#i feel empty having read all their ch//erik fics like what do i do now

[menlove]

drop the link to the cats fic author :)

lmaoooo it's this author

and the fic i was reading that made me reevaluate my life with how good it was was this one

but i did 100% go through and read all of their x-men works and they're all equally as good (and idek if you or any others that'll read this are into x-men and will take it as a rec BUT i highly do recommend the conscience and consequence series do not let the first person pov turn you off it's soooo good. each is alternate endings to the first but you don't need to read all of them to understand the others)

[inforapound]

With Our Eyes Shut Ch.2

A/N - I really wasn’t sure anyone would read a Sigefrid fic so to those who liked and commented on the first chapter, I really appreciate it. Chapter 1 Here. 

Series Warnings - historical/series inaccuracies, mentions of abuse, mentions of pregnancy termination, angst, fluff.

 Pairing - Sigefrid and OFC    Chapters 2 of 4

“You do not speak much.”

Glancing away, her eyes shifted about the room but returned to his, clearly unsure of whether to respond.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, noticing the way her fingers still fiddled with her apron and the skirt of her dress. “Afraid of this?” he lifted his bladed arm.

Looking at it, she nodded yes.

“Wise,” he smiled showing his remarkably good teeth.

“I do speak,” her voice croaked, and she immediately cleared her throat. “But, here, it is better to be….” she hesitated.

“Mute?”

“Invisible.”

“I see,” he eyed her a moment longer, dissecting her meaning before taking a seat and motioning for her to join.

Moving to stand next to him, she unsurprisingly, chose the side with his good hand.

“Woman, start,” he nodded, his voice again gruff.

Reaching forward, she gathered the materials they had abandoned the first day. Pulling the one remaining copy of the alphabet forward, she pushed a quill towards him.

With a huff, he picked it up, fumbling with the thin feather and pressed it to the parchment. Her hands shot forward and grabbed his, stilling it before repositioning the feather in his large, weathered hand.

“Softly,” she uttered. “Do not press.”

Saying nothing, he watched her small hands pull away from his.

Humming, she indicated her approval as he drew the curved lines of the first letter. Once done, he scowled at his work and looked over to her.

“A,” she said, looking at him evenly.

“A,” he repeated, perking up at the fact she had not found an error. 

“Ahh,” she sounded it out.

“What?” he made a face.

“This letter. That is the sound it makes. Ahh.”

“Why? I thought it was A. I am not making that sound.”

Shrugging, she looked back to the paper and pointed at the next symbol walking him through the same process.

Shooting his head back, he felt the silliest sense of pride, looking at the two markings that were more or less like hers.

It made him grin, “I am a fucking natural. Nooooo surprise,” he called out, tipping his head back and laughing.

She could not help but smile and his eyes caught it before returning his focus to the next few letters.

Perfectly still, she stood at his side and each time he completed another, he would look to her for adulation. Inwardly he rolled his eyes at himself, so easily bolstered by her praise.

“Sit down,” he said, still working the quill. “A warrior does not like to be stood over.”

Pulling out the chair, she settled in and he slouched back, taking it as a moment to rest.

“I do not understand how these things,” he nodded indicating the paper, “create language.”

She looked from him back to the paper, “It takes time, Lord. It is a skill...like any other. Each step a base for the next.”

She kept her gaze on the table, avoiding his eyes.

He sighed, opening and closing his hand as if it had been strained.

“This exhausts me. I feel the need to,” put my cock in something warm he thought but instead he said, “...drink.”

Sliding back his chair, he rose and headed to the door, glancing back as he opened it, “We will do this again.”

“Tomorrow, Lord?”

Chewing the skin on the inside of his lip, he paused, thinking, “No,” he shook his head, leaving without another word.

___

It was a week before she turned and nearly slammed into the enormous Waylen standing behind her, waiting to escort her to the meeting room. Following that lesson, she was summoned every few days but it quickly evolved into most afternoons.

The progress was slow and slowed further by his many questions and need to understand. And, although still skittish, she seemed to find some guarded sense of ease in his presence, set back, at times, by his outbursts of frustration.

She began to bring a jug of ale and bread and cheese or fruit, whatever she could take from the kitchen without attracting attention. As one of the two Lords of Beamfleot, Sigefrid could have anything but she, maintaining her word to keep their meetings private, moved in the shadows.

That afternoon, the session was much like any other, Sigefrid in the chair, uncomfortably working the quill with her seated next as he sounded out simple words. Still, regularly grunting and mumbling how moronic it all was.

“Now what?” He dropped the feather and looked at her.

“A moment please, Lord,” rising from her seat, she went to the shelf on the far side and filled a cup from a jug of wine. Bringing it to him, along with a plate of bread and dried meat with an apple on the side, she handed it over, motioning for him to drink.

“Are you trying to poison me,” he sniffed the cup. “Or, get me drunk?”

“Eat and drink first. The next part will feel silly and you anger easily when you have not eaten.”

Smiling, he emptied half the cup in one loud gulp, taking such a large bite from the apple, it collapsed into two. Smoothing his hand over his thick black beard, his smile simmered but his dark eyes continued to shine. It was quiet moments like these, looking at her pretty face that he felt he was coming to terms with his fondness of having her near. 

“So the wine loosens the tongue and makes me a better pupil, eh?”

“Enough wine and people will do almost anything,” she smiled but quickly lowered her eyes.

“How did you end up a slave in Beamfleot?”

“I told you,” she replied in a soft voice, still looking down. “My mother and father were killed.”

“Yes, but after that?”

“I made my way through the woods, eventually found myself on that ridge just beyond the east wall. Stayed there for several days.”

“And then?” he pressed, tearing off a bite of the salted meat.

She settled back in the chair as if sensing the lesson was over.

“Two men out hunting stumbled upon me and one of them brought me home to his family. He had a wife and four children and I helped look after them and cook...did chores,” she shrugged.

“Did they mistreat you?” he emptied his cup and she sprung to her feet, retrieving the jug and filled it again.

“I am alive so...” she sat back down. 

Dropping his chin, he eyed her, squinting, making it clear he was not buying her dismissiveness.

For a moment she said nothing but exhaled and answered. “He took liberties, Lord,” she looked down, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “After the first season with them...I found myself...in a sensitive way.”

At that, his own eyes faltered and he looked into his cup, saying nothing more.

Clearing her throat, she again pushed the hair away from her face.

“I drank poison I got from a healer... or a witch, I am not sure what she was. It took care of it and nearly me in the process, but some good did come from it,” she pressed her lips together. “He did not touch me after that...though...his wife became a danger.” She shrugged again. “I have forced myself to believe that it was not about me,” she looked up, surprising him by staring into his eyes, “and that I was just some faceless pound of flesh. On your own Lord, you learn all people prey on those who have no where to go.”

They sat for some time in silence, broken only by the distant sounds of wood being chopped and faint voices as people went about their day.

“You hate Saxon people?” he finally asked, his voice unusually quiet.

“I neither hate or care for them but I am reminded each day that they are not my people.”

“Do you speak of these meetings to the other slaves.”

“No, Lord,” her eyes widened. “Never. I speak to no one. I have only ever had words with you...and Lord Erik on that first day. Being from Frankia, there is no place for me among the slaves. I just do as I’m told.”

Closing his eyes, he could not help but imagine the horrors she must have endured, hoping that this man was one he had driven his sword through. It made his gut feel sour and he cleared his throat, shaking off the feeling. “Bloody Saxons, eh?”

Frowning, he gave her an awkward look, concealing the fact he felt strange; the irony of their lives and circumstances flaring in his mind.

He held out his cup. “Finish it,” he nodded. “It helps with more than loosening the tongue.”

Her face brightened a little and she reached out, taking the cup from his hand and tasting the wine.

“Do I still scare you?” he asked, speaking slowly, his voice deep and resonant.

Air rushed from her nose and she nearly laughed. “Of course,” she replied and he felt a twinge of disappointment.

“You need this too,” he held out his plate, noticing that her face had thinned over the weeks of their meetings. “Go on, I am not a generous man so...”

Reaching forward, she took a piece of the hard meat, taking a small bite.

“More?” he jerked his head toward the cup, topping it up from the jug, feeling rather content with the way that she smiled.

——

Her translation of the recent scroll had been correct; two powerful thrones were set to align. Kingdoms throughout England wanted to wish Alfred’s daughter and the lord of Mercia’s marriage well by sending gifts. The offerings were received at Winchester and were to be transported to Mercia via convoy, guarded by a handful of soldiers, exactly ten days before the ceremony.

The brothers had been there to intercept. Waiting on either side of the road with only four additional men. It had been effortless; the convoy blindsided. The Saxon men easily cut down and the brothers back in Beamfleot, much wealthier, all before the evening meal. The take was great; gold and silver, jewelry, some weapons, and books; those, of course, would be burned. As much as Sigefrid loved to fight, he saw the wisdom in this approach.

Slouching back in his chair at the head table, hand on a full horn, he stared out the open doors only partially listening to Erik and another man recount the day and laugh. Instead of chuckling along, his mind drifted to other lands, farther north and even overseas. Places she could speak the language that he had never even dreamt of conquering.

A figure flashed by in the late-day light, entering the dining room.

“If she picked a fight it looks like she lost,” Erik said, leaning closer to Sigefrid, jerking his head in the girl’s direction.

Having not caught a proper glimpse, Sigefrid turned and instantly saw what Erik was referring to. She was visibly upset and clutching her shoulder, her face flushed and her dress covered in muck from the hip down. Before even forming his next thought, he was up and crossing the room, grabbing her arm to stop her from entering the kitchen.

Staring down at her startled, tear-streaked face, he saw that the front of her was wet and the neck of her dress torn.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Breaking their eye contact, she shook her head, folding over her apron to cover the mess.

“I said,” he softened the intensity of his voice, “what happened? Did someone hurt you?” Again, his eyes scanned her muddy clothes, focusing on her defined collarbone exposed by the tear in the fabric.

Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she glanced up nervously, her eyes flitting passed him toward where he had been sitting.

As he was turning to follow her line of sight, a shrill voice interrupted.

“Where is that Frankish whore?” spat one of the older kitchen thralls. Rounding the corner, her eyes locked onto the girl but flashed wide at the sight of Sigefrid.

“What is going on?” This time he yelled. “I will not ask again!”

The haggard-looking woman shook her head as if disgusted, “Nothing you need to trouble yourself with, Lord, I will handle her. This stupid girl can’t even do a simple task. I’ve already been told she’s gone and tripped, smashed the whole lot of eggs.”

His eyes snapped back to the girl but she was looking down at her clasped hands.

“Get in here and stop bother’n Lord Sigefrid, you filth. I’m gonna beat your ass with...”

“That’s enough!” he barked at the woman making her washed-out eyes shoot even wider. “Shut your mouth and get in that kitchen,” he pointed with his blade.

The old woman turned on her heel and disappeared around the corner.

“Go clean up,” he said to the girl, stepping closer, irritated she would not look at him. “I want you working in the dining room only. Where I can see.”

They both stood still for a moment, his eyes again running over the rip in her dress, catching sight of red marks on her skin that were beginning to rise.

 “Go,” he ordered, and she started off, racing out the main door in the direction of the barn slave quarters.

“Settling slave disputes now, brother?” Erik smiled as Sigefrid dropped heavily back into his chair, his eyes still set on the door.

“That girl is more trouble than she’s worth,” he muttered under his breath, taking a drink of mead.

“Four hundred pounds of gold and silver upstairs says otherwise,” Erik nudged his leg under the table.

While he had been away from his seat, Haesten joined and was now seated, drinking, droplets of ale running down his unruly beard.

The long tables began to fill for the evening meal and the volume of the room rose as word of the ambush and the rich spoils spread.

Sigefrid's eyes caught the movement of her dark hair as she rushed back in, barely visible behind the tall warriors. As she came into view, she glanced at him before rushing to collect a pitcher.

“Cleans up nice, that one,” Haesten’s husky voice oozed out, his smudged black eyes tracking her. “I like her big round tits. They have yet to be worked flat,” he laughed, taking another drink.

The meal was served by four thralls, including her. Platters of meat and bread, some root vegetables, and bowls of green apples were carried out for the fifty or so men eating in the first seating.

Unusually quiet, Sigefrid chewed meat from a leg of pheasant, his eyes scanning the packed room but always drifting back to her.

She moved between the rows, refilling cups of ale, seemingly avoiding his table altogether. Further, and more concerning he noticed how his men heckled her, some patting her bottom and others tugging on the skirt of her dress.

“Ah, you have noticed my blooming flower,” Haesten crooned.

“Huh?” Sigefrid looked over at him.

“She has escaped my clutches twice now. I found her bending over, collecting eggs from the coop; that plump round ass of hers high in the air. Hmm,” he hummed to himself, his eyes still following her. “No luck though, little thing squirmed out of my arms for a second time,” pausing he took a swig from his cup, “seeing her bent, I could not help but yank down my pants. Next time I will wait until I’m between her legs so she cannot out-run me,” he laughed.

Sigefrid’s hand slammed down so hard on the table, it jostled the plates and cups.

“You will go no where near her,” he spoke low and slow, dropping his chin as he stared at Haesten.

Without looking up from his plate, Erik spoke around a mouthful of bread, “She is our translator now. And...she is a good girl. Not to be handled roughly by the likes of you.”

Sigefrid’s face was tense, his eyes still burning out from under his dark brow.

“Does not seem that all the men are aware,” Haesten said, looking back over at her.

Also looking, Sigefrid saw one of his men, pull her down onto his lap, laughing, telling her not to be so shy.

Out of his seat, he stormed around the table, grabbing the girl’s arm for the second time that night, yanking her out of his man's grasp. The warrior looked up, utterly confused seeing Sigefrid’s gritted teeth and narrowed eyes.

”Lord,” he said in an apologetic tone, “I had not realized that you had taken her for yourself.”

“Well, I have!” he roared and the room fell silent. “No one touches this slave. No one,” he glared at all those staring back at him, “Until I am done with her,” he added, turning and leading her back to the table.

Sitting, he pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arm around her waist, ignoring both his brother and Haesten. The young woman sat awkwardly, staring down at her hands, her long brown hair hanging loose, concealing the sides of her face.

Taking a leg of chicken from his plate, he held it up for her but she did not take it; just looked at it, nervously.

His arm tightened around her waist and pressed his lips against her hair.

“Eat,” he whispered. Straightening, he spoke again, this time loud enough for the others to hear. “I will not have your ass disappear.” Slowly she reached up and took the drumstick, bringing it to her mouth. “Once you are done go up to the meeting room and wait for me.”

——

It was not clear to him why he knocked instead of barging in but there he was, standing in the hall waiting for her to answer. Opening the door, she glanced up but quickly stepped aside clearing the way.

Once the door was closed behind, he faced her, standing close and shifting the bundle of fabric he held under one arm. His eyes settled on the two crudely stitched x’s that held the neck of her dress in place.

“These dresses were in a trunk in my room,” he held them out. “Likely the prior lady’s.”

Blinking with surprise she took them, the bundle enormous in her arms.

Shuffling his feet, he searched for his next words, confused by his cautiousness, and again irritated that she had been dragged into his life by his brother.

Studying her, he noticed how her hands fumbled nervously with the clothes and how she could not maintain his gaze. Likely bracing, he guessed, for some form of assault. But there was just something about her thick dark hair and brown eyes, the symmetry of her plush lips and round cheeks that made him unable to look away. He felt weakened somehow, and worse, could not tell if he liked or hated it.

Slowly, he reached forward, lifting her chin with his fingers; her round eyes meeting his.

Despite the flood of bewilderment, what he did know, undeniably, is that he never wanted her to hurt again. For the first time in his thirty-one years, he asked a slave, her, an intimate question; one that related to who she was in her world before he destroyed it. “Tell me,” he narrowed his eyes, “What is your name?”

Her small, reluctant voice answered, so faint he had to strain to hear.

“Genevieve.”

 Next Chapter 

@naaladareia​ @geekandbooknerd​​ @oddsnendsfanfics​ @hecohansen31​​ @waiting4inspiration​​  @ceridwenofwales​​ @mdredwine​​ @gearhead66​ @ceridwenofwales​ @whenimaunicorn​ @laketaj24​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @medievalfangirl​​

[neen-writes]

Iron Legends: Reforged -- Chapter 16

Series: Fairy Tail

Characters: Gajeel, Levy, plus appearances from Natsu and Lucy.

Genre: Hurt/comfort, Sci-fi

Summary: The old lab had always been fuel for a good story, something you would half-heartedly joke about going to sometime.  Some did, and when they came back they never talked about it again.  The legends circulated, telling of ghosts, monsters, and anything else someone would be likely to conjure up about an abandoned building.  But even with all the stories meant to keep everyone away, there are still those for whom the intrigue is too tempting.  

Read the Reforged chapters on FFnet here, Ao3 here, and read the entire original story here!!  AND find this fic’s soundtrack here!

Note: I did a lotttt of work completely rewriting this one and trying ti up the emotional tangibility.  I hope it shows.  Huuuuuge thanks to @spikerr for her suggestions with this chapter, and @bluuesparrow for beta reading (even if she burned her dinner xD). These chapters have been the MOST fun to work with and I honestly can’t wait to work on the next one when all the shit finally hits the fan.  Enjoy!

Ch. 1  Ch. 2  Ch. 3  Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7 Ch. 8 Ch. 9 Ch.10 Ch. 11 Ch. 12 Ch. 13 Ch. 14 Ch. 15

Every blow sings pain through him.  They light up every nerve and somehow he only feels half of it.  A deep pain aches within him but on the surface his sensations are dulled, like a limb that’s fallen asleep.  At times he feels like he is watching the abuse from the outside, an agonized spectator to what he absolutely deserves.  Gajeel watches the other subjects tear him apart piece by piece, and more than that he sees everything he thought he could have been… they could have been, torn apart.  Every piece of him that’s ripped away, he hears the same two words boom through his thoughts: she’s dead.

Levy is dead.

No, that wasn’t quite right.  She wasn’t dead.  She was murdered.  Levy died screaming and it was his fault.

Of course it was his fault.  Had he stayed away from her, she would have never been drawn into this.  None of this was a surprise, he always knew in some part of him that it would all come back to this.  He should have known that Jose would return for him, that was inevitable from a man… no, a demon as voracious as he was.  In any amount of time, at any time, Jose was bound to return.  

But still, Gajeel couldn’t resist himself around her.  He knew to keep his distance, but he had been so selfish that he convinced himself to go against his instincts.  His desire for her presence and his craving for the peace she brought him clouded every logical thought he had and she paid the price for it.  

His thoughts slowly turned to what-if’s.  What if he hadn’t left her that night?  What if he hadn’t let his fear and anger get the best of him?  What if he had given her the benefit of the doubt?  He imagined being there when Jose came for her.  How easy it would have been to end everything there, kill him at the door.  Absolutely destroy him for even trying to use her against him.

But he wasn’t there.  He didn’t end it.  He didn’t save her.  

He lost everything.

Every waking moment reminds Gajeel of it.  Every time he sees Jose’s face, he is reminded of it.  It was the sole reason every time he was restrained and brought out for treatments that he welcomed them with empty compliance.  Like fire the lacrima pulsed power through him, and each time he was forced into a change, he could feel more of himself being chipped away.

His thoughts became fuzzy after each treatment, and after both Rogue and Sting thoroughly defeated him, he could feel himself slipping away more.  Gajeel was losing his hold on himself, and it was only a matter of time until they achieved the feral, mindless soldier they wanted, or until the treatments and injuries killed him.  He welcomed either option.

Gajeel convinced himself, decided, that was what he deserved: to lose himself.  In any capacity.  This way, the memories of her screams that haunt him day and night become more muffled, and were a dull echo by the time he was thrown into the ring with Cobra.

At this point it felt the same as the other matches.  The pain was still dulled, but this time there was a voice.  Rogue and Sting didn’t speak.  This one does.  Gajeel couldn’t make out any of his words, and it was a muffled hum until he felt something yank in his chest.  It was such an unfamiliar sensation that for a moment he felt awake, and for a split second, the words were clear, and something snapped.  

Not her, you bastard!  Gajeel felt everything, and above all, he felt absolute rage.  He felt fire and bloodlust and a taste of the animal he’d come so close to so many times before.  It had taken so much in the past to bring him there and this time… all it took was her.  The mere mention of her.  And Cobra had the misfortune of being the soul in front of him when the switch happened.  Now nothing else mattered but killing his opponent.  It was his only directive, his only instinct, and nothing but the downfall of his counterpart would stop him.  

It felt like both forever and no time at all before he could feel the pulse of Cobra’s jugular beneath his iron palm, struggling to beat.  And then, he lost his grip.  The victory slipped from his hands for a split second and before his rage could surge again, the words that had been an echo, a whisper at the back of his thoughts, rang through as clear as day.

“She’s here, you idiot.”

Then, everything stops.  He is a hurricane tamed, an unstoppable force meeting its immovable object.  The fire in his veins dies out, the air leaves his lungs, the roar in his ears goes silent.  

Levy.

As much as he worked to forget her, silence her memory, there she is.  There is her blue hair and her warm eyes and her kind smile.  She isn’t screaming, she isn’t dying; she’s holding her hand out to him and calling him back from the darkness.  The memory of her calling his name is the cruelest fabrication of his thoughts, but still he can hear it so clearly.

She is here.  She is alive?

Which, more than anything, meant she was in danger.  That, for him, was redemption reincarnate.  Soon enough, she was a rushing river flowing life back into his broken hull, making him whole again.  It smashed the conditioned walls that had nearly completed sealing up who he was.  The current swept up the shreds left of him and wove them back together in an embrace he thought he could only dream of.

He had no way of knowing if Erik was lying to him.  That didn��t matter nearly as much as the prospect that she could truly be here.  Gajeel wouldn’t dare take that chance of ignoring the snake.

In that same token, he knew Erik isn’t lying, Gajeel could feel it.  He lifted his eyes to look to the grey glass panel that was a barrier between him and the spectators behind it.

She is alive.

Something in him stirred and he felt a burst of adrenaline.  Like drums, his blood beat in his ears and Gajeel could feel himself returning with each thrum.

Levy is alive.

All at once, he knew exactly what he needed to do.  Erik’s plea reached him loud and clear just before he felt the sting of the tranquilizers.  Before darkness engulfed his sight, he resolved himself to his final task, and the trigger he knew he needed for it.  I’m coming for you, shorty.

By the ninth day she was fully exhausted.  Levy no longer felt like she was being given a tour of the exhibitions there.   Instead the woman resolved herself quietly to the imprisonment that consisted entirely of her usefulness to the researcher.  The little backup plan on standby, the trump card to be revealed at a moment’s notice to cripple her dragon once more.  That was what she had been brought down to until she could think of something to get out of this.  Cooperating, for now, was her best option.  And her list of options was already short.

Still, Levy couldn’t tear her thoughts from the look he had given her at the end of Cobra’s match.  But, really, how could she have even been sure he was looking at her?  She spent all night thinking about that look, seeing those red eyes with more life in them than there had been during his whole time there.  By morning, Levy hadn’t made up her mind what it meant, but chose to use it to fuel her hope.  She needed something to cling to.

But even with that, there was little Levy could do, still not knowing even the general direction of an exit, or even having the ability to make a run for one if she did.  The blunette wasn’t near healed yet and Jose had her under lock and key.

Jose remaining oblivious to “the look” was a blessing, however the air as she stood in the observation room again was still tense.  In some ways, the scientist had gotten exactly what he was working for yesterday, but in the end still lost control of the situation.  At this point, she felt if it went wrong again, she would be introduced to the new aspects of her role here.

Which lead Levy to think: what would happen if Jose revealed her to Gajeel again?  Would Gajeel even recognize her at this point?  It had been seven days now at their mercy, beaten again and again in the arena and subject to who even knew what kind of experiments in the background.  He looked so dead inside, and as much as it broke her, she couldn’t be sure that her dragon was still there.

Jose said nothing to her, a heavy scowl sitting on his features.  His demeanor, the one of pride and manipulation, seemed to have fallen away.  The game had become a lot less fun for him now that things were not going his way, and it showed.  Levy swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the atmosphere.

Slowly, she moved her attention to the arena, waiting again for the competitors to appear.  Levy tensed, and a dull ache resulted from her barely-healed shoulder.  With a loud hiss the doors opened up on either side, and she waited for the men to enter.

Rogue appeared first, and Levy felt her stomach twist a little. She couldn’t help but wonder about the purpose in putting Rogue against Gajeel again.  Perhaps because Gajeel had started to comply in some way, Jose felt putting him against someone with the desired conditioning level would even him out.  It might have been a conditioning process in of itself. From the beginning, in everything she had read, these two were the ones that fit together for the trials.  Rogue was the success, and Jose wanted desperately for Gajeel to become that.

The iron dragon finally stepped out of the dark, with far more composure to his stance than any of the days before.  He walked with purpose, his back straight and his arms visibly tense against his metal restraints.  He was alert, focused, and more importantly, present.

Levy glanced to Jose, who also appeared to notice the change in Gajeel’s stature.  The newfound vigor was obvious, and from what she had read in his journals, Jose was more than familiar with it.  And rightfully wary of it.  Its resurgence was likely a source of either great uneasiness, or great frustration for the researcher.  But it was still far too early to recognize if it was a sign of disobedience, or if it heralded the transition into the specimen he was looking for.

The doors closed noisily behind the men, and Gajeel shifted slowly on his feet as the cuffs released from his wrists.  With a shrug of his shoulders and a barely audible growl, the iron scales manifested across his beaten flesh.  The iron covered the bruises and scabs, and armored him readily for the fight ahead.  His breaths were deep and even, focused, and his eyes never left Rogue.  It was a heavy gaze that perturbed even the heavily conditioned male across from him. Something had changed; something he could not pinpoint.  And being trapped in that room with him was more unsettling than it had been before.

The wait for the starting buzz was nearly suffocating.  She couldn’t stop looking from Jose to Gajeel, feeling the anticipation of something growing in the silent space.  Levy couldn’t shake it, and the anxiety was enough to make her sick.

The sound finally cut the air, and as much as she expected both of them to rush at the same time, it was only Rogue that advanced.  It might have been preemptive measures to strike down whatever it was that he saw in front of him now, before Gajeel could reveal what it was that had already set the shadow-user on edge.  His darkness stormed around him violently, and Gajeel merely opened himself up to the oncoming attack.  With a heavy boom, Rogue shouldered Gajeel into the wall behind him, and a pained cough erupted from him.

With an outward swipe of his fist, he pushed Rogue back, but didn’t move nearly fast enough to land any sort of significant hit.  All it did was establish space again, and Gajeel merely side-stepped in a way that his back now faced the left, a good amount of open space behind him.  And then he opened his guard again, beckoning Rogue to him with a cock of his head.  If Rogue didn’t know better, he might have thought he saw a smirk on his face, the flash of something wild and hungry in his eyes.

“What the hell is he doing?” Jose growled under his breath.  This wasn’t the broken creature that had first stepped in here, but it also wasn’t the fighting machine he had witnessed against Rogue.  It was an indescribable grey area that he had no use for.

“Come on,” Gajeel growled under his breath, and Rogue stared at him for a moment, before charging again.  Once close enough, he cut a shadow-engulfed fist up at Gajeel’s chin, launching the iron dragon up to hit the ceiling with another booming impact.  There was a roar of pain, and gravity had only barely started to bring him back down before Rogue was midair to meet him, twisted from a kick that sent Gajeel back down to the ground faster than the onlookers could see.  He hit on his side with such force that he bounced and hit the wall for a second impact.

As Rogue dropped back down to the ground, he wasted no time with his shadow tendrils, reaching out to wrap around Gajeel’s ankles and throw the man over into another wall.  The pain shot through him like before, and he could feel his chest tighten as the survival instincts began to rise in him.  His focus shifted to the pain that set his senses ablaze, and could see the edges of his vision begin to blur.  He was more aware of the pain now, his senses heightened since his last battle.  He felt everything in full, and his instincts had something to take hold on again.  Gajeel clenched his teeth, a growl building within him as he pulled himself up to his feet again.  You’re losing,  he thought to himself over and over.  He tried to fixate on losing, and what would happen if he did.  What would happen to her if he did.  He felt that fire briefly with Cobra, and he needed to again: now.

If I lose, she doesn’t make it.  If I lose, I fail her again.  I can’t lose her again.  I won’t be a tool.  I won’t let him beat me.  I need to survive, survive, survive...

The feral rage was welling up within him and as the adrenaline began to course he knew exactly where he was headed.  His breaths quickened, his heart raced, and he felt the burning in his skull.  Gajeel felt his grip on himself slipping as he hissed through his teeth.   Rogue positioned to attack again, unaware of the slow shift, and with this final piece in place, Gajeel suddenly whirled to the reflective window, and bellowed his last resort.

“SAY SOMETHING!”

Levy reacted instinctively, reflexively, without a second thought or single regard for the pain that the jolt of motion brought within her.  She moved so quickly that Jose didn’t even have a chance to react, and urgently pressed the same button she had seen Jose use multiple times before.  The one she had memorized with half-baked plans for escape.

“GAJEEL!” her voice cried out, piercingly, over the intercom and echoed throughout the arena.  Immediately following, agony erupted from her shoulder as Jose yanked her back by her injury, his slender fingers digging excruciatingly into her flesh.

“You stupid gi—!“ Jose couldn’t even finish his statement, a sudden roar filling room.  He looked urgently to the arena below just in time to see Gajeel overcome Rogue.  It was a blur, but when he stopped, he had Rogue pinned on his back to the floor by his neck.  The iron dragon loomed over him, face like a hungry animal.  

The second he heard her voice, before she even finished the first syllable of his name, his world burst back into life.  Everything of his being became about her, and only one thing was on his mind: she’s here, she’s here, she’s here…

Gajeel’s eyes glossed over, glowing, and he arched his back to puff out his chest, tightening his hold on the shadow-user.  The iron dragon inhaled sharply, and much to Rogue’s surprise, and Jose’s horror, the shadows were drawn into Gajeel’s maw.  A tangible aura began to manifest around him, rolling off his darkening hide in waves, and Rogue went pale with the realization of what he was trying to do.  He’d seen him do this once before, nearly killing everyone in the process.

“You can’t!” Rogue gasped in a moment of reason, memories flooding his thoughts of the day six years ago when this had happened before.  Gajeel had no idea of what he had done then.  It was an instinctive switch to stay alive, and it almost leveled the old facility.  His surge of power had lasted only about five minutes, but it was enough time for him to set into motion the events that led them to this facility before he fled with what was left of his strength.  Rogue felt a chill spread through him, remembering what Gajeel had looked like that day, and what he started to look like now.  

In a sharp jerk backwards, Gajeel stumbled back off of Rogue towards the center of the room, a dark sheen over his iron scales as the shadows now swirled around him as well.  He swayed steadily from side to side, a wide grin curled on his features that bared his fangs.  His black mane moved with a phantom wind, rising around him in menace.  A chuckle started to shake his chest and the dark vortex around him picked up speed, adding wild life to his black locks.

His head rolled back on his shoulder, focusing his darkened, tilted gaze on the observation window.  The laughter jumped to a fever pitch and he lifted a single, dark finger to point in the direction of the unseen watchers.  “Jose~!”  Gajeel bellowed threateningly, just before noticing the compartments begin to open up along the walls of the arena.

Jose jolted into motion then, previously frozen in terrified awe.  On his face he had what looked like a realization, like he had just connected two details in a distant memory.  He pulled the girl to him, backing away from the window.  Is this…?

Gajeel knew he had no time to waste now that he had set this in motion.  He didn’t know how long he could hold this power, but all he knew was he felt the insane surge now.  And he would use it.

He inhaled deeply, the shadows becoming violent, as his chest and cheeks puffed.  Both fists clenched at his sides and he arched back, turning his attention directly up to one of the several ventilation shafts above them.  A rumble, and then a high-pitched screech filled the air, as a blast of black and gold launched upward from Gajeel, striking the vent directly.  A series of rapid crashes and booms immediately followed with a flash of flame, before all the lights cut out.

Levy barely had the time to see the blast as she was pulled, kicking and screaming, from the room, pain searing through her.  “Stop your squirming and get moving!” Jose barked, voice shaking with panic.  They emerged into halls that were lit only with the red pulses of the fire alarms, but Jose moved knowing exactly where to go.  Of course he did.  Every door previously sealed shut now sat wide open, and she could barely distinguish Jose’s muttering about generators failing.  Something about damage elsewhere and a loss of backup power.

Both nearly lost their footing when another explosion rocked the facility, and a heat pressed at their backs as roofing and debris fell from above and littered the walkways.  A roar followed closely behind the destruction, one that did not sound like Gajeel.  Jose froze for a second, a choked, guttural sound escaping him over the chaos.  Levy couldn’t tell for sure, but he looked paler than usual.  The pause only lasted a moment before he jumped their pace, and she tried not to fully scream in pain, feeling the warmth of her reopened wound spread down her arm.

Jose turned a sharp corner, stopping in front of an elevator without thinking.  “Damnit!” he hissed at the lifeless machine, tightening his grip on her to keep moving.  Another boom came, this time from far under their feet, and Levy had an idea of the location, confirmed by the sharp curse from Jose.  “That insolent--!” he shouted, barely able to finish a thought, “I will not have this happen again, I will not lose everything again!!” he bellowed, looking back to Levy quickly as they navigated the halls.  “You!  You are going to stop him!” he shouted, jabbing his finger at her.

That was the final straw to break her out of her agonized stupor.  With a sharp rush of determination, Levy yanked suddenly enough from Jose to slip from his grasp.  “The hell I am!” she stumbled backwards, eyes darting around her frantically for anything that could help her.  A third explosion from below dropped more debris, and Jose followed her gaze to a dislodged piece of piping.  Both lurched for the item, Levy doing her best to push past the pain and reach it first.  Her good hand scrambled for the pipe, and she clumsily swept it upwards at the man as she fell onto her good side.  The blow glanced off the side of his face, enough for him to lose his balance with a curse of pain.

Levy kicked away from him and scrambled to her feet, pipe in hand, and made a run for it, trying to get as far as she could before he was able to regain his bearings.  The woman only knew how to get down to holding, and up to the infirmary, but none of this knowledge served her when there was no power for the elevators.   The best she could do was run until she found stairs, or any other helpful landmark.  But with the alarms blaring in her ears, light limited, and the building beginning to crumble around them, this was not something she had the luxury of taking time to figure out.  Gajeel, where are you?!

She looked to her shoulder, seeing her shirt darkened to a color other than what she woke up with. Not good, she thought, staggering slightly on her feet.  She thanked the heavens for her panic, and primarily, her adrenaline.  It was likely the only reason she could move at all at this point.  

Levy whipped around another corner, seeing another long open hall, identical to the last.  She could have been going in circles for all she knew, a thought that brought a sense of dread with regards to the man she was trying to gain distance from.  She had to bite back the defeated whimper that threatened to rise, and the burning in her eyes that could have been tears or smoke.  She wasn’t sure.

The red alarm light dimmed, putting her into the momentary darkness.  Either it was her panic or her heightened sense of awareness, but Levy could swear the darkness between the pulses lasted longer than before.  For a moment, she thought maybe the power to the alarms might have died as well, but the blaring continued. She took a tentative step forward, the pounding of her blood in her ears urging her to move even if she couldn’t see.

Her breath hitched, a sharp pain spreading from her shoulder, stopping her again, because it was followed by a chill slithering up her spine.  Suddenly, there was a heaviness in the air, and the hairs on her neck stood up, alerting her to another presence.  Levy could feel the color drain from her face, either from her bleeding wound or the terror that roared through her.  When the red light finally illuminated the path in front of her again, she found her instincts to be right on point.

Her lungs deflated in a defeated, desperate huff, grip tightening on her very useless weapon in comparison to who blocked her path.  The whimper she had kept at bay earlier finally escaped as she stared into those dark eyes.

“Rogue…”

“Sir!”  The panicked, sudden cry from Laharl brought Igneel’s attention up from the vehicle he was about to enter.  Immediately after the shout, what sounded like the rumble of thunder followed.

Urgently, the chief looked to his lieutenant, then followed the direction of his point.  A massive stack of black, acrid smoke rose from somewhere farther within Hargeon, where they had only arrived and begun to canvas not an hour ago.  In one sense, it was a gift, as their search thus far had yielded no answers to the location of the new facility.  In fact the locals were more likely to walk in the other direction, feigning frightened ignorance, than give them a moment of time for questioning.  The smokestack was assuredly the marker for their destination.

On the other hand, their situation had just become far more dire.   “Move it!  I want all our available units and the Hargeon department converged on that spot, now!  That’s our place, Laharl!” Igneel bellowed, entering his cruiser and slamming the door shut behind him.  God damnit, I can’t have this fail after coming this far, I can’t fail them!

[inforapound]

With Our Eyes Shut Ch.1

This is my first TLK fic written in celebration of @geekandbooknerd;s 1,000 Followers Celebration. Congratulations you!!!. Prompt in bold. I have played with the series time line here. Expect historical and series inaccuracies and I had no idea who to tag so I can add or delete you easily. Just let me know. 

Pairing - Sigefrid and OC      Chapter - 1 of 4   

The board sliding back to unlock the thick door startled the captives sitting on the floor of the dingy barn. Shushes and frightened gasps greeted the fair-haired Thurgilson as he walked in and eyed the huddled bunch. They were to be slaves to the heathen Danes and would soon learn that being cut down, like so many of their loved ones, would have been a blessing.

The siege had been fast, and the death count high with only a small number of women spared by the wicked brothers. They now had control over Beamfleot and planned to stay, establish and plot.

“Can anyone here read and write?” the Northman asked in a stern, thickly accented voice.

When no one responded, irritation flashed across his face, his kohl-lined eyes and long goatee making him look like some ghoul from a children’s fable.

“I will ask only once more.”

Reaching down, he grabbed the closest woman yanking her to her feet. Squealing like a piglet, she held up her shaking hands as if to signify she was helpless. The truth was, they all were and he knew it. Pointing his dagger at her face, he glared back at the captives, his cool blue eyes scanning them... waiting.

“Who. Here. Can. Read?” 

It was clear, his patience was gone. Most averted their eyes but some glanced at one another as if also seeking the answer, desperate for the barbarian to set his sights on anyone but them.  

“Shame,” he uttered, looking back to the woman, tightening his grip on the neck of her dress, making her cry out again.

Movement in his peripheral pulled his attention to the far corner. Pushing up to stand, a girl, a woman really leaned against the wall. She did not say a word but her terrified brown eyes met his just long enough for him to know that he had his answer.

----

“Sigefrid,” Erik stressed his name as if to make his point. “We must keep our eye on the greater plan. To have this knowledge will give us the advantage of surprise.”

“So will my blade running through their skulls.” The dark-haired Thurgilson grinned, seated on the former Lord’s chair, “Surprise!” he laughed loudly, raising the incased knife affixed to his forearm up into the air.

If that was not a simple enough response to his brother’s suggestion that they learn the Christian language, he snorted and sucked snot down from the back of his nose, spitting a ball of phlegm onto the wood floor beside him.

Crossing his arms, Erik waited, knowing Sigefrid was not yet through.

“We do not need to read or write to raid and kill, Erik. We will settle here, enjoy what this bountiful land has to offer, and prepare to take out the weak king. We can speak their horse piss language, that is enough.”

“True, but would you not care to know what this says?” Erik held up the small scroll in his hand. It had been taken by two of their warriors who intercepted a messenger leaving Winchester. “Would it not be of value to know when and where their armies travel so we can better position? What if the black scratches on this parchment say that Alfred will soon be on the move, perhaps leaving his walled city to visit Mercia. On the road, he would be ripe for an ambush, brother. Just think...”

Always the less methodical out of the two, Sigefrid was passionate and impulsive, rash and at times his anger flared but now, he responded with silence knowing he would eventually agree with his younger brother. But not yet.

Roughly clearing his throat, he snorted again. “I will join the lessons,” he spoke slowly as to exaggerate his concession, “Once I have taken a shit. Unless I do it there,” his dark brows shot high and he flashed his straight white teeth, “welcome our tutor with the task of wiping that scroll across my dirty ass.”

“By the looks of her, you’d enjoy that,” Erik chuckled.

Emptying his cup in one go, Sigefrid’s dark eyes scanned the hall, “More ale!” he roared.

----

The main building was not large, ten modestly sized chambers; six on the ground level, surrounding the main room, and four upstairs, evidently used by the previous and now dead Lord and his wife. Sigefrid would never understand why these Christian nobles did not share chambers with their wives. The only thought he had was, perhaps, it was less awkward on nights when humping the help. But domestic life, in any culture, was lost on him. He had never experienced it and did not plan to live that long. Wanting to reach Valhalla in his prime, it would be a warrior’s death for him and Erik was there to marry and breed, carry on their family’s bloodline.

Dark and handsome though, he was a self-proclaimed ladies man, always having his pick of the women. Felt them powerless against his bravado and charm and rarely went to bed without wetting his dick. Like killing, variety for him was the spice of life and Erik would tease that for Sigefrid, excess was the best show of success.

As much as he grumbled at the notion of learning the Saxon’s written word, he knew Erik would not lead them astray. Preferring to approach battle in a straight line, he charged at any target, whereas his baby brother touted strategy, suggesting that the zig and zag of tactical ambush would spare them men. Despite the glory of dying with a weapon in the hand, Sigefrid did recognize the convenience in keeping their numbers stable. They had set up shop in Wessex’s back yard and Alfred’s land was theirs for the taking.

----

No crude or threatening comments came from Sigefrid when he first saw her. No jeering eyes or aggressive words. Nothing. He just looked at her standing frozen, alone, in front of them, her large brown eyes incapable of hiding her fear. He guessed in any circumstance she was likely a quiet little thing but there, before him and Erik, she had every reason to be afraid.

There was something in the way she watched them that he liked; an anticipation that reminded him of a baby doe, afraid, yet curious and seconds from fleeing to its mother. But there was no mother there to protect this girl... or woman. He could not tell how old she was, certainly younger than him, younger still than Erik.  

Jerking his head, he lifted his blade, motioning for them to get on with the ridiculous charade, emphasizing his resistance with a loud grunt as he lowered himself into a chair at the table.

For privacy, Erik had chosen one of the upper rooms which had obviously been used as a meeting or council room. It consisted of a table with eight chairs, a fireplace, and daybed. It was not a large room or particularly bright but was situated next to their private chambers which meant it was sectioned off from others.

It was Erik’s suggestion that they understand the language from the basics up, outlining his wish to start with their alphabet and from there learn to read. Taking paper torn from one of the room’s many books, the girl, with a shaky hand, dipped one of the feather quills Erik had gathered into an ink pot and began writing out two copies of the Saxon’s alphabet.

It was quite a sight, sitting across as her trembling hand replicated the markings, her eyes looking like they fought themselves to stay fixed on the paper. As anyone would, she sat pensively as if expecting to be bit and it made him think of her, for the second time, as that little deer and them as two hungry wolves.

Watching, he wondered if her rosy cheeks were caused by fear or if her work, at whatever she did before their arrival, had her out under the sun. She had the slightest dusting of freckles and he guessed that if she were to smile, her cheeks would even dimple. The thought made him grin as he could not imagine what reason she would have to smile in her current predicament; a slave to the Danes, young and pretty, everyone she knew either dead or being worked like a mule.

Inhaling he let his impatience be known, sighing loudly and only mildly aware of some internal debate he was having; his mind slow to connect with his body’s response to the woman in front of him, loving how her small hands rushed to finish knowing he was staring.

Placing the quill down, she turned the papers for them to inspect. Straightening in their chairs, their expressions became serious, both looking unprepared for the complexity of the rows and rows of ruin-like symbols.

The men picked up their delicate feather quills, fumbling to find a position in their large hands that were more accustomed to wielding weapons and spilling blood. Sigefrid dropped the quill immediately, scoffing in an outright refusal and shot his brother a look.

“Dear brother,” he groaned, watching Erik’s earnest face, his eyes fixed on the paper below. “I feel like a fool.”

Not replying, Erik dragged the quill across the thin paper, holding it with his other to keep it in place. The tip cut through the delicate parchment from the heavy pressure he was unintentionally applying.

Looking back to the girl, Sigefrid’s eyes met hers for just instant before she lowered them again to the table. He suspected she had been looking at the knife strapped to his arm where his hand had once been. Not saying a word, he continued to study her, a mild thrill moving through him knowing, again, that she could feel his stare.

“You know I have never bothered with slaves,” he spoke in Danish. “I have no interest in bedding Christian farm girls.”

“Hmm,” Erik replied, his tongue sliding back and forth across his lower lip in concentration.

“If I want a hump, there are twenty Dane women downstairs insane to ride my cock,” he spoke slowly as if enjoying the sound of his own voice. “By the looks of her, she would not be able to handle such a beast.” He smiled at her downcast face deciding she really was quite beautiful; almost irritatingly so. “But you know what I think, brother?”

“I think you will tell me,” Erik answered also in Danish.

“This one,” he jerked his chin in her direction. “I think she likes me.”

“It helps that I told her she had to teach us or she dies,” he glanced up to her quickly but kept on with the quill. “She will do what it takes to survive. They all do.”

“What do you think?” Sigefrid chuckled, his white teeth visible through his thick black beard. “Should I make an exception? Teach her about glory holes?”

Startling, the girl looked up, spooked, as if she had just heard her name called for execution.

“Did you understand that?” Erik looked up with round eyes, asking in English but she did not answer.

Frowning, Sigefrid leaned forward in his chair, “Did you?” 

Not waiting for her to respond, he shot up from his chair and stalked around to her side, placing his hands on the table and the back of her chair and leaned down. Instead of fleeing or crying, she squeezed her eyes closed, her body rigid as if waiting for a blow or to be dragged from her chair.

He brought his face closer to hers. “I asked you,” he spoke slowly, his accented voice oozing with threat. “Did you understand?”

“A little,” she opened her eyes, causing Sigefrid to look over at Erik.

Raising his hand, Erik signaled for him to give her a moment.

“Girl, how do you know our tongue,” Erik asked, his voice less aggressive.

“I know only a little.”

“Who taught you?” Erik probed and her eyes skitted around the room nervously.

“Maybe a blade to the throat will stir your memory, Saxon,” Sigefrid warned, dragging out the title.

Her eyes flashed back to his.

“I am from Frankia,” she uttered, sounding almost apologetic.

This made Sigefrid’s head cock to one side as he noticed that her voice did, in fact, have a different sound.

“That does not answer my question,” he leaned closer, by chance catching a glimpse down the bust of her dress.

“My father!” she rushed. “He was an interpreter.”

“For who?” Erik asked.

“A noble family in Paris.”

“Was he,” Erik said more to himself, his voice sounding as if his mind was already reeling with possibilities.

“Very interesting,” Sigefrid added leaning over her a little more, the crease between her heavy bosoms holding his eye. “Where is he now? We could ask for his help to understand their walled city. It has never been breached. Fools have tried but...”

“My parents are both dead,” she cut him off. “Nearly two years ago.”

“How?”

“My father was traveling to Northumbria on business and took my mother and I...as the trip would have had him gone for so long. We were robbed on the road; I somehow got away into the woods and hid.” She looked down into her lap, clearing her throat before continuing. “Their throats were cut.”

“Were they Danes?” Erik asked.

“I do not believe so.”

“They were no Danes,” Sigefrid scoffed. “Danes would not have let her escape.”

“Your father taught you other languages?” Erik asked, wanting to keep the girl talking.

Nodding she answered, her eyes staying fixed on her lap, “French, of course, English, the two languages of Ireland, some Arabic, I can understand some Danish but I cannot speak it well.”

The brothers exchanged glances, their eyes coming alive.

“This might be your lucky day,” Sigefrid smiled, straightening to stand.

“Or ours,” Erik looked up at his brother. “What a shit idea this was,” he smiled and picked up the paper in front of him, ripping it into pieces and making Sigefrid laugh.

“Do as you are told,” Sigefrid spoke abruptly, making her flinch, “and we will kill you last.”

----

Days went by and Sigefrid entered the same room where Waylen now waited, standing guard; the girl was on the far side of the table, evidently wanting to keep some obstacle between her and the enormous Dane. Sigefrid had sent him to fetch her from the kitchen and escort her up to the meeting room. Pausing, he watched her, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him; he could have sworn she looked mildly relieved when he entered. Not surprising, he decided, as she was all but dragged into a private room by the hulking, young warrior.  

Nodding he motioned for Waylen to leave, kicking the door closed behind. Turning his attention back to the girl, she shifted awkwardly under his gaze, clutching her apron, her expression almost expectant.

“I have been thinking about you,” he tapped his sheathed knife against his forehead. “I am too suspicious of a man to allow one slave to hold so much wisdom. Too cunning for us to become reliant on your,” his eyes narrowed, “cooperation. So..” he sucked air through his teeth, “the lessons will continue.” Dropping his chin, he eyed her from under his dark brows; she did not react but he could see her thoughts moving behind her large brown eyes.

“You will teach me... alone. This will be a,” he paused, thinking of how best to phrase it, “surprise for my brother. I will have Waylen fetch you when I want, and you will tell no one. And…despite my better judgment,” he hesitated, for an instant questioning his own thinking, “for your discretion, I am going to protect you. Hey?”

Her reply came by way of a subtle nod but the message was still clear, yes.

Next Chapter 

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