#catch me in my grave having perished from writing this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hysterialevi · 3 years

Text

Hjarta | Chapter 19

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

Author’s note: Don’t worry, I haven’t stopped writing this fic ;)

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

THE CEMETERY

Venturing down the neatly carved path, Eivor wandered through a tunnel of trees as he made his way to the cemetery, crushing little twigs underneath his boots. The snow in front of him lay disturbed thanks to a recent chain of footsteps belonging to the jarl, and up ahead, he could see the man himself.

Arngeir was currently sitting amongst all the tombstones, wallowing in the silence of his clan’s resting place. A touch of sunlight broke through the naked branches dangling above him, and kissed the top of his head as if it were a beacon sent from the divines.

Despite the serene nature of the graves lying around him though, the jarl seemed equally as lifeless as the souls he accompanied. Within a single day, he had lost two of the most important people he ever knew, and the grief was starting to take a toll on him.

He looked absolutely exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot due to a lack of sleep, his expression hung low from having mourned for so long, and his somber gaze seemed to lose itself in the nothingness before him.

It broke Eivor’s heart to see his father this way. He had gotten so used to the fortitudinous shell that Arngeir always wore, that now, it felt as if he were looking at a completely different man.

It was understandable, of course. Considering their clan’s recent losses. There were few things in the world that surpassed the pain of a child’s death, and Eivor couldn’t help but wonder how this would affect Arngeir in the battles to come.

Would the jarl even be able to fight in this state? Would he be capable of surviving? His mind had already been left in tatters ever since Thora’s passing, and the young man feared he’d be too weak for the ordeal ahead.

He just hoped that Gorm’s information would be enough to spark some hope in Arngeir before they faced Kjotve again. Thora may have been gone, but their clan had not yet been defeated. There was still a chance to recover from the damage that had been done, and Eivor prayed he’d be able to make his father realize that.

“Father?” He called out, approaching the forlorn man.

The jarl barely turned his head in response, showing a complete lack of interest in chatter.

“...Eivor.” Arngeir greeted bluntly. “What brings you to this place?”

His son stepped next to the bench he was sitting on, gazing at the grave before them. “I’ve come to tell you that Sigurd and I managed to get Gorm to speak. He told us where Kjotve is.”

The other man hardly seemed fazed. “Is that so.”

“Yes. We interrogated him just now.”

Arngeir was totally silent in response, leading Eivor to carry on the conversation.

“...He said that Kjotve intends to sail west. To England. Apparently, he has allies there, and plans to rally them in the war against us. He hasn’t departed yet, though. He’s gathering supplies on an island not too far from here before embarking on the journey. We still have time to catch him.”

Still, the jarl said nothing in return.

“Kjotve has powerful allies, father,” Eivor reiterated, trying to get the man’s attention. “According to Gorm, these men are more than simple raiders. They’re part of something bigger than we ever imagined. We can’t let him roam into English seas. Otherwise, we’ll all be finished--”

“--Hush, my son.” Arngeir said softly, raising his hand. “We will discuss everything later, I promise. But for now... allow me to grieve for our loved ones in peace. I grow weary of all this turmoil.”

Eivor nodded in sympathy, putting the subject to rest for the moment. “...O-Of course, father. I understand.”

Arngeir took a deep breath, refreshing his mind with the icy winter air. “Thank you, my boy. I realize our situation is urgent, but we must always make time to remember those we have lost, for we would not be here without them.” He glanced at the younger man, beckoning him to join. “Come. Sit. You would do well with a rest.”

The Wolf-Kissed complied and took a seat next to his father, basking in the tranquility of the graveyard. It was oddly peaceful, despite the tragic tales behind each of the shrines. The rustling of the trees harmonized beautifully with the wind that glided throughout the cemetery, and carried the scent of saltwater within its grasp.

Meanwhile, a profound presence watched valiantly over the lost souls who now roamed in the unseen oblivion, guiding them from a realm that existed beyond rational understanding.

It almost felt as if Thora and Ulfar were still there, despite not having a physical entity anymore. The mark they left on the clan’s heart had yet to wither, and even now, Eivor could hear their last words whispering in his head.

He just wished he could’ve responded to them. There were so many things he wanted to say, and so many questions he wanted to ask. He would’ve given anything to have one more conversation with his deceased friends, but now, all he had were regrets.

“Father...?” Eivor said. “Can I ask you something?”

Arngeir’s interest was piqued. “Of course.”

“What did Ulfar do before he found us? Who was he when they still called him Wulfgar?”

The jarl paused. “...You know about that?”

“I overheard Ingrida saying a prayer for him at the funeral,” Eivor explained. “Instead of calling him Ulfar, she used his Saxon-given name. Apparently, he always requested her to do so. I tried asking her about his past, but she was reluctant to speak. She said I should talk to you instead, since you were closer with him.”

Arngeir’s eyes lit up with remembrance. “...Indeed. That man was like family to me. A brother from a different land.”

He turned to face his son, shifting in his seat. “Well, if you’re really curious, Ulfar always wanted to go by his birth name, but feared that his Saxon roots would instill suspicion in our people’s hearts. The only ones he trusted with his identity were me, Ingrida, and of course, Linnea.”

“But why all the secrecy? Our clan knew him well. They knew he was a man of honor. Surely, having Saxon roots wouldn’t be enough to change that.”

“Well, it wasn’t just about his roots. If people ever learned that Ulfar was originally from England, naturally they’d become curious. And with curiosity would come questions. He’d have to explain how he ended up living with a Norse clan, and the reason why he was no longer with them.”

Eivor urged him to continue. “And what reason is that?”

Arngeir sighed out of hesitance. “...Ulfar did not forgive so easily when he was younger. Even though the Norseman who raided his village provided him with a new home, he still wanted justice for what happened to his family. He wanted revenge.”

“...So what he did he do?”

“Nothing, at first. He was just a boy, after all. There wasn’t much he could do to begin with. Ulfar spent the rest of his childhood and adolescence living with the clan in peace, adapting to their culture. He learned their language, held faith in their gods, trained with their techniques. He became a Norseman in everything but blood.”

Eivor could already see where this was going. “But that didn’t last forever, did it.”

The jarl shook his head. “No. When Ulfar finally became an adult, he betrayed his clan and killed the four raiders responsible for his family’s deaths. Three of them were slaughtered within a single night. The fourth one -- a man named Geirmund -- escaped.”

That name sounded familiar to Eivor.

“Geirmund...?” He repeated. “I think Ulfar told me about him once. He met Linnea while he was searching for him. I never knew the history between them, though. What happened to Ulfar after he killed the other three?”

“Originally, his clan planned to have him executed. They wanted to put his head on a pike for his treachery, but his father convinced them to simply exile him instead. So, as a young man, Ulfar was banished from his home, and spent the next handful of years wandering Norway as a jomsviking, offering his services to anyone who could afford them.”

“What about his father?” Eivor wondered. “Did Ulfar ever see him again?”

Arngeir frowned in pity. “...No. The day he left his clan was the last time he spoke with him. Ulfar never forgave himself because of it.”

“He regretted his betrayal?”

“Very much so,” the jarl confirmed. “Ulfar often told me that he wished he could return home. Not for the sake of a reunion, or for making amends... but to simply apologize. He never had the chance to watch his father grow old, nor bid him farewell when he wandered into death’s embrace, and I know the guilt haunted him for years.”

Eivor’s gaze sank to the ground. “That explains much.”

Arngeir quirked a brow. “Does it?”

“Indeed. Back when you first adopted me, I often expressed my desire to go after Kjotve. To kill him for what he had done. I wanted to avenge my parents and reclaim their honor, but Ulfar was always there to soothe my pain. He told me to never lose sight of what matters.”

“And he was right. Not too long from now, Eivor, you and many others will be leading the final charge against Kjotve and his clan. It will be a battle that determines the future of this kingdom, and you must not lose yourself in your grief. Fight Kjotve with honor, and perhaps, the gods will grant you the opportunity to reclaim Varin’s.”

The young man nodded assuredly. “I understand.”

The jarl seemed pleased. “I know you do. You’ve always carried Odin’s wisdom, even when you were just a boy. I trust that you will do what’s best in the storm to come. My only hope is that the Allfather can protect you where so many others have fallen. I couldn’t bear it if you and Randvi perished too.”

Arngeir quickly changed the subject, unwilling to let his spirit dim again. “But enough about that. Go on, my son. Wait for me in the longhouse. I will meet you there shortly. For now though, I'd like to spend some more time alone.”

“Are you sure, father?”

“Yes. Don’t worry about me, Eivor. My heart sits heavy in my chest with sorrow, but I am not ready to lay down my axe just yet. I will be alright.”

Eivor rose from the bench and straightened his tunic, preparing to leave. “Okay, then. If you’re certain, I’ll meet you in the war room later.”

“Good. We have much to discuss, and I imagine Sigurd will be eager to devise a plan. Until then, take care of yourself, my boy. These next few days will be the most harrowing yet. Do not allow yourself to fall prey to the grief, or this will have all been for naught.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A LITTLE LATER

OUTSIDE THE LONGHOUSE

Peering at the view before him, Sigurd sat quietly on the very same hill where he and Eivor shared their first conversation, waiting patiently for the man as he lost himself in the distant horizon. At the moment, the sun’s light was being obscured by a gathering of wispy clouds that circled around the mountains’ peaks, causing its beams to spread across the land in a golden haze. It glimmered on the ocean’s surface like a handful of scattered coins, and warmed the sheets of ice that clutched onto the shore’s edge.

It was as beautiful as ever, despite the mayhem that thrived in it. An illusion of peace concealed the pandemonium raging amidst their kingdom, and sheltered the death that littered the ground below. It made Sigurd feel as if he had stepped backwards in time, and he found himself wishing desperately that he could rewind the clock.

Only a few weeks may have passed since the prince first arrived at Bjornheimr, but to him, it seemed like an eternity. So much had changed in less than a month, and he could scarcely recognize his own face anymore, nor the faces of others.

Ulfar was dead. Kjotve was losing this war. The son of the jarl had taken his wife’s position, and now, the man he once called brother lay forgotten in a traitor’s tomb. It was as if the Nornir were toying with his fate -- plucking at whatever threads they could find -- just to see how much of a mess they could make.

It felt cruel to Sigurd, to curse him with such an arduous path. In a strange way though, part of him was grateful for having braved this trek. If it weren’t for the gods guiding him to Bjornheimr, he never would’ve met Eivor, or discovered the true nature of those he trusted. He would’ve lived the rest of his life believing in a false brotherhood, and possibly have fallen to one of their blades sooner or later.

This war had caused him a tremendous amount of pain, that was true, but it had also taught him lessons that no mentor ever could. It would be a chapter in his saga that he would never forget, yet at the same time, never wish to remember.

“Sigurd?”

Tearing his eyes away from the view, Sigurd looked to his side and spotted Eivor approaching him from the longhouse, prompting him to rise from his seat.

“Ah, Eivor,” he said with a smile. “There you are. Have you spoken with your father?”

“Yes. I just finished talking to him in the cemetery. He’ll meet us in the war room later to discuss our next move, but for the moment, he wishes to spend some time by himself.”

Sigurd’s brow furrowed in concern. “...How is your father?”

Eivor sighed, his breath turning into a trail of mist. “He’s... faring surprisingly well, in spite of our recent losses. He seems to be doing alright, but part of me suspects it’s only an act.”

“You don’t think it’s genuine?”

The younger man lowered his voice. “He just lost a child, Sigurd. And an old friend. No one passes through an ordeal like that unscathed, especially during a war. I can tell my father is hurting on the inside, but I also know he’s far too proud to show it. He would never risk hurting his clan’s morale like that. Or mine.”

Sigurd nodded in understanding. “A man who cares more about his people than himself. Admirable, but I hope he doesn’t neglect his own needs.”

“As do I. We’ve already lost so much in this past week. I can’t lose him either. Not when we’re so close to victory.” Eivor trailed off into a brief silence, softly clearing his throat. “...Anyway. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about the war later. You said you had something to show me?”

The prince reached down and picked something up from the ground, patting it clean before presenting it to his lover.

“Indeed,” he said, flicking some snow away, “I brought a gift for you.”

Eivor’s expression beamed at that. “A gift? What is it?”

Sigurd held his arms out, laying the object flat in his palms. “See for yourself.”

Looking in the man’s grip, the Wolf-Kissed found a beautifully-crafted shield resting proudly in his hands, waiting for the touch of its new owner. It had been fashioned out of a wood darker than ebony itself, and bore the intricate design of a raven on its surface. A vibrant mixture of blue and white pigment had been used to paint the majestic bird, and the edges of the shield were outlined with a ring of engraved iron.

Overall, it was an impressive piece of craftsmanship. Its small yet sturdy build made it an effective piece of armor, and the colors stood out from the wood like an aurora in the night sky.

“You got me a shield?” Eivor said, staring at the gift in awe. “It’s gorgeous, Sigurd.”

The prince grinned. “Ah, but it’s not just any shield, my love. This shield was passed down to me from my mother when I was only a boy. She gave it to me at a young age so that I could start my training, despite my father’s protests.”

A wave of reminiscence washed over Sigurd’s face. “...I used to carry it with me everywhere I went. Even after my mother’s death, I would wear it proudly on my back and use it as a... good luck charm of sorts, I suppose. An accessory to ward off the shadow lurking in my step. I don’t use it much nowadays since I don’t want to risk breaking it, but I’ve always kept it close nonetheless. It serves as a good reminder.”

Eivor tilted his head. “A reminder of what?”

Sigurd’s tone faltered with melancholy. “...Of what really matters.” He paused for a second and glanced down at the shield, unlocking the memories that lived inside it.

“With all the losses that we’ve suffered recently, I’ve found myself thinking about the past more than usual. My mind is often preoccupied with the burdens of regret, and my dreams are tainted by the men I’ve killed. In times like these, it can be difficult to remember why we’re even fighting in the first place. Hatred can become a familiar face if you indulge it for long enough, and eventually, you’ll find yourself burying an axe in someone’s chest without really knowing why.”

“It’s frightening to lose control of your life in such a way,” he continued. “It feels like... all the love you once cradled is slipping out of your grasp, and that there’s nothing you can do about it.” He slid a hand down the shield’s surface. “But when I look at this, I think about all the memories I hold dear. I think about my mother, about Dag, about a life without constant terror. I think about the hope I once carried, and how alive it made me feel.”

Sigurd flicked his eyes up to Eivor, unable to hide the glint of hope shimmering in his gaze.

“It’s the same feeling I get when I look at you.”

Eivor was flattered by the comment. “It is?”

The prince displayed a faint smile. “Yes. You remind me of the life I wish I could give to our people. But more importantly, you give me the strength to fight for it. Had it not been for your company throughout this past month, I’m not sure I’d be the same man I am today. And that’s why I want you to have this.”

The younger man carefully brought the shield into his grasp, mindful not to scratch it.

“Are you sure about this, Sigurd?” Eivor checked. “I mean, this shield used to belong to your mother. If you want to keep it, I’ll understand.”

The prince shook his head, holding up a hand of refusal. “No, no. It’s yours now. Even if you don’t use it in battle, I still want you to have it. I trust you to keep it safe, and I know my mother would’ve been honored to pass it onto someone such as you.”

The Wolf-Kissed slipped his arm through the strap, testing its weight with a few gentle swings.

“I... I don’t know what to say, Sigurd. It’s a magnificent piece of armor. I promise I’ll treat with the utmost care.” He closed the distance between them and leaned forward, pecking a small kiss on his companion’s cheek. “Thank you.”

The older man’s face radiated with a warm delight. “You’re welcome, Eivor.”

Coming to an abrupt halt, Sigurd’s attention was suddenly diverted to the longhouse when he noticed Arngeir striding through its doors, eager to get started on devising a strategy. It looked like Styrbjorn had also decided to join his small entourage and was currently accompanying him to the war room, looking more determined than usual.

“I think your father’s ready to meet us at the war table,” Sigurd observed. “We should join him as quickly as possible.”

Eivor chuckled softly, letting out a short breath. “This war never waits, does it?”

The prince returned the laugh. “It would seem not.” He placed a hand on Eivor’s shoulder and guided him away from the hill, bringing his lover along for a quick stroll before heading into the longhouse.

“Come.” Sigurd beckoned. “We have a battle to plan.”

#hjarta #assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #eivor wolfsmal #eivor wolfkissed #eivor varinsson #male eivor #sigurd styrbjornson #sigurd x male eivor #ac valhalla fanfic

17 notes · View notes

spookyspaghettisundae · 2 years

Text

Daylight Awaits

The headaches stopped, thanks to medication I found in an abandoned home. The fog has also finally cleared, but I find myself always waking up at night.

For no apparent reason.

It is eerily quiet out here. Except for the sounds coming from inside the fishing shop two doors down.

The creatures don't come this far out from town.

My fear is slowly fading, making way to melancholy. Having given the good doctor his walkie-talkie back, I am cut off from everybody else. I hope they're doing alright.

I hope Marla is not lonely, and I yearn for the party she wants to throw for us. I hope Angela is healing, wherever she is. I hope Mister Ishida is recovering from his traumatic experiences, and I hope Tyler has found safety with him and the others. I hope Eliza and Rob are also out there, unharmed. I hope Chris isn't hurt or angry at me.

I would like to visit Chris and Marla both, but I'm afraid that if I leave Doc alone, something terrible might happen to him.

He does not fear the soldiers. He fears the spirits. He is a haunted man, and the others think he is crazy. I do not, because I believe in ghosts. I believe in the beyond and the afterlife. I pray to God that I will never be as haunted by my memories as he is, but my time out here with him in his self-imposed exile leaves me to wonder.

I cannot claim to have seen any spirits like he has. But I hear strange sounds through the fog. And ever since arriving to make camp with him, I have been experiencing strange dreams.

Not that my strange dreams mean anything, but I had another tonight.

They are frequent here, and I mistakenly hoped the meds would have a side-effect of blurring any recollection of them to the point of nonexistence. Not that they are bad dreams—they're just intensely vivid and very confusing. I think my subconscious is trying to tell me something.

Reminding me that I'm looking at the edges of a puzzle coming together, while the pieces in the middle are still missing.

That's why I decided to write all of this down. The dreams of the past days, from during the storm and after it. Perhaps they offer clues. If not for myself, then perhaps for you.

The suffocatingly thick fog afforded me some time to light fires without fear of drawing the creatures near. In turn, this afforded me time to sit down and write in my diary.

I dreamt I was at Marla's house, trying to fill my water bottle from a rain collector barrel out back, but sawdust kept getting into it. I asked Chris for help, but he was slowed down by needing crutches to walk, and too far away. Marla told me to stop bothering him and took me on a fishing trip. We drifted onto a placid lake, riding on a small rowboat. I didn't catch any fish, but I pulled a pale dress from the water, and then awoke.

(There was in fact a pale white dress that I found out here, laid out besides the pile of bodies. Did Doc do that?)

In another dream, I dreamt of wandering through a huge, opulent art gallery. All the windows and skylights shattered, one by one. A storm raged in the night outside, and the rain poured in through broken windows, threatening to ruin all paintings. But the paintings were all pieces of a network of streets, and not only was I trying to rescue them from water damage, I started trying to sort them like map fragments. A statue in the central lobby stood tall, watching me as I worked. A marble sculpture of a wolf-headed man holding a stop sign like a staff. The statue moved, turning its head to look at me. It spoke to me, telling me I needed to fear the dark. I refused repeatedly until it raised the stop sign like an axe, and I jolted awake.

(On my journey out to the outskirts, I came across a stop sign that had been bent. Likely by the force of a car crashing into it. I did find a damaged vehicle farther down the road from there.)

In yet another dream, I dreamt of visiting the graves of all my friends—everybody who perished in the night of madness of New Year's Eve. Their grave markers were all inscribed in a foreign tongue, so I tried to make new ones for them. Rabbits were watching me, and I yelled at them to leave me alone. I used a diamond with sharp edges to carve new eulogies into their headstones. In doing so, I kept slipping and cutting my hand as I tried. I felt no pain nor fear, but bled profusely upon the grave soil, and violins began to play. I awoke.

(I have no frame of reference for this other than the sorrow that came in the months after New Year's Eve.)

In the fourth dream, I was sitting in Doc's abandoned warehouse, atop a throne made of loudspeakers. Trees were hanging upside down from the ceilings, and masked people queened me with strange regalia: a mantle of leaves, a loaf of bread, and a crown made of wax. The mantle itched and I complained about it. A tall, horse-headed man was by my side, dressed like a bishop. He told me I needed to embrace my duty. I painted the mantle red with blood, and he handed me keys to an ambulance. I woke up crying, but I was not sad. They were tears of joy.

(I struggle to make any sense of this, and I will say that the real warehouse in which Doc was originally hiding out was far scarier and more unsettling to explore than the one in this dream.)

Anyway, enough of the dreams.

Doc built a trap for intruders who seek to invade the second story of his fishing shop. I hope nobody gets hurt, but I understand why he built the trap. If another soldier comes hunting for him, I suppose it's a wise defense measure to implement.

What he did was tear down the steps leading upstairs, board all windows shut, nail a ladder to the outside wall leading up to a single open window as the only way left to get up in there. If you climb up the ladder and enter, I believe there's a trap door just inside the window there that opens to a dead drop, at the bottom of which is a tiny room in the basement to which he bricked the door shut.

He left a written warning against climbing up into the window, and any good Christian would be wise not to invade the privacy of a man's home. I unintentionally broke his trap when I took down the brick wall in the basement, though. I hadn't known I'd expose his trap like this, as I had to take down the wall in search of the noise.

I think it's static. It's not the television in the basement, because that thing is switched off whenever I hear this noise.

Where even is the power in this building coming from, anyway? I didn't see any generator in the basement, and I don't hear any buzz of electricity anywhere else throughout the building. Though I haven't entered the upstairs, because Doc explicitly warned me of doing so, so perhaps there's a generator wired into the house up there.

I had thought I heard the noise coming from behind the newly bricked wall, so I tore it down with my hammer and crowbar, brick by brick. I have no idea how to fix it, so I left him a written apology and urged him to rebuild it in case any other soldiers show up.

The noise—I heard it outside, too, so I realized it might not even be coming from the shop. The night was so quiet when I went scavenging for something to eat out there, that I heard this noise again and again, clear as day. I put my ear to the ground and heard it again. That is not to say that I heard anything from the ground. All I know is that I can hear it outside now, as well. I've heard it from as far away as from the General Store one night. The windows there were open while I was tidying up the apartment above the store, and I stopped hearing anything once I leaned out a window to listen.

You cannot even hear crickets from the woods.

There is a comfort in the quiet out here. The solitude, the serene edge of the forest, and the gentle flow of river water nearby. The distance from the dead also helps. Even with that noise. The noise doesn't bother me—it fascinates me. I wonder if my dreams have anything to do with its presence.

I need to find another walkie-talkie of my own. Perhaps at the police station—but that's in the middle of town, where most of the zombies walk. No matter how fast and quiet I am, this may be my last run. There is always a possibility of something going wrong. Making a mistake. Taking a turn into a shambling horde, climbing through a window into an infested house, or tripping and falling while they are right behind me.

I've made it longer than I needed to or ever hoped to. Thank you all who ever helped me since New Year's Eve, fellow survivors.

If you find me and I'm no longer myself, please set me free. Then leave my body be, for the zombies to feed. And don't worry about the storm, or the fog, or anything else.

I have prayed all I can, and I pray for everybody still out there. I pray for the living dead and even for the spirits that haunt us. Perhaps I will soon put image to the noise, just like the Doc.

I cannot claim to understand any of it, but I believe God has a plan for all of us. At the very least, He has mercy.

Daylight awaits.

—Submitted by Wratts

4 notes · View notes

ithebookhoarder · 3 years

Text

Chapter 11: A New Equilibrium. (The Gangster’s Daughter)

Masterlist:

Also available on AO3:

Warnings: Original Character(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Explicit Language, Gangsters, Period Typical Attitudes, Parent Tommy Shelby, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent.

----------

Life adopted an unusual but steady rhythm the following weeks after the mens return home both in and out of Watery Lane.

Business was booming again, with the Shelbys at the helm. Men, all eager to enjoy the spoils of life back home in the city, eagerly filled the shop day after day, money in hand and bets ready to be placed.

There was something celebratory about it all. About seeing the hope in mens eyes as they’d handed over their bets. About hoping their luck had changed, even in most cases it hadn’t. Still, every win was significant as the staff handed over the winnings with a happy grin and handshake.

The staff in the shop felt similarly. Many hadn’t seen one another since the start of the war, having been assigned to various regiments. For those men, to be reunited again was something they’d been dreaming of. There were cheers and hugs as they’d arrived their first day back, laying eyes on the lucky souls who’d returned.

Not everyone had been so lucky, as the vacant desks reminded them. Of course, there were plans to find people to replace their positions but it was obvious it would be no small feat. There may have been hundreds of men desperate for work, but none of them would be those brave souls who had perished in France, all in the name of king and country.

Still, everyone did their best not to dwell, as was the way of life in Birmingham.

The Shelbys, in particular, had had a lot to catch up on. Four years worth of stories and news was quite a lot, even with the letters they’d been writing back and forth.

For example, Evie told them all about her schooling, and the fact she’d managed to secure a prefect badge for the final year. She couldn’t help but beam as she saw the pride swell in her father’s face - even if John and Arthur laughed themselves sick at the thought.

“A Shelby prefect? Ha! Now I have heard it all.”

She paid them no mind, finding it a little funny herself. At least she gave them something to laugh about, considering the bleak stories they’d shared. Granted, they made a valiant effort to try to liven them up, with the odd joke or two but even that couldn’t mask the death and horror of war, written all over their faces. Finally, something the Shelby smile couldn’t hide.

It was the same look Evie saw in John’s eyes when she went with him to visit Martha’s grave. They’d chosen to bury her in the cemetery just outside of the city, knowing she would have liked the fresh air, and rolling green fields around them, full of flowers. Evie had been to visit many times during the war, using it as a chance to escape when the house and the people in it had become too much.

She’d often sit and speak to Martha, telling her about what John had written in his latest letter, or even bringing her newborn child to see her. Evie knew Martha would have liked that, to see for herself that they were alright. She also knew Martha was probably happy to see John here as well, to know he was back in the city and safe.

So, she pointed him to the grave and left him to talk privately, knowing he probably had a lot to say. Four years was a long time after all.

There were other small changes too, since John, Arthur and Tommy had returned. The fact people tipped their caps at Evie when they saw her in the street - police included - was enough to make her falter. She’d hadn’t noticed it these past years, or if she had it had never been repeated enough to spark her attention.

It was as if the whole city knew the Shelby men were back. As if, the whole city was watching. Waiting.

Waiting for what?

It was an odd feeling. One Evie was quick to bury. No matter what Polly may have said had she known, there was too much to be happy about to let something as trivial as a premonition ruin it.

What good was superstition anyway? It was all rubbish.

Wasn’t it?

——

Evie should have learned a long time ago not to dismiss the idea of the supernatural, or that her aunt had a scary habit of being right.

She should have listened to her aunt’s warnings of premonitions. Maybe if she had, she wouldn’t have been so startled when she awoke one night.

It had been weeks now, since her father and uncles had returned to Small Heath.

Evie bolted upright, panting as she tried to work out what had woken her. Normally, she was a deep sleeper. It took saucepans or someone jumping on her to wake her from a good night’s sleep. However, tonight, something had yanked her from unconsciousness.

Then she heard it again: the muffled screams from down the hall.

Evie felt her blood run cold. Never before had she heard a sound so full of pain and fear. It rattled her enough that she gasped, feeling a tremor run down her spine.

It wasn’t a ghost or some demon in the night. This wasn’t one of her books, after all. The sound was painstakingly real and loud, echoing through the wall behind her. Wait. That was her father’s wall? Did that mean-?

Evie was already out of bed.

She didn’t even think as she bolted for the door and towards her father’s room. Her trembling hand reached for the doorknob and threw it open, preparing herself to see some horrific scene or someone attacking him.

But that wasn’t what she saw.

Evie gasped at the sight.

“Dad?”

She assumed it was her father, but it was hard to tell in the darkness. All she could see was a pale figure thrashing about on the bed before her, illuminated by the thin strips of moonlight pouring in through the window.

Tangled up in his sheets, a thin sheen of sweat plastering his body, Tommy Shelby almost looked possessed. Sobs and half formed shouts escaped him as his limbs thrashed about, reaching for something Evie couldn’t see. Some invisible demon.

It terrified her.

What did she do? Her instinct was to rush to his side, to try and gently shake him awake.

“Dad?” she encouraged, trying and failing to release him from the mental torment he was trapped in. How had he done it, all those times before, when she’d been small and similarly afflicted?

Evie couldn’t remember. Her panic was too strong as it rang in her ears, muting out anything that wasn’t her father.

“Dad! Wake up! It’s ok,” she pleaded. “You’re home. You’re safe. Wake up.”

His eyes snapped open. A sudden cry escaped his lips, sending her staggering backwards in a panicked daze.

“Dad. Stop. It’s me,” Evie began.

However, her words clearly had no impact on him. He was a man in a trance, still gripped by whatever terror was still inside him as he flung out a hand onto the bedside cabinet and bolted upright.

His eyes whirled to her.

She then noticed what was in his hand… The gun was pointing directly at her.

She screamed.

It fired.

Her legs gave way as she dropped to the floor, covering her head as she felt herself go numb. The sound was deafening, the shot ringing in her ears as she stifled a sob of panic.

Plaster showered down on her head from the bullet hole above her.

The sound apparently woke her father from his terror induced haze as she heard the gun clatter to the ground. She felt it as he hurried to her side, cursing and trying to get a look at her trembling body. “Where are you hit?”

He repeated it again and again as he tried to get her to respond. It took a minute before Evie could even look at him, let alone move her tongue. “I’m fine… you didn’t hit me,” she stammered, pushing his hands off of her.

“Thank God,” he croaked, his tone suddenly sharp. “What the hell were you thinking?”

What had she been thinking? Better yet, what had he been thinking? Or feeling?

“You tried to shoot me?” Evie gasped. The moment finally seemed to reveal itself to her in painstaking detail. She didn’t know what to say. All she could do was repeat the statement over and over again. “You tried to shoot me. With a gun. A real gun.”

“I didn’t know it was you. I wouldn’t have fired if I’d known,” her father pleaded, his voice trembling as relief and remorse flooded through him. “Listen to me, Evie. Never come in here again if you hear me like that. Understood?”

Evie nodded dumbly. “But… I thought… I thought you were in trouble.”

By then, she heard footsteps and knew they were no longer alone. The gunshot would have been enough to wake the whole house. If any were brave enough to investigate it was different.

“Tommy?” That was Arthur’s voice, bellowing from the doorway. He looked almost comical in his pyjamas, gun in his hand, ready to fight. He would have been more menacing if his hair wasn’t poking up in all directions. “You alright?”

“Fine, Arthur. Go back to sleep.”

“I heard shots.” That was Ada, accompanied by a frantic looking Finn.

“It was a mistake. An accident, but it’s all good now, eh?”

Was it? Was it all good? Evie knew no one better at saving face than her father. She’d learned that a long time ago even if she had yet to perfect the art.

Somehow, he managed to settle everyone and send them back to the rooms in the time it took Evie to calm her breathing. She had only just regained control of her limbs when he re-appeared, slowly easing her up off of the cold floor.

This wasn’t right. She was supposed to be the one comforting him? Not the other way around.

Yet, despite shaking still and panting as if he’d been running a marathon, Tommy began to escort her over toward his bed.

“Evie. Look at me,” he soothed, brushing his hand through her hair and gripping her chin so that she couldn’t hide from him. “I’m… I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened but it was like I was floating, looking down at my body. I didn’t even feel the gun in my hand. You know I’d never hurt you, eh? Never.”

“I know,” Evie whispered. A small nod was the best she could offer as proof.

“It won’t happen again, alright? You have to stay out if I have another nightmare like that. I… I can’t control myself or my actions.”

“But-”

“Promise me,” he begged.

She’d never heard him so scared before in her life. His grip was tight on her, but not painful as he held her, held until she gave her word.

It was clearly all she could do to calm him.

“Y-Yes,” Evie gulped. “I promise.”

Thankfully, she saw the relief her answer gave to him. It was as if a literal weight had rolled off of his shoulders.

Finally, he finally seemed calmer. Able to let go of her and resume something of normalcy. It was why he switched back to his paternal nature, reaching past her to light the the lamp beside them a moment later. He then leant back, pulling the covers aside so that they could both clamber into the bed.

Evie wanted to laugh. The last time they’d done this, she’d been much smaller.

“Are you sure?”

Tommy nodded. “Would I offer it otherwise? We could both use some sleep and maybe with each other to protect us we’ll have no more interruptions.”

Evie hoped so.

“Alright then,” she shrugged, nestling her way under the covers and curling up beside him. If only the others could have seen it. Tommy Shelby. Sleeping with his daughter curled in his arms. It was enough to make even the hardest of men melt. “Just don’t hog the covers.”

“It’s my bed, thank you very much miss. Should I read you a story?”

“Don’t push it,” Evie sniggered, even if a small part of her was tempted to say yes. She was curious which one he’d have chosen.

However, as it turned out, it would have been pointless even if she had asked him. She’d only been in bed a moment before her eyes drooped closed. Apparently, coming off of such an adrenaline high was exhausting.

So it was, Evie fell asleep that night, nestled in her father’s arms. Even asleep, her grip was deathly tight as she clung to him, as if trying to prove he was safe beside her.

She only hoped when she opened her eyes in the morning, it remained true.

This was one dream she didn’t want to wake from.

——

Tommy was gone when she woke.

The empty space in the bed beside her told Evie that fact immediately as soon as she’d opened her eyes. However, her heart stopped racing as she noticed that along with her father, his boots were also gone - the boots her father normally wore when heading down to the muddy stable yards. His cap and coat was also missing.

He must have risen early and decided to go for a ride. It was the usual Shelby tonic for most troubles, after all. No war could change that. If anything, he’d probably missed the horses and the chance to ride them for fun, not as part of a cavalry charge or supply chain.

Evie calmed down immediately.

If Tommy had ever needed a ride, it was probably that morning. Evie wouldn’t forget the look of horror she’d seen on his face the night before. The ghosts that appeared to be weighing on his soul as he’d pulled that trigger and sent them plummeting into chaos.

It would take a while for all of them to adjust. Evie was under no illusions of that and last night had made it all too clear.

She sighed. She peeled back the covers, padding over toward the window and pulling the curtains back to let in the sunlight.

Everything looked pale and starker in the sunlight than it had during the night. Then again, she’d never been in her father’s room enough to notice. It was his space. His sanctuary. One, she had always been eager to respect. He’d done the same. It was only right and fair.

Well, until last night.

It felt uncomfortable to be there without him. It had been one thing to intrude last night when she’d thought he needed her. But now… now she felt like she was somewhere she didn’t belong. Like she was about to be caught and scolded.

Her uneasiness only grew as she turned back towards the door; the bullet hole directly in her eye-line.

There was no way to avoid it.

The hole in the wall was obvious. It was hard to miss, with the ripped wallpaper and plaster powder marking it for all to see.

Evie couldn’t bear to look. Then again, at least it could be filled and mended, hidden away beneath plaster and paint. If only all such scars could be fixed as easily.

With a soft sigh, she hurried out of the room and back to her own to dress, ready to face the day as best as possible.

——

“Morning.”

“Morning, Pol,” Evie mumbled, skipping her way down into the kitchen. She wasn’t surprised to see her aunt there, pottering about as if she owned the place. She was there most mornings, choosing to come early before the shop opened. Then again, she only lived a few doors away. It wasn’t as if she had far to travel.

“Breakfast’s on the table if you want it.”

Evie smiled gratefully, perching in a chair and beginning to fill her plate with toast and jam. It was her go-to in the mornings, and after last night, she didn’t know if she could stomach a fry up.

By now, Evie knew someone would have filled Polly in on what had happened last night. Even then, Evie wouldn’t put it past the woman for her to have found out through some supernatural means. She had an uncanny habit of doing that, always knowing what Evie was going to say before she even said it.

This morning was no exception as Polly made her way towards the now cooling pot of tea on the side and began to pour herself a cup. “I heard it was an exciting night last night.”

Evie chose not to say anything. She didn’t know where to begin and honestly, she was too tired to start what was sure to be a long conversation. All she wanted was to get to school and pretend like the night had never happened.

“You could say that.”

“I could. I could also say that, from what Ada told me, it sounds like your father gave you quite the fright.”

“I don’t know if nearly being shot by your father counts as simply ‘quite a fright’,” Evie grumbled, aggressively biting the edge off of her toast. “I didn’t… It’s not his fault, I know. It was stupid of me to think he could go off to war and come back the same person but I did. Alright? I did and now I don’t know what to do, Pol.”

Her aunt sighed. She gently perched herself next to Evie as she listened to her confession. She then pushed forward a bowl of porridge as an offering and made sure Evie ate some before talking.

“You’re not stupid, Evelyn Shelby. You’re a lot of things and stupid isn’t one of them, alright?” she began calmly. “Secondly, I think you were being hopeful before, when you thought about your father coming home. You were just a child, Evie. What did you expect? There was nothing wrong with hope. God knows we needed as much of it as we could get with everything happening over in that Hell Hole. Your father did an admirable job hiding any details from you in his letters, but I’ve heard people talk. I know the horrors he must have seen.”

Horrors that now continued to plague him, or so Evie suspected. Why else did he sleep with a gun so close by?

“You both did what you needed to survive, Evie. Now that everything’s changed, the war’s over and we’re trying to pick up the pieces of our lives,” Polly continued firmly, making it clear she didn’t want to hear her niece berating herself again any time soon. “There is no right or wrong way to feel. There isn’t a guide book on how we’re supposed to behave and act. It’s down to us to listen to one another. To protect each other and support our family."

She made it sound so easy. Evie didn’t even know where to start with such a request. Wasn’t it her need to make sure her father was ok that had got her into that mess last night? How was she supposed to support a man who wouldn’t even tell her the first thing about what he’d been through or how he felt?

Then again, it wasn’t exactly as if she was going to win an award anytime soon for her emotional honesty. She’d inherited that much from him.

Evie sighed. She bit her lip as she tried to control the urge to cry. “Will we ever get back to how we used to be, before all this?”

“I could read your leaves but even then it isn’t a guaranteed thing,” Polly exhaled, letting loose a plume of smoke from her lips. “There are somethings even the spirits can’t help with or answer. This is one of those things… There’s a darkness in men, Evie. They each have their own demons to fight, just as we women do too.”

“Demons?”

Was that was she was calling the nightmares plaguing her father and uncles? It wasn’t fair. Hadn’t they all done enough fighting for a lifetime. They didn’t deserve to come home and have to continue fighting for their sanity as a result of a stupid war they hadn’t even started in the first place. To have their choices on the battle field haunting them. To have their sins linger…

“Does - does that mean,” Evie stammered, “being a soldier, he must have killed. They all must have. Dad almost did last night… Is he a good man?”

It was the first time she’d ever uttered those words aloud, the first time she’d been brave enough to truly want an answer. Even after all she’d seen since she’d entered Watery Lane.

“War changes men. I don’t think there is a set definition of ‘good’ but I know he loves you. He loves you so much he was willing to go off to war and be shot at for you,” Polly sighed, squeezing the girl’s shoulder comfortingly. “That’s all I care about and all you need to know right now. Your father needs to handle all of this, his own way. Give him time.”

“I gave him four years, Pol,” Evie sighed. “How much more time am I supposed to give?”

Nevertheless, she knew better than to argue any further, so merely looked back down at her porridge and ate silently. It was only as she went to place the dish in the sink that she finally saw the man in question.

Her father was always a composed man, no matter how rushed he was. This morning was no exception. Despite the fact he was already running late, and hadn’t even done up his waistcoat yet, Tommy Shelby strolled about with utter composure.

“Morning all,” he greeted, reaching for the teapot and a cup. His chipper tone was completely at odds with his exhausted appearance. The bags alone under his eyes alone made him look almost ill, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“It lives,” Pol remarked, even if living was a bit optimistic for the state he was in. “Some of us have been up for hours, you know. John and Arthur are outside waiting to open. It was payday yesterday and half the town are banging on the doors.”

“What are you keeping the good people waiting for then?”

Polly rolled her eyes, murmuring something under her breath about Shelby men and curses as she stubbed out her cigarette and marched out of the room. It was time to unleash the masses and like a tidal wave, they would come, money in hand, bets ready to be placed.

Hence why Evie was more than eager to make her escape. The last thing she needed was to be trampled to death in a stampede of factory workers and drunkards. So she hastily grabbed her bag and coat off the hook by the door, slipping both on as she made her way past her father and toward the rear exit.

“See you later,” she gasped.

However, she hadn’t even made it to the door before she heard her name called. She paused, looking back over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“I want you home straight after school tonight,” Tommy began, his tone oddly calm. “Alright?”

Evie paused. “But I was going to go by the yard-”

“Well, change of plans,” Tommy interrupted, smiling as he tried to soothe the sting in his words. “Look, these streets have changed since the men came back. I don’t feel comfortable with you wandering out there on your own.”

“But I wouldn’t be alone, I’d be with Uncle Charley-”

“It’s not up for debate, Evie.” His tone was starting to grate on her nerves, as was his distance. It was like when she’d first joined them all over again, barely seeing him except when he needed something or wanted to check she was still breathing. “I mean it,” he repeated, watching her for her acceptance. “For the time being I want you to come home straight after school. If you want to go by the yard then one of us can take you, but I don’t want you out there alone.”

Maybe it was last night that had rattled him. Evie couldn’t be sure, but if coming home meant he would relax for even a moment then it was the least she could do. “Fine,” she conceded, rolling her eyes and stealing a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

“See you later,” he echoed, a smile cracking his otherwise cool expression. “Now go and show them other kids what Shelby brains are capable of, ey?"

“On it.”

——-

Ever since that night she’d avoided his room or even discussing anything related to their nighttime conflict. Of course, she still heard the odd moan, thud or cry. Only the odd night or so passed without a sound coming from her father’s room, but Evie wasn’t blind. She knew nothing had improved, even if he had found a temporary relief.

Evie, however, had found no such relief.

She was starting to go stir crazy in this house. It was now so loud, so crowded. Even though she wouldn’t have changed having them home for the world, she could have done without the noise and interruptions her father and uncles brought with them. Especially when she had work of her own to do that didn’t involve horses, betting or being a Blinder.

She’d resorted to studying at Polly’s sometimes after school. She’d also resorted to utilising the Garrison during the quieter periods, when she knew almost no patrons would be inside. Harry never minded, in fact he was rather supportive, letting her and Lara (when her brothers drove her mad) utilise the private room for her study sessions.

At least they both understood the struggle of a busy, testosterone fuelled house. They also understood the necessity of having female allies to get through it all.

Like now, Evie had strategically placed herself in the parlour where Polly just happened to be sprawled out by the fire, a book in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She felt somewhat bad, utilising Polly as a human shield like this, but considering it was that or failing her maths test, Evie would take her chances.

“All done, Pol!”

Her aunt was quick to appear over her shoulder, glancing over at the girl’s work for herself. It was only after she’d given her nod of approval that Evie closed the book and put it back in her satchel by the door.

“Lord only knows where you get yer brains from because it certainly isn’t your father.”

“What can I say?” Evie grinned, trying not to let the praise make her too giddy. It wasn’t often anyone ever received it in this house, let alone from someone so important - or at least in Evie’s eyes. Her Aunt was one of the people she most admired in the world, and one day she’d have the confidence to say it to her face. “I’m a natural. Must be the Shelby luck.”

“It’s something alright,” Polly smirked, lighting the cigarette she’d had perched between her lips. “At this rate you’ll sail right out of Birmingham and to the stars one day. There’ll be no stopping a smart woman like you, not in today’s world.”

Evie secretly hoped she was right, even if she felt guilty at the thought of sailing beyond the smoky horizons of Birmingham one day. “If we can now have a woman in Parliament then who knows what’s waiting for me out there?”

“Amen to that - but don’t let the others hear you saying it.” Polly smirked again before shaking her head as her name was bellowed from somewhere else in the house. “Now go on. Get out of here, I don’t need anymore Shelbys under my feet.”

Evie didn’t need to be told twice.

She was quick to gather her things and run them back upstairs, to her room. As usual, she placed them back by her bed, spreading the rest on her makeshift desk by the window. She loved that spot. It always managed to catch any sunshine the city offered, as well as offering a decent view of the houses nearby.

It was a great spot to think in. To write. To dream of a world beyond the smoky streets of Birmingham such as the one Polly had just described. As she argued, there was nothing wrong with her dreams and she knew it. It was more the guilt at thinking of needing anything other than what Evie had here that kept her quiet.

She knew her family would never see her desire for more as anything other than insulting. Or nonsense. So, she was content to keep such dreams to herself, mere scribbles in a journal. Mere stories she wrote by candlelight and stored in her desk, under lock and key.

Maybe one day she’d do more with them. Publishing them had always been a possibility, as had living them to the best of her abilities.

Why couldn’t she have daring adventures?

She was a women. Yes. She was young. Yes. But why should that stop her from doing anything?

Evie chuckled at the thought, hurrying back out onto the landing. She couldn’t see her family sharing her opinions, other than maybe Polly and Ada. She knew giving them her copy of Mary Wollenstonecraft had been a dangerous idea.

Speaking of dangerous, Evie couldn’t help but pause as she reached her father’s doorway, staring inside. She hadn’t dared step over the threshold since the other night and the ordeal she’d experienced inside. It wasn’t one either of them had been willing to repeat. Even now, she knew she should have turned away and kept walking.

However, curiosity had always been a weakness of hers.

Her eyes flickered toward the nightstand.

It was as if a siren’s call echoed from it, coaxing her in, coaxing her closer.

Before she knew it, she had strolled over, opening the drawer and staring inside. Just as she’d suspected, her father had left the gun tucked away, wrapped in a cloth and out of sight. He would never agree to throw it out entirely but at least they’d found a compromise. The bullets loose in the drawer were all the proof she needed that the previous threat had been eliminated. If he now woke up and tried to fire, the worst he’d be capable of was giving someone a fright.

The wall, and the family’s sanity, were most grateful not to be at risk anymore. Despite that realisation though, Evie felt a sudden urge ran through her to hold the gun.

She knew better than to touch it, even if a part longed to. To examine the item that had almost ended her life. To know what it felt like to hold one, to know what damage she could inflict upon an other if she so chose.

She shook her head.

She’d stayed long enough as it was.

Yet, as she went to close the draw, something caught her attention. Something she hadn’t expected to see.

A pipe?

Since when had her father moved from cigarettes to a pipe?

Evie paused, checking the coast was clear before she picked up said pipe and held it up to the light. Almost immediately her face dropped. She didn’t have to be an idiot to know what was inside wasn’t tobacco. In fact, it was a smell she knew uncomfortably well from the streets of her old home in London.

Opium.

It had almost been a pandemic in London. She’d heard enough talk of dens that had opened and of the roaring trade being run through the docks of the stuff. Her neighbours had always been ones for gossip and there had been more than enough of it to go around regarding the filthy stuff that appeared to be flooding the streets.

She’d heard what it did to those consumed by its enticing grip. She heard of their decay, physically and mentally - if they escaped being caught taking it and sentenced to prison.

She’d even witnessed it first hand. The amount of times she’d seen addicts, penniless and lining the streets as they begged for money to fund their habit, was heart breaking. But such was London. It was a place for both the elite and the tormented souls that comprised the lowest rungs of society.

Evie’s blood ran cold to think of such a substance in her house. To think of someone she loved taking it.

Anger flooded through her, followed by disappointment.

She didn’t know what to say or think. Instead, she chose the safest option for now, which was putting the pipe back inside the drawer and closing it shut. Out of sight, out of mind, or so she told herself, hurrying out of the room.

Confused was an understatement for how she felt right then. Did she say anything, even though that would prove she’d gone into his room?

Did she not mention what she’d seen and simply hope her father would confide in her?

Or, maybe he’d simply stop taking it?

It was official. Being a Shelby was too complicated. When had this become their life? Where had the care free, simpler version of their family gone? The family who had spent summers cloud watching, and made each other laugh so hard they peed. They were never perfect, but no family was.

But nightmares and opium? It was a world away from what Evie was used to.

She didn’t care what Polly had said. Giving it time wasn’t something she believed she could do. Not when it made her heart race and her palms sweat. First, she had been shot at and now her father was an opium addict…

She had to get out of the house - preferably before she lost her sanity.

——

She wasn’t the first Shelby to escape the house by covert means.

Evie had discovered that fact for herself some time ago, after catching her Aunt Ada doing just that one night.

Ada had often been off by herself, enjoying the higher sides of life in the city - or so she said after being caught by Evie one night, shimmying in the bathroom window. Apparently her window had jammed shut, leaving her caught off guard.

Of course, Evie hadn’t said anything to anyone, finding the whole thing rather hilarious as Ada tried to gracefully sneak in, her fancy dress and mud stained heels doing their best to give her away.

In exchange for mutual silence, they’d agreed a plan. From then on, Ada had been all too willing, assisting Evie in selecting something appropriate to wear. She’d also been the one to give her the first pair of proper heels she’d worn too.

“Here,” she’d smiled, offering a slightly worn navy pair of t-strap shoes. “They’re your size but I haven’t worn them in ages. They deserve to see some fun again.”

And, boy - had they seen some fun since then. It was that same fun Evie longed for then, staring out the window and sighing. Another night of house arrest was akin to torture, especially if there wouldn’t be anyone home with her anyway. Polly would be at her home, Arthur and the men would be down the Garrison, and she suspected Ada was going to be out herself. That only left her, and her father, if he didn’t have some last minute business to attend to. That, or if John and Arthur tag teamed him.

It was Saturday night. Was it truly so bad for her just to want to have some normality in her life, some excitement? Most people she knew would be out on the town… and now, so would she.

Her plan made, it had almost been too simple to get away with it. After all, Lara had been begging her for a night out on the town for weeks now. She’d called her friends when it had been quiet, and agreed the details as per their usual routine.

All she had to do now was sit back and wait - a task she didn’t realise would be quite so challenging. Not when every moment that passed made her all the more tense and itch with a need to escape the house and the chaos within it.

For example, the meeting that had been happening across the house was making Evie’s mood steadily worse. Even sat with Finn by the fire in the parlour, it was hard to miss a word being said.

They had been discussing business for the last hour, debating races coming up, issues with the office and staff, as well as a few skirmishes here and there. Apparently the Shelbys weren’t the only ones interested in expanding their business and takings now that the war was over.

“We’ll need their support if we want to keep that side of the territory,” her father explained, watching a very irate John and Arthur rile themselves up at the prospect of a fight. “We need to offer an alliance to the mill workers. They know what’s going on in that part of the city, as well as the fact they sit dangerously close to the Lees.”

“We can’t let those bastards snatch their support,” Arthur roared. “We need man power. Tom’s right. We need to send over an offer of peace.”

“I can do it.”

“You, Tom?” Arthur blinked. “It’s dangerous territory over by the Mill. Let one of the other lads deliver the message. It ain’t worth the trouble.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem, eh?”

“Tom-”

Tommy shook his head, chuckling as he patted his older brother’s shoulder. “Come on, Arthur. I can take care of myself. Besides, there’s three Shelby brothers. Mum had her heir and John can be the spare if anything happens to me. What’s one less Shelby?"

The laughter from the group was instantaneous. Except for Evie. In fact, she could feel her blood boil as she turned and stormed from the doorway. Any guilt that had been lingering in her gut about her nocturnal plan had evaporated at the comment.

How dare he? How dare he prance about like some king of the castle? He’d swanned off for four years, leaving everyone and everything behind as if they had been a pair of old socks.

He could risk his life in the trenches?

He could disrespect the miracle of his survival, something so many had been deprived, by risking his life again now?

He could take opium whilst ordering her about? Lecturing her about self preservation?

The hypocrisy was nauseating.

Evie swallowed, her fists clenching as she ignored the urge to say something stupid and start a fight she knew she would never win. There was stubbornness and then there was Shelby stubbornness. Instead, she stormed down the hallway, heading towards the parlour.

It was official. If Tommy Shelby could do whatever the hell he wanted, then so could she.

#ithebookhoarder #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby #john shelby #arthur shelby #thegangster'sdaughter

32 notes · View notes

criimsoncloud · 4 years

Text

// drabble 01 : To Nero

A package arrives upon Nero’s doorsteps.

It isn’t very heavy, nor is it large, but it’s certainly filled to the brim. Wrapped in plain brown packaging, there isn’t a return address - but elegant writing decorates the front, although Nero could tell that it was written with shaky hands.

Gently, he pulls open the packaging - whoever sent this took great care in making sure it looked good, even though it was just plain paper, so Nero saw fit to treat it with the same exact care.

Numerous envelopes greets his eyes. A small, digital camera, and quite a few memory cards. Keychains and trinkets with various place names on it - the kind that one would buy at a souvenir shop. Nero dismisses this package as something that was wrongly sent to his address... but one last item catches his eye.

A black book, at the very bottom, with silver inlay on the cover; the largest inlay an elegant V...

Something that looked much too similar to the worn and faded William Blake anthology book that sat on his bedside table. A memento of a father who he had recently got to know; of a friend, that supposedly died the moment his father returned.

Nero grabs the book, and sure enough, it’s a copy of William Blake’s poetry - newer than the one on his table, but just as dogeared and creased.

Another envelope slips out from the book, and Nero freezes for just a moment, spotting the name printed on it with the same elegant letters as the package. Hesitantly, he opens up the letter, and begins to read.

‘Dear Nero,

I presume you have already guessed who the sender of this package is, by the time that you read this letter. Either you figured it out by my own copy of that memento of mine, or perhaps you opened up the camera and saw my many pictures. It is I, V, and this is not a joke.

If you’re still reading the letter past that line, then thank you - I would have tossed this out as a cruel prank, if I was in your situation, because receiving a letter from a man who was supposed to be dead, at the very least? Quite the cruel thing.

That day, upon the Qliphoth, when I had struck Urizen - my other half - I had not anticipated at all surviving in this human form of mine. I would have either completely died, or I would have reformed as my original self - as Vergil. Those were the only two scenarios I envisioned; I did not expect that Vergil would return, and I, as the human V, would continue to exist. And yet, I woke up days after the event.

I was confused, and I fled to find answers, fearing that I had made a mistake - that Urizen was still existing somewhere, and I never finished what I set out to do. Imagine my shock, to realize that it was Vergil who was still around, all the while I was still alive. I made the decision to continue looking for answers to why I was still here, instead of returning to Red Grave. It was a selfish decision, just like writing this and sending you all this package of mine is equally as selfish. I travelled everywhere - and halfway into my journey, I started to document my own travels. I took pictures of where I stood, of how far I went...

Keeping my survival from you and the others, I confess, is a cruel decision. Perhaps I should have gone to Devil May Cry to show my face, but... the past has been written, and I cannot rewrite it. And crueler still, is to write to you like this - as if we are companions and friends. I would be a terrible friend, with all these secrets I can never confess until I am upon my deathbed.

And, to be cruel to you once more...

I write this all upon my second deathbed - it seems like my survival after the Qliphoth was only temporary. As I journeyed to all these places... I continued to crumble away - at a slower rate than that day, yet this body of mine still decayed fast. Do not trouble yourself; it is my fate that led me this way. The true reason I write this... was to thank you, during that brief moment I had gotten to know you. I wanted to thank you for everything - for showing me kindness, despite my aloof and secretive nature. Thank you for protecting me, when you could have easily left me to perish. Thank you for trusting me, even though I have done nothing to deserve it.

To thank you for all this, and more, that I could never put into words... and to apologize, for burdening you with cleaning up my mess. To apologize, for hiding and all the secrecy - for never telling you anything, until the very end. You are much too kind, and I know I’ve abused and manipulated that. Words do not absolve what I’ve done. I do not expect forgiveness. I don’t even expect you to have finished reading this.

But if you have... I wish to leave you with the little belongings I own. The camera, my recreated book, the little trinkets I collected... You may do what you wish with it. Keep it, burn it, give it to Dante and Vergil, do whatever. I have no use for it any more, not where I will be going.

By the time this package arrives to you, I doubt I’ll still be around.

Thank you, for everything, Nero.

And I’m sorry.

-V

#ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍʏ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴇᴢᴇ ( drabble )#sᴏ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ( ic )#this is less of rp / open post #and more of fic writing #i just need to write this out for some personal reasons #but anyone is free to reply to this as well #or use it to start off an RP/plot with me #will be posting this on ao3 as well #maybe after a few rewrite #but i just wanted to write this out #this is related to a headcanon i have of V carrying around a camera and pretending to be a tourist while he looks for solutions

3 notes · View notes

justfangstvdto · 5 years

Text

Open Coffin | Chapter 23: “In Search Of Tomorrow”

Pairing: Kol x SalvatoreSister!Reader

Chapter Summary: With victory in mind and a vicious Mikaelson breathing down her neck, the reader learns that revenge and victory always comes with a price...

Warnings: major angst, talk about death and dying, some slight..gore-ish things happening, canon divergence (as always) and of course my mediocre writing

Word count: 3850

Tags & Author Note at the bottom. Feedback is welcomed and appreciated.

Open Coffin Masterlist

Recap: There is sweetness in this victory, knowing that Klaus will never again have the chance to punish Kol for the fire and fury cursing in his veins, nor for his desire to live free and on his own terms. Never again will he have the chance to torment your brothers or the miserable people in this miserable town. And never again will he have the chance to store away is own siblings while living on without a care in the world.

Never. Again.

With trembling hands, you turn to your brothers to share your victory,

But it’s not Damon’s chilling blue, nor Stefan´s comforting shades of green that you lock eyes with, it´s the paled ember glistening with darkness and despair.

“What did you do?” The distraught sound of Elijah´s voice sends ice cold, neck hair-raising shivers down your spine. He’s not supposed to be here.

Just run.

Run as fast as you can.

Your name: submit What is this?

He is getting closer, all fire and fury, thunder and lightning. The wind moves with your speeding form but does nothing to aid you. Rushing through the woods, it claws like a thousand hands. Your feet slip on the wet autumn leaves as you round the corner, the cold evening air shocking your throat and lungs as you inhale deeper, faster.

One more corner and you´re safe.

There it is, in the distance. The Boarding House.

Rushing through the front door you briefly wonder if Stefan and Damon already ran for the hills, leaving you to deal with the aftermath yourself. Wouldn't be the first time.

“Y/N?” Kol´s familiar voice, asks and you turn around. His demeanour is somewhere between angry and sad as he stands there rubbing his neck. What will he say now if he finds out you went against is pleading to stay your hand.

“We have to go. Now!” You grab him by his hand, pulling him to the backdoor.

You make it about halfway, before the front door smacks against the wood panelling behind it, revealing Elijah´s illuminated silhouette.

At that moment Kol knows exactly what happened. He ushers you behind him, sheltering you with his body. His brother would not harm him. But would he harm you? He cannot be sure.

“Brother..” Kol says, his tone cautious but alerted all the same.

“You gave me your word,” Elijah says, the tone in his voice leaks sadness and just the right amount of seething anger to send shivers down your spine.

“And I didn´t break my word. I told you Kol wouldn't be involved. He wasn't.”

Elijah drags his tongue over his bottom lip “And despite my brother's relation to you, you decided that murdering Niklaus unjust would set you free? I believe you made a grave error in your search for happiness”

“Oh, for god sakes, spare us your indignation,” Kol says, throwing all precautions out of the window. “In your foolish efforts to redeem his soul you´ve grown blind to his wickedness. I haven´t. Nik met the end he deserved. ”

“He deserved death rather than the chance of redemption?”

“It's no more than he's done to us. Or have you forgotten the darkness the dagger brings? That aching feeling of being trapped in your own, vicious mind? It's like an endless death, is it not?”

Elijah doesn't reply, instead, he reflects his pause to the nearing silhouettes that brace through the fog

“Gentlemen, I suggest you choose your next movements very carefully.”

“You think we're stupid enough to kill you right now?” Damon scoffs as if the thought hadn't crossed his mind. It has. Of course, it has.

“Yeah, no offence” Stefan weighs in “but you’re like a dog in a cage right now. “

“Plus, we don't want Barbie Klaus on our ass” Damon says, remembering his run-in with Rebekah only a few hours ago.

“More importantly” You add, “We don't have anything to settle with you. Question is, where does that leave us?”

Kol keeps a watchful eye on his older brother, as Elijah ever so slightly shifts the weight on his other foot. Is he going to attack?

“I did not come to harm any of you, ”Elijah says

“Yeah right.” Stefan huffs.

“I came here to revel in the fact that you, your brothers and everyone Niklaus has turned will not survive the night.” He says, his demeanour running into something more sinister, joyful even “Not even you can undo the fate you designed.

“What are you talking about?”

“When one of us dies, every vampire in our sireline will die with us. Finn's death was prove. They perished within hours.” Elijah explains ever so calmly “So you see, there is no justice to be had in death, but you will die all the same. Not by my hand, but your very own.”

You feel like as though you have been slapped. Guilt, guilt, guilt - it's like gasoline in your veins.

“You're lying.” You grit through your teeth.

“I am a man of my word.” Drawing in a breath he turns to face Kol with a somewhat uncertain look dwelling in his eyes. “I trust you have to say your goodbyes.” With that Elijah bathes in his unwanted glory built of grief and despair and makes his exit, ignoring Kol's pleas to explain what he knows.

When Elijah doesn't reply, Kol steps forward ready to follow him.

“Wait!” You say, grabbing Kol´s wrist “Don’t go. I.. maybe there's not enough time-“.

. “I will come back. I promise you.” He says reassuring you with a smile he could barely force. He has to get to the bottom of this. And fast. Before... No, he doesn't want to think of it. Not even for a second. With a kiss on your forehead, he slips out of your grasp, leaving you with only the house draining away, hauntingly reminding you, your life would be nothing but a memory soon.

Tick tock, tick tock….the clock's ticking for you now.

---------

Nothing but heavy silence is settling around you. The cruel void lies like poison on your skin, digging into coursing through your blood, paralyzing your brain.

You lift your head resting on your crossed arms, letting your eyes glide around your room. The pictures that once graced the walls are now shattered on the floor and with them, a dozen sheets of paper with barely a sentence written on them before they were crumbled up and thrown amidst the chaos. You tried to say your goodbyes on paper in case your time would be up sooner than expected. But you failed miserably. How is one to say goodbye to someone they promised to never leave again?

So this is how it ends.

Perhaps all those philosophers, writers and poets were right. Perhaps vengeance demands two graves after all. One for one´s nemesis and another for oneself. In your case, there are thousand more graves you'll soon have on your conscience, and with them your brothers….and Mae.

You doomed them, to follow wherever monster like you end up. And you doomed Kol as well.

Your petty revenge will launch him into a spiral of undeserved blame. He´ll take the fault on himself, and it will consume him, chew him up and spit him out.

But none of this is his fault.

And you hope you get to tell him before your time is up.

With a heavy sigh, you bury your head your hands, resigning from the world.

This is a mess. A self-created, lethal mess. And the worst is, Klaus was right. That bastard was right, he is always one step ahead. What a fool you've been to think you could ever win.

Shifting your head, your daylight ring digs into the side of your face and you look at it, and for the first time, it's nothing but destains the ring has to endure from your gaze.

“This is only the beginning…..” That is what Stefan said when he handed you this ring, shortly after you were turned. He was electrified by the new lifestyle. Having just killed your father he felt free and newborn.

Look where it got us, brother.

Without a second look, you slip it from your finger and throw it amidst the chaos and it disappears somewhere in the paper and glass.

Immortality……..what a lie.

--------

Kol has no fear, or none he would ever disclose to others. He holds up his tough front no matter if it's friend or foe he's opposed to.

He has no fear.

Not even death scared him, she has been dancing around him in his most violent times appreciating his work, yet she cannot grasp him and pull him in the deepest darkest depths.

He has no fear.

But when he looks into your room from the slightly ajar door, his eyes carrying over the created mess, he knows that that's a lie.

He has no fear He has one fear..............losing you.

The only one that would never forsake him like everybody else had time and time again. Even though he could never regain the magic he once possessed as a human, the closest he felt to himself was with you.

What is he supposed to do now?

The unintentional shifting of his foot reveals his location and you look up, catching his troubled look.

“Hey.” You smile at him briefly and he gives the door a push and enters the room

“Hey.” He returns, his voice trembling “Where are they?” He continues, referring to the very empty Boarding House.

“They left.” You shrug “ Probably saying goodbye to everyone.”

Kol shakes his head in disbelief but doesn't say anything. Instead, he joins you on the floor and reaches around your shoulder and pulls you into his chest.

You look at the arms that's around your shoulders, the red layer of blood that´s covering his healed wounds on his hand, stands out like a light bracing the dark of the night.. Looks like his fists had several rendezvous with a brick wall.

“There's nothing we can do, right?” You break the silence and Kol shakes his head, staring holes in the floor beneath him.

You mutter a short string of cursed under your breath “I should've listened to you. I’m sorry.”

“If I hadn't provoked Nik you wouldn´t -” He pauses, the unspoken words resting on his tongue to poisonous to dare speak out loud “This wouldn't happen.”

“This is not your fault. Klaus would´ve daggered you with or without your involvement. This was me and my petty thirst for revenge. None of this is on you. You know that, right?”

When he doesn't look up, you brush over his harm, effectively getting his attention. You kind of wish you hadn't. When he looks at you, there´s this bout of emptiness playing behind his eyes.

“I cannot lose you, Y/N.” He says “I don't know what I'll do.”

“I know what you'll do.” Your fingers travel along his arm until you reach his hand and you lift it to kiss the top of them, before slipping your fingers between his “You'll thrive like you were supposed to decades ago. You´ll travel the world to see what it has to offer, you'll be free without constantly looking over your shoulder:. You´ll have the freedom you deserve. I'll gladly die for that if that's the price.”

“Freedom means nothing without you. The most breathtaking sight, the most thriving cities will be nothing without you next to me.”

“I won't be gone completely. I´ll look after you from the great beyond. You´re not getting rid of me that easily” You force a smile “I'll always be there. If you feel lonely, murderous, sad and everything in- between. I'll always be there.”

Hearing that means so much to Kol, even though he himself isn´t sure if you're actually able to watch over him. The books he read on the other side weren´t conclusive, but he hopes you´re right. Oh, how he hopes you´ll be able to see him.

“Listen, when this is over-” You begin, already dreading the conversation you´re about to have.

Kol cuts you off, his heart immediately signing into his stomach at the thought “Don't.” He puts his hand up in your face, signalling you that he didn't want to hear what you had to say.

“No, you have to hear this. When this is over, I need you to get to New Orleans and check the Laveau tomb next to your hideout. I left something there for you.”

He furrowed his brow “You left what?”

“Just a few letters I wrote while you were gone. Maybe reading them will feel like I´m still here, you know? There are a lot of them so you won´t run out too soon.” You explain, and Kol nods, unsure if he´d even be able to stomach reading them.

“And there is one more thing.” You continue, leaning over to run your fingers through the strayed ends of his hair, before pressing your lips firmly against his. You felt him exhale through his nose against your skin “I love you; Kol Mikaelson. Always….and I'm sorry we don't have forever.”

“And I love you, Y/N Salvatore. And I always will.” He replies and seals his promise with a kiss. He kisses you with such desperation, the world falls away. It was slow and soft yet demanding in ways that words would never be.

If this is the last moment you´ll have together, you´d be fine with it. Truly and utterly happy that you had the opportunity to love as deeply as you love him.

Some travel the world or acquire the many riches and will never experience this. Utterly and endlessly being in love. And you pity them, oh how you pity those that will never feel this way. Those poor souls..

“Hey lovebirds!” Damon´s voice from downstairs pulls you apart “Get your asses down here! Now!”

“What the hell?” You groan before reluctantly pulling Kol to his feet.

Kol breathes out, the desire to end Damon´s life prematurely for interrupting presumably your last moment alone, is rising with each step he takes.

But alas, he follows you downstairs, pausing beside you and following your gaze into the living room. Stefan and Damon stand there beside each other, smiling from ear to ear.

“Don't tell me you cut me out of your last will up there?” Damon speaks up when you enter the living room. ” I heard the paper rustling and just because I'm dying doesn't mean I don't deserve a cut.”

“Are you... joking with me right now?? “ You look at Stefan for backup, but he raises his hand, exiting out of the conversation. “And what the hell is all this?” You gesture to the table covered with a sheet.

“If we´re going out…” He grasps the covering sheet with two fingers and lifts it up, revealing dozens of his most treasured and most expensive liquor “.. we´re going out with a bang.”

The table is filled with a wide range of booze, from bourbon to brandy - everything is available.

“So we´re gonna vomiting our guts out before we bite the dust….” You say while nearing the table “Sounds like a good idea. Count me in!”

While you take in the stock, Kol remains on the edge of the stairs unsure If he should join. Perhaps it would be best if he'd say goodbye now and leave you with your brothers in peace.

Stefan passes him with another, smaller carton of bottles and

“Are you, uh coming in, or…” Stefan asks him, prompting Damon, to get in on the conversation.

“Yeah Mikaelson, you can stand there and watch or you can come and join us.” Damon says, padding the couch opposite of him “You don't want to miss me dying, do you?

“You've got a point. It's a shame I can't kill you myself but…it'll have to do. ”He says, trying his best to sound witful.

Your hand reaching around his wrist prompts him to push his grim thoughts away, and he looks at you, not entirely sure what you're about to say.

“I understand if you want to leave. I couldn´t watch you die either.” You say, ignoring the fear that´s rising with the thought of this being the last time you´d see him.

He shakes his head “I'm not going anywhere..“

---------

The night went on and the booze was slowly but surely becoming scarce. You all spend several hours just dwelling in the past, telling stories of each of your adventures. Even Kol eventually shared a few stories of his own. Somewhere down the line, the conversation turned into a heated debate after another, reaching from the best vacation destination, right to what decade had the best music.

Just a few hours ago you were ready to move on without Stefan and Damon and you'd even had the means to kill Damon in a fit of rage. Now… you're spending your last day, hours, minutes with them. Who would've thought?

“What are you smiling about?” Stefan asks, sitting across from you.

Kol gives his head a turn and looks over following Stefan's question.

“Nothing.I just- It's funny that it takes us dying to be in the same room with each other. But it's nice not fighting with each other for once.”

That alone is worth dying for.

Stefan and Damon share a look like they're about to say something but the sudden beacon of light that's piercing through the mullioned panes of glass distracts them.

“It's almost morning.” You say, watching the light bathing the dark flooring in a crisscross of iridescent colour. “Do you think he was lying? Elijah I mean?”

Kol shakes his head “ My brother is many things; delusional, relentless, annoyingly loyal - but he is not a liar.” There is no way Elijah is lying, Kol knows that, but there is a slight shimmer of hope that he can´t ignore. But that's the thing with hope, it never did him much good, so why should it now?

The sound of the door opening once more, equally as loud if not louder than Elijah a few hours before, diverts the rooms attention.

Turning your head to look at the door, you immediately turn back with your eyes rolling as the sound of stilettos ruining the old flooring echoes in the living room. That can only mean one thing, or better, one person: Mae. Another person you sentenced to death.

Great. Just what you needed right now.

“Jesus, Mae ever heard of knocking?” You groan.

“Oh, you done look like you had one hell of a depressing´ night with those frowns of yours,” She says, choosing to ignore your previous words “ I should've brought some of those silly shirts with- what was it…..cheer up, bitches?”

“She's funny. I like her.” Damon slurs

“Trust me, it's not mutual.” She replies, prompting Damon to look like a kid that got his candy stolen.

“Get to the point, would you?” Kol glares at her as he steps forward to make his presence more known “What do you want?”

“You Mikaelsons and your impatience All brawn and no brains sometimes, it a shame honestly.” She sighs before continuing “ I'm here to tell you to not put dirt on your graves just yet. Ain't nobody gonna die today.”

“What?” You exchange a look with Kol of confusion layered with the slightest bit of hope "But Elijah said-”

“I know what he said, but he was slightly misinformed. But there's somethin´comin´ you won't enjoy.” She looks at the clock and mumbles a few numbers, calculating something “Judging by the time, it ain't gonna to take long.”

“Okay, “ You begin “either I´m beyond drunk, or just stupid, but I have no idea what you're talking-” The sudden urge to cough cuts you off, and you bring your hand up to politely cough into it. But instead of a dry cough, your hand is drenched in red.

Blood.

You can hear Stefan and Damon step forward to figure out what's going on, and you can feel their worried stare, alongside Kols, digging into your backside

Trying to grab the couch behind you, you feel another cough coming, and with it a nauseating, hot shiver that´s running through your body. Hoping to get a steady stance, you reach out for the couch behind you while your visions declines and your coughing increases. You miss the couch by a few inches, falling backwards for but a second before crashing into Kol´s chest.

“What's going on?” Is all you you could manage to bring out before you couch again, this time covering the floor before you with a steady stream of blood. It feels like you're drowning in your own blood.

With your brain in overdrive, you feel your vision declining the more blood is coming out of your mouth, before suddenly everything engulfs into black, as if someone flipped of a light in a dark room. You fall back against Kol unconscious, blood dripping from the corners of your mouth.

“What did you do?!” Kol grits through his teeth, as he scoops you up in his arms to lay you down on the couch behind him..

“Not a thing. She brought that on herself.” Mae shrugs without a care in the world “But this is only the beginning...Say goodbye to the Y/N you know and love. She won't be the same when she wakes up.”

“Speak. Now!” Kol demands. If sheßs not cooperating soon, Kol will resort to deliciously brutal alternatives, no matter if you claim that she's your friends. He doesn't care.

“Patience.” Mae says, her voice layer with a tick of annoyance “But first, I have someone here who is dying to talk to you.”

Kol straightens up, as the sound of heavy boots echoes in the hall. He couldn't see the person's face at first due to the blinding sunlight, but when he finally does, all he wants to do is run for his life….

A/N: So..this is mostly just a filler chapter, something to angst out a little before the drama continues. Also, I pretty much hate whatever I'm writing right now, so go easy on me, would you? :D I´´m trying my hardest bounce back trust me.

But either way, let me know what you think! I would love to hear about your theories as to what happens next!

Open Coffin Tags: (let me know if you want to be added or removed)

@shadyladyperfection @thegoddessofvampire @newurleans @originalbish98 @acourtofhopeanddreams @bonniebird @imnoaingeal @vaniileiinkeks @relmi-llorrac @piercethepottorff @maliae14 @5-seconds-of-animals @the-geeky-engineer @rock-n-magick @flymeawayworld @givemesomehybrid @mikealsonlover @nuteller28 @fandoms-fandoms-everywhere99 @drkplum @fandooomqueenforyou @free-the-fangirl @clockworkballerina @twisted1ginger @superwholocksociopath474 @pacifyprincessxo @mustachio1616 @thealyana @sandyclaws @unicorntrooper @buckysummers @sanity-is-overratedxp @akshi8278 @lunna-star-8 @graysonmalfoy @woodworthti666 @elenavaldez02 @lilulo-12 @selmasemlan @thelostallycat @characterobsessed @cococola-cocaine @crazyinternetgirl @tvdplusriverdale @-thatgirloverthere- @alwxadria345 @trymexo @mizzezm @willieshakesqueer @spunky-89 @putyourherohaironstefan @xxdragonagequeenxx @thegingerthatwaited @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @hinata7346 @controloffandoms

#kol x reader #kol mikaelson imagine #kol mikaelson #the originals imagine #tvd imagine #the vampire diaries #open coffin

42 notes · View notes

sserpente · 6 years

Photo

A/N: Request from anon, anon and @lavenderglue. I re-watched Crimson Peak last night and oh, the feels. And it makes writing these Imagines so much better.

Words: 3621 Warnings: fluff, smut

You knew that when your father called you into his office, you were not likely to expect good news. He rarely let you pry into business matters, let alone let you in on his private thoughts. It didn’t exactly bother you—to you, your father was but a silent roommate in this small house you called home.

With your family not being incredibly wealthy or rich, he spent most of his time working in his office, as a lawyer accepting more cases than he could possibly handle at once. The taxes for the small piece of land he owned had gone up quite recently and to maintain it all, he dived into endless piles of paperwork on his desk.

You appreciated his tenacity to keep his property, yet you also realised the main reason for why he did it was to uphold a positive and acknowledged reputation—not to provide you with a decent place to live in once he perished.

“(Y/N), come in.” He ordered when you knocked, lifting your heavy dress off the ground a little to do as you were told. The wooden door behind you fell shut with a loud thud.

“I have come to a grave decision, child.”

A decision… decisions your father made never did you a favour. Last time he had started a conversation like that, he had chosen to fire your maid and former nanny—the only woman you had come to love dearly like your dead mother, the only friend you had had in this lonely house.

“A decision, you say? What is it? Are you selling the house?”

Startled, your father shook his head. “I would never sell this house, what will the neighbours think? No. It concerns you.”

“Me?” Suspicious, you leaned back a little and crossed your arms before your chest.

“I have decided that you are old enough now to get married. You cannot sulk and hide in my house forever.” Your heart skipped a beat, indignity spreading in your entire body.

“So I have organised a meeting for you. All casual, with no particular obligation for me to give you away just yet.”

Whether he expected you to reply, you did not know. Instead, you simply stood there, paralysed and shook, your lips parted and your eyes widened.

“You… you want to marry me off to a stranger?” You finally chirped, clenching your fists in the process.

“No stranger. I have met him before. He is the perfect suitor for you. Smart, young, wealthy. He even has a title—baronet. He is English and—“

“English! You mean to introduce me to an overly polite puppy who inhales tea like oxygen?!” You interrupted him sharply, raising your voice.

“Watch your tongue, child!”

“I don’t want to get married!”

“No? You want to die a lonely virgin? People will laugh at us! You are a beautiful young woman and you’re of the perfect age to become a wife.” Your father bellowed, his face turning somewhat red.

“Is that what is most important to you? What people will think of us? What about your daughter, do you care if your daughter is happy?”

“You will be happy. He is a fine man and you will act like a proper lady by his side. You will meet Sir Thomas Sharpe this evening, in the restaurant your mother and I used to have dinner together. Now, get out. This conversation is over.”

It was quite remarkable how you managed to cry only after you had left his office, closing the door behind you as forcefully as possible.

Perhaps your father knew him but to you, Sir Thomas Sharpe—whoever he was— still was a complete stranger. English, wealthy and apparently in your father’s favour were the only traits you were aware of already and especially the last thing was what troubled you this much.

Your father was a cold man. If he got along with Sharpe, then what kind of man was he?

Sighing, you put your hair up in a somewhat elegant bun, letting two loose strands frame your face and compliment the plain dress you had chosen for the occasion. There was no point to get all dressed up. Maybe if you managed to come off as entirely repulsive, he would refuse to marry you anyway.

With this plan in mind and a pair of flat shoes you hid under the fabric of your dress, you joined your father downstairs. He had organised a carriage for you to bring you to the restaurant where Sir Thomas Sharpe would be waiting for you.

“This dress?” Your father asked when you ascended the stairs, lifting his eyebrows a little disappointed. “I was hoping you would wear one of your mother’s dresses.”

“I wear mother’s dresses for happy occasions,” you spat in response, walking past him arrogantly and allowing the driver to help you inside the carriage outside.

So this is the place mother fell in love with father. It was breathtakingly beautiful here. Dozens of small tables with fine table cloths stood in the great room, the whole restaurant reminding you of a ballroom with a high ceiling, awfully precise paintings and fresh flowers wherever you looked. Each of the tables in the dimly lit hall was illuminated by a single candle.

“Can I help you, Miss?” You had barely stepped over the threshold when a neatly dressed waiter with white gloves approached you to take off your coat.

“I am, um, here to meet a Sir Thomas Sharpe?”

“Right away, Miss, he is waiting for you. If you please follow me…”

Nodding, you let him lead you into the middle of the room. Most of the guests were couples, enjoying a romantic meal together—it was not short of a miracle your mother had fallen in love here. Was this why your father had chosen this restaurant? Was there some warmth left in his heart, after all? Or was it unnecessarily cruel to ask Thomas Sharpe to come here?

You gasped when you spotted him. He was… everything, just not what you had expected him to be. Instead of an elder man with grey hair and an ancient suit, who stood to greet you politely was a young and handsome man with black hair and stunning blue eyes.

His jaw and cheekbones were as sharp as knives, his thin lips all but inviting to be kissed and his voice…

His face lit up when you approached him, his blue eyes taking in your form and admiring you appreciatively before reaching for your hand and kissing the back of it gently. Your skin instantly tickled and tingled wildly where he touched you.

“Sir Thomas Sharpe. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss (Y/L/N).”

Heavy with an English accent, it was smooth, dark and seducing—you instantly knew that you could spend hours listening to him without getting tired.

“(Y/N),” you replied, glancing shyly at him. “Call me (Y/N). I am not particularly fond of formalities.”

Thomas smiled. “In this case, please do not hesitate to call me Thomas. Please, have a seat.”

With but a court nod, he sent the waiter away to prepare a bottle of wine and then pulled back your chair for you just like the perfect English gentleman.

The way he looked at you… so utterly fascinated and amazed by your presence… in case this man ended up as your husband after all, you certainly would not mind as much as you would have before you entered this restaurant.

Nervously, you glanced around. All of a sudden, you felt underdressed. What if he did not like your appearance? Maybe you should have chosen one of your mother’s dresses after all; and your hair! Your hair was practically a mess compared to the beautiful braids the other women wore.

“You look beautiful,” Thomas stated gently. Did he notice your discomfort? Was he saying this to cheer you up? You knew the English were awfully polite, much more than what was, in your opinion, necessary. That did by far not mean he was interested in you… right?

For once, you met a man you were instantly drawn to and now, you ruined your own chance of winning him to yourself because of your stubbornness! Who could have thought that your father would actually choose a suitor for you who… who… who was this attractive?!

“T-thank you…”

Thomas frowned, concern growing on his flawless face. “You seem a little tense, are you alright?”

“I’m okay, I’m sorry, it’s just… been a while since I was with a man, eating dinner or…”

“Yes… Your father told me you spend most of your time inside, hiding in the library.”

Blushing, you found yourself nodding. So he already knew how boring you were. Why had he agreed on meeting you? Your father could be very convincing. Had he hoped Thomas would change his mind upon meeting you in person, maybe tempted by your feminine charms? You weren’t even sure you had any.

“I have a library too. My mother was a delighted book collector. I kept them all when I moved, stored them safely on a dozen of bookshelves in my new home.”

“You… you moved? Where did you live before?”

He was exciting—every aspect about his life. You had never taken such an interest in a man before. Wiping your palms on your dress to keep them from sweating too much, you attempted a coy smile.

“Allerdale Hale. A mansion in Cumberland in England. I moved out when my sister died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry…”

Thomas nodded. “She was an unhappy soul. I believe… I believe it freed her, in a way.” For just a brief moment, his eyes glistened sadly. “Now, I live just outside London. It is beautiful—but rather lonely without a wife or children. If anything, I had to get away from everything that would remind me of her.” Pausing, he looked up to lock eyes with you, causing you to gasp quietly. It felt like an explosion.

“I would love to show you the many books I own.”

“That would be nice.”

The waiter appeared, two clean glasses in one hand, a bottle of red wine in the other. He quickly explained the menu for tonight before leaving you both to yourself again, having you bite your lip awkwardly.

What on Earth were you supposed to tell him to catch his interest? Thomas seemed so distant, as if he had already decided he was most certainly not going to be your suitor. Perhaps he was hoping already the food would arrive soon so you could both eat in silence and then bring you home again, explaining swiftly to your father you were not the right woman for him while you would hide up in your room and cry the loss of what could have become a wonderful love story.

You… liked him. Maybe it was the romantic setting that jinxed you this much but this man… he was so unlike anyone else you had ever met. His blue eyes told a tragic story, the loneliness he fought with every night tangible and all of a sudden, you longed to hold his hand, promising you would be the one to scare away the silence in his new house.

In your imagination, at the end of this dinner, Thomas got on one knee and proposed to you. You drove home to your father together, sharing a passionate kiss in the rain before breaking the marvellous news. The next day you would tell your father how happy you were and how grateful you were for his harsh decision to find you a husband.

In reality, you barely opened your mouth to speak, afraid to sound stupid or too boring for his liking, the nervousness robbing you of your rational thinking. You had messed this up—and it hurt, incredibly, to admit that to yourself.

Thomas insisted on bringing you home safely. Your father had gone to bed already when you arrived, the keys hidden under a flower pot just outside the door. Sighing, you reached for it. What had he expected? That you would go home with Thomas and seal your engagement? There was no such thing. How could he have thought for even a second a fine English man like him could take a liking into you?

The least you owned him was a sincere apology.

Inhaling sharply, you turned around. You could barely see him in the dark hallway of your house.

“Look, Thomas… before I met you tonight, I was all but against my father finding me a husband. I am not particularly the kind of woman who will willingly submit to the life of an obedient wife raising the children at home. But when we met tonight, I regretted the choice I had made and I am sorry for not trying hard enough to impress you. I can understand if you don’t want to marry m—“

You were cut off promptly when suddenly, he took a step forward, cupped your face with his warm hands and… kissed you. Gently, not demanding, he moved his lips against yours, your eyes falling shut contently.

“Impress me?” He panted, pulling away from you only reluctantly. “(Y/N), you are the most beautiful woman I have ever met. You are so unlike all the others… I know your father was forcing you into this. He even warned me you were going to be cocky but instead, you were charming.”

Tears were worsening your sight, the realisation hitting you like a tidal wave. Thomas did like you back.

“We can take our time, I am willing to wait for as long as you need me to. But if there is any woman in this town, this country and on this planet that I would want to marry, it is you.”

“Thomas…” Touched by his sweet words, you leaned into him once more, kissing him gently but a little more fiercely this time. It was a kiss that made you both hungry for more, with the desire between you rising and rising until you were ready to fall into an endless abyss.

Thomas’ hands worked their way down your body, appreciating every single curve until they rested on your hips, pulling you close. You could feel his erection through the many layers of your clothes, the lust consuming him—lust for you.

Blushing even more furiously now, you stepped away from him to catch your breath, the unspoken words clear as you looked into each other’s eyes.

It was frowned upon to be intimate before the wedding night but, no matter what would happen, it was obvious to you both you would not be able to wait any longer.

You didn’t understand it and neither did Thomas. For some reason, the flame burning softly between you had turned into a raging fire you now needed to extinguish before it destroyed you both by claiming your minds and robbing your senses.

“We need to be quiet, my father has a light sleep.” You explained. Thomas nodded.

Mutely and breathing heavily, he followed you upstairs and into your room, admiring the furniture and the many books there for a split second only to then pounce on you again, attacking you with his hot mouth.

His desperate kiss all but consuming, you could taste the loneliness when you leaned into him, allowing him to work open your dress until you slipped out of it effortlessly, with him halting for a moment to admire your half naked form and his gaze lingering on your breasts for a while.

Thomas licked his lips. The last piece of clothing shielding your most intimate parts were your undergarments but before he would take this step, he would make sure to reveal himself to you as well. Frantically, he undid the buttons of his shirt and slid out of it, tossing it away as carelessly as his jacket.

Your breathing quickened when your eyes caught sight of his flawless and muscly chest. You admired every single inch of his skin as he stepped closer to you until your calves hit the soft mattress on your bed.

Thomas hovered above you like a starving wolf. With a greedy sparkling in his blue eyes, he gently pushed you back until you came to rest in the middle of your bed, impatiently awaiting him to join you. He did within a matter of seconds, his glance never leaving your body.

He licked his lips in joyful anticipation before he lowered his mouth on your breasts, ghosting over them and eliciting an exciting tickling, making you long for more. A desperate moan escaped your lips when he sucked one of your hardening nipples into his mouth, tasting and pampering it thoroughly before switching to your other breast. You shivered when his breath blew over the now moist nubs, your breathing losing any sense of rhythm it had possessed.

Thomas’ lips wandered deeper and deeper, lower and lower until he reached the seam of your undergarments. Smiling cheekily, he hooked his teeth into the fabric and tore them off your body, revealing your wet womanhood to him inch by inch.

“Thomas…” You whispered, reaching for his hand. Your fingers intertwined as if you were both drowning in an angry storm out in the sea, your eyes locking, unwilling to look away ever again.

Impatience was rolling over you both, urging you on to finally unite your bodies. Thomas threw your last piece of clothing out of bed, undoing his belt and the buttons of his trousers as quickly as his trembling fingers allowed. You noticed the silver ring on his finger, remembering with a start he wasn’t just a fine English man but also a baronet. Your admiration grew with every second that passed and then, finally, he positioned himself between your legs, his remarkable erection poking at your entrance. You felt it twitching and pulsating with need already, your own core growing wetter and wetter until he pushed against your slit, working you open slowly and gently.

“(Y/N)…” he whispered. With all but his smooth and soft voice he took away all of your fears. Would it hurt? Much? How would it feel? The passion and desire building in your core ached for more friction, begged for release.

Many of your female friends had told you it was hard for a woman to find satisfaction during the act with a man, that they needed to help with their own fingers to reach their peak as well. It was a taboo to talk about these matters and back then, you had only giggled. Were men so unskilled in bed, unable to give a woman real pleasure?

When you looked at Thomas, however, all of those doubts faded in but a heartbeat. He made you clench by simply touching you with his delicate fingers—if anything, he would make you orgasm in no time but first, you wanted him to feel pleasure too.

You moaned again when he sheathed himself inside you to the hilt, taking his time but still penetrating you eagerly. There was a stinging pain when he broke your hymen, a small trail of blood trickling down and onto the bed sheets but it was over as fast as it began—all there was left was pure bliss.

Thomas started moving inside you, his blue eyes studying your face. Smiling up to him contently, you buried your hands in his black hair, enjoying how it felt between your fingers and then pulled him close to kiss him.

Sweat pooled where your bodies met, his movements growing faster and wilder with every single thrust. He felt beyond incredible inside you, closer to you than any man had ever been. In this very moment, he belonged to you and you belonged to him. The jolts of electricity cursing through your body as he kept pumping in and out of you all but confirmed your light-hearted thoughts.

Those women had lied or perhaps, they had never met a man like Thomas. Every passionate stroke of his had you climb the ladder of orgasm higher and higher, your moaning growing louder. If your father woke up now…

“(Y/N)… (Y/N), I won’t last much longer…” Thomas whimpered. He sounded… vulnerable and… and he was waiting for you. The realisation was enough to toss you right over the edge and you came, clenching around him and milking his hard length frantically as waves of pure pleasure consumed every cell of your body.

It was all he needed to release himself inside you. Thomas moaned, panting when he stilled, his member pumping his warm seed deep into your core. You milked him until he had given you everything he had, then collapsed beside you on the mattress, sliding out of you exhausted.

There was blood on his manhood, as was there between your legs. Blushing, you curled up against him and hid your face in his chest.

If he had noticed the result of your now lost virginity, he was both polite and subtle enough not to mention it.

“Are you alright? Are you in pain?”

Relief filled your heart.

“No. I feel great. I have never felt better.” You could feel him smile at the ceiling.

“I would love to meet you again tomorrow, Miss (Y/L/N), maybe for breakfast this time,” he muttered into the comfortable silence between you. His words made you chuckle.

“I would like that very much, Sir Thomas Sharpe.”

“I shall meet you tomorrow morning then, right after waking you up with a kiss.”

There. Happily, you closed your eyes and smiled against his muscles. Getting married didn’t sound so bad now after all.

A/N: If you liked this story, would you care to support me by buying me a cuppa? I would appreciate it so much! ko-fi.com/sserpente

#thomas sharpe #thomas sharpe imagine #thomas sharpe x you #thomas sharpe x reader #thomas sharpe smut #tom hiddleston #crimson peak #crimson peak imagine #sir thomas sharpe #sir thomas sharpe imagine #sir thomas sharpe x you #sir thomas sharpe x reader #sir thomas sharpe smut

1K notes · View notes

regina-mortis · 6 years

Text

Inktober Writing Challenge

(I have been really struggling with the challenge lately. This piece was especially hard given I accidently lost the whole work, thus had to re-write the entire story. I have little time to catch up, but I'm trying. Hope it fucking scares you)

Day 22: A Creepypasta

The Story

I debated bringing this story to light for weeks. It haunts me as clear and vividly gruesome as if the nightmare had unfolded a mere hour ago. I spent day after day wallowing in vodka, however no amount of alcohol rescued me from the bottomless gulf of heartbreak and guilt, or dimmed the abysmal horror lingering like poisonous thorns goring my ailed heart. It seems I have no choice… I shall succumb to insanity looming over me and pull the trigger if it remains silently locked under my ribs, and my dear friend will have perished in vain. And her kid… He sincerely wanted to help. All this madness, death and agony he roused for me. I must unveil what happened, perhaps then I can breathe once again. I am to keep personal details as vague as possible, for if authorities find out my relation to the tragedy, I may land in more trouble than I can handle.

It began a few months ago. I was a horror author in the spring of career. My first novel, Miasma, had been published the previous year, I found myself in a storm of praises from readers and critics alike. Everyone was starving for my second book rumored to come out the following Halloween. Nobody could possibly know the truth… How hollow I had become, a mummified shell of the creator I once was. I drowned myself in spirits and melted my brain with cocaine to make existence bearable, distancing from friends and loyal admirers. Except one. For the story’s sake, I am going to name her Nellie. We… were morning against midnight, summer against dead of winter. Nellie was a single and eight months pregnant bachelor in family studies with a dream to one day run her own daycare. She had not as much as glanced at my book, far too squeamish for things I depicted, but cherished every part of me. I scorned Nellie for it. Who could adore the cynical addict I was behind a charming mask of blossoming talent… In my mind, no one. Nobody sane at least. I will divulge my soul and sincerely admit Nellie would have been the first person I shunned if not the stubbornness so aberrant to her naive and gentle self. She would not let me decay in peace, ringing the doorbell every fucking day with a flowery paper bag of home-cooked food and a rented DVD. Sometimes, she would even have me tag along to a tiny local coffee shop around the corner, where somehow, I smiled to the green-haired barista and signed a couple of autographs people asked me for. Nellie was the sole reason why I chose not to end it all. And I’m certain she knew. She was mellow, yet not a fool neither blind. I loathed her, but found it impossible not to love her. She knew I could not bring myself to let her find my lifeless cadaver with skull blown off and brains all over the wall.

Upon stirring awake and noticing it was six in the evening, I caught myself both dismissively relieved and slightly concerned. Nellie always showed up around three in the afternoon to drag me out of bed and scold me for downing five cans of Red Bull to stay restless till ungodly hours of dawn again. Swallowing the worry and assuming she got caught up in university work, I stalked to the kitchen, only to freeze in sheer astonishment oozing with faint and abstract sense of primeval terror. Among the clutter on the table, sat an object which definitely had not been here before - a neatly folded piece of paper. Frowning, I snatched the mysterious item and frantically stared at the elegant note within. Gravely wind gushed through the balcony door I had not realized was open, and my skin grew pale as bone.

“End of the road behind the city park. I shall be waiting upon your wake”

Before spiralling into perpetual gloom, I used to be an avid urbex explorer. I’d gladly risk getting injured or arrested to sate my fascination for the cryptic and the macabre. Even Miasma, my novel, was inspired by an abandoned hospital a few streets away. Thus I certainly was aware about a deserted road behind the city park despite never having stepped a foot on it due to work and later misery devouring all my time. It was enlaced with legends and eerie stories told in slumber parties, university students organized ghost tours there for Halloween, high schoolers filmed themselves sniffing around to impress their crushes. Older folks feared the road like ants fear fire, claiming a curse plagued it, and monstrous specters roamed it on moonless nights. Nobody had dared to complete the route in last two decades, or lived to tell the tale, but an abandoned church was said to still stand at the end quite firm, held together by forces of ancient evil which infested it.

Though I doubt there is any need to mention urbex was no passion of Nellie’s.

I tossed the crumpled note away, grabbing my coat and bursting through the door, not bothering to brush my hair or change the jeans and shirt I had been wearing for last five days. All I hoped was that the hood will obscure my face enough for me not to be recognized.

The city park laid an hour away from my home on foot, and took an hour more to cross it. Without a physical possibility for the police to monitor the entirety of such a large area, the place could get extremely dangerous at night, lunatics, rogue criminals and homeless heroin junkies lurking in the bushes. Yet I could not care less about peril. Dread of something unnamed and far, far more cruel than a knife or a gun awaiting at the end of my destination pulsing like sick, festering aura around me likely pushed any attacker to turn around anyway. My muscles were burning, sharp twigs whipping my face as I took every possible shortcut. The air was thick and heavy like butter, it felt as if my lungs had been flooded with slowly stagnating slime, robbing me of oxygen and making my head foggy, sight growing dark. I bit my lip harshly, rough, warm taste of iron dripping on my tongue, and pushed forward, struggling not to collapse.

I wish a gasp of ardor had erupted from my throat when indeed, outline of a small, crumbling church of gray stone emerged from the dark. I wish I had gingerly leaped forward, clutching my camera and already spinning a chilling tale in my head. Not limped towards impending doom growing clearer and clearer in front of me, ankle sprained in the rush refusing to obey my sizzling nerves.

What I found inside the forsaken sanctum surged me with such sepulchral, abysmal sensation I fail to flesh out earthly words to recount it. The horror… Oh, the spine-crushing horror. Nellie was here. She gazed straight at me, starry blue of her gaze now glassy, final visage of sheer fright and despair chained in the milky prison until maggots gnaw it away, mouth agape in a wordless greeting muffled by raw red muscle stuffed withing. She laid so heinously beautiful on the split, mouldy altar, broken arms motionless by her side, bare intestines slumped over the edge, blood and yellowish, reeking stomach fluids still trickling and spreading around as if a morbid halo. Her chest… Torn open, flesh and fragments of fractured bone scattered around, a dusty golden Chalice set in the middle. I stumbled backwards, screeching soundlessly. On top of it… placed a severed head of an in infant, so tiny, but almost fully developed, ruthlessly gouged out of a lifeless womb.

What… What in the name of all Saints and Sinners… Was this all a nightmare?.. A hallucination?.. Let it be, please, let it be!..

“Do you like it?” a voice rumbled from my left, guttural, yet serpentine, shaking every fiber in my body with shock so intense I broke out of paralysis, jumping and turning around to face four blazing amber orbs in the shadows.

The figure rose seven feet above ground, without counting the enormous crooked horns sat upon his head that is. Black as obsidian, his skin merged flawlessly with the murk, or was he cloaked I could not tell.

“I beg you, fear not… I did this all for you” he continued without waiting for a response of mine “For your story. A child once lost a scripture of yours on the road that I wandered. I gave into curiosity, and the way you weave words of terror has bewitched me. I have watched over you ever since… I saw how uneasy your slumber was, I witnessed the pain drained ambrosia has brought you. Please…” he gestured towards the desecration “drink inspiration for your new story”.

#inktober 2018 #october writing challenge #creepypasta #original creepypasta #horror #horror story #my story #my creepypasta #my writing #my words #writers on tumblr #original horror #the story #demon super fan

7 notes · View notes

rxgnor0k · 2 years

Text

Masterlist ☆

A resource to find my fics !!

꧁❦꧂

Stranger Things✧

—Billy Hargrove༺✰

Dear Billy

➢ You visit Billy’s grave, and read out a letter you made for him before you possibly perish.

—Steve Harrington༺✰

Tu es ma jolie fille

➢ a late night car drive with Steve “the hair” Harrington

—Eddie Munson༺✰

Rainfall

➢ In which Eddie Munson is invited by his crush, Y/n, into her house after seeing him drenched from the rain

Breakout

➢ You and Eddie escape from one of Jason’s, your brother, parties before getting caught

Lover's Escape

➢ It’s decided that you’re running away soon after the upcoming holiday without telling anyone… and you’re taking Eddie Munson with you

I Like Watching You Dance

➢ In which nutcracker season is at its peak, and spending quality time with Eddie Munson is impossible. Eddie decides to surprise you after a long day of rehearsing, but ends up watching you in awe as you rehearse for your role as the sugar plum fairy in your academy's production of The Nutcracker.

Celebrities✧

—Joseph Quinn༺✰

Idyllic

➢ You accidentally say something flirty that catches you and Joseph off guard, little do you know that he’s been waiting for you to say something like that for ages

A Stroll Around Paris

➢ You and Joseph take a night walk down the streets of Paris, but end up confessing your love for each other

Photo Session

➢ You didn’t realize flirting with Joseph during a photo shoot would lead to him asking you out

Dance With Me

➢ joseph tries to persuade you into having a relaxing night with him… he ends up winning

꧁❦꧂

Currently writing…

-aya

168 notes · View notes

nox-lee · 7 years

Text

My Beloved is Mine and I am His: 13x02 and Song of Solomon

One of the first things I wrote when I was brand new to the fandom was a short fic with Castiel reading and re-enacting sections from the Song of Songs to Dean. At the time, I thought it was too cheesy and trite to fit within the realm of Supernatural, and I deleted it in a bout of frustration. I am regretting that today like you wouldn’t believe.

I’m a bit of a bible nerd. I took a lot of theology and religion classes in my undergrad. That was nearly a decade ago though, so my current knowledge is a bit shaky. Here’s what I can recall about Song of Solomon that may or may not inform your reading of 13x02 and SPN in general.

A disclaimer: I am sick and drug addled, so please forgive any incoherent rambling. There is a lot of irrelevant gibberish, so I’ve tried to highlight the bits relevant to SPN.

To begin!

Solomon is the heir of King David (whom you may recall had a passionate same-sex relationship with Jonathan.) Solomon’s reign is idealized, much like David’s was, and it was under Solomon that the First Temple was built. Solomon is famous for his wisdom and his large concubine of women. Notably, he settled a dispute between two women who were fighting over a child. He offered to cut it in half, revealing the true mother who could not bring herself to see the child hurt. This bears resemblance to Jack’s situation right now, torn between two fathers.

Song of Solomon (also known as Song of Songs, or the Canticles) is often attributed to Solomon because he is mentioned. However, the text is dated much later, and certain Persian words and influences in the text suggest a post-exilic era as the earliest possible date. Some scholars date it even later.

Song of Solomon is part of the collection in the Hebrew Bible known as The Writings (or the Kethuvim). It’s the third major division in the Hebrew Bible, and one of the last to be adopted into canon. It’s a bit of a catch all category that contains vastly diverse content including poetic works (Psalms, Song of Songs), and wisdom literature (Proverbs, Job, Ecclesiastes), to name a few.

Most of these writings (including Song of Songs) date to the post-exilic era. That is, after the Babylonian conquest, and during Persian rule. The nation of Judah perished in the fires that were set to Solomon’s temple. Post-exile, Judea was experiencing a theological crisis in the face of the apparent absence of Yahweh, or God. David’s dynasty has collapsed, and we see theological despair reflected in writings like Job and Ecclesiastes that ponder the problem of evil, the absence of God, and undeserved suffering. Song of Solomon, and other writings like it, were written at a time when things felt hopeless and there were fears that God has abandoned his people. It is oddly fitting then, that Jack should open to this particular part of the bible.

The Kethuvim mark a shift in religious thought. Previous writings centred on an independent kingdom involved in international politics. After the fall of the temple, we see an exiled, diasporic religion now led by priests instead of divinely appointed kings. Religious leaders and writers had to adjust and re-envision their scriptural teachings. Gone was the simplistic thesis that equated prosperity with religious obedience and misery with sin. The authors of the books known as The Writings were questioning conventional scripture of the time and creatively refocusing their theology.

Persian rule also introduced new religious ideas, namely Zoroastrianism, which came to influence later Judeo-Christian ideas. Zoroastrianism viewed the world as dualistic, ruled by two opposing powers of good (light) and evil (dark) and had hierarchies of angels and demons. Until this time, most biblical literature did not give name or ranks to angels, nor did they depict satan as an actual autonomous figure. We have Zoroastrianism to thank for that, and its influence on biblical writings can start to be felt around the post-exile period (i.e. the time during which Song of Solomon was written). The book of Daniel, for example, names the angel Gabriel, and the Book of Tobit names the demon Asmodeus. (In Tobit, Asmodeus is a jealous demon who kills each successive husband of Sarah on her wedding night and is later exorcised. He is someone who keeps lovers apart and keeps them from consummating their love.)

Songs of Songs is essentially a collection of erotic love poems. The book defies any easy interpretation or classification, and it stands out in stark contrast to the rest of biblical canon. It’s a completely unabashed, uninhibited celebration of sex, with little evidence to suggest that the lovers are married. They do not live together, and yearn intensely for one another when apart. It’s the subject of numerous feminist readings, as it’s one of few books of the bible to give a voice to women’s thoughts and feelings. Here, those are romantic and erotic feelings.

Don’t believe me? Read this:

My beloved thrust his hand into the opening, and my inmost being yearned for him. I arose to open to my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with liquid myrrh, upon the handles of the bolt. (Song of Solomon 5: 4-5)

This is some raunchy stuff for the bible! And all of this is sharply contrasted with the sexual ethos elsewhere in the bible which imposes harsh penalties for sexual misconduct, and places great emphasis on the institution of marriage. Deuteronomy (a book of the bible about sexual and social control) calls for the death penalty in many cases

There was understandably some debate as to whether this particular bit of writing warranted inclusion in the biblical canon of scripture. Rabbi Akiba was a key figure in the development of the Hebrew canon. While he argued strongly against the inclusion of certain books of the Apocrypha, he advocated for the Song of Songs, calling it the Holy of Holies. Its sanctity was preserved by interpreting it as an allegory for the love between Yahweh and Israel, and later by Christians as the love between Christ and the Church. Interestingly, God is not mentioned once in the entire book. (The only other book of the Bible where God is not mentioned even once is Esther.)

And yet, this book was called the Holiest of Holies. Love is championed here above all else.

I really don’t think we’ve seen the last of Chuck. Someone (I’m sorry, I can’t remember who!) pointed out the rainbow glare that happened in 13x01 when Dean was praying as a sign of God’s promise. (Edit: I’m an idiot. I reblogged the damn thing and it was just a couple posts down. It was @gneisscastiel who made the beautiful post about lens flares and pointed out the rainbow as God’s promise.) The inclusion of Song of Solomon in 13x02, besides being a blatant callout to Dean and Cas, suggests this is also about God and his people. I’d also like to suggest that Song of Solomon is a book that asks us to think broadly about canon. What constitutes canon? How is it formed? And I do mean canon here in the sense not just of biblical canon, but of fandom canon. Who decides what canon is? Is there room in canon for outliers like the Song of Solomon? The answer, as the show has just demonstrated, should be a resounding yes.

Onto the destiel side of things, which I’m sure has been discussed already. Song of Solomon contains some of the most beautiful poetry in the Bible. It is full of similes and references to nature (and arguably Eden/Paradise). It is deeply rural and pastoral, with an appreciation of agriculture, nature, and animal life. The multiple reference to sheep in 13x02 were no coincidence, I’m sure. Castiel has long been associated with natural, rural things: flowers, bees, goats, fish, etc. (If the Void is depicted as a garden and Cas has been spending his time under apple trees, I’m going to lose my freaking mind.) Is he being associated with sheep now? As someone who has been led by God, other angels, duty, Dean, Jack… perhaps this is time for Cas to choose a direction for himself. Sheep and lambs in the bible are also frequently marked for sacrifice. They represent symbolic innocence, and in the New Testament, Christ is called the “Lamb of God.” I definitely think Cas is being set up as a Christ-like figure with his death and anticipated resurrection. If 13x02 made anything clear, it’s that Cas is the answer the whatever problem faces Dean, Sam, and Jack alike.

Lamentations might have been a more appropriate choice for the episode. It’s also a book of poetry, but one that evokes pain and loss. But they chose instead to give us the book that celebrates love and hope amidst despair. That’s a choice that feel very deliberate, and makes me cautiously optimistic for Dean and Cas.

In closing, here are some passages from Song of Solomon, and the ones I feel are most closely tied to a destiel narrative.

“You have ravished my heart with a glance of your eyes.” (Song of Solomon 4:9)

“Set me a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm…” (Song of Solomon 8:6)

“… For love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame.” (Song of Solomon 8:6)

“I will seek him whom my soul loves. I sought him, but found him not.” (Song of Solomon 3:2)

“My beloved is mine and I am his.” (Song of Solomon 2:16)

#spn season 13 #spn 13x02 #song of songs #song of solomon #destiel #bible #spn meta #?

1K notes · View notes

sushilabassyear1fmp · 3 years

Text

Roma Poems and Poets.

Valdemar Kalinin

Poem ‘It’s going to rain’

It’s about to rain, getting darker, The leaves have long fallen from the trees, Leaving desolation where just an old man Roams, Picking handfuls of earth where Roma Perished.

During this war Nazis shot them dead, Roma seized and put in wagons, oh Filled with children and the Roma old, No mercy shown to a single soul.

Buried here auntie, grandpa, grannie, But God spared a small one, Who visits to imagine, The perished wait for him.

No monument stands, Except in the minds of the old, Woods and land bore witness, This older man declares: Roma are buried here, don’t disturb this land!

This poem by Valdemar Kalinin describes the story of a small child who survived the mass shootings and is now revisiting the ground they were shot and buried on, he describes how the Nazis showed no mercy they killed everyone no matter of age. In the final line he explains how there is no monument to remember the fallen and that the only ones who remember what happened there are the older ones who survived and Earth itself who had to watch silently. This is a nod to how Germany refused to accept responsibility for the Roma deaths and that there was no memorial like what the Jewish population got for many years, so the only ones who knew and were able to remember what happened were the old. Valdemar was born in 1946 just after the war which meant in order to have told this tale described In his poem he must have spoken to many Romanis which is not hard to believe as he spent a large part of his life (after serving in the Soviet Army) translating the bible into Baltic Romani (which he only finished in 2014) he has been an upstanding member of the Romani community despite my sources not being able to inform me if he was born a Gypsy or not. Weather he was born a Gypsy or not it is clear he has passionate feeling about the Romani Holocaust, it is easy to believe that he published this poem before Germany accepted paying reparations to the Gypsy community in 1979, though I cannot find a date for the publication of this poem.

Papusza 1908 – 1987

This interesting Gypsy girl who wanted to learn how to read and write despite not many let alone gypsies knew how to write, however from a young age she wanted to learn and she used many cunning tactics to learnt how. For gypsies who made their money through dancing, labour or music reading was not a skill they needed or wanted to know, but it was perhaps a good thing that she wanted to learn to read and write- despite her parents deeming the skill useless- it was very uncommon for women of her time to know to read and write, only the middle classes and up who went to school or got tutors learnt such skills. This skill came in hand the help her show others what she went through in those war years, as so many didn’t know how to write their stories went with them to the grave. When world war 2 started she was married into a clan of harp players (she was almost 30 when war broke out) the clan fled leaving their precious carts behind and hiding in the woods for around a year from ’43 to ’44, this poem ‘Tears of blood’ (originally written in polish) was her account of all that happened in those woods while being tracked down by the Nazis.

Tears of Blood (How we suffered under the German soldiers in Volyň from 1943 to 1944) In the woods. No water, no fire — great hunger. Where could the children sleep? No tent. We could not light the fire at night. By day, the smoke would alert the Germans. How to live with children in the cold of winter? All are barefoot… When they wanted to murder us, first they forced us to hard labor. A German came to see us. — I have bad news for you. They want to kill you tonight. Don’t tell anybody. I too am a dark Gypsy, of your blood — a true one. God help you in the black forest… Having said these words, he embraced us all… For two three days no food. All go to sleep hungry. Unable to sleep, they stare at the stars… God, how beautiful it is to live! The Germans will not let us… Ah, you, my little star! At dawn you are large! Blind the Germans! Confuse them, lead them astray, so the Jewish and Gypsy child can live! When big winter comes, what will the Gypsy woman with a small child do? Where will she find clothing? Everything is turning to rags. One wants to die. No one knows, only the sky, only the river hears our lament. Whose eyes saw us as enemies? Whose mouth cursed us? Do not hear them, God. Hear us! A cold night came, The old Gypsy women sang A Gypsy fairy tale: Golden winter will come, snow, like little stars, will cover the earth, the hands. The black eyes will freeze, the hearts will die. So much snow fell, it covered the road. One could only see the Milky Way in the sky. On such night of frost a little daughter dies, and in four days mothers bury in the snow four little sons. Sun, without you, see how a little Gypsy is dying from cold in the big forest. Once, at home, the moon stood in the window, didn’t let me sleep. Someone looked inside. I asked — who is there? — Open the door, my dark Gypsy. I saw a beautiful young Jewish girl, shivering from cold, asking for food. You poor thing, my little one. I gave her bread, whatever I had, a shirt. We both forgot that not far away were the police. But they didn’t come that night. All the birds are praying for our children, so the evil people, vipers, will not kill them. Ah, fate! My unlucky luck! Snow fell as thick as leaves, barred our way, such heavy snow, it buried the cartwheels. One had to trample a track, push the carts behind the horses. How many miseries and hungers! How many sorrows and roads! How many sharp stones pierced our feet! How many bullets flew by our ears!

She describes how they hid and travelled through the forest with bare feet and many children with them, moving on without food or water and no way to light a fire in fear it would give away their location in the forest. She then describes a German who came to see them, the German warns that the Nazis plan to kill them tonight, they then beg for the refugees not to tell the soldiers that they too are a Gypsy who has somehow escaped their wrath. She describes how even when they are all starving and unable to sleep how they love being alive because then they are able to look up at the stars, they want to live but the Germans will not let them. She then prays to the heavens to help them, to blind their attackers so that the children can escape, she describes both a Jewish and Gypsy child, this shows the Gypsy care, they even when poor would help out and house someone less fortunate than them. In this case help the Jewish child escape the Germans.

Then she describes the harsh winter they endure, how she wished for death as she has no clothes. She then talks of how the Gypsies do not understand why they are being treated this way, who thinks them criminals and dangerous why those innocent children are being hunted for their lifestyle and blood, they have done nothing wrong. Then she talks of the children and women who die that winter unable to endure the cold and hunger any more, she doesn’t simply describe them as children though she calls them ‘daughter, sons’ they were not strictly her children but her clans, her families and so her own children in a way.

Perhaps at the end of the winter she describes being ‘at home’ and how a Jewish girl comes knocking cold and hungry, despite having experienced many hardships this past year she lets the girl in and feeds and clothes her, showing her Gypsy hospitality once again.

She finishes while describing the heavy snow and how they struggled trough it. And with word of bullets flying by, this would have meant they Germans got pretty close to catching them a few times.

This is a story of pain, suffering and kindness. The pain and suffering of walking for days barefoot trough a rocky sharp forest with no food or water, shivering from the cold, in consent fear of being found. The kindness of the German who risked their life to find and warn them of the danger planned to the Gypsies aiding Jewish people to escape and giving them food and clothes when they needed it. The story is of resilience and still seeing the good in life after all that pain. A consistent theme in her poem is of her describing nature and often asking nature for help, this reflects the peaceful and harmonious what Gypsies lived with nature.

These poems give a haunting look into what Romani experienced during the war and will help inform my work, i may also chose one of these poems as my direct inspiration for the costume i will create.

0 notes

brohood-assassins-imagines · 7 years

Text

Put Me Back Together

Anonymous: Can you make like just ANYTHING with Aguliar? I don't understand why there is so little love for such fine man.

A/N: I have no idea how long it took me to write this lmao. THE PERCEPTION OF TIME IS GONE, THANKS TO COLLEGE AYYY!!!! It’s also been hard to focus on writing, during day time. Everything is just so noisy and I can’t focus for more than 5 minutes on what I’m doing, since the computer is in the living room. BUT HEY, IF EVERYTHING WORKS OUT, I MIGHT BUY MYSELF A NEW LAPTOP BY OCTOBER!!!!!!!! AND A REALLY GOOD ONE, SO WRITING WILL NEVER BE A PROBLEM - I mean, unless I’m not inspired but you guys get it. Anyways, not entirely satisfied with it, but that’s what I could manage with my current mood. Feelings are messy.

“Do you need anything else?” you asked, setting down the wooden bowl with food in front of him, “maybe I can run a bath for you?” you stressed, not sure about what to do at this point.

Aguilar had shown up at your doorstep, half-dead, almost incoherent due blood loss — which surprised you how he actually managed to remember where you lived — six days ago. You didn’t ask him any questions, but took the man in and nursed him back to health; cleaning and covering his wounds with a series of ointments. At the fourth day, he had woken up with a startle, Maria’s name falling from his lips in a torrent before he saw you; confusion clear on his face before his memories started catching up to him and he broke down into tears in your bedroom.

Since then, he hadn’t spoken a word; preferring to stay in silence rather than striking up a conversation with you — although it wasn’t a rude silence, you knew it. Aguilar was devastated and you didn’t need him telling you to be aware of the reason why, so you decided to let him be for a while. Despite his silence, he complied with your requests on medical care and would eat and drink — although he preferred to do the latter when you weren’t around.

Aguilar didn’t answer, instead raising his eyes to meet yours — eyes that once you deemed so brilliant and filled with determination, now dark and almost lifeless. He seemed like he was going to open his mouth to speak, but decided against the idea, head dropping again with a sigh.

You sat down on the bed beside him, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before taking his hand into yours, caressing his bruised and calloused knuckles with the soft pads of your thumbs and he squeezed your hand in return. “You know you can trust me, Aguilar…” you started, voice barely anything above a whisper. “That’s why you came here. I don’t need you to tell me what happened to…” you frowned, not sure if he would be comfortable with you using Maria’s name, “but you have to allow me to help you”. You squeezed his hand once, now searching for the blue of his eyes below his greasy hair.

It took him a few seconds and a lot of patience from you, but Aguilar sucked a breath him, shoulders shuddering as he tried to sustain your gaze. “I should have…” he started before his voice broke and he shook his head, “I’m sorry.”

You pressed your lips together, letting go of his hand in order to cup his face, thumb caressing the tattoo on his cheek as you tried to comfort him. “Oh, Aguilar…” you soothed as he tried to quiet down. “It’s okay. I’m here, yeah?”

“I got rid of it,” he said in a trembling voice, gaze hardened as he looked at you; an anger in it that you thought would only surface much later — if even so. “Colombo said he will carry it to his grave, but…” he closed his eyes, sighing heavily as he tried to fight back the tears.

“Yes, I understand” you hushed him, pressing the palm of your hand against his cheek and you were surprised when he pressed back at it, a hand coming up to hold it there for a few moments. “I’m sorry to hear of that, Aguilar. I truly am.”

“I never thought that…” he trailed off.

“Yes,” you agreed quietly, “me neither.”

Indeed, you never thought that Maria would perish serving the Order. You had always deemed her to be much too fierce and cautious to put herself in a position that could risk her own life — but, apparently, you were wrong. Aguilar trembled beside you and you eyed him with worriedly.

“I don’t want to see that… thing” he snarled angrily, slowly turning to look at you could see the glimmer of tears in his eyes, “ever again.”

You sighed, leaning forward and cradled the man’s face between your hand as if he were a small child who couldn’t stop crying and hugged him the best you could, avoiding his wounds and letting his emotions play out: anger, sorrow, frustration, regret…

And when you thought he’d push you away after some time, Aguilar simply pressed a hand to your back and pulled you closer to him, resting his head on your shoulder as he tried to put himself back together.

#aguilar de nerha #assassin's creed #angst #aguilar x reader #maria #SHE HAS NO SURNAME AND THIS BOTHERS ME #idk what else to put in the tags

70 notes · View notes

terraclae · 7 years

Text

The Crypt

Arodan goes tomb dwelling for an afternoon.

Lore pings: @yuushanoah-fr @cityofinoue

This was the first time he swore he was hearing voices. Great, he lost his journal for once and he immediately started to lose himself. This was pure torture. Usually he entertained himself in the empty hours by writing conversations to Mimir, the book was quick to respond after all. It’s absence left a hole in him he wasn't equipped to cope with yet.

‘Are you lonely?’

‘I am not.’ He quietly responded. This was the library who asked him and he preferred not to repeat last time. ‘I'm just thinking too much, I'll get back to work soon.’

‘You have the eyes of someone lonely. You've lost something.’

‘Well, how would you know?’ Arodan asked as politely as he could remain. ‘What if I just had a bad night too?’

‘Well, I've seen many librarians that haven't slept well. They spent too much time here, I don't blame them.’ In the distance a pile of pillows shifted. ‘But your being radiates a different emotion.’

‘How do I feel?’

‘Lonely.’

‘That again.’ He bent over the book that lay on his desk in front of him again. Some of the pages were torn and needed to be stitched back into the cover. ‘I'm not lonely.’

‘What would you name it?’ This time a shelf, one a little closer to Arodan creaked and he had the distinct feeling Solaire had the faintest idea of having another taste of his energy again. ‘You know, I meant to ask you earlier, but have I been a good librarian?’

‘You repair the books, clean the shelves, sweep the floors and fluff the pillows. I'd say you're doing a pretty good job.’ Solaire’s voice echoed from a walkway right above him now and Arodan braced himself in the case he was about to be pounced. ‘I appreciate your presence.’

‘Why did you steal my energy the first time we met then?’

Solaire paused, and there was a rattling above him as if the shelves shook in one big shrug. ‘I always do that to the newbies. Your energy tasted rather peculiar and something slumbers in you.’ Arodan’s desk creaked as if someone had decided to sit down on it. ‘Now I know exactly who you are and that I can trust you to take care of these halls.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you that is perhaps a little creepy?’ Why was he arguing with Solaire on this anyway? He doubted a library had an understanding of normal social conventions. ‘Maybe you can just ask people who they are?’

‘Isn't this easier though?’ The desk creaked once more and Arodan gained the distinct feeling he was being watched closely. He expected a follow up question that in the end, never came.

‘... Where’s Mimir?’

He looked up and suddenly there was something solid in front of his desk, not someone, but something that had a body yes, just not a face that made sense. ‘I don't know. I think someone stole it.’ How he had managed to speak so clearly and flatly was a miracle considering what he was looking at. Solaire’s face looked exceptionally remarkable in the sense it looked as if someone who didn't actually know what the function was of a face and what it looked like molded it. Yet, for something so disturbing as soon as Arodan averted his eyes he couldn't remember a single detail of it. ‘There were only dark footprints on the floor and they lead into nowhere when I followed them.’

‘Ah. That's explains your loneliness.’

‘I'm not-’

‘Shh.’ Solaire hissed more than that she spoke. ‘Blackened, almost soot like footprints?’

‘... Yes?’ He lowered his voice and leant closer towards her. ‘Was it Sachairi who stole my journal? Because then why wouldn't he have taken the necklace?’

‘It wasn't Sachairi.’ She responded. She knew he was loose, but otherwise her knowledge on recent events remained fairly limited to what happened or was discussed by library patrons. ‘Do you want to hear a secret almost no one else has ever heard before?’

‘Is that a trick question?’ Arodan’s eyes darted briefly towards the door and Solaire seemed to catch on, the door locking on its own. ‘And why would you want to tell me?’

‘Because I know you won't tattle. I wouldn't be surprised if someone hadn't already threatened to hurt you if you ever spilled a secret so you understand how things work around here.’ Solaire tilted their head and the motion made a noise normal bones really shouldn't be able to make. ‘So?’

‘Okay, tell me. But I don't see how it has anything to do with Mim-My journal.’ Arodan waited for a response and watched Solaire sit down on his desk first, with her back turned to him.

‘Once, a long time ago, when this city’s gates were still open, the castle was more lively with the breaths and voices of people outside of this realm of snow and ice.’ Solaire started, something wispy to her voice. ‘There were far more audiences, people often met with the king, and we held many balls for royalties of other kingdoms. It was always spectacular to see what innovative types of dress people would show up in and how they partied from dusk till dawn. This castle used to be truly alive.’

‘So, what awful thing happened?’ Arodan asked, cocking his head in unamused fashion knowing what he could expect. ‘What changed?’

‘Many things, but this particular shard of being is vital as to who has your book.’ Solaire laughed at Arodan and continued her story. ‘A fire broke out, actually. Not a particularly big one, not foul play, a pure accident. A few guests perished in the fire and hmm… It was a real mood killer.’

‘Mood killer? Really?’ His voice cracked a little at that, because something that detached from reality couldn't just have been used to describe something like that. ‘Who were they?’

‘A duke, some servants, a messenger, and someone who to this day, no one knows of who they were because there was so little left. She however, is not unknown to me.’ Solaire continued and seemed very pleased with herself. ‘One day a little bird, a ghost drifted in here, and introduced herself as Merope. Queen Merope, Balam and Kassa later found out.’

‘Queen? Queen of what?’

‘Queen of the city of Lux Laterna.’

Arodan’s mouth hung open for a moment and before he could close it himself Solaire had already done so with a cold and clammy hand. ‘... What? How, why would she be here? Lux Laterna had a queen?’

‘Had, yes. Then never again. Her death must have left the king of Lux Laterna considerably bitter and it is just one of the reasons he wants this fortress.’ Solaire hopped off his desk and pointed at a shelf in the far back. ‘Merope was the first of the high court who wanted to reach out to Paramo for an alliance. She was what could have been. Here, everyone thinks she simply disappeared, and in the city of Lux Laterna everyone thinks we killed her.’

‘Is this all a big misunderstanding-’

‘No, it isn't. Didn't you hear what I said about the reasons of the upcoming battle?’ Solaire’s ears perked up curiously. They were unusually long for an average pearlcatcher. ‘That was her first time here, and she snuck in uninvited, not unwelcome. She barely got to introduce herself proper to king Balam and by him she'll be remembered as the odd guest that was prone to oversharing to everyone else, even if he knows who she really is. Her bones lie in the crypt below the castle forevermore, proclaiming her unknown, with her family only getting the wrong answers about what really happened.’

‘So… They want her bones? They want what's left of her, besides the fortress?’ Solaire nodded in response and Arodan sighed heavily. That must have been awful and though he wanted to believe the others when they warned him how dangerous the people of Lux Laterna were he couldn't help but feel bad for the grief and confusion they must have felt. ‘And are you implying she has my book? Why?’

‘Curiosity, I'm sure. She spends her days roaming these halls because she can't leave. Something keeps her in this place.’ Solaire’s hand this time rose to point towards the door and then trace to the right as if drawing an invisible route. ‘You might find your journal on the sole unmarked grave in the crypt. That is your best guess.’

��Okay, okay, would you mind if I left right now?’ He was stuffing what belongings he had with him into his bag already to dash out of the door. ‘I really need my journal back.’

‘Does it have any important or particularly embarrassing secrets in it?’

Arodan was halfway towards the door, but whipped around to answer Solaire. ‘No. But it means a lot to me to have some way to make sense of things at the end of the day.’ He gestured choppily as he made his point. ‘And well… You're the only one who knows but that journal is truly alive. I have to help them.’

‘Now that's a good reason.’ The door unlocked on its own again and opened, and she hovered over to Arodan. ‘Go. And you do, put these on another grave for me, will you?’ She held out a thin bouquet of strange looking lilies towards Arodan that were colored a bright red. ‘I'd like you to lay these on the most elaborate grave you see, you can't miss it.’

‘Fine. If anyone asks, I'll be right back.’ Arodan grabbed the lilies and bolted off into the halls, keeping his steps muffled as he ran. He knew the way now, as if by heart after these days spent cooped up in the castle. The only thing that occurred to him as he ran down the stairs to the very lowest level of the castle is that the crypt had to be locked and he wasn't sure if it was a lock he could pick. Maybe he could ask Atlas to unlock the door for him. It occurred to him he perhaps should have thought this plan through on how it'd work out in practice.

The door however, at the very end of the lowest floor hallway was wide open.

Arodan's pace slowed to a cautious sneak and like this he entered the crypt, staying close to the walls. Of course someone of the castle just could have gone into the crypt to inspect the graves but he couldn't help but be mildly unsettled by the lingering dread that hung in the long winding halls of the crypt. The air was thick and oppressive, and particularly good at making one's hairs stand on end in caution. Besides that, it was dark in the crypt, only lit by sparse lighting lining the walls that made it difficult to get a hold on where one was going. Yet he trudged on, past many graves that didn't look dragon made until he reached far larger graves that looked like they held the remains of once massive dragons.

Along the row he reached a large hollow, the edge decorated with dried flowers and trinkets. Within was a large sprawling grave, an elaborate image carved in the stone over it, of a guardian with open arms standing over a loving crowd wreathed in light. The sides were decorated with many flowers that seemed wilted but couldn't be more than a week old, and candles and even more trinkets, toys, jewelry, so much a normal grave might disappear under the vast amount of gifts. This had to be the grave Solaire was speaking of. He walked forward and left the bouquet of wiry red lilies on the grave. His eyes drifted to the name plaque by the foot of the grave. ‘King… Waldemar the second of house Paramo, dearly beloved.’ He read it aloud to himself and tilted his head. Maybe this was Balam’s father then, hence why Solaire had requested of him to leave flowers. ‘Now to find Merope.’

‘She isn't here right now, son.’

Arodan slowly turned and expected to see Balam standing behind him. The voice had a telltale depth and reverb to it that it had to be him. Instead, he saw a figure standing behind him with wings like burnt paper and skin black and charred. They were a massive hulking appearance that rivaled Balam’s height. Arodan could guess by his convenient appearance who he must have been. ‘King Waldemar?’

‘Yes?’ The most striking thing about Waldemar’s strange smoking appearance were his almost pearlescent white eyes that scanned over his surroundings thoughtfully. ‘So, to whom do I owe the honor of receiving flowers?’

‘Arodan, sir.’ He bowed his head and looked up in awe. ‘I'm down here because I lost something, so I can’t stick around too long, but do you know where Merope’s grave might be?’

‘Down the hall.’ He pointed idly and cocked his head. ‘Why such a rush stranger? It's lonely down here and I'd like to know who walks the halls of this castle. Whatever you lost sure doesn't require such hurry.’

‘Yeah, well, it's kind of important to me so I'd prefer to get it back fast.’ He wiggled his fingers and at the tips light glowed, illuminating his path. ‘Not that I don't respect you or King Balam’s status, but I like to be able to move around without being monitored or bossed around.’

‘Oh, you've met my son?’ Waldemar’s eyes lit up and he grasped Arodan’s shoulders in me quick movement. The light at Arodan’s fingertips disappeared with a disheartening sizzle. For a ghost he was awfully heavy but he had an eerie aura around him nonetheless. ‘How is he doing, did he find a charge yet?’

‘You… You don't know this?’ He wiggled himself from Waldemar’s hold and surveyed the soot stains on his clothing. ‘I'm guessing he's as alright as he could be doing. There's a war coming, everyone's a little stressed.’ He shrugged. ‘As for the charge, no, he hasn't found one.’

‘Ah.’ Waldemar looked down and shifted. His appearance seemed to smoke for a moment. ‘You see, I can not leave these crypts actually. You'd assume as someone who lived here I can go wherever in the castle but instead I'm confined to these dusty crypts.’

‘That explains a lot.’ He surveyed Waldemar’s form. ‘Say… How did you pass away? Someone told me Merope passed away in the fire, did you get caught up in the same blaze?’

‘No, that was after my time son. I just was careless.’ He huffed and a puff of smoke escaped from his nose. ‘I gambled my own life out of anger in a fighting pit and paid the fiery price for it.’ He held up his hands, which were ashy and cold. ‘Well, at least my son got an example of what not to do, and I do not have to bother with ruling anymore.’

‘Wait, Balam was present? Fighting pit?’ His eyes darted briefly towards the door. ‘Why were you in a fighting pit?’

‘Entertainment. Why else would you be there?’ Waldemar answered. ‘Someone threatened to tarnish my honor so I had to protect it. The only way that I could do that was to pick up the sword and shield myself.’

‘You shouldn't have done that however, that was frankly, stupid and irresponsible.’ Arodan responded before he could stop himself. Immediately he shrank back under Waldemar’s scrutinizing gaze. ‘What sort of example is that supposed to set if you get set on fire in front of hundreds of people watching? You're a king, you should have kept your cool.’

‘Who are you to tell me how to rule my kingdom? Do you have any status to your name?’ Waldemar bristled and his wings flared out in an expression of dominance. ‘I knew what I was doing, being careless once is something that will be forgiven.’ He gestured at his grave. ‘The people love me, even in death. My son is still keeping alive my legacy. What do you have?’

‘Well, I'm alive for one.’ Arodan growled. Waldemar was getting a little too hostile for his liking. ‘Dying for a cause is fine and all that but dying because someone called your cape stupid isn't a noble cause. People need someone to lead them.’ His gaze narrowed and he tried to appear as intimidating as he could despite his height disadvantage. 'Don't think I haven't heard about your dispassion for being king.'

‘They have. They have what I left them.’

‘Balam is not some piece of you or yourself. How can you say that?’

‘That is how it is supposed to be. I protect the legacy of my father before me, as if I were him. He is expected to do the same.’ Waldemar stepped a little closer to Arodan and looked over him. He sounded like someone who was lying to himself, but far more to others as opposed to Balam. ‘Don't stick your nose in matters you will never understand.’

‘Oh, I understand what's going on here fine.’ Arodan's gaze narrowed and he moved backwards and started to walk further into the crypt. ‘I'm done talking to you. I'll leave you to your eternal peace, I have a book to find.’

‘No, we aren't done talking yet.’

Before Arodan knew it he was grasped and hoisted up by his tail, swung upside down. He barely got time to scream in the movement, the sound leaving his throat in the form of an airy squeak. ‘What are you doing?!’

‘You aren't leaving until you understand how things work around here, because clearly-’ He held Arodan higher off the ground now, almost at a dangerous height. ‘It seems you lack the proper respect for those above you, librarian.’

‘Oh, get your head out of your ass!’ Arodan yelled, holding his hands out before him, aimed at Waldemar’s chest. At his fingertips yet again blazed light that burned and raged, that he this time formed into a solid bolt that he fired right through Waldemar’s chest. It stunned the king enough for him to drop Arodan who managed to twist himself sideways just before hitting the floor. A rib painfully ached in his chest but he had no time to recover. He opted to scramble up and away, bolting further into the crypts frantically and disoriented. If he found a vantage point he had time to reorient, and he could possibly dispel Waldemar if the ghost was still following him. Think, think-

‘Come back here!’

Dangit. He veered to a left and dove into the first hollow he saw, hiding behind a grave. He heard Waldemar zip past, and he sounded like a crackling wildfire. This gave him sometime to figure out how to banish him momentarily and escape the crypt. He made a mental side note that he wasn't going to ever return here after this.

How does one banish a furious spectral energy?

‘You seem to be in trouble.’

Arodan whipped around and a deep unsettling block of anxiety gripped his heart. He was being watched but in the dark of the crypt he couldn't discern who and from where. ‘Yeah, well, that happens. Are you a friend or foe?’

No answer came for the moment, until a short staff rolled from the shadows towards Arodan and bumped against his foot. He picked it up as if it was about to explode in his hands and surveyed it, eyes scanning over the many texts crafted into it. In the distance he could hear Waldemar returning, the sound of an inferno roaring down the halls. Arodan sucked in a breath and got up. ‘That'll do.’ He held the staff in two hands and soon it shone with bright golden light that illuminated the room. Light solidified around the staff and formed a spear around the base. Arodan held it besides him now and climbed onto the unmarked grave before him, waiting in a defensive stance.

One.

It was as if he was standing in a furnace now. Around the corner appeared a livid Waldemar, his ethereal body cracking and blazing with columns of fire while his eyes had remained the same frigid white. ‘You have the audacity-’

Two.

‘Can it!’ Arodan aimed the spear at Waldemar in a manner unknown to the king. ‘Either we discuss this like sensible adults or I'll send you back to the spirit realm you belong to.’

Three.

‘Try me small fry, I'll rip you to-’

Four.

Without warning Arodan launched another bolt of light into Waldemar’s chest and immediately leapt forward, swinging the spear into a traditional hold. With startling accuracy he planted the spear into his chest, hanging off of it so he wouldn't be burnt by Waldemar swinging his searing claws at him. ‘Begone!’ The spear discharged in one eye burning flash and it dispelled the lingering ghost of Waldemar completely. Once the oppressive quietness of the crypt returned Arodan dropped the staff with a clatter and dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

‘That was quick. Effective even.'

'I didn't exactly mean to be down here this long.' Arodan steadied his breath and turned, peering into the darkness. The voice sounded familiar but the way it sounded as if ten voices more spoke at the same moment stopped his mind from remembering. 'What are you, another ghost? You know where Merope is?' He knew he was standing by her grave but there was no sign of his journal.

'She ain't here. Probably wandering.' The voices responded. Heavy footsteps sounded as something approached Arodan. That to him meant he wasn't dealing with a ghost, if he was right about ghosts not walking. 'Looking for this?' From the shadows a dark hand appeared holding Arodan's journal. ‘Someone left it here.’

'Give that back.' Arodan started to stumble towards the shadows, lighting a spark of magic on his fingers again to illuminate the room. Although he could see all the details of the room it was as if the corner of the room had been swallowed by a dark void, two bright golden eyes forming the only focus point. Immediately he yanked his knife from his bag, pointing it at the entity before him. 'What do you want?'

'Really? A knife?' The many other voices died out in favor of just one, a recognizable gruff voice that sounded mildly amused at being threatened. 'I can smash your head like a grape, are you feeling lucky punk?'

'Sachairi?' Arodan quietly asked, lowering the knife only to immediately raise it again. 'I asked you before, but are you a friend or an enemy?'

'Does it matter?' Sachairi responded, and despite his current appearance he somehow looked as if he coyly cocked his head. 'Give me the heart.'

'It's kind of vital because I'd like to know if you're not going to murder me as soon as I hand over the heart.' Yet he pulled the necklace from his shirt so it was in view. 'It's safe by the way. You're welcome.'

'Don't play with me you asshole, give me my necklace back.' Sachairi growled, and the void flourished in a manner of geometrical patterns that snaked their way towards Arodan.

'Then let's trade.' That stopped Sachairi from advancing. 'You give me my journal back, and i'll give you your necklace. That journal means a lot to me even if it's in a stupid way.'

Sachairi's gaze drifted momentarily drifted to the book in his hand, then back to Arodan. The patterns withdrew, and he held out the book towards him. 'Fine.' He held out another open hand to receive the necklace. 'Let's trade.'

He hesitated for a moment, then pocketed the knife again. Arodan pulled the necklace from his neck. ‘Come closer.’

‘No, you come closer.’

‘Are we going to argue over something as stupid as this?’ Arodan asked. The quick footsteps in the distance didn't register to him.

‘Just give me the damn necklace.’ Sachairi stepped closer and this time a foot actually appeared from the void. ‘There's only so long I can upkeep this.’

‘Arodan?’ Atlas appeared and peered into the hollow and immediately froze once he registered what he was seeing. ‘Dan. Move back immediately.’

‘Atlas, I'm kind of in the middle of-’ A spear made of light immediately was flung right past Arodan into the wall behind him. It didn't hit its intended target but took out part of Atlas’ ear and pierced the brim of his hat, nailing it to the wall. ‘Atlas!’ Sachairi stood with only one foot in the void, eyed wild like a cornered animal. When he focused on Arodan he could first notice now that he didn't quite look at him but a little off to the side because he was blind in one eye. A row of burns scars ran alongside the left side of his body and no doubt the eye had gotten damaged a similar way. Immediately Sachairi bolted back into the void and disappeared completely. Arodan immediately rushed towards Atlas’ side who had dropped to the floor clutching his ear. ‘Are you alright?!’

‘I've had worse.’ He pressed his hand to the damaged ear in an attempt to stop it from bleeding. ‘I can deal with a chipped tip but it does hurt.’

‘Oh gods.’ Arodan scrambled to check if Atlas had been scraped anywhere else and was glad he wasn't. He ended up placing his hand over Atlas’ that clutched the ear. ‘I'm so sorry, this is my fault.’ All of this happened because he wanted his stupid journal back, he thought.

‘I wouldn't call it your fault but yes, you probably shouldn't go talking to people like that. Solaire warned me you were down here.’ Atlas managed to joke, sitting a little more comfortably. ‘Are you okay though, he didn't do anything to you right?’

‘No, I’m fine, not counting emotional damage.’ Arodan responded. That loosened a laugh from Atlas at the very least. ‘I am never entering this place ever again. There's too many people trying to kill me down here. Your former king doesn't like me very much.’

‘Waldemar?' Atlas gave him an incredulous look, that softened immediately as soon as he guessed what might have happened. 'You know, I never liked that man. It's why I left in the first place.' He got up slowly and searched his pockets with his free hand for a handkerchief of sorts. 'Tell me everything on the way back to the infirmary, okay? I'm just glad you're okay.

'Well, you're not.' Arodan threw a brief glance at the necklace that still lay in his hand and lamented he hadn't gotten his journal back. He then immediately came to the more chilling realization Sachairi had it and that he had no way to track him. '... Why did Sachairi attack you?'

'He doesn't like me. You know, I made one visit back here, when he was still around as a guest and not a fugitive. He knows exactly what I can and will do to him if he hurts others.' He found a handkerchief that was large enough to wrap around his head. 'He was already going bad back then.' By his words that seemed to not be the entire truth but know was not the moment to ask.

'I… I see.' He lit the way into the hall and shot Atlas a look. 'Did he hurt you before?'

'No.' Atlas gave him a clipped answer and sighed. He seemed light and nervous on his feet and clasped his hands together with a finality to it, his face blooming into a smile. 'Say, you wouldn't perhaps want to carry me up to the infirmary right?'

'What, did he take out your legs too?' Atlas didn't want to continue the conversation, it seemed. Arodan was fine with that, just talking to someone was enough right now. 'I'm not carrying you but come here, you get to lean on my shoulder. Is that enough for you?'

'That's a compromise I can get behind.' Atlas immediately slung his arm around Arodan and slung his lanky weight on him. 'Let's go.'

'Yeah. Let's go.' Arodan threw one last glance into the hollow, noticing only the faint figure of a woman sitting on the tomb who examined him with her head resting on her hands. Typical.

#my lore #ch: Arodan #ch: Solaire #ch: Waldemar #only briefly though because I feel I probably shoulda dress what kind of person Balam's dad was #ch: Atlas #ch: Sachairi #this is me killing two birds with one stone and its pain and setting up conflict

6 notes · View notes

allyouhavetodo · 7 years

Text

Let’s Watch The Twilight Zone: Episode Fifteen

I Shot an Arrow into the Air

The netflix description of this episode is: “Three astronauts crash-land on what appears to be a barren asteroid. Gradually they turn on one another, until one man makes a shocking discovery.” Which begs the question: gee, I wonder what the twist will be? I bet even with the benefit of 57 additional years of media production and analysis since this episode aired, we’ll never be able to figure it out.

So let’s begin at the beginning, with the countdown to the launch of the Arrow I, the first manned aircraft to be shot into space, a feat four and a half years in the making. The countdown, Rod Serling helpfully informs us, to when “man shot an arrow into the air.”

Queue lots of footage cutting back and forth between the rocket launching and the control room. This is a great triumph! We did it!

Cut to, an unknown amount of time later, a man somberly writing “unreported” on the rocket tracking chart and the conclusion that the ship is lost. No one knows what happened; there was some interference, possibly solar, and then it was just gone.

The course was preset and the commander wouldn’t have deviated from it. So what the hell do we do now? Stare moodily up into the night sky and (mis)quote, “I shot an arrow into the air, it landed I know not where,” I guess.

If anyone knows the actual Longfellow quote: “I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to Earth I knew not where,” the elusive twist just gets all the harder to parse, don’t you think?

Anyway, we never see any of these scientist jerks ever again. Let’s get to catching up with our lost flight crew.

It consists of Colonel Donlin, regular guy Pierson, space creep Corey, almost dead Hudak, and 4 or 5 more deados. (Big crew.) They don’t know why they crashed; the last thing any of them remember is an explosion and the electrical system going out. Now they’re here, on what they believe to be an uncharted asteroid (all rocks and sand and nothing good at all obviously), with five gallons of water, minimal other supplies, and at least four and half years of spacecraft construction time between them and anyone coming to their rescue (assuming anyone knows where they are). It’s bleak, boys.

Corey is immediately furious about everything. He’s mad at Donlin for writing down what's happening (don’t waste your energy on writing and protocols old man, we need to live!) and at Pierson for wasting water on the dying Hudak. It’s so bad that at one point Donlin pulls Pierson to the side to basically ask him, wtf is Corey’s deal? Like, you were with him when the explosion happened, right? Did anything like specifically bad and/or evil happen to him? and Pierson just shrugs like, idk, man, I think he’s just a dick. (So I think we can rule out space possession as the twist.)

Donlin orders that they will keep giving Hudak water if he needs it (bc basic human decency) and that they will work in shifts digging graves for the deados (which, not to contradict Donlin who is obviously in right on most things as opposed to Corey, doesn’t actually seem like the best use of energy and resources in the middle of the day on this devilishly hot “asteroid” with no shade and barely any water but, whatever, take your power back Donlin–good thing you guys brought a fold-out space shovel with you), and then go explore.

They do find it curious that the sun is basically the same size on this asteroid as it is on earth (which means wherever they are in space they must be pretty close by) and that the air is fine to breath and that there’s no radiation to speak of. Pretty lucky to land somewhere that affords you the luxury of dying slowly, amiright?

(Hudak dies, by the way, while Corey and Donlin are engaged in a scuffle over space canteens.)

So, cut to space night, Donlin is lounging by a triangle-shaped gas-powered space fire, clutching a space gun, waiting for Corey and Pierson to get back from their investigatory trek.

Corey gets back alone and when Donlin questions him claims that he and Pierson split up to cover more ground even though Donlin ordered them to stick together. Corey went 12 or 15 miles one way and he’s not sure how far Pierson went towards the mountains, but gosh he’s exhausted, time to just plunks down, pull out my space canteen and begins drinking thirstily, letting half the water run down my neck because men are disgusting and Corey is the worst. This immediately raises Donlin’s suspicions, however, because how would Corey (who’s never been shy about taking as much water as he can for himself) have gone all that way and back and be so exhausted and hot and still have a mostly full canteen. He must have killed Pierson and taken his water!

Hahahaha, noooooo, I didn’t, Corey insists, on my way back I just FOUND him. Already dead. He must have hit his head on a rock or something? Anyway, I knew you’d never believe me, so that’s why I made up this ridiculous lie…

Donlin’s not having any of it, though. He uses his big space gun to take away Corey’s small space gun and frog marches Corey out into the desert to show him where he left Pierson’s body.

Of course, when they get there, Pierson’s body is no where to be found. He must have crawled off, he must not have been quite dead, Corey defends. Which only enrages Donlin more, Jesus Christ, Corey! Didn’t you do anything for him! Didn’t you even try! (Lol no, of course he didn’t–he either found his nearly dead body or [more likely] hit him over the head with a rock, took his water, and went on his merry way.)

Anyway, Pierson didn’t crawl off too far, and they find him a little ways away at the base of peak. Donlin tries to talk to him, help him, ask him what happened, but Pierson is incoherent with oncoming death. He merely wobbles his floppy head in the direction of the mountain peak, draws a couple of mysterious lines in the sand, and perishes.

Donlin immediately marches off towards the peak to find out what the fuck’s up and that’s when Corey realizes that in his rush of human compassion to get to Pierson before he died Donlin has thrown down his big space gun. So Corey, obviously, picks it up and shoots him dead. Right through the space canteen. You idiot. (He also monologues about how long one man versus two men could live out here and how Donlin would just have to forgive him because it was Donlin’s mistake to try to bring rules, and protocols, and morality out here into the far reaches of space!)

But now, with everyone else dead it’s Corey’s turn to make for mystery peak, egged on/taunted by the return of Rod Serling’s voice over: make tracks Mr. Corey, go, go, keep moving, push up, don’t give sanity the chance to catch up with you, nor the horror of what you’ve done, go on, you fucking jerk. I think this is the first time Rod Serling’s v/o has actually taken a part in the story sort of, not just as narration. It’s like inner monologue mixed with derision. It’s great.

So Corey gets to the top of the peak and starts yelling for Pierson (he’s dead, you fuck), and then talking out loud to himself. Because now he knows what Pierson was trying to tell them. What couldn’t wait two seconds before killing him. From the top of the peak you can see telephone lines (the squiggles drawn in the sand) and more importantly a road with cars, and a sign that says they’re only 97 miles from Reno.

These jerks never left Earth at all! (Can you imagine!?) It was all what Rod Serling breaks in again to inform us was a terrible practical joke, playing out as small human drama, here, outside Reno, Nevada, U.S.A, North America, Earth, The Twilight Zone.

—

I’ve gotta say, even knowing from jump that these guys were almost certainly on Earth, it’s still an enjoyable episode.The 1960 conception of space gear is precious to behold and there was always the possibility that, even though they were definitely on Earth, they might have gone through a portal or something and been on past Earth (seen dinos over the ridge) or future Earth (a buried statue of liberty, Planet of the Apes style).

I don’t even necessarily think it’s the 57 years of intervening time that makes this a predictable outcome. The very last episode before this also featured an Earth/not Earth switcheroozee. But, here, the fact that they were just on regular old Earth with no real science fiction element at all, a few miles from salvation, is perhaps the cruelest outcome there could have been. Not bad, The Twilight Zone. Not bad at all.

#let's watch the twilight zone #tv #recap #the twilight zone #i shot an arrow into the air

2 notes · View notes