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solecize · 7 months

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 | 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: every summer on your grandpa's farm was real-life magic to your younger self, who left a piece of her heart in amber valley when the years went on and the town became nothing but a faint childhood memory. soon enough, you become rocked by his death and realize the dead end in your bustling city world. this leads to you making an abrupt decision.

despite knowing nothing but designer purses and the corporate ladder, you uproot your entire life to take over your grandfather's old farm in the town you were desperately trying to remember - alongside a familiar face from your youth that permanently finds his way into your heart.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: jungkook/reader 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. inspired heavily by stardew valley, friends to lovers, childhood friends, cowboy jungkook, small town alternate universe, slice of life, grief, growing up, mutual pining 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 4.6k 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒. warnings for more mentions of death and jungkook being an idiot

part five: the phone call, the apology and the confession ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ previous. next. masterlist

xii. the phone call

being on the farm made you feel like a kid again - that was a given. when you were young, you often made your chores into games, to see how fast you could feed the chickens or tend to crops. however, being the sole individual responsible for upkeep and for the way the farm was now your source of income, it was evidently no longer a fun little game when barbies got boring. while you were in charge of your own schedule, you eventually hit the point where you felt like all of your energy was gone everyday. one of the only things that was keeping you sane was your friends.

on the other hand, jungkook was having the exact opposite effect - driving you insane. for more than one reason.

the email blast for movie night was originally forwarded to you by taehyung and you did accept, which you ultimately regretted come the night of. you usually didn’t partake in much during the week, as you reserved your social battery for the saloon on the weekends, but you didn’t see any issue upon receiving the invitation.

“do you want me to make you a coffee?” jungkook offered, as he stood across from you on the opposite end of taehyung’s kitchen island.

it was the usual cluster of people gathered in taehyung’s charming bungalow, close to the river. you’d never been in a group of friends that were so adamant to their dedication of spending time together and not using work or school as an excuse to shut themselves in. most of the boys had brought food or drinks without any prior arrangement or communication, resulting in an abundance to share.

you were glad you thought of picking up a bottle of wine beforehand and wasn’t the odd one out, but with your fatigue, you knew you weren’t going to be able to enjoy it yourself. it was the day for cleaning pens and sorting waste, so you’d been outside all day and smelled exactly like your chores. even though you took a lengthy shower and mentally prepared for movie night, you were exhausted beyond measure.

you shook your head. “i’m okay, thank you. i have to get up at five tomorrow.”

from behind you, seokjin emerged from the living room and despite the current movie only halfway through - it was apparently jungkook’s pick, captain america: the first avenger - it looked like he was ready to leave. leftovers in hand, he brought jungkook in for a quick side hug and then did the same for you.

“bye guys! sorry i have to leave early. y/n, i’ll come by tomorrow after work for the eggs?” seokjin beamed, leaning on the door frame and you noticed a handful of pink carnations in his grasp.

you gave him a thumbs up. slowly, but surely, the tides were turning for the farm and making profit. you didn’t lack confidence that you would be able to make money for yourself, but you were unsure of how long it would take for your income sources to be stabilized. building a customer base off of the farm’s longstanding customers was easier than expected, but you had to work on improving efficiency and diversification of your products. at the end of the day, though, you were just one person and you were doing well.

this is what you continued to attempt to explain to your parents. shortly after seokjin’s departure, before you could join the rest of your friends and finish the movie, you received a call from your father and you excused yourself to taehyung’s backyard.

your mother was the type to be overbearing and overprotective, while your father had a knack for criticizing you and making you question yourself. since moving, you seldom provided business updates to your father, which likely led to this phone call in the first place.

“you’ve thought about how you’ll need to make further investments, right?” his voice was dry and it made your blood boil.

breathing in deeply, you simply replied, “yes.”

“okay, have you been managing your time well? the physical demands of the job?”

it was as if your dad kept rattling off a list of reasons why you were incompetent for your role and you didn’t notice until now, but you had dug half-crescent moons into the palm of your hand. no matter how many times you said yes or that you had it covered, he continued going.

by the time you finally escaped the phone call, you already began thoughts of doubt and wondering if he was on to something. you were saying you were handling things, but were you really? your worn down, sore body was screaming at you as you pondered.

eventually, the sliding door into the house creaked open and you remembered where you were. jungkook appeared, having slipped on a denim jacket to combat the slight wind in the air and stepped out to the deck. there was a small frown drawn on his face.

“you okay?” he asked.

nearing a month in town and several weeks of jungkook’s presence becoming a constant around the farm, it was safe to say that the two of you grew close once again. it was more than you were willing to admit, that was for sure. it still surprised you when you heard how harsh your tone was when you opened your mouth.

“i need to go home,” you snapped. you could feel your eyelids growing heavy, too, and you couldn’t be around anyone but yourself right now.

jungkook raised his eyebrows. “already? that’s too bad, you missed most of the movie.”

“just gotta go,” you mumbled, stuffing your phone into the back pocket of your jeans.

you got up, remembering that you left your sweater indoors, but jungkook still stood in front of the door. you had to hold back from grumbling.

“i was hoping you’d go for a ride with me before you went home.”

“a ride?” you sputtered. “no, i can’t do that.” your response was immediate and you noticed the way his eyes widened for a moment, as if he said something wrong. you were too tired to clarify how tired you were or how you haven’t been able to bring yourself to attempt riding again. it was a topic of discussion for another day.

jungkook wasn’t sure what to say. “oh, okay.” and just like that, you side-stepped right past him and into the house to grab your things.

the exit was unceremonious and it was fast, as you were holding back tears from the phone call with your father. you could vaguely recall jungkook asking you if he could walk you home, but you already flew out the door. your body was shaking the entire time after the conversation and you could only focus on making it home.

your heart was in your throat and your shoulders were tense, as your head hung down the entire walk back to the farmhouse. you knew things weren’t going to magically be easy, but you at least thought you were doing a good job. you only wanted your parents to think the same.

amidst your physical and mental exhaustion, you realized you took a wrong turn and weren’t sure where you were. your chest tightened and you could only wonder what kind of bad luck you rolled for the day. cheeks wet from stray tears, you wanted to scream.

you pulled your phone out, only realize it was a dead battery. maybe you were as helpless as your dad kept making you out to be, since you seemed to always find yourself in these kinds of situations. a cold breeze danced around your body and you shivered aloud.

“y/n?”

you recognized the voice to be seokjin, who no longer held flowers and seemed to be heading home. you hastily wiped your face, which he didn’t miss. he tentatively approached closer.

“the farm is the other way, where are you going at this time of night?” seokjin asked gently.

“i guess i took a wrong turn,” you sighed, hoping the way your breath shook when you did so wasn’t so obvious.

seokjin offered to walk you back home and this time, in all your weariness, accepted. you peered over as the two of you walked and saw jungkook’s name flash on his phone. you remembered how you left the house and a heavy load of guilt settled in your stomach. you made the metal note to apologize to him tomorrow.

“i thought you had somewhere to be?” you tried breaking the awkward silence.

seokjin never missed a hangout with the boys and even if he had somewhere to go, he made sure that he provided snacks or anything of the sort to his friends. he was the type to take care of everyone. even you, a newcomer to town, seokjin didn’t forget to make you an extra cookie when he made some for the boys or save a seat for you at the saloon.

his smile seemed different than usual. “i made a quick stop to the cemetery to say hi to my wife.”

you broke eye contact, looking down. you weren’t sure until that moment, but over the past month, you were forming the idea that seokjin’s wife wasn’t around. you connected the dots, but didn’t want to ask anyone for confirmation.

“can i ask how long?” you spoke slowly.

“two years today. taehyung didn’t know what day it was when he planned the movie, but i insisted that everyone go on with the plans and i would just leave early.”

he explained that he moved to amber valley to be with his wife four years ago, before she passed away due to a terminal illness. you couldn’t even imagine. like jungkook, you would have never been able to tell with seokjin. you wondered if it was the same for others when they interacted with you, if the remnants of your grief were evident in your day-to-day motions.

you said, “loss is a funny thing. it follows you everywhere and you don’t notice until you remember to turn around.”

“that means loss is also something that you have to leave behind you, y/n. it’s not easy, but you get there.” the small smile on seokjin’s face, whose energy never faltered, was comforting. “it’s people like you and jungkook that inspire me to look forward from loss. i think we’re all doing well for ourselves.”

before the conversation with seokjin, you wouldn’t have been able to agree with that. you’d spend the last hour or so dwelling on the things you weren’t doing right or weren’t doing enough of. but, he was right. you were doing your absolute best and that was all that mattered.

xiii. the apology

the days that followed, you saw less and less of jungkook. deep down, you knew it was your fault. you didn’t mean to storm out on him after the call with your dad and you lacked opportunities to apologize. he still replied to your texts, albeit with less enthusiasm and playfulness than usual. it seemed like he had legitimate excuses to step away from the farm, though, having heard from taehyung that mrs. oh was sick that week and jungkook had to take on more at work.

you decided to take matters into your own hands. after failing to appear at the saloon that weekend, you decided to take an extra long lunch break on sunday and found yourself walking over to his store. this wasn’t the first time you visited him at work - in fact, you stopped by earlier in the week because you were passing by and you wanted to bother him. it wouldn’t be out of place for you to pop in.

“is jungkook not here?” you asked sangwoo, mrs. oh’s thirteen year old son who was propped up in front of the register, watching a tv show on his phone.

sangwoo’s bored eyes looked up at you. “dunno. he’s not working today.”

that was strange. you thought that was the part of the reason why he couldn’t come by the farm. you thanked the boy and left the store, wondering what you should do next. you contemplated texting him, but he left the meme you sent last night on delivered.

as you walked back to the farm, you decided to take an early left turn and soon ended up in front of jungkook’s house. since moving back, this was actually your first time seeing his house again. it looked mostly untouched from your memories and you noticed that the white pick-up truck that once belongs to jungkook’s dad was still kept in the driveway. the tree in his front yard still had the same tire swing that you once almost broke your neck fooling around on.

you weren’t entirely sure about what you were doing to say when he opened the door. you decided against outright accusing him of avoiding you, even though that was exactly what you thought he was doing. maybe take a page out of his book and conjure up a wild excuse.

when you rang the doorbell, you realized there was no sound that followed and softly knocked instead. in a few moments, the door creaked open, just enough for you to make out jiwon’s big eyes.

“oh, hi y/n!” her toothy smile reminded you of her big brother.

you mirrored the smile. “hi jiwon. do you mind getting jungkook?”

she opened the door wider and you could make out the living room behind her. there, you noticed hoseok fast asleep on the leather recliner seat in front of the television. jiwon quietly put a finger to her pursed lips, pointing to hoseok’s sleeping figure. she stepped out and you made space for her, as she closed the door.

“your brother is out?” you asked.

jiwon nodded, clutching onto the teddy bear in her hand. it was the same one that once belonged to jungkook. you remembered because when you guys turned eleven, you made fun of him for a whole summer straight for still carrying it around. her other hand held a handheld electric fan to ward off the amber valley summer heat.

“he took leo to the vet. why are you looking for him?” she sang the last part, swinging back and forth, looking up at you with a smirk that seemed to know more than you did.

you assumed leo was jungkook’s horse, knowing he continued to keep them at his house. that instilled a sense of relief in you, as it made you think less than he was intentionally avoiding you. your bubble was shortly burst.

jiwon sat down on the porch bench. “oh, and he’s definitely avoiding you!”

“what?” you blinked, thinking that you didn’t hear her correctly.

“i said hoseok is the worst sitter, i’m bored with nothing to do.”

this little girl was definitely jeon jungkook’s sister, the mischievous glint in her eyes was all the proof you needed.

for the next half an hour, despite having only left the farm for a quick break, you broke out in conversation with jiwon and enjoyed chatting with her. you always wanted a sister and you always complained that god gave you jungkook as a friend instead. you couldn’t believe how bubbly and intelligent jiwon was for her age.

jiwon was sitting crisscrossed, playing with the arm of her stuffed animal. “unnie. . .” you didn’t even flinch when she called you that, instead smiling. “can i ask you something?”

“sure, jiwon,” you replied.

she looked off to where her dad’s old truck was parked. “can you tell me what my parents were like? oppa gets kind of upset when i ask.”

you froze. the last month, you were dedicated to connecting with the valley once more. over time, you remembered the smell of coffee in town square and the way the sand on the beach shone like glitter. you remembered what it was like having neighbours and how cutting fresh grass felt like home. it was gradual, but you were slowly getting there. regardless, some memories only lived in picture frames and buried in your mind, underneath years that have gone by.

“they were the best people,” you offered, closing your eyes and trying to imagine yourself on the same porch with jungkook as kids, where his dad taught you two how to play chess and his mom would always come out with iced tea after a long day. “your dad was the kind of man who was good at everything. he showed jungkook and i how to fly a kite, how to play chess - “

“i love chess!” she interrupted, the smile on her face widening at the thought of her dad sharing something with her.

like jungkook, jiwon looked at the brighter side of life. it was admirable. you could only wish it was contagious.

jiwon began swinging her legs on the bench. “i have the best oppa, but i feel bad for him sometimes. he was really smart when you were little, right?”

“as smart as he can be with that dense skull of his,” you joked, which made jiwon giggle.

she said, “did you go to college? i know oppa didn’t go to college so he could take care of me. . .”

you reassured jiwon that jungkook only wanted the best for her and that he was happy right now. at that moment, you made out his figure approaching, walking with his horse by his side. you quickly stood up and you didn’t notice the way jiwon smiled in satisfaction when she watched you do so.

“y/n? what are you doing here?” jungkook was puzzled at your appearance.

before you could answer, jiwon interjected. “can unnie watch me next time?” she was giddy, holding onto your arm. your heart warmed, knowing that jiwon took a liking to you.

“jiwon, you know y/n is always busy,” jungkook scolded, pinching her nose. “sorry, i know she’s a handful.” he turned to you, apologetically.

“hey!” jiwon piped, but he waved her off.

you shook your head. “actually, i wouldn’t mind at all. i’d love to look after her whenever you need.”

jungkook’s eyes softened. he cleared his throat and gestured for jiwon to come closer to him. he whispered something in her ear and handed over leo’s lead rope to her, presumably directing for her to take the horse behind the house. she rolled her eyes at him and did so.

it was just the two of you now, standing underneath the beating sun. his cowboy hat protected his face, while you were covered partially by the house. still, he came closer and gently tugged you into the house, murmuring something about the heat wave that week.

like the set-up of the farmhouse, there were several electric fans on at once inside. now that you were able to observe closer, you saw that jungkook’s house was a lot different than what you remembered. the furniture was different and was arranged differently. the old fireplace was closed up. his kitchen was no longer filled to the brim with snacks, as his mother used to keep it, and the only thing on his counter was a coffee machine.

“i wanted to change things up when they passed away, so i wouldn’t dwell so much,” he spoke, as if reading your mind.

there was only one picture that you recognized on the walls, being one of you and jungkook when you were approximately six years old. captured was the same living room, where the two of you were playing with power rangers figures. everything else was foreign, mostly recent pictures of jiwon. there was a single family portrait by the staircase, which depicted a toddler-aged jiwon and a teenage jungkook.

you snapped out of it when you heard hoseok’s snores, still fast asleep a few feet away from you. jungkook snorted when he noticed. his voice remained at the same volume, unbothered.

“why did you come by?” jungkook put his keys on the table next to the entryway.

you sighed. “i just wanted to apologize for the other night. i’ve been under a lot of pressure and my body was so exhausted that day, too.”

he nodded slowly. “it’s okay. i was just. . .worried about you. jin told me he ran into you on your way home.”

“yeah, i had a lot going on.” you brushed off imaginary dust off your tank top. “i didn’t mean to intrude, sorry.”

jungkook assured you everything was fine and you did believe him in the moment. however, for the next week that followed, it appeared as though everything was but. you weren’t sure what affirmations you were chasing, but you were aware that things were off with him.

things were normal when you hung around everyone else, but jungkook still hadn’t returned to his usual routine with you of coming around the farm. he was lively when you conversed at the saloon or when you ran into each other in town, but it seemed like an invisible wall was erected between the two of you and you had no idea where it came from. you, being you, made it your mission to figure out why.

xiv. the confession

yoongi gave you a deadpan expression when you came to him for advice. you didn’t actually mean to come to him for advice, but as you happened to run into him at the hardware store, the sales clerk made a side comment that you couldn’t ignore.

“where’s your boyfriend? don’t you two usually come in together?” she asked you, as you came in to check out new work boots.

you were perplexed when you realized she was talking about jungkook. for the previous weeks, you accompanied jungkook to the hardware store whenever he found a new excuse of a repair to help out with.

“he’s working today,” said a voice behind you and you turned around, seeing it was yoongi with insect repellant in his hand.

the sales clerk seemed pleased with the answer. “oh, i see! i was just surprised, i’ve never seen you without him at your side!”

“hi yoongi, nice seeing you,” you said, after giving the young lady a polite fake laugh.

the two of you made small talk about the weather and walked out together. when you made it outside, you decided to be blunt.

“i made jungkook upset, didn’t i?”

he looked at you blankly. “no, he’s just under the impression that you’re overwhelmed with work and feels like he’s been ‘too much’” yoongi made air-quotes, as if repeating back jungkook’s exact words.

“in what way?” you questioned.

“i literally just said - oh, you guys are so clueless with each other.” yoongi squeezed his eyes shut. “bless your heart, honestly.”

even though a part of you felt it every time you opened your front door and saw jungkook, or even just seeing his name pop up on your phone, you remained silent. what were you to even say to that?

he said, “oh, come on. even the little teenager at the hardware store can see that the two of you have feelings for each other.”

sometime in between sharing meals together, sneaky glances when the other wasn’t looking and unassuming banter, there were undefined feelings that settled in the cracks. there was understanding and there was nostalgia. what you felt for jungkook you had yet to calculate. there was no other answer to what drove you towards him.

that same night, you decided it was time to put your foot down. you texted jungkook, confirming dinner with him and asked to meet you at the saloon. that was mistake number one. you don’t know why you thought it was going to be a good idea and realized where you went wrong when you entered, noticing that a few of your friends were lingering. it shouldn’t have surprised you, considering it was everyone’s typical hangout spot.

you waved to hoseok and taehyung, declined jimin’s offer of a beer, and sat down at the very back of the bar. you hoped that this would be a sufficient sign for them to leave you be and then, jungkook walked in. you pretended to not notice and he walked over to your friends, greeting them and chatting with them briefly. namjoon then pointed towards you and you groaned, knowing that the boys were about to spectate your conversation.

“hey, y/n. did you order yet?” jungkook smiled, taking the seat across from you. you saw a thumbs up from namjoon, away from everyone else’s line of vision, and you wanted to face palm.

you shook your head. “how are you?”

today, he was dressed in his typical attire. all black, wearing dark denim and a wife beater tank. jungkook took off his hat when he walked in and placed it next to him. every outfit he wore seemed to expose his beautiful tattoos and it was always hard to not stare. you got a glimpse of his chest pieces a few times when he was working on the farm and the heat proved too aggressive for him, which prompted him to go shirtless. it was cute when he hurriedly covered up when you approached at these times, apparently too shy to be half-naked around you.

jungkook began talking about work and apologized for not coming around as much. the small talk made you even more nervous, having walked in and ready to lay down the law. the thoughts about him and what you thought were unresolved feelings between you and him were following you like bees to honey. despite this, you grew less confident as the mundane conversation dragged on. the two of you continued chatting and the subject eventually changed to the upcoming midsummer fair.

“so, who are you taking to the fair? it’s become more of a ‘couple’ thing in recent years.” jungkook’s tone was breezy and casual, but you nearly choked on your water.

you tried to compose yourself, breathing as deeply as you could without making it obvious. “oh, really?”

this was your time to confess. the idea made you nauseous, as if you were a school girl. you took a breath.

“yeah. you know. . .” jungkook trailed off, in thought. “taehyung seems to have taken a liking to you. you should ask him!”

did he just say taehyung? a plastic smile stretched across your lips, as you took a second to take it in. the enthusiasm on jungkook’s features confused you in a way you had never been confused before. you were reading everything wrong. the small touches, the big gestures. you couldn’t believe everything was all in your head.

“look, taehyung and i have gotten close since he moved to town. i’ll help you out,” jungkook declared. “you’re gonna need it, ugly.”

“shut up!” you chuckled through your teeth, neither agreeing or arguing with him. you were still in a state of surprise.

by the time the two of you began eating, it was just a few other patrons left in the saloon. a quiet thursday night, but your mind was screaming with just about a hundred different things and you could only smile and nod at jungkook, who was explaining taehyung’s ideal type. when jungkook got up to use the bathroom, you caught namjoon and hoseok’s eyes from the bar.

when the former gave you a thumbs up, you could only respond with the most aggressive thumbs down possible.

𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. @sstrongstyletyle @wobblewobble822@taiwan0618 @seokout @firelcrds @xwniazx @shellyyy177

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sunderingstars · 4 months

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☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ OUTFIT & DESIGN MOTIFS ⌝

sampo analysis m.list

— what the stars reveal: half-character-study, half-analysis, waxing poetic, elation!sampo

— word count: 3.1k

— overview: (as of 2.2) a look at sampo’s outfit and design, as well as how it may link to an identity closely connected with the elation.

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

For the sake of my own sanity, I’ll be splitting this analysis into clear-cut sections:

Snake Motifs

Binding Chains

Weapon

Hair

Color Palette

Shoes & Walking

Layers

Exposed Skin

Here’s his splash art for reference, although I’ll also be including other photos of his outfit:

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ SNAKE MOTIFS ⌝

One of the biggest aspects of Sampo’s outfit design are the snake bones littered across his clothing. From the scaled chain behind him to the shoulder guard that has a protrusion reminiscent of venom-dipped fangs, there is a lot of snake imagery present. Not just snake, however, but dead snake. It’s important to note that none of these pieces have skin or lively color — they’re all bones, bleached and picked clean. For me, this implies Sampo to be a skeleton character, a whisper of a dead or dying thing that still carries a last bit of venom in its fangs. Whether that “thing” is a metaphorical emotional state (centering themes of disillusionment and fatigue), a literal identity (centering themes of lessening power and lowering status), or a combination of both is up for interpretation. Either way, something inside him is decaying.

The snake — the living, hunting predator — is past its prime, stripping away over the years into something that barely resembles itself, the bones of an ancient and powerful thing. Emanator!Sampo may find himself slowly drawing away from the compulsive Elation first bestowed upon him, while Aha!Sampo may find Themself rotting into Their own mortal shell, the remains of what used to be a superficial avatar sticking to Their bones and sucking them clean; alternatively, the restrictions placed upon this mortal form of Sampo may cause Aha to be whittled down, only an echo of Their full strength. In another case, the silhouette behind the masks, the bones behind the meat, may have found himself steadily falling out of orbit with his larger mind, eventually ending up as nothing but a shadow of his former power as an Aeon — a skeleton, removed from the body when it was no longer needed. Or, perhaps, he is trying to keep the venom in.

(Note: His eyes are also snake-shaped like Baizhu’s from Genshin Impact!)

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ BINDING CHAINS ⌝

When looking at Sampo in a 360-degree view through the camera, something became apparent to me — the snake motifs (the spine and scales especially) seem to wrap around him tightly. In the splash art, this is a little difficult to tell (as the spine is flared out behind him), but here, they are tightly wrapped around multiple parts of his body:

Here, we see a fairly small part — a cuff wrapped around his upper forearm. This sticks out to me because it seems similar to a handcuff, or some kind of article of containment. It fits snugly, pressing in on his skin. There is also a similar wrapping around his thigh, showing that this is not a one-off design decision. There are multiple tight wrappings of containment around his body, which then implies a something in containment. Additionally, there’s the bone chains on his back:

They wrap around to the front, resting in the hollow of his neck. There are also two latches fastened to his back, giving the idea of the bones almost “hugging” him. Now, we are beginning to get a dual picture: a snake, slowly choking and constricting its prey, and a binding chain of bones, something meant to keep danger contained. We can see this even more clearly once the full picture comes together from different angles:

(These wrappings are even reminiscent of the symbol for Ouroboros, an ancient Gnostic and Alchemical symbol that represents the constant cycle of life, death, and rebirth, as well as the unity of all things material and spiritual. As I’ll discuss in its own dedicated analysis, this presence of the snake as a symbol of rebirth and unity may speak to a constant cycle of different emotions or consciousnesses within him — a loop he seemingly can’t escape. He is trying to live, but death ever looms in the background. Additionally, this points towards him trying to reconcile multiple facets of his being.)

The snake does not want to leave. It is cloying, constricting, containing at every waking moment, unwilling to relinquish the meat inside it. I believe the snake and the chains are one and the same: at the same time Sampo is being hurt and constricted, he is also being contained. The snake bones may represent Aha as a separate entity, the Elation as a addiction-filled Path, self-imposed rules from a more powerful past self, or even the “restrictions” placed on higher beings by virtue of existence.

An Emanator!Sampo may be constantly choked by the chains of his status, the realization that this Path isn’t the one he wants — disillusionment is hard to hold on to when surrounded by those who move from sorrow to joy at the drop of a hat. The gaze of an Aeon may constantly weigh on his shoulders like venom-tipped fangs waiting to strike, waiting to strip everything away from him once he becomes no longer “interesting.” Or perhaps that interest is the binding itself, the consuming, compulsive need to laugh, to operate on impulse, to push all feelings of doubt out before they can even be felt; the want to so desperately escape from Elation despite it clinging to him like a specter, regardless of his wants or needs. Emanator!Sampo may also be contained in his power, the same disillusionment that drives him to stray forcing him to hold back his true power, the truth that he could ruin everything he cares for with a single mistake. He doesn’t know what to do when the Elation grows ever tighter, ever higher, the bones of a rotting thing turning him rotten as well. He wants to escape but doesn’t know how.

(Perhaps, this desperation has rotted into hate which has rotted into vengeance, a dedication to using his life to push out the last of his venom, if only to stain an Aeon with Their own blood before falling away.)

Alternatively, an Aha!Sampo may find Themself now restricted by flesh and blood, feeling Themself to be a shadow, a dead skeleton of what They once were. For whatever reason, Their mortal form is forced to have restrictions, perhaps the same ones They face in Aeonic form. But it’s small. Too small. Ten thousand sizes too small, as it always is, and now They’re trapped for a longer time, forced by a looming threat to operate in the shadows, slowly hollowing out with the distance of consciousness and time.

Who are They, if not the masks? Who are They, if not an Aeon? Perhaps this is not even mask-related at all, but rather a silhouette who grew tired, determined to carve his own path when the stench of decay became too much. The Original, The Progenitor, far outlasted by feelings that grew too strong for his body to handle. He is not an Aeon, not a mortal, but somewhere between a bleached skull and a mouth full of venom. How can he spit out what is rightfully inside him? How can he cut the binds that tie him to an eldritch being he was never meant to be?

He does not want Elation, but Elation has always wanted him. How can he escape something so dedicated to swallowing him whole? How can he escape something so natural to his being? There is no clear answer besides one: if he does not find a way to escape, the only thing left of him will be bone.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ WEAPON ⌝

Anyway! Haha! Isn’t he so silly? Let’s look at his weapon next:

It seems to continue the snake theme, with both sides of the blades marked with the same bright purple of the “fangs” on his shoulder guard. I don’t think it’s a mistake that these are the brightest colors of the outfit, but I’ll save that for later. For now, let’s focus on the dual nature of his weapon. Besides carrying on the snake theme, these are dual blades, able to be split apart and combined at a moment’s notice. To me, this seems like an indication of two “sides” to Sampo, two different personas that can be separated, combined, or interchanged at will. This could be an Emanator form, an Aeonic form, or simply another personality or “deeper” emotion behind the con-man persona.

I find this choice of weapon very fitting for him, as it capitalizes on the dexterity of both his personality and fighting style. It’s something that is easily able to be tossed from a distance, allowing him to damage enemies over time without getting too close to danger. There is also an inversion to its form, and while that could just be so he doesn’t scratch himself when throwing it, I also see its connection to the “inversion” of Sampo’s E6 and Aha’s splash art silhouette. There is an implication of inversion, mirroring, and duality with this weapon. Whatever power or consciousness he may be holding, there’s a good chance there are multiple dimensions to it, the kind of dimensions that exceed mortal standards.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ HAIR ⌝

Something of note is the grey in his hair, a color often attributed to older and more powerful characters (Welt has a (albeit dyed) strand of grey hair and Acheron has grey strands as well). They are, however, at the bottom of his hair, like the (perhaps also dyed?) blue is trying to override it. This could speak to an attempt to find his own identity, to cast aside the bleached white of decaying bones and find some vibrance to live for. There’s also a lot of it compared to other characters. It’s not just one or two strands, it’s entire parts of his hairtips, with the implication even more may be white behind the blue. This would line up with what he says about being an “old timer,” most likely downplaying his own status to “just an old guy” when he is vastly more powerful than others realize.

Additionally, his hair obscures one of his eyes, always casting half of his face behind blue.

I feel this speaks to the idea of “multiple” sides, since one part of him is literally hidden from view. There’s the laughing, joking con-man we see, sure, but we don’t see the “hate” festering beneath, the potential despising of one’s own power and being. We don’t see the silhouette behind the masks. It wants to be free, most likely, of the chains that bind it, wants to step into the open with the clarity of rage, but it is not allowed. And so it stays, hidden behind blue. It stays, allowing the turquoise eye of a red-tinted mask to operate beyond, leaving itself to fester and rot into itself. Would we see an eye, if we pulled back that hair? Would we see something besides a wink here, a crease there? Would we find a matching color, or would we find blood red, a space infested with angry maggots? Would we perhaps find a hole? The blank, staring Nothing of Nihility? Only time will tell.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ COLOR PALETTE ⌝

An interesting thing I noted while staring at pictures of this man’s splash art for way too long is the clash between colors. When dealing with the visible light spectrum, red and blue are on opposite ends. Red and blue are also popularized opponents, despite them not being true opposites on the color wheel. They can clash very jarringly, although the muted reds and blues (bordering on purples) used in Sampo’s outfit compliment each other better than in other combinations. Still, they stick out against each other, chafe against the backdrop of muted grays and blacks of dying bone. The red, often associated with blood, is also associated with Aha’s masks in this case, since most masks have a combination of white and red or red and orange to them (especially in Aha’s splash art). Additionally, blue is often associated with water and calm, which ties back to Sampo’s name “Koski” which means water rapids in Finnish. There is a clear conflict between these colors in Sampo’s outfit, the starkness of drying blood mingling with the attempted free-flowing blue of a new identity. The blue that is so strong in his hair, his mind, is slowly beginning to peek from beyond the red of the rest of his body — a solitary flower, perhaps, watered by the rain and allowed to cautiously, timidly, lean into the doorway of his being. Still, it is a battle. The red will not give up. The pain, the addictive nature of being consumed by the snake, has been there for so long it naturally attempts to obscure whatever new healing the blue brings. But the blue is persistent. And so, it stays.

All the while, the grey hangs in the background, shadow-like. The monochrome, the static, has been there longer than both the red and the blue, so ingrained into him that it’s easily overlooked for the war between blood and water. But it’s there. The bones of that ancient beast will never fade, stagnant as they are. That’s the thing about bones — they last. Even when the blood runs out and the water stops flowing, bones take the longest to decay. They symbolize longevity, perhaps too much of it. An immortality, perhaps, granted by Emanator or Aeon status, that refuses to disperse even as the mind begins to wither. Thus, the red and the blue arrive. They attempt to revitalize the dying bones, the winding snake, putting just enough contrast between them to create a spark, a single flicker of life — a turquoise of bright running water in the eyes, enough to see the world in better clarity.

(And then there is the glowing purple of the fangs, the looming threat, the contained power. Beyond everything else, the venom is still there. It has always been there, waiting to strike.)

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ SHOES & WALKING ⌝

The only thing I want to talk about here is the lack of footprints Sampo leaves behind (I just wanted a dedicated section for it). We can see clearly in the splash art that Sampo has regular soles that should make indents in the snow, yet his character never leaves footprints when walking through Belobog. To me, this indicates an otherworldly nature of being, or a lack of being there in the first place. This can fracture into several different theories, some of which being that it’s intentional on his part and he can manipulate his body and surroundings in a structural way; that it’s simply a byproduct of a higher being taking mortal form (and thus not fully “conforming” to all minutae of human bodies); and that it’s because he is a projection or puppet of some sort that was never really there to begin with. Whatever the case, this seems to be a strong indicator of higher status, whether that be Emanator, Aeonic, or something different. After all, no regular, unassuming guy would be able to so casually and effortlessly defy gravity to not leave footprints.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ LAYERS ⌝

Man, this guy’s outfit is confusing. Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest. I’m just still not entirely sure what’s going on in his chest region, there seems to be a lot of straps and buckles and zigzags and windows. I’d like to say this still speaks to the idea of “containment,” as many layers like that would certainly feel constricting, but I also feel like it’s meant to be a “look” as a whole. The bottom layers being black and gray, then blossoming out into blue and red almost makes me think of a decaying animal, with the blood being exposed as well as some of the bone beneath. I also feel like it ties back into his “layered” personality, in which he has different feelings and personas he chooses to either show or hide at any given moment. His neck and hands are also covered (with the red gloves dipping below the black), perhaps further speaking to concealment. The snake motifs are also present on multiple layers, giving the feeling that this is a constriction that runs deep.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ EXPOSED SKIN ⌝

I will say it: this man’s outfit is sluttyyy (affectionate). Despite the heavy themes of constriction and concealment, the encroachment of the colors and layers do not affect his forearms and hips. He very much has his “V” out to show the world, and I for one am not complaining. To me, this exposed skin feels like a breath of fresh air, something beyond the rotting, constricted animal for once. This seems to really be Sampo — the flesh and blood Sampo, the mortal, the guy who likes striking poses and probably gives great hugs. Yes, it is still strategic (probably trying to ramp up flirt appeal for when he tries to scam people) but it also seems genuine. Sincere. If the rest of his outfit is a constraining, dying bloodbath, then these pockets of skin are the eye of the storm, the places that seem to be untouched by the onslaught. Here, we see a human being. Not an Emanator or an Aeon or a byproduct of compulsive Elation, but a man. Just a man. Breathing, like everyone else. It’s nice.

My main takeaways from this outfit are:

The bones of an Aeon, with mortal and “Primum Mobile” restrictions combining to constrain.

The bones of an Emanator, slowly whittled away with time and the weathering of longevity bestowed by Elation.

The general themes of rot, decay, snakes, venom, constraint, and being suffocated.

Ouroboros, constant cycles, prey caught in a trap of potentially its own making.

Any combination of these!

(I also wrote this piece before really getting into the Doll!Sampo theory, but there is definitely an interpretation to be had regarding Sampo as a creation of Aha! The decaying animal and contradictory colors could represent the fight between Sampo’s “purpose” and who he really wants to be, as well as the chains of Elation choking his freedom of self-expression and want to be his own person. The consistency of constricting and containing bones could also speak to him being a “shadow” of Aha, the echo of a greater being while still powerful himself. If he was created in Aha’s own likeness, he would probably feel the pressure of always being in the shadow of his creator.

Additionally, many other parts of this analysis can still apply to Doll!Sampo, as I see him as at least Emanator status. Longevity would take even more of a toll on him here, since he would have lived so long being disregarded by others as a “toy.” I’ll probably elaborate more on this when I do a dedicated breakdown of my Doll!Sampo theory!)

A note I couldn’t find a good place for earlier: snake bones also imply shed skin, some siphoning off of a greater part of oneself to be reborn anew. Perhaps he is the dead and dying snake, preparing to molt into something even greater. That’s all!

The End! Overall, I feel like I realized a lot of potential things about Sampo going through the parts of his outfit one-by-one. I’m definitely more on board with the idea of being simultaneously constricted and constrained now! Ties that bind, and all that. I also didn’t realize just how much of a battle his outfit feels like until I really looked at it, and now I feel bad for the poor guy. Whatever his endgame identity is, he is not having a good time. I want to give him a hug :((

Also, I want to include this bonus concept art since it shows the snake motifs were a big aspect from the beginning:

Anyways, that’s all!

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ જ⁀➴ thanks for reading to the end!

(volume warning)

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

#⌞ ✎ sunder.writes ⌝#⌞ ✧ super.nova ⌝#⌞ 🎭 ⌝#hsr #honkai star rail #honkai: star rail #sampo #sampo koski #sampo hsr #hsr sampo #sampo honkai star rail #analysis #hsr analysis #hsr theory

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thewallshaveeyes · 3 months

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I took a stab at drawing the goat's narinder (pupinder? Naripup?) And came up with this. Him being a samoyed just feels right to me. But tbh? I have NO CLUE what to do with the bishops (random ramblings below the cut)

So like. Pup narinder, I imagine him as being the bishop of life and light, and being just super sweet. And the thing is, I imagine he says pretty much the same stuff Narinder does, but the way he words it gives it an ENTIRELY different meaning.

"I still have need of you" -> implies that the lamb is a tool for Narinder to use. He can't throw them away just yet, because there is still some use left in them. Defines them by their usefulness

"I still require your services" -> puts more value on the goat's abilities to act if that makes sense. Acknowledges that the goat is a being that is capable of making decisions on its own and puts trust in the idea that it'll use its abilities to help him. Defines it by its autonomy.

i also imagine him talking about sacrifice in a much different way. Instead of seeing sacrifice as cashing in souls like currency, I feel like he'd see it as a mercy. "Why allow your followers to slowly work themselves to death, living in pain and fatigue until they give out, when you can offer them a smooth transition into the afterlife?"

Also because of this personality swap, the idea of him betraying his siblings out of pride doesn't make as much sense. What do I propose, then? Easy! As the bishop of light and life, he couldn't stand to see followers suffering for any slight against his siblings, so he took those in who needed respite. He offered an oasis to those unfaithful to his siblings, and when that happened, his siblings got PISSED because they saw that as him stealing their followers. So, they tried to confront him and take back their followers, only for narinder to defend his followers by maiming his siblings. This caused the others to chain him up in the gateway and either sacrifice or convert the rest of his followers.

Now, with all of this, I have several ideas for the bishops but can't really use them all.

Idea 1: Domain swap. Everything stays pretty much the same except for their domains (and consequently their colors). Heket would be plague, Leshy would be war, Shamura famine, and Kallamar chaos. (Honestly zero clue what to do with the colors OR crowns for that matter. Keep the same crowns? Crowns change colors, too??? -\('–')/-)

Idea 2: Species swap. They turn into slant-variants of each of their species (which changes their colors, too). Heket could be a frog, maybe Leshy is an isopod or something, Kallamar would be an octopus (duh), and Shamura could maybe be a bat?? Centipede?? (Thinkin of something that lives in a cave maybe. Scorpion?)

Idea 3: Domain inversion. This could work in tandem with the previous one but anyways. Idea being that their domains invert (just like Narinder's) which causes personality changes. Leshy could be the bishop of order, causing him to be a MASSIVE control freak who panics when the goat comes back (making him more cowardly like Kallamar). Heket could be the bishop of gluttony, causing her to give the goat more of the benefit of the doubt (making her more understanding like Shamura). Kallamar could be the bishop of vitality, seeing the goat as nothing more than an insignificant worm and underestimating its power (making him more assured like Leshy). Shamura could be the bishop of stagnation/sloth, dissuaded and distraught by the goat's challenge to the old faith (making them more vengeful like Heket).

Of the ideas, I'm most attached to the third. Plus with the personality swaps, their injuries could also swap. Heket could be think no evil since she was the most open-minded, Shamura could be see no evil because they were ignorant to the world around them, Leshy could be hear no evil since he refused to give anyone else a voice, and Kallamar could be speak no evil since he was a loudmouth.

What are we thinking, chat? Thoughts? Comments? Ideas?

Aside/edit: with idea #3 (which I'm more and more attached to as I write this), that could be interesting bcs it would recontextualize each bishops' patterns in their boss fights.

Take Kallamar for example. For the lamb, he is terrified of fighting them, which is seen when he pretty much just button mashes doing everything he can to keep that fuckin thang away from him. You can tell that he's panicking during the boss fight from how erratic his movement is. But in the goat's universe, Kallamar's fighting style could be indicative of his disregard for the goat's existence, moreso swatting him away like a pesky mosquito. Inversely, Leshy's fight with the lamb not only shows that he has no clue what the fuck he's doing, but that he doesn't think the lamb does, either. He doesn't even try to hit the lamb physically until well into the battle. For the goat, however, this could be out of fear. Leshy is terrified of the goat, trying as hard as possible to avoid it until he desperately resorts to smacking it around just to kill it. I know that none of this has any bearing on what we see of the goat in the lamb's cult, but it could help explain some of the confusion the goat experiences when it interacts with the lamb's bishops for the first time.

#cult of the lamb #cotl goat #cult of the lamb goat #cotl puppy narinder #cotl unholy alliance #unholy alliance #puppy narinder #cult of the lamb au #headcanons #gamers help I need input #long pot

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alpydk · 3 months

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Gone with the Weave

Took a few days off to think. Seriously considered deleting everything, Tumblr, all of it. Realised I'd become a little lost in my writing, getting jealous over other people, insecure about my own abilities, forgot who I was writing for and why. So today I sat down and actually wrote for me again and you know what? It's helped. And because I'm hypocritical I'm going to share it with all of you.

So, here we have post-Epilogue short. Hurt/Little comfort. Gale/Tav - Tav & Astarion - Word count : 2398 -

CW - PPD / Grief / Death / Dad!Gale / Scenes of child death (Hallucinations)

It was like tar. It pulled her down and filled her lungs, thick and black. Tav tried to fight against it, tried to find the light that she knew shone above it, but her limbs were weighted down by fatigue and longing. A part of her wanted to be dragged down by it, to be lost to the depths of her depression, to disappear and no longer have the responsibility that had been thrusted upon her. To sleep and never wake; to be with him.

To everyone around her, she was a natural mother, tending to her baby’s needs, a confident smile at the life she had brought into the world. Tav was proud, strong, had been through the hells and back, figuratively and literally, and survived unscathed. But as with most, her pride was becoming her downfall. She didn’t need help, didn’t want it because weakness was not the sign of a good mother. As the days passed, as sleep turned to hallucination, still she clung onto the mask of what they all wanted to see, the last remnant of a life before life.

The child cried, but she did not react instantly, a quiet hope that someone else would come and tend to its needs whilst she pretended to sleep. But she didn’t sleep. For so long, the gods of dream and nightmare alike had ignored her pleas, and she had lain there awake, watching as the infant took all from her, leaving her with nothing but guilt and misery.

She wished he was there to help her, that his weave touched fingers that brought calm to her soul could calm the one that lay in the crib. He should have been there for this, she told herself, his strong forearms cradling the baby, a soft poem uttered under starlight bringing it to soothe. If only she had known before the final decision was made; if only things had ended differently and he had stayed, then maybe there would be fewer tears shed.

Still it cried, and no one came, the silence broken by the shrieks she had come to despise. It would be so easy to just leave, to walk out and never return, but then they would all know what she was truly like. The tar that had filled her lungs and surrounded her heart, leaving her bitter and tainted, would be exposed and they would know the truth. They would hate her as she hated the innocent child in front of her. But what if…? The thought was fleeting, cruel and unspeakable, a horror even in her own twisted mind. As night turned to the day, as cries turned to coos, she watched the baby, always watching and waiting for something to change.

---

Evening had set in and though the stars shone brightly as he had promised her, the night brought Tav little comfort knowing the long, drawn-out hours that were to come. She carried the baby to the small tub, her body weary and mind wandering, and she placed it in the water, watching as the bubbles rose quickly from its soft lips, as the arms tensed and held out towards her, as the deep brown eyes she had once loved lost their light again.

A knock at the door brought her around to her senses as she sat in front of the empty tub, the baby cooing peacefully from its bassinet. This had not been the first time she had seen such sights in the weeks since the birth. At first, it had been minor things, a shadow in the room that she had mistaken for a friend, the child crying whilst it actually slept. Soon the images became darker, the newborn lifeless in her arms when she awoke suddenly during the night, a slight misstep causing her to drop it to the floor, its body like that of a rag doll as it hit the wooden floorboards. Nothing scared her more though than herself, her lack of reaction, the quiet pleasure she saw in the freedom being granted to her. Would murder or suicide be the more publicly acceptable option? Would they forgive her? Could he forgive her, should she make that choice?

Tav rose from the floor, the image shaken away, and the mask put back in place. A deep breath was released before the door was answered with a smile and the face of Astarion greeted her. She was thankful it was him and not one of the more caring of the group; it would mean fewer questions asked, less concern over her wellbeing, and a chance that the walls would remain intact for another night.

He entered without invitation, many nights like this in the last six months that had thankfully grown less frequent since the birth. “You look like shit, darling.”

She smirked at his words, fully aware that the lack of sunlight was making her as pale as him, that the deep bags hung under her eyes. “Well, we can’t all match up to you, can we?”

Astarion made himself at home. Wine was grabbed from the cupboard and his feet put up on the coffee table. He noticed the baby but chose to ignore it, instead watching as Tav quickly sorted her hair in an attempt to look less haggard. “Resident do-gooder Wyll has asked me to come and check in on you.”

“And since when do you take orders from others?” She sat near him on the sofa, the faint stirring of the child drawing her attention. All she wanted was a moment like the old times, of two friends chatting about something that wasn’t related to birth or parenting, of wine and shameless flirting that meant nothing.

He watched her, her eyes allowing him to see the cracks that lay so visibly. “Since, 1 – it’s my turn, and 2 – it’s been a year.”

Tav scoffed. “Taking turns? Is that what you all do?” She ignored his second remark, a year since the Netherbrain, since that day when everything was supposed to change for the better.

“Quite frankly, yes. It’s one thing to be holed up alone with seven thousand spawn, it’s another to be holed up alone with that…” Astarion gestured his hand dismissively to the infant.

She knew he was right, life would be better without it, she wouldn’t be alone here, needing to be checked up on as if she there were something wrong with her. “You know you don’t have to. We’re fine.” The lie slipped out as easily as it ever did, the painted-on smile meeting her dead eyes. The small cry made her bristle, made the lie falter, and she hoped it was nothing but that one whimper.

He sipped his wine, the quickening of her heart rate deceptive as it cut through the heavy silence. “Still, we should at least share in a drink, shouldn’t we? A remembrance of sorts.”

“No, that’s not needed.” Tav was quick to cut off this suggestion. It was one thing for the wall to crumble in front of him that she was tired of sleepless nights, another for the actual truth to be pushed upon her and the dam to break.

The cry could be heard again, now with little pause between breaths. She wanted to ignore it, wanted it to die down, wanted anyone else to deal with it. But no one else would come. He would not come. She could see Astarion tensing with the building noise, and she had to react to save face. She stood, approaching the bassinet, a brief flash of annoyance in her eyes as she glanced down and picked up the baby. It was as if it knew, was manipulating her and drawing her towards ruin, as if the gods were not satisfied enough with the sacrifices she had already made.

“Aww, you just want to see uncle Astarion, don’t you?” This was what people wanted, fawning over the infant, exaggerated displays of affection that she loathed to give. She carried the baby over, its cries stopping, and she gritted her teeth, knowing the moment she put it down, the noise would commence again.

“Oh, no, darling. It’s quite alright.” He pulled his legs off the table, a clear discomfort, and with it knocked over the bottle of wine.

The scarlet liquid spread across the wood, dripping quickly onto the floor, a lazy flow as it crept between the floorboards. Tav couldn’t take her eyes from it, the baby lying amongst it, the rag doll limbs amongst its own blood, lifeless brown eyes that stared back at her. Her heart didn’t beat, she stood not in panic, only a numbness lay in her mind at the sight.

Astarion grabbed a cloth and began to clear the wine, Tav seemingly frozen with the child in her arms, her mind a million realms away, a feeling he knew too well himself. “You know, they say white wine can clear out red…”

Her heart took a beat, a recollection of where she was, of the company present, and she hoped the vision she had seen had been instantaneous so as not to draw attention. The baby was thankfully silent, and she cursed herself for not feeling upset at the sights she was seeing. Murder or suicide…It would be so easy.

She sat with the baby in her arms, Astarion cupping the glass of wine as he leaned away from her on the sofa. She could see how uncomfortable he was becoming, as if looking for a conversation that was casual enough to fulfil his objective for checking in on her.

“So, Gale-“

“Is gone.” She interrupted him off before he could even start. This was not the topic she needed. He should be there with her, holding her through sleepless nights, soothing their child as it cried through the darkened hours. He should be sharing in her tears, her smiles, consoling her as she struggled with her doubts. The baby began to stir again, as if picking up on her emotions.

“Tav, it’s been a year and you’ve not spoken with anyone about what happened.”

She ignored him, his voice and the quiet cries already beginning to overwhelm her senses. There was nothing to talk about; there was only this lonely guilt filled existence. Days and nights of tar, of emptiness, of decisions she couldn’t bring herself to make. Hoping her mask wouldn’t slip, she rocked the baby in an attempt to calm it. She was a proud, strong mother. She was a good mother.

He sighed, not knowing if he should bother to help or not, but after all Tav had done for him in the past, he knew he had to do something. “Pass it here.”

She lifted her head, a defensive hold on the baby in her arms. Was it maternal love or the pride that prevented her from handing it over so freely? “No, I can handle this.”

Astarion reached over tentatively. The baby smelt odd, like spices he could not pinpoint, and his stomach turned slightly, but he would not accept what she was saying. He gently took it into his arms, Tav’s resistance minimal, as if her body was mutinying against her mind. The child grew quiet again, a small coo as its hand reached for his shirt and small pink fingers hooked around the cotton.

Tears built up instantly in Tav’s eyes, a guilt that she hadn’t been good enough to do this one simple thing, that she had failed in being a mother. She wanted to hide it all, wanted to run away, but she also wanted to fall apart so that people knew how deep she had fallen into the darkness and could come and save her, save her just as he had done so long ago. She wiped at her eyes, but it made little difference, the sight of her friend holding her baby, a light in his own eyes she had never seen before, a moment of innocence on the face of a seasoned killer. Why could she not feel that way? What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she love…?

Her words were quiet. Astarion wouldn't care, and she knew it wouldn’t faze him. He wouldn’t coddle her like the others would. He was what she needed now that all was lost. “I can’t handle this…”

---

The night passed in a blur. He listened as she spoke of all that had happened in the last few months, of the things she had seen, things she believed she wanted, of pride and guilt that filled her heart to bursting. She spoke of the loneliness that consumed her and the child she could not connect to, of how it reminded her of the past she wished to forget, a past she longed for desperately. One life had ended, and another had begun and all she had been left with was shadows.

The baby slept through for the first time in months, Astarion having settled it in its crib as she had managed an hour of sleep. She’d waited ages in silence, listening for the sudden interruption that never came. It was as if it knew of her confession, and she hated and loved it for what it had done.

In the early hours her friend left, the rising sun announcing his need to depart, and with it she saw the light between the grey clouds, a new day ready to start again. The child stirred, and she stepped towards the crib with hesitation. She saw the purple robes that had been draped lightly at the base where it slept, the subtle scent of the library lying amongst spices bringing calm to the bedroom, and she heard the sound of the waves on docks, brushed up with the morning gale. Picking up her baby gathered with the robes, she held them both closely, the tears building, the relief, the love for her child breaking through the walls she had built.

The guilt flowed, but it was not met with a resignation; it was met with the promise to do better, to be the mother she should’ve been, to be the woman he had once loved. The child gazed at her, bright eyed, and she saw Gale once again; for a brief moment he was with her. She was not alone. She would never be alone.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #bg3 fanfiction #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #gale bg3 #galemance #bg3 astarion #bg3 angst

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scoonsalicious · 4 months

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8.1 Major

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Lily McIntyre, trainer for new SHIELD recruits at the Avengers Tower, has been in love with her best friend, Bucky Barnes, from the moment she met him. She's been content with her role of the #1 girl in Bucky's life, even if it means she has to sabotage a romantic relationship or two. It'll be worth it when he realizes that they're meant for each other, right? There's just one small problem: Lily McIntire never expected Bucky Barnes to fall for You.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions of violence, death, nightmares.

Word Count: 1.8k

Previously On...: Sexy times ensued, you went back to the compound with Bucky.

A/N: I got nothing today, lol

If you ever feel so inclined to support my work, hop on over to buy me a coffee; it's much appreciated! <3

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

The sun was an oppressive force, beating down mercilessly on Major and her unit as they trekked through the rocky outcrops. The air was thick and suffocating, making each breath a struggle in itself. Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes and soaking her clothes beneath the heavy body armor she wore.

The weight of her gear – body armor, helmet, ammunition, weapons, and equipment – felt unbearable. Each piece pressed down on her body, making her feel trapped and weighed down, claustrophobic. Each step was painful– the metal elements of her gear, heated by the merciless sun, burned against her skin and the rough fabric of her uniform chafed, creating raw, painful spots where her gear rubbed against her body.

As Major moved beneath the blistering Afghanistan sun, she licked at her cracked lips, but her tongue was bone dry. Every muscle in her body was aching with fatigue, the oppressive heat sapping her energy.

Her vision blurred, the combined effects of the heat and dehydration, and she blinked several times to clear her vision.

She looked back at the line of troops following her– the men and women who had volunteered for this mission, who were willing to put their already endangered lives at further risk to go behind enemy lines at her command. In the distance, she could still make out the sounds of battle around them: the distant gunfire, the low hum of helicopters, the crackling of radios.

Trying to ignore the pounding of her heart, Major paused to double-check her map and GPS before leading her unit through a narrow, rocky pass. The terrain was difficult and treacherous, and she needed to be careful of her footing. A slip or fall out here could mean putting the entire mission in jeopardy if they had to call for rescue. That was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

This hadn’t been the only route to reach their objective; after careful consideration, Major had selected the shortcut for the time it would cut off from their overall mission. Her second in command, Sergeant Lee Daniels, had protested, warning that the area hadn’t been properly scouted, and therefore the unit couldn’t be sure what might await them within the pass. In the end, though, it had been Major’s call, and she was confident in her decision.

“I trust you completely, Major,” Daniels had said to her before they began the mission. “If you’re convinced this is the right way to go, I’ll follow you.”

The unit had trekked their way through the rocky pass, guns at the ready and eyes constantly scanning the outcroppings for any signs of an enemy presence, but so far, all had been quiet.

The silence was broken by a deafening explosion ripping through the air, and Major was thrown to the ground. She struggled to regain her senses, ears ringing and vision blurred by dust and smoke. She fought to quell the rising panic surging through her as she tried to visually assess the state of her team.

They had scattered– some wounded, others scrambling for cover through the haze of dust and debris filtering through the air.

Through the chaos, she could hear the sound of one of her men shouting “IED! We’re hit!”

Scrambling to her feet, Major felt her heart nearly pounding out of her chest with both fear and guilt. She was the one who had insisted on this path. She was the one who had dismissed Daniels’ earlier concerns about potential threats in the area. And now, as the dust began to settle, she spotted Daniels, lying on the ground, his body twisted and covered in blood. Somehow, through the madness, his eyes had managed to find hers, and he locked onto her gaze with pain and confusion

“Daniels!” Major screamed as she rushed to his side. She reached down, trying to apply pressure to his wounds, but her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She watched helplessly as blood began seeping through her fingers, staining the tips crimson. “I’m sorry, Daniels. I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, but her apologies were no use.

In his final moments, Daniels’ voice was weak, but still he managed to whisper, “It wasn’t your fault, Major. It happens…” His words hung in the air, hollow and meaningless to her. As she watched, the life drained from his eyes, and his hand went limp in hers.

The next thing Major knew, she was standing alone in a vast, empty desert, the silence oppressive. The sky darkened, and shadows stretched across the sand, morphing into the shape of a man. As the shadows solidified, Daniels' features appeared within them, his eyes filled with the same haunting look of pain… and betrayal.

“Why did you lead us here, Major?” his voice echoes, blending with the wind. “You knew the risks. Was my life really worth saving a few hours?”

Major tried to explain, to beg for Daniels’ forgiveness, but no words would come out. Her mouth moved silently, her throat constricted with grief and guilt. The shadows multiply, surrounding her with an infinite number of Daniels that close in around her, their faces accusing, their voices a chorus of anguish.

“You should have listened,” they chanted. “You should have protected us.”

The ground beneath Major began to crumble, and she felt herself sinking into the darkness. She reached out, desperate to hold onto something, anything, but her hands only grasped at empty air. She was falling, falling into an abyss of her own making, surrounded by the echoes of her mistakes and the faces of the one she couldn’t save.

You woke with a start, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat; the t-shirt of Bucky’s you’d gone to sleep in plastered to your skin. You put a hand to your chest– your heart was pounding so hard, it felt like it might burst from your ribcage. The darkness surrounding you felt suffocating, and as your eyes adjusted to it, you began to panic– this was not your room, and in your anxiety-fueled state, you were convinced you were still trapped in the abyss of your nightmare.

No, you reminded herself. You weren’t trapped in the abyss– you were in Bucky’s room. You were safe. You were someplace where the memory dream could no longer hurt you.

“Sugar?” You felt Bucky sit up next to you and slide his arms around your waist. “Are you alright?”

As the adrenaline pumping through your system began to fade, you were hit with an almost unbearable weight of embarrassment. “Yeah,” you croaked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep, Bucky.”

“Nuh uh,” he said, leaning over to flick on his bedside lamp, and you breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the receding dark. “I know what a nightmare looks like, doll. Have to say, I’m usually the one waking up screaming from ‘em, though.”

You turned your head to look over at him, and saw no recrimination or judgment in his eyes, simply understanding. “You get them, too?” you asked him, your voice small.

Bucky nodded and reached over to tuck a strand of hair away from your sweat-slicked forehead. “Used to get them every night, when I first got away from Hydra,” he confessed. “Sometimes, my body would wake up, but my mind would still be stuck in the dream. I’d get violent. Hurt myself. Punched Steve once when he had the bad idea of tryin’ to wake me up from one.”

You offered him a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “How’d you get them to stop?” you asked.

Bucky’s arm wrapped around your waist as he leaned back against the headboard, pulling you into him so that you were leaning against his chest. “They didn’t,” he admitted. “They’re not nearly so frequent now– maybe one every handful of months, but they’ve never gone away.”

“It’s been a while since I had one,” you told him. “I think… I think sleeping in a different place might have set me off.”

Bucky’s expression turned apologetic. “Oh, doll,” he began, “I’m so sorry– if I’d known, I never woulda insisted on you spending the night here. We coulda gone to your place–”

You shook your head, wanting to dispel him of any notion of guilt he might have. “No, no, Bucky. It’s not your fault. I wanted to spend the night here with you.” You sighed. “How… how’d you learn to deal with them, without letting them drive you crazy?”

Bucky chuckled as he ran his hand up and down your arm, and you could feel the vibrations of it through his chest and against your back. It made you feel warm and safe. “Lily was actually a big help with that,” he said. “She was staying at the Compound for a few weeks while renovations were being done on her house in town, and one night, she heard me havin’ a nightmare. She busted through the door and woke me outta it. Offered to stay with me til I fell back asleep. Some nights, I just couldn’t, so she’d stay up til dawn just talkin’ to me, gettin’ my mind off of it. I think it’s what helped us become such good friends,” he admitted. “She was there for me when everyone else thought I was crazy. Unstable. She made sure I wasn’t alone.”

You felt a twinge of… something at Bucky’s words. While you were glad he’d had someone with him, someone to help him through all of those horrible nights, you couldn’t help but feel envious of the intimacy it would have created between him and Lily, the way she had been there for him and the bond that had resulted because of it. Just acknowledging the thought made you disgusted with yourself.

“I’m thankful you had her,” you told him, choosing to focus on the positive component of his revelation instead of your negative emotions. “I imagine having someone to talk to about your nightmares helped take away some of their power.”

Bucky hummed behind you. “That’s a really good way of putting it, sugar, and I think you’re right.” He kissed your temple. “So, let me be that someone for you, yeah? Let me be the person you talk about your nightmares with, so we can take away their power over you.”

His offer made your chest ache with gratitude and affection. Here he was, offering to create that intimacy, that bond, with you. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’d like that. A lot.”

“We don’t have to start talking about them right now,” Bucky said. “Or even tonight. We’ll do it when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” you said, turning your head so you could nuzzle your cheek against his chest. “I don’t know that I’m ready to talk about it right this minute, but knowing that you’ll be there to listen? Well, it means a lot to me, Bucky.” “You mean a lot to me, Major,” he clarified. “And I want to spend as long as you’ll let me proving that to you.”

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky fanfic

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wen-kexing-apologist · 11 months

Text

Ray and Rehab

I am watching carefully for a Love Heals All plot around Sand, Ray, and Ray's alcohol dependency. But I will say, as a harm reductionist, rehab has a much lower success rate for people who unwillingly enter treatment. In order for Ray to have really any hope of maintaining a period of sobriety, he needs to be the one who makes the decision to actually take treatment seriously.

So it is really, vitally important to me, to initially be able to see Ray be emotionally impacted by the questions his therapist was asking him, deflecting, and then seeing it actually sink in a bit the next morning. It is absolutely necessary as a scene to see Ray be the one, with no one around him, with no external pressure standing in the room watching, of his own free will and volition to stop, put his glass down, and start throwing away his alcohol.

And because there are cycles of addiction, it is also very important, in my mind, to see that Ray immediately turns back to alcohol to cope with strong emotions. The second that he feels betrayed by Sand, that he turns back to alcohol.

I think there is a tenuous line to balance here, because I do think that the continuous neglect Ray experienced from his mother, the guilt he almost certainly feels around her death because he ruined her life by just existing, and the fact that his friends are compassion fatigued out with him, are decent foundations from which Ray builds a complete disregard for his life.

Which is part of what I personally think contributes to his alcoholism. So in my mind, in order for treatment to be successful, Ray needs to understand that his life has value. And I do think that it is totally fair for that realization to come through Ray having consistent support from someone.

What I do find critical in the depiction of Ray's final arc here, is that Sand is trying to get him to go to rehab, but he isn't stopping Ray from drinking. For me, this is critical for two reasons:

Again, as a harm reductionist, it is far more important to me that people with a substance dependencies are engaging in substance use as safely as possible, rather than them stopping use. Sand being with Ray where he can watch him, (potentially try to moderate), and drive Ray home is harm reduction.

Runs counter (to me), to a Love Heals All plotline, expressly because Sand takes Ray to places he can drink, (and it looks like they have beer bottles in the bathtub next week). Sand wants Ray to stop drinking but beyond giving him the resources to seek treatment, (and yes, taking Ray up on the ultimatum), he hasn't done anything else to stop Ray from drinking.

(thirdly alcohol withdrawal is super fucking dangerous, so I'm lowkey glad that Sand isn't trying to stop Ray from drinking when he's not around medical professionals. But I'm not counting that cause I doubt Sand would know this).

Like I said, there is a tenuous line to balance between Sand being Ray's savior from alcoholism, and Sand just helping Ray find enough self-motivation to attempt sobriety. And so far, I do think they have set up a couple good indicators towards the former.

#only friends the series #ofts #only friends #sandray #khaotung thanawat #first kanaphan #firstkhao

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zeciex · 7 months

Text

A Vow of Blood - 67

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 67: The Daughter of Insolence

AO3 - Masterlist

Gently closing the door behind her, Alicent turned to see Aemond seated by the hearth, his face cast in a warm, orange flow that softened the sharp lines of his face. His fingers twitched restlessly, betraying an underlying sense of unease.

Crossing the room, Alicent chose the chair adjacent to her son and sank into it, letting out a weary sigh. Her gaze drifted to the dance of the flames, while a nagging headache began to stake its claim, her thoughts swirling in a tumultuous mix of duties and plans yet to be executed. With so much looming come morning, the current moment of silence offered a brief respite, a chance to ponder the dawn’s impending challenges.

The quiet between them lingered before being gently fractured by Aemond’s soft-spoken words, his voice so low it nearly melded with the hiss and pop of the fire. “I went to Viserys. I saw him the night of…”

Alicent turned towards her son, a heaviness descending upon her heart as she digested his admission. A surge of apprehension gripped her, a fear of the unknown conversation they might have had, fear of the declarations Viserys might have made. “Why?”

Aemond appeared to shift uneasily at the question, his hands moving with nervous energy. “It’s irrelevant now.”

A furrow of concern formed on Alicent’s brow as she observed him intently, the firelight casting his face in a glow that softened his edges yet seemed to shroud his inner thoughts in shadows. His unusual decision to seek out his father, especially on the very eve of his death, puzzled her. It wasn’t like Aemond. Its importance was undeniable, instilling a sense of foreboding in her as she speculated it involved Daenera.

Alicent absentmindedly traced a nail along the skin of her thumb, the repetitive action providing a strange sort of solace. It appeared her son’s restlessness had crept under her skin as well. “Did he say anything?”

“He called me a plague sent to destroy him,” Aemond answered, his tone devoid of amusement, laden with the fresh hurt those words inflicted.

A sharp pang of empathy pierced Alicent’s heart, the harshness of such a declaration embedding itself within her as though a blade had been thrust into her back. The agony stemmed not solely from the cruelty of the remark but from the knowledge that Aemond had been its recipient. A wave of sorrow for her son washed over her, creating a fissure in her understanding of Viserys. The disparity between the man she knew and the one who would utter such words to their child left her grappling with disbelief and heartache–and yet, it was not the first time he had levied cruel words at their children.

Despite her turmoil, Alicent instinctively sought to rationalize her husband’s behavior, adhering to the role of a supportive wife.

“That’s,” she began, struggling the comprehend the reason behind Viserys’s harsh words to their son, “You must remember, Viserys was under the effects of the milk-of-the-poppy. It’s not like him to–”

“You needn’t defend him any longer,” Aemond cut her off decisively, to which Alicent let out a weary sigh, her fingers momentarily pressing against the bridge of her nose in a gesture of fatigue and resignation.

“I’m relieved that he’s gone,” Aemond declared, his words sharp with the bitterness of a son wounded by his father’s actions. And how could he not be bitter? But still, he shouldn’t say such a thing.

“Don’t utter such words,” Alicent chided, her voice tinted with worry. She couldn’t bear to hear Aemond express such sentiments; it wasn’t proper. “He is still your father, despite everything.

“I refuse to grieve for him,” Aemond stated, turning to lock eyes with her, the firelight casting his face in a dramatic interplay of light and shadow. The contrast accentuated the harsh lines of his face, with one side obscured by the eyepatch, the vivid scar etched into his skin glowing as if aflame. “I feel no sorrow. Why should I? In his eyes, I was a monster–a plague sent to destroy him. He couldn’t even stand to look at me.”

Alicent’s heart shattered anew for her son. Beneath his stoic exterior, the depths of his pain resonated through his words, mirrored in the contours of his face. She felt a tightness in her throat as she fought back tears, the weight of sorrow pressing down on her.

Memories flooded back–of gripping his hand tightly while the Maester painstakingly removed the damaged eye, of being by his side as the wound was stitched together, enduring the agony of having the wound reopened for thorough cleansing to prevent any infection that might corrupt his blood. She was there, holding his hand as the Maester excised a portion of his eyelid and meticulously cleared the socket of burgeoning scar tissue to insert the sapphire, all while Aemond’s body writhed in feverish torment, his skin burning, sweat matting his hair to his fever-flushed face. And through it all, she vividly recalled the absence of Viserys.

Alicent had resented him for his absence, for what he had allowed their son to go through. Viserys had withheld the justice his son was rightfully due and chose to ignore the anguish he had permitted Aemond, his son, to endure, acting as though the harrowing experience had never taken place.

Yet again, she frequently found herself trying to excuse his failings. It was Viserys, after all, who had given Aemond the eyepatch and had instructed the Maesters to spare no effort in ensuring his survival through the fever. He bought him a new sword and sent for books to arrive from the Citadel. He had tried, even as he couldn’t look at him.

“Your father was a weak king,” Alicent acknowledged, pausing to close her eyes briefly, a gesture of contemplation and resignation. When she looked again, her focus was drawn to the fire. “He wasn’t one to face his shortcomings. But he was a… decent husband and father…”

“He failed us,” Aemond declared, his voice laden with resentment, each word an indictment of his father. “He failed you as a husband. He favored Rhaenyra over us–were blind to the nature of her bastards. He was weak and he never cared for us. You were more of a servant to him than a wife. You needn’t excuse or defend him any longer, Mother.”

“Aemond,” Alicent responded, her sigh carrying the weight of exhaustion.

“He always hated us, his own children,” Aemond persisted, his words dripping with resentment and bitterness. “He could barely acknowledge our existence.”

It hadn’t always been like that, Alicent thought. Or, perhaps, it had been and she had just failed to see it. There had been a time, she knew, where there had been glimpses of happiness–of love.

Viserys had been a decent father, though not an exemplary one. The joy and pride he had displayed upon the birth of Aegon were vivid in her mind–his elation at having the long-desired son were moments she cherished. She had done her duty, born him a son, an heir–only for the succession to never change. Helaena’s arrival had brought happiness too, though she had been a fussy child. Yet, by the time Aemond was born, Rhaenyra gave birth to her own son, Jacaerys, not long after. Viserys had never been prouder or happier than at the birth of his first grandson. Even as, with each birth, it became clearer and clearer that they were not her husband’s but instead the illegitimate children of House Strong.

Viserys had been blind with a love he had never afforded anyone else.

She had devoted herself to be his wife; her youth, her innocence, birthing the son he had ardently wished for, and given him more still. And yet, her contributions seemed to always pale in comparison to Rhaenyra.

Aegon was the son Viserys had wanted, he was the boy her father had demanded of her. He was supposed to be for the crown. And Helaena was made to be the future Queen. Aemond was the spare. And Daeron, her youngest, he had been her solace until Otto made the decision to send him away to be nurtured in Oldtown.

“He never hated you,” Alicent responded, her voice imbued with a gentle, contemplative quality. Extending her hand towards Aemond, she laid it tenderly on his arm, offering a reassuring squeeze. “Your father loved you and I will not have you deny him this. He loved you.”

“But we were never them,” Aemond mused softly.

“No,” Alicent conceded with a note of solemn agreement. “We were never them.”

Despite everything, there was undeniably love for their children. He did hold affection for them, somewhere, yet Alicent could never measure up to Aemma’s memory, haunted by her ghost for years. And Aegon could never replace the son he lost. His love for them was shadowed by the ghosts of those he had lost, and the sweetness of recollection–for no one could ever measure up to the memory.

The affection he held for them could never compare to the love he had for Rhaenyra and her children.

Alicent had poured her essence into embodying the ideal wife for Viserys, the perfect daughter for her father, and the loving mother her children deserved. Yet, it was never enough.

All these things she had toiled with, seemed to come so easily to Rhaenyra.

Alicent stared at the flames. “The hour grows late; you should try and find some rest before morning.”

Inhaling deeply, Alicent rose to her feet, a profound fatigue embedding itself into her very bones, her muscles protesting with stiffness and soreness after the day’s exertions. Her footsteps echoed a soft click against the floor as she approached Aemond, pausing before him. Bending forward, she murmured, “I’ll go see to Aegon, and make sure he has not met with any further mishap.”

Gently, she kissed the crown of his head, then retreated a step. Together, they navigated the quiet of the room, stepping into the corridor where shadows seemed to dance in the dim light.

With a comforting squeeze to his arm, she advised, “Do not go roaming the halls. Get some rest, it will be a long day on the morrow.”

Leaving Aemond at the entrance to her chambers, Alicent continued down the corridor, her path veering towards Aegon’s chamber, the weight of the coming day already pressing on her shoulders.

Gently pushing open the doors to her son’s room, Alicent stepped inside, immediately greeted by the sound of tranquil breathing indicative of deep slumber. Aegon was exactly where she had left him, sprawled on his stomach with half of his face buried in the pillow, an arm dangling over the edge of the bed as his lips were slightly open, inhaling and exhaling rhythmically. Ser Arryk Cargyll maintained the quiet watch near the doorway, his presence a silent guard for the prince’s restful state, while Lady Mertha busied herself with arranging his attire for the morning, each piece placed meticulously on a nearby table.

Alicent ventured closer to Aegon, observing him with a mix of tenderness and contemplation. In these moments of repose, he appeared almost a child, his youthful innocence unshielded. The usual harsh lines of discontent that seemed to etch his features were absent.

Back when he was an infant, Alicent often found herself watching him sleep, finding a peaceful solace in his quietude that starkly contrasted with the turmoil of his waking cries.

She tenderly swept his hair from his forehead, her fingers lingering on his skin with a gentle touch. In the hush of his slumber, Alicent found him more endearing, easier to love. In these tranquil moments, his presence did not test the bounds of her affection.

Though his arrival into this world has been quick and marked by an ease that belied the challenges to come, loving him had not been as straightforward. In his infancy, despite his frequent cries that seemed to echo her inner disquiet, he was more manageable. Alicent had endeavored to imbue him with a sense of duty from a young age hoping to enlighten him about his crucial role and the immense potential that lay within him–on his shoulders rested their family’s future and fortunes. However, as he matured, he grew defiant and stubborn, mirroring the less admirable traits of his father without exhibiting redeeming qualities to counterbalance them. Yet, deep down, Alicent held a conviction about the greatness he was capable of achieving. He could rise to be a great king; she believed this was their divine purpose, the reason the gods had granted her a son.

Aegon shifted in his sleep, drawing a deep breath before rolling away, his face turning from Alicent’s gaze.

Silently retreating, Alicent caught Lady Mertha’s attention with a glance, subtly nodding towards the doorway as a signal to depart. The lady’s maid heeded the unspoken command, accompanying Alicent out into the corridor. The door clicked shut behind them, casting shadows that swallowed them in near-total darkness. Side by side, they navigated the silent, expansive corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast.

“Have the preparations for the Princess’s chambers been completed?” Alicent inquired, clasping her hands together in a composed gesture.

“All has been removed, Your Grace,” Lady Mertha confirmed. “However, I would suggest it prudent to delay her relocation until she proves worthy of such privileges.”

“We shall have her moved back to her chambers regardless, to avoid any impression of punishing her,” Alicent decided, her voice carrying a tone of finality. Their footsteps resounded against the stone floor, their presence briefly filling the grandeur of the great staircase, sounds bouncing off the high ceilings and stone walls as they descended.

“Over the many years of your service, you have been loyal to me,” Alicent began, her voice imbued with gratitude. “Your devotion and integrity are qualities I deeply value, especially now, as we face a challenging task. The princess is headstrong and defiant, much like her mother, and she requires someone with a guiding yet steadfast hand to lead her on the right path. I entrust her to your supervision, to ensure she does not become a thorn in our side. It is imperative she is never left unattended; her propensity to evade supervision has already caused us enough concern. We cannot risk her escape or any… rebellious actions.”

“I cannot oversee her at all times on my own,” Mertha pointed out.

“Guards will be posted at her door constantly and will accompany her wherever she goes,” Alicent assured. “Additionally, you can enlist one of the newer maids for assistance–one that understands to keep her out of trouble.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mertha accepted the charge, giving a short nod.

“I intend to have a word with her first, after which you may escort her to her chambers for the night. You’re dismissed to make the necessary arrangements,” Alicent directed.

With a respectful nod, “Your Grace,” Mertha bowed slightly before departing, her steps echoing as she retreated through the stony silence of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Alicent then continued her own path through the courtyards and into the Keep.

Winding through the halls within the Keep, Alicent ascended the serpentine staircase leading to the west wing, only to discover it was not as abandoned as she had hoped. The sight of her son, poised outside Daenera’s chamber, caused her heart to constrict.

The guard stationed by the door seamlessly merged into the darkness as he neared her, his steps echoing. Their gazes intersected for a fleeting moment, and with a subtle shake of her head, Alicent signaled her wish to remain unseen. Complying, the guard repositioned himself against the wall, still close enough to the princesses' confinement to keep watch, his gaze fixed forward, effectively rendering her invisible.

Alicent’s eyes lingered on Aemond, who stood transfixed by the door, his only movement the restless twitch of his fingers.

As he inched closer to the entrance, a wave of dread washed over her, the prospect of him defying her wishes once more–for Daenera’s sake–weighing heavily on her. The possibility of him crossing that threshold yet again stirred a deep unease within her.

A sense of foreboding enveloped Alicent, a chilling fear that Aemond was drifting beyond her grasp. Dread wrapped its cold hand around her heart, clutching it tightly. The notion of losing him, especially to Daenera, was unbearable. Aemond had always been the one she could lean on, the steadfast son whose loyalty to his family and duty overshadowed any personal desires. Yet, now, his resolve seemed to falter–all because of her.

Months had passed since Alicent discovered the affair, and an equal amount of time since she had told him to end it. Yet, as the moon had turned, it became apparent that her son’s defiance remained constant. She knew him to be willful, bold even, but she never thought he would be this spiteful. Despite her clear instructions and explicit command to end the fling and commit himself to a more suitable union, he persisted in his disobedience. She had extended him the courtesy of choosing his own wife, a rare privilege. Nonetheless, against all counsel and her express wishes, he continued to choose Daenera.

She observed him with both concern and disbelief as he leaned closer to the door, his face momentarily swallowed by the shadow it cast. Alicent felt a knot tighten in her throat at the sight. The influence the princess had exerted over her son perplexed her; it was as if Daenera had bewitched him, woven a spell around him to lure him from all that was right, to steal him away from his family and duty.

Alicent harbored no illusions about Daenera’s intentions. She was convinced that the princess would exploit Aemond’s affections, attempting to sway his loyalties away from his family. And should those efforts prove fruitless, as Alicent knew they would be, Alicent, too, recognized the vindictiveness in Daenera’s nature. In her heart, Alicent feared Daenera’s influence would lead her son down a path of misery and regret.

Alicent’s deepest wish for her children as for them to claim what was rightfully theirs, to lead lives filled with prosperity and seize the moments of happiness whenever possible. She had hoped that Aemond would secure a future that was not only joyous but also stable, perhaps with a Baratheon girl as his wife–someone who recognized her role. It could even have been a Lannister if he so wished, or a Tyrell. Anyone but Daenera.

For a fleeting moment, Alicent speculated if the gods had sent Daenera to test them, to test their strength and perseverance–or if it was some sort of punishment.

Aemond pulled away from the door after a long, lingering moment, his posture straightening as if resolving himself. He stared at the door for a moment longer before he exhaled and then turned to retreat down the hall.

Alicent watched him as he slipped into the darkness, watched as the light failed to penetrate the encroaching shadows that eventually enveloped him, his presence reduced to the fading sound of his footsteps until he vanished entirely. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward from her concealment, her heart thrumming with apprehension. The guard followed her and proceeded to unlock and open the door for her, then stepped aside to grant her entry.

Poised on the threshold, Alicent felt a brief sense of relief at her son's withdrawal. Perhaps she shouldn’t be too concerned with him.

The room was dimly lit by the faint glow of the hearth, casting an interplay of warmth and chill in the air–a testament to the fire’s inability to fully dispel the cold entirely. The air felt old and stale, carrying a dampness that lingered unpleasantly in the throat.

Alicent stopped forward into the chamber, her gaze immediately drawn to the figure slumped in a chair, enshrouded in a black cloak that was all too familiar. The girls attention seemed fixated on the fire, unfazed by the sound of the door opening, and it gave Alicent the opportunity to study her. Her hair hung in unruly curls and strands, a smear of red on her cheek and on the fingers that continuously fidgeted with something in her hand.

For an instant, Alicent didn’t see the defiant girl she had braced herself to confront. Instead, she glimpsed a figure that might invoke pity. However, as the girl shifted, locking eyes with her, Alicent was met with that unmistakable contempt, a flame as fervent as the one crackling in the hearth–an insolent daughter of an insolent mother. What struck Alicent even more deeply was the girl’s dismissive return to watching the flames and her biting remark, “Please excuse the absence of courtesies, Your Grace. It appears that unjust confinement has a way of eroding such formalities rather swiftly.”

In the dimly lit chamber, Daenera sat alone, the passage of time marked only by the sporadic delivery of meals. The routine of food arriving – once at what she assumed to be mid morning, then again at noon, and then with the in the evening – was her only indicator of the day slipping by in her confinement. The hours stretched endlessly, each moment an eternity.

Daenera idly turned over the golden coin in her hand, its edges catching the dim light as she sat curled in the chair watching the dying hearth. She kept the coin in perpetual motion, a solitary distraction from the oppressive silence that enveloped her. It was a silence so profound that it seemed to amplify the whir of thoughts racing through her mind.

Daenera’s relentless search for an escape had left no corner of her chamber unexplored. She had searched every inch of the walls, delved under the bed, rummaged through the contents of the closets and cupboards, only to be met with stark disappointment. The room, in its desolate state, offered no hint of salvation. Lacking weapons or tools, she found herself devoid of means to force the door open or defend herself. The realization of her utter confinement then sank in.

Exhausted and defeated, she had finally settled back down in front of the hearth. The cloak wrapped around her offering only a little comfort against the chill. The cold had seeped through the floor, numbing her feet and creeping into her body, and she had drawn them up on the seat in an attempt to regain some warmth in them.

Memories, unbidden and sharp as blades, sliced through her thoughts. Her mind replayed the horrific scene of Ser Criston Cole’s sword impaling Joyce, the vibrant red blood that had marred the blade, and the dark pool that had spread like a macabre shadow on the floor. The visceral memory of the warm, sticky blood on her fingers haunted her, and her hands still bore the grime of it, the blood brown and crackling.

Her thoughts raced chaotically. Fenrick, her men, Jelissa, and Patrick – their fates hung in the unknown. Were Meraxes sailing towards Dragonstone or had they been apprehended before even leaving the docks? She wondered if anyone had dared to defy the Hightowers, if anyone had found the courage to inform her mother of the dire circumstances.

Her mind moved towards her grandsire and wondered with a mixture of dread and sorrow about his final moments. Was his passing a cruel act of murder, or had the relentless embrace of death finally claimed him in its natural course? Was his death as brutal as Joyce’s or was it kinder in its swiftness?

Her mind was haunted by the images of what might have become of his body. Were they bestowing him the funeral of a Targaryen king, or had they consigned him to a more humble interment, following the traditions of the Faith?

Daenera felt a sharp pang of sorrow clenching her heart, resonating deeply within her chest, and she pulled the fabric of the cloak more snugly around her, seeking a semblance of comfort in its folds. Where was Aemond in all of this? Did he know of her confinement in this desolate chamber? Would he even care?

As she continued her musing she idly toyed with the coin, turning it between her fingers. Her thumb, in a repetitive motion, traced the coin’s thin edge, feeling each notch and curve as if seeking solace in its familiar metallic coolness.

Tears, not unfamiliar to her eyes in recent days, threatened to spill again. She despised this feeling of helplessness, the gnawing isolation that enveloped her. She loathed the way she clung to the cloak as if it were the only thing keeping her sane, its scent a bitter reminder of a freedom now lost. The dirt and grime on her skin, and the memory of Lary’s leering gaze and the humiliation he inflicted upon her – lingered like a foul taste in her mouth.

Daenera detested this feeling of being a bird trapped within a cage, her wings clipped, her sky reduced to the expanse of a ceiling. Most of all, she hated the way her mind incessantly circled these thoughts, trapping her in a relentless cycle of despair and anger.

The room’s oppressive silence was suddenly broken by a soft click, followed by the gentle creak of the door as it swung open. A narrow beam of light sliced through the dimness, accompanied by a fresh gust of air that briefly challenged the room’s stale atmosphere. Daenera’s gaze immediately darted towards the entrance, focusing on the woman who had come to retrieve the untouched tray of food. It was the same woman who had brought it earlier, her movements efficient.

The older woman methodically tended to the hearth, stirring the dying embers into life and adding more firewood, coaxing the flames to grow. After ensuring the fire’s vitality, she turned her attention to the chamber pot, lifting it with practiced ease and disappearing momentarily to dispose of its contents outside.

Daenera had attempted to engage with the woman in conversation during her earlier visit, seeking even the slightest of human connection in isolation – to pry information out of her, anything about what was happening outside.

But her efforts were met with silence; the woman remained resolutely mute, responding to none of her inquiries or pleas. Eventually, Daenera had ceased trying, resigning herself to silence and so, she remained silent this time as well.

She stayed close to the hearth, watching as the flames consumed the new firewood. The heat it offered was hardly enough, but it provided a small respite from the bone-deep chill that had taken residence within her.

At times, her desperation had led her to consider more drastic measures – the thought of setting the room’s sparse furniture ablaze had flickered through her mind. But the practicalities of such an act quickly quashed the idea.

The resultant smoke would likely choke her before the guards would manage to intervene. Weighing the risks, Daenera had reluctantly decided against it, leaving the furniture untouched, her gaze drifting to the flames that danced mockingly before her.

Time drifted languidly, its passage barely noticed by Daenera as she was lost in contemplation. The creak of the door opening once more only faintly registered in her consciousness, her focus deeply entrenched in the embers of the hearth.

Dismissing the sound as merely the return of the maid, she paid it little heed. In her hand, the coin she idly toyed with briefly captured a stray gleam from the fire, its eye momentarily sparkling in the dim light before she flipped it over to the spiraled side.

And then, the palpable change in the room’s atmosphere soon pierced her haze. The air seemed to thicken with a presence more significant than that of a silent maid. Daenera’s gaze slowly lifted from the flames, and she found herself unexpectedly locking eyes with the Queen. There she stood, a figure of composed authority, her hands neatly clasped in front of her. Her lips were set in a tight line, and her eyes held a discerning, calculating sharpness that seemed to penetrate the very core of Daenera’s being.

“Please excuse the absence of courtesies, Your Grace,” Daenera’s voice was low, tinged with a bitter edge as she spoke without lifting her gaze from the flames. “It appears that unjust confinement has a way of eroding such formalities rather swiftly.”

Her thumb traced the curve of the coin, pressing it into the soft flesh of the pad of her finger. “Have you come to deliver news of my execution? Will I meet my end as the alleged bastard you claim me to be, perhaps dangling at the end of a rope? Or does my Targaryen blood warrant a more dignified demise at the hands of the king’s executioner?”

Despite the veneer of defiant nonchalance in her tone, an underlying current of fear wrapped around her heart. She wanted to live – by the Gods she wanted to live.

Swallowing thickly, she continued. “Or have you concluded a more quiet end would be preferable, so as not to disturb the smallfolk?”

Alicent finally broke her silence, her voice carrying a cold, matter-of-fact quality. “My father did indeed call for your quiet execution. The same fate he sought for your mother.”

Daenera’s jaw tightened, her teeth clenched as she struggled to maintain her composure. Her gaze was steadfastly locked onto the fire, where the flames danced in an array of yellow, orange, and red, their tongues flickering and snapping as if in cruel jest, echoing the taunt that haunted her mind: You should have been wiser. Now, see where your choices have led you.

Alicent inhaled deeply, seemingly gathering her thoughts and steeling herself for what she was about to say. “I must admit, I hold no affection for you, but I do not wish to shed blood unnecessarily.”

Daenera turned to face the Queen directly, her eyes meeting Alicent’s with an unyielding hardness as Alicent continued. “We will present our conditions to your mother. Should she recognize Aegon as the legitimate heir to the throne and bend the knee, further conflict can be avoided.”

A scoff left her mouth as she shook her head in disbelief.

Daenera scoffed, shaking her head in indignation.

“She will then be permitted to live out her remaining days in peace on Dragonstone along with your brothers,” Alicent finished, her tone unmoving.

Daenera fixed her eyes on Alicent, her expression falling somewhere between skepticism and sheer disbelief. It was unmistakably clear that Alicent held onto the notion of resolving this peacefully, without the necessity of violence. Daenera found herself wondering whether this belief stemmed from a place of naivety or genuine hope for peace.

Otto Hightower would never tolerate rivals to the throne. He may temporarily stay his hand, but Daenera was certain that he would order their execution, regardless of any submission or bending of the knee.

“How gracious of you, to grant us our days on Dragonstone,” Daenera responded, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she shook her head in disbelief at the proposition.

Alicent, maintaining her composure, asserted, “The terms are equitable.”

Daenera’s response was immediate and scathing. “‘Equitable’?! My mother is the legitimate heir to the Iron Throne. Viserys named her as his successor; it is her rightful inheritance.”

“If your mother truly values the lives of her children, she will capitulate,” Alicent declared, her tone imbued with an undercurrent of condescension. “It is what the King wished.”

Slowly rising from her position on the chair, her movements somewhat unsteady as she acclimatized to the sudden surge of blood through her legs. Clenching the coin in her palm, she gripped it so tightly that it dug into her skin. “What the King wanted was to see his daughter ascend the throne.”

Alicent’s lips tightened, pursing further before she spoke in a tone of solemnity. “Years ago, on Aegon’s second name day, my husband confided in me. He spoke of a dream, a vision he believed prophetic, foretelling that a male child of his line wearing the Conqueror’s crown. By then, he had not had a male heir, and thus, named your mother as his heir, as a means to settle the succession and ensure that his brother never wore the crown.”

Her words were tinged with an unmistakable bitterness as she unfolded and then refolded her hands in a precise motion, her posture regal and unyielding, embodying her status as the Queen. “He appointed your mother out of necessity. Over the years, this decision was marred with regret and doubt. There’s no questioning his love for his daughter, your mother, but he always believed it was not the rightful path. In his mind, his son was destined heir. Thus, in his final moments, he amended the succession, proclaiming Aegon as his true successor.”

A sharp pang of anguish jabbed at Daenera’s heart, her expression darkening into a deeper scowl. Her heart throbbed erratically, a mix of fear and disbelief churning in her stomach. “I don’t believe you. Viserys would never alter the succession so drastically – so suddenly. He would never disinherit his daughter.”

Alicent, undeterred, maintained her stance. “It was his final wish to rectify his mistake. He chose Aegon as his heir.”

“Is this his decree, or merely your own desires masquerading as his final wish?” Daenera challenged, her gaze intensely focused on the Queen.

Alicent’s response was a slightly uptick of her chin, her eyes hardening into a frosty stare.

“It seems implausible that he would so drastically reverse his stance,” Daenera pressed on. “After all, he publicly supported his own trueborn grandson as heir of Driftmark, and thereby, reinforcing my mother’s claim to the throne. Why endure the ordeal of court appearances, of taking his place on the Iron Throne, if not to ensure his will was done?”

“I cannot pretend to know his innermost thoughts, I can only relay the words he shared with me in private,” Alicent replied, her tone edged with a firm conviction. “He explicitly expressed his wish for Aegon to ascend the throne.”

“What proof do you have to substantiate this claim?”

Alicent’s lips tightened, her gaze sharpening. “He entrusted his final wish to me–”

Daenera interjected, “So, there are no witnesses to corroborate your statement? No official record or scribe to document this decree? We only have your word to rely on?”

“My word should suffice; I would not lie about such matters,” Alicent stated, her tone resolute – righteous even. However, the absence of tangible evidence cast an unmistakable shadow of doubt over her claim.

Daenera responded with a mix of disbelief and scorn, “Naturally, you would resort to deceit. You’re poised to gain everything from this – or conversely, stand to lose it all if the truth were otherwise.”

The notion that Viserys had a sudden change of heart seemed to her nothing more than a convenient fabrication by the Hightowers to seize power. With no witnesses to corroborate such a claim, its validity was dubious – and yet, it appeared to hold sway with the council.

Daenera surmised that this very issue must have been the cause of Lord Beesbury’s demise.

Lord Lyman Beesbury, having held the position of Master of Coin since the onset of Viserys’s reign, had a long-standing friendship with the King. He had known him far longer than anyone on the Council. His intimate knowledge of Viserys’s character and intentions made him unlikely to be swayed by mere assertion from the Queen. He would have asked for definitive proof – and for this loyalty, he was killed.

Daenera held a firm belief that Alicent would twist the truth to fit her own narrative. It was a tactic she had used before, yielded against her mother so much that it drove her to flee to Dragonstone. “You say that Viserys named Aegon as his successor–”

“It is the truth,” Alicent replied, a hint of impatience creeping into her voice.

“Have you ever considered the possibility that he might have been referring to my brother, Aegon?” Daenera questioned, feeling the coin dig painfully into the palm of her hand as she stood her ground.

Alicent’s demeanor remained stoic, her gaze fixed on Daenera with a cool detachment. “And why would he choose a child he met only once?”

“Why would he choose a drunk who is unsuitable to wear the crown?”

Alicent’s eyes drifted upwards, as if seeking divine patience, her jaw shifting to the side in a clear display of irritation. She ran her tongue along her bottom teeth, visibly exasperated. “I did not come here to debate the legitimacy of the succession, or to seek your opinion. The decision has been made, and the Council supports Aegon ascending the throne – as was the king's wish.”

“Of course the Council will support Aegon’s claim, when those who dare question the legitimacy of your claim have been silenced,” Daenera observed. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction as she saw the impact her words had on Alicent, who notably paled in response. “It seems their unwavering loyalty to the King is repaid not with honor, but with permanent removal.”

“That was an unfortunate accident,” Alicent bit out through clenched teeth.

“And here I thought you wished to refrain from any unnecessary bloodshed.”

The Queen’s face grew stern, her grip on her own hands tightening as she gazed down at Daenera with a cold, almost patronizing air. “Aegon will be crowned King at dawn.”

Daenera let out a derisive scoff, her gaze shifting briefly to the dancing flames, reflecting her frustration. She then fixed a contemptuous look back at the Queen. “And why, pray tell, are you informing me of this?”

“You are expected to be at Aegon’s coronation, exhibiting your support for him as your King,” Alicent answered.

The mere thought of being present at the coronation ceremony, where she would be strategically positioned like a pawn in a grander game of deceit, filled Daenera with dread. The idea of having to feign support, to unwittingly endorse Aegon’s claim to the throne – a claim that starkly undermined her mother’s rightful ascendancy – sent a wave of despair through her. This illusion was an act of betrayal, a way to undermine her own family. Her heart sank at the notion.

“I refuse to participate in this charade.”

“You will,” Alicent insisted, stepping closer, diminishing the space between them, her presence imposing. “Your presence will solidify his claim.”

Alicent reached out, intrusively tucking a stray lock of Daenera’s hair behind her ear. The gesture was both invasive and belittling. Alicent’s dark eyes gleamed with a familiar certainty, that look of self-righteous conviction she so often assumed.

“I will not be a pawn in your schemes against my mother,” Daenera retorted, her voice laced with scorn. Her hold tightened around the coin, pressing the edge into her palm with such force that it was painful, and yet she could not stop.

Alicent exhaled a tired, frustrated sigh. “You will attend, not just to show your support for Aegon but also to announce your betrothal to Aemond.”

The words hung heavily in the air.

The sensation of the earth shifting under Daenera’s feet was overwhelming, as if the very ground was conspiring to swallow her into a chasm of shock and disbelief. The staggering revelation, one she hadn’t even considered, prevented her from succumbing to the urge to collapse. Her heart contorted in anguish, wrung dry of hope, before sinking into the abyss of her stomach. And a pallor washed over her as the blood seemed to drain from her face.

Throughout her captivity, her mind had been consumed by thoughts of escape, the safety of her men, and whether word had reached her mother. Her thoughts were a blazing inferno of concern and strategy, yet, astonishingly, they had never illuminated the possibility of a forced marriage to Aemond.

“The people are not so easily deceived,” Daenera managed to utter, her voice quivering with emotion. Her body trembled anew, and her head moved in a slow, disbelieving shake. “They will see the truth. They will know that I am but a political pawn, without a say in my fate.”

“Your mother once suggested a union between Jace and Helaena, and you and Aegon,” Alicent responded, her voice cold and measured. “She framed it as a means to reconcile our families, yet I saw it for what it truly was; a gesture born out of desperation.”

“And this proposed betrothal, if not an act of desperation, then what?” Daenera retorted sharply, her eyes gleaming with the threat of tears.

“It is meant as an offering of peace.”

“‘An offering of peace?’” Daenera’s voice was laced with bitter disbelief, almost a scoff. “It’s nothing but an affront – a scheme to shackle me to your son, to your cause.”

Alicent’s gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing. “In truth, it is he who will be shackled to you.This was never my desire for my son. I pleaded with him to marry a Baratheon girl, but he wouldn’t hear it. For some…” Her gaze drifted upwards, as if seeking answers from the heavens, “unfathomable reason, he wants you.”

Daenera clenched her jaw, feeling the sting of betrayal slip between her ribs like a blade, piercing her heart. She swallowed hard, the acrid taste of treachery burning down her throat, igniting turmoil within her stomach.

Alicent’s gaze returned to Daenera, her dark eyes intense. “We hope this union will convince your mother to accept our terms of surrender.”

Daenera quickly withdrew her hand, recoiling from Alicent’s touch, which felt both soft and oppressively judgmental. She was acutely aware of her predicament – isolated, surrounded by enemies, a mere tool in their ambitious games. They would exploit her as a vulnerability of her mother, and they would do it well.

“My mother will never renounce her claim. She is the rightful heir to the throne.” Daenera asserted, her voice wavering, weak yet resolute.

“If she cares for the safety of her children, she will.”

Daenera fixed Alicent with a piercing glare, her voice sharpening with accusation. “And what of your own children? Do you truly care for them?”

Alicent’s response was tinged with frustration, her eyes burning as she glared back at Daenera, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Of course, I do–”

“This usurpation, it is a double edged sword,” Daenera interjected, her chest burning with frustration and indignation. “This will lead to war and to what end?”

“It is his rightful inheritance,” Alicent reiterated, though a flicker of unease crossed her face, betraying her otherwise controlled demeanor. There was something in her eyes that Daenera couldn’t decipher, not did she have the time to, as Alicent continued with a sneer. “All of this… it is for their futures. The efforts and sacrifices I’ve made will not be for nothing. Aegon is Viserys legitimate heir. The Iron Throne is his by birthright, and I will not let your mother take it from him.”

“Does he even want it?” Daenera challenged, her tone scornful, her teeth bared. “Or is it perhaps you who wishes to maintain a grip on power, Your Grace?”

“Aegon is the rightful heir to the throne,” Alicent’s voice rose in conviction. “As the firstborn son of Viserys Targaryen, and as his fathers chosen heir. Do you honestly believe the lords of the realm will rally behind your mother, a woman? See reason, Daenera. A ruler cannot have their authority questioned, and she would undoubtedly be questioned. You cannot expect the lords to bend their knees to a woman who has done nothing but show how ill suited she is as ruler by having bastards and shirking duty.”

“And do you truly believe they will support Aegon?” Daenera’s voice resonated with a chilling firmness. “Can the lords rally behind a man so blatantly unfit to rule? Your son is a drunk, who spends his nights wetting his cock in the lows of Flea Bottom, and spends his days tormenting serving girls! He’s preying on them. Innocent young girls, Alicent, younger than you were at your wedding. It is you, who should see reason!”

Alicent’s expression faltered at this harrowing truth, and for a fleeting instant, Daenera sensed a flicker of fear and regret go through the Queen. Her complexion turned ashen, her eyes widening in shock, her lips slightly parting with a mix of disbelief and realization. In that moment, Daenera clung to a flicker of hope, silently praying that her words had made a significant impact. After all, Alicent herself was once a young girl, now a woman and a mother. Could she not sympathize with the plight of those girls? Was she blind to the reality of her son – the very boy she was crowning?

“Your resentment has poisoned him – has poisoned both of your sons,” Daenera pressed on, attempting to elicit some semblance of responsibility. “You fear what will become of your children should my mother take the throne, but you should fear what will become of them should he be granted the power of a king. Who will protect the serving girls from his touch? Your son is a rapist–”

The blow was swift and unexpected, and Daenera stumbled back. She braced herself against the wall, her hand instinctively rising to cradle the tender, burning skin of her cheek. Taken aback, Daenera’s gaze snapped back to Alicent, her eyes wide with astonishment. Alicent’s initial surprise at her own actions quickly gave way to a newfound resolve. She stood there, an embodiment of conflicting emotions, yet she managed to project an air of unwavering confidence, her posture upright and unyielding.

A fiery determination burned in the Queen’s brown eyes, stirring in Daenera the memories of the fateful night when Aemond had lost his eye. She remembered how Alicent, with a dagger gripped in her hand, had confronted Rhaenyra, driven by a visceral need for retribution – an eye for an eye, blood for blood. Those eyes, filled with a profound belief in their own righteousness and justice, revealed a troubling truth. It seemed that for Alicent, the deplorable behavior of her son and his actions towards the serving girls were, regrettably, viewed as mere facets of the burdens women were expected to bear in this world. It was an unfortunate but unalterable aspect of their existence.

Daenera slowly removed her hand from the wall, straightening to her full height. “You know that what I say is true.”

Alicent responded with a calm, yet firm tone. “My son has his flaws, Princess. Yes, he indulges in wine and frequents the brothels of Flea Bottom, as many young princes have. But he is not the monster you make him out to be.”

Her hands clasped together in front of her once again, her expression hardening into a facade as unyielding as stone veiled in porcelain. “He will mature, and he will become the great king he was destined to be. I will make certain of that.”

Daenera’s voice was a soft murmur, her eyes capturing the flickering light of the hearth’s flames, reflecting a deeper, more ominous intensity. “Do you never tire, Alicent? Serving every man in your life? Being the ever-dutiful daughter, the amiable wife, and now the unwaveringly devoted mother – does it not wear you down? It must be utterly exhausting, always bending to their will, always serving them.”

“And what about yourself?” Alicent replied, her voice steady and composed. “We are not so dissimilar, you and I.”

Alicent moved closer to Daenera, her head tilting subtly as she observed her with a careful expression. Her eyebrows drew together, her eyes alight with an emotion that Daenera couldn’t quite identify, yet it caused her heart to beat more forcefully. She remained where she was, refusing to yield or cower.

“We each have a part to play in this world. As a woman, your duty is clear. As a dutiful daughter,” Alicent began, lightly touching Daenera’s cheek where the skin still burned from the earlier slap. The touch was soft, almost gentle, a strange sort of comfort. “As a loyal wife… As a Queen… And as a mother. I know my role, and I have faith that it is as the gods will it.”

Daenera’s brow inched downward. “And you believe it is divine will that Aegon ascends the throne?”

A tightness formed at the corners of Alicent’s lips. “Why else would they bless Viserys with the son he yearned for? It is the natural order of things. In time, you will come to see the wisdom in accepting the role the gods have set out for you.”

“To serve others,” Daenera observed with a soft hum. “And yet, you can’t acknowledge this is about maintaining your own hold on power – however tenuous it might be, after all, you’ll only be the mother of the King.”

“I am acting in the best interest of my sons, my children. Everything I have ever done has been for their future, for the preservation of what is rightfully theirs,” Alicent retorted, her lips tightening further as she pulled her hand back. “As their mother, it is my duty.”

“It must be exhausting, to cloak yourself in self-righteousness to mask your own ambition. At least your father is transparent about his desires. You, on the other hand, veil yours in the guise of duty and divine decree,” Daenera remarked, sensing a heavy burden descending upon her shoulders.

Alicent gazed back, her lips slightly pursed, the corners downturned in a subtle expression of discontent or perhaps disdain. Her eyes were measured, searching Daenera’s face as if looking for something, or maybe seeing in her a reflection that rendered her weary.

“Have you ever asked yourself what you want?” Daenera asked. “Not what others have impressed upon you to want.”

Alicent’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Have you?”

Now, the question lingered heavily within Daenera. Her frown grew more pronounced as she locked eyes with Alicent, a woman whose features bore a resemblance to her own, enough that she could have been her mother. Subconsciously, Daenera’s hand came together, her finger tracing the faint, curved indentation left by the coin – and the pale scar etched into her skin by a dragonglass arrowhead.

Taking a deep breath, Alicent regained her poise, seamlessly transitioning back into the role of the Queen. Her gaze, as condescending as ever, swept over Daenera. “The servants will take you back to your chambers and see to it that you are appropriately attired for the coronation in the morning.”

“And if I refuse?”

“We have a handful of your men in the dungeons,” Alicent answered, the threat clear. With a swift turn, Alicent exited the room, leaving the door slightly open behind her. Two servants promptly entered, one of whom Daenera recognized as the same woman who had seen to her meals.

Daenera was led back to her chambers, accompanied by two servants and a pair of guards – likely to ensure she didn’t attempt another escape. The late hour’s presence was marked by a persistent chill permeating the air as they navigated the corridors of the Keep. Stepping out into the courtyard, Daenera instinctively lifted her gaze to the heavens. The sky was painted in deepening shades of blue as night fully embraced the realm. It was a cloudless expanse above, where stars sparkled and flickered like distant beacons.

Drawing in a deep breath, she momentarily closed her eyes, cherishing the crispness of the fresh air and using the moment to calm her racing heart. Her hands tightened around the cloak draped over her form, the fabric serving as her sole shield against both the chill and the prying eyes that might wander. Beneath the thin material of her underdress, her skin erupted in a rash of goosebumps, reacting to the night’s cool touch.

Guided through the imposing doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, Daenera was led across the inner courtyard and towards the grand staircase.

As they walked, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was deliberate or mere coincidence that their path took them past the very spot where Joyce had been killed. The floor there had been scrubbed clean, yet the stone still bore a darker hue, a silent testament to the violence that had occurred. Her gaze lingered on the spot, a sharp pang of sorrow clenching her heart. Swallowing hard against the grief that threatened to overwhelm her, she was soon nudged ontward by persistent hands.

As Daenera stepped into her chamber, a heavy sense of loss struck her. She noticed the stark emptiness where her cherished potions and essence bottles once stood. The cabinet, previously filled with her carefully curated collection of dried herbs, had been completely removed. The room felt barren and ransacked, stripped of her personal effects.

But it wasn’t just her alchemy tools that had vanished; her hair oils, fragrances, and cosmetics were also missing. The space that had once been her sanctuary now felt invaded and foreign, almost as though it had ceased to be a part of her world. It was a harsh reminder that this room, and her life within it, were no longer truly her own.

A wave of bitterness rose in Daenera, but she forcefully suppressed it. She set the coin down on a table, deliberately placing it spiral-side up – there was no need for more eyes to watch her humiliation.

The older servant gestured her forward, wasting no time in removing her cloak and placing it over the back of a chair as she barked at the younger maid servant, “Fetch the water. As hot as it can get.”

The younger servant hurried out to comply with the order, undoubtedly darting through halls and down to the kitchens.

Daenera, attempting to sound casual even as her throat remained tight, inquired, “My maid – what has become of her body?”

The older servant responded only with a harsh glare, as she swept Daenera’s thousled hair away from her shoulders to undo the knots that held her underdress together. Her movements were harsh and forceful, making Daenera think she would be more at home in a butcher’s shop than attending to a lady. The servant’s face was etched with a permanent scowl, deeping the lines of age and giving her a certain hardened, unyielding appearance.

“What of my sworn shield?” Daenera asked, persistent in seeking answers as the door swung open and a group of girls entered, each carrying buckets of steaming water. They effectively poured the contents into the bath and quickly exited, all deliberately avoiding eye contact, as the older servant scowled at them, barking orders.

The older servant, with an abrupt and rough motion, stripped Daenera of her final layer, removing her underdress to leave her completely bare. Instinctively, Daenera’s arms wrapped around herself, her skin prickling with goosebumps that felt like countless tiny needles piercing her flesh.

“Out, all of you, quickly!” The older servant commanded sharply to the group of serving girls carrying the buckets of water, as though they weren’t already hurrying. They scurried towards the door in a rushed procession, letting it close with a soft click behind them. Even with fewer eyes in the room, Daenera couldn’t shake off the profound sense of vulnerability that came with her exposed state. Nonetheless, she steeled herself, firmly gripping the servant’s wrist to draw her full attention.

“What has become of my sworn shield?” She asked, her voice steady despite the chill. The last she saw of Fenrick he was unconscious and bleeding.

The hag wrenched her wrist free from Daenera’s grasp with a disdainful sneer. “I suppose he is locked up in the dungeons with the rest of them.”

Suppressing her own urge to sneer in response, Daenera swallowed the bitter feeling, finding a small solace in the knowledge that he seemed to still be alive.

Rather than succumbing to her frustration with a sharp retort, Daenera chose to adopt a more composed and dignified approach. She recognized the potential benefit of gaining the older woman’s favor, aiming to foster a semblance of dialogue that might yield useful information.

Her response was calculated, delivered with a blend of diplomacy and sweetness, “What is your name?”

“Metha Ashford,” the servant replied curtly. “I serve as the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, and from now on, I will be attending to you. Kneel by the bath.”

“And my name is Edelin–” the younger servant added softly, her voice quickly hushed by a stern glare from Mertha. Edelin, frowning, gathered the bloodstained and dirtied undergown, an item that seemed more suited for burning than washing.

Daenera’s gaze fixed on the steaming bath. With a semblance of dignity, she requested, “I would like some soaps and oils for my bath.”

Edelin hesitated, glancing towards Mertha, whose eyes radiated cold indifference. Mertha’s boney fingers then dug sharply into Daenera’s shoulders, pushing her towards the bath. “You will have no such choice of luxury. We will use the soap I’ve brought and nothing more.”

Asserting her status, Daenera stated, “I am a princess,” even as she was forcefully pushed down to her knees beside the path. The impact further aggravated her already bruised skin, her knees throbbing painfully as her hands came to brace herself on the edge of the tub.

“You are nothing but a hostage,” Mertha retorted harshly, her hand clamping down on the pack of Daenera’s neck, nails digging into her skin, as she roughly pushed her head dangerously close to the water. Daenera’s nose almost touched the surface of the water, and as she let out a shocked breath, the water ripped.

Something dipped into the water, as Mertha continued, “The Queen’s command are clear – we are to take care of you.”

Scalding hot water cascaded over Daenera’s head, causing her to gasp and sputter as it burned her scalp and streamed down her face. She attempted to ward off the water and struggled futilely against Mertha’s unyielding hold. Another cup of water was poured onto her head.

“We’ve been instructed to stay by your side,” Mertha stated coldly, pouring the third cup of water over Daenera’s head, “to ensure you don’t engage in any treacherous acts.”

Daenera’s fingers dug into the edge of the bath, her neck straining against Mertha’s grip, the muscles in her neck aching with the effort. “Y–you’re hurting me!”

Mertha responded with a reproachful chide and a dismissive scoff. “Cease your struggling, and I won’t need to handle you so forcefully.”

In a reflexive act of defiance, Daenera’s arms swiped at Mertha, sending the cup of water tumbling from her grasp. She glared up at the older woman, her hair clinging to her skin, dripping down her neck in a trail that went all the way down her back. “I am a princess and you will treat me with the respect that is deserving of my station!”

“You are nothing but a bastard, as far as the gods are concerned,” Mertha retorted, her voice tinged with contempt. “The late king, may the gods rest his soul, was too blind to see the truth, but the Queen sees it clearly – and she will not allow the realm to be ruled by the Whore of Dragonstone and her brood of bastards. She is doing the gods’ will and putting things right, and you should consider yourself fortunate for the leniency she is extending you, princess.”

Mertha firmly repositioned Daenera’s head and resumed pouring water over her, roughly lathing a common bar of soap before harshly scrubbing Daenera’s scalp. Her fingers moved with a roughness reminiscent of someone washing a wild animal, showing little regard for Daenera’s discomfort. The soap stung her eyes, and she struggled to suppress her sniffles, water dripping from her face and threatening to enter ner nostrils. She remembered how Joyce used to perform this task with such tenderness and care.

After what seemed like an eternity of scrubbing, when Mertha finally rinsed the soap from Daenera’s hair, she proceeded to push her into the bath to wash her body with an abrasive tool that felt akin to a scrubbing brush used on the floor, leaving her skin raw and inflamed. The near-scalding water only intensified the sensation, making Daenera feel as if she were being boiled alive.

And by the time the water no longer held its boiling effect on her body, Daenera had contemplated at the very least ten different ways of killing the old hag – mostly imagining her pushing her head into the water and keeping it there until she no longer flailed around.

It was the younger servant, Edelin, that wrapped cloth around Daenera’s body. Her touch was far more delicate as she helped Daenera dry off and gently braid her hair to prevent it from frizzing during the night, weaving pieces of silk in between the strands. Her blue eyes conveyed a silent apology for the ordeal as Mertha went about ordering the bath drained.

Daenera decided then that if she were to cultivate an ally among her prison guards, it would be the girl.

#a vow of blood #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd fanfic

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rustingways · 3 months

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yeah the maitre/arun routine is definitely a control thing that turns into a punishment thing the more time they spent together imo. it almost makes more sense after claudia's death because by then louis is punishing armand for something, that's part of his atonement for his part in the trial. but pre trial it just makes louis look callous and even cruel like who uses their significant other's trauma for a kink? that's fucked up. and it also reads to me a clear control thing, everything is going to hell in pairs with the coven and claudia but louis can make armand his puppet at least. it isn't a great look.

Yeah, I feel like Armand almost seems like he’s on the verge of tears whenever Louis pulls out that dynamic. Like, yes, Armand wants to be the sub because being in charge is exhausting and he has 400 years of decision fatigue, but he doesn’t want to be treated cruelly. He wants to be loved and adored and seen. But he also doesn’t know that having boundaries is a thing that’s allowed, so he also tends to react with violence when his boundaries are crossed too hard.

I know there’s a lot of nuance to be read about Louis trying to keep the upper hand in what he feels like is a situation that could turn all too quickly into a recreation of his time with Lestat, but if he had been truthful with Claudia and gotten them out of Paris when Armand BEGGED him to….

Whatever safety Armand felt with Louis likely dried up when Louis turned Madeleine ((though this is a contrast from the books)) and whatever love Louis might’ve felt for Armand went up in flames with Claudia.

#interview with the vampire #iwtv spoilers #amc iwtv #iwtv amc #iwtv #iwtv series #iwtv s2 #interview with the vampire amc #amc interview with the vampire #armand #louis de pointe du lac #rw.ask #rw.vamp

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a-pretty-nerd · 1 year

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THE MEDIUM AND THE DETECTIVE

On another episode of: "STFU, I don't care that the Fandom's DEAD! YOU CAN'T STOP ME!"

A Deathe Note L x Reader x Matsuda Angst Fic!

Summary: You're a suspect for predicting the Kira case, but can you predict this dick-

Warnings: SAD. Gender neutral, but, there is a preggers trope. You see dead people in this one. Happy ending!!!

The first encounter with L was traumatic to say the least. Being a suspect in the Kira case, L was thorough. When your best selling thriller novel eerily predicts the Kira murders, you're naturally his first suspect in the case. But as his investigation continues he unfolds an even more unsettling truth.

A series of prophetic dreams drove you to write the suspensious book. And the dreams you are currently having continue to predict the murders before they happen. But because you're under 24hr surveillance, L comes to the conclusion that you are not Kira. But your spars visions of the future have been genuinely helpful and fascinating. So L keeps you around.

A curious friendship grows, and a budding romance between the two blossoms. You and L settle into a secret affair throughout the Kira Investigation as your dreams becomes more vivid and frightening. Your dreams often predict major events, even L's death, but certain pieces are missing. Like Kira has something protecting him from being seen.. As the murders continue, you become haunted by Kira's victims as they seek revenge for their deaths.

Matsuda has often acted as a friend. The golden retriever you can count on. The one that always greets you with a smile and gets you a cup of coffee. L would watch the two of you be friendly and even he could not deny the two of you had chemistry. He thinks someone like Matsuda would be good for someone like you. He'd certainly take care of you. You'd probably be better off- but.... L is selfish and jealous inside.

L wants you all to himself. He delights in having moments alone with you, though they are few and far in-between. Hell, Watari is the only living soul who knows about the two of you. So intimacy is truly rare, but that often makes it that much more passionate when you do get the chance. Depending on his mood and how tired her is, L can range from a dedicated lover to a frenzied lover. Pattern recognition is an important skill he's very experienced with.

Time passes and your situation changes. You become more of a paranormal consultant on the Kira case. Which, often comes in handy for L when he's trying piece things together. Your outside insight is be very helpful to him. But unfortunately for you, the longer the case continues, the worse your experiences get. Your nightmares become full on night terrors that you become stuck in. Matsuda has had to shake you from a few.

L sees the change in you before you do. He notices a change in smell first. You don't smell the same. Not bad. Just different. Then he notices how your appetite has changed. He sees the nausea in your face before you can even voice a complaint. L suggests a stomach bug first, keeping his suspicions to himself. So he has you see a doctor. A doctor who promptly informs you that you are....well...you know...in the family way.

When you return with glazed over and fatigued eyes, L's theory is confirmed. He looks at it very objectivly at first. He prepares for every possibility before he even starts the conversation. Regardless of your options, he makes preparations for each. He waits patiently for you to tell him on your own time, when you're comfortable. He doesn't take you trying to hide it as an insult, more than anything he feels himself becoming more and more nervous that you haven't told him. He comforts himself with the idea that you probably just haven't figured out what to do yet, so you're waiting to talk to him before you make a decision.

You tell him when you're alone. L doesn't move a muscle. He freezes. He expected this but the longer you waited the more he had to grapple with the idea of becoming a parent. Which is something L never expected himself to be dealing with. Especially not smack-dab in the middle of the most dangerous and intense cases of his life. So, he kind of panics. The conversation is deadpan as expected. For the most part he's honest about his feelings towards it. He honestly doesn't think keeping it isn't good idea, but he's well aware that isn't his choice. His voice is sweet when he says, "no matter what happens, I will ensure you are taken care of. No one will hurt you."

It isn't until he sees the first ultrasound that he kind of changes his tune. He stares at the picture, fascinated by it. When you ask about it, he says, "Watching something grow from nothing is indescribable." A very L answer. As much as he wants you to remain by his side. As much as he wants you, he knows it's only a matter of time. He knows that the longer you remain at headquarters, the higher the risk. If Light hasn't already put the pieces together, he knows he soon will. And as much as the evidence has proven his "innocence" he doesn't trust Light with a damn thing.

To rub salt in the wound, the longer you stay by his side, the worse your paranormal experiences become. You've been unable to sleep, you can't handle being alone or in the dark for very long. The ghosts of Kira's victims whisper in your ears and claw at your clothes. The more violent ones scream and shout whenever they get the chance. It's taking a toll on you. Everyone fears for your well-being. Matsuda and L especially. So when L finally sends you away, you understand. You're not happy about it in the least. But L is prepared to use force if he has to. He will not be letting you die. You're already at the end of your rope and if something were to happen to you, he'd never be able to forgive himself.

So you're sent back to your family with a large sum in your bank account. Child support in advance, if you will. The ghosts leave you be, and the nightmares ease up. The ones you do have are of L. And it's the same dream. Everytime it's his death. You did everything you could to prevent it and still your dreams are relentless. You've told L his fate before and he always regarded it with the same interest as every other dream, like it was nothing special. You would try to contact L but he made sure you would have no way to reach him.

The only person who is allowed to contact you besides himself, which he doesn't anyways, is Matsuda or Watari. Watari calls on occasion pretending to be your doctor. He asks questions about your condition, your medical records, your paranormal experiences. You assume he's doing this to keep L up to date on your current status. When you ask why L does not call himself, Watari tells you that he's busy, but he sends his regards.

Matsuda calls every couple of days. He's only allowed to call when he's alone and he's not allowed to share information on the Kira case for obvious reasons. But he's more interested in how you're doing anyways. He asks you about what you've been up to, how you and your family are doing. If you have any plans for a new novel. He's been a fan of your work since before the investigation began. He's a breath of fresh air. You look forward to his calls.

Suddenly the calls stop for a while. There's a deep pit in your stomach one morning as you look outside your bedroom window. There's a faint sound of ringing that you can't shake. So you go on with your day, trying to regain your sense of normalcy. Failing miserably when sometime in the afternoon you feel a great loss. That night as you lay in bed, pretending to sleep in hopes that dreams will creep in anyways, you feel a presence.

A familiar figure stands at the foot of your bed, watching. You know who it is right away. You can practically see him even with your eyes closed. The scent of coffee, vanilla, and paper follows him as quiet footsteps come to the other side of your bed. You're afraid that if you move or open your eyes he'll disappear. So you lay there as the blankets are pulled up and he crawls into bed with you. Laying down behind you and wrapping his cold arms around to spoon you. You lay there in his ghostly embrace for a long while, just trying to memorize the feeling in hopes that it will never leave you. He leans in, cold lips pressed against your ear as he whispers. "I was right." And then he's gone.

Matsuda calls a few days later, crying. When he finally gets the words out to tell you what's happened, he's met with a cold: "I know. Thank you, Matsuda." He finds himself being comforted by you. He knew that you and L were close. He knew you were friends. But he had no idea the relationship you had, nor the evidence that has reached a healthy 6 months. He implores you to attend L's funeral but, you can't do that. Emotionally and physically it's out of the question. Light is Kira. You know that. You've always known deep down, deep in your heart and so did L. After all, he was right.

Misa tries to contact you, you pick up the phone only to hear her voice. You hang up and change your number. Light tries to contact you, claiming its in regards to L and the Kira case. He wants to bring you back. You almost throw up right then and there. Instead, you hung up the call, close the phone, and smash it with a hammer. Matsuda is the only number you remember and the only person you trust. You don't trust him to know that Light is Kira. But you trust him to be good and kind. You trust him to visit you.

You pick him up at the airport when he comes out to visit you. You look so different he doesn't notice you. He passes right by you before you call out his name. You're visibly pregnant at this point, roughly 8 months. Your hair is longer and full. Your skin is glowing, your eyes are vibrant when they peak out from behind your sunglasses. You look nothing like the sickly, haunted spectator he knew you as. When he sees your belly, he just stares. He's speechless.

He's far too stunned for form a real sentence for about an hour as you drive him to his hotel. You laugh at him as he stares.

"It's good to see you too, Matsu." You joke with a smile. He goes red in the face.

"Uh- You look- You look great!" He croaks.

"Thanks."

"You're...um...are you-"

"Glowing? I am. Thank you for noticing." You tease him. It's good to have a friend close by again. He's not allowed to know where you're staying with your family, just to be safe. If Light were to ever decide to torture or kill Matsuda for information, you have to be sure. It's a risk even letting him see you like this. But you never win without taking a risk.

"So then you're...married?" He asks, a bit disappointed. You turn to him, your expression confused.

"What?? No. Do you see a ring on my finger?"

"Well no...I just...you're...uh-" You can see the gears turning in his head. Like he has all the pieces he just doesn't want to put them together. "How far along?"

"8 months? Give or take." You answer honestly. The pieces have been put together regardless. The puzzle is nearly complete, much to Matsuda's horror. It's L's. He knows it. There's no other option. Chief Yagami and Aizawa are out of the question. You've always hated Light from the moment you met. L...you were so close with L.

"Why didn't I see it before..." He mumbles to himself.

"You weren't supposed to. No one was supposed to know. No one is supposed to know." You tell him firmly. "This stays between you and me, Matsuda. I'm telling you this as my friend. In confidence that no one else on that task force will know about this. If no one else knows that L is dead, no one will know about this, understood?" Matsude nods in agreement as he pouts. He tries to apologize. He's overly emotional about the whole thing. Extraordinarily sympathetic to your situation, as he always is.

He's deeply worried about you and the baby. He's worried about you doing everything alone. You try to reassure him you have a family for support and a bank account that looks like a social security number thanks to L's estate. But still, Matsuda feels like he could be doing something to help you. You're his crush friend! He can't let you do all that alone. He knows L left you with everything you might need to be a single parent but...still...

"Marry me!" He blurts out one night.

"WHAT!?" You bark.

"Marry me! We'll be a family, you'll never have to worry about a thing. Let me take care of you!" He begs. You pause for a moment, it's as if you can hear L's voice in your ear. 'Matsuda's acting stupid again.'

"No! I'm not marrying you! Are you insane!? What good would that do me anyways? I'm taken care of as it is, I don't need you." Matsuda pouts but ultimately understands. He was out of pocket just asking you like that. He let his emotions get the better of then again. But he can't help it. He sees you alone like that and he just wants to take care of you. He wants to hold you and tell you everything is going to be okay. To comfort and love you.

He's at the airport when you call him. You've gone into labor. He's there for you before your own family is. The man booked it through the hospital looking for you. He's incredibly nervous seeing you in so much pain, but he's determined to support you. You're not sure why you called him. Why you wanted him there. It's not even his kid but...still...It probably has something to do with the long nights you spent waking up from night terrors. His arms around you, rubbing your back as you sob in terror. He makes you feel safe.

Matsuda is holding your hand when L's daughter is born around 3am on October 31st. Matsuda cuts the cord and he holds her first. He sits beside you in a chair as you rest and recover. He knows the baby isn't his but when he looks down at her, he feels his heart swell with pride and wonder. A part of him feels guilty for being there. L should be sitting where he is, holding his own child and being there to hold your hand. Tears fall from his eyes and onto the bundle beneath him.

As time passes, Matsuda keeps your whereabouts and your little family a secret. He visits, as often as he can. He lies to Light and the others about where he's going. And because it's Matsuda, the loveable idiot, Light doesn't suspect or even entertain the idea that he's lying to him. He watches as the child grows into a remarkable combination of you and L. She has his pirecing eyes that greet him when he walks into the front door of your home.

The little girl adores Matsuda. He's sweet and silly. He brings her toys and treats. She likes to sit on his shoulders and play with his hair. All things considered, he makes a good father.

Things are winding down to a disturbing close in the Kira case. The day before everything goes down, you have another dream. L is standing over his daughter's bed, watching her carefully. He turns to look at you. "I love you, very much. I'm sorry I've never said it before. You've done well with her and everything. But the case will soon be closed." In this dream he approaches you and holds you close in his arms again. "Goodbye."

You wake up to the sound of your daughter screaming a crying for you. You rush to her aid. The next few days pass with a defeaning silence. Matsuda doesn't call, which by now is irregular considering he calls almost once a day now. But by the end of that week, something lifts. Like sun has finally peaked through the clouds. A weight is lifted from your shoulders a you feel lighter than you have in years. You feel like you can breath.

Matsuda shows up unannounced in the dead of night. He looks exhausted, heavy bags under his eyes. His cheerful and bright nature stripped away from him. He shuffles into your home and starts to sob. You hold him close as he describes the horror he's been through. What Light did- What Matsuda did to him. This time, it's your turn to comfort him. He stays the night. Sleeping in your bed with you as you remind him he's safe and warm with you.

In the morning he feels better. Still depressed but, his smile returns when your daughter sees him sitting at the breakfast table.

"Are you having breakfast with us, Mat?" She asks as her little fists rub the sleep from her eyes.

"Is that okay with you?" He asks her. She shrugs and climbs up the chair to sit in front of him.

"I don't care. You could have every meal with us." She says as he eyes focus over the small plate of child-sized pancakes. Matsuda watches her with a loving gaze. If only he could. If only...

"You stay, if you wanted to." You say softly as you place a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You could stay."

#death note #death note lawliet #l #l lawliet #l x reader #lawliet x reader #matsuda x reader #L x reader x Matsuda #pregnancy trope #medium reader

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usafphantom2 · 28 days

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How An A-10 Pilot Guided His Wingman to Safety in a Hypoxia Crisis

Lt. Col. Mitchell recalls a life-or-death moment in the sky, helping his wingman fight hypoxia during a mission aboard the A-10 Warthog.

David Cenciotti

A-10 Hypoxia

U.S. Air Force Reserve Citizen Airman Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell, an A-10 instructor pilot and flight commander with the 47th Fighter Squadron, places his hand on the iconic nose of an A-10C Thunderbolt II at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Ariz., Aug. 22, 2024. (U.S. Air Force photo by Tech. Sgt. Tyler J. Bolken)

With the plan to fully retire the type by 2029, the U.S. Air Force will decommission 42 A-10C Thunderbolt II aircraft this year, with the remaining 260 expected to be phased out in the next 5 years.

As the legendary “Warthog” approaches the twilight of its storied service, one figure stands out as a living embodiment of the grit, tenacity, and unwavering dedication that define the aircraft’s tight-knit community. That figure is U.S. Air Force Reserve Citizen Airman Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell.

With nearly two decades of flying the A-10, Mitchell was recently recognized with a prestigious safety award, not only for his actions during a perilous night flight but for a career that epitomizes the spirit of the A-10 and the individuals who support and operate this combat-proven aircraft.

In March this year, Mitchell found himself in a situation that tested the full breadth of his experience. Alongside Capt. Dylan “Mac” Vail, an active-duty pilot from the 357th Fighter Squadron who was being trained to become an IP (instructor pilot), Mitchell embarked on what was intended to be a routine 2-ship training flight.

U.S. Air Force Reserve Citizen Airman Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell, an A-10 instructor pilot and flight commander with the 47th Fighter Squadron, stands in front of the first A-10C Thunderbolt II he flew, tail number 9154, on the flight line at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Ariz., Aug. 22, 2024. Mitchell has flown the A-10, often referred to as the Warthog, for nearly two decades, exemplifying the dedication and expertise that define the A-10 community. (U.S. Air Force photo by Tech. Sgt. Tyler J. Bolken)

As an instructor pilot and flight commander for the 47th Fighter Squadron, Mitchell is no stranger to demanding situations. However, on this night, what began as a standard night sortie, would quickly transform rom routine to critical. In fact, Vail began showing the early signs of hypoxia, a dangerous condition caused by a lack of oxygen that can impair cognitive functions and motor skills.

A subtle threat

Hypoxia can be difficult to identify, especially for pilots, because its onset is often gradual and its symptoms can be subtle or easily mistaken for fatigue or stress. Symptoms like dizziness, confusion, lightheadedness, euphoria, and impaired judgment often develop slowly, which can make it challenging for pilots to recognize what is happening before it becomes severe, and increasingly difficult for a pilot to maintain control of their aircraft.

In the cockpit, Vail was struggling. His brain, starved of oxygen, couldn’t process the situation clearly. As the effects of hypoxia worsened, the situation became dire. But Mitchell’s calm and decisive leadership shone through. Years of experience kicked in, allowing him to quickly assess the situation and provide clear, concise instructions over the radio to guide Vail back to safety.

It was a night that could have ended tragically had it not been for Mitchell’s steady hand.

“I could barely think straight,” Vail recalls, his voice heavy with the memory of that critical night. A Houston native and a graduate of the Air Force Academy, Vail was in a dangerous spiral, both mentally and physically. “Mitchell was there every step of the way, simplifying everything, telling me exactly what I needed to do. It was his voice and experience that got me back on the ground safely.”

For Vail, Mitchell’s actions went beyond the role of an experienced pilot, they embodied a deeper philosophy, one ingrained in the A-10 community itself. This is a community where the mission is paramount, but equally important is the unwavering commitment to the safety and well-being of those involved.

“People always get lost and enamored about the aircraft,” Mitchell explained. A native of Lockney, Texas, and a graduate of Texas A&M, Mitchell is quick to shift the spotlight away from himself and the aircraft, instead highlighting the broader community that supports the A-10. “But the number one thing is the community that is dedicated to it.”

For Mitchell, the A-10 is not just a machine. It’s a symbol of camaraderie, a tool to defend and protect, and a centerpiece of a community bound by shared purpose and dedication. Standing next to the very first A-10 he flew, tail number 9154, Mitchell reflected on his long journey with the aircraft. His humor remained intact despite the passage of time and the wear of years spent in service.

“I’m old,” he said with a chuckle, recalling his search for some of the A-10s he had flown over the years. “I was trying to look for a couple of tails that I had my name on in the past, and I think they’re gone either to Moody AFB or the Boneyard, so here’s what it is.”

Mitchell’s reflections extend beyond the aircraft’s flight numbers and history. He shared a little-known piece of A-10 heritage, the unique artwork that adorns each of the 47th Pursuit Squadron’s aircraft. Dating back to World War II, these aircraft are emblazoned with characters from the “Dogpatch” cartoon series by Andy Capp, a tradition that the squadron continues to honor.

“The 47th Pursuit Squadron paid Andy Capp $1 for the copyright usage of his characters to put on all the airframes,” Mitchell shared, highlighting the deep historical roots that tie the squadron to the past. “Each airplane has its own character from the original Little Abner cartoons.”

U.S. Air Force Reserve Citizen Airman Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell, an A-10 instructor pilot and flight commander with the 47th Fighter Squadron, looks on as he stands next to an A-10C Thunderbolt II at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Ariz., Aug. 22, 2024. (U.S. Air Force photo by Tech. Sgt. Tyler J. Bolken)

This rich tradition, combined with a sense of pride and duty, has been a cornerstone of Mitchell’s career since he first began flying the A-10 in January 2005. From those early days as a young lieutenant in the 47th Fighter Squadron to his current role as a seasoned commander and mentor, Mitchell’s journey has been defined by his commitment to not only the aircraft but also the people who operate and maintain it.

“Creating new fighter pilots and passing on the lessons learned—that’s our job,” Mitchell said, emphasizing the importance of mentorship within the A-10 community. “We are providers of fixing problems for people in a dynamic situation, and we’re very good at it.”

Col. Aaron “Nacho” Weedman, commander of the 924th Fighter Group, also expressed pride in Mitchell’s efforts. He highlighted the significance of Mitchell’s actions during that night flight and the profound impact of his leadership on the A-10 community.

“His actions while instructing a student during a sortie in which the student experienced a serious physiological incident saved the life of another pilot,” Weedman said. For Weedman, Mitchell’s recent safety award is not just a personal achievement but a reflection of the ethos that has guided the A-10 community for decades.

The citation for the award specifically notes Mitchell’s quick thinking during the March 2024 incident, as well as his broader contributions to the safety and training of A-10 pilots. But as Weedman pointed out, the recognition also speaks to the experience and maturity that AFRC Instructor pilot cadre like Mitchell bring to the mission of the A-10 Formal Training Unit.

“His actions that evening highlight the importance of experience and maturity that AFRC Instructor pilot cadre add to the mission of the A-10 FTU,” Weedman emphasized. “This experience is leveraged to strengthen the total force, producing combat-ready wingmen for the A-10 community.”

More than just an aircraft

For pilots like Mitchell and Vail, the A-10 is far more than just an aircraft. It symbolizes something much greater, a legacy of camaraderie, dedication to mission, and the enduring reputation of those who have flown it and those who have been saved by it.

Vail, now a certified instructor pilot himself, is keenly aware of the legacy he is inheriting. It is a legacy shaped by the seasoned pilots who came before him—pilots like Mitchell, who ensured the lessons of the past continue to guide the future.

“I love the A-10. I love the mission,” Vail shared. “But what makes it special is the people, the community of pilots who have dedicated themselves to this aircraft and what it stands for.”

As the A-10 gradually phases out of U.S. military service (with a potential future in a foreign air arm), its heritage will not fade away with its airframes. Instead, it will live on in the stories and experiences of those who flew it, those who maintained it, and those whose lives were saved by it. And in the center of that story will always be the men and women like Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell, whose actions ensured that every pilot returned home safely.

A U.S. Air Force A-10C Thunderbolt II assigned to the 47th Fighter Squadron, Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Arizona, flies over Range 2 during Haboob Havoc 2024, April 24, 2024, at Barry M. Goldwater Range, Arizona. (U.S. Air Force photo by Staff Sgt. Noah D. Coger)

About David Cenciotti

David Cenciotti is a journalist based in Rome, Italy. He is the Founder and Editor of “The Aviationist”, one of the world’s most famous and read military aviation blogs. Since 1996, he has written for major worldwide magazines, including Air Forces Monthly, Combat Aircraft, and many others, covering aviation, defense, war, industry, intelligence, crime and cyberwar. He has reported from the U.S., Europe, Australia and Syria, and flown several combat planes with different air forces. He is a former 2nd Lt. of the Italian Air Force, a private pilot and a graduate in Computer Engineering. He has written five books and contributed to many more ones.

@TheAviationist.com

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moeitsu · 5 months

Text

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 13 - Though Mine Beat Faster Far Than Thine (Part 2)

Summary: Arthur’s life is ebbing out like the tide. Kate must work quickly and diligently to reverse the cruel hands of fate. She is aided by the help of an unexpected ally.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

TW: Blood, Body fluid. Injury recovery.

A/N: Low-key made myself tear up writing this one. ~7k words.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Widowed, Original Character(s), High-Honor!Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby!Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Infant Death, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Self-Hatred, Night Terrors, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

The journey back stretched on endlessly, each passing moment burdened with the weight of exhaustion and despair. Kate's body grew numb with cold, the blood from Arthur's wound staining her clothes, a chilling reminder of their ordeal. Arthur's once-warm body now felt icy against hers, his warm breath the only sign of life as he rested his head on her shoulder, his panting offered a fragile reassurance.

Exhaustion etched lines of stress and fear on Kate's face, her features reflecting the toll of their harrowing journey. Arthur had succumbed to unconsciousness shortly after they set out, leaving Kate to bear the weight of his limp form behind her. With trembling arms, she struggled to keep him upright, her own strength waning with each passing moment.

Lorena, too, felt the strain of their journey, her steady gait faltering under the weight of fatigue. Belle, injured and weary, added to the challenge, requiring constant coaxing to keep moving forward. Each tug on the reins filled Kate with guilt, knowing the mare's fear and exhaustion mirrored her own. But they couldn't afford to stop, not when time was their most precious commodity.

During their frantic journey back to camp, Kate made the decision to flick off the switch of her emotions. She knew that upon their arrival, she needed to confront the situation with a clear conscience. Despite her fear, she understood the gravity of suppressing her emotions and presenting a facade of strength. This was a matter of life and death, and she couldn't afford to let her trivial feelings interfere.

River had instilled in her the necessity of shutting off her emotions long ago, albeit unintentionally. He had warned her that her empathy would only serve to endanger her life, emphasizing the need to remain cold, unforgiving, and fully present in the moment. Following his advice, Kate embraced this mindset wholeheartedly.

As they burst back into camp, Kate's demeanor was that of someone leading a charge in battle. She disregarded any semblance of decorum, screaming for the others to wake up and rallying them to action. Her urgent cries echoed through the night, disregarding any concern for the late hour. With determination, she guided Lorena directly to Arthur's tent, paying no heed to the camp rules about horses in living quarters.

The first to respond to the commotion was Miss Grimshaw and the other women, their tent positioned adjacent to the camp's entrance. The shock on the old woman's face was palpable as she gasped, her hands instinctively flying to cover her mouth at the distressing sight before her.

Kate dismounted Lorena with a determined yet gentle grace, her arms already reaching out to lift Arthur's heavy body. He stirred from his sleep, groaning softly at the sudden movement. In an instant, Hosea and Charles appeared by her side, their faces etched with equal parts concern and fear. Together, they silently maneuvered Arthur to his cot, their actions speaking volumes of their care and solidarity.

As if summoned by the urgency of the situation, a small crowd gathered around the back of Arthur’s wagon. Composed of Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen, their nightgowns billowing softly in the night breeze. Fear and horror danced in their eyes, mirroring the turmoil of the moment.

"Is he going to be okay?" Tilly's voice quivered with worry, breaking the tense silence.

"Kate, what the hell happened?" Mary-Beth's question was laced with urgency.

"Jesus, is he even still alive?" Karen's comment hung in the air, heavy with concern.

Kate felt the weight of their questions pressing down on her, but she couldn't afford to be distracted. "Not now girls!" She replied sharply, her tone unintentionally dismissive. She knew they were only expressing their concern for their friend, but she couldn't allow herself to be pulled away from the task at hand. Despite the pang of guilt that stabbed at her heart, she pushed aside her own emotions, focusing solely on Arthur's well-being.

"Miss Grimshaw, I need you to bring me hot water and as much clean cloth as you can find," Kate instructed urgently, her voice carrying the weight of conviction. She turned to Hosea and Charles, her gaze unwavering. "Hosea, gather whatever tools you have for cleaning and stitching wounds. Charles, grab me the strongest alcohol we've got," she dished out her orders swiftly, each word heavy with a sense of importance. Time was slipping through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. "And find me something he can bite down on," she added hastily, her mind racing ahead. The two men nodded without question, already moving into action.

Kate wasted no time, swiftly lighting the few oil lamps beneath Arthur’s makeshift room. Miss Grimshaw returned moments later with a bucket of hot water and wads of fresh cloth. She placed them on the table behind Arthur’s cot, efficiently clearing the space for Kate to begin her work.

A nod of appreciation passed between them as Charles reappeared at her side, a large bottle of whiskey in one hand and a pair of Arthur’s leather suspenders in the other. "I can fetch more from the chuck wagon if you need," he offered, his concern evident in his voice. "The leather will be the most gentle on his teeth," he suggested, his eyes searching hers for approval. Kate accepted the supplies gratefully, taking the suspenders and folding them in on themselves to create a thicker object for Arthur to bite down on.

Arthur stirred, his groans morphing into soft cries as pain flooded his senses in relentless waves. He struggled to open his heavy eyelids, the whites of his eyes still tainted a violent red. "K-Kate... I-I have to w-warn–" he managed, his words fragmented by shallow, forced breaths. Confusion and agony clouded his mind, a lingering aftermath of his torment.

"We're home, honey. You're safe now," Kate reassured him gently, her voice a comforting anchor in the midst of turmoil. With efficiency, she retrieved her hunting knife from her belt, swiftly cutting away the remnants of his union suit. Each movement deliberate yet tender, exposing the rest of his battered form to the humid air of Lemoyne.

Arthur recoiled, a feeble protest escaping his lips. "Ngh–n-no, stop... p-please stop," he pleaded, his voice laced with anguish. Memories of humiliation and shame flooded his mind, unseen hands groping and poking his wounds, violating his most vulnerable spaces.

Undeterred, Kate continued to strip away the blood and filth soaked fabric, revealing his raw, wounded flesh. With a sheet draped over his torso, she shielded him from prying eyes, her touch gentle yet purposeful. "I know, Arthur. I'm sorry. But I have to. I need to see the extent of what they did. These hands won't hurt you, sweetheart," she murmured soothingly, guiding him through each step with care.

As she worked, Kate fought to suppress the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm her. Just a week ago, she had stitched a small wound in his side, marveling at his strength and resilience. Now, under the dim light, she beheld the extent of his suffering, his once robust form marred by bruises and scars. Shuddering at the stark contrast, she longed for the sight of him untouched and whole, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight.

Uncorking the weighty bottle of whiskey, Kate poured a liberal amount over her own soiled hands, tainted with dirt and streaked with his blood. "Arthur," she began softly, angling her head to meet his gaze directly, "we're home now," she reiterated like a sacred chant, "I'm going to take care of you, but I need you to bite down on this hard, okay?" Before he could object, she gently pried open his jaw and slipped the leather between his teeth. "It's going to hurt, but it will be over quickly. I just need to disinfect your wounds."

Hosea returned, clutching a small black box containing lock-picking tools, along with a needle and thread. "I've already sterilized them over a flame. They should be ready for use now," he explained briskly.

"Thank you, Hosea," Kate acknowledged, motioning for him to position himself on her other side. "I need you to hold him down if he starts to move." Hosea nodded in urgency, his hand already resting firmly on Arthur's uninjured shoulder, his gaze lingering on the gaping wound on his other side.

Taking a moment to steady herself, Kate drew a deep breath. Picking up the bottle once more, she held it poised over the wound in Arthur's abdomen. This was the most critical issue; she needed to staunch the bleeding first. "Take a deep breath, Arthur," she instructed, waiting until she saw the rise of his chest before pouring the whiskey over his stomach.

Arthur gasped sharply, his body recoiling at the searing pain coursing through him. Charles swiftly maneuvered to the foot of the cot, securing Arthur's legs to provide stability. Meanwhile, Kate seized a bundle of damp, warm cloth, swiftly commencing the task of cleansing the area surrounding his stab wound, a grisly mix of blood and filth. Biting the leather straps, Arthur let out a muffled groan, his jaw clenched in agony. "Keep breathing, Arthur," Kate coached, her voice steady and reassuring. "You're safe now. We're almost through."

As Kate worked, the sting of whiskey on his wound drew another pained whimper from Arthur, yet she pressed on, discarding soiled cloth as Miss Grimshaw replenished her supply with fresh cotton. Hosea, in his resourcefulness, passed her a pair of tweezers from his lockpicking kit. Beneath the faint glow of the oil lamp, Kate meticulously cleared the wound of debris, extracting dirt and tiny fragments of grass until it gleamed as clean as possible. With a final cleansing douse of alcohol, Hosea deftly threaded a needle, handing it to Kate who skillfully began the task of stitching him closed. Though the wound spanned a mere two inches, its depth hinted at internal damage. Kate silently prayed that her efforts had stemmed the bleeding, if only temporarily.

Approaching Arthur's tent, a new set of footfalls announced Dutch's arrival. "My son..." his voice trailed wearily, concern etched into every syllable. "Is he going to be alright?"

Annoyance flickered within Kate as Dutch finally showed concern, likely stirred by Arthur's cries that had surely pierced the night, rousing the camp from its slumber. They now loomed in the shadows behind Dutch, silent spectators unsure of their place.

Without lifting her gaze from her task, Kate's response was curt. "I'll let you know you when I'm finished," she retorted sharply, her exhaustion seeping into her tone. Her circle was reserved for those who truly showed care for Arthur, those who stood by him, aiding her in his need.

If only Dutch had said something about Arthur’s absence, perhaps this all could have been avoided. She placed a partial responsibility for his tortment on him. Why hadn’t he said something? Did Hosea know Arthur was supposed to meet them? Arthur spoke highly of Dutch, and Kate knew in a way he was like a father to him. Her questions festered in the back of her mind as they remained unanswered.

With each discarded cloth, Kate worked diligently, ensuring the wound was clean enough to be wrapped. Charles and Hosea delicately maneuvered Arthur's body, allowing Kate to envelop his torso completely in the protective layers of cloth, securing it tightly above the injury.

Seated on a chair thoughtfully provided by Miss Grimshaw, Kate afforded Arthur a brief respite from the relentless assault on his body, allowing herself a moment to catch her breath. With gentle care, she reached out, tenderly brushing the sweat-dampened hair from Arthur's forehead, his distress evident in the beads of perspiration and the furrow of pain etched upon his brow.

"You've been incredibly brave, Arthur," she murmured, her touch soothing against his tear-stained cheek. His bloodshot eyes sought hers desperately, finding solace in her presence, as if she alone tethered him to reality, a lifeline amidst the darkness threatening to engulf him once more. With a reassuring tone, she continued, "I'm going to clean your shoulder now, alright? I'll be right here beside you, every step of the way." In that shared gaze, a silent pact formed, an unspoken trust that his life rested in her capable hands. Arthur's response was a subtle nod, a fleeting acknowledgment of their connection.

"Keep breathing deeply," she coached, demonstrating with a slow inhalation, Arthur following suit, never breaking their gaze. "That's it, good. You’re doing great honey," she encouraged, her words a balm to his weary soul, wrapping him in a comforting embrace of reassurance amid his fear and exhaustion.

Once more, she seized the bottle, its pungent aroma of whiskey assaulting his senses before a drop even touched his skin. Arthur clenched his eyes shut, fighting back the flood of memories, anchoring himself in the present. Here, with Kate by his side, he was safe.

As the icy liquid cascaded over his shoulder, a fresh wave of searing pain tore through him, igniting his nerves like flames licking at his flesh. The mingling scent of whiskey and agony turned his stomach, each inhalation a struggle against the bile rising within him. His bite on the leather tightened as he clenched down, saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth. Yet amidst the turmoil, Hosea's reassuring touch pressed against his chest, grounding him. "Deep breaths, son," came his gentle whisper, a reminder to draw in each breath despite the growing discomfort. With effort, Arthur obeyed, each inhalation a battle against the rising tide of pain and unease.

Kate's voice drifted to him once more, a soothing melody in the chaos. "That's it, sweetheart," she murmured, “the worst is almost over,” her hands working diligently on his shoulder, the warmth of wet cloth cleansing away the layers of blood and grime, revealing the rawness beneath. Another pour of alcohol elicited a primal scream from his throat as his back arched in agony, the bullet wound laid bare and vulnerable.

With steady hands, Kate poured whiskey over the set of tweezers, the bullet still stubbornly lodged within. A glimmer of hope flickered in the darkness; perhaps Arthur's left arm would yet see use again.

Through panting breaths and tears, the overwhelming pain threatened to engulf him, each sensation pulling him closer to the precipice of unconsciousness. Kate's voice, a lifeline amidst the tumult, echoed in his mind. "You can let go, Arthur," she whispered, as if sensing his perilous dance with darkness. "I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

With those words, Arthur surrendered to the bliss of sleep, his weary mind finding solace in its embrace. His eyes fluttered closed, the tension in his jaw releasing as he placed his trust in Kate's capable hands. In her words lay the promise of a future, each syllable a gentle encouragement driving every beat of his heart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Picture a man. Like a speck out at sea as you gaze upon him from the shore. He’s swimming beyond the breakers, like he’s done this all before. He sees the coming of the swell, and knows it will drag him out a greater length. Far beyond the shallows of the bay. But he knows his strength, he tries to gather it. And he swims on, turning back to shore again. He feels the rising of the wave and knows at once he will not withstand it.

Like that man, Arthur sinks down into the depths. The water burns his lungs, his body aflame as he exerts himself to stay afloat. The darkness engulfs him, a starless night lost at sea. He fears he will drown, but then, her voice returns to him. Ushered down from the sky above him. Like a beacon in the night, a melody that lights the path before him. A distant lighthouse, guiding his willing soul to shore.

Her words flow through him as he swims against the current. All of his loss threatens to pull him under, but all he can think of is her. The light that leads him, and the air that fills his lungs. Command a new life that breathes into him.

Amongst the shadows, he witnessed two figures upon the shore. They gaze upon his struggling form. But he feels no fear, he swims on towards them. Kate's words command his every movement, keep breathing Arthur. All of her goodness is with him now. This woman, who never once asked him about the wrongs he committed. So persistent in her devotion.

He was housed by her warmth; transformed, reborn. Like a bird he flew to her now, swimming against a sea of fire. The blinding light of her voice shown upon the figures in the sand. Arthur could see a large shadow, next to a much smaller one. They held out their hands, frozen like angels beneath her radiance.

Their spirits reached for him, unfazed by the darkness of his heart. The waves leapt and violently crashed at their feet. Arthur could feel their love, though mere aberrations, their hands were warm and strong. Pulling him swiftly back to land.

They laid him down soft and sweet, in her low lit light beyond them he could finally see the features of a man and a young girl. He blinked, realization dawned that a mere child had rescued him. Though their faces remained unrecognizable.

The man reached down and helped him to stand, keeping a steady arm on his back. The young girl looked up at him with a familiar warmth in her smile, she took her small hand in his.

“My momma is gonna take real good care of you Arthur.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate toiled tirelessly through the night and into the early embrace of dawn, the gentle symphony of birdsong heralding the arrival of a new day even before the first rays of sunlight graced Clemens Point. Sometime amidst the evening, Miss Grimshaw had taken it upon herself to gather extra canvas cloth, draping them around Arthur's makeshift abode, providing a semblance of privacy to his recovery

After extracting the bullet from his shoulder, Kate meticulously tended to the wound, carefully wrapping it in cloth to secure it tightly. Already, signs of infection were beginning to manifest, but she remained hopeful that with diligent cleaning, she could impede the progress of bacteria before sepsis set in.

As the night wore on, Kate turned her attention to Arthur's other injuries, dismissing Charles and Hosea to their rest. Though they hesitated to leave her side, she reassured them with a determined nod. Rest was a luxury she couldn't afford until she had assessed the full extent of Arthur's injuries, strategizing for his slow recovery. His life hung precariously in the balance, and Kate was resolute in her commitment to remain by his side, in his hour of need.

With steady hands, Kate fashioned a splint for the broken fingers of Arthur's injured left arm, the paleness of his skin betraying the severity of the damage. Despite the faint pulse she detected, she couldn't shake the fear that his arm might be lost if the sensation in his hand failed to return entirely. The bullet, though mercifully, hadn't shattered his shoulder completely, which still offered a flicker of hope.

Turning her attention to his feet, Kate's heart sank at the sight of the swelling and the telltale blackness of his toes. Lacerations from shackles bruised his skin. The harrowing signs of prolonged suspension and the loss of circulation. She dared to pray that with time, the swelling would subside, though the realization of how long he had been hanging upside down twisted her stomach.

The bullet wound in his ankle presented its own challenge, having narrowly missed the bone yet tearing through muscle. It spared him the ordeal of shattered limb, but promised a long road to recovery, rendering walking a daunting task.

After cleansing his body with the last remnants of cloth, Kate reached for a salve crafted from sage, honey, and pine. With gentle strokes, she massaged the soothing balm into the myriad of cuts and burns that adorned his skin, paying particular attention to the rope burns on his wrists and the torn flesh around his ankles. It was a homemade remedy passed down by River, renowned as a 'Cure-All' within their tribe for its effectiveness in treating various skin injuries.

Satisfied with her ministrations, Kate settled back in her chair, her own needs forgotten as she watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Arthur's chest. Her eyes, heavy with dark circles, never left him. Slowly, exhaustion enveloped her. Attempting to blink back the darkness, she succumbed to its embrace, her head lolling as she drifted into a dreamless slumber.

Mere hours later, the soft glow of early morning seeped through the cracks of the small room, casting a gentle light upon the stillness within. The usual hustle and bustle of the camp was conspicuously absent, the tension of the previous night lingering in the air. Kate stirred from her sleep, roused by the faint sound of Arthur's muffled cough.

Blinking away the heaviness of fatigue, Kate's body protested against the soreness and hunger that gnawed at her. Arthur, writhing on the cot in discomfort, sought to sit up, his face twisted with pain. "Easy, Arthur, you're alright," she murmured wearily, her voice a tired yet comforting presence as she reached over to ease him back onto the cot. Knowing his agony must be unbearable, she thought to brew him an elixir, one of the remedies River had taught her, to alleviate some of his pain.

With sudden force, he pushed against her. “Mmf…m-ove,” his groans muffled yet urgent. Confusion furrowed Kate's brow as Arthur's movements grew more frantic, his right arm struggling to lift his heavy frame from the bed. Before he could tumble to the floor, Kate swiftly caught his head in the crook of her elbow.

"Arthur—" she began, her voice tinged with concern, her hands moving to guide him back onto the bed to prevent any further harm.

But Arthur's breathing escalated into dry heaves, his grip on her arm tightening as he pleaded, "Kate... m’move!" His words were strained, pushed out with desperate force. Before she could react, his head jerked forward, a guttural whine escaping his throat as warmth spilled over her arm, coating her lap and legs in sticky heat.

A chill washed over Kate as she looked down, her heart freezing at the sight of dark red blood mingling with the acidic contents of Arthur's stomach, forming gruesome clots. Her efforts had not been enough; he was bleeding internally, and there was nothing she could do.

Kate's breaths quickened, shallow and panicked, as she held him close. Arthur's body trembled with violent shudders, tears and bloody drool mingling as they cascaded down his chin. "M’sorry…m’so-sorry Kate," he mumbled, voice muffled against her arms. As he hid his face in humiliation.

Frozen with fear, Kate's arms trembled as she clung to him, a silent witness to the cruel fate that now enveloped them both.

Like the steady light of a distant train cutting through the quiet of a forest on a moonlit night, fragments of Kate's past came hurtling down the tracks of her memory. She couldn't help but recall her late husband, his figure fading in the dim light of their shared bedroom. His body was ridden with disease that cruelly spared her. Months of relentless coughs had ultimately led to the collapse of his lungs, his final breaths accompanied by the heavy wheezing that echoed hauntingly in her mind. Countless nights were etched in her memory, each one marked by his desperate struggle for air, the taste of blood staining their shared existence.

It was happening again.

With a heavy heart, Kate sat up, her hands tenderly cradling Arthur's head as if he were a fragile newborn. Slowly, she guided him back onto the cot, her voice trembling with emotion as she sought to offer comfort in the face of impending tragedy.

"S’alright, honey," she cooed, “not your fault.” Her words a fragile attempt to reassure him, though tears threaten to betray her facade of strength. Despite the weight of her own grief, she desperately tried to remain calm.

The clamor lured Hosea to the tent, concern etched on his features as he approached. "Kate, what hap—" His words trailed off as he caught sight of her blood-stained attire and Arthur's bloodied mouth. With swift determination, he reached Arthur's side, quickly pulling the sheet from his torso, revealing the gruesome display beneath. Kate's breath caught in her throat.

Pale white, mottled skin surrounded his knife wound. Dark spider-like veins branched out like a twisted oak tree.

As the walls of her resolve crumbled around her, Kate felt fear and trepidation seep into the cracks of her psyche. She fought valiantly to suppress tears, her gaze pleading with Hosea for guidance. "Hosea..." she whispered, her voice trembling with uncertainty, "I-I don't know what to do." The words choked out as the dam of her emotions finally burst.

Hosea, sensing the urgency of the situation, took in the sight of her with a gentle yet urgent tone. "We're getting a doctor," he declared decisively, wasting no time as he rose to his feet and strode towards the entrance of Arthur's tent. With a firm hand, he pushed aside the flap and called out to Lenny and Sadie, who sat nearby at a table. "You two, go to Rhodes and find a doctor! No excuses, spare no expense. Bring him back here, by any means necessary!" His words carried the weight of authority, a stern directive from a father to his wayward children.

Lenny and Sadie sprang into action, disappearing into the distance with a sense of urgency. Meanwhile, Kate struggled to steady her breathing, her chest heaving with each sob that wracked her body. Emotions boiled over, threatening to overwhelm her fragile composure.

Returning to her side, Hosea gently grasped her arm, his touch a comforting anchor amidst the turmoil. "No. No, Hosea, I can't leave him," Kate protested hastily, her eyes pleading for understanding even as her heart screamed for reassurance.

"You need to rest, Kate," Hosea's gentle voice broke through the haze of exhaustion, his concern palpable in the warmth of his suggestion. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes for a moment, summoning the last reserves of her strength before nodding in acceptance.

With his steady support, Kate rose to her feet, allowing him to guide her towards the entrance. His reassuring squeeze spoke volumes, a promise of gratitude and solidarity in the face of adversity. Retrieving his bandana from his vest pocket, he whispered softly, "You've been so strong for him. Thank you." As he tenderly wiped away her tears, Kate offered a tremulous nod, her lips quivering with emotion.

In a daze, she made her way to her own tent and bedroll, each step heavy with fatigue. Discarding her boots with weary resignation, she found herself lacking the strength to remove her soiled clothing. Instead, she stumbled towards the shoreline, the cool embrace of the water beckoning to her.

Sinking to her knees in the shallows, Kate began the arduous task of scrubbing away the blood that clung to her skin, each stroke fueled by a fearful urgency. Her nails scraped against her flesh as her breathing quickened with the intensity of her movements. The blood, stubborn and unyielding, seemed to taunt her, clinging to her body like a relentless specter of the past.

It was happening again.

Quiet sobs escaped her lips as panic tightened its grip around her, her body tensing with the effort to hold herself together. Her heart pounded in a desperate ritual of purification.

Kate remained lost in her torment, oblivious to the sound of Charles's approach as he waded into the water. A startled gasp escaped her lips as he enveloped her in a comforting embrace. "It's alright, Kate, I've got you," his deep, reassuring voice washed over her, instantly recognizable and soothing in its familiarity. His arms encircled her, offering solace and protection.

In that moment, Kate allowed the walls she had built around herself to crumble. She sobbed openly into Charles's arms, her anguish pouring forth unchecked. "You did everything you could. It's okay," he murmured gently, his words a balm to her wounded spirit. "Arthur owes his life to you," he added, a testament to her unwavering dedication.

With a hiccup, Kate confessed, "It's happening again, Charles." Emotions long suppressed surged to the surface, memories of loss and grief flooding her mind, her late husband's foremost among them.

"Shh, don't speak like that. We're getting a doctor for him," Charles reassured her, his voice a steadfast anchor in the storm of her emotions. "Arthur is resilient, Kate. He's a fighter."

"When will it be enough?" she pleaded, her voice raw with anguish. In response, Charles simply sighed and pulled her closer, offering silent support as she wept in his arms, their shared grief binding them together in solidarity.

As Kate's sobs gradually subsided, Charles continued to hold her, the gentle lull of the water surrounding them like a protective barrier against the outside world. Sensing the weight of her burden, he spoke softly, his words infused with understanding and compassion.

"Kate," he began, voice tender, "you don't have to carry this alone. You've put on a strong arm for so long, but you don't have to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Kate's breath hitched at his words, a mixture of relief and uncertainty washing over her. For years, she had believed that strength meant shouldering her burdens alone, but now, in Charles's embrace, she allowed herself to be vulnerable, to seek solace in the arms of those who cared for her.

"I'm scared, Charles," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt as if seeking an anchor in the tumult of her emotions.

"I know, Kate," Charles replied, his tone gentle yet resolute. "But you're not alone in this. We're all here for you, for Arthur. Every step of the way."

With a shaky exhale, Kate allowed herself to lean into Charles's figure, finding solace in the warmth of his presence. In that moment, surrounded by the soothing embrace of the water and the unwavering support of her friend, she felt a sense of relief ease off her tired soul.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

With just enough time to change her blood-soiled clothing and hastily consume a small meal of dried meat, Kate had brushed off Hosea's well-intentioned advice to rest. Though Charles's comforting presence provided some measure of relief, she knew that sleep would elude her unless she was by Arthur's side. His condition could turn on a dime, and she wanted to make sure she was there to comfort him. As the distant sound of approaching hoofbeats echoed through the camp, she emerged from her tent, her gaze fixed on the large wagon rumbling towards the entrance, its contents jostling on the uneven terrain.

Lenny's figure emerged from the midst of the commotion, leading a man towards Arthur's tent—the long-awaited doctor had finally arrived. Without hesitation Kate lept to greet them.

The sudden disruption caught Dutch's attention, his annoyance palpable as he emerged from his tent, demanding an explanation. Before he could voice his protest, Hosea intercepted him, offering a gentle diversion as he ushered Dutch back into his tent to address the matter in private.

Meanwhile, a young black man clad in a gray suit, adorned with a vibrant purple vest, dismounted from the wagon, his demeanor professional yet compassionate. Kate was surprised at his age, most doctors she knew were older. She noted the side of his wagon; Dr. Renaud’s Traveling Medical Company.

As they approached Arthur's tent, Lenny briefed the doctor on the situation. "Kate brought him in last night. He's in bad shape, Doc—bullet wound to the shoulder, knife to the stomach," Lenny explained tersely.

The doctor nodded solemnly, acknowledging the severity of the situation. With a sense of purpose, Kate accompanied them into the stuffy makeshift room. Lenny bid them farewell and goodluck before departing, leaving Kate alone with the newcomer, the supposed savior who held the key to Arthur's survival.

Surveying Arthur's broken form, “oh my lord,” he muttered to himself. The doctor pressed his fingers to his neck, checking Arthur’s pulse, then turning his attention to Kate. "I presume you're Kate?" he inquired, his voice carrying a mix of professionalism and empathy. Kate offered a hesitant nod in response.

"Dr. Alphonse Renaud," he introduced himself, extending a hand. Kate accepted the handshake, her movements awkward and uncertain, her mind racing with apprehension. Arthur's fate, and by extension her own, hung in the balance, resting upon the skill of this newcomer.

"Are you his wife?" Dr. Renaud's question jolted Kate from her anxious reverie.

"N-no," she stammered, her nerves palpable. Gathering her composure, she clarified, "I'm not his wife. Just a friend." The weight of responsibility settled heavily upon her shoulders, a silent acknowledgment of the magnitude of the situation. "I managed to stop the bleeding last night. But I'm afraid he's still bleeding internally, he was vomiting blood this morning." Kate explained, her words rushed and urgent, wasting no time in conveying the severity of Arthur's condition.

Dr. Renaud clicked his tongue in response. "A knife to the stomach will do that to a man. How did this happen to him?" he inquired, gently shifting the sheet covering Arthur's abdomen to assess the extent of the injury.

Kate hesitated, unsure of how much to disclose about their precarious circumstances. After all, Arthur was a wanted man. She couldn't just disclose to a stranger the details of a violent gang feud between outlaws, he would surely leave in a heartbeat. "Tortured," she replied tersely, her tone brooking no further discussion.

“Oh, my deepest sympathy for your friend,” he replied with a solemn nod. Dr. Renaud moved to open the flaps on the side of the tent, allowing sunlight to stream in and illuminate the extent of Arthur's wounds. As he gazed upon Arthur's face, now bathed in the soft afternoon glow, a flicker of recognition crossed his features. "Wait a moment," he murmured, gently turning Arthur's face towards him, "I know this man... Arthur, isn't it? Arthur Morgan."

Fear gripped Kate as she processed the doctor's unexpected recognition of Arthur. How could this man possibly know him? A myriad of troubling scenarios raced through her mind—had he seen the wanted posters plastered across towns? Or worse, had Arthur crossed paths with him in a less-than-favorable manner? The weight of uncertainty bore down on her, her heart pounding with dread. If Dr. Renaud refused to help them now, Arthur's fate would be sealed.

To her relief, Dr. Renaud's expression softened with understanding. "Mr. Morgan saved my skin a few weeks back," he explained, his voice tinged with gratitude. "Some racist fellas, calling themselves Lemoyne Raiders, stole my wagon. I knew if I went after them myself, they would surely lynch me. So Mr. Morgan set out to retrieve my belongings." Kate's breath caught in her throat as she released a shaky exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

"He wouldn't even accept payment for his troubles," Dr. Renaud continued, his determination evident in the clasp of his hands. "Now, it seems fate has afforded me the opportunity to repay his kindness." Kate felt a surge of emotion welling within her. She wanted to cry; tears of joy, tears of hope, tears of heartbreak. Because of course, of course, Arthur had gone out his way to help this young doctor. That was just the kind of man he is. So clouded by his own demons, he still can’t see the pure heart that glimmers beneath the surface. By some twisted dance of fate, his kindness would grant him the opportunity for a second chance at life.

In that moment, Kate knelt beside Arthur's cot with renewed purpose, her gaze fixed on Dr. Renaud with determination. "What can I do to help, Doc?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tumult of emotions swirling within her. This was their chance—a chance for Arthur to receive the care he so desperately needed, and for Kate to play her part in ensuring his survival.

Dr. Renaud carefully examined the wound on Arthur's stomach, his fingertips gauging the heat of the inflamed skin. "I can stop the internal bleeding," he observed, "but you'll need to keep a close eye on his recovery. Regularly cleaning the wound is crucial. Sepsis can be deadlier than bleeding out." Kate nodded eagerly, absorbing his instructions.

His focus then shifted to Arthur's shoulder wound. "You've done a commendable job stitching this," he acknowledged, but pointed out the yellowing skin around the starfish-shaped crater. Pressing gently, he noted the alarming signs of infection. "The infection's already taken hold here. It's eroding the muscle. If it spreads to the ligaments, he could lose his arm entirely.” Kate nodded quickly, understanding the gravity of the situation.

Taking Arthur's injured hand, the doctor examined it closely. Kate watched as he ran a fingernail over the calloused skin of his palm. Arthur's fingers twitched slightly, prompting a glimmer of hope. "That's promising," Dr. Renaud remarked. "And the bullet?" Kate nodded silently, confirming its extraction. "Excellent. You have a natural talent for this, Kate," he praised with a reassuring smile. Though Kate tried to reciprocate the smile, her concern for Arthur remained paramount, her gaze fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, each breath a testament to his battle to remain alive.

Returning his focus to Arthur's abdomen, Dr. Renaud placed an open palm on his stomach, tapping it lightly. A swishing hollow sound reverberated in the air. "Hear that?" he asked, glancing at Kate. She nodded, her brow furrowed with concern. "It’s filled with fluid, most likely more blood. After I close the wound, his stomach will be sensitive for some time,” his tone gentle and informative. “He might struggle to keep down food and water, so make sure he stays hydrated, okay?" the doctor advised. With practiced ease, he retrieved a small vial of orange iodine and a pair of rubber gloves from his briefcase.

"Put these on and start applying this over his stomach. I'll go grab my tools from the wagon," he directed, handing Kate the supplies. She nodded in acknowledgment and began spreading the iodine as instructed.

As they worked, a gentle breeze wafted through the makeshift room, carrying with it the scent of lake water and grass. It offered a brief respite from the heavy atmosphere of blood and sickness. Refreshing her lungs with strength and clarity. Dr. Renaud administered a shot of morphine to Arthur, providing temporary relief from the pain. In focused silence, Kate followed the doctor's lead, handing him tools and meticulously cleaning the wound.

Kate's breath caught as Dr. Renaud delicately reopened the wound on Arthur's stomach, using a slender blade to extend the incision. She gripped the forceps, holding them open. Steadying herself as he meticulously stitched the lining of his stomach back together. The tension in the air was static with urgency, each movement of the doctor's hands deliberate and controlled. Kate watched in silent admiration, marveling at his skill and composure amidst the lethal task ahead.

An hour later, Dr. Renaud had painstakingly resealed the wound, layering on another dose of antiseptic before dressing it in clean cloth. He then turned his attention to Arthur's bullet wound, methodically cleaning and rebandaging it. Explaining that he may never regain complete mobility of his arm again.

He examined Arthur's eyes, reassuring Kate that the swelling and bloodshot appearance would gradually subside over time. Concluding his service by informing her that his feet should return to their normal color, but he may have difficulty walking on the ankle even after it heals.

Kate’s heart throbbed with his every word. Arthur would never be the same after this, if he even survived. He was a cowboy, a gunslinger. His skills on horseback were carved into his identity. His quickdraw was paramount for the survival of his kind. Kate knew he prided himself in his work, afterall he was Dutch’s second in command. She understood what it felt like to have your integrity challenged in the face of death. To say goodbye to a part of yourself.

Dr. Renaud packed his things as he prepared to leave once he was satisfied with Arthur’s care. "It's going to be a challenging road to recovery," he remarked solemnly, "I can't make any promises, Kate. It's ultimately up to Arthur to fight through this."

"But what about the infection?" Kate interjected, her voice tinged with concern. No amount of determination on Arthur's part would matter if the infection spread unchecked throughout his body.

Dr. Renaud retrieved a small bottle from his briefcase and presented it to her. "This is a new antibiotic called penicillin," he explained, handing her the glass bottle containing small white pills. "It's groundbreaking medicine, but still in testing. I advise you, use it cautiously."

Kate nodded gratefully, clutching the vial of hope close to her heart. "Thank you, Doc. Please, let me pay for it," she insisted, reaching for her satchel.

Dr. Renaud halted her with a gentle touch on her wrist. "As I've said before Kate, the debt is already settled. Medicine is my calling, and meeting Arthur breathed a new life into me. He gave me a second chance." He shook her hand firmly and bid a farewell, “we need more of his kindness in this world.”

Kate remained seated beside Arthur, her ears catching fragments of Lenny and Sadie's conversation with the young doctor. Their voices drifted like distant echoes, discussing Arthur's condition and treatment plan. A surge of gratitude swelled within her, a profound appreciation for the doctor's expertise and the reassurance he provided. It was a stroke of luck, she thought, a lifeline thrown to them in their darkest hour. Kate couldn't shake the disbelief at their fortune, it was as if her prayer had been answered.

The depth of human connection astounded her, the way lives intersected in unexpected ways, offering solace and support when it was needed most. It was a testament to the human spirit. Kate knew Arthur was not a bad man, no matter how much he believed himself to be. So blinded by self-hatred he couldn’t see the kind loving man beneath it all. She longed to bring out that side of him.

Tears pooled in Kate's eyes once more, a bittersweet blend of grief, relief, and gratitude. Leaning closer to Arthur, she pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, her gesture a silent declaration of love and unwavering devotion. "Someone up there is on our side, Arthur," she murmured softly, her voice choked with emotion. "We’re going to be okay.” A widow's vow to remain by his side, till death do them part.

---

AN: I'm pretty proud of Kate's development in this chapter. I feel like we see a lot more of her emotional struggles.The next chapter will include a lot of recovery as well as interactions with the other camp members as Arthur is healing. Lots of fluff and comfort too :)

(pls ignore how inaccurate the medical stuff is to the time period, I'm lazy)

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