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onemilliongoldstars · 5 years

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a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 23

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

23/30

clexa game of thrones au

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Book Three: Chapter Two

The walls of the castle rise around them, towering to cut through the deep blue of the sky. Ivy curls up the walls, striking against the red brick, and Lexa casts her gaze over the angular towers and fortresses with reluctant admiration. The castle is built to withstand the longest siege and the most violent of weapons, and she knows that if King Thelonious had not agreed to a peace treaty, the northern army would have languished outside these walls for years before finally being defeated.

A sharp tug on the heavy pauldron around her shoulders jerks her back to reality, and she winces as Anya checks the straps fastening the plate armour to her body with harsh fingers. The squire who had dressed her earlier is a trusted son of one of her lords, but still Anya insists on checking the armour herself. In each rough tug, Lexa can feel her cousin’s fury, which she had expressed so eloquently in words Anya would not want Tris to hear when she had told her of her plan to train with the king. Never mind the opportunity to improve relations between the two kingdoms, Anya is sure that this is a trap to have her unceremoniously killed, and so half of her Queensguard are gathered to watch them, their swords at their hips. Lady Tris is with them, eagerly exploring the rack of weapons, and Liberty lingers close to her, while Honour, Valour and Spirit prowl the training grounds restlessly, startling the southern attendants. The latter wolf, with his black merle pelt almost as dark as Honour, is the direwolf she sees the least, more likely than his siblings to disappear into the woods for weeks on end and appear only when she is facing her biggest challenges. When he had appeared from the woods on the journey south, she had realised with a sinking heart what a struggle this trip would be. Even now, Spirit seems unhappy in the light of day, his fur prickling.

“This is lunacy, I hope you know that,” Anya mutters, low in her throat, as she checks a strap on Lexa’s chest plate, and Lexa resists the urge to snap at her.

“Your fears are unfounded when I have you all to protect me,” She points out, as calmly as she is able, and Anya snorts dryly.

“We are still outnumbered in this city.” Her eyes meet Lexa’s again, and they are dark with meaning when she cautions. “Do not let the north fall because of your wrath Lexa.”

The words spark a fury in her stomach and she yanks herself away from Anya’s fussing hands, fixing her with a glower as her squire scurries up to her side with her sword. “You know I would never.”

A ripple of excitement passes over the field, and when Lexa turns, she sees the king approaching, an excited smile upon his face. He is accompanied by several of his small council, which Measter Titus had informed her is filled to the brim with Lannister sympathisers. The few ladies who had wandered their way onto the field to watch them train whisper to one another gleefully when he sends them a dashing smile, and though the attendants try to flutter around him, he sends them away with a flick of his hand. He is already armoured in beautiful gilded southern armour, which Lexa is sure has never seen a day of fighting, and he gives her a cheerful smile as he approaches.

She meets him in the centre of the field, managing to smile in return, but the king does not seem to notice her reluctance.

“A beautiful day to spar, is it not?” He is practically glowing, and she can’t help but feel endeared to him in a strange, childish sort of way.

“It is indeed.”

“I hope you’re well rested, your majesty,” He jibes her playfully and she arches an eyebrow. “I intend on fighting as hard as any northerner today.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Lexa nods her approval, “Shall we begin?”

Their swords ring out through the clearing as they clash together, accompanied by the low comments exchanged between ladies, soldiers and servants. It is a slow, steady fight, the sort experienced between two rivals new to one another and feeling out the other’s style and weaknesses. Fighting Finn is a strangely familiar experience, and it takes several blows for Lexa to realise that she is remembering the many blows she exchanged with southern fighters during the war that was her father’s and became her own. There is something in his step, in the swing of his sword and the strength and timing of his blows that tells her that he was trained by knights instead of soldiers. Still, he is a good fighter, and clearly enjoying himself immensely, if the beam on his face and the flushed, happy exertion in his cheeks is anything to go by.

“You fight very well,” He puffs out between blows, and it takes her a moment to realise that he is talking to her. “I had heard stories- but they do you- no justice.”

“Thank you,” She answers, shortly, and in her surprise, he is able to twist his sword cleverly and send hers flying from her hands. Behind her, she hears her Queensguard leap forwards and the growl of her wolves, but Finn simply laughs and steps away, wiping at the sweat on his forehead.

“I need the rest,” He tells her, good naturedly, and ushers forward the attendant who carries goblets of weak, cold mead for them to drink. “Thank you for agreeing to spar with me, your majesty.”

“You enjoy it more than your other kingly duties?” She asks as they take a moment to rest under the beating southern sun.

“I confess I do.” He wrinkles his nose, and it draws a reluctant smile from her. “I’m fortunate to have patient advisors, I am not used to being king yet.” He falters, glancing at her uncertainly. “I shouldn’t say such things to you, I suppose.”

“No,” She shrugs lightly, though of course he shouldn’t. “I understand more than most how you feel. I too was made queen before I was ready.”

“How did you find your footing?” He is so earnest that she is taken aback. Truly, she realises, looking at his upturned face in the sunlight, he is nought but a boy at heart, who wants only to hunt and fight and go home to a good meal and a pretty wife. The final thought tugs at her heart and she swallows her mead.

“I surrounded myself with people I trusted, and listened to my instincts.” She says, at last.

He nods thoughtfully, his brows creasing. “I am lucky to be marrying someone whose heart and mind I trust so completely,” He smiles at his words and Lexa feels her blood turn to ice as he says, “And who is so beautiful.”

“Shall we?” Quickly, she discards the goblet of mead and pulls her sword from its scabbard with a trill of metal.

Their second fight is more brutal than the first, because each time Lexa looks at him she can only imagine his hands on Clarke, his lips pressing to hers and whispering sweet nothings into her ears. What a fool she had been, she thinks with every swing of her sword, to think that Clarke’s pretty words were true, that her kind touches and smiling lips were only for Lexa. A woman like Clarke has learnt to make the best of every situation and what better situation than marrying a handsome, young heir to the throne of the south. Her sword comes down with an almighty crash and the prince is thrown to the ground so bodily that there is an exclamation of terror from those watching. It is only this that stops her sword from delivering the deathly blow, and she is frightened to see that her hands are shaking when she drops her weapon and holds them out to help the king back to his feet.

She barely hears him laugh and say, heartily, “We shall have a tourney in your honour, your majesty! Perhaps you and I could ride against each other? We are clearly so well matched.”

When Anya escorts her back to the castle, she looks into her cousin’s eyes and knows that Anya was right about everything. From now on, she vows to feel nothing for Lady Clarke of House Tyrell.

---

Harper comes to her early that morning and as she helps her dress, she tells Clarke the location and names of the mother and son in hurried words under her breath and seems half terrified of the words that come out of her mouth. Clarke is immensely glad for the distraction; she’s been awake since sunrise thinking of the foolish sparring sure to be going on between Lexa and Finn in the yard. When Finn had told her of his plans to train with the northern queen, she had tried to persuade him not to attend, had even asked him to join her for breakfast with a hand lingering on his arm and a flutter of her eyelashes, but he had merely laughed her off and promised to find her when they were done. She had tossed and turned all night deciding whether to go and watch them, but she knows that if she were there she would not be able to stop herself from calling out- and perhaps for the wrong person.

Harper’s information gives her a much needed distraction, and she despatches Octavia to inform Raven and ask the blacksmith to watch the address that Harper gave them throughout the day. She is barely aware of Finn’s excited grin and chatter throughout their lunch together, and she walks the rest of the day in an agitated daze, agreeing to wedding plans and greeting the nobles filtering in from the four corners of the land to attend their nuptials.

Octavia returns to her when night has long since fallen, and Clarke slips into the plain clothes Harper had left for her, sweeping a drab cloak over her shoulders. They have long since perfected the art of slipping from the castle unseen using the hidden tunnels in the walls, and emerging into the dim streets of Flea Bottom is no longer the shock of relief that it once was. Octavia takes the lead, guiding her through the crowded streets with ease. It has been some time since Clarke last came to Flea Bottom, the slums where the poorest of Kings Landing live hand to mouth, but she has not quickly forgotten it. Here the smell of Kings Landing, that putrid stink of people living too closely together, is stronger than anywhere else, and it takes a few minutes for both women to be able to breathe it in. The castle walls rise in the distance, but from here they seem a world away.

There is little of the fine balls and wondrous feasts that fill the castle in these cramped, dark streets. Here, misery reigns supreme, death a master of all things, and they are forced to crowd against crumbling walls when fights break out between drunken men on the streets and women begin to scream at each other like alley cats. The dirt covers the cobble stones such that it licks at their boots and covers nearly an inch of Clarke’s hem, and she doesn’t stop to wonder about what they’re stepping in. Octavia leads the way through winding alleys until they are suddenly joined by a third figure. Raven falls into step next to them as naturally as breathing and tells them all that she had learnt in short, sharp words.

The small rooms that the mother and son live in are over the top of a carpenter’s shop, and the carpenter happily takes the money the Lannister soldiers give him to not ask any questions about the young woman and babe inhabiting the one room upstairs. The woman barely leaves, and soldiers bring scant food and water to the door for her to take to her babe. Soldiers have been standing guard all day, but Raven says that they are bored and easily distracted. No one comes to look in on the woman, and they grouch loudly about the uselessness of their task.

They pause a street away from the carpenter’s shop, and Raven looks at Clarke sharply.

“Are you sure you want to do this? It’s no job for the future queen.”

The words pull a scowl onto her face and in the face of disapproval she only becomes more certain.

“I need to speak to her myself.” She tells her firmly, and Raven must sense her annoyance because she doesn’t press any further. “How are we going to get to her?”

“Jasper and Monty are going to create a distraction, they’re just waiting on my signal.” At Clarke’s nod, Raven turns out to the street and whistles sharply three times. There are a few moments of silence, and Clarke is beginning to feel a flicker of uncertainty when a sudden crash shatters through the night air. Everyone turns, and as they look down the street they hear a man shout furiously and a herd of no less than twenty pigs go trampling through the street. People throw themselves to one side as the animals rush to get away from their captor, and city guards lounging on street corners and enjoying the comforts of prostitutes curse and take off after the swine.

The sight draws a smile from Clarke, despite herself, and the three of them use the distraction to slip around the corner and up to the door beside the dark carpenter’s shop. There are no guards around, as everyone in Flea Bottom turns to watch the pigs cause havoc, and Clarke bangs heavily at the door, hoping that the girl is not asleep.

“I’ll stay here, listen for my signal in case the guards come back.” Raven instructs and Clarke feels a pang of fear for her.

“But what will you do if they return?”

“I’ll figure it out.” Raven eyes are drawn past her, and Clarke follows her gaze to find the door swinging open and a fearful, pale face looking out at her.

“What is it? What’s going on?” The girl blinks owlishly at them. “Who are you?”

“We’re here to help.” Clarke insists, and tries to push through the door past her, but the girl holds out an old, rusted dagger from behind the door and scowls at them.

“Get back,” She hisses, twisting to place the door more firmly between them. “I might not be able to see very well, but I can still kill you.”

“I’m sorry,” She lifts her hands, stepping away and her eyes widen when she realises that the girl’s eyes are slightly clouded. “I didn’t mean any offence. I just wanted to ask you about Prince Wells, I’m a friend.”

“I don’t know the prince,” She is quick to answer, but the twitch to her eyebrows gives her away and Clarke glances behind them anxiously.

“Please,” She fumbles in the pouch at her hip, “I promise we’re friends, here.” She holds out Wells’ ring, and the girl hesitates before slowly reaching out to run her fingers over it. For a moment she just holds out in her hands, turning it over between her fingers, before her voice hitches and she speaks.

“Where did you get this? Where is Wells?”

“We’ve heard he’s being held prisoner by the Lannisters in the Citadel, just like they’re holding you prisoner.” Clarke’s speaks quickly and fearfully. “Please, we’ve distracted them but who’s to know when they’ll come back.”

The girl draws in a shuddering breath and runs her fingers over the ring again before finally stepping back and allowing them inside. The door huts behind them and she leads them up a dark, rickety staircase until they come out into a room within the rafters of the building. It’s dim and draughty, but a small fire burns in the fireplace and there is space enough for a bed and a few chairs around a rickety wooden table. In the corner is a crib and Clarke gasps softly when she hears the baby begin to gurgle and fuss.

“You’ve woken him.” The girl says with disapproval, slipping around the furniture in the room to gather the baby up into her arms. Her voice softens impossibly as she murmurs to the squirming child wrapped in soft white cloth. The girl settles into one of the chairs around the table and Clarke takes it as their invitation to do the same, sitting opposite her. She can’t quite tear her eyes away from the baby and when he squirms she sees a glimpse of olive skin and dark hair.

“Is that…”

The girl fixes her cloudy eyes upon her and it is unnerving but Clarke maintains her composure. “The prince’s baby?” She finishes for her, “Yes, I know he’s his.”

“What’s his name?” Her voice shakes, but the girl answers anyway.

“Benam Baratheon,” She tucks the boy closer to her breast, protectively, and Clarke can’t help the small smile that glances over her lips. The mother has no time for sentimentality however, as she speaks shortly. “Who are you? How did you know about me and Benny?”

“My name is Lady Clarke of House Tyrell,” Clarke confesses, and sees the girl’s brows raise. “I was a good friend of Prince Wells and I asked the right questions of the right people.”

“I know you,” The girl admits, and some of the fury in her shoulders slackens and softens. “Wells would talk about you sometimes,” Her lips twist into a sardonic smile, “I always thought he might be in love with you.”

“Not in the way it seemed he was in love with you.” Clarke reassures her gently and the girl nods.

“My name is Ivy, so you know.”

“Ivy,” Clarke steels herself, “You know that it is the Lannisters who keep you here, don’t you?”

“Aye,” Ivy laughs, careful not to jostle the baby, and there is something sharp to her voice. “They don’t let me forget it.”

“We need to get you out of here, but not tonight.” Her gaze finds the baby again, “You have to be safe, you and the baby, and we need somewhere you can go.”

“We’re ready,” Ivy holds the baby closer to her chest, “Take him if you must, let me find my own way out. Benny has to be safe.”

“No!” She shakes her head emphatically. “I believe Wells loved you, I won’t leave you to the mercy of the Lannisters. We’ll find out another way of getting you out.” Her mind works quickly, thinking of the ways they could help the girl make her escape. “It may not be me who comes to you again, Ivy, but whoever it is you can trust them as long as they tell you ‘the rose grows stronger’, do you understand?”

“I do,” As Ivy speaks three sharp whistles come from outside and Clarke feels her heart sink.

“We have to go,” She looks back at Octavia, a silent sentinel up until now, and the soldier nods her agreement. “I’m sorry Ivy, remember what we said.”

“I will,” Ivy follows them to the stairwell, watching as they slip away into the night, and Clarke allows herself one glance back, unable to stop staring at the tiny bundle held in Ivy’s arms.

The streets are still is disarray when they slip out through the night, and Raven grabs her by the arm to haul her in the right direction. Clarke can hear the loud footsteps of the soldiers returning and their laughter, and her heart tells her to run, but Raven keeps a tight hand on her arm and hisses.

“Don’t, you’ll draw their attention.”

The blood pounds in her ears, deafeningly loud, and it’s all she can do to follow Raven’s instructions and walk normally. Her breathing sounds ragged, and Raven’s grip on her is the only thing that keeps her from bolting when a soldier calls out.

“Hey, you!”

Raven’s fingertips are biting into her arm, sure to leave a bruise.

“Where did you just come from?”

“Now run!” Raven pushes her forward, and moments later they are flying over the slippery ground.

The cobblestones are still slick under foot and they scramble to keep their grip as they bolt down the alleyways, Clarke lifting her skirts in a fist to keep from stumbling over them. The sound of pursuit is loud behind them and when they turn a corner and find a street crowded with people shouting about pigs they duck and weave past drunken men and shouting women and fighting children. Clarke’s feet move beneath her, faster than she thought possible, and she forces herself not to glance back to see whether they are still being followed. She turns sharply down a small alleyway, not pausing long enough for the prowling thieves to catch her, and pushes her way into a crowded washer women’s hall. For a moment the brightness and heat startles her and stumbles, almost blind, past the women pounding linens in dirty, hot water. Shouting voices scold her and slapping hands push her through the hall until she emerges out of another door and into the dark night air again, running straight into a cloaked figure.

For one terrifying moment she thinks it is the Lannister soldiers and she has been caught, but the voice that chastises her is familiar in another way.

“Watch where you’re going!” The rough northern accent scrapes through the words, sending them lilting and staggering across the street, and Clarke blinks through the darkness to recognise the face of Lord Bolton.

He seems to realise who she is only moments later because he takes a hasty step back, unhanding her, and she feels her face flush at being caught running around Flea Bottom in the dead of night.

“Lord Bolton.” Desperately she scrounges for some excuse, but to her surprise, the northern lord only bows his head.

“Lady Clarke, excuse me.” He turns on his heel, disappearing into the night like some sort of alley cat, and she watches him go in astonishment. Falling back against the wall of the washer women’s hall, she adjusts her hood so that it once again covers her face and pulls in a few deep breaths. The events of the night swirl through her mind, and she looks back to where Lord Bolton had disappeared so swiftly, but before she can make sense of it someone is touching her shoulder and drawing her around.

“Octavia!” Clarke lets out a sigh of relief, glancing anxiously behind her. “Raven?”

“She went another way,” When Clarke opens her mouth to protest, Octavia speaks over her. “She’s be fine, she properly knows these streets better than either of us by now.” Octavia looks her over and her eyes widen, “What’s wrong? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I-” Clarke looks back at where she saw the northern lord moments before, and hesitates over her words. In the terror and darkness of the night, she barely knows what she saw, and as her heart begins the quieten she can’t help but second guess herself. “Nothing,” She says at last, shaking away the thought of Lord Bolton’s wide eyes. “Nothing at all.”

---

The days pass by in a flurry of inane activity that Clarke cannot bring herself to focus on. How can she decide whether the third course of the wedding day feast should be duck or goose when Wells’ son is held prisoner by Lannister soldiers just outside of the castle walls and the thought of Lord Bolton’s face will not leave her mind? Her thoughts plague her and even Finn notices her distance, giving her anxious, curious glances which she barely manages to assuage with a gentle smile. They spend little time together now, as Finn is drawn further away by affairs of the land and Clarke is forced to welcome each new visitor who arrives for her wedding. There are breakfasts and lunches to be had with visiting nobles, walks around the gardens and embroidery circles to join, balls and feasts in the evening and Clarke goes to bed with aching feet and an aching soul. Lexa is everywhere and nowhere at once, and the poison sits under her mattress with Lexa’s letter wrapped around it.

The worst thing by far is the lunch Finn insists they have in his chambers with the northern queen. She cannot contest his arguments that they have yet to sit down and spend any time with Lexa, and when she goes to protest, he reminds her that she had once said how much she liked the northern woman. So, she is forced to sit in the king’s solar with the sun streaming in through the wide windows and bathing Lexa is soft, golden light. They eat soft eggs and fresh asparagus and tender guinea fowl, and Clarke cannot bear to look up from her plate as Finn and Lexa talk of war and tithes and taxes. She feels not of this earth, as if this is all some horrible nightmare happening from afar and she can barely eat a morsel upon her plate.

When Finn comments upon her lack of appetite, Clarke feels Lexa’s eyes settle upon her and has to bite her tongue to keep from speaking when Lexa says, politely.

“I hope nothing at this table offends you, my lady.”

The question is so gently phrased, and yet she has to swallow down her sharp response and fix them both with reassuring smiles when she answers. “Not at all, your majesty.”

“It’s probably wedding nerves,” Finn beams at her, proud to have such a soft, feminine wife. “You are being run ragged with preparations, aren’t you my love?”

The pet name sits around her neck like a yoke and Lexa’s eyes do not falter in their steady gaze.

“I am.” Clarke manages, finally, and turns back to her food as they lapse into silence.

Lexa’s ongoing presence in the castle weighs heavily on Clarke. There are times when she forgets the woman even exists, forgets anything outside of her worry for Wells and his son and Pike’s plots, but then she will see a Stark attendant or glimpse sight of one of the wolves and remembers all over again that Lexa is still in the castle. From time to time she sees a glimpse of white fur and realises that Faith is close by. The wolf has enough sense not to stick to her side, but still it is reassuring to feel her presence again.

She tells herself fiercely that her feelings for Lexa are of no importance any more, she is set to marry Finn and in the process undermine Pike who seems to have a firmer hold on the young king every day. Besides, the safety of those under her protection is the most important thing now and she can’t let Pike throw the country into another war just to gain power for himself.

Octavia’s brother has agreed to bring them Pike’s keys, but to get into his rooms they will have to be assured that he will not suddenly return to walk in on them. There is only one chance to find some sort of proof, and they cannot risk being interrupted. It is to this end that Clarke finds herself sitting in a secluded part of the gardens with Finn, in the warm evening sunlight, and suggesting, lightly.

“Perhaps you should go on a hunt, my lord.” When his curious eyes fall on her, she explains with a smile. “The wedding will be taxing on you too, this would be a good way to relax.”

“A hunt,” She can see that the idea is appealing to him, there is nothing Finn loves more than being on horseback and the strains of ruling have not allowed him that for some time.

“Take your privy council as well,” Clarke takes his hand and squeezes it gently, saying with a flutter of her eyelashes. “They work so hard.”

“An excellent idea, my love.” He lifts their clasped hands to his and presses a kiss to hers.

“Your majesty,” The hushed voice of one of Finn’s attendants, young boys who are all eternally irritating to Clarke, breaks through their moment together and Clarke fixes him with a cold gaze. The boy is not perturbed. “You have a meeting with the lords of Sunspear this evening.”

Finn’s expression crumples, and Clarke lets go of his hand with a sigh, offering him a smile when he looks her way.

“I’m sorry,” He says, and she shakes her head.

“The life of a king,” She gives him a sympathetic smile, and as he walks away she stands and steps out onto the garden paths. Octavia waits to one side, meeting her gaze when she approaches, and no words are needed between them for them to fall into step beside each other. The gardens are quiet, many of the ladies are engaged with sewing circles and afternoon naps at this time of the day, and so they walk in relative peace. As with every spare moment she has nowadays, Clarke’s mind fills with worries about Ivy and Benam and Wells, and she finds herself quite distracted as she wanders beneath the hot afternoon sun, so much so that when she turns a corner she walks straight into an approaching figure.

Lexa’s hands shoot out and catch her by the shoulders, but the moment their eyes meet she releases her as if she were made of ice. Clarke’s breath catches in her throat and she stares at the northern queen.

“Lady Clarke,” Lexa speaks first, regaining her composure, and Clarke tears her eyes away long enough to realise that Anya stands at her back. “My apologies.”

“No, no, it was my fault.” Her voice falters over her words. “I was just-”

“I’m going-”

They both indicate the path ahead of them and Clarke feels her stomach sink at the realisation that they will have to walk together. Lexa is similarly uncomfortable, if the pinching of her lips and the tightening of her jaw are anything to go by, and they fall into step together without a word. The silence settles around them, like a stiff basque constricting them; the air seems to become suddenly hotter and thinner and Clarke finds herself touching tentatively at her ribs. Long gone are the days that they could spend in endless, fascinated conversation, entranced with one another. Clarke feels bare before Lexa now that the northern queen has seen her for her true self, and she can’t stand to meet Lexa’s eyes. Always better at silences than her, Lexa walks quietly, and Clarke stews over her words; she can’t bear to make the usual inane small talk with Lexa as if she were nothing more than a visiting dignitary, and the feelings bubbling in her chest finally emerge in stumbling words.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t return to Winterfell.”

Lexa’s eyes widen slightly and Clarke hears her draw in breath sharply. “You were rather busy.” Lexa finally answers, and there is a steely line of anger beneath her voice.

The words cause her heart to ache, and Clarke swallows back the flash of fury that she feels. Perhaps it’s because her heart is finally beginning to feel too heavy for one girl to bear, perhaps it’s because she has fought too fiercely with her own guilt to allow Lexa to open the wound afresh. Regardless, her veneer of civility drops and she answers quickly.

“You can’t- there were things here that could not be left unattended.”

“I can see that.” Lexa’s response is so dark that she almost flinches. “How is your husband to be?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you must know I-” She bites her tongue over her words, suddenly aware of Anya and Octavia walking a few paces behind them. Whispers travel far in this city even when one thinks they’re alone and she is determined not to have everything crash down around her now. She pulls in a breath and in the silence Lexa too seems to be considering her words. “We do what we must.” She says, at last.

Lexa doesn’t respond and they walk in silence, Clarke’s anger bubbling in her chest. It’s as if finally speaking to Lexa has broken a dam to let everything out, and she can’t bite back her words any longer, finally saying in a low voice.

“You know I would never have poisoned you.”

Lexa breathes in sharply and Clarke catches sight of the pain that flickers over her face and feels an echo of it stutter through her own chest.

“I know,” Lexa admits softly. She meets her gaze and for a moment it is all Clarke can do not to think of those stolen moments in the Godswood in Winterfell. Lexa’s eyes seem older since then and she fears that that is her fault. “I hope, at least.”

They walk in silence for a while longer, a slight more comfortable than it had been before, until they come to another fork in the path. They pause, and Clarke gropes for something to say to prolong the moment before their separation. As Lexa opens her mouth to bid her farewell, Clarke rushes to say.

“Did you bring many northern lords with you on your journey?”

Lexa falters, her brows creasing curiously and Clarke feels unexpected heat rush to her cheeks. She hurries to explain herself, but lexa’s expression only becomes more intrigued.

“I saw Lord Bolton in the city… I didn’t realise the other lords had accompanied you. Why were they not presented when you first arrived?”

“You’re mistaken, Lady Clarke, Lord Bolton remains in the north.”

Clarke blinks, confusion rushing through her. “No I- I’m sure I saw him.”

“I assure you, Lord Bolton is not in the south.” Lexa’s lips harden into a firm line and Clarke shakes her head. “You’ve met him only once, you could easily be mistaken.”

“I am not-” Clarke begins hotly, but Lexa cuts through her so smoothly that she fumbles over her own words.

“We’re clearly not going to agree on this matter, so I’ll bid you farewell.” With a sharp nod of her head she turns on her heel and strides away, leaving Clarke spluttering in her wake.

#clexa #clexa fic #clexa gotau #game of thrones #clarke griffin #commander lexa

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cinnademon · 3 years

Photo

Young Justice: Deathly Weapons by @threewaysdivided

 I’ve always liked storyboarding some of my favorite scenes from fanfictions I enjoy; there’s just something about the expressiveness and movement seen in storyboards that I feel really helps convey the emotion of the characters. And let me tell you, this story has

a lot

of that (how dare you make me feel this strongly for these idiotic boys 😂)

 For the first board, I drew a scene from Ch02 (I had to include an action-filled scene haha). I took some liberties with Spectra’s character design and gave her a really wide mouth, since she’s always feeding and feeding from other people’s pain and never satisfied.  The next board is more in anticipation for the future interactions between Danny, Wally, and Robin; I for one am looking forward to seeing what mess these three will get themselves into 😈

 Seriously guys, go read this fic: the pacing and characterization are fantastic, and the amount of consideration and research that the author puts into the plot and character development is amazing. Plus, if you like theorizing and finding “clues” that hint towards the plot, this fic has plenty of breadcrumbs that will leave you hooked. Also, make sure you have tissues on hand.

#definitely one of the best DPxYJ crossovers out there #should I make it a thing where I post fanfic-fanart on fridays?#Fanfic-Fridays?#it's a nice thought haha #danny phantom #danny fenton #young justice #dp x yj #robin #kid flash #wally west #storyboard #fanfiction #fanfic rec #fanart #dinoposts

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threewaysdivided · 9 months

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Kaldur: Why do feel a sudden impulse to talk about a complex personal issue with a Teammate I barely know?

Also Kaldur: It could not possibly be related to my feeling that this issue is too small to take to our supervisor or counsellor, too personal to take to my mentor-who-is-also-my-king-and-therefore-politically-complicated, something my peers would either be inexperienced or uninterested in, and the person I used to speak to about this having fallen off the radar due to his own clone-based existential crisis. No, my sudden and desperate desire to talk about an experience I have been putting aside for months as soon as someone else just barely hinted that they might have experienced something similar must be entirely unrelated and irrational.

#young justice: deathly weapons #Ill-Lit Ships #writing update #3WD #Kaldur'ahm #Aqualad #puts off talking to anyone about something for months. is surprised to find himself desperate to talk about it at the first opportunity #he may be the most mature member of the Team #but he is also #seventeen years old #and so deeply stupid #fully pulling a 'No. It is the children who are wrong.' on himself over something completely understandable #unlike the ocean it is not that deep bro #In which a compulsive diplomat and a terminally clueless small-towner attempt to talk about ~ f e e l i n g s ~#anyway if you're wondering how Chapter 19 is going...#ha ha ha #one of the OCs is getting nicely salted but that's about it #STG I am going to write the entire rest of the story before I write the chapter that is due next

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lorewytch · 5 years

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Villain Bios

Hey there everyone. Tonight I bring you some villain bios! Sorry I’m so late with these.. I’ve been not feeling well today. I hope you enjoy seeing these baddies pasts and more info about them!! First up, Detective Mulgadget. By the way I may update this one with a more recent doll of him. I haven’t been able to find a human one that I liked. Detective Mulgadget, Corrupt Cop

”I refuse to be a puppet, now don’t move or a headache will be the least of your worries.”

Name: Detective Umber Mulgadget

Age: 30

Hair: Silver/gray choppy hair that frames his face. Usually wears a hat to hide it most of the time though.

Eyes: Silver

Birthday: September 20

Sexuality: Straight

Favorite Activities: Drinking, brooding, cleaning his guns, setting traps, reading, solving mysteries.

Favorite Dessert: Cocktails

Favorite Color: Gray Personality: Analytical, emotionless and calculating. He can read someone within a minute and has long lost his passion and drive as a detective. At one time he loved the thrill of the hunt. But now he is a gun for hire. Going to the highest bidder and willing to do almost anything for money. His greed is near insatiable. He still holds onto his own morals, he would never kill children. But anyone else is free reign. He loves a challenge, anything to spice up his mundane and pathetic life. When he started to chase Lore after he was hired as a gun to take down the Dimensional Witch, she outsmarted him every turn of the corner, often to his own embarrassment. Quietly his rage grew as the girl continued to toy with him and he found himself growing angrier by the day. Soon it became a new drive of sorts. And seeing the destruction in her wake of worlds he found himself unable to stop chasing her. He came to the conclusion she was a menace to the universe. She was a evil that needed to be snuffed out. At all costs.

Strengths: Is able to think three steps ahead of most enemies. He calculates their movements. Out of all the enemies he’s usually the first to find Lore in the world she is inhabiting. He is silent so the element of surprise is an asset. He also knows how to create traps from almost nothing. He’s quite creative when it comes to improving things on the fly and has often caught Lore in many traps. Although usually in the end she outsmarts him and escapes. Has several modified weapons that can work against magic and break magical barriers with ease. He has two guns, a cane that transforms into a cannon, several types of exploding nets etc.

Weaknesses: Has no magical ability and can rarely defend himself against magical attacks, hates sweets and is deathly afraid of cats. Allergic to pumpkin pie.

History: Growing up in the Academy for inter dimensional crime was not a easy life. He was taken at a young age for his ability to plan and creative ways he thought to stop criminals. Through the school other kids picked on him relentlessly but he began to have a dream of becoming a great detective that would serve the universe proud and bring in the worst criminals in history down.

But… as such, life can be ruthless and unkind.

Jealous classmates nearly killed him twice including one who became his personal tormentor.

He barely managed to get through the last year of that horrible school sane. But after graduation he believed he would never see them again.

He worked his way up the ranks, finally making Detective after years of grueling work.

But on one of his first big assignment he learned something horrifying.

The district he worked for was corrupt…from the top straight down completely. He tried desperately to tell others about this.. the danger they possessed was extreme. No one listened and after much research, Mulgadget realized that the corruption was much worse than he ever thought. Several people tried to kill him to keep him quiet. Instead he moved away, finding a quiet district and watching the events unfold before him again. That bully became the leader of that district and he found himself consumed with hatred.

It wasn’t until they had set him up to shoot and kill an innocent person that he finally broke.

He realized that there really was no justice. That nothing could be done.. he could do nothing to change anything.

He fell into a deep depression and quit the force. He hired himself out as a private detective for anyone. Finding himself becoming more numb as the days passed. He would do whatever his client asked just to use the money on the next drink. It was a sad lifestyle, but anything was better than seeing those images in his mind. What had his life been worth? Anything?

Then a job came around that seemed a little odd. Stopping a teen by killing them. A dimensional witch? He didn’t care, it was just another job.

But it slowly became an obsession.

This girl, Lore awoke something inside him he thought he lost. She was the only one who seemed to escape every trap he set. It angered him, his client getting annoyed at his lack of progress.

He continued to try everything he knew. But the magic this child had was too much for him to handle. He invested in weapons to combat the magic. But she still kept slipping from his fingers.

Normally people would give up, but a passion was lit back within him. Also… as he traveled to different worlds.. he began to feel again. And this feeling was not just happy emotions.. but ones of sorrow, anger and horror.

After watching a battle with Noir, Mulgadget began to realize what he was really dealing with. This girl was a danger to society and needed to be stopped at all costs. She should not be allowed so much power when it could decimate entire worlds if she ever became unstable. She had to die. And he would be the one to pull the trigger.

#Ducktales #OC #enemies #Chasing Lore #Detective #Dangerous #Character Bio

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unholyhelbiglinked · 5 years

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Camp BeaverBrook | 018

READ FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

Emily’s grasp was thick and domineering. Bloodied fingers dug into her side hard enough to leave little purple moons against clammy skin. Aubrey didn’t mind too much- she figured that was a good sign. Maybe she hadn’t lost too much blood. Maybe the fact that she was so cold wasn’t due to a slowly flickering flame- maybe it was just the frigid weather.

The moonlight leads the way, she can’t decide if that’s a God sent or not. They can see what’s in front of them as clear as day: The way little crystals of ice form on Beca’s ice-cold hair. The way A bruise wraps its deathly hand around Chloe’s neck. The wet blood that dripped around Emily’s lips. Who deserved justice more?

There was an eerie calm that had fallen over the camp. The campers had left- the counselors that were smart enough to follow were probably sitting in a warm diner right about now, or one of the darkened hotels that presented itself along the interstate. None of the name brand stuff that offered breakfast, the places where you would be lucky enough to find a room without a switch that made the beds vibrate.

She couldn’t hear any crickets, though. None of them could. That was a sign of danger and everyone knew it.

When she was younger, the house two blocks over caught on fire. Plumes of toxic smoke floated into the sky and the decaying scent of rotting wood being enflamed filled Aubrey’s lungs as she rode her bike around the corner and stopped just short of getting hit by an ambulance with roaring sirens.

She noticed a lot that day, a lot of noise that was impossible to drown out. But one thing that did hit her was the silence of the morning birds that sat on the powerlines and watched a family home destroyed in utter silence. Maybe it was out of respect, or maybe it was out of fear.

She hugged Emily closer at the memory and adjusted her fingers against her hip. Chloe held wordlessly onto the other side While Beca walked ahead of them all, her fingers on a trigger that she probably didn’t even know how to shoot. It made Aubrey feel uneasy.

Every time she blinked; she swore she felt it. Felt the wood under her fingertips as she pushed into the cabin that she had signed her final paperwork in. But it wasn’t just a cabin, it was Gail’s home. She braved the winters up here- felt safe up here. Until someone, Beca, maybe, stormed in and shot her between the eyes. A mercy killing. The blood dripped from her nose like cherry syrup.

“She couldn’t have been in two places at once.” Emily’s voice carried with the wind.

“Huh?”

“Beca… fuck, she uh, she was with Chloe and me. It’s not humanly possible for her to get across the camp in that amount of time. To blow up the shed… to strangle Chloe. She’s right, there are two of them and she’s not either.”

Aubrey frowned. She nearly failed statistics in her junior year. Not due to lack of trying, just because the logic of it all would throw her off from the equation. It was hard for her to admit that she was wrong, even harder when it was some snot-nosed counselor that pushed her buttons every single chance she got. She decided to focus on the old car in front of them instead. Its doors closed and something of a dummy leaning against the driver side window.

He almost looked fake and blue under the full moon. His eyes were closed, and that same dried brown liquid was spilled from his throat. Beca let out something like a grunt as she pressed her shirt sleeve against her lips with her free hand. Aubrey could smell it too. The blood and tobacco.

“Someone help me here,” Beca said, pulling open the door with conviction. Hesitation if not for survival. “He’s a heavy dude.”

Aubrey wordlessly leaned Emily against the hood of the car. Chloe instantly kneeling to adjust the strip of fabric that was keeping the young girl from fading out completely. It was soaked to the point of being pitch, like the sky.

“What was he like?” She nearly choked on the laden air as she grasped the other side of the fallen officer. His badge was luminescent in the moonlight. Beca edged herself around him, letting him crash to the ground in a heap of weight.

“He was a dick. A real pain in my ass who smoked enough to make up for a textile. But now I can see why he did it.” Beca placed her knee against the now empty drivers’ seat, the leather cold as she searched around in the scare visibility for something, anything, that resembled keys. “They’re not here.”

“What?” Aubrey asked.

“You heard me, they’re not here. I swear to god I left them in the center consul when I grabbed the gun but-“

“Don’t you know how to like… hop a car or something?” Emily asked from the front of the hood.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I went from tagging walls to Grand Theft Auto, Emily.”

Chloe shot a deathly glare from her perch next to the wounded camper and Beca slightly coward under it before she dragged her fingertips around the console once more. No keys with a fuzzy white rabbits’ foot on it. Nothing but ash that stained the grooves in her fingertips a dark grey.

“Do you need some light?”

Aubrey’s chest seized, her heart in the throat and a cold sweat instantly beading against her skin. that voice, a voice, that she recognized whole-heartedly but never expected to become privy to while they searched a dead man’s car for a set of keys that may or may not start an El Dorado whose gas tank was probably on empty.

Beca Mitchell apparently held the same affinity for the situation. Her hand quickly wrapped around the weapon with a dull click as she whipped around and pointed the weapon dead in the direction of the newcomer: Jesse Swanson.

Brown eyes were wide, and fingers twitched in the cold of the night. He wore a dark flannel over his yellow camp shirt. That stupid little green beaver glared at them, almost mocked them. “Whoa, Jesus Maverick, I thought you had never seen Top Gun.”

Beca glanced sparingly at the other girls as she adjusted her stance, shoving the weapon back into the hem of her pants. “You can’t sneak up on a someone like that dude. Not now. What are you even doing here? I thought you would have left by now?”

“And miss the genuine chance to be a part of something this big? Haven’t you ever seen Sleepaway Camp?” He said excitedly. Almost with pure glee. “there’s no way I’m passing up that chance… where’d you get a gun anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve got that light?”

Jesse nodded and rounded the other side of the car before he pulled the door open with a long creak. Aubrey stepped to the side, her arms crossed over her chest, part of her wanted to pull the warmth in. The other part thought that if she held tight enough maybe it would keep her bones from falling into a pile on the soft grassy floor like an old Steamboat Mickey cartoon.

He flipped open his chrome zippo and it gave an instant orange glow to the car. Beca could see now that it had more to offer than just ash. There was a half-smoked cigar and a few ketchup packets that had yet to be unopened. She never took Wilken’s as the one to get fast food, but she couldn’t’ blame him.

She glanced up, frowning as the hot glow shaded half of her face in ghostly shadows that screamed in the night. “I don’t see them.”

She hadn’t noticed it before. The night dark and her heart echoing in her ears like a steel drum. The brown scratches against the edge of his cheek. Cutting across clear skin that was beading with cool moisture. A bruise stretched around them like a marking- a brand. A dead give-away.

Beca mumbled a few profanities before she stumbled back from the car altogether. It was useless anyway. The keys were gone, probably shoved into someone’s pocket. It was nothing but a barrier. Aubrey nearly caught her, but Beca was quick, once again grasping for the gun- breath thick with the scent of blood that seeped into the soil like water. She didn’t pull it, not just yet.

“What happened to your face?” She asked, the girls watching from the hood.

He laughed, scoffed really. “What?”

“Your cheek. It’s scratched. What happened?”

Jesse glanced around; four blinking eyes boring into his. His fingers reached up to the welt, barely noticeable when the light from the zippo vanished in his movements. “I work in a kitchen, Beca. I nicked it is all, no big deal.”

Beca tightened her grip around the gun. She was fast. It was somewhat natural of her now, to pull it- to have the adrenaline rush through her veins. Fast was something she had always been: Fast with excuses and fast when it came to dodging the local law enforcement through city streets.

Jesse was faster. Her pulled Chloe flush against his body as she let out a sharp scream, as much as she could muster. He moved her arm against her chest, keeping her in one place with the tip of a hunting knife against the edge of her throat- once more in peril. The steel blinding against a browning bruise. Emily stumbled into Aubrey, pressing her fingers against her lips.

“It was you at the lake-“She said, voice tight. “You tried to drown me!”

“Yeah, I did. And maybe if I had you’d have a better chance at finding your keys.”

“Why?!” Beca yelled over his last words. Tears were threatening to boil over. They were dripping down Chloe’s muddied cheeks in clean lines. Her fingers dug into Jesse’s arm, struggling to keep it from pressing too hard. “Why are you doing this? Tell me or I’ll shoot!”

“You’re not that good of a shot, Mitchell, don’t fool yourself.” He hissed; words reaped with poison. “I’ll shove this blade into her carotid artery before you even have a chance. She’ll bleed out just like your mall cop did.”

Beca sniffed, pulling in as much oxygen she could as she pushed the base of her palms against her forehead out of frustration, the gun pointed to the sky for just a moment before it was aimed back at its target. Her eyes were red, the tears finally spilling over and dripping past her chin.

“Do it,” Chloe choked out. “Beca, it has… it has to stop. It’s okay, look at me.”

She struggled, swallowed in a gulp of cold forest air. Chloe’s eyes looked bluer than they ever had before. Maybe it was the dull moonlight or the darkness of Jesse shielding her from the rest of the world. But there was honesty there. It was warm. The only warmth she had felt all night.

Her voice was one with the camp, a demand. “Do it.”

Beca let out a scream of frustration, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe Beale #Aubrey Posen #Emily Junk #Bechloe #Junksen

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cryxdraws · 2 years

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A scene from @threewaysdivided ‘s fanfic Deathly Weapons :D

#danny phantom #miss Martian #young justice #deathly weapons #fanart #did i work hard on the bg?#absolutely not #cryxdraws

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maedarakat · 6 years

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Hrøkkva ——-

Summary: Tuff must deal with a death in the family that is personally painful to him, and feels alienated when his clan refuses to follow funeral tradition. A surprise visitor helps him come to terms with the loss.

———

The Hall was still and quiet, save for the scrape of benches across stone floors and the groan of the great doors opening to allow people inside. Chief Stoick had summoned the entire Thorston Clan, barring anyone else not part of the family. Such was the way with death-tidings; they were meant to be private.

This was hardly the first time either of the Twins had been here for such a thing. They had been younger then and death by dragon was just a normal part of life. Stoick, as their chief, had always led the families on Berk in such events, and he did so now - though his red hair was peppered with more grays than before. He made a large, protective figure with a calming voice that could just as quickly turn thunderous to break up squabbles.

Each time, as well as now, the Chief had made hot tea, blankets and sitting pallets available for the elderly and very young children. Slightly older children, if cold, were free to find the comfort of laps to rest on.

Tuff’s own legs were currently going numb, as well as his sister’s. Their four year old twin cousins, Tallownut and Candlenut, had wasted no time flopping across them in sulky exhaustion. Apparently their mother, Agnut, had been a bit cross with them on the way to the Great Hall.

He absently ruffled Candle’s golden locks and glanced over his shoulder as the Hall doors opened one more time, allowing sour-faced Cousin Lars and Uncle Londer. Tuff didn’t look at them long, turning to his sister. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to - she understood what he was thinking.

Those two only showed up if blood money had been sent along with the death-tidings, mostly to try and claim a greater share of it. Tuff’s curiousity was definitely piqued, and he wondered whose lips had been loose enough with such details that it reached their ears.

A death-tiding was a simple enough affair, made so in consideration for those who would grieve. As early as ten, Tuff recalled being ushered with his twin into the Hall to hear the saga of how valiantly the fallen had fought their enemy. People talked long if they had witnessed it, and anyone with even a minute detail was encouraged to speak up. Last words, honorable deeds if any, whether they suffered - all of these things were important to the family.

Following that, a kinsman, kinswoman or sometimes even a child was allowed to stand and vow to avenge the fallen - by taking up the same weapon that had killed them. In Berk’s case, it was simpler; the avenger promised before their Elders and Odin to take down the same kind of dragon on the next raid.

After that, they went home, sometimes with people weeping all around and sometimes just quietly numb. It wasn’t that uncommon for people to stay over at the Twins’ house. On many occasions he and Ruff helped Mom put pallets and blankets on the floor, and dragged their father’s chair away from the fire to let the elderly and little ones keep warm.

Children would cry usually, because the adults were and it scared them. By circumstance, Tuff had become the one who snuck them candy and told silly stories and jokes until they fell asleep in his arms. It had become his favorite task to do, with the added benefit of having an excuse to sit closest to the fire. Ruff would have been jealous, only she hated getting her hair yanked on by sticky fingers.

Seven days after, the family feasted together, with as much food and mead as everyone could spare during the lean times. They shared memories, laughed, raged, cried, brawled, drank toasts to the fallen and hoped they had reached Valhalla.

That was the Viking way, and the Thorston way - because it was so perfect already it didn’t need changed.

Now that there were no dragon raids however, a death-tiding was rare. And Stoick had specifically asked the Twins to make sure they were seated in front. Which didn’t happen unless . . .

Feeling Candle start to drool against his knee, Tuff absently wiped the little boy’s mouth off with a corner of his vest. He once again ran through lists of relatives in his head, trying to think of who they knew directly who hadn’t been accounted for or seen lately.

One name stood out stubbornly obvious above the rest, but he just as stubbornly refused to consider it.

Ruffnut elbowed him before he became too lost in thought and inclined her head toward the Chief, who was carrying something respectfully. He couldn’t make it out before it was set down though its shape was sickeningly familiar.

No.

Tuff’s body tensed and he looked away from the object to study the flagstones of the Great Hall instead. Candlenut shifted a bit, but thankfully remained asleep, as he heard his Aunt Hazelnut gasp.

Ruff nudged his shoulder repeatedly, though gently, until he looked up again to witness what he didn’t want to.

“To all your clan I bring this news,” Stoick was saying, “Death has taken one of your own, Gruffnut Thorston, aged but twenty summers. He was slain by dragon hunters. We have not recovered the body, but certain effects and an offering of gold have been returned to your clan as a gesture of recompense..”

Murmurs erupted through the Hall and even through the rush of horrified grief, Tuff felt an uncomfortable number of eyes fall upon him. Candle lifted his head sleepily, blinking, and Tuffnut felt his sister grasp his hand.

“Dragon hunters?” Hazelnut cried, standing. “My son has no dealings with dragon hunters! Why would they have harmed him!? He’s a good boy, he was just commissioned by a captain to join his crew in search of a lost treasure!”

Some people groaned, others snickered. Many of the Thorston clan were wise to all Gruffnut’s stories, but it was an impossible task to convince the boy’s mother that any of his tales were falsehoods.

Hazelnut was undeterred and pointed at Tuff, who flinched. “That’s the one who dealt with dragon hunters - my nephew - and no doubt he and his sister provoked them on his dragon! They must have mistaken my boy for him, and I demand further compensation from him!”

Immediately the Hall descended into arguing, some agreeing with Hazelnut and demanding justice, while others spoke up in Tuff’s defense - his sister being one of the loudest.

She had stood up so abruptly it nearly sent poor Tallow to the floor, but Tuff caught him with one arm and set him next to Candle on his knee. Both children looked around, read the angry mood and scurried out of Tuff’s arms, running to the safer haven of their mother’s. Although he couldn’t blame them, he was sorry to see them go.

Lost, Tuffnut looked to Stoick, who was looking right at him, expression somber. He held up a hand to bring silence to the quarreling voices. “Yes an identity was mistaken. However - HOWEVER -“ Stoick roared, and the voices again quieted. “It is not Tuffnut’s fault.”

“How is it not?” Aunt Hazelnut’s voice was full of venom and Tuff shrunk down a bit, unwilling to challenge her.

He felt someone sit between her glare and himself and smelled the familiar aura of comfrey and cloves that surrounded his mother, Madge. Likewise, Ruff sat back down to guard his other side, leaning her bony self against him in commiseration.

“Sister -“ Madge started calmly.

“Don’t you dare call me that!”

“Let our Chief shed further light on the matter, unless you are too afraid to hear it.”

That and the sudden razor sharp edge to Madge’s voice shut Hazelnut up, at least for the moment.

Stoick cleared his throat, looking beyond grateful he didn’t have to raise his own voice to a grieving mother.

“As I was saying, Gruffnut was already being pursued for crimes of his own - gambling with loaded dice it would seem.

“They mistook him for Tuffnut because that was the name he gave to them when he was caught cheating. And it was because of that false name that the men decided to kill him as a spy, rather than keep him hostage for repayment of his debts.”

A general murmur of dismay went up, and Aunt Hazelnut’s face turned slowly white with humiliation. She crossed her arms and went deathly quiet, glaring at the floor. Tuff almost felt sorry for her.

“His death was swift, I’m told, and there were no words. The tribe of hunters’ new leader wants no quarrel with Berk and so he sent along these tidings, Gruff’s belongings, and three of the arrows that killed him. He also sent gold, enough to recompense - “

“How much?” Hazelnut transformed from a grieved mother to a coldly shrewd one in less than a second flat. Beside him, Ruff snorted and muttered something under her breath, but Tuff went cold with horror.

Being humiliated in front of everyone was harsh, but still . . . she was his cousin’s mother.

“That much?” One elder spoke, and Tuffnut realized he’d missed the Chief’s answer. “That’s more blood money than I would have ever asked for that lout!”

“Right, and now I think some of it should go to me, to replace all the grapes that boy ‘sold’ from my vineyard two summers ago. Don’t shake your head at me, woman! You’ll have more than enough left over -“

More arguing, and instead of over who would attend Gruff’s honor - who would avenge him, lay him to rest with fire, host the feast - it quickly dissolved into a cacophony of who should get what percentage of gold.

Tuff shook off his sister’s hand and jumped to his feet, face white.

“Send it back!” he yelled, so furiously and suddenly that Stoick actually blinked in shock. The arguing tapered off into stunned silence, but Tuffnut looked nowhere else but at the man in front of him. “Send the gold back, Chief, and give me an arrow. I take responsibility and I’ll avenge him myself!”

He held out his hand, and ignored the sound of Londer and Lars laughing uproariously from the back of the Hall. “Go ahead, boyo! Maybe they’ll send us more gold if it’s really you they kill off this time!” Lars called.

Stoick gave the man a cold glare, then turned back to regard Tuffnut kindly. “I’m sorry, son. When blood money is sent, it is the entire clan that must decide whether vengeance is to be meted out, and the gift of peace to be rejected. What happened was an accident, and had Gruffnut been truthful, then he would be sitting here alive among all of you.”

Tuff lowered his hand, eyes stinging. He turned to face his sister, mother, the rest of his clan. “And what does the clan say? Was Gruffnut not our kin? Are the dragon hunters not already our enemies? Does he really mean so little to all of you that you’d forget your own blood to accept this guilt money?”

He grit his teeth against the memory that played out in his head: his abandoned cousin shouting up from the beach that they were of the same blood. The last time Tuff had ever seen him alive.

“Sit down, boyo,” called Uncle Filbert, waving his arm. “As you’ll do well to remember, Gruffnut never even passed initiation into the clan. Furthermore he died by his own cheating hand, as the Chief said. Mistaking him for you was unfortunate, but again his own doing. That’s two ways he brought his own death upon himself, those arrows that pierced his flesh were fully provoked. Avenging him would only further our family’s humiliation.”

Tuff’s stomach dropped as Filbert’s words made others raise their voices in agreement and even prompted some applause. His chest hurt and he sat down when his sister tugged him to this time.

“Hey, bro, it’s not your fault,” she murmured. “Apparently Stoick had us sit up front so he could protect us if things turned into a free-for-all. Guess he overestimated how upset everyone would be.”

That only made him feel worse. Their cousin was dead and again voices began to raise, haggling, bartering, arguing over the gold - creating a nauseating din.

“ENOUGH!” roared Stoick, all but splitting the table with a crash of his fists. Immediate silence descended. “I cannot believe what I am hearing! Deciding against vengeance is wisdom in this case, but haggling for blood money is a disgrace in the eyes of the Gods!

“If no vengeance is declared for Gruffnut Thorston and the gift of gold accepted by Gruffnut’s mother, then you will now discuss preparing your clan’s feast as you return to your homes. I want no reports to come back to me of any harassments, brawls or fist fights over this matter, or by Odin there will be cracked skulls to contend with!”

There was no arguing with that. People began to rise and collect their children, fold up blankets.

Stoick said nothing as Hazelnut walked up and took the pouch of gold, pausing to look at the collection for a moment before coldly turning to leave. She did not take anything else of her son’s.

Tuff stared miserably at his cousin’s lopsided helmet, sitting forlornly next to the bloodstained arrows, a few armbands, and the familiar tooth necklace. He found that he suddenly couldn’t see anything through his tears.

Swallowing hard, he covered his eyes with his hand, trembling and barely aware of Ruff and Madge’s attempts to soothe him. A large presence made him look up to see his Chief, features gentle, though slightly distorted through the wetness.

“I’m sorry, son. Hiccup told me what happened out there on the Edge. I know despite everything he did, you cared for him. You spoke bravely for your cousin’s honor today, and I want you to know I’m proud of you. Here.”

Stoick took Tuff’s hand gently and set the toothed necklace Gruff had always worn in his palm. “I think he’d want you to have this.”

Tuff said nothing, but he closed his hand around the pendant tightly.

Gruffnut wouldn’t have wanted him to have this.

There were no words to describe how much that hurt.

——-

He didn’t come out of his room at all the next day, not even to eat.

Ruff had tried only once to get him up. When she saw his face, she sighed and left him to do their chores.

At some point he woke up to a plate with a piece of boar bacon at his bedside table and a fried egg on toast. He didn’t even remember eating it, but it was gone when he next looked.

Tuff wasn’t really aware how long it had been, lying curled on his bed, clutching the tooth pendant so hard it left imprints in his palm.

In jagged bursts throughout the day, he cried until his head hurt, not fully sure why but unable to stop. For once, Tuff hadn’t wanted his sister near him, which she had seemed to understand, reluctantly giving him space. He’d barely even wanted Chicken, who Ruff had taken great pains to smuggle in past Hardsell.

This wasn’t something he felt right to accept comfort for.

Not when he was safe in his own bed, staring up at his own darkening ceiling, with his hen snuggled against his ribs.

Not when Gruff’s body was Loki-knew-where, possibly fed to Whispering Deaths. Or sunk in the ocean, ice cold and nibbled by sharks, with nobody to care to see him off to . . . wherever he was supposed to be going.

Tuff sat up suddenly, breath catching and making Chicken tumble off the bed, squawking and ruffling her displaced feathers back into place. He padded over to the window with bare feet, opening it wide and letting cold air and snow rush in. He took a breath and recited the prayer to the night sky, to any god still awake to listen.

It was useless - he had no arrow, no fire, and no boat - but the prayer he could at least say out loud.

“There do I see my father, my mother, my brothers, my sisters -“

He recited it perfectly, all the while unable to stop thinking about where Gruff physically was right now.

Was he scared? Could he still feel cold after he died? Could he feel the pain of torn flesh? Worst of all, had he seen and heard his own kin - his mother - turn their backs on him in the Hall?

Freezing air made Tuff’s breath turn into clouds. He stood at the window shivering and thinking of unpleasant realities for far too long, before finally giving into despair and closing out the cold.

Head pounding in dehydrated misery, he crawled back under the covers and fell into an exhausted sleep.

———

“Tuff!”

The voice wasn’t angry but it was loud, enough to jolt him back into guilty awareness. Bright blue eyes peered into his - not the right shade to be his sister’s.

“Hey, are you okay? I heard what happened. I’m sorry.” Astrid hugged him, and he awkwardly hugged back. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right? If anyone told you it was, you tell me and I’ll deal with it.”

Her tone was fierce as well as worried and it made him look away, suddenly wanting nothing to do with this interaction. It wasn’t Astrid’s fault, he just . . .

It was his fault. He’d left Gruff behind, he’d been so angry with them. Granted, he hadn’t left him penniless, but still - trouble was his cousin’s currency and Tuff should have known he’d find more of it than he could handle.

His friends refusing to admit it didn’t change a thing.

He heard Astrid sigh and felt her loop her arm around his, taking him to the Great Hall where the others were likely eating breakfast. Tuff barely remembered getting out of bed and dressing to leave the house. He wasn’t sure if he wanted company, but he also didn’t have the energy to refuse.

Dragging his feet only a little, he let her lead him to their table, not looking up. Fishlegs moved to make room and Tuff’s mouth went abruptly dry as his friends greeted him. His mind scrambled for an excuse to break free and run home, but of course he couldn’t think of one. Miserable, he sat down, refusing to look at anyone.

“Hey, Tuff,” Hiccup greeted amiably. Tuff simultaneously wanted to punch and hug him. Hiccup had been there when Gruff betrayed him - each time. He was probably relieved their cousin couldn’t hurt him anymore.

Tense as a wire, he nodded back at him in greeting. “Hey.”

A meaty arm pulled him into a side hug. That would be Fishlegs, who gave the best comforting hugs, but Tuff didn’t feel like one. When he didn’t react other than freezing up and going expressionless, Fishlegs looked at the others worriedly. “I think he might be in shock,” he said quietly and Tuff very nearly snapped at him that he wasn’t.

“So, dragon hunters, huh?” Snotlout said, not bothering to be subtle. Tuff was almost relieved. “Come on, spill - what stupid thing did Gruffnut do to- OW!”

There was a shriek and sure enough, when Tuff looked over Astrid had Snotlout’s arm twisted behind his back and his face pressed against an empty, greasy dish on the table. “What is wrong with you!?” she snapped, livid.

“He pretended to be me,” Tuff said, surprising himself by answering. “While swindling them out of their money. He got caught. So they thought not only was he a thief, but also a dragon-rider, sent to spy on their operation and free some dragons. They killed him, and figured out he wasn’t me, so they sent home his helmet and some gold.”

“Did you get any?” Snotlout asked, still pinned. Astrid dug her elbow viciously into his spine. “Hey, ow! I’m just asking!”

“I didn’t want the stupid blood money, I wanted vengeance!” Tuffnut snapped, heatedly. Fury had made his voice far too loud. There was a brief silence in the Hall as other heads turned. He dropped his face into his hands, not able to take the shocked expressions before him. “Sorry,” he muttered faintly.

Astrid let go of Snotlout to sit next to him. “It’s okay. You probably have a lot of mixed emotions right now,” she said, trying to soothe him. “Gruff was your cousin, but . . .”

“He scammed you guys over and over,” Fishlegs put in. “He tried to steal your dragon, ruined your coming of age trials, not to mention your birthday, and he nearly got you killed on that Hunter ship.”

“That doesn’t mean he deserved to die,” Tuff muttered defiantly. “And it doesn’t mean he deserves to go unavenged either.”

“Of course it doesn’t, that’s not what we’re saying.” Hiccup reached over to take Tuff’s hand. “We just don’t want you to blame yourself for any of this. This is obviously very hard on you, given how much you trusted and looked up to him your whole life.”

Tuff didn’t reject Hiccup’s hand, but he shook his head. “You guys don’t get it. This isn’t about me, it’s about him. He’s dead - he was killed by these guys. He’s never going to get to come home and visit his mom, he’s . . . he’s gone. Am I really the only one who cares about that?” he asked plaintively.

His friends looked taken aback. “Well, it’s sad,” Astrid said hesitantly. “But we’re honestly more worried about you. Stoick told us how you stood up to your entire clan for him. Tuff, you have more kindness in you than you like to show sometimes, and we all know it’s there. It’s no surprise to anyone that you’d feel so much pity for Gruffnut.”

“Pity?!” Tuff abruptly got off the bench. “I don’t pity Gruffnut! I’m not a ‘kind’ or ‘nice’ person for mourning for my own cousin! For eighteen years of my life, Gruff was the one who would make time for me. He answered my dumb kid questions, showed me where to steal the best food, got me into all kinds of trouble! And if it was all him lying or just using me, I don’t care! I still felt happiness from it, because he was paying attention to me!”

Hiccup, Fishlegs, and Astrid were staring at him in guilty dismay, while Snotlout was strangely wet-eyed.

“I’m angry at him for lying and doing what he did. I want to punch him in his stupid face and demand why he didn’t just ask me for help with his stupid debts instead of endangering me, my sister and our dragon, and then I want to help him get his shit together and lead a normal semi-honest life! But now? I can’t, because he’s dead, and I will forever wish death and painful dismemberment on the ones who took his life before we were through!”

His eyes were stinging and more than just the dragon riders were staring at him at this point in his tirade, but Tuff didn’t care. He wiped his arm across his face angrily. “And I don’t care if it makes me a fool. H-He still matters to me if no-one else.”

When his friends remained quiet, not knowing what to say, Tuffnut turned and swiftly left the Hall, refusing to look at anyone.

--------

Whether a man was sick, dead, or grieving, the chores of keeping a house never went away.

Animals and dragons still needed fed and tended, pens and stalls kept clean. This winter was as cold as any and right now the house was low on chopped firewood.

Hardsell had one job other than hold down the chair and drink his ale, and that was making sure the fire didn’t go out - and it was only his job because Madge had no trouble letting him sit like a fool in front of an empty hearth to freeze.

He was fat and hungover and in no mood to swing an axe this morning, so he boxed Tuff’s ear at the table on the way to retrieve his fur cloak. “Get off your arse and come help me chop.”

Surprisingly instead of arguing, Tuffnut got up and followed him. The boy had been like that for days now, sullen and quiet and while Hardsell didn’t miss the cheek Tuff normally showed, he couldn’t help but feel unsettled by the change. There were dark circles under the boy’s eyes, which had lost their brightness and become dull. His casual smile had gone, replaced with a thin line, and he barely ate, despite his sister and mother's fervent attempts to make him.

Hardsell no longer felt like shaking the mischief out of him everytime he saw him, mostly because there was none. Though he hated to admit it to himself, that gave him some niggling sense of concern.

“You haven’t flown that dragon lately, which explains why that sister of yours is in such a foul mood. You’re going to take her out on that beast this afternoon and do something other than sulk, understand?”

Tuff nodded, wordlessly picking up the axe that leaned against the woodshed. Hardsell didn’t press the issue, looking oddly embarrassed, and started hauling big logs out of the shed, setting them on the ground and going back for more.

He kept an eye on the boy, watching him pause to tie his hair back and up out of his face, twisting it so those stupid braids of his stuck out every which way. Tuff picked up the axe and began chopping.

He was awkward at first, unused to the job, but soon the pile of split wood started to fill the wheelbarrow almost faster than Hardsell could haul out the logs. The man glanced at Tuff’s face after a half hour and saw a cold rage that he’d never seen before.

Up went Tuff’s arms, and then down the maul crashed, splitting the logs with almost too much force now, sending the halves flying. It was vaguely worrying, and Hardsell watched him for a long moment before going back for more logs. On the plus side, the boy’s anger would split enough wood for the whole week, and Hardsell was going to take the opportunity to be lazy.

He almost missed the black haired girl approaching, so intent was he on watching Tuff, that when she was suddenly addressing them, he was startled enough to drop a thick log on his foot. Wincing and grumbling, Hardsell stepped aside, arms folded over his chest and watching her come closer, softly speaking his son’s name.

Tuff paused and looked at her in surprise, maul still over his head to swing down. He set it down slowly and turned to face her -the first time Hardsell had seen the hint of a smile on his face since before the death-tiding.

A quick glance at her waistline assured Hardsell that she wasn’t in the family way, and he shrugged, going to pick up the scattered wood to throw into the wheelbarrow. Let Tuff talk to his sweetheart or whoever; it saved him the trouble of trying to deal with the boy's feelings. Hardsell refused to address the slight relief he felt as he carted the wood back to the house to stack it.

He did however glance over his shoulder with a sly grin, impressed despite himself. Whoever she was, the girl was a beauty.

He was going to be nice for once, and take his sweet time stacking the wood.

---------

“Heather,” Tuff said, voice quieter than she’d ever heard it. Fishlegs hadn’t been wrong to worry in his letter. Tuff looked stretched thin and exhausted, and she recognized his expression all too well.

It had been the same one she saw in the mirror, every day after Dagur had sprung the trap early at the shipyard, had left that farewell note on her bed . . .

“I thought I’d come visit Berk, but you weren’t with the others. Everything okay?”

“. . . no.” Tuff’s voice was brittle and it made her draw closer. He stared at her, looking oddly lost.

Heather sat down on the stump, leaving enough room for him to sit next to her - an invitation which he took without prompting.

“So, tell me about it.”

Haltingly at first, he told her everything. Heather listened, watching tears run down her friend’s face and at times putting an arm around him, but letting him vent.

“The family’s n-not holding a feast for him. Not going to take vengeance, not going to send a boat off, not going to remember him at all. He’s the cautionary tale now - that’s how he’s being remembered.

“I tried - I really tried yesterday to talk Aunt Hazelnut into taking his helmet back, maybe putting it somewhere in a window, just so he can kind of, sort of be home again,” Tuff was saying, wiping the heel of his hand over his cheek and leaving a dusty smudge. “But she shut the door in my face and she wouldn’t open it again and I couldn’t just leave it there because what if she throws it away?”

Heather bit her lip. Tuff was heartbroken by his family’s decision, on top of Gruffnut’s death, on top of his cousin’s betrayals. She couldn’t fix it, but she could understand where a good part of his pain was coming from.

“That’s not all that hurts, is it? You want to yell at him and hug him at the same time because he was an idiot, and you want to understand why he did the things he did. So you can forgive him.”

A sudden intake of air, and then a sob was her answer. Tuff buried his face in his hands.

Heather took no joy in the fact she’d hit the mark, and hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry,” she said gently, feeling guilty. And it wasn’t because her brother had survived, had turned his life around, had been able to mend their relationship.

It was because she’d also felt hollow and dead inside for weeks afterwards, thinking of how it was her fault. Thinking she’d turned away the only family she had left, and angrily rebuffing anyone who tried to make her feel better.

She hadn’t felt as though she deserved to feel better.

When Astrid had finally gotten through to her that night, had finally made her talk and cry it out, and grieve - it had been both cathartic and horrifyingly miserable.

Right now she was doing the same necessary evil to her friend, and his sobs hurt to listen to.

Heather adjusted her wolf-trimmed cloak so that she could drape some of the heavy warmth around Tuff.

“Tell me about him,” she coaxed after he’d quieted a bit. “I never did get to meet your cousin. Who was Gruffnut Thorston to you?”

“H-He was a jerk. But he was cool and weird and everything I wanted to be. I used to follow him everywhere, and he just let me. Once when I was five, he showed me how to sled on Dad’s old shield,” Tuff offered, after a silence. “I went too fast, crashed horribly, broke the shield and part of the neighbor’s yak pen. Got my ears boxed but it was still fun. Gruff laughed so hard his face nearly turned purple.”

He was smiling faintly. Heather nudged his shoulder with hers encouragingly, until he started telling another story, and another.

As he talked, he painted a picture for her of how things had been between them. It hadn’t mattered to him that Gruff’s heroic stories never seemed to line up; they’d been awesome because Tuff had loved him.

“How . . . How did you not go after those hunters when you thought Dagur was dead?” Tuff asked eventually. “I mean, I was totally expecting you to sneak off, both of us were. Hoping you would, actually, because then we would’ve helped.”

“I figured that much,” Heather smiled, feeling warmed by that. “And I did want to, but I also didn’t want to put all of you in danger. I knew it would change nothing, it wouldn’t bring Dagur back. But Gods, did I want to wreck them. In the end, whenever we went on missions, I just kicked a little more ass and a little harder than I normally would. I thought of Dagur every time I did, and to tell you the truth? Even though he’s alive and well, I still go just the tiniest bit overboard for almost losing him.”

Tuff relaxed against her, looking tired but more like himself.

“It’s three more days to when we would’ve had a feast. Gruff knew this place by the Eastern markets, where they have lots of great food and very unsavory people coming into port. Those Hunters have been known to sell trapped helpless dragons there to avoid certain tariffs,” he mused, and Heather raised a curious eyebrow.

“And Hiccup never said we couldn’t - I don’t know, free captive dragons whenever we saw them caged up. Also, the question of collateral damage just seems kinda open for interpretation.”

She saw where he was going with this and grinned sharply. “Count me in. I’m sure Dagur is definitely good for it. My brother’s been spoiling for a fight.”

“Well, I’m not going to say no to two attractive Berserkers. Especially if one of them’s a redhead.” He winked.

Heather cracked up and lightly punched his shoulder before getting up. Tuff stood with her, though he looked serious.

“Hey, Heather? Thank you.” He wrapped his arms around her in a warm embrace and she hugged him back just as tightly. “Thank you for everything, for listening to me.”

She kept him in the hug, the moment only ending when Tuff’s stomach growled. “Anytime. Now go eat something.”

Laughing sheepishly, he waved goodbye to her and started down the slight hill to his house. Heather watched him go, glad she could do something.

——-

The raid had gone rather well, actually. The riders had freed at least ten dragons, four of them being Zipplebacks with beautiful rare blue markings. It had cost the hunters far more than the blood money they’d sent to Berk, as had the two ships the Twins completely decimated, via Barf and Belch’s explosive gas.

That would teach them to mess with a Thorston.

Exhilarated and singed, once they landed on the relative safety of a sea-stack, the Twins lifted Heather off her feet in a bear hug. They tried to do the same to Dagur, but he smirked and went deadweight, knocking them all over and nearly flattening them, sending Heather into a fit of laughter.

“I gotta hand it to your cousin,” Dagur said later, once they were flying back to Berk. He popped another crab cake into his mouth and hummed with appreciation. “He definitely knew where the best grub is. Mmm, it’s so spicy, I love it!”

Tuff smiled at him, oddly shy. A light punch on his arm made him look at Ruff beside him, who was smirking. “Thanks for coming with me, sister.”

“Are you kidding? I may not have been as fond of Gruffnut as you were, but I’m not gonna turn down a chance to blow shit up and bring some honor to the Nut name.”

She grabbed his collar and headbutted him, making their helmets spark.

“So how mad do you guys think Stoick is going to be when he finds out where you two have been?” Dagur teased. Being Berserkers, he and Heather naturally had immunity.

Ruff chuckled. “I got it covered. I’m just gonna tell him you and my brother went on a romantic moonlit flight, and Heather and I had to chaperone you two.”

Dagur promptly choked on his next crabcake and Tuff burst out laughing, guiding Barf and Belch closer so he could pound the man on the back. He horked it out and wiped his mouth. “Thank you, Boynut,” he croaked, face tinged red with more than coughing. Tuff’s face was honestly no better.

They flew off toward home, already making plans to do it again next week.

Below them, gleaming in the flames of the last Hunter ship, a lopsided helmet perched on the mast, sinking slowly toward Valhalla.

#rtte #tuffnut #character death #lots of heartbreak omg why am I so MEAN

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shadowscarchronicles-blog · 6 years

Photo

-Promised Power-

-Old Lordaeron-

Kralloas Malcolm pushed open the doors to a tavern on the outskirts of Stratholme. He walked down the short hallway and looked around. It was a dimly-lit place this time of night, and his dark leather armor and clothes fit right in with the tavern’s current inhabitants. He met the tavern keeper’s glare as he stepped around the corner, and paused for a moment. He ignored the contempt-filled looks from less savory patrons as he scanned the rest of the tavern and eyed two dark, hooded and robed individuals at a table. After glancing at the tavern keeper again, he started towards who he assumed were two mages. Kralloas pushed past a drunk who was having trouble getting out of his chair, his large and solid frame knocking the man down.

“Malcolm!” The tavern keeper barked.

Kralloas scowled as he turned to the man behind the bar who was pointing a kitchen knife at him.

“If you start cause trouble in my tavern again, I’ll call the guards,” the tavern keeper said. “You can see if they’re anymore understanding than I am.”

Kralloas sneered slightly before dipping his head. “Of course.”

The drunk growled as he grabbed the edge of the table to pull himself up. He glared at Kralloas and muttered something about parasites and thugs. Kralloas watched the man stagger out before turning towards the robed figures. They were the only two who didn’t look at him when he knocked down the drunk.

Kralloas rubbed his clean-shaven chin with his thumb and forefinger before walking over to the two, flipping his hood back and sitting down in the chair in front of them. They turned towards him in unison. One of them was a young woman, and the other was old man who’s face was covered by a cloth around his mouth and nose. The old man drummed his fingers on the table as the woman smiled. While she had a pretty face, the smile had a stiff and forced look, her eyes hinting irritation.

“You have a distinctive appearance,” she said.

“So do you,” Kralloas returned.

The old man nodded and muttered a greeting of recognition in Gutterspeak.

Kralloas raised an eyebrow. “You two aren’t doing much to blend in with your surroundings.” He took a folded letter out of his pocket and partially unfolded it. “If you’re the one who sent this, tell me what it says.”

She nodded as she folded her hands into the long sleeves of her robes. “We know of you, and of your business. We have need of your services and will more than pay for your time and trouble. Meet us here.” She gestured at the tavern around them.

Kralloas narrowed his grey eyes. “That’s not all...”

“No it’s not, is it?” She drew her finger on the table in the form of a shadowy rune. “Fair enough?”

Kralloas looked from the rune to the woman. “Why am I here?”

“Well, as the letter states; we have a proposition for you,” she replied.

Kralloas seemed slightly annoyed. “Are you going to tell me what the job is or not?”

The man spoke again in Gutterspeak, saying: ‘elsewhere’ or ‘not here’. Kralloas slowly nodded as the woman gestured towards the the kitchen at the back of the tavern. With a sigh, the old man pushed his chair back and stood up, followed shortly by the woman and Kralloas. The old man walked up to the tavern keeper and pressed a pouch of coins into his hand. The tavern keeper eyed the woman and Kralloas before stashing the pouch behind the bar and gesturing towards the kitchen. As they passed the butcher who was hacking apart a wild boar with his cleaver, Kralloas noticed a small rune cut into the back of the butcher’s hand. It was very similar was the one that was on the letter. Kralloas gripped his dagger as the walked down the steps and descended into the cellar.

The cellar was dominated by two large barrels, side-by-side on one wall. Two burnt down candles silhouetted the two mages as they turned to face him. His expression was hard, hiding the fear that was creeping into his eyes.

A new voice emanated from behind the far barrel. “Ah, I’m glad you came. I must confess, in light of your reputation I did not believe that you would heed the letter I sent you. But then, I’m told you have a visionary’s heart.” A third dark figure walked out and stood in-between the old man and the woman. He flipped his hood back and smiled coldly at Kralloas. “I am Kezlarian, formally of the Kirin Tor.”

The brown-haired man possessed Kralloas’ hight, but not his broad physique. He was a spindly man, like the old mage standing next to him, with a withered face. Unlike the old man, however, he did not appear to be old, merely deathly ill, though his composure did not suggest such a state.

“So you’re rogue mages. I’m still waiting to hear the part where you tell me why I’m still listening to you,” Kralloas said.

“We require your skills and service for an indefinite period of time. During said time, we will pay for food and board in addition to a sum of gold for successful missions,” Kezlarian said.

Kralloas shook his head. “That’s not how I work. I’m a traveler, I move around. I’ll take a single job and be on my way, or nothing.”

“Yes,” the woman chimed in. “We understand why. Lordaeron’s justice often keeps you on the run. That’s why you’re never able to find work worthy of your… talents…”

“Don’t patronize me,” Kralloas scoffed. “I’m not some brainless thug to manipulate at your convenience. I want leverage, not promises. Either you pay me directly for individual jobs, or I walk away now.”

Kezlarian tilted his head to one side as he looked Kralloas up and down, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He glanced at the other two before speaking to Kralloas.

“But you’re not simply a mercenary either, are you?”

“What do you know of me?” Kralloas asked.

“Kralloas Malcolm, son of Sir Ian Malcolm. Your father was a knight and a decorated veteran of the Second War. You however did not follow in Sir Ian’s footsteps.” Kezlarian grinned. “You were dishonorably discharged for disobeying direct orders, merciless brutality and then murder of your commanding officer. We have heard of your treasonous talk since then, and the ‘jobs’ you’ve taken. You harbor a hatred for Lordaeron, don’t you?”

Kralloas narrowed his eyes at the sickly man. “What worm did you make squeal?”

“We have a way of knowing this land, and those who live in it. That is why we do what we do,” the woman said.

Kralloas scoffed. “I know your type. Nonconformists and dissidents. You want me to help you cause civil unrest. Even if you had a chance, what separates you from every other failed anarchist?”

Kezlarian reached into the folds of his robe as the woman took a large rat out of a basket under the candles. Kralloas tightened his grip on his weapon before seeing Kezlarian set a piece of corn in the palm of his and took the rat from the woman. After glancing at Kralloas, he fed the rat the kernel and waited for a few seconds. Slowly, the rat began to squirm, hissing and occasionally trying to snap at Kezlarian before beginning to scratch at its stomach. Kezlarian dropped it on the ground as the hapless creature began to writhe in agony, a slight poisonous essence creeping up its body. Once the essence had enveloped the rat, it ceased its struggle, now withered and skeletal.

Kralloas couldn’t help but smile.

“We have power, Malcolm. And what is more, we have a plan. For sometimes the best way... the only way... to destroy something, is to simply tap the scale at the right moment.”

“I’m intrigued. Though it will take more than rat poison to remake a kingdom.” Kralloas crossed his arms.

“I disagree,” Kezlarian said darkly. “Rat poison is exactly what we need.”

Kralloas laughed. “ Very well. I will do as you ask for now. Tell me where to go and what to do. I’d like to see what... rats... I am to encounter.”

“Yes, we knew you would,” Kezlarian nodded.

The woman clapped her hands abruptly. “Now! We must leave. Eyes are everywhere, and our presence here will not go unnoticed. Come!”

She and the old mage led Kralloas back up the stairs, leaving Kezlarian alone to look at the rat. He flicked his wrist and muttered and incantation. A swirl of darkness shot from his hand to the dead rat, and after a moment, the creature got back up on its feet and proceeded to wander around. Kezlarian smiled for a moment before frowning.

“I hope you are right about him. I don’t think it is wise to trust him with so much,” Kezlarian said, seemingly to no one.

A man cloaked in the white robes of a priest of the Holy Light, stepped out of the shadows. “Rest assured, necromancer,” the priest said from under a hood. “I know him better than any, the more he knows, the more willing he will become. This is what he has been waiting for his entire life.”

#warcraft #world of warcraft #undead #forsaken #chronicles of shadowscar

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cosmicmadwoman · 7 years

Text

Adam and Eve Chapter 2: Bang Bang

Prologue. Chapter One.

Just a few things before I start, this is for sure one of the kinkiest things I’ve written (gun play) so if that makes anyone uncomfortable I so understand and there is no pressure to read. I will have a summary of what happened in this chapter at the begin of the next one so you can still follow the story without reading it. I am really stretching my limits with writing really dark characters so I’m giving it all I got. I have plans for worse stuff too hehe. Feedback is very encouraged!

Summary: Betty and Jughead go to meet the Serpents and add a new unexpected member to the gang.

Rated: Super M

Word Count: 3432

Jughead was disillusioned pretty quickly when Betty insisted they shower separately. She was deathly nervous, he could tell; and she just needed silence to soak in the steam and think of all the things she could do wrong in front of the Serpents. Number one, she could pull an Archie and waltz in like an All-American Boy Fighting for Justice. It amazed her how plainly he saw things, like a rookie cop on a crime show. Her and Archie had the privilege of growing up with parents that had nice jobs and lived in a nice neighborhood where people didn’t have to make a living being a shady character.

There was a sharp knock on the door, startling Betty and causing her to drop the shampoo bottle in her hands.

“Betty! Hurry up or I’m going to have to hop in there with you,” Jughead joked on the other side of the door. Her parents would be home soon and it would mean a lot less explaining if she could get Jughead and his florescent colored truck out of here. Betty made a quick rinse of her hair and left the water running for a quick transfer. She wrapped a plush towel around her body and slinked back to her room. Jughead is waiting for her on the bed sans shirt. He is trying to tease her. His arms are above his head, stretching out his lean chest and torso. Jughead’s pants are just low enough where Betty can see the beginning of his patch of black coarse hairs.

Betty swallowed, “Water is still running, better hop in quickly.”

“I don’t have a change of clothes,” Jughead murmured, not moving.

“You’re a boy, just wear what you did yesterday. Go,” Betty swatted him out of the room and went to her dresser and closet scouring her clothes. What could she wear that made her look more dangerous, but not like she was trying to hard?

The blonde opted for a simple pair of jeans, black Keds and a form fitting black V-neck. It was simple and she could easily blend in. Jughead came out with a pink towel wrapped loosely around his waist as he ran a hand through his wet locks. Betty was embarrassed to realize how long it took her to put together a lame outfit to meet a bunch of brutes.

“Is this okay?” Betty asked her boyfriend and she whirled in a Miss-America-type circle.

Jughead snickered, “They don’t care. You could wear a trash bag. I bet you’d look hot in a trash bag too.”

The boy proceeded to drop his towel like nothing and dried himself. Betty could never get over how absolutely gorgeous he was. His beauty marks and freckles mapped out his body leading Betty to the treasures hidden; his smug grin, angular jaw, broad shoulders, sharp hipbones… he was truly majestic. He pulled his clothes on from the night before and put the signature beanie over his wet hair. Lastly, he shrugged on his jacket and offered his arm to Betty like a gentlemanly escort.

“Shall we,” Jughead said with a lopsided grin.

“We shall.”

Betty was so eager to get this over with, she left her jacket inside and it caused her to shiver in the old pick up. She distracted herself by watching Jughead’s expression as he drove across the rocky back roads. He was impossibly stoic and showed no inflection of emotion. This was the Jughead FP warned her about; impenetrable and hard. He has nothing to worry about, they approached him. They want him to be a member of their family. However, there is probably always a part of him that fears the rejection he’s received from everyone in his life. They pull up to the biker bar and it looks relatively empty seeing as it is 11am. Jughead turns off the truck but doesn’t get out.

“If I go in there, Betty, I can’t go back,” Jughead said, his voice crackling under the threat of tears. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“Do you want to?” Betty asked.

He smiled at her briefly and grabbed her hand. He knew what she meant, did he want to go back to be lonely and stepped all over? The Serpents could give him confidence, protection, and maybe lessons on how to defend himself. Jughead let go of her hand to reach for the door handle and stare at the entrance of the Whyte Wyrm. Betty soon joined him and they intertwined fingers walking up the rickety steps. The door was locked and Jughead rapped on it carefully. A little bald head peaked over the window and inspected them incredulously before opening the barndoors properly stolen from a farmer when the old doors were broken in an unsavory barfight.

“Hey, it’s FP’s boy and his little lady!” The short bald man yelled behind him with maybe a cockney accent?, presumably to the rest of the gang.

A mob of men came into view and Hack Saw, the man Jughead met that night at the trailer, stood in front of them all and ushered Jughead and Betty inside the quiet bar. He lead them to a large wooded room behind the bar. A little sheep dog named Hot Dog followed the group. The room had a huge long table in the center and chairs from different dining sets scattered around it. It looks like a hillbilly’s board room. The men take their seats and Jughead and Betty do the same. Betty took in her surroundings and felt completely out of place. Along the walls she saw several women standing and whsierping to each other. Was Betty supposed to stand off to the side like them? If Jughead was going through with being a Serpent, which he clearly was, she was not going to be a bystander like these ladies clearly were.

Hack Saw sat at the head of the table, clearly the new boss after FP’s incarceration. He clapped his hands together and leaned back on the back two legs of his chair.

“You know me. Bald guy who let you in Wally. Young guy with the acne is Wolf. I’m sure you saw him lurking around Southside High,” Hack Saw began the introduction. Wolf gave a skeptical nod in Jughead’s direction. “Guy with two different colored eyes is Tuck, long haired guy is Georgi and lastly, we got Jaq. He’s our Canadian connection. Behind us are our ladies.”

Jughead thought their introductions boiled them to singular beings and he wondered how he would be introduced by Hack Saw. Probably the kid with the hat. He nodded back at all of them. He wasn’t sure what to do with the information. Were they all going to be pals now, drinking beer, and playing poker?

“Alright, down to business. Wally is our weapons guy. Toss him his piece,” Hack Saw said.

Wally dug into a non-descript black bag under the table and slid a silver shining gun across to Jughead. He dug through again and passed him a green box full of bullets. Jughead stared at it, not removing his hands from his lap. He’d never seen a real gun in his life. He also had no idea that his dad would have one either, but it’s clear he did. What had his dad done?

“I don’t know how to use it,” Jughead said finally.

“Wally’ll help ya,” Hack Saw said. “Now boy, I’m putting you on bar deliveries with Wolf for the time being.”

“What does that entail?” Jughead asked.

Hack Saw quirked an eyebrow and looked back at a woman behind him, probably his wife by the look of her age and mom jeans.

“Entail means what does the task involve, sweetheart,” she replied in a scratchy voice.

“Oh yeah, what you gotta do is stalk the bars on the north side and swipe alcohol from their delivery trucks to supply the Whyte Wyrm. It’s easy we just need strong guys to lift the boxes quickly.”

Jughead didn’t realize he would go straight to work. He sort of thought he would get a free pass on that because of his Dad, but it seemed he was more replacing him as a body to run their business, whatever that may mean.

He hadn’t heard a peep from Betty the whole time and was considered she was mad at him for dragging her into this and as soon as this little meeting was through she was hitting the bricks and finding solace in the arms of their redhead friend. He doesn’t know why that thought popped into his head but he sure as hell didn’t like it. Jughead looked over at her and instead of seeing contempt, her eyes were darkened to a dark shade of green, almost like swamp water, and a weird twisted smile spread across her pink lips. She looked like a porcelain doll that just cracked her expression was eerie and wished to dive into the labyrinth of her brain.

“Do I get a gun?” Betty spoke up. Hack Saw and the rest of the gang looked literally blown away by Betty’s question as they all leaned back further in the chairs and even the silent women on the side gasped and whispered amongst each other.

“Like hell she does,” Hack Saw’s wife cut in, “I’ve been married to this bastard for 25 years and I ain’t got a gun.”

Hack Saw agreed, “We don’t give the girls their own guns. That’s just the roles. You gotta be a Serpent.”

Jughead was amongst the people who were aghast by her sudden determination to be a part of the whole situation. “You don’t have to do this for me,” Jughead leaned over and pressed his lips to her ear.

“I’m not,” she said aloud. “If I must be a Serpent to get a gun, then make me a Serpent.”

“Betts—“ Jughead began, but Hack Saw cut off Betty’s boyfriend with a raised hand.

“These things ain’t toys, girl,” Hack Saw said to Betty, the first time he looked her the entire time she been at the Whyte Wyrm.

“They aren’t toys? You just gave one to Jughead and he’s never used one before. At least I’ve gone to a firing range with my dad,” Betty explained.

Jughead scuffed in his head. What can’t his perfect girlfriend do.

“Listen, girl, if you can hit three targets in three tries, I’ll you a gun,” Hack Saw snickered looking around at his gang mates. “I’ll set the targets.”

“Deal. And the name is Betty, not girl.”

Jughead was beyond amazed at the ferocity of his girlfriend and frankly, she had a pair of big balls. She was demanding a gun from a gang leader and putting up bets with him. There was a part of him that was incredibly turned on by her display of raw need for power but he didn’t want her to get caught up with this… but maybe he underestimated just how dark she was inside. He shuffled in seat as Betty took Jughead’s newly acquired gun and began to load the barrel with three bullets. She loaded it was such experienced precision. Betty was clearly confident. She spun the barrel back into place and smiled at Hack Saw, “Ready when you are.”

It started to rain outside as the Southside Serpents and their ladies watched as Hack Saw set up beer cans along the cars in the junkyard behind the Whyte Wyrm. They were placed in difficult places like high on a car hood that was stacked atop other cars, one on a bumper and one precariously perched in the broken window of an old mustang.

“The rules are you gotta hit all three with only three bullets. Gotta stand 25 feet back,” Hack Saw shouted to be heard of the sound of rain pounding on the rusted metal of the junkyard cars.

“Where are the headphones?” Betty asked innocently.

“Heh, girl, this isn’t the shooting range with your Daddy,” Hack Saw chuckled.

Betty decided not to dignify Hack Saw with correcting him—it was Betty not girl— because he was about to be embarrassed when Elizabeth Cooper became the first female Serpent. She steadied her hand and rose the piece at eye level and squinted. Her arms were outstretched as far as they could go and she felt the coolness of the metal trigger on her fingertips. She aimed at the can in the window first and blasted away, beaning it right in the middle. Over the loud pulsing in her head she could hear Hack Saw murmur something about beginner’s luck. She aimed again for the can on the top of the hood and the one on the bumper in quick succession quickly, shooting both down.

There was a deafening silence that was only overshadowed by the echoing of Betty’s gun shots. Not a single muscle of anyone moved until Jughead strolled up to his girlfriend and dipped her in his arms and kissed her until the breath in her body was sucked out of her. He released her and gave her a shit eating grin.

“Well, shit,” Hack Saw said as he began a slow clap. With the permission of the leader, the rest of the gang and their girls clapped for Betty. Even Hot Dog let out triumphant barks for her. “Presenting out first lady Serpent, Betty.”

A girl with purple hair came up to her, she looked around their age so she was most likely Wolf’s girlfriend and clapped giddily, “I want to make you your own jacket. It’ll be more form fitting and will look adorable on you!”

This meeting had gone better than Jughead had imagined, but nothing like he thought. Wally went inside and came out quickly with a gun and bullets for Betty. He looked at Jughead as he handed her the items, “I guess I don’t need to teach you to shoot boy, your girl here can do it for me.” Wally gave a friendly wink and joined Hack Saw who stood squarely by the edge of the junkyard.

“You can join your boy with deliveries,” Hack Saw told Betty. “Meeting is adjourned.”

Betty and Jughead grabbed their belongings and were silent until they climbed into the truck.

Jughead is the first to speak, “I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

Betty let out a fake gasp, “Jughead Jones, how forward of you!”

“What made you want a gun anyway?” Jughead asked as he shifted the truck into reverse and whipped out of the park and in the direction of the Riverdale Trailer Park.

“I don’t know… it was like this part of me deep in my stomach wanted to know what it would feel like to hold a gun in my hands, being a part of something so….” Betty’s voice trailed off trying to find the right word.

“Dark?” Jughead finished for her.

“Yeah… dark. When Wally gave that gun to you, I had these images in my mind of us… like… God this is so humiliating,” Betty gave an awkward laugh.

“It’s okay, Betty. I want to know,” Jughead urged her on with unbridled curiosity.

“I had this gross, but hot, fantasy of us in bed together, naked, running the heat of our just fired guns across each other’s bodies…” Betty looked at him and bit her lip. Her eyes were big and doe-y and Jughead was about to cream his skinny jeans.

“It’s not gross,” Jughead croaked out.

“There is something seriously wrong with me,” Betty said.

Jughead wrapped his arm around her, keeping one hand on the wheel and the other threaded through her damp ponytail. “No one is perfect. I love all of you.”

“Even the fucked parts?”

“Especially the fucked parts,” Jughead laughed and migrated his hand from Betty’s hair to the inseam of her jeans. He played with the frayed thread at the apex of her thighs. Her breath hitched and she felt the delicious burning in her chest. Her boyfriend firmly pressed his three fingers to her core and rubbed her clit over her jeans. Jughead could feel the heat pooling at her center. A low groan fell from Betty’s lips and the sound resounded throughout the truck. Jughead smirked and traveled up and unbutton her jeans to reach a hand inside.

“You’re driving,” Betty said breathlessly as Jughead’s slender fingers slipped into her silky folds. God, he loved being able to play with her whenever he wanted. He spent countless nights stroking himself begging for the chance to just see Betty do a split in her cheerleading skirt, and now he got to feel what was underneath that said skirt.

He pulled into the dirt of the driveway of his trailer and parked it one handed. He turned off the car and leapt from his seat to kiss Betty feverishly as he moved his fingers in and out of her dripping sex. Betty pulled away from Jughead’s sloppy kiss and stilled his digital thrusts by grasping his wrist.

“Did do something wrong?” Jughead asked with his eyes filled with genuine concern and regret before Betty even said something.

“Can we try it?” Betty’s voice was husky.

Jughead looked down and realized he hadn’t noticed that Betty had been gripping her gun the whole car ride.

“Today? Now?” Jughead asked.

Betty just simply nodded. Jughead moved his body off hers and took the gun from his leather jacket and stared blankly at the piece of medal. Betty took the piece from him, making sure he still held it while she put the barrel in her mouth and sucked on it and licked the base like it was Jughead’s own cock. He automatically stiffened at the uncomfortable and confusing stirring in his pants as she made a show of caressing the gun with her mouth. The raven-haired boy left his mouth agape and Betty removed the gun from her mouth and got out of the car, heading from the trailer, and not waiting for Jughead to catch up. When his rigid body finally climbed the few steps to the trailer, he walked in on his girlfriend stripping her clothes. She was down to nothing but her pure white panties which she promptly slide out of. Wordlessly, Betty peeled the leather Serpent jacket off Jughead and wrapped herself in it. The leather swallowed her whole but she didn’t look lost in it. She looked found. If someone told him last year, or even last night; that he would have a naked Betty Cooper in nothing but a Serpent jacket and a gun in her hand waiting for him to fuck her he would’ve collapsed right there. But this was the reality before him and he was fucking hooked. Just the image of her dark eyes and sultry lips was addicting.

“Take me please, Juggie,” Betty sounded so innocent but looked anything but.

She laid back on the couch and spread her legs. Jughead stripped his shirt quickly and got his knees before his goddess and kissed her senselessly. His 16-year-old brain couldn’t comprehend what was happening and feels like he’s short circuiting. Betty undid his pants as he was busy leaving purple blossoms along her neck. His system was given an unearthly shock when Betty scraped the edge of the barrel across his hot and heavy chest. He took the piece from her and ran his tongue along it like she did before.

“Do you trust me?” Jughead asked. She could practically hear his heart hammering through his chest. “It’s not loaded, remember.”

Betty nodded unable to form words in the haze of uncharted debauchery.

“Tell me if this is too much,” Jughead whispered into the shell of her ear as he pressed the coolness of the metal into the heat of her sex. It is so dirty Betty practically cums right there. He leaves the gun inside her and is just mesmerized at the picture before him—a gun nestled into Betty’s vagina. He moved it in and out slightly before pulling it out and licking her drippings off the barrel.

“Fuck me,” Betty managed to say.

Jughead sat beside Betty and pulls in her onto his lap where she settles her sex on his manhood and bounces on him, both cumming so quickly just from the heat of it all they collapse into one another and just hold each other there.

“Who the hell are we?” Jughead whimpered into Betty’s ear.

“I have no idea,” she answered solemnly, half ashamed and half utterly satisfied.

#riverdale fanfiction #bughead fanfiction #bughead smut #smut #fanfiction #betty x jughead #betty cooper x jughead jones #betty cooper #jughead jones #multichannel #dark!betty #dark!jughead #gun play

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