#cannot get past it truly like. this man tears his enemies to shreds but not freya

[godshivered]

me, watching freya try to strangle kratos to death: wow… there’s so much love here

[imagi77]

The King and the Knight ~ Drabble

Wrote this with a friend, @claude-frollo-archives​~ I thought I’d share. :’) Nothing official or anything, but it sure made me happy~

His nightly ride had come to a strange end when he soon found someone he knew, oddly placed at the center of a glen. She had greeted him like an old friend, and graced him with an enchanted waltz that even his own discovered wild spirit could not resist. It brought tender memories of this first part of the decade of raising a little girl, when he truly did not have any sort of obligation to take on the work of another. And to continue it to the very end… was just enough proof of the heart to someone who waited deep in the pines for these two wayward voyagers.

The towering pines became from dark and looming to somehow calm and peaceful to the point that it began to feel … uncanny to him. It felt so different that he had to stop. The stallion stalled in his tracks, with his ears back, upon a sudden… The female creature who was accompanying him paused and looked back to him.

Her eyes lit up with realization when this brilliant stallion displayed, shockingly… a lack of confidence? It almost made her eyes water to see this wise one hesitate so suddenly before her eyes. This was a wizard who has scorned in the face of evil itself and had been on a transforming journey for more than a decade — This was unreal. What was fastened here? What was trapping him?

In this form, he had to abandon it, for it was a treasured secret of his and has been so for years — If this was lie of some kind or some cruel trick, he had to come as his true form, the way he was. There was this… tranquility overcoming him, overcoming his logic and if he let that go, ever… it would leave him too vulnerable.

The stallion’s form wilted away before the Dryad and there stood a very on edge wizard, whose cloaks were just as slick as the beast’s coat as before. At her, his eyes looked shocked… hurt even at the mere possibility.

“What are you doing?” he asked her suddenly, a new tone taking over his often strong voice. It sounded fragile.

“I have done nothing,”

“Nothing. Have you charmed a wild animal’s naivete in order to bring me to this place? The very same way that you cursed it?”

“Absolutely not, dear Prince…” she answered, patiently. “You are not who you were almost 20 years ago. Far, so far from that. That curse relies on you now… Not I… but I do really believe that is the least of our worries now.”

“What do you mean…?”

“Only come, there is nothing to fear here…”

“Even you should know that there is always fear — Do not be so with me. I am aware of the dangers of feeling this close to safety can only be a diversion of some kind. If I know the effects of the Dark Arts well enough, this is a deathtrap waiting to happen…”

Her ambers softened sadly. “Things are not as they were, Orpheus… You have loved and have become loved and in doing so, you have something far beyond what you have once dreamed of as a boy. You are correct that fear would always survive, but love blooms brighter during such times, wouldn’t you agree? You have looked after so many and lastly that young inventor who proved to be more than what he seemed to be, after your Lily’s found petal no less…”

The anger fell from his eyes before he trailed them to the ground away from hers. He drew in a deep sigh, yet he still held his wand… ready for anything.

“Perhaps it was the pathetic hope of keeping who I held dear away from the horrors I have seen. If I was that close to losing myself to the enemy that young, it would prove the same for anyone… Or… I was always guilty of my sins…?” he brooded. “A shallow, weak minded fool who only wanted one day in the sun, shrouded in darkness, every day. Lyra… oh little rosie … when she took that hit and held it inside, killing that part of him with it, I felt a part of myself just shatter into ashes… Her eyes were cold ice for so long after those lessons… I thought I would never see her again.”

Soon enough, he looked ahead to the glen she was aiming to lead him to with a sign of dread yet there was a shred of once lost innocence in his eyes.

“I have forgotten this feeling. There was never a time when I ever felt this way, except for a few…”

“Like whom?”

“My mother… Then there was Lily… and then Lyra, two of which I have failed outright. I feel no danger here and so I cannot step further, for I know I will be betrayed and everything I have worked for would be undone —“

“It will not be that way — Prince, that is a promise. This is someone who knows and they will help everyone we hold dear. I swear it! Just come with me, this once. Let me show you.”

Severus couldn’t bear to look her in the eye for one minute. Casting his gaze to the ground and he did not go for her reaching hand - Not at all.

“Whether this is a lie … or not. I shall see and determine for myself.” he warned, keeping his distance. “I am warning you — I have no room in my heart for any more treachery… Of what’s left of it…”

At that she nodded, respectfully. The agony he had to endure to get to this point in time was precious and so she understood as to why he was so cautious about it.

He swept passed the Dryad soon catching onto the distant sunlight that seemed to be trapped within this one part of the forest and oddly, it did not illuminate much else. The Wizard instantly felt a change in the air that almost took the breath right out of him. A fascinating, yet yearning peace warmed up in his chest as he stepped into the sunlight, very cautiously. There was a body upon one of the ledges between two grand pines… A massive golden body with a mane a brilliant as gold as the wind blew through it, it glistened like diamonds. Prince stopped not knowing how to process this at first…. This felt like a dream… As the Dryad joined his side, the great Head then turned to face them. The eyes were more human than ones he had ever seen, belonging to such a massive beast — Pure sunlight gold, full of mirth and a great knowledge that brought forth a score of sorrow. That face resembled that of a crown, for a King so great.

Right then… Prince felt the overpowering desire to stay humbled. All the pride and stubborness he had just vanished entirely… He felt small, worthless whilst in the presence of… whoever this was. It was not only not human, but far beyond that. Far beyond any magic. Had he just died just now… Was time even real?

Right then, the golden Beast rose from their perch on a pair of strong front arms, with a tail gracing behind them.

“I understand that you have much to ask me.” the Beast had spoken in a deep, profound voice, almost purring and rumbled like distant thunder. “Do not fear me, brave Knight.”

For a moment, it seemed that he could not even speak. Prince had a sense that this was a presence to be reckoned with.

“I find that… problematic, with all due respect.” he soon managed a response.

“With a drawn wand that I see, I do understand why. I vow to you that no harm shall come.”

“You know me enough to know my alias…. Who are you?”

“I am ASLAN. The Great Lion. I have come from a world that is not of your own, friend. I have come seeking the courageous, the trustworthy and the wise.”

At the sound of that mighty voice, it had seemed to have the Wizard in a state of peace, whether it was welcomed or not. The Lion knew it was something the weary man needed in his life, it was so lacking that the feeling was purely foreign to him. At that, Aslan held the most compassionate gleam in his golden eyes as he gently climbed his way down from the ledge, with so much power that he even shook the ground beneath Prince’s feet.

“This world has worn you down. I can see it, I can feel it… You must know now that I am no enemy. I have seen your beginning and your present. The rocky road you have traveled on as shook you to the point that you no longer believe in your own truth, yet you believe in others whom you hold dear. You have regrets and sorrows that can never be forgotten… You try to forget the past yet your soul still lives in it. It lives in it and you fear of the terrors of the past returning again. I am not here to humor you of this, but to encourage you to let free of that bind. It never defined you. If you let it free, your heart will heal.”

Prince’s eyes flashed as if something had just awoke within him and his brow furrowed once again, soon taking a step back.

“No one will ever have power over you again, Orpheus Prince… or are you still Severus Snape? The boy who supported and honored his mother to the very end of her days. He who tried to shield his childhood friend from the evils of another… He who had no control over such evils ever since the beginning?”

“DON’T. Severus is DEAD.” Prince soon spoke, his voice clearly on the verge of absolute agony. “… He had been killed along with his filthy excuse for a father, whom I was almost molded into…”

“You were never your father, Prince. He had chosen his fate long before you returned for Eileen. He had been given chance and chance again, and he still returned to what truly killed his soul, entirely. Whereas you, you hung on to a single thread and you managed to mold your own destiny. Severus Snape did not die. He only transformed…” Aslan’s powerful tone soothed further into a gentle and loving tune, even as a tear escaped Prince’s eye. “If Lily and her husband saw you now, they would be overjoyed. You carried on her tender work of raising their daughter, sparing her from evil, as they so wished on their last night. She always had faith in you. It broke her heart that day, but deeply she knew that you would make the wisest choice. This will be your choice to make. I only ask that you consider this offer with a calm heart.” said the Lion. “I do not desire you to be eaten by self loathing… That is not how others see you. The past no longer plays a part in your life NOW. You shan’t look back and compare, rather, look back and reflect of how different and more you have become ever since you had endured those events. I see a magical boy who escaped an abusive home, he who made a living for himself, from what he knew, he taught and therefore he learned… Instead of using your abilities to bring harm to others, you took that evil and created good out of it. You taught others like you to fight for independence and protection. That is no school you run. It is a home now. You are a magician who anyone can trust. Hence why I come to you now. I have been in silent observance, in search of magical blood worthy to aide my realm.”

At that, Prince rose his eyes to meet the Lion’s, deeply confused.

“I? Worthy enough? To aide the likes of you, whose able to flatten me with a mere stare?”

“You are worthy to me, Orpheus… Someone worth more than a thousand songbirds.” Aslan lovingly smiled. “Show me who you really are ~”

This was no challenge but this was a form of expression. The transformed Wizard, with his chest feeling as though it could burst unleashed a Patronus so bright that it trapped the entire glen in pure white light. In quiet tears, Prince freed a sprightly doe from his wand and she danced about the glen… even inviting the Dryad to prance with her.

“There she is…” Aslan softly whispered with a smile at the sight. “As bright as a spring day…”

“Just as I thought…” the Dryad laughed.

Prince watched his own creation be alive about the glen with a deep wistfulness before she gently came to his hand and he seemed to stroke her head.

“. . . what is it do you wish of me?” Prince soon asked, his soul feeling entirely free for once before solemnly facing the Lion who gently closed in.

[ddaenggtan]

from eden | myg + jhs (preview)

you've been in the dark a long time, overworked and exhausted. the only bright point is your gatekeeper, hoseok, your closest friend and the man you love but can't have. you've accepted that loneliness is inevitable for you. when a voice calls to you, though, and moves you so deeply that you rip open the earth to help them, you meet a mint-haired boy that changes everything you thought you knew about your prison.

pairing | yoongi x reader x hoseok

genre/warnings | greek god au, hades!reader, thanatos!hoseok, persephone!yoongi, fluff, angst, smut, mild depictions of violence, mentions of blood (well, blood equivalent, bc gods), pining, depictions of abusive parenting (seriously, I don’t go into a ton of detail, but it’s enough, pls don’t read this if that triggers you at all), love triangle (kind of), polyamory, v v smutty, mutual masturbation, oral (female receiving), face-sitting, fingering, dick-riding, double penetration, unprotected sex (gods can't get sti's but u can! Wrap it b4 u tap it!), creampie, everyone hates Zeus but what's new, demeter sucks and is the literal worst

word count | 15.6k | will be cross posted to ao3

[ coming saturday june 15, 8pm est ]

It's dark when you open your eyes. You've spent so long down here, you're used to it, but the shadows always seem to make the air colder than it should be. Though you suppose the land of the dead isn't supposed to be warm.

You stretch and wince at the crick in your spine. Another night sitting at your desk, greek fire burning through the hours so that you can scratch away at the papers in front of you. Your siblings always enjoy doing whatever they want, using mortals and throwing them away however they please, cleaning up after each other whenever they can spare the time.

No one ever seems to think about you, nor do they remember the chaos up top only worsens your constant migraines.

No, instead they start their wars and slaughter their enemies and are absolutely oblivious about the fact that the Meadow is at 80% capacity as it is, with more souls arriving each day. Thanatos did well at his job, as did Charon, and you were always sure to be thankful to them, but you wish, not for the first time, that there was someone - anyone - to help with your work.

Your brothers have the naiads, the winds, and the lesser gods to help them with their oceans and skies. Gods of vengeance and retribution help with war, while the fertility goddesses and the muses aid the lovelorn.

And yet here you are, still alone after all these years. Millenia, you've been stuck down here, forced to live out your days in the cold darkness and manage the dead mortals. You've always been introverted, even before you drew lots with your siblings, but never like this. You've tried to leave, of course; at first making short visits to Olympus or the mortal realm, just to speak to another living soul again, someone else who understands what it's like to be trapped in your own life. It seems like every time you came back, though, the underworld had gotten smaller and smaller, nearly suffocating you in an attempt to keep its claws in your skin. And then, of course, came the curse.

You haven't felt the sun on your skin in nearly a thousand years, and while you've always been one for the shade, you miss it. You miss the smell of the flowers in the temples, you miss the sound of the river as it babbles past, you want to feel the warm summer breeze ruffle your hair as you stand in the middle of a marketplace. You're tired of the Fields, you're bored of walking the streets of Elysium with the weight of their stares at your back, sick of standing at the steps to the Isles and wondering if it is, truly, euphoric and if any mortal would ever find out. You don't wear your sandals around the palace anymore; you don't want to hear the footsteps echo. It's just a reminder that you are, truly, alone.

Even the other deities in the Underworld have stopped calling on you. The aura that surrounds you is enough to wilt most any plant, unnerve most every animal, and the gods are no exception. The only exceptions are Hecate, who makes it her personal mission to bribe you into visiting the Meadow if only for a moment, and Thanatos when he can slip away for longer than a moment to distract you from your work. They rarely succeed, but it's the thought that counts, you suppose.

You muse on this as you walk, bare feet skimming lightly over the soil of the Meadow as you make your way to the Gates. You could probably just shadow-walk, if you wanted, you do enjoy giving your Thanatos a fright, but you figure the walk would do you good. There’s no one to bother you as go, thankfully. The dead wander aimlessly around you. There's no acknowledgment as you pass; there's never any recognition of anything in the Meadow, the price mortals pay for being so utterly inconsequential and mundane.

You smile when you see that your friend is busy, and you give a silent command to Cerberus not to alert the man to your presence. The dog whines a little, but sits back on his haunches, shaking the ground as he does so. You're silent as you move up behind the judge.

"You wanted me to tell you my judgment and I have," Hoseok says firmly. "You could have gone straight to the Asphodel Meadow and existed in relative peace for eternity, and instead you request a hearing, and then have the gall to question my decision?" You grimace slightly; perhaps putting Hoseok in charge of judging the souls was not the best idea, but he has yet to be wrong about someone.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 

When you emerge from the shadows, you settle at the base of your garden tree. The only living thing that would grow down here, the sole reminder of the world above. Its branches show that it should be close to the harvest soon, maybe a month away at the most. You reach up, weaving through the darkness to pluck a pomegranate from the tree. You don't even like pomegranates anymore, you think as you inspect it. Ripe, juicy, and utterly disgusting; the gods' idea of a joke. The thing that brought about your isolation, your solitude, yet it continues to be the only thing that grows in this wasteland.

You laugh bitterly before tossing the fruit up in the air, letting it fly through the shadows to land beside Hoseok, whatever he's doing. He always appreciates your little gifts, the only real thing you can do to show that you aren't cross with him and are glad for the work he does. He's long been stuck here with you, but the fruit doesn't turn to bile on his tongue the way it does yours. Perhaps the willingness he had that first time made a difference.

Please.

You glance around, looking for the voice that suddenly echoes around you. It's soft, a memory of a whisper. It's not rare for you to hear the voices of the dead in your realm, but this is different. This one strikes you to your core, for this…

This one sounds hopeful.

The prayers that make their way to you are never hopeful. They are sad or angry or scared, always filled with tears and regret and more than a little hesitancy, but never do they have any shred of hope in them.

You stand, eyes narrowed as you look through the darkness for whatever soul may be calling to you.

Please. I don't want to go back. Don't let her take me.

Without thinking, you reach into the shadows. The blackness swirls around your fingers, unsure where you're trying to go. You don't know yourself, and you wish you did. You aren't sure why you're doing this; you rarely answer prayers, least of all the ones that don't mention you specifically, but something in this voice calls to you. It resonates in your chest, shakes your very being because you remember that feeling. You remember the way it felt to be free, standing in the sun and clawing at the earth as Gaia dragged you back down to your post, tears mixing with the dirt as you pleaded, begged her not to take you back down there.

With a jerk, you pull the shadows apart, and the ground quakes above you. You watch, anxiety pooling in your gut, and it's only the intensity of your focus that lets you see it: a figure, falling limply through the earth that you've opened. The string of curses you let out would make even Ares blush, and it's with a rush you haven't felt in millennia that you weave the shadows together into a net and toss it upwards. The figure falls into it with ease, shadows wrapping around the body to glide gently downwards until they can deposit the person with ease at the roots of your tree.

Your breath catches in your throat as the darkness recedes, revealing soft mint hair with flowers woven into it, pale green robes that are sliced nearly in half at the back and caked with mud. The man is beautiful and soft and bright, every inch the antithesis to your own black and grey clothes. You hesitate to even look at him, too afraid of dulling that sun-kissed skin with the death you carry on your fingertips.

His brow furrows and he winces, though his eyes remain closed. You blink owlishly before guiding the shadows around him once more; when you're sure he's secure, you pull him along behind you until you reach the only spare room you have in the palace. You situate him on the bed there, fluffing pillows and smoothing blankets until you can almost pretend he fell asleep there of his own accord. With pursed lips, you assign three of your Bones to watch him; one just inside the door and two outside of it, just in case whatever he was running from attempts to come for him.

You don't want to leave him, but you have work to do, and the land of the dead cannot rule itself.

[diningpageantry]

Unveil

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343617/chapters/41439146

Chapter 8/11 of Of Wealth and Leisure

Word Count: 4213

Summary: Unspoken secrets of the past come into focus, leading to the only known clue in the murder of Mrs. Pitch. Their lead reveals something much darker than expected.

“So, you’ve been getting along awfully well with Mr. Pitch,” Ebb says, speaking more into the room than towards me. Sparks burst out from under the log as she prods it with a poker, adding another into the flames.

I feel guilty for shivering only moments ago, which prompted her to fuss completely and add to the fire. The late December air drifts through her weakly sealed windows and door, leaving the poor woman to live within layers upon layers of clothing. At times throughout the last month or so, I’ve been subtly sneaking her extra clothes; an old, ill-fitting jacket I’d forgotten about, a pair of thick cotton trousers. She dotes upon me, ruffling my hair as if I were a child and saying that I’m too good to be in such a dark household.

She’s not particularly wrong in her statement; I have been growing particularly close with Mr. Pitch, or Baz, as I call him privately. We’re not joined at the hip, exactly, but the threatening air between us has shifted dynamics entirely. Instead, we now spend afternoons reading through old trade documents and family records books, attempting to find recurring names. Some have stuck out, but all fall flat eventually.

He’d shared with me his anxieties over his title; the heir to both wealths and the power structures in play. We’d gotten drunk one night, weeks into his recovery, and laid sprawled out upon the Moroccan rug of his bedroom floor. He had told me, in a long winded speech, that he’s as equally fearful of his allies as compared to his enemies, as neither are predictable.

When I rested my hand upon his shoulder and lolled my head to the side, asking him whether or not he trusted me, he took a long moment's pause before closing his eyes. “Yes,” he mumbled at last, settling my ruffled edges with his liquor-smooth voice. “If you’d have killed me, you would have left me with my injury and fled.”

I had no other words for him, hand lifting up and tracing down his nose.

He let me brush my hands upon his bared skin that night, curious to feel the curves of his wrists and dipping slope between his chin and Adam’s apple. In silence, he sat and observed my delicate movements up until I’d settled my index finger on his lips. In fear, I’d retracted back and rolled to face the ceiling again before distracting myself with talk of my interactions with wealth.

Such events haven’t been uncommon between us since. An unspoken intimacy of grazing touches coupled with long, extended moments of staring. I think it’s grown into a competition; who can breakdown first, crumbling into a newly directed conversation to avoid whatever’s at hand.

Whatever is at hand? It’s been gnawing at me, making a home inside the carved out part of my brain where my usual thoughts once occupied and endlessly pestering my conscious mind. Agatha’s words ring clear in my ears every time I make Baz smile, even if just with a poorly said tease.

“Do you fancy Mr. Pitch?” Do I? Surely, I’m overthinking such statement. Although, it’s rare for me to think over something so tediously at all. Not being one much for thinking, it’s bitterly unfair that the only thing I can think about is the state of my attractions. For the sake of myself, and for the fear of a truthful answer, I allow a single repeat of the word “No” to filter through my mind as I stare at his stone-grey eyes.

I do not believe I fancy Mr. Pitch.

If anything, I’m unsure if we’re truly friends. I believe we endure each other’s company in order to make my time here more bearable, as compared to slicing each other to shreds. At least, that must be his perspective--I would not refuse to call Baz a friend, but I doubt he would share the same sentiments.

“We’ve been working together, yes,” I say into my mug, feeling the steam dampen my nose as I tip it up for a taste. It’s only a few degrees off from scorching me.

Ebb turns her head and looks over me curiously as she closes the fireplace curtain. “Working? That’s an interesting word, ‘innit?”

“No,” I retort quickly, blinking before backtracking. “Well--no. Maybe. Perhaps without context…”

“And what context is that?” she prompts, still staring at me quizzically as she draws back her seat, resting across from me.

As per impulse, I shrug while hearing remnants of Baz’s voice in the back of my mind, mocking me for doing so. “I’m trying to help him with finding his mother’s killer. It clearly haunts him, and I’m curious as to solving it.” My fingertips feel down the teacup, pressing against the clay ridges and inconsistencies. “You don’t happen to know anything about that day, do you?”

Ebb swallows visibly as I speak, eyes downcasting as I finish. While I’d say it’s suspicious, I remind myself that it is Ebb. She would never hurt a beetle, let alone have any part in the murder of Natasha Pitch.

With that aside, her voice drips with guilt as she speaks. In her typical fashion, tears start welling up in the corners of her eyes, and progressively grow until they steadily drip down her cheeks. “I was here, you know. I’d moved to the grounds when I was 11, invited by the family to work alongside Mrs. Pitch. I’d told you, I’d been friends with Fiona, and our families were friends. Therefore, Mrs. Pitch trusted me to help her tend to the estate, and so on. She called upon me soon after she’d had Basilton, and her being herself, refused a nanny.

“About four or five years into my staying, the attack happened. I was preparing one of her horses for an afternoon ride and I’d heard such awful screaming--like the world was set ablaze. When I got there, I’d found Mrs. Pitch dead and the poor, young Basilton with a nasty injury. He survived, of course, but when the investigations came through and they’d asked him what happened to his mother, he was too shocked to even speak still. Don’t think he ever fully got over it.” She stops, wiping her face and staring off out the window. I fear stopping her, so I allow her to pause before continuing to speak. “While nothing ever got confirmed, my brother Nicodemus always had a crowd that aroused suspicions-”

“And what were those?” I cut, jumping a tad in my seat as my brows narrow. For the first time, the slightest hint at a lead sets me on my absolute edge.

Ebb taps her tears away onto her scarf, sniffling as she occupies her hands with her mug. “He’d always said there was such horrible business deals going on in town. I never quite wanted to believe him, but he’d say he’d sit at the tavern and hear men speak in hushed tones over body counts and trading hit deals...”

I let a beat pass, mind reeling as I assess the information. “Ebb, do you know where you brother is now?”

She seems to ignore my question, mind off somewhere distant as she continues. “He always got into so much trouble, my brother. He’d eavesdrop on conversations he shouldn’t have. Part of me blames that on his skipping the country with Fiona, but I also think he just wanted to leave…”

“Did he know anything?”

“... he seemed scared for me to stay, but only because how close I am in proximity to the Grimm-Pitch family…”

“Ebb?” I plead, eyes searching hers frantically as she appears glazed over and distant. Heartbeats between us pass irregularly before she snaps away and stares up at me, tears streaming more steadily.

“He said he’d heard a hit for Mr. Pitch’s life,” she breaks, cracking around the edges. “I didn’t believe him. I should’ve believed him. If I’d believed him--”

I stare on, throat constricting as I raise a hand. “Don’t--it’s not your fault, Ebb. It wasn’t… it was a while ago, and you were young. You cannot hold yourself at blame for the actions of others, even if the situation is so haunting.” I swallow around my words, trying to push the next ones out. “But, this is important, Ebb, so please. Did you know who said it? Where it was said?”

She wrings her hands around her navy blue scarf, knuckles bearing a bit white as she swallows down a lifetime of guilt. “I… no. I’m sorry, Simon. I just know it’s the only tavern in town…”

Searching her face, I nod and stand. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I have to run, but thank you so much.” I take her hands, shaking both of them as she nods understandingly and waves me off without a word.

I find myself sprinting up to the manor, taking stairs two at a time and rushing into the library where I know Baz is lounging with a book as he waits for my return. While perhaps a tad dramatic and unneeded, given this information is nearly two decades old, I still burst into the room with a heaving chest and eyes wide.

He stares up at me in bewilderment, eyes narrowing and mouth turning sour. “What is this fuss about--”

“We have a lead,” I say breathlessly, struggling to catch air back into my lungs as I lean on the door. “Ebb--she--the tavern--a lead.”

He bolts upright, book falling onto his lap as he studies my face. “A lead?” he asks, pushing himself to his feet carefully before limping over and standing in front of me, hands in front of his chest as he tries to decide what to do. “Good heavens, a lead!”

I nod, impulsively outstretching my hands and linking them between his. “Do we have time to run? Shall we make our leave tonight?”

His fingers curl around mine as he looks over my face, thinking. “It's Christmas Eve, man, we can't run now. But, surely, we can take a horse from the stable and ride into town after everyone has fallen asleep.” His lips twitch, threatening a smile. “At last…”

My feet shift, keeping my balance steady as I lean up to speak to him. “What do we do if we find the man?” I whisper, eyes searching his as I keep up on the balls of my feet to speak closely with him.

“We’ll decide there,” he says somewhat dismissively, hands unlocking from mine and lowering as he glances over me. “Do you plan on changing for dinner?”

I blink at the conversation change, feeling suddenly inadequate in my everyday outfit. “I hadn’t particularly planned on it, why?”

“Such a ghastly outfit for a holiday dinner, don’t you think?” he comments bluntly, rolling his eyes before catching my wrist. “Show me to your clothes; I’ll pick what should be worn for tonight.”

For the past months within this residence, the awareness my of social stature has somewhat gone mute. There’s the general activities we participate in, but since there’s little to no discussion between the family (besides Mr. Pitch and the children) and I, there’s no need to try to show up each other. This, though, changes within the flash of an eye when a holiday is presented. Unsure of whether or not we’d have company, I’d assumed my daily fashion would be proper enough, but the way Baz flips through my outfits makes my stomach churn.

“Do you have visitors?” I ask the question that should’ve been brought up long ago.

He waves a hand to dismiss it. “No.” And that’s all there is to that. No.

An outfit change for people I eat with everyday. Just as Friday dinners are, but apparently more pressuring, due to the festivities at hand. Whatever those will be.

He drags out a particularly sharp suit (a grey one), stuffing it into my arms before making a bored face as he shoos me off. Upon my return to the room, he’s nowhere to be seen.

I don’t see him again until the dinner bell rings.

As I take my seat, drawing in my chair and looking over the decorative dinner spread, he saunters in casually and nods at each of us. Suddenly, I feel naked despite such a well tailored outfit, looking dull in comparison to his. A deep maroon, with black lacing details. Every piece matches, down to the draping coat and tie. He has his hair pushed back, and his hat sits delicately and well-framing on the top of his head as a few waves of inky black lay on his shoulders.

He must catch that my jaw is slightly open, because he mocks closing it subtly. I blush, barely even knowing that I’m blushing.

Dinner is brief and joyless; a typical night’s meal, just accompanied by better dressing and more holiday based decorations. At the end, we all wish one another a good night before making off to our typical evening business. Baz and I find ourselves in his room, trying to create a sturdy game plan.

I’ve slowly grown to be more alert while in Baz’s private chambers. Despite the fact that our interactions have been remaining as relatively innocent, I still feel the prickling anxiety that a servant would walk in and have the wrong idea of the nature of our relationship. The way we act here is unusual, to say the very least. Given our slightly more turbulent interactions outside of our private conversations, it allows anyone who may know the truth of our “friendship” grounds to speculate.

Nevertheless, I make no effort to spend less time with him. I fact, more than often, I spend the night sleeping on his sofa. This way, we would research and work until our eyes couldn’t take the strain any longer and we were forced retire for the night. While I’m aware that my bedroom is feet away, I actively decide to tell myself that it’s easier to stay than to leave the room.

I elect to ignore my other thoughts on the situation.

Tonight, though, we don’t allow ourselves to get tired. I don’t believe I can, truly; the adrenaline sparked from the new revelations and the adventure only hours away keeps my mind running.

I lounge back on his long, deep velvet maroon bed bench, my gaze following him as he paces impatiently. At first thought, I consider telling him to settle near me and speak his mind, but I know how much effort that takes in itself. So, instead, I let him run himself in circles as his eyes squeeze shut.

“Baz,” I utter after watching him wear a track into the wooden floors, sitting upright as I speak. He doesn’t immediately snap away, hand up around his face and holding his forehead in the crook between his pointer and thumb. “Baz?”

His head lifts upon the second calling, blinking into consciousness and nodding. “Hm? Oh, yes. What is it?”

“I believe it’s nearly midnight,” I say, planting my feet onto the floor and forcing myself up as I button back up my smooth grey jacket. I catch him studying my every movement, gaze softening around the edges. I elect to ignore it. “Shall we make our leave?”

He nods wordlessly, collecting a heavier overcoat before instructing me to go collect my own. We meet out in the hallway, halfway between our respective bedrooms. In utter silence, we trek down to the stables and carefully tack and saddle both rides. Within minutes, we’re making our way out the far exit of the gates (the one that takes much less effort to open) and riding rapidly down the winding roads towards the town.

I stay behind Baz, trying to be aware to any dangers around us whilst failing to do so miserably. He’s utterly distracting; a cavern of darkness from behind, seemingly pitch black in comparison to the bright, freshly lain snow. I cannot see much besides the whipping tail of his jacket and the billowing of his shoulder length hair in the wind, but the bright moonlight nearly turns him blue in the dead of night, reflecting iridescently and hypnotizing me into a trance.

I don’t snap from it until we reach the edge of town, slowing our horses to a more calmed trot as we near the tavern. He guides me through, as I’m barely accustomed to the area itself.

In the dead of night, the gentle clomping of the horses’ hooves echo down the somewhat emptied alleyway, occupied only occasionally by a shying away woman of the night. It’s clear we’re not welcomed by any person in the town; it’s never a good sign when wealthy men come down in the early hours of Christmas morning. The dawning realization hits me of how much we look like we’re tempting the Devil.

Upon reaching the tavern, Baz ties off the horses nearby and leads the both of us inside, stuffing tobacco into his pipe. As the doors push open, heads turn in the dimly lit haze of the room. It reeks of hops, and the cloud of smoke nearly makes it impossible to make out faces even feet away from you. Everything's hanging heavy in haze of the the holiday drunken depression.

Confidently, Baz swaggers over to the bar, leading me to scurry behind him as he orders a local brew. I, on the other hand, stay sober in fear of needing to be the defensive brawler for both of us. In seeming disregard to his class status, Baz throws back his drink and orders a new one immediately after, melting right into the scene as he spins the rim of his mug.

As his hand reaches out for the second, a deep, ugly voice snarls something from the other end of the bar. He sits closer to the fireplace, silhouetting his figure. In the hidden identity, he still bites a characterful commentary towards my companion. “Why is such a pigeon-livered boy like you here?”

Baz stiffens beside me, fingertip still tracing the rim as his eyes remain downcasted.

“I said,” the scraping of wood reverberates in my ears despite the chatter around us as the man stands away from the table, “what’s your business here, ratbag?”

Without raising his head, the voice beside me addresses the offensively bold man. “I’m trying to find out information. Doubt you’ve got the brains for it, though.” As the other man draws closer, I can smell the wafting stench coming from him. A cocktail of liquor and sweat, seeping into his clothes and giving the illusion that he lives to drink and drinks to live.

“You got plenty of years of education, you don’t need to learn nothing here.”

“Somebody knows more than I.”

I finally grow the gut to raise my eyes, peering up at the man who drew closer and finding myself meeting an unexpectedly familiar face. He looks like a near mirror image for Ebb, yet more time worn and tattered. It strikes me as almost as a blow to the head, sending me mentally toppling back in my seat.

This must be Nicodemus.

It all ruminates inside me, trying to catch up the situation. I had believed he left; I’d imagined that Baz had expected him to have left as well, but there he is. In the flesh.

In a disheveled, depressing state.

“Tell me, Mr. Petty,” Baz keeps his eyes focused elsewhere, finding themselves on his pipe as he turns it in his hand and returns it to his lips after swallowing the remnants of his second drink. “Who killed my mother? What did they want from her?”

The man’s eyes flicker over him, seeming a tad amused as he begins. “There was a difference there, Mr. Pitch, between who killed her, and the person who wanted something.”

Baz clearly pushes back his discomfort, head lifting as he fearfully looks over the man. “A hit, then?” Nicodemus nods. “Who was it?”

“You must me mad to think I’d tell you.”

“I’ll pay,” he offers quickly. “It’ll feed your habits for a while, if you take it. You can keep your facade of hiding for a little longer.”

The man pauses briefly, sitting at the bar beside Baz as he orders another drink. After he downs it, Baz impatiently cuts in. “What’s your point in hiding it? It’s done now, it should mean nothing to you.”

A longer stretch of silence between us extends, and the reality of his answer hits the brilliantly bright Baz before it reaches me.

“It wasn’t her, was it?” he breathes, eyes blowing wide as he backs up towards me. I resist the urge to reach out and drag him close. “It was meant for me.”

Nicodemus pulls his lip into his mouth, looking at Baz with a shockingly familiar look of empathetic sadness before his face falls flat once more. “I would watch my back if I were you, Mr. Pitch. You’re focusing on the wrong attacks now.”

As quickly Nicodemus’ cryptic messages spill out, the faster Baz bolts from his seat and leaves in a flurry of his dark coat and starling rush of footsteps. I freeze momentarily before following out, shouting his name as I watch him untie his own horse and take off, not even hesitating to my voice. In a panic, I shakily untie my own ride and race down the roads, following his far off figure as the kickback sprays more outwardly behind me.

Thankfully, he slows down after we reach nearly a quarter of the way back to his family’s residence. I expect him to fall into step with me and simply trail me home, but he abruptly stops and dismantles before doubling over and panting.

I pull up beside him, stepping off my horse slowly. Baz startles, staring down at me as I approach. Swiftly, he outstretches his hands and shoves me down onto the snow, snapping a tearful “Leave!” before disappearing into the woods.

In a chaotic, disorienting blur, I follow him in, hopelessly shouting his name. Eventually, I find him backed up against a snowy log and frantically searching his pockets. As I approach, he looks as skittish as a deer in the midst of a hunt. He practically yelps, chest still heaving as his hands fly to my chest and jacket, throwing it open. His hands dig into my pockets, shouting barely coherent cries in front of me.

“Good God man, where do you keep your dagger? Your sword? For the love of all that is fair, any blade will do!”

I feel my vision get dizzied, partially by the proximity and sliding of his touches, but also by the distressing rapidness of his words. In a haze, I slot my hands around his jaw and cup around it to feel his smooth, well shaved cheeks. He continues shouting, crying and begging me for a knife as I shake my head, trying to break through his words.

“Please, Baz,” I yell back, shaking him slightly as his hands dig through each of our pockets once more. “Listen to me, just listen!”

“It’s my fault,” he cries dismissively, “just please, grant me the fate I’d meant to be given.”

“Baz!” I snap, pulling his jaw forward and staring into his searching, wild eyes as tears stream down his frozen cheeks. “Good heavens, I beg of you to stop this now!”

He shakes his heads, warping further into an incoherent jumble that it makes me feel as if I’m the insane one, begging for a dagger.

In a whirlwind, fear fueled moment of total desperation, I pull his head forward and slam my lips into his in order to quiet him for just a brief second. To my surprise, it works immediately. His hands going limp and freeze against the fabric of my suit jacket, his mouth keeping up against mine in shock. After moments pass, I feel him push back into me, hands sliding up my chest and gripping whatever can get a hold of as he kisses me back with the force of a battle.

After a minute or so of rough, clumsy kissing, he makes the move to pull back and practically hyperventilate against me. Slowly, I snake my hands up his front and hold his hair, attempting to coach him through his breathing. I let him come down against me, stroking his head and murmuring sweet soothing words.

Despite the wet seeping through to my leg in this calf-deep snow at our feet, I stand still with him as he trembles and folds over on top of me. We stay put at first, unmoving and pressed up against one another. I consider moving to see him, but my mind begins whirling back into reality. What if I spook him into running again? What if I’d ruined our budding possible friendship with kissing him?

My mind gets cut short by lips pressing to mine. At first, it’s tentative; unsure motions and little, tracing touches of his fingers finding the exposed skin of my neck. Then, upon my positive response, it suddenly sparks back to heated and fervent, tumbling me back into the blanket of snow as his body covers mine.