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walker-extended-universe · 2 years ago

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Walker: Independence 1x13 "Let Him Hang" Review

Going back to the old days with this one!

This episode left my head spinning.

We start off in the Davidson Torture Barn, where Tom and Shane escape from Augustus and his law-abiding ways. Both brothers are badly hurt but Shane is was shot and he's worse off than Tom. Their horses were scared off by the gunfire so they're left to go on foot. Eventually, Shane can no longer go on and he lays on the ground. The brother's try to puzzle their way out of this. It's a bad look for the deputy to be dead and the sheriff to run off with the man that killed him.

Side note: Shane tearfully asking Tom for reassurance that he can get them out of this. That is all.

Eventually, Tom reaches the conclusion that someone has to take the fall for this. Shane understands what he means; Shane and Gus died taking each other out is the new story. That means Tom has to kill him. Tearfully, Tom raises his gun and shoots his brother. For family.

Back at Tom's cabin, Abigail has found her husband's old journal among Tom's things and has determined that he must be responsible for her husband's death after all. She follows Augustus' trail to the Torture Barn, where she finds him unconscious and bleeding out. With all her strength, she drags him out of the barn to take him to Independence.

In the morning light, Hoyt cleans the windows of the Side Step while giving Matthew advice on robbing banks. While they talk, Matthew tells Hoyt that he came out here looking for kin. Specifically, his father. Hoyt doesn't have much time to ponder what that means for him before he sees a bloody Tom Davidson rolling into town.

In the sheriff's office, Tom is cornered by both Kate and Hoyt about what happened. Tom gives them the Official Story and asks them to go fetch a doctor, or at least Kai. Neither of them believe his story, and then Abby blows him completely out of the water when she rides into town with Augustus on her horse.

Everyone goes to work. Abby clears off Tom's desk so they have a surface to patch Gus up on. Kai is called for his doctoring skills, Hoyt tries to give Gus some liquid courage, and Calian is there for his friend. None of them are ready to let Gus die.

Once they've removed the bullet and stopped the bleeding, the group steps away to let Gus rest. Tom discreetly asks Kai to let him know when Gus wakes up, before anyone else, but Kate and Abby notice something's up.

Side note: The way Kate grabs Kai's face when asking him what Tom told him ;_;

Back at Hagan's Tom starts getting ready to skip town and Kate interrupts him. He makes an excuse about looking for a "real doctor" for Gus but she doesn't buy it. Then Kate reveals that she knows exactly what the sheriff has done, including killing his own brother, and pulls her gun on him when he tries to threaten her. But Tom's in too deep to let this go easily and he goes for the knife under his desk.

Side note: Katie and Greg have so much chemistry together and it's almost a crime to have their characters hate each other so much.

Side side note: PINKERTON WANTED KATE DEAD???? WTF?????

In the sheriff's office, Abby is taking charge. She knows Tom is responsible for all of this and she's not letting him get away with it. So she tells Hoyt and Calian to block off all the exits to town and she goes for the guns on the wall. She's going to do something she should've done a long time ago: bring Tom Davidson to justice.

Back in the sheriff's office, Tom is cornered behind his desk. But he's not giving up easily. He distracts Kate with his chair, grabs his gun, then leaps off the balcony and into the middle of town. Unfortunately, he's jumped from the frying pan and into the fire as he now has Calian and Hoyt gunning for him as well as Abby and Kate. His cries for help from the citizens of Independence fall on deaf ears, even when he asks Kai. He claims that Abby and her friends are just vigilantes after him, but Abby's voice is louder as she lists all his crimes.

Side note: "It doesn't have to end this way." "I think it does." Okay I know they didn't kill him but it really seemed like they were going to here for a minute.

In the end, Gus makes the final blow that takes Tom out. Tom is then taken to a cell, where they patch him up at Abby's command. Letting him die would just be too easy.

Once he's stable, Abby asks to be left alone with him to get a confession. She wants to know exactly what he did and why. And he tells her the truth. He tells her he did it all out of loyalty to his Aunt Teresa; he owed her after she saved him from the asylum. The only order he didn't follow was killing Abby. He reveals that he knew who she was all along and had been following her and Liam for days before Liam was killed. He also explains that he left her alive on purpose and just framed it so that no one else would realize.

Abby is shocked and horrified to hear all this, but its' everything she needs to know. Tom is guilty, that much she is sure of. She just needs him to confess. There's no other way to ensure he sees justice.

Side note: The way Tom says he "took her in" and gave her purpose in the exact same phrasing as how his Aunt got him out of the asylum as the reason for why Abby should be on his side really says a lot about how his fucked up family warped his idea of what love is. There's a meta about that incoming don't you worry.

After getting Tom's confession, Abby hands it off to Gus and takes a few moments alone. We also get assurance that Hoyt is not Matthew's father.

Some time later, the Texas Rangers arrive to pick Tom up for trial in Austin. Before he leaves, everyone has their piece to say to him, including Abby. Everyone in town is looking forward to Tom being brought to justice. How the mighty have fallen.

Or so it seems, as Kate sees the telegraph operator painting a notice on a wall that announces a $10,000 reward for whoever frees Tom. Kate is furious with him, even when he reveals that he only did it because his family was threatened, and rushes off to tell the others.

The gang chases after Tom's stagecoach on horseback; they hope to get to him before anyone else does.

Unfortunately, they're too late. There's a man inside Tom's stagecoach with a circle tattoo on his hand. Tom mentions he killed a man with the same tattoo and gets the butt of a shotgun to the head for his troubles.

By the time the gang catches up with him, the stagecoach is down and Tom is gone.

Back in town, everyone is gathered to have a party for Gus as the new sheriff. Everyone but Augustus is in attendance as they celebrate their victory over the evil Davidsons and their newfound friendships.

Later, Calian and Gus meet on their ridge. Calian tells Gus that the new chief of his tribe is still angling for war with the railroad. And, unfortunately, they no longer have allies in Independence that can help. The railroad will come one way or another and they need to be ready.

After the party, Abby and Hoyt walk through the dark street of Independence. Hoyt tells Abby about his little mixup with Matthew and reveals he wouldn't be opposed to being a father. He doesn't feel the urge to run away from Independence anymore. He's just not sure about Lucia. Then Matthew shows up and awkwardly flirts with Abby, after which Hoyt notices some cash missing from his pocket. Unfortunately, he's got the wrong culprit in mind as it turns out Abby picked his pocket, not his protegee.

Side note: Can the WIndy writers stop killing my Hoyt/Lucia dreams? Please?

Back at Hagan's, Kate is going over some documents and Kai brings over the bottle of fine hootch she left at his restaurant. As they finish the bottle, Kate tells Kai that Hagan ensured she would get the hotel if anything happened to Tom. The place is hers now. And she'd like him to be her business partner. Kai graciously accepts and all is right with the world.

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the Texas plains, Tom sits by a fire and is approached by a man on horseback. The man comes closer to his fire, revealing a circle tattoo on his hand as he hands Tom a pen. Tom takes it and greets the man, indentifying him as his father.

And with that, the season finale of Walker: Independence comes to a close.

This one sure was a wild ride. I'm not sure what I expected out of this episode but I wasn't expecting what we got. It was both not what I expected and everything I hoped it would be. Everyone in the main cast lives. Abby got her justice (or at least tried to). Kate and Kai are friends again. We have more Davidson drama on the horizon. Everything is as it should be (for now).

This show needs to get renewed. There's too much goodness here to pass up.

#walker: independence #walker: independence spoilers #walker: independence review #s01e13 #let him hang

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kin-forward · 8 years ago

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A mood board for Abigail “Fetch” Walker with neon pink and references to her brother. There wasn’t much detail in the request so I just went off what research I did. I hope you like it!!!

#fetch #infamous: second son #abigail walker #abigail walker #fetch walker #kin #mood board

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kin-squad-finder · 8 years ago

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Hi! I'm Delsin Rowe, from inFAMOUS: Second Son. I'm looking for Eugene, whom I was dating, and Fetch, whom I considered to be my best friend! I'd also love to find my brother, Reggie. Like or reblog this post and I'll contact you!

!!!

#mod Ivy #Delsin Rowe kin #inFAMOUS: Second Son kin #infamous kin #eugene sims kin #fetch kin #abigail walker kin #reggie rowe kin #kin call #anon #good luck!!

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joyfullynervouscreator · 8 years ago

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The Walkers pt 3

Insomnia, woo! aka, here’s another chapter. Not much Beorn in this one, sadly, but he’ll be back in the next one.

Part 1 Part 2

word count: 4k

You have run far, always heading south. For a time, you’d followed the river, but eventually you had headed in-land a bit, walking in your human body by day, passing a few farms and nodding at people you met, while running stealthily in your other skin by night.

“Hey, you there!” Someone calls, as you are passing a small farm in the early morning hours. You had wandered close to the homestead, hoping to barter for a few eggs for your breakfast; these Rohirrim people are usually quite happy to accept the strength of your arms in return for food. Looking up, you catch sight of an arm waving at you from the upper floor of a small barn. You frown, but move closer. By the smell, the owner of the arm is the only Man present on the farm; you can sense no one else moving around aside from a few horses and a cow.

“Yes?” you call. A man pokes his head out of the hay-loft.

“Béma’s blessings!” he calls, seemingly relieved to see you. “Would you be so kind as to put my ladder back, my good woman?” Following his finger, you spot a long ladder lying in the grass beneath the window. Picking it up, you rest it back against the wall, wondering why the man hasn’t just jumped; he is only about 10 feet above ground, hardly an impossible leap, even for a Man. “Thank you, lass,” he calls, and you immediately realise the reason he was stuck when he begins clambering down the rungs. The man has only one leg, the other coming to a stump about mid-thigh. Holding the ladder steady, you notice the careworn state of the buildings; obviously the one-legged man has enough to do taking care of his animals, leaving his buildings to fall into disrepair.

“You need help?” you ask, when he has reached the ground safely. The man blinks up at you, staring.

“You’re a tall one,” he mumbles to himself, probably not intending for you to hear the low words. You smile, amused by the comment. At nearly seven feet, you are a lot taller than all the humans you have met so far, even if you are not as tall as you ought to have been; the lack of food in the Orc stronghold stunted your growth. Beorn was taller, but he’d been an adult already when the Orcs came – it still aches to think his name, to wonder how he is coping alone, but you push the thought away.

“Strong, too,” you smirk, the Man jumps slightly, startled. You give him a friendly smile.

“You’re not running away from your husband, are you?” the Man asks suddenly, narrowing his eyes at you. You shake your head with a slight laugh. No, you have no mate, and never will. “I’ve enough trouble without inviting more from anyone coming after you,” he mumbles, blushing as he stares at your body, as though noticing your dress for the first time. The cloth is a simple blue, turned into a form-fitting tunic and a pair of brown trousers, clothes you had made when you lived with Beorn – you learned that you are good at weaving, something Beorn tended to struggle with, and it shows in the quality of your garments.

“No husband, nor family,” you shrug, “no home to speak of. I am simply looking to see some of the world, Master Farmer.”

“Athelstan,” he replies, apparently choosing to accept your word and holds out his hand.

“Ullrae,” you say, shaking it. His grip is strong, but not crushing, pleasant in a way that speaks to you on a deeper level. You smile. This man has a good scent.

“Well, Ullrae, how about a bit of breakfast? One good turn deserves another,” Athelstan offers, waving towards the house. You nod. Athelstan picks up his crutch, making his way toward the henhouse. You wonder if you should offer to help him, but decide against it. The Man is obviously proud of what he can do; offending him by implying he is incapable would be impolite. Looking around, you spot an axe and a wood-chopping block. Picking up the axe, you let the calm serenity of chopping wood fill you; the rhythmic thunk!s a familiar sound that make you think of Beorn with a small smile.

“Well, you weren’t kidding about being strong,” Athelstan murmurs under his breath. Focusing on your surroundings once more, you realise you’ve already split fourteen logs in fours. Picking up a few logs, you carry them into the small kitchen, setting them down in a neat stack by the hearth. “Go get a bucket of water from the well, Ullrae,” Athelstan asks quietly, getting a small fire going with practiced ease. You nod silently.

Hauling the bucket up from the depths, you wonder if Athelstan has no kin to help him – the farmstead is small, but would certainly have benefited from an extra pair of hands. Maybe you’ll chop up the rest of his winter firewood supply before you move on, you think with a smile.

“Water,” you announce, startling Athelstan. You smile apologetically, reminding yourself that humans can’t hear your steps; the grace of the lynx’ body bleeds into your human skin and allows you to walk silently over most surfaces.

“I’ve oats for porridge, but I haven’t milked the cow yet,” he replies apologetically, covering up his surprise. You shrug.

“I could do it,” you offer, “though strange cows tend not to like me at first.” It is something you’ve come to realise travelling through this land. Milking is a simple task on any farm, but the cows seem to smell predator on you – even in human skin – and often shy away from you. Horses, however, like you. Athelstan chuckles.

“I’ll go do that then,” he winks, “and you can get some water heated for a pot of tea.” You nod silently, turning to fill his kettle with the bucket of water, swinging it back over the fire as you listen to his uneven gait moving across to the cow’s pasture. You hear the low sound of mooing, the cow obviously relieved to be milked.

When you have fetched another bucket of water, you sweep the floor of the kitchen quickly, waiting for Athelstan to return with milk. Setting out a crock of honey and a small container of salt, you crack a couple of eggs in a bowl, whisking them lightly; feeling like having scrambled eggs for breakfast while the porridge cooks.

After breakfast, you help Athelstan unload the rest of the hay – obviously a task he hadn’t finished the evening before, which was why he’d skipped breakfast to do it – finishing just in time to put the cart into the barn before the rain-clouds burst overhead.

“You might as well wait out the rain,” he says sagely, nodding at the sheets of water coming down. You smile. Pulling out an old shirt of Beorn’s – it no longer smells of him, you think, feeling a little sad at the fact – you set to mending a tear in the fabric. As you mend your shirt – silently taking care of the sleeve Athelstan ripped on a nail earlier too – Athelstan begins mixing flour for bread dough. “If you wanna stay a while, I could do with a hand with the harvest,” Athelstan mumbles later, his fingers nimbly twisting candlewicks while the dough rises. Outside, water is still pouring.

“Sure,” you reply, unafraid. Athelstan is strong, but you are stronger; you are in no danger from him, you know, having long-since learned to see the heart of a man – Man, Walker, or Orc. Athelstan is a lonely man, but he won’t try anything you don’t invite.

Six turns of the moon later, you are still on the farm, spending your days in quiet companionship with Athelstan. It isn’t the same as living with Beorn – the mere thought of your bear still makes your heart beat a little quicker – but it is a good solid existence. As you take on more tasks, the farm begins looking better, and Athelstan with it. The cow eventually got used to you, though you had had a few tipped buckets of milk before that happened. Athelstan takes you riding – you’ve visited the closest village for things he can’t make himself, and to sell things you made – but you also patrol the land in your other skin, marking it as your territory. You haven’t told Athelstan of your other form, though you often spend your nights in the lynx’ skin; listening for Orcs is an unbreakable habit by now. You try not to admit to yourself that you also listen for the sound of a huffing bear, even though you know Beorn will not come looking for you; during the two decades you spent with him that, too, has become an unbreakable habit.

“Why do you not have a wife?” you ask one evening, spending the dark winter night sewing a new shirt for Athelstan while he carves himself a new crutch. The old one hit a stone or something while he walked along the road, and the bottom foot of wood has split in two.

“I did, once,” Athelstan says quietly. The scent of sadness surrounds him, the flavour of old sorrow. It is familiar to you. “Had a daughter, too, and a wee lad.” You look up when he rises from the table, fetching a pair of scrolls. Unrolling them, he shows you a smiling woman – the sketch was clearly made by the corner of the house; you recognise the carvings on the door post. “My wife, Ceolwen,” he says, stroking the woman’s round cheek. Ceolwen had been a pretty woman, you think. Athelstan rolls up the scroll once more, carefully tying the string holding it closed. He unrolls the other, holding it flat on the table. “My daughter, Eafled, with my son, Athelred.” Eafled clearly took after her mother, though the small boy – no more than a toddler – had inherited Athelstan’s dark curls.

“They are dead?” you ask, giving him a sympathetic look. Athelstan nods.

“Ceolwen died giving birth… and a sickness claimed my children three years later.” He ties up the scroll once more, returning it to its shelf.

“My family was murdered,” you hear yourself say; the first time since your early days with Beorn you have spoken of them. “Orcs came… there is nothing left for me there.”

“Is that why you travel?” he asks, frowning, ignoring the fact that you have been with him for more than two seasons. “Because your home is gone?” You chuckle mirthlessly.

“Yes, Athelstan, my home is gone; long ago and far away… I am alone.” Except for Beorn, your heart mumbles, but – as always – you ignore the desire to go back to the man who doesn’t love you like you love him.

Neither of you speak another word that night.

“The King has called a muster,” Athelstan announces, when you have been with him for little over a year. Looking up from your work, planting leeks that have grown inside the house until the seedlings are strong enough to survive in the field, you spot a young lad on a horse, obviously come to deliver the word of the King.

“A muster?” you ask, frowning at the unfamiliar term. Offering the lad a drink from your bucket – welcome on the hot summer day – you wait for Athelstan to explain.

“Orcs are raiding our lands, looking for black horses it seems, but pillaging everything they can, my lady,” the boy says, gulping down the fresh water. You offer your bucket to his horse, which is equally grateful for a drink.

“The muster is the calling of the King’s forces; we’re going to fight the orcs,” Athelstan mumbles. You know why he hesitates. Orcs took his leg once, when they foundered his horse, the big beast crushing Athelstan’s leg beneath it. He knows the dangers he will soon face.

“I will go.” You smile viciously, the predator rising in your blood. You are meant for the hunt, not the farm, and you have longed to avenge yourself on those who have tormented your race. “I have a score to settle with those foul creatures,” you grin, ignoring the way the boy pales. Your eyes are probably glowing yellow, your sharp teeth clearly displayed. Leaping onto his horse, the boy flees swiftly. You chuckle, smelling the acrid scent of his fear.

“I was hoping you would stay here, Ullrae,” Athelstan whispers, his quiet words breaking through the song of blood-lust in your blood. You whirl to face him, cocking your head questioningly. “You are dear to me, girl.” He admits, blushing lightly. You know that, of course, know that he’d often give you fatherly smiles, but you haven’t thought about the deeper implications. “I know you are strong, but these are orcs… I could not bear to see them harm you.”

“You are more likely to be hurt than I,” you mumble, cupping his face. “And if I am dear to you, are you not so to me? Should I not wish to protect you?” Athelstan smiles, but then his face hardens.

“You cannot ride with an éored,” he sighs, “I do not know where you lived before, but it was certainly not Rohan.” He has a point. You are not a good rider; even though Athelstan has only one leg, he sits far more securely in the saddle than you. Of course, you have no intention of fighting in human shape, but he doesn’t know that. You give him another sharp smile.

“Follow me,” you call, heading back to the farm. Athelstan shakes his head fondly, probably thinking you’ll try to prove you can ride with a lance, fight with a sword. When he reaches the courtyard, however, you have not pulled out one of his two horses, simply put the bucket down by the well, and stand waiting.

“What are you doing?!” he cries, when you begin removing your clothes. A fierce blush stains his cheeks as he whirls as swiftly as the crutch allows. You smirk, leaving your clothes in a pile beside you. Humans have such odd hang-ups about nudity.

“Please, Athelstan,” you reply, needing him to watch the transformation, to know the truth of what you are, “do not be frightened. Turn around.” You trust him, but you do not know what he will do when he realises that you are not truly human, even if your ‘cat-like’ appearance should have given him some inkling that you are different to him.

“Are you dressed?” he asks weakly. You chuckle.

“No. I will put my clothes back on when you have seen what I wish to show you.” The long thin scars from the lash have long-since healed, leaving your skin unmarred – scars never remain for long on the shifting body of a Walker, after all. Athelstan sighs – you are far more stubborn than him, and he knows it. When he turns to face you, you shift. Yawning widely – showing off your teeth – you lay down, trying to appear non-threatening to your friend.

“Béma!” Athelstan exclaims, staring wide-eyed at you. “You’re… a lion. Is it you, Ullrae?” he asks, creeping closer. You nod. Stretching languidly, you get to your feet, padding towards him with slow feline grace. “How is this… possible?” You shrug, though he doesn’t seem to expect an answer. You’d never been told how the Walkers began, after all, most of your kin believing that you are manifestations of the First Powers, infused by the Spirit of the Hunt; not too different from Men, but far older as a race. Bumping his good leg lightly with your head, you rub your side along him, amused that your back is level with his hip. Changing back to your human skin – slightly regretful, you would have liked to go for a run – you get dressed again.

“I had no plans to fight as a woman, Athelstan,” you chuckle, turning to face his awed expression.

“You are one of the Gengende…” he breathed. “My old grandmother told me legends of men who could walk as animals, but I always thought it was just a story.”

“It is a story.” You snap, suddenly ill-tempered. “The Orcs slaughtered all the Walkers they found. We are but a legend now.”

“Your family,” he whispers in sad understanding. “The Orcs who killed your family… they killed your people?”

“All of my kin, yes, and more besides,” you snarl, an angry sound that echoes against the wooden walls around you. You remember Léona’s roars, trying to protect his pride, remember your siblings, the cubs, the youngsters, the old; everyone dead except you… and Beorn.

“You still cannot fight with an éored,” Athelstan points out. “Even if you did not scare their horses, they would think you a giant beast; a worthy fur rug for the King.” You snarl at the thought, though you know he is right. It is unsafe to go to war on your own, but you do not wish to be left behind either. You miss your sisters. Three lynxes can take down almost anything, you know, working together. You ruthlessly squash the desire to run back to Beorn, make him fight with you – he will relish any chance at killing orcs, you know; and, even if he hates you, he wouldn’t let you get hurt if he could prevent it.

In the end, you stay home, looking after the farm and the animals. It grates, but neither of you have been able to come up with a way for you to join the King’s army that does not involve riding – unless you wanted to be a camp-cook – which is not an option. Even if you could stay on a horse while in combat – a big IF – you still have no skill to speak of with a sword or a lance.

To make yourself feel better, you spend two days hunting deer and hauling the carcasses back to the farm, smoking the meat for winter storage.

After that, you cut more logs than you are likely to need through the next two winters, hauling trees back from the nearby forest. Fangorn is reputedly haunted, but you know better; the tree herders are known to your kind as more than legends, and you know how to pick the trees that need culling, making space for new growth. Dragging a whole tree out through the underbrush is a hassle, but not impossible for someone with your strength; you’ve pulled Athelstan’s hay cart to the edge of the forest, and once you’ve cut off a few of the larger branches it is easy enough to tie the pieces of tree together to take them away.

Athelstan keeps a few sheep, which had been sheared in spring and the wool carded. You spend days spinning the long fibres into thread, dyeing it all green with a mix of foxglove and chamomile. Later, you will waulk it, before turning it into a pair of the long cloaks favoured by the horse lords. Athelstan had wanted you to get a new cloak last winter, but you had made do with stitched together fur from your kills, not wanting to buy wool with Athelstan’s money when you did not feel the cold the same way he did.

You haven’t thought about it ever since you ran from Beorn’s house, but your heat is nearing. Putting the animals out to pasture, you lock yourself in the hay barn, suffering as you had done at Beorn’s. Though not tormented by the scent of a delicious male as you had been then, you are still in agony throughout.

As luck would have it, Athelstan returns at the end of your third day of needing, a linen bandage wrapped around his arm but otherwise unscathed.

“Ullrae?” he calls, but you feel too weak to answer, trembling in your pile of straw. You’d brought two buckets of water into the barn with you, but you’d accidentally knocked the full one over during the second day. Your throat feels drier than sand. “Ullrae!” he calls again, sounding worried. You move slightly, trying to get to your feet, but give up halfway. Slumping down onto the straw, you make a pained mewling sound, curling up around your empty belly. You miss Beorn taking care of you after one of your heats; even though he always fled when they began, he was always there to help you afterwards. “Ullrae?!” Athelstan cries, opening the barn door. You hiss at the sudden light piercing the hay-scented gloom. “What happened to you?!” he whispers, staring horrified at your naked flesh, covered in self-inflicted scratches and bruises. You can’t gather yourself to do more than whimper.

“Water,” you croak hoarsely, interrupting him before he can touch your skin, still feeling the licks of the flames as your heat passes.

“Ullrae,” he whispers, as he helps you sip. “Did someone… attack you?” He has covered your nakedness with his cloak, and you haven’t the heart to tell him that the wool is uncomfortable. If you had a mate, you’d wear the scratches of his claws, the marks of his bites with pride, walking around naked until they healed; showing off, as it were. You still remember your sister’s smug smiles when she went through her last needing; she had mated a few years before and Léofwine had marked her up properly, his own smugness more than evident when Lillia showed signs of bearing. You sigh, waving away memories of playing with the little cubs; Lillia’s first litter, two girls and a boy, a good omen for a strong family, your father had said.

“Heat,” you try, but you know Athelstan doesn’t understand. You stumble, but you manage to get to your feet, manage to walk across the yard as you try not to wince at the feeling of pebbles against your oversensitive skin. Collapsing weakly into your chair – it is larger than Athelstan’s, he made it for you when you’d been on the farm for four months – you reach for a three days old loaf of bread, tearing into it with rapacious hunger. Athelstan pours water into the kettle, lighting the hearth-fire.

“Tell me what happened?” he is nearly begging, and you finally realise that he thinks the marks on your body were made by someone who used you for sport.

“Heat,” you repeat, swallowing before continuing in a rough voice, hoarse from crying and screaming. “I went into heat.”

“Heat…?” Athelstan is obviously lost.

“Females go into heat when they’re fertile,” you say, standing to reach the smoked leg of venison you had left out before you went into the barn and tearing off a strip with your teeth. You want fresh meet, want to gorge yourself on blood and meat, but that is instinct; your body wanting the best food source for the cub you will not have. “All of this,” you gesture to your body, “I did all of it. The needing is painful if you do not have a mate to,” you pause, knowing that he is sensitive about this sort of topic, even though he was married before and must have more experience than you do. Athelstan nods. The smoked meat is nearly gone. You feel a little bloated. Porridge might have been a better idea, just like Beorn always claimed. Porridge and four hours of rest, then you’d been allowed to hunt. The memory makes you nearly tearful, wishing the he was here, even if it wouldn’t change anything.

“How long were you out there?” Athelstan asks, a little fearfully as he stares at the clean-picked bone.

“Three days, usually. I don’t remember most of it,” you shrug, seeing no need for him to know just how much agony is involved. “It’ll be four years before it happens again.” Pushing away from the table, you stumble off to your bed, falling into exhausted sleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

part 4

#beorn #beorn/reader #The Walkers #The Skinchanger Chronicles

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doorsclosingslowly · 8 years ago

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edited this a bit to smooth out the transitions. @sl-walker feel free to change every thing you want!! <3

“Wait—what do you mean brother?”

It hurt. It wasn’t a surprise, Savage reminded himself—Maul had been a toddler when he’d been stolen away by someone that Sheev, despite all his research, hadn’t managed to identify yet. It was impossible for Maul to know his family, as impossible as it was for Savage to conjure up the lines on the face of his own father. As impossible as it would have been to guess the exact way in which adolescence had filled out Maul’s facial markings. It didn’t make the distance on that long-loved face any less heavy.

Maul had grown taller and angry and unfamiliar. Wary. He’d fought, sometimes. It showed in his posture, in the shine of his eyes. The Sisters would have liked him, if not for… There were no bruises on his face, but there were worse things than fists. Maul adjusted his stance, and the feathers rustled.

“You are Maul,” Savage said, trying to reassure himself. “I am Savage. This—” he fumbled the talisman back into his pocket and pulled out a tiny leather rancor with its left paw chewed off, and then he continued, quickly, terrified that someone might burst into the store room before he managed to convince his brother that he was safe, “This is a toy you had when you were a child. Before you were—abducted. I didn’t know you were alive, I was lied to, or I would have come to rescue you earlier.”

No reaction, or just a small one. The shoulders hitched slightly. No growl, though. It was… encouraging, at least.

Savage held out the doll, and the holo-emitter that Sheev had given him, the one he’d been warned never to lose because it was more expensive than his entire family. “Take this, brother. You can leave. Zhirin—my… identity, here, he can come and leave. He is accepted among the mechanics, and they will help you. Go to Master Dooku, he is our ally. He will help you. Someone will help you now.”

He swallowed. He’d been observing the Jedi, and they didn’t… look as threatening as Sheev had described them, but appearances deceive, his friend had warned too, and Savage hadn’t looked like a nightbrother when they’d let him in. Like a beast. Like someone, something, to be experimented on, he thought bitterly, when Maul took a step back and the feathers on those horrific wings threw up floor dust. He wouldn’t have that protection, after Maul took the holo-emitter. But Savage was strong, he’d been training for years now and all the Elders had told him that he would survive the first of his trials, maybe, and he would find his way out yet. He could fight, would fight if he had to, fight with mindless desperation, and if he didn’t manage… Maul would protect Feral, then. They would get over it. This was the way it had always been.

“Please, brother, take it.” He gave Maul his best grin, the grin that Savage’s own brother had worn when he went into the square and waited for the Sisters to arrive. You know I am strong, the grin said. Then, he nudged Maul with the holo-emitter once more. “Take it. The Jedi will never hurt you again.”

His facial muscles must have failed.

That must have been the reason that Maul didn’t reach for freedom, why instead he just stared at the toy with hints of what looked like panic in his eyes—why panic, why the toy, why now—reaching out to touch it, hand hovering for a moment before he gently took it out of Savage’s hand. He’d failed in his reassurance, and that’s why Maul left the holo-emitter untouched and just looked down at the doll, brow pinched.

“The Jedi have not hurt me.” Maul’s voice was distant. Dazed. Then, he rubbed his thumb against the leather rancor gingerly, shuddering once across his shoulders and said, “If I leave, my Master will kill me.”

“He won’t,” Savage snarled. “Never.”

Staying behind was a foolish plan. He realized this now: if Savage died in the temple, there wouldn’t be anyone to stop this Master from coming after Maul. No body to put between them. Nothing to buy him time, or to kill the monsters who’d dared mutilate Savage’s little brother. There had to be another plan. Anything. He cast his frantic eyes around the room. Could he smuggle out both of them, somehow? Sheev’s friend Dooku wasn’t able to help an undisguised Maul, or he would have done so already, he decided. But there were containers all around them, and some of them were big enough that Maul might fit inside, despite the massive things grafted onto his back. Savage knew the code to open these containers, at least some of them, and he knew by now how to use a forklift. It was one of the only things the other mechanics allowed him to do.

Savage knelt down next to the most suitable container—the biggest one, emptied of jellied eel packs two days ago, but cleaned already and the stench was almost gone—and punched in the code, and he remembered too that there was a small cargo transport vessel a few rooms down. A ship that the Temple kept for local pickup and delivery. It usually stayed on Coruscant, but it could conceivably make it into space. He’d checked it over just five days ago—or pretended to check it, to the best of his ability, because no nightbrother before him had ever had need for, or access to, any kind of ship. Its startup codes were still etched in a pocket of his mind.

He would have to invent a convincing story for transporting this specific container at this specific time of the day, but he’d been pretending to be Zhirin the mechanic for a while now. He’d been lying for weeks. He was… adequate at being false, by now.

This might work.

There was a plan, now, a better plan. An idea of how to prevent his brother’s death which was never going to happen, not again, never, and it made him calm enough to remember that Maul had said other words too. The Jedi have not hurt me. He’d said it with a faraway look and trembling fingers. Sheev had warned him, and he’d been right.

The Jedi’s mind tricks wouldn’t matter, Savage decided. Maul was his brother. He’d taken the toy; he must have remembered something. Even if he didn’t believe that the Jedi had hurt him—

Who wouldn’t follow their brother?

“—what are you doing?” Maul asked, behind him, as he worked on opening the container that could be their unlikely salvation. He was still holding onto the rancor.

Maul’s voice had hardened; it was so deep, now, and juxtaposed in Savage’s mind was that same face, only its markings hadn’t yet finished filling in, and the bright eyes, and the flash of teeth gnawing on his little toy. The high-pitched baby voice, asking, “What’s this? Why? What’s this?” and stubby fingers pointing at every single thing they could. Savage had missed so much; he didn’t have to miss his little brother in the last stages of becoming an adult, too.

“I can get us both out,” he said, turning once the container was open. “This will work. The magic can hide us both.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Maul said, staring, fingers tightening around that toy. There was deep confusion in his eyes. Deeper wariness. “Someone—someone let you in? Dooku?” He narrowed his eyes again, thoughtfully, then took a step back. “I have to tell Obi-Wan. Or Master Jinn.” A beat. “Savage—”

It should have been good to hear his brother speak his name, and yet, it didn’t sound like a nightbrother’s name on Maul’s tongue. It stumbled, just slightly. He said it like an offworlder would, like the Jedi would have pronounced it if he’d trusted them with his given name. He said it like Sheev did. Savage. The word had bristles, now, and they scratched the inside of Savage’s brain.

“Stay here. We have to sort this out,” Maul said, and he meant it.

No.

“Brother, please… We have to leave,” Savage whispered, but there was no point. He knew that. Maul was going to fetch this Obi-Wan, this Jedi, and there wasn’t any reluctance in his words. If there was fear, it was fear of Savage. Not of the people who’d done this to him. Sheev had warned Savage, but he knew now that he hadn’t quite believed him, or not believed him enough, and how could he have anticipated that Maul wouldn’t just come and leave all his enemies behind? The Jedi weren’t just stronger than any fighter he’d ever met. They were terrifying. They had warped Maul’s mind, had made him their willing slave; a power over the brains of nightbrothers that not even the Sisters wield. They had turned Maul against his own kin.

Sheev had warned him, but here Savage was, and Maul would tell the Jedi where to find him and they’d make him obey them. They would make him like them. They would hurt Maul again, forever. Sheev had warned him, and he’d gone and squandered the only chance to save his brother.

No—

Maul was still a few meters away from the door.

There was still a chance to get him out of the temple, even if he plainly didn’t believe that he wanted to be saved, even if Savage would have to… would have to fight him, he realized, fight the brainwashed child that he had been missing for almost every single day of his life. He’d rather die than hurt his brother, but was that just another kind of selfishness? Savage’s feelings didn’t matter. The choice was between punching him unconscious, and leaving him like this…

In the years since his abduction, Maul had grown into a tough young man. But he’d been… hurt, and he hadn’t spent his life training to be a strong warrior worthy of being a Sister’s mate. He was still shorter. He wouldn’t win.

Savage breathed in, once, twice, willing the air to stop shaking, and then he ran until he’d put himself between Maul and the exit.

#taking flight

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