#Now Goblin is just numb and like stone……

[sensitivegoblin]

Ramble

[mydysfunctionalvampirefamily]

Dan don't be so casual!!! Your brother is worried about you!!!!

Goddamn Jessie please don't actually go sacrifice for your brother out of guilt.

Dan stop being so fucking casual!!!

Okay side note that has nothing to do with anything. But you can leave bullets inside people, it really depends on where they are. Usually the worst thing is the damage they caused moving. Though I assume the fact that they are silver does mean you should remove them from a werewolf.

Far be it from me to call Jessie a liar, but I do not believe for a second that if Lola tells him it's an unfair deal he is not still gonna take it.

"you wanna eat my ass, fine." tell me there were now kiss motions made on that please!

Why do we need fucking cop to convince everyone they need to get healed. 😂😂

John just being rational is once again the thing that works on Lola and her freak out and refusing medical attention.

😂😂 Aviva getting medical help out of pettiness.

Aviva, John would do anything for you, making a bit of ectoplasm is probably the least.

Oh John, my precious emotionally repressed baby, just casually using up dead bodies like you do.

The goblins taking good care of turkey tail. 😭

All this magic is crazy but really cool!!!

This fucking mouse though. His little hat is cute, but he is a LIAR!!!

John once again knowing exactly what to say to get to Lola.

😭😭😭 The mouse wants to save her! I take it back lil moussy.

Me and Aviva are on the same page! The cop wanting a drink with Lola!!! It's the grenadine, it has to be.

Grenadine with energy drink shots. This sounds like the idea you have once you're already way too drunk to function normal the next day and then you think this will stave off a hangover.

They're both going upstairs. 👀 They are gonna sleep in the same bed!

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Fuck me, John. Why are you so good at talking to everyone for their benefit??? Like no offense but you're so bad in dealing with yourself.

Ohhh Jessie Jessie Jessie. Seems like a bad idea to insult an owl.

I love it when they role exceptional successes!!! Especially when it is when they're doing smth for someone else.

It's so interesting to finally see some stronger emotions with John. The excitement you hear when he talks about smashing his mom's signs is rare.

Sword in the stone-ing that bat into the windshield with everything that's going on, so petty. 😂

"Carl, this man is a werewolf, do you think he's gonna fuck off?" 😂😂 made me laugh out loud, and people looked at me like I was crazy.

He just ended Carl in one shot!

Sure, not feeling pain and going numb is definitely the healthy thing to do after cold blooded murder...

They're extra giggly today, are they nervous?

Also Tim is the irl Miles of that group, telling everyone to focus. 😂

Oh my God!!! They are not fucking around, Aviva just chopping a dead man's legs and hands off. (btw why just stop at the hands at this point and not go full arms?)

You know if you hear about a matter wizard and a wizard of space and time the matter wizard kind of sounds like a dweeb, but actually it's fucking badass.

I am screaming! Fucking Ramona, really thinking giving him a dad will stop him from this. Like she's smart, but she's fucking stupid.

Oh no Lola's worst moment is so awful, and so sad.

The sound of rolling dice is so good.

I hate Ramona so fucking much. She is delusional at this point thinking she's doing the right thing and all creepy calm. Why are parents the fucking worst?!?!

To be fair I like to hate Ramona though, I love hating awful parents.

This fucking magic dagger tho! And Dan himself too obviously but omg.

"I only remember things that are important." yikes!

We love a villain that believes they working for the greater good.

"Consequences are for lesser beings." woooooooooh I hate this bitch.

SHE'S JUST DEAD?!?!

Oh no of course she's not.

The fact that John really doesn't feel pain rn is really so much like his mom. He's on the edge.

Noooo Aviva can't die. 😭

Not the look of confusion, that is kind of sad.

Nope nope, I am in a store rn I cannot listen to this. Will continue listening when I get home

Jesus fuck! I was right to not listen to the last 15 minutes in the store. Good lord. 😭😭

I'm laughing and crying at the same time at Jessie just being gone.

Rob shut your fucking face 😭 (said lovingly obviously)

John casting a spell to finish all this, while having Aviva in his arms. STOP 😭

What??? *insert jlaw gif of what does it mean?!?*

What what what??? Ernie???? NOOOOOOOO Rob stop!! This is illegal!!!! What are you doing???

Okay... But this means there is gonna be a sequel right????

I will post some more thoughts later maybe, but I need to center myself because fuck me.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

“Wake now, you’ll feel better,”

The words of the dream visitor echoed in Majexatl’s mind, even as they tasted bile in their mouth, clothes nearly soaked through with sweat, hands clenched into fists so hard they were numb despite the dried blood crusting around their fingers and palms where their nails had dug into the skin. 

Him.

It couldn’t be him. 

Could it? 

His face was burned into their mind, as much as they wanted time to erase it, the memories haunted them every time they closed their eyes.

Yet… this wasn’t a memory. He wasn’t a memory. When Majexatli last saw his face, it was youthful and soft, the face of someone who had yet to live 3 decades. When they last had seen him, their own face had been young, their horns not fully grown.

When Majexatli looked at their reflection now, they could see the lines on their face, crows feet at the corner of their eyes, far too much grey in their hair than there should be. Wherever he was, he wouldn’t be as aged as them, elves aged differently, even though he was older than them. He would look like—

The figure in their dream, face more angular, the faintest lines on his forehead, around eyes that reflected more experience, even as his hair was still vibrant bronze like a sunset. Young by elven standards, without any of the deep lines on Majexatli’s face, without the salt-and-pepper hair that seemed to grow more grey by the year.

If things had gone slightly differently, their child would have barely looked younger than him.

Majexatli felt like they were going to be sick. Despite that, they couldn’t seem to stop their mind from playing the dream over and over in their mind.

The tenderness in his eyes, the way he had gently stroked their feverish forehead, carefully pushing back the stray hairs matted to their face with sweat.

“I came just in time,”

Their stomach lurched as they quickly shoved their face into their makeshift pillow to muffle the sob that escaped their lips. 

The sound echoed faintly off the stone, Majexatli could only hope they were far away enough from the main camp that whatever noise carried could be dismissed as distant noises from the Goblin camp on the other side of the ruins.

Majexatli wasn’t sure if the sob was of fear, of disgust, of despair. Did they feel sick and breathless and terrified from seeing his face, hearing his voice, feeling his hands on their skin? Or was it because they woke up alone, woke up having to remember everything they lost, having to remember everything they did just to feel his warmth, having to remember that they had never earned that tenderness even when they had been dying in front of him—

Another sob escaped their lips, barely muffled by their pillow. 

Their companions had set up tents and bedrolls and a fire in a large open hall, still largely intact, though in poor state after so many years abandoned. A few smaller chambers connected to the space, and Majexatli had taken their bedroll into one of them, a space that perhaps once was a chapel.

They didn’t trust themselves in their sleep, they always slept with a dagger or two within reach. Majexatli liked their companions, they wanted to trust them, but even that wouldn’t stop them if one of them startled Majexatli in their sleep or got too close during prayer—

Or a nightmare.

But this wasn’t a nightmare, it was real. It wasn’t like any of the nightmare’s Majexatli had become so accustomed to. How many times did they close their eyes and see his face as it was back then, how many times did they fall asleep and find themselves once again a trembling youth kneeling before him, how many times did they wake up screaming and only to have to remember they were decades and hundreds of miles away from what was in their dreams. 

This was different. He was different. He spoke to them, not as an echo of a memory, he looked at them and saw Majexatli not the Asha they had been—

An illithid trick, it had to be. It had to be. It had to be. A side effect of the parasite in their brain. But why would it chose him, why him. And why did he look older, why did seem so real and three-dimensional instead of a ghost of the past replaying the same moments over and over again. How could it be him?

With each rapid breath, they could feel the wounds on their back threatening to split open, they hadn’t even bothered to tend to them or dress them after leaving Abdirak’s bloodied shrine.

Majexatli remembered Lae’zel’s promise the previous night, that she would finish off everyone if the sickness didn’t pass by dawn. Camp was quiet, though, the sound of some speaking soundly, others beginning to stir quietly. No screams of agony or snapping bones, it seemed the visitor was telling the truth, that he would protect them from ceremorphosis.

Yet, Majexatli couldn’t help but want to lay there, let Lae’zel find them still feverish and sickly and let her slit their throat. Maybe someone would bury them with a tenderness they didn’t deserve.

Someone would stop Lae’zel, though, before she could give them the death they deserved. For some reason everyone at camp seemed to like them, look to them for guidance. No one would let Lae’zel end their suffering like this.

Wildshape came to them too easily, it was even easier to sneak out of camp, prowl the decrepit temple ruins. Majexatli needed the hunt, needed to sink their teeth into something and forget.

The goblin was one they recongized as being one of the torturers. He hardly put up a fight. Majexatli let their fear bleed out with his blood. 

As they returned to camp, mind clearer, they tried to rationalize it. It must have been an illithid trick, some strange manipulation or symptom of ceremorphosis. Walking back to their bedroll, though, Majexatli didn’t feel alone. They could feel something watching them, something with them.

A memory came to mind. Uninvite, sickening and bitter. 

An elven hair stick, set with turquoise. 

“The stone will let me find you wherever you are, so you never have to be alone,”

They had pried the stone from the stick decades ago, smashed it to dust and left the pieces scattered miles apart across the Northwest. But they hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to have that stone. It was like being in a cage, like having clipped wings, like having a leash around their throat. 

They had sworn they would never let themselves be captive like that again.

But here they were.

[uniquevoidflowers]

For @treasure-goblin, you requested a story about a goat, (a long time ago oops) and I wrote something! (Not sure if this was what you wanted but I hope you enjoy)

Aspen sat against the rough stone wall of a cave, shivering. The blizzard outside raged and caused a freezing cold breeze to envelop the cave. He curled in on himself, gathering all the warmth he could.

He hadn’t meant to get this far away from home!

It was sunny not too long ago, and Aspen had played outside in the forest. A powerful blizzard came out of nowhere, and this cave was the closest shelter Aspen could find. He didn’t know how to light a fire. He heard footsteps echo and jumped out of his skin, looking towards the cave wide-eyed. A goat came out, staring at Aspen. The goat walked up and Aspen stiffened, not sure on what he should do. To his surprise the goat just came up close and settled down next to him. Aspen sat there, frozen. (Not in the literal sense, although he was sure he was about to be soon) The goat provided some warmth and Aspen’s eyes slipped closed.

——————————————————————-

When Aspen woke up next it was still cold. Something soft was under his head and he sat up. Beneath where his head was…was the goat from earlier. It had brown fur with white patches. Aspen yelped. Did he fall asleep on the goat? How did that happen? Why would the goat let him do that? The goat looked up at him with more intelligent eyes than he was used to and the goat stood up. Aspen looked out the cave. The blizzard had relented but the sky remained cloudy and there was snow everywhere. “Do you think we could make it home? I don’t know where I am.” Aspen asked the goat.

The goat started walking out and Aspen took that to mean that yes, he could make it home. Aspen followed the goat, trudging through the snow. Where on earth was he? He didn’t recognize this place at all! Noticing his distress, the goat stopped and went to his side. It was small but Aspen felt a bit reassured. He continued walking and tried to remember where he had been playing before. “The problem is, I don’t know how far I went. I could’ve gone far, far away and I wouldn’t know.” Aspen told the goat, feeling disappointed.

A light breeze swept through the air and Aspen shuddered, rubbing his hands against his arms. The goat gave him a gentle nudge and he realized that being out here was not such a good idea without proper clothing. Especially if he had no idea where he was going. He traced his footsteps through the snow and found the cave again. He sat down, and looked at the goat, his companion for now. “Maybe someone will find me.” He told himself.

The goat gave a gentle nudge again and Aspen sighed, not moving from where he was. “What should I call you, goat? Patches? No that sounds like a name for a dog or a cat.” Aspen mused.

The goat ran off and Aspen bit his lip.

Great, know he was alone.

However, in a few moments the goat came back, a bag in its mouth. “Huh?” Aspen raised his eyebrows.

The bag contained a whole bunch of stuff and Aspen’s face lit up when he saw matches. “You know, maybe I could make a fire! I just have to find wood.” Aspen told the goat excitedly.

The goat made an excited “Baaah!”

Aspen grinned, and ran outside. The goat followed, suddenly sounding oddly stern. "Oh, right! I forgot to give you a name. How about...C--....Cosmo! Sounds cool." Aspen told Cosmo, and then began grabbing sticks off of trees and the snowy ground.

His hands felt numb and he was still very cold but by the end of it, he had wood to make a fire. Cosmo followed him around, even helping him find branches. They eventually returned to the cave, and Aspen rubbed his hands together, hoping to warm up a little bit before he tried making a fire.

After, he set the sticks up like he had seen other people do and he lit the match. Aspen's father had taught him how to do that. Aspen set the match down on the sticks and waited, quickly pulling the match away and blowing it out after fire started to burn. Cosmo settled next to Aspen and they warmed up to the fire. Aspen searched through the bag from earlier again, and found a necklace. Cosmo suddenly snatched it and moved his head around the necklace. Aspen giggled. "Do you want it on? I can help!"

Cosmo dropped the necklace and Aspen helped put it on. The necklace looked a bit odd on the goat but Cosmo seemed pleased. The necklace had a locket on it, in the shape of a heart. Aspen watched the orange flames and continued to try and warm up his numb hands. Hopefully someone would find him soon. His father was probably worried sick and searching for him.

At least Aspen wasn't alone.

[thethreebroomsticksficfest]

In the Bleak Midwinter

By: FloreatCastellum

Prompt: In the Bleak Midwinter

Summary: ‘Twas the week before Christmas and in grand TTB tradition @floreatcastellumposts was serving up some heartbreaking, festive angst. Don’t forget your cloak as we journey into the forest with Dean. 

Read it below or on AO3 here. 

The snow is not settling on the ground. Each snowflake has a brief life of falling from the grey sky onto the scrubby grass and then vanishing at once. Dean supposes that in other weather it might be beautiful here; perhaps the sun would reflect gloriously off the small trout lake, perhaps the rushes of the river just over the bank would sway pleasantly in a warm summer breeze, perhaps the short, muddy grass would bloom with wildflowers.

But at the moment, all is washed grey with sleet, and he has that heavy coldness that comes from clothes that are always just a little bit wet. Shivering has become an unremarkable constant.

‘Accio trout,’ says Dirk, and three fish have a bewildering end to their lives as they are magically hoisted out of the cold water to struggle and twist for breath in the damp air. The ripples from them spread and then settle once more into grey, stone-like stillness.

They are setting up camp on a little island in the lake, accessible by a thin, creaking footbridge. Small wooden platforms punctuate the shore, for anglers who pay for the privilege of fishing here, Dean guesses, and a thicket of forest provides some shelter from the bitter wind which moans around them.

‘Bleak, innit,’ grumbles Ted, clearing the ground. ‘Grab that guyline, would you, son?’

Dean does so; the rope stings and leaves red marks on his numb hands but he’s used to this routine now. He twists it around a peg as it magically hammers itself into the ground, and knots it the way Dirk showed him. Ted is cursing under his breath; the frost has left the ground as hard as iron, and even with magic it’s proving difficult to get the pegs in.

The goblins speak in their harsh, guttural way, and then Gornuk says, ‘you need to descale and clean it.’

‘Yes, I know,’ says Dirk irritably. ‘You tell me every time.’

There’s more gobbledegook, and then snickering laughter; Dirk throws a dark look to Ted, who replies with an exasperated little chuckle and a shake of the head.

Dean and Ted continue putting the tent up; the sleet-snow is falling thicker now, though still not settling on the ground, so it’s with great relief that they finally get it up and are able to sit in the entrance and light a fire.

It’s a burst of colour, and Dean is briefly hypnotised by the dancing orange and flickering yellow and the rough sound of Dirk and the goblins descaling the fish nearby.

He is sick of bloody fish. Sick to death of it. It’s not as though he was someone who didn’t like fish before. His mother would stew fish, or pan fry it and serve with a mango salsa, or add to a curry, or serve up ackee and saltfish. All spice and heat and colour. It makes Dean think of the way the sun bounces off the cracked pavements of East London and the throb of music and bright but skimpy clothes. It used to make him think of a childhood holiday to Jamaica, fried fish on Hellshire Beach, golden sands and azure waters.

But out here, in a different middle of nowhere each day, they choose fish because it is the only reliable source of food available. They stick to rivers and lakes and stretches of lonely coastline because Dirk has perfected magical fishing, and they can no longer find much from raiding peoples’ allotments, so they’re guaranteed a meal. But after just a few seconds away from the fire it feels cold again, and in dim winter light it always looks grey, and there is not a hint of spice to warm his tongue. He is sick of spitting out flimsy little bones, even when he pushes his knife away from the spine like Ted showed him, even when the fish are filetted by the goblins (which is rare, because they enjoy the crunch).

He doesn’t think it’s enough, either - there’s no fat on fish, and he finds it hard to ever feel full on it, even when they manage to scavenge a few potatoes or rice to have with it. He craves red meat, daydreams about it, his mouth salivates as he imagines biting into a thick, juicy burger, or the smell of bacon frying, or the richness of Mum’s mutton curry.

He watches for a little while, as Dirk pulls a knife roughly across the fish, from the tail towards the head, sending scales flying into the air like metallic snowflakes. He turns his attention back to the fire; just looking at it warms him a little.

The low winter sun has darkened swiftly; the water of the lake seems to go black quicker than the night sky. Dean has never been much of a landscape artist. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the beauty of nature and all that (though he has found that he appreciates it far less now he is forced to live in it), but he’s found his drawings have always felt a little empty without a person in them.

So instead of the dramatic view ahead of him, of the snow falling in a flurry over black water and windswept rushes, he pulls out his sketchbook and warms up his fingers by drawing a rough, unidentifiable shadow descaling a fish.

‘That Dirk?’ Ted says after a while. He’s rubbing his hands together and blowing on them between their chatter. Dean’s own fingers are numb with cold; it’s all he can do to loosely hold the pencil.

‘I s’pose - not specifically. Just - the action. The pose.’

Dirk was squatting on the ground to clean the fish; one shoulder against a tree trunk to keep him steady. Dean had been practising the lines and perspective of it.

‘I was going to say, you’ve drawn him far too attractive.’

Dean grinned, and Ted continued.

‘I hope when you draw me you do the same; take a few pounds off, iron out some wrinkles. Make my hair a bit thicker.’

‘Sure, mate, I can do that for you.’

Ted tutted. ‘I thought you’d argue - where’s your artistic integrity? Aren’t you meant to tell me those things make me more interesting?’

Dean laughs out loud. ‘I s’pose a proper artist would.’

‘And what stops you being a proper artist?’ asks Ted. His voice is a little like a friendly teacher, or beloved uncle. He’s taken Dean under his wing a bit, which Dean appreciates.

‘Being paid,’ says Dean flatly.

‘What’re your rates?’

‘You couldn’t afford ‘em, Ted.’

Ted hisses, his shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. ‘That’s cold, son. You know I can’t wander into Gringotts.’

Dirk and the goblins return and the fish are charmed to rotate slowly over the fire. The smell of them roasting fills the cold air, and Dean watches their eyes shrivel and blacken. He thinks about Hogwarts, and how the food magically appeared, hot and fresh and deliciously prepared. He thinks about how he and Seamus used to complain about it being boring.

He would love some boring food right now. A boring shepherds pie, a dull pasta bake, a dreary fish and chips. Something warming and comforting and plain.

‘Is Potterwatch on tonight?’ asks Ted.

‘Er… I’ll grab my diary, I wrote it down…’ says Dirk, and he squeezes awkwardly past Dean and Ted to vanish into the tent.

The snow has started to settle now, Dean notices. It’s collecting at the edges of things first. The roots of sleeping, bare trees, the grooves of the little wooden fishing platform.

‘Gringotts will be suffering without that man’s organisation’ says Ted, taking a long stick and prodding at the base of the fire. ‘Legendary. Bet he was like that at school too. Bet he was Head Boy.’

‘Eh?’ comes Dirk’s voice from the depths of the tent.

‘You were Head Boy, weren’t you? After I left.’

Dirk staggers clumsily out of the tent, sniffing in the biting cold, and settles back down by the fire. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he says absent-mindedly, opening his red planner and rifling through the pages. ‘School swot, I was.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Ted told Dean. ‘Too cool for that.’

Dean grinned. ‘Same. I mean - I didn’t get Prefect, so-’

‘Blimey,’ says Dirk suddenly, looking at his diary. He looks up. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’

A heavy silence falls on the three wizards; just the slight spit of the fire and crackle of the fish roasting. The goblins exchange glances that seem to Dean to be exasperated smirks, and start muttering quietly in gobbledegook.

‘Oh,’ says Dean.

‘Happy Christmas,’ says Ted hollowly.

The snow falls thicker, collecting easily now, resting on that which has already fallen.

It hits Dean very hard then. He tries to reason with himself; it is just a day, that is all. If he had not known the date, the sun would have risen and set and the night passed overhead with the same dreary monotony as any other at the moment, and he would have felt no stronger.

But he does know, and he feels suspended in it. He is left bereft, devastated, almost abandoned as he thinks about what this day should be, what it has always been to him – full of warmth and excitement and joy and love, and it is like being torn apart from his family all over again. He does not dare speak, because he knows his voice will crack.

‘Not how I’d like to be spending it, no offence to you lot,’ Ted says.

Dean swallows, and nods.

‘I’ve not got any of you anything,’ says Dirk.

‘You got us some fish,’ says Ted. ‘Cheers, mate.’ It’s a weak attempt at bravado, but Dean appreciates it. He tries to salvage something of it himself, and returns to the rough sketch that was supposed to be him practising form. With fingers stinging from cold, he does what he can to improve it, to make it more recognisable, to make it look like he put some thought and care into it.

‘You’re welcome,’ Dirk says to Ted, a wobble in his voice.

It remains a rough looking sketch, but he signs it, tears it out from the pad, and leans over, holding it out to Dirk. He had nothing else to give him, in these circumstances. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he says, to Dirk’s surprised face.

‘Well - thanks, I - oh! Hah!’ He gives a spluttered, watery laugh as he looks fondly down at the drawing. ‘Thank you, Dean, really.’

Ted whistles, long and low and approving. ‘Signed and everything, Dirk, that’ll be worth a few bob in the years to come, trust me.’

‘I’ll get started on yours now, Ted,’ Dean assures him. ‘How do you want to be posed?’

‘Heroically.’

‘Lying in your camp bed snoring, got it.’

They try, they really do. They dance around it, they feign lightheartedness, they take the dark, terrible, lonely thoughts that are screaming in their brains and try to pretend that they do not in fact feel them, that they can shrug it off.

The snow falls thicker and thicker as they eat their fish (instantly cold), and retreat into the tent for scant warmth. They force laughter. Even the goblins seem to take pity and offer up a flask of something goblin made that Dean cannot pronounce but tastes, to him, like vodka.

‘You lot don’t celebrate Christmas then?’ Ted asks them.

‘No,’ says Gornuk flatly, ‘but we understand the traditions for you.’

Dean finishes the drawing of Ted, and offers it as a Christmas gift with a great flourish. He offers to repay the gift of alcohol with drawings of the goblins. They do not seem impressed. With that, they retire to their camp beds, leaving the three wizards to carry on drinking.

The alcohol liberates the unspoken words. It is Ted who raises the subject of their longing loneliness first. ‘Who’re you missing this year, Dean?’ he asks. ‘Who’s the family waiting for you to come home?’

‘My mum,’ admits Dean. ‘Sisters.’

‘Older or younger?’

‘Younger - we’re all so close, they were furious when I went away to school. I’ve never had a Christmas without them though. I wonder how it’s going for them.’

‘I wonder how my daughter’s Christmas is going,’ Ted says vaguely. ‘She’ll be… a few months along now, I suppose.’

‘You going to be a grandad, Ted?’ Dean asks.

He hums and nods slowly. ‘Apparently so.’

‘Next Christmas will be fantastic,’ Dirk tells him. ‘With a little one running round. Or, well, crawling.’

‘You’re going to be a great Grandad,’ Dean says. ‘The favourite one, I bet.’

‘Do you know, I don’t even know if there is another grandad, I don’t know much about my son-in-law, considering,’ says Ted. ‘Everything moved pretty quickly, then I had to leg it.’ He looks at Dirk. ‘Who are you missing this Christmas?’

Dirk thinks for a long time, staring at the flickering paraffin lamp on the table. When he speaks, Dean can hear the heavy regret in every long pause between words. ‘You know, I… I spent so many years thinking there was time for… all that… later. I was so…’ He took a great shuddering breath and turned to Dean. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, you know.’

Dean doesn’t feel lucky, but he also knows these men well enough by now to wait, and listen.

‘This is awful, obviously, but you had some good school years. When we were at school, muggleborns had to prove themselves a hundred times over to be in with a shot of getting a decent job. Didn’t we, Ted?’

Ted sniffed, and nodded, his eyes fixed on the lamp too. ‘Yeah - bloody hard if you were average like me, but I tried to keep a good sense of humour and that helped more than you’d expect, just about. Wasn’t easy though. Got into my fair share of scraps.’

Dean could not imagine Ted as a fighter, but Dirk swiftly clarified the confusion. ‘They used to target us, didn’t they, Ted? Horrific, what some of them used to get away with - then they all became Death Eaters later, didn’t they? You just tried to keep your head down.’

‘Well,’ said Ted fairly, ‘or you started scandalous relationships with Slytherin pureblood girls, but you know, we all had different tactics for survival.’

Dirk laughed. ‘You were a braver man than me - I just studied hard, tried to prove I deserved my place. Got there in the end. I don’t suppose you remember Lily Evans, Ted? Later became Lily Potter?’

‘No, she was too many years below me, never really crossed paths, from what I recall.’

‘She was the year above me; her tactic was to bloody try and kill ‘em with kindness, she was friends with some of them, for a bit anyway. Obviously didn’t work for her. But she was similar to me, talented enough to get into the Slug Club, but bloody hell did she have to work for it.’ He sighed heavily. ‘And I was the same, and anyway - I got myself a decent job, and worked hard and just kept working hard… Never really accepted that I was safe from any of that, never focused on anything but work.’

‘You regret it?’ Ted asks quietly.

‘I never did before,’ says Dirk. ‘I was proud. I still am, really. And I suppose I should count myself lucky there’s no wife or kiddies at home missing me. But… it would be nice to be missed.’ He turns to Dean, and fixes him with the sort of stern stare Professor McGonagall so often gave, in what feels like a lifetime ago. ‘Don’t become a cynic like me,’ he implores. ‘Don’t let them rob you of joy too. When all this is over, make sure you actually live - really live.’

He seems to realise what he says, and for some reason this embarrasses him. He flushes, and seizes the flask of vodka-like drink, and takes a swift gulp.

Dean nods, but then lets the silence awkwardly rest over them. He knows the cause - knows what all of them are thinking. When will this be over, really? Will it ever be over? Will they see the end of it? Or will they freeze out here in this bleak and barren landscape?

He tries to think of something else to say. ‘I didn’t realise Harry’s mother was muggleborn,’ he says at last.

‘He never mentioned it? I thought you said you were in the same dorm,’ says Ted.

‘We were. He doesn’t talk about his parents. Not to me, at least. Never really mentions them.’

‘That’s a shame,’ says Dirk. ‘They were decent people. Well, Lily definitely. James Potter could be a bit of a prat to be honest.’

A moment for the words to sink in, and then they splutter with shocked laughter.

Dirk’s words swirl around Dean’s head as he tries to sleep that night. They leave a lamp on low for the scant warmth, so he stares at the warm, flickering yellow glow as he thinks about them. After the war is over, he must live. Truly live.

He should, he knows, be thinking about his family. And it’s not to say that he hasn’t been thinking about them, because of course he has. He misses them so much it is sheer agony. He wants to risk it all and apparate right back to them, just to feel them in his arms even for a brief few seconds. He yearns to hear his mother’s voice. Perhaps he will find a payphone soon, and call. Maybe that would be safe.

But in truth, it is not them that he is fixating on as he gazes into the dim lamplight.

He thinks instead of the most lively person he knows. The person that has him roaring with laughter. The person who always finds the fun in something. The person that seems to be synonymous to happiness.

Silently, without waking the others, he gets out of bed. His pencil once again glides over the page, the guidelines soft, the tone layered up, careful detail. It’s as though his hand moves of its own accord, he doesn’t really register what he’s doing except for the fact that a hundred, a thousand, a million different fragments of memory were pummelling through his brain, each one as though painted by watercolour, soft and clouded and drowning in colour and light.

How long it takes him to draw in that dim light he isn’t sure, but he eventually puts down his pencil and looks upon perhaps the best piece he has ever created. If only he had watercolours, to add to it, to bring it away from that black and white and into something truly reflective of the person he was trying to capture. He was beautiful, Dean realises. He has never considered it before.

Still as though in a daze, he pulls on his boots, swings his coat over his shoulders, and slips out of the tent. The snow is thick now, it crunches underfoot, but otherwise muffles the world so that he stepped into a strange, close silence. The branches of the trees are covered in frost and ice, a strange tinsel, glittering in his wand light.

He goes down to the wooden platform that perches just over the water edge. It has not frozen over but it is uncommonly still, and in the snow and the dark it is black looking, as though the depths of it continue forever. His fingers are numb and prickling in the chill already, but he takes out the drawing and holds it before him. It is cast in faint blue from the light of his wand.

Seamus stares back at him, with the slight upturn of his mouth and hooded eyes that Dean fiercely knows to be the pale blue of a morning sky but are here cast, by circumstance alone, in the grey lead of his pencil.

Dean wonders if it is normal to feel suspended like this when thinking about someone. He wonders if it’s normal to think this strongly about a friend. He wonders if it is normal to miss a living person so strongly it feels like grief, like the gently increasing pain of being out here in bleak weather is nothing compared to his warm absence.

He wonders why he does not want to risk anyone seeing this drawing, this outpouring of… He cannot admit the word to himself.

Instead, he crouches, and gently places the drawing on the surface of the still water. For a moment, it seems as though it hasn’t even made a ripple, but then he sees it, reaching out into the night. The drawing of Seamus floats for a while, and he watches it, hoping desperately, praying, even, that all of this will end. That spring will eventually soften this iron hard earth, that they will see one another again at last.

Gradually, the drawing sinks into the safety of the black water, unseen by anyone but Dean. He watches it vanish, and feels oddly freed.

He will see him again, he decides. And this time, as Dirk suggests, they will live. Really live.

[the-fiction-witch]

The Last Inn

Media IRL X Fantasy (DND inspired) Character Thomas Brodie Sangster (Elf) Couple Thomas X Reader (Taven Maid) Rating scary + Cute Concept Room at the Inn

I was shivering from top to toe, my whole body numb from the damp and cold. The rain hadn't let up now for days and the grey sky showed no signs of letting up. I did my best to huddle under the covers of the cart trying to stop myself getting any wetter checking the road signs and my maps. I was hoping, praying even for an Inn not far from here. I found a few on the map along the road I travelled, but they mostly had been crossed out. But I knew I had little choice as there was no way around it, as I knew if I stayed out in the depths one more night, I'd be lucky to wake up again. And I used my last away crystal weeks back when I got lost in the indigo mines.  I did my best to just push on and Hurry thought until Atlast I found it and I sighed in relief at an inn marked on the map just a few miles away down the road it had no cross, it was a risk but what choice did I have. I huddled under the covers wrapping my cloak around me tightly in the hope to just keep myself warm enough to prevent getting sick. Until I saw the Inn in the distance.

It was a tall and rather wide building, a stone shell with thick wooden walls, well built I must say, with colourful glass windows, a water wheel on the side working away on the small river, the river had a little stone bridge big enough for carts and caravans. And a stable made in the same style as the inn with a large pile of hay and some horses already there for the night. I hurried over the bridge and stopped just before the stables . I was fearful but I pulled my mask up and hood over further making sure to hide myself as much as I could, before going to the little round door. It wasn't locked and I could hear sounds on the other side so I nervously pushed it open and snuck myself inside.

It was a large room with heavy wood floors, a large brick fireplace on one side lit with its green flames, the back wall had a staircase leading up and a corridor leading back, then a long wooden bar with various bottles lining the back wall. Scattered around the room were wooden tables where many folks sat drinking, talking and such like. But the inn fell silent as I arrived as everyone turned to see me. I nervously stepped though going to the empty bar, I decided merely to wait assuming someone would come. I knew they were all watching me, all inspecting me. I heard footsteps behind me getting closer and closer until a man came to me laying his axe on the bar beside me, making my heart race.

"What's one of you little bastard's doing so far from home?" He asked the threat in his voice

"Just uhhh travelling" I answered with a gulp

"Travelling?" Another man asked as he came to my other side now giving me no escape I knew his kind his dark green skin and his accent tipped me off, "how's about you get back on your horse and keep on travelling" he warned

"Why would I do that?" I asked purposely stalling as I did my best to sneakily grab my dagger on my belt as I felt all those at the inn began to get closer looming over me, 

"We don't take kindly to your…type around here." The first said "something bad could happen to you if you don't get out of here soon" 

"Is that a threat?"

"Yeah it is you -" the goblin spoke but he was interrupted by a voice coming from the corridor, a frame voice shouting in goblin tongue something I didn't understand at all he shouted back but more argumentative words came and he stormed out the Inn completely. And around the corner came a rather sweet figure.

She was small in flat leather shoes with laces up her legs, a dark blue dress that stopped just below her knees with moons, stars and other celestial pattern on the fabric, a black corset around her well tied up and a apron around her waist with a bow at the back, her very long hair in a braid that then wrapped around and formed sort of sweet roll shape. 

"Marcelius" she warns giving him a look “Take your dirty little axe of my bar” she warned him and he sent sitting back down "ohh Hello" she smiled to me 

"Uhhh hi" 

"What can I do for you?" She asks coming the the bar across from me 

"Ohh uhh well I was hoping to get a room? If you have anything available, I've been in the road for days" I asked 

"In this weather?" She asked and I nodded "oh you poor thing, I'll check the book just a moment" she smiled just going into that back room again but returning moments later with a box and a book she opened the book to the marked page and looked down her list "ah perfect I have one upstairs" she smiled open the little box to get a small key "do you need a stable too?"

"Ohh uhh yes please" I nodded

"Of course, that's two silvers a night then" she smiled

And I noticed the man from early kick a fuss slamming his tankard on the table 

"Oi!" She yelled him in his direction, making him stop "that alright?" She smiled to me

"That's fine I just uhh… are you sure?" 

She seemed puzzled a moment

"Are you sure?" I whispered leaning on the bar to whisper to her 

"Why wouldn't I be?" She whispered back

I was scared but I pulled down my hood and my mask much to the horror and anger of those in the Inn but she only smiled and offered me the key 

"You're sure?"

She nods so I handed her the coins and she handed me the key "come on I'll walk you up" 

I nodded, going out and putting my horse and cart into the stables, taking my things for the night and following her up the stairs to a small door. “Here we are, nice view of the river. You need anything from towels to sheets, I’m just downstairs” she explained “and Those mercenary boys give you any trouble just let me know alright?”

“Will do, And - thank you.. very much.”

“You’re welcome” she smiled “Have a nice evening” she says before heading back down to the bar. 

I unlocked the door and headed inside and locked it quickly behind me, it was a very nice little room with a big comfy bed with soft covers and pillows, some fresh fluffy towels, a nice lovely bath tub, some fresh handmade soap, and a nice little view out the back of the inn of the river flowing into the water wheel and back of the Inn had several warm pools and rocks much like the surrounding area but it was so beautiful and cosy, I happily had a hot bath and got cosy in the soft bed. 

[lucigoo]

So, its very much Sunday (even though I thought it was Saturday ...) not Friday and im very late, but never mind!

Pairing: Bilbo'Thorin

Warnings: MCD, Canon Compliant

Words:801

Summary: Bilbo is watchig the eagles fly overhead in victory. With Thorin's cooling hand in his, Bilbo isnt sure what their is to feel victorious over.

#248- Watching Birds @flashfictionfridayofficial

A03 link here

Bilbo sat holding Thorin’s hand as the warmth is leached from it. He knew he should move. Knew sitting in a puddle of frozen blood was a very bad idea, but he also knew that as soon as he let go, as soon as he moved, it was over. Thorin would well and truly be gone.

Instead, he laid himself down beside the dwarf. Still holding his hand as tightly as his numb ones could manage it and he looked up.

What he saw would be majestic under any other circumstance. The Eagles flying ahead, doing victory rolls, cawing out their joy at the orcs and the dragon having been defeated.

Well, bully for them, Bilbo thought spitefully. Bully for them and all the other parts of Middle-Earth who were saved because of sacrifices. Sacrifices so big Bilbo couldn’t bare to think about them. Even as he held the hand in his tighter and tighter.

His thoughts suddenly turned to the boys. Sweet, wonderful Kili with a smile that was mischievous and warm, and golden little Fili, a Prince who didn’t succumb to gold sickness because his heart was more golden than anything in the Treasury.

And Thori, brave, beautiful Thorin who tried and tried and yet would never see his kingdom reborn, wouldn’t raise his nephews as the princes they were. Wouldn’t see his sister take back her birth right as Princess under the Mountain.

Bilbo wasn’t sure why it was the thought of Dis that set his tears off. Why the idea of her being alone, and not holding the now bitterly icy hand of the dwarf he had never admitted he loved was what did it, but it was.

He suddenly pulled Thorin’s hand closer and bent over it, wailing into the sky. Hs mournful cries a viscous parody of the eagles’ happy ones from before.

It was there Bilbo sat, his wails raising as he watched the eagles some more, hating them more and more at the carefree way they frolicked, when he heard them. He would recognise those footsteps anyway, and he hated them just as much as the eagles in that moment.

“I thought Wizards were never late? Well, you were. You are so late, it’s impolite Gandalf. You weren’t late with the trolls, or Elrond’s council or the goblins, but here, now? Here you are so late it ended in tragedy. Tragedy, you probably could have avoided Gandalf. Where were you?” Bilbo asked as he lowered his eyes from the sky to his old friend before him.

“I was fighting Bilbo, as were many others. Thorin made his own choices Bilbo, he always has,” Gandalf said sadly.

“No, he rode out like a bloody idiot because he was feeling guilty. You were supposed to be here so they didn’t succumb. So they didn’t lose themselves, but you weren’t. And he forgave me, but he hated me and I betrayed him and it is all fucked up Gandalf!” Bilbo cried.

“There is nothing I can say or do, my friend. But you must stand and let go of his hand,” Gandalf said as he softly reached towards Bilbos entwined hand.

“No,” Bilbo snarled as he scurried backwards, holding Thorin’s hand tightly, refusing to let go. “I’m not ready,” he said again around sobs.

“Bilbo, you will never be ready, but you have to let go and we have to get you to a healer.” Gandalf tried again.

“Why? So I can go back to the Shire and be an even lesser hobbit than I was? So I can go back and pretend to fit in when my heart, my everything is buried under stone on the other side of the world. I can’t let go Gandalf,” Bilbo sobbed.

Gandalf sighed as he reached forwards ad slowly pried Bilbo’s hand loose, catching it before it could cling again. “Im sorry your heart has broken Bilbo, but you are alive, ad we must make sure it stays that way,” Gandalf said as he pulled Bilbo close.

“Ok, but I will wait here. I won’t grab him. But ... He can’t stay here alone. That’s not right. Send someone to carry him down. Someone who will treat him like the King he is, the King he was,” Bilbo said softly as for the first and last time he touched Thorin’s braids, moving them off his face and softly kissing his brow.

“Very well, I shall be back shortly, do not move, and do not Bilbo ...” he trailed off.

“I won’t,” Bilbo repeated as he softly stroked Thorin’s freezing face.

Bilbo heard as Gandalf left, heard as his footsteps retreated. He carried on stroking Thorin’s face as he looked up again.

The eagles had come, and like Gandalf, they had been too late to save his king, his dwarf, the one he loved.

[spidey-webz]

Lost and found | p.parker

Andrew!Peter Parker x reader

Summary: Peter had lost you. When he finds you again, he doesn't believe his eyes.

Warnings: reader's death at the beginning, angst, fluff at the end

Words: 1.7k

Requests: Okay request ask about No Way Home: Reader gets pulled into Tom’s Peter’s universe and in Andrew’s Peters world you died in stead of Gwen so maybe a like sweet cute reunion type of thing between Andrew’s Peter and reader?

and

hello it could be a request from andrew peter where the reader returns, despite being dead, as otto and goblin. and all angst and happy. because I read that emma stone was going to appear but due to the covid she couldn't.

A/N: this was painful to write tbh, but it has a happy ending if you ignore that they're gonna be separated again technically

Masterlist / Request here

Peter had dealt with a lot of loss in his life. First, his parents that he had lost way too early in his life. He had grown up without them, being raised by his aunt and uncle. When he was younger, he had often dreamed about how life could have been with his parents. He knew so little about them, when he thought about it. There were so many corner pieces but nothing connecting them. What flowers did his mother like? What was his father’s favourite movie?

He grew up to know these things about his aunt and uncle after all. May loved the flowers that smelled the most like a summer day would, his uncle preferred to watch action movies over simple dramas. Peter knew their favourite foods, their work schedules and most of all, he remembered his childhood so often. They had always tried their best to make Peter feel like everyone else even without completely replacing his parents. He was lucky to have someone care for him like that.

His world was shaken when his uncle died. Back then, he had been to young to understand the loss of his parents completely, to feel the emptiness to its full extend when it happened. Now he had lost his father figure again, leaving a gaping hole in his heart and so much rage. Perhaps he could have saved him somehow, perhaps he could have changed something.

When he thought that he had finally managed to deal with Uncle Ben’s death, he lost the next person. This time he couldn’t save them again. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw your face, the remainder of a scream still on your lips, your hand reaching out for him to catch you but he never did. By the time his webs reached you, you had already hit the ground, your neck snapping right in front of him.

If he had to describe how he had felt in that moment, he wouldn’t be able to do it. His world had just completely fallen apart in that moment. His body had not felt like his own anymore, his legs had given in as soon as he reached the ground. Your lifeless body, laying there like a shattered flower in the middle of so much destruction. “No, no…” he mumbled, his voice sounding so far away. The tears ran down his cheeks and they seemed to burn on his skin. He felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore, like his heart would stop any moment.

You looked almost peaceful even when there was a storm raging inside Peter. He picked your head up gently, his fingers brushing through your hair one more time as he pressed his forehead to yours, his tears falling onto your face. How many times was he able to hold you like that, with your chest moving against his own, your laughter against his ear. But everything was silent now. He could probably hear a hairpin drop. He felt nothing but that numbing pain.

He knew that he should have been more careful. He should have prevented all of this from happening. He would give his own life so that he could hear you laugh one more time. He would give everything so his fingers would forget the feeling of your cold skin against them, the missing heartbeat, the laughter that echoed in his head as the most painful memory that he could not store away yet.

Loss was a constant in Peter Parker’s life, one that he could not get rid of, no matter how many lives he saved, how many bad people he stopped. He would never be able to get back what he had lost, not now and never in the future.

One day, when he was just on the way back from the grocery store, taking a shortcut over the roofs, everything changed. The world around him simply did. Buildings were taller, others smaller and some signs changed their meaning. He was not in the New York he knew as his home and that terrified him. It took him some time to figure out that he was probably in another version of this city. Peter had no clue how he had gotten here though. Did he drink something? Did something bite him again, but this time it would be much worse?

To be fair, the last few months had just been filled with grief for him. Just when he started to get better, he was focusing on fighting crime again, so the last thing he wanted now, just as he got back into his routine, was to land somewhere else, some place he didn’t know. And then he wasn’t able to figure out how he had gotten here in the first place.

Things started to happy pretty fast as he wandered around the city. He stepped through some sort of portal, following two voices he didn’t recognise. He found another Peter Parker which confused him even more. How many versions of him were there? Why did he meet one now, in this strange other version of New York?

And then he met another one, found out about the fact that he was not the only one from his New York that had found their way into this universe.

It was not until he arrived in the youngest Peter’s high school that worst thing happened. Peter was brooding over a few ingredients he had just mixed together when the two large doors to the school lab flew open.

And standing there, looking at everyone in the room, were you. The bottle he was holding fell to the ground, the glass shattering, the liquid spilling over the entire floor. Something seemed to wrap so tightly around his throat, robbing him of the ability to speak or to make a sound. He blinked a few times, aware of all the confused looks he was getting, but he was not able to believe his eyes. How could you stand there? Just a few metres away from him when he had clearly seen you die, back in that tower. When he had seen your dead body, cold and motionless, when you were such a painful memory in his head, when your death had forced him into his knees. When you had died and he had lost all the happiness in his life.

You stared at him, eyes wide open, and he could tell that you were trying to put so many pieces together as well. How did you end up here? How were you still alive? Nothing made sense anymore.

Peter had to force himself out of his chair, his legs feeling like jelly. He was not sure if they could even carry him far enough.

Then he stood before you, his eyes filled with so much pain. It was your turn to ask yourself what had happened that made him so sad. Peter was always a force to be around, happy, lighting up the entire room for you. The guy that stood in front of you seemed like he had seen too many horrible things.

“Peter,” you whispered. Did he even hear it?

What were the odds that you had landed in this strange place with your boyfriend?

“You…” He wasn’t able to say more. Before you could reach out, he was on his knees, his arms wrapping around your legs as he held you so tightly. “Peter,” you said again, confused, surprised – puzzled, most of all. What was happening? Why did this happen? What had happened to him?

“Peter, what happened? Do you know where we are?” you asked, hoping for an answer, but you knew you wouldn’t get one. Your boyfriend started sobbing, his hold around your legs getting tighter. Reluctantly, still not sure what was happening, you wrapped your arms around him as well, your heart aching at the sound of him crying. You wanted to comfort him – you needed to comfort him.

“I saw you die, Y/N, I saw you die.”

For a moment, you couldn’t even register his words. It took you a few breaths, it took you a moment to close your eyes, before you understood what he was trying to say. You had died, but at the moment, you were pretty sure that you weren’t dead.

“I saw you fall, I held your body,” Peter continued, his voice reflecting all the grief he had felt.

Maybe you had been right with your first assumption. This was another universe, where all things happened differently. What if this wasn’t the Peter you were with in your world, but another one that came from a place where you had died in front of him?

The thought terrified you. It left you with a cold sensation in your entire body. How did you die?

“I’m alive, I’m very alive right now, Peter,” you assured him. He needed that, you knew it. This was not the right moment to talk about your theory of what had happened, to ask Peter what he thought about it or where he came from. It was not the moment to ask any questions, because you knew that he was still the Peter you knew and you had just come back to him somehow, after he had originally lost you.

You sank to your knees as well, the cold tiles adding to the freezing sensation in your body, but you didn’t mind. Not when you were able to take Peter’s face into your hands, feeling the stubble under your fingers, something your Peter had just newly acquired.

His forehead leant against yours, the tears leaving his face wet. Just like on that fatal day, he was holding you again, forehead against yours, but this time, he could feel your breath against him again. He could feel your chest rise and lower against his own, he could hear the heart beating in your chest.

Maybe all of this wasn’t quite right and a lucky coincidence, but he could not let you go.

Maybe he would never let you go again. The tears kept coming and coming, but he did not feel the numbness anymore. He felt relieved, alive, more than he did in the last few months, because you were in his arms again.

Because some version of him did not make the same mistakes.

[demig00ddess]

To the last breath

Pairing: Bill Weasley x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bill Weasley are former classmates, and now fiancé and fiancée, and brilliant Curse-Breakers working in tandem. The future promises to be great for both of you, but the last work assignment turns into a tragedy.

Warnings: angst, mentions of blood, injuries, death

Word Count: 1350

A/N: Forgot to post it yesterday. Sometimes, I get too hung up on the little things of the characters, but I'm interested in coming up with their own stories for these things. My first angst, don't judge strictly.

"These are the most boring dungeons in my life," your voice echoed off the stone walls. "At Hogwarts, at least, there was Snape in the dungeons. And what's here?"

"The skeleton tried to strangle me," Bill said, rubbing his neck. "This is not enough for you, love?"

"It was in the morning," you answered cheerfully, raising your wand higher to light the way, and twined your fingers together.

You have worked your way through the ruins of the ancient catacombs, in search of another lost goblin treasure. Your last assignment before your wedding and honeymoon. And your thoughts were absorbed by the worries of the upcoming celebration.

"Oh no!" you gasped. Bill twitched, shielding you from possible danger, holding out his wand in front of him. You put your hand gently on his shoulder, soothing him. "It's all right, dear. Sorry, I was just thinking. I promised to choose napkins for the banquet yesterday and completely forgot. Mrs Weasley will kill me!"

Bill let out a sigh of relief and lowered his wand, smiling.

"What kind of wedding would it be, then, without a bride? And mom asked to call her simply by the name. In a week, you will also become Mrs Weasley and there will be a terrible confusion," Bill laughed at the way you blushed, and hugged you from the back, kissing you softly on the temple. "We'll reach the vault soon."

You checked the map and continued on your way. Bill was not mistaken, after a couple of forks, you found yourself in a spacious round treasury resembling a well. Gold coins, jewellery, and weapons were piled up in it. Your trained eye of the Curse-Breaker immediately noticed several particularly valuable goblin-made items for which you will be awarded at Gringotts.

You and Bill cast a Protego charm and split up by going around the room from different sides. You stepped over a human skeleton, heading for the treasure. One of your work duties was to check the safety of everything you found, so you decided to do just that.

A few minutes later you put aside another absolutely ordinary goblet, which has dried blood or wine. Your attention was attracted by a large wooden box decorated with carvings with figures of wild animals. You lifted the lid and held up your wand, examining the contents. The box was full of different-sized bones, you winced, there could have been human ones among them. Taking from there a small, beautiful white fang, you closed the box and returned it to its place. Not cursed — not interesting. But you admired the fang. It belonged to a wolf or a werewolf, or some unknown creature.

"Look, it's so beautiful," you tossed fang to your fiance. "You can make a pendant or a cool earring. Can you imagine yourself with this, huh?"

"I don't have as much fantasy as you, honey," Bill laughed and threw it back at you. "Do you wanna pocket it?"

"Nobody needs this stuff anyway, the goblins are only interested in irons," you replied, knowing full well that he was only reproaching you in jest. Both of you are back to work. You were studying the treasure so that you wouldn't stumble upon some cursed thing. And Bill was examining the treasury itself, he was very interested in the magical writings on the walls.

Some shine on the floor attracted you. Only now you noticed magic circles inscribed in several places with small magic crystals in the middle under the layer of dust and sand. One of the crystals glowed brighter the closer Bill got to it, fascinated by the exploring of the wall.

"These're not runes, I've never seen this before," Bill ran his fingers along the wall. Distracted by his voice, you didn't notice him take another step forward. You looked down in horror when you saw that he had stepped on the edge of the circle.

"Bill!" your Protego charm dissipated when you flung Bill aside with a wave of your wand. A purple bolt of lightning shot out of the crystal, striking the spot where Bill had been standing a moment earlier. He flew off a couple of meters, hitting the wall with his back, but immediately got up.

"Great shot, love," Bill said, taking a couple of weak steps toward you.

"Oh, Merlin!" The curse barely hit him, leaving only a small cut on his arm. You laughed with relief and took a step toward him. "It was so clo— "

A scarlet beam of an identical magic crystal directly above your head hit your chest. You felt as if a thousand blades were simultaneously slashed through your skin and insides. Instead of a cry, a gurgling wheeze came from the throat and your mouth filled with blood. You took a step forward and collapsed into Bill's arms.

"No, Y/N!"

Your shirt instantly became damp and warm, and scarlet spots spread all over it. You were a limp doll lying on Bill's lap, unable to move. Blood mixed with your tears was flooding your face. It seemed like every cell in your body was torn apart. Red and black spots were flickering before your eyes.

"No no no!" Bill pulled a bottle of Essence of Dittany from his bag. He poured half of the potion into your mouth and tried to heal your wounds. But even a whole bath of essence could hardly help you. You felt it. You felt that nothing could stop it. You felt you were dying.

"We need to apparate to the hospital, hold on to me," Bill tried to lift you up, but lowered you in fright, hearing a painful moan.

"Don't," you whispered. He looked into your eyes with excruciating pain and slowly shook his head. He was powerless to do anything while you were dying in his arms.

"No, please." Bill put his palms around your face, warm and wet with your blood, and burst into tears. "Please, get up."

"It's okay," you smiled out of the corner of your mouth, his sight was tearing your heart hundreds of times stronger than a cutting spell.

"Don't leave me," Bill whispered. "Please, Y/N, don't leave me. I love you. I love you so much!"

You tried to smile again, but your face cramped. You wanted to tell him "I love you too." Merlin, how much you wanted to tell him! But each breath was more difficult, you were gasping, feeling your lungs filling with blood instead of air. Your legs went numb right away, and now you couldn't even feel your arms. The pain was gone. The picture in front of your eyes was floating and gradually disappearing as if someone was taking apart a solved puzzle. You opened your eyes wider, trying to see Bill's face once more, but it was all in vain. Darkness has closed around you.

× × × × × × × × × ×

Bill was sitting on the stone floor in a pool of blood, clutching your cooling body to him, and howling softly, choking on his tears. He couldn't tell how much time had passed when he finally put you down to the ground. His fingers, blood dried on them, trembled, closing your eyes with a glazed gaze. Bill kissed your cold forehead and leaned his forehead against it, shedding tears on your face.

He took off his jacket, and tore the unspotted side of his shirt into rags, which he used to gently wipe your face, and then the remaining wounds. Last of all, he straightened the engagement ring that glittered on your finger. A small thing fell out of your hand and rolled on the floor. Bill, almost not realizing what he was doing, picked it up to examine. It was the same fang that caught your attention. "A fang for his cool earring." Bill turned it over in his hands and put it in his pocket. Then he picked your body up bridal style, and, swaying slightly, went to the exit from the dungeon, leaving behind red, like rose petals, drops of blood.

[lunapwrites]

Numb

(I am once again posting unedited nightmares to Tumblr.)

CW: strong language, violence, character death. The first thing Remus noticed was that the floor was cold. The texture rough against his stubbled cheek, scraping against his forearms as he slowly pushed himself up. He blinked blearily, eyes adjusting to the dim torchlight. Stone floors, stone walls, iron bars.

A cell.

His head was throbbing; there was dried blood in his hair. This time it might have been his own. He recalled bright lights, curses flying, sizzling past his ear. Red. Darkness.

A Stunner.

How did they find me?

He couldn't remember.

If he concentrated, he could hear breathing, other heartbeats. One, two, three... no, four. He scented the air; three male, one female. Human, goblin. Familiar — very familiar, though he was struggling to think beyond the pounding in his skull. He couldn't recall their faces.

Somewhere out of view, a door swung open: hinges creaking, wood groaning, scraping along the floor. A jangle of keys. This scent... (juniper berry and wood shavings and cheap dusty tea) this scent he knew.

rat rat rat

"Oh good, you're not dead," Peter said in a tone that might have sounded cheerful if not for the underlying tension of attempted murder and heart-wrenching betrayal.

"Sorry to disappoint," Remus replied. His voice was rougher than the stone he'd woken on and twice as cold. On the other side of the wall, two heartbeats quickened; a quiet intake of breath.

They know me.

"Ah, don't be like that, Moony. I've brought you supper."

"Think I'd rather starve, thanks."

Peter gave that snorty little laugh that Remus used to privately think was endearing and now just made him want to yank the bastard's brains out through his nostrils.

"Just as dramatic as ever, I see." He showed the plate to Remus. "It's just a bacon sarnie. Light on the butter and practically raw, just the way you like it."

It was the way he liked it, and Remus hated him for it.

"Why am I here?"

"Skipping right over the small talk, eh? That's not like you at all." Peter opened a small grate, pushing the plate through the bars. "Come on, Moony. You know why."

"Don't call me that."

If he hadn't been watching for it, he'd have missed the tiny flicker of hurt across Peter's face. The twitch of his brows, the near imperceptible thinning of his already too-thin lips. The shadows under his eyes darkening.

He looked terrible. He looked sorry. Remus hated him even more.

"Alright, Remus then. Or would you prefer Lupin?"

"I would prefer you didn't call me anything, honestly."

"Too bad," Peter said briskly. "I'm the jailor, so unless you just don't want to talk at all..."

"That would be lovely, actually."

"Liar." Peter grinned. "You love hearing yourself talk, always did. You were worse than James—"

The bars rattled as Remus slammed into them, fury bubbling in his veins. Peter leapt out of his reach, eyes wide, frightened as he'd been that night in the shack.

"DON'T!" Remus snarled, fangs bared. "Don't you ever speak his name!"

Peter stared at him, his hummingbird pulse slowly steadying as he remembered who was on which side of the bars. He put his hands up, placating.

"Alright, Remus. Fair enough. I'm sorry."

No you're not.

Peter hovered awkwardly for a moment, rocking on his heels like he had something more to say — like there was anything more to say. As if he had a right to be disappointed that Remus would sooner swallow his own tongue than accept anything he offered.

"Right. I'll leave you to it, then. Be back tomorrow."

Remus watched him slip out of the room in silence, the heavy door swinging shut, the lock turning with a dull click just as the plate shattered against the wall.

-

"Brought you some soup today," Peter said conversationally. "Figured you might need it after talking to Bellatrix."

He slipped the bowl through the grate; Remus didn't move from his spot against the opposite wall. Every one of his nerve endings was on fire, but he'd be damned before he'd show it.

"She really needs to work on her conversational skills," he croaked, and immediately regretted it. Peter's eyes sharpened, searching his face.

Nothing to see here. Not for you.

"She was always mad as a hatter before, but Azkaban really didn't do her any favours in that regard." Peter sighed, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. "Can't say I'm upset about getting out of that one."

It was in that moment that Remus decided that the Killing Curse was too good for Peter.

He hauled himself to his feet, trudging over to the front of the cell on shaky legs, leaning over carefully to pick up his supper.

"I see you remembered my favourite again." He sniffed at the bowl of soup suspiciously, checking for strange ingredients.

Potato. Leek. Broth... chicken I think. Cream. Bacon again, probably leftover.

"Figured a taste of home might not go amiss," Peter said quietly, frowning. "I haven't poisoned it, you know."

"I'm well aware that the only thing you poison is friendships," Remus agreed. "If you wanted to kill me, I should watch for a knife in my back."

"...That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

They stared one another down silently, Peter with his best rainy morning face on, Remus towering above him like a thundercloud. He slowly poured the soup out onto the floor, flinging the bowl back through the bars. Peter dodged at the last second; it bounced off the wall next to his ear and clattered harmlessly to the floor.

He'd learned his lesson since the plate, apparently.

"Right," Peter declared in an overly plummy tone as he pushed off the wall, "we'll just try again tomorrow, shan't we?"

-

The following day, Peter brought down bangers and mash; it was cold and grainy, and the bangers were burned to hell.

Remus ate it anyway.

-

"You know, as pleased as I am that you've stopped throwing tantrums over the food," Peter mused through a mouthful of toast, "I'm genuinely surprised you haven't asked me why I did it."

Remus paused, looking up from his plate through one, unswollen eye.

"Probably because it doesn't matter."

He spoke slowly, as if to a particularly dim child, as if he weren't lying through his teeth.

Peter scoffed, spots of colour rising to his cheeks.

"Please, like you didn't spend twelve years tearing yourself up over Sirius. Why should my reasons matter less?"

"I'll give you three guesses."

Peter wrinkled his nose, scowling.

"You always liked him best."

"Dunno what to tell you, Pete. He gives great head."

There was a muffled snort from the neighbouring cell. Dean, by the sound of it. A week ago, Remus might have even been embarrassed.

"Remus Lupin, unfiltered," Peter said with a wistful shake of his head. "I fucking missed you, you know."

"This is very good bread. Do give my compliments to whichever unfortunate elf was responsible for it."

"That would be me."

Remus snorted at him, raising his mug of water in toast.

"Here's to moving up in the world."

"Fuck off." Peter eyed him speculatively for a long moment. "It was because I wanted it to end."

Remus peered at him over the rim of his mug.

There was a dark intensity emanating from Peter. Not dangerous in the same way that Bellatrix or even Sirius was; sharp and sinewy, a predator stalking prey. It was as if Remus was moving among the stars and encountered a vast nothing that devoured everything it dragged into its field.

No sound, no light, just cold, dead silence.

"All my friends were dying or turning into people I didn't recognise anymore, and I was terrified," Peter continued quietly. "Every day I was terrified, and I just wanted it to end. I didn't care how."

He pushed off the wall, leaving without waiting for a response.

It didn't matter. There was nothing to say.

-

On the fifth day, an apple rolled off the plate as Peter approached the cell. It hit the ground, rolling at his feet. He leaned down to recover it, and the rest happened very quickly.

Remus rushed forward, his arm darting out to catch Peter around his neck as he rose back up, yanking him back hard against the bars.

"You always were an idiot."

Peter thrashed and struggled in his grip. His fancy silver hand clawed at Remus' forearm, more powerful than Peter had any right to be.

But Remus was stronger.

"I would be lying if I said I didn't miss you, Pete," he said calmly, tightening his grip. "I missed you every day, like a limb. I still do."

The keys were jangling against Peter's belt loop, against the bars. Remus could reach through and grab them now, if he wanted to.

"You weren't the only one who was afraid, you know? We were just kids. Only the rest of us learned to kill our enemies instead of our brothers."

It wasn't about the keys.

"My brothers died twelve years ago." The fingers scratching and scrabbling against his arm were weakening, slowing. "I buried one with his wife in Godric's Hollow, and they put up a little statue for them that I still can't stand to look at."

Peter's knees buckled, his weight against Remus' steady arm adding pressure.

"I buried the other in a little plot in Coxheath, and I used to wonder why it couldn't have been me. And I grieved."

Remus took a deep, slow breath. A holy calm settled over him.

"I want you to know," he continued in that same soft, conversational tone, "that everything you've done has amounted to nothing. That you are nothing, and no one will remember you."

Things happened very slowly after that.

Peter stopped struggling.

Remus counted heartbeats.

There were six.

And then there were five.

He reached down and pulled the keyring from Peter's belt, popping the beltloop clear off. It wasn't like Peter needed it anymore. He left the body against the bars, opening the door to his cell without looking back.

-

"Hullo Professor."

Dean was watching him open their cell door with wide eyes, more surprised — appraising — than fearful. Luna waved at him cheerfully, same as when he'd last seen her, if a little taller. Remus nodded to them both in greeting.

"I'd say it's good to see you both, but I'm rather sorry you're here. Can everyone move under their own power?"

"Ollivander and Griphook are both a bit worse for wear," Dean said apologetically.

"Alright, well give me a hand now then."

-

It only took a few moments for them to get Griphook and Ollivander situated on Dean and Remus' backs, respectively. Remus, in the meantime, had been coming up with a plan.

So long as they were quiet and careful, he could sniff out the exit while avoiding the manor's residents. They just needed to be quick about it; he didn't know how long it would be before Peter was missed.

But no sooner did he reach his hand out for the door than it burst open, revealing a particularly unhinged-looking Sirius, closely flanked by Harry and Ron.

There was a short pause in which the two men processed one anothers' sudden appearance.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Remus asked faintly.

"We came to rescue you," Sirius said with a vaguely affronted tone.

Remus turned around, looking at the assortment of prisoners he'd broken out and the cooling body of the jailor at the other end of the room, and then turned back to Sirius.

"Well done."

Harry let out a choked sort of noise that might have been either a sob or a snort, he wasn't quite sure.

"Right," Ron said quickly. "So, mission accomplished, let's go!"

He and Harry ushered Dean-and-Griphook and Luna up the stairs first, Ron taking point and Harry flanking. The moment they were out of the room, Sirius reached out and cupped Remus's jaw, brushing a thumb across his cheek. He felt something damp on his face.

"Have you been crying?"

Remus shrugged.

"Maybe. I didn't feel anything," he said quietly, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. Let's go."

Remus pushed past him, following the boys up the stairs. Sirius followed close behind.

They didn't look back.

[wandsandwheezes]

Fake It | Weasley Twins | CH6

one // two // three // four // five

Warnings | 18+ SMUT, mature themes, fake relationships, secret relationships, love, sex, drama, angst, fluff, masturbation, hate sex, heartbreak, blood

Summary // Fred Weasley has been set up to publicly date Y/N, London’s best Quidditch Seeker in order to drum up some publicity. Y/N however has a different ginger man on her mind; George Weasley.

A/N // thank you to my angst goblin, Lanie @gcdric​ and my angel Zahra @starlightweasley​ for helping me get this one out bc otherwise id be STUCK

One new message

The sound of the answer machine rang through Fred’s flat, he was staring out over London and her twinkling lights. His waistcoat was loose, hanging open at his chest - tie discarded the moment he stumbled through the door. He’d pretty much flung the sliding glass door to the balcony open, letting the biter breeze whip through his hair, blowing the once still curtain so that it flew in a way that mimicked the way a superhero’s cape flows. 

The night of partying had been a wild but well needed distraction. Fred couldn’t stop the image of your kiss from playing over and over in his head, his fingers ghosted over where the absent feeling of your lips lingered, wishing you were here. 

“Freddie…” You breathed down the phone, your words slurred still as the liquor clung to your senses. 

“About what happened tonight, I don’t think it was-” His heart began to race at the simple thought, the steamy kiss was crossing his mind once again, He heard you take a moment, a pause for thought and he held his breath with you. 

“I just - we need to talk. We- I have something to tell you.” You sighed, he was praying he could just call you back, checking his watch, he knew it was too late. What If he did call, would that be so bad? 

“I’m sorry, Fred.” the sound of you putting down the phone echoed in his brain. Sorry. What could you possibly be sorry for? It could possibly be one of the best kisses of his life. He couldn’t deny the electricity that he felt from tip to toe and he knew deep down that you felt it too. So why did he feel a pang of sadness hit his chest, winding him like a dementor was sucking the soul out of his body.

Fred fell asleep that night clutching his pillow as he imagined you in its place. He wasn’t sure what made the tears roll down his cheeks, but shrugged it off as the alcohol getting to him. He was snivelling, contemplating leaving you a text. He needed you to know how he felt, that he was aching for you to be with him. He didn’t want things to just be staged anymore, there was undeniable chemistry there between you, he felt it in the way you looked at him. Surely it would be better if you were his, he could kiss and hold you all he wanted without the need for press or cameras. You could have a beautiful, normal life together. You were one of the last thoughts on his brain as he drifted off, his grip against the plush pillow only growing tighter out of desperation. 

Waking to the midday sun shining directly into his eyes wasn’t making the pounding headache rattling around in his skull any better. Fred didn’t remember anything about how or when he got home, only recalling the mellow flow of your voice reverberating around his flat. He managed to drag himself from his bed, searching every unorganised cabinet for the sight of even one lonely ibuprofen, sighing as his head fell to rest on the counter with no luck. He realised the grave mistake he had made when his head started thumping, the room spinning and his sight going hazy. Water, he needed hydration.

Two pints of water later, Fred was still feeling the sour effects of last night’s burning liquor, feeling the burn in his chest with every breath, like all the liquid was ready to come right back up at any moment. He sat himself down at the island counter as he pressed the button to replay the voicemail from last night. 

I’m Sorry.

The words wouldn’t leave him, he replayed the voicemail over and over, internalising every single word as it played through the speakers. He sat for hours, sat too long until his feet had gone numb from dangling over the seat. The Great British weather had taken its turn for the worst, a clap of thunder distracting Fred from his thoughts, not knowing how deeply the words were hitting him, until he felt a tear drop against the back of his hand. It was too much for him, realising that he needed to see you, touch you, feel you. 

I’m Sorry

His feet dragged him towards your place, he didn’t care that he’d been walking for miles or that the rain was drenching him to his very core. It was desperation that drove him to find you. It was like a sign to him that one lonely red rose grew from a bush he passed, stopping dead in his tracks before turning around to look at it. He plucked it from the bush, holding it up to his nose, breathing in the scent. Rose petals mixed with the cold drizzle and muggy air sent him over the edge. He was walking quicker now so that he could get to you, pace kicking up into a small jog, his shoes slapping against the wet pavement with each step.

One light shone dimly from the confines of your apartment. Fred stood outside, debating how he was going to approach this conversation. He loved you, wanted you to be his and he struggled in that moment to find the appropriate words to express it. You were towel drying your hair, supposedly from the rain as you came into view by the window. You looked like an angel, a pure piece of heaven on earth and his heart beat faster, beginning to move closer to the flat’s entrance. That’s when he spotted another figure coming into view from the window, face covered by the towel as you dried their hair. Whoever it was, had at least a foot on you height wise, their hands snaking around your waist to pull you tight and close to them.

Fred’s heart sunk, like it had fully fallen out of his ass, seeing you in the arms of another man made his stomach churn, his grip on the rose growing tighter as the thorns pierced his skin. He didn’t even feel the pain, just the emptiness in his chest. He watched as you pulled the towel from the figure’s face.

The messy ginger hair, round cheeks and adoring smile were obvious. Fred knew exactly who he was seeing, he was blinking so hard wishing that it was just a terrible nightmare. As George’s lips connected with yours, it was as if it rumbled Zeus himself, a bolt of lightning illuminating the dark sky. It was like watching his whole world come crashing down, watching you chase his brother’s lips desperately, the same way you had done with him last night. He couldn’t help but watch as the kiss deepened, George using his strength to pick you up, watching your legs wrap around his waist, walking out of sight. 

It was like watching a glimpse of a life he’d never have, the rose fell to the floor, petals breaking off of the stem. Blood was dripping from his hand to the floor, diluted by the rain as it splashed against the stone. Not a single car drove by your house, not one person was outside but Fred in that moment. Loneliness was the only bitter feeling left, it tasted like hell in his mouth, unable to shake the image of you and George together, only hearing two words in his head over and over like a broken record.

I’m Sorry. 

Raindrops danced along Fred’s skin, the soft pitter patter mocking him, everything reminded him of you, even in a moment of heartbreak, the glow of Christmas lights, the thunder or the distant sound of horns beeping at one another, it all reminded him of you in the most ridiculous way. His phone chimed, pulling up the messages he realised that his thoughts had overpowered the importance of the messages.

>> I miss your touch Freddie

>> I can come see you tonight

>> why aren’t you responding Fred?

>> don’t you love me?

‘Maybe this is what I need’ Fred thought, Perhaps he needed the out, the quick fuck to get the aggression out of his system. They say it’s wrong to sleep with your boss, but Cherry wasn’t his boss, she was just the publicist. The publicist you shared. If you could sleep with anyone you wanted, why should he feel guilty about it now? After all, if there was one woman who could help him forget, It would be Cheryl. 

<< sorry, doll

<< of course i love you

<< come see me x

>> I won’t be long, i’m so desperate for you, Freddie x 

It was wrong for him to say that, especially when he didn’t love cherry. Not one ounce of his body felt a connection deeper than just sex. That's all it was to him with Cherry; mindless, carefree sex. Why he kept going back to her like a lost puppy however, was still up for debate. 

Cheryl wasn't an unattractive woman, but she wasn't you. She was taller, accentuated by her constant need to wear heels, not that it mattered much to Fred when he towered above most people he met. She had long blonde hair that was always beach waved and perfectly sun-kissed skin like a Miami model. Fred didn't care too much about superficial looks, but it was undeniable that part of the reason he enjoyed Cherry so much was the way her tits, although obviously fake, would bounce in his face begging to be touched as she sank down onto him or the way her full lips looked as they wrapped around his throbbing cock. Fucking Cheryl from behind was as much fun, he had all the ass he could hold onto before him and a tight cunt that always struggled to take him. 

Reaching his home Cherry was already waiting for him. She spun around as soon as his presence behind her was felt, lips attaching to his immediately. The red lipstick she wore while unique to her, was now being transferred to the man's lips as they kissed. He wasn't disappointed to be kissing someone, it was disappointment that it wasn't you. Your kisses were heaven compared to what he was getting now, he found himself picturing you in his arms and that seemed to work. 

They wasted no time stripping each other's clothes off, Fred was aching to pound his cock into something, even if it had to be Cherry. When the girl tried to straddle him, he grabbed her hips, throwing her against the mattress, causing a giggle to erupt from her lips. "Hands and knees tonight, Doll." 

Being seethed inside Cherry felt amazing. He tried to stretch her out, push as much of himself inside as he could, but she was simply so tight. The pace he set was animalistic, fucking the girl raw against the sheets, he couldn't stand to look at her, closing his eyes and pretending it was the girl he’d been longing for. It wasn't enough, he needed more control. Fred's hand was pushing Cherry's face into the sheets, his thrusts more violent and possessive as he continued fucking her senseless. 

Back at your home, George was seethed all the way inside you, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. The way you two fit together was like lock and key, a perfect size for each other. "I'm so deep inside of you princess, can you feel me in your belly?" You were nodding, grabbing his hand to press against your abdomen, his thrusts were slow and purposeful, he was trying to make you cum over and over and over again tonight and you were already waiting for number four. "Yes Georgie, right here, it feels so good when you fill me up." he hummed as he felt the tip of his cock hitting where his hand was pressed with every thrust. His precious girl. All for him. 

Fred was on the edge, skin slapping as he chased his orgasm, Not caring much for Cherry's desperate moans, no matter how good he was making her feel. He wanted her to shut up, it sounded so fake, but he was ready to release, pulling out to let his cum drip over the curve of her ass. He flopped on the bed next to her, immediately feeling her hand on his cock, stroking gently. "You're so good, Freddie, So big." 

She took him into her mouth with ease, it was the only time he could be fully inside of her. His head was back against the mattress as he pictures your soft lips replacing hers. His hand came up to stroke her hair as she continued sucking him off. Try as he might to cum again, he knew it wasn’t your hand on his cock, or your lips. It was another woman, the thought made him sick to his stomach, forcing him to sit bolt upright, pulling himself away from the naked girl on his bed.

“I can’t do this.” he grumbled, grabbing the boxers he had discarded on the floor, pulling them up. Cherry sighed, running a hand through her hair and pulling it over her shoulder, “Do you want me to stay Freddie?” she smiled, playing with the ends of hair as she watched him walk into his bathroom across the hall. “I don’t care.” he spoke plainly, the hurt in his chest hitting him once again as he slammed the door behind him. 

He could still hear the hums and moans you made against his lips. As he leant against the shut door, his hand reached down to start palming himself, feeling himself grow hard again at the thought of you. He was picturing you sprawled out on his bed, begging for him, using your mouth to get him off - He was getting close again as he imagined slamming his hips into you. Just as he reached his peak again, one thought plagued his mind, you moaning his twins name. His heart broke again as he came, sighing as he realised that he was too late. You weren’t his to have.

/// TO BE CONTINUED ///  >>>>>> Chapter Seven

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[jengajives]

Couple of OCs in this one to make it work, but I really wanted to do something with second/third age Maglor gettin too close with Ulmo and the Oath sneaking up bite him

“So... you’ve seen it?”

Maglor didn’t look up when he spoke. Just went on dragging his fingertips through the sand, drawing swirling patterns on the beach around him. Ulmo sat cross-legged on a rock watching him, letting the wind blow warm and gentle raindrops through both their hair. A beautiful evening for a talk in the rain.

“Seen what?” he asked absently. There wasn’t anything familiar enough in the way Maglor stiffened at that to be alarming.

“It,” the minstrel said again, softer but more insistent. “You know. The...” He trailed off. The fingers on his right hand, twisted with scars, gave a feeble twitch.

The burn marks reminded Ulmo what they were probably talking about and so he nodded.

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen it. I keep it safe, you know. You needn’t worry yourself.”

A long silence. Maglor pressed his hand into the cool damp of the sand.

“Yes,” he mumbled distantly. “No need to worry...”

Silver armor and royal blue banners. Swords that gleamed under the light of the stars.

A figure atop a mountain peak, cloaked and hooded, and the blood-red torchlight lighting his brothers’ faces in the high court of Tirion.

Constantly the words of the Oath boomed now in Maglor’s head, where it had slept for many hundreds of years. Constantly the weight of his father’s spirit pressed his mind.

He would have left the coastline and forsaken sight of the sea, but the glimmer of silver and gold he often saw now beneath the distant waves kept him fixed upon the shore. To turn his back would be to give up the Oath and suffer the ultimate pain of retribution.

He could not. He could not. He could do nothing but cower on the edge of the water, too afraid to act.

“No one will withhold a Silmaril from the house of Fëanor,” said his father within the deeps of memory, “be it Elf, Man, or Vala.”

Ulmo.

His burned fingers trembled and twitched.

Ulmo, his friend. Sheltering the Silmaril at the bottom of the sea.

He buried his eyes beneath quivering hands and tried not to let the connection form.

The Oath waited ever so patiently.

The water was still and glassy black, reflecting a sky of stars that reminded Maglor of the ages before the sun and moon. His days in Valinor, before any curse or oath had torn his family and soul asunder.

He liked the pool. It was always cool and tranquil like a vast sheet of glass within stone’s throw of the sea, and when the world was younger he used to come here to remind himself that he was a lord of the Noldor no longer; look at his reflection and see nothing but a wanderer without people or honor to plague him.

Tonight, though, he saw frost-white armor glinting ghostly beneath his coat, and the light of Aman burning fierce in his face, and in his eyes the soul of the two trees mingled and tamed within depths of stone.

Maglor cast a stone across the pool to shatter the image, unable to stop the quivering that spread up from the root of his spine.

“Is it far?” he asked softly.

Ulmo didn’t stand there in the gangly form he was so fond of, but Maglor still knew he was listening.

The water lapped at the shore like gentle laughter.

“Far enough, but well within my reach.”

When Maglor turned to look at the sea the entire horizon was turned to streams of molten gold and silver chasing each other endlessly within the ocean’s cold jewel.

“Where are we going?” Riston asked eagerly as he trotted behind.

Maglor had forgotten he was there. His mind was busy with other things.

“Going?” he repeated. “When are we ever going anywhere?” But the words were numb and he could not stay the path his feet now took of their own accord.

“I just thought,” huffed Riston, scurrying over the sea-hewn boulders to try and keep pace, “that we would be avoiding places like that.” He pointed upwards.

On the nearby clifftop, a tower fortress blazed with torchlight red and fell.

Maglor let his eyes wander down the cliff face to the dark gap at its foot.

“Yes,” he said dimly. “We should.”

And he hurried along, desperate now to come quickly to the cave and dispense with this mania.

If he could just see what he was seeking, the need for it would pass.

It would pass.

The cavern was cold and dripped with seawater, and in all the ages of the world it had not changed. From the tower above, the stone seemed to vibrate with raucous shouts and music, but the dark stone, crusted with barnacles and grasping things of the sea, was fast and familiar under Maglor’s feet. He moved eagerly now, driven forward by the desperate need to prove himself wrong, forgetting entirely the fact that Riston trailed behind him in wonder.

In the darkest back of the cave, a pale green light shone just enough to illuminate a small stone chamber, wide and high-roofed, and the shelf carved carefully into its back wall.

He knew the place, because he had labored there cutting stone to forget the world, because he had poured Maglor Fëanor’s son into this rock to forget him.

On the shelf rested gleaming white armor, and above it on the wall was set a pale sword with a green gem set into its hilt.

They looked polished and new, as if he had left them yesterday and not thousands of years hence.

It felt as though everything warm left Maglor in a single rush and he was nothing but cold stone himself, staring blank at those arms and wishing he could forget them.

If all was fair, Glírlang’s curved blade should still drip with blood for every life it had taken. The blood of his kin and his friends who had done nothing but stand between him and his father’s prize.

Maglor fell to his knees.

Yes. Yes, it was over now. There was no Oath that could hold him to kill again. No promise he had made would drive him any longer. He was not his father. He was not the elf prince who had sailed from Valinor long ago. Yes, he was no one. No one.

“Maglor-!”

Slowly he turned.

Riston was still here, but oddly enough he was not the only one.

When Maglor saw eyes gleaming cold with greed and malice he thought at first of goblins, and of his brothers, but these were only Men with stout swords who crept in on thick boots that cracked the clinging shells beneath them. They spoke Westron, roughly, though it took him long seconds to understand it.

“Trespassin’,” one said. His blade flashed in the green light of the gem. “Little vagabonds trespassin’ on our lands.”

“Oi,” said another. He pointed to the shelf with the tip of his sword. “Puttin’ some shiny armor down here so’s you and your friends can come back and kill us with it later?”

“That don’t make no sense.”

“Shut up! They’re trespassin’, and you know trespassers gotta die!” The first man’s pale lip curled into a grin. “Besides. I want me that nice silvery sword, and they’re in the way of me takin’ it.”

They moved closer, and Riston stumbled back with a squeak. His Westron wasn’t good enough to understand what was going on.

“Maglor!”

They would both die. What would Maglor do? He could do nothing. Well enough for him to die on the point of a sword, but Riston was barely more than a child.

Well enough for him. Well enough to die here.

“Look at ‘im squirm!” roared the one man, and with fluid ease he cast Riston to the floor and planted a boot on his chest to keep him there. “You say I gut ‘im, boys, or take ‘im up to the tower and let the others have a go?”

Laughter echoed off the walls of the chamber. Maglor’s back hit cold stone but all he could hear was Riston screaming his name.

“Maglor!” cried Elros as the orcs swarmed around him, arm thrown protectively in front of his brother, both little ones wide-eyed and trembling with fear. “Uncle Maglor, please!”

The sun glinting through cloud near the sea. Orcs guffawing to find the little lords of the Noldor unguarded.

So many ages ago and Glírlang dripped with blood.

Fire rushed across the surface of the pool with a deafening roar.

Glírlang pushed in through the back until the tip of the blade came right out the other side.

Blood gurgling through punctured lungs.

Maglor pushed and the Man fell, toppled over, the sword slipping easily from the hole it had put in him, resting with such familiarity in Maglor’s hand.

His Glírlang. So familiar.

He turned to the other Men, standing right over Elros, blade glinting and body slipping automatically into a defensive stance.

No, no, it wasn’t him. Elros wasn’t here, he was long dead now.

It was Riston. Little Riston.

Yes. Riston.

The sword in his grip brought him back through centuries of honey-slow time.

“Step back,” he said steadily. Many years had passed since last he used Quenya, but it flowed now easily past his tongue and filled the whole of the cavern with a crackling power. “You will not touch him.”

The Men scrambled away, faces frozen in awe and terror, for it seemed to them that they had just watched a wandering beggar transform before their eyes into a fell warrior of old, shining with the light of countless centuries and the power of ancient kings, and his sword was alight with green flame.

His enemies fled before him like the cowardly goblins had in ages past.

Torchlight. Blood-red torchlight in the night without end. The courtyard of Tirion stained crimson.

“Let no creature stand between my house and a Silmaril,” Maglor said softly, speaking the same words to the cavern that had sealed his fate those ages ago. “Be it Elf, Man, or Vala.”

He heard the dull roar of the ocean outside, and left Riston behind to cry gently in the earth’s cold embrace.

The waves slammed the shore with fury, but to Maglor, all seemed silent. The stillness of the night utterly complete.

Nothing to shatter his fevered thoughts as he screamed a challenge on the wind to the Lord of the Sea.

“No one will withhold a Silmaril.”

No one.

Vala.

“Maglor.”

He looked up and Ulmo was there, standing in the ankle-deep water in the tall, gangly form he’d once kissed. The sky had grown cloudy but he couldn’t remember when, and the distant line of the sea was alight with fire.

Maglor raised a trembling hand and put the tip of his sword to Ulmo’s chest.

“You... will... give it to me...”

“This is mad,” Ulmo said, very calmly. “Maglor, you don’t have to do this.”

Sea spray brushed against his cheek in some semblance of a fond touch, but he was not swayed.

“Give it to me,” he hissed, his own voice like the touch of hot metal to water. “Or I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t do this,” Ulmo said again. When he stepped back Maglor took a swipe at him, but it was easily blocked by a forearm coated in rough blue carapace like a crab’s. Rusted chains clinked against each other with every movement Ulmo made.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

“You would keep what’s rightfully mine!”

The hissing flame and shadow of Balrogs. His father’s eyes burning brighter than the sun with his last words.

“Thief!” Maglor screamed, batting Ulmo’s shield arm aside to press Glírlang to his breast again. “That Silmaril is mine!”

Ulmo straightened to a new height. His brow, crusted with salt and living stone, grew hard and fell. His simple clothes hardened to plates of chiton armor.

“Do not make me hurt you,” he said again, but now his voice boomed like thunder on the plains and waterfalls and waves breaking against unyielding stone. Behind him the sea rang with the blowing of horns in the deep, shaking the ground, sending rushes of icy water up to swirl against the solid cliffs. Lightning split the sky. Rain began to fall in cold sheets.

“Deliver me what is mine!” Maglor roared against the wind. “Or I will take it!”

Glírlang flashed white light back at the sky. Maglor felt the might of his brothers behind him. The strength and glory of Valinor rushing through him as if he had just newly set foot on Middle-Earth. His blade moved in a blur of green and white, and when he returned again to ready stance, Ulmo stood before him with a gash across his face slowly beginning to seep seawater.

When he touched the tear in his skin, the water turned blood red.

“So be it,” Ulmo said at last, and with the rush of the sea, the tall glorious form was gone, and in its place was a tower of water adorned with sharp yellow teeth stained scarlet, and lengths of rusted silver chain caught in the swell, and a million blue-green eyes that saw everywhere water touched the world, that saw into Maglor’s very soul.

The roar of a tidal wave filled his ears and the flood took him.

Direction became utterly meaningless because he was spinning too fast to recognize any way at all. There was no color but the black of fathomless depths, and Glírlang was torn from his fingers, and teeth tore his flesh, and he spun alone suspended in the might of the sea.

Well enough, to end this way. Conquered at last.

Maglor screamed and water rushed in to fill his lungs. All around him and within him Ulmo spoke.

“If it is the Silmaril thee desire, then take it.”

Before his eyes, the brilliance of the Two Trees locked in a jewel without equal.

“Take it and see where it leaves thee. Let it drive thee mad. Let thee fall as thy brothers have fallen.”

Maglor stretched out his fingers. It was there. It was there, he could feel it, he could almost taste it...

“Take the heirloom of thy house,” Ulmo rumbled, “and let it destroy thee.”

Maglor screamed and the water played the sound he couldn’t make as Being began to fade.

Everything went still and silent.

When air rushed again into his lungs, all he could do was sob.

“Why didn’t you do it?!”

On his knees. Water dripping slowly from his hair, his fingers in the sand.

“Why do you keep me here?!”

The blinding light of the Silmaril resting in a pool in the sand. Glírlang at its side. Maglor took up the blade and threw it with all his strength into the sea, then fell again with his eyes turned from the jewel, his whole body shaking with sobs.

“I don’t want it! I don’t want it! Please!“

Still he was here. Still he lingered.

“Just let me go,” he breathed to the motionless air. “Just take me! I don’t want it! I failed! Just let me go!”

Ulmo did not answer. No one answered.

The waters were still and the Silmaril lay there watching.

Maglor screamed at Ulmo to take it away, but the Lord of the Sea would not answer.

And his mind crackled and folded like the flesh of his hand.

[entomologistic]

I was a goblin creature type bitch for a while and now my sag rising has time to simmer my Virgo moon and taur sun really has me w my calico critters on organized display and doing my laundry on time and having mood lighting…: I’m also stoned Rn and always afraid my roommates ares gonna yell at me even tho I go outside and smoke a considerable distance from the building we live in . This is my blog I’m blogging abt my moment bitches …. Also gave myself a haircut and re-dyed my hair and everything feeling very blessed to be honest just my brain chemistry pms is making me so fucked up like I’m so miserable sad it’s so painful but also I stopped taking my anti-depressants and I only self medicate w cannabis a healthy amount bc I was severely reliant on it in the past to the point I was abusing it to numb myself from how truly miserable I was and how I was living which was actually so unhealthy I just was pretty much in a point of active addiction without the consequences of being on an actually bad drug I guess but I also drank much more frequently and would drink a lot any time I did and it was almost weekly but I can’t even remember at this point… I’m a lot happier now but I’m just balancing things out without punishing myself for every single imperfection. OCD is weird and I think also figuring out other aspects of my functioning has made it easier to forgive myself for stupid stuff. I’m not completely content but I think I also need to lower my standards sometimes and need to stop needing a reason to be alright with things, something doesn’t always have to be wrong. Shitty things will inevitably happen so fighting to always think one step ahead and then getting frustrated when you make mistakes that seem avoidable, it’s key to approach yourself like you would another person instead of feeling like you could’ve known better. You have the foresight now to say that, but you have only gained the foresight through living through the event that left you with that frustration. It’s hard to let things go and actually break down what the fuck letting things go means when it’s something repeated into redundancy, and it’s just a stupid catchphrase. Ok OP out beeyotch

[yatorihell]

In The Darkness Chapter 83 - Respite

Noragami x Harry Potter AU

Words: 2,245

Summary: The aftermath of their escape leads to an answer.

Also available on Yatorihell AO3

The salty sea air pushed Yato’s hair back from his eyes. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the stone he had dragged from the beach’s outcrop up a short distance away from the cottage. Carved into its jagged surface were a few words: Ebisu, a free elf.

Yato dropped his gaze to his shoes and then tilted his head back with a sigh. Thin beams of sunlight filtered through the cloud, but the wind was still biting enough to numb his cheeks.

When will it end? Yato thought. First Suzuha, then Sakura, now Ebisu. His friends, his family, all risking their lives to stop what he could. If he just knew where to look, to know where to find and destroy the horcruxes.

There’s no way to destroy them now, anyway, Yato had thought to himself. The Sword of Gryffindor was gone now, possibly already on its way back to Oshi’s vault in Gringotts or kept hidden so the Sorcerer would never know it was gone.

Yato tilted his head forward and stared out at the choppy waves for a second before heading back inside. They didn’t know where Ebisu had brought them, but they found refuge in a deserted cottage that sat on the edge of the shoreline. The white painted exterior had peeled away, and weeds sprung up from the seagrass and sand surrounding it. The sign nailed beside the door read ‘Shell Cottage’, but the absence of shells in the décor and the lack of nautical themes inside made the name’s whimsical appeal ring hollow.

The stairs creaked under Yato’s weight as he made his way upstairs. Kazuma and Bishamon were already asleep, having left Yato after Ebisu’s burial for a moment’s privacy. Yukine, on the other hand, was still awake.

The bedroom door was cracked open, and Yato gently pushed it open. Grey sunlight filtered in through the flimsy mess curtain, sending shadows across the bedspread. Dust had accumulated on the surfaces and drifts of sand had worked their way in through the cracks in the window frame.

Yukine looked up from his chair at the movement, and seeing Yato’s cautious approach, nodded.

Yato stepped into the room, eyes fixed on Hiyori. She was still asleep, hair messed up and her arm across her chest which rose and fell steadily. Spots of blood had seeped through the bandages already, marking the points of some letters of the ‘Mudblood’ wound Oshi had inflicted.

“How is she?” Yato said gently, taking a seat on the other side of the bed. A brief memory crossed his mind, of how he had sat like this with her in the infirmary at Hogwarts, hands intertwined, but he dared not touch her.

“Still asleep,” Yukine replied.

Yato nodded. Part of him felt guilty for not staying by her side despite his grieving for Ebisu, but a larger part of him couldn’t bring himself to face her after what happened. There was a pause of silence broken by gull cries over the bay.

Yukine looked at Hiyori for a moment, face soft, before he looked down at his own lap. “I… I don’t think her wound will ever fully heal…”

Yato stiffened, eyes flickering to the bandages. Just like what Oshi did to Yukine…

No. This was worse. No dark object had seared Hiyori’s skin like Yukine’s; this was caused by pure hatred.

Yato's fingernails dug into his palms, hands calmly as he tried to fight the guilt rising in his chest that threatened to claim him again. His vision was blurry. Why would he cry when nothing happened to him? When they did everything to... When he didn't...

"I did nothing."

The hoarse whisper clogged his throat like smoke. The one phrase that had become trapped in his mind since last night, like a butterfly in a jar, its wings becoming more damaged each time it hurled itself at the glass in the hopes of freedom.

“It’s not your fault Yato,” Yukine said softly. “Oshi is mad, and she wouldn’t have believed a word any of us said. We would all be dead if it weren’t for Ebisu.”

Yato took a shuddering breath, a warm tear splashing on his wrist. He wiped his eyes, throat burning and breath quivering. Yukine was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to block out those images. Those memories would stay with him forever.

Hiyori stirred slightly and they stilled. Her head rolled to the side, brow furrowed. Silence blanketed the room – for how long neither of them knew – before Yato spoke.

“You should get some sleep,” Yato said, not taking his eyes off Hiyori.

Yukine nodded. They had been awake all night, and Yato knew he should sleep too, but his mind was wired with grief and guilt. He didn’t want to leave Hiyori like this, and Yukine knew as much.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Yato allowed the tears to fall.

~

The first time Hiyori woke up was screaming.

Yato jerked awake, dull pain in his back from being slumped over, eyes wide and mind racing with the nightmare of the previous day fresh in his dreams. Hiyori was sat bolt upright, her hand wrenching away from Yato’s grip. The sheets had tangled her legs, trapping her and adding fuel to her panic as she screamed again.

“Hiyori, it’s ok, you’re safe!” Yato shushed, his hands pulling away from her and held up in the darkness.

Hiyori breathed hard, her eyes adjusting, ears attuned to the sound of his voice. She looked at him, the unfamiliar room, and the dark, curtained window. Her arm throbbed, fresh spots of blood blossoming from the sudden aggravation. Her mouth hung open, tears on her cheeks as she realised she was no longer a prisoner under torture.

“It’s ok,” Yato soothed, reaching for Hiyori’s hand. His skin grazed her fingers. “We’re safe.”

Hiyori flinched. Yato froze, and after a second, withdrew his hand back into his lap.

The house remained silent. None of the others had woken up from the outburst – probably too tired and out of it to hear the brief night terror screams to be roused. There was only the beating of their hearts and a silent understanding of what they had been through, of what they had survived.

Yato couldn’t bear it.

“I’m sorry.”

There was a beat of silence that hung in the air between them. Another apology for something he caused. Another apology for the hurt he brought those around him.

“It’s not your fault, Yato,” Hiyori tried to whisper, but it came out as a croak.

Yato shot her a sideways look, grief, and pain etched in his features. No matter how many times he heard those words, he would never believe them, not truly.

With a nod, Yato stood on weak legs and slipped out of the door.

Hiyori’s composure lasted long enough for Yato to leave the room. Once his footsteps faded, the first shuddering breath racked through her chest. Any remaining strength slipped from Hiyori's control as her breaths turned to cries that she muffled against her hand.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes when she squeezed them shut, trying to erase the memories that are scarred into her mind. Her fingers drifted to her arm, to the bandages. To the reminder of what she is.

Dirty blood.

~

Yato came downstairs with dark circles under his eyes, having been unable to sleep following Hiyori flinching at his touch and the new reoccurring nightmare that would seemingly plague his dreams. Yukine, Bishamon, and Kazuma were already in the sitting room, arranged on the dusty sofas and armchairs and ravaging the kitchen for what little food the cottages' owners had left.

Hiyori joined them not too long after, and a brief glance told Yato that she hadn’t slept well either. Bishamon set out a packet of half-eaten, stale biscuits on the low table that no one made a move to touch.

“What’s the plan now?” Yukine asked, resting his arms on his knees. “The sword is gone, and we don’t know where the next horcrux is.”

“We do know,” Yato said. All eyes turned on him.

“How can you know where it is? It’s been lost for decades,” Bishamon leaned forward in the armchair, hand straying to Kazuma’s hair as he sat on the floor in front of her.

“It has, but I’ve seen it,” Yato explained. He briefly described the vision he had of the goblet loaded with jewels and pearls, resting alongside the Sword of Gryffindor and the sound of a door grating shut.

“Oshi sent the sword to her vault in Gringotts,” Yato summarised. “But why was she so fixated on not letting the S-.”

“Don’t say that!” Kazuma and Bishamon said quickly, cutting Yato off. He, Yukine, and Hiyori looked at them.

“There’s a taboo jinx on that word,” Kazuma explained. “It reveals the speaker’s location. It’s how they found out about us since we said it so much on the radio.”

It suddenly dawned on Yato, Yukine and Hiyori: that was how the Deatheater’s had found them so quickly after the wedding attack. That’s how Nagini was able to ambush them, knowing they were going to Godric’s Hollow to look for the sword.

Yato nodded. “But why was she so fixated on not letting him know that we got into the vault?”

“Because Gringotts is impenetrable?” Kazuma offered.

“Yes, but what if there was something more important in there?”

The question hung in the air for a dramatic moment.

“What if,” Yato said slowly. “The horcrux is in the vault?”

The air stilled. The vision which showed the sword – which Oshi confirmed was in her vault in Gringotts – along with the goblet, spilling precious gems and glittering jewels. The heavy grate of a door – a vault door – slamming shut.

“Then we’re screwed,” Yukine said, flopping back on the sofa next to Hiyori. “As Kazuma said, Gringotts is impenetrable. And even if you did get past the goblins, the security, and the dragon, you would get lost and starve to death before you even found the right vault.”

“I don’t think there’s actually a dragon,” Hiyori said.

Yato looked at her. She had been quiet the entire time; a ghost in the corner watching them talk. He noticed her fiddling with a stray end of the bandage on her arm and looked away.

“Leave the dragon to me,” Yato said. “We just need to get in the front door without getting stopped.”

There was a momentary lull in the conversation as if they were contemplating whether Yato had too many knocks to the head or was getting desperate. To Yato, it felt like a mix of the two, but it was the only option.

Yato looked to Kazuma, questions brimming that he’d wanted to ask before they got Snatched, something that had been revealed to him in a vision. “We think another horcrux is Ravenclaw’s Diadem.”

Kazuma’s head snapped up at this, eyes reproachful behind his frames.

“We think it may be in Hogwarts. Is it kept in a vault, the common room…?” Yato ventured, but Kazuma was already shaking his head.

“The Diadem has been missing for centuries after Rowena’s own daughter stole it,” Kazuma said. “No one alive has seen it.”

Another silence washed over them. ‘No one alive who has seen it'. Yato sighed. It looked like it would be up to him to track down the Diadem too.

“Also,” Yato continued, arms crossed. “That newspaper in your house, about Professor Tenjin’s grave being disturbed, what happened?”

It seemed strange that someone would go to such lengths to tomb-raid a man of little extravagance, but it seemed that not even the Daily Prophet would report what was taken, which was suspicious.

Kazuma looked at Yato with a slightly surprised expression before he realised they had no way of knowing anything about it. “Someone – ‘persons unknown’ –, broke into his tomb and took the Elder Wand.”

Yato stared at him along with Hiyori, Yukine, and Bishamon.

“Are you serious? The Elder Wand exists?” Yukine said.

“All the Deathly Hallows exist.”

“What do you mean, Tenjin owned the Elder Wand?” Yato interrupted.

Kazuma shrugged. “Well, he didn’t go advertising it. You know what happens to its owners.”

Owners… Yato thought. A wand was either matched to a wizard at Ollivanders, inherited, or won. He didn’t know enough about the lore of the Elder Wand to know who possessed the wand before Tenjin, but he knew that winning a wand could be done by killing its owner. That meant…

“Kugaha owns the Elder Wand,” Yato said quietly, running a hand through his hair. “He killed Tenjin. He’s the owner.”

Yukine swore under his breath. The most powerful wand in the world was in a Dark Wizard’s hands. All he would have to do was lose a duel to the Sorcerer and it would be his. A chilling thought crossed their minds: Did the Sorcerer already possess the Elder Wand?

Time was of the essence. If the Sorcerer did own the Elder Wand, then he may also possess the Philosopher’s Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility. He would become the Master of Death; unstoppable.

“We need to destroy the rest of the horcruxes,” Yato said.

He looked at Kazuma, Bishamon, Yukine, and finally, Hiyori. It would be near impossible – a suicide mission – but it had to be done.

“We have to break into Gringotts.”

[frostsinth]

Royal Flush - Pt 12

Part 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11 - MasterList - Art - Art - Art - Art - Art - Art - Art - Art - ... Art - Art - Art  ( #obsessed)

... I cried writing this part. I’m not going to lie. I felt like there was so much I wanted to put into words, and I couldn’t quite seem to get it all out. But this is the second to last part. 

I hope you guys enjoyed all this... let’s call it ‘seriousness’, shall we? Part 13 will conclude the story. I’ve already got it mostly underway. I appreciate you all so much for sticking with me through this and indulging my obsession. These are my boys, and I’m right along with you guys on the roller coaster they brought us on.... I hope you can hang on for the final plunge...

If you want a happier chapter, I wrote an alternative Part 11 that spins off in a better, NSFW direction. Fully in character, but it was a “what could have happened” alternative timeline. That is available on my BuyMeACoffee which you can access through my MasterList page above. Only a few copies available, so be sure to get them while you can!

Anyways... I won’t say enjoy... Because I think that’s the wrong word for this chapter...

I stood before the small gathering of goblins, turning over the information just relayed to me in my head a few times. They waited in silence with bated breath. I could tell they were not used to that; I was sure “silence” was not a thing they experienced often with Grier as their King. The thought set a bitter soreness in my chest, and I tried to brush the memory aside before it could overwhelm me. I noticed them exchange a few looks as well, as if trying to ascertain what to do. Hibik’s eyes flicked to Damjan at the corners, and then he even turned slightly to look at the Master Healer and his apprentice. Damjan shifted, clasping his hands behind his back, and I saw Seoc’s hands wringing in front of him.

They appeared very unnerved by me. I could read it in their faces plainly. All their anxiousness, their fear; I could see their thoughts etched into each flick of their eyes and twitch of their expression. But I knew they would not be able to pull a thing from the mask I had constructed. I had carefully stacked every last grain of mortar and chip of stone back into place. A masterpiece perfected over a long lifetime of necessity. A face sculpted from marble and polished as smooth as glass. I considered them each one more time, and they became somehow even more restless beneath my scrutiny.

“You are certain?” I said finally, and they all seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. I was happy my voice was flat and emotionless... considering the fear that pulsed through me at that moment. I felt faint, and my heart raced to try to provide the same blood currently rushing as fast as it could away from my head.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Hibik replied, bowing slightly. “We have confirmed it... The King has contracted the Rotting Sickness.”

“How is that possible?” I asked, my voice still flat but still firm. “I was told this sickness could not affect goblins. You have no record of it in your cities.”

Hibik hesitated, then glanced at the Master Healer, who bowed low until his long white beard scraped the floor by his toes. I tried to remember if I had been given his name, but felt as though I was swatting at drifting ash in a pitch black night. 

“In its natural form, we cannot, Your Highness,” He explained, “However, it seems to have… mutated.”

“And your magic?” I demanded quietly, and I saw him wince.

“This mutation… it seems to have targeted His Majesty's own innate magic. Turning it against him.” He glanced back towards the bedroom door, where the King in question lay in a potion induced slumber. “Therefore our healing magic is ineffective against it, save to help temporarily alleviate his symptoms.”

My heart thundered in my chest, pounding relentlessly against my ribcage. I became distinctly aware of each crescendo of my breath, crashing in my ears like the waves of the ocean upon the shore. For a moment, I couldn’t do anything else. I stood, trying to bury the sinking dread that threatened to drag me beneath the cold waters. Trying not to linger on thoughts that grabbed at the corners of my consciousness and shook me for attention. I stubbornly pushed it all down, and stood like a statue for another long moment as I did.

I realized belatedly the tension rising in the room again at my silence. They were at a loss, I realized. None of them knew what to do... They were all waiting for me to decide. To command them. I flicked my hollow gaze to Hibik briefly, then returned my attention to the Healer. Trying to fight my way through the numbness to force sound from my lips.

“Then what is the King’s prognosis?” I barely recognized that the words came from my own mouth. They sounded distant and hollow, even to me.

“... The next few days will be critical to His Majesty’s recovery.”

My whole body stiffened at his words. I adjusted my tongue in my mouth momentarily before continuing. “And what are his chances?”

I saw the Healer hesitate, and glance to his second. I didn’t need to hear his words to know his response. It was written plainly across his face. My blood ran cold. “I am afraid… they are not good.”

It took every last ounce of my strength not to collapse. I had imagined myself into stone, and embodied a statue of a man instead of one made of flesh and blood. Withdrawing deep into the walls of my own design. Ones I had begun to turn a critical eye on.  Ones I had dared to start to disassemble. Now ones that I needed almost as much as the air I drew in; elsewise I would melt into a helpless pool of gelatinous goo.

“What can we do to improve them?” I inquired stiffly. “What treatment are you attempting?”

“Rest.” The Healer spoke through his teeth, and I could see the sorrow lingering in the corners of his eyes. “Broth, when he can manage it. Keeping his temperature down… The majority of the battle will be up to the King alone now.”

I nearly bit my tongue to keep from snapping it at him. That was it? That was the best they could do? No teas, no potions. No magical charms or amulets or anything else? He was a King! Surely no expense would be spared for his treatment. There must be something more they could do. Honestly, I would settle for spiritual circles and prayers to dead ancient gods… The realization that it was because it didn’t matter who he was did not settle well on my shoulders. I quickly sought to think of something else and shifted my gaze to Hibik.

“The other goblins who came with us to the human Capital. Have they shown any signs of the sickness?”

He shook his head so hard his big ears flopped audibly. “No, Your Highness.”

I nodded curtly. “They shall be quarantined as a precaution. And warded, if possible. Any and all preventative measures put into place.” I looked back at the Healer and considered him with a harsh eye. “I do not want this to spread. Any spare resources will be utilized for researching a method to combat it. And I want a Healer to certify the Princess’ warding is still in place.” 

Both Hibik and the Master Healer bowed. “Yes, Your Highness. Right away.”

“Consider all non-essential duties on hold for now.” I continued. “Everything that can proceed without approval or review may do so, but everything else must wait.” I looked at Hibik sternly. “If it is an urgent matter that cannot be suspended, bring it to me. I will trust these matters to you. Seoc shall take over your duties in the capacity of serving the King’s personal needs as well as my own while you handle those affairs. In the meantime,” Now I turned to Damjan. “Word of the King’s condition should remain within these walls. Only individuals who absolutely need to know will be informed. I want the guard doubled, I want reconnaissance and intel efforts increased, in case this was somehow intentional. I will not have us caught unawares.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.” Damjan bowed his head as well, seemingly pleased with my orders.

“Then go. Bring a report as soon as you have it.” I dismissed them, and watched as the Healer and his apprentice left. The former assuring they would be back soon to check on the King. The other three lingered. I steeled myself, reaching out one hand to the back of the couch as casually as I could. Pretending I didn’t need it to keep myself standing. “Is there more?”

The King’s Secretary hesitated, and he glanced over to Damjan for reassurance. The General stepped forward, jerking his chin at me.

“There is a matter of state that requires your attention, Your Highness.” He told me.

I clenched the back of the couch to prevent my hand from shaking. Looking off towards the King’s bed chambers again. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be gone. To run, perhaps. To run until I couldn’t breathe. To find some dark hollow place and crawl into it. I wanted to be alone, but feared that as much as I feared letting anyone see the crash of emotions inside me. I couldn’t access my head through the cloud engulfing me. I couldn’t handle the pulse beneath my skin. I couldn’t handle the throb in my chest or the aching numbness there. It was only a lifetime of practice that kept my feet beneath me and my mouth returning formal and practiced answers.

 “Go on then, General.”

“The King has no heir.” He told me curtly, and my eyes jerked to him. “We need to be sure we are prepared-”

“The King lies ill-” I interrupted him sharply, my voice flat but heavy with denial “-No more than a few feet from where you stand. And you would speak of successors as if he already rests on his deathbed.”

I nearly choked on the word. But Damjan’s heavy brow furrowed, and I heard Hibik sniffle sadly, shaking his head. My lips pursed as the apprehension settled like an iron shroud. Dragging us all down towards the ground. Seoc shifted, his own face bleak and morose. I couldn’t settle my gaze on any of them for the pain of their expressions, plainly evident on their features, and so stared at some distant point beyond them.

“... The King requested this himself.” Damjan finally said, his voice thin, his face hard. He seemed to be trying as hard as me not to let his emotions overwhelm him. But he didn’t have my practice.

“Requested what, exactly?” I demanded, pleased that my voice didn’t reflect any of the storm inside me.

The General didn’t answer. Instead, Hibik tentatively stepped forward. Pulling a rolled parchment from under his arm. Holding it out to me gingerly. I took it as carefully as if it might explode at any second. I glanced around at them warily, then slowly unrolled the parchment. My eyes skimmed across it, hardly reading at all. Certainly not comprehending the majority.

Ice cracked through my veins as I realized what I held in my hands, and my whole body finally went completely numb. I blinked at it stupidly a few times, staring at the King’s signature at the bottom. Re-reading the final line several times over... 

“...With their mutual consent, and in the presence of Witnesses, are entered and joined into lawful and holy wedlock...”

“... A-a marriage license?” I stammered before I could catch myself. Unable to hide the disbelief.

Hibik nodded slowly. “His Majesty had me compose it this morning after he spoke with the Healer, and signed immediately thereafter before he…” He swallowed loudly. “I-it was his wish that you sign it as well. That you might be named his-”

“That is preposterous.” I raised a hand, silencing him before he could finish his thought. “Dowager Queen Morag still lives. Certainly she-”

“The Dowager Queen was forced to step down from the throne when the King was 19 due to her waning health.” Now it was Damjan’s turn to interrupt me. He took a long step forward, standing beside Hibik and pulling my attention to him. “I can assure you, Your Highness, it has not improved in the last decade to warrant her a viable heir.”

I stared at him, then shook my head slightly. “I am human, I cannot-”

“You are the only one who can lead us.” The General snapped, his voice raising with each word. “If you do not sign this contract, and the King dies-” A shudder went down my spine at the word “-the Kingdom will be thrown into a bloody civil war while various factions fight for the throne.” He took another step forward, looking more and more desperate. I craned my head back to look up at him. “The noble houses will tear each other to shreds, and the economy will fall into ruin. And your Peace Treaty will become null and void. Leaving the human Kingdom vulnerable to attack.” He reached out as if to grab my wrist, his face contorting into a pained snarl. “If you refuse to sign, you will be condemning both Kingdoms to chaos and-”

I smacked his hand away soundly, my stance instantly becoming guarded. I held the parchment out to the side, as if to keep him from reaching it. My eyes flashed hot and angry.

“Grier is NOT dying.” I told him, and couldn’t help the sharp edge to my voice. He searched back and forth across my face, and I pursed my lips. “... I will not sign.”

With that, I turned, dropping the contract on the nearest end table. As if it were a hot coal searing into the tender flesh of my fingertips. I heard a bustle of activity behind me, as the goblins all began to speak at the same time.

“You are dismissed.” I said coldly, ignoring their sputtering, pausing briefly at the door to the bedchambers. “All of you.”

I didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t leave room for one in my command. I simply shouldered open the door and pushed it closed quietly behind me. For a moment, I leaned against it, working hard to compose myself. From across the room, I could hear Grier’s labored breathing, and each breath stabbed like a knife into my chest. I took my own shuddering attempt at it, felt my knees wobble beneath me. I choked on the air I tried to force into my lungs, and shook my head stubbornly. By the time my skull did clear a little, there were no sounds beyond the door behind me. I let a heavy hiss of air pass through me, but it crackled audibly as it fell from my mouth.

As quietly as possible, I made my way over to the bed. Stumbling as the numbness in my chest reached my legs. An armchair had been pulled to his bedside, and I slowly lowered myself into it. Then dropped my face into my hands.

 Why was this happening? What had I done wrong? I raked my brain over and over again. Going over every minute detail of the previous two days. Had it been our time in the village? Or had the sickness already spread to the castle by the time we had arrived? Perhaps Lord Tipp had been a carrier. Grier had never told me how he got rid of the irritating noble. A great hook jabbed into my heart as a flash of memory reminded me of the little girl in the lower city who had hugged me. Then later that same day, Grier had also…

I rubbed at my face, then ran my hands over the back of my neck. It didn’t matter how anymore, I told myself. And there was no way to know for sure. I tried to push it aside, sneaking a glance at the goblin out the corner of my eye. He shifted slightly, as if sensing my gaze. Though I knew the draught the Healer had given him would keep him in a deep sleep for some time yet. I swallowed my anxiousness, sitting up and reaching over to pluck a washcloth from beside the basin set on the bedside table. Needing to do something to stave off the helplessness that threatened to overwhelm me. As soon as I leaned over him, I could feel the heat pouring from his body. It set the ache back into my chest, but I gritted my teeth and pushed his hair back out of his face. Gently, I dabbed at the sweat lining his brow. He sighed in his sleep, turning slightly, but otherwise laying still. I watched the shape of his eyes move beneath his lids, and wondered what he was dreaming about. If he was dreaming at all.

I stroked the cloth down the side of his face, tracing the edge of his jaw distractedly then down his damp neck. They had dressed him sparingly, with only linen trousers, and had laid him on top of his heavy blankets. A thin sheet covered him to keep off any drafts, but the soft fire that snapped in the small fireplace at the edge of the room kept his chambers warm. Bathing them in a dim orange glow. The enchantment on my eyes struggled with the shifting lights, playing games with the shadows at the edges of my vision. I paused, lingering with the cloth poised by his cheek again. My thumb came out, and I brushed the pad gently across his hot skin. My heart lurched in my chest, and I swallowed a painful lump.

I stood suddenly, dropping the cloth onto the edge of the basin. Unable to sit and watch him struggle to breathe. I blinked rapidly, then strode off. Only to halt a few paces away. Unwilling to leave him there alone. I hesitated, looking back over my shoulder. Torn in half by the two pains; one of seeing him in this state, the other of not being able to see him at all.

I stared at the ground blankly for a few minutes before my eyes actually saw the crumpled shirt there. Slowly, without thinking, I bent down and picked it up. The spicy sweet scent of him wafted off the cloth, and I had to resist the urge to bring it to my nose. Instead, I folded it, carefully and delicately. Then looked around. A small basket of washing seemed to be by the door… I paced over to it slowly and placed the shirt inside. Another glance found a pair of trousers just shy of the basket. I took those up and folded them as well. Then another shirt. Then… a jacket, I supposed, though it was hard to distinguish based upon what seemed to be an extra sleeve.

Soon I found myself organizing and sorting the other various items in the room once the clothes had all been piled in the basket. I ran my hands over each, imagining what Grier might have to say about it. Wondering how he had come upon it, or what significance it had to him. I fabricated a few stories to entertain myself as I worked my way around the room. There was certainly no small supply of things to resituate and reorganize. I found some semblance of order amid not only the chaos of his personal belongings, but also the chaos swirling in my head. I let my mind wander, thinking hard and deeply for a long, long time as I worked. Returning to the bed every little while to reach out and reassure myself I was not imagining the strangled breathing, and that Grier was still there…

...

“Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you?” Came the weak voice from the bed.

I spun, nearly dropping the small chest I was holding. Beady red eyes peered at me from amid the billowous blankets. My breath skittered from my throat, and I was hard pressed to draw in a new one with how tightly it constricted behind the first.

“You should be resting…” I told him, placing the chest quietly back on the table. It was the first time he had opened those scarlet eyes of his all day, and I couldn’t help but move to the bedside despite my words. “I-I’m sorry if I woke you.”

He gave me a small, feeble smile. “Did I?”

Slowly, I sat in the chair beside him, leaning over my knees to better make out his quiet voice. “... Did you what?”

“Ever tell you?” He pressed.

His voice was thin and breathy, as if each word took the entirety of his lung capacity to speak. I shook my head carefully, glancing down at my hands in my lap. 

“... You mean in the throne room? When I came-”

Now it was his turn to shake his head, and he did so sluggishly. “No. That was the second time.” My eyebrows raised, and he grinned a little more, still half the strength of even his smallest usual smile. “The first time… must have been almost three years ago.”

“... Wh-what do you mean?” I stammered. “W-we… It’s only been maybe a month-”

He hummed softly, and his eyes drifted closed. But his hand moved, reaching out from beneath the covers until the fingertips brushed my knee near the side of the mattress. I glanced down at them, and my heart skipped. At first, I thought perhaps he had fallen back asleep. Then his soft voice petered from between his thin lips again.

“I had been told there was a Prince at the frontlines. Though the messenger couldn’t say for sure which Prince… I assumed not the Crown Prince. He rarely left the castle…” The corners of his mouth twitched into a tiny smirk, and he mumbled around its shape. “We didn’t know much about the human Royals then. Only that the King had three children. Two of them Princes… it had never been anything we cared to know more about.” His eyes cracked back open, and he rolled them to look up at me. “I insisted on going to see. No one could talk me out of it.” His teeth flashed beneath his lips briefly. “... I can be very stubborn.”

The goblin moved his fingers again, grazing against the folds of fabric on my pant leg. I noticed beads of sweat beginning to drip down his brow again. Noticed his wild hair was nearly plastered flat to his scalp. I turned, plucking the cloth from the water basin on the end table. I squeezed it out, then gently dabbed at his forehead. He sighed tiredly as the cool cloth touched his skin, and his eyes drooped closed again. I rolled the cloth over the back of his neck, and pushed his hair out of his face. I could feel the heat still pouring off him, and it set the ache in my chest throbbing once more. Though that hadn’t let up since that first morning a few days prior.

“Damjan and his lieutenant escorted me,” He continued, and I almost started at the sound of his voice, I had been so lost in my thoughts, “To the crest of a hill, right at the disputed boundary. They cast so many defensive spells and charms on me, the air felt electric… Still, they had me keep low, out of sight, and we were… a few hundred yards away?”

“Shhhh.” I told him, refreshing the water on the cloth and wringing out the excess again. “...Save your strength.”

He ‘hurmphed’ softly, his only acknowledgement of my words before he promptly ignored them. “There was… a thin line of trees lining a trail that ran parallel to us… They looked like... like twigs… it was autumn, so there were no leaves, and everything was grey and bland and…” His voice faded weakly. I could hear the dryness, and returned the cloth to the basin.

“Here.” I told him, scooping my arm gently beneath his shoulders and propping him up as I brought a goblet of warm, watered-down broth to his lips. He sucked at it greedily, but only managed half before he fell back against my arm. I slowly lowered him to the pillows as he licked at his lips.

“... I had never seen so many humans in one place before. They all looked… broken. Worn and battered. Covered in mud.” He continued, and his eyes sought mine as I settled back into my seat. “Most were limping… I could almost smell the blood on the air.” He blinked slowly, and his gaze became distant as he fell into the memory. “I remember thinking… that they looked like they were behind bars… because of the trees and shadows… And they trudged single file down this muddy stretch. Those that could, anyway. All but indistinguishable from one another.”

I was surprised by the vibrancy of the scene he described, and more surprised to find it a familiar one. I had a pretty good idea of the time he was talking about; and my heart dropped at the memory. It had been a long trek back from the front. Defeated, discouraged. Injured and weak. I wracked my brain to try and think of the particular day, as they all blended together. I had been so lost in my sorrow then... Goosebumps shot across my skin to think there had been an audience during that solemn trudge. My brow furrowed as I recalled it, and I glanced at him sidelong. Wondering where this was going.

“...I was told we had missed the Prince. We’d have to move further up the line if I wanted to see him… because there was no way he would be with the injured men below. Damjan was positive we wouldn’t see him at all.” He sighed weakly, his head lightly tossing to and fro. “There was no glory. No fanfare or bright banners. Just blood, and filth, and mud, and…. Nothing for a Prince, he had said.” He sighed again, his breath even thinner. “Damjan sent his lieutenant to scout ahead. To try and find out if the Prince was further up. But I stayed to watch… I was… horrified by what I saw. I don’t think…” His eyes closed briefly. “I don’t think I had ever really… understood what the war meant. Until that moment.”

“...Grier…” I started to protest, readying an argument for him to save his strength again.

“Then, one of them fell.” He persisted, still ignoring me, his face scrunched. “There was a lot of shouting… we couldn’t make it out from where we were… chaos and noise and...” Suddenly his eyes came back, and he looked over at me, a small light in their scarlet depths. “And then… then you were there… You came up from somewhere near the back of the line. I didn’t realize who you were at first. Damjan had to point you out… I saw the men fall silent and part like water to let you through. No bowing, no fanfare. Just… quiet respect.” I flushed, starting to shake my head. His hand came out, and I glanced at it as it lingered next to my knee again. When I checked his face, his eyes were closed. As if to see the moment more clearly. “You were nearly as muddy as they were, but I think you were wearing a different color than them. I couldn’t see your face though. You had your back to us…” His voice petered out again, and he gave a breathy sigh.

As the silence stretched for a breath too long, I reached out. Tentatively brushing my fingers against his wrist. As if to assure myself he was still there. His breathing was shallow and ragged, and I struggled to keep myself from being overwhelmed by the pang of sadness that sight brought. His hand slowly closed around my fingers, and I ached at the weakness of them.

“Within moments, you had organized the chaos… You sent someone for… a healer, I’m guessing. But you crouched down next to the fallen man. Called for water… wiped the mud from his face with your sleeve…” I slowly turned my hand in his, listening quietly to his words. I couldn’t remember the day he was talking about. Not specifically… there had been many such moments. I tried to remember the trees, and the hills. I started to shake my head again. He gave my fingers a feeble squeeze, stilling me. “And then…” He drew in a sharp breath, and a smile split his lips slowly, his eyes opening. “And then you turned… and… And I swear it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds…”

“Grier…” I mumbled again, uncertain what else to say, my ears hot.

“I decided it.” He declared softly. “Right then and there… I decided to end the war… I saw your face and…”

“Y-you should get some rest.” I stammered, and carefully began to untangle his fingers from mine. “... You’re not making any sense.” I shook my head a final time. “You act as though you were looking for me.”

“I was.” He breathed, nodding groggily. “I wanted to see you.”

I frowned down at him, but his eyes were struggling to stay open. I pushed his hair back out of his face one more time and tucked his hand against his body. My lips burned with questions. Instead, I sat back in my chair, watching him quietly for a moment as he fought with the fever that dragged at his consciousness.

“Sleep.” I told him. “... W-We can… we can talk more when you’re better.”

He scoffed groggily at that. Then his eyes fluttered shut. And I was left alone with just my thoughts and his ragged breaths to fill the silence.

....

“Your Highness,” Came Hibik’s soft voice, “The Princess is here to see you.”

I nodded dumbly, rubbing a hand across my face and moving to stand with as much care as if each of my joints were made of glass. I glanced back over at Grier as the smaller goblin came deeper into the room. 

“I will stay with him, Your Highness,” Hibik assured me gently, “You can see your sister. And get a real night’s sleep.”

I said nothing for a moment, simply watching Grier without moving. But the King was still sleeping, despite the voices around him. It had almost been two days since the last time he had woken… Finally assured that was still the case, I turned back to Hibik.

“... I’ll be back after I speak with Morgana.” I told him.

“Your Highness, you need to rest too-”

I shook my head. “You need not concern yourself, Lord Hibik.” I assured him. “I am fine.”

Hibik looked me up and down. “... Your Highness, you have been at his side since he first… I-it’s been days. You have barely eaten-”

I waved him into silence. “Keep an eye on him. I will return shortly.”

Morgana bounced excitedly to see me again, but quickly remembered where she was and became more solemn. Hibik had lit the candles and fireplace of the King’s foyer, and there was plenty of space to sit now that I had begun to properly clear it all. I had even sorted through the huge armchair of discarded clothes and sent everything off to be carefully washed. Apparently he had a large closet off his bedroom, though one would’ve been hard pressed to tell based upon the state of his wardrobe scattered across the rest of his rooms. My sister skipped over and gave me a hug, which I returned distractedly. My eyes lingering on a familiar piece of parchment, still where I had left it on the end table after Hibik had given it to me to read... 

“I brought you some uyapik,” she told me, pulling a wadded up handkerchief from her pocket, spotted with grease, “And a story to read.”

I turned back to her and ran a hand over the top of her head. “Thank you, chickadee. You are very sweet.”

She led us over to the armchair facing away from the bedroom door and sat me down. Then stood with her hands on his hips until I had eaten both uyapik to her satisfaction, before carefully climbing onto my lap. I wrapped my arms gently around her, and she pulled out the book as she rested her head in the crook of my neck.

“Is Grier getting better?” She asked me softly as I flipped through the pages to the spot she had bookmarked for us.

I stiffened slightly at her words, then swallowed a lump in my throat. “... He hasn’t gotten worse, at least, chickadee.” I replied honestly, my voice thin. I pushed her hair back out of her face. “... How is Safa? Is she taking good care of you?”

I heard the smile in her voice as she responded. “She’s very silly. She tells me all kinds of fun stories, and we’ve been all over the castle.” She said. “But she insists on wearing these big poofy dresses, and she can’t move very quickly. And she always wants to play with my hair. She says it’s very thick and soft and pretty. I told her only you can do my hair. I don’t like when anyone else does it.”

“She sounds nice though.”

“... Can you come out with us, Niko?” She asked softly. “... Maybe Grier can come too. Safa says fresh air can be good for sick people. Maybe it’ll help.”

I gave her a weak squeeze. “I-I… I don’t so, chickadee… He’s needs his rest...”

“Oh…” She sounded so sad, I felt my eyes grow damp. It was too close an echo of my own sorrow.

“Perhaps you can bring him some flowers instead,” I suggested, trying to distract myself as well as her, “That would help, I am certain. Bringing a bit of the outside in.”

Morgana bounced a little, reaching up to ring her arms around my neck. “I can do that. I’ll get him the biggest, smelliest, most colorful flowers I can find.”

I buried my nose in her hair. “That sounds wonderful, chickadee.”

“And I’ll bring you lilies, Niko,” She told me, “If goblins have lilies. That way you can feel better too.”

I choked back the tears again, and nodded. Letting her take the book from my hand in her usual impatience and flip through the last few pages to reach her bookmark. I listened quietly to her while she babbled, alternating between reading the passage and adding in her own flourishes. I even managed to close my eyes, leaning my cheek against the top of her head. I could almost forget when I was with her. Could almost pretend everything was still right in the world. Could pretend I didn’t constantly worry about what the future might have in store. For both of us now, I remembered with a stab of guilt, since I had brought her here with me. And I could almost remember that strange but lovely warm feeling I had been starting to enjoy before… 

I almost missed the soft click click click on the stone floor marking someone’s approach.

“Well now, is this the Onsakin I have been hearing so much about? Pah!” Came the thin, wiry voice. “She looks just like you, mo shiba.”

I turned in surprise to see the Dowager Queen standing a few feet away, cane in hand. Quickly, I moved to stand, gathering up Morgana in my arms as I went. For her part, my sister looked curious, tilting her head to the side. I saw her taking in Morag’s voluminous skirts and dozens of jewelry bits and bobbles. She clutched the book to her chest as I slowly lowered her to the ground.

“Welcome back, Your Grace-” I greeted her respectfully, bowing as I placed Morgana back on her feet.

“Ina Morag, mo shibaba. I have told you this many times.” She tapped her cane on the floor to emphasize her point. 

Morgana tugged on my tunic, glancing up at me and then back at Morag. The question lingering in her curious eyes.

“Ina Morag, may I present my sister, Princess Morgana Delarosa Marie of Geriveria.” I intoned, hoping my voice didn’t sound too heavy with my exhaustion. I rested a gentle hand on the top of Morgana’s soft hair. “Chickadee, this is Dowager Queen Morag.”

“Pah!” Scoffed Morag. “You shiba have such long names. I do not have the breath for all this!”

Morgana tugged on my tunic again. Shyly waving me down so she could whisper in my ear. “What does ‘dowager’ mean?”

I slowly straightened. “‘Dowager’ means she was married to the old King,” I explained, “This is Grier’s mother.” I pretended like I didn’t almost choke on his name.

“You’re Grier’s mother?” Morgana said a little louder, sounding fascinated, her eyes going wide.

Morag nodded. “Yes, Onsakin, I am his ina.” She cocked her head to the side, her jewelry jangling as she did. “I have been wanting to meet you since you arrived.” She tapped her cane on the floor angrily. “But this abhama has not brought you to me yet!”

“What does Onsakin mean?” My sister asked, swaying from foot to foot as her excitement began to build. Her little mouth moved over the strange word tentatively, forming each syllable with great care.

“Ah, it means, ‘Little Princess’, I believe.” I told her.

Morgana put her hands on her hips. “I am not little!” She scoffed, then stood a little straighter. “I’m taller than you!”

“Morgana!” I scolded, but it lacked any strength behind it.

“PAH!” Laughed Morag, tapping her cane again. “I like this one! She is like you, she has spirit! Mian’we boshta!“ I felt the corners of my lips twitch, longing to smile, but feeling far too heavy to manage. The Dowager Queen considered this, and her scarlet eyes flickered to the bedroom door. “... How is mo apawi?”

“... No better, Your Grace.” I murmured softly, dropping my eyes.

She let my slip go by unaddressed, giving a soft ‘hmm’ instead. It sounded so much like Grier’s, I had to ball my fists to keep the quiver from my hands. I still could not bear to meet her eyes. I felt Morgana’s hand wiggle between my clenched fingers, and she gave my hand a gentle squeeze. I returned it gratefully, but had not the strength for more than that. I felt the tickling edges of shame that my emotions and thoughts were apparently so plain to read, and swallowed nervously.

“He is strong, mo shibaba,” She assured me gently, then nodded herself, “He is young. He will pull through.” Her confidence seemed to wave momentarily, but then I felt her cane come out to tap the tip of my boot. “... He has a good reason to.”

“If you are Grier’s mother,” Morgana chimed in, “How come you are so small? Why is Grier so much taller than all the other goblins? Did you use magic to make him bigger?”

“PAH!” Morag laughed again. “Perhaps someone did put a charm on the boy. You should have seen that abhama when he was born, Onsakin. He was so tiny, you could fit him in your pocket.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? Are all goblins that small?” She glanced up at me. “I thought maybe Grier’s mother might be an orc, like Damjan’s.” Her attention turned back to the Queen. “Was his father tall? Or did you really use magic?” I noticed her eyes narrow. “... You’re not an orc, right?”

Again, another melodic laugh. But in spite of its jovial ring, its familiarity stung. “PAH! No, Onsakin. I would be a very small orc indeed. They would have left me out in the cold as a child.” She rubbed her hands over her top of her cane. “His father was tall. Not so tall as your brother. But tall for a goblin.” She gave a toothy smile, sounding distant in memories for a moment. “And very handsome.”

“Apologies, Your Grace,” I interrupted before my sister could launch any more questions, “I am certain you came to see your son again. We will not keep you longer; I know you get tired easily-.”

“PAH!” She smacked my leg with her cane, just hard enough for me to jerk in surprise. Morgana giggled. “Do not tell me what I am to do, mo shibaba. I came to see you.”

“You came to see Niko?” My sister asked, bouncing on her toes a little.

One slender eyebrow raised at her nickname for me. But then she gave a small nod. “Yes.” She tilted her head back to the side. “He does not sleep. He does not eat. That blasted fool Damjan is worried, as is Hibik. As is Seoc, and Paye. And all the other lives you have touched since you first came here. They whisper of you in the halls.” She nodded again. “It has reached my ears.”

I stiffened again, feeling a slight flush at my collar at her implications. “I can assure you, Your Grace, I-”

I jumped onto one leg with a soft shout as her cane came out to whack me again. “Ina Morag, abhama! PAH! I have told you this.” Her scarlet eyes became hard. “You need to sleep, apawi shiba mo. To eat. You cannot wither here.”

“You can come with me, Niko,” Morgana put in, tugging on my hand lightly, “We can go to the gardens, then you can take a nap in the sun, and Safa and I can make you a picnic. It will make you feel much better!”

I glanced at both of them. Then over their heads at the door to Grier’s bedchambers. It felt like it loomed. A hollow shadow, and staring at it made the edges of my eyes tingle. I swore it shifted and warped as I watched, and I adjusted my tongue in my mouth. I realized belatedly that the two were talking still, and blinked stupidly at them. Trying to sort through what they were saying. It seemed to be some sort of plan for me; getting a bath, some fresh clothes. A shave. Morgana insisted I would sleep better out in the gardens, but was persuaded by Morag that could be saved for another day. Their banter was light hearted and quick; a stark contrast to the slow thrum of my own mind. I heard their words distantly, my mind wandering back to the dark room beyond the door...

“... I’m fine where I am, though I thank you both for your concern.”

The pair fell silent at my flat and formal words, spoken in the middle of some exchange I hadn’t fully comprehended nor bothered to register. I felt Morgana tug at my hand again, and looked down at her belatedly. Realizing she had done so more than once already. Her hazel eyes were wide, and her little bottom lip quivered. She stomped her foot softly.

“You’re my brother, Niko! I’m tired of sharing you!”

Had I been able to feel any part of my body at that moment, rather than feeling like a head detached and floating around, I might have winced at her words. Instead, I managed to find some command of my palm, bringing it up to cup her cheek gently. I tried a dozen words in my mind, tossing each aside almost as soon as they occurred to me. I thought to tell her that I wanted nothing more than to go to the gardens with her. Or have her tell me another story. To do anything and everything to make her happy... I thought to try to explain that the thought of leaving his room for more than a few minutes made me feel like I was falling apart. And had I been given the choice, I would’ve traded places with Grier in an instant. He would have managed all this much better than I…

“Pah!” Exclaimed the Dowager Queen, tapping her cane against the floor. “We’d best leave this one be, mo Onsakin.” She told her, and my sister glanced over her shoulder at the Queen, her pout still in place. “Sometimes it is better to wear away at stone slowly when you want to polish it...” Her scarlet eyes darted to my face. “Elsewise it might just shatter instead.”

I didn’t want to meet Morag’s eyes, as grateful as I was for her understanding. I was too afraid of the soft familiarity of them sending my heart into a deep ache again. Instead, I pushed Morgana’s hair out of her face, pulling her attention back to me.

“Why don’t you go with ina Morag for a little while?” I told her, then felt my gaze drop to the side sadly. “I-I think she’d be much better company than me right now.”

Morgana tugged on my hand again, her face starting to scrunch up. “No! I want to play with you, Niko!”

Again, when I found myself at a loss for words, uncertain how to calm my sister’s growing agitation, it was Queen Morag who came to my rescue.

“Tch, child!” She scoffed, and Morgana looked over her shoulder at her again, her nose all pinched. “The boy is sick too, can’t you tell?” She tilted her head to the side, making her many glittering bobbles jingle and clink. “Don’t you think if he could, your brother would like nothing more than to be with you?”

That gave Morgana pause, and she looked me over almost curiously. “You’re sick too, Niko??”

I started to shake my head, but made a soft exclamation of surprise instead as Morag’s cane smacked my calf. My sister’s face twitched out of her irritation slightly at the sound. 

“Of course, Onsakin!” She declared. “Your ibu is sante’fet. He cannot be anything else while his manwe is unwell.”

Morgana considered her, taking in the strange words she spoke with a thoughtful ear. “... He can’t?” She hesitated, then looked sidelong up at me. “... What does all that mean? Is that some weird grownup thing?”

“Your Grace, I-”

“INA MORAG, suit abhama!” She snapped at me, as did her cane, and I yelped again. This made Morgana giggle once more. The former Queen turned to my sister, nodding her head conspiratorially. “Come, Onsakin. I will tell you more. I know a great many secrets, you know.” She gave me a very similar sidelong look as my sister’s, and my brows shot up slightly at the sight. “More than this abhama, I am certain.”

I saw the curiosity in my sister’s matching hazel eyes and she squeezed my hand indecisively as the Queen started to make her way out of the foyer. At the main door, the old goblin paused, looking back before giving a jerk of her head to further entice Morgana.

“... Ok Niko… Maybe we can play later…” She told me after a moment. She tugged my hand, and I obediently dropped down to her so she could give me a hug. “... Feel better soon. I’ll come back to check on you and I’ll bring you those flowers.”

“Thank you, Chickadee.” I replied softly, returning her hug gently.

It was all I could manage. Not even a proper goodbye, or gratitude to the Dowager Queen for soothing my sister and entertaining her when I couldn’t even manage any semblance of a smile. I lingered where they had left me, having accidentally gotten trapped in the red glimmer of Morag’s eyes as she left. And feeling as if my heart was ripped from my chest at the almost familiar sight.

Slowly, I straightened, making my way sluggishly back to the King’s bedchambers. I dismissed Hibik distractedly. He said something to me, but I didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear anything but the sound of something in my chest cracking as I settled back into the armchair beside the bed.

I stared at the ground between my feet for a long time. When I had finally built enough courage to look over at the sleeping goblin in the bed beside me, I instantly found it shattered back to pieces as soon as I laid eyes on his quivering, sweaty form. Half buried amid oversized and overstuffed blankets and pillows. Shuddering and shivering with each breath. My eyes burned, but I stubbornly pushed that aside. Desperate to return to a statue, and feeling like I was trying to stick each piece of my walls together with sand.

The memory of his mouth came unbidden to my mind as I stared, my eyes drifting around his face. I remember the last time I had felt his against mine… A sloppy morning kiss, almost three days ago now… I felt a heavy weight inside me as I suddenly feared that was the last kiss we would ever share… Not even a proper kiss. One I had been too shy to return...

That anguish heavy on my heart, I stood, stubbornly, then bent over the bed. Reaching out with faltering fingers to skim along his jaw. I pushed back his damp hair, saw his eyes flicker beneath his lids as I leaned down... 

It was like kissing stone, and as soon as I lightly pressed our lips together I regretted it. Regretted that this was now the memory etched into me. Not his warmth. Not the taste of his smile. Just something clammy and still... I fell into the armchair, dropping my face into my palms. It was too much… I couldn’t… I shivered, then swallowed hard. Trying to steady myself. Trying to push away the fear that maybe… maybe he wouldn’t get better after all… and the fear of realizing exactly why that thought hurt me quite as much as it did...

....

I stirred at some point, dragging from the listlessness of sleep. Pulling my head out of the realm of dreams and floating back down to my corporeal form sitting in the armchair like a feather falling onto the still surface of a pond. For a long moment, I forgot where I was. I didn’t remember falling asleep. Perhaps at some point the numbness had simply dragged me from my consciousness, but I didn’t know when that had been. My eyes blinked, adjusting magically to the dark of the room. I wasn’t sure how I could tell; perhaps it was the strange heaviness of the air. Or some quality of its stillness. But I knew it was late.

The ragged breath of the King sent a shiver down my spine, and I looked over at him in the bed beside my chair. I sighed quietly, rubbing a hand at my face. My limbs were weighed down by unseen lead chains, and struggled to pull air into my lungs. When my hand finally dropped, I started slightly as I found a pair of bright red eyes now watching me. I recovered, straightening myself.

Y-you’re awake...” My voice barely above a whisper as if to preserve the stillness blanketing us. Depending on what day it was now, it had nearly three days now since he had last opened his eyes. “... How are you feeling?”

“Sore.” He mumbled, then blinked a few times sluggishly. “Heavy… Waterlogged.” A soft, petering sigh, then his eyes flicked back to me. “... Have you been there this whole time? How long has it been?”

I cleared my throat quietly, shifting. Casting my gaze away from him. “I-I just… I wanted... ” I swallowed hard, thumbing my palm. “I-I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

“... Nikostratus,” He breathed my name like the first lungful of cold air after a warm cabin, and I jerked at the sound, “... I need you to promise me something.”

I was already shaking my head before he finished. “No.”

“Nikost-”

“Don’t.” I snapped, a little harsher perhaps then I intended. My eyes jumped to his, and I shook my head again before dropping them away once more. “I-if you start trying to… t-to…” I pressed my thumb into my palm until it stung. “... Don’t start talking like… like you’re not going to get better.”

He drew in a deep, wheezing breath. “...I might not-”

“Don’t.” I said, a little louder now.

“I don’t want to ask this of you.” His voice sounded pained, and not just from the effort it took for him to draw in each breath. “Gods know… you’ve had enough weight dropped on your shoulders… but I need to… I need to think of my Kingdom too…”

I shook my head once more. “I-I’m not a goblin… I’m not a King-”

“You are the most honorable and trustworthy man I know.” He wheezed, and his hand came out towards me. “...But in the end it’s your decision. I won’t demand it of you…I won’t even ask it of you... just promise me you’ll make sure my people… our people, are taken care of.”

“I’ll promise you nothing.” I almost growled, my voice harsh. “Because then everything would be settled and taken care of and-” I stopped short, my words choking me. “And you…. Y-you…”

“My young Prince,” He murmured weakly, both hands reaching for me now, “My sweet Prince… come here… please… I don’t have the strength to charm you into my arms,” a small, wry grin flicked at the corners of his lips, “So I suppose I’ll just have to swallow my pride and beg.”

I didn’t have the will to deny his request, nor did any small part of me even want to try. I crumpled forward, dropping heavily out of the chair to my knees beside the bed. His hands cupped my face, tracing along it weakly. I shivered beneath his touch, squeezing my eyes shut. With the feeblest of tugs, he pulled at me and I obediently sank down to him, letting him wrap his arms around my neck. Letting him bury me in his chest as I bent over him. Drawing in the scent of his sweat slicked body and feeling his ragged breath on the top of my head. I brought one hand up, hooking on his arm as if to free myself. But it fluttered and lingered there instead.

“Y-you can’t do this to me…” I gasped against him suddenly, feeling my eyes start to burn as a sharp heat bubbled in my chest, “You can’t… you can’t leave me now… I can’t…”

“... You’ll be alright.” He told me softly. “You’re clever, and strong-”

“I don’t want to be strong!” I snapped. “I’m tired of being strong!” My hands grabbed at his shoulders roughly, tugging him a little closer. My grip faltered and fluttered as I remembered the state of him, and I gave a shuddering breath. Burying myself deeper into his embrace. “I-I… I can’t… I can’t do this again…”

His arms tightened around me, and I heard his breath shudder against my ear. His hand came to the back of my head, and I felt him stroking it weakly. So softly I thought I might shatter. My heart threatened to do the same.

“I… I have so much left I want to tell you… but … there’s one thing I need to tell you… one you deserve to know.” He murmured softly. “... I need to tell you how… how I found you…”

I would have drawn back to look at him, but suddenly felt as weak as he was. So I laid limply in his arms. Listening to the ragged air pass through his lungs.

“A few years back... There was a young man… barely in his twenties if even that…” He explained in his thin and wheezing voice, “... He was badly wounded when we found him at the border… delirious… Half-dead already… The soldiers there did what they could for him, but he was… he was saying something they thought might be of import.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “They sent him to me.”

“... What was he saying?”

“He told us…” I felt his hesitation, and a strange weightless dread spreading through me at his reluctance. “He told us… he had loved a Prince…” I stiffened sharply, every muscle in my body becoming steel. “...And that for that crime… he had paid with his life.”

I jerked away from him, sitting up on my knees. My heart racing, my head pounding. I stared down at Grier, slack jawed and dumbstruck. 

“... I should have told you sooner. But I… I don’t know who he was to you. I-if he was anyone...” He stammered feebly. “And for the longest time, we thought he was just… just delirious. He never said his name, or anything else for that matter. Nor did we know what Prince he was talking about… We didn’t know where he was from… or how he had gotten there…”

I was lost in my memories for a long moment. Lost in dark hair and bright eyes. Soft skin and a wiry frame. And pain. So much pain I thought I might shatter from it. My walls started to raise, my shoulders stiffened. Seeking to defend my heart from that fate. I fought through the numbness that nearly overwhelmed me. Something about what he said was nagging me though. Snapping at the edges of my mind. Poking holes in the walls I tried to build. I blinked a few times, trying to steady myself. Trying to sort through my emotions and come back to just the words. I wondered if the click was as audible as it felt when the pieces fell into place.

“... Half-dead?” I breathed. “Y-you said he was wounded? Half-dead?” I shook my head. “N-no, that can’t be right… It couldn’t have been him… It wasn’t him… You found someone else.” 

“Nikostratus… I-I’m so sorry-”

“He died?” I cut him off abruptly, my voice thin as it pressed through the tiny opening that was left of my throat. “... Did… Did he suffer?”

Grier’s hand came to mine on the bed, and he shook his head weakly. “We couldn’t save him… but he didn’t suffer. We made sure of that.”

Just like that, the walls I had been trying to build imploded. Crumbling into hundreds of pieces around my heart. Without their protection, the emotions slammed into me. I stared down at our hands numbly for a long time. My heart ached, my head throbbed. There was an extended silence, while I tried to process everything suddenly hitting me full force. While I tried to pull the knife from my chest just enough to pull in a breath. It was too heavy. All of it. I couldn’t hold it... I felt my lips working to release the pressure; tasted the sound of my words even though I had not willed them forth.

“... I thought I was...” I told him, my voice whisperingly soft, “I-I thought… H-he was… He was my second… on the frontline…” I shifted, still kneeling beside the bed and staring at his hand on mine. “H-he… he was k-kind… and sweet… and s-soft…” My voice broke and I started to shake. “He… W-we drank too much… we forgot where… w-where we were… just for one night... it was just one night… and… and I… I-I forgot… I forgot who I was…”

“... Nikostratus…”

I squeezed his hand, then clamped my eyes so tightly shut I was seeing sparks behind my lids. “I-I thought I had… I th-thought he would… but… b-but he came back again…” I choked on a sad laugh. “He tried to come back w-when he knew we could… wh-when he thought we could be alone again… b-but… but…” I took a shuddering breath, unable to stop my confession. “They... th-they thought he was trying to… to leave... T-to desert… they-they caught him in the larder… they brought him to me ‘red handed’... t-to pass judgement...” I pulled my hand back, despite his attempt to catch it as I fled. He was too weak to pin me there, and his touch burned my shame deeper into me. But I met his eyes, my own rimmed with a redness to match his irises. “Th-the punishment for desertion i-is… is death-” I choked again, and shook my head fervently.

“... What happened?”

“I-I… I couldn’t... “ My lips were shaking so hard, the words refused to form properly on them. “I-I couldn’t tell… I couldn’t t-tell them… I let… so I let them…” I shook my head again. “Bread, Grier! H-he was just getting extra bread for us… f-for me… He was sweet… He was … so naïve… so hopeful… he… h-he was… and… a-and they wanted me to… t-to… to… they expected me to...” I closed my eyes again, and felt the tears drip down the corners. “I-I was t-too… too ashamed… I was t-too weak to… to tell them… to explain…”

“It’s alright,” He murmured, and reached to pull me down again, “It’s not your fault.”

I jerked away from his touch. “I-I couldn’t… I had to… I should have… I know I…  b-but… I couldn’t… I-I… I was... afraid… I was… I was s-so… I was so afraid...” I looked away from him, resting my elbows on the mattress and burying my face in my palms. “B-but… but I couldn’t let them… let them...“

“What happened next?” He pressed softly.

“I-I… I made a Royal Decree…” I gushed, “R-right then and there… I-I looked at him… I met his eyes… and… a-and I pretended I didn’t… I-I didn’t…” Again I choked, but shook my head, forcing the words out. “... I-I changed the law… and I banished him… o-on penalty of death, should he ever return… The fate for all deserters… f-from that day on…”

“... You saved him.”

“I betrayed him!” I gasped. “I-I looked him right in the eye, and… and when he needed me most… I pretended h-he was… he was n-nothing to me…” I dropped my head to the mattress, squeezing the back of my head with my hands. “The King was fur-furious that I had changed the law… and Gareth…” The name hitched in my throat. “... He knew… I could see it… in-in his eyes… He knew the truth…” I turned my head, so that I could look at him, even though my eyes were still damp and my throat still burned. “A-and now... And now you want me to… t-to…”

Grier’s hand came out, and he cupped it weakly against my jaw. “It’s not your fault-”

“H-how is it not?” I cut him off again, my words slurred and broken. “He had a family, He… He cared about me… he trusted me and I… and I-I…” I dropped a hand on top of his at my cheek. “And now you… y-you’re sick because of me… you’re sick because you tried to do something nice for me… A-and because… Because I let myself be... B-because I started to believe…”

“It’s not your fault.” He wheezed, and his fingers curled feebly around my jaw. Catching behind my ear. “Whatever happens, it’s not your fault. You deserve to be happy, Nikostratus.”

His hand tugged at me gently. I quivered, but let him pull me into his arms again. His palm slowly stroked at the back of my head. I slipped my own hands up, gripping his shoulders. I trembled beneath his touch, the feel of his hot fingers weakly tracing along the curve of my skull. The irony was not lost on me; that a man who may very well be on his deathbed was comforting me. It should be the other way around. I should not be pitching him my sorrow. I should be making this easier for him. I should be caring for him; I had spent my life putting others before myself, why couldn’t I now? Why was this time so different? So hard? I laid my cheek against his bare chest, feeling his damp skin against my face. My eyes pinched shut as they filled, burning as my throat closed up. A dark shadow loomed over me, enveloping my body in a hollow, unrequited misery. I felt his arms slowly wind further around me as the first tears dribbled down my cheeks and pooled on his chest. I tried to hold still, tried not to let my shoulders quake with the weight of my grief and guilt… I failed. And sobbed quietly against him.

“It’s alright… You’re safe here… It’ll be ok…” He murmured, and I buried my face deeper into his chest. Shaking my head. He stilled me with a soft ‘shhhh’. “I love you, Nikostratus. Nothing else matters but that.”

“Loving me is a curse.” I tried to pull back, but relented as his arms tightened, even weak as they were. “I should never have… I-I can’t…”

“If loving you is a curse, then it is one I will happily bear.” He breathed against the top of my head. “If loving you is a poison, I will drink every last drop, and writhe in agony for weeks. For years. Just to know this feeling for an hour.” He ran his thumb against my ear, and a shiver ran down my spine. “If your love is a dagger, I will plunge it deep into my chest until I can feel it in my heart. I don’t care what loving you is. Because it is mine. You are mine.”

“I-I’m not… Y-you can’t…”

“It’s worth it, Nikostratus. It’s worth every second. Having you here, with me…” His hot palm cupped my jaw. Running his thumb across the damp trail on my cheek. “Loving you… it is the best part of my life.”

I let him run his hands over my face and shoulders for a time. Feeling myself beginning to still once more. I felt empty, and hollow. A shell of my former self. I ran my own hand slowly over his shoulder. Numbly feeling the heat wafting off him and trying to push away what that meant.

“Y-you… I c-can’t… I can’t say… I won’t...” I tried to steady myself, breathing quietly for a time. “… I never got to say goodbye to him…” I murmured after a long while. “I-I always hoped he was… alive somewhere… happy, maybe…”

“... What was his name?”

I choked on my tears, shuddering slightly. “... Josep. His name was Josep Wolod… He was… he was 19…”

“And you?”

“... Maybe 22? I-I… I don’t remember.”

“You were both young.” His arms flexed weakly around me. “... You’re still young. They should never have…” I felt his swallow move through his throat and chest beneath my ear. “That you should be asked to condemn a boy to death...”

“I couldn’t do it… I never could…” I shivered again. “I-I banished him, b-but he was unharmed when… when…” My eyes widened even more, and the blood rushed from my face. I didn’t answer for several long, uneasy breaths. 

“When what?” He coaxed.

“When… when I had Gareth escort him to the border…”

I felt him draw in as deep a breath as he was able, and his arms wrapped as far around me as they would go. “If I ever see that man again, I will kill him.”

The hate in his voice was unfamiliar to me, and felt as foreign as the raspiness in his chest. I stayed still for a long moment, letting the tears trickle down my cheeks. Forgotten trails of my sorrow for memories I had tried to bury. For a grief I had never let myself feel. I blinked slowly, giving a soft sniffle. Then gently pulled myself free.

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t.” He rasped, fumbling for my hand. “Don’t apologize. Please, my young Prince... It’s not your fault.”

I wondered how much he would have to say that for me to ever have a hope of believing it. My chest ached dully at his words, and I closed my eyes for a moment to steady myself. Feeling raw and unnerved. 

“I-I... I’ve kept you up too long… you need your rest.”

“I need only you.”

“Grier…”

“...Lay with me awhile?” He murmured, his eyes starting to blink languidly. 

I was already shaking my head. “I-I shouldn’t… you need to sleep.”

“I sleep better… when you’re with me…” He replied, but let me gently lift his hand to place on his chest once more. I watched his scarlet eyes slowly work their way sluggishly up my body as I stood, until they met my gaze. “... You see it right? You understand it now?”

“... Get some rest.”

“No.” He grumbled, then slowly started to slide up onto his elbows. Weakly trying to prop himself up.

“Wh-what are you-”

“Lay with me.” He gasped, even as his arms shook beneath him. “I… I want to…” A pained look filled his eyes. “... I need to be near you...” I lurched forward, catching him before he collapsed from exhaustion. “I… I want to know you’re safe… I can’t sleep if...”

Slowly, I lowered him back into the pillows, my arms gently tucked around him. His long fingered hand came up, and he weakly skimmed it along my jaw. Wiping away the tear stains lingering there. My brow was tight, and I felt a powerful, painful throb in my chest at his touch. I caught his hand in mine, hesitating briefly. Then I pressed it against my cheek with the strength he lacked. I saw him smile, one so fragile I thought my breath might shatter it. I squeezed my eyes shut to dam the fresh pain that welled in them. I turned into his palm, even daring to place a gentle kiss in its center.

“Please?” He begged, his voice weak. “Lay with me?”

I couldn’t hide my wince at the fear in his voice. I kissed his palm again, then gently brushed his knuckles against my lips. Slowly, I opened my eyes, looking down at him. After another moment, I nodded, and his face flushed with relief.

“Only if you promise to sleep if I do.” I warned.

He agreed sluggishly, and I removed my boots and vest, then carefully crawled in behind him. The goblin quickly turned, tucking himself into my chest. It was like holding a small fire to myself, and I struggled not to flinch against him. I felt him sigh, felt him relax deeper into my chest. I hesitated before I dared wrap my arms around him. As carefully as if he might break into a thousand pieces. My heart thudded so loudly I worried it would keep him awake.

“... Do you see now?” He asked me groggily, his breath hot on the nape of my neck. 

“Shhh.” I told him gently, bringing my hand to the back of his head. “You promised you’d sleep.”

A soft mumble of something incoherent escaped his thin lips. “... But-”

“Shhhhhh.” I hesitated, then carefully stroked my hand along his damp hair. “... I’m not going anywhere… Sleep now.”

.....

I woke to a quiet knock at the door, somehow having managed to fall into a sleep plagued with nightmares. I shifted, then looked down to find the goblin still tucked in my arms. His breathing was shallow and raspy, but rhythmic, and his eyes were closed. Another soft knock had me carefully slipping from his grip. Sliding to the edge of the bed to clamber quietly to my feet. His fever had retaken him, and he did not stir at my movement. I blinked away the last of my pain, wiping my face down with one heavy hand in case any lingered there. Gods, I felt so drained and tired...

I didn’t bother to don my boots or vest, adjusting my tunic and heading to the main door. Hibik and Seoc stood there, quiet sorrow listing in the corners of their eyes. I nodded to them, briefly wondering at what sight had greeted them in my own eyes, but feeling far too hollow to care.

“Your Highness,” Hibik dipped his head, “Apologies, but there is… a visitor. From the human court.”

I blinked at him stupidly, forgetting myself for a moment. “Who?”

They exchanged a glance. “... Sir Gareth, I believe is his name. He has asked to see you and the King.”

I must have looked… strange to them, based upon their reaction. It was as though he had heard us speaking of him… had heard my confession… Though I realized now I couldn’t even be sure how long it had been. Hours? Days? Logically, I knew the timing made sense. I could suspect his reasons for being here, nearly a week since we had left the castle I had grown up in. Yet I couldn’t help the anger that bit at me at the sound of his name. The goblins exchanged another look as I stiffened. Straightening my back. A small scowl formed on my lips, and I saw them latch onto that emotion amid the stone of the rest of my face.

“...Send him away.” I told them coldly. “I do not wish to speak to him.”

Another bow. “I would, of course, Your Highness,” Hibik murmured reverently, “But he insists he is here on official business.” He shifted nervously. “I can still have the guard escort him out,  if that is your wish.”

I stared at him for a long moment. Trying to think amid the swirl of emotions that threatened to rip my chest open. After a long moment, I stepped back, pulling the door open and heading back to the bed chamber for my boots and vest.

“Your Highness,” Seoc bounded after me, and when I turned to face him, I found a fresh tunic, vest, and coat in his arms.

“Thank you, Seoc.” I told him appreciatively, though my voice tasted numb in my mouth. 

I didn’t bother for modesty, hardly caring anymore, and stripped my old tunic before them to pull on the new. Seoc scurried for my brush as I did up the buttons on the vest and pulled on the coat. He quickly polished the toes of my boots as I scrubbed at my hair for a moment. I moved without thought, my actions those of someone else. As I passed the brush back to Seoc, my eyes lingered on the distant shape of the bed in the bedchambers beyond. My heart ached, and I felt the corners of my mask slip momentarily.

“... Stay with him.” I ordered Hibik. “Fetch me immediately if…” If anything changes. I finished silently, but didn’t dare to voice. If he wakes... Or makes a turn for the worse.

Hibik nodded solemnly, straightening slowly under the responsibility and trust I laid upon him. I turned and followed Seoc out into the hall. Down through the castle. To the main throne room. 

I recognized it as soon as I entered, and looked about in a dreamlike daze. Had it really only been a month since the first time I had walked through those doors? I moved slowly over to the dais, standing at the foot of it. I stared at the pillows. The piles of gems and coins still strewn about. At the towering carved stone pillars. I remembered the first time I had stood there. Looking up at Grier, his face full of mischievous smiles and composed of a powerful air of command. I had been scared then, I knew now. He had terrified me. He had looked properly monstrous, the creature of nightmares we warned our children about. I remembered the room darker, more sinister. But now I saw the same braziers were lit as they had been then, and the entire hall was bathed in a warm glow. It was mostly stone, yes, but with the splashes of color the goblins were notorious for. And empty. There were no guards lining the chamber, though I knew they were likely just beyond the door. There were no attendants, no members of Court. I stood alone, returning to that seemingly ancient memory. I half expected to find cobwebs, the place felt so old to me. But it felt... familiar too. More comfortable than any room of my old castle...

There was a great creak as the main door opened, and I glanced over to watch Gareth be let into the chamber. A hot poker stabbed at the base of my spine, spewing its heat through my core. I squared my shoulders, waiting quietly as he approached. My mask already perfectly in place. Knowing the man I had once called ‘friend’ would not see more than a stone Prince before him.

He dipped into a bow, one tight with constraint. He looked older than I remembered. His face gaunt, his hair greying at the tips. There was an unkept scruff on his neck, and his shirt was ever so slightly askew. I eyed it disdainfully as he slowly raised.

“Your Highness,” He intoned, “Thank you for seeing me.” I watched his eyes dart about quickly before returning to me. “Shall we wait for His Majesty here, or are you to escort me to him?”

“Speak your business and be gone, Sir Gareth.” I told him coldly, ignoring his question.

Eyes flicked at that, and I saw his scowl at the edges of his lips. But he dipped his head respectfully none-the-less. “... I have come to fetch the Princess, Your Highness.”

Ice would have been warmer than the blood pulsing through me at that moment. “On whose authority?”

Another dip of his head. “By request of Crown Prince Valerianus.” He informed me. “He sends word. It is safe for her to return now. I am to bring her home.”

My jaw tightened, and I looked him over. My glare was biting, and I stared at him for so long in silence that he shifted. Moved weight from one wide foot to the other. I saw his hand rest instinctively on the hilt of his sword. My eyes narrowed. I knew this man. I knew this man better than he knew himself. I knew every twitch of his face, every short coming of his mask. I knew his mannerisms, his ticks. And now, I knew his thoughts, even as he sought to hide them from me.

“Do you think me a fool?” I asked him tonelessly. 

His eyes flicked a little wider. “Y-Your Highness-”

“You are lying, Sir Gareth.” I neatly tucked my hands behind my back, squaring off with him. “Prince Valerianus would have sent word ahead. He would have sent a full royal escort for her. Not a single disheveled guard.”

“I can assure you,” He quickly returned, deciding to stick to his lie, “I am here on his Royal Highness’ authority.” I saw him work his jaw briefly before adding. “Would you incite a war? Keeping our Princess from us?”

“Take heed how you use your tongue, Sir Gareth,” I replied coldly, not taking his feeble attempt at bait, “Or I shall have it removed from your mouth.”

His eyes widened slightly at that, and he even fell back a step. But then he shook his head stubbornly. “I am here for-”

“You are here for yourself.” I interrupted, snapping back at him so sharply he recoiled from my words. “You were not sent by my brother. And if you were sent by the King I care naught.” I did not break my glare. “The Princess Morgana is staying with me.”

The color of his face began to shift as his anger boiled up in him. “You would deny a direct order from the King?? Your true King?”

“He has no authority here.” I replied. “And as he has disowned me as his son, he certainly has none over me.” I looked the old guard up and down. “If this was your feeble attempt to regain your favor with him, then you may return a continued failure and disappointment. Be gone from my sight, before I have you forcibly removed from it.”

Gareth changed tactics. “... Let me see her,” He said softly, “Let me see her, and tell her I miss her. Let me-”

“No.”

“Nikostratus, please-”

“You will not refer to me in such familiar terms,” My voice did not raise much in volume, but the authority in it made it sound as though it had, “I am Prince Nikostratus to you. And soon I will be King. You will afford me the respect due to my position and title. I will not warn you again.”

His eyes flashed red, and his scowl broke over his lips. “A King who lays beneath a King.” He spat disgustedly. “A lecherous pet for a foul beast.”

I barely kept my own anger from bubbling over, though my jaw clenched. “Get. Out.” I ordered through clenched teeth. “Now.”

“You were a good Prince!” He cried, his face still contorted in a mixture of rage and repulsion. “You were obedient, and respectable, you were-” He stopped himself, shaking his head. He returned the step he had lost, and took another closer. “These creatures have corrupted you,” He explained, his eyes bitter, “Please, Prince Nikostratus, if you ever cared for your Kingdom, if you ever once thought me a friend… we served together. We fought side by side-”

“Like Josep?” I snapped. His name felt like fire on my tongue.

Gareth froze, his eyes going wide before he could catch himself. I was nearly trembling with rage. My hands came to my sides, balled into fists so tight the knuckles were nearly white. I could see him thinking. Trying to ascertain what I knew. How I knew. I saw him glance about suspiciously, as if the answer lay in the shadows around us. The old guard slowly straightened, his features cold.

“... I did what I had to. To protect you.”

“To protect me from what, exactly??” I snarled, rage crackling through me. “Being myself? Being happy? Having any emotions at all??!” My voice was raising octave by octave now, and my brow furrowed heavily as heat coursed through my veins.

“Prince Nikostratus, you forget yourself,” He dared scold, “Remember your temper-”

“MY ANGER IS JUSTIFIED WHEN YOU MURDER A BOY IN COLD BLOOD JUST FOR BEING IN LOVE!” I roared, my voice thundering through the vast stone chamber. “And if you think that is a crime worthy of death, then you should have killed me too!”

I saw his hand move. I heard the snarl of his anger, saw the hate in his eyes. He stepped forward, and there was a SHIIIINK that echoed loudly around the chamber as he drew his sword. At the same time, I heard the slam of the wooden door as it was flung open and the guards charged in at the sound of my voice. But the rest was a blur. It was a blur as I stepped to the side. It was a blur as I dropped down, and drove my shoulder up. It was a blur as my hand swept out at the same time as my foot swept in. It was a blur as I twisted the lunging sword from his grasp and deftly spun it in my hand.

The next thing I knew, I was standing over him, the tip of his blade levied at his throat. His eyes were wide with fear and shock as he looked up at me from the ground where I had laid him low. The clanking of armor filled the room as the guard surrounded us, their own weapons drawn. Damjan was at my shoulder, his eyes dark with malice. Gareth’s own eyes darted about in a panic, a cold sweat breaking across his brow. His mouth fell open, and I saw him shake in fear.

“Y-Your Highness, please, I beg of you-”

“Gareth of Geriveria, for your crimes against King and Crown,” I saw him wince as I began, and pressed the blade in a little tighter, “... I banish you. On penalty of death, should you ever dare set foot in my Kingdom again... And should I ever have the misfortune of seeing you again,” I met his gaze with a steadfast rage and confidence, “I shall take your head myself.”

I tossed the sword to the side, and the guards swarmed in. Grabbing the old guard and hauling him to his feet. Beginning to drag him off at spear and sword point.

“Your Highness, please!” He cried over their shoulders, “Your father lies on his deathbed! He only wishes to see his child; the sickness has-”

“If that is true, then he has only his own stubborn pride to blame.” I shot back, unfazed, and did not budge from my spot until the man was dragged away.

Damjan shook his head at my shoulder, his face contorted in outrage. “Your Highness, if-”

“Make sure he is brought to the border unharmed, General,” I interrupted, and glanced over at him stiffly, “Escort him all the way to the capital if necessary. I would not have him made a martyr, or start another war for his sorry hide.”

That stopped whatever he had been about to say, and his brows shot up. Then he grinned eagerly, and bowed. “Once again, Your Highness, you prove wise beyond your years.” He replied reverently. “I shall be sure it is done.” He tilted his head to the side slightly as he rose. “Though I do hope the bastard is stupid enough to attempt to return.” He mused as he turned to march out after his guard. “I would like to put his ugly head on a pike myself.”

“...General,” I called after him, and the taller man paused, glancing back at me, “If what he said is true, about King Tibertius... I want to know.”

Damjan’s face grew stern, and he nodded. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

I felt my stamina quickly fading as Seoc bounded over, looking me over worriedly. I waved away his concern. “Bring me back to the King.” I told him. “And send word to my brother.” I continued as I followed him out the side door. “Let him know of the banishment. I have a feeling he shall issue one of his own in turn when he hears of the circumstances.”

A few moments later, my attendant bobbed and bowed. Wishing me a grateful farewell before darting off to do my bidding. I opened the main door, and at the sound, I heard Hibik raise from the seat in the chamber beyond. I met him in the foyer, already unbuttoning my jacket to slip it from my shoulders along with whatever of my strength remained.

“... How is he?” I asked softly, my previous rage draining from me so suddenly I felt light headed.

Hibik shook his head sadly. “I-I am afraid his fever seems to have returned in full force…” He glanced over his shoulder. “I can send for the Master Healer, but I am not sure-”

“There is no need.” I interrupted, slowly undoing the buttons on my sleeves to roll them up. “... I’ll take care of him.”

The goblin shifted from foot to foot, glancing over his shoulder again. “Your Highness, please, I beg of you to consider your own health and get some proper rest…”

I shook my head, then hesitated, looking off at some distant, unseen point beyond the floor at my feet. “... I thank you for your concern, Lord Hibik. But I will be fine. Though, I am most grateful to you for watching over him while I dealt with other matters.” 

Hibik bowed deeply, murmuring his own soft platitudes, if hesitantly. Then turned to slowly take his leave. My eyes drifted to the end table, where the parchment still sat, a quill at its side. I sucked in a tight breath, and found myself moving as if through molasses, my feet carrying me over to it of their own accord.

“... Lord Hibik…”

I heard him pause at the door, saw him turn out the corner of my eye. But I was in a cloud of my own making as I slowly made my way over to the table. I couldn’t even feel the quill between my fingers. Couldn’t see the page even as I dipped the tip in ink and hovered it over the parchment. I hesitated, staring for a long, quiet moment. Then slowly… carefully… I signed my name beside Grier’s.

The goblin quietly came up beside me as I straightened. Gently taking the quill from my frozen hand, and easing the license delicately from the table. I watched numbly, then turned my gaze away. Unable to reconcile myself with what I had just done, and feeling a heavy weight on my heart for having done so.

“... It seems in poor taste to offer you congratulations, My Prince,” Hibik breathed softly, somberly, “But I will offer you my thanks… and my sincere hope that this remains only as an unneeded precaution…”

I nodded, still not looking at anything on this plane of existence in particular. I was already moving before he turned to make his way to the door, but heard it click closed behind him before I had made it into the bedchambers. I closed that door as well, slipping off my boots and lining them up neatly with the numerous other pairs of his where I had set them. I eased off my vest, folding that and tucking it neatly on the bureau, alongside his own vibrantly colored tops. I trailed my fingers over them as I untucked my tunic from my trousers, letting it flow long and loose. I made my way over to the bed, my feet heavy, my heart dragging behind me. Quietly, I climbed in, crawling up to his side and resting my back against the headboard. As if sensing me there, the King shifted, rolling sluggishly. I carefully lifted him, laying him across my stomach. His skin was so hot it was still uncomfortable to touch, but I let him slide his arms slowly around me anyways.

I reached for the cool cloth, dipping it in water and brushing it across his bare, sweaty back. He shivered against me, and a lung quaking cough erupted from him. I pulled his hair into a soft plait, carefully laying it over the pillows instead of his shoulders, pushing it out of his face. He sighed, settling against my torso. Still in the fits of his fever induced sleep. Slowly I stroked the cloth back and forth over his skin, my eyes burning.

I sniffled softly, then cleared my throat. “... W-we’re married now, Grier…” I told him, my breaking voice barely above a whisper. “... I guess that makes this our wedding night…”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch at my voice. I closed my eyes, but was unable to dam the flow completely before one large fat tear rolled down my cheek.

...

UPDATE: Part Thirteen HERE

[we-are-the-amb]

Placebo

Alan had never enjoyed bathing. At least, he had never been able to draw a bath he could enjoy. The feeling of wet hair and dripping skin had never been pleasant, but he could endure it with the water at a comfortable temperature. Even now, at thirty-eight he thought he could more easily fold his bathwater that get it to a comfortable temperature. He had never been able to get it right. If ever he had taken a bath that had not near suffocated him, or sent him away shivering for hours afterwards, he could not recall it. This was the reason he so seldom took them. His whole life, since the early days of screaming and thrashing beneath a pouring jug, he had held a reluctance to bathe. He would wait until the greasy film of dry sweat and dirt began to itch like a new skin, before stripping it away. Then, he would usually utilise a basin and dish rag, or better, half a packet of baby wipes, scrubbing and drying inch by inch. Much easier to conduct and control, than stewing in a tub. As both he and Edgar had been similar in their bathing habits, as had Issac and Eleanore, he had rarely noticed his own smell. Outsiders, young patrons of their shop, usually, did notice. Most of them had told him so. 

“Ugh, take a shower, Goblin!”

“You fucking reek, gross!”

Alan wondered, idly, if he smelled any worse these days. He thought back to that summer, in the dark bowels of those caves. That stink so hot and pungent it felt like two clawed fingers up his nose. Funny, he had not noticed any such odour coming from Sam, and he could not recall Sam disappearing into the bathroom to fill the tub since he had settled in. Never heard the shower spray, either. There were bottles of cologne in their room, lined up atop the chest of drawers where there had been nothing but dust before Sam’s arrival. Purple, black and golden bottles with names like “Noir” and “Electric” embossed on their sleek fronts. He knew Sam dabbed himself with perfume before he slipped out, because when he returned, engorged and warm, Alan could just make out the alcoholic tang beneath that horribly inviting crust of blood. 

Alan shuddered, swallowing the saliva that pooled at the memory. He twisted off the water, not caring to dip his fingers in again to test it, and hurt his pruned skin on the tap. He had taken more baths since his half turn, than he ever had in his mortal life. Not because he was conscious of smelling bad, but because of the sickness. A half turn came with ailments from which (as Sam frequently reminded him) a full turn would free him. As a human he had frequently been ill, weak, unable to rise from his bed. Now, he suffered such familiarities and infinitely more. Frantic desperation had taught him that a hot bath could dull the pain and reign in the destabilising nausea that came with a vampire’s hunger, as well as giving the illusion of fullness for at least an hour. He was no biologist, but he supposed he had remaining humanity to thank for that. Would hot water do so much for a corpse?

Settling down after slowly immersing himself never seemed to get easier, or quicker. He never lay there with every sinew solid as a stone relief and his belly caving for less than twenty minutes, he guessed. Not that he was ever inclined to keep count. Counting, equations, numbers in general, had never done much to soothe him. He just felt himself beginning to numb to the heat, his stomach slowly swelling into it, when the click of the door startled him back into stone.

It opened to reveal Sam, scratching his scalp on the doorframe, like a cat. The faint scent of fresh blood hit, just before Alan glimpsed the blotchy, pink stains around his mouth and chest. He had scrubbed himself as clean as he could before finding him, Alan realised, though saliva filled him mouth once more. He was bare from the waist up. Hopefully, his jacket was wiped clean and his shirt soaking in the kitchen sink, removing any insidious temptations from Alan’s reach. 

“How are ya, Sweetheart?” Alan’s eyes snapped back up to Sam’s. He saw they were blue, but bright from the feed, and tenderly studying him. He felt he should not be so bashful in front of Sam at this stage, and guilt nipped him as he drew his thighs up to his front. 

“Business as usual.” Came his reply, as he rested his chin on his damp knees. Sam hummed through his blunted teeth, his eyes drifting over what little of Alan he could see. 

“You want me to get ya a glass?” He asked, then frowned, quizzically. “You won’t throw up in there, if you eat, will ya?” 

Hungry though he was, all the more for a bloodstained Sam in the doorway, Alan’s cold guts clenched at the possibility. Sam must have seen him wincing.

“You sure, bud?” Alan nodded, and Sam mirrored him, blinking slowly and lazily in his own, full bellied satisfaction (That was not quite true, Alan thought. Vampires do not digest blood, they circulate it). Silence buzzed between them for a moment, then; “Mind if I slide in with ya?”  

Alan considered, his arms tightened around his folded legs. Sam was usually quite insatiable after a feed. The request would have excited Alan, were he not trying to remedy himself. 

“Sure. But, I don’t feel like I can do it, tonight.” Sam snorted at his coy phrasing, though there was no mockery in his grin. Alan had long ago begun to use deliberately prudish language, when he realised Sam found it cute. 

“Didn’t think so, Treacle.” Sam crossed to the tub, picking at the zipper of his PCV pants. They creaked as he leaned down to peck Alan on the forehead. “Just been a while since I took a bath. Might as well take one with you, huh?” 

He braced each foot on the edge of the tub, unzipping his boots. Then he seated himself to peel off the constricting pants. Alan tapped, tunelessly on his shins as he watched Sam undress. How things had changed. He remembered when Sam had been a little wisp of a thing. When he had felt dense and hefty beside him. Even when Sam shot up almost a head taller than him, at seventeen, he had still been willowy, with very little definition from his fondness for dancing. When Sam stepped back into his life almost a year ago, as breezily as though through his own front door, Alan found him transformed in more ways than one. A healthy appetite near the close of his mortal life had given him a generous form. Broad and sturdy, yet soft. He seemed more whole, now. The gangly, doll-like assemble of his youth now properly fitted and smoothed out with age. Alan found himself feeling rather frail and shapeless by comparison. On the occasion that Sam forwent his spot on the ceiling for a share of Alan’s insubstantial bed, Alan felt him at his back and was sure this is how a hermit crab must feel, enveloped in the safety of it’s shell. 

Alan was jolted from his meditation on Sam’s now naked body, by the feline shift in his eyes.  

“You sure you’re not up to it, bud?” He swatted him, lightly on the knee before he could manage an answer. “Spin.” 

Awkwardly, like a swollen cork in an old bottle, Alan shifted himself around in the narrow tub. A low groan escaped him as his head and stomach protested the action. Sam stepped in and settled down behind him with minimal sloshing. He steeled himself to scoot back towards him, but was stopped by a still dry hand on his shoulder. 

“One sec.” He heard the splashing and the slick sounds of Sam scrubbing away the last traces of blood from his skin. Gratitude ached in Alan’s chest. On nights when Sam returned from feeding, Alan felt like a starving prisoner with a heaving kitchen, bubbling and sizzling away just outside his cell. Sam reached for him again, careful in touching him with wet hands. He coaxed Alan backwards, easing him down into his chest. His thumbs kneaded him, softly whenever he paused to gulp, or shiver. He purred soothingly into Alan’s ear, when he finally had him cuddled against him. Sam was still warm with his meal coursing through him, so he did not chill Alan and he held him. 

“We got any soap?” He asked, after a time of comfortable silence. “I could give you a massage, if you want?” 

Alan thought of the encrusted half-bottle of body wash, collecting dust at the foot of the bath. 

“I think I’m good.” He nosed at Sam’s temple, restraining a purr rising in his own throat. “Unless you want to get cleaned up?” 

“Nah.” Sam chuckled. “Don’t need to.” 

“ ‘Was thinkin’,” Alan could feel himself beginning to relax again, in the water, against Sam. “I don’t remember th’ last time you took a bath.” His pillow huffed into his hair.

“Why, do I smell?” 

“No, I just...don’t remember.” 

“Hm, ‘cause I haven’t taken one since I got here.”

“No?”

“Uh uh, don’t need to, anymore.” Sam pressed a gentle hand on Alan’s thigh. “Straighten out, it’s not helpin’ ya being all curled up.” 

Alan submitted to his pressing hand, like a ball jointed doll, his previous shyness melting with his pain. 

“Why don’t you have to wash?” He asked “You not get dirty, anymore?”

“I don’t sweat!” Sam said, with the pride of a child who sleeps without a night light. “I mean, I get dirt on me, sure. But I don’t sweat anymore. Don’t you feel it, when ya touch me?” 

He lifted a hand, hot from the water to Alan’s jaw. He used one, wet knuckle to nudge his face close to his own, guiding his lips to his cheek. Alan obligingly brushed his lips over Sam’s skin. He had felt it before, beneath his hands, his body. Only now, against the sensitivity of his chapped lips did he feel the dryness of it. Not a flaky dryness, but the sort of smooth, supple dryness that comes from the bite of a winter day. He tutted against Sam’s cheek. Vampires don’t sweat, huh? The stink of those caves flittered across Alan’s mind again, and questioned if the smell really was the smell of those boys. Perhaps, he thought, they had left one of their victims, forgotten and rotting in some corner. 

“ ‘M sorry. I must feel like some sort of eel to you, now.” 

Sam had to turn away to splutter out a laugh. “Honestly,” He managed, once he had recovered, “honestly, I like it. Feels close to home, ya know?” He kissed Alan on his stubbled cheek. “You’re a nostalgia trip, buddy.” 

“You make me sound like some old movie.” Alan sniffed.

“Well, I mean, if you’d rather be compared to a fish-?”

“Alright, okay.” 

They did not say anything after that, laying together in a bath that was now only warm. Soon, Alan could sense the incoming dawn. Sam’s purring had become constant and rhythmic, and Alan was finding it more and more difficult to keep his own down. Through a hair thin gap between the window and the cardboard covering, where the cardboard had begun to curl slightly with the damp, he could make out a sliver of hazy blue. Gently, he dug an elbow into Sam’s plump flank. 

“We better get out.” 

Sam tried to shake his drowsiness away, long enough for him to dry off and head to bed. “You feeling better, Sweetheart?”

“Yep.” It was not entirely the truth. The droning pain in Alan’s head and limbs was somewhat muted, but ever present, and hunger still gnawed at him from every side. Yet, Alan was content for his hot bath. He thought, as he and Sam replaced the towel on the rail and headed to the bedroom through the draughty corridor, that perhaps he could enjoy his baths from now on.