#hand made craftsman entry doors

[disimine]

Mudroom Front Door San Francisco Example of an arts and crafts front door design with a medium wood front door and a multicolored floor, gray walls, and a slate floor.

[xyoonx]

Warmth of Companionship

𝑮𝒐𝒅𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒎 ! 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝚡 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 ! 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛. [🦋]

Warnings: major character death + angst + slightly angry clarence / possessiveness.

Ao3 link: [🖇️]

Snow Weasel Village – a simple, mediocre village up in the North of Godheim. Despite being blessed with friendly dwellers and idyllic scenery, glacial butterflies abounded there in great quantity. So, a group of bounty hunters were commissioned to dispel them, saving the village from this disastrous calamity. The mission went on for a few days; the butterflies were hard to fight against, but it was nothing impossible for Clarence and his gang – being the leader of the team, it was his duty to ensure the utmost efficiency in their work; and that he did quite well. The mission went smoother than anticipated, thanks to Clarence's supervision; they had little to no casualties, and had dispelled almost all the threats in the village – eradicating most of the pests, while the rest fluttered away, fleeing from the battlefield. And to celebrate their victory, they held a little feast at the local tavern.

The feast went merrily. The villagers and the hunters went quite well, chatting about their days, singing, and dancing and whatnot – Clarence didn't bother himself much with it. He simply gave a brief speech to the townsfolk, had a few sips of wine (only because the villagers insisted on making a toast), and slipped away from the crowd, into the cold winter thta prevailed outside. Clarence sighed and closed the door of the tavern behind him, looking forward at the snowy landscape’s horizon as bits of snowflakes drifted down from the sky, resting upon his small figure.

Clarence was about to move on when he heard someone call him from behind – it's the local craftsman. The burly craftsman gave Clarence a pair of glasses, its delicate frame made of pure brass and a thin chain was dangling from both sides, securing its position on the wearer's face. Honestly, he had never worn glasses before, the sudden change made him a tad bit uncomfortable. Clarence thanked the craftsman for the humble gift, to which the craftsman replied to with a bright smile. The craftsman then went on about how he's a professional crafter, and the villagers love his crafts, also that this was a gift for Clarence for saving their town and whatnot – to add to Clarence's embarrassment, the mill owner joined in the endless jargon of compliments as well. Clarence, without waiting longer, excused that he had a companion waiting for him, and almost ran out of the scene.

The bounty hunters were given an area to reside, to set up their tents and campsites; Clarence, on the other hand, was given an entire cabin – courtesy of being the guild leader, perhaps. Entering the cabin, Clarence let out another sigh, closing the door with a soft thud. All this responsibility and duties as their "saviour" was wearing him down. He knew he chose this path to save the people of Godheim; to save the land of Godheim, his birthplace – but he refused to get accustomed to the glory, the fame, the compliments, and the praises that came along with it; he was a simple man doing this land a justice, not some sort of holy deity who deserved praise for their blessings.

"If deities did exist, this land wouldn't meet such a terrible calamity," Clarence murmured, sitting down on the chair next to the study table. He began to note down information about the town's security and protection of a piece of parchment. Also, he had a new entry to write in his journal, might get to it afterwards as well. As Clarence continued to jot down his notes, a voice came from behind–

"Those glasses are new." Clarence turned around to see his roommate walking towards him with a blanket wrapped around him. “Where'd you get them?”

Clarence preferred to have the entire cabin for himself, but his subordinate and closest friend got to share it. The other members of the team gossiped that these two had something going on, while some even ridiculed them behind their backs, but Clarence was too busy to care.

Clarence replied without looking up from his work, “It was a gift from the local craftsman.”

“Mhm,” the bounty hunter hummed, leaning over to see what Clarence was working on. “Looks neat.”

“I still need to get used to it,” Clarence replied, adjusting his glasses slightly.

The bounty hunter nodded, reading the contents on the parchment paper. Seeing the notes, he couldn't help but think: did Clarence ever take a break?

When he opened his mouth to talk, Clarence intervened, “Why didn't you come with me to the feast tonight?”

“Didn't feel like it,” he replied, shifting on his feet.

“And why's that?”

“Because it's rather mundane to mingle with the townsfolk,” he joked.

Clarence finally looked up from his work and gave his subordinate a stern look. And, to the hunter’s surprise, he managed to see a subtle blush on Clarence’s face, almost covered up by the glasses’ frames. Clarence quickly retracted his gaze before his fellow roommate could say anything and cleared his throat. “I believe you haven't even eaten anything, have you?”

“...” And that was a correct speculation.

“Thought so.”

“But meals without you are boring,” the bounty hunter teased.

“Well, get used to it,” Clarence replied coldly, with a faint smile on his lips. “It's not like I can stay with you for all time.”

Hearing that, a quizzical look came on the bounty hunter’s face. He knew Clarence would rather speak the harsh truth than beat around this bush, but this was… too blunt. It was certain that Clarence’s a busy man, he’s always forging towards greatness – and his endeavours taking him forwards, moulding him into a legend. He knew that he couldn't have Clarence, he's not for him; they're not destined to be together since their creation – but still, he didn't want to give up hope immediately. “What do you mean? Won't you be with me… all the time?”

“I will, but…” Clarence shook his head. “Nevermind. It's late, go to bed.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, right,” he scoffed, “you expect me to leave without an explanation, huh?”

“I mean,” Clarence repeated, turning around on the chair to face his roommate, “I can't stay with you all the time, I have my duties and missions to tend to.”

“...” He had a feeling Clarence didn't mean that, a voice at the back of his head urged him to question further, but he didn't, he simply went it. “Yeah, I… I get it. Thanks, Clarence.”

And with that, Clarence went back to his writing. As his roommate was about to turn to the exit, Clarence spoke, “Also, you don't need to go on any extra missions. You'll simply stay in the cabin.”

“Wait, what?” The bounty hunter turned around to look at Clarence. “You want me to stay in?”

“Of course, did you not hear me?” Clarence turned around, staring at his partner in disbelief. “You’ll stay in the cabin. It's dangerous outside, there's danger everywhere.”

“Clarence, we just cleared the area,” he argued. “A clean victory. The team’s celebrating for that! There are no glacial butterflies outside– well, for now but, still.”

“It's dangerous,” he said sternly, turning towards the papers.

“But, Clarence, didn't you just ask me why I didn't wanna go with you?” He asked in a sarcastic tone. “Are you trying to–”

“I don't want to hear it,” He commanded. Hearing Clarence’s stern tone, his roommate shut up, and Clarence continued, “I don't want you to go outside, is that clear? If you wish to be with me, then stay inside.”

“...” He couldn't believe Clarence was using his own words against him, he pulled the blankets closer to his body and barely resisted a shiver. “Clarence, you hardly let me go out there to fight the butterflies…”

“That's for your own safety,” Clarence said, paying little attention to the shift of temperature in the room.

Clarence was being awfully stubborn… The bounty hunter wondered what even got Clarence to be like this. “Well, Clarence, maybe you should at least listen–”

His words were cut short by a shrill cry coming from outside, and a commotion that followed. Clarence finally took note of the sudden change of atmosphere; the village was being attacked by glacial butterflies once again. The snowstorm grew heavier outside, and the crescendos of screams of the villagers amplified. Clarence got up from his seat and rushed out of the cabin. His subordinate asked, “Clarence, what's going on?”

Clarence, standing at the doorstep, looked back at his friend one last time. “Stay,” he ordered, closing the door with the thud as he ran into the snowy oblivion.

“What the-'' he mumbled as he looked out the window. There, he saw the havoc that wreaked outside – giant glacial butterflies returned in swarms, some of them even purple, representing the “butterflies of death”. They fluttered their wings, destroying the houses, and mills, and freezing the innocent citizens. The mages and bounty hunters fought with everything they had, but they still didn't manage to overcome them. The attack was unexpected, and it took them by surprise – and for sure, half of the team was down. He even saw Clarence out there, expertly taking down the butterflies, still remaining unscathed – but he knew well enough if won't be long until Clarence runs out of stamina, taking the intensity of the butterflies into account.

“I need to help him,” he mumbled, throwing off the blanket and grabbing his coat before he got out of the cabin, throwing himself at danger’s hands just to protect his beloved one.

He couldn't lose him … he didn't want to lose him…

And thus, the bounty hunter stepped out into the bleak winter’s snowstorm and fought bravely; dispelling the glacial butterflies, and protecting his dearest one. They said a mage gets his power from his emotions, and in his case, the emotion he greatly felt was devotion – he dedicated his life to Clarence ever since he took him in, made him join the bounty hunters guild after rescuing him from the ruins of his own village. People also said that the mages are usually sinners; well, was it a sin to love someone you could never truly love? Also, why did the people rumour them to be “mages” and “lunatics” despite they preferred to be called bounty hunters? Perhaps those are things he could never know the truth about. Yet, he continued to fight with all his might, dispelling one threat after another, that was until a butterfly of death struck him with its power, shaking his soul – and soon, a bone-chilling cold took over his body, numbing his joints as he continued to fight on, dispelling as much as he could. He shivered as he continued to cast spells, his tongue slipping, and his legs stumbling – aching to give in, to fall down against the snowy field; to rest against the cold blade of death. He didn't know what was colder, his body or the snow he leaned against, all he knew was that he could finally rest; finally free himself from the cage of his own guilt.

The battle came to an end, the village had turned into a ruin, and most of the villagers were now dead. Clarence let out a sigh, stumbling through the battlefield, witnessing the casualties the catastrophe had brought – and as he expected, the majority of his team was gone. Clarence also received a few injuries, but it was nothing severe; it would certainly heal after a while. He had a somber expression on his face as he walked through, quietly praying for his fellow comrades’ souls, and executing those who were on the verge of losing control.

Upon hearing a faint cough in the background, Clarence turned around, noticing his subordinate on the ground, blood smeared on his face and arms as a faint blue-ish hue came upon him, and coughing increased as crystals began to form on his wounds – it even rendered him to cough out a fit of blood.

Clarence kneeled down, grabbing his subordinate’s arm to inspect his injury. “Wha- you… I told you not to get out!” Clarence almost yelled, his voice breaking as he continued, frantically mumbling an healing incantation, trying to reduce his friend’s injuries.

“Clarence, no-” he coughed out. “At least, I… I saved your life…”

“You fool…” Clarence whispered. “You…”

“Please…” He reached out for Clarence’s hand, and held it with all the energy he had left, intertwining his bloody hand with the other’s. “Live… For me.”

Clarence was dumbfounded, words stuck in his throat; he didn't know what to say, except that he faintly remembered the gesture – a person, who Clarence considered to be his “saviour”, held his hand like this when he was on the verge of losing control; they ushered him to live on, to see spring in Godheim – a beacon of hope for himself; but how could he live on when the one he loves was dying in his own arms?

Clarence thought that maybe he found his saviour, but he then swiftly shook his head – no, this couldn't be them… They would never leave them like this, broken, vulnerable in a blizzard after a bloodbath.

“Hey… I-” Clarence thought for a moment, wondering whether he should say the three words that were bothering him the entire time. “Nevermind, friend…”

Clarence then held the body of his lover close to his, letting the blood paint him in red, letting the metallic smell along with the electrifying sensation of magic hit his nose.

“Claren–” His lover choked out, his voice hoarse than before. He wrapped his shivering arm around Clarence’s body, holding him in a cold embrace. “Clarence, it's okay…”

Why did you insist that it's okay when it certainly wasn't?... Clarence thought, fighting back his tears. He then began speaking, enunciating each word as if he was reciting a prayer, “May you rest in peace… May your soul be at peace…”

His lover chuckled and continued, “I’m sorry I have to leave you…”

“You-...” Clarence shook his head and sighed. “May there be no glacial butterflies where you go… May spring live where you go next-”

“-and may we be reunited…” he croaked out, “once more…”

Clarence then rested his lover’s body against the snow and observed his expression once more. He still smiled… Even in the face of death, he was smiling… Clarence stood up and returned the smile, in a melancholic yet gentle way.

“Farewell,” He mumbled, “my beloved.”

[thorns-and-rosewings]

A Perfect Day

Alright then here is the next installment for the Owl House / Gargoyles Crossover, the Stoneheart AU! I am also going to say this particular entry is also my submission for Day 13 of Beloctober 'Soft Moments' because... yeah this is a chapter for soft, good dad Belos with young Hunter.

Enjoy! :)

All of the meetings Belos had on this day had run far longer than they were supposed to…

At this point he was practically bleeding agitation. He had been in one meeting after another all day… All freaking day… He wasn’t proud to admit it, but while listening to the head of the Healers Coven explain how they had changed up their entrance exam criteria in order to ensure that they only accepted the best candidates, he nodded off. Much to his dismay when he managed to rouse himself from his impromptu nap, he found that not a lot of progress had been made in explaining the details of the changes. So catching up was disturbingly easier than it should have been after having been unconscious for over an hour.

One by one, all the other Coven Heads and some of the more elite members of their sect came before Belos and gave their reports of any changes they were making to their enrollment programs or anything else that would be beneficial in the long run to the stability of life on the Boiling Isles. Which had led him to the final meeting of the day and the one that was taking the longest by far… Courtesy of the Potions Coven. After the basic drivel explaining a few moderate changes they were making to their initiation process, the rest of the meeting was taken up by the Coven Head explaining the arduous steps they were taking to crack down on the illegal absinthe brewery a few wayward members of the coven had begun… A truly fancy way of saying they still had no clue who was responsible for brewing what had easily become the vilest alcohol on all the Isles. One that had been rather appropriately dubbed the ‘Green Devil’ by the individuals who partook in it.

And yet Belos couldn’t truly bring himself to care one way or another… as it was the unique nature of this particular day, which was why Belos so desperately wanted it to be over and done with. But by the Titan, of course that would mean everything would run late. In fact, it was nearly dawn by the time the meeting concluded. Honestly, at times like this Belos simply loathed being Emperor... But alas he didn’t have a choice in the matter, did he? Once the Coven Head and his entourage had left, Belos dismissed his guards and was finally free to return to his private chambers.

As he walked silently through the dark halls, he slipped his hand into one of the pockets of his tunic and traced a clawed finger over a small box that had been delivered to him during one of the brief intermissions between the meetings. It was something that he’d ordered several weeks ago, but due to some… unforeseen circumstances, it had only been completed and delivered earlier in the day.

‘Better late than never.’ He growled internally. ‘The delay nearly interfered with my plans.’ Something he made certain to convey to the trembling and deeply apologetic craftsman when he delivered it. Belos had harshly warned him that if he was ever to receive business from the Emperors Coven again, and that was a very big if, he had better complete his work during the previously agreed timeframe... As Belos could’ve cared less whatever life-threatening troubles the man had endured which had taken him away from completing the item the Emperor had ordered. That was his problem, not Belos’s.

Upon opening the grand doors to his private chambers, he was struck with just how quiet everything was. This was definitely an uncommon occurrence, as usually he could hear voices coming from at least one of the multitude of rooms in his wing. It was very rarely like this. Still, he had no reason to be concerned about it and he walked quietly into his own room. All the while becoming aware of the feeling he was being watched from the shadows. Once he was in his room he wordlessly took off his mask and went over to the hooks on the walls and locked the heavy prosthetics into them. Before slipping the remains of his wings free… But no sooner had he done so, did he hear a low growling hiss before something suddenly leapt out from under his bed and jumped onto his tail and clung to it while also making small sounds that came off more as squeaks than actual roars.

“I got you dad!” Came the giggling voice of Hunter as he looked up from where he was clinging to his father’s tail. His brilliant red eyes shining up at him with a mischievous joy. Even in the dim light of Belos’s room it was easy to tell that Hunter’s skin tone was considerably healthier in appearance than his fathers, his platinum hair was in disarray. Clearly it had been brushed at one point but the energetic activity the child no doubt indulged in had disheveled it. As was also evident with his golden colored tunic and the black pants that were covered in a fine layer of dust. Not to mention the white feathers on his only wing were slightly grayed at the ends where they had also collected even more dust.

Effortlessly Belos wrapped his tail around his son and brought him up to his chest before taking the small child in his arms and giving him a tight hug… but not too tight. “That you did my fierce little Hunter.” He chuckled addressing his son with the favorite nickname he’d long since given him. “I know that I am late in returning, but please tell me that you weren’t hiding in wait for me all night?”

As if on cue, Kiki stormed into Belos’s bedroom with a peeved look written clearly in her one visible eye, as she looked at the child in the Emperors arms and glared at him while tapping her clawed foot. “There you are you little scamp!” She growled. “I’ve been looking for you for nearly an hour! I was afraid that you went out into the other parts of the castle again!”

“No Auntie Kiki,” Hunter answered in a singsong voice as he laughed at the irritated house demon. “I said I wanted to play hide and seek… I just hid really well.”

“Oh you frustrating boy!” She seethed before casting her eyes to Belos. “And what do you have to say to this? Your son has been giving me heart palpitations all night!”

For a few moments Belos didn’t say anything, before he looked at the child in his arms with a very stern expression. “You managed to avoid Kiki for an entire hour?” He said just as a mischievous grin of his own appeared on his face erasing all of the seriousness he’d held just moment prior. “That’s very impressive for such a little gargoyle.”

“Oh don’t you go encouraging him! That’s the last thing I need to deal with!” She said throwing her hands up as she exaggerated her indignation. “At this rate he’ll never sit still for his lessons again!” With a great sense of timing, Hunter stuck his tongue out at his Auntie… Who in a rare moment of not acting her considerable age, pulled the collar of her uniform down and stuck her own tongue right back at him.

Ever since the day of his birth, Kiki had always been a part of Hunters life. In honesty she was the only other person whom the child interacted with aside from his father. She was also the only soul who knew the truth about the father and son duo… and she remembered it as if it was just yesterday, how Belos was when Hunter was born. How from the very moment that child came into his life, he loved him. So even though he spent every day being the cruel Emperor to the people of the Boiling Isles… every night he spent tending and taking care of his son, giving him love and affection. It had worried Kiki as he was pretty much burning the candle at both ends. He spent his days as Emperor and his nights as a single father. Leaving himself so little time to rest… And even when he did manage to sleep, Kiki knew that he rarely enjoyed sleep that was free of nightmares.

On the rare instance when Kikimora had finally managed to convince Belos to rest for an evening, Hunter would simply run her ragged as she chased him all around the private quarters. Reasons usually varied from him trying to avoid taking a bath, to trying to avoid putting on clothes after having taken one, or simply wanting to just drive her crazy. Point being the little child was full of energy and life and, even though he could certainly push her buttons, Kikimora loved him. She could also tell he was going to grow to be a very good and kind person…

One particular memory that had cemented her belief on just what kind of person Hunter would be when he grew up was made on one of the nights where Kiki was watching him. The little terror was the equivalent of a five-year-old and he was being less than cooperative when it came to eating the vegetables in the meal she had prepared for him. All he wanted to do was see his father, something he voiced continually… But this was one of the days where Belos couldn’t even manage to see his son wake from his stone sleep, since he was completely run into the ground and almost had to crawl to get into his bed just a few short hours prior. Thus why she was tending Hunter alone that night, but the little boy wasn’t behaving for his Auntie.

Kiki had tried to explain that his father needed to sleep or he would get sick, and she had turned around for just one moment to put several dishes into the sink of the small kitchenette in the private chambers… when she turned back she only caught a glimpse of Hunter disappearing down a hallway, sprinting towards his father’s room.

Kiki swore, Belos desperately needed to rest and if Hunter woke him up, she knew he wouldn’t go back to sleep… She chased after Hunter, but by the Titan that child was fast. So fast he beat her to Belos’s room and he opened the door with a surprising amount of care, making sure to be extremely quiet as he walked in. Kiki got to the door immediately afterwards and froze up as she watched little Hunter tiptoeing his way into the room where his father lay on his bed. He was still in his robes, but his mask was discarded on the floor. Although Belos was asleep it didn’t seem to be a very peaceful one, judging by the rapid movement behind his eyelids and the twitching of his hands and tail as he slept. Kiki watched in horror as the child drew closer to his sleeping father, but… only then did she notice that Hunter held tightly in his hands his stuffed cardinal. It was the child’s favorite toy and he carried it with him everywhere, ever since he received it on his third birthday. With the utmost care, Hunter placed the little stuffed bird in the crook of his father’s arm and carefully pulled himself up onto the side of the bed just enough to give his dad a little kiss on the cheek before quietly slipping out of the bedroom.

Having only wanted to help his father have a better night of sleep and believing his stuffed cardinal and a kiss would’ve done just that…

That was the only time Kiki had ever excused Hunter from eating his vegetables and gave him a small bowl of his favorite ice cream instead…

“All right settle down both of you.” Belos chided as Hunters smile suddenly faded as he looked up at his father.

“Why were you so late tonight?” He questioned. “It’s almost dawn and I didn’t see you at all! You took forever!”

“I’m sorry little one, but my meetings ran late tonight.” He explained as he quietly walked over to the great glass double doors which led out onto his own private part of the castle’s balcony with Kiki now walking next to him, somehow matching his pace. “But we do have a little bit of time before sunrise. And we both know what tomorrow is, now don’t we?” Immediately the smile that had disappeared from Hunter’s face returned, possibly even broader than it was before.

“It’s my birthday!” The child declared.

“That’s right, you’re going to be turning eight.” Belos confirmed. Although technically Hunter was 16 years old at the moment. This was because gargoyles naturally aged at half the rate of witches and some species of demons. Due to them only being flesh at night and only being able to grow during that time. It was because of this discrepancy in their aging that a gargoyle would only celebrate their birthday once every two years. However… there was a way to negate this; special talismans could be created that would keep a gargoyle awake during the day. When these were given to young gargoyles they would seemingly age faster than normal, thus becoming more aligned with the growth rate of other species. It could even be applied to gargoyle eggs, the talismans allowing for them to be born in five years rather than the usual ten they naturally needed to incubate. However, upon reaching adulthood that rapid aging would seemingly dissipate and allow for a gargoyles normal aging rate to return… once again being half the rate of other species.

Why this occurred was anyone’s guess, but they all had the same effect and there was yet to be a sun talisman which didn’t display this curious trait… and rapid aging aside, gargoyles that had carried these talismans with them throughout their entire lives were said to live every bit as long as gargoyles who did not carry them. But Belos had not wanted that for Hunter. He refused to age him prematurely, as he had wanted his son to have a normal childhood… Or at least as close to normal as he could hope to provide. Of course, it was more than a little likely that Belos’s real reasoning for not allowing Hunter to grow quickly was because he could only tend to Hunter during the night due to his often-busy schedule as Emperor taking up his days. He didn’t want Hunter to grow up to quickly and have not spent enough time with him.

Even though there were gargoyle families whom gave these talismans to their children, should they be able to afford them, there were just as many who chose to not let their offspring use them until they were older for the exact same reasoning as Belos. So, he felt no guilt in his decision to let Hunter age slower.

The great glass doors of the balcony opened without Belos needing to touch them and without ever slowing his stride he walked out into the cool night air, which felt refreshing as he inhaled it deeply into his lungs. Such a sharp contrast to the often-stagnant air which filled the castle. Hunter seemed to feel it to and mimicked his father’s deep calming breath. His one singular wing stretching slightly outwards and flapping somewhat. A sad sight considering there was no way for the child to ever be able to fly on his own due to this deformity. The Emperor walked over to the side of the balcony and he and Hunter looked out at the dark world before them. Kiki wordlessly tugged on Belos’s tail and in a motion that was obviously deeply ingrained in him, he wrapped his tail around her and picked her up and placed her on the rail that surrounded the balcony. Allowing her to also get a decent view of the world just beyond the castle. “Now Hunter,” Belos began drawing his son’s attention back to him. “What would you wish for on your birthday?”

Of course he already knew the answer.

It was the same wish he made on every one of his birthdays.

Hunters smile faltered a little bit before it abruptly came back and he closed his eyes as he grinned up at the elder gargoyle that still held him so carefully in his arms. “I’d wish for you to spend the whole day with me... and…” He trailed off as his gaze again returned to the horizon. “Maybe to see what’s outside the castle?”

Belos smiled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a black box with a golden bow tied neatly on its top and placed it in Hunter’s little hands. “Well before we address that, how about you open this present early. I think you might find it particularly to your liking.” As any child presented with a gift, Hunter eagerly untied the bow and opened the box. To which he was greeted with the sight of a smooth golden stone about roughly the size of one of the decorative jewels witches would adorn themselves with. With wide glittering eyes he took it from the box, revealing it to be on a long ornate golden chain. As soon as he touched the stone, a strange red energy began to pulse from deep within its center. And then it began to swirl and dance just beneath the gems surface.

“Wow!” Hunter whispered as he watched the crimson energy form spiral like patterns. “It’s so pretty!”

“Oh there’s a little bit more to this present than just being a pretty trinket.” And with that Belos took the necklace from Hunter’s hands and draped it around the boys neck. Hunter looked up at him a little confused.

“Does it do something?” He questioned innocently.

“You’ll see in time.” Was his father’s rather straightforward reply and Belos turned his head back towards the horizon. “But would you look at that, sunrise is only a few moments away.” He commented as the first light of dawn began to creep into the sky and Hunter turned to look at it knowing he would be turning to stone at any second…

But the sunrise came…

And the child remained flesh and blood.

Belos may not have wanted his son to age prematurely, but he could certainly accept one day in the sun together as an exception.

At first it didn’t really register to Hunter exactly what was happening as he watched the golden orb paint the world before him in the colors of day. But as it steadily rose, Hunters young eyes remained completely transfixed on the light pouring over the world around the castle. Large red eyes just going wider and wider and after a few minutes the sun rose high enough for its warm radiant light to spill over both father and son. Little Hunter then just closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the warmth before reopening them and looking at his father with an expression mixed with shock, confusion and wonder.

“Happy birthday Hunter.” Belos said as he planted a small kiss atop his son’s head. “It’s high time that I honored your birthday wish, but I wanted to make sure that I honored it properly.” He explained. “And it also seemed like a good time as any for your first glimpse of the sun.” There were no words in any known language that could convey the look of sheer joy that appeared on Hunter’s face and he abruptly jumped up and wrapped his arms around Belos’s neck.

“Thank you! Thank you dad!” He whispered as he hugged him with all the strength he had in his small body. “Thank you so much!”

Belos simply patted the boys small back and glanced over at Kikimora. “You are certain that you can handle everything?”

“Yes, yes, yes I can handle things here.” The small demon said as she seemed to pull a good-sized satchel out of thin air. “Here, I packed you both lunch and some money. Now get yourself ready Belos. You can’t just go out in your formal robes.”

The Emperor blinked in confusion for a moment before he glanced down at his distinctive white, brown and gold robes and realized Kiki made a very good point. So he placed Hunter down on the railing and removed his grand robe neatly folding it up and handing it over to Kikimora, just wearing the simple grey and black tunic and pants he always wore beneath it. After which he materialized his mechanical staff and held it up; the red orb emanating its ominous crimson light. Once again the doors to his balcony opened, only this time there was a brief pause before something fairly large and mechanical floated out whilst bathed in a blood colored glow. The strange device floated behind Belos and then pressed itself against his spine while several of the mechanical extensions moved until they properly attached themselves onto the remnants of his natural wings. At the same time several straps wrapped themselves tightly around his chest, securing the contraption to his back.

Belos shifted and as he did so, so did this mechanical device. As it unfurled it revealed itself to be a different set of prosthetic wings. Nowhere near as grand or as awe-inspiring as his primary set was, these prosthetics were considerably lighter not to mention less ornate. His primary set had always bore a strong resemblance to how his natural wings had appeared. Their shape reminiscent of large feathered wings. This pairs simplistic design was clearly made to resemble a more traditional gargoyles wings although the batlike ‘membrane’ was made out of white witches wool rather than leather.

“So that’s what you’ve been working on these last few weeks.” Kiki observed as Belos flexed and checked the movements of these new prosthetics. “Have you tested them properly?”

“Rest assured Kiki they’ve been fully tested and work perfectly.” He explained her as he stretched out the prosthetics and made sure the movements were to his liking. He then turned to Hunter, who didn’t wait before jumping into his arms again. He adjusted his grip on his son and slung the satchel over his shoulder before stepping up onto the balcony railing. Looking down the steep walls of the castle and onto the sea of spikes which surrounded it. “Are you ready my son? This is your first excursion outside the walls of this castle after all.”

Hunter took a deep breath and tried his very best to look serious, although the energetic glitter in his red eyes never faltered for even a moment. “I’m ready.” He said with a nod.

Giving his son a somewhat wicked smile Belos leaned forward and let gravity pull him down. He fell straight down like a bullet; but just as Hunter began to scream the mechanical prosthetics fully opened and caught the wind which Belos masterfully maneuvered and within a moment he and Hunter were high in the air soaring high above the castle and away from it. Hunter’s screams changing into laughter as his fear died and was replaced by a heart pounding exhilaration. His eyes were initially glued to the sky and the sun shining so brightly-

“Don’t stare directly at the sun Hunter.” His father chided upon seeing him have to blink rapidly and rub at his eyes to get the glare out. Belos smirked a little at this as he allowed his own gaze to wander over the world below. In spite of the fact that his wings were not made of flesh and blood, he could still feel the wind on his body and thus was able to maneuver his prosthetics in anyways he required in order to fly with the same dexterity he had always been able to, even before his real wings had been severed.

Hunter readjusted his grip around his father’s neck as he quietly watched the world far below. Even though Belos was not recognizable without his robe and mask he still preferred to stay mostly unnoticed by the people of the Boiling Isles, so he chose a fairly high altitude to glide at. But after an hour or two of watching the world below come to life as the denizens of the towns awakened and set about whatever work the day called for, Belos began to move further away from these populated areas… the houses and the majority of the communities disappeared, replaced instead by a thick blanket of trees. Eventually he spotted a small clearing and descended into it, although he hit the ground far harder than he intended to. And he noted that he would need to tweak a few things once he returned to the castle... and not mention it to Kikimora of course.

“Why are we landing here?” Hunter questioned as Belos gently placed his son on the ground as he rose up and brushed the dirt off of the plating on his knees.

“You can’t very well enjoy the forest strictly from the sky.” He explained as Hunter began looking over the world around them with wonder and awe shining in his eyes. “Besides I’d like to test your knowledge of the flora and fauna that I know Kiki has been teaching you all about. Seeing things in person is far different than reading about it from a book.” Immediately his sons smile returned and the boys obvious happiness brought a warm joy to the elder gargoyles usually frigid soul. A quick glance around the area and Belos found what looked to be a trail that led deeper into the woods and with Hunter sticking close to him they both ventured deeper in… although Belos did reach into the satchel and pull out a map he knew that Kikimora had included within the supplies she’d provided them.

Kiki had truly outdone herself when it came to helping him with this little excursion he’d been planning for himself and Hunter. Of course she’d always gone above and beyond helping him with just about everything he did; but she had found out about this particular section of forest as well as the various hiking trails it was connected to from one of the newer scouts to be accepted into the Emperor’s Coven. A fellow by the name of Steve. He was apparently quite fond of hiking and camping and when she’d inquired further about the different trails he knew, he’d provided the little demon with a map of the entire area that he had made himself. The aforementioned map was very well drawn out and even adorned with a few doodles of some varying monstrous creatures and notes of where to avoid going as to not run into them. There were also other drawings of various types of flora and fauna and where to find them amidst the trails.

It was actually rather impressive work in Belos’s opinion. It would appear this new coven scout had some skills as a cartographer, he would need to remember that for the future. In any case Belos was careful to keep a close eye on both the map and his young son who was energetically running ahead of him on the trail. Taking in every single thing there was to see and at the same time, identifying every species of tree and plant that they saw along the way.

It was to be expected, Hunter’s excitement at finally seeing the world outside of the castle he had spent every night of his life in ever since the day of his hatching. Belos was in many ways too protective of Hunter and it wasn’t as though he didn’t know it. Hell, he barely let Hunter leave his personal wing of the castle and even then, the boy was never unattended.

He just wanted to protect his son…

But there were times he wondered if his overprotectiveness might be doing more harm than good…

He pushed these thoughts away from the front of his mind and instead he refocused his attention onto Hunter; the child now pointing at a particularly large, withered tree with many of its branches cut off and properly identified it as an old Palistrom tree. Belos nodded approvingly at his son and made a mental note to tell Kiki that, in spite of Hunter giving her such a hard time when it came to his studies, the boy was actually paying attention when she tried to teach him things. Still, they continued on and occasionally Hunter would stop in a sunlit patch shining through the branches of the trees overhead and just bask in the warm rays of the sun for a few minutes before continuing down the path with his father.

This is just how it was for hours… peaceful, calm and quiet.

Being careful to stay on the specific path which wouldn’t lead too far into the wilderness, eventually the two came out of the forest and into a more populated area. In actuality the hiking trail had branched off from its main route and led them into an open and spacious park on the outskirts of Bonesborough. Looking around, Belos could see a picnic area with a multitude of different families sitting about and conversing with each other in jovial tones. Directly next to this area was what appeared to be a playground with the standard equipment such as a slide, a jungle gym, some monkey bars etc. Unsurprisingly there was a large gathering of youngsters who were playing and laughing about, not far from the protective gaze of their parents.

“Do you want to go play with the other children Hunter?” Belos inquired as he noticed his son watching the other kids on the playground. As this was perhaps the first time he had ever seen any children his own age.

Hunter watched the other kids with interest for a few minutes before looking back at Belos and shaking his head. “No. I want to spend the day with you!” He stated, but then a low rumbling sound came from his stomach and his ears drooped a little. “But could we eat now? I’m really hungry.”

“A reasonable request.” His father surmised with a slight laugh as he spotted a particularly large tree a fair ways away from the rest of the people currently gathered at the park. He motioned for Hunter to follow him and they both sat down in the shade at the base of this tree. Belos pulled out the bag Kiki had given him and sure enough there wasn’t just food for Hunter inside it. There were two sandwiches, one considerably larger than the other and the smaller of the two had a small sticky note labeled ‘For Hunter’ along with a juice box of apple blood. The larger sandwich had multiple sticky notes attached to it, most of which read along the lines of:

‘Eat this, I mean it!’

‘Seriously, don’t skip another meal!’

‘I know you haven’t eaten in four days!’

And a few others that were mostly along those lines. It made Belos roll his eyes as he handed Hunter his food and drink and unwrapped his own as well. They both had the same lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as Belos wasn’t exactly picky when it came to his food. There was also a thermos of ice-cold water for him. As Hunter was eating his lunch and taking some time to enjoy watching all the other people in this park, Belos couldn’t help but let his mind wander onto some… far less than pleasant topics.

Poor Kiki, she never stopped trying to take care of him. He wasn’t ungrateful to her for her actions as he knew full well that he wasn’t exactly the easiest person on the Isles to deal with… he just wished that she could stop worrying about him. Of course in her mind she didn’t see it that way, and Belos knew that she still saw him the same way as when she’d found him half dead on the riverbed and dragged him into her home all those years ago. She would often state that he was incapable of taking care of himself, as she needed to remind him to take breaks from whatever project he was working on; to sleep or at least attempt to sleep on a normal basis… and most importantly she needed to remind him to eat. As it wasn’t at all uncommon for him to go on for days without food. That one annoyed her the most…

Ironically his explanation for his poor eating habits didn’t involve any form of side effect from his curse…

He had tried to explain this to her before; during his time with the Skull Clan he frequently went hungry or was denied permission to eat. Over time… He just lost his ability to tell when he was hungry and became fine going long periods of time without eating. To him this was normal. Even if she assured him, through gritted teeth, that this was not something that was normal in the slightest. She had eventually managed to convince him to at least attempt to eat at more normal intervals, if only so that Hunter wouldn’t pick up on his bad habit of rarely eating. It was funny how the little demoness always knew how to get him to go along with things. He mused as he quietly ate his own lunch. She’d probably saved him more times that he could count, not to mention prevented him from mistakes that could’ve led to armed rebellions trying to dethrone him.

Especially in regards to the one time he had nearly outlawed adoption. Of course looking back, he was glad she talked him out of that one. Even though he remained someone who was naturally very wary of the practice…

After all he had been adopted himself and look how well that went…

It was a story he wished he could forget, but alas it never stayed buried for long in the dark recesses of his mind. Memories that hurt about as badly as his curse did at times.

His earliest memory was wandering alone lost through a forest he couldn’t remember entering. He was only a child somewhere between the age of 12 and 14 at oldest. He couldn’t remember anything of his past, not his age… let alone his name, if he even had one… All he knew was this terrible awful despair that clung to him down to his very soul. A knowledge that he had no family left, a feeling of brutal abandonment and agonizing betrayal ripped into him and made him sob aloud as he desperately tried to find his way to… anywhere… His pitiful crying however had resulted in being found by two scouts from the Skull Clan, both of whom led him up to the castle that the clan resided in and brought him before their leader Tarloc.

He could still remember the utter loathe he had seen reflected in that creature’s eyes as he stared at him. His bald head adorned with a pair of twisting horns, thick muscular wings with two razor-sharp claws at the ends, a pair of tusk-like teeth protruding from his lower jaw, crimson colored skin and a muscular torso that was partially covered in battle worn armor made him look as though he was actually standing before the devil incarnate.

Tarloc had taken one look at him, a thin gangly boy with long unkempt brown hair and pale yellow skin, a pair of pronged horns atop his head and large feathery wings with white, gold and brown plumage and equipped with a single sharp claw at their tops… Belos knew the second Tarloc saw him, he hated him. He wanted him gone from their territory as fast as possible and he was almost willing to throw him off the cliff at that moment. But this wasn’t the sentiment amongst all the other members of the clan… Especially from his mate Kaluba. She was thin and lithe, built with four wings and amethyst colored skin and wore nothing but a pale white dress, clearly she was no warrior unlike her mate. Her smile had been friendly and she had clearly felt pity for him as had several other members of this clan… And in spite of Tarlocs disapproval he had relented and allowed the lost one to stay.

Kaluba even gave him his name… Belos…

Though this welcome into this new ‘family’ was short-lived. He tried, he tried so hard to fit in, but in spite of that he was always… different… always strange. And what generosity and kindness there had been to begin with rapidly dissipated. Especially in regards to the fact that everyone began to blame him for every random misfortune that befell the clan. They blamed him because of the old superstition that a gargoyle with feathered wings were harbingers of misfortune and bad luck to whatever clan they were a part of. Within a few months of his arrival, his newfound family despised his very existence and that was when the abuse started. Kaluba’s once friendly almost motherly demeanor was now nothing but a glare and a scowl. Not to mention she would frequently crack her tail like a whip against his wings if he was in her way for too long. Sometimes damaging his feathers, but other times she would hit him with enough force to dislocate a wing from his shoulder altogether.

Belos often wondered why they never just cast him out of the clan. Why did they keep him around for the sole purpose of mistreating him and also reminded him continuously that he had nowhere else he could go as to prevent him from finding the courage to leave on his own? Something that had weighed terrible on his psyche for many years… Perhaps it was because he knew the ins and outs of the clans domain; he knew the territory very well and even knew the secret routes within the castles walls. Perhaps they feared he could bring about immense trouble should he tell another rival clan or faction of rogue witches about their layouts and scouting patterns. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to admit that they had made a mistake when they let him stay and become a member of the clan.

Maybe they just grew to enjoy abusing him…

Belos had long suspected the latter was the case. And with that in mind it wasn’t surprising at all that after everything he had endured. Belos took a deep and dark pleasure on the day he returned to the castle and saw the entire clan torn asunder and dead in many a gruesome way. Oh how he wished he could’ve seen it with his own eyes, he would’ve laughed at their suffering-

“What are you thinking about dad?” The voice of Hunter pulled him from the darkest depths of his mind that he had fallen back into. Belos blinked once only to realize that Hunter had climbed up the tree and was now hanging upside down directly in front of his face. Suspended from one of the branches and holding onto it strictly with his tail as he looked at his father with a worried expression. To Belos, he couldn’t help but think how much he looked like a spider dangling from its web…

He also couldn’t explain why that comparison brought a dull pang of pain to his heart for a moment…

“Nothing of any importance my son.” He muttered forcing a smile onto his face and internally chastising himself for allowing his mind to go down such dark paths on what was supposed to be a special day for him and Hunter. Without another word he finished his sandwich and washed it down with what remained of the water in the thermos before returning the empty canister to the satchel. Hunter eyed his father with a bit of concern until the elder gargoyle stood upright and plucked his son from the branch he was dangling from.

“What are we going to do next?” The child questioned as his father set him onto the ground once again.

“Well, there’s supposed to be some sort of bazaar going on in the nearby town. My thoughts were that we would cut through their and browse the various wares the merchants have. Once we finish that, it will be nearly sunset and then we’ll head back to the castle. Sound good?” Hunter nodded eagerly but before he could run ahead of his father, Belos took his hand. Wordlessly informing him that he was not going to leave his side at all during this time.

Admittedly while Belos didn’t have a problem with activities such hiking through the woods where it was unlikely they would be encountering other people. Walking through a populated towns was… well, that was a different thing altogether. It was something that made him tense to say the least.

Belos had never truly been comfortable around people. At the very least he had always felt out of place… at worst he felt as though he didn’t belong anywhere near the rest of the Isles inhabitants. Whether these were the feelings he’d developed due to the torment he had received at the hands of an abusive family… or if they were due to the forgotten memories of a past he could not remember… he was not sure. Of course, the fact that he also stood out physically amongst a crowd wherever he went did not help these feelings. He was 9 feet tall, even taller if one included his horns. Whereas the average male gargoyle on the Boiling Isles stood between 7 and 8, and he was well past that. The fact that he also had a twisting green scar running diagonal across his face was the worst part in his own opinion. If he was self-conscious about anything, it was that damn scar. Even more than his amputated wings.

He hated it. He hated it when it had initially been inflicted by Tarlocs knife when he slashed it across his face, stunning him, and allowing other members of the clan to restrain him while Tarloc hacked off his wings before pushing him off the cliff on the fateful day when he had first been cursed. He hated how over the long years the curse had seeped up and out through this wound and eventually spread across the entirety of his face and even began to spread down his neck. He hated it so much… He even hated how many of the other scars that riddled his body were beginning to take on a similar appearance as well.

But as uncomfortable as he was going into this town, he did his best to not let it show. Fortunately, Hunter seemed none the wiser to his discomfort. As he was captivated by all of the hustle and bustle that surrounded them as they made their way through the busy streets and into the towns center where the bazaar was being held. Belos, to his own complete surprise, found himself feeling more at ease when he realized few people were sparing him second glances. Everyone was far more interested at the wide variety of stalls with all sorts of unique and unusual goods. Thankfully all of this was deemed to be far more interesting than a gargoyle with an unusual scar on his face and prosthetic wings. For that he was grateful.

Hunter was entranced by this area. His eyes wide and alert at the sight of all the different kinds of people and strange items that he was now finally getting to see up close. Although he and his father were looking at all of the different wares for sale nothing initially caught either of their attention…

Until they passed one particular stall that had quite a few stuffed toys.

As soon as Hunter saw this one particular stuffed animal, something that if the Emperor had to guess was supposed to be some kind of anthropomorphic pink frog, the child’s eyes widened and his pupils dilated. He bit his lower lip and didn’t say anything… No doubt he probably felt a little awkward asking his father to buy something else for him when he was already having probably the best day of his life. But Belos was nothing if not an observant man and he selected the toy his child clearly wanted and paid the woman for it. The nice lady smiling as she presented it to the young gargoyle.

Belos would never get tired of seeing Hunter smile.

And if a silly stuffed animal brought him another smile, he would gladly pay for it.

As twilight fell over the Isles and after seeing everything there was to see at the bazaar, it was clear that in spite of Hunters eagerness to continue his outing with his father, the boy was reaching the point of exhaustion. Even the incredible amount of energy young children were naturally blessed with had its limits.

Realizing there was no way that Hunter could manage to walk the long ways back to the castle, Belos picked up his tired son and decided that, rather than have to deal with any sort of public transportation, he was just going to find a high vantage point and glide back to the castle. After locating and climbing the tallest building in the area he spread his prosthetic wings and took to the sky. Fortunately for him, gargoyles were not an uncommon sight on the Boiling Isles and it was also not uncommon for them to climb up the sides of buildings in order to be able to catch a decent air current to glide on, and very few people had any problems with them doing this…

And even if someone had a problem, no one was about to tell a 9ft tall intimidating as all hell gargoyle like Belos he couldn’t do something…

Of course, the flight back took a fair amount of time, and when they managed to return to the castle, the sun had already set and night had fallen. Darkness proved to be a useful asset to Belos, as it concealed his approach from the eyes of the guards that were stationed on the roof. Something although beneficial for him on this particular night, would need to be rectified in the future. As he didn’t much care for the thought of some winged assassin or Wild Witch having such an easy time making it to his castle unnoticed in the dark… he didn’t actually fear for his life, merely disliked the thought of what an inconvenience it would bring him moreso than any actual threat.

Nonetheless he was able to land on his private balcony with relative ease and when he checked, he found that Hunter was sound asleep against his chest. A small smile still visible on his soft, young features. The sight brought Belos a small genuinely happy smile of his own. Honestly this day had been one of the happiest he’d had in so long… his curse had not bothered him once and he was able to set his eyes on something other than the repetitive sight of his castles walls. He’d shared a meal with his son outside in the warm sun and just… enjoyed himself…

Of course, no sooner had he opened the doors that led into his room did he come face to face with… himself? As standing directly in front of him in the center of his room was a precise copy of Belos, adorned with his golden mask and clad in his formal robes. The sight actually made him chuckle as he got close enough to inspect this apparent doppelgänger.

“Hmmm, it appears that I need to polish my mask.” He said in a joking tone as he looked at Kikis well-made illusion and appreciating all the effort Kikimora had put into this façade which she’d worn all day to give him this free day with his son.

“You have other things to worry about other than polishing a mask. Frankly it took all of my self-control not to smack some of the idiots you have to regularly deal with.” His own voice said with dull annoyance just as there was a brief flash of light and within a second the illusionary Belos evaporated until Kikimora was the only one standing before him. She stood before her dear friend and looked up at him and sighed a tired yet still happy sigh. “So, how was your day out?”

“It was amazing...” To the surprise of both Belos and Kikimora, Hunter answered the question. Apparently, he was not quite as asleep as originally believed to be judging by his barely open eyes and a small sleepy smile still on his face. “This was the best day ever...” He whispered the small smile broadening as he began to purr slightly. An odd trait that was seemingly unique strictly to Belos and Hunter for as far as Kiki knew they were the only gargoyles on all of the Boiling Isles capable of purring. However the young boys exhausted declaration simply made his father laugh… not chuckle or snicker, but actually laugh. For a moment anyway, before his smile faded and he carefully pulled the sun talisman off of his sons neck.

“I’m glad you thought so Hunter.” Belos said trying to rouse the boy. “But this was a very special day and while I’m glad that you enjoyed yourself. However this talisman is not something that you are ready for just yet. There will come a day when I will give it back to you but it won’t be until you’re older. Do you understand?”

“I don’t think he does Belos…” Kikimora said barely managing to restrain her own laughter. “He fell asleep after the word thought.” She eventually couldn’t help it and had a small laughing fit.

Belos rolled his eyes and let out a tired sigh. “I think I will go and put him to bed. He’s probably going to sleep until sunrise. So he will undoubtedly be a hellion tomorrow night.”

“Perhaps you should try to get some sleep yourself Belos.” Kiki said as most of her amusement left her voice spare for some trace amounts still resounding within her stern tone. “You had a wonderful day today with your son. Maybe you should try to take advantage of this and see if it brings you good dreams tonight. So please… try to get some sleep.”

Belos considered her words for a bit before sighing and realizing she was right, as she usually was. He was tired, but it was a good tired and not his usual exhaustion which he would feel weighing on him down to his very soul. “I will give it a try… Maybe I’ll get an hour or two.”

“Or maybe he’ll even get an entire nights worth of sleep.” Kiki added hopefully. “Either way I’m happy you two had such a good time.”

“We did Kiki, and I promise to tell you all about it a little later.” Belos said softly as he went to Hunters room and tucked the sleeping child into his bed and planted a kiss on his head before he returned to his own room and collapsed onto his bed without even removing his prosthetic wings.

And he fell into what was a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.

[lambourngb]

This Hard Journey

Fic prompt: “There’s something you should know…” Michael Guerin Day 2. This picks up after yesterday’s “This Hard Life” - a part of interconnected ficlets of an AU after the shed, where Alex doesn’t join the Air Force. Mentions of Malex and an Alex/Other here. Finished on ao3 here.

***

He finally got a dog, was all that Michael could think as he sat outside of the house that matched the address Max pulled from the DMV.  They had always wanted to get a dog together, but with pet deposits and the tight budget for rent and food, that had always been a non-starter for them. Not anymore.

The quiet shaded street just off of the Buchanan Arts District was lined with old-style Craftsman homes among the peppered in new, renovated sprawling McMansions born of the house flipping obsession during the real estate boom. New construction sprouting between old, mature trees, juxtaposing progress with tradition.

Alex had chosen one of the older homes, untouched by the remodeling fad with a large fenced in yard filling the property footprint, and a dog house that mimicked the main house in style. Two solid years of song-writing had rewarded Alex with financial security, and of course, after three years living in cramped efficiency apartments and noisy neighbors with Michael, the first thing Alex would want again was a house. The roots of his upper middle class childhood were never far away.

Pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, Michael worked to gather the courage that kept him propelled down the over 1,100 miles from Roswell to Nashville. He had made it here, the least he could do was knock on the door instead of freaking out over the fact that Alex had a house with a mortgage while all Michael could muster in the two years since was buying a bank-possessed Airstream.

At least it was better than sleeping rough in his truck again, something he had done when he fell behind on the rent after Alex had left.

Michael took a deep steadying breath and pushed himself out of his truck. The spans of sidewalk suddenly seemed longer than I-40 through Oklahoma. Another deep breath, the irony of borrowing Alex’s self-soothing habit not lost on Michael at all, he tucked his left hand into a pocket to hide the old damage and knocked firmly on the front door.

There was a long silence extended, shoving anticipation into chagrin as Michael turned his head to peek at the tiny side-carport, confirming there was a car there. A loud, chorus of deep barks picked up from within the house. The dog sounded big, but none of that registered as he picked up Alex’s voice, muffled and indistinct.

“-calm down, buddy. Stay- no, stay- It’s probably Daddy’s new speakers arriving-”

After two and half days of driving, Michael had perfected his speech to Alex. It hit every open wound between them, from the fact he was sorry he hadn’t gone with him, to the weak but true explanation that he wasn’t ready then, but he was now. Then finally the big dice throw, the gamble of everything, that every city needed a good mechanic, Nashville was no different, it was no pressure- but maybe? Maybe they could start over?

The door swung open, and like a bag of spilled marbles, all of Michael’s words scattered away from him.

“Michael?” Alex’s polite smile for an expected delivery dropped into disbelieving shock. He did a comical double take, looking back into the house, then to Michael, then over Michael’s shoulder. The classic Chevy truck parked on the street chased away the shock. “Jesus Christ, it really is you.”

“Alex.” Michael swallowed, his eloquence gone. “You look good.”

They had had three years together, and during that time Michael had seen so many different versions of Alex Manes. He had seen Alex tired, dark circles shading his eyes more consistently than eyeliner with an off-kilter alien antennae from the Crashdown. He had seen Alex resolute, using his shoulders to impart a warning in his black clad Wild Pony shirt to any drunk who dared to give him a hard time. He had seen Alex awkward, as he helped Michael with his chores at the Foster’s ranch when it came to cleaning out a cow pen or pulling the twine efficiently off baled hay. He had seen Alex ashamed, as Michael patiently explained during their first grocery store visit that the EBT card only covered certain items.

This Alex was new. Clean, well-rested, skin clear and not tight on his cheekbones from lean meals or bloated from cheap food. An earring shined from his ear, he was dressed in a soft v-neck shirt and artfully cut frayed jeans. Good was an understatement.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here- I’m here because Isobel got married, and um, she wanted to invite you, but I talked her out of it. I’m sorry. I mean for that, but also for like, everything. Not following you here was something I regretted every day since, but I thought- I thought I had to stay back then, but I don’t anymore- and there’s something you should know-” 

“Babe? Is that our new speakers at the door?” A new voice called out, cutting off the word vomit that was spilling from Michael’s mouth beyond his control.

A male voice.

The wince and apology on Alex’s face told Michael everything he needed to know. Well. He probably should have seen that coming. Only Alex’s reaching out quickly to grab his hand as he turned away stopped him from bolting from the house.

“No, not our speakers, but an old friend from back home is here-” Alex called back, before turning back to make deliberate eye contact with Michael. “He wanted to stop by to say hello.”

A tall well-built black man came into view, holding a squirming pit bull in his arms, walked toward them both with a bright welcoming smile, “A friend from Roswell? An actual flesh and blood human who knows you? I was starting to think you were an alien, Alex.”

“Just because you’re related to half of Nashville and went to school with the other half, Dennis, doesn’t mean I sprouted from a pod-” Alex shot back playfully, clearly picking up a well-worn argument. 

Like a couple. A real couple. With a house and a dog. Michael licked his dry lips, forcing his muscles upward, they probably had retirement accounts. In two years Alex had built something more secure than he had in the three years in Roswell.

“Well any friend of yours, Alex, is one of mine,” Dennis greeted, turning his head to avoid an excited dog kiss before transferring the bundle of fur into Alex’s arms in a fluid movement of trust. “I’m Dennis, welcome to Nashville, um-?” he prompted, extending his left hand to Michael.

“Michael Guerin,” he answered politely, before Michael lifted his left hand awkwardly from his pocket and offered his right in return. His name didn’t alter the warm smile on Dennis’s face. Ah. So he must be a nameless ex for Alex then. Swallowing hard, Michael continued, this time a little meanly, “this hand doesn’t shake so well after I got on the wrong side of a hammer, sorry. But good to meet you.”

The stutter of the clumsy interaction hid Alex’s wince and flash of pain of the reminder. 

Feeling no joy from that, Michael picked up the conversation lightly, “I’m a friend from high school. Been doing some transport work, and a job sent me here to pick up a car to drive back to Roswell, so I thought I might stop in and see what the famous Alex Manes is up to…”

“I’m not famous, I just write the words,” Alex protested quietly, before backing away from the doorway. “We were just about to have lunch, if you want to stay-”

“He’s famous, don’t listen to him,” Dennis interjected proudly. “Did you hear that new song from Paramore? Alex wrote that.”

“Oh I know, I have all the singles Alex wrote,” Michael smiled, looking around the house and at the couple with another deep breath. “I’m his biggest fan, I think. But um, thank you, I can’t stay, I gotta hit the road back to-” he started to say home, but that hadn’t been true for a long time. “Back to Roswell.”

*** 

Hours later with his heart heavy, Michael checked into his room at the Super 8. Normally the expense would have bothered him, but after his day, he figured he was entitled to a little bit of spoiling. And if it was sad that plain wrapped soaps and tiny shampoo bottles constituted spoiling, well, he was content with that.

The clunky black case of his small portable DVD player was propped open on the hotel bed. It was a hand-me-down as technology and electronic gadgets moved into smoother, more versatile means. For him, it was perfect to watch a borrowed DVD in his Airstream since he lacked cable.

With the entire contents of a motel conditioner in his hair, Michael started the paused video file. The shaky dark footage started playing, the sound crackling with amateur hands, before the clear, strong voice of Alex Manes filled the air. 

It was probably pathetic to watch this cribbed footage from YouTube, but the romanticism that fueled his journey down 1-40 was also the same sentiment that preserved this moment in amber for Michael. Pulling open his old notebook from high school, he let Alex’s voice singing about love and loss carry him through the calculations of point atmospheric entry and the parallax distance of habitable stars.

It would be a hard journey, but Michael didn’t know any other kind at this point. Roswell wasn’t his home. Nashville wasn’t going to be home either, but the universe was ever-expanding, surely there was a place for Michael?

[ansgar-martinsson]

The Best Intentions - Ansgar/Joline Part 1

((A/N - I’ll be reposting parts of this RP with @theothercourse every few days. Revisited it and I enjoyed re-reading it. Hope you do too. Lots of *ahem* in this RP, but that’s par for the course with Ansgar. Plot, too. :) Enjoy and if you like it let @theothercourse know!))

The Best Intentions

Part One

“Mamma, are you sure I can take the car?” Joline bellowed through the craftsman style home that she shared with her mother. She scoffed at the trainers she’d just laced upon her feet and toed out of them again. “I can take my bike.”

The older Lindberg woman sauntered through and handed her daughter a proper pair of pumps. “Wear these. They’re smarter.”

Jo folded at the waist to slip on the new pair heels, hopping on one foot when one shoe refused to cooperate. “You sure about the car?”

“Take it. I’ll ring up Elias to take me to my treatment.” She reached out and caressed her daughter’s hair. “Knock ‘em out today, yeah? Go do justice!”

“I will, mamma.”

“You work too much.”

“So you tell me,” she leaned and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Thanks for the ride. Call my mobile later, yeah? Tell me how it went today.”

Emelie Lindberg nearly pushed her daughter out the front door. “Go. Before I go for you.”

*~*~*~*~

Joline unfolded herself from her mother’s borrowed Mini Cooper and stepped onto the distinguished carpark of @martinssonconstruction. Her knees protested the confines of the stupidly small car. She glared up at the glittering tower feeling under dressed to be standing in the carpark, let alone entering. And she dressed for the occasion, a freshly pressed purple button down blouse over a denim skirt and the Louboutin heels her mother burgled from only she knew where.

The late summer sun beat down, an oppressive heat that made it difficult to breathe. She could feel her natural blonde hair thrashing against her black dye job, fighting to get free of its prison.

Dipping back into the car, she fetched her clipboard of work permits, purchase orders, requisitions and recent estimates for repairs at the Stockholm Opera House. Despite her wounded pride, she also included some of the letters addressed to her of where she failed. Each pointed out just where attention was required in her house. The house manager could do only so much without owner intervention.

Joline rolled her shoulders back, pushed her reading glasses into place high on her nose and marched a steady pace across the carpark. She flung open the glass door and clicked her heels on the marble floor from the front door to the reception desk. Two administrative assistants answered an influx of ringing telephones.

‘Martinsson Construction, won’t you hold please?’ repeated over and over for the onslaught of calls.

After signing her name in the guestbook, notably three pages long for the 28th of July already, Joline stood before the receptionists to ask (insist) that she see Froken Wiessing immediately. But the phone calls didn’t stop…

Against her better judgement, after waiting an exorbitant amount of time, she marched into the President Office. “Froken Wiessing, please forgive the rude and unannounced intrusion, but I must insist. Its imperative that we go over these repairs. The sprinklers in the rehearsal room have been going off at random and the director… is… not… happy.”

She slowed her speech as she realized that her eyes didn’t deceive her. Froken Wiessing and all her family portraits and certificates of accomplishment had been replaced by someone quite different. “You’re not Froken Wiessing.”

The floor didn’t swallow her up.

How she wished it had.

Typically, Ansgar Martinsson hated virtual press conferences. Hated them with a passion. Despised them. Loathed them. Wished the person who had come up with the very innane and fucking stupid idea would have his skin sloughed off in the depths of hellfire and be hoisted upon a pike to rot for eternity.

He much preferred the in-person version. Much preferred speaking his mind, standing on a stage in front of an audience, interacting. He loved charming the shit out of the reporters in the room; both the females who wanted to fuck him and the males who wanted to be him… or in some cases, yeah… to fuck him.

But that time, Ansgar actually relished answering the press’ questions within the solitude of his office, enjoyed being able to shut his door and hide behind his computer screen, where he could take his time, where he could engage his slightly sluggish brain before his motor-mouth. He appreciated his PR VP’s insight into his strangely fragile psyche in that moment. He’d even given Janetta the indulgence of a “thanks,” a handshake, and a “nice job,” when he’d learned she’d arranged for the press conference to be a virtual one instead of a live one.

“It’s okay,” Janetta had said, shrugging. “You need time, Sgar. I get it. I got your back.”

***

… But apparently his receptionist did not have his back. Judging from the way the intruder was ranting, there would be no appreciative “thanks” or “nice job” in the cards for Britta. Just the opposite. Quite the opposite.

“What the fuck?” Ansgar stood quickly, and almost by reflex, wrenched his top right-hand drawer open. His fingers twitched as they hovered over the pearl handle of his Ruger Blackhawk within, ready to snatch it up and shoot - defend himself if need be. “Who are you, and how did you get into my office?”

“Oh, uh… hi,” Jo intoned absently while flipping through her overloaded clipboard, sifting through document after document to search for… well, hell, she didn’t know what. Anything.

“Yeah, I… uh, I used the door.” She indicated with a tip of her head in the general direction of said entry way to explain her appearance.

No sense of humor, noted.

The man growled and gnashed his teeth at her, his jaw rippling with the effort. If he could spit fire, she sure as shit would be singed.

Maybe all the way burned.

Third degree burns by the heat and intensity of the glare from the lion of a man. Then he flared his nostrils, and she wondered if he could in fact breathe fire.

Jo tapped her foot on the marble floor to check her escape route. Only solid.

Damnit! Hard unforgiving marble. Her rescue chasm must be on holiday. No black hole to whisk her away from the wrong place, wrong time, and wrong person.

But she wouldn’t wither, she wouldn’t retreat, she wouldn’t show weakness. The theatre needed her, her performers needed her, her season subscribers, her box office staff, her technical designers.

Could she lie about her identity? Should she? She tried to remember how much she’d gotten through of her rehearsed speech that she wrote in her head during the nearly hour long wait by reception.

Maybe she’d just ignore that bit.

“Yeah, uh… I… this is a matter for Wiessing. I’m here for that.” She clasped her Opera House work file between her palms, holding it up as proof. “May I see her? Please?”

The lion in a suit worth more than her house pressed his hands into the massive desk and dropped his head to his chest. Summoning fire or just breathing, Jo couldn’t tell for sure. But when he lifted his head again at her, he held a broody confused smolder.

A resignation?  A surrender?

Then it was gone again, an exasperated sigh escaped him. The incredulous annoyance returned, his impatience driving off him in a steady current.

Thank Heavens! No fire. No sunburn or heat blisters.

Jo raked her hand through her pin straight hair. “I waited. Out there. For an hour, but I’ve been waiting since February for a meeting. With her, with Wiessing. I’ve got a new season starting in September, companies that need a proper and functional rehearsal space, season ticket holders threatening to pull their patronage if they’re not entirely satisfied, and a sprinkler system that goes off without warning.”

Pressing her luck, she stated, “That’s who the fuck I am.”

Companies… rehearsal space… ticket holders… patronage….

Sprinkler system…

I waited for an hour…

Waiting since February…

If Ansgar was angry at this… this… girl… this girl in obviously borrowed Louboutins intruding into his private office, he’d suddenly and swiftly become furious at her words, and the implications thereof.

He lifted a hand, silencing the tirade he saw coming in the massive inhale of her breath. “Wait, let me understand you,” he said, preternaturally calmly, his eyes narrowing. “Are you telling me you are a representative of the Stockholm Opera House?”

“Yes,” she said, her breath huffing out through her nose.

“And are you telling me that the sprinkler system in the building is… faulty?” He cocked his head. “Do I have that right so far?”

“Yes,” she answered, “and the Prima Donna is….”

“I don’t care about the Prima Donna,” Ansgar barked. And then, after a calming breath, he continued, the words pushed out through grit teeth. “What I do care about is that you represent one of my largest customers, and that customer is dissatisfied.”

“Not so much dissatisfied, but…”

He cut her off again. “And not only that but you have been, quite rudely I might add, made to wait since… since how long?” He squinted, cocking his head as he strode out from behind the desk.

“Um, February.”

He nodded in annoyance. “February,” he repeated. “Your building has had a leaking sprinkler system since February.”

The young woman before him shrugged, her lips pressed together in a resigned moue. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s not just leaking, it’s… it’s going off whenever, getting everyone wet, ruining set pieces.”

“I see,” he said, his own lips twisting into an expression not unlike hers. He nodded again, an irritated, whispery chuckle burbling up through his nostrils. He pushed off the edge of the desk, and turned one of the guest chairs around. “Please, sit,” he gestured. “I do believe we need to discuss how I can make this right.”

And then, he held out his hand, a broad smile brightening his face. “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Ansgar Martinsson. I am the CEO of this company.”

“Joline. Joline Lindberg,” she introduced herself wearily, accepting and shaking his hand. She smiled weakly when his didn’t quite reach his eyes. “House manager,” she stated, “Stockholm Opera House.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said automatically, but not entirely sincere in the delivery.

She quipped, “Charmed, I’m sure.” She kept it to herself, under her breath. Jokes landed on executive types as well as water to a flame. A lot of hissing.

She waited. She waited for the usual faux impressed high-pitched, ‘Fancy title for a woman.’ 'How did you get that job?’ Or something as equally as vile. But it didn’t come. Instead she got a solid, “I’m positive we can sort this.”

Okay, so Ansgar Martinsson wasn’t that type of man. From the superior attitude that drafted her way from her intrusion, she assumed male dominance, but no. His was a general arrogance, believing others capable (man or woman), just not as capable as he. She could live with that. Possibly work with that.

Jo hugged the portfolio of problems to her chest as she situated herself to the guest chair. Soothing her denim skirt down for the sake of modesty and decorum, she perched herself on the edge of the seat in anticipation. She flattened the stack of documents in her lap, squeezing her thighs together. She adjusted her thin-rimmed glasses and breathed.

“Your predecessor…” Ansgar began confidently taking another seat opposite her.

“Steffan,” she reminded when he hesitated.

“Ah, yes… Steffan. Forgive me, I’ve been away,” he almost dismissed out of hand, but his eyes gave him away.

“I met with him,” the CEO explained, “a number of times, in regards to–”

“–Restorations!” Jo blurted out suddenly, interrupting them and taking them both by surprise. Her face lit up like a spotlight on the Prima Donna performing her eleven o'clock number.

His name. Ansgar Martinsson. She recognized it from her files, some of the early ones when she inherited the job as manager. A delayed response, but her mind had been running it over and over again as familiar for another reason than the obvious founder of Martinsson Construction.

She muttered, “Sorry. Sorry. I’m so– it just came to me.” She rifled through the files, her fingers walking deeper and deeper into the stack, her back curling forward. “Sorry… I know it’s just here. Somewhere.”

With a ‘aha’, she finally produced at least one of the documents left to her. ‘For the future,’ her colleague had told her. “Plans for the small theatre in the south wing. You’re mentioned, and there are some estimated costs. I’m sorry… I just recognized your name.”

“That’s quite all right. I strive to make my name memorable.” A glint of mischievous joy brightened his features, so much that he almost looked like a young boy.

“I don’t want to ruffle feathers or step on toes or point fingers at anyone,” she admitted softly. “i took over this job from Steffan six months ago. I only want to do what’s best for the theatre but I’m afraid I can’t do it alone. Wiessing kept promising help. ‘Soon,’ she’d say. She was swamped filling your shoes, there simply wasn’t enough of her to go around. So… i guess my plea is, may I have her back please before anyone else gets soggy in my house?”

[ffxiv-ariavitali]

#12: Whimsy

- [whimsy]: noun; "capricious humor or disposition; extravagant, fanciful, or excessively playful expression;" "an odd or fanciful notion;" or "a product of playful or capricious fancy."

- References to the level 50-60 LTW and BSM job quests, the moogle beast tribe story line up to level 7 reputation and the side quests available after completion of the New Nest in the Firmament.

- shameless use of writing prompt to introduce a new OC complimentary to my WoL that will be featured in future pieces, Rayne "Echoes" Cowen.

[May or may not have gotten carried away with this one. Hope you enjoy! ^_^”]

AO3 ver.

-

“I beg your pardon?” Aymeric answered aghast.

Ser Handeloup enjoyed the expression the lord commander gave, for it certainly mirrored the one that he certainly had made when he made his own discovery.

“Indeed, Ser Aymeric,” the second commander responded. “To think, the vaunted Warrior of Light and savior of Ishgard had not only treated with the moogles and House Dzaemel to restore Bahrr Lehs to its former glory, but she single-handedly brought honor to House Jervaint by crafting the equipment she uses to this day. Not to mention that she had worked together with Mistress Elde of the Mercantile association in the Crozier to bring about the case of the leather armor-”

“That was Aria, as well?” the lord commander gaped, his eyes wide with surprise.

“An unexpected development, is it not?” Handeloup answered with a bellow of laughter.

Aymeric leaned back against his seat at the war table in the middle of the Congregation of Knights Most Holy. He had wondered how in Halone’s name the quality of equipment fashioned had increased exponentially, thus increasing the morale of the Temple Knights overall. Moreover, he expected the restoration of the Firmament to take a miserly length of time to complete - only to find that the ideal checkpoint drafted and proposed by Lord Francel had reached completion in the matter of a few moons. Then, there was the young miss from House Jervaint that Handeloup was speaking of, an unpolished gem with such prodigious skill that would have gone unnoticed had it not been for an unknown sponsor fashioning the tools she needed to attend their scouting event. 

“She seems to be quite a number of steps ahead of even you, my lord,” Aymeric heard Lucia tease at his opposite side.

“Indeed…”

The doors to the Congregation had opened and the three lifted their attentions upward to find a rather tall Hyuran male with hair like red wine and heterochromatic eyes the colors of night and day. When the man found that he was being stared at, he raised a brow in their direction and approached them.

“Greetings, Master Echoes,” Aymeric welcomed him with a kind smile. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

The man known as ‘Echoes’ bowed politely in the lord commander’s direction.

“Greetings, Lord Aymeric. I have come to deliver something to Ser Handeloup on behalf of my lady.”

The company was quite aware of this man’s relationship to the Warrior of Light - rather, Rayne "Echoes" Cowen was an outcast found in the middle of nowhere, fighting to survive, when Aria had run into him. Treated him with the respect that any living individual deserves to be treated, as well as cure him of mortal wounds that would have otherwise ended his life.  Thus did the man pledge his loyalties to her, allowing only her the use of his true name, and was stationed in Ishgard at her behest, working on behalf of Aria’s birthright and to ensure that Aymeric was taking care of himself. Lucia was eternally grateful.

So, they watched the respected man as he procured a pouch from his pockets, placed it on the wooden war table and slid it towards the second commander. When it reached him, Handeloup retrieved it, mildly startled by its weight, before peering inside.

“Why, this is-!” the man exclaimed, then ogled the man.

Echoes inclined his head. “My lady wishes to invest in Lady Jervaint’s talents. As such, she requests that all of her arms and weaponry needs are to be billed to House Lukos. That is, until the day she completes her training and obtains knighthood. She hopes that the amount withheld in that coinpurse is enough for the course of a moon-”

“Never you mind a moon, Master Echoes, this is enough to last half a year!” Handeloup exclaimed, then shifted to present the pouch to the lord- and first commander.

Echoes raised a brow lazily. “Is that so? Then I have utmost faith that it will be used efficiently.”

Echoes bowed once more and turned to leave, but Aymeric rushed to his feet.

“Please, wait a moment, Master Echoes!”

Stopping in his tracks, Echoes turned back to the man.

“Simply ‘Echoes’ is fine, my lord. I could not possibly accept such honorable words from the one my lady finds favor in.”

Aymeric flinched, startled by the man’s fervent fealty to his beloved. “Th-then, Echoes, please tell me - do you happen to know if Aria is returned to the city?”

Echoes smiled. “Indeed, my lord. However, she urged me not to bring the matter up as she was sure you and yours would be rather occupied at this moment.”

“Do you know where she is at this moment?”

“Yes. She is currently entertaining the children within the Firmament. She will most likely remain there until the sun sets.”

Aymeric shifted his gaze towards Lucia and the woman sighed heavily.

“You do not have an appointment important enough that it cannot wait until the 'morrow,” she answered.

Aymeric’s eyes beamed. “Wonderful! Then, let us pay our dear warrior a visit, shall we?”

The lord commander turned towards Echoes expectantly and the man bowed once more.

“Very good, my lord. Now, if you would.”

The three commanders followed the man out of the Congregation and through the Brume. Eyes followed them, curious to why the renowned Ser Aymeric was strolling about and even Thomelin, the gatekeeper of the Firmament, was startled by the esteemed personage entering. The sight of Echoes did well to keep him from panicking, allowing a rather smooth entry.

Aymeric’s eyes widened. He had heard the New Nest had been completed, but he hadn’t imagined just how beautiful its designs were. As he followed Echoes, he couldn't help but gawk at every building, every staircase and railing that he could, committing it all to memory. Every now and then, he would spy the excited expressions of the inhabitants and the cheers that marked both happiness and hope. The fruit of all their labor - by the Fury, it was all falling to place.

“Here we are, Rolanberry Field,” Echoes announced.

Aymeric, Lucia and Handeloup admired the artistry of the estate. The walls were built on such evenly cut stone and the structure wastes no space on the plot it rested on. Even through the closed doors, the company could hear laughs of glee and delight emanating from it and it made their hearts feel so full.

“Ah, Master Echoes is back,” a voice called out.

The group turned and found a small Elezen girl carrying bolts of cloth in an assortment of colors, as well as find a wicker basket hanging from her arm besides. Upon further inspection, Aymeric and Lucia recognized the small girl to be Maelie, the child that had been tossed off the roof of the Vault during the dreadful day the Brothers of True Faith had held poor citizens hostage within its walls.

“Oh, and so is Ser Aymeric and Ser Lucia!” the girl exclaimed, becoming panicked and yet excitable.

Echoes didn’t hesitate to step towards the girl and stretch his arms out to gather half that the girl was carrying. Maelie smiled wide, grateful for the help.

“Do not be alarmed, Miss Maelie. They are also here to see the lady.”

“Oh!” Maelie turned towards the lord commander and quickly stepped towards him. “Then you’re just in time! Lady Aria is inside and teaching us arts and crafts!”

Aymeric’s smile grew all the fonder. “Is she now? Would you bring us to her? We do not wish to interrupt the class - we simply wish to welcome her home.”

“In that case, we should hurry! We ran out of materials, so Lady Aria had given us coin to purchase more. Everyone’s waiting!”

The girl bounced in her heel and rushed inside the building. Aymeric turned to Echoes and the Hyur male only gave a satisfied grin before he followed the small girl inside. The others mirrored his movements.

The moment the four entered, there was a sudden quiet that was quite opposite of what they had originally heard. That was, until they heard Maelie’s voice echoing against the walls and the subsequent bellows of gratitude from other children at the sight of her haul. There was the sound of rummaging, of children dividing the materials between themselves and when they had crossed the hall into the room they were residing in, they found children gathered before the Warrior of light, watching intently as the woman held an embroidery hoop in her hands, along with a needle and thread.

“Be careful as you stitch the patterns, everyone,” Aria reminded them. “It will not do for you to harm yourselves while practicing. If you are not confident, we have thimbles to protect your fingers.”

“Miss Aria, can you show me how to do this pattern again?” a small boy asked of her.

“Oh, Peyraquile, of course. You do it like this.”

The boy named Peyraquile, as well as two others - a girl wearing a blue winter coat and a boy wearing a grey urban coat - leaned in. Everyone, even children that hadn’t asked the question, watched as the woman weaved the needle in and out of the cloth that Peyraquile presented to her - slow enough for them to pay careful attention, but not as slow as to make them dreadfully bored. When she was finished, she turned back to the child.

“Does that help, my dear?” she asked.

Peyraquile nodded quickly and took the hoop back. “Yes, it does! Thank you, Miss Aria!”

The three children nodded and retreated back to their spot. In that time, three gentlemen wearing red anemos long sleeves and craftsman’s pants stepped to Aymeric’s side from the other direction as they peered into the room.

“My lady, we finished the outer frame of the structure as you have instructed. Do you have the time to inspect it before we move on to the next step?”

“Ah, Rasequin, of course-”

Aria stopped mid-sentence when she followed the direction of the voice and found not only the caretakers present, but the lord speaker of Ishgard in accompaniment of the first and second commander standing by. The sight gave her slight surprise before she sighed and stood to her feet.

“I will be with you a moment, Rasequin, Gontrandoix, Pehainel. In the meantime, please prepare the materials for the next step of construction. Rayne, do you mind watching after the children for a moment?” she asked.

Echoes nodded. “As you wish, my lady.”

Aria shifted her head, motioning for the remaining three individuals to follow and she led them into the kitchen. She quickly prepared Ishgardian tea for them and set delicate teacups before them on the table.

“Please, help yourselves,” she urged.

They did just so as Aria sat at the table with them, watching the three fondly as she propped her head up with her arm, leaning against it ever so slightly.

“I assume you have no qualms with my investment in Lady Jervaint?” she questioned.

Handeloup bellowed in laughter. “Nay, my lady, none at all! Rather, we were rather bewildered on how you manage to continuously surprise us. The lord commander the most!”

Aria shifted her gaze to Aymeric and the man looked horrified hearing that his second commander sold him out almost immediately. Fighting back the burning behind his pink-dusted cheeks, he cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly at the warrior.

“Indeed. You have given so much to Ishgard already, Ia. Such things-”

Aria raised a hand to interrupt.

“Ishgard is also my home, Aym. I will have none of that. Not only is it the duty of a citizen in this beautiful nation to aid where needed, I wish to make use of my talents and knowledge as such. Plus, ‘tis not as if I am spoiling them, as you can see with the fine gentlemen you met earlier.”

“Are they perchance the caretakers of this place, my lady?” Lucia asked.

Aria nodded. “Indeed. They asked for my assistance in creating a playground of sorts for the children. I taught them how to perform basic woodwork and smithing techniques so that they could fare on their own. They only ask of me to check on their work because one cannot be too careful.”

“And the children?” Aymeric asked. “They requested they teach you embroidery?”

Aria chuckled softly at that, a playful and entertained smile stretched upon her lips. “Nay, my dear. They requested to be taught ways they can contribute to the Restoration effort. They came together beforehand and some of them decided that selling custom handkerchiefs as staples of Ishgardian artistry to be exported would be a good idea. Who am I to deny them such ambitions when they are so eager to learn?”

Handeloup hummed, markedly impressed as he leaned back on his seat and crossed his arms.

“What a splendid idea, my lady. And you say they came up with the idea of their own accord?”

Aria nodded. “Indeed.” Aria stood on her feet and offered a curt bow towards the three. “Now, pardon me for my rudeness, but I shall return soon. I mean to inspect the work the fine caretakers have done so they may continue on their project. Ah, but feel free to stay as long as you like. Rayne?”

At the call of his name, Echoes had stepped from around the corner and into the room to join them. He bowed respectively towards Aria before she departed to do as she said she would. It was then that Handeloup found courage to ask what they were all thinking.

“Speak true, Master Echoes, how is it that Lady Aria is so motivated to complete such large tasks?”

Aymeric leaned in where he sat, eager to learn the answer, as well. Echoes pondered over the question, cupping his chin thoughtfully as he had done so.

“Well, if it is my lady, I would assume she is viewing all of this as a game.”

Lucia raised a brow skeptically. “A game?”

Echoes nodded his head. “Yes, Ser Lucia. Recently, Lord Stryder had caught wind of dissenters looking to stain Lord Aymeric’s good name as lord speaker of Ishgard. When my lady heard of this, she was quite furious, you see. So, she challenged the noble houses that were against Lord Aymeric - that if certain requisites were not met within a given time, she will not interfere with any further attempt they would have if they were to put a motion forward to have him step down.”

Lucia jumped to her feet, almost slamming her fist to the table. “That is-!”

“Just as you feel, Ser Lucia,” Echoes answered with an incline of his head. “Unfortunately for them, they only see House Lukos as a middle-ranked noble house with nary a connection to the upper echelons because of their prolonged absence from the country. Moreover, my lady issued the challenge with Lord Stryder as the intermediary - therefore they are unawares that it was actually the Warrior of Light, with all the support of the four High Houses and the Mercantile association of the Jeweled Crozier, not to mention the entire realm besides, that they have challenged.  So, she has rather taken her time ensuring that the lords would, for lack of a better way of putting it, ‘stew in their mistakes’, as Ser Estinien would say.”

Aymeric, Lucia and Handeloup stared at the man as if he had grown a second before the lord commander pressed his hand against his face and released a helpless laugh.

“Boosting our economy, putting down opposition in a way that maintains their honor as a noble house, raising the status of her own and rebuilding the city-state to a level above its former glory … and she perceives it as a game.”

Echoes smiled pleasantly at the sight of the three’s exhaustion and Aymeric was then reminded of the character of the woman that he had fallen in love with. Benevolent as Halone herself and as punishing as the Fury when angered. As astute as the most knowledgeable of academics…

...and as whimsical as the very definition of the word can get.

[jafndaegur]

Paper Wings

Jumin x MC

This is a sequel to The Chains that Bind Us.

...whenever I start to want... to do bad things to me... I fold a paper crane for every thing I want to do to myself, and sew them onto a thread to hang where I can see them.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

The door creaked open just a teensy bit as Jumin peeked into the room. Darkness shrouded the normally well lit study, and other than a sliver of light that winked dimly from the crack between the pulled curtains - there was no other source for him to see. But from the silhouette of MC, her back turned from him and her head bowed, Jumin supposed that she wasn't feeling well today either. It'd been a week since he had first found her on the ground, mid panic attack. From then on he noticed that whatever it was she was fighting in her head, it was only getting worse. His lip trembled just for a moment before he clenched his jaw and forced out a tight exhale. He regained his composure and he stepped into the room without much noise. His socks padded almost silently against the carpet. And yet when he crouched down beside his wife and gently ran his fingertips along her forearm, she hardly reacted.

First, she gave an owlish blink - lashes brushing over the dark rings of circles underneath her eyes. She didn't smile. Her right hand rested lightly upon his, but she refused to look at him.

Jumin's heart clenched.

"Would you like to go out?" He tried, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. "The weather is pleasant, and it may even rain later in the evening. I know how you love a good storm."

She shook her head. "I don't feel so good Jumin, not today...I'm sorry."

"Of course, dearest." His vision blurred, and he cracked a soft smile despite the growing chill and wetness at the corners of his eyes. "Just rest. I'd like for you to feel better."

No response came, and she rested her head back against the chair she had curled up in. Humming softly, Jumin stood and left, closing the door behind him.

He wandered around the penthouse for a little, trying to clear his mind. One of their plants wasn't facing the sun. He turned it around. The stool at the kitchen bar was sticking out. He pushed it in an inch. On the couch one of the pillows were misplaced. He moved it from the middle cushion to the right end. A blanket was folded wrong. There was a smudge on the window. A shoe had left a floor scuff mark. His sleeve wasnt pulled down all the way. One of the hall picture-frames were crooked. Bed unmade. Bathroom untidy. Seat. Front door. Kitchen. Study. Hallway. Floor. Couch...

He reached out to steady himself, and stopped.

A quiet mew drew his attention and he looked down to see Elizabeth the Third gazing up at him. Her big blue eyes widened and she wound herself around his legs, her tail flickering. Jumin sunk to the floor, and gathered her up into his arms, holding her against his shoulder as he buried his face into the soft fur close to her belly. A sob muffled against her fluffy pelt.

He couldn't fix this.

This was something even the great Jumin Han could not fix. With all of his money and his power, this was beyond his capabilities. Beyond his influence. Because no matter how much he wanted to fix his wife's pain, the only one who could do that was her. He could never force her. Never before and never again.

His breath rattled in his chest, and he bit back another sob.

Elizabeth kneaded her paws against his chest.

There was nothing for him to do. He gazed out dully, looking at the window and the city past it, that despite the warm afternoon light and the speckles of fluffy gray clouds on the horizon, he could only see gloom. There was no way to fix this. No way for him. He could only wish-

Wish.

He could only wish.

Scratching the back of Elizabeth's head, he set her down quickly. Stumbling to stand up, Jumin searched for his jacket before finding it and haphazardly tugging it on.

A hesistant glance was cast back toward the direction of the study. He felt the faint tendrils of a thread coiling around his throat. But before the string could tie itself any tighter, he took a deep breath, unwound the thread, and placed it in his pocket for another day, another time. MC needed him. And even though right now, she spoke with cotton in her mouth - all hidden and suffocated words - he heard her.

Ignoring the startled calls of his security guards at the front, Jumin quickly made his way out to the front where Driver Kim was on standby. The chauffeur started a bit at his boss' sudden appearance, but recovered quickly.

"Is there a crafts store, nearby?" Jumin huffed, sitting down in the back of the car.

Driver Kim slid into the front seat and started the vehicle. "Craft? As in a craftsman?"

"No, no. As in arts and crafts."

There was silence before the driver pulled away from the front and drove down a few blocks. A little store, like a daisy among roses, sat comfortably between all the other much larger office buildings. Jumin definitely would have defined it as quaint, but he hopped out of the vehicle and told Drive Kim he would call him momentarily. The old man gave him a confused look but nodded and went to find a spot to park.

Walking into the store, someone greeted him while a little bell signaled his entry. He gave a slight nod and began his search. It'd been a long time since he had ever made any, but he was sure all he needed was pretty paper.

Jumin finally found himself in an isle of  packages full of precut colorful paper squares. A small waver of anxiousness filled his stomach. He hadn't realized there were so many types. There were even packages of thin strips of paper, hardly an inch wide. Did oragami really get that small? He reached out to grab one of the packets full of the strips when he felt a tug at the hem of his jacket.

Surprised he found a little girl holding onto him. Every muscle stiffened. Why was there a child? His eyes widened as he started to observe her more. She was shockingly little, and thin. Her nose was plugged with a breathing tube, while her free hand toted a little dolly with a canister attached. The child had decorated it with stickers and a cute keychain of a kitten.

His stomach felt sick.

"Mister, you make stars?" She asked, pointing to the paper.

"Stars?" He echoed. "These aren't for cranes?"

She shook her head, face serious. Turning to the rows of paper, she searched until she found a packet full of square sheets decorated with plumes of flora. She proffered it to him.

"I'll trade you, Mister," she looked at the package in his hand. "I'm allowed to keep jars of stars in my room. Just not cranes."

"Such a trade benefits the both of us..." he crouched down in front of her and offered her his own paper. "Do you know how to fold paper cranes?"

The little girl's eyes widened. "Do you not know?"

Jumin chuckled. "It's been a very long time since I last made any. I'm afraid I don't remember how."

"My mom is sitting on the bench outside." The little girl bit her lip nervously. "Do you want me to show you?"

"If your mother agrees," Jumin hummed. "What is your name?"

"Jati."

"Well Jati," he held out his hand, "as thanks, allow me to buy your paper."

She nodded eagerly, allowing him to lead her along.

In the back of his head Jumin knew he really should not just bargain with random little children, but the situation seemed just too coincidental to not mean something. He may not have been a practicing Christian anymore, but that didn't mean he'd  refrained from the belief in divine intervention or fates' blessing. Perhaps that's what this was for both him and little Jati.

They walked out of the store chatting and still hand and hand until he caught sight of the mother, who immediately locked a death stare with him. At least until he guessed recognition set in. Because she went from fury, to anger, to shock, to mortification well within ten seconds.

"Jati," she scolded, standing up from her seat.

"This is Jumin," her daughter chirped, taking a seat in front of the bench after arranging her dolly to her preference. "He wants to know how to fold cranes! Mrs. Jumin doesn't feel so good, so he wants to make some for her to feel better."

The mother glanced at Jumin before she sighed and waved them off. "She gets cold easily, so you have less than ten minutes."

He gave her a gracious tilt of his head before kneeling down at the bench. Opening the packet of paper, he let the little girl choose her sheet before he selected his own. In no time at all, Jati walked him eagerly through each step, constantly looking up at him with a bright glance whenever he dutifully followed her lead. From the corner of his eye, Jumin noticed Jati's mother smiling wistfully, and he wonder just exactly who this small child created her stairway of wishes for - herself or someone else.

"It looks very nice, Mr. Han," Jati's mother said, handing her phone to her child. The little girl had wanted to take a picture of the two cranes together.

"It's not half bad," he agreed, before humming softly. "If you dont mind my inquiry...why isn't she allowed..."

"They don't want her hanging them from the ceiling," the mother murmured, watching with a sad gaze as her daughter fussed over the positions of the birds. "Her room at home is full of them though. Jati says she wants two wishes. That's why she folds the stars - she can keep those when she stays over at the hospital - and then the cranes."

"Is she there often?" Jumin wondered, hadn't meant to ask that out loud.

The mother hefted her purse a little higher. "If you don't mind me prying, I'd like to think we'd hear on the news about your wife being sick...how long has it been?"

"It's not anything that a normal hospital could fix, I think," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn't offended, he'd snooped into her personal life - she had every right to snoop back. "If she gets help, she can make it better. But only she can."

Jumin paused and watched with a faint sense of endearment as Jati skipped back to return the phone.

"But I can always wish for the best for her," he hummed, gesturing to the cranes in the child's hands, "and help her along the way."

"Mister." Jati held out his crane, "here."

"I'd like you to have my first crane." Jumin smiled and pulled out his phone to text Driver Kim. "I hope it brings you closer to your wish."

The mother's face melted into something pained and gentle.

"Thank you!" Jati beamed.

Jumin dug into his pant's pockets before he found his wallet again. Fishing out a business card, he handed it to Jati's mother before he went to search for his chauffeur.

"Please reach out to me," Jumin gave a weak quirk of his lips. "If she needs a wish. She certainly aided me on my way to mine."

The mother bowed and thanked him with choked words.

The ride home for him was one he looked forward to. And even though when he entered the penthouse, and only Elizabeth greeted him, he was okay. Jumin searched around for a couple of candles, and he made a pot of tea - despite in normal circumstances he would have gone for a bottle of wine. He set their living room coffee-table with the paper and lights and hot drinks before wandering to the study.

Inhaling deeply, he entered without reserve. MC was as he'd left her, and even when she didn't look at him as he gently took her hand in his - he was okay.

"My love," he whispered, gently tugging on her arm. "Come with me for a moment."

MC blinked, gazed at him, before slowly unfurling from her curled position on the couch. She unfolded like a crumpled up paper in his hands, stretching out and lengthening as she stood to her full height. Jumin smiled and helped lead her to the living room. He would refold her, careful with every crease and every tuck - he would give her the paper wings she needed to fly away on her own.

[edgarbright]

Locks Down and Rose (1/?)

[ IkeRev Fanfic | Harlance ]

A Fairy Tale AU

Chapter One :: Harr seeks out the tower

He had been away too long. Now the spacious manor sitting on a hill, once a white pearl upon the green, crusted at the edges from neglect. Shrouded in the fog of dawn, Harr peered through the windows of that old familiar house to find it deserted. The furniture sat covered in white cloth and the doors were securely barred to entry. Rounding to the back through a rusting gate laid a verdant garden of rose bushes and ivy, all overgrown.

For a home he had never called his own, he had left a part of his heart here and now found it missing. All that was left were patches of red flagstone and a broken path. The swing remained, too, and the memory of two boys playing. The young prince had stood astride him on the seat, forcing them higher and higher into the clear blue sky.

Harr could get lost in that sky. And in those eyes and the soft smile of his prince gazing down at him.

“It looks like you’re having fun, Harr.”

Harr had never liked the swing, the motion of it unsettling, but he did like the prince. Lancelot. A name he had not spoken aloud for years and held on his tongue even now, as if speaking it might draw the witch’s gaze.

With Lancelot’s mother long since passed and the old king his father not one to visit him, Lancelot had taken his pleasure in making acquaintance with commoner friends, or so his father did protest. Such a father might have played his hand in their removal if the witch had not taken his hand first – followed by his eyes and his ears and his tongue and his life.

Leaving the manor behind, Harr set off down the long road at a quickened pace. The summer sun rose above the hills to greet him, but by mid-morning it weighed heavily on his shoulders and heated the metal half-mask shielding his face, flushing his skin. Down this path stood the castle town and, at the castle, Lancelot.

“King Lancelot resides at the tower.”

Harr opened his mouth before closing it again. By the look in the eyes of the man standing before him, Harr was a scuff on a polished boot. Jonah, the King’s right-hand man, had opened the castle doors to leave just in time to witness Harr seeking entry.

What might have been a most opportune encounter was steadily spiraling downward.

“Why a tower and not the castle? This is the administrative seat of kings. He should be here.”

“The castle is scarce high enough for his ambitions. He administers from the tower.” A faint frown on Jonah’s face was whisked away by such a sharp look in his eyes it threatened to send Harr back through the gate, but his body stood tense and his gaze dropped to the wooden threshold. The information he carried cemented him to the spot. He could not yield before he had barely begun. He had traveled far to get here.

Lancelot was in danger. The kingdom was in danger.

“How high does he need to climb to find peace?” Harr pressed, for the prince he once knew dreamed of calm borders and open trade. It had not occurred to him that Lancelot might have changed. Would Lancelot know the witch when he saw him? Surely he must, but Harr had to know for sure.

“Don’t be obtuse.” Jonah stepped forward and Harr stepped back. No matter that Harr stood taller, Jonah bore down upon him. “He watches over us and keeps an eye on our enemies from on high. The king’s ambitions are noble. I won’t humor the insinuation of otherwise.”

Around the corner, soldiers marched into the courtyard. Dust kicked up into the air from dozens upon dozens of solid boots. Silver helmets sparkled and bayonets glistened in the sunlight.

Harr could feel the eyes settling on them, could feel his skin prickling under their questioning gaze. Too many eyes all at once. This was not a conversation he intended to have here, out in the open, with anyone but his prince. Who knew what eyes and ears the witch might possess.

But he knew the witch was already here.

Harr took a breath. “Word is that this country is going to war with its neighbors. Before that happens, you must tell me where to find Lancelot—”

“That’s King Lancelot to you.” Jonah’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, anyway, to question me about him? A petty traveler by the looks of you.”

“I’m a—” Har’s mouth had gone dry from the piercing stare, of being judged and found wanting by this man who spoke for the king in the king’s absence. “I’m a tradesman. A craftsman.” His tinctures had dried up and his glass bottles broken. He clutched the satchel at his side, holding the scant belongings he had left to his name.

Jonah’s fine features twisted into a sneer and he half-turned on the step, reaching for the doorframe. “We want nothing you have to offer, I can tell you that much, so stop wasting my time.”

“I only bring news for—for King Lancelot. There is a terrible witch in this country, and we must put a stop to him before his grip tightens about our necks.”

He would call the witch upon himself if he must in order to make this man listen. After all, the witch already knew his name and face.

The wide-eyed shock that faced him made the prickling on his skin scorch.

“I thought you might be a spy but I stand corrected,” Jonah spoke, his voice slow and each word entangled by disbelief and awe. “A witch, you say? A witch?” The bite of the word past a scowl made Harr flinch. “You dare insinuate that King Lancelot would allow harm to befall this great kingdom? That he would need news from a tradesmen with nothing to trade to know what was happening when, at this very moment, he sits in his tower and see all?”

Harr’s mouth too dry to speak, Jonah gave him no time to counter.

“You truly are a fool. Get out of my sight!”

Heat flashed up Harr’s neck and he stumbled back and away. Knowing Lancelot was not at the castle made turning his back on it easier than it was to swallow the embarrassment strangling him.

Perhaps, he realized later, he had left too soon. He hadn’t gained the answers he needed to plan his next step, and the information he had gained did little for him. No one in town knew the location of the King’s tower. Stranger yet, there was an empty cheer in their voices when he asked about the King’s health.

“The King is in fine health,” they all said, and yet no one had seen the king in town since the coronation years ago.

Alarmed, Harr hastened out of town and back into the countryside. Traveling further and further away from the town and the white manor, he headed towards the one man who might know where to find their prince.

Flower fields preening in the sunlight greeted him long before he spotted the house. It was a small and humble brick structure, just two stories high and home to the large Oswald clan. Beside the house grew pink azaleas and dainty bluebells, sunny daffodils and sweet jasmine. All flourished in the dry heat under Sirius’s miraculous green thumb.

The young woman at the door did not recognize Harr. He did not seek to refresh her memory by calling her Zeta. But she smiled kindly after hearing Sirius and he were old acquaintances, and she sent him in the right direction to where her older brother was tending the field.

The flower fields were just as vast as he once remembered. His rough fingertips drifted over the soft petals of tulips dressed in brilliant shades of crimson and blues and yellows. While Harr had left the kingdom all those years ago, there was no mystery as to why Sirius had remained if this was the sight he got to see everyday.

Harr found Sirius kneeling by a low wall at the far edge of his garden. Next to him stood a cart of bricks and in his hand a short spade slathered with mortar. Beyond them stretched the untouched hills of tall grass and wildflowers until the edge of the forest held sentry.

“Sirius.”

A large boy had become a large man, but when Sirius glanced up from his work, Harr could tell from one look that Sirius had not changed in all these years.

“Harr!” A smile grew across Sirius’s face. “Now this is a surprise.”

If Harr dallied, Sirius would no doubt have him on his knees doing fieldwork right alongside him in the dirt. Although the thought of being fed a warm meal after a hard day’s work near made his stomach growl, it was best to delay the pleasantries. The flowers would have to wait.

And Harr was never very good at small talk.

“I’m looking for Lancelot. Where is he?”

The smile slipped from Sirius’s face. “Maybe we should go inside and talk. I can put on some tea—”

“Tea can wait. This is urgent and I must speak to him.”

Sirius turned thoughtful. He pressed the brick in his hand to the low wall before he stood, and when he rose, Harr frowned to see he stood taller still. “You and me both. He’s gone to the tower.”

A rush of relief swept through him. “Where is this tower?”

With his spade in hand, Sirius used the tip to point off towards the forest. Harr turned to follow its direction. Barely visible past the bright sunlight rippling with heat in the distance, the sliver of a white tower peaked over the dense tree line.

An excitement seized his chest. Encouraged that he saw it at last, Harr asked, “When does he come down?”

“Never,” said Sirius.

“Never? Is he unwell?”

“He is well,” Sirius continued slowly. “Well enough to order us to war.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “He replies to the castle letters but never to mine.”

Harr considered all the letters he had sent home himself. But his master had been unkind, and who was to say if anyone had written him in turn. “Mine neither,” he murmured, and for a while they stood there, looking at the far off tower in silence with the sweet perfume of flowers dancing in the breeze.

By the time the sun began to touch the western hills, Harr had eluded staying for dinner. But Sirius kindly filled his water canteen and fed him on his back doorstep while the siblings inside yelled up a storm over the dinner table.

The thought of being in the midst of such a rowdy house urged his feet away.

Although the sound of their voices and laughter dared to pull him back in.

“Sirius!” A woman’s voice rang from inside. “Is he coming in or going?”

Sirius gave Harr one last pleading look before Harr shook his head no.

“He’s going,” Sirius called back, his voice flat.

“Then you come in here for dinner and let him go!”

Sirius looked torn, but before he returned to his family, he asked, “Where are you going from here?”

Harr carefully wrapped up the remaining half of his sandwich—it was the best he’d had in weeks—with plans to save it for later, even with the extra provisions Sirius had kindly provided him.

“To see Lancelot,” Harr said. “He’s in danger. We’re all in danger.” Sirius would be better able to protect his family if he knew, and so Harr continued with careful confidence, “A witch is living in this kingdom and he means to do much harm. I believe he was the one to have murdered Lancelot’s father.”

“A witch?” Sirius smiled minutely. The smile of a man who had never encountered a witch. “Lancelot’s father died of illness, but… if you say so.”

There was kindness in his voice but somehow those words hurt more than the ones at the castle doors. The soft refusal, the humoring of a delusion, left a deep ache where the morning’s verbal lashing merely seared across the surface.

They separated there on the doorstep.

And while Harr could have had a soft, warm place to sleep that night he went back to the edge of the garden and slept in the field, under the stars, protected by a wall of yellow roses. After the castle and the town and the brick house, the quiet rang in his ears as he slept.

In his dreams he found himself back at the white manor, lounging lazily in the quiet under a large tree but this time not alone.

He woke the next day before dawn and traveled again on foot. Crossing the open fields where wildflowers starved for rain under a pink-grey sky, he spotted dark clouds blanketing the mountains. Rain would be upon them soon, but not today.

The edge of the forest came and went. Forests were a second home to him but, as he walked, a thickness to the air pressed back at him as he pushed forward. Goosebumps ran over his skin. The air grew heavy until each breath turned labored. Silence blanketed animal sounds, twisting and muffling them off in the distance, until the blanket of the air settled on him, too.

An enchantment used as a frightening determent at best. It was nothing so strong as to harm him. While the path to the tower did not welcome him, the path was straight and clear so long as he put one foot in front of the other. The height of the tower guided him. The trees never grew as thick as to obscure his vision. Walking through the forest brought him a tumultuous peace—much like being underwater.

As long as he drew breath, he moved forward.

The tree line broke as briskly as breaking the water’s surface. The pressure vanished as if it had never been. Harr gasped for breath—

And found himself in an open space with the tower, beautiful and terrible to behold, looming before him.

White stones circled its base and soared up into a cloud-patched sky. Harr lifted his chin skyward. Up and up the white stones climbed. The only break occurred around the lip of a large window beneath a round roof. Against the glare of the heavy sunlight, the window panes glowed brightly, hiding whatever lied within.

The problem for Harr was apparent immediately.

The tower had no door.

He walked the perimeter looking for an entryway. His hands pressed and tapped against the stones. They were pristine and well-tended, with not a flaw between them.

A trap door, perhaps?  He crouched low and scraped his fingers through the dirt.

Nothing.

With the walls of the tower sleek and smooth, the thought of climbing it by hand was daunting. He had not thought to bring hooks and rope, but that wasn’t a problem he couldn’t remedy—

The window flew open with a sharp click which rang out against the silent forest. From that dark interior a mass spilled out, glistening in the sunlight like a waterfall of molten gold.

Harr stumbled back in alarm and fell into the brush to hide. The waterfall rippled and pooled down until it hung, not poured, mere inches above the forest floor. And as it did not run like water but rather drifted in the wind, he realized with a start that it was not water but hair. Beautiful and golden and glossed, it stirred within him a strange sense of familiarity he could not place, although never in all his years had he seen hair of such length.

A figure wearing a black coat emerged from the window and took hold of the long lock of golden hair. Having been brought to the edge of a teasing memory, a thrill coursed through Harr at the stranger's descent.

It is Lancelot, his heart cried with a feeble longing. He pictured the prince’s golden hair ruffling in the wind as the swing took him back and forth in that now abandoned garden.

The cloaked figure climbed down with practiced ease. Looping the hair around his leg and arm, he slid down the tower face. He reached the bottom with barely a scuffle and hardly a sound.

And as the figure unraveled himself from the rope of hair, he turned, and his face basked in the light.

Harr swallowed a gasp and his blood froze, ice cold.

It was the witch, Amon. His white hair pooled about his shoulders in thick waves, his golden eyes narrowed against the sun's glare, and his grin was far too pleased, much too pleased, to mean anything good for anyone.

This had to be a mistake. Lancelot would know the witch for what he was and have no business with such a villain.

The urgency to speak to Lancelot had Harr reeling. He fell from his crouch to sitting, his legs turned numb beneath him.

Why would Lancelot speak to Amon and no one else?

The witch had seized the prince.

As Amon walked away, the rope of hair rose back up the tower, gliding as smooth as silk until it reached the window lip. And in the last moment, Harr caught sight of an arm reaching out of the dark interior to pull the window closed. An arm covered in a loose, white-gauzed sleeve cuffed neatly at the wrist. Long pale fingers drenched in sunlight, too high for him to reach.

"A face," Harr willed on a tremulous breath, summoning a spell to carry him into the air that did not exist.

But the window closed on quiet hinges and he saw nothing more.

[writeawayjake]

DAWNBRINGER IS BACK BEHBEH'S!!!

CH 22

The Sheriff?

Stepping out onto the street, Jared's head swam. Too many things were happening at once - too many changes, too much of the past being dredged up. 

   More than that though, the sword took front and center. For what seemed like a lifetime now, he'd hated it - feared it. It brought only death and reminded him only of his failings. He hadn't even unsheathed it since he'd lost her.

   So then how could this thing, this

part of himself, that he hated so much, be the very thing that was saving him. Saving… or just prolonging his suffering. 

   All the same - it chose him, so the sword must have seen something in him. Something special. Something worthy. Was he chosen for something? Was he meant for something greater? Was he alive for a reason? 

   Shaking his head he resolved that those were questions for philosophers or seers - soft handed and well read men. All he knew for certain was that there was a job that needed doing and it needed a man with a sword or at the very least, a horribly bad attitude. 

   There were rough men coming, and he was going to have to lead soft men in stopping them. Stopping was a strong word, maybe dissuading or annoying. 

   Alright, where the hell is the sheriff's office? He wondered, looking around, placing his hands on his hips like a craftsman considering his next contract. Rubbing his chin he turned his tired gaze this way and that. There was  a small apothecary, a livery, undertaker, and a general store but nothing of any law. 

   The undertaker would probably know where to look. Trudging on over he was greeted by a forest of freshly hewn coffins, the smell of pine sap still strong in the air around them. A small table covered in a great number of different chisels sat near the door, a rocking chair swaying gently with the breeze. 

   Pushing open the door Jared looked around the cluttered shop with shelves full of different woodworking tools messily stacked in precarious little piles. Leaning against the walls and anything else nearby were a multitude of signs, grave markers, and raw unworked planks. Finally his eyes fell upon a hunched over old man. Searching through a crate of tools and hardware, looking for something he'd no doubt misplaced in all this mess. 

   The undertaker's bald head bobbed up and down along with his narrow shoulders as his gnarled hands rustled through the crate tossing odds and ends this way and that, oddly enough, adding to the disorder that was currently vexing him.

   Clearing his throat rather loudly Jared eventually garnered the old man's attention. Turning from his crate he greeted Jared with a face made entirely of mustache and eyebrows. Great gray squirrel tails drooped over his eyes and something closer in size to a ferret hung over his lips.

   "Well?! What is it lad? Can't you see I'm busy?" The old man grumbled.

   Shaking off the ridiculous appearance of the man in front of him Jared replied,

   "Sorry, uh could you maybe point me toward the Sheriff's office?"

   The old man merely gestured vaguely left with his frail thin arm before returning to his crate. Jared knew better than to press his luck any further here and made his way down the street. 

   He found himself genuinely hoping the old man had an apprentice or two, he was going to be awfully busy soon. 

   Making his way down the street once again Jared considered the task ahead. Fortifying a location was one of the first things he learned in the legion, that wasn't the issue however. Getting a bunch of shopkeepers and tradesmen, women, children, farmers, blacksmiths, whores, and stable boys to learn how to defend themselves wouldn't be easy, let alone doing it in the time they had left. 

   The layout of the town itself actually worked to their advantage. One single wide street ran the length of about two hundred yards, flanked by buildings on either side. In all directions the treeline had been kept a fair distance away, far enough to see someone coming even in moonlight. Sitting on the rim of a large bluff all land to the east lay downhill, to the west a long stretch of open meadow that lead to the treeline. At the north end of the road a heavy wooden gate and a small pitiful palisade checked entry to the town, but the south lay wide open. Not the easiest layout for a fortress, but it would have to do.

   As he walked down the main thoroughfare, lost in thought he eventually saw the sheriff's office. If you could even call it that. A small squat shack of a building with a crumbling plaster facade exposing the bare timbers beneath. It was capped with a shoddy roof that was beginning to sag in the middle. On it's face was hanging an ancient hand painted sign that read Sheriff in what could barely pass for a child's handwriting. 

  I honestly don't know what I was expecting, Jared thought. Letting out a sigh through his nose he put his head down and pushed open the heavy oak door, it's ancient hinges squealing in protest. 

   What he found inside made his blood run cold. Behind a small table made of rough hewn wood sat the sheriff. A boy who'd seen no more than sixteen summers, dipping a quill in ink and singing paper after paper, barely noticing Jared in the doorway. A nest of messy blonde hair sat atop a head that bobbled on his scrawny neck and obscured one eye. He had the look of a farmers son not a lawman. His hands appeared comically oversized for his skinny arms as they furiously scribbled signature after signature.

   "Please tell me you're not the sheriff," Jared pleaded. 

   Looking up from his work the youth gave Jared a blank stare, as if he'd just asked him the meaning of life.

@kittensartswriting @themerrywriter

[welcometothepenumbra]

SECOND CITADEL – THE MOONLIT HERMIT (PART ONE)

SOUND: RAIN. TRAIN ARRIVES, CREAKS TO A STOP. DOOR CLANKS OPEN.

CONDUCTOR: Ah, good evening, Traveler. And welcome… to The Penumbra.

SOUND: DOOR CLANKS SHUT.

Take your seat, please, take your seat.

MUSIC: STARTS.

The junction lies ahead, so if you’ll allow me just a moment.

SOUND: TRAIN WHISTLE.

We are now passing through the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms.

SOUND: TRAIN MOVING.

Our next stop?

SOUND: TRAIN BRAKES.

The Moonlit Hermit.

SOUND: DOOR CLANKS OPEN, RAIN.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: MECHANICAL CLICKS, WHIRRING, CLICK. LIKE A JUKEBOX CHANGING TRACKS.

RILLA: (GROGGY GASPS) Ugh, my head…

SOUND: LEAVES RUSTLING.

Saints, it’s dark in here. Where… where am I?

(CALLING) Hello?

ARUM: Good morning, little human.

RILLA: (GASPS)

ARUM: Did you sleep well?

SOUND: LEAVES RUSTLING.

RILLA: Who is that? Where are you?

ARUM: Of course. I forgot you creatures had such limited vision.

Keep. The bioluminescents, if you would.

SOUND: SNAP. ELECTRIC HUM.

RILLA: (GASPS)

ARUM: There. Is that better?

RILLA: I… I don’t know why you brought me here, monster, but I’m not—

ARUM: Then it might be wisest to stay silent. Listen:

SOUND: MECHANICAL REVVING UP, GEARS SPINNING. RECORDER PLAYS.

RILLA (FROM RECORDER): Looks like… an insect larva, but, not one I’ve ever seen before. Pure white, no eyes, a weird warmth emanating from it… and that sound. Like a heartbeat… like the Numbcap.

I took the specimens I could and I killed the rest, but… what even is it?

SOUND: RECORDER CLICKS OFF.

RILLA: My– recorder… where did you—

ARUM: I’m going to be direct, because I don’t have time for anything else. I brought you here because I wasn’t sure how much you knew about my grubs, and I couldn’t have you telling your soft-minded friends about them. I now know that you know nothing, and so this entire exercise has been a waste of my time, tktktktktktktktk.

RILLA: So… what? I get to go home now?

ARUM: Of course. I’ll just give you your recorder and you’ll be on your merry way. As soon as you do something for me.

RILLA: As soon as I what?

ARUM: There’s no need to sound so surprised. Barter is as old as language – it exists for monsters and humans and everything in between. I give you freedom; you perform a service for me.

RILLA: That’s not a trade! You kidnapped me!

ARUM: I could kill you, instead.

RILLA: You wouldn’t.

ARUM: (CHUCKLES) Keep. Lights out.

SOUND: ELECTRIC HUM STOPS. LEAVES RUSTLING.

RILLA: (GASPS) Turn the lights back on, or I’ll—

ARUM: (HISSES)

SOUND: SLITHERING.

RILLA: Ah!

ARUM: (LAUGHS) This contraption is not the only one of your records I’ve examined. You have a knowledge of plants. How to care for them, treat them, use them. And as it happens I have a sudden need of someone who understands the workings of flora.

RILLA: You want me… to work for you?

ARUM: The diagrams I found hidden beneath your floorboards suggest you’d take great interest in my craft. Vivisections of monstrous life, incomplete formulae on magic spells, theoretical diagrams of creatures unseen… you desire to know the universe as it is, and not as it is told to you. And if you cure my patient, you will be allowed one long, lingering look into that grand infinitude you wish to know.

RILLA: Patient? Who would—

ARUM: Tktktktktktktktk!

RILLA: (HEAVY BREATHING)

ARUM: Or I can kill you right now. In the dark. And you will never know the wonders you could have witnessed, tktktktk.

So? Which will it—

RILLA: The first one.

ARUM: That was… very fast. Are you certain—

RILLA: Is there a plus side to the dying one that I’m missing? ‘Cause, if not, I’m good.

ARUM: (GROWLS) Keep! Retract the walls!

MUSIC: SINGING STARTS.

SOUND: DEEP RUMBLING, CREAKING.

RILLA: Where are you taking me?

ARUM: Nowhere. We’ve been here all along.

RILLA: …Whoa. What is… all this life, all these plant species… I’ve never seen…!

MUSIC: SINGING ENDS.

SOUND: RUMBLING STOPS. JUNGLE AMBIANCE FADES IN.

Those trees over there; those are Everdeads, aren’t they? But they’re only native to—

ARUM: The Western Wastes, yes.

RILLA: And that’s a thatch of Inky Clover! And that’s Dayshade… and… and… there are specimens here I didn’t believe were real. How did you—

ARUM: Welcome to my Keep, little human – the castle from which I rule this swamp, the font from which every Titan’s Bloom springs. It is your patient.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE [FROM THE START OF THE EPISODE].

SOUND: SWAMP AMBIANCE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Research log. Entry… I guess it doesn’t matter. This is… probably going to be the last one I ever make, anyway.

MUSIC: STARTS.

For whoever finds this, my name is Amaryllis of Exile. My home is the Second Citadel. And… please. I need you to get this recording there as fast as you can. I don’t understand it all, but, I hope that this will help them prepare for what’s coming.

SOUND: HAMMERING.

Because the things I’ve seen out here? The things I’ve been told…

SOUND: SPLASH.

(GASPS) It’s out there again. Saints, just keep it away a little longer… I don’t have much time. I was escaping, trying to get out of this swamp, but my ankle… I think I broke it. And now that thing is after me, that… I don’t even know what to call it. Like a monster. No, worse – because I made it.

I probably don’t have enough time to retell the whole story, so I’m going to piece together the recordings of what happened in the living Keep. You should hear it for yourself, anyway. So. This is my final research log. And my final subject: the lizard-creature that calls himself:

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. MUSIC CUTS OFF.

ARUM: Lord Arum, he who rules the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms. And you, of course, are Amaryllis.

RILLA: How did you—

SOUND: CLICK. RECORDER PLAYS.

RILLA (FROM RECORDER): Is it… is it working? Saints, my recorder! It’s really working! (LAUGHS) Marc’s gonna miss this… I should wake him up. I should.

But first… (CLEARS THROAT) Research log, entry one. I am Ril– no, no, make it sound professional. I am Amaryllis of Exile, and I, along with Marc of the Craftsman’s Quarter, have just invented a consistent process by which sound… can be recorded. (LAUGHS)

SOUND: RECORDER CLICKS OFF.

ARUM: That’s how. I’ve only had time to listen to a few of your recordings, but I know enough.

RILLA: But… wait. You should have had plenty of time to listen through my recorder. It takes… nearly two weeks to get to the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms.

ARUM: It might take two weeks for you creatures. We arrived within two hours.

RILLA: Two hours? But, that’s impossible…

Ugh, just… hold on. This is a lot.

ARUM: I’ve told you I have no time for this. My Keep is sick. And if you ever want to return to Mack and the whole gang back in the Cartographers’ Quadrant, you will have to cure it. Preferably before it dies.

RILLA: Right. Oooookay.

So. How do you know it’s sick?

ARUM: The bond that passes between myself and this lifeform is more than your pitiful mind could ever comprehend, Amaryllis. I always know what it thinks. Always.

???: (SINGS)

ARUM: That doesn’t count. I still think you were lying.

RILLA: The plant-house can… sing? Saints, I get to examine the first plant lifeform that can sing!

And… you responded to it. It said something you could respond to, which means it thought of something to say, which means…

Saints, the plant can think.

ARUM: Not very well.

??? [KEEP]: (HAPPY SINGING)

ARUM: Can we move along now? I think you’ve inflated its ego enough for one day.

RILLA: It has an ego!

ARUM: Here.

RILLA: Here what? This is just a rock.

ARUM: This is the Keep’s sickness. You are going to cure it.

RILLA: You want me to cure… rocks?

ARUM: I want you to cure whatever this is, and quickly. You can come get me when you’ve solved the problem. Farewell.

SOUND: SLITHERING.

RILLA: But… wait, what? I’m not done asking you questions yet!

ARUM: Then ask them and be done with it. I have important business that needs attending to, tktktktktktktktk.

RILLA: Alright. When did this sickness start—

ARUM: Irrelevant. That will be all.

RILLA: I can’t figure out what’s wrong with this until I study it!

ARUM: So study it, then. I don’t see what that has to do with me.

RILLA: I need tools! Materials! I need scales, and measurements, and—

ARUM: Scales? Measurements? I don’t care how many pounds of cure you make; I just want a cure!

RILLA: You really don’t have anything like that around here?

ARUM: The forces I work with don’t need them. I understand your measurements well enough to know that I am past them. They are not what truly matters.

RILLA: But—

ARUM: That was your final question. You have the sickness in your hand. You have a greenhouse full of supplies. Anything else you need you will have to make.

RILLA: If you want a cure, Arum, I need to make a diagnosis. And if you want a diagnosis, I need my tools.

ARUM: And if you want your freedom, Amaryllis, you’ll have to figure it out on your own.

Keep. See that her survival needs are met.

KEEP: (INQUISITIVE SINGING)

ARUM: Fine. You may allow her one cushion of her choosing. Just don’t let it distract you.

KEEP: (AFFIRMATIVE SINGING)

ARUM: I’ll check on you in the morning. You may ask a few more questions then.

RILLA: But Arum!

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

ARUM: Enough, you stubborn primate! Stay put, mind your work, and do not follow me!

SOUND: SLITHERING. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: (WHISPERING) Research log, entry four-two-two-seven. I followed the lizard to… whatever the hell this thing is.

ARUM: (DISTANT) Just a few more, Keep. We won’t be making many specimens today.

KEEP: (HAPPY SINGING)

RILLA: It seems like this is some sort of workstation for him, but… it’s alive. A closed flower bulb as big as my hut, and vines keep coming out of the walls and feeding it weird things. A basket of dead beetles, a pile of rocks, a gourd full of pulsating liquid…

No. No, it’s not eating. It looks like… a machine. Not like the devices Marc makes, with gears and springs, but… the lizard just… makes small gestures and the whole thing comes to life.

ARUM: Now, you recall the design we discussed this morning?

KEEP: (SINGS)

ARUM: Very good.

MUSIC: KEEP SINGING STARTS.

RILLA: I can’t see what’s happening. I’m going to try to get a closer look.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS. GROWING, STRETCHING, RUMBLING.

ARUM: Excellent. Now let’s take a look at this one.

RILLA: There’s something moving in the bulb, but I can’t—

Saints above. This is going to sound nuts. Rilla, you are going to sound insane. Those things it ate… they’re moving. The stones are like legs, the dead beetles are all melted into one another, and… they’re alive. The lizard knows how to make life.

MUSIC: KEEP SINGING ENDS.

ARUM: Another failure. (GRUNTS)

SOUND: HIGH-PITCHED SCREECH-WAIL. CRUNCH.

Keep. Again.

KEEP: (TIRED SINGING)

ARUM: Of course I mean now. Act like your life depends on it, you ridiculous—

KEEP: (SINGS)

ARUM: The human? What about—

SOUND: SLITHERING.

You. What are you doing here?

RILLA: I… uh…

ARUM: Do we have to re-examine the terms of our deal, Amaryllis? A plant this large is always in need of fertilizer, tktktktktktk.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Observations on the subject, Lord Arum, native to the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms: easily annoyed, very picky about the details he cares about, completely dismissive of the details he doesn’t, selfish, haughty, and… unfortunately, extremely competent. I was never going to fight my way out of here like Damien, or talk my way out like Marc. And without tools, I was never going to cure his Keep’s sickness.

But I was the best researcher in the Citadel. I’d found a thousand cures before. Why not a cure for kidnapping?

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: Are you still there? Go.

RILLA: Yes, Lord Arum.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): After all, if this Keep held things like that, things that… could create life? Surely it had all I needed to trick a lizard into setting me free.

And if I gathered some data that might unlock new boundaries in future research along the way… I mean, that wouldn’t be a bad thing, right?

So, I pretended to work on his cure while I took inventory of what Arum had in his greenhouse. It should’ve taken one day. It took me eight. Because Arum’s organization system… or his lack of a system, or— (FRUSTRATED GASP) Listen. I’ve dealt with bad organizers before. Marc once told me, to my face, that he kept all his springs in the right-hand drawer because on the day he got them he was “feeling right.” But I could deal with that. Because, even if Marc was the only person who could decode his system, at least he had a code, and that meant some sense was being made somewhere for someone. But Arum? He had nothing. He had less than nothing. He had negative organization.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: If you need orchids, go find them.

RILLA: That’s not what I asked. I asked where they are.

ARUM: he orchids live where they like, obviously. Am I supposed to count and place every seed?

RILLA: Kind of, yeah! You really just… mix all the plants around? Even the weeds?

ARUM: Have you ever tried telling a weed it has to move? They can’t talk, you know.

RILLA: No, I don’t talk to it, I just kinda move it!

ARUM: And put up with all that whining? Ugh.

RILLA: They can’t talk, but they can whine? (SIGHS) I just… it would make me more effective if you knew where, generally, your specimens are.

ARUM: And all that effort for what?

RILLA: I don’t know, so you could find them more easily? All in one place, instead of spread out across the greenhouse?

ARUM: (AFTER A PAUSE) Ridiculous. We will never speak of this again.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: You want an inventory? As in a list, tktktktktktktktk?

RILLA: Yes, as in… (FRUSTRATED GRUNT) It doesn’t even have to be written down. I’ll take anything at this point.

ARUM: (STRAINED GRUNT) So you expect me to keep a list of all I’ve ever made? Those projects are— (STRAINED GRUNT) —all finished, whether successes or failures.

RILLA: Sure, but if you kept track of what made the successes work, you could keep having successes!

ARUM: (LAUGHS) Oh, so now you think you can predict the future, do you?

RILLA: No, obviously. But if we can figure out the rules that the future operates on, the mathematical and physical and chemical laws, then—

ARUM: Then you may be queen in your tiny sandbox of what’s understood, while I dance among the stars of the impossible. (SNORTS) Of course I know these mathematical laws. We invented them long before you. And then some of us, the ambitious ones, moved— (STRAINED GRUNT) —on. Because in order for something to be measurable, it must be small enough to measure, and some of us want more.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): And he kept doing that, hand-waving at some huge “more” without ever explaining what he meant. I could see some of it in action, plants and animals and fungi that moved in ways that shouldn’t have been possible…

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: Do not be tempted to approach their fronds, even when they molt. When Serrated Palms feel threatened they become sharp enough to cut through solid rock.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: The name is a misnomer. It doesn’t walk so much as kick; the locomotion is an afterthought for the Walking Bonsai. Excellent reflexes, tktktktktktktktk.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: The Macrachnids may—

SOUND: ANIMAL SNORTING, CLICKING.

—look frightening, but they’re quite docile if fed appropriately – which is to say: not at all. No matter how much they beg. Don’t.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): And that big plant that made life… that hermit? I had to know what that was. I had my theories and they were killing me, because… (SIGHS) We’ll get to that soon, I guess.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: (PANTING) Alright. Research log, entry four-two-four-one. I think I found some more of the illness on the Keep’s walls, right by the tops of these cacao trees. Taking samples now.

It’s hard, but brittle. Colors ranging from white to light gray; on the inside, there are striations that could be, uh… like the lines inside some… gems. Like… diamonds? Or… wow, I really don’t care about rocks.

But… hang on…

SOUND: SCRAPING.

These ones look almost like tree rings. Petrified wood, maybe? But… crustier, flakier, with this gummy white stuff on the inside, like, uh… bad skin.

This would be a lot easier if I ever listened when Angelo was talking. Rocks and skin care! This is maybe the only patient out there he’d have a better shot at curing than me.

SOUND: SLITHERING.

Hm? What’s that—

ARUM: Here at last, my little specimen!

RILLA: (YELPS)

ARUM: (HISSES) Amaryllis!

SOUND: BRANCHES SNAPPING, LEAVES RUSTLING.

RILLA: (PANTING) Uh… thanks.

ARUM: Don’t thank me. Apologize.

RILLA: Apologize?!

ARUM: Climbing trees when you should be working! Sitting on branches unannounced!

RILLA: I was working. I was just examining this… whatever this is.

ARUM: Oh. So you were.

Well, I doubt your efforts will be needed much longer. You see, I think I have found the path to the cure myself.

RILLA: You… really?

ARUM: Indeed. A great accomplishment, tktktktktktktktk.

Would you… like a demonstration, Amaryllis?

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Subject: Lord Arum. Input: the opportunity to show a successful creation. Observations: widening of the eyes. Shortened breath. Rapid flicks of the tongue, suggesting both increased temperature and… heightened pulse.

Then he seemed to notice it on himself, and the old Arum was back.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: A demonstration, strictly for your duties, of course. To help you… find the cure faster.

RILLA: Uhhh… sure, yeah. I’ll watch.

ARUM: Excellent.

Look closely. I am certain this is something you have never seen before.

RILLA: You don’t know—

SOUND: CLICKS, SQUEAKS, PAINED NOISES.

Saints… what is that thing? Did it come out from that… from that…

ARUM: The hermit, yes. (CHUCKLES) Observant, aren’t you.

RILLA: The thorax resembles a centipede’s, but the head – is that a crow’s beak?

ARUM: No. It is this creature’s beak. Currently.

RILLA: Rotating ball joints, connected to legs that end in… stone. It’s actually stone.

And, that noise… like it has lungs? Or a voicebox, but, I don’t see evidence of—

It’s in pain. Of course it’s in pain. At that size its exoskeleton is probably buckling, and with legs that heavy it can’t even stand!

What have you done to this thing?

ARUM: Created it.

RILLA: How?

ARUM: In no way it didn’t consent to.

RILLA: It can’t have given consent before it was alive!

ARUM: My, you humans do enjoy your ultimatums, don’t you?

RILLA: But—

ARUM: Its pain bothers you, does it? Would you like me to bring an end to it?

RILLA: Don’t kill it! It’s one of a kind!

ARUM: Hmmm. She would rather it suffer, so that she can study it. Well. The human continues to surprise, tktktktktktktktk.

RILLA: That isn’t what I meant.

ARUM: I wasn’t going to kill it anyway. But end its pain? That I can do. Now watch closely.

You. Subject. Look… here.

SOUND: CLICKS, SQUEAKS STOP.

That’s more like it.

You are called a Chiselpede. You have been created within the universe, wherein there is a place called the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms, wherein there is a Lord called Arum. I am he. As my creation, and the creation of this swamp, you exist as a level among levels, and you will listen to the levels closest to you, and you will trust that they understand the larger picture better than yourself. That means you will ignore things outside your purview, such as physical laws, which are the business of the universe, and you will trust me to inform you what is possible and what is not. Is that understood?

Good. Now… rise.

SOUND: HAPPY CHIRPS.

RILLA: Wh… what?

ARUM: It is precisely as you see it, tktktktktktk.

RILLA: It shouldn’t be able to stand. It's physically impossible.

ARUM: And yet, it stands.

Here, Chiselpede. You see this sickness? This blight?

SOUND: CHIRPS.

I need samples of it. You are to gather them and bring them to the source from which you were born. Is that understood?

SOUND: CHIRPS.

Good.

Now, I think we’ve taken enough of this creature’s time. Off you go, now.

SOUND: CHIRPS.

RILLA: What was that?

ARUM: That is the nature of my work. The impossible. Phenomena which can be neither tamed nor explained.

RILLA: Magic.

ARUM: In a word, yes.

Those will be all of your questions for today. Farewell.

RILLA: But, wait! I just want to know how it works!

ARUM: (SNORTS) Well. How disappointing. I thought you might have learned something, for once.

RILLA: What’s that supposed to mean?

ARUM: Always looking for rules, formulae, guarantees… humans. Feh.

RILLA: Maybe I would’ve learned something if you actually explained it!

SOUND: SLITHERING.

Hey, come on! You’re gonna magically bring that thing to life and you aren’t even going to tell me how you—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): So. I’d gained three things from that meeting: a bigger sample of the disease, a sense of what Arum could do, and a deadline, that was closing in fast. Because if he’d only agreed to let me go if I cured the Keep… what were the odds I’d get to leave if he cured it? I tested my first formula an hour later.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Alright! Fake petrification cure, version one. A light acid found in the berries of the Dayshade; testing to see if it softens the stonelike exterior at all.

SOUND: LIQUID POURING, SIZZLES.

Ow! Ugh! …Ooooookay. That might be… a little too soft.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Version four. It’s been six hours of testing, so far. Suitably soft, but when squeezed…

SOUND: TOY SQUEAK.

Yeah, no, he’s not going to buy that.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Version six, twenty hours. Painted this one green.

SOUND: ROCKS CLINKING.

Yep. Thaaat’s a green rock.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Version eleven, twenty-six hour—

SOUND: EXPLOSION.

Ahhh!

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): And each morning Arum still came by and still expected me to have questions. In retrospect, he looked tired, too – but at the time, I was too distracted to tell.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: Here. Some tea from the Serrated Palm’s leaves, taken after group meditation. Don’t thank me; it’s solely to prove you wrong.

I hope you enjoy it.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: You wouldn’t believe the training regimen the Keep and I had to go through to tame the Walking Bonsais in the first place. It was worth it in the end – a great delight, to prune a plant that prunes back.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. MACRACHNID CLICKS & SNORTS.

ARUM: Shh… shh… There, you see? Merely skittish, Macrachnids. They need only to know that you mean them no harm. But once you get them galloping, up walls, across the ceiling…

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Subject: Lord Arum. Input: several days spent together. Observations: the subject is self-involved, condescending, overly nostalgic, and, if his insistence on sharing his accolades with me is any indication, he is also extremely lonely. So lonely, in fact, that I doubt he even realizes it.

And none of that forgives him. It just… distracted me. Made my research that much harder. But every project has challenges, and I beat those.

Eventually.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Alright, okay, alright. (SIGHS) This is petrification Rilla, cure seven… teen…? Ughhh, Saints, I’m tired. Forty-two hours of this. Have to get out of here. Have to.

I think, I hope, that I’m onto something. The solution resembles a paste, and it’s easy enough to apply with the hands. Composed of two parts Greenstain Sap, one part Acidberry, trace elements from a few other specimens, and three parts aloe.

Burns like you wouldn’t believe. Doesn’t matter. Testing… now.

SOUND: DROP OF LIQUID. RUBBING, SQUEAKING.

It… doesn’t hurt. At least.

It’s… working. It works! I can go home! (LAUGHS) I really did it! It’s soft, and it’s green, and– so… are… my hands.

Ughhh, come on, Rilla! If the monster’s hands look like limes when he’s done he’s never going to buy it.

Okay. Just… one more. Just one more try, and then you can sleep. So get…

KEEP: (SINGING, DISTANT) Meet me by the river / Where the elderberries grow

RILLA: What the…?

KEEP: (SINGING) When stars are silver / No one has to know

RILLA: That’s… I know that song. But– how…

KEEP: (SINGING) Meet me by the river / By driftwood and stone

RILLA: (SIGHS, SNORING)

KEEP: (SINGING) I’ll float down with her / No one has to know

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Damien always said that staying up all night working on my experiments was never going to do them any good. It never meant much coming from him – the knight famous for his five-night staring contest with a Blinking Gorgon wasn’t so generous with sleep for himself, either. So I knew when he said:

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

DAMIEN (FROM RECORDER): You’ll find the answer if you sleep, my love. In rest, the Saints move through us.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): …what he meant was, I’m worried about you. Take care of yourself. I love you.

But… that just made me want to listen even less. I don’t like being told what to do. Especially by a knight. Even if I said the same thing to him when he worked too hard. Damien…

Anyway… I say that only to make the point that that night, Damien was right. So. Tell him that for me. I guess.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: (SNORTS AWAKE) A– a handle. If it’s applied with a brush, he’ll never touch it! And he won’t know it’s just paint. (YAWNS) Saints, I hope the lizard has a coffee plant somewhere in here.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Research log, entry Rilla’s-goin’-home! I have the cure prepared, put together a nice container and brush to make it look official, and I am ready to hand this over to this monster and get out of here – just as soon as he wakes up.

ARUM: (SNORING)

RILLA: I found him like this a few minutes ago. Totally out cold. Would be a good time to gather some data on a deeply, magically complex sentient creature, but… I want to go home, and ending his little nappy sounds more satisfying.

Materials for this experiment: a big stick and a week’s worth of malice. Testing… now.

ARUM: (HISSES AWAKE)

RILLA: (SCREAMS)

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: —and that is why you must never touch me while I am sleeping, tktktktktktktktk.

RILLA: Okay!

ARUM: And you! I told you not to sing… that!

KEEP: (DISAPPOINTED SINGING)

ARUM: I don’t care how tired I looked! You cannot just lullaby me like some hatchling anymore! It’s… inappropriate!

KEEP: (MORE DISAPPOINTED SINGING)

ARUM: Don’t do it again. (GROWLS) Well, Amaryllis. I thank you for the wake-up call, but I have business to attend to.

RILLA: No you don’t.

ARUM: Excuse me?

RILLA: What were you going to do? Build more creations to help your Keep? You don’t have to anymore. I found the cure.

ARUM: You– what?

RILLA: I have it, and a sample of the infected tissue right here. I’ll show you how it works.

SOUND: CLINKING.

It’s simple, really. You just—

ARUM: I know how a brush works, yes.

RILLA: Alright.

SOUND: BRUSH PAINTING.

You have to give it a second to take hold, and be careful not to touch it until it’s done. It… it only works on plants. It would burn our hands. Definitely.

ARUM: I see. Hand it here.

RILLA: Hang on, hang on…

SOUND: SIZZLING.

And… done.

And the best part is that it’s preventative, too, so you don’t need me to make any more of it. Just spread this around a little and the Keep will take care of itself.

ARUM: Well. I have to say that I’m impressed, Amaryllis. You did this… much more quickly than I’d imagined.

You may go now.

RILLA: Really? Just like that?

ARUM: I would rather the silence, yes. You look tired. Go find a soft patch and… hibernate. Or… pupate, or whatever it is humans do.

RILLA: I’d really rather pupate at home, Arum.

ARUM: Well, I can’t just let you go that quickly, can I? I have rigorous checks I’ll have to perform. I’ll have to ask the Keep what it thinks.

RILLA: You don’t care what the Keep thinks.

ARUM: There are many steps involved, Amaryllis. You’ll have to wait.

RILLA: To wait? You want me to wait? My cure works, doesn’t it?

ARUM: It appears to—

RILLA: Prove it doesn’t. Try it on all the disease you want, this treats it, and what did you say I got if I found a treatment?

ARUM: You know fully well—

RILLA: I want to hear you say it. What was our deal, Arum?

ARUM: (GROWLS)

RILLA: You aren’t going to let me leave. You were never going to let me go, were you?

ARUM: Oh, and did you really expect me to? Did you really think I could, tktktktktktktktk?

RILLA: It’s pretty easy, Arum! You just open the door and— (GASPS)

SOUND: HISS, STRIKE.

ARUM: And what, Amaryllis? What? Let you go back to your hive and tell all the humans what the monster is up to? Where to find him, how to kill him, how many pieces to cut him into?

RILLA: I wouldn’t… I-I don’t want to—!

ARUM: A war is on. What we want stopped being relevant the moment the first stone was thrown, no matter who threw it.

RILLA: But… that’s…

Not fair!

ARUM: It is how things work. Fair and unfair are fables. Myths. They can exist only if there are stable rules that govern all action, all things, but there are no rules here. Only survival by any means necessary.

I must protect myself and my Keep. If you were in my position I would expect you to do the same. I will allow you to live here, in my greenhouse, as thanks… but I can give nothing else.

SOUND: PUNCH.

RILLA: You lied to me. All those little favors, those talks we had… you tricked me! We had a deal.

ARUM: What would you have me do, then?

RILLA: Let me go!

ARUM: And then what? (CHUCKLES) You humans… so naïve, aren’t you? The sun itself could descend upon your bald little bodies, and until the end you’d be standing in its rays searching for a way to change its course. Running calculations until it cremated you to the last.

RILLA: And you wouldn’t?

ARUM: Die for nothing? Of course not. I would survive in the shade until every man and monster was ash, and then I would finally have peace.

Farewell, human. I’ll be sure to test your cure right away. Tktktktktktktktk.

SOUND: SLITHERING.

RILLA: (SHOUTING) No! You don’t get to take that if I don’t get to… (GROWLS) Get back here, you… you monster!

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): I was so angry with him that, it took me a while to remember that the cure I’d given him? Was bogus. And that meant, I didn’t have the time to wallow. By the next morning, Arum would know I’d tricked him. So, by the next morning, I’d probably be dead. And if I was ever going to escape… that night was my only chance to do it.

I started by reviewing my notes.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: —when Serrated Palms feel threatened they become sharp enough to cut through solid rock—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: —comotion is an afterthought for the Walking Bonsai. Excellent reflexes, tktktktk—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: —ly skittish, Macrachnids. They need only to know that you mean them no harm. But once you get them galloping, up walls, across the ceiling—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): And then… there was the hermit, and the creatures it made.

So I had my method. My means. My theory. I didn’t have any time to test it, but… that didn’t matter. I’d only get one shot at this anyway. So when night fell, and on the ceiling high above, the Keep’s solar bioluminescents faded, I gathered my supplies and began my escape.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. MACRACHNID CLICKS & SNORTS.

RILLA: Shh, shh, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. It’s just a plant. It’s not going to hurt you. It’s… not going to hurt you.

(CLEARS THROAT) Research log four-two-nine-five. I have my supplies. I am entering the hermit… now.

SOUND: GRUNT, LEAF RIPPING. MACRACHNID SCREECH.

Shh, shh. Come on.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

(GASPS) It can’t… no way.

I… would like to correct my previous assumption. The big flower bulb is not the hermit. This is.

SOUND: CHIMES JINGLING.

The Moonlit Hermit.

MUSIC: STARTS.

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREECH, SNORTS.

Shhh. Petals: five, each around three inches long, translucent, a soft glow like… like stars through mist. That’s how Dad’s notes described it. It has no leaves, no roots, even. Just its stem, which Vogel’s called ‘a single strand the color and thickness of spider’s silk.’ The bloom is huge comparatively, way too heavy for the stem, but it’s holding itself up. When the lizard said hermit I hoped, but… I’ve hoped for this a million times before. It’s just a legend. But it’s here.

MUSIC: ENDS.

I knew it! I knew it, I knew it, I—

KEEP: (SINGING, DISTANT)

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREECH.

RILLA: Okay. Escape first, gloat over the find of the century later. I don’t see anything else in here, so does that mean… the Moonlit Hermit can just bring things to life? (SIGHS) I need to check some of my recorder’s notes. End of log.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Alright, notes reviewed. I had… a lot of them. Quick summary: the Moonlit Hermit, a flower with no ability to reproduce, feed, drink, nothing – and yet it lives. Supposed to grow in the shadows of deep caves, and supposed to be magical in composition – a monster, technically. That’s the fairy tale, anyway. Vogel’s First Citadel Panaceas obviously suggests it was sought by early kings as some kind of solution to death. But, I forgot that Reynard’s Specimens of the Northern Wilds mentions it, too: “A glowing pointe upon the clyffe / her tears shall plant the fae-bloom’s gift.” That, of course, being a reference to a contemporary misconception of hallucinations, or fae’s gifts, first cited in—

It doesn’t matter. Whatever weird things it made happened below it. When it was… crying.

No nectar. Then how—

KEEP: (SINGING)

RILLA: Was that… hissing? Did you hear hissing?

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREECH.

Alright. Time to go.

SOUND: RUSTLING.

Place the serrated frond here… the bonsai root here… and tie them together… there. Now… cry!

Cry!

KEEP: (SINGING)

RILLA: Okay. Got to think like the impossible singing castle. Make you cry. How do I make you cry?

ARUM: (DISTANT) What is all that racket, tktktktktktktktk?

RILLA: Oookay, sad story! Uh, once upon a time, there was a, uh, little girl, and she had these two parents who were doctors, and they helped people a lot, only one day it turned out the doctors weren’t doctors so much as witches, and magic was super-mega-illegal in the Citadel and so they were exiled, which wasn’t great, and the girl had to live with her friends’ parents, only she didn’t think it was fair, so she kept going over her parents’ old notes to try and prove that they weren’t magic, or at least that magic was really just super complicated medicine, only I got caught, and they exiled me too, so I built a cool hut right outside the Citadel and I’ve been waiting for them ever since, but they still haven’t come back even though the new Queen lifted our exiles and I don’t know if they’re even alive, the end, cry!

Oh, come on, seriously? Nothing?

SOUND: SAD MACRACHNID SQUEALS.

Good. Great. Now the spider’s dripping.

Dripping. Dripping! Agh, Rilla, you idiot, the crying’s just a metaphor! Take out my canteen—

SOUND: DROPS OF LIQUID.

—a few drops to the Hermit, then the components, and…

MUSIC: STARTS.

SOUND: RUMBLING, GROWING.

It’s working. The frond and the bonsai are growing together, fusing, reacting! Just like I planned. A living saw. A serrated palm blade, sharp enough to cut through the Keep, a walking bonsai handle, with reflexes fast enough to protect me. And it’s… alive.

ARUM: (DISTANT) Amaryllis! The Macrachnids are a mess! Where are you?

SOUND: MACRACHNID SQUEAL.

RILLA: No, you don’t! You’re my ride out of here!

SOUND: MACRACHNID SQUEALS.

Ugh! Hold still! I just have to grab my saw and—

Where’d the saw go?

SOUND: THUMPS.

What’s that sound?

SOUND: MACRACHNID SQUEALS, WHIMPERS.

Shh, shh!

That’s… that can’t be…

SOUND: BLADE SWISH. LONG MACRACHNID SQUEAL.

(YELPS)

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. MACRACHNID WHIMPERS, THUMPS.

RILLA (NARRATOR): (WHISPERING) Research log, entry… who cares. The saw, it’s not a saw. It’s… how the hell do I describe it? Like… a huge inchworm, maybe? Its head is a freaking leaf-sword, and its tail is a tree with a hell of a kick and then it– it…

It got the Macrachnid. The poor thing still sounds alive, but… it just took its body. The thing’s using it like a big eight-fingered hand, grabbing and climbing and—

SOUND: WHIMPERS, THUMPS STOP.

Where’d it go?

SOUND: SAWING.

Wh… what…?

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREAM.

Saints—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN.

RILLA: (PANTING) Alright. Okay. I think I’m— (YELLS)

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN.

RILLA: (DISTANT) No, no, no… listen to me. Can you listen? This is the, ehm, Swamp of Titan’s Blooms, where there is a Lord called Arum, and—

SOUND: BLADE SCHING. DULL THUD.

(GASPING) Stop it! I made you! I made— (YELPS)

ARUM: (DISTANT) You made a mess. Now step aside.

RILLA: (DISTANT) Arum!

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN.

ARUM: (CLOSER) Don’t you order me, you insolent—

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREECH. BLADES CLANGING.

Yah!

RILLA: (CLOSER) Arum, watch out!

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN. MACRACHNID SQUEAL, BLADE SCHING. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN.

ARUM: Yah!

SOUND: BLADE SLASH. MACRACHNID SQUEAL. CRACKING, THWUMP.

RILLA: (AFTER A PAUSE) Is it… dead?

ARUM: (PANTING) It appears to be.

SOUND: RUSTLING.

What do you think you’re doing?

RILLA: I just… wanted to get a closer look.

ARUM: And that recording device, then. That’s supposed to help with your look?

RILLA: There might be some useful data—

ARUM: Data. Answers. Your mindless hunt for those things nearly killed us tonight, do you understand that?

SOUND: QUIET THUMPS.

RILLA: No, actually, I’m pretty sure what nearly killed us was when you wouldn’t let me go home.

ARUM: This again—

RILLA: What else was I supposed to do?

ARUM: Not toying with forces beyond your comprehension seems like a good place to start!

RILLA: Oh, like you understand how the Hermit works perfectly?

ARUM: Perhaps not. But I do know better than to grant the desire to live to something that could kill me.

SOUND: SAWING.

RILLA: Arum—

ARUM: No! You’ve talked entirely enough. You’re lucky that you’re such a useful doctor, little primate, or your throat—

RILLA: Arum! Move! (GRUNTS)

ARUM: Yoh!

SOUND: THUD. WET SLASH.

(PAINED YOWL)

RILLA: It’s getting ready to attack again. We have to move!

ARUM: (PAINED) My side… the blade… (PAINED GASP)

SOUND: SAWING GROWS LOUDER.

RILLA: Oh, Saints.

Oh Saints, protect us.

KEEP: (SINGING, BUILDING UP TO A CRESCENDO)

SOUND: HUGE RUMBLING, CREAKING. SILENCE.

RILLA: (AFTER A PAUSE, PANTING) What… what the…?

ARUM: (IN PAIN) It’s about time, Keep.

KEEP: (EXHAUSTED SINGING)

RILLA: Your house can… just do that? Grow a vine as thick as a tree trunk and just… punch someone with it?

ARUM: It isn’t that impressive. Help me up.

RILLA: Not that impressive? It blew up the Hermit’s cage! It shot that abomination straight through the wall!

KEEP: (EXHAUSTED SINGING)

ARUM: I told you that it is my duty to protect it. That duty goes in more than one direction. Now help me…

SOUND: CRACKING, CRUMBLING.

RILLA: Uh-oh.

SOUND: CRUMBLING ACCELERATES, THEN STOPS. SLITHERING.

ARUM: It’s… petrified. Again.

RILLA: It’s not… I didn’t…

ARUM: Tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch. Tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch.

RILLA: Arum…

ARUM: You told me you’d found the cure. You told me once I applied it this would end.

RILLA: I—

ARUM: So what was it, then? Stupidity? Or a lie, tktktktktktktktk?

RILLA: You told me I could go home. You said—

ARUM: I would like you to turn that thing off.

RILLA: What?

ARUM: Your recorder. I asked you to turn it off.

RILLA: But my notes…! If you think you can order me around after everything you’ve done—

ARUM: It is not an order. It is a request. I saved your life twice tonight. How many more times do I have to do it, before you’ll turn. That. Thing. Off?!

SOUND: RECORDING CUTS OUT.

***

SOUND: TRAIN MOVING, MUSIC.

CONDUCTOR: If you’ve enjoyed this tale, please consider donating to The Penumbra on Patreon. Our artists work tirelessly to bring you these stories, and if you have the means, we hope you will support our efforts. Every dollar helps. You can find that page at patreon.com/thepenumbrapodcast. If you support us on Patreon at the $10 level or higher, you’ll receive access to commentary tracks like this one, from actor Noah Simes and co-creators Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert:

SOUND: TRAIN STOPS, DOOR SLIDES OPEN, RAIN.

NOAH: …that it has nothing to do with Damien or their fight!

SOPHIE & KEVIN: (IN UNISON) Right.

NOAH: He has no idea—

SOPHIE: Right.

NOAH: —it seems, what their connection even is, that it’s just… I-I-I love that he– and, and, it ha– did have to do with those grubs, and then… even that—

SOPHIE: (LAUGHS) Right, was immaterial.

NOAH: —ended up being, like, a dead end. Both, in his investigation and plot-wise.

ALL: (LAUGH)

SOPHIE: Yeah, that was funny for us.

But yeah, it’s been, how long has it been? Like, when…

SOUND: DOOR SLIDES SHUT.

CONDUCTOR: You can also support The Penumbra by liking us on Facebook, following us on Twitter @thepenumbrapod, following us on Tumblr @thepenumbrapodcast, telling your friends about us, telling your friends to tell their friends about us, and especially by rating and reviewing our podcast on iTunes. Every rating, comment, and kind word spreads our stories further and inspires us to keep creating more and better tales to come.

We would like to give special thanks to all who support us on Patreon, but especially to Camille Blanton, Fiona Parker, Ota Arcana, Juno Yanto, Regan, Ko, KC, Kim Zeugen, Atha Lang, Vron, Charlie Spiegel, Minchowski, and Jaimie Gunter for their incredibly generous contributions per episode. Thank you.

Did you know that The Penumbra has merchandise for sale? It’s true! The Penumbra has partnered with DFTBA to bring you the posters, shirts, and pins your heart desires. Just go to dftba.com and search for The Penumbra Podcast.

This tale, the Moonlit Hermit, was told by the following people: Melissa Ennulat as Rilla, Noah Simes as Lord Arum, Kate Jones and Kat Buckingham as the Keep, and Matthew Zahnzinger as Sir Damien.

The Penumbra is created and produced by Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert. If you wish to know more about our ever-expanding, infinitely-creative team of artists, musicians, editors, designers, and managers, you can read about them in the show notes of this episode.

I’m afraid this is the end of the line for today, dear Traveler. We hope you will ride with The Penumbra again soon.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

[3dfurniturestudio]

3D Remodel With Classics

Keys To Classic Architectural Styles

For homeowners who want to unite the classic looks of their 3d furniture rendering, here are a few tips on what architectural details to highlight:

Decorative glass is the key to carrying off Victorian architectural style at the front entryway. Beveled and textured glass brightens the entry and reinforces the strong geometric shapes of a Victorian home's façade. The same patterning can be carried throughout the home with custom divided lites for windows. Depending on window type, exterior colors and grille patterns, homeowners can find windows in 3d furniture rendering, clad wood or vinyl to match this architectural style.

The keys to the Craftsman look are symmetry and simple details that emphasize balanced proportions. While glass inserts are still important in Craftsman doors, the fanciful radius and oval shapes of the Victorian style are replaced with symmetrical, squared-off forms and designs abstracted from nature. 3d furniture rendering windows in pine, made of reliable treated wood like AuraLast, complement this architectural style, which favors rich, natural wood finishes.

To carry off an Old World look at the front entry, the key is decorative hardware. An otherwise ordinary paneled door takes on a whole new dimension of style with the addition of a speakeasy grille or decorative straps. Choosing options such as antiquing, hand-hewn finishes and hammered-look hardware can add to the Old World appearance. Shaped casement windows with arched or peaked tops and Gothic divided lite patterns can help carry this design theme throughout the home.

A hallmark of the Colonial architectural style is a grand front entrance - often a projecting central pavilion or a portico with columns. For a Colonial entrance, a broad, paneled door with classical proportions and symmetrical sidelights fits the bill. Wood and fiberglass doors offer a variety of custom options within the established set of Colonial-style doors. Double-hung windows in white or ivory with symmetrical divided lite patterns are the perfect match for Colonial style.

[woozletania]

There’s a raccoon in my tower, part 5

Over a picnic meal Tony gets a look at what Rocket’s been building in his lab.

Tony had never seen someone so small eat so much in such a short time.  Rocket ate with his little clawed hands and fangs, sniffing at then tearing into one dish after another.  Most of a roast chicken, a bowl of potato salad, a dish of cherries and a stick of garlic bread disappeared into the little raccoon before he drank half a bottle of water, burped loudly, then went right back to eating.

Occasionally he nosed at something and rather than ripping into it he slid the dish to Nebula.  That ended up being the applesauce, a jar of grape jam and a Tupperware dish of tuna salad.  Nebula ate sparingly of each, taking no more food than a child and much less than the hungry raccoon.  It wasn't hard to guess why.  There was so little flesh left among her cybernetics that there couldn't be room for much of a digestive system or need for one.

Thor ate more than Rocket but weighed at least five times as much. He also grinned and belched in reply whenever Rocket did, making sure to outdo his little friend in volume.  Tony and Pepper together ate less than the Thunder god.   That gave Tony time to peer around the room.  Rocket was too busy eating to do more than shoot him the occasional suspicious glance.

In the background of it all was the music.  Always the music.  No one commented on it but throughout the meal the Zune on the workbench fed sound to hidden speakers.  Tony suspected it was Quill's, for the age of the songs smacked of the rogue's retro mindset.  Footloose was right in line with Fleetwood Mac, Norman Greenbaum, David Bowie, the Jackson Five, ELO, Cat Stevens and more.  It wasn't loud but it was always there.

Almost everything in sight had the handmade look he'd come to associate with Rocket.  How one little raccoon could build so much in just a few months escaped him.  There was some automation, like the assembly line stamping out parts. Maybe some of the equipment was similarly machine made.

Racks of tools, half-built weapons, stacks of parts all had a look of clutter that he knew was an illusion.  A master craftsman leaves each item just where he wants it to be. He imagined the response if someone tidied up.  "Don't touch my stuff." The mantra of the technician.

There was something he assumed was a recycling system the little raccoon presumably made so he wouldn't need to connect to the building's water and sewer lines.  Much more interesting was the hulking shape looming in the shadows nearby. Thor was interested in it too but wouldn't stop eating to look it over. Tony was not so shy but when he went to stand Thor put his hand on his knee.

"Afterwards," the thunder god murmured. They went back to eating and to pretending not to notice when Nebula reached out to pet Rocket in between bites.  Tony never imagined the bitter cyborg and angry raccoon being friends until he saw how they treated each other.  Each cared about the other and showed by action what they'd never admit out loud.

Pepper couldn't resist reaching out to pet him as well but held back and  when Rocket shot her a glare and bared his fangs.  It seemed not everyone got to pet the raccoon.

When Rocket had eaten most of the contents of Thor's picnic basket the raccoon belched again and sat back, his belly noticeably rounder than before.  He must have put away a quarter his body weight in one sitting.  It didn't escape anyone that only a famished man - or raccoon - ate like that.

"The deal was that you were to eat, Rocket," was the first thing out of Thor's mouth when they were all done feasting.  "You don't eat like a well fed person."

"I do eat," the raccoon snapped.  "Look!" He pointed at a pile of empty foam food containers in the corner.  "They put food in when I send stuff out, I eat it."

Thor looked the raccoon over, unconvinced.  "You do look a little better.  But when was the last time you sent something out?"

"I dunno," Rocket said. "Haven't had as much stuff lately.  Nothing works on Thanos.  I sent out everything I know how ta make and he's still alive." He slouched where he sat.  "Nothing works on that guy."

Thor opened his mouth but Tony stuck his foot in.  "How do you know how to make all this, Rocket?"

Rocket laughed harshly.  "The usual way someone like me learns.  Head stuffed full of Uplift processors and a helmet clamped on my head feeding in what they want me ta know.  They wanted a soldier who could build and repair his own gear.  So they built one.  Or a prototype of one anyway. Other stuff I picked up after I escaped."

Tony winced.  It was as bad as he's expected.  "Well, if you want a job, I'm hiring.  Or if you'd just meet with me and a few others to do an info exchange."

"Got everything I need right here," Rocket said.  "I just gotta figure out something Thanos isn't immune to.  I collapsed a planet and took chunks out a two more and he's still alive.  Nothing works on the blue bastard."

Thor steered the conversation back on track.  "Pepper, do you know how often Rocket has sent things out recently?"

"About every two or three days," she said.  "I should have realized that was a problem.  I'm sorry Thor, we've been so busy."

"New rule, Rocket," Thor said firmly.  "You're going to let them send food in every day. You're not going to get lost in your work and starve again if I have anything to say about it."

"Fine," Rocket said after a jaw-cracking yawn.  "Whatever.  You gonna go so I can get back ta work?"

"In a minute," Tony interjected.  "What's with the power armor?"

They turned to look at the Hulkbuster-sized figure in the shadows.  As usual the lighting was dim to favor the nocturnal raccoon but it could be nothing but a power suit, and the Rocket-sized compartment in the front left no doubt who the pilot would be.

"Eh," Rocket shrugged.  "If I can't kill him with a bomb maybe I can at least get a few punches in.  From that footage Potts sent me he likes a good fight." He yawned again, visibly struggling to stay awake after the heavy meal and who knows how much missed sleep.  "He coulda killed you ten different ways with the Stones but he went hand ta hand.  Likes to fight." He supported his muzzle on his hands as he stared at the hovering screens with drooping eyelids  "I'll get him..."

Tony had been in his place.  Sometimes the need to invent kept him up for days.  Rocket was running on determination and rage but he didn't have Jarvis or Friday to make sure he ate or slept.  Thor was worried Rocket would wither away at his workbench and he was right to do so.  Even now, after what Tony knew were several food-laden visits, Rocket was skinnier than he probably should be.

Rocket was so exhausted he only muttered a protest when Thor picked him up and slid him into the padded pet bed.  The thunder god gestured with his chin and they filed out lest they wake the little mechanic from his much needed rest.  Tony lingered by the power armor but barely had time for a look before Thor chased him out.  Each waited until they were past the entry corridor - surely loaded with cameras and microphones - to speak.  When the ever-present music was finally cut off by the closing doors Pepper spoke up.

"He's like a little kid," Pepper said sadly.  "A hurt little kid trying not to think about what he lost."

"A very dangerous, very angry little kid," Tony agreed.  

“There's nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing left to lose,” Thor said somberly.

Pepper and Thor shared a brief exchange but he missed it.  Something was nagging at him.  Something about the power armor.

"...only family he ever had," Nebula was saying as he awoke from his thoughts. "And Groot was his son in all but name."

"Nebula," he said, and the blue cyborg fixed him with a look.  "Did you see the purple conduits built into that power suit?"

She shrugged.  "Yes.  Jump drive. Personal teleporters aren't unheard-of but they are rare.  Maybe he thinks it'll surprise my father.  Why?"

"I don't know," Tony said. "Something about it bugs me.  Did you get any scans, Friday?"

"No sir," said the voice from the ceiling.  "A damping field was in place, probably for your benefit.  I did get some video and snapshots through your chest unit, though."

"All right," Tony said. "Mock up what you can in Lab Two.  I'll be by in a bit."

"Is there a problem, Stark?"

"I don't know yet, Thor.  Maybe."

Tony was being cautious.  In his heart he knew something was very wrong.  He just didn't know what it was yet.

[purpleflamingosarelife]

Dear Shawn. [3]

Just a note before you start: I pulled these cities/towns out of my ass lol none of them exist and whatever state I mention them to be in-- just go with it I didn’t study a map for this

“Two college boys, identified to be lead singer of the band InkFleet Rodham Aaron Michael Christopher Shears and Shawn Wade Davis, have been found burned to death in their dorms,” a female reporter’s voice plainly informed us through the radio in the car. “The FBI has ruled these suicides, but no further statement has been made on the two boys’ deaths. The organization has promised to come out with a statement later this week. For now, I’m Katy Pescher with Frameton Local News. Thank you for tuning in.” I punched the ‘tune’ button on the small radio.

“It’s fuckin’ Rod,” I grumbled as I pushed down on the accelerator pedal. Shawn remained silent. Maybe he was asleep. The station that I’d turned to blared a familiar tune— one that my voice accompanied. I pushed and held the button, turning the radio off. 

We had stolen this car from the parking lot of the hotel this morning, and it wouldn’t be long before we would need another. I let Shawn put on some of the spare clothes I had in the hotel room, which was a pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a forest green windbreaker. Those were the only things small enough to fit him, and even the jacket was a little baggy on him. I was tall. 6’2” is fucking tall. I was wearing relatively plain clothes as well- the only difference from his being that I donned a blue and white baseball shirt. I’d covered my unusually shaggy hair with a backwards cap.

The desert was fairly comforting in the fact that there was nobody out there. However, I knew we’d be reaching Cartalene, the city where my Uncle resided. It wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small, either. I decided it wouldn’t be best to show up unexpected. I pulled out the tracfone I’d bought from a small Walmart nearby the hotel.

“This is Angelo Luco speaking.”

“Uncle Ange. It’s Rod. I’m in some trouble.”

“Who would’ve known Mr. Hot-Shot Rod would be in trouble. What do you need old Uncle Luco to do for you?”

“I need two identities made. One for a Rodham J. Harrison and one for a Shawn Blacke. I also need alternates made for those two with completely different names. And I need a car and some money.” He chuckled.

“Anything for you, kid. I’ll figure you something out.”

“Thanks, Uncle Ange,” I said as I looked at the stretch of cracked road before me. “I should be getting into town in a few hours. I crossed the state line not too long ago.” 

“Alright kid. See you then.” I hung up the phone and wiped some sweat from my hairline. Uncle Angelo was like a father to me. After the one who gave me my surname walked out on my mom and I got taken away because she spent more money on alcohol that her own kid, Angelo took me in. It wasn’t one of those see-you-at-the-orphanage-and-make-you-into-the-newest-Capone thing. He was actually my mother’s brother, and he’d been in my life since I’d been born. He not only took me in without hesitation, but he also treated me like the world.

In fact, he never, ever exposed me to his dirty work in the mafia as a kid. Ever. And he would’ve killed every single one of his men had I been hurt over it. I didn’t find out about it until I was fourteen, and even then I was kept far away from it. He didn’t bring any women into it, either. It was really just him and I, and the rest of the guys were like my older brothers. And if I wanted it, he made sure it happened but he made sure I never got greedy about it. 

To say the least, Angelo Luco was a good man. He may have killed people, he may have laundered money, and his specialty definitely was making people disappear. But he was a better father than anyone ever could ask for and he would have killed an army of men to protect me. So there. 

I finally got brave enough to turn the radio back on. I listened to the Elvis channel all the way into Cartalene. 

_

I stopped a little outside of town by a ravine and told Shawn to get out of the car. Before pushing it in, I released the parking brake and took the suitcase that was in the back of it, compliments of the owners. We called a cab for the rest of the way. 

A nice looking woman greeted us with a smile once we entered the car. 

“Hi, boys. Where can I take you today?” I gave her the address of my uncle’s house before handing over a $100 bill. My eyes ached from driving since four in the morning and my neck needed a good popping.

An hour later, we were there. I thanked the driver and began leading Shawn up the long walkway of the large craftsman home that my uncle resided in. It was decorated with dark brown paint and cherry-wood accents. The lawn and landscaping that occupied the front of the lot was now even more brightly colored than it’d been when I last saw it and it was more neatly kept than the president’s reputation. 

His black BMW sat neatly parked under the cherry tree where he liked it, and a car sat parked under the overhang. As we came closer to the house, I saw Nina washing one of the living room windows. She had tears running down her face, and I knew that wasn’t Angelo’s doing. He respected women. Just because he was a big bad mafioso didn’t automatically mark him as someone who disrespected people, especially not women or children. You had his most basic level of respect until you did something to up that respect or lower it. Lowering his respect wasn’t a good thing. 

I knocked on the door and backed up a bit. After a few seconds, Nina answered the door with something along the lines of, “I’m sorry. I’m a bit of a mess.” Her eyes shot open when she saw me.

“Rodham!” she shouted as she launched herself into my arms. I smiled but rolled my eyes when she said my full name. “Oh my goodness. I didn’t know you were coming back! Oh my goodness...” I patted her back. She looked at Shawn before stepping toward him, continuing. “And your friend here-- I’ve never seen him before.”

“This is Shawn,” I greeted. “He’s a very close friend that I made at school, but Nina. I really need you to do something for me.” She wiped her eyes.

“Oh, anything, honey.”

“I need you to pretend we were never even here, alright? Shawn and I are in a bit of trouble. And, Nina,” I said, leaning in a bit. “Why are you crying?” She stepped back. She was frail and old, much older than my Uncle, but she was in good shape. And she was a good, strong woman. She really never did cry, one time I could remember being when she’d found that my mother had died of alcohol poisoning. She was like a grandmother to me, really. She'd been around ever since I could speak. And, as far as I knew, nothing serious had happened in the family.

“Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. Please, please come in.” She pulled us in and quickly closed the door behind us. I looked around for the first time in a while. It was just like I’d remembered- every photo was hung straight and every plank of the mahogany floors were shiny and clean. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Not in Uncle Angelo’s house. Nina would never allow it. If the house was not orderly, she worked to make it that way again.

“It looks lovely, Miss,” Shawn complimented quietly. “You do excellent work.” She patted his back with a thankful nod. I pointed down the entry hallway, where a large pair of wooden doors sat, closed.

“Is Uncle free?” I inquired, gesturing to the doors. She nodded no. He must’ve been in a meeting. We went and stood to wait by the doors. Nina, who’d been crying this whole time, returned to cleaning. She seemed to be scrubbing at a scuff on the floor. Well- wait. What the hell was that? What she’d been crying over ate at me. She didn’t cry over small things. She didn’t cry when yelled at, she didn’t cry when someone with muddy shoes walked over her freshly mopped floors, she didn’t just cry. 

My thoughts were interrupted when two large men burst out of my uncle’s office. Nina popped her head out from the kitchen. 

“Would you two boys like a brownie?” The two men looked over at her. They had to be working under my uncle, I could tell by the sleek suits and neat haircuts. Not many people didn’t work under him, though. One man, the presumably younger one, walked over to her as he pointed a finger.

“Listen here, lady,” he growled as he stormed into the kitchen, “we don’t want a fuckin’ brownie and we don’t got time for you to be interrupting us. Stay out of our business.” Nina nodded, scared. 

“Sorry, si-”

“Did I say to speak?” He shouted angrily as he picked up the plate of brownies, which I’d looked forward to eating, and threw it at her feet. He then spat on the floor and rubbed his heel over it, creating a mark that was rather similar to the one she’d been working at, confirming my thoughts that he was the reason for Nina’s tears. This angered me to say the least. I’d seen many men disrespect Nina behind my uncle’s back, disrespect me, and even threaten to harm me when I’d gotten in their ways, but I was no longer a fourteen year old boy. I had no submissiveness anymore. 

“Hey!” I shouted sharply as I speed walked into the kitchen. He turned his head to look at me. “What the fuck was that, man? What the hell is wrong with you? Do you see her? She’s heartbroken. That was uncalled for.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m Ro- I’m Danny Luco. Angelo’s nephew. So not only do you work under my uncle, you work under me. You’ve made my grandma here cry, you just ruined the brownies that I was gonna eat later, you spat all over her freshly mopped floors and you are ugly as fuck. And if I ever, ever see you treat her like that again, you’ll be swimming with the fish. Capiche, Mr. Macho Mafioso? This is her fucking house, and you don’t ever, ever fuck with the queen when you’re in her court. That is absolutely disgraceful.” Getting closer to his face, I pointed to the door as I continued,”Now get the fuck out of my sight. And, while you’re at it, hang your head in shame.” His partner grabbed his arm and dragged him out. Nina said nothing, just sort of stood there in shock before beginning to clean his mess.. I motioned for Shawn to follow me to my uncle’s office. I knocked in the ‘shave and a haircut’ pattern.

A gruff voice shouted a response from inside.

“Two bits!” I pushed the doors open. Once Shawn entered, I closed the doors behind us. Behind a large antique desk sat my uncle, a graying man with a slight stubble growing on his gaunt face. He smoked a cigar as he browsed his phone. He looked up at me with hazel eyes and immediately smiled, thickening the wrinkles on his cherry cheeks. He stood to hug me and shake hands with Shawn. Once introductions were over, he invited us to take a seat. We made a bit of small talk before his expression turned serious at my eventual mention of trouble.

“What kind of trouble?” He asked, leaning onto the desk. “Serious trouble?” Shawn and I looked at each other. We couldn’t tell him. I slowly looked back at him, overcome with nervousness. I’d never felt nervous around my uncle except for the time when I was five that I’d crept down the stairs and seen him stuffing my presents under the tree. 

“We need to disappear,” I responded gruffly. “You wouldn’t believe the reason why if we told you, Uncle Ange. Everyone in Frameton thinks we’re dead. The FBI and god fuckin’ knows who the fuck else is after us. Please. You have to help.” He nodded his head solemnly. 

“I see.” I almost had tears in my eyes. I hated being this way. “Rodham,” he said after a long silence, the word weighing heavily on my shoulders. He never addressed me by my full name. “I’d like to have a word with you privately.” 

Shawn left the room. I was sure Nina would keep him busy. Once I heard the door close, I looked up at my uncle. He stared back with concern in his eyes. 

“Uncle Angelo--”

“What’d you do, son? Did you kill someone? Did you burn a building down?” I stayed silent. I was guilty of something and he knew it. “Listen, kid. I love you, and you’ve grown into such a good young man. And I can help you, whatever you need, I just need to know what happened.” I shook my head and rested my eyes in my palms. 

“You don’t understand, Uncle Angelo. I can’t tell you. You’ll think I’m fuckin’ crazy. It’s impossible what I’ve done, and they want me. They want Shawn, too, and they’re gonna kill us if they catch us,” I sobbed. “And if they come knocking, you have to deny that we were here with everything in your being.” He grabbed my hand. 

“Rod. Look at me. Look at me right now.” I looked up at him, a harsh blurry image against his beige wall. “I love you more than anything in this world, and I need you to tell me what the hell happened to you, son. I’ll do my damnedest to believe you.” 

I took my time calming myself. After a long, long silence, I wiped my eyes. 

“When do you want to go back to?”

“What?”

“Give me a time and a place and I will take you there.” He took a puff of his cigar with a strange face. 

“Rod--”

“Anywhere, anytime.” I grabbed his hand. “And I need you to stay as calm as possible no matter what, understand?” He nodded.

“Alright then, kid. How about, let’s see. April twenty-fifth, nineteen fifty-nine. Hillshire Hospital.” I smirked at his choice. 

“Ok, Uncle Angelo. Hold on tight, ok? You’re palm’s gonna get real hot, and then you’re gonna get head rush. When it clears up, keep calm.” I held his hand with all of my strength and closed my eyes. I felt my chest beginning to burn. That was my sign to think of when and where I wanted to go. 

April twenty-fifth, nineteen fifty-nine, Hillshire Hospital, I repeated in my head. The burning got more intense. It wasn’t like a fire, really, like the burning you get when you run a lot. Then, I got dizzy. 

When the dizziness cleared, we were standing in the middle of a bustling hospital. There were nicely dressed people everywhere, old fashioned nurses with pin-up hair and thin eyebrows. Uncle Angelo looked nearly shocked. 

“Here it is, nineteen fifty-nine, Uncle Ange,” I casually stated. “Keep calm.” A very nice looking nurse approached us. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she politely greeted. “I apologize, but I’m going to have to ask you to move out of the center of the hallway.” My uncle looked at her, examining her beauty.

“Of course, ma’am,” I replied as I pulled him towards the birth ward. We walked right in, getting strange stares the whole time. Of course, I understood. We were quite the odd pair- I was wearing clothing that was deemed for children and not grown men, and Uncle Angelo looked like he’d stepped straight out of LA Noir.  Uncle Ange didn’t say a word. We walked to room 113, where painful screams quietly drifted through the heavy door. 

His eyes were wide. 

“What the hell?” I heard him mutter. “That’s-- this whole fuckin’ thing is insane. Rod, Rod. Please tell me that this is actually happening, you don’t have me on some sort of goddamn drugs or something?” I shook my head.

“I told you that you wouldn’t believe me, Uncle. And they want this, this power of mine, and I don’t fucking know why. And I’m scared to fucking death, you hear me? I don’t wanna fucking die, Ange.” I pointed to a nurse. “You need validation? Go ask that lovely lady over there what year it is.” 

“Ma’am, ma’am. I’m terribly sorry,” he shakily said, approaching her. “What year is it?” She smiled awkwardly and shook her head slightly. 

“Why, sir, it’s nineteen fifty-nine.” 

“Thank you, Miss. You’re a lovely gal,” he shouted as he jogged back over to me and grabbed my hand. “I believe you.” 

--

After taking him back, he sat at his desk and lit yet another cigar. The whole time, he mumbled “I believe you, I believe you,” while crying. He looked like he was under cardiac arrest. 

“So that, Uncle Angelo, is why we gotta disappear. And, hey, don’t worry. I’ll be around. I ain’t cutting you and Nina out of my life because some douchecanoes are trying to kill my buddy and I. It might be a bit before I set foot in your house again, but I will be the fuck around. Hear?” he nodded yes. 

We invited Shawn back in and got down to business. 

“I’m gonna set you boys up with two hundred grand, cash. I’m also gonna get my friend Tony’s wife, Charlotte, to come and give you two fashion disasters some makeovers, and you’re getting new clothes and identifications as well. Now, if you really wanna disappear, I advise you get the hell out of the country, so I’m hookin’ you boys up with some passports, too.” He put out his cigar and sipped his whiskey. I took a swig of my beer. “And you are gonna go to Canada, land of the maple fuckin’ syrup. You’re gonna lie low there with my friend Mikey for a year and then you can come back here and get your shit together. I want to hear from you when you two boys are safe, hear?” 

“Yessir,” Shawn replied. I nodded yes. My uncle stood and motioned for us to follow, opening the door for us and motioning for us to step into the hallway with him. 

“And for a car, I’m gonna get you boys-- aye, Nina!” he shouted. She poked her head out from the kitchen, where she’d been earlier. “How long ago did you mop these floors?”

“About an hour ago, Mr. Luco.” I noticed that the spit marks were gone now.

“Beautiful, beautiful-- we ain’t gonna walk on them to shortcut to the yard, then. Come on, boys. This way.” We followed him out of the front door and into the yard as he continued speaking, making hand gestures. We Lucos tended to speak with our hands. “So, eh, for wheels, I’m givin’ ya something real shitty to start, and you’re gonna need to hop cars a few times, but up in Canada, Mikey’s got Rod’s mother’s ride. When you come back, you can bring it with you.”

“Ma’s ride?” I questioned. 

“Sally,” he answered. I immediately recognized the vehicle he was talking about, a cherry red 1971 Barracuda. I didn’t know that it’d been my mom’s, though. I guess Ange had taken custody of it when she had me. “However, I’m starting you with that piece of shit right over there,” he pointed to the tarp covered car. “It’s a fuckin’, uh, I dunno. It’s what you kids’d call a ‘mom car’. A Dodge Charger. It’ll do it’s job. Oh! And I have you a map and a list of locations where you can dump your cars and get different ones. It’ll help you out. And you just tell my contacts here that Old Ange Luco sent you.” I took the map and list of contacts, which had routes that would offer us the lowest detection highlighted with a marker, before tucking it in my back pocket. I stuck my hand out to shake.

“Thank you, Uncle Angelo,” I said, expecting him to shake. Instead, he looked at me with a stale expression. 

“Oh, so you’re gonna leave already, son? Charlotte is still comin’ to give you boys’ hairs a chopping.” I looked at Shawn, who’d been relatively quiet this whole time. “Plus, Rod, Nina’s cooking Salisbury Steak tonight.” Shawn shrugged. 

“Well, I dunno. We can stay here tonight I guess. But we have to be... We have to be careful. Who knows what they know about us.” Uncle Angelo patted my shoulder. 

“I got you, kid. You’ll be fine if you skip early in the morning.” With that, we all went back inside. By now, it was around four in the afternoon, and Nina had begun preparing for dinner. We were immediately embraced by the cool, air conditioned atmosphere of the house. Nina had the radio going quietly as the sound of the sink and various dishes clacking together echoed from the kitchen. 

__

Around six thirty, the doorbell rang. Me, being paranoid about the whole situation, immediately jumped. My uncle rushed to the door, swinging it open. 

“Ay, Tony! C’mon in,” he invited. A very tall man with a neat presentation stepped inside, along with a slightly shorter blonde woman carrying a sort of suitcase thing. I didn’t know what it was, but I could safely assume that it was her hair cutting tools. He shook Tony’s hand before doing the weird kiss-either-cheek thing with the woman. “Good to see you, good to see you. This, uh, this over here is Rod, my nephew, and this right here is my other nephew, Shawn.” We shook hands with Tony and Charlotte, each introducing ourselves. 

“So I understand you boys need cuts,” Charlotte said warmly. “Do we know what we want?” Shawn and I looked at each other. 

“Well, our beards need to go, for one,” Shawn stated. “And we’d like to be unrecognizable. So, whatever you think would be best.” Charlotte nodded and looked at me.

“He basically summed it up,” I confirmed. “We gotta look like different people after this.” She smiled and nodded.

“Well, we’ll see what we can figure out for you after dinner.” 

We all took a seat at the table, my uncle at his usual place at the head. Nina walked around, setting down plates filled with heaps of mashed potatoes, greens and steak patties covered in brown gravy, along with everyone’s requested drinks. Everyone politely thanked her before beginning to eat. The dinner was filled with Shawn and I being interrogated by Charlotte, plus terrible jokes being cranked from Uncle Angelo on occasion. After the meal was finished, Tony and my uncle disappeared somewhere and Nina, like a snake slithering back into its hole after catching a mouse, took to the kitchen to do the dishes. This left Shawn and I with Charlotte. 

We posted up in the bathroom upstairs since it was much larger. Shawn decided to go first. His hair was relatively short, just a little on the longer side as if he hadn’t kept it trimmed. My hair, however, was kind of a blown-back, long-hair-but-not-past-the-nape-of-my-neck type of shaggy style, and that was unintentional. This whole time, my locks had been kept beneath my cap.

Charlotte began by dying Shawn’s hair dark brown with a permanent dye. While his hair was setting, she sat me in the chair. I looked once more at my auburn hair, a trait that I’d inherited from my mom. Nobody else on her side of the family had ever had that hair color naturally. And since my father’s side was Scandinavian, I didn’t get it from them. 

“What color are you going for, Rod?” I kept my eyes fixed on my reflection.

“Dark. What would you recommend?”

“For your beautiful hair color, I would say you would probably need... Well, I have to bleach your hair first. And then we can do whatever color you’d really like.”

“Whatever you gave to Shawn, I guess,” I said sadly. I had always taken pride in my hair. It’d been a large part of my public image, as well as my don’t-give-a-fuck- attitude. That’s why it had to go. Nodding, she began the process of bleaching my hair. 

After applying the lightening chemicals to my hair, she rinsed out Shawn’s hair and began snipping away with a small, sharp pair of scissors that glinted under the bathroom light. The whole time, I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was a gross yellow color now. I looked like a less cringey version of Guy Fieri with longer hair. Shawn looked back and forth between our reflections nervously as the sound of blades cutting through hair filled the thick silence. She often brought out different tools, like what she called ‘texturing (or thinning) shears’, and used them to aid her in giving Shawn a fresh cut. 

She ended up just giving both of us the standard businessman cuts, the kind that she was probably used to giving to her husband and other men like him. Cartalene wasn’t a small town, but the presence of the mafia was known and feared by many. I was sure that Charlotte got a lot of my uncle’s guys in asking for cuts. 

Once we were all cleaned up, she looked at us once more, admiring her work. 

“Alright, boys, you’re all finished,” she cheerily said, walking out of the bathroom. 

“Thank you,” Shawn and I responded nearly in unison. After she left, we looked at each other. I could see why he kept a beard now. He looked like a fucking fourteen year old. 

We made our way downstairs where my uncle was sitting, watching TV in his favorite chair. He looked up at us. 

“Well, look at that. Now you two look less like Hell,” he said in a gravelly voice, pushing the footrest down to sit forward, “And you, Rod, I can fuckin’ recognize you now.” I nodded.

“Well at least I don’t look like some ninth grader now,” I teased as I jabbed Shawn with my elbow. “I can still buy beer and have people believe I’m twenty two.” 

“Fuck you, Rod,” Shawn said defensively, crossing his arms. His pale skin finally gained some color, his cheeks burning cherry red from embarrassment.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t want to be labeled as the next Kevin Spacey,” I retorted. This warranted a chuckle from Uncle Angelo and a wheezy laugh from myself. Shawn was fuming. Now he really looked like an angry fourteen year old. “Oh, oh!” I continued, wiping a tear from my eye, “did I hurt the big boy’s feelings? Maybe you should go lock yourself in your room without talking to anyone for days.” My uncle and I laughed even harder. 

“No, Rod, don’t make him mad! He’ll get moody with us,” my uncle joined in. Shawn started laughing as well. 

If only that joy could last. 

If only Shawn and I didn’t have to throw our lives away. If only-- if only this bullshit wasn’t happening to us. 

If only that bullet had missed that poor, poor police officer’s head. 

[scionofbalance]

The Weaving Thoughts

The Silenced Cathedral. The weapon crafted by the desperation of Humanity in the falsehood of providing their god's glory upon the shared land of Nosgoth with the harmonious muse of accursed pipes sitting high above. Once upon a time, this place would have been a beautiful idol of fervorous worship that all of Nosgoth could have heard. Now, it was a hive of the wyrd and weavers of lying truths and truthful damnations.    As Kain looked upon the door that barred all but one upon convenient entry, he frowned. In his mind's clearing clarity, he pondered on some decisions and mused a humor to the physical trials and puzzles that his mother-home always provided. Ever since he was young, he recalled secrets locked away for untold time. Why not make the next champion's trial of equal measure? Reaching back, he grasped his talons around the weapon that he was, is, and always shall be his. Ancient leathers welcomed him as his grip tightened and as if in engaged on a rite he've perfected countless times in respect to its unequal lethality, unsheathed the Soul Reaver from its old scabbard. The locks clicked aloose and the slithering blade hissed a sound of unearthly breath. Upon its quillon, the vampiric skull rested. Its old bone as tested as its former counterpart, sockets glowing the firefoxes of the one grand soul trapped within.   "Raziel." The Emperor whispered, leaning the blade over and rested his bony crown upon. Christening the long journey and hard obstacles were slowly blossoming to this moment. He could feel him, even now. So close, yet so far. And through him, Kain could feel the Others. Molded to one and that one touched upon his soul, that is key.   Finally, in a moment of this, Kain reared the Soul Reaver and slid it into the lock. The sound scrapping through the bewitched metal and the souls howling, boiling and opening it through before twisting once. A ghostly hymn rolled to the arcane locks enscribed upon the grand entrance and into the engraving of his Fifth Son in his prime, standing as the door guardian. Eyes glowing, condemning who opened his sanctum and tomb, before splitting open to allow a breath of dead air.   One step in and immediately, the Vampire Lord felt it. The hundreds of eyes falling upon him. It was a spine-tingling pressure that provoked a soft entertained smile upon his jaded lips. If such heinous thoughts were plaguing to their mind, he would pleased to oblige.    For now, he walked through the tower of his son's imprisonment.Eyes drifting and taking in the corruption that Nupraptor has fallen upon his son's clan. It was a darkeningly amusing yet sad thing. Proud vampires becoming...arachnids. Crawling, almost mindless, predators scuttling the walls and shadows.The madness that turned his proud empire into a fractured wood of warring tribes and unenlightened beasts.   He have forseen this and the first time, there was rage born of utter disgusted disappointment and finally nihilism that all that he accomplished would be this. He cursed not his sons, they were damned by him, and him by Nupraptor and his love-sickness.   Just the thought made him wish he could have made the bulbous-headed fool suffer a little longer when they first met. That was Zephon's way, not Kain's way. He didn't extend death due.   Even as they kept to the deepest of shadows, he could see them. Sense them crawling, the more braver just enough to make out their disproportioned forms. Unnaturally long limbs with bodies almost bloated and heinous of their chitinous outgrowth beneath their skin. Eyes peering awe, hate, love, and despair. Why was he here? Now, of this black age. The end of their Empire by the heralding of Nine Pearly Pillars rising into the heavens and pushed the weakened clouds of Turel's smog further.   Why was he here? Kain could have went further, dig his talons deep into Nosgoth's history and cut into the festering cancer that have tortured his First of Sons and pulled the doom of the vampires in its gluttonous greed. No, he can't. He must see his responsibility once more. He can not stop and forget this ruined piece of architecture that he crafted with his own hands. His grand piece from the foundation of Six.   As he was coming upon the central chime, the Emperor saw nothing but great webs constricting away until it was nothing but a beautiful barrier of grey white and a dazzling beaded constellation of blood practically mimicking the night sky. What was this? Some funerary memoir and protection?   Then, there was movement.   "My Emperor." A voice chimed from within. A voice wrapped by many others through one throat. "After so long, in the time of reckoning and end of the Great Lords, you have come. Have thee come as our salvation or to scorn one of their Failure?"   Kain had a sense of impatience to be warded from his goal, but it was been some time since speaking to his grandchildren.   "I have come to see upon the carcass of my beloved Fifth. Open the way and see me through..." He says in the strike of his voice and a sound like a hundred giant limbs moving inside. "Mmhm. Oh yes, yes - my glorious of liege. The vampires have prayed and sung of you, even in their feral degradation. Oh, but how is one already embraced of madness, regress to sanity? Hm. Ironies, complexities, Logical questions. Enough, enough." The other mused on with the eerie flanging of cackling. Then a dead breath.   The webs were being combed aside, bit by bit. A great figure was coming through, many limbed. Moreso than the Zephonim that Kain have seen before and this perked a little intrigue, the corrupted evolutions that his sons invented were usually streamlined but few had the will to seek most out of them and it was something he respected in a way.   Bladed limbs finally tore the layers of webs and spiders crawled out, old and young to the halls beyond them with one dried husk of a screaming body flopping out.   "Hoho, mm...forgive me in that ill manner." The guardian chuckled in dry amusement, the thing moving was bigger than a man. His body a horrific acceptance to the arachnid fate that plagued the clan.    Still man of body, skin a glossy, oil chitin of armour with his ribs splayed open into mobile limbs of constantly popping joints that adapted with tendons pulling like puppet strings connected on the spinal control. Long taloned arms and legs crawling his body along with a elongated neck twisting from some distraction to allow the mannish head of the elder to look upon Kain with his six eyes. Lower jaw opening and closing by their mandibles. Yet, even through the devolution, Kain recognized this man.   "Cyrill."    There was a look of pleasant surprise and pleasure passing the barely human face that he was remembered before bowing his head as if unable to take the perceived godly light that shone of his Emperor. "You remember...you remember." He muttered, starting to crawl aside with absentminded movement of his rib-limbs. "It is I, milord. Please, go to Him. Despite the assassination, his body has yet to leave us."   Kain did not stay long, by the release of but a few dire bats from his mane, they fluttered and chattered into flight through the tunnel of cleared web provided.Twisting and turning with magnificent finesse that centuries of practice have provided, he saw the many Zephonim that clung and hibernated on the walls. So many that the most of the circling wall looked almost pallid of their chitinous flesh. The constant hymn of their sorrow singing. Despite their Patriarch's drowning madness, they shared of his mind and through him, they missed his mental song.    How long before they became nothing but true monsters?   Finally upon the entrance of drying muscle, untouched by blood's nourishment since its owner's death, the bats provided the mark for Kain to teleport into with the clasp of his talons and mental recall.   Striding through the hall, he looked upon the monstrosity that his weaker of sons have grew into. What curse would have a vampire practically implode and join into a structure. This wasn't vampiric, it was more...daemonic and it hurt his missing heart to see it again. Like a fleshy garden digging into the walls of the old stone, this tower was Zephon to a point.   Through the noticeable orifice of a 'door', Kain looked upon the corpse across this empty chest. The 'heart' of this lair laying dead, its body still crackling of the flames to consume it. Black with veins of rolling charr, mouth in an eternal inhuman scream of anguish. The stench of it offended the father's nose but he stepped close.   Zephon. The Fifth of his sons. The Spymaster of his court and craftsman of so many intrigues next to Raziel in their games of passing entertainments in the centuries. He was proud, wickedly cunning man in life but his mind was molding for the worst like most of them. The Mentalist's madness crafted paranoia and possessive fright that Kain had tasted...and fought for his unlife. The same paranoia that never allowed him the fatherly attentions or friendships. Betrayal was too commonplace to him to allow it and Kain made sure his sons were taught this.   He wanted to protect them in a way, but they must learn and evolve in their triumphs and failure. Raziel showed that he didn't completely fail...but the boy was always a stubborn romantic.   A sad smile crossed and vanished on his face like a breeze.    "Zephon..." Kain mused aloud, holding the Reaver in his hand while gingerly touching the great corpse's splayed brow. The chitin hardened like stone, if he pressed anymore, he knew it might collapse and the body ruined. "You shall rise."  

[orientalcreativity]

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[writesandramblings]

The Captain’s Secret - p.9

“Under the Wire”

A/N: Sorry for the long delay! I made my own Halloween costume this year which took 40+ hours, and then I was involved in a wedding. I didn't have any time left over to write! But I'm back at work with laser focus on the fic again. Also, big thanks to @iwanttosaveyoufromyourself​, who did me the favor of copy-editing all the previous chapters. There were a few mistakes, but they have hopefully all been corrected now.

Full Chapter List << Part 8 - The Illusion of Choice 10 - Minimally Invasive Procedures >>

They approached the house under cover of darkness, circling around from the back to keep as much distance between themselves and the dining room as possible. It wasn't, strictly speaking, necessary for them to do this, but having the benefit of several walls and no clear line of sight between them and the Dartarans was a great comfort for Russo and Billingsley in particular.

What was not a comfort was having Lalana running around in the trees under cover of darkness. Though the Starfleet-issue night vision glasses were top notch and lit the forest to crystal clarity, there was something instinctively unsettling about strange noises from above in the dark, and after about three minutes of fighting the urge to fire his rifle into the trees (and nearly actually doing so), Lorca called Lalana down to the ground to walk with them. She took the lead: her twelve pupils were so wide in the dim light, her eyes looked almost totally black with thin slivers of green, and she clicked her tongue at the sight of her human companions in their funny eye gear because they couldn't see very well in the dark.

They broke through the trees in the vicinity of the shuttle landing pad. Lorca found a small but meaningful dose of satisfaction at seeing the empty spot where the second Dartaran transport should have been, but wasn't.

Their first task was to disable the invisible fence. Billingsley was characteristically annoyed at having to do this in night vision goggles, but the technology was almost identical to the compound's external fence system. She disarmed a small section of it with ease using the same technique as before: bridging the power to create the illusion of an unbroken fence while providing them with a gap wide enough to slip through.

The motion sensors went next, disabled by a perfect pair of shots from Morita's rifle carefully calibrated according to Billingsley's specifications. This created a small corridor from their position up to the house completely free of any sensors, but they held their position outside the fence, waiting and watching for any sign that the Dartarans had noticed the minor faults in their security system. The system had been designed to alert them to any encroaching creatures from the forest, not withstand a coordinated break-in attempt, and both Dartaran signatures remained in the dining room, oblivious.

This was the point where, had the Dartarans noticed, they would have aborted the attempt and returned after the Dartarans went to bed. Now they were committed to finishing before lights out. Lorca signaled and they advanced on the mansion.

Creeping past the landing pad, they met their first real obstacle in the form of the door. After almost ten minutes, Billingsley announced she couldn't possibly open it without tripping an internal alert that a door had been unlocked and opened.

"When a door closes," prompted Lorca. Billingsley didn't follow.

"A window opens?" offered Russo.

The windows of the house were small, round, recessed portholes. Lorca clearly wasn't going to fit through, and Russo likely wouldn't, either, but Billingsley stood a chance, and Morita definitely could.

Billingsley scanned the windows with her tricorder. They had half as many security measures as the door. "Doable," she agreed.

"I'll go," said Morita.

Billingsley fixed Lorca with a look of dark determination, eager to make up for her earlier embarrassment. "No. Let me do it."

Lalana went up to the window first. She scaled the wall as easily as she had the trees, gripping the smooth stone outcroppings with vise-like hands and feet and perching on the vertical surface as comfortably as most people sat on a chair. There was something very satisfying about watching her in her native element, like watching a master craftsman at work, only the mastery in this case was the result of the guiding hand of evolution rather than years of training. Lalana eased the ladder into position perfectly and with minimal noise, then watched with freakishly black eyes as Billingsley proceeded up and crawled into the porthole tunnel.

From the ground, only Lalana and Billingsley's feet were visible, and neither offered much in the way of a progress report. Lorca frowned and shifted his weight, resolutely staring at Billingsley's feet for any clues.

"I should be up there," said Morita. She was still monitoring the Dartarans' location; Morita was nothing if not relentlessly cautious. She was an excellent security officer, but if she didn't learn to take a few more risks, she likely wouldn't advance much further in the ranks. "What if they get caught?"

Lorca had already anticipated and planned a course of action for that possibility, but it was so remote it didn't merit mentioning. "Lalana's with the chief. They'll be fine."

"Yes, sir." Morita left unvoiced her lingering concern that maybe they shouldn't be throwing everything to the wind for an alien they'd met a few days ago, even if that alien seemed sincere and had a worthwhile plight for Starfleet to resolve. Lorca had clearly decided they were going to pursue this adventure and it was too late to try and stop him now.

Billingsley's feet disappeared into the porthole. No alarms went off. Lalana released the ladder and vanished into the tunnel after her.

They waited. One minute, two. The door opened.

It was warm inside, and dimly-lit, but bright enough to see by. Lorca pushed the night vision glasses up on his head. "Well done, both of you."

"Thank you, captain."

"Thank you, captain!"

The house's interior was as brown as the exterior with what looked to be peach-colored ceilings, though it was hard to tell with the dim, yellow cast of the diamond-shaped wall sconces. Apparently Dartarans really went for the whole pink and brown color combination. Lorca took lead this time, rifle at the ready, though all signs indicated this side of the house was empty.

Their first destination was the house's central control box: its nerve center and brain. Billingsley and Russo worked together to install a siphon and intercept module which would route all the Dartarans' outgoing transmissions through to a beacon instead of the usual communications channels, allowing the Triton to listen in on everything and hijack the signal entirely.

Next was the office. In stark contrast to the exterior and hallways, the office was decorated with swaths of red fabric: wall curtains draping from the ceiling to the floor, bunched up to create an artistically curving zig-zag pattern of ripples in the cloth. Lorca had seen similar wall curtains in the Dartaran entry of Starfleet's database. It seemed to be how Dartarans decorated important state rooms where meetings took place. Russo, who had brushed up on the same database files before the mission, wondered if other rooms were so strictly delineated by distinct decorating styles in Dartaran culture.

A desk console sat in the middle of the room, copper-brown in color, with two rocky pillars that served as chairs and a low shelf of heavy, hand-bound books. Russo wired his tricorder directly into the console, ran a quick password crack, and set about accessing the Dartarans' files. "I want every piece of communication since Lalana's escape, any references to hunting lului, and give me everything on Peter Bhandary while you're at it," ordered Lorca. Russo scrambled to search the Dartarans' personal database and began transferring data.

"Sir!" Morita hissed in sudden alarm. "One of them's coming!"

Lalana stretched up on her legs in alert. "Across the hall!"

Russo jabbed his finger at his tricorder to cancel the data transfer. It didn't respond. He jabbed it again, and again, to no avail. He reached for the data cable, but Billingsley grabbed his hand. "No! You'll break their system!" On the tricorder, the words "Unstable Data Matrix, Please Wait" appeared. Presumably, this referred to the Dartarans' data storage expressing some sort of system instability.

Lorca didn't waste a moment. "Go," he ordered, pushing Russo aside from the console. Russo, Billingsley, and Morita followed Lalana into the hallway. Billingsley glanced back for the briefest of moments and hoped the captain had a really good plan.

Whether the plan was good, time would soon tell, but Lorca did at least have an idea. The progress bar on the tricorder was moving, but slowly. It looked like it needed at least two more minutes. "Goddamn technology," muttered Lorca, grabbing two octagonal bound notebooks from the shelf and putting them on top of the tricorder. A bit of the wire was still visible, but easily overlooked.

Lalana returned, closing the door behind her carefully. She jerked her tail towards the door three times. Lorca understood: three. Not good.

Lalana silently bounded over to the other side of the room. There was a small gap in the curtains. She swept it aside with her tail, revealing a second door. Lorca shut off the console monitor and joined her, because while there was no telling what lay on the other side, anywhere was better than here.

The second door turned out to lead to a room completely unlike anything else Lorca had seen so far. It was bright, glaringly so, with an intense, flat, sterile white tone that reminded Lorca of a hospital. The room was L-shaped and covered in a pale, metallic blue material. There was a mirror to the left set above something that looked like it dispensed some type of liquid and a strange copper box was attached to the adjacent wall. Around the corner to the right was a large pit of fine yellow sand recessed into the ground and partly covered by a metal grate.

They heard the hallway door to the office open. Now only one door lay between them and whoever was on the other side, and one door didn't feel like nearly enough, so Lorca beelined for the sandpit and tucked himself under the metal grating on the nearest side, minimizing his visibility from the entrance. Lalana jumped down after him and pressed herself against as much of his body as she could cover, her tail draping across his shoulder and just touching his neck, then turned herself the color of the sand.

Sounds were audible from the office. T'rond'n's low, booming voice called out, "I found it!" He'd left something in the office, apparently. Fair enough.

But T'rond'n didn't exit back to the hallway. He opened the door behind the wall curtains and entered the bright, blue room.

Lorca's finger readied on the trigger of his rifle. While he was as hidden as he could be, if T'rond'n came close enough or actually looked in the sandpit, the jig would be up.

T'rond'n took two steps and stopped in front of the mirror. There was a short series of plinking sounds. Then he noisily sniffed the air, grunted, and left.

Lorca waited until he heard the hallway door open and close, then waited some more. Lalana remained perfectly still beside him, not a single strand of her dermis moving.

They heard the hallway door open again. Someone rapped on the office wall softly, trying to find the door behind the curtains. Lalana removed herself from Lorca's side and he rolled out from under the grating and stood, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Half his body was covered in sand. (The night vision glasses also looked a mess pushed up on his head, but there was a certain element of roguish charm to them that wasn't entirely unbecoming.)

Morita found the door and poked her head in. "Captain," she said, glancing around the brightly-lit room in appraisal.

"Be right out," said Lorca, shaking the sand off his rifle, and Morita disappeared back into the office. "Now that's what we call an adrenaline rush."

"What is adrenaline?"

Despite the shaking, there was still sand on his gun. "Ask Dr. Ek'Ez that one."

Lalana touched her tail to the grating. "Sit here." Lorca obliged and Lalana brushed the sand from him, her dermal filaments much more precise and effective than his hand, picking out every miniscule grain of sand from his clothes and dropping it down through the grate. This was apparently the purpose of the grating: a place to sit while removing sand.

"Lalana," said Lorca, half-dreading the question, "why is there sand in here?"

Lalana brushed the sand from his jacket. "It is a Dartaran shower."

Lorca exhaled in relief. "Thank goodness for that." Dartaran bathroom facilities had not been adequately covered in Starfleet's files, but he'd be sure to amend that oversight once they were back on the Triton, assuming he could do so without anyone asking how he'd come by this information.

"What did you think it was?"

"A litterbox," Lorca admitted after a moment.

"Litter...?" she repeated. Lorca explained and Lalana's tongue clicked with laughter and her shoulders shook. "A litterbox! And you jumped into it?"

"Well it was a good thing I did," he countered. Tactically, at least.

"It was very clever," she agreed. She pointed to the copper box on the wall. "That is the litterbox."

It was markedly devoid of sand. Lorca snorted with amusement. "Not a litterbox, a toilet."

"I see," said Lalana cheerily, as if the distinction between the two meant nothing to her (which it probably did not). Her tail swept up past Lorca's cheek and pressed against the side of his head.

He winced, anticipating some sort of tugging or wriggling, but she extracted the sand from his hair with such delicacy it felt like a gentle breeze against his scalp. "I do hope T'rond'n's teeth will be all right," she said.

Lorca frowned, surprised by the apparent non sequitur. "His teeth?"

"He will probably get gum rot again now that I am gone, even though I am right here." She passed her tail over Lorca's hair a second time, presumably to make sure all the sand was out, and then stepped back. Lorca looked as pristine as he had before entering the pit, which was to say, rumpled from a day in the jungle, but clear of any sand.

Lorca recalled the plinking noise. The reason it had sounded somewhat familiar—it had been T'rond'n picking his teeth. But what did that have to do with... "Please tell me you didn't use your tail to clean T'rond'n's teeth."

Lalana obligingly said nothing.

Lorca sighed exaggeratedly, partly annoyed by this revelation, partly impressed by the practicality of it. "He kept you captive. If he gets 'gum rot,' it'll be what we humans call 'karma.' When you do something bad and bad things happen to you." Or the reverse, though it didn't seem to apply in this particular situation.

"T'rond'n isn't bad," said Lalana. "He and Margeh simply wanted to hunt a difficult prey. I gave them an excellent hunt."

"Still... Don't you want a little bit of cosmic revenge?"

Lalana rubbed her fingers together thoughtfully. "I do not see what I gain from it. It just makes T'rond'n unhappy. I would rather he be happy. I would rather all people be happy."

Lorca realized it was hopeless. Lalana didn't seem to have a judgmental bone in her body. "All right, then," he said, as if some conclusion had been reached, and stepped up onto the grating, exiting the sandpit. Lalana lingered in the pit a moment, using her tail to erase any trace of their presence from the surface of the sand, then hopped up beside him.

She was still sand-colored. "Were you going to change back?"

"I like this color," she said. "You like blue better?" Lorca shrugged slightly and she turned blue again. He'd assumed the blue was her natural color, but apparently it was a fashion choice.

They returned to the office. "Progress report," said Lorca immediately. Russo looked up from the console, Billingsley hovering over his shoulder.

"I have all the comm logs of the past week, and everything on Bhandary, but... nothing on the lului hunting. If it's in here, it's not searchable by any keywords I can think of, and there's no comm logs with any of the names of the traders. Either the records have been purged, degraded, or their point of contact is someone else. I have the date range of Lalana's arrival, but... there are too many logs, it'll take hours to review them."

"Grab everything you can to bring back to the Triton."

"Yes, sir."

Russo went about his work under Billingsley's watchful eye. (She hated Lorca hovering over her shoulder, but was apparently fine doing the same thing to someone else.) There was nothing else for Lorca, Lalana, and Morita to do but wait. "ETA, Lieutenant?" asked Lorca.

"Ten minutes, sir."

Billingsley immediately chimed in, "More. We have to go slow, their storage system isn't designed to handle this much active data at once. It's very fragile. If we go any faster, we risk damaging their data crystals irreversibly."

Lorca didn't care about any of the technical issues, just the timeframe. There was something he wanted to do.

It seemed only fair, having received a tour of the Triton, that Lalana provide Lorca with a tour of the Dartarans' home. The house was spectacularly ugly by most human standards, but it was impressively large, and Lalana knew every inch of the place.

The tour was restricted to the half of the house furthest from the dining room. Even with that restriction, there were some interesting sights, like the Dartarans' trophy hall. Most of the rooms featured some form of hunting trophy as decoration, but the trophy hall was devoted entirely to the hobby. Preserved creatures from dozens of worlds, bones and skulls, hides and holographic images—everywhere he looked, something strange and unfamiliar looked back.

Lalana went to a display cabinet with several small trophies and skeletons and pointed to a box. "These are Lalaran's lenses," she said. Two clear, glasslike discs sat on a bed of dark green fabric. She picked one up and offered it to Lorca. It was the same size as Lalana's eyes, made of a material like crystallized chitin, startlingly clear. The curvature of the edges bent the light slightly, possibly indicating lului had 180-degree-or-better sight.

Lorca handed it back and pointed to some six-inch spikes with bands of black and turquoise. "What are these?"

"Ah! Those are stingers from Orendan wasps. Very nasty, they shoot them at intruders." There was a horn from a hornbuck, wings from a vimeria moth, the three heads of an Aldebaran serpent mounted together, and a complete Trellan crocodile preserved with a plasticization process. A beautifully iridescent hide belonged to a Strykelian ram, while a stretch of multicolored scales running almost a full four meters along the wall came from a giant mud snake native to the swamps of Cetos IV that could topple large trees with its constriction.

Every single creature seemed to have some vicious or clever mechanism that provided a challenge for the Dartarans. It was a marvel how so many creatures had evolved such disparate yet effective mechanisms for hunting and defending themselves. Lorca ran his fingers along the ridges of a mounted fish resembling a cross between a pufferfish and an angler with vivid red spots on its cheeks.

"Do you like this room?"

Lorca withdrew his hand, realizing how this must look to Lalana. An entire room devoted to the glorification of hunting. "It's very interesting," he said noncommittally.

"I love this room. There are so many different creatures from so many different worlds!"

Lorca was taken aback. "It doesn't... bother you?"

"Well, yes," she admitted. "It would be so much better if they had eaten them all. But I like to see what things from other worlds look like, so I am glad that not every species eats what they kill, else how would I have seen these things?"

Lorca parsed this carefully. "The only thing that bothers you is they didn't eat everything they killed?"

Lalana shifted her weight, uncertain what he expected her to say.

"You're not bothered by the fact they go gallivanting around, hunting other things the same way they hunted you?" He recalled what she had said about Lalaran. "The things they hunt don't get to choose how they die."

"You're a hunter, too, aren't you?"

Lorca froze. His hands were on his rifle and he hadn't been able to contain his interest in the trophies, yes, and he had been hunting, but... "Not—not intelligent species." Not in the sense of hunting, anyway. There was a very big difference between hunting something and facing an opponent in a combat situation.

"All species are intelligent. Maybe not as much as us, but, they all live and breed and follow their instincts. Perhaps there are other beings out there that are to us as we are to insects. So, how smart something is has nothing to do with its right to live."

Lorca felt like he had to draw a philosophical line in the sand here. "Now hold on a minute. There's a big difference between killing something that only has baser instincts and killing something that can talk."

"Not from the perspective of the 'baser instinct' creature."

"Yes," insisted Lorca, "because it doesn't have the cognitive function to appreciate its... own mortality. Can you really say you like this room when you're also saying it's wrong to kill anything unless you eat it, and everything has a right to live?"

There was a brief pause. Then Lalana erupted into tongue clicks. Lorca crossed his arms, not seeing the humor. It took a long time for the clicking to subside. "That's the opposite, captain! I do not mean everything has a right to live. I mean there is no difference between killing something intelligent and killing something which is not. I don't mean to suggest that either death is wrong. They are what they are."

"So if a lului killed another lului..."

Lalana tilted her head. "Why would a lului do that?"

Lorca fixed her with a look that suggested the reasons were obvious. "Jealousy, argument, accident, fighting a war. Why does anyone kill anyone?"

"We have no wars, but... if a lului somehow killed another in an accident, they would be obligated to eat the dead one."

Several emotions played out on Lorca's face in succession, ranging from surprise and disbelief to calculated understanding and disgust. "You... eat each other."

"Not as a general rule, but if one of us caused the death of another, we would be so obligated. What do you do if you kill someone?"

It wasn't completely true to say that there were not and had never been human cannibals, but for the most part, it was not an acceptable practice. "Burial. Cremation. In a really desperate survival situation... but it would have to be extreme. Eat the other person or starve. And even then, a lot of humans wouldn't do it."

"Starve? What's that?"

Lorca's communicator beeped for attention. It was Morita, reporting the data dump was complete. Lorca flipped the communicator shut and clipped it back to his belt, then returned his attention to Lalana. "Is your translator working? You've been asking a lot of questions." Perhaps Kerrigan wasn't up to the task of fleshing out the matrix and merited replacement with someone else.

Lalana tapped her knuckles twice. "It is working. I... had Ensign Kerrigan show me how to adjust it so that when there is a word in your language that doesn't not have a conceptual lului equivalent, it does not translate it. That way I can learn the word. Was that wrong?"

It was mildly inconvenient, but not wrong. It also meant two things. "So you've been learning English?" was the first.

"Yes."

The second was, "And you don't have a word for 'starvation' or 'starving?'"

"No, what is it?" Lalana listened to the definition with grim attentiveness. "Not having anything to eat... that is hard to fathom."

Lorca snorted in amusement. "Not every species can eat dirt." Or each other, for that matter. "Let's head back."

"Did you want to see my room before we leave?"

In her debrief, Lalana had mentioned being kept in a room most of the time, but hadn't described it much except to say it was white. Lorca grabbed his communicator again. "Morita, what's the status on the Dartarans?"

"Upstairs now," she reported.

"Going to bed," supplied Lalana.

They were in the clear, then. "We're going to make a quick pit stop. Meet you at the exit."

"Sir," confirmed Morita, sounding very professionally nonjudgmental, which was a credit to her training and personal discipline, because it entirely did not reflect her feelings about the mission at this point.

Lorca gestured for Lalana to lead on.

"Here it is."

While "white" was a perfectly accurate description of the room—it was almost entirely white except for the floors, which were brown—it somehow didn't convey the room's contents very accurately. A wall of white metal bars divided the room into two areas. There were more white metal poles in the cage area, but rather than serving as a partition, they formed a sort of metal forest of curves and branches.

The door to the cage was still open, as it had been when Lalana had escaped. Presumably the Dartarans saw no reason to close it now.

"It is very nice, no?"

It was stark, and white, and looked uncomfortable, but it did seem to have been designed for Lalana, providing her ample climbing space (though her range of motion would have been stymied somewhat by that puffy jumpsuit they'd strapped her in).

Lalana bounded into the open cage. "This is where the food was left, and this is where Lalaran died. There were no trees in here originally. Margeh added them for me. She noticed that I mostly stayed up on the bars and wanted to give me more things to climb. They were good owners, captain, so please don't think too badly on them."

It was hard to forget Lalana's desperate pleas for help during her escape and square that against her assertion of Margeh and T'rond'n as not such bad owners. "You ran away from them."

"Well, yes. But not because they were bad. Because..." She fell silent, hands clasped tightly.

Lorca's brow furrowed with concern. Nearly everything was an open book with Lalana. She was unashamed to admit to a societal policy that embraced cannibalism, unbothered at the idea of sentients outright murdering other sentients, and cheerily narrated the death of a fellow lului, but here at last was proof of that nagging feeling in the back of his head that she'd been holding something back from him.

"...because I had to stop the lului hunting. I owed it to my people."

He realized it was guilt, plain and simple. She felt guilty about having spent six years lounging around in what was to her a comfortable captivity while her people were still under threat. Probably she could have escaped much sooner had she really wanted to. No one needed six years to steal a shuttle. If she'd really tried, she probably could have managed the escape in half the time, if even that.

It was tremendously disappointing. Lalana had presented herself as a victim of circumstance, carefully plotting and planning for six years to orchestrate an escape, when in reality, she had apparently been content to ignore the injustice until the point when her guilt caught up to her and she'd finally decided to do the right thing. How many lului had died while Lalana had played in a jungle of metal trees, cleaning T'rond'n's teeth and admiring her captors' hunting collection?

Lorca abhorred injustice. He'd always made it a point to face it head on and immediately when he could. It was why he'd been so keen to help the lului. He hated that pervasive  "out of sight, out of mind" mentality that let people stand by while others suffered, ignoring any problems which were not directly affecting themselves. Even now, Lalana seemed more concerned with Margeh and T'rond'n's reputations than the fate of her own people.

He realized he was being a little too harsh. There was clearly an element of Stockholm syndrome at play. Whatever she had or hadn't done, and whatever timeline she'd done it on, she had been in a difficult situation, the details of which were only partially known to him, and she felt bad. While he didn't love the sentiment "better late than never," because better sooner than later, it was true to an extent. "You did what you had to do," he said, but hollowly, because he didn't totally believe the sentiment.

"...Yes." She didn't sound convinced herself. She turned and looked around the cage. "It is strange to think this is the last time I will see this. But thank you for letting me do so."

"We really should get going," he said. Considering how long it had taken them both to get to this moment, it suddenly felt like there wasn't a minute to waste.

Part 10