play that easily to that game, given he knows a thing or two about playing weak and docile for advantage...

Also, this reminds me of this saying from Stolicus:

“The ground must be a general’s best friend, or it becomes his worst enemy.”

So, just good military sense, or has Finree read Stolicus? I don’t remember her having read any military geniuses by name in The Heroes, but since she’s taking charge, I imagine she had to brush up, if being Kroy’s daughter didn’t already get her used to a military chain of command and tactics.

She had her soft voice, now. “It was rash, it was reckless, but it was brave, and … for better or worse, men do look up to a certain kind of man. I won’t deny we all need something to cheer for. You gave Stour Nightfall a bloody nose, and great warriors are quick to anger, and angry men make mistakes.” She pressed something into his limp hand. The standard with Nightfall’s wolf on it. “Your father would have been proud of your courage, Leo. Now make me proud of your judgement.”

... Wow, I am slow. Hal’s dead, isn’t he. Why else would she say this if Hal could just tell Leo himself somewhere else? Damn. That’s kind of a blow, considering Hal was a pretty decent guy, and this world sorely needs more decent people. How did he die? I suppose illness or was he called out for the Union-Styria War?

Though, this does explain a lot, like why people defer to Finreee on face value, considering Leo’s probably... wait a second. (consults the timeline) He... should be, at the very least, over eighteen, if not twenty. Why isn’t he already Lord Governor?

It’s interesting that Finree uses a similar hot/cold method of parenting as she did with being a wife to Hal. Withhold a certain amount of affection so, when she actually does let it out overtly, it has more power over the beloved one. Also, Finree, that might be true, but the men who worship Leo probably aren’t worth that much beyond a sword hand. I guess, when you’re short of men, you want anyone who can lift a sword though. (sighs)

He trudged to the tent flap, shoulders drooping under armour that felt three times heavier than when he arrived. Ritter was gone, and never coming back, and had left his weak-chinned wife weeping at the fireside. Killed by his own loyalty, and Leo’s vanity, and Leo’s carelessness, and Leo’s arrogance.

“By the dead.” He tried to rub the tears away with the back of his hand but couldn’t do it with his gauntlets on. He used the hem of the captured standard instead.

In battle, a man discovers who he truly is.

And you’ve discovered you’re a softer heart than you realize, Leo. That’s not really a bad thing. Just means the world hasn’t beaten you down enough yet. At least you know that now...

“Nothing I didn’t deserve.” But Leo managed to smile a little, too. Just for the sake of morale. No one could deny they all needed something to cheer for.

It grew louder as he raised that rag of a standard, and Antaup swaggered forwards, throwing up his arms for more noise. One of the men, no doubt drunk already, dragged down his trousers and showed his bare arse to the North, to widespread approval. Then he fell over, to widespread laughter. Glaward and Barniva caught Leo and bundled him high into the air on their shoulders while Jurand planted his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes.

The rain had slackened off and the sun shone on polished armour, and sharpened blades, and smiling faces.

It was hard not to feel much better.

... Oh, you little shit. Ritter just disappeared from your mind, didn’t he, didn’t he. Were the aesthetics of idealized military really enough to prevent Ritter from entering deeper into your thick skull? Well, I suppose Leo really does share character DNA with Jezal. Two steps forward, one step back!

Like, Leo is definitely an incisive riff on the Original Trilogy because he’s both a lot better and worse than Jezal back then: way more open heart and earnest, less cowardice, classist contempt, and petty humiliating of others than Jezal... also more toxic masculinity and unthinking recklessness that’d make a bull say “whoa, my fellow bull, slow down.”

My god, I’d bang Leo’s head against a wall, if I knew it’d do more than break the wall.

As a conclusion, the first half of this chapter is a treat for the battle-lovers, I’ve went over how Abercrombie’s prose really sinks into you and lets you feel the weight and blow of every swing and crunch, but it’s the second half that shines all the more for me: the dampening cold after the fight’s heat, the messiness after the battle and it makes for a symmetrical structure, compared to Rikke’s first, which was good, but if we’re talking purely chapter craft, I might be more included to say this one’s better.

Though, I will say, I’m not warming to Leo the same way I did with Rikke, even despite how many tropes in her I was ready to be opposed to. Leo’s not a vain cock in the way of Jezal, character-wise. He’s close, but he’s a specific kind of meathead that I just shake my head at. He’s definitely a stronger-written character and he’s not that shitty a guy by comparison, but ugh.

Leoroy Jenkins.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five: A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

#a little hatred #a little hatred spoilers #the age of madness #the first law #Joe Abercrombie #leo dan brock #a little hatred part I

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mithrilwren · 5 years

Text

if we knew the end (would we even start?)

Jester finally takes the Traveller up on his offer and decides to push her relationship with Fjord to the next level, courtesy of some dubiously-moral magical techniques. It goes wrong as quickly as you'd expect: read, instantly.

Warning: fjorjester, but make it angst. look not here for happy endings.

Also available on Ao3!

---

[There are many enchantments I could teach you.]

I don’t know if that’s the way I want to do this.

[How do you know, unless you have tried?]

Well, for one thing, I don’t even know if he feels the same as me. I mean, he would probably tell me if he felt like that.

[I have watched you both, my sweet. His eyes have lingered on you often. Just as mine do.]

…Really? Do you think… he’s watching me? Or he’s watching me?

[Heh.]

Oh, Traveller, what should I do? I really like him, but I don’t think he’d say anything even if he did like me back. He doesn’t like talking about stuff like this. You know; fun, sexy stuff. He gets all flustered and starts biting his lip and it’s kind of cute but also not very helpful. I don’t know what he’s thinking. That’s really frustrating, you know?

[He frustrates you. And yet you love him?]

I didn’t say love . I just… I want him to like me too. Like that.

[And I want you to have everything your heart desires, Jester. It hurts me to see you unhappy.]

I…

[Let me help you.]

I…

[Have I ever let you down?]

No, of course not!

[So?]

Um…

...alright.

[Yes?]

Yes?

[Excellent. You’ll need to get him alone.]

Well, that part’s easy. I’m very charming.

[That you are. Hands like this.]

Like this? Oo, that looks kind of naughty.

[Stay on task, my dear. Now the words.]

Traveller, this is so exciting. I mean… it’s a little scary. But mostly exciting. You know I’ve wanted this for a very long time.

[I do.]

You’re always so good to me.

[It’s only what you deserve. Now, focus. Repeat after me.]

“Bind me now, this heart, my heart, with a line that does not fade.”

The last muttered word of the enchantment draws like a thread from Jester’s tongue. She dizzies with the pounding flow of arcane energy as it pours out of her. It’s beyond anything she’s cast before, anything her fingers know how to shape. The energy has a life of its own, pulling from her chest and her heart and sizzling beneath her skin. It’s not a spell level she knew she could cast. It’s exhilarating. It’s terrifying.

Fjord’s dark eyes glaze liquid black and his hands go slack in hers, and for a moment Jester is desperately fearful her meagre grasp wasn’t enough, that the magic’s gone sour. But then his fingers stiffen and his head shoots up and he’s looking at her with wide eyes and he’s looking and oh, her head’s spinning, she can’t breathe-

Fjord pulls his hands out of her tentative hold and clears his throat. Why couldn’t it be a little lighter in this tent? She can’t see what shape he’s in. Is his skin flushed? Do his ears twitch? Is his heart beating as fast as hers?

“I, uh- really don’t want to keep you up any longer.”

That’s his voice. What’s he saying? It’s hard to hear over the rush of blood in her ears.

“’Night, Jester.”

He’s speaking, but he’s not looking at her anymore. He’s standing and brushing past and stepping out of the tent and Jester shivers in the cold wake of his departure. The tent is very lonely without him.

She gives Fjord five minutes to come back, but the ground is hard to kneel on and she doesn’t hear anything. No returning footsteps, no godly whisper in her ear. Jester balls up her hands and presses them to her eyes. Her head hurts, it hurts, but no worse than the ache in her chest.

Traveller, I don’t think it worked.

[]

Can you tell me what I did wrong?

[]

Traveller?

[]

Can you help me?

[]

Are you there?

No footsteps, no whispers. Her heart starts to slow, just a little.

After another five minutes, she leaves the tent. Not much to see except for the little fire at the center of their encampment, and Beau keeping watch, lazy as a cat by its warmth. She drops down to the ground by their small collection of firewood and Beau eyes her strangely but Jester twists out a smile, holds it until Beau stops looking so closely.

For lack of anything better to do, Jester pulls a little spool of twine from her bag and starts twisting it around her fingers. Her throat feels sore, like she’s been shouting all night long. Like there’s still something aching to come out.

What was it her singing tutor said, those many years ago? Remember your head voice, darling. Make your words dance, light as lilacs on the breeze.

When she finally speaks, her voice peals like summer bells, sweet and unconcerned.

“Have you ever played cat’s cradle? It’s really fun. Here, I’ll show you.”

One loop over the other. Practiced patterns. An easy way to pass the time. Beau relaxes into the simple game, which gives Jester the leeway to let a little bit of apprehension slip onto her face. She flicks her eyes from her hands to the darkness, searching for a trace of familiar dark leather between the trees.

There’s something brewing in her stomach, a sickening roil of humiliation, and disappointment, and something almost like relief.

Maybe everything will be ok tomorrow. It’ll be fine. Tomorrow. Right?

[]

---

The Mighty Nein take a leisurely breakfast when they wake, because it’s a luxury they can’t usually afford. It’s strange, to not be in a hurry. The next errand is a simple supply drop for the Gentleman’s network, a mission extended courtesy of a cryptic letter from an even more cryptic courier. Compared to the fury that was the Xhorhasian landscape and the terror of their barely-successful rescue mission, the endless fields of the Dwendalian countryside are almost quaint.

Homestyle food, the kind they haven’t had in months, crackles over the coals of the dwindling fire: fried eggs, slices of wild green tomatoes, bacon sides spitting globs of grease at anyone who wanders too close, a bushel of aromatic mushrooms that smell of moss and springwater (browning in a separate pan, per Caduceus’s request). Jester’s stomach is too knotted up to be tempted. She nibbles on a piece of hard cheese and watches Fjord from across the makeshift cooking pit.

If anything, Fjord is actively not looking at her, which tells her all she needs to know, really.

He must have just gone back to his and Caduceus’s tent last night to sleep. That’s all it was. So silly to get worked up over just that. And obviously her spell had failed since he wasn’t acting like the tales said he would be, falling over her with kisses and sweet nothings and devotional sonnets. Her toes tingle, remembering all the stories she’s read and heard and spied in her mother’s bedroom.

She considers sending another prayer to the Traveller, maybe we can try again, I’ll do it better this time! but catches the thought before it can escape her mind and find its way into the ether. It’s disappointing that the enchantment failed, of course. Really, so disappointing. But also…

Saying those words last night was maybe the most terrifying thing she’s ever done, and waiting the rest of the night to find out if Fjord was coming back had been pretty terrible too, and this was all a very good idea but maybe, it’s also ok that things didn’t work this time. At least it gives her heart a chance to recover. She’s not sure it could survive another night of it beating so hard.

She’ll definitely tell the Traveller all that, the next time they talk. Waiting can be good! She can wait, to try again. He’ll understand.

Jester offers to take Fjord’s plate to wash for him, just to prove how very ok she is and how she is not being awkward and avoiding him and-

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

Fjord jerks the plate away from her outstretched hands, like they’re dirty, like he doesn’t want them near him. She searches his face, trying to understand the sudden coldness, but all she sees in his eyes is disgust and it stings like a slap. She’s left standing there, frozen, as he stomps away towards the communal basin and begins furiously scrubbing the dish.

Beau’s looking at her again with those piercing eyes, and this time Nott and Caleb are looking too. Jester usually likes having their attention. It feels nice, to have people looking at her. Usually.

“Ok! You got it!” she chirps at Fjord’s back, and tries very hard to keep her smile even and cheerful.

Caleb goes back to his breakfast, but Nott keeps on staring, wide yellow eyes darting between her and Fjord. “Did you and Fjo-”

Beau’s hand clamps down on Nott’s shoulder. “Go bridle the horses. We should get a move on.” She looks at Jester like she wants to say something, but bites her lip and turns away at the last second.

Jester makes sure to wait for Fjord to start loading up the tents into the cart before washing her own plate. Nobody’s watching her now. That’s good. The smile was getting very painful to hold.

---

There’s a fairly established order to how they do things, now that they’ve all gotten used to travelling together. Caduceus drives the cart, with Nott occasionally taking the reins to give his arms a rest. Yasha and Beau trade off lookouts at the rear, and the spellcasters do their studies and preparations for the days ahead on jostling knees, tucked into their separate corners. Jester’s preparations are much simpler than Caleb’s – a few prayers, some little drawings to remind the Traveller that she’s here and she’s listening and that if he wants to talk, you know, about anything, she’s here…

Fjord generally spends the days slouched near the back, making small repairs to their armour and teaching Nott various sailor knots and taking shifts on rear watch. It makes it so easy to steal moments together. She can lean over to show him passages from her books or poke him in the ribs if he looks too sullen or ask him to darn her stockings to see if he blushes.

They’re all just trying to stave off boredom, generally. He’s a good distraction. And there are moments, when their hands brush accidentally after a bump in the road, or when he leans over her to call a direction out to Caduceus, or when he steals her sketchbook to jot down something he’s been thinking about from their travels, that she wants to live in forever. It just feels nice to be next to each other. That’s all she wanted, really. A little bit more of that.

Jester crawls over to Fjord’s side of the cart. Maybe she can apologize for whatever she did at breakfast to annoy him. But Fjord shifts to his knees as soon as his eyes catch hers, then hoists himself over the sideboard and onto the road. “Need to stretch my legs for a bit,” he calls to nobody in particular.

Jester barely catches the flicker of Beau’s elbow jabbing at Yasha’s side, and after a moment Yasha mumbles, “I’ll join you,” and hops off after him.

A fragment of a hypothesis forms in Jester’s mind. It’s a nagging worry that only grows more insistent with each hour that Fjord plods beside the cart, just out of reach.

Traveller, say just hypothetically, is it possible for a spell to do the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to do?

[]

Cause, I think maybe Fjord hates me now.

[]

Please, I know you’re busy, but can you help just a little?

[]

Please?

Cart rides are usually the best time for praying since there’s nothing better to do, but maybe her heart just isn’t in it today. She’ll try harder tomorrow.

---

The delivery to Zadash goes off without a hitch. Their contact is all smiles, pays them well, tells them the Gentleman is out of town on business and not to bother enquiring at the Evening Nip.

“I don’t think he was being entirely truthful,” Caduceus murmurs as soon as the man strolls around the corner. Jester’s not always first to notice these things but that much wasn’t hard to guess.

“Oh, well, maybe the Gentleman will be back next time we’re in town…”

Does she even want to see a father who doesn’t want to see her?

If the answer is yes, does that make her just a little bit sad?

Better not to think too much about it.

It’s Yasha who suggests the bathhouse, of all people. Jester doesn’t really want to go. It was Molly’s favourite place, and it doesn’t feel right to go without him. But if Yasha suggested it, it’s probably fine. She was his most special friend, so she gets to choose how they remember him. That’s just how these things are. She tells herself this, but her stomach is still all twisted up in knots as they enter the elegant building.

Nott pays for all of them, which is ironic at best considering they all know full well she won’t set foot in the water. She’s been paying for a lot of things recently. Says she needs to make it up to them for getting them all stuck in Xhorhas so long in service of rescuing Yeza, and after a while it seemed fruitless to keep protesting.

Jester reminds herself to slip a few gold into Nott’s pouch after dinner. It’s her turn today.

They get a private room, same as the last time, and everything really does seem fine, right up until the moment that clothes start coming off. They’ve all seen each other naked enough at this point that the awkwardness of their first visit feels silly in hindsight. But Jester happens to look Fjord’s way just as she steps out of her skirt, and he freezes, face hardening behind the shirt pulled halfway up around his shoulders.

“…I think I might go back to the Leaky Tap. Not feeling well,” Fjord says finally, pulling the shirt back down. Jester hugs her arms closer to her bare chest.

Say it.

Oh no! Well, whatever you want, Fjord!

Just say it.

I hope you feel better soon!

How long can she keep the group from realizing it’s only her he doesn’t want to be around anymore? Not much longer, if she doesn’t open her mouth and-

Whatever she was going to say is drowned out by a resounding splash and the wave of water cascading over her bare feet.

Jester blinks at the afterimage of a blur of green and grey plowing into Fjord’s legs and sending him tumbling back into the center of the pool.

“Revenge, motherfucker!” crows a fully clothed Nott as she rolls into a half-crouch by the edge of the water, teeth bared in a victorious grin. Fjord comes back up sputtering, his soaked shirt hanging off one shoulder. He pushes the mop of black hair off his forehead, glaring at Nott, and then from the opposite end of the pool a low, dark chuckle begins to echo. All heads turn to look at Yasha, who lounges at the back with her arms spread wide along the tile edge. The faintest of smiles ghosts over her lips.

Jester hasn’t seen her face light up in a very long time. Ever, maybe. Certainly not since before Xhorhas. Her own smile comes a little easier after that.

If Fjord meant to protest more about feeling unwell, the impact of the water seems to have knocked the notion right out of him, and soon enough everyone is in the bath. Even Nott sits crosslegged by Caleb’s head, blowing bubbles through the neck of a brass flute she pilfered from some poor student in the Tri-Spire. Fjord is still keeping his distance, but at least he isn’t actively running away. That’s a good sign, right?

And there are some benefits to sitting on opposite ends of the pool. For one, she’s got a perfect view of what little remains above the rippling water.

He’s still wearing the shirt he was tossed in with, and his pants too. It can’t be super comfortable, but something about seeing that white linen almost transparent in the clear water, clinging to the hollow of collarbones and the divot of shoulders is mesmerizing. Goosepimples rise along the dip of her neck as a cool breeze drifts in from the hallway and she’s staring but she can’t help herself. It’s so hard not to fall back into daydreams, even if the reality is so much farther away than it was two days ago. A hand on her waist, the other wetting her hairline as it draws along her neck, and how nice it would be to return the kiss she didn’t get to feel the first time, to press her lips into the place where the fabric ends and the skin begins, to-

“Time to go, Jester.” Caleb’s hand comes down gently onto the water near her head, and little droplets of spray land on her cheek. She blinks and realizes the pool is nearly empty. The only people left are her and Fjord, who Beau is currently trying to drag out with a slightly less gentle approach.

“Oh, right, ok,” she says, and taking Caleb’s offered hand she clambers up the side. Behind her, Fjord insists he just wants one more minute.

‘Not feeling well’, huh?

Outside the safety of the steaming water, the air is impossibly cold, and Jester pulls her clothes back on as quickly as possible.

---

Somehow they manage to go a week in Zadash without the whole thing ever coming to a head. Sure, they share the same inn and the same meals and the same trips to the launderer’s but it turns out it’s very, very easy to avoid someone in a city. Or to be avoided, more precisely. Everywhere Jester is, is somewhere Fjord is not. That much is painfully clear to even the most unobservant in the party, and the looks get more frequent and more concerned. Eventually, Jester gives up on trying to corner him because what’s the point? The spell that she so masterfully screwed up isn’t wearing off, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

In the end, she spends the week shadowing the Halls of Erudition, searching for an in. She doesn’t take Nott with her because Nott would tell Caleb and Caleb would be upset, she thinks. Tell her it’s too dangerous. Well, it probably is, but she’s lost the Traveller’s favour along with Fjord’s friendship and that’s at least one thing she can work on. How better to prove her devotion than to paint his name across their worst enemy’s doorstep? And really, Oremid Hass can go fuck himself and his shiny school. He doesn’t deserve it, not after what the Academy did to her friend.

Getting in is easy-peasy. One quick Disguise Self and she’s a professor rushing back through the gates for a forgotten scroll, secure in the knowledge the actual professor is headed for the Pentamarket. The guards don’t even question her, just let her pass by, safe behind her waspish mask of feigned worry. She’d thought there would be better security, considering the remnants of rubble that still dot the base of the refurbished spire.

---

The getting back out? Not quite so easy.

There are five sets of footsteps dogging her own, and her hands pressing pink and emerald and maroon handprints into the fabric of the haversack as she hastily shoves the paints into the opening. Two doors to her right and left swing open and a wave of dispelling energy washes over her like a warm breeze. The black robes dusting her feet shimmer and shorten and fold into blue pleats and she’s running faster than she’s run in her life.

In her panic, she almost forgets not to expect the Traveller’s voice when she calls out to him, and that’s a few more precious seconds gone. She ducks down a winding corridor and throws another message to the wind.

Nott, I did something really stupid, and now I’m trapped in the Halls of Erudition and I haven’t got many spells left please come help-

For a second, there’s nothing but silence and the sound of Jester’s heavy breathing, and empty walls on all sides. She throws herself into the shadow of a curtained alcove just in time to hear the reply.

We’re coming for you, Jester! Just hang on!

And she’s hanging onto it, that last thought, when the hands reach through the fabric and pull her back into the light, and her bones lock in place, and she can’t move her mouth to scream.

---

Jester’s cell has no windows.

The stone beneath her skirt is slick with the condensation that drips from the low ceiling, and she sketches little animals in the pitted surface of the floor with her finger: a menagerie of familiar faces. She used to draw on her walls when she was younger, filling the empty space with forests of strange creatures, every single one with its own name and history. Then her mama gave her that first set of paints and papers, and she filled books with her imaginary friends instead.

She thinks she was unconscious when they brought her in here. That archmage knocked her out with a snap of his fingers, and now she’s in a cell. She doesn’t know where.

The mage didn’t ask any questions about Caleb. He thought she was just a common hoodlum, looking for kicks or credibility for having broken into such a prestigious school. She made sure he thought that. See, Beau? She is really, very good at lying.

“You definitely are, Jester,” she whispers to herself in a deeper tone, and adds the curl of a ribbon to the lion’s topknot before wiping the drawing away and starting another.

Given enough time, she could probably carve a stone out of the wall. Make her own little window into what lies beyond this little room. She’s done it before. She’ll do it again, if she has to. But she’s too tired tonight.

The faint runes inscribed into the metal around her wrists are cool to her cheek as she lays her head on her hands. No magic, no messages while these things are on. At least they didn’t gag her. She’s not sure she could bear that, not with the taste of Lorenzo’s iron bit still curdling in her mouth each time she lets herself think too long about chains.

Traveller?

[]

If he didn’t come to her rescue then, why would he come now? This isn’t nearly as bad as that time. At least now it’s only her she has to worry about, not Yasha’s ragged breathing from the adjacent cell or Fjord’s nervous groaning at her side.

And somebody will come check on her eventually. They have to. This is civilized society.

Probably.

She really doesn’t know where she is.

Another drawing. Caleb takes up two whole stones, and by the time she’s finished the soft sweep of his tail the feline points of his ears have all but faded back into the grey. She starts again, lets her eyes slip closed, welcomes the darkness.

In her dreams, the drawing comes alive. Claws grip the mortar by her cheek and scramble their way out of the stone, and then there’s a cat sitting in front of her. It mews softly, insistently. Wake up, Jester. Wake up. The cat’s yellow eyes blink, and she blinks back. When she reaches her fingers out to pet the creature, the shape is right but the hair feels all wrong – wiry and tangled instead of thick and soft.

What was-

“Jester, wakeupwakeupwakeUP!”

Jester opens her eyes, and the yellow eyes squeeze shut in relief.

“Nott? You came?”

“Promised, didn’t I?”

Nott starts to work on her handcuffs with a lockpick and Jester lays there, staring past her shoulder and watching the flick of a speckled tail bounce in and out through the slit beneath the cell door. That means Caleb’s not far away, and the others too. They’re here, sticking their necks out to fix her screw up. Nott is risking capture and probably execution to rescue her from a cell of her own making.

It feels so good to be loved. It hurts so much.

---

“That was reckless, even for you.”

Jester tucks her hands beneath her thighs, hiding them under her nightgown. Her feet don’t dangle from the bed, but it’s a near thing. She watches Beau pace as she unwraps the blue linen from around her wrists in long, winding circles.

“I don’t want to tell you what to do-”

Please tell me what to do, Beau, I don’t know what to do .

“-but could you leave off the sacrilege for a while? For the rest of this trip, at least.”

“Are you mad at me, Beau?” Beau always says things honestly, and she wants to hear it, even if it hurts to know the answer. Better to know than to wait in silence. That way, she can start fixing things, somehow.

Beau stops pacing and flops down onto her back by Jester on the bed. “I’m… worried about you, Jessie.”

Jester laughs. “I’m fine, Beau.”

“You’re not. You’ve been acting very not fine since we left Alfield.” She catches Jester’s eye. “Fjord too.”

Oh. So that secret is out. If Beau caught on, then the rest are sure to follow. Her heart is starting to beat too fast again.

“I saw you two. That night? You were alone in that tent for, like, twenty minutes before Fjord came out. Did something happen?”

“We were talking,” Jester says weakly. “Just talking.”

“Mhm,” Beau says. “Sure.”

And they were just talking, only she’d been talking to the Traveller too, and he’d told her what to say and what to do and how to do it, and every word was perfect but she still messed it up somehow, how was that even possible-

“Look. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But talk to someone. Tell Nott. Hell, drag Caduceus out for a stroll, he lives to stick his nose in other people’s drama.” Beau puts her hands behind her head and stares up at the ceiling. “Or, you know. I’m still here, Jester. Whenever you need me. I’m here.”

“Ok,” Jester says. Her voice sounds small, far off. “Thanks, Beau.”

“Anytime.”

Beau eventually curls onto her side and Jester follows suit, and when Beau puts her hand out, palm up, Jester threads their fingers together without a second thought. This is something she was offered. This is something she’s allowed to take. She’s starting to suspect all of this is punishment for not making the distinction sooner.

---

They spend their last night in Zadash in the Silken Terrace, because they can. Breakfasts and baths and soft beds, all in the course of a week. It should be the best week of Jester’s life. It really, really isn’t.

There are only four rooms left at the inn, but that’s par for the course. The usual roommate assignments split off, but so does Yasha for the evening, and suddenly they have a one room surplus. Caduceus offers to take it to give Fjord a little more space from their usual cramped arrangement, and Jester is stupidly grateful because she didn’t want Beau to jump at the chance and force her to admit she’d really rather not be alone tonight.

It’s late by the time they get checked in and finish dinner and Jester nearly forgets to run and check the mail for anything from the Ruby. To her delight, a little package is waiting. Crinoline and silk wrap another vial of purple ink and an embroidered sash that matches the silver in the tips of her horns. Smiling genuinely for the first time in days, she bounces back to the table. Caduceus is the only one left, still sipping on the dregs of his tea.

“Oh,” he calls out to her. “Beau wanted me to tell you that you two are in room 3 now, up in the terrace. Something about another guest getting sick and leaving early.”

“Ok! Thanks for letting me know,” That’s fine, Beau had the key anyway. She bids Caduceus goodnight with a soft kiss on his cheek and runs up to the third floor, darting around a pair of escorts as they make their way back down to the lobby.

Room 3, Room 3… the door is on the left side of the hall, and when Jester turns the handle it swings open easily. “I’m coming in, Beau, turn around if you’re naked-”

The door closes behind her with a click, and she finds herself face to face with a familiar half-orc who looks at her like an apparition of death itself.

“Um,” he says. Jester flushes. He’s got his leathers off, and all that’s left is his white undershirt and dark trousers, and he’s halfway through unlacing his boots, and the sheets are silken and expensive and the furniture refined and the carpet lush beneath her leather soles.

She indulges herself in a wave of self-pity. Isn’t this how it was supposed to end? Fjord would lay her down on a bed like this, hike her skirts up and kiss her senseless against the pillows, and there would be only one name on her lips and it would be his, before it’s swallowed again in the press of his mouth. That’s what she was promised. The books said she could have it. The Traveller said she could have it. She’d spied her mother having it twice daily through the hole in the curtains. Isn’t she deserving of love?

Fjord just sits there, watching her warily. Jester opens and closes her mouth like a fish, flailing for what to say. I’m sorry, Beau’s playing a silly prank, haha, I’m going to go now… And then she’s stuck heading back to her room and avoiding Beau’s pointed questions for the rest of the night.

No.

She’s not going to leave it like this.

“Fjord,” she says, and takes a step forward. He’s still watching her. That’s good. She takes another step and sits down on the bed beside him. The mattress shifts as he inches a little farther from her. Not quite as good, but he’s not running away. “Why are you mad at me?”

It’s better to know. It’s always better to know.

He chuckles, a low, derisive sound, and it stings till she looks at his face and sees that he’s got his chin buried in his hands, fingers pressing against the place where his tusks are just barely starting to grow in, and he doesn’t look angry. He just looks sad .

“Jester, I’m not… I’m not mad at you. I know I’ve been snappish, and that’s not fair to you, but… I’m not mad. I promise.”

“Then why? Why don’t you like me anymore, Fjord?”

Fjord shudders, pressing his face deeper into his hands. The sharp edge of his tusk starts to dig dangerously deep into the skin of his thumb, and a small prick of red blossoms at the point. “That’s not… the issue, Jester.”

“Then why,” and she reaches out to his hand, to try and get him to stop pressing so hard just for a second, but he pulls away just as quickly.

“ Don’t ,” he growls, but she’s quicker than him and she manages to wrench the hand away and in return he grabs her wrist and shoves her back onto the mattress and then he’s over her, and it’s nothing at all like the stories, and Jester is suddenly afraid in a way she’s never felt before as Fjord’s eyes grow wild and his hand presses her deeper down into the sheets.

“Fjord?” she whispers, and he shudders and lets go of her wrist before scrambling backwards.

“I’m not… feeling well, Jess,” he mutters. “You need to go.”

“You look pretty healthy to me,” and she’s not stupid, she knows what he meant, and neither of them laugh. Jester pushes herself up until she’s sitting, facing Fjord as he curls back down into the same hunched form.

“… You’re not going to go away, are you?”

“Never,” she says.

Fjord shudders again, forcing his words out through gritted teeth. “You remember that night, back in Felderwyn? That one, fuck, when Nott took us to the river?”

“Yeah,” says Jester. “Of course I do, Fjord.”

“You asked Beau if she was secretly in love with you, and it was a real funny joke. And then you asked Caleb. And that’s the moment when I realized what a fool I’d been.” His laugh is harsh, biting with reproach. “You were telling me all along, weren’t you, that it was a joke? The Oscar thing, and the offers, all of it. And I still-”

Fjord chokes off on the word and Jester doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand-

“I didn’t let myself admit it, not until that night in the tent. Think I was trying to hold off the inevitable. But I- I want you, Jester. I want you like I didn’t know I could ever want anything in my life.”

Jester feels her breath leave her body. Fjord… wants… “Oh,” she says.

Fjord curls his lip over his teeth. “It’s disgusting. ”

A second shockwave of cold ripples through her at the self-recrimination in his words. “Fjord, I don’t understand,” she says, crawling forward. He doesn’t flinch away this time, but he sits very still, and she doesn’t touch him. “You… want me?”

“Yeah, Jester. I do.” He drags each word through shattered glass, and they all cut on the way down. “It’s all I think about. No matter what I’m doing, I can’t stop thinking about it. I see you and it’s like I lose my goddamn mind. Something just… takes over.” He stands abruptly, and Jester nearly tumbles as the mattress shifts without his weight. “I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

“Whatever you’re sorry for, you don’t have to be, Fjord, I-” I love you, she almost says, but does she?

Does she?

She was sure she did.

“You don’t have to be scared, Fjord.” Jester is so, so frightened. She doesn’t know how she didn’t see it sooner. There’s no fury in his eyes, just nauseous, heart-pounding fear and she never wanted him to look at her like this.

“There’s something wrong with me,” he says hollowly, staring into the space between his hands. “I see you and it hurts so much not to… not to touch you, and I need to keep away from you because sometimes I don’t know if I could stop myself.” He shudders. “How did I become this person?”

How did I become this person?

“Must be the orc in me,” he says bitterly, and Jester’s stomach bottoms out because she’s seen him get better about that part of him and to see him blame her magic on his blood is more than she can take. “But I’ll control it. Always have. I won’t be that person to you, Jester. I just… need space.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “And that’s all there is to it.”

Traveller, make it stop. Traveller, take it off him. Whatever I did, put it back, I can’t be the reason he feels like this.

“So,” he says, spreading his hands. “Now you know.”

With every second she stays silent, desperately praying, Fjord’s eyes grow more distant. “I… uh. I’m going to go.” And he makes for the door. But before she can reach out, her vision is eclipsed by a darker, shadowed shape: a verdant hood, a wicked smile.

[Why the tears, my darling?]

Sick relief mingles with the thrum of stop him, save him, call him back and she speaks with her mind and pushes past with her body.

Where have you been?

[I meant to give the two of you privacy. But by the state of things, perhaps I stayed away too long?]

His hand is already on the knob, turning, pushing. Leaving.

Traveller, what do I do? How do I stop this?

[Why the sudden change of heart, Jester? Isn’t he what you wanted? And now he wants you too. There’s no need for any pain. Give yourself to him, and he will love you eternally.]

I don’t want him to want me if I’m making him do it.

[There are few who fall in love without encouragement. Is this any different than the charm of a wink, the lure of a smile and a becoming hemline? Your magic is a part of you, like any other.]

If you won’t help me, then get out of my way.

[Your heart is bound to his now. That is the bargain you made. The line cannot be broken, by you or me.]

No one is coming to save her. Fjord is already past the threshold, and he’s leaving her alone, and he loved her , before she did all this, before the river in Felderwyn, he loved her, and there’s nothing else to do.

I can’t break the line.

But there’s something else I can break.

“Fjord, wait.”

He stills. Jester’s voice drops to a whisper.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

She tells him everything. She tells him the Traveller’s offer, and what she did, and why she did it. Impatience, boredom, lust. Nothing else matters but the look of betrayal in his eyes as she explains what she’s done, how she opened his mind and put something there not his own, how she made the choice for him. She watches as he gaze slides from self-recrimination to disbelief, to a deep-seated hurt that tears years from his sallowed cheeks and leaves him a boy, new and fragile and lost.

“Why?” he asks, like he’s never seen her before.

“Because I could,” she says, and watches as his heart breaks. Something silver and tight loosens around her heart and falls away, and Fjord takes a shuddering gasp as the magic that binds them fades.

And Jester runs.

---

There’s a window, somewhere in the West, that has the stain of sugared fingerprints and tiny palms. The room sits dark and empty, but if you flew high enough, you could catch the edge of little paintings ringing the walls in the midnight gloom, flashes of yellow and orange and aquamarine.

Jester goes there to hide when things become too much, unfolds the vision like silk and wraps herself in the familiar visage of home.

Her feet are dangling over the edge of the bridge when Beau finds her, and she has to blink the shades of green out of her eyes before she can focus on Beau’s brown skin, her blue eyes, her weary look filled with too much understanding.

“So Fjord came to see me,” she says, and she’s looking past Jester towards the stars, her arms propped on the stone railing. “He asked me if I knew.”

Jester keeps silent.

“Asked him, ‘knew what’? And well… guess I know now.”

Jester taps her fingers against the railing.

“He’ll forgive you, you know. He’s upset, but he asked me to come find you. Before you did anything stupid.” And Jester doesn’t miss the way that Beau’s posture is loose but the muscles in her shoulders are tight and primed to lunge.

“Think I already did the stupidest thing possible. It’s ok if you hate me, Beau.”

“Eh, but I don’t want to.” Beau kicks off and jumps up beside Jester so their thighs are brushing, and her body is warm against the night chill. “’Sides, I think I’ll let Fjord make that call.”

“I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Beau says, and slings her arm around her shoulders. “You did. But we’ve all done fucked up things, and you came clean. That’s more than most of us do.”

“Fjord shouldn’t forgive me.”

“But I think he will anyway. He loves you, Jess.”

Yeah. He did.

“Will you come back?”

“Okay.”

Jester lets Beau take her hand and lead her back through the street and to the Pillow Trove’s painted doors. The common room is empty. Jester wonders if Fjord told anyone else. Somehow, she doubts it. He’s always been one to lick his wounds in secret. She knows this, better than anyone.

Her head falls to the pillow with the exhaustion of wrung out tears, and she’s asleep in minutes.

[You cannot break the line, so you break the heart instead. Clever. That’s my girl.]

…

[Jester?]

…

[Goodnight, my sweet.]

…

Goodnight.

#critical role #critrole fic #critical role fic #jester #jester lavorre #fjorjester #fjord #critical role angst #the traveler

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theladymeera · 6 years

Text

“Reconstruction”

I can’t think of a better title!

For Anon who asked for a “sweet” fic of Bran and Arya. I had originally intended for the conversation to go elsewhere but my little shipper heart took over and we got this instead!

On AO3 here

The new stones were white granite, a gift from Tyrion Lannister, sent along with plans for a new sewage and drain system to complement the castle’s pre-existing heating system. The strangest part of Tyrion’s designs were the empty shafts to be built in the walls. Once installed they could be fitted with a contraption that, with the use of a rope or a crank, could lift passengers from level to level of the castle. If it worked Bran might never have to be carried up and down the stairs of Winterfell again. It was another kindness that Bran didn’t think he deserved. Meera would have sharp words for him if she heard those thoughts.

He was startled when Arya rode close to him, already speaking. “What are you brooding about little brother?” she asked “Brooding doesn’t suit you, leave that to Jon.”

Bran huffed, “I’m not brooding.” Arya made a sound of derision and he shook his head, “It was just a thought. I don’t deserve all these gifts, this kindness.”

Arya reacted as he knew she would, “That’s stupid. You saved us, everyone in Westeros. Everyone in the world maybe! And Tyrion likes you anyway. It’s impossible not to love you.” It was an exaggeration but a kind one and arguing with Arya would get him as far as throwing himself from the saddle.

“Well kindness or not I appreciate the materials and the plans he sent. If this works no one will have to walk to a well to draw water, bathing will be easier – at least for me, privies will stink less.”

“Mmm,” Arya hummed in agreement. “Do you think the design for those crutches will work?”

“I doubt I could use them all the time. But they could be helpful, especially when I need to get out of my chair. Or to piss.”

Arya doubled over laughing, “I don’t believe a great lord is supposed to talk about pissing in front of a lady!”

“And I seem to recall you preferring honesty to prudishness.”

They rode closer to the castle. Once the great gray walls would have loomed ahead of them, but now most of the masonry lay scattered about the fields where the dead had deposited them when they tore the walls apart. At least most of the keep had been spared the same treatment though the castle had already been in ill repair thanks to the Boltons.

Those who had survived the war had spent the remainder of the winter huddled in the few buildings or parts of buildings that had survived. Over time shacks, lean-tos, and huts had been built about the space but Bran had chosen to put an end to it now that the North had recovered enough. They had food to spare at last, thanks in part to the irrigation system he’d devised, and there were men who needed work. Neither Bran nor any of the other residents of Winterfell desired to endure another of the newly short winters trapped in the same few rooms.

Before Bran had known Winterfell better than anyone and that would be true again and seeing his home in ruins had been almost comforting, knowing that it was only broken – like him. “It’s odd you know” he started, breaking the long silence, “I’ve always thought of myself as being part of Winterfell, or Winterfell being part of me. When it was burned and broken it felt almost right because I’m broken –” he held up a hand for silence, “– You know what I mean. Now the castle will be rebuilt entirely, or mostly that is. But that cannot happen for me.”

Arya thought over his words, chewing on her lip absentmindedly. “Are you referring to your legs or your or something else Bran?” she asked at last.

“What?”

“Which part of you can’t be fixed? Your legs? Or your heart?”

Bran stared, “Well my legs obviously can’t be healed. I’ve learned that over and again. But my… mind. I’ve done so many horrible things, or at least witnessed them. I can hardly sleep for the dreams and it’s better when Summer sleeps with me but he’s getting old now and soon I won’t have anything…” he rubbed at his face quickly and Arya pointedly didn’t notice if there were tears on his cheeks.

When Arya next spoke she was hesitant, “have you considered… writing to Meera?”

He shook his head, “She has responsibilities, especially now with her father’s passing. It would be selfish of me to ask her to come here for my own comfort, because I’m lonely and I can’t sleep without her.”

“I didn’t realize you’d shared a bed before.”

“It was too cold to sleep apart beyond the Wall. When she was here it was just a habit, for warmth and yes for comfort but I never touched her if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Arya grinned at him, “But if you never touched then how could you share warmth?”

“You know what I mean,” Bran snapped; he was blushing furiously. “I didn’t take her maidenhead or anything of the sort.”

His sister could not let the matter drop though, she was still grinning madly. She loved to tease him, and if he was honest with himself Bran didn’t mind his sister’s cajoling so much. It was too good to be able to laugh and smile and joke again without the dreadful weight of sadness always hanging about. It had taken years for them to let their ghosts go. Arya continued her prodding, “But you want to. You want her maidenhead.”

“I don’t need Meera’s maidenhead. I would sleep better if she were with me – I’d feel more” he was silent for a moment, searching for the right word “whole, happy. But I cannot ask her to leave her mother and her home and her duty for my own selfish reasons.”

They paused in their ride to watch another group of workers emerging from the wolfswood, leading teams of horses that were pulling great trees behind them. They had gone deep into the forest to find the best lumber.

“She’ll come back soon enough, once the running of Greywater and the lordship of the Neck is settled.”

“And then?” Arya prodded, her eyes on the tall black-haired man who’d come to inspect the trees. Another one of the odd duties her husband had been tasked with to give him something to do outside the forge.

Bran sighed – wistfully, Arya thought – “And then we’ll wed. If she’ll have me that is.”

“So you have asked for her hand?”

“Many times. Before she left she said if she ever comes back she expects to be served honeycakes for our wedding feast and to sleep in the softest bed in the North.”

“The softest bed?”

“Oh yes, I believe her exact words were ‘You’ll give me the softest bed in the North for a wedding gift or I’ll smother you on our wedding night for I will never suffer a sore back on your account again.’”

Arya raised an eyebrow, “I remember having a sore back often while with child, or after a particularly exciting night with Gendry.”

Bran shuddered, “If I’m not to mention pissing around you then I’d ask you not to torment me with that topic.”

They both laughed in agreement and rode towards the scaffolded gates.

#bran stark #arya stark #bran and arya #starklings #bran x meera #arya x gendry #post canon #asoiaf fanfiction #fanfiction #oneshot

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 5 years

Text

Chapter 21: cameos, indulgent nods to crack ships, and oh wait this is kind of an anticlimactic place to end the first fic what do you mean that’s an ending.

[Beginning] [Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

“So she’s like a centaur but the human part is a catfish.”

“If the only human part of a centaur was its head, yep.”

Trucy’s insistence on not divulging anything about Gourdy ahead of time was apparently just for the sake of surprise, because she tells Vera about it later that day despite her not coming to the lake. Larry wanders to the office with them, as well, and promised a drawn explanation that isn’t coming quick enough for Vera to not be completely confused by Trucy.

“Do you think reverse-centaurs are a thing?” Trucy asks.

“Minotaur,” Apollo says.

“If a reverse-centaur and a mermaid had a kid, it would be a seahorse,” Trucy says.

Phoenix groans and puts his head in his hands. Trucy smirks triumphantly, and Larry looks up so fast that Apollo wouldn’t be surprised to have heard his neck snap. “Can I use that idea for a book?” he asks.

“Oh, god,” Phoenix says.

Trucy’s bursts of – inspiration? Questionable genius? – are the sort of thing that Apollo uses to contextlessly start conversations with Klavier. It takes most of the pressure off him to be clever or have any excuse for talking, and right now, he did promise Trucy to extend her New Years invitation. But first, the lead-in, centaurs.

-The Fraülein’s mind is a compelling but uncharted territory

And Klavier barely knows the half of it, either.

Every time she says things like this I have this fear that it’s all actually real

-Then I hate to be the one to tell you -but seahorses are very real ;)

Ah. There it is, that strange desire that Klavier instills in him, where Apollo wants to take one of the heavy law books from a shelf in this office and smack him upside the head with it.

I am going to pretend you said nothing and just tell you that Trucy is throwing a new year party at our office and wanted to invite you

Trucy has brought her laptop out to the couches to pull up reference images of catfish for Larry. What is a party in this ridiculous place even going to look like? Will Mia throw them out at some point, like a host who finally wants to reclaim her house?

-Certainly thank her for that for me, but I already have plans

Or is lying, which Apollo can’t see because they aren’t having this conversation in person, and instead just wants to avoid the possibility of crossing paths with Phoenix. Or he’s still wary about the office itself. There are far too many options.

Alright, but if she finds out those plans are hanging out alone and sad at your apartment she’s gonna be mad And she does not let people escape her wrath

-I don’t think you quite understand the rockstar lifestyle :P -But I am duly warned

I don’t think you live it

-Hm.

“Do you think he would’ve come to the Gourdyversary if I’d invited him?” Trucy asks.

“I really, really don’t,” Apollo says.

She puts a hand on her chin and frowns in concentration in a similar manner to her father. “Yeah,” she agrees. “He’d probably be even more convinced than you were that Daddy conducts human sacrifices.”

On New Years’ Eve, Apollo takes a late lunch and wanders back to the office to find that in the meantime, Trucy has arrived from school with a friend. She introduces the other girl, who is furiously scribbling some complicated symbols on a pack of sticky notes, as Jinxie, and Jinxie introduces herself by smacking Apollo in the forehead with the sticky note she has just finished drawing on.

“Red, horns,” she mumbles, retreating back behind the couch with her pen at the ready again. “Fae.”

“No no, he’s human!” Trucy says. “He’s just a lawyer.”

“Fae lawyer,” Jinxie says. “There are lots of those.”

“I’m human,” Apollo says. “Really. Trust me.”

She squints suspiciously at him. Her eyes don’t change color – is she fae, unknowing or self-hating or hell, it’s probably sensible for the fae to be afraid of other fae. Or is she just twitchy and paranoid, worse than Clay, more like Starbuck. Still not appearing exactly happy about the situation, she at least seems calmed enough to emerge back from around the couch. In the back room, the phone rings – Apollo cannot recall the last time someone called that phone – and Trucy races back to it, Jinxie trailing behind her. Apollo has to follow them to return to his desk, where he’s trying to finish writing up notes for the Gourdyversary. He keeps a journal for more than just cases, now, tries on paper to make sense of magic (doesn’t really manage), and it’s taken several days to truly set in that he didn’t dream up the catfish-horse.

“Wright Anything Agency, Trucy speaking!” She flings herself into the desk chair, rolling it halfway out from behind the desk, as far as the phone cord reaches, and a grin spreads across her face. “What, no, it’s not the new year yet! It’s not midnight! No, I in fact don’t know what a time zone is!”

Apollo tries and fails not to roll his eyes. She spots him and scrunches up her nose until whatever is being said on the other end of the line draws her attention away. “Ooh, Paris! I wanna get there someday, you’ll have to tell me what to do – oh! I’m gonna put you on speaker and you can say hi to Apollo and Jinxie!” Her bangs flutter when she blows out an amused breath. “No, not everyone who hangs out here all the time works here. You’ll still have desk space! I think.” She drops the phone, letting it dangle to the floor, and hits a button on the base of it.

“Who’s this, exactly?” Apollo asks.

“Athena,” Trucy says. “She’s studying to be a defense lawyer and then she’s gonna come work here too!”

“Hi,” Jinxie says.

“I’m taking the Bar in February!” The voice on the other end of the phone is as chipper as Trucy, with no real trace of an accent despite the fact that she is evidently not in the country. “Mon Dieu, I’m taking the Bar in February! I have to study!”

“Yeah, I remember that period of sheer panic,” Apollo says. “It was worth it in the end, of course, but it wasn’t fun.”

Athena’s heavy exhale is slightly garbled through the phone. “That helps, thanks,” she says. “So you’re Apollo?” And then without waiting for his response, she barrels onward. “I guess we’ll be working together someday! Soon. Soon? Hopefully? Hopefully! Power of positive thinking!”

“Hopefully,” Apollo agrees, and he doesn’t think about it much, or tries not to, but something he misses about Kristoph’s office is that it was more people than just him and his boss, that there were other lawyers there, others of similar experience levels to him. If he lets himself feel it, he misses having other defense attorneys to talk to about other cases. He misses having more people around than a ghost, a flighty ex-attorney who’s been disbarred longer than he ever had his badge, and whatever teenage girls wander in with Trucy on any given day.

“February!” Trucy repeats. “You could be here soon! Like by the spring!”

“It takes a long time to get the results, just remember that,” Apollo says.

“Do you think I should keep studying while waiting?” Athena asks. “In case I don’t pass, so I can just go right back in and take it again?”

“That sounds like some sort of personal purgatory,” Apollo says, “but I mean, if you want to…”

“Well, if I keep studying and do pass, then some of it must be good to have a refresher on for when I go into court, right?”

Increasingly, Apollo thinks that over half of what he learned in law school has been entirely useless for the actual predicament of trying a case, and that he probably would have been better off taking a course on local folklore as well. Is it folklore if it’s true? Does Athena know the kind of office she’ll be stepping into? But he doesn’t exactly want to discourage her, not when she actually needs to be hitting the books most, so he says, “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Hm. You don’t sound convinced.” There is silence for a moment, and then she says, “But I’ve been studying this long, so might as well just keep going with it ‘till I know! Trucy, if I pass but haven’t found an apartment, would your dad mind if I crashed on the couch? You’d never know I was there, I swear!”

The amount she’s talking, Apollo doubts it. “I’m sure he would be fine with it,” Trucy says, which Apollo doesn’t doubt quite as much, but he’s not exactly sure about that either. “Or if he’s not you could sleep on the floor in my room and climb out the window every morning!”

“Sweet,” Athena says. “One less thing to worry about! Anyway sorry to cut this short but I wanna call your dad’s cell to tell him I’m officially testing in February and wish him a happy new year, and then I need to either sleep or run around the house a dozen times first to get rid of this nervous energy from talking about it. But Happy New Year, again!”

“It’ll be an awesome year if you’re around!” Trucy says. “But it’s still nine hours to go!”

“Time zones, bitchesssss,” Athena crows, drawing the last sound into a hiss that grows fainter, like she’s pulling away from the phone, before a beep signals the end of the call.

“She’s great,” Trucy says, bouncing in the chair. “You’re gonna love her, Polly.”

“She sounds exuberant,” Apollo says, because he’s not really sure what else to say. How does Phoenix meet people like this? How does he even have this much of a social circle? Is he more pleasant to everyone who isn’t Apollo, or are they more tolerant of it because they weren’t the ones who lost their first job being played for a fool with a bloody playing card?

“Very,” Trucy says. She springs from her seat, her laptop now in hand from one of the drawers.

“Is she a fae lawyer, too?” Jinxie asks.

“Of course not,” Trucy says. “And she’s not even a lawyer yet, either! Not everyone Daddy knows isn’t human!”

“You understand why we ask, though, right?” Apollo asks, as Trucy drags Jinxie back out to the couches, where for the next two hours bits and pieces of conversation about anime and pro wrestling drift back to him.

He doesn’t realize until he wanders out into the front room to stretch his legs that Vera has arrived. The three girls are huddled together on one couch in front of Trucy’s laptop, clearly watching something, which must be the reason that the internet connection on Apollo’s phone has slowed to an undead crawl. Spotting him, Trucy jumps up and ushers him back to the nebulously-existing kitchen to help her carry out several bottles of sparkling grape juice. She sets each on the floor as she unloads them from the fridge and Apollo, without thinking, reaches down and grabs it, backhanded, the way he would to swing it as a weapon, the way they argued about in Phoenix’s murder trial.

It’s awkward to pick them up differently, but he makes sure he does, fumbles with all the bottles in his arms and staggers back out, Trucy grabbing the doors for him. She’s promised that he and Clay won’t be the oldest adults here, however much she scoffs when she calls him an adult (rude), and however much Apollo doesn’t actually care if there isn’t any alcohol. He and Clay started the past three Januarys with hangovers and regrets and it’s probably about time to stop doing that.

The next person to arrive at the office is Ema, with two incredibly large bags of Snackoos, and Kay, who has nothing but an abundance of energy as she flings herself over the back of a couch to introduce herself to Vera and Jinxie. “I’m going to sleep at 10 pm and there’s nothing any of you can do to stop me,” Ema announces, dropping one bag on the coffee table, and apparently planning on keeping and eating the entire other one herself.

“Rough day?” Trucy asks.

“By noon I was wishing that I was working with Gavin, so yeah, that bad.”

“Gavin’s not that bad, though,” Kay says, rolling from the couch to the floor and bouncing up to her feet.

“He’s pretentious and obnoxious.” Ema forcefully tears open the bag of Snackoos. “But he at least doesn’t give a shit when I use fingerprint powder before forensics gets there, whereas Prosecutor Whasisface—” She stops with a chocolate nearly to her mouth, staring down at it in confusion. “Shit, what’s his name? Balding screechy voice prosecutor.”

Kay very slowly shrugs and turns her hands up in confusion. That description is almost ringing a few unpleasant bells in Apollo’s mind – distant ones, like there’s a mountain in between him and said bells. “I was just fucking working with him,” Ema mutters, shaking her head. She pops another chocolate into her mouth. “Whatever. That guy. Bumps the glimmerous fop up a notch in my rankings of favorite prosecutors in this damned nightmare coven office.”

“I was talking to Gavin the other day and he said you’re his favorite detective,” Kay offers.

Ema’s frown deepens. “He should probably be introduced to more detectives,” she says. “God, is that why I’m always working with him? Is he requesting—”

Kay has found a pack of playing cards and asks Trucy to show her how to throw them. Jinxie slaps one of her sticky-note sigils onto Kay’s back, which she must have noticed but apparently doesn’t seem to mind. Satisfied with her work, Jinxie goes to sit down on the piano bench next to Vera, who has cleared it off and is tapping at the keys trying to make a pattern of sounds that isn’t unpleasant.

The next arrival is Clay, who brings champagne and with it nets an apology from Ema about the time that she said she would trip him into the path of a hungry bear. Kay apparently doesn’t think this is a remark worth questioning and instead simply introduces herself in the same enthusiastic way that she met Apollo at the lake. “Hi! I’m Kay Faraday! You must be Apollo’s roommate!”

She shakes Clay’s hand like she’s trying to detach his arm and he raises his eyebrows at Apollo. “Sorry; if I’m supposed to have heard of you, someone dropped the ball—”

“I met her four days ago,” Apollo interrupts. “Like, only four days ago.”

“Irrelevant,” Kay says, waggling her fingers, and then she turns and shrieking, dives toward Trucy who had picked up to examine one of the champagne bottles. It turns, as expected, into a argument, citing the legal drinking ages of a dozen countries before a debate begins over the morality of lies of omission and perhaps more importantly, whether Phoenix can magically detect those as well. By the time Trucy throws Apollo and Clay out to pick up snacks at the Kitaki Bakery, Snackoos apparently not being enough for her, Kay has diverted all attention entirely by picking up a bottle of grape juice and threatening to chug it all.

“I like her,” Clay says.

“Of course you do,” Apollo says.

They’re halfway across People Park when Clay asks abruptly, “She’s human, right? All of them but Vera?”

“I – I have no idea about Kay or Jinxie.”

“Cool, cool,” Clay says. “I can’t wait to find out at the worst time that they’re not. That’s gotta be how it goes, right?”

At the bakery, Apollo turns his back on Clay for two minutes, to stammer out an answer to Little Plum asking how Apollo and the office are doing, and finds out that Clay somehow in that time got Wocky’s number. It would be very funny, after the conversation they just had, to tell Clay that the family are all kitsunes and to see his expression, but Apollo still isn’t quite sure what that means – are they shapeshifters? Cursed like werewolves? Foxes turned into humans? Some other kind of lingering magic? – because Trucy never explained, just laughed at the look on his face. Maybe he’ll ask Trucy for elaboration on that later, and tell Clay another time, some day when he really wants to mess with him.

Kay still has the juice bottle in her hand, is now standing on the coffee table, Ema throwing Snackoos at her and Trucy eating those Snackoos while cheering for Kay to chug. Someone new has arrived, a brown-haired mousy-looking young man trying to discourage Kay from the mad scheme she is in the middle of describing. Playing cards lie scattered across the floor and couch; Apollo can only guess what that was about. Throwing them, most likely. “—and technically, that is to the letter what I said I would do,” Kay says. She finally steps down from the table.

“If not the spirit of it,” the man says. “Though I’m not sure why I had different expectations for you.”

Kay snaps her fingers and lets them linger as a pair of finger guns. “I’ve got no idea either!”

He doesn’t pay much more mind to her, instead turning to Apollo and Clay. “Uh, hi,” he says, extending a hand to Apollo. He wears gloves, thin white ones. “Sebastian Debeste. Prosecutor. If you were wondering. Which maybe you weren’t.”

Apollo can’t actually recall knowing what a prosecutor’s badge looks like, in-person. Klavier certainly doesn’t wear one, and he’s the only prosecutor that Apollo has met closer than across the width of the courtroom. And Edgeworth, once, not that he remembers whether or not he saw him wearing a badge.

“Oh, uh, hi. Apollo Justice.”

“So you two have the coolest names for lawyers, ever,” Clay says. “Just to make sure we’re all aware of that.”

“I—” Kay starts and then stops. “Wait yeah, you’re right. I was gonna say Judge Courtney has the best name but she picked it as a pun knowing she was gonna go be a judge so that’s not quite fair.”

“Justine Courtney,” Sebastian says. “It’s a very legal system name and she’s – well, she’s one of the Fair Folk.”

It’s still better than the surname Fey, at any rate. But a judge, one of them, too? How do they judge – as fair or strict as humans? The determination is made solely on the evidence, like the Jurist System is trying to mitigate, but in that, he hopes, that the fae would assess evidence evenly. He wonders what a jury of the fae would look like. Even more swayed by emotion, their petty pride willing to acquit someone they know is guilty because by their morality, the crime is just? Kristoph is one of their own damned by that system – or is he one of theirs? Do changelings belong to the Court?

He closes his eyes and tries to tune out the chatter of Clay introducing himself and saying yes he’s an astronaut as in really going to space, next year, which next year is tomorrow but it won’t be until December that—

That’s normal. Space is normal. Clay is normal (in a certain context). Clay is the only normal person here and now it’s too late for him. Apollo dragged him into this. All his overabundance of caution that he tried to share with Apollo and he’s ended up here, both of them here, curiosity to kill them and turn them into cautionary stories that the next person like Clay will repeat.

And he opens his eyes and Ema is listening enraptured to what Clay has to say even though she heard it all on their road trip back in October. Trucy grabs her Magic Panties off the back of the couch and produces from within it several cardboard cone party hats. One she reaches out to arraign over apparent thin air, but it remains floating, now wedged onto the wisp. The next hat she hangs off of Apollo’s spiked bangs. Ema shakes her head too much to allow Trucy to put one on her, but Kay takes two. Sebastian seems to be listening both to Clay, and to Jinxie plunking away on one of the piano keys over and over and over, Vera flipping through the sticky notes. It’s normal. They’re all still people, somehow, people who don’t give Apollo time to dwell. “Trucy?” Sebastian says when Clay finally stops for breath. “When did your dad last tune this thing?”

“I don’t think he knows how to do that or what that is,” she replies. The levitating hat next to her bobs like her head does.

“Oh,” Sebastian says, staring blankly ahead. “That’s an offense – affront – I’m trying to come up with more synonyms and blanking—”

“Shitty,” Clay suggests.

“I was thinking more about how it affects us that just describing what it is,” Sebastian says, “but… yeah.”

“Disgust-inducing,” Clay says.

“Hey Sebby,” Kay says. “Do you remember that one bar wherever in Europe that they like, had the shots that they lit on fire? Do you remember that?”

“If this is to ask if I’ll set the champagne on fire, the answer is no,” Sebastian says. “That seems like an affront, a, uh – blasphemy! Feels like blasphemy, here. Particularly.”

“I don’t think Mia cares about casual use of magic,” Trucy says.

Oh. So they aren’t talking lighters or matches. “You – uh, Prosecutor Debeste,” Apollo says, feeling like he has the answer to a riddle but that he’s somehow taking a shot in the dark. “You wouldn’t happen to be the witch-prosecutor that Prosecutor Edgeworth and Gavin mention, are you?”

“Oh.” His face falls, immediately, and he doesn’t recover right away, not the way Apollo is used to Trucy and Klavier throwing up masks. “I – probably? I must be. I don’t actually know that there are any other witches in the office, not that I’ve seen or Seen” – he doesn’t say the word the same way when he repeats it, the implication obvious. “So if they said anything bad don’t tell me.”

“It was back in October, when he was annoyed with people trying to check in on him,” Apollo says. “So whatever he said was probably just – annoyed.”

“Yeah, he got like that,” Kay says. “Gets. Whatever. He’s been a little better and now it’s Mr Edgeworth who’s getting cagey and secretive with all that secret Chief Prosecutor business.”

Apollo’s phone buzzes. He expects a message from Klavier, because there’s no one else he regularly texts who isn’t in this room, but it’s Clay.

-witch -guess i shouldnt consider meeting cute guys around u bc everyone is like this

Apollo makes sure that Clay sees him roll his eyes and put his phone back into his pocket without replying. He could say a lot about how despite that, Clay has still acted like that about Klavier.

“Hey,” Trucy says. “You should tell me and Polly all of the Prosecutors Office secrets, so that we’re totally prepared for whatever we face in court next!”

Ema flicks a Snackoos at Sebastian. “We don’t have secrets,” she says. “Everyone’s way too dramatic for that.”

“Set the grape juice on fire,” Kay says.

“Speaking of secret business,” Sebastian says, clearly and deliberately ignoring Kay’s request and when Trucy seconds it. “Kay, did you know Agent Lang is in town? Because I ran into him just a bit ago coming out of Mr Edgeworth's office with a stack of files, said they’re working on something, I have no idea what but they both seemed – kind of super unhappy.”

“What?” It’s easy to see what Ema meant when she said they’re dramatic; Kay springs up from her perch on the arm of the couch and puts her hands on her hips, frowning with a pout almost as unnecessarily exaggerated as some of Trucy’s. “Wolfman is around and didn’t tell me! I can’t believe him!”

Apollo wonders if he’ll ever reach the end of this network of people Phoenix knows, or if he’ll ever understand it. “It worries me when you say things like ‘Wolfman’ because I have no idea if you mean ‘werewolf’ or ‘guy who really likes wolves’.” Like Trucy and her centaurs but the answer is probably going to be worse.

“Both,” Ema says without change in expression.

Apollo throws his hands in the air. “Oh come on!” Next to him, Ema winces and puts a hand up to her ear. She deserves the wrong side of the Chords of Steel for that.

“He’s not a werewolf,” Kay says. “You’re going to kill this poor guy.” She points at Apollo. “It’s a family thing. They’re all super into wolves. His hair is like—” She holds up her forefingers like ears at the top of her head. “But he can’t turn into a wolf. He would, but he can’t. Which is good for not giving random people on the street heart attacks because he’d just wander around like that because what is the point of shapeshifting if not messing with people?”

She spreads her arms wide like she’s either waiting for applause and agreement, or trying to draw out some kind of debate or dissension. Sebastian walks past her to where Jinxie and Vera have googled how to tune an upright piano. Ema throws a Snackoo at her.

“I think that’s a sound theory,” Clay says. “Isn’t that just the entire thing of the Fair Folk, messing with people?”

The lights blink off for two full seconds. Apollo freezes, as does Clay, but the group over at the piano don’t stop their conversation and Ema is still throwing snacks, now at Kay. Mia, messing with them; most of them, used to it. “What is the ratio of those you’ve eaten to those on the floor?” Apollo asks. Ema shrugs.

“Yeah that’s basically it,” Kay says to Clay.

“You see why I worry,” Apollo says. He can feel a weight gathering behind his eyes and higher at the front of his skull. The conversation is all suddenly too loud, backed by the force of the topics they’ve covered, what almost proved overwhelming earlier, fae judges and now prosecuting witches and petty shapeshifters, and he extracts himself from the middle of it and retreats back toward Charley’s corner.

“You okay, Polly?” Trucy doesn’t give him a chance to catch his breath alone; she appears at his elbow, looking up at him with concern.

“Does it ever just hit you that this is all kind of completely mad?” he asks. “All this – this everything?” She pats his arm sympathetically. “Because it just hit me again, that just – last year I was pretty sure of what I could expect from my life.” And then, April. And then, Phoenix. “This year I know I’m going in without a clue! Just waiting for the fae to amp it up to celebrate the new year!”

“They won’t do that,” Trucy says. Her confidence is reassuring until she adds, “Time works differently for them. They don’t know when’s a new year or what. They’ll just amp it up for no reason if they want to, nothing by our calendars.”

“See?” Apollo asks. “That’s what I mean. Uncertainty and terror.”

She leans her elbow on the bookshelf and pokes at the spines of the large tomes. “Lawyers and performers always gotta smile, right through to the end, whatever it is. And you know what?” She bounces a little in place but says nothing, waiting for him to play along with her.

“What?” he asks, trying to at least sound annoyed even if he can’t manage to feel it. Better not let her know how much she can get away with when Mr Hat is already bobbing around his shoulder, prodding him in the arm with the tip of the cardboard party hat.

“Lots happens, and we figure it out.” She stops moving, all but her head, turning to glance to the doorway to the next room, and beyond that, Apollo knows what she’s thinking of, a desk, a drawer, a soul encased inside. “We make it through. We always have.”

[brief note on this ending]

#fic: the seelie of kurain #roddy fanfics

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marmosette · 6 years

Text

The End?

I hate titles.

So this is another of that series of fic where I used pre-set first lines from a prompt list and did one with Mystrade and one set in Foldings. Only every time I do it, I can’t find the same list I started with, so both prompts are from different lists (”Bruises” being the other). (Honestly, I forgot that one. I didn’t remember the starting line, or what I’d written, or where I posted them. Anyone else do that?)

This is the Foldings one...

“Is this the end? After everything we’ve been through?”

“End of what?”

“Us. You an’ me. We were a good team,” EJ said sadly, his cheek mashed against his forearm as he laid against his school desk. “Nobody else ever kept up.”

“’Cept your mice.”

“But they can’t do spells.”

“How would you know?”

“C’mon, Christine. Come on. Once it’s out of the oven, we’ve only got a couple of minutes till it’s on a tray up to their rooms.”

“All you have to do is ask and I bet one of the cooks would make all the mudpie you want.”

“But it’s never as good as when Sally does it!”

“How do you know?”

“She made it last year for the Darklight Fest! We only got some because the Vedouci and Druhy were both out.”

“What difference does it make who made the pie?” Christine asked, scrubbing at her paper furiously with her pencil, covering it in black smudge.

“I dunno. If I did, I’d be in the kitchens. It’s just…better. She uses more chocolate or something. And the gravy on top is smoother.”

“You mean sauce.”

“I don’t know! I don’t work in the kitchen!” EJ turned his head face down, groaning against his desktop. “Come on.”

“I want to finish this.”

EJ flopped back in his seat suddenly, sighing. “It’s too late. Don’t bother. It’s already on the tray, in the dumbwaiter, on the way up. All that crispy, flaky crust and juicy chocolate, steaming and melting all over the plate…”

Christine reached across the aisle with one hand and shoved EJ hard in the chest. “Don’t be stupid.”

EJ shrugged, his nonchalance almost convincing himself. “Why not? Never tried being stupid. It might be fun. Always looks like it when Pochet does.”

“You’re mean.” There was no heat in it, but there never was. Christine said it several times a day, so it was probably automatic.

“Well I’m gonna go see if there’s any left, now. You can come or stay here with the little babies and learn numbers or something.” EJ shoved his chair back.

“No, stop!” Christine hissed. “Just…wait for me.”

“Hurry up, then.”

Christine bit her lip, scowling fiercely at her paper. Śe Sophia was crouched beside Amy, helping her draw. With the teacher’s attention focused elsewhere, Christine pushed her hand flat against the blank page, pressing as hard as she could until as much of the page as possible was in contact with her hand. Then she snapped her hand back pulled, yanking dark black lines into place. It wasn’t quite what she had in mind. She’d wanted a ship with lots of sails and ropes and rigging and nets and flags and masts, but trying to picture all of it at once was a lot harder than drawing it a bit at a time, making sure all the lines were straight, seeing if the sails were wide enough, if she could fit one more in. The image she’d pulled into place had crooked masts with sails that were just white squares that overlapped. The flag at the top of the tallest mast was just a bunch of lines. The sea that she’d already drawn put the ship to shame, but it was good enough when weighed against the potential loss of chocolate.

“Śe Sophia? I’m done,” Christine announced, dropping the picture into the bag next to her desk. “May we go to the library?”

The teacher looked up at her with piercing green eyes, then flicked her gaze across to EJ. “We?”

“Yes, Śe,” EJ said politely. “She’s going to help me find a book on mice.”

“Why do you want a book on mice?” Sophia demanded, straightening and crossing the room in three long strides, dodging desks that were little more than knee-high to her to get to the taller ones at the back.

“I read all the books on helephants and foxes and weasels and their kin, I’ve read three on rabbits, ten on horses, five on lizards, seven on frogs—”

“I didn’t ask which books you have read,” Sophia sighed, propping her fists on her hips. “Why mice?”

“Because they’re brilliant!” EJ burst out. “They learn all kinds of things, and they can get through a hole you can barely see, and they talk with smells, and they have feelings and get happy and sad for each other and they’ll tell you that, you just have to—”

“EJ! I understand!” Sophia waved off his excitement. “It seems to me you already know a great deal on the subject of mice.”

“Oh but there’s so much more!” EJ said earnestly. “I wanna know how many kinds there are, and if they can all talk to each other or if they have languages like people do, and if they learn each others’ languages, and do they have accents? Do they all learn stuff the same way? Like if I give one a puzzle will he figure it out the same way as a mouse from Nine Bridges Over Grass? And can they teach each other? And do they all live as long or do some live longer? Can they figure out how to help each other live longer, like is there mouse medicine? What kinds of magic can they do—”

“Mice doing magic?” Sophia asked in alarm.

“Sure, Śe! Why not? If they can learn the sigils and run around them, why wouldn’t it work?”

“Śe Sophia? Can we get pet mice?” asked a small boy in the front pair of desks.

“Christine, take EJ to the library and see if you can find him a book on why mice make very bad pets,” Sophia sighed, waving the pair of them toward the door. “Pochet, my darling, let’s see first if you can draw one. What kind of mouse do you think would live in a desert?…”

EJ grabbed Christine’s hand as they sprinted down the hallway. “Come on! Maybe we can steal the gravy pot!”

“It’s sauce, EJ, and you can’t because you’re too short and can’t levitate things yet.”

“Neither can you!”

“I don’t need to because I’m tall enough and I climb better. And I know how to stack thing so they don’t tip over!”

“See? This is why we’re a good team!”

“Because I could sneak the pie out without you?” she asked, and dashed past him, laughing.

“Because you wouldn’t think to steal it!” EJ called, stretching his legs to try to catch up.

Ten minutes later, the pair were sitting in a corner of the kitchen with red knuckles, tear tracks down their cheeks, and small bowls with broken chunks of flaky pastry covered in gooey chocolate. Sally harrumphed and walked away from them, muttering.

“Library after though, yeah?” EJ whispered.

“You mean you don’t already know all that about your mice? I thought now you had one from every country in your box!”

“I do,” EJ insisted, setting down his spoon for a moment to slide the matchbox out of his pocket and nudge the lid back just far enough for dozens of tiny pink noses like grains of sand to poke up at him over the edge of the box. He picked off a crumb of pastry for them and dropped it into the box, feeling the balance tip as the magically-shrunken animals scampered over to begin nibbling on a flake big enough for two of them to hide under.

“Can I see them?” Christine asked, bending closer. She waved at the box by barely moving the tip of her finger, unable to hide a grin at the soft chorus of squeaks in response.

“They always like you,” EJ said, dropping in a few more crumbs.

“D’you think you could shrink a horse to something tiny enough to fit in a pocket?”

“Reckon I could. Problem is finding a horse that no one would notice was missing.”

“I’ll ask Tom,” Christine decided. “Next time he comes for Amy’s pile. He doesn’t like them.”

“If he doesn’t like the piles, why does he come to them? And isn’t he more likely to say no, then?” Ej asked, finally getting more of his attention focused on the broken bits of pie in front of him.

“No, he doesn’t like horses,” Christine told him, industriously cramming chocolate into her mouth. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Maybe I like being stupid.”

“Can I have your pie, stupid?”

#The Foldings #prompts fic #EJ and Christine and the mice #steampunk #magic #tiny tiny TINY mice #no smaller

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neioo · 7 years

Photo

SUMMARY: They thought it was over once the ‘Plan’ was completed. Time had passed. Most of their wounds had healed, but unknown to them, there were still other Nations, forgotten Nations, who continued to be tortured and experimented on.

All until one man, also forgotten, decided to rescue them and craft his revenge.

His actions cause the secrecy of the ‘Plan’ to crumble. Those who were involved are exposed. And as their punishment, they’re forced to work as pawns. Their ideals are again challenged—their humanity put to the test. Are they doing the right thing? Who can they trust? But most importantly:

Are they to blame?

This book is a Sequel to Are we humans? THE BOOK is available for purchase (HERE) or (HERE) as well as can be found (here) on AO3. As it’s a sequel, AWH can also be found (here) on AO3

Thank you so much for sticking with me! A bunch of rambling about this novel and updates on WDWW under the cut ^^

It’s done. It’s finally fucking done.

I mentioned this when I posted the proof, but my spring semester was rough, and then I catapulted myself into a study abroad in China for two months, which was very labor-intensive (10+ hours of work every day, not to mention going to 5 hours of classes)

I’m alive, though, so that’s cool.

I think DFU after being editing is way better than when I started. Are there still mistakes? Probably. Typos? I hope not, but…I was trying to go really fast at the end.

But Maddie, shouldn’t you stay with DFU and release it when it’s perfect?

I’m one person who’s doing this in their free time and at this point, I’ll be pissed if I find something wrong, but I’ve just come to accept it. If you purchase this or read on AO3 and see something, I apologize.

My editor really helped a bunch, so thank you so much. DFU is better because of you ^^

Updates:

Sorry for not touching WDWW in a month (I needed to focus on DFU and I needed a break as people do every now and then). I have an outline for the next two chapters, and I’ve already started writing the next

Ha ha.

I think I planned too many chapters. 6 (yes 6) seem unimportant so I’ll probably be scrapping them, making the total to 15 chapters. idk I’m not sure if this’ll be longer than 45k. That’s either cool or not cool. I’ll be done it soon! But I’ll also be done the AWH AU soon so.

Still gotta edit the fucking thing, though. You’re not free of me quite yet

In all honesty, I want to go back and edit AWH more too (I know jesus), but that’s still up in the air

Once WDWW is edited and done, I’m not writing any more hetalia fanfiction. I’ve done my support for the fandom. 再fucking见

(nah I’ll probably be sad and have an identity crisis but considering I’m only on chapter six as of now, and then I have to edit, we have at least 5 months before that happens)

What’s afterwards then? Probably OC work. I do want to get a novel published one day. And this blog? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ maybe I’ll go into the void like George deValier . you son of a gun George

Goodies! Or whatever.

Here’s what I posted at the back of DFU that you can read here if ya want:

I was a freshman sitting in my high school’s library, named the ‘Knowledge Commons’ because the school was a newly opened IB only high school within my school district, and I guess the ‘Head Master’ felt the need to be pretentious. I was the only kid in there. It was the first year and there were only two grades, and most kids had class while I opted to take a free period. My friend Simran got out of orchestra early and ran in there to find me.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I was probably fucking around on YouTube, looking up anime OSTs, but it’s hard to remember. “Nothing.”

“You should watch this new anime I found!”

I frowned. “Yeah, but I’m watching Soul Eater right now.”

“No, trust me. Have you ever heard of Hetalia?”

“Vaguely. I was thinking I might watch it next.”

“Watch it now! The episodes are only 5 minutes, and it’s on YouTube.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

And that’s the story of how I sold my soul.

Simran left me in the middle of me watching the first episode. I don’t know where she went—the bathroom? But I was left alone and confused as all hell.

But I kept watching.

I never did finish Soul Eater, by the way.

I immediately got sucked into the Hetalia universe, and with the 2012 Olympics approaching; I started daydreaming weird scenarios with the characters. That summer, I was also working at a horse camp, and the times when I was doing mind-numbing manual labor work, I would also daydream.

It was somewhere in late 2013 that Are We Humans? was fully laid out in my head. The universe started with the single scene of Spain and Prussia rescuing France from Nazis (which I’ve never even written yet), and then expanded into…this.

It was in late 2013 when I was taking a shower that I finished daydreaming about how Prussia was rescued and happy, realized that: “I could make this a complete novel,” and then immediately got irrationally angry. I had told myself I would never write fanfiction because then I could never get it published.

So I refused to write it.

I focused on OC work, but then in my junior year of high school, we started learning about the Second World War and the Cold War.

Before this, I never cared for history class, but I started paying attention for the sole fact that I could ‘make my Hetalia daydreams more historically accurate.’

In May 2015, I graduated high school.

And I was bored.

A few weeks passed, and I tried to entertain myself. It was on June 9, 2015 that I dug through my computer to look at my old writings.

On that fateful day, I found something I wrote in 2014.

I was at an internship for school—if you could call it that. It was a three-day thing where I went to a company, interviewed people, then sat around and tried to bide my time. It was in one of those down periods that I desperately tried to entertain myself by writing.

AKA, I wrote the first two chapters to Are We Humans?

It was in first person. The last OC novel I wrote in was that, so it only seemed fitting at the time. But on June 9th, 2015, I knew that people hated reading fanficion in 1st person, so I change it to 3rd, posted it online, and then shut my computer for the rest of the night.

The first comment I ever got, was “Nice drawing :)” back when I posted my own artwork with the fic. I was immediately flabbergasted, thinking no one would ever comment on it, let alone read.

Since then, the entire series grew. I finished Are We Humans? in a little over six months, and after doing so didn’t think I would write a sequel. But then, somewhere in March 2016 I was walking laps outside my dorm, and came up with this entire idea. Honestly, I wasn’t going to write this either until I got bored, yet again, in summer 2016.

Shout out to my job, which was mind numbing but had enough downtime that I could furiously write the chapters to DFU in a notebook.

I’ve singled people out on AO3, so to those who I expressed my gratitude there, thank you so much again. This universe has been enjoyable for me to write. I may never be able to officially publish it, but at this point this project is just a labor of love, and to have these paper copies are enough for me.

Prussia was always going to die. Even if I never wrote the sequel, I was trying to hint at that he would die in Are We Humans? If we’re being real, this universe was invented around him. He may not be the central focus 100% of the time, but nevertheless, I’m happy I got to explore his character.

Er ist mein Sohn, und ich liebe ihn. Vielleicht ist er tot, aber er lebt immer in meinen Herz.

Again, to all those who have read, thank you. It’s your support of the fic that pushed me to finish and expand this universe.

And to my brother, who used to make jokes about how Prussia is dead, look at what you did. If you, dear reader, wanna blame anyone, blame Steven, who’s begrudgingly listened to me ramble about hetalia for 5 years now.

#hetalia fanficion #historical hetalia #aph #hetalia #yeah #miscellaneous #i was gonna post a pic of myself but then didn't feel like doing my makeup. so woo *jazz hands*

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pendragonfics · 7 years

Text

This Girl Is Afraid of Elevators, What She Did Next Will Astound You!

Paring: Derek Hale/Reader

Tags: female reader, anxiety attacks, fear, fear of elevators, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, humour.

Summary: Everyone has a fear. Yours just has to be elevators, and with the stairs and fire escape out of action, there's no other choice to leave Derek Hale's loft...but by elevator.

Word Count: 1,888

Current Date: 2017-07-12

It didn’t matter that you were an adult. That you were a teacher. Could drink alcohol, could drive. It didn’t matter that you were the girlfriend of Derek Hale, the well-known black sheep of Beacon Hills, and that if it came to it, he’d fight until the death for you. None of things mattered…when there were elevators involved. For as long as you could remember the sensation – a sort of jolt of your stomach falling to your knees when the metal cage dipped down, a nausea when it jerked upward – it had made you feel sick, especially when you were by yourself in the space. It didn’t help that loads of movies had scenes where the elevators broke down, often leading to the two protagonists to make out until help came, or fall to their deaths.

But over time, a near-miss accident in the mall, a prank gone wrong (“Screw you, Jackson, and the horse you rode in on!”) your fear was completely, and utterly rational. Apparently, in the USA alone, there were an average of twenty-six deaths per year on the account of elevators. There was a Facebook page community for people like you who hated metal death traps. But be it rational or not, you had to shake it off. Or stay another night at Derek’s place.

For the last week, you’d stayed in his bed, wearing his clothes, eating his food. The pack thought it was gorgeous; almost drop-dead domestic that Derek would have you hang around and spread your scent everywhere. You had rolled your eyes, and gone and used your toothbrush (that had been hiding in a package under the sink), and prepared to shower. Not that you could really hear them; you had no special stuff, powers, or any of that jazz. You were just a human. If you could hear, you’d be surprised how much snooping was going on.

As soon as the door to the bathroom was closed behind you, Scott turned to Derek, and looked up at him. “It’s been days, _________ hasn’t left your place. Doesn’t she have work?”

Derek shrugged, indifferent. “I guess. I don’t know, she hasn’t said anything.”

“Dude,” Stiles raised a single eyebrow, shaking his head slowly, “You need to ask her. For all we know, she’s been kicked out, and mooching from you.” He chuckled at that, but upon catching sight of Scott’s small shake of the head, added quickly, “I mean, ah, it’s the right thing to do.”

From the corner, Isaac piped up. “She’s been here almost six days, right?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah. Since Thursday.” The Alpha confirmed, and narrowed his eyes at the scarf-loving blonde. “Why?”

The curly-haired werewolf got up from his seat on the couch, and his fingers to count his points on. “On Thursday, we had the attack on the apartment block, remember? The stairs got smashed up, and we’re still waiting on the supplies and maintenance to come from Sacramento.” He grimly reminded them. “Your fire escape is kind of out of order, Derek…since the Oni, I think. You need to work on that. Which leaves, the elevator.”

Stiles frowned. “Yeah, what of it?”

Derek’s eyes widened. “_________ hates elevators.”

Scott swallowed. But instead of commenting on it, their werewolf-senses heard you turn the shower off, and before you’d even wrapped a towel around yourself to come out, they’d dispersed, and changed the subject to something less touchy, but dumbed down enough for any old idiot to get what they were playing at. But as you went upstairs and changed into clean clothes, you rolled your eyes, and made your way downstairs.

“Good morning,” you greet Scott and Stiles, and sparing a wave to Isaac, you pause, and remember your manners. You might be human, but your mother didn’t raise you like this. “Am I interrupting –?” you ask Derek, glancing around, but you can’t see any more pack members; no Kira, Malia, or Lydia. “I can –,”

Derek shakes his head. “Stay. I mean, if you want. You don’t have to.”

“Don’t tread softly around me,” you narrow your eyes, “I know I’ve been here a week, Derek.” You turn, and give everyone a slight glare, “I can tell that it’s what you’ve been talking about, you all went sort of quiet when I left the bathroom. I work with kids. You have werewolf senses? I have other skills.”

Scott nods his head along with your words, agreeing.

“So,” you challenge your boyfriend, standing up to your full height. “You’re kicking me out?” It does nothing on his brick-like, buff-as-heck frame, and makes you think that you’re like a puppy challenging a wolf.

Isaac shook his head. “We’re just worried for you, _________. You’ve missed work. I don’t think it’s good for your fears to get that much in the way of your life.” He tells you, in his soft voice.

You shrug, indifferent. “I’ve been here since Thursday; only means three days of sick leave, Isaac. Or have you forgotten that outside the whole Werewolf McWerewolf lives you all lead, I grade your history papers?” You glance to the other boys, and add, with unknown bravado, “Please. I bet I could do it. I can leave right now, and it won’t be a problem at all.” The boys say nothing as you grab your bag from the bedroom, and wait by the door to the loft. “What?”

Derek shakes his head. “Nothing. Come on, let’s go.”

Stiles ran ahead, and pressed the button to the elevator. By the time the pack had caught up, the elevator had arrived, and hesitantly, you walked into the metal box. Scott’s eyes were wide, and muttered something about leaving his phone in the apartment. Before you could hit the hold the elevator! button, you realised that there was none, and when Derek moved to hold the door, it shut anyway. Leaving you two to descend in moderately lit silence.

It was fine. At least, you thought you were; apart from the fact that you were enclosed in a really small space descending downward through a tunnel suspended by a cable. And that you were sure that there was sweat on the back of your neck, and that Derek could hear your mile-a-minute heartbeat like a techno disco beat one door down the hallway. It was fine, except one whole minute after the door closed, there was a jolt. And the elevator stopped.

“Are you okay?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.” But, as always, you speak too soon, and there’s a jerk, and the elevator seems to slide down a way, almost like a free-fall. It’s enough to freak you out; enough to wrangle a screech from you.

“_________ –,”

“I knew this was a really, really bad idea!” you cry, backing away from him. “Der –,” you feel your breathing accelerate, nausea fills your stomach like mouldy milk. Derek placed a hand on your shoulder, but you burst, backing up into the corner of the elevator floor, your arms wrapped tight over your head. “I’m going to die. We’re going to die in an elevator.”

“It’s okay, _________. It’s just an old elevator.” He assures you.

“Oh my g –,” your eyes widen, peeking up at Derek in fear, a wash of dizziness coming over you. “We’re definitely going to die in an elevator.”

While you’re focusing on not tossing up breakfast and onto the aluminium-plated ground, Derek has his phone out, and is furiously texting, his frown matching the intensity of little taps of the keyboard. You’ve heard that reception can be shoddy in closed in spaces, like trains, old underground war bunkers, submarines, elevators. You take a deep breath, and close your eyes, trying to think of something other than that you’re trapped with Derek.

“Tell me something good,” you whisper.

Slowly, Derek settles himself before you on the floor. It makes you think of a wolf approaching a puppy; Derek’s hair is getting long, his facial hair too. But those eyes, the green in them so bright, they look almost like a crystal, shining from within his soul. You watch him take your hands in his, and feel his fingers caress yours, warming your palms. As you close your eyes, he begins to speak.

“It was summertime, I think,” he starts off, his thumb drawing lazy circles over your knuckles. “You’d just graduated from UCLA, returning home. But some idiot had burst a tyre on their car on the way into town, and this fresh grad student helped the guy out.” Through your barely-closed lashes, you can see him smile a little, that rare gem of a smile that always made you feel better, “You hadn’t seen him since school, and here he was, stranded, and you managed to swap the tyre, and defiantly teach the guy a lesson about not knowing about his own car.”

“I was kind of badass,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, and adds, “But to be fair, that guy was better at other things than changing blown out tyres.”

At that, you chuckle. “Yeah. Like turning into a werewolf, and fighting baddies while I’m stuck inside a classroom teaching school kids about the Salem witch hunts.” Before you can share a smile, the elevator jerks, dipping lower, and what calmness you’d managed to amass had gone south. “Derek,” you murmur, worried.

He gathers you close to him, so your head is nestled under his chin, between his shoulders, wrapped tight within his arms. In his arms, you can hear his heartbeat; it’s steady, calm, even though you’ve been in your worst nightmare for the last ten minutes.

“Shhh,” he whispers, his hands migrating to the back of your neck, stroking your hair slowly, calmly. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

---

Four minutes later, the two of you came out, unscathed. Derek’s texts had gotten through which lead Scott and Isaac to parkour over the balcony, and arrange for maintenance to come to the building and fix the predicament. All it took was the afternoon spent at your place heaped in blankets, bingeing on Netflix and snuggles with Derek and pizza.

Nobody told you that while all the maintenance tango/elevator hellscape was going on, that it left – the very human, very unable to perform parkour (and survive) down several dozen stories – Stiles Stilinski, on the level of the loft. It also left Stiles alone, and very unsupervised, and to lead said young man to eat all your Doritos…and leave a mess through Derek’s DVD collection.

But that didn’t really matter.

In conclusion, really, Doritos could be bought. DVDs scattered around the living room could be cleaned up. The stairs could be fixed, the elevator regularly maintained to avoid that mishap. But the worth of your lives, was greater than all the above. Even if it meant going to counselling and therapy to work toward a neutral zone with your fear. Even if it meant that the whole pack knew about your problem. It was okay. It just meant that there was a whole pack of teen wolves and other Halloween-esque creatures looking out for you.

And for you (the human who studied history teaching who never thought they’d really amount to anything that mattered because of that silly fear); it was good. Better than good, in fact; it was great.

#derek hale #derek hale x reader #derek tw x reader #derek hale/reader #derek hale x oc #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf fanfic #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #Female reader

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musicprincess655 · 8 years

Text

Queen of His People, Ch. 13

Pairing: Ushiten, Semishira

Rating: T

Tags: a/b/o, royalty

read on ao3

“Make sure the watch is rotating every three hours. I want fresh eyes on the north. And put extra men on the more obscured points. If an attack comes, that’s probably where it’ll be.”

Futakuchi nodded. He wasn’t much older than Wakatoshi himself, but he took the orders willingly. The new captain of Datekou was still adjusting to his position, if his expression was anything to go by. His mate and right hand stood silently at his shoulder, eyes taking in everything but revealing nothing. If Wakatoshi hadn’t already been given a healthy respect for omegas from his mother, Ai, and Satori, Aone Takanobu would have cemented that for him.

His story was one whispered in awe. An omega considered ineligible for marriage because of his looks, he’d joined Datekou as soon as he’d been legally considered an adult by Shiratorizawa law at eighteen. He’d risen through the ranks, now only second to the commander himself, and mated to the same. His was the story omegas whispered in reverence: one of them strong enough to command the respect of fellow soldiers.

“They’re handling this well,” Eita commented. “Losing your captain is never easy.”

“I wonder if Sakusa killed Moniwa knowing he was the captain of Datekou,” Wakatoshi mused.

“He might’ve just killed anyone to send a message,” Eita countered. “Datekou doesn’t identify their captain visually. It would be impossible to tell which they are on the battlefield unless you already knew, so unless Itachiyama somehow figured out Moniwa was captain during the last war and Sakusa learned to recognize him by face without ever having been near him in battle, there’s no way he should’ve known he was killing the captain. Besides, if he really wanted to take out their chain of command he would’ve killed Futakuchi too. Anyone who knew Moniwa knew it was no secret he was grooming Futakuchi to be his successor.”

Wakatoshi was quiet at that.

“You think I’m right, but you worry anyway,” Eita sighed. Wakatoshi glanced at him. “Don’t give me that look. We’ve fought together since we were young, I’d be disappointed if I couldn’t understand you by now. If it makes you feel better, I worry too. If I thought he would agree to it, I’d ask Futakuchi to hang back from the front lines with you.”

“You don’t think he’d agree to it?”

“You think he’s not out for blood after he watched his father figure die?”

“Fair point.”

They walked in silence, Wakatoshi looking out into the frozen north. No matter that it was the end of summer, the snow never left the ground this far north in the mountains. The Iron Wall protected the northern border of Shiratorizawa, just beyond the edge of the mountains. It extended between the gap left between two peaks, Jin and Soekawa, nearly one hundred miles in length. The extra men they’d brought with them would be important for manning it; Sakusa could attack from anywhere.

“Do you really think your plan will work?” Wakatoshi asked. “Attacking first?”

The Iron Wall was, above all else, a line of defense, meant to repel, not attack.

“We have to force them to meet us in a place of our choosing,” Eita said. “One hundred miles is a lot of wall to guard, and a lot of places aren’t favorable for us. If we can force them to meet us in one of the places Kenjirou and I planned out, we can lay a trap for them. We can win this with less loss on our side.”

“Is that you talking or Kenjirou?”

“It’s both of us,” Eita said, sounding a little annoyed. “We’re not the same people we were three years ago. We decided on this together.”

“I’m sorry,” Wakatoshi said. Sometimes it was hard to shake the memory of Eita and Kenjirou screaming at each other, fighting tooth and nail for their plans to be accepted over the other’s.

“It’s fine,” Eita dismissed, almost too rude for a prince, but then, Eita had never cared much for status. He was lowborn. He considered Wakatoshi a friend, and that was all there was for him. “We didn’t exactly give ourselves a good reputation three years ago. Trust me on this, though. It’s clever, and it’ll work.”

“I trust you,” Wakatoshi assured him. “I’ve always trusted both you and Kenjirou. It’s nice that you trust each other now.”

“Worry about your own relationship,” Eita complained, but he was grinning. “Satori’s a good man. I like your taste.”

“You just like him because my mother doesn’t.”

“I like him because he looks like he won’t take shit and he’ll listen. He’ll go far with both of those. And he doesn’t look like the type to play politics. We don’t need a queen who’ll spend his time getting in pissing contests with the nobles.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Wakatoshi told him. “My mother certainly doesn’t.”

“Not much she can do about it now,” Eita grinned harder. “You already brought him up here. He’s already attached to you, and you’re head over heels for him. He’s not going anywhere.”

“You think he’s attached?”

Eita gave him a look, which was definitely too rude even from a general to a prince, not that Wakatoshi cared.

“He left his home and he hasn’t run screaming from your mother. I’d call him pretty attached.”

Wakatoshi waved him off. Courting Satori properly was something he would do once this was over. For now, he needed his attention here.

It wasn’t long before smoke from fires was spotted a few miles west of where they were stationed in the very center of the Iron Wall. They moved down to that watchtower, captained by a woman called Nametsu Mai. While women were allowed to join Datekou, they were few and far between. However, there was no doubt Nametsu deserved to be there. She was a beta who stood her ground like an alpha, weathered and lined face steady and hair pulled neatly into a low ponytail. Wakatoshi decided on sight not to cross her.

“We caught campfire smoke in that direction,” she told him, pointing.

“You can see through that fog?” he asked. She turned to him, wise far beyond his years. She was older even than Moniwa had been, and her eyes told that story as no words could.

“I’ve survived seven wars on this Wall,” she told him. “I know how to read the signs. The bulk of their army should be over there.”

“Then we’ll lead them farther west,” Eita broke in. “We’re closest to the second of the two places Kenjirou and I planned for. It’s a flat plain with a river to restrict one side of cavalry. We can use this.”

Wakatoshi looked out into the distance. He could see the line of trees, cleared miles away from the Wall to give no advancing army cover from the watchful eyes of Datekou. August was drawing to a close, and it was already growing colder. Winter was the worst time to wage war this far north, though Wakatoshi guessed Sakusa had planned it that way. Itachiyama would be used to the cold. Shiratorizawa rarely fought in the dead of winter.

They had to finish this fast if they had any hope of surviving.

Eita frantically exchanged messages with Kenjirou, now that they knew which plan they were going with. The first move was to meet Itachiyama from the west and retreat, hopefully forcing them to follow. They would go from there.

They rode out along the river that cut almost straight north, to the west of the campfire by about fifteen miles and north of the wall by over fifty. Wakatoshi was going with the smaller force to meet Itachiyama, in the back and away from the fighting but with the single eagle feather in his helmet that marked him as the crown prince. He was the bait.

He saw a scout go running as they approached, but that was fine. They’d never expected to sneak up on the other army unawares. Soon enough, they were facing down the line of the other army in a clear plain.

“Draw,” Nametsu’s clear voice rang out. She was the leader of the small archery force they’d brought with them, the best shot that Datekou had to offer. “Hold.”

Eita held his arm up, waiting for Itachiyama to move, though it seemed they were unwilling to make the first offense. Upon seeing that, he swung his arm down.

“Loose!” Nametsu cried, and a rain of arrows fell on the other army. Most got their shields up in time, but for the unlucky few who didn’t or who didn’t cover themselves well enough, arrows pierced and killed them. A shout rose up from that side. The first blood had been drawn, and now they craved blood in return. Wakatoshi couldn’t have picked Sakusa out from the crowd, but he knew the other prince was over there somewhere, thirsting for his own death.

“Retreat!” Eita called as Itachiyama started to advance. They were all cavalry but the archers, who had left their horses to make their shots steadier. They swung up onto the mounts that were held for them by others, and turned to retreat. Wakatoshi, originally in the back, was now leading the charge back for their camp, Itachiyama following.

Luckily, they’d started the retreat early enough to be out of firing range, able to focus instead on leading their enemy. It worked near perfectly, although they were forced to ride farther north than they’d intended. Itachiyama was probably aiming to cut them off from the wall, perhaps not realizing this was not the full extent of their forces in the north.

Still, they lost no one to arrows, and managed to make the river. There was just enough light left in the day to cross it, though not enough for Itachiyama to follow, giving them respite for the night.

Eita wrote furiously on a letter for Kenjirou, telling him of their current situation. Other than being too far north and on the wrong side of the river, things were going according to plan. They only needed to get farther south and meet up with the rest of their forces, and they could trap Itachiyama.

Things were never that simple, however. Itachiyama crossed the river earlier than expected, and their own forces couldn’t get away fast enough. They had no choice but to turn and face their enemy. It was a good thing Eita had written to the camp twenty miles south, early enough that some reinforcements could be sent. They formed their shield wall, infantry preparing to go against each other while cavalry took the wings.

There was little of Kenjirou’s clever planning or Eita’s brash strikes evident in their formation. This was just two phalanxes meeting as they had always done, and perhaps always would. The great push against each other, the stab of spears, as horses tried to outmaneuver each other.

They could hardly turn and run, not without being trampled. Instead, their only chance was to slowly step backwards without letting their line break, tempting their enemy to follow them farther south. They needed the large open plain by the river. With the lack of anything behind them, Itachiyama would assume no trickery for no possibility of an ambush.

Day after day, they stepped back, carefully, losing as few men as they could. This was not their final battle, and they didn’t push to end it here.

Finally, they managed to give themselves enough space to get their entire force across the river, ready to retreat the rest of the way to where the bulk of their forces had made camp. It was a comfort to be inside a palisade, more protection than they had been offered since they first encountered Itachiyama.

Tomorrow, Kenjirou and Eita’s plan would be put into action. After nearly a month and a half of riding and fighting and planning, it was time to end this. The plan was dangerous, and held the potential of annihilation if it failed, but if it succeeded, this threat from Itachiyama would be over.

“There’s something for you,” Eita told him, holding out a scroll. Wakatoshi scanned over the neat lines of Kenjirou’s handwriting to find something different at the bottom.

Come home soon. ~Satori

“Still think he’s not attached?” Eita asked. Wakatoshi’s face felt warm. He would have to talk, really talk, to Satori once all this was over.

They placed Datekou on the flanks. They were battle hardened and would not crumble. Wakatoshi himself was in the center behind the line of infantry, once again playing bait. He would not stay bait today. Today, he would fight.

Itachiyama advanced, all of their forces concentrated on the middle. Just as Eita had said they would. The middle of the line bowed in, letting Itachiyama come closer, as the sides started to wrap around. To make their lines deeper, Itachiyama had had to make them shorter.

Cavalry was useless next to the river, and the cavalry on the other flank was fighting, not that Wakatoshi was close enough to know how that was going. Instead, he focused on falling back, letting Itachiyama walk into their trap.

And then their enemy was surrounded, and they stopped retreating, instead pressing forward as chaos reigned from the attacks from the back. Maybe it was his imagination, but Wakatoshi swore he could hear Futakuchi whooping with glee.

He pressed into the fray, stabbing forward and feeling as men died on the end of his spear. Everything had gone perfectly to plan. This battle was theirs.

As he pressed farther forward with his line, Eita close to him, the Itachiyama forces dwindling, Wakatoshi started to feel numb. This was wholesale slaughter on a scale that not even the last war had been, and Itachiyama’s forces had to be much smaller. There was no way such a small kingdom could have rebuilt more than this in three years.

Wakatoshi was not a prince, not an alpha, not a lover or anything else in those moments. He thrust. He killed. That was all.

Until he heard a familiar scream. Until he turned to see Eita falling to the ground, helmet off, blood on his face. Until he saw a man with only half a helm, covering his mouth but leaving his head bare.

Only covering the scar across his mouth that Wakatoshi had given him three years ago.

Wakatoshi and Sakusa faced each other, still amid the chaos around them, before charging forward. Wakatoshi put himself between Eita and Sakusa, holding his shield in place and readying his spear. Left-handed, he was useless in a shield wall, but as a solo fighter, he was damn near unbeatable.

He wouldn’t be beaten here.

Sakusa was silent, but his eyes held hatred. Only one of them was going to survive this day. They clashed, shields ringing and spears barely missing their targets.

Sakusa was faster than he’d been three years ago.

They met, again and again, spears ripped from their hands and forcing them to draw their swords. Wakatoshi felt the fatigue, felt his mind going numb again, but he couldn’t stop now. Kill Sakusa, and this ended.

Sakusa wheeled around him, too fast to be tracked, and attacked his vulnerable right side from the back. Wakatoshi couldn’t move fast enough to stop the sword from piercing his shoulder, dislocating it and leaving his shield useless.

All he could do was spin in one last desperate move that ruined his right arm even more, swinging his sword along the same path he had three years ago.

It was all he could do.

#my writing #qohp #royalty au #a/b/o #ushiten #semishira #haikyuu!!#blood

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