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unsteadygalaxy · 4 years

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all is soft inside chapter 5

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475064/chapters/64957384

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5. will i float or will i drown?

This city is much too loud, they think.

A lone figure perches atop a very high apartment building in the middle of bustling towers of grey. Talosian cities are loud and busy and choked with smoke, and Bloodhound misses the serenity of the forest. They miss the lush green of the trees, the gentle hum of the insects and creeping things in the summer, the sound of birds in the spring. They miss the rushing of the water in the creeks near their village, the far-off howling of the wolves at night. But most of all, they miss the comforting memories of home, and of their mother. Their father. Their uncle, Artur.

If they squint, they can almost pretend the bright lights down below are fireflies, flitting around to their own whims, bound by nothing. Free. Sometimes, they miss the simpler times, when life did not consist of killing, sleeping, and killing again. But they know that they have consigned themself to this life for a valuable reason, and they will not soon abandon it.

They try with all their might to remember life before Talos. Life before the IMC. Life before they watched their parents perish before their eyes. But they were much too young- they had only been a toddler when their parents took them to Talos for their research. They had only been four years old when they watched their father get swallowed by a raging rush of ice and wind and death.

The ice slows just the slightest bit before it reaches their house, but they are still screaming. “Father! Father! No! Allfather, protect him!” A great shattering, splintering roar engulfs the air as the ice impacts their home. The windows crack and heave, but hold their shape, by some holy miracle. They are swiftly picked up and carried away from the windows right as the cold begins to rush in. Artur holds them in his arms, but he too is sobbing, praying to the Allfather, containing the child’s beating limbs, but only just.

A chill passes down Bloodhound’s spine, a sinister echo of the anguish they had felt. It had been many, many years, but the images of the ice burying their father’s body would haunt them forever. The way they’d cried when Artur told them their mother was dead too… Bloodhound could sometimes still feel the dizzying shock and grief in all its initial potency. When they had heard the new arena would be on Talos, their heart dropped straight into their stomach. It felt like a horrific violation, a slap in the face that such a broken and painful part of their past would be on display for all to see, even if the spectators did not know the significance. Setting foot in Epicenter for the first time, knowing that this was where their parents had come to rest… That match had not ended in a victory.

The air around them suddenly feels stiff and unyielding. It doesn’t seem to pass through their mask and into their lungs the way they would like for it to. Bloodhound removes their gloves, followed by their helmet, letting their long red hair fall freely. They sigh and remove the elastic holding the top half of their hair. Their fingers run across their sore scalp, massaging the roots till they no longer ache. The round goggles follow the helmet, and after a moment of hesitation, so does the mask. I am alone here, they rationalize. No one will disturb me. They lie down on the ground and gaze at the stairs as their mind begins to wander.

Ever since Artur died, Bloodhound had never been comfortable with letting anyone see their face. The injuries may have healed, but silver scars still stretched across their skin. They had never been one to obsess over looks or vanity, but these scars held a deeper meaning, a deeper story that they did not want to be bothered about. Breathing had been extremely difficult following the accident, but as the years passed, they could go longer and longer without the respirator. Their goggles had assisted them since they were very young; their eyes were unusually sensitive, and the lenses were tinted to dull the incoming light. But under the stars, they do not have to worry, because those far off supernovas could not hurt them.

They close their eyes, feeling the mild night air on their skin. Today’s match had been a particularly invigorating one, one that they enjoyed immensely. Their squad had taken first place after a tense shootout with the last remaining team. All of their opponents had been strong and worthy of praise. A sensation they can’t quite place starts in their stomach and expands to their chest when they think of Elliott. It’s like crystalized electricity, crackling and sparkling as it travels up their spine. Elliott was… refreshingly different. They had never met such a loudmouth, but he was proficient in his skill, and they had to admire him for that. His performance has suffered greatly as of late, they think. When Elliott was focused, he could be an incredibly valuable asset to their team. But now, for reasons that were his own, he was distracted and forlorn. He was not as attentive as Bloodhound knew he could be. Taking him down in a match had never been a problem. They always did what they had to in order to win and honor their fight. They never hesitated when killing an opponent.

Until today.

Caustic’s gas chokes the air around them, and for a moment, they cannot breathe. But the Beast of the Hunt propels them forward. They swipe their hands through the mist and break free of the cloud’s envelope, regaining their stride. They breathe deep, reveling in the Allfather’s gift of strength, and sprint down the hill. Scarlet footprints stain the ground like blood, leading to another kill, another victory. Who is at the end of them? They do not know, but they do not care. They flip Artur’s axe in their hands, passing it back and forth, and they itch to throw it. Their prey becomes visible, highlighted red, and Bloodhound’s heart stops.

It is Elliott.

Elliott hesitates for a moment, then raises his gun. Bloodhound pulls out their R-99 just as three Wingman shots connect against their head and chest. Their shields are down by a considerable amount, but they persist, and unload an entire clip into the top half of Elliott’s body. His shields are ripped away, and he dives behind a storage crate just as Bloodhound reaches him. They back off briefly, waiting and watching to see what will happen. Elliott runs off to the side, but no- it’s not him, it’s surely a decoy. The real Elliott jumps out from behind the crate, his back facing them. A brief flash of something- pity, maybe?- runs through their brain, but the hesitation is gone, and they fire the next clip of ammo into his chest as he turns around.

He falls to the ground, his head hitting the dirt with a painful thunk. A strange feeling takes hold in Bloodhound’s chest- a mixture of triumph, adrenaline, and sorrow. As their Ultimate fades away, so does the rush of aggression, and a feeling of remorse replaces it. Elliott lays on the ground before them, bleeding and battered, quickly fading away. Their heart constricts painfully in their chest at the sight of him, and they flip Artur’s axe once more.

“Fyrirgefðu mér,” they murmur. They do not want to do this, but they must.

A flash of silver, a spattering of blood, and Elliott is gone.

Bloodhound finds themself clutching their chest, right over their heart. The discomfort of all of the conflicting things they had felt comes rushing back, splashing around inside them like children on a rainy day. Why do you care so deeply for him? they wonder to themself. Why now? What has changed? They had lingered in the hospital until they knew Elliott was going to be alright. They rarely did that with anyone that was not in their squad. So why Elliott?

The door to the roof flies open, flooding the area with a vast golden light. Bloodhound sits up in a flash, hastily grabbing their goggles as their eyes burn. A pair of running footsteps abruptly come to a screeching halt, and their owner says, “Oh sorry, I was just-”

Bloodhound fumbles with their goggles, and notices in a panic that their mask is still off. They look up to berate the person who had intruded upon their privacy, but when their eyes meet, Bloodhound’s heart tightens.

It is Elliott, backlit by the glow of the bulbs from the staircase. He stands there for a brief moment, staring down at Bloodhound, his mouth hanging open. His eyes flicker to the goggles in their hand, then to the mask and helmet on the ground. “Bloodhound! Is that y-” He covers his eyes and begins to nervously pace. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to in- inch- barge in on you like this! Oh, god, I’m dumb, I’m so sorry, I feel like I just walked in on you naked? Wait, no, that’s not the same thing, I swear I don’t imagine you naked or anything- oh my god Elliott SHUT UP-”

“Elliott!” Bloodhound snaps. It comes out more like a bark than anything else, and it silences him immediately. “Please, Elliott, vertu rólegur. It is alright. Please give me a moment.” Shame and fear flood their body with no warning, and they shiver uncomfortably as they put the goggles and respirator back on.

“Bloodhound, I’m really sorry, look, I’ll just leave and pretend this never happened-”

“Elliott, it is fine,” Bloodhound insists, even though they feel horribly, deeply exposed. Their voice becomes modulated and slightly muffled once more as they flip the switch on the mask.

“Are you sure?” Elliott asks, still sweating visibly. His energy is nervous, frustrated, and strangely emotional, as though he had been in an argument or had a nightmare. “‘Cause I can just-”

“Yes,” they reply. “I am sure.” Despite his intrusion, Bloodhound does not want him to leave. But why? He is far too much of a liability right now. Why not ask him to leave? He certainly would like to. They stand swiftly, and gather their hair in their hands, not facing him. They begin to tie it back, but in their stress, they pull at the elastic too roughly and it breaks. They swear under their breath as their body shakes, and drop their hands to their sides, huffing in frustration. It is no use. “You may uncover your eyes.”

Elliott slowly removes his hands from his face. He looks at Bloodhound with extreme hesitation, and seems relieved to find that they are masked once more. He shifts his feet uncomfortably and coughs, then clears his throat. “So, uh… that was awkward.” He pauses, waiting for a response. When none comes, he continues. “Why are you up here all alone, anyway? You don’t like to hit the town after matches?”

Bloodhound ignores his nervous queries. They take a few deep breaths, trying to settle their shaking stomach. “First, Elliott, I must ask you to never speak of this moment. I have spent much of my time hiding my identity from those who could cause me harm, and from all of our fellow Legends. I do not wish for anyone to know who I am, or what harm has befallen me.” They meet his eyes and stare him down intensely.

Elliott visibly shivers and takes a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Even though he cannot see their eyes, Bloodhound knows their seriousness has done the trick. “Hey, look, as much as I want to go blabbing about that gorgeous red hair of yours, I’m not going to tell, I promise. And it’s definitely not because I’m terrified right now, nope, not at all.” He lets out a half-hearted chuckle, but it dies as he quickly checks Bloodhound’s body language to try and get a read on them.

“Elliott, I need to know I can trust you,” Bloodhound says sternly, turning to face him. He still looks completely stunned and nervous, and Bloodhound’s heart is pounding, the blood thumping in their veins louder than the footsteps of the Leviathan. But Elliott takes a deep breath, and the nerves seem to drain away from him, leaving the strange sense of frustration from before.

“You can trust me, Bloodhound,” he says. “I won’t say a word.”

Bloodhound stares at him, more nervous than they’ve ever been in their entire life. This all depends on him. Will he honor my request? The uncertainty bubbles up inside them like the lava on World’s Edge, and their knees tremble faintly. I must take a chance on him. Finally, they exhale, letting out a sigh. “I am counting on you,” they murmur.

He still hasn’t taken his eyes off of them, and Bloodhound feels too seen, too exposed. They turn away, and move across the roof to the balcony, trying to put some distance between them.

“Um… so... you never answered my question. What are you doing up here?” Elliott asks tentatively, and Bloodhound hears the door to the roof close. His footsteps approach them, and Elliott stands at the balcony, a comfortable distance to their left.

Bloodhound searches for the words, weighs them in their mind, deciding how much to say. Keep things vague, they think. He does not need to know about your past here. Not yet.

“The city below is too loud and brash for my liking,” they say. “I spend time up here to get away from the noise. I did not grow up in the city, as many of you did, and living here is… an adjustment.”

“Where did you grow up?” It is an innocent enough question, but it gives Bloodhound pause.

“The exact location is something I wish to keep to myself,” they say finally, “but suffice it to say, it was nowhere near cities like these.” In an attempt to steady their hands, they gather their long hair together and begin to braid it, starting at the top of their head.

“Huh.” Elliott leans on the balcony railing, putting his weight on his elbows. He’s gazing out over the streets, but his eyes are far away, and Bloodhound is surprised that he is not babbling on like he usually does. They wonder where his thoughts are. Back at home, maybe? With a sibling or a friend? A lover, perhaps…?

“What troubles you enough to keep you quiet?” Bloodhound asks suddenly, ignoring the strange surge of annoyance they feel at that last thought. “I have never known you to be leynilega manneskju.”

“What does that mean?” Elliott asks, looking a little baffled.

“It means… a secretive person,” Bloodhound offers. “You often speak your mind, even when no one is listening. What has changed?”

“Well, uh, that’s really perceptive of you.” Elliott’s voice is tight, and maybe even a little annoyed. “How are you able to tell? You did it just then, and then you did it in the hospital the other day after that shitty match of ours. How can you tell something’s bothering me?”

“Well… Your performance in the Games as of late does not meet the potential I know you to be capable of. You are reckless and run into fights without thinking. You broke a glass in the bar the other night because you were cleaning it too vigorously. Looking at the sunset in the hospital made you pensive and sad. I frequent this rooftop most evenings, and I have never seen you here. You clearly came up here to find a place to be alone.” Bloodhound thinks all of these signs make it obvious, but they decide not to say so.

“Um, ouch,” Elliott says, feigning shock.“That’s r- ridi- uh, stupidly accurate. You know, a lot of rumors fly about you, but I didn’t ever think the one about you being a psychic extraordinaire would be true.”

“I am no psychic, Elliott,” they reply. They finish their braid, but realize too late they do not have anything to tie it back with. They sigh and let their hair fall loose. “Let the people think what they wish. I am simply observant.”

“Right.” Elliott does not sound convinced. He falls silent for a moment, then, “You said the other night that you’ve lost family members. What happened to them?”

Images of their parents and uncle and other tribesmen flood their mind unbidden, and they let them come, passing over the memories with a quiet acceptance. “They honored the Allfather with their dying breaths,” they say, their voice almost a whisper. “They fought bravely, but their path was made.”

“They died in combat?”

“...Not all of them. Some died because of the IMC’s meddling foolishness, but some died fighting, yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He is silent for a moment, thinking. “If… if they were still alive today, but they couldn’t remember who you were, what would you do?”

Bloodhound’s breath catches in their throat, and they look at Elliott’s face, searching for meaning. He is staring directly at them, making eye contact, even through the goggles. They have never seen any of their teammates quite so vulnerable, quite so trusting, and they don’t know what to do with it. “I suppose… I would make sure they knew they were safe and cared for.” They pause. “Elliott, I wish to make it clear that you do not need to tell me anything you do not wish to,” they say, turning to face him as they speak.

“Only seems fair,” he replies, a glimmer of his usual charm and wit returning. “I invaded your privacy, now you get to intrude on mine.”

Bloodhound mulls this over for a moment, but relents, half a smile crossing their face.

“Fair enough.”

The bravado disappears once more, and Elliott sighs. He is silent for a long time as he thinks. His head tilts as he looks up to the sky. “It’s my mom,” he murmurs, and it feels like a confession, or a confirmation to himself. “She can’t remember me. She didn’t recognize my voice over the phone when we talked earlier. I knew this was coming, but I thought I had…” His voice trails off, and Bloodhound knows his silence is not because he is searching for words.

“More time,” they finish for him. They meet Elliott’s gaze, but he looks away quickly. The silence hangs between them awkwardly at first, but the discomfort dissipates as Bloodhound waits patiently for the man before him to regain his composure.

“We are blessed to have loved so much that loss hurts us,” they murmur, once Elliott meets their eyes again. They weigh a choice in their head, mulling it back and forth. The desire to be open with him, the desire for connection, wins out. “As a child, my faðir and móðir taught me to honor the pain I felt. When they passed, I was plagued by grief and sadness for a very long time. Though there is still pain and anger at times, I allow myself to feel it so that I can let it pass.”

“But… how do you know when it will end? Or if it will?” Elliot asks. He looks guarded, but vulnerable all at the same time. Bloodhound knows the feeling.

They consider his query, pausing to find the right words. “Pain and grief and sadness… These things are not bound by time. We all move through them at different rates. But if you allow yourself to be plagued by the ‘what if’s’, you will never see what is right there in front of you.”

The man beside him is quiet for a very long time, and Bloodhound begins to fear they have offended him. Mirage was never quiet, and they realize how unsettling it is that he does not have a funny quip or self-deprecating comment to make. He was always running his mouth, letting the most absurd things pop out. But not this evening. He is quieter than he has ever been. They almost… miss his voice. He has spoken to you much this evening, they think, a little bewildered at their own emotions. You have no reason to miss it. But it didn’t matter- a feeling of fondness grows under Bloodhound’s sternum, and for once in their life, they do not try to compress it.

“Thank you.”

Elliott’s voice is soft and accepting and all the things Bloodhound had hoped to hear.

“I am glad I could be of help to you.” The silence stretches between them again, comfortably this time. A pleasant breeze flows across the roof, and Bloodhound embraces it, inhaling deeply. They smell the usual smog of the city, but it is accompanied by something gentler. Something warmer. And as their eyes wander back over to their companion, they suspect...

“By the way, you’ve got a hell of a throwing arm,” Elliott remarks. “My forehead is still sore from this morning. Don’t worry though, I just shook it off like I always do.” His bravado has returned, and it makes Bloodhound smile.

“I do what I must to vinna,” they say, briefly adopting a tone much too harsh and serious for their current conversation. Elliott fake cowers, taking a couple of steps back.

“Whoa, alright then!” he laughs. “You know, I can never tell what you’re thinking under there. You could be sc- sco- uh, frowning at me, and I wouldn’t know any better. Makes you look kind of scary.”

“I will admit, that is part of the reason I wear it,” Bloodhound says, smiling wider now. “Intimidation is a powerful weapon.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture, but laughing again. Bloodhound finds themself staring at him, at his smile, and for once they feel… seen. Comfortable. They know, for some unknown reason, that Elliott Witt is someone to be trusted.

“Hey, thanks again,” he continues. “And don’t worry, I won’t go telling everyone that the great Bloodhound is secretly a total heartthrob. The press would have a field day. They wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Bloodhound stares at him, open mouthed- but it wasn’t like he could tell, anyway.

Elliott realizes what he has said much too late, and his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. His cheeks darken as he blushes, and he immediately splutters, “I- uh- oh my God was that out loud? I’m, uh… I’m just… gonna go…” He dashes for the door to the roof, leaving a stunned Bloodhound behind. He twists the door handle, but it does not budge.

They are locked on the roof.

And Bloodhound laughs.

It’s a giggle at first, but it turns into full chested, dizzying laughter in no time. They do not remember the last time they had felt such joy, such freedom. It must have been when they were a child. But this man, this trickster, has managed to find that young one again and bring them forward into the light. Their eyes sting, and to their surprise, tears of laughter begin to fall and fog up their goggles. They turn away from a very bewildered and horrified Elliott in order to lift the goggles and wipe away the mist.

“Fyrirgefðu mér, vinur minn,” they choke, the laughter beginning to constrict their scarred lungs. “I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at the poor luck we have had this evening.” They breathe hard, clutching their chest, trying to get some air in. When the laughter has settled to the occasional chuckle, they turn back to Elliott, and they are surprised to find him leaning against the door, his face buried in the silver metal. He’s mumbling to himself, and Bloodhound cannot make out any words other than “stupid” and “damn”.

“You flatter me with your kindness,” they say. Still smiling, they walk to him and place a hand on his shoulder. “But I am afraid the press would be quite disappointed. I do not meet their standards of beauty by any means.”

Elliott mutters something that Bloodhound does not catch, but they do not get the chance to clarify. “What do those words mean? The ones you said?” he asks, still blushing furiously.

“They mean… forgive me, my friend.”

“Your friend, huh?”

Bloodhound considers this. “Yes. I suppose so.”

Elliott takes a deep breath, and even though Bloodhound knows he must be tortured with embarrassment, he looks them directly in the face. “If you tell anyone what I just said, I’m gonna… I’m gonna kick your ass. In the arena and out of it.”

This earns him another laugh. “I would not dream of it.” The both of them notice that Bloodhound’s ungloved hand is still on his shoulder, and the latter removes it gently, their fingers ghosting across the soft fabric of Elliott’s hooded sweatshirt. He notices their lingering touch, and only blushes more.

Elliott shakes himself out of his daze, pulls out his phone, and types a quick message. The chime of a returning text rings through the air faster than Bloodhound thought was possible. “There. Octavio is coming to unlock the door. You’d better put your helmet on quick, because he’ll be here faster than I can say ‘pork chops’.”

Bloodhound obliges, and crosses back to where they had left their helmet and gloves. They pick up their helmet and store it beneath their arm as they gather up their hair and twist it expertly atop their head. Once the helmet is fastened, they don their gloves once more. True to Elliott’s word, the rooftop door clatters and swings open. Octavio, still wearing a gaming headset, looks impatient.

“You owe me for this one, amigo,” he whines, tapping his metal foot and glaring at Mirage through his goggles. “I lost my game for you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Elliot replies, grabbing hold of the door and waving him off. “Next round of drinks at the bar is on the house. How about that?”

“Sweet!” the shorter man crows, and he rockets back down the stairs.

“The last thing he needs is alcohol,” Bloodhound remarks, tucking a stray piece of hair away. They highly doubt Octane even noticed they were there, but they do not mind. That just meant there would be less questions toward the pair of them later.

Elliott rolls his eyes. “Don’t go all Ajay on me now,” he teases. “And we were just starting to get along.” A faux wistful look appears in his eyes, and he sighs dramatically.

Bloodhound just smiles.

The pair of them descend a few flights of stairs and arrive at Bloodhound’s floor. “Thanks again for the advice,” Elliott says. “I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome,” they reply. “Sleep well, Elliott.”

“You too, Bloodhound.”

#apex legends #miragehound #mirage apex #bloodhound apex #mirage apex legends #bloodhound apex legends #elliott witt #elliott witt apex #my writing #apex fanficiton #apex legends fanfiction

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moonlightmurder · 5 years

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Favorite True Crime Books – part 1

The Peyton-Allan Files by Phil Stanford : Two teenagers, making out one night in a car on the edge of town ― slaughtered by person or persons unknown. No physical evidence to speak of. No known motive. For all the Multnomah County Sheriff’s Office knows, there’s a psychotic killer roaming the hills west of town. Until they arrest someone for the murders of Larry Peyton and Beverly Allan, no one will rest easy. The Peyton-Allan Files is the story of the savage double-murder that changed life forever in the deceptively peaceful town of Portland, Oregon. A true-life murder mystery, guaranteed to keep you turning pages till the last guilty party has been brought to justice ― or maybe just framed. Because one way or another, this case has got to be solved.

House of Evil: The Indiana Torture Slaying by John Dean : In the heart of Indianapolis in the mid 1960’s, through a twist of fate and fortune, a pretty young girl came to live with a thirty-seven-year-old mother and her seven children. What began as a temporary childcare arrangement between Sylvia Likens’s parents and Gertrude Baniszewski turned into a crime that would haunt cops, prosecutors, and a community for decades to come…

When police found Sylvia’s emaciated body, with a chilling message carved into her flesh, they knew that she had suffered tremendously before her death. Soon they would learn how many others―including some of Baniszewski’s own children―participated in Sylvia’s murder, and just how much torture had been inflicted in one house of evil.

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote : On November 15, 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were savagely murdered by blasts from a shotgun held a few inches from their faces. There was no apparent motive for the crime, and there were almost no clues.

As Truman Capote reconstructs the murder and the investigation that led to the capture, trial, and execution of the killers, he generates both mesmerizing suspense and astonishing empathy. In Cold Blood is a work that transcends its moment, yielding poignant insights into the nature of American violence.

Bind, Torture, Kill : The Inside Story of BTK by Roy Wenzl, Tim Potter, Hurst Lavigne and L. Kelly: For thirty-one years, a monster terrorized the residents of Wichita, Kansas. A bloodthirsty serial killer, self-named “BTK”—for “bind them, torture them, kill them”—he slaughtered men, women, and children alike, eluding the police for decades while bragging of his grisly exploits to the media. The nation was shocked when the fiend who was finally apprehended turned out to be Dennis Rader—a friendly neighbor … a devoted husband … a helpful Boy Scout dad … the respected president of his church.

Written by four award-winning crime reporters who covered the story for more than twenty years,Bind, Torture, Kill is the most intimate and complete account of the BTK nightmare told by the people who were there from the beginning. With newly released documents, evidence, and information—and with the full cooperation, for the very first time, of the Wichita Police Department’s BTK Task Force—the authors have put all the pieces of the grisly puzzle into place, thanks to their unparalleled access to the families of the killer and his victims.

The Road to Jonestown: Jim Jones and Peoples Temple by Jeff Guinn: In the 1950s, a young Indianapolis minister named Jim Jones preached a curious blend of the gospel and Marxism. His congregation was racially mixed, and he was a leader in the early civil rights movement. Eventually, Jones moved his church, Peoples Temple, to northern California, where he got involved in electoral politics and became a prominent Bay Area leader. But underneath the surface lurked a terrible darkness.

In this riveting narrative, Jeff Guinn examines Jones’s life, from his early days as an idealistic minister to a secret life of extramarital affairs, drug use, and fraudulent faith healing, before the fateful decision to move almost a thousand of his followers to a settlement in the jungles of Guyana in South America. Guinn provides stunning new details of the events leading to the fatal day in November, 1978 when more than nine hundred people died—including almost three hundred infants and children—after being ordered to swallow a cyanide-laced drink.

Guinn examined thousands of pages of FBI files on the case, including material released during the course of his research. He traveled to Jones’s Indiana hometown, where he spoke to people never previously interviewed, and uncovered fresh information from Jonestown survivors. He even visited the Jonestown site with the same pilot who flew there the day that Congressman Leo Ryan was murdered on Jones’s orders. The Road to Jonestown is “the most complete picture to date of this tragic saga, and of the man who engineered it…The result is a disturbing portrait of evil—and a compassionate memorial to those taken in by Jones’s malign charisma”

Nothing Is Strange with You: The Life and Crimes of Gordon Stewart Northcott by James Jeffrey Paul: A young man kidnaps his own nephew and makes him his servant and sex slave. He abducts young boys, has his way with them, and, if they know too much, kills them. He forces his nephew to participate in his crimes and to consign these little victims, sometimes still living, to their graves.

His father is afraid of his own son. His son mocks and abuses him, falsely accuses him of incest and child abuseand still he supports his son.

His mother loves her boy and will do anything to help himeven commit murder.

The Gordon Stewart Northcott casea part of which is fictionalized in the major new Clint Eastwood film CHANGELING, starring Angelina Jolieis still, eight decades later, one of the most nightmarish in American criminal annals. This booknearly two decades in the research and writingtells the whole story for the first time.

Fred & Rose: The Full Story of Fred and Rose West and the Gloucester House of Horrors by Howard Sounes: During their long relationship, the Wests murdered a series of young women, burying the remains of nine victims under their home at 25 Cromwell Street, Gloucester, including those of their daughter. What was left of Fred West’s eight-year-old stepdaughter was dug up from under the Wests’ previous Gloucester home; his first wife and nanny were buried in open country. Most victims had been decapitated and dismembered, their remains showing signs of sexual torture. These twelve are just the ones police found when the Wests were arrested in 1994. There may be more whose bones have not been located . . .

Howard Sounes broke the first major story about the Wests as a journalist, and covered the murder trial of Rosemary West, before writing Fred & Rose, the definitive account of this infamous case. Beginning with Fred’s and Rose’s bizarre childhoods, Sounes charts their lives and crimes in forensic detail, creating a fascinating and truly frightening account of a marriage soaked in blood.

The Blood of Emmett Till by Timothy B. Tyson: In 1955, white men in the Mississippi Delta lynched a fourteen-year-old from Chicago named Emmett Till. His murder was part of a wave of white terrorism in the wake of the 1954 Supreme Court decision that declared public school segregation unconstitutional. Only weeks later, Rosa Parks thought about young Emmett as she refused to move to the back of a city bus in Montgomery, Alabama. Five years later, Black students who called themselves “the Emmett Till generation” launched sit-in campaigns that turned the struggle for civil rights into a mass movement. Till’s lynching became the most notorious hate crime in American history.

But what actually happened to Emmett Till—not the icon of injustice, but the flesh-and-blood boy? Part detective story, part political history, The Blood of Emmett Till “unfolds like a movie” (The Atlanta Journal-Constitution), drawing on a wealth of new evidence, including a shocking admission of Till’s innocence from the woman in whose name he was killed. “Jolting and powerful” (The Washington Post), the book “provides fresh insight into the way race has informed and deformed our democratic institutions” (Diane McWhorter, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of Carry Me Home) and “calls us to the cause of justice today” (Rev. Dr. William J. Barber, II, president of the North Carolina NAACP).

In Broad Daylight by Harry N. MacLean: Ken Rex McElroy terrorized the residents of several counties in northwestern Missouri for a score of years. He raped young girls and brutalized them after they went to live with him or even married him; he shot at least two men; he stole cattle and hogs, and burned down the houses of some who interfered with his criminal activities. Thanks to the expert efforts of his lawyer and the pro-defendant bias of state laws, he served no more than a few days in jail, the author shows. In 1981, sentenced for the shooting of a popular grocer and free on bail, he was killed by the men of Skidmore, the center of his felonies; they closed ranks against all attempts to identify those who had pulled the triggers. Written by a first-time author, this is an engrossing, credible examination of the way vigilante action can take over when the law appears to be powerless. BOMC and QPBC alternates.

Killer Clown by Terry Sullivan: He was a model citizen. A hospital volunteer. And one of the most sadistic serial killers of all time. But few people could see the cruel monster beneath the colorful clown makeup that John Gacy wore to entertain children in his Chicago suburb. Few could imagine what lay buried beneath his house of horrors–until a teenaged boy disappeared before Christmas in 1978, leading prosecutor Terry Sullivan on the greatest manhunt of his career.

Reconstructing the investigation–from records of violence in Gacy’s past, to the gruesome discovery of 29 corpses of abused boys in Gacy’s crawlspace and four others found in the nearby river–Sullivan’s shocking eyewitness account takes you where few true crime books ever go: inside the heart of a serial murder investigation and trial.

Inside Alcatraz: My Time on the Rock by Jim Quillen: Jim Quillen, AZ586 – a runaway, problem child and petty thief – was jailed several times before his twentieth birthday. In August 1942, after escaping from San Quentin, he was arrested on the run and sentenced to forty-five years in prison, and later transferred to Alcatraz.

This is the true story of life inside America’s most notorious prison – from terrifying times in solitary confinement to daily encounters with ‘the Birdman’, and what really happened during the desperate and deadly 1946 escape attempt.

Go Down Together: The True, Untold Story of Bonnie and Clyde by Jeff Guinn: Forget everything you think you know about Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. Previous books and films, including the brilliant 1967 movie starring Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway, have emphasized the supposed glamour of America’s most notorious criminal couple, thus contributing to ongoing mythology. The real story is completely different — and far more fascinating.

#true crime #tcoriginal #true crime research #true crime books #my posts

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redrobinhoods · 4 years

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Sticks and Stones | Chapter 6, trial by fire

AO3 Link | 2,500 words | Chapter 1, Chapter 5, /end | no choir

CW: Character death

A/N: I would just like to apologize, I had to keep to my own canon for this series. This ending was set in no choir, chronologically the follow up in this series.

Chapter Summary: In the days following the Battle of Coruscant, Fox, Stone, and Thire reconnect and prepare for the trials ahead.

“I don’t want them on my planet.”

“General Skywalker just saved the Chancellor, Fox.”

“I don’t care, I want them gone. They’re going to cause a ruckus.”

“Just don’t shoot any more of them and you’ll be fine.” Thire broke into Stone and Fox’s argument from his bed, where he lay with a bacta patch across his neck. The abrasions were nearly healed, but the medics had suggested he continue the treatment until all soreness was gone.

“Don’t test me, I’ll wring your neck like a pair of greys.” But the growl was soft, with no menace behind it.

“Mm. Well,” Thire picked up the bacta patch and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, “while you two bicker, I’m going to enjoy a hot shower before I’m wrung out.”

“A shower sounds nice.” Stone agreed. After Thire’s collapse, Stone hadn’t let him enjoy the showers alone, much to Thire’s annoyance. “Will you be joining us, Fox?”

Thire’s look of irritation sunk deeper into his features.

“I don’t see why not.” Fox shrugged before moving to strip off his armor.

Stone turned his face so that Fox couldn’t see his look of satisfaction. Of all the mundane things in life, he hadn’t realized until recently how much he missed his old routine with Thorn and Fox. Even the fear for his life as Fox and Thorn argued as the latter shaved Stone’s head was missed, though admittedly less than the other things. Far less than the designs that Stone would then shave into Thorn’s hair. He could still remember tracing them for the last time, sitting beside Thorn’s body and running his fingers through his hair as he allowed himself a few minutes of grief. A few minutes, then no more. He’d had to stay strong for Fox and Thire. Watching them now, he didn’t regret his decision. He could grieve more when the war was over; Ponds, Thorn, Bravo, all the men who had died under his command. He could give them the mourning that they deserved. But not now. Now, he needed to be with the living.

“You’ve been healing well.” Stone remarked to Fox once the three of them had settled under a stream of warm to hot water.

“All Riyo.” Fox smiled absentmindedly. “She’s got me using that cream more often than I ever would on my own.”

“I’m happy for you two. Really, Fox, I am. It’s good to see how happy you are with her.”

“Thank you, Stone.” Fox’s murmur was almost lost to the sound of water around them, but Stone could still read his lips across the small room, despite the steam starting to fill the space. “Are you going to boil yourself alive, Thire?”

“It feels nice.”

“That’s your blood pressure dropping to zero, look at how red your skin is!”

Thire shrugged. “Feels nice. Besides, the knob can turn further.”

“Thire!”

Soon after, Fox was the first to step out of the shower, and Stone was convinced that by the time he and Thire joined him that he would be gone, already on his way to Senator Chuchi’s apartment. But to his shock, Fox was still in their room when they were done, sitting on the edge of his bed with his comm in hand.

“Is something wrong?” Thire asked.

Fox looked up at them and smiled. “No, nothing’s wrong. Just figured I’d stay here tonight. Riyo’s working on a proposal anyways, she doesn’t need me there distracting her.” Fox set the comm down. “So what are we going to do tonight?”

“Go to sleep.” Stone scoffed as he pulled on a clean pair of blacks. “I don’t know, Fox.”

“We could watch a holo.” Thire suggested. “My squad used to try to watch one every weekend after our shifts. It was fun.”

“A comedy?” Fox suggested. “I personally don’t want any war holos.”

“Oh, me either.” Stone agreed, kicking his feet up onto his bed and pulling out his datapad. He was joined a few seconds later by Fox laying down at his side, then they were joined a few seconds after that by Thire, who clambered over both of them to lay on Stone’s other side.

A few minutes and a little bickering later, they had a holo going, with Stone holding up the datapad in his lap for them to see. When Thire’s eyes began to flutter shut towards the end, Stone wiggled his shoulder, causing Thire’s head to bob up and down and bringing him back to wakefulness. Only once it was over and the datapad was turned off did Stone allow Thire to close his eyes and curl up against his side. As if sensing a weakness, Fox did the same, shoving Stone over so that he had more room to lay down fully.

“Fox!” Stone protested as he was squished between his two brothers.

“C’mon, Stone.” Fox teased, laying his head to rest on Stone’s other shoulder.

Stone sighed and consigned himself to his fate. But, despite his protests and outward disgruntlement, he felt safe. He had not slept in the same bed as Fox since the first nights after Thorn had died, when they had slept back to back for comfort, not knowing how to deal with their loss. Since then, he had either slept alone or beside Thire, to ease him from his nightmares. But now, he was surrounded by the two men he loved most in the galaxy, and he allowed himself to close his eyes and fall into sleep amongst them.

---

The next day found Stone and Thire kicking back with their feet up on Stone’s desk as they sorted through the lingering reports from the Battle of Coruscant, as it was already coming to be known. Fox had stepped out a few minutes ago to speak to Riyo, and Stone could imagine that the two were curled up together on Riyo’s couch in the dying light of the sunset. The perfect scene. Or at least, it would have been, until his comm chimed.

“The Chancellor.”

“Calling you?” Thire said incredulously.

“Hey!” Stone was about to protest when Thire’s comm chimed as well.

“The Chancellor.” Thire confirmed, shooting Stone a concerned look.

“Let’s go.”

All the chattering in the office stopped the moment the two commanders entered, as if the men could sense their unease. Perhaps they could. Both had donned their helmets and whisked through the room without a word. In the emptying halls of the Senate, senators moved out of their path as they made their way to the Chancellor’s office, where they found Fox, a broken window, and a shriveled old man.

“Commander Stone. Commander Thire. Good.” The old man greeted with an all too familiar voice, leaving Stone grateful for his helmet as his face contorted into horror.

“Sir, what happened?” Thire asked, striding over to the man’s side.

“A Jedi.” The not-Chancellor replied. “He tried to kill me. They have betrayed the Republic.”

“What would you have us do?” Fox said, his voice unnaturally smooth. Stone knew that he was just as revolted behind his helmet.

“Commander Fox, I would ask you to remain here in the Senate and oversee our men through this trying time. The same for you, Commander Thire. I would like you to stay by my side these next few hours.” His head turned back to Stone. “Commander Stone. I have already deployed the five hundred and first legion to the Jedi Temple. I would like you to secure the area surrounding the building. We must protect the citizens of Coruscant.”

“We serve the Republic.” Stone answered for all of them.

“Allow me to assemble my best men, sir.” Thire requested. “I will be back at your side in a matter of minutes.”

“Do what you must, Commander Thire, Commander Stone. I am sure that Commander Fox will keep me safe while you prepare.” The Chancellor gave them a wave of dismissal, and Stone found his feet carrying him back into the Senate hallways, leaving Fox behind with the Chancellor.

He and Thire walked the hallways far slower than they had before, silent until Stone found the words to speak. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”

“Of course, I do.” Thire said quickly.

“No, Thire. I am so proud of you and the man I have watched you become.” Stone stopped in a section of empty hallway and took off his helmet. “I’ve watched you grow from a lieutenant nervous with authority to an ARC trained commander who tells Fox off. I am proud to have fought beside you these years, and I feel safe leaving the Guard in your hands.”

Thire’s eyes slowly widened as he took in Stone’s words. “Don’t say this like it’s a goodbye.”

Stone set a hand on the back of Thire’s neck and leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead. “It’s Jedi, Thire.” He said as he pulled away. “Take Jek and Rys with you to guard the Chancellor.”

Pain came over Thire’s features as he shook his head. “I will not stop them from fulfilling their duty, Stone.”

Stone nodded in acceptance. He would not argue with Thire, not now. “I will do everything in my power to bring them back to you.” He rested his hand on the side of Thire’s shoulder and gently led him back into the middle of the hallway as it began to fill once more with bustling senators and aids.

Thire waited until the hall was empty again to speak. “Why didn’t you pull Fox aside?”

“Fox doesn’t know how to let go. I think you’ve realized that by now. He would have never allowed that conversation to occur.”

When they reached the door to the Guard offices, Thire froze before entering and turned to Stone. “Thank you, Stone. For everything.”

“It’s been my honor, Commander Thire.”

When Thire lunged forward to wrap his arms around Stone, Stone didn’t hesitate to return the embrace and hold Thire tight to his chest one last time.

---

Stone’s grip on his shield tightened as another lightsaber came into sight. The walls of Coruscant citizens that had minutes ago been battering against them had fallen back when the first Jedi had descended, cutting down clones in their wake. Then, they had had the numbers to fell them. But as more Jedi had fled, more men had fallen, and it was becoming harder and harder to counter them. The only advantage that he and his men had was in their number. Fox had been radioed to provide backup, but Stone feared that they would arrive too late.

Stone threw up his shield as he flung himself between Rys and the Jedi, adrenaline pounding in his ears at the sight of the blade before his eyes. Then his men opened fire, and the Jedi fell before him. Stone thought that the sight would have made him sick, but that was before lightsabers had cut through his men’s bodies as if they were butter. Any hesitation he had had towards killing the Jedi had been cut away with the first wounds in his brothers’ bodies.

“Thank you, Stone.” Rys said as Stone pulled him to his feet.

“Stay alive.” Stone ordered him, turning back towards the steps to the Temple, where another young Jedi was now attempting to flee. He braced himself to intercept her, allowing Rys to scramble for a fallen shield. In the reflections on his shield, he could see an approaching patrol transport with a familiar red helmet amongst the white and red. Stone felt a rise of hope for what was left of his men as he prepared to meet the Jedi’s blade with his shield.

But then his shield was gone, flying away to skip across the steps behind him.

The Jedi’s blade flashed before him.

Stone had been shot before, buried in rubble, burned in explosions, sliced by blades and shrapnel, but never cut by a lightsaber. This was a new agony. Then the Jedi moved her blade, carving through his body, and the pain began to fuzz away.

Stone didn’t know how long he had stood there for when she pulled her blade back to deflect a burst of blasterfire and he fell.

He was vaguely aware of someone kneeling over him, holding up a shield over his body, but the world around him was unfocused and he was becoming tired, so he closed his eyes. He could taste the ozone of the lightsaber in the back of his throat, mixed with that of his own burned flesh and he resigned himself to this exhaustion, lying still and listening to his brothers fall.

There was the sound of the lightsaber swinging through the air, blasterfire, a cry of pain from one of his brothers, all blurred together until he felt a hand slip under his shoulder blades. When he felt the cold air of Coruscant on his face, he opened his eyes to find himself in Fox’s embrace.

“Don’t look down.” Fox warned as he applied a bottle of bacta to Stone’s chest. A new wound seared across his lips, the delicate skin beading blood.

“Fox. You should know better.” Stone’s voice came out far weaker than he had intended it to. “I’m guessing severe internal trauma and spinal damage leading to organ failure.”

“You’re going to be fine, Stone.” Fox’s voice shook, he was far from the collected man that Stone had been with in the Chancellor’s office earlier.

Stone wondered how close his prediction was to the truth. “Fox.”

“You’re going to be fine.” Fox said as if he could will it into existence.

Stone brought a hand up to dip it into the slick of bacta across his chest and brought it to Fox’s lip, tenderly spreading it across the ruined skin. “Take care of my men, Fox.”

“You’ll be there to take care of them yourself.” But Fox had brought his hand from Stone’s chest to cup his face.

Stone smiled weakly up at him. This was the conversation that Fox would have never allowed under any other circumstances. “It’s been an honor to serve with you, Fox. Since Geonosis-.”

“Save your strength.” Fox begged.

“-you and Thorn and Thire have been a family to me. I couldn’t have asked for better brothers to love.” The exhaustion was coming back. Stone gave in to the gnaw and closed his eyes.

“No. Stay with me. Stay with me!” He could still hear Fox, but his voice was becoming more and more muffled with every word. Fox’s hand gently cupped the back of his head as he brought Stone to his chest, tucking his head under his chin. “Stone, please. Stay with me. Stone....”

Fox’s voice was the last thing that Stone heard as he succumbed to his injuries, knowing that he was safe in Fox’s embrace.

---

When Thire returned to the barracks days later with melted boots, Fox found him curled up in his bed, clutching a helmet in his arms.

#classes were cancelled tomorrow so I finally had time to write more than 500 words!#commander stone #commander fox #commander thire #my fics #sticks and stones fic

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moiraineswife · 7 years

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The Locket Part 1: In The Quiet Hours - A Molly & Yasha Fic

Thank you @9thlevelcounterspell for reading over this!!! (and to all the people who replied to that random post I made and showed support for a Molly/Yasha friendship fic)

Title: The Locket Part 1: In The Quiet Hours

Fic Summary: Molly has no memories of his past before he woke up at the side of the road, half-dead, and was taken in by the carnival that became his family.

The only connection he has to who he was before is a locket given to him by Yasha. Now travelling with his new, strange group, he begins to understand who he was before, and is forced to face the ghosts that emerge from the locket he opened with unthinking curiosity.

Mollymauk backstory/character study/exploration of the new team dynamic. Something in here for everyone. And shit loads of angst. Because I'm me.

Chapter Summary: post episode 5/the battle of Alfield, Molly is still struggling and can’t sleep. He retreats to the common room of the inn not wanting to stay in the shared room and a friend arrives in the early hours of the morning to offer some advice and comfort.

Teaser: On the brink of lashing out and driving his fist into the table just to have something to do with the boiling energy that had no outlet, he found himself stopped by Yasha’s hand settling gently, tentatively, on top of his.

Link: AO3

Molly tossed another log onto the dying fire in the common room of the Alfield in. The rough grain of the raw wood scrabbled at his fingers, but he barely noticed. A burst of bright gold sparks erupted from the embers as the fresh fuel struck them. He stared blankly into the pit, watching as the flames rose to gather the wood into their heart, engulfing it as they slowly rose higher and higher. He threw another log on then returned to his chair.

The inn had several squashy armchairs gathered around a small table next to the fire, and he had chosen a deep, winged one to settle himself in. It gathered him up in darkness as surely as the fire gathered up the logs he had fed it. Each consumed their prey.

He wasn’t sure which was the worse fate. To be consigned to the flames, to burn and be consumed by that roaring, raging inferno...Or to be swallowed by the silent darkness, as he was, to drown in it, without sight or sound, never truly knowing when death claimed him, for the oblivion felt so familiar it would probably feel more like coming home than truly dying.

It was late. Or maybe it was early. He had lost track of the time after his fourth (or was it fifth?) shot of the liquor the barkeep had given him. The rest of his strange little ragtag group, exhausted from the battle that day, had one-by-one fallen asleep in the room they’d been given in the Feed and Mead tavern.

Sleep had refused to claim him, however. He had sat there, nursing his drink, the sting of the liquor as it burned its way down his throat a perfect complement to the torrent of images and sounds that had ravaged his mind, not all of them from the horrors of the day.

All he’d had for company was the slow, soft breathing of his slumbering companions, the faint snuffling snores of Nott, curled in a ball beside Caleb. It had started to drive him mad. The steady, rhythmic sounds refusing to let him go, let him sleep, let him breathe.

In the end, he had snatched up the bottle the inn keep had given him, gotten to his feet, sheathed his swords at his back, having felt naked without them, and crept out of the room. None of his new...What were they? Travelling companions? No. Friends. He could call them friends. They had killed together more than once now, had saved each other’s lives. He figured that qualified them as friends.

They hadn’t stirred as he had left them, as unaware of his absence as they had been by his presence, and he slipped down the stairs like a ghost, cloaked in silence, shrouded in the haunted screams of his waking nightmares.

The common room had been quite empty, and quite silent, to his relief, and he had slumped down into the chair he currently occupied, staring at the dying fire. He stared at it again now, as the flames reared like angry serpents from long grass, and imagined, for just a moment, stepping into them, letting them embrace him and carry him off to the nine hells where he might finally get a shred of damn peace.

The shot glass in his hand exploded and he cursed savagely under his breath as blood began to bead on his palm. He hadn’t realised how tightly he’d been squeezing the glass and now...

Hissing in irritation, he got to his feet, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest, tail lashing furiously, he ducked behind the bar and managed to find a reasonably clean rag, which he used to quickly clean and then wrap his hand. The cuts weren’t deep, and would stop bleeding on their own if given a few minutes. One of the benefits of his lifestyle was that he was intimately familiar with the healing capabilities of his own body.

He slouched back to his chair and collapsed into it once more. He had just raised the bottle of liquor, which was still almost half-full, and promised an excellent night of fogged thoughts and slurred vision, fully intending to just drink of it in lieu of a glass, when the door to the tavern opened behind him.

Throwing the bottle back onto the table where it skidded before coming to a stop near the edge, he leapt to his feet, reflexively drawing his swords and settling into a ready stance, heart hammering in his chest.

He froze when he recognised the figure standing in the doorway. Tall, her pale skin glowing faintly as though illuminated by moonlight, though the cloudy sky obscured it, her hair fading from midnight black to the white haze of morning mist as it tumbled down past her shoulders.

“Yasha,” he muttered, sheathing the blades and striding over to her.

She looked mildly around the completely empty room, mismatched eyes taking in the bottle of liquor at his solitary table, before her gaze rested on him. Many people found that stare disquieting, but as a master of uncomfortable stares himself, with his two burning red eyes, Molly had never understood what all the fuss was about.

He didn’t embrace her, Yasha was not fond of being hugged, as they had all quickly learned when she joined the carnival, but she did permit him to grasp her forearm and squeeze gently. It was their compromised greeting, caught somewhere between Molly’s desire for a bear hug, and Yasha’s two-fingered handshake.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Molly commented, sauntering back to his table, retrieving his bottle, then throwing himself back into his chair.

Yasha paused a moment, then followed him, sitting herself down, with rather more grace, into the chair beside his.

Molly took a swig of the liquor and added, since Yasha hadn’t deigned to answer his first comment, “I thought you weren’t going to catch up to us until Zadash.”

“I wasn’t,” Yasha said quietly. Her gaze had found the flickering flames he’d been losing himself in for the past few hours as she spoke. “But as I was travelling I saw the fires burning here from the distance,” she turned and looked at Molly as she said, “Figured it was a pretty safe bet you’d be here.”

He snorted softly into his bottle at that, “Well you figured right, my dear, didn’t you. And now I have the pleasure of being graced by your company once more.” Yasha made no comment to that, just continued to watch him, quiet, thoughtful. “Your journey went well, I trust?” Molly pressed.

This was typically the way their conversations went. Molly talked, and talked, and then talked some more, and Yasha occasionally peppered his monologues with small comments here and there.

In the beginning, when he had understood how it felt to be new, the intruder in the established family group of the carnival, he had gone out of his way to find Yasha and speak with her, but her less than eloquent responses had him feeling he was bothering her, and he’d stopped. She’d come to him after a few days to ask quietly if she had done something wrong. He had realised then that she apparently liked these little conversations of theirs, one-sided as they often were, and he hadn’t made any effort to stop them after that.

“No-one bothered you, tried to rob the clothes off your back?”

She gave him a flat look that had him actually smiling. No-one would be stupid enough to bother Yasha. Even if she had been travelling alone. One look at her was typically enough to dissuade the intelligent folk of the world. And those that weren’t intelligent to be put-off by the mere look of her...Well, that was just natural selection at work, wasn’t it?

“The journey was fine,” Yasha said, quietly. Then, “What happened here?”

Dear Yasha, blunt and to the point as ever.

“I have missed you,” Molly told her frankly, leaning over and patting the top of her hand.

The woman was nothing if not straightforward. She disliked wasting time, as she saw it, on flowery speeches and the art of saying much while saying absolutely nothing, which he himself was so practiced at. If she had something to say she said it in as few words as possible and saved everyone time.

In many ways the two of them were complete opposites. He was ostentatious and flamboyant, he enjoyed being at he centre of things, and commanded attention as skilfully as a general commanded troops in battle. Yasha was much happier in the shadows, in the quiet pockets of calm that lingered on the edges of his chaos, like the shadows that always existed behind a fire. He lied and twisted and manipulated while she preferred to be honest and simple. What you saw with her was what you got. What you saw with him, well, that tended to vary by the hour, as did his mood.

Yet that had one single similarity that overcame all of their apparent differences. Both of them were lost in this world. Like ships with cut anchors set adrift, without purpose or place in the new world they found themselves in. They had connected because of that, and had found that, for the most part, their differences tended to complement one another.

Yasha raised her eyebrows to prompt him into answering her question and he sighed, “We lost. That’s what happened,” he said, then took another long drink. This stuff really wasn’t half bad.

Yasha eyed him for a long moment, but didn’t press him for details, for which he was grateful. He really had missed her. It was inordinately refreshing to be around someone who didn’t feel the need to fill silences with empty drivel whenever anyone paused for more than a breath. Ironically, he reflected as he took another sip, that applied to none of them so much as it did him. But then he’d always been terrible at heeding his own advice.

When he emerged from his latest foray into this new experience, he found that Yasha was still eyeing him wordlessly. He was about to open his mouth to ask what was the problem, when she said softly, “What are you doing, Molly?”

He raised the bottle and gave it a little shake, “I had thought that was fairly obvious, dear,” he replied sardonically.

“It’s past three in the morning,” Yasha said, “You should be in bed.”

“As should you,” he replied, lightly, “And yet, here we are.”

“I was travelling and didn’t feel like sleeping in another field,” Yasha said shortly, “You look half-dead but you’re sitting here drinking instead of resting up.

Well she had a point there. Yasha remained silent, knowing he would fill the silence if it dragged on too long, damn her. Finally, he did indeed say, “I’m playing a game, you see.” She just blinked at him. He held up the bottle again and gave it a little shake so that the stuff inside it sloshed around, “We’re going to see who drowns first: my demons, or me.” He took yet another sip of the stuff, then leaned in conspiratorially and said, “My money’s on them.”

He must be starting to get drunk, if his tongue had become this loose. If he’d been with any of the others he might have guarded it better, might have stopped and gone to bed before he said something he’d regret more than the hangover he could already feel smacking him across the head tomorrow. But Yasha...Well, Yasha was Yasha, and the words spilled out anyway.

Yasha motioned for the bottle and he handed it over. She sniffed at it, then took a cautious sip and immediately pulled a face as she shoved it back towards him.

“I wouldn’t feed that to a dog,” she commented drily.

“I should hope not,” he replied, his tone mild, “It’d be a waste of a perfectly good liquor.”

She snorted softly at that, then abruptly got up and walked away from him. He assumed she was going to disappear upstairs to appropriate a room for herself, she did that, just got up and drifted away without warning or explanation whenever she felt like it. He was surprised, therefore, when she returned a second later with two glasses and a bottle of whisky she’d evidently swiped from behind the bar.

“You have to pay for that, you know,” he told her, as she pulled the stopper out with her teeth and poured out two glasses for each of them.

“I left a gold piece on the bar,” she replied, without looking at him.

He smiled faintly, of course she had. “You were always too good for us,” he said, taking another swig of his drink. He couldn’t really taste it anymore, and was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to taste anything at all for another decade or so following this.

She shrugged and nudged the glass of whisky she’d just poured towards him, “If you’re going to drown,” she told him, “You might as well drown in something that doesn’t taste like it was made to strip paint off our old wagons.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Molly replied, tasting the whisky. His eyebrows lifted slightly, it was good stuff, he hadn’t known Yasha had it in her to choose something like this. “You never cease surprising me,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

But she smiled, a soft, genuine thing, and said, “I try.”

They sat and drank in companionable silence for a long time, until Molly’s tongue loosened yet again, and he found himself saying rather hoarsely, “I couldn’t sleep.”Yasha glanced towards him looking away from the fire which he was currently staring into, “That’s why I’m down here, that’s why I’m...” he trailed off and gestured vaguely towards the whisky and the bottle of teal liquor still on the table.

“Why?” Yasha asked quietly after a long beat of silence.

“Why what?” he snapped, rather more aggressively than he’d intended, but Yasha barely even seemed to notice the tone.

“Why can’t you sleep?” she said, her soft voice curiously gentle.

He stared at her for a long moment. He raised his glass to his lips...Then slowly set it down on the table again without drinking from it.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. Then, more loudly, “I don’t know. I don’t know why this has bothered me. I don’t know why my heart’s racing, why I can’t breathe, why my hands won’t stop shaking.”

He clenched them tightly into fists in an effort to stop them. It didn’t work any better now than it had three hours before when he’d been lying on the floor of their room trying to force himself to stop panicking and rest.

Yasha glanced down at his trembling hands, then back up at his face.

“They’ve been doing that since the battle ended,” he confessed, turning away from her and feeling a sharp stab of shame as he did so, which only stoked the frustration burning inside him that much higher for it.

On the brink of lashing out and driving his fist into the table just to have something to do with the boiling energy that had no outlet, he found himself stopped by Yasha’s hand settling gently, tentatively, on top of his. He blinked, shocked. This was the first time she had initiated any contact between them. Her pale skin was cold and her touch was oddly soothing and calming. For the first time, a faint tingle of peace threatened to wash through him.

He raised his head slowly and found her looking steadily at him, “It will stop,” she said softly.

“You say that like you know,” he said, and though he tried, though he hated himself for letting it slip, he couldn’t help the faint note of desperate pleading that coloured his words.

“I do,” Yasha replied, just as blunt and simple as she had always been, “It will stop.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Finally, he pulled away from her touch and reached again for his glass of whisky. “And in the meantime,” he said, trying again to restore that light, casual, ‘couldn’t care less’ tone his voice was always tinted with.

Yasha, however, reached forwards and plucked the glass out of his hands before he could take another sip of it.

She set it down on the table again, still well within his reach, and said, “It doesn’t help.”

“On the contrary,” Molly replied, frowning at her, “I think it’s helping a great deal.”

“Really?” Yasha said, raising her eyebrows, “You’ve been drinking for what? Four hours? More? Have your hands stopped shaking? Can you sleep? Has it stopped? The feeling that...That you have to tear the whole world apart with your bare hands and it still won’t be enough. Has that gone away?”

This revelation, small as it was, was enough to quieten him. He knew enough about Yasha, about as much as she knew of him. He had guessed more, as she had guessed more about him, he was sure. They had lived in close confines, and worked together putting up tents and promoting the carnival together for over a year. You picked things up about people you spent that much time with, it wasn’t possible to avoid that. But in all that time she had never given him anything this...Intimate, this vulnerable, before. And for once he shut his mouth and bit down on the sarcastic comment that rose on instinct.

“No,” he admitted finally, “It hasn’t.” His fingers twitched towards the glass again, but he didn’t touch it this time.

There was a long silence between them, in which Yasha stared into the fire, refusing to look at him. Finally he said softly, “I don’t know if I want to sleep for a week or if I want to go back out there and fight again, just to have something to do with all this...All this-“ he broke off, unable to find the word, and gestured towards his chest with both hands instead.

Yasha nodded, understanding.

“And I don’t know why...Why they’re all fine,” he bit out. Now that he had started talking about this he didn’t seem able to stop. Yasha had always had that effect on him, and he on her, to a lesser extent. She was easy to talk to. She felt safe, that reservation, the silent air that clung to her made a person feel sure their secrets were safe with her.

“They’re not,” Yasha said quietly.

He snorted in derision, “They’re up there sleeping peacefully and I’m down here half-drowning myself in cheap liquor. I think there’s a very definite divide between ‘fine’ and ‘not fine’ in this little group right now, and it’s very clear which side we all belong on,” he snapped.

“They’re not fine,” Yasha repeated, “No-one can be ‘fine’ after something like that.” There was a weight to her words, a haunted heaviness in her eyes that stayed his tongue again. She knew. Perhaps better than he did. “It will come for them one day. Someone who spills blood for a living can only go so long before they start drowning in it. They can only lie to themselves for so long before it breaks something in them, and then they can’t go back. It will come for them, too. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow but...It will come.”

He laughed bitterly at that and said, “So you’re saying I’m weaker than them? Because I broke sooner?”

Yasha looked at him, her mismatched gaze steady and penetrating. Then she said, “You’re not broken, Molly. You’ll know when you are.”

A chill shivered down his spine at that.

“Is that why you left home?” he found himself asking her, genuinely curious, “Did you break?”

“Something like that” she murmured softly.

“I thought it might have gotten easier,” he said, “The more you did it, the more you got used to it. I mean, if you’re going to break, it seems to make more sense that you’d break on your first battle than your fiftieth.”

Yasha just shook her head at that. “It never gets easier,” she said, that haunted weight returning to her words. “I was raised to this. I was trained by the best of our warriors from the moment I was old enough to understand. They put an axe in my hand before I learned to walk and I killed my first man when I was twelve.”

A faint thrill of shock flared through him at that, not just the words, but the fact that she was admitting it to him.

He stayed quiet. She was staring into the fire again, but he sensed that she wasn’t finished yet, and he had no desire to interrupt her.

“I still see him in my dreams,” she confessed quietly, one hand clenching into a fist on her lap. “I still feel the warmth of his blood on my hands after I cut him. I still...I still hear him scream in the quiet hours, that time where my people would say the world would hold its breath, where everything stopped, and there was no-one to save you from yourself but you.” She looked up at him, her words faint and shaking slightly, but her gaze quite steady, and said, “Anyone who tells you it gets easier is either lying, to you, to themselves, it doesn’t matter, or they’ve never experienced anything like this.”

Molly watched her and for the first time, though she remained tall, and muscular, and imposing, he saw a quiet, frightened child in her eyes, haunted by the things she had done. He reached out to her and took her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly but sincerely.

Yasha nodded and faintly squeezed his hand in return.

“I hear screams in the quiet hours, too,” he admitted softly, now taking his turn at staring into the fire and avoiding her eyes. “But they aren’t from today. They’re from before.”

Before that word that meant so much to him, and yet at the same time meant nothing at all. Before he had met Yasha. Before the carnival had found him. Before when he had still had a before.

Yasha stiffened slightly at the mention of it. He had never addressed it explicitly with her, with any of them, but they had all known. Now he had his lies ready. He had a million stories about who he might have been, what he might have done, what he could have achieved. He fed them to people, carefully keeping track of who he had told what, making a game of it. How many lies could he tell? What could he make people believe? What could he make himself believe...

But with the carnival...He hadn’t had the wherewithal to invent those first few months, and it soon became clear when a man had no history, had no...Nothing. No-one could pretend to be that empty, could erase their history that completely from those they lived with, not even Yasha. She knew. They all had.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted softly, “I don’t know if I’m the one who caused those screams...or if I’m the one screaming. I don’t know what I might have done, or what might have been done to me I...I don’t know, Yasha.” He looked up at her and found her watching him with a carefully guarded expression he couldn’t read. “I don’t know who I am.”

“Yes you do,” she said, softly. “And I know, too. You’re Mollymauk. You’re my friend. You’re a good man...Even if you’re a bastard sometimes,” she amended, and his lips twitched up into a smile. “You know who you are, you’re just...not so sure who you were.”

He smiled sadly at that. “Who we are is informed by who we were, Yasha. No-one exists in a moment. We’re all a patchwork of our experiences, our loves, our losses, our lives. And I don’t have that.” He trailed off, lifting his chin slightly, watching the smoke that coiled up the chimney, blackening the walls around it.

He fiddled aimlessly with a loose thread at the cuff of his cloak, and made a note to address it later. Then he said, “I told myself I didn’t need to know. I told myself I could simply build from where I was, simply become who I would become, and that the past didn’t matter. But now...I don’t think that’s something I can do.”

Yasha studied him for a long moment, then said, “I’ve spent the last three years running from my past, from who I was, from what they tried to make me become.” Her eyes once more bore that haunted cast, and he believed her, believed that she would run through each of the nine hells to get away from whatever it was that tormented her. “You’re free, now. What you were, what you might have done...It can’t hurt you, now. Knowing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Being empty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, either,” he replied with a twisted smile. “At least you know what you might have been, and that you don’t want that, and you can make the choice to become anything other than that. And if you’re running from something, you’re also running to something in a way. Even if it’s just anything that’s not what you once had, it’s something. It’s purpose. I have nothing, Yasha. Nothing.”

She made no answer to that, so he continued, “You have a choice. To run, or to stay, to become what you were made or what you want. Even if it’s an easy choice, no real choice at all, it’s something. That’s all I want he said, shaking his head. I want a choice. I need that. I need something. I need to know, to understand.”

Yasha is quiet for a long time, staring at him, apparently deep in thought. Finally, she reached into a pouch around her belt and fished out a small golden something dangling from a chain. She hesitated a moment, then slid it towards him.

He caught it up in long, dextrous fingers and examined it. It was a small golden locket, perfectly round, and about the size of a gold piece. The front was carved with intricate, interlocking shapes that looked like strange gears.

“I did go back to see Orna before I left,” Yasha told him quietly as he continued to gaze at the necklace she had given him. “She gave me that and said I should pass it on to you.” He looked at her sharply as shrugged and said, “If you really want to try and find out about your past, maybe you can start there.”

On that mysterious note she finished the rest of her drink, then rose to her feet and drifted off towards the distant stairs without another word, leaving him sitting alone by the fire again.

He stared down at the locket then, gently, flipped open the clasp and opened it. He stared down at what it contained for a long time, committing every intimate detail of it to memory. Then, slowly, he got to his feet, slipped the locket around his neck and tucked it down the front of his shirt, then followed Yasha upstairs, leaving the fire to burn itself into embers once more in his wake.

#mollymauk #mollymauk tealeaf #yasha #critical role #taliesin jaffe #ashley johnson #cr2 fic #molly fic #yasha fic #molly x yasha fic #my fic #molly x yasha #(PURELY PLATONIC)#text post tag #The Locket #Fic: The Locket #this started as a tiny sad headcanon #and blossomed into THIS ANGSTY MONSTER #welcome to my brain

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clevernewdimension · 7 years

Text

New World Part One

Part One, Part Two, Part Three (Coming Soon)

Warning: Trigger warnings for violence, blood, and sexual assault. There’s also smut. Different from the assault, though, two different instances. Smut 100% consensual. Also character has a name -shrugs-

Word count: 12.4K

Eden lives with her family in the middle of no where. They live away from everything and everyone for religious purposes, not wanting to be near sinners in the city. Though, there is also a darker reason for their solidarity. What happens when a stranger who can do magic, a stranger who is a sinner, enters her life and changes her views? Can she tell him the dark truth, or will it be too late?

I’ve known for a long time what my father truly was.

I was four when I first stumbled in on him with someone. I was looking for him because he promised he’d play with me. He’d get so busy, between work and wherever he went to in his spare time, I was overjoyed when he said he’d make time for me. Normally, all the free time he had was spent with my older brother, never really paying me any mind. I was looking forward for him to finally focus on me for a bit.

I was looking around the barn. He works on cars there a lot, so I thought that’s where he’d be. Some families from a few miles away would come and in exchange for him fixing their car, they’ve trade things. That, along with our farm and few livestock, was enough to live off the land and far away from others.

I looked by the barn and there was nothing. Then I found the door hidden under a layer of hay. I was curious as a kid, no one told me about it. My older brother, my mother, my father… did they know? So I opened it and went down. It was creepy. There was little light as I carefully tiptoed down. The air was muggy and something smelled awful.

That’s when I could hear a loud muffled noise. As I went further down the long steps, the sounds got louder and louder. I walked as quietly as I could down the concrete steps, which wasn’t hard because, as usual, I was barefooted. I could hear the sounds clearer now, screams for mercy, begging to stop. I was scared. I got to the end and there was a door. My heart pounding, I opened it a little.

What I saw would haunt my nightmares for years.

A boy, shirtless, older than my brother. His body littered purple, red all over the floor and walls. He had these markings on his skin, pictures. A shrine to God beyond him, candles creating a very scary effect of the room. I almost gasped as I watched my father walking, reading from the book. “’But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the sexually immoral,’” He yells, kicking the boy who was tied to the ground hard. He screamed out in pain as my father continued on, “Those who practice magic arts,” He yells, stomping on his hand, a crunch so loud it was deafening. His screams are something I’ll never forget. “The idolaters and all liars - They will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death!”

He placed the book down, reaching out and grabbing the boy by the hair, “You hear that, boy?! You deserve this!”

Then, my father hit him, again and again. The boy, screaming and bleeding everywhere. I was stuck to my spot, unable to do anything as his eyes finally saw me looking.

I was scared, as he opened the door and picked me up. He held me close, telling me that that boy wasn’t human. “Daddy is trying to protect his little girl from all the monsters in the world,” He muttered, kissing the top of my head. He was a monster, and Father was just getting rid of monsters. He said he was a hero, really. He told me that it has shown him the way.

Then, he did play with me... act like nothing happened. For a while, I forgot about it, or just, blindly believe him. It was fun, as he picked me up and swung me around. My giggles filled the air as my mother looked on in joy.

My mother and father are deeply religious and raised me that way. We prayed over everything, living away from the city and all the sinners there. No television, whatever that was. No radio, which was something I didn’t know about, really. No anything unless they said it was alright. I was taught how to be a good girl, groomed to be the perfect wife and run the perfect home. When my brother turned fifteen, my father brought him down to the cellar. My father said it was time for him to see what being a real man of God was about.

“Momma,” I asked, as I dried the dishes she washed, “Why does Father have brother help and not me?”

She hesitated, her arms shaking a bit. “Well, you’re a young lady. That’s not our place, that business is for men.”

“I’m just confused,” I mutter, admitting my thoughts openly for the first time. “The Bible says what Daddy is doing is wrong. Murder is a sin-”

A hand hits my face, sending it snapping to the other side. My cheek stung, burning as she looked at me with wide, terrified eyes. “Now you listen to me, Eden, never say that again! Don’t let him hear you saying that!”

I nod and mutely help her with the dishes. That’s how days went for years. I’d ignore what was going on, trying not to feel anything when they came up, covered in blood.

When I was fourteen, I found an old radio. I was walking the woods, not going too far from home. I went to the river for the first time. Father and Mother say it’s ok, as long as I don’t cross it. Walking and having time to reflect is important. That I should have alone time to strengthen my relationship with God. The radio was small. A few things stuck on the side in the shape of things. It was loud, and pretty, something like I’ve never seen before this closely. There was a small building, with some weird blueish metal thing on top. It had power, so when I turned the radio on, I could hear these strange sounds. It was fast and sounded fun. I went through the numbers, hearing all types of sounds. Voices, people talking, what they called ‘music’.

There was a number called a news station. It talked about how Doctors and those who have magic are working to create cures for things. Magic was something the Bible spoke of as awful. How can it be awful if it spoke of helping people? Healing the sick and making people happy?

I left quickly, not telling anyone of what I found, and kept it as a place for myself.

At sixteen, I made a mistake. I questioned my father, causing him to slap me. Mother warned me years ago, but I just had to say something. He dragged me down to the cellar, and I watched as he and my brother beat a boy. He was my age or a little older. They told me he was a child of the devil. They told me the devil has been speaking to me and that if I didn’t stop, I was going to be a sinner like him and suffer the same fate.

That’s when my father handed me the knife.

“Stab him, Eden,” he commands, holding his head back. “Cut his throat and damn the sinner to burn for all eternity, it’s the only way to pay for you questioning God and all that is true.”

I refused, and each time I did, my brother slapped me. My lip was cut and my eyes red. My brother forced me to cut his throat. I tried to fight back, but I wasn’t strong, like him. The feeling of cutting into the boy was enough to make me feel sick. I was sprayed crimson, it got everywhere. In my eyes, in my hair, in my mouth as I screamed. That night as I showered, I cried. All I could see was blood, like it stained me.

A few weeks later, my mother explained to me what all the sins my father was trying to rid the world of. It was long and drawn out, but I hear her talk ill of magic. Which didn’t make sense, since the people on the radio said so many good things about it. The conversation carried on, and soon, she held my hands. Then, she explained to me about the duties of a wife that weren’t just keeping house and cooking. Being there for your husband, and to let him use your body, no matter what he wants.

I left, after listening to her talk about how to please your husband. It was weird, and after a long few weeks, I went out to my hut by the river. I couldn’t imagine myself with a man like father. It just seemed wrong. The radio was a comfort from the world I was in. Hearing about a world I’ve never seen was fascinating. The water rushing by was nice, too, as I listened to the radio and making a few wildflowers into a crown. Anything to keep the reality of my world at bay.

I didn’t notice someone coming up behind me, though.

“Hello,” A voice says behind me, and I jumped and gasped loudly. I turned, falling from the stool I brought to the hut. My heart was racing as I looked up at the boy ahead of me.

His hair was black as ink. He wore clothes that were weird as he stepped back. “I’m sorry,” He mutters, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“W-what do you want,” I mutter, scared. My heart was pounding. “How did you get here?”

He offered me a hand, “Let me help you up, please.”

I take his hand and he pulls me up as if I weighed nothing. He smiled at me until he lets go of my hand. Blood was on it and when I turned my hand, I saw a cut from when I fell.

“Shit,” He says, frowning. “I’m so sorry. I can help you with that, if you’d like.”

I was beyond confused. How this person found me, why they are out there, they they cared.“Why?”

“Because I’m the reason you’re hurt,” He says, frowning. “I’m Jongin,” He says, with a smile, “Kim Jongin. What’s your name?”

“Eden,” I say, “Eden Winters… Why is your last name first?”

“My family is from a different country originally. My great-grandfather came over and we kept it that way to honor him.” He explains, looking down at me, still holding out his hand. “It’s ok, I promise I won’t hurt you.”

I give him my hand, timidly, since I was still afraid. He just smiled, before looking down at my hand. His eyes glow a bright green as shimmers and circles surround his hands. The green glowing went to my hand, and the pain that was there soon was gone. My eyes wide as I watch his eyes go back to their normal blue.

I snatched my hand away, “What was that?!”

He looks confused, “Magic… I thought you’d knew since you have the aura.”

I looked at him carefully, finally taking a good look at him. The clothes he wore were weird. His pants were dark and tighter than anything my family wore. He wore a shirt without sleeves and buttons, unlike any I’ve seen. There were weird markings on his arms, looking like shapes and pictures. I looked at him, and he was handsome. He looked odd, though a lot like the people my father takes down to the cellar. But he also looked kind, and like he was about as old as I was.

Compared to him, I’m plain. The skirt I wore was almost to the floor, a brown and A shirt that was plain white, tucked into the skirt. My boots were black and had small heels, but they were plain. His shirt had a picture on it, and his pants had rips and holes. He also wore boots, though his black with straps all over.

“What aura,” I ask, still keeping my distance. My curiosity would be the death of me, my mother always said.

“The magical one,” He says as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Like, you can do magic? Doesn’t everyone who has it learn how to use it? It’s required by law.”

I shake my head slowly, “No. I didn’t know. My family is very strict…”

Jongin nods, “Oh. Well, I could teach you a few things, if you’d like.”

I was scared. He taught me the super basics. Calm, feel the energy in you, learn how to make it do what you wish. I couldn’t figure it out, what he was talking about. It just sounded like a mess of gibberish.

“Here,” He says, reaching to his neck. He takes a necklace off, handing it to me. The chain was long, and on the end was what looked like a spear of quartz. “This will shine when you control it properly. You take the energy and let it flow into this.”

He places it around my neck, smiling, “When it shines, I can show you spellbooks and help you learn how to use it.”

I nod, looking up. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” He says, smiling.

I frown, looking at the sky. The sun starting to set, “I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Jongin.”

He grins, nodding, “It was nice to meet you, Eden. Perhaps I’ll see you again?”

I nod, waving as I watch him. He raises his hand, light blue energy creating a force over the water to allow him to walk across. I looked until I could no longer see him, smiling to myself. I turned off the radio and walked back home, hiding the necklace under my shirt so no one would see. I didn’t know why I trusted him so quickly. It was just nice to talk to someone other than my family for once. Jongin just seemed so sweet.

The next few days went buy in a blur. I mostly did housework, cleaning and taking care of our few chickens we have. My brother would help me sometimes, as he worked with our one horse named Sun. We spoke, but for the most part, it was him talking at me, not to me. At night in my room, I’d hold the crystal, trying to make it light up under the covers. I could feel something, like buzzing bees beneath my skin. I know magic is a sin, but so is murder, and if it was ok for my father to do that, why can’t I do this?

It took two weeks. I saw Jongin once more. He was just so kind. I couldn’t believe that my father thought someone like him is a sinner. He asked why he’s never heard of me, and I told him about how I’m homeschooled and that my family lives away from that for religious purposes.

“So, do you believe the same as your family does, too,” He asks, sitting on the little desk in the hut. Music was coming from the radio but turned down so we could talk. I held the pendant in my hand, playing with it as we talked.

“I… I don’t know. It’s all I’ve never known,” I admit, letting out thoughts I’d never dare speak to my family.

“Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t hate you or anything. I just know your beliefs aren’t exactly kind to people like me,” He says, His hand glittering in beautiful purple colors, letting it fade quickly. His eyes stayed purple a moment longer, before fading. “People like you too, actually. Surely your family knows that you can learn magic.”

I looked confused, “How would they know if I didn’t know?”

“When you’re born, it’s very obvious. There are glowing runes on you for a few days,” He says, “It would have been impossible not to have noticed. They really don’t tell you anything, huh?”

I shake my head, “I… guess not.”

“Oh,” He says, picking up a backpack from where he left it, “I brought you this. Beginner spells, you just have to study, learn the language, and then you’ll be able to try. I know you probably don’t want to, but I figured it would be better to give you a choice.”

I laugh, “I… I never get a choice, I just do what I’m told…”

“That sounds awful,” He says, placing the book in front of me, along with a journal and a pen. “It’s up to you. I have to go, though. I’ll come by again, if you’d like?”

I nod, “It’s been nice to see you, Jongin. I’m happy I met you.”

A week later, alone in my room, I finally got my necklace to glow.

Now, I was nineteen. Jongin and I have been friends for years. I know basic spells, and we’ve been talking. He’s told me so much about the world. It’s been great. The more I talk with him, the more I feel distant from my family and their beliefs. They’re all the same, and I try not to think about it.

What was different my father pulled me down to his basement for the first time since he and my brother made me kill that boy. He pulled me down there, a man chained down to the floor, on his knees. He was shirtless, cuts all over his body. I looked, seeing my name carved into his skin. It made me feel ill, looking at it.

He points to the man, “Eden, do you know what this man has done?”

“Sinned,” I say, looking up at him, trying to look at the man. The splattering of blood all around even stained into the floor from the years of killings. I felt sick, not wanting to be there longer than I needed to me. The door on the other side was firmly shut, a large lock on this side. It was opposite of the entrance and I wonder how I could have missed it.

My father laughs, holding my face, “Oh, my sweet angel. I forget you’re so dimwitted sometimes.” His large blue eyes were shining with love. He almost looked proud about the dumb act I had to constantly play. He pressed his lips to my cheek, and I tried not to fight away.

The man tried to speak, but his mouth was covered by tape.

My father reaches, slapping him, “Shut up!” He was yelling, before he looked back at me, “No, darling, he’s been spying on us! All the while watching us! I caught him this morning. He was watching you dress through a window after you showered. He looked upon you and was lusting over you.”

I felt ill about that, looking at him. I know this man was probably innocent, but peeping at me was wrong, too. But wrong enough to deserve this?

“So,” He said, “I wanted him to know I don’t take kindly to men gazing upon what’s rightfully mine!” His hand ripped at my shirt, opening it as the buttons scattered to the ground. I yelp, trying to pull away. “Don’t,” He yells, grabbing me and glaring. “You let me do this! You hear, girl?”

I was frozen in place, scared. I’ve seen father cut and scar my brother when he didn’t obey. I’ve seen what he can do. As he unclasps my bra, letting it fall to the side, I look away, trying not to focus. I was so happy I forgot to grab the pendant from the hut when I left it earlier. If he would have seen me wearing it, he would have ended me, I was sure of it.

“She’s mine, you hear me,” He says, yanking my skirt and underwear down quickly. His hand touching me where I’ve never felt someone else touch before. “My angel. My sweet, wonderful pure angel!” His other arm reached up, grabbing my face and making me look at the man. My eyes tearing up as my father grabs at my exposed body. “If I wanted her, I can take her. She’s my pure, sweetheart who would obey her father no matter what.” He grabbed one of my legs, yanking it away from the other so my legs were spread. “Is this what you wanted to see?! This is what you’re going to die for, I might as well let you have a look at it!”

I felt humiliated. I felt sick. Worse of all, I felt pity for him, the stranger. I knew he didn’t ask for this. I held back sobs as I tried to ignore everything my father was doing.

His hands leaves me, as he reaches down, pulling my underwear and skirt back up. “I don’t deserve her. No one does. Any man I catch lusting after her will die like the beast they should!” He swings his fist, slamming it into the side of the man’s head. I pulled back, looking away.

He looks down at me, smiling brightly as if he didn’t just touch me in a way I never wanted. Like he didn’t assault me, like mother warned me about other men doing. He lets go, “Get your clothes, Honey. I’ll see you and your mother at dinner.”

I nod, quickly getting my clothes and going up the steps, tears falling from my face now. This is wrong. He’s wrong, my family is wrong. I can’t live like this anymore. At dinner I was silent, listening to how my parents were talking. I felt ill, excusing myself for a walk after. Lately, I’ve been taking a bible with me, just so they didn’t ask what I was doing.

I studied hard, harder than ever. Magic could help me leave, so I needed to know it and learn it.

When I returned, my father showed me what was left of the man. He skinned him while he was living, his body mostly just the flesh. His eyelids stapled up, so he had to watch everything. The sight made me want to vomit. My father took some of the blood that was all over the ground, licking it from his fingers, “Another wicked soul gone from this Earth.”

I felt sick, I needed to leave.

Next time I saw Jongin, it felt like paradise. He was smiling, talking with me about his friends. He helped me, teaching me other spells, like the healing one. My fingers glowed the familiar green, the first spell I’ve done that wasn’t a beginner one.

“Amazing,” He says, looking up at me with wonder in his eyes. The wonder was different than the way my father looked at me. This was happy for me, happy about what I did. “The amount you’ve learned so quickly is amazing! It took me five years to be able to do what you’re doing.”

I blushed. As the years gone by, Jongin has only grown more handsome. I tried to not focus on it, but it’s hard. He was a bit taller, with even more markings and pictures on his arms. Still dressed in the same odd way, though. It was late summer, so he wore a shirt with no sleeves again. His arms were strong as he hugged me, “This is great!”

I hugged him back, smiling. It felt nice, being hugged by him. Like it was safe. “Wow,” I said. “I never thought I could do it!”

He pulled back, smiling, “I told you!”

I nod, “I wonder what other spells I could learn…”

Jongin smile, placing a hand over my face, “Eden, you could learn anything you wanted to if you just tried. Soon I’ll have to bring my advanced spellbooks.”

The years that has gone by, he’s came to see me at least twice a week. Sometimes even everyday. I could feel myself growing fonder of him as the years passed by. The way my heart would flutter around him and I’d blush and be a bit more nervous. A man like Jongin is the kind of man I’d want in my life. He was kind and always respected me. We had a conversation, back and forth, not him just talking over me or acting like he was better than me. He cared about me, certainly a lot more than my Father and Brother does. The sky was going dark, and Jongin went to leave, like always, but this time, he hesitated. He turned, looking at me, “Eden… would you mind if I kissed you?”

I give him a confused look, “Isn’t that for married couples?”

Shaking his head, he just smiled. He's gotten used to my ignorance at this point, but he never made me feel like I was lesser than him because of it. Sometimes he’ll poke a little fun at it, but never in a mean spirited way. “No. People do it all the time. Sometimes with people, they’re dating and sometimes with people they don’t really know. Sometimes with friends,” He says, smiling. “So, are you ok if I kiss you?”

I felt that buzzing all over, like I was doing magic even though I knew I wasn't. All I knew from kissing was the new videos Jongin has shown me from the weird thing he carries in his pocket. But I felt like I belonged. Like I was suppose to be experiencing this with him. Like it was fate. This feeling was normal around him, and I have it almost constantly when he’s near. I nod, “Yes.”

I wasn’t expecting how it felt. His lips were soft, just like they looked. It was warm and nice, as they gently pressed against mine. I tried to follow his lead, resting my hands on his chest. I could feel his heart beating fast, making me happy that I had the same effect on him as he had on me. He pulled away, smiling.

“That was nice,” I say, touching my lips.

“Your first one,” He asks, looking up and blushing.

I nod, “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” He says, “It was nice, sweet kind of kiss.”

“There are other kinds,” I asked, confused.

He smiled, “Yeah, definitely. Perhaps I’ll show you sometime.”

When he left, I felt something I wasn’t sure it was. The next day, I couldn’t stop thinking of him. I was left alone as I did my work, and every time I thought of him, I was blushing. He was very handsome, definitely the most good-looking person I’ve seen. I couldn’t wait to see him again.

When I saw him again, I asked him about the marks on his arms.

“They’re tattoos,” he says, sitting on the desk. He showed me his arm. It was covered in images. Hourglass, clock, feathers, and books. The other was full of runes and designs he called ‘Geometric’.

“Are these all you have,” I ask, looking at his arms.

“No,” He says, “I have one on my back.”

I nod, touching his arm lightly. “They’re... what did you say the word was? Cool?”

Jongin laughs, “Yeah! That’s it!”

I smiled, hearing him laugh, it was such a beautiful sound. “I was shocked after we first met that they didn’t wash off.”

Jongin just smiled, “No, they’re there forever unless you get them removed.”

“Does it hurt,” I ask, taking a break from learning.

“A little, but not all the time,” He says, looking at his arm. “They don’t hurt anymore, either.”

As the sun started to go down, I felt sad, knowing he was going to have to leave again. These few hours I have with him are the best part of my day.

“I’ve been working on something,” He says, “It’s a surprise, but the magic isn’t done yet.”

“How is it not done yet?”

“This takes a long time to do,” He explains, “It’s pretty advanced.” He says, looking at me. He was taller than me, standing close.

“You must be good at magic, then,” I say, feeling him grab my hand.

He nods, looking me in the eyes. I could feel my heart racing as I watched his eyes look to my lips. “Eden, would you mind if I kissed you again?”

I shook my head, and he just laughed, a smirk growing on his face. “This kind of kissing is different. It’s deeper, and expresses more emotion.”

“Ok,” I mutter, “Just... tell me what to do.”

He places both of my hands around his neck, before resting his on my hips. The feeling of him touching my hips was nice, his hands warm. “Follow my lead,” He says, pressing his lips to me again. This time, though, I felt something warm and wet touch my lips. I jumped at first, only for him to giggle, “It’s ok, trust me. Just open.”

I nod, and when he does it again, I open my mouth, like he was trying to. I could feel his tongue touch mine, and at first, it was weird, but soon, as his hands held me tighter and the sounds he made only made me feel good. I moved my tongue along with his, getting lost in the feeling of it. My fingers laced into his hair, as I let out a moan of my own. I could tell I wasn't the best at this, but he didn't seem to mind.

When he pulled away, he was breathing heavy. He smiles at me, wiping my lips with his thumb as he held my face softly. “That was not bad at all,” He says, smiling as he looks back down at my lips. “Way better than my first time. I was so nervous I accidentally bit their tongue. It was embarrassing.”

I shake my head, “You can tell me if it was bad, you know. Be honest.”

“I’m serious,” He says, smiling. “Though, like with everything, practice does make perfect.” Jongin says, winking before biting his bottom lip. One time he told me people bite their bottom lip when they’re nervous or doming something called flirting. I hope it’s the latter.

He tells me bye, and I walk back to the house, bible in hand. The weather was slowly moving into Autumn. Soon the leaves would be colorful and beautiful. The changing leaves are one of the few things I love and enjoy. I open the back door, making sure to get all the dirt off my shoes.

My brother was on the couch, sharpening a knife. He glances up, his brown hair in his eyes. Isaiah smiled at me, “Father met with the family like ours a bit to the west. They’re talking to see if a match will be made between myself and their daughter.”

I smiled, though it was hollow and empty, as I notice towels of blood on the floor from where he cleaned the blade. “That’s wonderful news, brother! You joining with her and starting a family of your own would be an amazing blessing from God!”

He smiles at that, “He’s been looking at suitors for you, as well. Of the few families like us, all of them who have sons want them to be with you.”

“I’m sure Father will listen to God as he guides him to the best match for me,” I say, trying to keep the strain out of my voice.

“You are our angel, Eden. Only the best for you,” He says, putting the knife back in its sheath. “Seeing you walk off to give yourself time to devote yourself to God for a bit each day is inspiring. All women could learn from you.”

“Everything I do is for God and my family,” I say, excusing myself. It was just so easy to lie anymore. After years of saying it without knowing better, they have no reason not to believe me.

“Father and Mother are going to be gone,” He says, “They’ll be back a two or three days. I’m going to be gone to spend some time with some of the sons around to go on a hunting trip. I’ll be back around tomorrow night.”

I nod, “I understand. I’ll stay inside since no one is here just in case.”

He smiles, “That was exactly what I was going to tell you. You’re smart. Well, for a woman.”

“Thank you,” I say, finally excusing myself. It was going to be so nice to get away from them for a bit. The cage is going to be gone for a while. I’d be able to just be me.

When I showered and went to bed, I couldn’t be more excited for these next few days.

“How do you feel about going on an adventure,” Jongin asks, grinning at me.

The next day, I went out earlier. According to Jongin, today he was off from ‘college’, which he explained to me was just school, but more advanced. He showed up a little after me, smiling as he did.

“Ok,” I say, smiling.

“Here,” He says, handing me a bag, “You’re the same size as my sister, and she leaves clothes with me when she stays. She never takes them back since she lives on the other side of the country. Besides, it’s best to blend in.”

“Alright.”

He turns around, “I won’t look. I just figured while I can I should show you the city and life outside all this.”

I quickly pull my shirt off, pulling on the one. It was black, with no sleeves like he wears all the time. I have a feeling that this family doesn’t like sleeves. I pulled on the pants, taking my shoes off quickly. It felt weird wearing pants for the first time. It wasn’t a breeze as a skirt. These pants were fairly tight too. There were also shoes and a zip-up jacket. I pulled it all on, keeping my hair in the two braids. I tapped his shoulder, “All done.”

He turns, his eyes wide. “Wow.”

“It’s weird,” I said, “wearing pants. I think I like it, though.”

He offers his arm, smiling, “Well when we get to the city, feel free to ask about anything. Seriously, there are going to be a lot of things you’ve never seen!”

“How are we getting there,” I ask, playing with the necklace I still wore.

He just smirks, and soon, there are lights all around us. They moved faster and faster, around us, shining a bright yellow light. Until they exploded in glitter, fading into nothing as I look up, seeing myself in the middle of tall buildings surrounded by people.

“Oh my god,” I mutter, looking around. Parts of buildings lighting up, showing off colorful drinks, cars and a ton of other things. Cars moved around, following the directions of the light above them. I stood, smelling all around me. Something's smelling good, some awful. It was loud, people talking, magic glowing all around as some people used it like it was nothing.

“Cool, huh,” He asks, “Come with me.” He hold out his hand.

I take it, holding it firmly. I realized then I’d follow Jongin anywhere. I trusted him more than anyone.

Walking down the place, I asked him with everything was. What are we walking on, what are the buildings, what is everything and anything. The sun shined on us as we walked. He left me to a staircase going down, and I learned that the quickest way to travel was something called the subway. The metal tube running underground was scary, but Jongin assured me that it was perfectly safe and that’s he’s ridden on it a thousand times before.

As we were seated, he told me about the giant place. This was Seattle, and it wasn’t even the biggest city in America. I know the states, and I’ve heard of cities, but all my father and mother would tell me is that they’re ‘cesspools of sin and debauchery’. From what I’ve seen, they’re beautiful and fun, though a number of people around is shocking to me.

“There isn’t even a million people living here, Eden,” Jongin says as we exit back up top. He smiled, pulling his leather jacket close and zipping it up. He turns to me, pulling up the zipper on my jacket, “There are a ton of cities with more people.”

“A million people can live in a city,” I ask, my eyes wide as I couldn’t contain my disbelief.

“There’s about eight million in New York City,” He says with a laugh. “You look so cute right now! Did you really not know that?”

“Is it that shocking I don’t know,” I ask, trying not to turn completely red at the fact that he called me cute.

“Here we are,” He says, directing me inside. “I know it looks like a dump, but this bar makes the best pizza you’ll find.”

He opened the door, and the smell of food and beer hits me. I walk in, looking around. People playing darts, a game my father and brother like when they take a moment to breathe. There was a long bar, people eating foods and drinking. Flat things showing weird moving pictures, chalkboard on the walls with the menu and somewhere customers could write. We sit at the end of the bar, smiling. A man comes up, smiling.

“I was wondering when I’d see your face again,” a man says, grinning widely. His hair was black, his eyes a gray as he looked at Jongin. He clapped him on the shoulder, smiling. “I see you in here at least three times a week and suddenly you're gone all the time, what gives?”

“Quit whining, Jongdae,” Jongin says, rolling his eyes. He then gestures to me, “This is Eden. Eden, meet my rude friend Jongdae.”

“Hello,” I say, smiling, holding out my hand.

Jongdae’s attention turns to me, holding his hand out. I take it immediately, taking his hand and shaking. He was in all black, his arms also with tattoos, but a piece of metal in his nose, looping around it. His eyes went wide as he looked over at Jongin, “Wait, Eden? As in, the person you’ve been visiting for years, Eden?!”

Jongin nods and I look over at him.

“He won’t tell,” Jongin says, “Trust me.”

“Wow,” Jongdae says, looking at me, “You look a lot different than I imagined.

A tray of clean glasses is set down near us as another man enters the conversation. He was smaller and thinner. He wore colors on the skin around his eyes and a ring on every finger. His hair was a coppery color. “‘Look a lot different’ is Jongdae speak for smoking hot,” He reaches over, taking my hand in his, “I’m Baekhyun, nice to finally meet you, Eden. We’ve heard a lot of good things about you, Miss Mysterious E.”

“I only told my friends, and when we talk about you, besides now, we just call you E,” Jongin says, “I mean, I was disappearing for hours on end for a while, they noticed. I had to tell them.”

“I’m shocked it took Junmyeon as long to notice, honestly,” Jongdae says. I recognize that name as the person who Jongin told me was his roommate.

“Alright,” Jongin says, smiling, “Some slices of cheese pizza?”

“I’m a bartender, so that’s your shit,” Baekhyun says to Jongdae, before seeing someone waving for him. He winks at us, before smiling at the woman.

Jongdae rolls his eyes, getting out a notebook. “Just cheese?”

“She’s never had pizza before, got to let her try it at the bare minimum to see if she likes it,” Jongin says, taking off his jacket and throwing it on the back of his chair.

“Makes sense,” Jongdae says, nodding. “Drinks?”

“Just soda,” He says, “Cola?”

“You got it, kid,” He says, smiling. “Kyungsoo literally is pulling a cheese one out in two minutes, so you’ll be set.” He turns, walking towards the kitchen, shouting in.

The door behind us opens as someone steps in, “Fuck,” He mutters, “It’s getting colder already.” He stops, looking at Jongin, and then to me. He was tall, taller than Jongin is and was really thin. His hair was white, a bit of metal around his bottom lip to the left. He also had some tattoos, though they stopped midway down one arm.

“Sehun,” Jongin says, smiling. “Meet Eden.”

The tall man, Sehun, looks at me, “You’re prettier than I expected,” He says, taking the seat next to Jongin. He looked tired and he sat down, resting his chin on his hand.

“Thank you,” I say, confused.

“He’s just mad because you’re sitting in his seat,” Jongin says, laughing a little.

“She can have it this one time since it’s her first time in the city,” Sehun says, pouting. “I’m not that mean, it is the best seat, after all.”

Baekhyun places two drinks in front of myself and Jongin. “Usual,” he asks to Sehun, who just nods. “Bad day, little student?”

“Someone hit my car and ran,” He says, rolling their eyes, “So I had to report it to the police.”

“That thing is a piece of shit anyways,” Baekhyun says, cracking open a brown bottle and placing it in front of Sehun. “You’ll be happy to know your brand’s pumpkin ale is back, though.”

“Small victories,” Sehun says, pouting again. He leans over, looking at me, “Also, Nice to meet you, I’m Sehun. You’re Eden. It actually is nice to meet you finally, I’m just in a bad mood.”

“It’s ok,” I mutter, as I point up to the thing showing moving pictures. “What’s that?”

“A baseball game,” Sehun says, taking a sip.

“It’s a television. It shows things and video that are either live or previously recorded,” Jongin explains, smiling the whole time.

“Holy fuck you really don’t know anything,” Sehun says, his eyes wide.

Jongin elbowed him, making him yelp.

“What,” He says, “I’m just shocked! Almost no one lives like that anymore! Estimates say it’s only a dozen or so families in the state!”

Before I could speak, a plate was set right in front of me. Jongdae smiles, before looking over at Jongin, “Kyungsoo says he wishes he could meet her, but he’s too swamped with work.”

I look at the food. It was a huge slice of ‘pizza’. It looked like cheese melted over bread. I liked both of those things, so perhaps I’ll like this too. I picked it up, taking a bite. I second I do, I could taste the tomato, some spices, along with the cheese and bread. It was really good. I took another bite, smiling as I ate.

“Good,” Jongin asks, a grin on his face.

I nod, too busy eating to speak. I listened to them all converse, getting in a comment or asking what something was here and there. After Sehun’s reaction, everyone else seemed not to be shocked by my reaction to things. They’d just answer and explain it to me. I didn’t quite understand what slang words were or how they’re used, but they tried their best to tell me.

A bit later, after waving them all goodbye, Jongin and I were at the subway again. “There’s just one last thing,” He says, “The place was going to closed down and people can’t really get up there, but if you have the means,” He says, moving his hand around and letting glitters of magical essence fly, “You can get there.”

“If you can just go anywhere with magic, why not do it all the time,” I ask.

“There’s a bit of time in between you do something. Teleporting take a lot of magical energy, so you have to give it a few minutes. Unless you’re going to somewhere hundreds of miles away, then you’ll take hours recovering from that,” He says, explaining to me as we walked. “I’m getting closer so that the time it would take to recover would be a minutes or two, is all.”

Once we were above ground, I saw the familiar signs of magic. I felt it again and then we're somewhere else.

“They called this the Space Needle,” Jongin says. “Mostly my friends and I will come up here, drink, smoke and talk, usually. It’s been closed down for years.”

The view was breathtaking. I walked over to the fence, holding it as I looked all across the city. “Wow,” I mutter, “This is beautiful.”

Jongin went through a hole in the fence, smiling. “It’s safe if you want to join me,” He says, “It’s been enchanted to never break. With magic like that, you have to come by and strengthen it. It was done earlier today if you’re worried.”

My heart racing, I walked over, looking through the hole and directly at him. I smile, lifting my leg and hopping over the concrete barrier. I landed on the other side. He smiles, as we sit down and watch the sun slowly falling. He talked to me about how his friends are mostly all out of school, except himself and Sehun. He was a very gifted and powerful magic user, though he doesn’t know what to specialize in. The only person in his friend group who wasn’t a magic user was his room mate Junmyeon, but he was smart and was a good at running the hospital. It made me happy, learning about the people close to him and knowing that he thought I was important enough to tell them about.

The sun disappeared a few hours ago, leaving us and the brilliant city skyline. It was so pretty, it was hard to look away. Jongin’s arm around my shoulders, my head resting on him, I sighed, “Thank you. This day has been wonderful.”

“Eden,” He mutters, as I turn to look at him. He smiles shyly, “I’d very much like to kiss you again.”

I nod, “It’s ok, you don’t have to ask me anymore. I want to kiss you too.”

Our lips met, and it was that feeling of butterflies all over. I let his arms wrap around me, pulling me close. I moved, so that I was sitting on his lap, smiling into the kiss. It was different, and I could feel how much this kiss wasn’t just a kiss. One of his hands slipped to my hip, holding it firmly as the other just help my face lightly.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you since the first one,” He mutters, kissing my jaw and neck.

I held onto him, tightly. This was all new to me, and I was feeling things I never have before for a man. It was just, odd, but in a fun and exciting way. I could feel him getting harder beneath me, remembering my mother told me that means that he likes it. He also had an effect on me, as I could feel myself becoming wet between my legs. I let out a gasp when he lightly bit my neck, my hips rolling into his, making him groan. I don’t know why I did it, but the sound he made from it only makes me want to keep going.

So I did, earning the sound again. “Fuck, Eden,” Jongin mutters and I sigh, kissing his neck when he threw his head back. I hear him chuckle as he pulls me away. His eyes staring directly into mine. “We can stop, if you want,” He says. “We don’t have to do anything. I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you into something if you don’t want it.” In the dimming sunlight, he looked perfect. Jongin was the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, and I couldn’t help but think that if he is a sin, then I didn’t care about being a sinner.

“I want you, Jongin,” I mutter, smiling. “I’ve never… you know, but I want the first to be with you because you’re kind and gentle and you care about me. I trust you,” I say, smiling at him.

“Are you sure,” He asks, glancing up at me. He looked shy and sweet right now, looking at me like that.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life,” I say, smiling.

The yellow light flashes around us again, and I could feel what this magic was before I looked at it. Soon, we’re at his place, I assume. His arms wrapped around me, holding me up as he started to walk. I kissed his neck again, delighted when I could hear him groaning at the feeling. The sounds he made and what he was doing to me was making me wet between my legs. This feeling was new to me, my body lighting up with every touch.

My back then touched the bed, I looked up, seeing him over me, smiling. His hands slide over my body, under the shirt. His fingers are a bit rough but softer than they looked. I gasped at the feeling as I leaned forward, letting him pull my shirt away.

Before, the thought of a man seeing me like this that wasn’t my husband would have disgusted me. Doing this and letting someone touch me like this would have made me feel like I was wrong and dirty. How can it be wrong if it’s him? When he looks at me like I’m the most magnificent thing in the world?

I’ve known him for years. He’s the friend I’ve had the longest, the only person who encourages me to be myself. I’ve known I liked him as more than a friend for a while, but I never acted on it.

He smiles at me, leaning down and kissing my lips, holding me up with one arm and unclasping my bra with the other. I pulled the bra away, and I could see his eyes grow wide as he looked. Jongin’s eyes met mine again, before he presses his lips together with mine, rocking his hips to mine. I let out a shocked moan at the feeling, before he pulls away, looking me in the eyes.

“You’re beautiful, Eden,” He says, grinning at me. He smiles, kissing me softly. “You’re so amazing,” He kisses me, “And kind,” Another kiss.

My face went a deeper shade of red from the complements. My heart was beating fast, as I smiled. I reach up, grabbing at his shirt and pulling it up. “Your turn,” I say, “It’s only fair.”

He laughs, leaning back. “Whatever you want,” He says, winking before he pulls his shirt up and over. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and touching his chest. My cheeks felt hot just looking at him. He was strong and very fit, the muscles hard under my fingers.

“Not even a second and you’re already touching, huh,” He says, laughing as he leans back down, his lips softly kissing my neck.

I hum contently, feeling goosebumps from where he touches me. “I can’t help it, you’re just so handsome,” I mutter, making him let out a small laugh. His fingers graze over my skin, barely touching me as they moved up. Jongin’s lips move to my collarbone as his hands softly touch my breasts. My hands touch his back, his skin smooth. Then moved a little more, looking at me He just grins, his eyes locked onto mine as his tongue reaches out, licking at the little bud. I sign, smiling as I leaned back. It felt so nice, what he was doing.

His hand that wasn’t massaging my breast moved down, unbuttoning my jeans.

“So, you still ok with this,” He asks, watching me carefully to see if there’s any sign of uncertainty in my eyes.

“Yes,” I say, my voice softer than I wanted to be.

His hand moves down and he touches my most intimate part. I moaned out at the feeling. It just felt so right, what he was doing. I was always told that if another man who does these sorts of things with you that you aren’t married to, that it would be painful. It would hurt because it was God’s way of telling you that you’re sinning. But nothing about this was painful. It was just blissful. His fingers, slightly rough, rubbing me down there made me more vocal. I could stop the small sounds I was making, though I had a feeling that he liked hearing me.

Soon, his mouth moved lower, kissing down my stomach. Small licks and gentle bites down my body, making me excited with each passing second. He looked at me as he pulled my pants and underwear down, looking at me the whole time. “Still ok,” He asked, always making sure I was will and consenting.

I nod, saying in a breathy moan, “Please.”

I watch as he kisses just below my hip bones. He opens my legs wider, smiling as he uses one hand to spread me open. Leaning forward, he licks out, swift and soft. The feeling made me jump a bit, but it felt better than anything I experienced before. He moaned, licking again, this time with more pressure. I threw my head back, letting a lewd moan leave my lips too.

“You look so beautiful right now, Baby,” He says, his breath hot and warm between my legs.

I thought it couldn’t get better, but the slow, almost lazy licks became faster. Sucking and licking there just turned my mind to jelly as I couldn’t control anything my body was doing. My heart quickened as my hands grabbed at his hair, “Jongin,” I moan, feeling something creep up my spine as my stomach felt like it was getting tighter and tighter.

“It sounds so good when you moan my name,” He groans.

I couldn’t stop his name coming from my mouth as it felt better and better. I looked down, seeing his eyes looking directly up at me as his hands held my hips. No amount of my thrashing from the feeling could overpower me. My hands gripped his hair, my back arching as something in me snapped. The pure intense pleasure rocked through my body, making me tighten my legs around Jongin’s head and yell out. This was a feeling that I could have never imagined even if I tried.

“Wow,” I muttered as I laid there for a moment, coming down from the high I just felt for a minute or so. Jongin kissed his way back up my body with gentle hands. He never stopped touching me the entire time. I pulled him to me, kissing him wildly. It was sloppy and messy but I couldn’t care. I reached down to his pants, unbuckling his belt quickly. I wanted him and I wanted us to be more than whatever we are right now.

Soon, his pants and underwear were kicked to the side of the room, along the rest of the discarded clothes. He quickly takes something from his pocket. I’d ask what it is but I didn’t want to ruin the moment, so I just ran my hands all over him, kissing him and let him get ready. He slid it on his member before he looks at me. I nodded, smiling. “I want this,” I said, “I want you. I want this to happen with you.” Then I felt him slowly start to enter.

I was always told it would be painful the first time, but it was rather mild. There was a small sharp pain at first, and after, Jongin stilled and distracted me with kisses all over. It was hard to focus on the small pain when he was kissing me and touching me like he was addicted to my body. Soon, though, he started to move.

I thought before felt good, the feeling of this was amazing. I was already dizzy with pleasure after the first few thrusts. I wrap my legs around him, moaning louder. “Jongin,” I gasp as he sits up a bit more. His hands grab my waist, pulling it up a bit so that my hips were angled differently. This new angle caused him to find a spot in me that made me lose myself into the feeling.

Jongin groaned, “Fuck, Eden,” He says, his hips never stopping as they moved faster. His lips meet mine, pouring everything he had into it. I wrapped my hands around him, my nails digging into his shoulders. His other hand reached down, touching me where his tongue was earlier, making my yells even louder.

It was all slick skin, hands running over one another. He pushes my hair out my face, smiling and letting his groans and moans fill the room alone with my own. One of his hands grabs mine, holding it tightly, our fingers laced. He looks into my eyes, and I never felt more connected to someone in my life. The feeling of pleasure growing and growing in me was maddening.

“Jongin,” I yell, clutching onto him as I lost control, pleasure overtaking my body. He slams his hips into me a few more times, letting out a long, deep groan. He tensed, the hand holding mine tightly gripping it.

He collapsed on me, letting out a small laugh. His skin was covered in sweat as I held his back, sighing and holding him. I kissed the side of his head, gasping for breath. I could feel his hands slide up my body, and he pulled himself up.

I was breathing heavy as he leaned over me, doing the same. He looks me in the eyes, his face covered in sweat. I smiled at him, pushing his hair out of his face and kissing him softly. He excused himself from the room, walking over to the adjoining bathroom. After taking a few moments in his bathroom, I had some time to look around. His room was very neat, the bed large and the main feature for the room. He had a desk with a few pendants and spell books open, and a small metal rectangle on it. There were a few clothes on the floor that wasn't from tonight.

When he came back, he was still completely nude as he cuddled me, holding me against his chest. I kissed his chest lightly, hearing him chuckle. I remember the feeling of his fingers playing with my hair as, soon, my eyes closed and I fell asleep.

When I woke, I could hear two people having a conversation. It was muffled as I looked around, Jongin not being anywhere in sight. I yawned, stretching before I looked around. I went over and found my underwear, pulling them on and the shirt Jongin wore last night. As I got closer to the door, I could hear what they’re talking about.

“Yeah, he’s been missing for a few days,” A voice I never hear says, “No one has seen him since.”

“Where was he last seen,” I heard Jongin say, a bit closer to the door.

“A few miles south, next to an old rusted truck. He talked to the person in the red truck, and then walked out of view of the camera.”

My blood went cold at the mention of the vehicle. That’s the exact description of my father’s truck.

“But enough about that,” The new voice says, whom I assume is Jongin’s roommate, Junmyeon. “I heard some of the guys got to meet the mysterious Lady E.”

“Yeah,” Jongin says, the happiness clear in his voice. “Jun, She’s just… she’s amazing. I’ve never met someone so eager to learn anything in my entire life. Watching her see and experience so many new things last night was one of best nights of my life.”

“Oh trust me,” Junmyeon says with a laugh, “I could hear the tail end of what one of those experiences was!”

My face went red when I realized what he was talking about. I cover it with my hands, shaking my head as I remember what happened. My legs a bit wobbly.

“Please don’t embarrass her,” Jongin says, “It’s bad enough she has to go home today.”

“I won’t, I promise. It was just odd, you haven’t had someone over like that in a long time, is all. So, when can I meet Eden, hm?”

“It’s almost noon, I should wake her up and get her back soon, huh,” Jongin asks, the sadness evident in his voice.

I moved back to sit on the bed, looking around for the pants I wore. The door opened and I glanced up, seeing Jongin peek in. The smile he had grew when he looked at me. “Oh, I was just coming in to wake you,” He says, “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to eat since we have to get you back soon.”

I nod, “I understand, it’s ok. It’s probably best I get back soon, anyways. I have to shower and get back into my clothes.”

I quickly pick up the pair of pants, pulling them on and looking at him. “I’m ready.”

Taking my hand in his, he smiles as we walk to the door of the bedroom. I smile, looking and seeing a man standing in the middle of the room. He smiles, reaching his hand out, “Hi, I’m Kim Junmyeon. Not relation, despite the last name.”

I smile, taking his hand and shaking it, “I’m Eden Winters.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Junmyeon says. He didn’t have any tattoos or metal in his face. He looks normal, in black pants and a button-up shirt. His hair was brown and he just looked so happy.

I could see no magical aura around him, unlike all of Jongin’s friends I met last night. He was just a normal person.

“I’m actually about to go to work,” He says, looking at his watch. “I’m sorry I have to leave so soon.”

“Junmyeon is a doctor,” Jongin says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “He’s almost always at the hospital, almost never at our group dinners.”

“People need me,” He says, shrugging as he picks up a bag and a white coat. “I’ll see you all later, though.”

Jongin waves and I go too, smiling. I turn to him, sighing, “I’m really sad I have to leave.”

“Me too,” He says, taking my face in his hands. He smiles, though this one shy and he looks away. I lean forward, pressing my lips to his cheek.

“Thank you,” I mutter. “Thank you for showing me a world I would have never known. Thank you for these moments that will last a lifetime.”

He looks at me, though his face still flushed. He presses his lips to mine, slowly kissing me. It was passionate, as he held me close. When he pulls away, I look around and see us standing in the hut. I smile, “Soon I’ll be able to teleport too! I’ve been trying to learn it, but the runes are so complex.”

Jongin laughs, “Yeah, I had a hard time learning it too.”

I pull him closer, pressing my lips to his once more, before turning and finding the bag with my clothes in it. “Alright,” I mutter. “Time to get home.”

“I’ll watch the door, make sure no one sees you while you change,” He says, turning and giving me some privacy, though I don’t think it is necessary.

I smiled, watching as he stepped away from me. As I was changing, I remember the conversation he and Junmyeon were having before talking about me and the sense of guilt crawls over me. I can’t hide this anymore. My father has been killing innocent people for ages, and his friend could be one of them.

“Jongin,” I say, “I… I have something I need to tell you.”

He turns, looking concerned at the tone of my voice, He walks forward, putting his hands on my shoulders, “You ok?”

“No, Because I…” I stop, unable to force myself to say anything. I tried and tried, but my mouth won’t move to speak the words. I reached out, grabbing his shirt, my eyes widen as I start to panic.

His eyes travel to my throat. They widen as his hands touch it, “A silence spell,” He says, looking up. “Who did this to you, Eden?”

“I… I don’t know! I don’t even know what that is,” I say, looking and trying to see what magic he was seeing.

He looks closer at my throat, “This… this isn’t like anything I’ve seen. It’s complex… and old magic.” He glances at me, his eyes wide, “Someone doesn’t want you talking about something to someone you're not supposed to.”

“But I need to tell you this,” I say, my eyes getting wide in panic.

He comforts me with a hug, “Don’t worry, I’ll look this up and it shouldn’t take too long to see what it is.”

“Can you do it, though, right,” I ask, hands gripping at the front of his shirt.

“It’s complex, but it’s old, which means it’s likely to be very thoroughly studied,” He explains. “Meet me here tomorrow and we’ll dispel this.”

“You can learn it that quickly,” I ask.

He smirks, “I’m quite good at magic, believe it or not.”

Leaving him was hard, but I felt good knowing that he was going to end this so I can tell him the truth. Once home, I immediately got into the shower, getting rid of all traces of the city from me. I smiled, remembering the night we had. I know my family would call me a whore for what I did, but I just can’t care anymore. This is wrong and I was such an idiot for sitting by idly for a long time.

What I couldn’t think of what who could have possibly put the spell on it. I mean, it must be my father. He’s a huge hypocrite, so it wouldn’t shock me if he bends the rules to suit his needs. Murder is suppose to be a sin but he has no problem with that.

Dressed, my hair braided, the door opens and my brother walks in, key in hand. He looks at me, smiling. He walks forward, hugging me. I shake off everything feeling I had to pull away and hug him back.

“We had fun, shot some deer,” He says, pulling away. “How was your time?”

“I stayed here and read, mostly,” I say, “Though don’t tell Mother and Father, but I slept in about ten minutes.”

He laughs, throwing his head back, “I won’t tell.”

The rest of the night consisted of cooking food for the two of us and excusing myself to my room. I lay there, holding the necklace as I curled up in the blankets. My thoughts went to Jongin, wondering where he is and how he’s doing. A blush littered my face as I remembered my previous night, my heart beating fast.

The next thing I knew, I woke up. I glanced at the clock in the room, seeing it was late afternoon. I quickly dressed, sprinting from my room almost directly into my mother.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, looking around at her.

She smiles, “Don’t worry, your brother said you looked awfully tired, so we decided to let you sleep. It seems he was right.”

What followed was a conversation about their day. Boring talks about a man I don’t want to marry. We cleaned, helped prepare and freeze meat and pickled vegetables from the garden. It was just the normal day, but I couldn’t keep my mind on what I was doing.

Soon, people will know and I’ll make sure they face justice. I wanted this to end. No more people being killed for pointless reasons. Soon, as the day went on and the time for me to meet Jongin came near, I couldn’t help but feel happy. I couldn’t wait to see him and have someone to tell. He could get me out of here and we could go and get far, far away from here.

I walked out the door on the way to the hut, running into my father.

He grabbed my arm, “Eden, be careful! We found a vagrant on our land earlier. Your brother is teaching him a lesson now.”

I nod, “I will, I was just going to do my daily bible time at the hut.”

His hand grabs my arm tightly, “That’s where the son of a bitch was found!”

I felt the color drain from my face. My eyes wide, my hand starting to shake, “B-by the hut? A-are you sure?”

He nods, “Yes. Don’t worry, my angel, we’re going to make him pay for his sins,” He says, growling. “Him by the hut, I’ll be everything that he’s been spying on you, waiting for his day to pounce.”

I wanted nothing more than to go and throw open the door and rush down the stair to see if it was Jongin. I wanted to scream and break the door down and drag him out of there. But, what shocked me more, was the want that it was someone else, anyone else. I couldn’t care if it was anyone else so long as it wasn’t Jongin.

I stayed inside. Silently, I ate dinner. After, when I was sure everyone was asleep, my father and my brother, I snuck out. I opened the door to the cellar quickly, thankful that my father had me put oil on the hinges not even a few days ago. I walked quietly down the steps, my feet bare so I wouldn’t make any more noise.

I when to open the door, but it was locked. I held my hand around the knob, remembering a spell from the book I was given. After a few seconds as the blue runes flew around my hand, it unlocked and opened with a creak.

A man was chained to the ground, lying still. His bare back was to me, blood from cuts slowly becoming scraps as I took a step forward. I didn’t have to see his face, I could tell it was him.

“I already told you, no one showed me the way to your fucking house,” He says, his words harsh a biting. “I wasn’t spying on your family or anything. Your paranoid will kill you.”

I took a step forward, tears falling from my eyes, “J-Jongin?”

He turns, getting to his knees. His eyes meet mine, and I felt sick. Lines cut into his skin, spelling out words. On his back was the word ‘Sinner’, across his chest, was my name. E-D-E-N.

The eyes that held anger and hate turned soft. “Eden,” He says, trying to stand but the chain that held his handcuffed wrists together wouldn’t let him. The look of fear in his eyes made me scared as I ran forward, not caring that my feet were in blood and that the knees of my skirt were going to be covered.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I mutter, tears coming from my eyes as I undid the lack to free his hands from the ground, though they’re still handcuffed together. “Oh my, this is all my fault.”

“This is what you’re trying to tell me, isn't it,” He asks, his face and body covered in bruises. He looked upset, but not at me.

I nod, “How?”

“He came up behind me,” He says, shaking as he stood up. “He hit me over the head, and the next thing I knew, I was here.”

“I’m going to free you,” I say, moving my hand over and trying the unlock spell, only for it to fizzle out. The blue light sputtering and scattering anytime I got close to them.

“They stop magic,” He says, “Along with something they stuck me with. There’s shots that can block magic users from using it for a while… the key to the handcuffs is over there, on that table. Maybe you can get us out of here.”

I nod, going to the table and looking. I find a few keys, though only two small enough for handcuffs. I quickly unlock his hands, helping him to his feet. “I’ve never done the spell,” I mutter, at him panicked, tears still falling.

He reaches up, grabbing my face, “Listen to me, Eden. This isn’t your fault. They’re bad people, and you didn’t know any better, ok? I don’t blame you.”

I nod, looking him in the eyes.

“We’re going to get out of here, ok, you and me,” He says, only for the door to the exit to open.

“What have you done with my sister,” A voice boomed, making me flinch. He was standing by the door, reaching for the table by it and grabbing a knife.

I move, standing between them, “Isaiah-”

He rushes forward, in a complete rage. He grabs my arm, throwing me to the side. I fall to the ground, blood from the floor all over me. It smelled of rot in here, making my eyes water. I looked, seeing Jongin struggle to hold off Isaiah.

I stand, stumbling forward and pulling at Isaiah. He reaches back, throwing me back only for Jongin to punch him in the face. My brother took the punch in stride, taking the knife and stabbing it into Jongin’s stomach. I gasped, watching as he fell, his back hitting the wall, the knife still in him. Isaiah smirked, walking to him like a predator. I look around for anything, grabbing the first thing I could see. I swung it at him, hitting him. He stumbled to the side, turning and looking at me.

The machete was deep in the side of his shoulder. It was right where his shoulder met his neck. I moved passed him, not focusing on what I just did, trying to block out of my mind that I just did exactly what they’ve been doing. “Jongin,” I said, crying as he looks at me panicked.

“T-Tele… tele… port,” He says, as his hands go back to his stomach, the shock of what happened to start to fade and the pain setting in.

I grab him and focus. He explained it to me before, and I pictured his place. Yellow glittery lights spinning wild, flashing all around. I could feel us get lifted like I felt when I went with him.

“Holy shit,” a voice says.

I look up, seeing Junmyeon, “Help him, please!”

He moves quickly, looking at the wound. He takes something out of his pocket, tapping quickly. “It’s ok, we’re going to get him to a hospital, ok?” Junmyeon says, looking at me.

I stared, looking at Jongin as someone teleported in. Yellow shimmers all around as I held Jongin, tears falling from my face. He reaches up, brushing them away.

“Eden, I... I lo...” He started, though falling unconscious immediately. Tears fell as I could feel someone grab me, and soon we're somewhere else. All I could focus on was Jongin, walking by him as they placed him on a small thin bed. They carted him away, one woman stopping me from following.

“But he’s hurt,” I say, trying, “I can’t just, I have to-”

I feel someone pull me back, and I turn to see Sehun. He looked angry as he pulled me along, though his grip was firm, it was still soft. The sign on the door said ‘Dr. Kim Junmyeon’. He pulls me in and pushes me onto the couch. His eyes bright with anger. Baekhyun was there, looking furious, his hair in a mess and wearing pajamas. He stood up straight, looking at me.

Junmyeon was at his desk, sitting down after following after Sehun and me. He was tense, as he looked at me.

Sehun moved, standing by Baekhyun, hands shaking and eyes shining in fear for his friend.

“Explain,” Junmyeon says, his voice firm. “Now.”

#exo scenarios #exo smut #exo fanfiction #exo fanfic

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jarienn972 · 7 years

Text

The Right Place - Chapter Seven

I have to apologize that I’m a little behind getting chapters posted here on Tumblr as the past few weeks have been a literal hurricane around here. My family was very fortunate to never lose power and suffered no real damage other than a few scratches from debris hitting our car but many of my friends weren’t as lucky. I managed to get a lot of writing done last weekend while waiting out Irma and have additional chapters of this story already up on both AO3 and FF.net. I’ll try to have them up on Tumblr over the next few days for those who are following this story. Thank you to everyone who has reblogged and liked these chapters!

From the beginning on Tumblr: Prologue/Chap One Chap Two Chap Three Chap Four Chap Five Chap Six

Tuesday evening, Portland Medical Center

Killian woke with a start, soaked with sweat and trembling as his mind forced him to relive those events in the form of an all too vivid dream – or more correctly a too real nightmare. He knew his heart was racing so he tried to focus on relaxing, slowing the thundering inside his chest before it garnered the unwanted attention of the nurse. Pushing through the aches and pains, he made himself take a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he leaned forward, determined to force himself out of this hospital bed. It wasn't as easy as he thought it might be but he somehow managed to swing his legs over the side, his bare toes scarcely grazing the chilly tile floor when he felt the warm touch of a hand on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" his wife asked, her voice sounding quite concerned.

"I don't bloody know," he sighed, not entirely certain how to reply to her question.

"Are you alright? You were twitching and shaking in your sleep."

"Just a dream, Love," he stated rather unconvincingly. "I'm fine."

"I doubt that," she replied, rolling her eyes in disbelief. "It's never 'just' anything with you. Tell me what it was…"

"Nothing more than reliving being stabbed in the back and then nearly drowning," he grumbled. "It was a lot to digest, however as disturbing as it may have been, it might have stirred up some memories I hadn't recalled earlier."

"Okay…," she hesitated, debating whether to allow him to continue and potentially provide some new details or make him lie back down and discuss things in the morning, finally allowing curiosity to prevail. "What did you remember?"

"I suppose I should start from the beginning," he said as he attempted to raise his legs back up into the bed as it sunk in that Emma wasn't going to allow him to leave these confines just yet, finding it even more difficult with gravity opposing him. She noticed his frustration and provided a helping hand to get him comfortable and back under the bedcovers once again. "Thank you," he said with a disgruntled sigh, hating to be so needy as it then dawned on him that his stepson wasn't present in the room with them. "Wasn't Henry here earlier? I wasn't imagining that?"

"You're welcome, and no, you weren't imagining Henry. He went for a walk a few minutes ago. Pretty sure he just went down to the lounge so he could talk to Violet without his mother overhearing. And you – you don't need to push yourself… You don't have to talk about this right now if you don't want to…"

"I'd rather share as much as possible before I find myself hacking up my bloody insides again… Now..., let's see if I can piece all of these jumbled images and the like together into something that makes sense…" He squeezed his eyelids closed momentarily, attempting to formulate coherent thoughts from hazy recollection. "I offered to give the two thieves the doubloons I've stashed away on the Jolly Roger if they'd leave the shopkeeper be, but we never made it back out to where I left her anchored…"

"Okay, that much we knew. Do you remember anything about what happened after you boarded their boat?"

"Aye," he said with a subtle nod. "The seas became rougher as we rounded one of the small islands out in the bay. I could sense that the man at the helm reduced our speed as the waves swelled. So, I took advantage of the choppy sea to antagonize the masked man aiming the pistol at me, goading him into a physical attack as we crested over a sizable swell, causing him to lose the weapon which I retrieved and disposed of. A couple of quick rights to my opponent's jawline put him out of commission so I turned my attention to the second thief. The other one wasn't aggressive – cowering against the bulkhead as I pulled his mask off to reveal the face of an anxious young man. I was about to take over the vessel's helm when I felt the sting of the blade through my back and then looked down to see it protruding from my chest…"

"Killian…, you don't have to…" she reminded him, reading the visible anguish on his face and hearing his voice crack before he paused. "You can stop…"

He only shook his head and continued, retelling the events gradually bolstering his strength. "As I collapsed, I saw the face of the third man – an older man, very different in demeanor than the others. He was far more methodical - clearly used to getting his way – not unlike the Crocodile in that respect… I heard them arguing for a few moments before they tossed me overboard and sped away…"

"And it was after they left you to drown that you think you saw Ursula?" Emma wondered, still on the fence as to whether she believed he wasn't hallucinating by that point.

"I'm certain she was there, Swan. I wasn't near enough to shore to have made it by myself. I was bleeding and quickly succumbing to hypothermia. I'd already failed at an attempt to cling to a buoy that was close enough to reach, but I hadn't the strength to grasp the metal bar wrapped around it…" He took another pause, his tale sounding daft to his own ears so how would he ever convince his wife? "I'd consigned myself to my fate when I felt something surround me – something that lifted me from the water and carried me to the shoreline…"

"A tentacle?"

"Aye – a tentacle. And yes, I know what if feels like to be in the grip of a sea creature's tentacles. It's a sensation one doesn't soon forget, but I also saw a glimpse of her face as I lay on that beach. She was laughing, calling me lucky…"

"Well, I would definitely say that you were pretty damned lucky to have the Sea Witch rescue you," she grinned, eliciting a weak smile from her husband. "But back to the third man – do you think he was the one who organized the robbery?"

"I've no doubt he was the person in charge, but I'm quite certain this wasn't actually a robbery…"

"What do you mean?" It was already one of the theories that she and Deputy McCallen were working with, so she was rather curious how Killian had come to the same conclusion with what he knew.

"My memories may be slightly suspect at the moment, but I'm certain that the older man asked the younger one why they'd brought me instead of the shopkeeper…"

"The shopkeeper – Ms. Scott? They'd intended to kidnap her?"

"I don't know… That's part of what's bothering me...," he replied as he raised his hand to massage an aching temple, fatigue beginning to take its toll yet again. "Before I offered the doubloon, she'd already informed them that she didn't have a lot of cash in the shop. Her till and safe were both mostly empty so they'd eagerly took the bait when I offered my gold, but that apparently wasn't part of the older man's plan."

"I think we need to speak to Deputy McCallen and give him this new information and we'll probably need to have another talk with Jean Scott because this could be a new angle for motivation."

"Perhaps," he sighed, his wounded chest aching from the strain of all of too much talking. Emma recognized that drained expression and decided that he'd done enough for now.

"You look completely wiped. Why don't you let me call the nurse and see if they can give you something for the pain so you can get some rest?"

"You do realize I was asleep for more than two days, correct?"

"Yeah, well, you're still gonna need a lot more of it so your body can heal and so we can get you back home." As she stood, she leaned in over him to tuck the blanket tighter around him as he grumbled some nonsense about being coddled. She planted a brief kiss on his lips before replacing the oxygen mask, completely ignoring his further protests.

Not long after the evening nurse agreed to give Killian a different pain killer to soothe some of his discomfort, he drifted soundly back to sleep, thankfully without suffering another coughing attack. Emma had dozed off herself as well, taking advantage of a few minutes of peace,yet waking to the rumble of her stomach. It hadn't been an easy task to find a comfortable position in the unforgiving chair, but she'd somehow managed. Now, as she stirred, she glanced down at her watch to see that it was after 9PM. No wonder her stomach was growling. She'd been so focused on taking care of Killian, she'd forgotten to grab dinner, suddenly remembering that her son probably hadn't eaten yet either – although she couldn't remember if he'd returned to the room.

She sat up, her eyes drawn to the other chair by the window where she saw Henry leaning against the wall, the glow of his iPhone screen giving his face an unnatural bluish pallor. He must have snuck in while she was napping, surprising her that she'd been sleeping so soundly to not have heard him enter.

"Sorry, Kid," she apologized as she stood up, taking the few steps over to him to yank one of the headphones from his ear. "Guess I slept through dinner, didn't I?"

"You looked exhausted when I got back so I didn't want to bother you. I just went back down to the cafeteria and got us some sandwiches," he pointed a white square takeout container on the counter by the sink with a knowing smile. "It's turkey, not grilled cheese, but I thought it would keep better. There are some potato chips in there too, although I'll admit I ate most of them."

"Thanks," she laughed while retrieving the container before settling back down at her husband's bedside. "Turkey will do just fine." She flipped open the lid to reveal what must have been half of a submarine sandwich with lettuce and what appeared to be cheddar or American cheese poking from beneath the bread. While it certainly wouldn't have been her first choice, she didn't really care what She was eating right now as long as it appeased her protesting stomach. She devoured it quickly – perhaps a tad too quickly as she later cursed herself for eating so fast when plagued by a miserable bout of heartburn. Gulping down half a bottle of water in an attempt to quell the fire, she happened to catch a glimpse of her son snickering at her while popping his earbud back in but she decided to pretend she hadn't noticed.

Turning her attention toward her sound asleep husband, she placed her hand atop his and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze, questioning for a moment if his skin felt a little warmer than earlier. She could hear his slight wheezing as his compromised lungs fought to bring in enough air, remembering that he had reclined the bed a few inches earlier so he didn't feel as though he were falling over when he slept in the upright position. It was significantly easier for him to breathe when his head and chest were raised into that sitting position so she hunted for the controls and brought the bed back to the higher position. He didn't awaken with the movement but he did turn back toward her making it easier to see the crimson flush across his cheeks. The room wasn't exceptionally warm but his temperature definitely had changed.

Immediately, she started scanning the displays of all of the electronic devices that surrounded him seeking out the one that was supposed to be monitoring his body temperature. He'd arrived hypothermic so she knew the nurses had been watching him closely but she found herself overwhelmed by so many different numbers flashing in front of her. She didn't know what most of them meant but she trusted her instinct when it said something was amiss so she didn't hesitate when she smashed her thumb onto the nurses' station call button again, hoping someone would respond faster this time.

"Mr. Jones? How can I help you this evening?" a tinny female voice sounded through the speaker.

"This is Mrs. Jones and something's wrong – he's way too warm…"

"I'll be right there," was the reply and true to her word, the brunette nurse who had provided the pain reliever earlier scurried into the room, meeting Emma at her patient's side. She swiped a device across Killian's temple while scrutinizing the monitors above him trying to determine why she hadn't received an alert. She verified all devices were properly connected – no wires loose or missing so there didn't appear to be reason for a malfunction but the thermometer in her hand and the monitor to Killian's left both displayed the same reading – 103.2 degrees.

The nurse frowned at the numbers, but wasn't entirely surprised by them. When he'd arrived, they'd known he was highly susceptible to infection but the question now was if it was indeed an infection, where had it developed? Was it pneumonia attacking his lungs? Was his wound compromised or was this something entirely different? She raised her stethoscope to her ears, listening for any unusual sounds from her patient's lungs, but everything sounded relatively normal – at least for someone who'd nearly drowned three days ago. His breaths were still somewhat labored, but she highly doubted he'd developed pneumonia. Had a day shift nurse missed a warning sign earlier when she'd changed out the dressing on his wounds?

"His lungs sound okay to me so I'm going to check both of his wounds. Let's start though by getting those covers off of him…" Emma was already tugging off the sweat dampened cotton blanket and sheet, leaving them pooled at his feet. The sheet beneath him and the thin gown that hung from his shoulders were equally soaked. The nurse lowered the gown to his waist to have full view of and access to the bandages being careful not to disturb any of the wires and sensors still adhered to his skin. Unlike the younger nurse earlier, she hadn't taken the time to draw the curtain but modesty was hardly a consideration at the moment. As Emma hovered at the end of the bed, the nurse reached into a box of pale blue latex gloves mounted on the wall above the nightstand, rapidly pulling on a pair before peeling back the tape securing the gauze patch to his chest. The incision and sutures showed some redness and a bit of mild bruising, but the healing tissue wasn't displaying any unusual discharge or unexpected discoloration so the nurse carefully replaced the dressing. "This one looks like it's healing just fine. Now, let's see what the one on his back looks like…"

She didn't enlist Emma's assistance to support Killian's upper body as she leaned him forward, wrapping her own arm across his upper chest, just below his collarbone while her left hand pulled back the upper corner of the smaller gauze bandage covering the entrance wound. This nurse clearly had more experience in this procedure – or was just physically stronger, but it worried Emma that her husband hadn't awakened even while being slightly manhandled. Emma didn't have an angle where she could see the wound on his back this time so she had to go by the nurse's change of expression to judge the situation.

"Does it look alright?" she asked without really thinking, the question popping out of her mouth to Emma's instant regret.

"I'm not sure," the nurse responded, covering up the wound as she guided Killian's unconscious form back against the mattress. "There's a lot of swelling around the entry wound but it could be due to irritation or pressure from his own body weight. It's a little tricky with wounds to the back. Knife wounds are particularly nasty too because the blade can push dirt and bacteria inside the body cavity so whatever is causing this reaction might not be visible from the outside. I'll talk to the doctors but they'll probably want to start him on a more aggressive antibiotic and I'm pretty sure they may want to attempt an MRI as well. For now, I can get him some medication to help lower the fever and we'll get some cooling packs brought in."

"Is there anything I can do?" Emma wondered, suddenly cognizant of the fact that her teenaged son was still present in the room, likely having just witnessed the disturbing sight of his stepfather's incision and overheard a good portion of this conversation.

"When he wakes, try to keep him from overexerting himself for a while – at least for the next twelve hours or so – and that includes talking too much. He really just needs rest more than anything and since this is the first day that he's been conscious, we've obviously had to adapt our plans for treating him. It's wonderful that he's able to communicate, but now he's going to want to get up, walk around but he still has a lot of healing to do. I'm sure he's anxious to get home, but we don't want to rush things. Anyway, I'll be back in a few minutes with the fever reducer."

"Thank you," Emma responded, partially relieved as the nurse peeled off the gloves and hung her stethoscope around her neck before heading off to locate the necessary medication. Her words had left Emma reeling a bit until she finally brought her head back to the realization that while the day had been a flurry of activity, it had really only been a matter of hours since they'd located Killian and even less since he'd awakened. Her perception of time seemed so off as she remembered it was now getting late in the evening and she hadn't even given a thought to where she and Henry were going to spend the night. As Killian's wife and a member of law enforcement, she could argue her point to stay, but the hospital would likely frown on a 15 year old staying here. All she knew was that with Killian fighting a fever and definitely not out of danger, she wasn't leaving him tonight without a fight.

"Mom? What's going on?" Henry finally spoke up, having watched in silence from his spot by the window as his mother called for help. He wanted to pretend that this wasn't serious, but all he'd just seen transpire had been a bit alarming.

"I'm not entirely sure myself, Kid," Emma sighed. "Killian's running a fever that these machines didn't warn anyone about and it's probably from an infection, they just aren't sure yet. The nurse went to get him some medication to hopefully bring the fever down, but that's probably just the start…"

"But other than the cough, he seemed okay earlier?"

"He's still really sick. I had to remind myself of that too and remember that it could be a while before he's back to himself – although as you know, Killian being himself could prove to be a huge challenge to him getting better…" She dropped back into the chair, body and mind exhausted. "Just how much of all of that did you see and hear?"

"You mean did I see that huge cut across Killian's chest when the nurse pulled back the bandage?"

"Yeah, that's part of it…"

"It's okay, Mom. You know I've seen worse," the teen responded sincerely and Emma really couldn't argue with that. No 15 year old boy should have seen some of the horrors he'd experienced – fairytale or not. "Can I ask you a sorta weird question though?"

"Of course – anything," she assured him, although certainly not expecting the inquiry that followed.

"When the nurse had you pull back the covers, was there actually a plastic tube or something coming out from beneath the gown, between his legs…" Henry paused a moment, instantly blushing as he struggled for a way to phrase the rest of the question to his mother whose cheeks were already reddening with the realization of what he was trying to ask.

"Yes, there is," she cut him off without missing a beat to spare them both further embarrassment. "It's called a catheter. Since Killian can't really get up yet to go…" Now she was the one stammering for the right words, but he got the message.

"Ow..." Was her son's stunned response.

"Trust me, Kid – he's so full of pain killers right now, he doesn't even know it's there."

"Think they'll take it out now that he's awake?"

"Well…," she hesitated, unsure of how to answer. "I guess unless you want to help empty bedpans, they'll probably wait until he's strong enough to get up and out of bed on his own."

"What's a bed pan?" Henry wondered, not familiar with the term.

"Use your imagination…" Emma laughed, thoroughly thankful that her son's awkward question had lightened the mood considerably. It gave her a moment to take her mind off of the gravity of Killian's injuries while Henry sat deep in thought before suddenly reaching his own A HA moment.

"Oh! Eww… Gross! I've changed enough of Neal's diapers… I'm so not doing that!"

"Then don't you dare mention that catheter to your stepfather," she warned. "He freaked out enough over the breathing tube in his throat…"

"I'm not saying a word," Henry chuckled. "I don't want to be around for that…"

Emma shook her head, giving her son a weary smile as she heard a light rap from outside the doorway. She doubted that the nurse would knock when returning with Killian's medicine so what else could it be at this hour? She stood and took one wary step toward the door as it slowly swung open to reveal Deputy McCallen's timid face.

"Am I interrupting something?" the deputy asked shyly, looking quizzically at Emma's still slightly flushed face and the mischievous grin on Henry's lips.

"No, not at all," she replied with a snicker. "Come on in. We've just had a minor setback, but it's nothing we can't handle…" she explained as McCallen stepped through the doorway.

"You're in pretty good spirits for a setback," the deputy said, unaware of the conversation he'd narrowly missed walking in on. "I'm just reporting for my shift this evening and I was hoping that your husband might be up to looking at some photos of different boats so we can get a better description of the one his abductors used."

"The nurse gave him a pretty good pain killer a few hours ago and he's been out cold since. We were waiting for her to come back with something to help fight this fever when you arrived. I've got a feeling he won't be awake for a while."

"Well, I'll be here all night, Sheriff. I'll be right outside so just let me know when he's awake."

"You do realize that this protection duty still isn't necessary," she said with a hint of annoyance.

"Then you can call it professional courtesy, but either way, you'll have the company of the Cumberland County Sheriff's Department for a while." The deputy clearly wasn't backing down from his orders but Emma was far too fatigued to care. Tomorrow was another day though…

#cs ff #cs fanfic #cs fan fiction #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfiction #the right place

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robininthelabyrinth · 7 years

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Fic: Don't You Forget About Me (Ao3 Link) Fandom: DC's Legends of Tomorrow, Irish Mythology Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: After Len, nothing seems to be going right for Mick. He keeps going listlessly -

- at least until something cold as death starts crawling into his bed.

(In which Mick Rory braves the Sidhe to win back his True Love)

A/N: For @jq-piccadilly - happy birthday!! (also special mentions to @ice-whisper who inadvertently gave me the idea and @oneiriad, for who this fulfills another Coldwave Bingo Board entry)

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After Len died, everything sort of stopped, for Mick.

Oh, he kept going, kept fighting, kept up with the great and noble mission to which he had been consigned by destiny and by Len. The flesh of him kept right on going.

It was the spirit of him that came to a halt.

He stopped caring about the things that made him happy, before; stopped caring about the game, or food, or even fun; stopped caring all too much about being alive.

But he kept going and time, wicked time, starts healing even his most dire wounds.

Mick had a chair in his room - big, comfy, just the way he liked it. It was good that it was so comfy, because he slept there, now, forsaking the bed in his cabin.

The bed that had been his and his Lenny's both.

Not even Kronos had dragged on his soul like Len's death - a hundred years and a day disappearing like a wink in the salt of Len's tears, but no salt would save him from this loss. Nothing but time could help.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

He remembered with terrible clarity how it was, that bed, a touch too small for two grown men but comfortable regardless. Reminded them both of a prison bed, when they'd first seen it, and it had made them laugh.

They shared that bed, just like they'd shared all their beds. Mick always went to bed first, pointedly, because Len's brain whirled so fast and so hard it needed to see good behavior to model it, but he liked to stay awake, dozing, until Len crawled into bed with him, cold from the air outside the bed, and wrapped a chill arm around his chest.

Len liked to put his icy fingertips – terrible circulation, that man – under Mick’s shirt, to warm his hand on Mick’s heart. It was one of the things Mick loudly complained about but secretly enjoyed.

It’s one of those thing Len will do no more, because he’s dead.

Mick doesn't sleep in the bed.

Mick kept on with the Legends. They treated him badly, and he let them. He encouraged it, even, playing up his stupidity, his brutishness, his uselessness, wanting the emotional spikes of pain under his nails, under his skin. He would never harm himself physically - Len would turn over in his grave, if he had one - but he could torment himself in other ways.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

Time passed, and passed, and passed, until he was lighting a year's time candle for Len and watching a false version of the man disappear like the illusion he was.

"Do you think he sleeps uneasy, what with no grave?" someone asked at one point.

It may have been Mick, come to think about it.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

But in that year, time passed and time healed and even the worse wounds can become scars, and at any rate when Mick swore to Len's ghost that he'd care for the team that Len'd died for, he'd meant it, and he took such oaths seriously. Keeping the Legends intact was a trip and a half, and more work than he'd ever done before, and it just didn't stop.

The work he let himself be made to do, the abuse he'd once invited and now resented -

He was tired, damnit.

And one day, a day after he lit that blasted candle that he can still see gutted on the desk, a day he should’ve had for grieving but instead spent out fixing yet another stupid aberration, he's so tired he just staggers right into his room, eyes barely staying open, and he collapses in the bed where his feet and his friends - Ray, he thinks, though it could be Sara - help him, and he curls up in the bed, which is sweet and perfect.

If he'd fallen straight asleep and never repeated the act, well, he might've fared better.

He doesn't.

He has just enough time to realize he's in the bed, the bed and not the chair, and he yields to his exhaustion and doesn't rise up and leave.

Time heals all wounds, he thinks blearily, thinks sadly, thinks regretfully, and he closes his eyes and he sleeps.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to a footstep.

A single one, but even in his exhaustion, watchfulness is part of who he is, and so Mick is awake if still reluctant to move.

It's probably one of the Legends, looking for something and not bothering to knock.

Another footstep.

The blanket lifts behind him.

Mick expects to be roused with a shove.

He isn't.

A cold body crawls in with him, cold as ice, cold as - Len - and Mick shivers. He doesn't turn. He doesn't want to. It would ruin the illusion. The dream.

The nightmare.

A chill arm wraps around his body, and the hand finds his heart.

Mick knows that hand, knows that arm, knows that chill, and he would weep for the fact that he's clearly gone and lost it at last, but he doesn't want to disturb the dream.

He closes his eyes and dreams -

He dreams of blue.

The next morning, he's more tired than the night before, but he's upright, he's mobile. The Legends will have to make do with that.

"Wow, Mick, you look like shit," Sara says, eloquent as always.

Mick grunts and grabs the coffee. He has it Irish, of course. He's Irish.

"You do look positively haggard," Amaya says.

Mick grunts again and ignores them both.

He doesn't expect it to happen again.

It does.

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Mick Rory's ma was Irish even in a town filled with Irishmen. She was a proper mac something-or-other, some other child told Mick solemnly once; she might even be descended from a queen.

She certainly carried herself like one, marching through town with a straight spine and steel in her gaze, making pennies stretch for miles, raising her gaggle of children - six all together - with no family around to lend her aid, and not too shy to challenge even the big department stores when she felt she wasn't getting her money's worth. She was tough as dirt and just as practical.

Except, of course, when it came to the faeries.

The aos sí, the daoine sídhe, Tuatha de Danann, or whatever they were called.

Ma Rory's boys went around with salt in their pockets and iron nails, too. No one else did, but Mick's ma insisted.

And, to be fair, there were some moments where it seemed the rest of the town didn't disbelieve as big as all that.

See, Mick's ma was the seventh daughter, with six older girls that had nearly bankrupted her poor father, and Mick her sixth son, sons all in a row. There was talk in town, anticipation, when she got pregnant again.

"A seventh son of a seventh daughter; that's powerful magic," one of the children at school tells Mick. "A seer, a mage. A portent of great things."

He looks at Mick, then, all beady-eyed. "Not that you really matter," Mick is told. "No one ever pays attention to the mage's older brothers. Except where they fail first, of course - but that's usually in threes."

There are sighs of relief and disappointment when Mick's ma gives birth to a girl instead.

When Mick turned ten, his ma ordered his brothers away, sends her husband out with his baby sis, and brought him into the house.

"Michael," his ma says.

Mick blinks, indignant. "I didn't do nothing!"

For once, it's even true.

His ma sighs. "It's not about what you've done," she says. "It's about what I've done."

Mick frowns. That's not how the lectures usually go.

"Before I married your da, I got myself in trouble," she says bluntly.

Mick's eyebrows go up. He's always heard that nice girls ought to about that mysterious pre-marriage 'trouble' as much as they should. Of course, he never thought of his sharp-tongued, bull-headed ma as particularly nice...

"It were a boy, too," she says. "Sickly, he was, but he survived, and the nuns at the convent took him away. But he was mine. My first boy. After that, my parents took me around and I met your da, and I came here."

Mick nods. "So Jacky ain't the eldest." That'll show Jacky, who's always boasting about it and claiming it gave him special privileges.

"Jack is my second," she confirms. "And you, my baby boy, are the seventh, not the sixth."

Mick frowns. "But ain't a seventh son supposed to have the Sight?"

His ma chokes back an unhappy laugh. "My baby boy," she says, and it annoys Mick that that's the nickname she picked for him for all that it's technically true. "I wouldn't have told you about this, 'cept for the fact you need to know it. Weren't you telling me just last week about how you stopped your big brother from going to rescue the horse from that flooded river, all 'cause you saw it had gills?"

"I thought it were like in the comic books," Mick says. "Radioactive."

His mother shakes his head. "We call 'em kelpie. Horse-spirits that drag boys to their deaths. You saved your brother that day."

"I got sent to bed without dessert!"

"You did punch him in the face. And a year ago, do you remember the day you went up to the governor's house with your school? And you got lost and went to the kitchens and spent a few hours with the cook and the cobbler and the handyman, all of 'em complaining about how their wages been cut? And the governor got all pale when you mentioned it?"

Mick nods.

"They cater at the governor's house," she says gently. "They don't have a cook."

"But -"

"T’were the brownies, my boy."

"Is that why they liked my chocolate?" Mick had felt bad for them, their wages all cut, and he'd given them the chocolate bar in his pocket, all cut up in equal size portions, just enough for all of them if he didn't take one for himself. He'd regretted it - a chocolate bar of his own was a rare indulgence which he'd saved up two months' allowance for - but they'd been so happy he couldn't bear to keep it for himself.

"I think they liked the milk in the milk chocolate," his ma says. "But that's why I'm telling you now, you've got to be careful. You've got the Sight, just like everyone said, and people with the Sight get themselves in trouble."

"I get in trouble all the time."

"You just keep telling me if there's anything weird," she instructs. "Right off."

Mick sighs, but he's a good boy, and he obeys.

Well, he tries.

"We should take him to see a shrink," his da says, watching him guiltily clean up after another fire.

"Won't help," his ma says. "The fire comes from inside of him."

When Mick is ten, he starts getting into fights. He has broad shoulders that he'd grow into one day, but right now he's still skinny as a rake and his fists aren't strong enough to defend his temper.

The boys at school jump him after school, strip him bare, and pitch him into the local pond, hollering insults the whole time. Mick hollers them right back, but what's he to do? They ran off with his clothing, and he's got to get home before dark.

Mick grits his teeth against the slight. It won’t be too bad, getting home; it's getting cold as the summer draws to a close, but it’s not so cold as to hurt. He's embarrassed, sure, but embarrassment won't hurt him. Not on the outside, anyway, only in the soft gentle parts inside of him, and men weren’t supposed to have those anyway.

He's walking home, head held high because why not, when he sees the cat.

Big and black and beautiful, she is, with eyes as wild as stars, and she's got six little babies curled right up at her side, nursing, and a mate at her back, smaller, licking at her shoulder in homage.

She's near as big as a dog, she is, with a white stripe dead center on her chest.

One little runt is sitting not far from the others. It ain’t nursing or anything, but it looks fine.

Mick smiles a little at the cats. He likes cats.

Somehow, they notice him looking and all of a sudden the big cat starts to wail, and the little cats all wail, too, and the mate, too, all of them, all but the little runt who starts to cry, softly, instead.

Mick feels cold, all of a sudden, scared. "You stop that, right now, you hear me?" he snaps at them, and suddenly three more kittens run from the mama, what keeps a-wailing. The little kittens scatter off, sticking together, but they don’t go anywhere near the runt.

The fear is still there. He runs the rest of the way home, pride be damned.

"Mickey, my darling, what's happened? Where are your clothes, and why are you so scared?" his ma asks.

He tells her everything, and his ma goes pale as a ghost.

"What was it, ma?" he asks.

"The Cat," she says. "Oh, that ain't no good, no good at all."

She gnawed at her lip. "Only one runt, all alone," she says. "Crying where the others are wailing."

"Until I said something," Mick corrects her. "Then there were four."

"And I'm glad you said something. The Cat Sidhe is a collector of souls. Did the kittens run together?"

"No, the runt was still alone."

"And so alone you will be, my baby boy, but you have saved all their lives."

His ma sends away his baby sister to her parents, his brothers whoever she could. The oldest ones laugh at her fears and refuse to leave so close to the harvest, but the youngest she can insist upon better. In the end, she sends away two boys and the girl.

That's why they don't die in the fire.

Mick hates his Sight for not letting him save more.

He ain't all too fond of cats after that, neither.

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Mick always did wonder why he'd started seeing Len those days before the false version came to him. It wasn't grief, like Stein claimed; he'd never seen visions in his grief before. It wasn't what was in his head, courtesy of the thrice-damned time-stealers, the fickle monarchs in their palace three steps removed from the regular flow of time.

In Ireland they spoke of people who'd gone sideways into the hills, and how they never returned the same.

Mick's not impressed. He went sideways, as sideways as you get, and they tried their absolute hardest to make him forget who he was so that he'd stay with them forever - but he rejected them.

Oh, Mick swore himself to them, he played the role of the Knight, but when a hundred years and one had passed, his Tam-Lin Len had grasped his soul tight, grasped him hard through rage and pain and hate, had offered up his life and so won Mick's freedom.

And the time-stealers had no hold on Mick anymore.

He's not the same, no, but he's not as different as all that.

He's still himself.

"The story's supposed to end with a wedding," he tells himself, a year of death come and gone. The ring of platinum - spell-cursed silver that it was - was warm beneath his clothing. "The story's supposed to end with a wedding after the rescue. Not a funeral. Even I know that much."

No one responds, of course.

But every goddamn night Mick goes to sleep in that bed, and every goddamn night something crawls in beside him and curls that cold chill arm around him.

"You look sick," Jax says. "Have you gotten checked out by Gideon?"

Mick rolls his eyes, but Jax is not so easily deterred.

In the end, Mick admits that he has - sure, it was only because Sara insisted at knife-point, certain that that zombie disease was coming back or something, but it isn't his fault his eyes have bags under them large enough to steal something in, or that his skin's gone grey with exhaustion.

He sleeps every night in his bed.

Every night.

"You should go again," Jax says.

Mick goes again.

Gideon returns a clean bill of health - but for the exhaustion, which she cannot explain, and the fact that everyone around him can see that Mick's dying.

They make him sleep in the med bay that night.

Mick doesn't want to. He can't sleep anymore, not without that arm curled around him - him, who used to sleep anywhere and anytime! He can't even nap anymore.

Not without Lenny.

Oh, it's not Len, Mick knows it can't be Len. He held the hope of Len's resurrection in his hands and he let it go, and he put that illusion back on the road to perdition where it belonged, because he couldn’t let a Len live that lived under that type of brainwashing.

He didn't tell any of them that he knew that the mind-wipe would fix the brainwashing, where nothing else would. He didn't see why it mattered.

He didn't want to sleep anywhere but the bed.

Their bed.

The Legends made him. "Your skin is grey," they said, "your eyes are red, you look as though you're a corpse risen up."

"If only, if only," Mick says.

They looked uncomfortable. "Corpses can't rise up," Stein tells him, using different words, fancy words, but the meaning is clear enough. "You know that best of all."

It's a lie, of course. Many a corpse has stood once more - monsters, the lot of them, but standing tall and proud. Mick’s ma told him all about those, and she told them their names: the red cap, the washer-woman, the screaming in the dark.

The Legends make Mick sleep in the med bay.

But joy of joys, that night he feels the chill hands on his shoulders, spreading down the blanket, crawling in, wrapping the arm around him.

Putting a hand on his heart.

Mick smiles and sleeps.

The next morning he looks even more wretched than usual.

Gideon has nothing.

No explanation, no cure, nothing.

Mick wouldn't take it if they did.

The Legends give up and let him go back to his room.

Mick sleeps in his own bed.

And smiles at the cold.

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"Mick."

Mick grumbles. He's tired, damnit. Let a man sleep.

Sure, it's all he does these days, but really, people should accept that.

"Mick."

Mick has thirty years of training to drop everything and respond to that insistent nasal whine.

He sighs and opens his eyes.

Len is perched on his goddamn chest, straddling him, peering down at him.

"Y'weigh a fucking ton," Mick tells him, slurring with sleep. "Gerroff."

"Can't," Len says, not without regret. "You're almost dead, you know."

Mick murmurs agreement. He'd accepted that already, hadn't he? Why is Len kicking up a fuss about it now?

Wait, since when have his hallucinations started to talk again?

"I'm not a hallucination," Len grumbles. "I wasn't then, either; I stole a mirror to talk to you, all those times."

Seems like a Len thing to do.

Len prods at him. "Mick."

That one means 'Pay attention to me'. Mick is very familiar with that variant of his name.

He forces himself more and more awake, or as much as he can, nowadays. "What issit?"

"You're almost dead," Len repeats, as if that's important. "I want you to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop being almost dead, of course," Len says snippily.

"Can't," Mick says, because it's true. The Legends have tried - fancy future doctors, changing locations, even took him to see John Constantine, who had taken Mick aside in private and told him "if you want to die, it's easier to blow out your brains, you know", which hadn't been all that helpful and so Mick had declined his offer of an exorcism.

"Exorcism wouldn't have helped anyway," Len says. "I'm not a ghost."

Mick's not too tired to pull up his cheeks in a bit of a smirk. "Not a hallucination or a ghost. What are you, then?"

Len blinks down at him, inhumanly blue eyes luminous. "I'm a hag."

A what?

Mick wakes the rest of the way up, all at once, and he stares up at Len. Len, who doesn't look like any of his neat hallucinations, like his brainwashed former self, nothing.

Len, with glowing blue eyes with pupils shaped like stars, with teeth that are long and filed to a sharp point, whose skin is grey like a corpse but for the black shine of his long and deadly claws, his beautiful fingers curving into terrible talons, his clothing dirty rags that fall off his frame.

Dirty, but familiar. He'd been wearing that outfit when he'd gone to the Oculus, over a year and a day before.

It had been exactly a year and a day, in fact, when the dreams had begun.

"Bean sidhe," Mick gasps.

"That's a woman," Len sniffs. "I'm still male. Well, non-binary with a preference for masculine pronouns, whatever. Not like the Underhill cares."

"You've been?"

"The Time Masters were something of a renegade bunch," Len says, baring his sharpened teeth. "Changelings all, you know; they trapped a Queen in a labyrinth so she could fashion them more of the same. We met her, remember? In that orphanage, where we put our past selves within her grasp."

Stolen children from all the ages - of course.

Of course the bastards were changelings. Human-born but raised beneath the Hill, who aped mastery of magics they could never hope to truly control. Jealous, bitter creatures; they helped steal more of their kind to spread the misery further, hoping it would be lessened and failing to understand why it didn't help. All they ever wanted was for someone ranked lower than themselves to step on.

Somehow Mick's unsurprised that they ended up forming a bureaucracy.

"And you?"

"They went too far," Len says. "A Queen more or less - well. There are Queens in every nook and cranny, you know; male and female, strong and weak. You get enough followers willing to call you a Queen and a bit of land, that's good enough. But they weren't satisfied with that. They wanted the power to raid and rule the Hill itself."

Mick knows enough of his folklore. "They wanted the power of the High King."

Len grins. "They wanted his throne. I don't think they entirely understand the concept of an elected monarchy, but in fairness, Oberon ruled a thousand years in his time. They might've gotten confused."

"What happened?"

"I unbound the wellspring they'd created. A cat jumped across my corpse and snatched my soul - same cat as what tried to warn you before, as it happens - and the King built me a new body of straw and silver. It's silver what runs through my veins now, Mick, not iron. That dream that the changelings all wanted, and he gave it to me - to spite them, I think."

Mick swallows. "And you're - what are you?"

"I'm a hag," Len says. "The mara, the banshee, the night-mare - whatever you want to call me."

A night-hag, bearer of nightmares, who rides you in your sleep and drains your soul - and indeed, Len is perched upon his chest, a crushing, draining weight, and Mick may have been talking but his arms lie paralyzed by his sides.

"I haven't had nightmares," Mick says, his only protest.

Len looks at him like he's lost his mind. "Of course not," he says. "You're my partner. I took the nightmares, and gave you dreams of peace."

That was always the way of Len: throwing himself in front of the bullet he himself fired at you.

As fickle as Fae, Mick had thought before, amused.

Not so amusing now.

"Why can I see you now?" Mick asks. "When I couldn't before?"

"I have the strength, now," Len says. "I've drained you near to death."

Mick nods. That makes sense.

"If you weren't who you were," Len continues, "it might still have not been enough. You shut your eyes to the Sight long ago - but the Sight doesn't forget you."

"What's the purpose of this visit?" Mick asks, because Sight or no Sight, he knows his partner.

Len's waiting for him to ask.

Len gives a sigh of contentment, tension relaxing; he must have needed Mick to ask the question. Probably one of the strange laws of the Sidhe that Mick doesn’t know about.

"I'm a hag and shall remain so till the tides come no more," Len says, wrinkling his nose at his own poeticism - undoubtedly words of ritual, based on his expression. "But a hag is not a lord, and may be bound into service - and taken from the Hill."

"Taken," Mick says, his heart leaping in his mouth.

"You're no singer, and your violin playing would scare away dead souls," Len says dryly. "But you're the seventh son of a seventh daughter, and though it has been hidden from sight and memory, there have been six such generations born before you. If you die now, there will never be a seventh, and magic throughout the land will be the weaker."

Mick frowns. "I don't have -"

Len makes a face that says he's trying not to laugh. "Did you really never think about the consequences of sperm donation, with your family line?"

Oops.

"Six daughters you have sired - their families are very grateful, just so you know, the kids are great, all very happy, and those with mental illness are getting it seen to properly - but you will never sire a seventh if you die now."

Mick raises his eyebrows. "You asking if I'll trade my kid for you?"

"Like I would ever agree to suggest that," Len replies, rolling his eyes. "No - we give you a chance to win me back, if you promise that, if you are successful, you'll go about having that seventh kid. What you do with her beyond that is all on you. Free will, you know, that sort of thing. Magic loves it."

"And I'll have you."

Len smiles, and his teeth are sharp and pointed and shine in the light. "If you still want me."

Like that's a choice Mick has to think hard about.

But Mick's ma was Irish, in a land filled with Irishmen, and she didn't raise a fool.

"I think," Mick says, "that I'd like a written contract, if you will. And I'd like my lawyer to look at it first."

Len throws back his head and laughs.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mick knows the stories, well and good. He’s no singer to charm the Lords of the Sidhe to give back what he’d lost, and – as Len so succinctly put it – his violin skills would scare off spirits of the dead, and not in a good way. But he’s the seventh son of a seventh daughter, and his mother a seventh daughter of a seventh son, and so on and so forth, hidden from Sight by magic and from memory by lies, and his child will be a marvel should she ever be born.

Marvels can also be terrors, of course.

No wonder John Constantine offered him the path of the bullet.

Mick sleeps three days and three nights in his bed, overriding Gideon to lock his door, and each night at the stroke of midnight, Len comes to him. The second night, Len brings a negotiator, a woman so pretty that it hurts Mick’s eyes even to look at her; but Mick’s heart belongs firmly in Len’s pocket and he declines her overtures in favor of negotiating long and hard into the night. When they finally reach an accord, she offers him a hand to shake, grudgingly impressed, and Mick refuses: Len came once to make the offer, twice for the negotiations, and so the bargain would be sealed on the third night, not the second.

She's even more impressed with that.

That night Mick writes down all he can remember of their agreements and made Gideon send it to Lisa with strict orders to get it back to him before nightfall. It’s all he can manage before his bed drags him back into the arms of sleep.

He wakes up, once, to Gideon telling him that he has a reply. Lisa took his contract to all the lawyers they knew, and the sharpest minds out of the lot pointed out a few clauses that Mick might want to be wary of – after all, the Underhill does so love its tricks, and giving a man his every wish while denying him his hearts’ desire is their favorite.

Mick considers the matter, and slips back into sleep.

Midnight comes again, and with it Len and his negotiator, who today was a hideous crone wearing a cloak of crows’ feathers and yet was the same as yesterday – Mick suspects that if she had come with Len the first night, she would have been a child – and Mick lays out his requirements.

“A what?” the negotiator says blankly.

Len howls with laughter.

“A best efforts clause,” Mick repeats. “Means you gotta try your hardest to make it live up to the spirit instead of the letter.”

“We don’t agree to those!”

Mick shrugs. “I was willing to let the hag –” He doesn’t use Len’s name; he’s not so stupid. “– sit on me for months and months before agreeing to hear you out. You want this, bad as I do; I figure we ought to meet all equitable.”

Her eyes glow like the moon. “And if we refuse, and claim you for our own without relief for your insolence?”

Mick smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “I’ve spent a hundred years and one beneath the Hill,” he says. “Kronos, they called me, 'cause they could not break my true name; a hundred years and one as a Knight before my true love held me fast and pulled me out. You cannot claim me – you’ve already tried that, and failed. You want my magic to reach its fulfillment?” He points at the contract. “Then sign.”

“Or else?”

“Or else I go tell all the bards I know that the Lords of the Sidhe no longer keep true to their deals - and are cowards, too.”

The negotiator laughs, a wretched thing, long and lolling and gruesome, but she plucks a crow’s feather from her cloak and she signs the contract with her own blood. Then – much to his surprise – she offers him the same feather.

“Didn’t know we were on such close terms,” he says, accepting it. You don’t turn down a gift kindly-meant from the aos sí.

“Any man, seventh son or no, would can out-stubborn the Morrigan deserves blood-brothership,” she replies gleefully, and really, if Mick had realized he was negotiating with the goddamn goddess of war maybe he wouldn’t have been quite so rude, but he’s not going to say no.

He cuts his hand – a prick at the base of the thumb, which has no impact on mobility, rather than on his fingers, which he actually uses – and signs his own name besides hers.

“Well done,” the Morrigan says. “I wish you the best of luck in the battles ahead.”

Mick inclines his head in thanks.

And so they go –

- and so he awakens.

He gets up, dresses, and walks to the bridge.

The Legends all gawk at him: standing tall, hearty and hale and flushed red with the blood of a goddess.

“I need to borrow the ship,” Mick tells them. It’s not a request. “Strap in.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Mick goes first to visit John Constantine.

“You freed yourself from a haunting,” Constantine observes. “That’s rare.”

“I need a map to the Underhill,” Mick replies.

“Oh hell no.”

Mick shrugs. “I’ve got seven days and one to make it to the meeting place. Want to see my contract?”

“You contracted with the buggers? You’re right fucked, you are,” Constantine says, but he takes the contract.

After he reads it, he squints at Mick. “You’re a seventh of a seventh and you never thought to mention it?”

“A what?” Jax asks.

“Seventh of a seventh of a seventh,” Mick confirms, ignoring him. “Six times over.”

“And I suppose you’ve got seven of your own?”

Mick smirks. “Six, apparently.”

Constantine groans. “Now I see what you have to trade that they’d want.”

“Is someone going to explain this to the rest of us?” Sara asks.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” John asks, following Mick’s lead and ignoring her. “Even though you get to keep the kid, the Gentlemen are going to have a vested interest.”

Mick shrugs. “I’m on my way to rescue my True Love who has been transformed into a night hag.”

“…I take your point.”

“Wait,” Ray says. “Mick’s fallen in love? When?”

Mick isn’t even going to engage with that.

Constantine gets him the map.

“Really?” Mick says dubiously. “A strip mall?”

“Don’t doubt the value of liminal spaces,” Constantine says. “Also, have you seen those places at night? Even I think they’re creepy.”

Mick shrugs. “I’d say thank you,” he says, “but I don’t do that.”

“Because you have no manners?” Stein suggested.

“Wise man,” Constantine says. “You keep up with that, especially if you're playing games with the Fair Folk. And if I ever need something that requires a drop of blood from a seventh of a seventh, I’ll call you. You have no idea how many useful things call for that.”

“I have some,” Mick – who had totally been kidnapped a few times by foster parents with an eye towards genealogical records, albeit ones who hadn’t read the fine print of ‘disturbed juvenile arsonist’ and had no idea what they were getting into – replies. “Guess I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re going nowhere without my agreement,” Sara puts in. “How’d you even get Gideon to bring us here, anyway?”

“He’s a seventh,” Constantine says, stressing the syllables. “And you’re in a time ship.”

The Legends all blink at him.

“Think adoring puppy dog and someone who smells of bacon.”

Any technology sufficiently advanced will be mistaken for magic, Mick thinks, amused; looks like the other way is true as well.

Time ships always did answer to him particularly easy when he was Kronos, a matter of some great frustration to some of the other bounty hunters...

Map in hand, ignoring the Legends' protests, Mick goes on the next leg of his trip.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

This place had no name, no place, no time - by those that knew it, it was the Floating Market, but ask any of them what that was and they'd deny they'd ever heard of such a thing.

Indeed, many said it was impossible to describe, even if you were willing to spill its secrets.

Mick thought of it as a time traveler's Mos Eisley.

The greatest collection of thieves and vagabonds in the timeline.

Today, it was in Rome.

Mick doesn't actually pay much attention to where and when - no togas and no t-shirts, so somewhere in the 1000s - because it didn't matter, not really. You don't find the Market by looking for it, you find it with a dowsing rod reserved especially for the purpose.

Mick's never needed one.

"The Floating Market is one of the places that even Captain Hunter feared to go," Gideon tells him.

"Probably because Time Masters aren't treated like gods there," Mick says.

More like pests to be stomped out, actually; their arrogant and high-handed ways had no place in the Market. The Time Masters' bounty hunters, on the other hand, were welcomed as fellow-travelers.

Mick likes the Market.

"I wouldn't go, if I were you," he tells Sara. "They'll peg you for the League in a minute and black-ball you."

She frowns. "They know the League?"

"The League picked a fight with the Market once. I'm pretty sure the League calls that period of time the Great Disaster."

Sara's frown deepens. She recognizes the name. "Why are you going there now?"

"I need to see a man about a cat," Mick replies.

His favorite of the Market's watering holes, of which there were an infinity, is still there. Mick's sure that for some of his fellow travelers, he only stepped out for a minute; such is the way of things.

Underhill's not the only place that knows how to play with time.

He heads in with Jax at one side and Sara - who never listens - on the other. The others were guarding the ship: they'd already gotten six offers to purchase it, and two attempts to steal it.

"Good to see ya, Kronos," one of his old drinking buddies calls out. He's big and tall, wearing black leather pants and a matching vest. His shaggy black hair is as wild as his smile. "The Main Man missed having a challenge."

Mick can't help a smile.

"Lobo," he says. "Just who I wanted to see."

"How can I help ya?"

"I'm looking for Cat Anna," Mick tells him. "I need to know how to care for a hag, once you've got one to care for."

Lobo belches from his beer and roars in laughter. "Cat Anna! Care for a hag! You'd better not be getting romantic on me, Kronos - and even if you were, Jenny Greenteeth or Canrig Bwt is far more, heh, feisty."

"Canrig Bwt eats brains, Lobo," Mick reminds him.

"So? Who needs 'em?"

Mick grins. He likes Lobo. "You got me a lead on Cat Anna?"

"Oh, sure. And you're in luck, too - she's just about to make the switch to Black Annis. Look for her by the witches' feet."

Mick nods acknowledgment. "Good hunting, Lobo."

"And you!"

Mick drags a gaping Jax and Sara out of there. He's not sure what the big deal is.

Kali always has that many skulls tied onto her belt.

The witches' feet is another part of the Market, best identified by the bunches of chicken's feet at every stall, done the same way hookers hang red lanterns.

Finding Cat Anna is easy enough. Not many black cats are being given the royal treatment.

"I wanna talk to you," Mick says to her, ignoring the way Sara seems to be doubting his sanity and how Jax appears be considering purchasing some newts' eyes for some godforsaken reason.

Cat Anna stretches, long and lithe, and in a blink of an eye she becomes Black Annis, the one-eyed, long-haired, sharp-toothed hag of the hills.

"You've been ridden hard," she rasps. "But gentle. That's not like a hag."

"I'm seeking my true love," Mick tells her.

She snorts. "You and the rest of humanity."

"He's the hag."

"Now that's interesting! Human-born, I take it?”

Mick inclines his head.

“Well done, well done. And what need you with Black Annis, then?" she bares her teeth. "Lest you've got some children you don't need."

"He ain't for sale," Mick says, swatting her reaching hand from Jax. "I need to know how to care for one. What'll you charge me? And you can get your own kids."

She snorts. "Oh, hell, I ain't gonna charge you, not for bringing another hag into the world - assuming you manage it. Tell you what, m'boy - you wrestle your hag out of the sidhe and you'll have all you need to know, and all I'll ask is to spread his name."

She looks at him expectantly.

"Captain Cold, they call him," Mick tells her.

She cackles. "Oh, that's a fine one! We ain't never had a Captain before."

She shoves her wrinkly hand at him and Mick kissed it in thanks. He feels the knowledge settle into his mind where it ought to be, locked away until he's fulfilled the conditions on his side.

Getting the Legends out of the Market before they spend every penny they have and some they don't is yet another battle.

And with that done, their eyes still dazed, he goes to claim himself a hag.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The stories don't differ.

Oh, some are charmers, some are singers, some are poets, but in the end the job's the same.

You want to take something out of the sidhe, you'd better grab it tight and hold it to your heart, no matter how it burns you.

Lucky for Mick, he has plenty of experience with things that burn.

The Legends follow in his wake, silent and unjudging, less as support than as witnesses.

He’s warned them not to eat or drink and not to say their names to anyone, but to accept any gift they are given. He hopes that they’re wise enough to listen, but his focus has to be on his challenge.

The strip mall at night becomes a Queen's Court - one more in the style of Mab than Titania, if Mick had to guess. The bean sidhe coo when they see Mick and a familiar cat the size of a dog - all black but for the stripe of white at her heart - brushes by his feet, all approving.

Len's his prize and his challenge both, and he stands at the center of the .

"Welcome, Kronos," the Queen says. "Seventh son of a seventh daughter, Hunter of the Timeline and Rover of the Waves, Knight of the Summer’s Shadow, Victor of the Battle of Bet-Adon, Trieste, and Atlantis-Ouest, Master of The Leviathan, Destroyer of the Renegade Court –” By which Mick assumes they mean the Time Masters. Nice to know that that’s been added to his list of titles. “– and guest at our court.”

“Don’t forget Heatwave,” Mick reminds her.

The Queen inclines her head gravely. The Lords love etiquette more than anything else; the best way to get the upper hand is to point out a flaw in their approach. This must be a young Queen indeed.

“Heatwave, Supervillain, Member of the Rogues, Enemy of the Flash, Commander of Absolute Heat,” she recited. “I did not forget; I was unsure if you had reclaimed those titles.”

“I have,” Mick replies, just as solemnly.

Though not without worry. The stupid “Rogues” idea Len had actually comes to fruition?

Ugh.

Mick would say he’s having second thoughts about winning this contest, but he can’t even joke about that; the wound is still too fresh.

Len grins as though he knows what Mick’s thinking, because he’s a dick. He’s totally going to take advantage of this to make Mick join his stupid Rogues.

But on the other hand: he’ll be around to do that.

Mick will take it.

“You will face three trials,” the Queen says. “To rescue a soul from the Sidhe requires love and hope and faith. We will try all three.”

Mick nods, unsurprised.

She waves her hand, and suddenly there’s a dozen Lens standing there, all the same.

“Tell us which of these is your true love,” she demands. “For love will know love, even in disguise.”

Mick gnaws on his lower lip, staring at them. “Might I test them, your Majesty?”

“You may,” she replies haughtily. “Ask your questions.”

Questions? Mick doesn’t need questions. Besides, changelings-constructs have the same memories as the original. Questions won’t help, as the Queen well knows.

No, love needs a different test.

Mick pulls out a hammer.

The collected Court withdraws from the stench of iron, which causes them pain even at a distance.

Mick steps forward, puts his hand on a nearby surface – a squat barrel which he suspects spends its daylight hours as a garbage can – and spreads his fingers wide. He lifts the hammer up high.

“What are you doing?” the Queen asks.

“My love gave up his hand for me,” Mick says. “Seems fair.”

He brings the hammer down, as hard as he can.

The iron never touches his flesh, caught instead by one of the Lens darting forward, his face flushed with rage. He ignores how his own hands sizzle at the touch of iron, too focused on Mick, too focused on yelling, “What the fuck are you doing?! You don’t need to smash your own hand, you - you - you asshole! We already had it out about the hand! What the fuck?!”

“This one,” Mick says to the Queen dryly.

“Well played,” she responds, equally dry. A wave of the hand vanishes the remainder.

Mick pries the hammer out of Len’s hands before they burn any more. “I’m not going to smash my hand,” he assures his partner.

“You’d better not!”

“The next of your tests is this,” the Queen says, and she waves her hand. A table appears, with a wooden cup filled to the brim.

Len’s eyes go wide. “What? No!”

“Drink of the forgetting water,” the Queen says. “It washes away all care, and with all care all memory.”

Mick raises his eyebrows skeptically. “So I’m supposed to drink away all my memories?”

“All your cares,” she corrects. “If your love is true, then have no fear: you will remember him. But if not, you will leave without him and without the memory of him; and ne’er will you meet again.”

“Damnit, he’s already been brainwashed enough!” Len snaps. “And he hates it, too; that’s a terrible test.”

The Queen frowns thoughtfully. “If he will not trust to his own love, he cannot pass the test. And yet I have some sympathy to your plight: it is indeed an old wound. Very well: swear to me your services for three tasks of my will, and he may forgo the drink.”

Mick reaches out and takes the cup.

“Mick!”

“The test is for both of us,” Mick tells him. “And you know it.”

Len falters, just long enough for his brain to start to work – logic overcoming concern, his cold heart overcoming the heat of his emotions.

“I see,” he says. “She can’t bind a hag to her will without their oath, and I ain’t giving her no oath – not for anything but this.”

“She’d trade it and then laugh at us for failing her test,” Mick agrees. “You’ve got to trust me that I can do this, and I’ve got to trust in myself. That’s what hope is.”

“Then go ahead,” Len says. He looks like he’s regretting it.

Before Len can say another word more, Mick lifts the cup to his lips and drains it.

It is –

A blaze of flame surrounds him but does not burn him, soothing his innermost pain, the oldest of all his friends. It welcomes him, calls him to rest, a peaceful slumber.

It wipes away all cares: the old hurt of his parents’ loss, the newer stings of the Legends’ cruelties, even his disagreements with Len over all those years.

But Len is more than just a care, more than just a worry, more than just a disagreement.

He's everything.

Mick opens his eyes. “You ought to market that as an antidepressant,” he observes. “What’s the third test?”

Len punches him in the shoulder, smiling. “They’re still looking to get FDA approval,” he jokes.

“Well done,” the Queen says, ignoring their levity. “Your hope and love is true. And now there is only the test of faith.”

She says no more.

That’s fine.

Mick knows what to do.

He reaches for Len and he takes him into his arms and he holds on.

Holds on through leopards and foxes and spitting cats, through flames and blistering cold, through hurricanes, holds on as his hands hurt and his gut feels like it’s been ripped out, holds on, holds on, holds on –

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is anyone going to explain what just happened?” Sara asks, a little plaintively.

They’re back on the Waverider.

Len is by Mick's side, where he belongs.

He has on that wretched blue parka that Mick would've sworn was lost on some time-traveling jaunt - and indeed that might be so, because this parka gleams subtly in Mick's sight like maybe it wasn't made of fabric from this plane. Also like maybe it could hold off a bomb.

Mick reluctantly approves. He’s in favor of Len being bomb-resistant.

Len also has a bag that seems to contain more things than it really ought. He says he won it off - someone.

He refuses to give more details than that.

His smile is still too sharp, his pupils still star-shaped, but his eyes have returned to their original shade and his talons have reshaped into familiar fingers and at any rate judging from the way none of the other Legends have commented, Mick is pretty sure that he's the only one who can see Captain Cold in his full, newly-inhuman glory.

Mick is -

Mick is content.

No.

Mick is happy.

He's also getting a shit ton of information on the care and feeding of night hags - 'mara' is apparently the preferred name for the singular, Len was just being a dick - so he's not really in the mood to answer the question.

"I'm back," Len says in belated response, when it becomes obvious that Mick has no intention of answering. "Obviously."

"And it's the you we knew?" Jax asks cautiously.

"Mr. Blow-Yourself-Up, in the flesh," Len confirms.

"Oh," Jax says. "Uh. Good to see you again?"

As if that's the switch, the rest of the Legends start crowding around with greetings and smiles and introductions to Nate and Amaya, stories and comradery and all that. Several of them step around Mick to do so.

"I'm a little tired," Len says pleasantly. "As I'm sure Mick is. Perhaps later?"

Human or not, Len's charisma is a force of nature.

They are left alone.

"You're back," Mick says, finally letting himself believe - really believe - that it's true.

Len smiles, his secret, honest, hidden smile, that only Mick and Lisa get to see. "You saved me."

Mick snorts. "You saved yourself, with my assistance."

"Maybe," Len concedes.

"You have plans already, I take it?" Mick asks. He knows that look in Len's eyes.

It's so familiar, so wonderfully familiar, that his chest hurts.

"Oh, yes," Len says. "Many - the Rogues, of course, and finding you just the right woman to bear our child -"

Because of course it's their child.

Mick objects not at all.

"- and maybe having a bit of a snack off our dear friends the Legends, who seem to have grown disrespectful of you in my absence," Len continues. "But that's for later. For now I have other plans."

"I'm all yours," Mick says.

Dangerous words, to say to one reborn among the Sidhe.

Mick finds he can mean it no less. Everything he is, the flaws, the virtues, all the powers he was born to, the full sum of him - it's all nothing without Len.

Len's eyes glitter with pleasure and he takes Mick's hand, and he leads him to the bed.

The bed where they slept together when Len was still a man, the bed that Mick avoided so much that year they were apart, the bed where Mick gave himself, body and soul, to the hungry nightmare Len has become.

Mick smiles and climbs into the bed.

Behind him, a cold body climbs in.

A chill arm wraps around his body.

A hand rests upon Mick's heart.

"Sleep," Len whispers in Mick's ear. "I'll watch over your dreams."

Mick closes his eyes.

And sleeps.

#dccoldwave #my fic #mick rory #leonard snart #lobo #john constantine #coldwave creature au extravaganza

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xottzot · 7 years

Text

2017-6()-02--Friday--Max is no longer eating and he will die.

Max is no longer eating his dry dog food at all. He will starve and die. So be it.

It seems that from her absolute silence and total non-communication to me since late 2015, that I have been deemed by Fliss to be unworthy to live, and she has deemed the same of innocent poor dear Sam & Max. The dogs she claims to others she loves. Claims made especially to the hapless fools who believe every lie and false word she and her suporters have uttered and talked about at length via social media but have not allowed me to speak or say ANYTHING at all in my defense to them. She has NOT been telling the truth about ANYTHING as I have been trying to tell the world and anyone who bothers to read what I say.

But for all that I still love Dear fliss and want to be with her. - It seems to me that she was given a terrible ultimatum by her parents (who know of dear Fliss's terrible mental and physical conditions but refuse to speak about any of it to the world or admit the severity), and because of that ultimatim of choice, she has chosen to lie and live lies in order to be reunited with her family which Fliss herself estranged herself from, (and which I was always trying to get her to amicable reunite with!), so now Fliss has been more than welcomed back into the fold of her family and is lying & playing up a role as a 'victim' and on "Facebok", until her accunt recently suddenly vanished. Her online 'friends' suposedly suport he in ANYTHIG she states, even the terrible damned lies, at least on the surface that they publicly show, or privately. - And I have been condemned to die JUST as dear Fliss and I were reconciling in late 2015 and were going to be together again and happy. Dear Fliss has wholeheartedly gone along with that. And the entire world believes all the fucking damn lies and not the truth that I have always been stating!

(on top of all this, to add to my hell, is the incredible rampant rise and actions of crime in this hellhole.)

Masses of lies were produced on Facebook on Fliss's account. And people and far flung online acquaintances of Fliss (most if not all who have never even met ME!), derided me, threatened me in words, and were inflamed enough for one to contact me by telphone and lead me into telling him EVERYTHING, truthfully...and then for no reason whatsoever, (or at a pre-organised signal), he suddenly turned upon me and ordered me to commit suicide. That was the period when I had a breakdown. He caused that.

I am fucking sick of trying to explain everything to idiots who have no comprehension of anything and will NOT listen to what I'm trying to say or believe anything I say despite it being the absolute truth, so help me God. -- FUCK 'EM.

And poor dear Sam and dear Max have been suffering incredibly so.

I can NOT feed Max now. He just bends over his dog bowl, DOES NOT eat from it, and constantly GROWLS and is ready to attack me at a moments notice. That ALL he does. He does NOT eat. He just GROWLS and snarls for no reason.

Sam is still eating his own dry food at too-rapid rate of about 8-times Sams normal eating rate, and he constantly chokes when eating, throws up mouthfuls of what he's just eaten of the dry dog food into his food bowl, eats it all and continues. - Again, I have tried EVERYTHING to stop that behaviour andor change it and have failed.

I have been trying since September/October 2015 (when dear Fliss abandoned us and threw us into HELL), I have tried to get them to eat properly but they totally are off the rails and will not repond to ANY technique or procedure. They barely respond to ANY spoken commands. Sam still does but dear Max is very wont to just growl and get savage and winds himself up so he then attacks me. Sam attacks Max, and Max gets worse and tries to tear me apart! This has occurred MANY times now and is liable to happen at any moment or any day or night.

BOTH dear Sam and dear Max have been like this and worsening since late 2016 when Fliss went off the rails and abandoned us, then communicated with me to join her in N.S.W. of Australia in a new better life with her, but then she suddenly and inexplicably totally went off the rails and was then berating me to the world on the internet, then suddenly disappeared off the internet entirely.

After I am dead, dear Fliss is going to have a hell of a legal battle on her hands. I have long ago amicably left dear Fliss everything in my legal WILL because we were together and living life. (I have very very little or anything.) - I have NOT changed that WILL. But there is another single sole person that is related to me by birth, (Fliss knows the person as the Imbecile), and it is the Imbecile who might very well challenge dear Fliss over my legal WILL which is NOT much at all, but which includes Fliss's very OWN posessions (or GREAT personal value to her and me), which are here that she totally abandoned and left here in 2015 and which I have kept safely stored.

So when I am dead Fliss, Imbecile will OWN EVERYTHING OF YOURS HERE. And i aleady know what he will do, he will just load it all up into his damned smashed ute and dump it all into the nearest rubbish tip without a moments thought. He will probably be laughing andor cursing you and me as he does it.

But back to dear Max.......anytime I have tried to get Max to eat any of his own food, he simply REFUSES to eat and just stands over his bowl and growls at me ready to attack me without warning. -- FUCK THAT.

I already have MANY terrible permanent scars (some STILL healing) from past VERY VICIOUS attacks by dear Max the past couple of years that I will still have upon my body when I am discovered dead. - I was NOT to blame for any of the attacks. Dear Max himself is so very terribly deep in despair and he is not to blame.

But I'm sick of being attacked by Max simply for trying to feed him his daily dog food.

I'm so sick of being ignored by dear Fliss and all 'our' friends such as dear Cath, and dear Judith and Cecy. They all believe the lies. And because more of them believe it, the more of them are there to shout anyone down who would ever dare to challenge what they are stating. And so bullshit and lies trumps truth.

Growls and being vicious and terrible dog attacks trumps dear Max's life.

And having Max die andor vanish will cause Sam to die.

And dear Fliss who said to me in late 2015, as we were reconciling, "Live for the (our) dogs!"

Well fuck all that.

If I had a gun I would take three shots,...one to kill Max, one to Kill Sam, one to kill me.

To leave poor dear Sam and poor dear Max to a world that fucking well doesn't care about me, and certainly doesn't care or could handle dear Sam & Max, or know about them from when they were puppies onwards, would just be consigning them both into further hell worse than what we all are experiencing and have been experiencing in this fucking hellhole since dear Fliss fled and abdanoned us to the shitheads and criminals.

And you wonder why I have fucking nightares EVERY fucking night!? - And have done so since late 2015!?

FUCK OFF WORLD.

Both dear Sam & dear Max are VERY deeply upset at being totally abandoned by Fliss (Felicty Ann Carthew) in late 2015. It is the 4th time she has totally abandoned them.

But in late September 2015 we were reconciling after she had a truly bizarre heavily psychotic turn where she attacked me for no reason. We wer ging to get back togther. We were going to take dear Sam and dear Max with us, and we 4 would have a new life together with none of the worries here that had pulled down poor dear Fliss and which NOBODY, ABSOLUTELY NOBODY KNOW ABOUT EXCEPT ME because Fliss REFUSES to tell ANYONE about, not her parents, not ANY of her friends, not her physical friends, not her mythical onlien friends, her pretemd friends, NOBODY KNOWS BUT ME. - And NOBODY FUCKING BELIEVES ME!

FUCK OFF WORLD.

FUCK OFF WORLD. FUCK OFF!

Yes, you ALL will be so much better without dear Sam, dear Max, and dear me......

And MAYBE you'll have a cry later after I'm dead and you realise what utter shits you have been and you'll try to exonerate yourselves and so you'll lie to yourselves and self-support yourselves in the furtive lying and create bullshit from fact to suit your own twisted mindsets.

Guilty murderers get more support than I fucking well get.

FUCK YOU.

My internet is fucked. Totally fucked. It's been that way since late 2015. It crashes at any time for any length of time. - Go on, I'm sure some fucker will falsely blame me for that...........

P@15:50--2-June-2017--I love you Fliss and want to be with you far from this hellhole. - Are you even still ALIVE dear Fliss? - Please God, I hope you are. - Nobody tells me anything. - I love you Fliss and want to be with you. -- But all I have each night now is nightmares EVERY time I sleep and get enough to dream.

0 notes

inevitably-johnlocked · 5 years

Note

Hi! Do you have any recs for casefics or fics that feel like they could have been an episode of the show? Anything with really good Sherlock/John bantering, investigating, etc?

Hi Nonny!

Oh, oh gosh I never thought of filing my case fics like this oh gosh, I’m so sorry D: Hmmm. I mean, I do have new fics to add to my case fics list, and you said you’re okay with just general case fics. I can update my case fics list?

CASE FICS Pt. 2