#i hate being so bitter and spiteful and rageful and angry and upset about nothing. about nothing. its all at myself.

[gundamlfrith-remade]

lying in bed, eyes on the sky, eye twitching, seething

[juletheghoul]

Oblivius Chapter 7

This is a CHONKY BOI. THE BACHELOR 'PARTY' IS HERE PEOPLE.

This is by far my longest chapter and I had most of it written before I even posted the second chapter of this story. Makes me SOOO happy how pumped all of you are to read this, it has taken over my life. Keep messaging! Keep sending me asks! 💖

Would love to do little drabbles, memories - anything to do with these two (except spoilers of course)

Likes & reblogs are appreciated

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Pairing: Frankie x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.4K

Warnings: TW: INFIDELITY 👀 Angst, yearning, kissing, **18+ [no minors] SMUT** p in v (sex wrap it up) Oral, F & M receiving, language (Please let me know if I forget anything)

Masterlist Series Masterlist Prev Part Playlist

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Age 28:

“I just love her, I love her so much and there’s nothing I can do.” He was drunk and in a bad way.

“I know Fish, it’s tough from here but maybe when you get back you can talk to her.” He knew Pope was trying to make him feel better, but when he’d spoken to his mom earlier in the week and he’d heard that she was seeing someone- it had broken his heart.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting - she’d never promised anything but he had this hope that she’d wait for him. That she’d be there to greet him with the love he’d always craved from her.

“She’s with someone else, I just want her to want me.” If he kept going down this road he was going to cry. He couldn’t cry here. Not in this bar and not when it was crawling with other soldiers.

“I think you should just talk to her when you get home, Fish - things might change when you see her again. Or do the grown up thing, and move on.” He looked at him, regret and heartbreak on his face.

“There’s no one like her.” He said it more to himself than Pope but he heard it all the same.

There was a pretty girl walking over to him now, a shy smile on her face.

“Hi - I’m Claudia - can I buy you a drink?” She wasn’t Spills, but she was very pretty.

-------------------

**Present Day**

The week leading up to the wedding was a blur. It simultaneously flew and crawled by. Schrodinger's week.

The dinner was coming up and with it a curious feeling was settling itself in your stomach. A strange mixture of desperation and acceptance. The acceptance told you that if Francis wanted to get married then you should keep your mouth shut and let him get on with his life.

The desperate, possessive part of you reminded you that he was your perfect match, that you shouldn’t let Claudia have him when he so obviously belonged to you. How would you accomplish that though? How could that be done without him hating you for ruining his wedding?

When you were sitting in the restaurant surrounded by the wedding party both those thoughts plagued you. They kept you quiet and pensive, present, but secluded within your own mind as they fought for dominance.

Benny sat next to you like always and you got the sense he was gearing up to make a move and you didn’t exactly know how to feel about it. Your mind was battling over that too.

Do I go out with him and try to get over Francis? Or do I turn him away, and keep pining over a soon to be married man? Choices.

Claudia was almost trembling with excitement, everything she said, everything she did was grating. It all irritated you and you felt the need to dampen her spirits. A malicious little part of you wanted to bring her down a peg. Maybe it was her attitude at the Bridal store. Maybe it was just plain old mean-spirited jealousy. With the dinner almost up, with the bachelor party still to come you couldn’t help it.

It was like a compulsion. The words crawled up your throat and the possessive, angry part of you had to spit them out.

“Oh my God Francis, remember our pact?” Your face was a mask of innocence - just reminiscing with an old friend.

Frankie’s expression changed then, from the same tentative joy he’d been wearing all night to something forced and fake.

“Barely.” His eyes were boring into you, the intensity seemed to be demanding you to shut up about it. While everyone else was still relaxed and unaware of the land mine you’d stepped on, you saw the look Pope was giving you, he knew.

“What pact?” Claudia asked with a breezy laugh.

“It’s silly really-” Frankie cut you off.

“It’s nothing, just bullshit we talked about when we were kids.” He tried to smooth it over with her but she didn’t like that. She sensed his hesitation and when Pope tried to engage them in conversation she challenged him.

“If it’s nothing, then Spills can tell me.” It was said with a bitter sweetness, she had seen through his avoidance and she wasn’t interested.

“Well, when we were in our early twenties - Francis and I decided to make a marriage pact.” You were smiling as though it was nothing and Claudia laughed along with you but you heard the edge in it. She wasn’t amused, and neither was Frankie.

“See honey? It was dumb. Just something dumb kids do when they don’t know any better.” He pulled her close but you could see the stiffness in the way she held herself. You didn’t expect his words to hurt you like that, and all of a sudden you regretted bringing it up.

What seemed like a good way to rile Frankie up was just a cruel little jab at a relationship that you didn’t belong in. A relationship that would go on despite you; in spite of you. You got quiet after that and you saw that he couldn’t bear to look at you.

The battle in your mind was over, and acceptance had won.

You quietly excused yourself to grab some fresh air, the shame at your ploy to ruin Claudia's night sat in your gut and you felt horrible. This wasn’t how you were raised, despite your feelings about her or Francis it was cruel to do this to her on the night before her wedding.

Fuck, now he’ll leave with her for sure. What have I done?

“Hey - thought I’d find you out here. You okay?” Benny had come out looking for you and you smiled at him.

“I’m okay - just needed a minute away you know?” He sat beside you and you tried to focus on him. On his handsome face, how tall he was. If you’d met him a few years ago you would have been all over him.

“Yeah I get that.” He scooted closer to you, until your legs touched and smiled at you. “Look, I know you’re close to Fish, but I’d really like to take you out.” He blurted out the words and you couldn’t help but let out a surprised oh!

He was smiling and he took your hand in his, he was looking at you intently now, making his move.

He was closing in and for a moment you forgot about your shame, about everything except Benny’s mouth. The kiss was soft, tentative. He was testing the waters with you and it was nice. His hand came up and rested on your face softly. Feather light touches on your cheek with the very tips of his fingers.

Objectively speaking, it was a lovely kiss, but it did nothing for you and he felt it.

“I’m sorry.” You rested your forehead on his and he sighed, the air moving the hair framing your face slightly.

“Don’t be, it was worth a shot.” he smiled sadly and you kissed him on the cheek. You both had your answer. The door slammed, breaking you out of your moment with Benny and you saw the back of Francis’ head as he stalked back inside.

----

He wanted to get drunk. He wanted to punch Benny, he wanted to knock his teeth out. He wanted to walk out there, grab Spills by the back of the head and kiss her until she finally understood what she meant to him.

When they walked in together his guts twisted up with rage, it clawed its way up his throat and instead of lashing out he ordered three shots of liquor to burn it away. He drank them quickly, one after the other.

“You and me, outside. Now.” Pope was dragging him away and he wanted to fight but Claudia was asking him what was wrong and he didn’t have an answer for her. Not one she’d want to hear so he let Pope drag him outside. He could see Spills staring at him and he couldn’t look at her.

“What the fuck are you doing right now?” Pope spoke calmly, but his voice had an edge.

“Drinking. It’s my bachelor party, I’m supposed to get drunk aren’t I?” He was pacing, the rage making him restless.

“Why are you marrying Claudia?” Pope stared at him.

“What are you talking about?” The question stopped him in his tracks.

“Do you think that no one can see it? It’s painfully obvious that you’re nowhere near as in love with her as you should be. You’re hung up on Spills and she’s obviously hung up on you.” He was trying to speak calmly and Frankie was pissed off all over again.

“It doesn’t fucking matter how I feel about her - she’s out here with Benny and I’m getting married tomorrow.” He was spiraling.

How the fuck did I get here?

“She’s out here with Benny, because you’re supposed to be getting married tomorrow. If you want to continue with Claudia I’m not going to get in your way, but get your fucking shit together and control your emotions. Figure out what the fuck you want and remember that Benny isn’t your enemy.” He approached him and clapped his arms onto Frankies shoulders. “Fish, you have to figure out what you want here, make it work with Claudia or let her go - stop this living in between shit. It’s not fair to anyone.” Frankie shook out of his grip, too upset to see reason.

He knew he was wrong, he knew he had no right to react this way but it was too much for him. All the little moments he’d thought they’d shared - what had they meant?

What does it matter? You’re getting married, she isn’t.

He ignored her gaze when he approached their table, Claudia was approaching him.

“You okay babe?” She was approaching him with open arms and he embraced her. Eyes closed - trying to feel something other than anger. He focused on the smell of her hair, on the feeling of being buried into the crook of her neck. She sighed loudly and ran her fingers through his hair, soothing and smoothing it out. “It’s just pre-wedding jitters babe, tomorrow everything will be perfect and we’ll be married.” She was whispering into his ear and it was meant to be reassuring.

He felt nothing.

You’re not her. No matter what you do, you’ll never be her and I have to be okay with that.

“I’m okay babe - see you tomorrow.” He kissed her, really kissed her. Tried to muster up whatever he thought he felt for her before and she responded but it was useless. All he felt was anger; she pulled away smiling and said her goodbyes. He glanced at Spills and the look on her face made him feel ashamed.

“Let’s get fucked up.” He said it with a fake smile plastered on his face and everyone except Pope and Spills cheered.

---

His hostility was astounding. He barely looked at you the whole night and you had a feeling it had to do with Benny’s kiss. You had to talk to him about it, a part of you hoped he’d be jealous and realize that you belonged together but maybe that was all in your head. Maybe he didn’t like his friends dating you, or you dating them but that didn’t make sense. Why would that bother him?

You’re the one getting married to someone else here, you dick.

Will and Benny were keeping up with him but as the night wore on everyone came to the realization that tomorrow would be a very long day if they didn’t quit now but Frankie wanted to keep the party going. He wasn’t belligerent, but he was being more aggressive than you’d ever seen. He told the boys that he wanted to continue drinking when they all got back to his house and they agreed but when you all got there it was obvious that Benny and Will were down for the count.

“I’m going to get these two into bed, can you make sure he’s okay and that he doesn’t get too fucked up?” Pope was herding the brothers into the basement where they’d been staying. He gave you a curious look then, a narrowing of the eyes that screamed talk to him.

---

When you walked into his old bedroom he was sitting on his bed, bottle of alcohol to his lips and you’d had enough.

“Francis that’s enough, you’ve had too much and you’re going to be sick.” You were trying to take the bottle away from him but he was stronger than you and he was in a foul mood.

“You don’t get to do that, you don’t get to pull that shit and then baby me.” His tone was vicious and you pulled back.

“I’m not trying to baby you, you asshole- I'm trying to make sure you’re not hungover for your wedding tomorrow.” He scoffed loudly at your words. “You got something to say Francisco?” You were angry now, his attitude was pissing you off big time. Your question set him off and he unloaded onto you.

“Oh I got plenty to say.” He put the bottle down and towered over you. “You fucked up Spills, you knew how I felt about you this whole fucking time and YOU were the one who shut it down. Making this stupid pact so you would be guaranteed someone who was crazy about you while you went off and did whatever and whoever you wanted and then bring it up in front of everyone like it was a joke.” The anger was burning away the alcohol in his system and there was nothing but raw honesty left. “And now what, you’re going to date my friend? So is it anyone who shows you attention except me?”

The expression on his face was angry, but there was a raw hurt in his voice. An old wound that he was blaming you for opening up.

“I have loved you since I was fucking fourteen, and you never gave a shit. You used me and you kept me dangling on a string but guess what, I am not a last resort. I have found a woman who loves me and you’re going to have to live with that.” The words were knives to your heart because for the most part they were true.

You couldn’t stop the tears at his onslaught of painful truths but underneath the hurt his words caused, you were fucking angry.

“You want to tear into me because I’ve been a fucking idiot fine, have at it, but you do not get to shame me for having a moment with someone who likes me. You’re getting married! Am I supposed to stay celibate and alone for the rest of my life because you gave up on me? I was waiting at the airport to tell you that I love you. That I know I’ve wasted time and that I want you.”

“Gave up on you? Are you fucking kidding me right now? So when I call to see how everyone is doing and I find out that you’re seeing someone - I'm supposed to just know that you’ll figure it out? I have been putting off finding someone in hopes that you’ll finally see how devoted I’ve always been to you. I am so fucking pissed off at you and you want to know what the worst part of it is? The fact that I still fucking love you. Even though I’m hurt and so goddamn angry. Even though I have her and I know she’s head over heels for me, you’re the one in my head. I still love you and seeing you like this is breaking my fucking heart Spills. It should be you I’m marrying tomorrow. It should have always been you.” You could see the tears in his eyes now and that hurt even more.

Every single fibre of your being screamed at you to run to him, to wrap your arms around him. Instead you responded with your own truth.

“I wish it was me tomorrow. I know I couldn’t expect you to wait for me forever but I don’t want anyone else. Benny is sweet but he’s not you Francis.” You were well and truly crying now. Everything you’d been holding in came bubbling up, spilling out of you and there was nothing you could do to stop it, it had to come out.

“I should have kissed you back like I wanted to. I shouldn’t have been afraid, I should have seen it and dealt with my own feelings for you. I’m sorry Francis. I’m sorry it took so long for me to realize how perfect we are for each other. I’m sorry I was too late and I’m terrified that you’ll leave me behind and marry her, and that I’ll be here waiting for you forever.” Your voice was cracking and high, barely a whisper at certain points with how hard you were crying.

His legs brought themselves to you in three long strides and then his mouth was on yours. Your tears mixing where your faces touched; pure adrenaline coursing through your veins when his hands buried themselves into your hair. It was nothing compared to the inexperienced albeit enthusiastic kiss you’d shared as teenagers. This was all-consuming. His mouth trapping your bottom lip roughly and biting softly to draw out a whimper. His tongue using the sound as the invitation to plunder the inside of your mouth.

He tasted like honey and alcohol, like the gum he chewed and tiramisu. He tasted like all the things you loved in this world and you never wanted him to stop kissing you.

He trailed his kisses down to the line of your jaw, the long column of your neck and up to the place beneath your ear and all you could do was frantically clutch at his hair.

“We’ve been so stupid Spills, driving me crazy.” He was whispering the words into your neck, his hands a vice grip around your waist.

“I’m sorry Francis, I love you - I love you so much.” The both of you couldn’t get the words out fast enough, fervent breathes as you kissed; both trying to make up for lost time. His wedding in a few hours was forgotten, his fiancé didn’t exist. It was just the two of you in his old bedroom where his first kiss had been denied.

You were rewriting that now.

His hands lowered and grabbed at the flesh of your ass roughly and you moaned into his mouth. He brought his kisses to your neck as he decisively pulled your dress up.

“I’ve been wanting to fuck you for half my life Spills, it was you I thought about while I was away. I would fuck my fist every single fucking night thinking about you letting me taste your pussy.” His eyes were dark with want and you gasped at his words, the alcohol and the honesty making him braver; the words were shooting directly into your cunt, making you weep for him.

“It’s always been you, look at what you do to me, what you’ve always fucking done to me.” He grabbed at your hand roughly and pressed into the sizeable bulge at his crotch. It was hard to form words. It was hard to articulate how you felt now that this was finally happening.

“Will you let me baby? Will you let me bury my tongue in your cunt? I want you to cum all over my face.” He was rubbing at your clit through your panties and it was like you were suspended in amber. Dumbstruck at his words, his confidence - his need for you.

“Yes Francisco, please.” You were gripping his hair frantically as he pushed you onto his bed. His big strong hands pulling your underwear down and tossing it over his shoulder. The same hands pulling your thighs apart to find your slick seeping out of you, all glossy and wet. He moaned at the sight.

“Look at that- so fucking pretty for me.” He made himself comfortable between your legs, grinding into the mattress as he studied your body. He kissed your thighs as he brought his face closer and closer to your clenching core. His facial hair tickling you as he trailed them up up up. You watched him propped up on your elbows, your hands automatically reaching out to run through his hair.

“Bet you taste so fucking good, like peaches.” He ran his finger along your seam, smearing your slick all over your lower lips. He was going too slow. You tried to move your cunt closer to his face but he smiled almost cruelly and held your hips down.

“My greedy girl.” He spread your lips apart and spit into your clit, you felt it sliding down towards your opening but he dove in cat-quick to lap it up before it went further.

His tongue was heaven. You threw your head back as he licked from your opening up towards your clit, over and over. “Eyes on me, I want you to watch me.” It was too much and you whimpered as he let the saliva drip from his mouth and into your clit. Focusing his tongue there, moving it up and down over and over and over. The wet glide of it too much and the string holding your sanity together was too tight, it would surely snap and let you float away soon.

He groaned onto your skin, his eyes steady on you as he slid two thick fingers inside you. Curling them in a way that had you tensing up. He could feel your thighs clenching as he scissored them inside you, stretching you open while his tongue pushed you over the edge. It was too much and when he wrapped his lips around your clit and gave it a long steady suck, you shattered.

He held you down and licked you through it. Lapping up the waves of arousal, drinking you down deep while his fingers pistoned in and out of you with a wet squelch.

You had to push him away.

“You taste so good honey, I wanna eat you for days, until you’re a wet little puddle in my bed.” He crawled up towards your limp body and kissed you roughly, his facial hair irritating your skin but it didn’t matter. Not when you could taste yourself in his mouth, not when he’d made you cum harder than anyone had any right to.

His hands were a blur as he tried to get his jeans down and you helped him. You could see your slick on his fingers, then his jeans and your hip where he held onto you. A little trail of you wherever he touched.

You frantically pulled both his jeans and his boxers down, his cock freed and bobbing between your thighs. You could see the sticky tip of him, angry and red with how hard he was and your mouth watered. You had to taste.

He was surprised when you flipped him over, the startled look on his face quickly replaced with a hungry smile. You took off his jeans and his boxes fully to lay between his legs. You rested your head on the strong muscle of his thigh as you lazily stroked him, the velvety skin of his cock encasing the iron beneath. He watched you with a look of rapture and his breath hitched when you pulled away to scoop some of your own slick from between your legs to make your strokes more fluid.

“You can’t possibly know how many times I’ve imagined this - fuck - give me your mouth baby, please.” He was thrusting up into your hand. You licked a wide stripe from the base of his dick up to the tip, circling it with your tongue. He groaned at the sight of you and he grabbed at the hair at the base of your skull to guide your movements.

You took the tip into your mouth and hollowed your cheeks prettily while he watched you, taking a bit more each time you lowered your head. You were ravenous for him, the soft sounds he was making, the control you had at this moment was intoxicating and it pushed you to take him further.

You took him as far as you could, swallowing around him as your nose brushed up against his curls and the tears leaked out when you let go to take a breath.

“Holy fuck baby, yes - look so fucking hot with my dick in your throat. Let me see you do it again.” He guided you down and you held there as long as you could before you sputtered and coughed, spit and his precum connecting your mouth to his cock.

“Fuck baby - so fucking good, if you do it again I’ll cum…” he left it up to you, taking his hand away from your hair and as tempted as you were to watch him come apart in your mouth your cunt was achingly empty and you needed him inside you.

“Next time you can cum in my mouth or on my face, wherever you want, right now I need you to fuck me.” You crawled up and he kissed you, he was frantic and he licked the spit off your lips and it was so primal you moaned. You found yourself on your back again and he was holding your thighs open while he rubbed his length through your folds.

“I’m going to cum inside you. I’m going to pump you full of me, fuck it into you. I wanna see it dripping out of you when I’m done.” He was lining himself up and when he slid in all the way, everything was right in the world. This was how it was supposed to be, the thick stretch of him was perfect, you were so fucking full - your cunt, your heart - every part of you.

“God baby, you’re so tight and wet - feels so fucking good.” He was speaking into your mouth and all you could do was wrap your arms and legs around him. Incoherent whimpers and sounds spilling out of your mouth with his movements. Sweat was beading on his brow, his fingers traced your hairline almost tenderly. His movements are equal parts filthy and loving.

His thrusts were hard and fast, not being able to control himself. You heard the wet, obscene sound of them and it made you wetter. You raised your legs higher, bracketing his ribs while he snapped his hips.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, love you - let me love you.” His words were curt and he wasn’t going to last long so you yanked the straps of your dress down. He leaned onto one arm, reaching down to rub perfect circles onto your clit while he took your nipple into his mouth. Your orgasm crashed into you out of nowhere and he groaned when he felt you clenching.

He brought his hand back up to grab at your hip roughly for more leverage while he fucked into you two, three - four more times before he was spilling into you.

He made good on his promise. He fucked his cum into you. A couple more shallow thrusts even though he was too sensitive and he watched himself do it.

“Look so fucking pretty like that, all puffy and full of my cum.” He watched as it slid out of you and down your ass onto the bedding.

Is this what I’ve been missing out on? Francisco Morales; sex god.

You were too blissed out to move but he went to work, taking off the rest of his clothes and then stripping you of yours. It was difficult to articulate how you felt in that moment, on the one hand this was everything you had wanted. The sex had been amazing, he didn’t just fill your body - he filled every single ounce of you. Your heart swelled when he tucked you into his side and covered the two of you with his blanket.

On the other hand, the postcoital bliss was wearing off and the implications of what had transpired was a weight growing in the pit of your stomach.

Your body and heart wanted to soar; a kite flying higher and higher. Your conscience was the string, and it was being shortened fast. He loved you, he still loved you even though he was engaged and he’d been thinking of you the whole time. You wanted to cry with happiness; with guilt as well.

The guilt was present, reminding you consistently that this man was supposed to be getting a good night’s rest for his wedding tomorrow. Instead the two of you were laying in bed, curled around each other. His spend slowly seeping out of you.

It was hard to focus on it though, especially when his skin was so warm under your cheek. When his hand rubbed at your arm and your legs were a tangle underneath the blanket. You couldn’t help but reach up and run your fingers through the hair matted on his forehead and he made it even harder when he captured the same hand and pressed kisses to your fingers. He broke the silence before you could though.

“I’m still pissed off at you.” He had a dreamy look on his face despite his words.

“I know. I’m pissed off at me too.” You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. The scent of his body-wash mixing with his own sweat. You couldn’t get enough and he curled himself into you as you ran your fingers through his hair. Your hands are constantly moving, touching every bit of each other you could.

“We’ve wasted so much fucking time Spills.” There was a deep sadness in his voice, it sliced into you because you knew he was right.

“I know Francis, I’m sorry it took me so long.” You were scratching at the wiry hairs on his cheek, trying to map out the face you loved so much. He sighed loudly. “What's going to happen tomorrow?”

“I don’t know - part of me thinks I should pack up the truck, throw you in the back and drive away. Another part of me wants to forget this whole thing happened and follow through on the commitment I made.” He wasn’t holding back with his words or feelings and although they hurt you couldn’t force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. You kept quiet, at the end of the day the decision was his. “I have to tell her the truth. I have to tell her that we did this, I cannot show up there tomorrow and pretend like I didn’t.”

You could see the guilt on his face now, the implications dawning on him a little later than they had for you. He scrubbed at his face with his hand and groaned.

“How can I just break her heart like this?” He was spiralling. “She doesn’t deserve this.” You felt like an intruder then, suddenly the closeness wasn’t there, he was pulling away from you emotionally if not yet physically.

“What do you want to do Francisco?” The use of his full name snapped him out of his train of thought and he looked at you then.

“What do you mean?” He looked at you in confusion, as you pulled away from him reluctantly.

“I know it took me way too long to get to this point, and you have every fucking right to hate me. If you tell me now that you want to make it work with her I’ll support your decision. I’ll keep my mouth shut and we can pretend this never happened. I would do that for you because I love you, and I will no matter what. You tell me what you want to do.” The tears were coming down your face as you said the words and as much as it hurt to get them out you meant them.

You couldn’t stay here - you wanted him to make his choice without influence and he said nothing as you quickly dressed and walked out of his room, instead you lay on the couch in the living room, crying softly to yourself. Sleep was nowhere in sight and in a few hours, you’d know for sure what would happen.

----

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[adangerouspath-au]

And here we are! All 6.7K words... Again, I’m very sorry for the wait. I am already working on Chapter 2, so not near as long of a wait this time.

This is the dog attack chapter, so proceed with caution if descriptions of character death, blood, and light gore upset you!

It was a bitter night, even for Green Leaf. Cold winds from the North washed over ThunderClan territory, bringing with them a chill that penetrated Goldenflower’s pelt like thorns. Shivering, she watched as the gusts blew fallen leaves around camp, a reminder that the summer would soon end. 

She was crouched just outside the Warrior’s Den, the crescent moon illuminating her fur into a brilliant molten amber. It was unusual for the queen to be awake so late into the lonely night, but she had been plagued with nightmares for the past moon. They tore her from her slumber with a frightening viciousness.

She was alone. She had to be. Distancing herself was a desperate attempt to keep herself from falling apart. It was hard enough, losing a child, but the clan had been restless and stressed as of late. It only piled into the queen’s worries.

It didn’t help it had been weeks since she had a good rest. Every so often she’d succumb to utter exhaustion, but the night terrors remained. These dreams all shared a similar theme, of a bloodied black and white body, too young and too small to have had his life stripped from him so violently. It had been a a little over a moon since Swiftpaw had been killed, and his mother had no time to heal from the devastating blow. Goldenflower could still vividly remember Fireheart bringing her to his body; he was little more than torn flesh and fur. She could barely recognize him. He had been made into something entirely new, a horrific amalgamation of pieces that had once come together to form her brilliant and beautiful son.   She loved him, as much as any mother loves her son. She felt responsible; perhaps there was something she could have done to prevent his death. Maybe if she hadn’t been so blind…

Goldenflower’s thoughts were cut off when a soft white paw touched her side gently. She jumped, whipping her head around to see Frostfur standing over her.   

“You’re staring at nothing again,” the white queen meowed.

Goldenflower blinked, taking a moment to process what Frostfur had just said. Her words made Goldenflower feel defensive, but she forced her fur to lie flat when she saw the sympathetic expression across the other queen’s face. “I’m sorry, Frostfur,” she began. She hesitated, her mouth opening and closing again as she searched for the right words to explain herself.

Frostfur nosed her ear softly, “You don’t have to apologize to me. I just worry about you is all. It has been… very hard to be a mother in this clan as of late.”

Goldenflower nodded, but said nothing in reply. She cast her eyes down towards the earth. It was covered in trodden yellow-green leaves, another indicator that fall was on the horizon.

“You know, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you. We all are, Brindleface and Willowpelt too,” Frostfur spoke at last. She pressed her pelt against Goldenflower’s gently. “We love you.”

Goldenflower blinked. She felt lost as of late, more so than she had ever felt before. Though she was surrounded by clanmates, they had proven to be less than supportive during her strike of duress. She didn’t blame them, really. She had been filled with raw emotion, barely able to keep it under wraps. She felt as thin as paper and barely able to contain herself. It was understandable that her clanmates walked on eggshells around her, but it was no less disheartening Hearing that someone cared, especially when she felt like little more than a burden to others, was incredibly uplifting. Goldenflower smiled to herself. It was rare for her these days. Frostfur’s words filled her with a slight glow; it wasn’t enough to fill the Swiftpaw shaped hole inside her heart, but it was something.

“And I love you all too. So much.” she said. “Your offer, it means a lot, but… I don’t know if I’m ready. It hurts like nothing I’ve ever faced. Lionheart’s murder… that was bad. And when my little brother was carried away… but nothing compares to when it’s your child.”

“I understand,” Frostfur said softly.

It wasn’t a lie; Frostfur did understand Goldenflower’s grief, but in a different way. As they spoke, her own kit lay in the elder’s den, being treated for the wounds that covered most of her body and face. Frostfur mourned for her daughter’s pain and her suffering, wishing she could protect her just as Goldenflower yearned for her lost boy.

Goldenflower suddenly felt selfish, “I’m sorry, Frostfur, you’re in as much pain as I am. I shouldn’t be victimizing myself. I-”

“Hush,” again Goldenflower felt Frostfur’s white pelt up against her’s. She let herself melt into her friend, finding solace as she continued, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“How is Brightpaw?” Goldenflower asked after a moment, trying to move the subject of conversation. It was an unspoken rule between the queens to never call Brightpaw by the name that was forced upon her. It was given out of hatred and spite. Bluestar had angered the queens- most of all Frostfur- with the blatant disregard for Brightpaw.

“She’s doing better. I mean, as good as she can be, as much pain as she’s in,” Frostfur replied with a sigh, “I’m on my way to her right now, to spend the night. The pain keeps her up, so she likes it when I stay with her. That, and she has had trouble transitioning to the Elder’s Den, though I think it is preferable to being in the clan’s eye.”

“I see,” Goldenflower meowed. “...How does her recovery look? The clan has been talking… you know I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought I’d come to you before you heard it from someone else.”

“At the end of the day, I still have my daughter. Life for her will be hard, but beautiful and rewarding as long she’s here. I have that at least,” Frostfur mewed, “I don’t care about what anyone else thinks of her, her face, or what she is or isn’t able to do. If she’s happy, that will be enough for me.”

“And that should be enough for anyone,” Goldenflower agreed.

But it wasn’t. She quietly thought of the Clan’s reaction to the attack, and especially about Bluestar’s behaviour. It was clear that Brightpaw would always face social challenges because of her injuries; the extreme unfairness of it was enough to spur Goldenflower to speak.

“I just wanted to say, if you ever wanted to confront Bluestar and the clan about this- what all that has happened, I mean- I’ll be there,” Goldenflower meowed, her voice quiet like the breeze that ruffled her fur. “Starting with Brightpaw’s name. I’ll help you. I’ll do whatever I can to make Bluestar see what she’s done to us.”

Frostfur’s eyes blazed at the mention of Bluestar’s name. Goldenflower opened her mouth to continue, but Frostfur had already snapped.

“What’s there to talk about? She turned her back on us. She scorned you when you wanted answers for your son’s death. She damned my child with a horrible name and turned her into a social pariah. And the clan follows in her footsteps,” Frostfur’s lip curled, “I can never forgive her for that.”

Goldenflower said nothing. She had never seen this emotion come from Frostfur before. She did however, understand where Frostfur was coming from, as she too had these moments of sheer rage- towards her leader, towards her clan, and towards whatever had ravaged her son.

But as quickly as it appeared, Frostfur’s anger dissipated. Her fur gently fell back into place and her claws sheathed themselves. She almost seemed embarrassed by her sudden burst of emotion, as she looked anywhere but at Goldenflower’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I know she… hasn’t been herself lately.”

“It’s okay,” Goldenflower meowed. “She has hurt you. She has hurt your daughter. You’re allowed to be angry.”

Both queens sighed in unison. Goldenflower cast a glance over to Bluestar’s den. It was bathed in shadow, but she could still see the lichen-covered mouth. Goldenflower silently wondered if Bluestar could hear their conversation from this distance, but told herself otherwise.

After a few seconds, Frostfur spoke again, her voice tired, “I do appreciate the offer, but I don’t think Bluestar is capable of listening. She hasn’t been for a long time. It hurts to admit, but I think the cat she once was- my leader, my mentor, my friend- has died. And I don’t think she’s coming back. Not this time.”

Frostfur, continued, still avoiding her friend’s eyes, “I haven’t forgotten who she once was, and I never will. A part of me will always love her, but I wonder if the ugly part of me that hates her for what she’s done overshadows that.”

Goldenflower hummed softly in agreement. It was hard to admit, because both mollies wanted desperately to stand behind and support their ailing leader. But her actions as of late had soured their willingness to tolerate her poor treatment of them and their desire for justice. Goldenflower was almost relieved to hear dissent so similar to her own feelings come from Frostfur.

The pair fell silent, with nothing but the trees and grasses stirring quietly in the background. The moon had long began its descent in the sky by now, with a faint pink hue illuminating the horizon beyond the mountains to the east. It would soon be dawn, and this night- this intimate moment between two close friends- would be over and forgotten.

“Well then, I suppose another day will be starting soon. We can’t escape that, as much as we try,” Frostfur barked a laugh as she cast her eyes to the horizon. She gently pulled away from the Goldenflower. The queen instantly missed the warmth of her friend’s presence.

It had been a long time since Goldenflower had been able to open up to anyone. She was not yet ready to retreat back to her facade of pretending to be okay, while silently suffering on the inside. She could tell that Frostfur felt similar by the way she slowly stiffened, her blue eyes regaining their false hardness.

“I should be getting to Brightpaw while there’s still moon left,” Frostfur continued, running her tongue over her shoulder to smooth where she had been pressed against Goldenflower. “I appreciate us getting to talk. I really do.”

“Of course,” Goldenflower replied, standing on stiff legs. She stretched with a yawn, shaking her long ginger coat to rid it of any dirt and stray leaves. “All of us queens need each other, and we’ll support you anyway we can.”

Frostfur smiled gently, and Goldenflower could see that unlike as of late, this smile reached her eyes. It made Goldenflower’s heart soar to see her friend’s genuine happiness.

“I bid you good-night, Goldenflower,” she mewed softly, butting her head against Goldenflower’s chest. With a soft look, Frostfur turned and made her way to to the elder’s den.

Goldenflower watched her go, not tearing her eyes away until she saw Frostfur’s tail tip disappear inside the mouth of the the den. It took her only a few seconds to realize she was now alone again. Her ears fell in dismay and she forced herself to look elsewhere.

The camp was quiet as the grave, with not a soul out roaming. She could remember Brindleface leaving to take guard outside of the camp entrance, but she hadn’t seen anyone else in a few hours. As much as she hated being around others in her grief, it was preferable to being trapped in the prison of her own mind, with nothing but the imagery of Swiftpaw’s body to keep her company.   

Now by herself with her thoughts once more, weight of his loss once again threatened to suffocate her. She shuddered as she tried to keep his once bright amber eyes out her mind, knowing that they were now dull and dead, never again to shine with love for his mother.

However, her conversation with Frostfur had put a nicer, warmer thought into her head; she still had two living children. They needed her more than ever now, just as Brightpaw needed Frostfur. Again, she felt selfish, hoping she hadn’t burdened either of her kits with her grief.

She decided to visit them. She wouldn't wake them, but just a peek would surely fill her with enough vigour to continue through another day. Seeing their bright, young faces flooded her with energy and aspiration to make the world better for them, even if it seemed awfully dark nowadays.

Quietly, she retreated from where she stood and padded over to the clump of ferns that sheltered the apprentices. She walked on soft paws, not wanting to wake them or their denmates, Fernpaw and Ashpaw.

She noticed that the ferns that sheltered their nests had regrown substantially after the fire; it made Goldenflower content to know that that her children would stay warm as the months for colder. She cast a gaze around the clearing, knowing that in a blink of an eye, it would be snow covered. She was pleased to know that it at least be green for a while longer.

As she neared the threshold of the den, a familiar scent passed by. Her nose wrinkled as she struggled to put a name on it, as if its wearer had purposely masked their scent. She could barely pick up on it through the thick aroma of tansy and damp ferns. The closer she got to the entrance, the stronger it became, until it was nearly overpowering. Whomever had left this trail had left it recently, and by the smell of it, they had stopped just where was standing, as if speaking to those inside. She narrowed her eyes, concentrating, only for it to become quite clear in an instant.

Darkstripe.

She had never really given Darkstripe a second thought up until recent. Though foul-mouthed and unpleasant to be around at times, he had never really stood out as anything than an underachiever. He had followed around Tigerstar like a lost kitten, but left her alone even when she came into his life. Only when her ex-mate was outcast had he started showing any interest in her and her family.

She didn’t mind him at first, as he was only trying to cope with the loss of his friend and mentor. She tolerated him, just, but as the weeks passed, he started to become more and more aggressive in his interactions with her. Goldenflower could remember a few times when she was tempted to spit in his face for his blatant disrespect.

His conversations with her children were even more troubling. He spoke in hushed tones, but she always heard him. Fireheart had long since told Bramblepaw and Tawnypaw of their father’s actions, but Darkstripe had been weaving a much different story of grandeur and bravery on Tigerstar’s part. Darkstripe’s apologism for a serial killer troubled her enough, but now that it had started to taint her own children, did it really begin to eat away at her.

Goldenflower had warned her children of course. Darkstripe may claim that history was written by the victors, but the Clan knew otherwise. She had failed to see Tigerstar’s sadism and blood lust before he was brought to trail, but afterwards things began to click into place. She would not allow her children to fall under the same spell that blinded her to Tigerstar’s brutality.

It seemed they had not listened to her, or Darkstripe had made himself very convincing.

When his scent become recognizable, Goldenflower felt her upper lip curl in disgust. She stifled a small growl from deep within her throat, not wanting to give herself away. Without another word, she breached the entrance to the den.

To her surprise and horror, both Tawnypaw and Bramblepaw’s nests were empty. Goldenflower’s ears flattened in dismay. Immediate panic began to bubble in her chest. She turned to the closest sleeping mound, Ashpaw, and prodded him awake with urgency.

“Where are Tawnypaw and Bramblepaw?” she questioned before Ashpaw could open his eyes.

He blinked at her a few times, confused, “What? I don’t know what you mean?”

She gestured to their empty nests for clarification, “Where are my children? They should be sleeping; did you see them leave, or go with anyone?”

Ashpaw glanced at Goldenflower, to Bramblepaw and Tawnypaw’s nests, then back at Goldenflower again. He looked even more lost.  Goldenflower was quickly losing her patience; she shifted her weight between her paws nervously.

“They weren’t in their nests when I came to bed… around sunset? Fernpaw was asleep already,” Ashpaw whispered after a few seconds of thought. He scrunched his nose, as if trying to recall his recent interactions with them. “I don’t remember them coming to their nests until late, actually, but I was barely awake.”

“Did they say anything when they came to the den?” Goldenflower prompted further. Ashpaw frowned again; she knew from his expression that he was unsure. The queen sighed.

“They were whispering to each other, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying,” another small voice meowed from beside Ashpaw. Goldenflower recognized it as Fernpaw immediately, and could see her green eyes peeking over Ashfur’s spotted backside.

“I thought it was just about patrol stuff, or something, so I tried to hear in. They have better stories because they’re younger and are allowed to do funner stuff than us. I couldn’t understand their mumbling,” Fernpaw’s face ducked behind her brother, “Brindleface says it’s rude to eavesdrop; please don’t tell her I was listening.”

If she wasn’t in a state of fear, Goldenflower would have chuckled. But she had only one concern at that point, and that was making sure Tawnypaw and Bramblepaw were safe. A familiar feeling of terror was beginning to fill her; it reminded her of the sheer horror she had felt when she realized that Swiftpaw was gone.

She would not lose another child.

“I just have one last question, and then you two can go back to sleep,” Goldenflower pressed, urgency dripping off of her tongue. “Have you seen Darkstripe around either of them as of late? Even if it didn’t seem like much, it is important. Anything you saw, I need to know.”

“Oh yeah!” Ashpaw exclaimed, as if happy to have useful information.

“Darkstripe talks to them all the time. I don’t know what they talk about, but-“

Fernpaw didn’t get the chance to finish, as Goldenflower had already rushed out of the den. She had all the information necessary to conclude that Darkstripe had something to do with their empty nests. She felt anger well up inside her chest.

There was no way they were still in camp. Darkstripe was reminiscent of a snake, but even he would have trouble finding a secret spot inside the ravine. He would have taken them into the forest. Goldenflower ran through countless conversations and social interactions in her mind, trying to land on a motive. It had all to do with their father, that much was certain.

It all clicked in an instant as Goldenflower recalled her mate’s demand for Bramblepaw and Tawnypaw at a previous gathering. If Darkstripe had been circling her kits for this long, he would have had plenty of time to plan a way to get them to Tigerstar. She felt stupid. This was the plot all along, to sweep her kits out from underneath her.

She would need to find a way to get them back. She hoped she was wrong, and that they were just talking in the forest somewhere, but an odd feeling told her otherwise. Goldenflower only hoped the Clan felt as much anger as she did, and her concerns would not be pushed aside yet again.

“What’s going on?” a voice meowed quietly from behind her, snapping her out of her thoughts. Goldenflower twisted around to see both Fernpaw and Ashpaw peeking out at her, already out of their den. Their eyes looked inquisitive and curious; they had no idea of the severity of the situation.

Goldenflower opened her mouth to reply, but Ashpaw immediately turned his attention elsewhere. The apprentice’s eyes flicked towards the entrance of camp, a confused expression clouding them. She noticed his hair beginning to stand on end as his eyes gradually widened in fear. Goldenflower followed his gaze, puzzled and concerned.

The wind was blowing steadily towards them, bringing with it a scent that Goldenflower had trouble recognizing. In her anger, she had failed to initially notice it. It seemed familiar, but clouded somehow, as if she was scenting the ghost of someone she had known before. It felt comforting and unnerving at the same time. She took a step forward, nose to the air.

As she began to hear noises in the undergrowth, it all became evident in an instant. A dreaded memory washed over her, one that she had attempted to bury many times over:

“Move, I need to see him,” Goldenflower pleaded, her voice shaking with despair. “I need to see my son.”

Fireheart did not move out of her line of vision. His eyes were clouded with horror, as if what lay beyond him both terrified and disgusted him. It made her that much more determined to see Swiftpaw.

“Please, Fireheart.”

After a moment's hesitation, Fireheart nodded solemnly and padded out of her way, leaving Goldenflower no shield to protect her from the truth. She braced herself, but it did nothing to stop the revulsion from overpowering her.

There was no body. Not anymore. What was left of her son was reminiscent of a great red smear across the ground. Pieces of him- ones that should never breach air- were scattered haphazardly throughout. Nothing was recognizable, save for the smallest tuft of black and white fur, that had somehow escaped being trampled into the bloody remnants.

It wasn’t until Fireheart wrapped himself around her, murmuring apologies, that she realized she was screaming.

Goldenflower snapped out of her memory, shaking her head as if to purge the horrifying image from her head. She forgot where she was for a second; only when Fernpaw tensely broke the silence did she come back to where she was.

“Goldenflower?” she asked, the panic rising in her voice as the trampling sounds grew louder, “What do we do?”

Goldenflower did not reply, only starred past the maw of camp into the shadows. The scent… it felt so familiar because she had smelled it before. It clung to the pieces of her son, to Brightpaw, and to the air around Snake Rocks. She felt foolish that she had been unable to recognize before now.

It was the smell of dogs.

Goldenflower turned to the apprentices, her face twisted in an unreadable expression. She opened her mouth to speak. Her voice was barely a whisper over the sound of great paws approaching.

“You need to listen to exactly what I tell you to do.”

“Why, what’s wrong-“ Fernpaw tried to reply, before being cut off growl that echoed throughout camp. It came from just beyond the brambles and bracken that protected the camp from intruders. All three cats froze and turned towards the ravine entrance. A distinct shadow could be seen pushing its way through the undergrowth, it’s path certain.

“I want Fernpaw to alert the warriors, while Ashpaw goes to Bluestar,” Goldenflower ordered as she looked back at the young cats. “I want you to tell them that there is a large dog trying to get into camp, and we need everyone out here to protect the queens and elders.”

Her face turned grim as she continued, “I then want you to get as far away from here as possible. Climb trees if you can, but do not go into any burrows or dens; it will dig you out if it catches you.”

Both looked at her in horror for a few seconds, before turning on their paws and bolting in opposite directions. Ashpaw had not gotten far when he skidded to a halt.

“What about you? Will you be okay?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just do as I’ve told you and get yourself out of camp,” she hissed urgently as the crashing from the undergrowth became unbearably loud. The dog would break through the wall any second now. “And whatever you see, whatever you hear, don’t come back.”

She watched him go, hoping he would follow her orders to find safety. She could just hear the sound of her clanmates waking up when the scent- both foreign and familiar to Goldenflower- washed over the clearing.

She turned to find herself looking directly into the eyes of the dog, it’s black furred face only a dozen feet away from where she stood. The beast mirrored her own features, with a sharp predatory face and long canines that gleamed in the low light. It was almost a parody of herself, golden eyes reflecting her own.

She could feel it’s hatred burning through her, but it paled in comparison to her own. This was the creature responsible for Swiftpaw’s suffering. It had torn him apart and left him to rot, only a fragment of the cat he once was. Her lips pulled back in a grotesque snarl.

Her mind flicked to Bramblepaw and Tawnypaw, remembering that they were safe out of camp. She wasn’t sure where they were, but they weren’t here, and that’s what mattered. Goldenflower had nothing to lose now. She could put all of her rage into making sure this beast paid for her grief, even if it destroyed her in the process.

It had only been a few seconds, but it felt as if she had been staring at the dog for hours. Both stood eerily still. It was if each was waiting for the other to make a move. Goldenflower felt no fear, especially as she heard her clanmates pour out of the warriors den behind her.

To its credit, the dog did not flinch at the sight of more adversaries. Goldenflower couldn’t understand why it didn’t back down, until more growling began to echo from behind it. In that instant she froze, her bravery dissipating into thin air.

There was more than one of them.

With a screech from behind her, the clearing erupted into chaos. The shuck tore itself free from the last few brambles protecting camp and cantered into the clearing, covering it in only a few strides.

Goldenflower saw Dustpelt and Cloudtail, side by side, dash past her. Their fur was puffed to twice their size and their lips were curled back in anger. More cats followed, but they were just a blur in her panicked vision.

“Stop, there’s more than one!” she screamed, but it was drowned out by the sound of frenzied barking and screeching. The noise seemed to be coming from everywhere, and as she looked in horror around camp, she realized it was. Every cat she saw had their mouth open- be it screaming in terror or defiance, she did not know.

Goldenflower watched in horror as Cloudtail and Dustpelt weaved around the first dog, unknowing that they were locking themselves into a trap. She tried to force herself to take a step forward, to help them, but her body did not listen. Only when a second dog forced its way in did she snap out of it. She managed to look away just as it closed its jaws around Dustpelt’s torso. Though she could not see, she could hear him crying out loudly above the rest.

The Clan was in full chaos by the time Dustpelt hit the ground.

Goldenflower scrambled on shaking legs away from the dogs. Any bravery she had was long gone, now replaced by fear for her clanmates. Many cats pushed around and past her, each with eyes wide open and panicked, just as she was. Any words she spoke were drowned out by the noise; trying to call out to them was impossible.

The dogs fully breached the camp entrance. There was at least five of them, of varying sizes but all much larger than the strongest of their warriors. Cloudtail had disappeared in a miasma of fur and teeth; Goldenflower did not see what happened to him, but she did smell the strong scent of blood. It stuck to the roof of her mouth and made her that much more fearful.

As she tried to find her way to safety, Goldenflower briefly saw one of the dogs trying to scrape its way into the medicine den. Another pushed its way towards the fallen tree where the elders resided, penetrating the rotten bark with its powerful forelegs. In the chaos she faintly saw faces of cats she knew, but in this instance, they all looked like strangers.

The screaming continued, intermixed with the sound of bloodthirsty hounds. Goldenflower caught a glimpse of a ginger shape thrown to the ground just feet in front of her. The crimson streaked fur and crumpled form was enough for her to know that they were dead.

Blood and fur had begun to pool along the ground from where cats had fallen. It made it hard to keep footing. Goldenflower barely kept her paws under her as she darted around the Warrior’s den, trying to keep out of the way of trampling paws. It was all for one now. She watched with frightened eyes as cats pushed past one another in a desperate attempt to escape.

She had to help evacuate who she could, but it was impossible to locate any one cat throughout the swarm. Calling out proved useless. The noise level was overwhelming and unbearable. She doubted that anyone would even listen to her regardless.

As she skirted the camp, she nearly knocked herself into Whitestorm. His fur was matted with blood from a deep wound on his shoulder. The foreleg hung limply, useless. An eye was also swollen shut, as if he had been thrown against something sharp. He looked exhausted but determined. The sight of him was enough for Goldenflower to regain some sense of hope. He would know what to do. He always did.

“Help me, help me get my kits,” he meowed through heavy breaths as she crouched beside him. Both cats looked towards the west of camp, where the nursery remained relatively untouched. Most of the cats had congregated in a mass to reach the emergency exists, trampling one another. It thankfully left Willowpelt out of the way of the chaos. Through hazy eyes, Goldenflower would faintly see her pale face through the lichen screen.

“I will cover you as you go,” Whitestorm meowed shakily, casting a glance over his ruined shoulder. “I will not be fast enough with this wound. If I can distract them- even for a moment- you can get in there.”

“No, you can’t! Come with me!” Goldenflower cried out. Her hope disappeared once more. Whitestorm had been a close friend of hers. He was the clan rock, someone who was always there to lead in time of disarray. The thought of not having the big tom in her life anymore made her chest heave and twist in grief.

“You must, please,” he pleaded, shaking his head desperately. “Please, before they realize and kill her too. She doesn’t deserve to die.”

“You don’t deserve to die either! We can do it together!”

Whitestorm looked at her for a brief second, a sad expression coming across his face, “It will be okay, I promise. Just go. If I make it out, I’ll come find you. But you can’t wait for me.”

Goldenflower swallowed hard, fighting back grief as she contemplated his idea. The world seemed to be spinning. She could barely concentrate over the yowling and the reek of blood. How could she agree to let her friend die?

Swiftpaw’s body flashed in her mind again. Goldenflower could not imagine leaving Willowpelt to die like that, or her kittens. What Whitestorm was offering was a chance at life for them, even if he would die in the process.

Goldenflower locked eyes with Whitestorm and nodded in agreement, though it killed her on the inside. He smiled and without another word, hobbled out from behind the warriors den. Goldenflower had little time to react, and found herself sprinting across the camp. She disappeared into the mouth of the nursery just as she heard Whitestorm’s pained scream pierce through the air.

Willowpelt had backed herself into the corner, her face twisted in an unreadable expression. Her kittens pooled around her paws. They all looked confused. The walls of the den only barely muffled the sound of death from outside; it hurt Goldenflower deeply to know that the kittens had heard every cry, scream, and howl.

“We need to get you out of here,” Goldenflower meowed as she entered, trying to keep her voice steady. “We can’t go out of the den, as they’ll see us. We’ll have to dig out the back.”

Willowpelt nodded solemnly. Without further words between them, both queens began to claw away at the brambles protecting the rear of the den. The thorns sharply cut into Goldenflower’s pads. She gritted her teeth and kept pushing, even when they became damp with blood.

“Where are the others? We will need help carrying the kits.” Willowpelt meowed through a clenched jaw; her pads there just as torn up as Goldenflower’s. They both left crimson paw prints along the ground, a stark contrast between the soft moss and feathers used to line their nests.

“It’s just me,” Goldenflower replied softly, just trying to keep her friend on task. Though panic and terror still pumped through her, it seemed as if Willowpelt had an eerie calm. It frightened Goldenflower; she silently hoped Willowpelt wouldn’t shut down.

“What about Greystripe? Brindleface?” Willowpelt continued, voice placid, “Speckletail must be around.”

Goldenflower repeated herself, “It’s just me.”

“Your kittens?”

Goldenflower paused briefly. She should have known another queen would be worried about her children as well, even under such stress. They did not have the time for a lengthy explanation.

“Tawnypaw and Bramblepaw snuck out of camp. Wherever they are, they’re not here…and anywhere is safer than here. I have to believe that they’ll stay safe,” she explained hurriedly. She wanted to believe her words.

Willowpelt made a unintelligible noise in reply, but to her credit, didn’t let up on the digging. Goldenflower could see a hole in the bracken now, just big enough to force their way through. Her paws throbbed in pain.

“I hate to ask… but which of your kits can run the fastest?” Goldenflower asked, looking anywhere but at Willowpelt, “If they had to, I mean.”

The grey tabby thought for a second, before replying, “Sorrelkit.”

“There’s only two of us, so we’ll each carry Rainkit and Sootkit. You go first, and I’ll go last. Sorrelkit will run in between us,” Goldenflower explained. She was acutely aware that the noise from outside had died off almost completely. They only had a short window to get away before the dogs attention would turn towards them.

“They’ll catch us.”

“If we go far enough into the forest, and climb a tree, they won’t,” Goldenflower assured, “And if I think they’re going to catch us, I’ll make sure you can get away.”

“How?”

Goldenflower swallowed, but her voice remained still, “By letting them kill me.”

Willowpelt’s expression hardened briefly, before it returned to its eerie stillness. Without another glance, she pulled Rainkit close to her and picked him up by the scruff. Goldenflower nudged Sorrelkit along behind her mother, but before she scruffed Sootkit, she recalled her earlier conversation with Ashpaw.

“And Willowpelt… whatever you see, whatever you hear, don’t come back.”

-----

The sprint into the forest was one of the most terrifying moments of Goldenflower’s life. Every tree and bush looked like it could hide another dog. She tried to focus on the little mottled tail of Sorrelkit in front of her, not wanting to lose track of her clanmates in the undergrowth.

It had seemed as if they slipped away unnoticed. The screams from camp had mostly been replaced with barking and howling; if that meant everyone had gotten to safety, or was dead, Goldenflower didn’t know.

After a few moments of running, Goldenflower slowed to a halt. Sorrelkit was quick to stop, as was Willowpelt. Both of their sides were heaving from exhaustion. On top of that, both queens’ feet were saturated in blood from digging. It nauseated Goldenflower.

They were close in proximity to the center of the forest. The trees were dense and plush here; perfect for hiding in and staying out of sight. Goldenflower could imagine the dogs would never abandon a tree if they spotted them in it. It was crucial they remained hidden.

The golden queen gestured to a large maple. It’s dappled leaves were just beginning to change with the coming cold season. The foliage would camouflage them from anything that followed their trail.

Willowpelt nodded in understanding. She quickly scaled the tree with ease, Sorrelkit struggling behind her. Once Rainkit was safe on a sturdy looking branch, Willowpelt scrambled down and grabbed her daughter by the scruff, hauling her the rest of the way.

Wordlessly Goldenflower followed up to where Willowpelt was crouched, and chose a branch slightly to the left of her. It was high enough as to where nothing would be able to reach them, and the foliage disguised them. Safe, for now.

Once Sootkit was settled securely on the branch, Goldenflower moved to climb down. The rest of the Clan was still in danger. She needed to go back and check if anyone else needed to be evacuated. The thought was terrifying to her, but she couldn’t leave them. She was thankful that Tawnypaw and Bramblepaw had been out of camp when it happened; she would fight until death had they been caught in the massacre.

“Where are you going?” Willowpelt’s voice stopped her. “You said there was just you.”

“I have to go check for survivors. There could be cats trapped in camp and unable to get out.”

Willowpelt shook her head violently, reaching out with a striped paw, “No, stay with me.”

“I can’t-“

“Everyone is dead. We know that. You will die too if you go back. They’ll find you and kill you,” Willowpelt continued, as if Goldenflower hadn’t spoken, “You have to stay. I won’t let you leave.”

“What if there are survivors?” she argued.

Willowpelt shook her head again in response, “You said, that whatever happens, we don’t go back.”

“I meant you. You have kittens to look after.”

“And so do you,” Willowpelt insisted. She was beginning to regain her sense of clarity. “If Tawnypaw and Bramblepaw are safe like you say, they will need you. I will not let you orphan them.”

Goldenflower huffed and looked away, tail lashing. The thought of orphaning her kits made her heart ache, but so did the thought of leaving her clan to die. Willowpelt had a good point, that whatever damage had been done was irreversible; any cats who had gotten out would have had to have found safety by now. The rest were likely dead.

She wordlessly gave in. With a worn out sigh, the golden queen settled herself down on the branch. Sootkit immediately pressed himself into her fur. Despite all that had happened, Goldenflower found herself purring. If it was comfort him or herself, she was not sure.

She looked back over at Willowpelt, who had curled herself awkwardly around Sorrelkit and Rainkit. One of her blue eyes remained open, as if making sure Goldenflower would not try and go back to camp behind her back.

If anything was of comfort, it was knowing Willowpelt and her kits were safe. Goldenflower thought in horror of the clan trampling and push each other in fear. She wondered how it would have turned out if she succumbed to the same instinct. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to to imagine Willowpelt left alone in the den, waiting for her painful death.

Gradually, the queen began to doze off. Her entire body ached and her energy was depleted. As she was about to pass out, Goldenflower heard a soft meow across from her. She did not need to open her eyes to know it was Willowpelt who had spoken again. Her voice was barely discernible from the morning wind rustling the branches above them.

“Thank you.”

It was the last thing Goldenflower remembered before succumbing to exhaustion, her world fading to black as nightmares once more took hold of her.

[evren-writes]

Snake Eyes

Deep in the forest, something twisted and horrid lives. With eyes that lie like a snake, and horns twisted like the devil, people warned of its cruel nature. If you were to ever enter the forest alone at night, you’d be found dead by dawn with no cause identifiable by man.

And while the village told no living soul to dare step foot in those woods, Arren didn’t like to be told what to do.

That didn’t make his self-inflicted task anymore enjoyable, however. While spite and desperation was an excellent motivator, wandering for hours in the dark was absolutely fucking annoying.

Arren growled to himself as he brushed dirt out of the scrapes and cuts on his knees. A beaten, broken part of him didn’t care if it got infected, almost wished for it, but the fire burning deep within him suffocated those thoughts in smoke. He would succeed and bring the head of the monster to that shitty town and make them beg for him back.

It was either that or burn the whole place to the ground and leave nothing but ashes, but the ever persistent ache of what they had done kept his sensible side frustratingly sharp.

A sensible side that immediately evaporated once the wind carried a hissing laughter along with it. The sound was smooth and silky, with a little bit of smugness mixed in. Arren hated it and would relish in murdering this motherfucker.

“What brings this little, lost light to my forest?” The voice taunted, seemingly enjoying this game very much.

“Don’t call me that.” Arren said flatly, obviously having the exact opposite experience.

“That’s- That’s not how this works.” The way the voice wavered filled Arren with bitter satisfaction.

“Well, if you want to stop being a dumbass anytime soon, my name is Arren.” It’s not that he particularly wanted to be on first name basis with the horrible beast of the forest, he just disliked the nicknames more.

And, to his surprise, the monster laughed in response. It was snake-y or smug in a way that decided life or death. It was just. Happy.

What the fuck?

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to meet someone like you!” The voice exclaimed out, and suddenly, it wasn’t a part of the wind anymore.

It was right behind him.

Arren whipped around, hand reaching in his coat pocket, ready. The figure that walked out of his shadows was both exactly what was described and not at all.

Golden horns that curved back like a goat rested on its skull. Two green snake eyes gazed at him with a giddiness, and beautiful golden scales rested under those eyes like makeup. And other than scaled hands with deadly claws at the end, it looked fully human.

Human and not as scary every had made him out to be. Half his head was shaved and wild black hair fell across his face. His clothes looked like a torn funeral suit, with several different kinds of flowers pinned to his lapel, most of them purple.

This would be easier than Arren thought.

Before he could curl his fingers around the hilt of the small dagger he had brought, the monster spoke up again.

“So why are you here, then?” He asked, walking towards Arren, who stepped back several steps in response.

“What?” Arren hissed back, not in the snakey way, but in a very angry human way.

That made the monster stop. His smile slowly dripped into a frown and he looked away uncomfortably. Pulling at the cuff of his suit, he answered.

“People usually come here to die.” He said softly, avoiding eye contact. “I try to chase them off, but it doesn’t work. They’ve accepted their fate and I’m always too late.”

That didn’t make any sense at all. With reluctant confusion, Arren let go of the hidden dagger and brought his hand to his side again. It would be so easy to stop this thing in the heart while it refused to look at him. He could gain his place back and his sins forgiven.

But at the very core of his being, Arren was a learner. He craved knowledge and the answer to mysteries more than he did redemption. If he killed the monster right here and now, then he would never learn what any of that meant.

So for now, he asked questions.

“How did you know I wasn’t here to die?” He asked, though it sounded more like a demand with his forceful tone.

At that, the creature perked up and looked at him. A smile tugged at his lips again and another laugh escaped his mouth. Yeah, cruel fate his ass. This thing was a complete fucking loser.

“Well, for one, people who want to die don’t usually call me a dumbass.” He responded, and Arren thought that more people really should. “And second, the light thing I said actually meant something.”

Oh, now that was interesting.

“So it wasn’t just a dumb nickname?” Arren asked, subconsciously stepped forward and ending up standing face to face with the monster.

“Yeah! That’s what these are for.” He said, pointing to his eyes. “It’s difficult to explain, but people who are about to die here look dark and foggy inside. You were like looking directly at a forest fire, and I don’t just mean because you’re hot.”

Arren peeled back his lips into a snarl. The sound furious and indignant, and that asshole had the gall to laugh at him. A sound so bright and delighted maybe he was the fucking forest fire here. Fuck him.

“But you still didn’t answer my question.” He said suddenly, snapping Arren out of his simmering rage. “Why did you come in here?”

Arren didn’t owe this thing anything. Meeting a monster in a forest and having him tell you a few interesting things didn’t mean he had to spill his whole stupid life story.

Except he was going to anyways. Not because it was boiling over the pot and definitely because he desperately needed to tell someone.

“I was going to kill you.” Arren said, feeling a bit of disappointment at how little the monster seemed bothered. “So they would let me back into my home.”

The monster tilted his head as he took in this information. Then, his lips pursed themselves into a frown and he gently reached forward. Arren froze. So many different reactions exploded through him, all involving attacking this thing right now, that it left him motionless.

It let the monster gently sweep the messy hair out of his right eye and gasp at what he saw.

Arren knew it looked bad, probably even worse from the last time he checked. A long, messy cut that went from the top of his forehead to halfway down his cheekbone. Bloody and with his right eye crusted shut, probably for the best.

He hadn’t bothered to clean it or treat it in anyway. He had just immediately run into the forest to get away and never looked back.

“Why would they-?” The monster started, but Arren didn’t let him finish.

“Because I tried to kill my father.” He said simply, as if it wasn’t horrific news.

The monster opened his mouth to speak again, likely to spew so many more questions that it made Arren sick.

Abruptly turning away, Arren spoke again. “Don’t.”

Thankfully, his boundary was respected, and he didn’t hear anything. His heart was beating fast in his chest. Finally he had come out and said this to someone willingly, but feeling it all flood back was so fucking upsetting and he hated it. Hated all of them.

Except he had nowhere else to go and he didn’t want to die.

“You can stay here.”

Arren jumped when he heard the monster speak up so abruptly and turned around. A clawed hand was extended towards him, and the expression on this supposed cruel beast was wild and welcoming, like this was some kind of exciting new adventure.

Briefly, the thought dealing with the devil flashed in Arren’s mind, but that was only after he had already took the devil’s hand. For some reason, this idea was a lot more welcoming than his first one.

“Plus, I think I have an idea on how to keep you safe.” The monster spoke up, a grin embodying his features.

“I don’t need you to keep me safe.” Arren bristled, but he couldn’t help the curiousity welling up within him again. “What is it?”

Gesturing grandly, the monster pointed to his own right eye. Arren could feel the reckless and exciting energy radiating off of him. Arren would be lying if he said it wasn’t as infectious as it was worrying, but he was a liar so he wasn’t going to say that.

“I’m going to give you my eye so you can see the ins and outs of this forest like I can!” The monster declared and Arren stared at him blankly.

“What the fuck are you even talking about?!” He suddenly yelled, realizing that yes! This situation could get even weirder! “How do you even know you could do that?!”

The monster’s expression took on a more sullen and distant look as he stared somewhere past Arren’s shoulder.

“There are some things about me that I just know.” He said, sounding far away. “Like that I used to be a human before this and that I had a different name.”

So there was even more mystery to this place? Also this was when Arren realized he had never bothered to ask if the monster had a name. He was so used to it just being a creature that stalked and haunted the woods, that he hadn’t even realized that it could be someone.

“So what’s your name now, then?” Arren asked, finally deciding to be polite.

The monster seemed to snap out of it and turned to look at him. His features softened and he looked a lot less sad. Arren decided he liked this version a lot more. Meaning, that he found it the least annoying.

“Blight. That’s who I am now.” Blight said, looking stronger and more sure of himself now. “So, are you in or not?”

Blight, huh? A poisonous name that promised of death. It didn’t feel quite fitting for what he knew now, but Arren liked how it sounded. Powerful and threatening.

As for the question... What else did he have to lose?

“Fine. Fucking whatever.” Arren grumbled, crossing his arms and Blight just laughed in response again.

Reaching a hand out, Blight gently cupped it over Arren’s right eye. It aggravated the aching sensation and brought a sting along with it, but that was fine. He watched Blight take a deep breath and close his eyes, and suddenly Arren felt dizzy and the world was literally spinning around him like some sick punishment for all his crimes.

He wanted to cry out, beg for all of it to stop and say he’d never do it again. He wasn’t sorry but it didn’t matter because the sickness outdid any pain he could ever feel and he had learned his lesson.

Then, everything abruptly stopped.

The world was different.

[televinita]

kateschechterxthorwasmyfirstotp replied to post: If you did not watch the last episode, they kind of righted that wrong...

Eh...I read what they tried, but I deemed it Not Good Enough. That was a pretty fundamental betrayal of my deepest shipping principles and too many years apart for me to ever feel okay about them again.

#I have been trying to coherently explain it for like 20 minute and I keep getting bogged down in anger and sadness at the memories so tl;dr: no

EDIT: actually you know what, I am gonna explain it, via copy-pasting the long ass 4-part blog post I made about it the night it aired (I didn’t watch because I was behind on the season, but I hung out in the Tumblr tag and read live reactions), which incidentally was the night after we put my dog to sleep so those two Sadness Memories are wrapped around each other. I always meant to post at least part of it to Tumblr and I regret not doing that.

February 2013

Wednesday: Unedited Ranty Version LOL NOPE BYE. Literally just...not accepting this. Never watching the episode, done with future episodes, the show can just stop here. Unlike with Glee, I am above this. I don't feel it hard enough to be canon, and god, I am so much better for it. Sucks for all the fans who can't just handwave it and decide not to believe. I'm not even going to bother repeating all my Kurt/Blaine rage from last fall, because Sara and Grissom met late enough in life that they aren't in quite the same category of fairytale romance, even if they are soulmates, but -- my anger about relationships losing their magic if you break up in the middle and see other people after finally getting together? So very applicable. (Honestly, show, what happened to them having a marriage that worked for them and no one else needed to understand? Why couldn't you just leave that alone? Why did you have to pick? There was no reason to pick. No picking! /nasally Seinfeld voice.) I'm kind of sorry they already lost their spot in the Top Five All-Time OTPs Kingdom to Kurt and Blaine, because I would have really enjoyed kicking them the fuck out tonight. If I believed this were happening. Which I realized, 5 seconds after writing the above, that I am not. Goodbye, and good luck. Thursday morning (a.k.a. just kidding I’m still mad as hell and back to yell) I like how they keep talking about "implications into next year" and how the story will continue. No, it won't. You've separated them before, a fact I had forgotten about because I refused to watch 9x05 and it was clearly just a pause button on the way to spinny-camera grand reunion kissing as opposed to a real breakup, but there's no way to fix this now. There is no more to the story; you don't get to tell a story after this. Glee already proved to me that there is no way to make a worthwhile arc out of a vile bomb drop. Although I am kind of sorry that this relationship could actually have withstood cheating and it would have been easier to swallow than divorce. Maybe because it still feels like cheating. You're meant to be with someone, you can't have extracurricular people! I have some unfinished business with those first 7 episodes of season 13, and I'm not sure what to do with that -- they were great and I hate to leave them unwritten about, but if I go back there is a slim chance it will get devious like Grey's Anatomy and suck me back in underhandedly, and I'd rather spite myself than give it that opening. So I'm not totally sure if this is the end. But it sure has that really certain Bones Episode #100 level sense of THIS IS UNFORGIVABLE. GAME OVER. Thursday night Reading other people's opinions is always a dumb way to go, because instead of saying my piece and being done, now I'm riled up and feel like I need to FORCE people to understand something they just don't seem to be getting, whether they're being practical and pragmatic or writhing about it in "but they were my first real ship!" angst. (as if they are only a ship, instead of so much more) The thing is, this isn't just a dumb writing choice you can complain about. This isn't even about whether it's in character or not. It is literally. Not. An option. Some couples just aren't allowed to break up. A UST couple that takes more than 5 years to get together is one of them. And once they get married, that's absolutely it. A victory for permanent commitment and contentment. There's no divorce in good storytelling, there are no separations. That lazy nonsense is reserved for books, movies, and silly soap opera types like Grey's Anatomy. Couples like Grissom and Sara, they are foundations. Institutions. When you want to change the look of your house or test out something new, you work with the existing structure. You don't knock it down and build it back up from the floorboards. To be fair, I was always upset by the "long distance marriage" - there was no reason for it; there was never a reason Grissom couldn't be off screen right here in Vegas, teaching at a local university or simply pursuing his own research supplemented with travel when necessary. The longer it went on, the less happy I felt. But since they told us it worked, I put up with it for the joy of having Jorja Fox back on my screen. I see now that was a mistake, and the only way to keep them safe was to push them away. The point is: TPTB broke television law. I can't judge this like other shows as a good or bad direction for the characters, or wonder how it will affect Sara in the upcoming episodes, because they are untouchable. It's honestly laughable that anyone thought it was okay to even try this. Can you imagine if the second X-Files movie followed through on its misdirection and went "lol yeah Mulder and Scully haven't seen each other in 5 years"? I

[2017 edit: FYI I have not stopped being angry about the bitter irony of this comment since the revival spoilers hit.]

If you need more universal examples, that's like tuning in to find out the Brady Bunch has split back up into two separate households, or Disney is going to experiment with a new movie where Minnie elopes with Goofy.

You don't get to pretend you're setting up for a season or two-season arc. This isn't an arc. This is a slash and burn project. Let's pretend, for a minute, that this is planned as an emotionally complex journey that will force them to examine what they mean to each other and get them back together, Costa Rica style, in next year's season finale. Do you think that would be worth it? Do you think the struggle to get there will make the ultimate conclusion heartwarming, fill you with elation as you see them beat all the odds? It will not. It will be long tainted by then, a sour coda to an unfixable mess, because what you had wasn't important enough to preserve. You can't ever get back to what you were, and it's already too late. That is the best case scenario. There are no character motivations to explore. There is nothing to dig into. A death warrant was signed and went up as effectively as a brick wall in stopping the development of this relationship in its tracks. Televinita out. #breakingupwithCSI #I reject your canon and substitute my own Thursday: Post-Essay Messiness Oops. Reading my old reviews because I can't remember GSR's chronology off the top of my head, and...there is no way I'm letting anyone use this as justification for being in character, but this conversation does seem sort of relevant all over again. "Sooner or later a relationship in stasis withers. You get angry. You need more than the safety of knowing that you're not alone." "Then he should've just walked away." "Well, maybe he couldn't. Maybe he needed her to leave him." Apparently I also got kind of angry in the early part of season 9 when Sara left again, and may have threatened to break up with this show at that time? *chagrined look* But 2008 Me seems to have still accepted this as a possible, if highly undesirable, turn for the couple. What changed? And am I crazy, or is it possible to decide neither of the times Sara left were actual breakups as opposed to pause buttons? Oh, that's right. What changed is they got married. I repeat, when it comes to long-running couples on TV, wedding bands are as much a promise to the audience as they are to the people involved. You put a ring on it after proper courtship, that's a universally accepted sign for "you win: permanent freedom from being jerked around for Drama/Conflict/ratings."

[mademoiselleseraph]

Like Pluto and Persephone, chapter 1

Roméo et Juliette AU fic where it was Pâris that went to fight Roméo rather than Tybalt. Suicide mention, incest mention, and some sexual comments on arranged marriage, so if you're sensitive to such content, be warned, it might get squicky. (And if you wanna let me know how you felt about this, my inbox is always open) ~~~~ Tybalt knocked at Juliette's bedroom door, as he'd done for as long as she could answer it. All the times before, it had been to play, or because he had heard she was upset and wished to comfort her. It was for a different reason now. The man his cousin was betrothed to, Comte Pâris Lodrone, had been a damn fool the day before. He'd drunk more than his fill and went after the Montaigu heir, who was rumored to be Juliette's lover, only to die at his hands after killing the Prince's nephew. Mercutio, His Highness's own blood, could have spent his days traveling the world and drinking exotic wines and listening to the latest of musical compositions, but he chose to keep company with a lowly dead Baron's family and allies. Tybalt hated him for that, but it made no difference now. Mercutio and Pâris were dead and the Montaigu boy had been banished to the next city. And now Tybalt stood at Juliette's bedroom door, not to play or comfort, but to bring her news. La Muette, who dressed her every morning, answered. She couldn't have done so without Juliette's acknowledgement. The maid was deaf as a post and doors had no lips for her to read. She turned back to the room, signed to Juliette who the visitor was, and opened the door wider that he may be received. Juliette had only just been dressed. Her hair was curled, as it had been the day before and the night before that. That night he found her with her Nurse, wearing a heavy gown and trying to walk silently to her room. The sunlight poured in through her window and reflected the gold of her hair, giving her the ethereal air of an angel or nymph. How was it that every time he looked upon her she seemed more beautiful and delicate? "Oh, Tybalt," she addressed him, snapping him out of his trance, "it's only you. I'd feared it was my mother come to tell me that I am to marry Pâris' brother, or the Prince himself." She was sitting on her bed. The sheets were in a great mess as if they hadn't been straightened out yet. "I see you've been abed until only recently, even at this hour," he said. "I expected nothing else. Yesterday was rather... eventful." "It was," she agreed. "I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it all. Mercutio didn't deserve to die, and Pâris.... I didn't care for him, but I never wished he'd be killed. And Roméo shouldn't have been banished for carrying out the Prince's justice." "The Prince gave no permission," Tybalt explained, "therefore it was murder in the eyes of the law." He wondered how she would react if she knew it had almost been he himself that went after the boy out of his burning jealousy. His mistress Carmina kept him from the wine and kept him in bed, otherwise, he would have and his cousin would be mourning his death. "But come now," she urged him. "You wish to tell me something. Don't deny it; your eyes hide so little from me. They always have." It was true, he had always been so open to her while being so closed off to others. And when no one could gentle the rage inside him, one look from her made him docile. He would melt in her hands like the wax of a candle nearest to the wick. He sat next to her on the bed and took her hands in his. He hesitated. He didn't want her to hear the news he was there to deliver, but if he didn't, her parents would. He, at the very least, would know how to comfort her. "Juliette," he started, "your parents have given me your hand in marriage." She wasn't sure how she ought to react at first and spent some time thinking it over before smiling at him and replying, "But you knew I could never marry you, so you told them no! Didn't you?" He wanted to smile and nod his head yes. He wanted to reassure her that he would never entertain the folly of marrying her against her will, for how could she ever bring herself to want to be his bride? He wanted to, but he didn't. He couldn't. He could only cast his eyes down in shame. "Didn't you?" she repeated. He could hear the smile slip from her face. He looked into her worried eyes. She was starting to tear up, no matter how much she tried to stop it. He could taste the reluctance in the back of his throat, and it was as bitter as those glassy tears. He stroked her hands apologetically with his thumbs. "Juliette," he heard himself say in a halfhearted and regretful tone, "please try to understand." She pulled herself from him with violent force and faced away from him in one swift motion. Perhaps she was shedding the tears she had been trying to suppress. In either case, it wasn't only sorrow and desperation radiating from her heart, but also a rage befitting the gods. And she turned to face him again, fury written all over her countenance. "They give me to you as they would a horse or a saber, and you meekly accept? Why? Is it that you wanted this?" He had remained sitting on the bed as she stood, straightened rigid and tall in indignation, and now felt terribly small. He cast his eyes down again in shame. "No," she demanded. "Look me in the eyes and answer me. Truthfully." His eyes met hers again and it took all his courage to answer honestly, "Not under these circumstances." The rage in her face gave way to panicked confusion. "Then under what circumstances?" she asked. He had dreamed of those circumstance so often; of her pinning him to the floor and looking into his eyes as if she was watching her first sunset. In those dreams, she would kiss him. It would be innocent enough to start with, but the kisses would become deeper and more passionate. Eventually, they'd be lying on the floor together, half dressed but not reaching for anything more intimate than the other's hands, hair, or face. Juliette would tell him that she wouldn't have any husband but him and Tybalt would swear to her that he would crawl to the Vatican on his knees and beg the Pope for a dispensation, that they may marry in spite of consanguinity. He couldn't tell her any of this, so he kept it concise. "I'd hoped that you would wish to marry me someday, that we could arrange it, and be happy. Under the current circumstances, you've been put into far too much discomfort and I never intended that." "Then why did you agree?" she insisted. There was less hate and worry in her voice. It had given way to a melancholy anguish. "I can't deny this family anything," he answered. His voice lost all its strength and his speech sounded little more than a breath. "I never could." He didn't have to say any more. Though she had always been spared the details of Tybalt's upbringing, she had seen the aftermath enough to understand. She saw the bruises, the occasional limp, and the way he flinched from everyone but her, even the Nurse. But the more his family ill-used him and allowed him to be ill-used, the more he longed for their approval and the more violently he defended them. "In either case," he continued, "a marriage between us means nothing as you're already married in the eyes of God." She eyed him with confusion. Surely he couldn't know. He couldn't possibly know. It had been the dead of night and she wore the same houppelande she wore for Carnevale over her wedding gown. As if reading her thoughts, Tybalt wore a knowing smile and replied, "Yes, you were pining yet giddy all day, and everyone knows the cause of that sweetest heartache. And in the middle of the night, I heard you come stealing to your room. You smelled of the incense they burn in the church. You wore that plainer gown over everything as a disguise, but I saw the silk of your dress slip between the seams beneath the closure." The silk of that dress was exquisite; gauzy as mist and a rosy pale gold in color. There was an inexplicably dreamy quality about it that suited not only Juliette's gentle complexion, but her personality as well. "It was the Montaigu boy, wasn't it?" he asked, but he already knew the answer. Juliette looked at Tybalt as if expecting a severe scolding about devotion to family and not betraying blood for the enemy. The fear only worsened when he found a garter of Montaigu blue wool poking out from under the pillow. She had reason to fear its fate in his hands. He had been raised to hate that color with every fiber of his being. He wanted to slice the damn thing up and toss the pieces one by one into the kitchen fires. He wanted to find Montaigu and remove first his fingers, then his eyes, and then his tongue, with a dull butcher's knife. He wouldn't, as that would displease his cousin, but he wanted to. "You've... known him," he muttered. It wasn't even a question this time. "Well, I suppose it's only natural for a girl to know her husband." "Are you angry with me?" she asked. "No," he answered. "I could never be angry with you. I am angry with the boy. He took advantage of your heart and dragged you down to his lowly status. You deserve better than him." "Oh?" she questioned. "Did I deserve Pâris?" "You deserve a Prince at the very least," he specified. "Or perhaps the Pope's own son. But you don't want a prince or a Borgia. You only want him." He folded the Montagiu boy's garter and placed it in Juliette's hand, closing her fingers around it. "And you will have his company." She shot him a confused look and incredulously asked "But how?" "Your father gave us a little villa," he explained. "It's in the southwest, just half a day's ride from Mantua." Her eyes widened at this. "You'll take me to him?" "As often as I'm able to, comtesse," he answered. A smile stretched over her face and then faded as soon as it had appeared. "But you hate him." "I do," he admitted. "What about it?" "How am I to know you'll not slaughter my Roméo without my knowledge?" she demanded, eyeing him suspiciously. "I'd never do anything to cause you pain," he answered. He wondered how true it was, considering how close he came to marching out and demanding a duel with the boy. Juliette could sense this doubt in him and ordered him to swear on his life. When he tried to placate her by saying it wasn't necessary, she lunged to grab the dagger at his belt. He reached it just a quarter of a second before she would have and firmly kept it in its place. "Very well," he acquiesced. "I swear by my life, my eyes, and my hands. Should my actions make a liar of me, may the Devil drag me by my feet to the deepest pit of Hell." It was his customary vow. He'd used it often, and though he never went back on his word, it sounded especially sincere and solemn and true this time. There were times when he'd given her this promise and she'd look deeply into his face, searching for any tells that he was lying or being insincere. Those times he'd promise her that if he should prove false, he'd allow her to chop his tongue out. When she asked him what she could possibly do with his severed tongue, he explained that she may gild it and wear it around her neck, or perhaps keep it preserved in a silver box to show to her enemies. She would be disgusted, but satisfied with his promises. She hadn't searched for tells this time, no need to offer his tongue for collateral. "I only ever wanted your happiness," he continued. "If not with me, then with whoever you choose. Even a Montagiu." "How long?" Juliette asked. "For how long have you wanted to marry me?" "Do you remember the day after my fifteenth birthday?" Tybalt began. "How could I forget? My Nurse told me you almost died the night before." "Did she tell you it would have been by my own hand?" How disgusted he had been with himself that night. His father brought him to a brothel for the first time, and had one of the women with painted faces and upraised skirts take him to a little room with little more than a bed. All the while he was with that woman in the unbearably close room, he could only think of his little cousin and how much gentler her touch would be and how much more he'd enjoy it with her. How much wine had he been given to not wave those thoughts away the moment they appeared? How much did he drink afterward in a vain attempt to make them go away? She didn't need to know. "I drank more than I should have that night," he continued. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I meant to jump from your balcony and break my neck. You were celebrating with the others, I wrote you a note. I would have continued to the conclusion, had your Nurse not found me. She told me to come down from the railing and told me all my worries about being a curse were false. I said that no one would miss me, and she said you would, and that I knew you would or I wouldn't have written you a note. I was tired, so she had me lay in your bed." The revelation that such a thing came to pass without her ever knowing caused Juliette to tear up again, and look at her cousin with pity and compassion. He reached his hands out to hers in a gesture of comfort. She put her hands in his and sat again beside him on the bed. He looked at those hands, still as graceful and delicate as they were that memorable morning. "When I woke the next day," he recalled, "you were there crying. You gave me strict orders that I was not to die and you laid yourself next to me. You threw your arms around me and cried into my shoulder, all the while forbidding me from death. That moment I knew I never wanted to leave your side." There were many things he felt he ought to say to her. That he wasn't proud of these romantic affections toward her, that he kept the note he wrote her that night always close to his heart, that he truly did love her. When she looked him in the eye, he could see that she knew all of it, or that at least, she knew enough of it. She broke away from him to tell La Muette the plan. La Muette thought it best to give the two privacy, and for the entirety of their conversation she had her back turned to them, filling sachets with dried lavender and stitching them closed. Juliette's hands fluttered and darted with urgent precision, and she shaped them into the signs that La Muette communicated with. She moved to fast for Tybalt to catch everything, but he recognized "false marriage," "visit in secret," and "together." The two became very excited and held each other in an ecstatic embrace. The signing calmed and Tybalt could see Juliette affirm that she would need to send her Roméo a note, to which La Muette replied offering to write it in code and decode it for him when delivered. Juliette agreed. La Muette's entire being was a study in empathy. The joy or sorrow of those around her quickly became her own and often seemed amplified through her. So, seeing how happiness poured from Juliette's eyes and smile, she threw her arms about Tybalt's neck and kissed his cheek on her way to fetch the portable desk from the painted chest at the foot of the bed. It shocked him, but he said nothing. Juliette returned to his side as he got up from the bed and prepared to leave. She took his hands and said to him, "You wanted my happiness, and you shall have it. I will be with the husband I chose. He is banished, and I will be another man's wife in the eyes of men, but we will know the truth and we will be in each other's arms again before long. Thank you." And she embraced him. It always soothed him to feel her so close, to hold her there. Sometimes, he could feel her heart beat, like a delicate little drum gently played by a toy soldier. He kissed the top of her head, and excused himself from the room. Juliette began to dictate the note when there was another knock at the door. La Muette got up to answer but it opened without her and Lady Capulet let herself in. Juliette's mother had an airy nature to her and seemed to flit and glide rather than walk. One of Juliette's first memories, in fact, was asking her Nurse if her mother's feet ever touched the ground. "Juliette, ma cherrie," she greeted her daughter with a cordial kiss on the forehead. She always did so when something unpleasant must be done. It was a coaxing promise that the situation would improve, even if she wasn't sure when or how. "Hello, Mother," Juliette returned the greeting. She didn't know what her mother had to say about the circumstances, but she was sure it wouldn't make her feel any better. Lady Capulet gestured to the bed, suggesting they sit. "I'm sure Tybalt told you of our new arrangement," she began. "That I am to marry him?" Juliette asked, but she already knew the answer. Her mother petted her hair, as if it would make her any more comfortable. "Your father and I are only doing what's best; for you, for Tybalt, for the family as a whole. A good half of them truly do believe that Tybalt's father was chosen by God and mean to keep you from your inheritance. And with all that has recently happened, we may never find you another suitor." La Muette had again turned around and was organizing the desk. Juliette wished she was behind her, combing her hair or fixing her laces. Tybalt promised their marriage would mean nothing, but thinking of it still made her uncomfortable. "Well," her mother continued, "you're not a child any longer. Your Nurse and I have told you how children are conceived. We'll all be expecting at least two sons from the union. No need to worry about the actual begetting of the children. From what I understand, our Tybalt is quite skilled. I've heard it said that he learned from the brothels of France. In either case he's always been gentle with you before." Her discomfort was manifesting in squirming and fidgeting but her mother placed a hand on her shoulder and tilted her head up so that their eyes met. A gesture to listen carefully. It would come from the Lady Capulet or from the Nurse or from Tybalt, usually concerning etiquette or upholding reputation, but her mother's eyes looked far too serious for that. She tried to hide their worry with a smile, as she often did, but to no avail. It frightened Juliette. "Dearest daughter, allow me to impart to you some womanly wisdom. Should this wedding night arrive and the apprehension's not yet vanished, a bit of wine should help. One glass is not always enough. It usually took me three for your father." Juliette winced, shutting her eyes tightly, half hoping that it would all turn out to be a horrible dream when she opened them again. But instead she felt her mother's hand on her cheek prepared to wipe away tears. Had she comforted Tybalt's mother, her own sister, thus? "It's not all bad," the Lady gently cooed, her voice sounding more maternal than it had ever been. "All those uneasy nights with your father and three glasses of wine eventually brought you into this world. It may not be agreeable at first, or ever, but your cousin will sire you some children and you will adore them. Almost enough to forget all the pain and discomfort that brought them." "Then those stories," Juliette muttered, "the ones where the maiden and the hero fall in love and happily marry, are they all lies?" He mother gave her a wistful, knowing smile. "A lover and a husband can be found in the same man. You should have seen the way your father used to look at me after I stepped out of the bath. I may as well have been Venus in the waters of Cyprus. Our Tybalt adores you. It's clear in how he acts around you and talks about you when you're not around. He will be a good husband and, God willing, perchance a good father. You may be hopeful then. Romantic affections could easily follow." The thought of it turned her stomach. The romantic affections from Tybalt were already reality and she could never return them, or even pretend to. She answered this with acknowledging nodding. "Now, Juliette," she announced as she rose from the bed and flitted the door, "I must be off. I have family affairs of my own to attend to. We de Gondelauriers are a fickle group and are best not kept waiting." And with that she was gone. Juliette then went back to her maid, and furiously, desperately dictated the note in hand signs. All of this discomfort would not be for nothing. She would have her Roméo know of the meaningless wedding and the plan to meet with him as soon as she was able. She watched as La Muette wrote from the right of the page to the left in an elegant sweeping script. It was not a language or alphabet she recognized but the pen moved like birds and tongues of flame. It reassured her. When the note was finished, she took the pen from La Muette's offering hands and signed it. For added authenticity, she brushed a bit of her perfume on the edge. It smelled of lavender and roses, like her. She folded in and wrapped an old ribbon about it, dripping candle wax on it to seal it. She placed it back in La Muette's hand and signed to deliver it when night fell. La Muette nodded solemnly as she tucked the letter into her bodice. She embraced Juliette, a comforting gesture and a promise that the note would be delivered that night. And then she left to complete other chores. ~~~~