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thecleverdame · 5 years

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Sleepy Hollow - Fourteen

Series Master List

Pairings: Sam x Reader, mentions of Dean x Jo

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

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

Words: 40k

Beta: ilikaicalie

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

THE SLEEPY HOLLOW WINDMILL

The interior of the windmill is large and shadowy, cluttered with forgotten boxes and old machinery, everything covered in layers of dust and cobwebs.

You’re still unconscious, lying in the dirt on the floor as Lady Van Tassel cuts off a clump of your hair with a large pair of shears. She holds it up in the lantern light, pleased with her efforts.

She’s prepared a conjuring pile containing a small animal’s heart with an iron nail through it. She adds your hair to the pile, then lights it with the lantern. With a grin she begins whispering over the fire, watching as you stir.

You blink awake, only to be met with the horrific sight of your stepmother pulling the Horseman’s skull from a bag. She places the skull in the fire, eyes fixed on the licking flames.

“Rise up once more, my dark avenger! Rise up! One more night of beheading! Rise up with your sword, and your mistress of the night will make you whole - a head for a head, my unholy horseman. Rise! Rise! Rise from the earth and come forth again through the Tree of the Dead! Come now for Y/N!” Far away, deep in the western wood, the wind scatters dead leaves. The twisted tree opens wide with a mighty rumble and shafts of light shoot out into the night.

Elsewhere, Sam and Dean are riding at breakneck speed toward the Van Tassel estate, coming as fast as the horse and cart will carry them.

You’re sure you must be seeing things as you sit up, rubbing both eyes. This has to be a dream, nay a nightmare. But your real-life fears are confirmed as Lady Van Tassel turns to you.

“Awake at last. Did you think it was all a nasty dream? Alas, no,” she offers sweetly. “My father saw the horseman kill you…” You shake your head, trying to make sense of it all.

“He saw the Horseman coming to me with his sword unsheathed!” she snickers. “But it is I who govern the horseman, my dear, and Baltus did not stay to see.”

“But there was your body!” you whisper. Surely she must a ghost or a ghoul.

“The servant girl, Sarah, I always thought she was useless but in the end, she turned out to be quite useful. Tomorrow I’ll totter out of the woods and spin a tale of how I found Baltus and Sarah in the act of lust...as I watched them, the Horseman was upon them! And off went Sarah’s head. I fainted and remember nothing more.” “Who are you?” You look at her in horror.

“My family name was Archer.” She steps closer.

There’s a flash of the hearth at the ruins of the cottage where you took Sam. “The Archer…” “I lived with my father, mother, and sister in a gamekeeper’s cottage not far from here. Until one day my father died and the landlord, who received many years of loyal service from my parents, evicted us. No one in the God-fearing town would take us in because my mother was suspected of witchcraft.” Your eyes flicker to a small figure sneaking out of the shadows, it’s young Masbath creeping up behind her. He raises his arms, holding a large wooden mallet.

“She was no witch.” Lady Van Tassel continues. “But I believe she knew much that lies under the surface of life. And she schooled her daughters well while we lived as outcasts in the Western Woods. She died within a year and my sister and I remained in our refuge, seeing not a soul…until gathering wood one day we crossed the path of the houseman. It was the Hessian that happened upon two young girls gathering firewood. I saw his death that day, watched him buried in a grave. And from that day I offered my soul to Satan if he would raise the Hessian from the grave to avenge me.” “Avenge you?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from Masbath who’s quietly working his way behind Lady Van Tassel. “Against Van Garrett, who evicted my family. Against Baltus Van Tassel who, with wife and simpering girl child, stole our home. I swore I would make myself mistress of all they had.” She cackles, pleased to share the next bit of information. “The easiest part was the first. To enter your house as your mother’s nurse and put her body into the grave, and my own into the marriage bed.” “No!” You cry out, clapping a hand over your mouth. “Not quite so easy was to secure my legacy, but lust delivered Reverend Steenwyck into my power. Fear did the same for Notary Hardenbrook. The drunk Philipse succumbed for a share of the proceeds, and the doctor’s silence I exchanged for my complicity in his fornications.” Masbath moves out into the open, weapon raised. You see him and stifle a gasp, keeping her attention.

“Yes! You have everything now!” you sputter. “No, my dear, you do. By your father’s will. But I get everything in the event of your death.” She reaches out for the mystic bauble on your neck, ripping it free. “This pretty little charm, which I so kindly gave you to wear, has done its work. My sister, by the way, sadly passed away quite recently. She was just an old crone living in the woods. She tried to help your precious constable and I had to put an end to her. It’s her charm you’ve worn around your neck. A token from the dead.” Masbath is about ready to bring the mallet down upon Lady Van Tassel’s head.

“You killed your own sister?” “She brought it upon herself.” Like a whiplash, she turns, laughing at Masbath. “By helping you and your master!”

Masbath shrieks and drops the mallet to the floor with a thud.

“You are just in time to have your head sliced off!” she screams.

You scramble to your feet as Masbath runs into your arms. Thunder booms and lightning lights up the sky as Lady Van Tassel looks up.

“The Horseman comes! And tonight he comes for you!” You hold Masbath’s hands, clutching each other in fear. Lady Van Tassel picks up the Horseman’s skull in her gloved hand and tips back her head to give a long, animal howl. In the distance you hear the screech of a horse answering back. You turn to run, taking the boy with you and Lady Van Tassel just watches in amusement.

“Run!” She calls. “Run! There is no escape from certain death!”

VAN TASSEL HOUSE

Sam leaps from the coach, and runs up the porch stairs. “Y/N!” He pounds on the door.

“Sam,” Dean draws his attention to the firelight at the Windmill in the distance. Both men leap back onto the coach and take off.

WINDMILL

Thunder booms and the wind howls. Lady Van Tassel stands in the doorway with the skull in her hand, laughing up into the night. You pull Masbath behind you, only to be met with the sight of the coach driving toward you and the heart-bursting sight of the Constables Winchester. “Sam!” you yell, so happy to see him that tears spring to your eyes. He’s come back for you.

The coach stops and he jumps down as you go to him, throwing yourself into his arms.

“Thank God,” he murmurs, holding you tight.

Lady Van Tassel’s mad laughter is heard and you turn to see her on horseback. Along the treeline the horseman breaks into the open, galloping at full speed.

“Hell on horseback,” Sam breathes, holding you tighter. “He’s coming for me.” With a cry you pull away, ready to run. “Have you come back to arrest him, constables?” Lady Van Tassel calls.

Sam thinks fast, moving to the windmill, your hand in a death grip. Dean follows with Masbath in tow. “Do we have a plan?” Dean calls out. “Quickly!” Sam ushers them up the ladder. Behind, the wind tosses Lady Van Tassel's dress and hair. She holds the Horseman's skull high. Young Masbath scurries up the ladder and in. You’re next, then the two brothers just as the Horseman is upon you. The Horseman dismounts, stalking forward.

Sam leaps up, lifts the heavy trap door on its hinges, slams it shut. The door is pounded from outside, buckling. “It won’t hold!” Dean shouts the warning, backing up with the boy behind him.

Sam goes to a large grindstone against the wall, rolling the heavy piece onto the trap door where is falls with a thud. A sword jabs up through the grindstone’s center hole. The sword withdraws and the pounding continues. You back away, joining Masbath as Dean moves forward to Sam’s side. Sam holds up his lantern, looking desperately around the room.

Above, to the right, is a high milling platform, where flour is ground and bagged and a ladder leading to it. To the left is a crooked, open staircase.

Sam picks up two bailing hooks, giving one to Dean. He hands off his lantern to you and points. “Get up these stairs. Open the door to the roof and wait.” You obey, heading left to the crooked stairs as Sam and Dean cross to the right, climbing the ladder to the milling platform. Once on the platform, Sam grasps a wooden lever, pulling it. The entire windmill creaks and groans as massive gears and counterwheels above begin to turn.

Outside the windmill's rotors slowly start to spin as the Horseman tries to chop his way inside. You look down from the stairway, the pounding on the trapdoor making the grindstone jump. “Sam,” you call, looking to him.

“Keep climbing, Y/N. It will be alright, I will follow.”

“You hope,” Dean mutters under his breath.

Dean drags large bags of grain, lining them up at the edge of the milling platform. You and Masbath throw open the door to the roof. Using the baling hook, Sam cuts holes into the grain bags, so that milled grain spills out and falls onto the floor below creating a cloud of grain dust. He grabs one bag and slices it open, dumping all the contents. Then he guts the sack hanging from the pulley system, pushing it so it swings in circles, grain flooding out. More dust rises, filling the air.

You crawl out onto the roof, standing next to Masbath, gigantic rotors spinning behind you. The grindstone blocking the trap door falls through as wood splinters and gives. A moment later the Horseman climbs in.

“Behind you!” You warn, looking down from above. Sam looks down, seeing the Horseman, then looks to the staircase from the height of the platform. “We must jump.”

They both take off in a sprint, leaping across the space between the platform and the stairs. Dean grasps the railing, pulling himself up and then helps Sam to safety.

Below the Horseman moves through the cloud of billowing dust, running and leaping incredibly high. He grabs the hanging chain, swinging, his momentum carrying him in a wide arc. Above, Sam and Dean run upstairs to the roof door. The Horseman uses his weight to swing himself toward the stairwell. He releases the chain and becomes airborne, landing high up on the stairs. You help Sam onto the roof, as Masbath does the same for Dean.

“Quickly!” you cry out. “Close it!”

“No,” Sam takes the lantern from you and points. “Get to the crest of the roof and be ready to jump.” “Jump?” Masbath looks to Dean in horror as the eldest Winchester places a hand on his shoulder. The Horseman clomps upstairs, ax in hand. The Winchesters shepard you and Masbath to the edge where the rotors spin close.

“Jump for the sails,” Sam explains, placing a hand on each shoulder. “Wait till I give the word.” “Sam!” You panic, tears falling. “I can’t-”

“Yes you can, my love.” He smiles gently. “Hand in hand, we will jump together. Get ready.” Sam moves back to the trap door. You and Young Masbath look at the rotors, and down at the long distance between them and the ground. “Be ready…” Sam cautions and drops the lantern into the windmill and runs.

“Now!” Sam runs toward you, reaching out to take your hand as you both jump. You hit one rotor, gripping the frame and cloth as it begins its downward turn. Inside the lantern hits the ground and shatters as flames explode. Throughout the windmill’s interior, grain dust is consumed instantaneously, the fire roaring upward, engulfing the Horseman. The rotor is halfway to its lowest point. The four of you hang on in desperation as the entire structure trembles. Flames shoot out the windows, doors, and seams of the structure.

Sam struggles to keep his grip on you as you both slide. Dean and Masbath drop as you and Sam fall with a shout. You hit the ground with a thud.

“Are you alright?” Sam asks, rolling toward you holding his shoulder.

“I will be.” You scramble to your feet. The four of you run away as smoldering debris rains down.

Sam keeps you close as you run, heading uphill. Lightning flashes across the sky, thunder cracking.

Behind, the windmill begins to crumble, huge burning sections crashing to the ground. You all stop to look back at the incredible conflagration. “Is he dead?” Masbath asks, moving closer to Dean.

“He was dead to start with. That’s the problem.” Dean delivers deadpan, staring at the spectacle before them.

“Look!” You point, pressing yourself against Sam.

Out of the rubble the Horseman rises, shoving off burning debris from his shoulders. His flame-ravaged uniform smolders.

The Winchesters turn to each other searching for possibilities. Dean spots the coach and the horses not too far away. “Come on!” he yells, gripping Masbath by the arm. Sam picks you up, just as he did in the Western Woods, long legs carrying you faster than you could ever run yourself. “Get in.” He sets you on the ground, helping you inside the coach with Masbath and shutting the door.

The coach hits the long straight road, rumbling at top speed away from the Van Tassel Estate, into the forest. You and Masbath both look out opposite windows as the trees whip by.

“Where are we going?” you scream as Sam looks back to you. “Anywhere!”

“He’s right behind!” Masbath screeches. The Horseman gives chase, closing in fast. “Make for the church!” you suggest, heart thumping faster and harder.

“We’ll never reach it!” Dean calls back. Young Masbath grabs Sam's satchel and offers it out the window.

“Here sir, you must have something in your bag of tricks.”

“Nothing that will help us, I am afraid. Get out here and take the reigns.”

Masbath crawls out the window, and into the seat, taking the horses. Sam and Dean each take a rifle from their stations, crawling side by side onto the roof of the coach. Sam gets to a baggage area at the rear, struggling to open the storage box.

Behind the Horseman draws his sword, getting closer. Sam opens the box and pulls out a jagged hand saw.

“What are you planning to do with that?” Dean yells, looking to Sam as if he’s insane.

“Look out!” you shout.

Sam looks up as the Horseman rides up, swinging his sword. Both men recoil, the sword narrowing missing. The Hessian falls back, letting the coach ride ahead, shifting to the other side of the trail and coming alongside again.

Sam scrambles back, shouting to Masbath. “Keep him off! Block him!”

Masbath guides the horses over to the other side of the road, the Horseman falling behind to avoid the wheels and slowing his stead. One wheel hits a large rock, Sam is thrown in the air and drops the saw, sliding off the side of the coach as the saw clatters on the road. He tries for better purchase, gripping the coach door.

“Take my hand,” Dean shouts, looking over the top of the coach, reaching to his brother. Sam reaches up but the coach door falls open, his pistol falls from his holster and is lost on the trail. He clings helplessly to the door as branches slam into him. The Horseman, now on foot, stands in the middle of the road with Dare Devil behind him. To your horror, the coach slows until it eases to a stop in the middle of the road. You climb out as Sam gets to his feet, Dean and Masbath joining to examine the ruined wheel.

“This is not good.” Sam looks to Dean as earnest panic sets in. “He’s coming for her.”

“We’re doomed,” Masbath breathes with tears in his eyes.

“Not yet,” Dean grabs his arm “We have to get out of the open somehow. Follow me.” You turn to run, but Sam stops you, grabbing your shoulders to pull you back against him. Riding over the crest of the hill comes Lady Van Tassel on her white horse, with Sam’s pistol in her hand. “What? Still alive?” She calls out, eyes trained on you.

“Run, Y/N!” He places a hand on your waist, urging you to move. “Go now, we will hold her off.” “Sam, we have larger problems.” Dean nods to the Horseman who’s now walking in their direction. Lady Van Tassel points her gun at you. “Yes, do run little bird. And skip.” She takes aim. “And now let’s see a somersault.”

“Run!” Sam gives you a final look and turns, running full bore at your stepmother. She aims at him and fires, shooting Sam in the chest and he instantly falls to the ground.

“No!” you scream, turning back to run towards his limp body.

Dean cries out, dropping to his knees beside Sam. You scamper toward them but Lady Van Tassel intercepts you, grabbing you by the hair. “Let me go!” you scream, trying in vain to twist away from her. “Let me go to him!”

She pulls you off toward the Horseman as Sam lays with a smoldering wound in his chest as Dean lifts his head. “Oh God, no...no...no,” Dean shakes his brother. “Wake up! Don’t leave me now.” Your captor drags you as you scream and kick and struggle, anything to get away as the Horseman closes in. She stops her horse halfway to the Horseman, dropping you into the dirt before riding away shouting.

“There she is. Take her, she’s yours!” You get up to run, but instead, stumble and fall as the Hessian strides toward you.

In the field Sam’s eyes pop open as he gasps for air, feeling his chest with both hands. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, struggling to shake off delirium. “You’re not dead,” Dean laughs, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Not yet.” Sam sits up, watching the scene that’s unfolding.

Lady Van Tassel is turned on her horse with her back to them, keeping her distance from the Horseman. Beyond her, you flee in his direction with the Horseman at your heels. Then Sam sees it, the black saddle bag slung over Lady Van Tassel’s horse. He gets to his feet out of pure determination, unwilling to lose you.

You’re running and screaming, in full panic as the Horseman closes in. Lady Van Tassel is watching, grinning unaware as Sam begins to sprint at her, leaping and tackling her off her horse. He takes her down to the ground hard and her bags fall open as the Horseman’s skull rolls out. Sam scrambled toward the skull but falls as Lady Van Tassel grips his legs, holding him. Sam looks up, the Horseman is now mere yards from you as you tremble in fear. Sam struggles to free himself as Dean moves in holding a tree branch and brings it down on Lady Van Tassel’s head. The Horseman grabs you, holding you by the hair as you fall to your knees, pleading for your life. Sam scrambles to his feet, picking up the skull and throwing it with all his might.

“Horseman!” Sam yells, pointing toward the skull.

The Horseman drops you, reaching up with a hand and catches it. You run toward Sam and he meets you halfway, grabbing you as you fall. Taking your hand he pulls you away. The Horseman holds the skull out, bringing it to his shoulders, to its rightful place as thunder pounds in the sky. A transformation begins, blood and flesh rising up from the Horseman’s throat to grip the skull as you all watch, dumbfounded. The Horseman’s reformation continues, muscle forming, liquid becoming solid as he is made whole once more and you see the evil human face you’ve heard about in your father’s stories.

He looks to you and Sam, touching his restored face as Daredevil rides up to claim him. He replaces his sword and climbs into the saddle.

He rides towards you and Sam but passes you by as you both collapse, exhausted to the ground. Dean and Masbath scramble to your side. The Horseman leans down to grab Lady Van Tassel’s unconscious form, pulling her up onto the horse's back and rides away with her.

You look at Sam, shaking and crying as you reach out to kiss him, reveling in the feeling of his hand cupping your face and his lips pressed to yours.

“You saved me,” you breathe, looking into his eyes.

“We saved each other.” Sam smiles, turning to his brother and Masbath. “How are you two?”

“Weary, sir,” Masbath confirm.

You spy the bullet hole in his clothes, pressing your finger into it.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you sputter, unable to hold back the tears that are now flowing.

Sam reaches into his vest, pulling out the book he’s kept in his inner pocket, close to his heart, The Books of Spells with a bullet lodged in it.

He grins and you wrap your arms around him, burying your head in his neck.

WESTERN WOODS, TREE OF THE DEAD Hoofbeats grow louder as the Horseman enters the clearing holding Lady Van Tassel, the Tree of the Dead awaits his return.

The lady awakens, the Horseman grips her hair, pulling her face close to his just as her eyes open. She screams and the Horseman kisses her, his jagged teeth sinking into the flesh of her mouth. Ahead the twisted tree’s wound opens, deep and glowing as the horse picks up speed. Daredevil jumps into the air as a lightning bolt blasts down from the sky, striking the Horseman. For an instant, the Horseman and horse are transformed, skeletons of lightning entering the tree. There is silence and smoke, and when it clears Lady Van Tassel’s hand sticks out from the tight-shut suture. The sewn wound on her palm seeps blood as her fingers curl inward.

#sleepy hollow #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester au #sam winchester fanfiction

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unfocused-ink · 4 years

Text

Cosmogyral (adj)

whirling around the universe

On the night she was born, the stars sang.

The townsfolk weren’t exactly thrilled by the singing. After all, most of them were timber cutters trying to get some sleep. The horses that pulled the cut logs weren’t happy either- they knew they had a long day tomorrow, and they wanted sleep as much as the humans did.

But despite the grouchy townsfolk below, the stars sang on, and soon the wails of a newborn babe joined in their music.

“She’s a fighter, she is,” the midwife declared as she delivered the wailing child into the waiting arms of its mother. “Thought we’d be having a funeral tomorrow, but she’s a fighter.”

The mother, weary after hours of labor, gave the midwife a weak smile as she accepted the child. The father had long since disappeared- traveled to the city to seek his fortune- leaving the mother to raise their child on her own. Most of the town thought it was better that way anyhow, though- Kyf Nordham was an angry drunk.

As the midwife packed her things, the star-song got louder, as though trying to rival the baby’s cries. The mother began rocking the babe, humming, trying to calm her.

“What’s her name, then?” The midwife asked, pausing in the door as the star-song grew louder.

And as the baby quieted and the mother listened to the stars, she smiled and gazed at her newborns small face, green eyes wide and nose scrunched up.

“Her name is Aja.”

----------

The mountain was spouting poetry. Again.

I’d given up trying to tell people. They all told me I was crazy- “the stars may sing for you, Aja,” they’d say, “but the mountains do not speak and the trees do not laugh.”

My mother was gentler with me, but I knew she didn’t believe me either. When I went to tell her the mountain was speaking again, she looked up from the shirt she was mending and brushed a hair behind her ear, sighing. “I’m sure it is, but even when mountains speak there’s mending to be done.”

So I sat and helped her mend our neighbors clothes while the mountain struggled to find a word that rhymed with sky.

‘Fly, you dunce. Fly rhymes with sky and you’re talking about birds! It isn’t hard!’ I wished I could scream up at the mountain. But mother needed help and I didn’t want the town to find me stranger than they already did, so I didn’t

After three shirts and two pants my feet were twitching and my glances towards the door were more frequent. I needed to run. To have the wind fill my ears instead of terrible poetry that hardly even rhymed anymore.

Of course, mother noticed. She always did. Taking the pants I’d just finished she laughed, though it was laced with sadness.

“Out with you then, Aja. Go chase the wind.”

“Thanks, Ma,” I said, leaping from my chair and nearly tumbling it backwards in my hurry. “I’ll be back to help with supper.”

“Mhm,” was the reply, my mother already focused on her mending again. I don’t know how she did it. I could never sit for long, especially not closed inside walls.

Letting the door thunk shut behind me, I breathed in the pine scent drifting from where the cutters were trimming trees, preparing them to be brought to the mill, and, later, to the city.

“Trees and bees dance with the... with the... fleas?” The mountain hummed, a rumble causing rocks to clatter down his slope.

Ignoring his struggle, I dug my toes into the dirt and ran.

The town passed by in a blur, chickens scattering in front of me as I burst into the woods and wound my way under and through the trees, ducking limbs and leaping fallen trunks. While I was clumsy at most things I tried, I’d always been able to run. My mother said it was because I was trying to chase down my destiny. I figured it was because I was good at running.

I followed the path I’d worn into the forest floor, heading deeper into the trees, until the branches of the pines blocked out nearly all the light of the sun. At the base of a rock that stood twice as tall as I did I paused, steadying my breathing as I looked around. The mountain’s poetry had grown faint, a whisper that was easy to ignore. Replacing it was the sounds of the woods- birds crying out to each other and squirrels chirping that they’d seen me. The trees had started humming to one another, too quiet for me to hear what they were actually saying.

My heart slowed down to normal, I climbed the rock- Old Tuk, as I liked to call him. Sometimes when I sat and closed my eyes, he’d rumble things to me- nonsense things that only rocks understood.

Tucking my feet under my legs I sat, giving the area around me one last look before I closed my eyes. It didn’t take long for Old Tuk to start grumbling at me- he was chattier than usual.

‘Moss.’ He grumbled. ‘Moss and dripping and wet. Earth laughing at me- worms laugh and giggle. Starshine? Starshining here.’

Starshine was something that had only started coming up in his vocabulary recently. Sometimes I thought it might be what he called me, though I didn’t know why.

‘Singing dancing mushrooms in the moonlight. Rabbits? No, deer. Deer and Name-Takers and- trouble. Uh oh. Trouble talks in riddles. Starshine careful of riddles.’

With that Old Tuk went silent, and I twitched, an uncomfortable itch crawling down my skin as though something was watching me.

I opened my eyes to see a grinning face staring up at me.

The man- or creature- was a few feet away from Old Tuk. He had pale skin and pale hair- everything about him was pale. But the thing that made me wary was his eyes- they were yellow and slitted, like a cats. And I swore his teeth had points.

“Hail, fair stranger,” I said, choosing my words carefully. I had no doubt that whatever this creature was, he was not mortal.

“Hail to you, Star Child. I am Aoife, Walker of the Woods. Shall you give me your name?”

I saw his grin, sly across his face like a dagger. There was no doubt in my mind now- this was a fae, a creature the tree cutters respected but feared.

“You may call me Ainsel,” I replied, and felt relief as the fae’s grin dropped, and he sighed instead.

“Then that I shall call you, Star Child. Your mind is sharp, for one so young.”

I’m nearly eighteen, I thought, but thankfully didn’t say out loud. No doubt to the fae, eighteen was barely a toddler.

“May I inquire as to why you came to greet me?” I said, keeping my tone polite. The fae was still keeping a distance from the boulder, his clothes seeming to shimmer in the ribbons of sunlight.

He looked at the rock and laughed, a grating sound that made me clench my jaw. “Ah, the rocks have names and the trees have names, and the Star Child has listened, hasn’t she? You amuse me, Star Child, and if you weren’t atop Tuk I might take you as a wife and let you continue to keep me amused.”

I shivered at the thought. I’d have to thank the wood cutters when I returned, for warning me about fae.

“Alas, Tuk won’t allow me you as a wife. And I suppose the stars would protest as well, so allow me to share with you what the stars cannot tell you, Star Child.”

“You talk to the trees and you listen to the wind, but you have yet to sing to the stars. They sang to you when you were born, and wait to hear you return their song, but hidden here among the trees their complaints cannot reach you. However, I’ve been up the mountain and into the sky, and they bid me bring you a message- at a price, of course- so a message I bring.”

“Leave the trees and touch the sky, and sing into the night. You are more than what you think, Star Child, but you have yet to discover your destiny.”

The grin returned to his face and he held out a hand toward me. “Now, Star Child, the price of the message is a memory- one of your choosing. You may pay and return to reach your destiny, or refuse and become a permanent part of Tuk- the decision is yours.”

A memory? I was inclined to refuse, but I also didn’t doubt what the fae said was true- it seemed the only thing keeping me from being whisked away by him was Old Tuk.

Well. A memory, then. I thought back on what I’d done the past few days, and finally settled on a memory I thought I wouldn’t mind losing.

“I choose to pay with a memory. I give to you, Aoife, Walker of the Woods, my memory of when I wrung the chickens neck for supper two nights ago. I give you from the moment my mother sent me to do it to the moment I returned with the bird, a mere six minutes, and no more nor no less. Accept my payment and agree to leave me to return home and reach my destiny.”

The fae shrugged, then nodded. “I accept your payment, Star Child, and agree your debt is payed and to the terms you have set. Tuk, the deal is struck, allow me what I am due.”

Whatever Old Tuk had been doing to protect me, he must have stopped, since the fae lightly leapt up next to me and placed his finger on my forehead. A cold shock went through me, and the next thing I knew he was gone, and I couldn’t recall what memory I had given.

I took a deep breath and stood up, climbing down Old Tuk. “Thank you,” I whispered, and Old Tuk rumbled at me as I turned and dug my toes into the dirt, beginning my return through the forest and leaving the boulder behind.

Well. I had to reach my destiny, then, I supposed. I still didn’t know what half of the fae had said meant, but if reaching my destiny meant climbing the mountain and touching the sky, then I may as well do it.

The sun was setting behind me, the last shadows cackling as I raced past them, bursting back into the village with a whisper of a laugh chasing me from the woods. I wove around wood cutters returning home from work and waved to the ones I knew well, reaching my house and catching my breath before I entered and greeted my mother.

“I’m nearly eighteen,” I said, deciding it was best to jump right in to the discussion that needed to be had.

“Nearly eighteen and not yet wed,” my mother replied. That was a rather sore subject- the village boys thought me too strange to be even a friend, and I was fine with that.

“Yes, I know- but Ma, I’m nearly eighteen, and I think it’s time I find my destiny.”

She set down her mending and looked at me, sighing. “Aja, destiny isn’t something you find. It’s something that finds you.”

“But maybe not, Ma. Maybe I’ve got to chase it down. It hasn’t found me yet, and I’m growing tired of waiting. I want to climb the mountain and try and find my destiny in the sky.”

At that, she gave me a sharp look, and I knew I’d finally reached the point where she might call me crazy. “That’s silly talk, Aja. Your destiny isn’t in the sky. It’s here, mending and cooking, and settling down to raise some grandbabies for me. Your destiny isn’t in the sky, and it’s not in the city, nor anywhere else but here.”

“But, Ma, I was told-”

“I don’t care who told you what.” I’d never had my mother use that voice with me. “Your destiny will find you here, and you will not go chasing it through the wilderness. That’s final.”

I bit my lip and shrugged, pretending I didn’t care. It seemed my mother wasn’t going to give me her blessing- no matter, I’d find my destiny anyways. I felt a tug, now, an itch to follow the fae’s message and chase down my destiny. I wasn’t going to let my mother keep me from it.

“As you say, then, Ma,” I said, bringing out a pot to begin the stew we’d eat for supper. She returned to her mending, lips tight, though I knew later she’d apologize for growing angry. She always did.

As I chopped the potatoes to throw in the pot, I found my gaze wandering to the window and the mountain beyond.

Soon, I thought. I’ll come find my destiny atop you soon.

----------

To be continued....

#My writing #short story #random short pieces #writing #cosmogyral #writeblr #writblr #my ocs

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rhetoricandlogic · 6 years

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Foxfire, Foxfire By Yoon Ha Lee

Issue #194 - Science-Fantasy Month 3

, March 3, 2016

AUDIO PODCAST

EBOOK

(Finalist, WSFA Small Press Award, 2017)

If I’d listened to the tiger-sage’s warning all those years ago, I wouldn’t be trapped in the city of Samdae during the evacuation. Old buildings and new had suffered during the artillery battle, and I could hear the occasional wailing of sirens. Even at this hour, families led hunched grandmothers and grandfathers away from their old homes, or searched abandoned homes in the hopes of finding small treasures: salt, rags, dried peppers. As I picked my way through the streets tonight, I saw the flower-shaped roof tiles for which Samdae was known, broken and scattered beneath my feet. Faraway, blued by distance, lights guttered from those skyscrapers still standing, dating to the peninsula’s push to modernization. It had not done anything to prevent the civil war.

I had weighed the merits of tonight’s hunt. Better to return to fox-form, surely, and slip back to the countryside; abandon the purpose that had brought me to Samdae all those years ago. But I only needed one more kill to become fully human. And I didn’t want to off some struggling shopkeeper or midwife. For one thing, I had no grudge against them. For another, I had no need of their particular skills.

No; I wandered the Lantern District in search of a soldier. Soldiers were easy enough to find, but I wanted a nice strapping specimen. At the moment I was posing as a prostitute, the only part of this whole affair my mother would have approved of. Certain human professions were better-suited to foxes than others, she had liked to say. My mother had always been an old-fashioned fox.

“Baekdo,” she had said when I was young, “why can’t you be satisfied with chickens and mice? You think you’ll be able to stop with sweet bean cakes, but the next thing you know, it will be shrimp crackers and chocolate-dipped biscuits, and after that you’ll take off your beautiful fur to walk around in things with buttons and pockets and rubber soles. And then one of the humans will fall in love with you and discover your secret, and you’ll end up like your Great-Aunt Seonghwa, as a bunch of oracle bones in some shaman’s purse.”

Foxes are just as bad at listening to their mothers as humans are. My mother had died before the war broke out. I had brought her no funeral-offerings. My relatives would have been shocked by that idea, and my mother, a traditionalist, would have wanted to be left to the carrion-eaters.

I had loved the Lantern District for a long time. I had taken my first kill there, a lucky one really. I’d crept into a courtesan’s apartment, half-drunk on the smells of quince tea and lilac perfume. At the time I had no way of telling a beautiful human from an ugly one—I later learned that she had been a celebrated beauty—but her layered red and orange silks had reminded me of autumn in the forest.

Tonight I wore that courtesan’s visage. Samdae’s remaining soldiers grew bolder and bolder with the breakdown in local government, so only those very desperate or stubborn continued to ply their trade. I wasn’t worried on my own behalf, of course. After ninety-nine kills, I knew how to take care of myself.

There. I spotted a promising prospect lingering at the corner, chatting up a cigarette-seller. He was tall, not too old, with a good physique. He was in uniform, with the red armband that indicated that he supported the revolutionaries. Small surprise; everyone who remained in Samdae made a show of supporting the revolutionaries. Many of the loyalists had fled overseas, hoping to raise support from the foreign powers. I wished them luck. The loyalists were themselves divided between those who supported the queen’s old line and those who wished to install a parliament in place of the Abalone Throne. Fascinating, but not my concern tonight.

I was sauntering toward the delicious-looking soldier when I heard the cataphract’s footsteps. A Jangmi 2-7, judging from the characteristic whine of the servos. Even if I hadn’t heard it coming—and who couldn’t?—the stirring of the small gods of earth and stone would have alerted me to its approach. They muttered distractingly. My ears would have flattened against my skull if they could have.

Superstitious people called the cataphracts ogres, because of their enormous bipedal frames. Some patriots disliked them because they had to be imported from overseas. Our nation didn’t have the ability to manufacture them, a secret that the foreigners guarded jealously.

This one was crashing through the street. People fled. No one wanted to be around if a firefight broke out, especially with the armaments a typical cataphract was equipped with. It was five times taller than a human, with a stride that would have cratered the street with every step, all that mass crashing down onto surprisingly little feet if not for the bargains the manufacturers had made with the small gods of earth and stone.

What was a lone cataphract doing in this part of the city? A scout? A deserter? But what deserter in their right mind would bring something as easy to track as a cataphract with them?

Not my business. Alas, my delicious-looking soldier had vanished along with everyone else. And my bones were starting to hurt in the particular way that indicated that I had sustained human-shape too long.

On the other hand, while the cataphract’s great strides made it faster than I was in this shape, distances had a way of accommodating themselves to a fox’s desires. A dangerous idea took shape in my head. Why settle for a common soldier when I could have a cataphract pilot, one of the elites?

I ducked around a corner into the mouth of an alley, then kicked off my slippers, the only part of my dress that weren’t spun from fox-magic. (Magical garments never lasted beyond a seduction. My mother had remarked that this was the fate of all human clothes anyway.) I loved those slippers, which I had purloined from a rich merchant’s daughter, and it pained me to leave them behind. But I could get another pair of slippers later.

Anyone watching the transformation would only have seen a blaze of coalescing red, like fire and frost swirled together, before my bones resettled into their native shape. Their ache eased. The night-smells of the city sharpened: alcohol, smoke, piss, the occasional odd whiff of stew. I turned around nine times—nine is a number sacred to foxes—and ran through the city’s mazed streets.

The Lantern District receded behind me. I emerged amid rubble and the stink of explosive residue. The riots earlier in the year had not treated the Butterfly District kindly. The wealthier families had lived here. Looters had made short work of their possessions. I had taken advantage of the chaos as well, squirreling away everything from medicines to salt in small caches; after all, once I became human, I would need provisions for the journey to one of the safer cities to the south.

It didn’t take long to locate the cataphract. Its pilot had parked it next to a statue, hunched down as if that would make it less conspicuous. Up close, I now saw why the pilot had fled—whatever it was they were fleeing. Despite the cataphract’s menacing form, its left arm dangled oddly. It looked like someone had shot up the autocannon, and the cataphract’s armor was decorated by blast marks. While I was no expert, I was amazed the thing still functioned.

The statue, one of the few treasures of the district to escape damage, depicted a courtesan who had killed an invading general a few centuries ago by clasping her arms around him and jumping off a cliff with him. My mother had remarked that if the courtesan had had proper teeth, she could have torn out the general’s throat and lived for her trouble. Fox patriotism was not much impressed by martyrs. I liked the story, though.

I crouched in the shadows, sniffing the air. The metal reek of the cataphract overpowered everything. The small gods of earth and stone shifted and rumbled. Still, I detected blood, and sweat, as well as the particular unappetizing smell of what the humans called Brick Rations, because they were about as digestible. Human blood, human sweat, human food.

A smarter fox would have left the situation alone. While dodging the cataphract would be easy, cataphract pilots carried sidearms. For all I knew, this one would welcome fox soup as an alternative to Brick Rations.

While cataphract-piloting didn’t strike me as a particularly useful skill, the pilots were all trained in the more ordinary arts of soldiering. Good enough for me.

I drew in my breath and took on human-shape. The small gods hissed their laughter. This time, when the pain receded, I was wrapped in a dress of green silk and a lavender sash embroidered with peonies. My hair was piled atop my head and held in place by heavy hairpins. The whole getup would have looked fashionable four generations ago, which I knew not because I had been alive then (although foxes could be long-lived when they chose) but because I used to amuse myself looking through Great-Aunt Seonghwa’s collection of books on the history of fashion.

I’d hoped for something more practical, but my control of the magic had slipped. I would have to make the best of it. A pity the magic had not provided me with shoes, even ugly ones. I thought of the slippers I had discarded, and I sighed.

Carefully, I stepped through the street, pulse beating more rapidly as I contemplated my prey. A pebble dug into my foot, but I paid it no heed. I had endured worse, and my blood was up.

Even in human-shape, I had an excellent sense of smell. I had no difficulty tracking the pilot. Only one; I wondered what had happened to her copilot. The pilot lay on her side in the lee of a chunk of rubble, apparently asleep. The remains of a Brick Ration’s wrapper had been tossed to the side. She had downed all of it, which impressed me. But then, I’d heard that piloting was hungry work.

I crouched and contemplated the pilot, taut with anticipation. At this distance, she reeked worse than her machine. She had taken off her helmet, which she hugged to her chest. Her black hair, cropped close, was mussed and stringy, and the bones of her face stood out too prominently beneath the sweat-streaked, dirty skin.

She’d also taken off her suit, for which I didn’t blame her. Cataphracts built up heat—the gods of fire, being fickle, did an indifferent job of masking their infrared signatures—and the suits were designed to cool the pilot, not to act as armor or protect them against the chilly autumn winds. She’d wrapped a thermal blanket around herself. I eyed it critically: effective, but ugly.

No matter what shape I took, I had a weapon; there is no such thing as an unarmed fox. I wondered what the magic had provided me with today. I could feel the weight of a knife hanging from my inner sash, and I reached in to draw it out. The elaborate gilt handle and the tassel hanging from the pommel pleased me, although what really mattered was the blade.

I leaned down to slit the pilot’s throat—except her eyes opened and she rolled, casting the helmet aside. I scrambled backwards, but her reflexes were faster, a novelty. She grabbed my wrist, knocking the knife out of my hand with a clatter, and forced me down.

“Well-dressed for a looter,” the pilot said into my ear. “But then, I suppose that goes with the territory.”

I had no interest in being lectured before my inevitable addition to a makeshift stewpot. I released human-shape in a flutter of evanescent silks, hoping to wriggle out of her grip.

No such luck. Almost as if she’d anticipated the change, she closed her hands around my neck. I snapped and clawed, to no effect. I had to get free before she choked the life out of me.

“Gumiho,” the pilot breathed. Nine-tailed fox. “I thought all your kind were gone.”

My attempt at a growl came out as a sad wheeze.

“Sorry, fox,” the pilot said, not sounding sorry in the least.

I scrabbled wildly at the air, only half paying attention to her words.

“But I bet you can speak,” she went on as I choked out a whine. “Which means you’re just as likely to snitch to my pursuers as something fully human.”

She was saying something more about her pursuers, still in that cheerful conversational voice, when I finally passed out.

I woke trussed up as neatly as a rabbit for the pot. The air was full of the strange curdled-sweet smell of coolant, the metal reek of cataphract, the pilot’s particular stink. My throat hurt and my legs ached, but at least I wasn’t dead.

I opened my eyes and looked around at the inside of the cockpit. The blinking lights and hectic status graphs meant nothing to me. I wished I’d eaten an engineer along the way, even though the control systems were undoubtedly different for different cataphract models. I’d been tied to the copilot’s seat. Cataphracts could be piloted solo if necessary, but I still wondered if the copilot had died in battle, or deserted, or something else entirely.

The cockpit was uncomfortably warm. I worked my jaw but couldn’t get a good purchase on the bindings. Worse, I’d lost the knife. If I couldn’t use my teeth to get out of this fix—

“Awake?” the pilot said. “Sorry about that, but I’ve heard stories of your kind.”

Great, I had to get a victim who had paid attention to grandmothers’-tales of fox spirits. Except now, I supposed, I was the victim. I stared into the pilot’s dark eyes.

“Don’t give me that,” the pilot said. “I know you understand me, and I know you can speak.”

Not with my muzzle tied shut, I can’t, I thought.

As if she’d heard me, she leaned over and sawed through the bonds on my muzzle with a combat knife. I snapped at the knife, which was stupid of me. It sliced my gums. The familiar tang of blood filled my mouth.

“You may as well call me Jong,” the pilot said. “It’s not my real name, but my mother used to call me that, after the child and the bell in the old story. What shall I call you?”

I had no idea what story she was talking about. However, given the number of folktales living in small crannies of the peninsula, this wasn’t surprising. “I’m a fox,” I said. “Do you need a name for me beyond that?” It wasn’t as though we planned on becoming friends.

Jong strapped herself in properly. “Well, you should be grateful you’re tied in good and tight,” she said as she manipulated the controls: here a lever, there a button, provoking balletic changes in the lights. “The straps weren’t designed with a fox in mind. I’d hate for you to get splattered all over the cockpit when we make a run for it.”

“So kind of you,” I said dryly. Sorry, I thought to my mother’s ghost. I should have listened to you all those years ago. Still, Jong hadn’t eaten me yet, so there was hope.

“Oh, kindness has nothing to do with it.” The cataphract straightened with a hiss of servos. “I can’t talk to the gods of mountain and forest, but I bet you can. It’s in all the stories. And the mountains are where I have to go if I’m going to escape.”

Silly me. I would have assumed that a cataphract pilot would be some technocrat who’d disdain the old folktales. I had to go after one who knew enough of the lore to be dangerous. “Something could be arranged, yes,” I said. Even as a kit my mother had warned me against trusting too much in gods of any kind, but Jong didn’t need to know that.

“We’ll work it out as we go,” she said distantly. She wasn’t looking at me anymore.

I considered worrying at the bonds with my teeth, even though the synthetic fibers would taste foul, but just then the cataphract shuddered awake and took a step. I choked back a yip. Jong’s eyes had an eerie golden sheen that lit up their normal brown; side-effect of the neural interface, I’d heard, but I’d never seen the effect up close before. If I disrupted the connection now, who knew what would happen? I wasn’t so desperate that I wanted the cataphract to crash into uselessness, leaving me tied up inside it while unknown hostiles hunted us. Inwardly, I cursed Jong for getting me involved; cursed myself for getting too ambitious. But recriminations wouldn’t help now.

For the first hour, I stayed silent, observing Jong in the hopes of learning the secrets of the cataphract’s operation the old-fashioned way. Unfortunately, the closest thing to a cataphract pilot I’d ever eaten had been a radio operator. Not good enough. No wonder Great-Aunt Seonghwa had emphasized the value of a proper education, even if I had dismissed her words at the time. (One of her first victims had been a university student, albeit one studying classical literature rather than engineering. Back then, you could get a comfortable government post by reciting maxims from The Twenty-Three Principles of Virtuous Administration and tossing off the occasional moon-poem.) The ability to instantly absorb someone’s skills by ingesting their liver had made me lazy.

“Why are they after you?” I asked, on the grounds that the more information I could extract from Jong, the better. “And who are they, anyway?”

She adjusted a dial; one of the monitors showed a mass of shapes like tangled thread. “Why are they after anyone?”

Not stupid enough to tell a stranger, then. I couldn’t fault her. “How do I know you won’t use me, then shoot me?”

“You don’t. But I’ll let you go after I get away.”

Unsatisfying, as responses went. “Assuming you get away.”

“I have to.” For the first time, Jong’s cheerfulness faltered.

“Maybe we can bargain,” I said.

Jong didn’t respond for a while, but we’d entered a defile and she was presumably caught up making sure we didn’t tumble over some ledge and into the stony depths. I had difficulty interpreting what I saw. For one thing, I wasn’t used to a vantage point this high up. For another, I couldn’t navigate by scent from within the cockpit, although I was already starting to become inured to the mixed smells of grubby human and metal.

“What bargain can you offer?” Jong said when she’d parked us in a cranny just deep enough in the defile that the cataphract wouldn’t be obvious except from straight above.

I wondered if we had aerial pursuit to worry about as well. Surely I’d hear any helicopters, now that the cataphract had powered down? I knew better than to rely on the small gods of wind and storm for warning; they were almost as fickle as fire.

Jong’s breathing became unsteady as she squinted at a scatterfall of glowing dots. She swore under her breath in one of the country dialects that I could understand only with difficulty. “We’ll have to hope that they’re spreading themselves too thin to figure out which way we’ve gone,” she said in a low voice, as though people could hear her from inside the cockpit. “We’ll continue once I’m sure I can move without lighting up their scanners.”

Carefully, I said, “What if I swear on the spirits of my ancestors to lead you where you need to go, with the aid of the small gods to mask your infrared signature?” This was a guess on my part, but she didn’t correct me, so I assumed it was close enough. “Will you unbind me, at least?”

“I didn’t think foxes worshiped ancestors,” Jong said, eyeing me skeptically. She fished a Brick Ration out of a compartment and unwrapped it with quick, efficient motions.

My mouth watered despite the awful smell. I hadn’t eaten in a while. “Foxes are foxes, not gods,” I said. “What good is worship to a fox? But I remember how my mother cared for me, and my other relatives. Their memory means a lot to me.”

Jong was already shaking her head. A crumb of the Brick Ration fell onto her knee. She picked it up, regarded it contemplatively, then popped it into her mouth.

A ration only questionably formulated to sustain humans probably wouldn’t do me much good in fox-form, but it was difficult not to resent my captor for not sharing, irrational as the sentiment was.

“I need a real guarantee that you’ll be helpful, not a fox-guarantee,” Jong said.

“That’s difficult, considering that I’m a fox.”

“I don’t think so.” Jong smiled, teeth gleaming oddly in the cockpit’s deadened lights. Her face resembled a war-mask from the old days of the Abalone Throne. “Swear on the blood of the tiger-sages.”

My heart stuttered within me. “There are no tiger-sages left,” I said. It might even have been true.

Jong’s smile widened. “I’ll take that chance.”

When I was a young fox, almost adult, and therefore old enough to get into the bad kind of trouble, my mother took me to visit a tiger-sage.

Until then, I had thought all the tiger-sages had left the peninsula. Sometimes the humans had hunted them, and more rarely they sought the tigers’ advice, although a tiger’s advice always has a bite in it. I’d once heard of hunters bringing down an older tiger in a nearby village, and I’d asked my mother if that had been a sage. She had only snorted and said that a real sage wouldn’t go down so easily.

Tiger-sages could die. That much I knew. But their deaths had nothing to do with shotguns or nets or poisoned ox carcasses. A tiger-sage had to be slain with a sword set with mirror-jewels or arrows fletched with feathers stolen from nesting firebirds. A tiger-sage had to be sung to death in a game of riddles during typhoon season, or tricked into sleep after a long game of baduk—the famously subtle strategy game played upon a board of nineteen-by-nineteen intersecting lines, with black stones and white. A tiger-sage had to consent to perish.

We traveled for days, because even a fox’s ability to slice through distance dwindled before a tiger-sage’s defenses. My mother was nervous than I’d ever seen her. I, too stupid to know better, was excited by the excursion.

At last we approached the tiger-sage’s cave, high upon a mountain, where the trees grew sideways and small bright flowers flourished in the thin soil. Everything smelled hard and sharp, as though we lingered dangerously close to the boundary between always and never. The cave had once served as a shrine for some human sage. A gilded statue dominated the mouth of the cave, lovingly polished. It depicted a woman sitting cross-legged, one palm held out and cupping a massive pearl, the other resting on her knee. The skull of some massive tusked beast rested next to the statue. The yellowing bone had been scored by claw-marks.

The tiger-sage emerged from the cave slowly, sinuously, like smoke from a hidden fire. Her fur was chilly white except for the night-black stripes. She was supposed to be the last of the tiger-sages. One by one they had departed for other lands, or so the fox-stories went. Whether this one remained out of stubbornness, or amusement at human antics, or sheer apathy, my mother hadn’t been able to say. It didn’t matter. It was not for a fox to understand the motivations of a sage.

“Foxes,” the tiger rumbled, her amber eyes regarding us with disinterest. “It is too bad you are no good for oracle bones. Fox bones always lie. The least you could have done was bring some incense. I ran out of the good stuff two months ago.”

My mother’s ears twitched, but she said only, “Venerable sage, I am here to beg your counsel on my son’s behalf.”

I crouched and tried to look appropriately humble, having never heard my mother speak like this before.

The tiger yawned hugely. “You’ve been spending too much time with humans if you’re trying to fit all those flowery words in your mouth. Just say it straight out.”

Normally my mother would have said something deprecating—I’d grown up listening to her arguing with Great-Aunt Seonghwa about the benefits of human culture—but she had other things on her mind. That, or the tiger’s impressive display of sharp teeth reminded her that to a tiger, everything is prey. “My son hungers after human-shape,” my mother said. “I have tried to persuade him otherwise, but a mother’s words only go so far. Perhaps you would be willing to give him some guidance?”

The tiger caught my eye and smiled tiger-fashion. I had a moment to wonder how many bites it would take for me to end up in her belly. She reared up, or perhaps it was that she straightened. For several stinging moments, I could not focus my vision on her, as though her entire outline was evanescing.

Then a woman stood where the tiger had been, or something like a woman, except for the amber eyes and the sharp-toothed smile. Her hair was black frosted with white and silver. Robes of silk flowed from her shoulders, layered in mountain colors: dawn-pink and ice-white and pale-gray with a sash of deepest green. At the time I did not yet understand beauty. Years later, remembering, I would realize that she had mimicked the form of the last legitimate queen. (Tigers have never been known for modesty.)

“How much do you know of the traditional bargain, little fox?” the tiger-woman asked. Her voice was very little changed.

I did not like being called little, but I had enough sense not to pick a fight with a tiger over one petty adjective. Especially since the tiger was, in any shape, larger than I was. “I have to kill one hundred humans to become human,” I said. “I understand the risk.”

The tiger-woman made an impatient noise. “I should have known better than to expect enlightenment from a fox.”

My mother held her peace.

“People say I am the last of the tiger-sages,” the tiger-woman said. “Do you know why?”

“I had thought you were all gone,” I said, since I saw no reason not to be honest. “Areyou the last one?”

The tiger-woman laughed. “Almost the last one, perhaps.” The silk robes blurred, and then she coiled before us in her native shape again. “I killed more than a hundred humans, in my time. Never do anything by halves, if you’re going to do it. But human-shape bored me after a while, and I yearned for my old clothing of stripes and teeth and claws.”

“So?” I said, whiskers twitching.

“So I killed and ate a hundred tiger-sages from my own lineage, to become a tiger again.”

My mother was tense, silent. My eyes had gone wide.

The tiger looked at me intently. “If the kit is serious about this—and I can smell it on him, that taint is unmistakable—I have some words for him.”

I stared at the tiger, transfixed. It could have pounced on me in that moment and I wouldn’t have moved. My mother made a low half-growl in the back of her throat.

“Becoming human has nothing to do with flat faces and weak noses and walking on two legs,” the tiger said. “That’s what your people always get wrong. It’s the hunger for gossip and bedroom entanglements and un-fox-ish loyalties; it’s about having a human heart. I, of course, don’t care one whit about such matters, so I will never be trapped in human-shape. But for reasons I have never fathomed, foxes always lose themselves in their new faces.”

“We appreciate the advice,” my mother said, tail thumping against the ground. “I will steal you some incense.” I could tell she was desperate to leave.

The tiger waved a paw, not entirely benevolently. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account, little vixen. And tell your aunt I warned her, assuming you get the chance.”

Two weeks after that visit, I heard of Great-Aunt Seonghwa’s unfortunate demise. It was not enough to deter me from the path I had chosen.

“Come on, fox,” Jong said. “If your offer is sincere, you have nothing to fear from a mythical tiger.”

I refrained from snapping that ‘mythical’ tigers were the most frightening of all. Ordinary tigers were bad enough. Now that I was old enough to appreciate how dangerous tiger-sages were, I preferred not to bring myself to one’s attention. But remaining tied up like this wasn’t appealing, either. And who knew how much time I had to extract myself from this situation?

“I swear on the blood of the tiger-sages,” I said, “that I will keep my bargain with you. No fox tricks.” I could almost hear the tiger-sage’s cynical laughter in my head, but I hoped it was my imagination.

Jong didn’t waste time making additional threats. She unbuckled herself and leaned over me to undo my bonds. I admired her deft hands. Those could have been mine, I thought hungrily; but I had promised. While a fox’s word might not be worth much, I had no desire to become the prey of an offended tiger. Tiger-sages took oaths quite seriously when they cared to.

My limbs ached, and it still hurt when I swallowed or talked. Small pains, however, and the pleasure of being able to move again made up for them. “Thank you,” I said.

“I advise being human if you can manage it,” Jong said. I choked back a snort. “The seat will be more comfortable for you.”

I couldn’t argue the point. Despite the pain, I was able to focus enough to summon the change-magic. Magic had its own sense of humor, as always. Instead of outdated court dress, it presented me in street-sweeper’s clothes, right down to the hat. As if a hat did anything but make me look ridiculous, especially inside a cataphract.

To her credit, Jong didn’t burst out laughing. I might have tried for her throat if she had, short-tempered as I was. “We need to”—yawn—”keep moving. But the pursuers are too close. Convince the small gods to conceal us from their scan, and we’ll keep going until we find shelter enough to rest for real.”

Jong’s faith in my ability to convince the small gods to do me favors was very touching. I had promised, however, which meant I had to do my best. “You’re in luck,” I said; if she heard the irony in my voice, she didn’t react to it. “The small gods are hungry tonight.”

Feeding gods was tricky business. I had learned most of what I knew from Great-Aunt Seonghwa. My mother had disdained such magic herself, saying that she would trust her own fine coat for camouflage instead of relying on gods, to say nothing of all the mundane stratagems she had learned from her own mother. For my part, I was not too proud to do what I had to in order to survive.

The large gods of the Celestial Order, who guided the procession of stars, responded to human blandishments: incense (I often wondered if the tiger I had met lit incense to the golden statue, or if it was for her own pleasure), or offerings of roast duck and tangerines, or bolts of silk embroidered with gold thread. The most powerful of the large gods demanded rituals and chants. Having never been bold enough to eat a shaman or magician, I didn’t know how that worked. (I remained mindful of Great-Aunt Seonghwa’s fate.) Fortunately, the small gods did not require such sophistication.

“Can you spare any part of this machine?” I asked Jong.

Her mouth compressed. Still, she didn’t argue. She retrieved a screwdriver and undid one of the panels, joystick and all, although she pocketed the screws. “It’s not like the busted arm’s good for anything anymore,” she said. The exposed wires and pipes of coolant looked like exposed veins. She grimaced, then fiddled with the wires’ connectors until they had all been undone. “Will this do?”

I doubted the small gods knew more about cataphract engineering than I did. “Yes,” I said, with more confidence than I felt, and took the panel from her. I pressed my right hand against the underside of the panel, flinching in spite of myself from the metal’s unfriendly warmth.

This is my offering, I said in the language of forest and mountain, which even city foxes spoke; and my mother, as a very proper fox, had raised me in the forest. Earth and stone and—

Jong’s curse broke my concentration, although the singing tension in the air told me that the small gods already pressed close to us, reaching, reaching.

“What is it?” I said.

“We’ll have to fight,” Jong said. “Buckle in.”

I had to let go of the panel to do so. I had just figured out the straps—the cataphract’s were more complicated than the safety restraints found in automobiles—and the panel clanked onto the cockpit’s floor as the cataphract rumbled awake. The small gods skittered and howled, demanding their tribute. I was fox enough to hear them, even if Jong showed no sign of noticing anything.

The lights in the cockpit blazed up in a glory of colors. The glow sheened in Jong’s tousled hair and reflected in her eyes, etched deep shadows around her mouth. The servos whirred; I could have sworn the entire cataphract creaked and moaned as it woke.

I scooped up the panel. Its edges bit into my palms. “How many?” I asked, then wondered if I should be distracting Jong when we were entering combat.

“Five,” she said. “Whatever you’re doing, finish it fast.”

The machine lurched out of the crevice where we’d been hiding, then broke into its version of a run. My stomach dropped. Worse than the jolting gait was the fact that I kept bracing for the impact of those heavy metal feet against the earth. I kept expecting the cataphract to sink hip-deep. Even though the gods of earth and stone cushioned each stride, acting as shock-absorbers, the discrepancy between what I expected and what happened upset my sense of the world’s equilibrium.

The control systems made noises that had only shrillness to recommend them. I left their interpretation to Jong and returned my attention to the small gods. From the way the air in the cockpit eddied and swirled, I could tell they were growing impatient. Earth and stone were allied to metal, after all, and metal, especially when summoned on behalf of a weapon, had its volatile side.

The magic had provided me not with a knife this time but with a hat pin. I retrieved it and jabbed my palm with the pointy end. Blood welled up. I smeared it onto the cataphract’s joystick. Get us out of here, I said to the small gods. Not eloquent, but I didn’t have time to come up with anything better.

The world tilted askew, pale and dark and fractured. Jong might have said something. I couldn’t understand any of it. Then everything righted itself again.

More, the small gods said in voices like shuddering bone.

I whispered stories to them, still speaking in the language of forest and mountain, which had no words except the evocation of the smell of fallen pine needles on an autumn morning, or loam worked over by the worms, or rain filling paw prints left in the mud. I was still fox enough for this to suffice.

“What in the name of the blistering gods?” Jong demanded. Now even she could hear the clanging of distant bells. Music was one of the human innovations that the small gods had grown fond of.

“They’re building mazes,” I said. “They’ll mask our path. Go!“

Her eyes met mine for a moment, hot and incredulous. Then she nodded and jerked a lever forward, activating the walk cycle. The cataphract juddered. The targeting screen flashed red as it locked on an erratically moving figure: another cataphract. She pressed a trigger.

I hunched down in my seat at the racket the autocannon made as it fired four shots in rapid succession, like a damned smith’s hammer upon the world’s last anvil. The small gods rumbled their approval. I forced myself to watch the targeting screen. For a moment I thought Jong had missed. Then the figure toppled sideways.

“Legged them,” Jong said with vicious satisfaction. “Don’t care about honor or kill counts, it’s good enough to cripple them so we can keep running.”

We endured several hits ourselves. While the small gods could confuse the enemies’ sensors, the fact remained that the cataphract relied on its metal armor to protect its inner mechanisms. The impacts rattled me from teeth to marrow. I was impressed that we hadn’t gone tumbling down.

And when had I started thinking of us as “we,” anyway?

“We’re doomed,” I said involuntarily when something hit the cataphract’s upper left torso—by the I’d figured out the basics of a few of the status readouts—and the whole cockpit trembled.

Jong’s grin flickered sideways at me. “Don’t be a pessimist, fox,” she said, breathless. “You ever hear of damage distribution?”

“Damage what?”

“I’ll explain it to you if we—” A shrill beep captured her attention. “Whoops, better deal with this first.”

“How many are left?”

“Three.”

There had been five to begin with. I hadn’t even noticed the second one going down.

“If only I weren’t out of coolant, I’d—” Jong muttered some other incomprehensible thing after that.

In the helter-skelter swirl of blinking lights and god-whispers, Jong herself was transfigured. Not beautiful in the way of a court blossom but in the way of a gun: honed toward a single purpose. I knew then that I was doomed in another manner entirely. No romance between a fox and a human ever ended well. What could I do, after all? Persuade her to abandon her cataphract and run away with me into the forest, where I would feed her rabbits and squirrels? No; I would help her escape, then go my separate way.

Every time an alert sounded, every time a vibration thundered through the cataphract’s frame, I shivered. My tongue was bitten almost to bleeding. I could not remember the last time I had been this frightened.

You were right, Mother, I wanted to say. Better a small life in the woods, diminished though they were from the days before the great cities with their ugly high-rises, than the gnawing hunger that had driven me toward the humans and their beautiful clothes, their delicious shrimp crackers, their games of dice and yut and baduk. For the first time I understood that, as tempting as these things were, they came with a price: I could not obtain them without also entangling myself with human hearts, human quarrels, human loyalties.

A flicker at the edge of one of the screens caught my eye. “Behind us, to the right!” I said.

Jong made a complicated hooking motion with the joystick and the cataphract bent low. My vision swam. “Thank you,” she said.

“Tell me you have some plan beyond ‘keep running until everyone runs out of fuel,'” I said.

She chuckled. “You don’t know thing one about how a cataphract works, do you? Nuclear core. Fuel isn’t the issue.”

I ignored that. Nuclear physics was not typically a fox specialty, although my mother had allowed that astrology was all right. “Why do they want you so badly?”

I had not expected Jong to answer me. But she said, “There’s no more point keeping it a secret. I deserted.”

“Why?” A boom just ahead of us made me clutch the armrests as we tilted dangerously.

“I had a falling out with my commander,” Jong said. Her voice was so tranquil that we might have been sitting side by side on a porch, sipping rice wine. Her hands moved; moved again. A roaring of fire, far off. “Just two left. In any case, my commander liked power. Our squad was sworn to protect the interim government, not—not to play games with the nation’s politics.” She drew a deep breath. “I don’t suppose any of this makes sense to you.”

“Why are you telling me now?” I said.

“Because you might die here with me, and it’s not as if you can give away our location any more. They know who I am. It only seems fair.”

Typically human reasoning, but I appreciated the sentiment. “What good does deserting do you?” I supposed she might know state secrets, at that. But who was she deserting to?

“I just need to get to—” She shook her head. “If I can get to refuge, especially with this machine more or less intact, I have information the loyalists can make use of.” She was scrutinizing the infrared scan as she spoke.

“The Abalone Throne means that much to you?”

Another alert went off. Jong shut it down. “I’m going to bust a limb at this rate,” she said. “The Throne? No. It’s outlived its usefulness.”

“You’re a parliamentarian, then.”

“Yes.”

This matter of monarchies and parliaments and factions was properly none of my business. All I had to do was keep my end of the bargain, and I could leave behind this vexing, heartbreaking woman and her passion for something as abstract as government.

Jong was about to add something to that when it happened. Afterwards I was only able to piece together fragments that didn’t fit together, like shards of a mirror dropped into a lake. A concussive blast. Being flung backwards, then sideways. A sudden, sharp pain in my side. (I’d broken a couple ribs, in spite of the restraints. But without them, the injuries would have been worse.) Jong’s sharp cry, truncated. The stink of panic.

The cataphract had stopped moving. The small gods roared. I moved my head; pain stabbed all the way through the back of my skull. “Jong?” I croaked.

Jong was breathing shallowly. Blood poured thickly from the cut on her face. I saw what had happened: the panel had flown out of my hands and struck her edge-on. The small gods had taken their payment, all right; mine hadn’t been enough. If only I had foreseen this—

“Fox,” Jong said in a weak voice.

Lights blinked on-off, on-off, in a crazed quilt. The cockpit looked like someone had upended a bucket full of unlucky constellations into it. “Jong,” I said. “Jong, are you all right?”

“My mission,” she said. Her eyes were too wide, shocky, the red-and-amber of the status lights pooling in the enormous pupils. I could smell the death on her, hear the frantic pounding of her heart as her body destroyed itself. Internal bleeding, and a lot of it. “Fox, you have to finish my mission. Unless you’re also a physician?”

“Shh,” I said. “Shh.” I had avoided eating people in the medical professions not out of a sense of ethics but because, in the older days, physicians tended to have a solid grounding in the kinds of magics that threatened shape-changing foxes.

“I got one of them,” she said. Her voice sounded more and more thready. “That leaves one, and of course they’ll have called for reinforcements. If they have anyone else to spare. You have to—”

I could have howled my frustration. “I’ll carry you.”

Under other circumstances, that grimace would have been a laugh. “I’m dying, fox, do you think I can’t tell?”

“I don’t know the things you know,” I said desperately. “Even if this metal monstrosity of yours can still run, I can’t pilot it for you.” It was getting hard to breathe; a foul, stinging vapor was leaking into the cockpit. I hoped it wasn’t toxic.

“Then there’s no hope,” she whispered.

“Wait,” I said, remembering; hating myself. “There’s a way.”

The sudden flare of hope in Jong’s eyes cut me.

“I can eat you,” I said. “I can take the things you know with me, and seek your friends. But it might be better simply to die.”

“Do it,” she said. “And hurry. I assume it doesn’t do you any good to eat a corpse, or your kind would have a reputation as grave-thieves.”

I didn’t squander time on apologies. I had already unbuckled the harness, despite the pain of the broken ribs. I flowed back into fox-shape, and I tore out her throat so she wouldn’t suffer as I devoured her liver.

The smoke in the cockpit thickened, thinned. When it was gone, a pale tiger watched me from the rear of the cockpit. It seemed impossible that she could fit; but the shadows stretched out into an infinite vast space to accommodate her, and she did. I recognized her. In a hundred stolen lifetimes I would never fail to recognize her.

Shivering, human, mouth full of blood-tang, I looked down. The magic had given me one last gift: I wore a cataphract pilot’s suit in fox colors, russet and black. Then I met the tiger’s gaze.

I had broken the oath I had sworn upon the tiger-sage’s blood. Of course she came to hunt me.

“I had to do it,” I said, and stumbled to my feet, prepared to fight. I did not expect to last long against a tiger-sage, but for Jong’s sake I had to try.

“There’s no ‘have to’ about anything,” the tiger said lazily. “Every death is a choice, little not-a-fox. At any step you could have turned aside. Now—” She fell silent.

I snatched up Jong’s knife. Now that I no longer had sharp teeth and claws, it would have to do.

“Don’t bother with that,” the tiger said. She had all her teeth, and wasn’t shy about displaying them in a ferocious grin. “No curse I could pronounce on you is more fitting than the one you have chosen for yourself.”

“It’s not a curse,” I said quietly.

“I’ll come back in nine years’ time,” the tiger said, “and we can discuss it then. Good luck with your one-person revolution.”

“I needn’t fight it alone,” I said. “This is your home, too.”

The tiger seemed to consider it. “Not a bad thought,” she said, “but maps and boundaries and nationalism are for humans, not for tigers.”

“If you change your mind,” I said, “I’m sure you can find me, in nine years’ time or otherwise.”

“Indeed,” the tiger said. “Farewell, little not-a-fox.”

“Thank you,” I said, but she was gone already.

I secured Jong’s ruined body in the copilot’s seat I had vacated, so it wouldn’t flop about during maneuvers, and strapped myself in. The cataphract was damaged, but not so badly damaged that I still couldn’t make a run for it. It was time to finish Jong’s mission.

#Yoon Ha Lee #Foxfire Foxfire #short story #actually long story

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nayladoodles · 7 years

Text

Hamilton Angst Promt #1 (from my other account)

👻= Death

TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE, USE OF TERM CREOLE BASTARD also mentions of non consensual sex, SELF HARM and SELF HATRED.

IF THESE THINGS TRIGGER YOU PLEASE AVOID THIS.

Non Canon version of the Reynolds Affair where Hamilton is actually a loyal husband and refuses the affair but maria won't listen. When he runs out of money a fake pamphlet is published with a forged signature. Everyone detests Alexander and he becomes depressed.

All Characters belong to Lin Manuel Miranda except Madilton (ship name but hey), Cattivo and Simon. (who are all senators).

Alexander's POV:

My hand shook as I hastily scrawled my speech for the debate later this afternoon; I don't wish to have all of the angry eyes boring into my back again but alas I am required to attend. As the hours passed I had managed to push the negative thoughts to the back of my mind praying to god that those dark thoughts would not plague me again until after the debate. Once my speech was written I returned to my previous task of preparing the original pamphlet about the Reynolds Affair. I refused her, I did NOT consent to it yet....everyone blindly believes I willingly cheated on Eliza. A man can only take so much hatred before he cracks and I have long since buckled beneath the anger and hatred. My children yelled they'd rather be without me, my wife won't let me explain and my friends are unresponsive. I just want the truth to be told so I can finally escape this personal hell of mine. As I finished fixing the last few smeared letters my office door swung open, "Hamilton." I felt the temperature drop slightly and saw Senator Madilton and his two fellow senators blocking the doorway,"If it is not a dire issue please leave me to my work." I said carefully hiding the pamphlet beneath mt speech. "Hamilton all you do is work." Senator Simon said. "You should rest." I narrowed my eyes, "Don't act like you suddenly care." I spat angrily trying to force the burning tears to hold their position behind my eyes. "Such harsh words." Cattivo purrs. "Leave me be!" I said getting upset not in the mood to deal with their scorn.

"You think that the truth will save you Hamilton? You think you can escape what is already published?" Madilton said coming closer. "I cannot undo what YOU have done no, but I can tell America what REALLY happened... the parts of that affair that you left out." I spat back tears starting to escape down my cheeks. "Look at you crying over nothing! What did Washington see in you?"

I gripped my sleeves my own insecurities rising to the surface once again. "Your wife doesn't want you and neither does your family or your friends. face it you're alone." I trembled shutting my eyes tightly as tears dripped off of my chin. 6 months of endless emotional torture, of endless glares and angry whispers as I walk the streets. "Just leave me be please." I said brokenly. "What authority do you have to make a such a request?" Cattivo jeered. "This is my office." I replied. "You don't sound so certain of that." Simon leered. "Regardless you need to join us for the debate. Do dry your tears Hamilton, you look pitiful." Madilton and the other two left me there to scramble for my speech and follow them to the Congress floor.

"Why is Hamilton here?" "That creole bastard has no place in this room after what he has done." "No one needs his loud opinions anyhow." Washington called order, "Hamilton you first." I read my speech pausing and stuttering as the senators whispered angrily among themselves. I finished my speech and waited for a response, "Jefferson, Madison if you please." Washington said and I sat listening to them both not bothering to correct them as my own dark thought consumed me. The debate faded into the background and their words sounded far away; I truly am alone. I felt tears burn in my eyes as the horrid memories of the past 6 months came to haunt me. Eliza burning all of the love letters that took me hours to write and send, my son and daughter screaming that I'm not their father anymore, being slapped by Angelica…

"What no witty response Hamilton?" Jefferson said.I slowly came back to the present and looked away from him not saying a word.

"Y'all managed to break him?" Jefferson said. "Own up to your infidelity and stop crying about it Hamilton." Simon spat. "Yes and while you're at it leave your position!" Another senator shouted. "We don't need you or your financial systems." I curled into myself tears burning in the corners of my eyes. "That is enough!" Washington spat, "We do NOT bring personal matters onto the Congress floor." I trembled clenching the armrests of my chair tightly my knuckles going white. "Now. Does anyone have anything to say in regards to either side of the argument?" Washington asked. "Hamilton is wrong." Madilton called. "Why so?" Washington pressed. "He can never be correct." Washington sighed rubbing his temples. "If none of you have anything backed by logic about why my secretary is wrong be silent." "But sir-" Madilton said. "Silence." Washington said coldly. I tried to recompose myself but all I could hear was the jeering of the senators. "Hamilton?" Jefferson said. "Son?" Washington's voice echoed slightly. "D-don't call me son..." I replied my head throbbing as tears began to once again slide down my cheeks. "Alexander!" Burr shouted as I gripped the chair tighter. I faintly heard Washington call recess not realizing two hours had passed. I stood mumbling excuse me ignoring the concerned calls of my fellow politicians and father figure. I cannot take another day of this...

I briskly walked to my office pushing the papers off my desk grasping the pamphlet after signing it properly. I walked to the publisher and handed him the money I'd saved saying, "Run it for tomorrow please." He nods and I smile for the first time in months. I go back to the white house sitting in my office pulling out the broken quill I'd hidden earlier in the week. I unbuttoned my cuffs sliding my sleeves up staring at the scars. "What does Washington see in me..?" I whispered pressing the sharp edge of the quill shaft against my arm and slicing the skin watching blood rush to the surface of the cut. I scratched my arms more, "I am useless, loudmouth bother...not worthy of this position...I don’t deserve my wife....or family..." I stopped after five lines were cut on each arm and grabbed the black rag I had to clean myself up not bothering with lunch. Trembling I wrapped my arms and returned to the floor for the remaining hour of the meeting.

Burr caught my shoulder as I walked in, "Alexander?" His tone held barely restrained worry. "I'm fine Aaron." I lied sitting back down. The session ended earlier than usual on account of myself and Jefferson agreeing for a change. As soon as we were dismissed I excused myself wanting to prepare for tomorrow. I went to my office pulling the farewell letters to my friends and father figure. I had already mailed John's and that for my friends in France making sure it would reach them with haste and Burr's awaits him at the front desk of the hotel he was staying in during the summit. I left the letters for Jefferson, Madison and Washington on the desks in their offices. I walked back to my own office going to my bookshelf and pulling a hollowed encyclopedia from 1700. I pulled out the money I'd stashed away from Madeline and Michael to help them return home to their mother and father on Nevis. The money was tied away with a knot only the native island people could untie and the rope is much too thick to cut. I smiled satisfied with my farewell and flagged down a carriage to take me home as I refuse to give the scathing senators the satisfaction.

I arrive home long after my family has gone to bed and quietly slip upstairs to Philip's room. I smile at my son whispering that he'll blow everyone away someday before kissing his forehead watching him smile. I visited Angie next brushing her shirt from her face and kissing her forehead whispering that she will always be my precious flower princess. I tiptoe to Angelica's room and sit beside her, "I know you won't forgive me but know that I respect you so much for sacrificing your happiness for Eliza." I smiled and kissed her cheek gently slipping to my bedroom last. I saw Eliza asleep her eyes red telling me she's been crying. I gently stroke her cheek careful not to wake her up and whisper, "I don't deserve you Eliza...I..I never felt that I earned your heart. Please take good care of yourself and the children. I wish I would have listened to your pleas Betsy. I love you." I pressed a chaste kiss to her lips before slipping back to my study. I pulled the rope necklace from the closet standing on my chair to string it over the exposed eve and trying it off. I climbed down carefully picking up the farewell letters for my wife, sister-in-law and children before climbing back onto my chair pulling to rope around my neck. High ceilings...I never thought I'd be so grateful for them. I paused my feet at the edge of the chair. I laughed softly, "Why am I hesitating..?"

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply feeling tears spring to my eyes as memories came flooding back: The bar where I met my friends on my first night in New York, humiliating Seabury and making the Brit cry while my friends cheered, pulling a prank on Burr while drunk and regretting it later, the accidental kiss that Laurens and I shared during the winter in Valley Forge due to me slipping on ice, becoming Washington's right hand man, meeting Eliza at the ball in 1780...god we were both helpless, writing her letters and asking Peggy for advice also Laf and Hercules laughing at my flustered nature, marrying Eliza and then discovering she is pregnant, winning the war and meeting Philip, becoming Secretary of Treasury, Angie being born, Madison, Jefferson, Burr and I becoming a political quartet that shares lunch at a tiny diner...finding out what Jefferson does in Monticello...that was a fun trip...the engagement of my two best friends... their wedding will be grand I'm sure.

I open my eyes tears running down my cheeks and see that it is getting light out wondering how long I was reminiscing. As the sun peeks over the horizon I smile the good memories warming my broken heart. I think of the good times for a short while longer my smile widening. I take a deep breath and quiet fills my mind for the first time in years. I hear the birds singing and whisper of the breeze outside. I take one last breath reveling in the serenity and then I let myself fall watching the world slowly fade away the letters still clenched in my fist.

Third Person:

Philip woke up when the sun filtered into his bedroom through the gap in the curtains; he swore he heard his father last night but his daddy is in DC for the summit why would he come home? The 10 year old slipped out of bed walking to check on his sister who was also awake. "I had a dream about daddy..." Angie yawned. "me too" Pip said. "Maybe daddy came home?" Angie said hopefully. "I miss him" Pip hugs his sister because he misses their daddy too. "Let's check his study you know how mama feels about them sharing a bed." Angie nods and they run to the study pushing the door open.

Angelica is woken with a start when a loud scream echoes from the study where her brother in law usually hides refusing to come out unless the house is asleep. She jumps out of bed hurrying down the hall tying her robe. She walks in looking at her niece and nephew, "What is all the fuss-" The words die when she looks up following the children's horrified gazes. her brother in law hangs from the ceiling his neck broken at an odd angle a serene smile on his face and tears drying on his cheeks. "Oh dear God..." She pulls the children to her feeling them shaking and crying into her robe. She then notices the letters poking from his fist carefully pulling them out. She tears open the one addressed to her feeling tears sliding down her cheeks as she reads it

My dearest Angelica,

I cannot apologize enough not that it will repair the damage done but I want you to know this: I respect you so much for being a strong woman willing to sacrifice her happiness for her sister's. Thank you for introducing me to Eliza all those years ago. Thank you for trying to reason with this stubborn fool and I deeply regret that our last months together were spent in pain. I hope that someday you will forgive me for being a fool and putting my work first. I always hated living off of others even though one summer would have done me no damage. I will always admire you Angelica, never forget your promise to make Jefferson include women in American rights. Stay strong and keep fighting. take care of Betsy and the kids for me.

with love and regret

A.Hamilton

She wept bitterly for never seeing how much pain he was in. She handed the letters addressed to Pip and Angie to them before shooing them back to their rooms. Using the chair she pulled him down from the noose and threw the wretched rope necklace across the room; she sat beside him her tears falling onto his cooling flesh. "Y-You are forgiven." She walked out and sank against the wall her body shaking with sobs. Eliza finds her this way when she wakes up. "Angelica what ails you so early in the morning?" Eliza looks at her trembling sister concerned. "Oh B-Betsy...." Angelica sobs. "What is it?" Eliza asks so Angelica leads her inside the study watching her eyes go wide. "N-No he can’t b-be..." Angelica nods another sob escaping her as she shakily points to the knotted rope. "Alexander...my poor Alexander..." Eliza sinks to her knees beside her dead husband tears falling onto his face. "He left this for you..." Angelica hands her the golden sealed envelope from the desk. They open it and what they find causes fresh tears to rush down their cheeks. Alexander left a copy of the original pamphlet, money for Pip to further his education and the sweetest letter of apology and farewell Eliza ever read. She grasped his cold hands, " Y-you are always forgiven d-darling..." She wept resting her head on his chest realizing he had come to say goodbye last night, the kiss was not a dream.

In France Hercules was in tears when Lafayette and his grandmother returned from the bakery. "Hercules what ails you mon chou?" he handed the letter to his fiance words escaping his grasp. Laf's eyes widened, "N-non?" Hercules nods showing him the money that had been enclosed for their wedding. "God why!? He h-had so much to live f-for..." Laf sank to his knees sobbing Hercules joining him on the floor holding him as they wept.

In South Carolina John had just returned for the evening when a letter was pressed into his palm by his sister who was crying. he saw the seal wondering why she was so upset. "J-John that's a death s-seal... it means the sender is going to commit suicide. M-my friend sent me a similar letter last year." "Death seal?!" John tore open the letter a small sum of money falling onto his lap along with a locket. he stared at the items for a moment before unfolding the letter with shaking hands.

My dearest Laurens,

I wish the best in your adventure to recruit your regiment. I know you will do well and prove the worth of we people of color. I wish I could have kissed you farewell one last time like that once in Valley Forge. I enjoyed it too much and that feeling still lingers as I write this. I wish you a happy wedding with Martha Manning. She truly is perfect for you. I wish you good life and prosperity. I wish i had the courage to give you this locket sooner...and the money is for your men. The bells and whistles we jokingly discussed months ago. I bid thee adieu dearest.

With love and flourish

A. Hamilton

Laurens wept as he opened the heart shaped locket finding a small music box inside that played his favorite tune. It was engraved ' To my dearest John'

"He'll be here he's j-just..." Jefferson's voice cracked. "He's gone Thomas. I know Alexander would not do this if he were not serious." Burr said tears sliding down his cheeks. "J-Jesus Christ..." Madison sunk onto the couch trembling Thomas sinking down beside him as the trio wept.

Washington re-read the letter from Alexander several times until tears blocked his vision, "Why...son…? There was so m-much more you could have done for this country…"

The next day the original pamphlet appeared on every doorstep across America along with the news that the Secretary of Treasury had committed suicide early the previous morning. The nation was silent as the people realized that the poor man never deserved the harsh treatment. The Reynolds were arrested and jailed for life and the senators had oddly vanished. Madeline and Michael wept the hardest realizing they could finally go home but it felt hollow because the man who gave them the chance was not here to be thanked. The nation mourned the loss of Alexander Hamilton. The one man that proved beyond the shadow of doubt that even orphan immigrants can make a difference.

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hamiltrash2097-blog · 7 years

Note

👻 Alexander Hamilton

TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE, USE OF TERM CREOLE BASTARD also mentions of non consensual sex, SELF HARM and SELF HATRED.

IF THESE THINGS TRIGGER YOU PLEASE AVOID THIS POST.

Non Canon version of the Reynolds Affair where Hamilton is actually a loyal husband and refuses the affair but maria won’t listen. When he runs out of money a fake pamphlet is published with a forged signature. Everyone detests Alexander and he becomes depressed.

All Characters belong to Lin Manuel Miranda except Madilton (ship name but hey), Cattivo and Simon. (who are all senators).

Alexander’s POV

My hand shook as I hastily scrawled my speech for the debate later this afternoon; I don’t wish to have all of the angry eyes boring into my back again but alas I am required to attend. As the hours passed I had managed to push the negative thoughts to the back of my mind praying to god that those dark thoughts would not plague me again until after the debate. Once my speech was written I returned to my previous task of preparing the original pamphlet about the Reynolds Affair. I refused her, I did NOT consent to it yet….everyone blindly believes I willingly cheated on Eliza. A man can only take so much hatred before he cracks and I have long since buckled beneath the anger and hatred. My children yelled they’d rather be without me, my wife won’t let me explain and my friends are unresponsive. I just want the truth to be told so I can finally escape this personal hell of mine. As I finished fixing the last few smeared letters my office door swung open, “Hamilton.” I felt the temperature drop slightly and saw Senator Madilton and his two fellow senators blocking the doorway,”If it is not a dire issue please leave me to my work.” I said carefully hiding the pamphlet beneath mt speech. “Hamilton all you do is work.” Senator Simon said. “You should rest.” I narrowed my eyes, “Don’t act like you suddenly care.” I spat angrily trying to force the burning tears to hold their position behind my eyes. “Such harsh words.” Cattivo purrs. “Leave me be!” I said getting upset not in the mood to deal with their scorn.

“You think that the truth will save you Hamilton? You think you can escape what is already published?” Madilton said coming closer. “I cannot undo what YOU have done no, but I can tell America what REALLY happened… the parts of that affair that you left out.” I spat back tears starting to escape down my cheeks. “Look at you crying over nothing! What did Washington see in you?” I gripped my sleeves my own insecurities rising to the surface once again. “Your wife doesn’t want you and neither does your family or your friends. face it you’re alone.” I trembled shutting my eyes tightly as tears dripped off of my chin. 6 months of endless emotional torture, of endless glares and angry whispers as I walk the streets. “Just leave me be please.” I said brokenly. “What authority do you have to make a such a request?” Cattivo jeered. “This is my office.” I replied. “You don’t sound so certain of that.” Simon leered. “Regardless you need to join us for the debate. Do dry your tears Hamilton, you look pitiful.” Madilton and the other two left me there to scramble for my speech and follow them to the Congress floor.

“Why is Hamilton here?” “That creole bastard has no place in this room after what he has done.” “No one needs his loud opinions anyhow.” Washington called order, “Hamilton you first.” I read my speech pausing and stuttering as the senators whispered angrily among themselves. I finished my speech and waited for a response, “Jefferson, Madison if you please.” Washington said and I sat listening to them both not bothering to correct them as my own dark thoughts consumed me. The debate faded into the background and their words sounded far away; I truly am alone. I felt tears burn in my eyes as the horrid memories of the past 6 months came to haunt me. Eliza burning all of the love letters that took me hours to write and send, my son and daughter screaming that I’m not their father anymore, being slapped by Angelica… “What no witty response Hamilton?” Jefferson said.I slowly came back to the present and looked away from him not saying a word.

“Y’all managed to break him?” Jefferson said. “Own up to your infidelity and stop crying about it Hamilton.” Simon spat. “Yes and while you’re at it leave your position!” Another senator shouted. “We don’t need you or your financial systems.” I curled into myself tears burning in the corners of my eyes. “That is enough!” Washington spat, “We do NOT bring personal matters into this Congress room.” I trembled clenching the arm rests of my chair tightly my knuckles going white. “Now. Does anyone have anything to say in regards to either side of the argument?” Washington asked. “Hamilton is wrong.” Madilton called. “Why so?” Washington pressed. “He can never be correct.” Washington sighed rubbing his temples. “If none of you have anything backed by logic about why my secretary is wrong be silent.” “But sir-” Madilton said. “Silence.” Washington said coldly. I tried to recompose myself but all I could hear was the jeering of the senators. “Hamilton?” Jefferson said. “Son?” Washington’s voice echoed slightly. “D-don’t call me son…” I replied my head throbbing as tears began to once again slide down my cheeks. “Alexander!” Burr shouted as I gripped the chair tighter. I faintly heard Washington call recess not realizing two hours had passed. I stood mumbling excuse me ignoring the concerned calls of my fellow politicians and father figure. I mentally cannot take another day of this!

I briskly walked to my office pushing the papers off my desk grasping the pamphlet after signing it properly. I walked to the publisher and handed him the money I’d saved saying, “Run it for tomorrow please.” He nods and I smile for the first time in months. I go back to the white house sitting in my office pulling out the broken quill I’d hidden earlier in the week. I unbuttoned my cuffs sliding my sleeves up staring at the scars. “What does Washington see in me..?” I whispered pressing the sharp edge of the quill shaft against my arm and slicing the skin watching blood rush to the surface of the cut. I scratched my arms more, “I am useless, loudmouth bother…not worthy of this position…I don't deserve my wife….or family…” I stopped after five lines were cut on each arm and grabbed the black rag I had to clean myself up not bothering with lunch. Trembling I wrapped my arms and returned to the floor for the remaining hour of the meeting.

Burr caught my shoulder as I walked in, “Alexander?” His tone held barely restrained worry. “I’m fine Aaron.” I lied sitting back down. The session ended earlier than usual on account of myself and Jefferson agreeing for a change. As soon as we were dismissed I excused myself wanting to prepare for tomorrow. I went to my office pulling the farewell letters to my friends and father figure. I had already mailed John’s and that for my friends in France making sure it would reach them with haste and Burr’s awaits him at the front desk of the hotel he was staying in during the summit. I left the letters for Jefferson, Madison and Washington on the desks in their offices. I walked back to my own office going to my bookshelf and pulling a hollowed encyclopedia from 1700. I pulled out the money I’d stashed away from Madeline and Micheal to help them return home to their mother and father on Nevis. The money was tied away with a knot only the native island people could untie and the rope is much to thick to cut. I smiled satisfied with my farewell and flagged down a carriage to take me home as I refuse to give the scathing senators the satisfaction.

I arrive home long after my family has gone to bed and quietly slip upstairs to Philip’s room. I smile at my son whispering that he’ll blow everyone away someday before kissing his forehead watching him smile. I visited Angie next brushing her shirt from her face and kissing her forehead whispering that she will always be my precious flower princess. I tiptoe to Angelica’s room and sit beside her, “I know you won’t forgive me but know that I respect you so much for sacrificing your happiness for Eliza.” I smiled and kissed her cheek gently slipping to my bedroom last. I saw Eliza asleep her eyes red telling me she’s been crying. I gently stroke her cheek careful not to wake her up and whisper, “I don’t deserve you Eliza…I..I never felt that I earned your heart. Please take good care of yourself and the children. I wish I would have listened to your pleas Betsy. I love you.” I pressed a chaste kiss to her lips before slipping back to my study. I pulled the rope necklace from the closet standing on my chair to string it over the exposed eve and trying it off. I climbed down carefully picking up the farewell letters for my wife, sister-in-law and children before climbing back onto my chair pulling to rope around my neck. High ceilings…I never thought I’d be so grateful for them. I paused my feet at the edge of the chair. I laughed softly, “Why am I hesitating..?”

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply feeling tears spring to my eyes as memories came flooding back: The bar where I met my friends on my first night in New York, humiliating Seabury and making the Brit cry while my friends cheered, pulling a prank on Burr while drunk and regretting it later, the accidental kiss that Laurens and I shared during the winter in Valley Forge due to me slipping on ice, becoming Washington’s right hand man, meeting Eliza at the ball in 1780…god we were both helpless, writing her letters and asking Peggy for advice also Laf and Hercules laughing at my flustered nature, marrying Eliza and then discovering she is pregnant, winning the war and meeting Philip, becoming Secretary of Treasury, Angie being born, Jefferson, Madison,Burr and I becoming a political quartet that shares lunch at a tiny diner…finding out what Jefferson does in Monticello…that was a fun trip…the engagement of my two best friends… their wedding will be grand I’m sure.

I open my eyes tears running down my cheeks and see that it is getting light out wondering how long I was reminiscing. As the sun peaks over the horizon I smile the good memories warming my broken heart. I think of the good times for a short while longer my smile widening. I take a deep breath and quiet fills my mind for the first time in years. I hear the birds singing and whisper of the breeze outside. I take one last breath reveling in the serenity and then I let myself fall watching the world slowly fade away the letters still clenched in my fist.

Third Person:

Philip woke up when the sun filtered into his bedroom through the gap in the curtains; he swore he heard his father last night but his daddy is in DC for the summit why would he come home? The 10 year old slipped out of bed walking to check on his sister who was also awake. “I had a dream about daddy…” Angie yawned. “Me too” Pip said. “Maybe daddy came home?” Angie said hopefully. “I miss him” Pip hugs his sister because he misses their daddy too. “Let’s check his study you know how mama feels about them sharing a bed.” Angie nods and they run to the study pushing the door open.

Angelica is woken with a start when a loud scream echoes from the study where her brother in law usually hides refusing to come out unless the house is asleep. She jumps out of bed hurrying down the hall tying her robe. She walks in looking at her niece and nephew, “What is all the fuss-” The words die when she looks up following the children’s horrified gazes. Her brother in law hangs from the ceiling his neck broken at an odd angle a serene smile on his face and tears drying on his cheeks. “Oh dear G-GOD…” She pulls the children to her feeling them shaking and crying into her robe. She then notices the letters poking from his fist carefully pulling them out. She tears open the one addressed to her feeling tears sliding down her cheeks as she reads it

My dearest Angelica,

I cannot apologize enough not that it will repair the damage done but I want you to know this: I respect you so much for being a strong woman willing to sacrifice her happiness for her sister’s. Thank you for introducing me to Eliza all those years ago. Thank you for trying to reason with this stubborn fool and I deeply regret that our last months together were spent in pain. I hope that someday you will forgive me for being a fool and putting my work first. I always hated living off of others even though one summer would have done me no damage. I will always admire you Angelica, never forget your promise to make Jefferson include women in American rights. Stay strong and keep fighting. take care of Betsy and the kids for me.

with love and regret A.Hamilton

She wept bitterly for never seeing how much pain he was in. She handed the letters addressed to Pip and Angie to them before shooing them back to their rooms. Using the chair she pulled him down from the noose and threw the wretched rope necklace across the room; she sat beside him her tears falling onto his cooling flesh. “Y-You are forgiven.” She walked out and sank against the wall her body shaking with sobs. Eliza finds her this way when she wakes up. “Angelica what ails you so early in the morning?” Eliza looks at her trembling sister concerned. “Oh B-Betsy….” Angelica sobs. “What is it?” Eliza asks so Angelica leads her inside the study watching her eyes go wide. “N-No he isn’t!” Angelica nods another sob escaping her as she shakily points to the knotted rope. “OH my GOD!” Eliza sinks to her knees beside her dead husband tears falling onto his face. “Here” Angelica hands her the golden sealed envelope fro the desk. They open it and what they find causes fresh tears to rush down their cheeks. Alexander left a copy of the original pamphlet, money for Pip to further his education and the sweetest letter of apology and farewell Eliza ever read. She grasped his cold hands, “ Alexander!” She wept resting her head on his chest realizing he had come to say goodbye last night, the kiss was not a dream.

In France Hercules was in tears when Lafayette and his grandmother returned from the bakery. “Hercules what ails you mon chou?” he handed the letter to his fiance words escaping his grasp. Laf’s eyes widened, “N-non” Hercules nods showing him the money that had been enclosed for their wedding. “God why!” Laf sank to his knees sobbing Hercules joining him as they cried together.

In South Carolina John had just returned for the evening when a letter was pressed into his palm by his sister who was crying. he saw the seal wondering why she was so upset. “J-John that’s a death s-seal. It means the sender is going to commit suicide. M-my friend sent me a similar letter last year.” “D-death seal?” John tore open the letter a small sum of money falling onto his lap along with a locket. he stared at them before unfolding the letter with shaking hands.

My dearest Laurens,

I wish the best in your adventure to recruit your regiment. I know you will do well and prove the worth of we people of color. I wish I could have kissed you farewell one last time like that once in Valley Forge. I enjoyed it too much and that feeling still lingers as I write this. I wish you a happy wedding with Martha Manning. She truly is perfect for you. I wish you good life and prosperity. I wish i had the courage to give you this locket sooner…and the money is for your men. The bells and whistles we jokingly discussed months ago. I bid thee adieu dearest.

With love and flourish A. Hamilton

Laurens wept as he opened the heart shaped locket finding a small music box inside that played his favorite tune. It was engraved ‘ To my dearest John’

“He’ll be here he’s j-just…” Jefferson’s voice cracked. “He’s gone Thomas. I know Alexander would not do this if he were not serious.” Burr said tears sliding down his cheeks. “J-Jesus Christ…” Madison sunk onto the couch trembling Thomas falling beside him as the trio wept.

Washington re-read the letter from Alexander several times until tears blocked his vision, “Why…son…you…you had so much left you could have done…”

The next day the original pamphlet appeared on every doorstep across America along with the news that the Secretary of Treasury had committed suicide early the previous morning. The nation was silent as the people realized that the poor man never deserved the harsh treatment. The Reynolds were arrested and jailed for life and the senators had oddly vanished. Madeline and Micheal wept the hardest realizing they could finally go home but it felt hollow because the man who gave them the chance was not here to be thanked. The nation mourned the loss of Alexander Hamilton. The one man that proved beyond the shadow of doubt that even orphan immigrants can make a difference.

#warning suicide #self harm #mentions of non con sex #depression #hamilton #angst meme #death for hamilton #trigger warning #back up #long text post #hamilton the musical #alexander hamilton #john laurens #marquis de lafayette #hercules mulligan #the whole gang #rip alex

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regrettablewritings · 7 years

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All the Write Words, Pt.V (Library AU!Vladimir Ranskahov x Reader)

Prologue Part I Part II Part III Part IV

Since his humiliating secret had nearly been caught by his brother, Vladimir made it a goal to work on his assignments once he was in the privacy of his room in the apartment he shared (read: took up residency as it was under Anatoly’s name alone). The problem with this could mostly be traced back to the fact that he and Anatoly tended to work late often or wind up heading out for drinks with the rest of the men at the end of a particularly uneventful or sometimes stressful shift. Either way, Vladimir’s pre-homework ritual would include him scrambling to do his work or mentally groaning that he had waited until last minute to do it. It reminded him way too much of his school days and he wished he could avoid those as often as possible but alas, no prevail. To be honest, the only thing keeping him from giving up altogether was his pride: the pride he managed to grasp and maintain as a man who was never afraid to back away from a fight. He especially refused to back away from the fight currently being presented by some 5′2″ poofy-haired pipsqueak who willingly dressed like a bum.

To be perfectly honest, however, there was another reason Vladimir kept doing the work even when he was often too tired or feeling too drunk to really want to try. And he discovered it the very next day he was due to work at the library, right after the occurrence with Anatoly in the office.

“ – like so,” (Y/N) chirped. Vladimir gave an obligatory hum of understanding when in reality he couldn’t care less. (Y/N) was showing him how to set up the Kid’s Corner for whenever the library was hosting a storyteller’s visit. The storyteller wasn’t scheduled for another week but today had been particularly slow enough for (Y/N) to decide that Vladimir needed to know the very minor ropes. Personally, Vladimir couldn’t comprehend why it mattered which way he did it: preparations for storyteller time just meant dragging a large, worn velvet seat (the kind you saw in old movies where an old man would blabber on from), placing it by the large tree-shaped bookshelf (“Atmosphere,” was all [Y/N] explained), and surrounded it with numerous seats and beanbag chairs for the snot-nosed little brats to plop their asses in.

Then you had to set up a table nearby and fill it with some juice boxes and granola bars but the rest of its contents were totally up to the idiotic soccer moms who thought their kid should only ingest organic snickerdoodles or some crap. This last part, of course, was seen through Vladimir’s point of view but (Y/N) more or less hinted that that was what was to be expected. But then, every thought of Vladimir’s seemed to go in a similar fashion: filled with boredom, disgust, anything and everything exhibited by a king forced to interact with such squalor. It was for this that hearing (Y/N) suggest they look over his first workbook assignment came as a split-second blessing; emphasis on the split-second.

A small grim feeling bubbled in the man’s gut as they reached their usual spot in the faculty lounge. Vladimir had never been a good student. Even when he was surrounded by his more approval-seeking classmates as a small child, the blond’s mind would wander elsewhere – any elsewhere, really, so long as it wasn’t in school. He had the potential, or so he had been told. But it just never set in well with him. Maybe he found it too boring, maybe the teaching methods didn’t suit him? Whatever it was, nobody ever found out and soon enough, nobody cared to. Not when they had Anatoly to depend upon.

“Oh, my little Tolya,” their mother would coo. “Such wonderful marks”, “Such lovely diction”, “My son could write the next opera if he so wished it”, blahblahblah. Anatoly never was forced to sit in a dusty old library and learn how to read like a stupid child. Anatoly never had to hand to any of his teachers a colorful workbook made for small children because that was the easiest he could read. Anatoly ‘s teachers didn’t look at his work the way (Y/N) looked at his. Anatoly’s teachers never hummed like that, grabbed a red pen, and made that many check marks alongside circles –

Wait. Vladimir’s brows furrowed, for once out of confusion rather than dismay. Did he see that right. A small smile grew between (Y/N)’s cheeks and it made Vladimir’s stomach unsure of what to do; his teachers never smiled at him whether he failed or he did decently on his work but then (Y/N) could’ve been more openly sadistic. When she turned the quickly-graded sheet towards him, he tried to make sense of what was making the little demon smile. With her red pen, (Y/N) had made five checkmarks, coupled with a few choice circles. The circles were always on letters that looked alike (facing a certain direction or tails in the wrong place). Was that a good thing?

His muddled mental state translated to his physical state undoubtedly. It made (Y/N) smile even more.

“The checks are good, circles are things that need work,” she explained. That was all Vladimir needed for his brows to become unknitted and raise ever so slightly. There were no bones about it: There were slightly more checkmarks than there were scribbled circles. He . . . did okay?

“You did great, especially for your first time!” (Y/N) beamed. She got up from her chair at the circular table and stood by the taller being. Vladimir felt a small hand give him gentle, pleased pats on his back. “I’m proud of you!” And that did it.

Immediately Vladimir tensed up. “Proud”? But . . . But that term was for Anatoly. “I’m proud of you” was never directed at Vladimir. Usually, it was Anatoly raking in the praise and approval. Even during their rougher years when the eldest Ranskahov brother accompanied the younger on heists and trades, Anatoly seemed to get somewhat less of a scolding than Vladimir himself. It felt wrong, it felt strange, it felt completely misplaced, it felt . . . good. And it felt completely different than the feeling of being proud of oneself as he had become accustomed to.

Like a tickling in the heart. Or soul. Somewhere inside that Vladimir hadn’t acknowledged or brought up the existence of in ages if ever. It was during the slight daze of slight shock from the words that Vladimir began to recognize another feeling pride came with: his face felt like it was burning. It felt tightened, like the skin was being both tugged and squished together all at once.

“Uh . . . You okay there, Vlad? You’ve been awfully sil – Oh! You’re blush – You know what? You want a cold cup of water?” And just like that, the small, warm presence of a hand that Vladimir forgot was even there vanished. It was replaced with a small coldness near the small of his back.

He glanced up at (Y/N) to see her pulling a dixie cup from a dispenser on the cooler. Surely she had some idea of what she’d just done? But judging by the coy, closed-mouthed smile she wore when she handed him the cool-down cup, she had no idea. And for once, Vladimir trusted that that’s what one of her smiles actually meant.

It had been about a week or so since Vladimir’s first fix of approval. Seven days or so that had gained some peculiar hybrid existence as both agonizing yet brief. Not quite schoolesque, not quite relieving. His eagerness for the approval-fix had become quite a motivator, if he would allow himself one moment away from the denial of just how much he was working for it. He still certainly made more of an effort to do his assignments at home. And while he groaned at the workload (Y/N) would assign him four times a week, he found himself more surprised at how often he waited for that moment where (Y/N) would pull a pen out of her pocket (or curls), give the occasional hum, make a mark or circle here and there, and say those words: “Good job!” or “I’m proud!”

The assignments where he had fewer checkmarks than circles would be initially met with disdain and slight, licking flames of anger. At any other point in his life, he would have probably thrown a temper tantrum worthy of the five year-old that may or may not have inhabited his mind and body. But by the time Vladimir would reach home and the sanctity of his bed, the flames would give way to tamed fire, ready to fuel his determination to do better and prove himself capable. It was a rush in all kinds of ways.

It had become slightly easier to get Vladimir to do things as well, such as sitting him down to read. Which, to the staff of the S. Lee Library, was a trickle of a blessing at this point – it was storytelling day and the last thing anyone needed was for a bunch of nervous mothers to take one good look at the 6’, scarred Russian with the mug of a hellhound and immediately yank their child out of the building, calling off books that didn’t come from her tablet. Really, (Y/N) had confidence that Vladimir wouldn’t even care about people coming in enough to want to interact with them. But to be safe, she shoved a small pile of books into the man’s arms. Each one was rather thin and bore a seal with a funky-looking cat wearing a tall, striped hat. He was instructed to spend the next hour and a half reading them as (Y/N) manned the front desk (of course, he was to sit behind the desk so that she could assure he was actually reading and not slacking).

It was about an hour and a half, maybe two hours later and Vladimir was still slumped on the floor, book in hand, back against the counter. He had managed to finish three books already: one about the same cat with the striped hat making a mess of two children’s house; one about the ABCs; and one about a man who could make cow noises. That last one had a few words that puzzled Vladimir and he found himself surprised at feeling guilt for deciding to move on but for the most part, he felt accomplished.

He was just starting to read a story titled Hop on Pop when he heard that all too familiar giggle of (Y/N)’s, yanking him back to reality. But upon arriving back, Vladimir noticed that (Y/N) was no longer beside him. And the giggle came from somewhere else in the library. He faintly recalled (Y/N) saying something about going over to clean up after the storytelling hour.

As strange as (Y/N) was in his eyes, however, Vladimir highly doubted there was anything humorous to be found as one cleaned up empty dixie cups and sticky granola bar wrappers. And indeed, the Russian was right – because (Y/N) wasn’t laughing at cleaning, and she certainly wasn’t laughing alone. Upon rounding the corner, Vladimir found his mentor in the Kid’s Corner, sitting a small chair made for children, positioned next to a young man about her age who was sitting in the storyteller’s chair.

He had brownish-red hair combed in a lax manner that still managed to portray an air of certainty. It didn’t matter that his eyes were shielded behind a pair of strange, red, round-framed glasses; they were probably just as warm and welcoming as the smile he wore. Basically, he was everything Vladimir wasn’t: closer in age to (Y/N), warm, and smiling. Vladimir had to seriously consider whether or not to throw up in order to catch (Y/N)’s attention.

Fortunately for the carpet, he didn’t have to; the brunette stopped laughing and turned to his general direction.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Were we being too loud? I understand that it’s a library, quite unprofessional . . .” Vladimir’s eye twitched slightly. His voice was low and warm. Like hot cider. Was every person who stepped into this goddamn place so pleasant and gushy? It was at this point that (Y/N) finally managed to stop laughing and turned her attention to her protégé.

“Oh, hey, Vladimir! I was wondering if you’d ever drop by,” (Y/N) smiled. “Hey, look, most of the kids’ mothers wouldn’t let them eat too much sugar or whatever so we got tons of leftover sugar cookies and chocolate chip granola – help yourself!” But Vladimir’s eyes remained fixed on the shades-wearing man before him. He wasn’t sure how to feel about him: part of him wanted to give his usual glare. “Oh, sorry, uh – Vlad, this is –”

“Matthew Murdock. Er, Matt. I’m not so much a formal person,” Matt said, offering his hand in Vladimir’s direction. However, it wasn’t as direct as it should have been. Vladimir wasn’t certain what to do besides inch closer to hesitantly take it. He did it only out of obligation and the knowledge that not doing so would summon a lecture from (Y/N) on rudeness. But that didn’t stop him from thinking: Maybe if this idiot would take off those stupid glasses, he could see. Must all Americans be so arrogant? Hell, why do peasants feel the need to be unnecessarily flashy?!

“Uh, I’m blind . . .” Matt threw in, as if he were reading Vladimir’s mind. It was only after he said that and when he pulled back that Vladimir noticed the white and red stick by the man’s side. Oh. Well.

“He’s real philanthropic, comes to read to the kids every so often. You know, when he isn’t abandoning us for that ‘big lawyer student life,’” (Y/N) beamed. But Vladimir was hearing none of what she was saying, only how she said it: That tone she used; it was shining, bright. That same gold-colored tone she used whenever she told Vladimir she was pleased with his work. Subconsciously, his fists balled and his jaw clenched. He didn’t like sharing golden things; no king should ever have to worry about sharing with a goddamn peasant.

“—and we specially order books in braille just for him and he reads, like, Harry Potter and all that good stuff in braille! It’s a great way to introduce diversity to the kids and teach them that anything is possible no matter what comes their way. Isn’t that great!” (Y/N) affectionately nudged Matt’s shoulder, earning a bashful, crooked smile from the man.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. I just like giving back to the community,” Matt insisted. “Hell’s Kitchen is a shit place but that doesn’t mean it always has to be. Besides,” he shrugged, “the kids seem to like the fact that their storyteller can’t see them and tell them to stop wiping their boogers on the carpet.” The snide comment earned yet another shared laugh. Just the two of them, of course. Vladimir shifted uncomfortably, fist flexing on and off. He didn’t like this. Shit was too weird and somewhat invasive somehow.

“Oh, hush, Matty, and just lemme praise you a bit,” (Y/N) cooed. It was that sentence that made Vladimir sharply inhale and tense. His mind began to fill with familiar sentences, all of which came in the form of his mother’s voice: “Hush, Anatoly, I must brag about your marks to Mrs. Romanova, she will be so jealous!” It was in Russian, of course, but pride knew no language barriers.

“And guess what!” (Y/N) almost seemed to vibrate in her chair, the excitement rolling off in waves. “Matt’s even offered to teach me some braille – for the heck of it! I mean, he ought to teach me for free . . .”

Matt waved his hand as if to ward off the indications. “Just think of it as a something from friend to friend.”

“So sweet,” the woman gushed. If her curls could project her emotions, they would have curled and bounced ecstatically. It unnerved Vladimir to hell and back.

“But man, Vlad, his fingers just move along the bumps so quickly! I doubt I’ll ever catch up, y’know?”

Matt’s crooked smile returned. If Vladimir were a different kind of person, he would have allowed himself to admit that it was a lovely smile. How fitting that a lovely smile would belong to a lovely-looking young man. “It just needs time and you need practice. Don’t feel bad about it. Hey, if it makes you feel any better, at least you’re not stuck with Punjabi like a certain someone we all know.”

The last part of the sentence was delivered slightly louder than at first and was quickly followed by a “Screw you, Matt!” being whisper-yelled by Foggy from a few aisles down. Matt and (Y/N) shared yet another laugh; Vladimir just clenched his teeth.

“Seriously, though, it’s not too hard. For example . . .” Vladimir watched in silence as he saw Matt take (Y/N)’s small, brown hand into his own larger one. He guided it to a bump-riddled page in the book on his lap. “There’s six potential dots per grid, so every letter is just a combination of those six dots. When I was a kid, I told myself that it’s just as important to feel for what isn’t there as it is for what isn’t.” (Y/N) nodded as she hung on to every word even though she knew Matt wouldn’t see it. Vladimir’s eyes narrowed, however. (Y/N) was a good student: comprehending, focused. A little too focused in his own opinion, though.

To get a better feel for it, (Y/N) closed her eyes. She allowed herself to become vulnerable and left completely at the mercy of her teacher. Matt appeared to appreciate and take the opportunity to guide her hand about the page, inspecting letters with every progression. Matt guided her hand upwards, Vladimir couldn’t help but notice that the gesture inherently made the woman inch closer. Their shoulders rubbed together. The further her hand was guided, the more she leaned in. And the more she leaned in, the more the underside of her breasts came close to brushing against Matt’s left hand, which was still sitting on his lap. Oh, hell no.

“So this dot in this corner? That means it’s an ‘M.’ And this one . . .” Once again, the blind man guided (Y/N)’s hand only this time they ventured downward. Under Vladimir’s unnerved and growing eyes, the woman’s little hand came too close for comfort to Matt’s groin.

“Judging by the positions, this is most definitely a ‘D.’” Oh, fuck that.

“And how long have you been learning?” Vladimir coughed. Matt and (Y/N) simultaneously stopped their little lesson and looked up at the Russian. (Y/N) could see him shuffling and thought nothing of it; she simply assumed that his presumed social awkwardness was the cause of his apparent discomfort. But Matt could hear the shifting; could hear the heartbeat behind it. There was something else and he knew it.

“Uh . . . We’ve had only had about two other lessons . . . Matt doesn’t come in too often, what with schooling and all. Well, they’re not lessons so much as him giving me pointers; it’s a work in progress sort of deal,” (Y/N) answered.

“Yes,” Matt pressed. He wanted to see where this would go. “And with further lessons, she’ll be just as good as me.” He threw in as innocent of a smirk as he could give. He could hear the grit of skin rubbing against each other in Vladimir’s balling fist.

“Well, she cannot,” Vladimir’s thick accent uttered. Matt’s smile faltered slightly but his eyebrows cocked in an almost taunting manner.

“I’m sorry. May I inquire why?”

“Because . . .” Vladimir’s mind frantically grabbed at air, grabbing at all the floating ideas and hoping for a winner. He found one. Unfortunately, it was only when he delivered the excuse that he realized his most grievous error: “Am going to teach Russian. And is time-consuming.”

Both (Y/N) and Matt wore surprised expressions. (Y/N)’s was because she was excited. She was finally breaking through, he was becoming more comfortable with her, and he was going to teach her Russian – triple whammy!

But Matt’s was out of something completely different: the fact that judging by Vladimir’s palpitations, this claim was the truth.

#i didn't feel like editing this #can you tell?#vladimir ranskahov x reader #vladimir ranskahov imagine #vladimir ranskahov imagines #daredevil imagine #daredevil imagines #all the write words #regrettablewritings

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