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sunspray-peak · 7 months

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Ch. 55: History Lessons & Arcane Confessions

SUNDAY - WINTER 7

He felt better.

And not only because Dr. Harvey had finally declared his fingers and hand fully healed—the doctor had been most pleased at his body’s progress. His mind’s, however… well, still not 100%. But at this rate, Achilles didn’t know when he’d ever feel 100% ever again, so he might as well start learning how to live at 40%.

That being said, there were only a few choice people he felt he could currently bare to be around. He hadn’t the energy for either idle chatter or for powering his poker face, and mercifully, it was Caroline who was manning the register at Pierre’s today, rather than Abigail or the nosy proprietor himself. Rather than remark on his strange behavior the day of the ceremony, or on his recent absence from the general store, she merely handed him his post-jog tea and wished him a good day.

Alex was in Zuzu, Elliott out of town, and Leah hard at work on an ice sculpture for tomorrow’s festival, but Achilles was determined to keep himself out from the quicksand confines of his house today, and so, with Elliott’s novel under his arm, he ventured to Pelican Park with a small bag of grapes and his third favorite pen.

Luck (finally) continued to be on his side. Maru and Penny were the only ones out and about around town it seemed, and they too politely kept their noses out of his personal business when they ran into each other by the fountain.

Penny thanked him for the books he had paid for to be bound—“The students were so excited!” —before adding a rather intriguing offer. “Have you ever considered teaching? Meridian Middle is always looking for substitute teachers, if you’re ever looking for something to do…”

He could feel Maru, perceptive at usual, taking note of the dark circles under his eyes, his dry skin, the cracked lips. But having more tact than likely many others in the town, the girl chose to nod at his beanie instead. “The temperature is forecasted to drop a bit more. You should check out the spa, it’s right by my place. It opened earlier this week for the first time in like thirty years—don’t worry, I tested the water, everything’s fine—but it’s really nice. Excellent if you need a place to relax and replenish…”

A spa, huh? Didn’t sound like a bad idea. His gloves hadn’t been enough to ease the frost from his increasingly numb fingertips, and his handwriting was definitely getting sloppier by the second. He thanked the pair and, following their directions, made his way north.

*****

Outside of his jogs, Achilles had visited the railroad perhaps only three times since moving to Stardew Valley. It seemed a strange place for a spa. Not that the train came through the Valley all too often, but he imagined that the rumbling and horns, even just twice a day, couldn’t be the most conducive to what should’ve been a relaxing environment.

The creamy wooden facade of the building seemed an odd choice as well, a stark contrast to the angular tempered glass of the sauna visible at the back. Wooden stools had been placed within amidst large leafy plants. They looked alive and well—quite unusual, given the Winter season.

Most mysterious.

He passed a small water feature gurgling near the front—he could feel the heat of the water already—and padded softly through the front doors, unsure of what to expect.

No lobby. Not even a front desk, let alone a receptionist. Just an empty square of a room, tiled in seafoam green ceramic.

Most mysterious indeed.

To the left, the women’s locker room. He headed for the swinging door on the right.

More seafoam tiles. Very retro—Maru had said it hadn’t been open in three decades. That being said, the space seemed clean enough. A few mint colored towels had been set out, tightly rolled, next to the showers. There was even a small weight room in the back.

The pages of Elliott’s novel were already beginning to curl in the growing humidity. Deciding that he’d finish reading later, he dropped the binder off in one of the lockers, all empty, except for one plastered with a few faded photos of bodybuilders. He followed the trail of stifling heat out to the spa.

Like the rest of the space, it wasn’t anything fancy. Hell, Achilles’ tub at home was nicer than this electric blue tiled wasteland (seriously, between the trains and the color scheme, how in the world was this supposed to be a place to “relax?”). But the steam was seductive, and he found himself drawn deeper into the space. The pool was large, shaped almost like a wine glass, with a narrow stem connecting the larger half to the deep end at the other side of the room.

Not having anticipated coming here, he hadn’t brought a change of clothes. That being said, it took only a few minutes of soaking his feet in the lightly perfumed waters before he stripped down to his underwear and immersed himself completely. How had he gone through life never knowing how to properly float? Thank goodness for Alex.

Alex…

Breathe in.

He closed his eyes.

Breathe out.

He was in deep now. Yes. Very deep. He could tell by the little thrum in his chest, the flutter in his rapidly beating heart.

Well. You ought to do something about it, then.

That’s what the Achilles of yesteryear would do. Make a move. Or, at the very least, say something, instead of pining like a pathetic, hopeless romantic. Now that part of him believed that there could be chance, that he hadn’t imagined Spirit’s Eve…

And even if the feelings weren’t reciprocated—well, he could at least say he tried. Had done everything that he could have. No regrets, right? What was the harm? Alex wouldn’t think of him any differently. He’d turn him down gently, he could picture it even now.

Oh wow! Really? I’m really flattered, Ash. I just… I’m not attracted to guys. I’m really sorry. But I think you’re so cool, and I’m really glad we’re friends…

He’d be wide-eyed and apologetic. He’d probably be biting his lip, futzing with his hair, tapping his foot… Achilles couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of it.

But if his feelings were reciprocated…

Oh.

Was it possible for him to turn any redder in the sweltering heat of the spa?

Oh, but was he even ready for something? Was it even fair to say anything, for either of them? He had no job, no goals, no plan. Where was he even going to be living next year? He could be back in Hyacinthia for all anyone knew…

But what if he stayed? He had his farm, he could take Penny up on her offer, perhaps teach a bit at the middle school. And maybe… maybe he could write.

Fat chance. You can barely string two words together these days.

Such a quiet life it’d be, to stay in the Valley. Nothing like what he had always wanted for himself. The glitz and the glamor and the titles and awards and attention.

If he stayed—even if Alex did want him—would it be enough? Would it ever be enough, or would he always be yearning for something more?

You will never be content.

*****

When he opened his eyes, there was nothing to see. Nothing to hear. Nothing to feel. No curls of steam or the gentle splash of the water. But there was a familiarity in the utter darkness, and so he was not afraid.

“Rasmodius?”

The lights flickered on.

Still in the spa, he was. Thank Yoba for small favors, he wasn’t in the mood to go traipsing down a darkened tunnel to the Wizard’s supply closet. Then again, had he ever been in the mood…

Standing across from him, pacing along the edge of the pool and still wearing his heavy black cloak, was Rasmodius.

“Do you know what is so special about this spa?” Rasmodius’ voice, low and husky, echoed across the chamber.

“No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Nothing, now.” A bitter, empty bark of a laugh that Achilles did not return. “Nothing… just another keystone…”

The Wizard paused his pacing to study Achilles’ stony visage through the steam.

“You are angry with me.”

“No.”

Like grudges, anger—pure anger, that is—was not an emotion Achilles often managed to hold on to for long. It had always burned too fiercely and too fast for him, and was usually more or less quick to settle somewhere between disgust and indifference. Nevertheless, as the syllable escaped his mouth, so too did the hollow of his apathy, to be replaced by a scarlet flash, sour in his throat like bile.

“Actually, on second thought. Yes. Yes I am. Angry.”

Under the milky water, his hands balled into fists, but he kept his voice steady even as his stomach churned in this sudden resurgence of rage, fueled all the more by Rasmodius’ dull-eyed, impassive stare.

He was just starting to feel like a person again, why did Rasmodius feel the need now, of all days, to disturb this fragile, newfound peace.

“Do you remember the first day we met? Back in the Spring, after I found your scroll in the community center. You told me I had passed a test. And you said that… that maybe the Valley would need me.” God, the words sounded childish. Oh, you thought you were special? This was nothing but embarrassing.

But in his anger, he continued.

“You were real cagey about it. Real wishy washy. Didn’t make any promises, no assurances—but it was whatever. I thought, you know, fine. Sure. Don’t think too much about it, Achilles. Find something else to occupy your time. Until a shadow brute in Sunspray Peak confirmed it. That I… that I was somehow… connected. To the mines. And to the fate of the Valley.

“And so I brought it up to you. I wanted your wisdom, I wanted your help. But what did you do, Rasmodius? You told me to forget about it. You told me I was… useless. That I didn’t have a purpose here.”

And that’s all you wanted, wasn’t it? A purpose. A reason why you should matter.

“But I ended up in the mines, anyway, didn’t I? With barely a warning. Next to no preparation. Little idea of what to expect down there. But I had asked you, remember? I had asked you for help, for information, and you enchanted me instead. The things I saw down there. The things I heard… I thought I was going to die. I sometimes now wish I had.”

Achilles was trembling now. He had tried hard not to waver, he had cried enough this past week, and he’d be damned if he shed any tears before this damned Wizard—but even so. It was hard to keep the strain from his voice.

“God, I’m angry—fuck. But—” He collapsed against the wall, brought his hands to his forehead, covered his eyes.

He didn’t make you any promises. This was all your own fault. You wanted to be special so damn bad, didn’t you? Couldn’t just leave it all alone. You’re just looking for someone to blame. Always. You don’t deserve to be angry at anyone but yourself.

“I’m not angry with you. Fuck. I’m… I’m angry at— I’m pissed that… God, I wanted to start over so badly when I came here, I wanted to start something new, and I just never knew how, and I thought… I thought this was it, didn’t I? I thought this was my chance. Fucking hell…”

Rasmodius said nothing. For a minute, the only sound was the fluorescent hum of the lights.

When he finally turned to meet Achilles’ gaze, there was a heavy sorrow in his violet eyes. The Wizard’s shoulders were stooped as he slowly removed his hat and held the brim tightly in both hands. In a soft, quivering voice, as weak as Achilles had ever heard it, Rasmodius said, “I owe you an explanation. But I first must ask if you are willing to hear it.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The truth can be both difficult to speak and difficult to hear. You will see that I believed my actions to be justified—and that, you may not like to hear.”

Achilles didn’t bother biting back his scoff as he paddled for the shallow end, where he could better face Rasmodius head on. He took a seat on a shelf built against the wall, still half-submerged within the comforting confines of the steaming water.

Meanwhile, the Wizard had conjured closer one of the wooden benches that had been lining the upper half of the pool. He fixed his robes and took a weary seat.

And once Achilles had made himself comfortable, he began.

*****

“I had always had an interest in spirits. From a young age, I found that I could speak to them. And they to me. And thus, it came to be that to visit the Astral Plane was as easy as stepping foot into my own home.

“I began to devote the bulk of my work to their study, and in my research, I found myself drawn to a trivial little town situated in a trivial little valley tucked into the southern coast of the Ferngill Republic. Most of my compatriots cared little for history—it is not quite so flashy a field as others, as you can imagine—but I knew my pursuits would one day pay off, and so despite their ridicule, I studied on.

“The land that is now called Stardew Valley had been a major battle ground during the Spirit Wars, though most of its secrets and stories have naturally been lost to time over the past two thousand years. That being said, magic leaves its marks. And I, young and naive, and desperate to prove my worth, was confident I would be the one to uncover them.

“The original inhabitants of the land—this was roughly three centuries ago—came for the iridium buried deep within the Sunspray Mountains. Stardew Valley a mining town. Can you imagine that?

“With thanks to a certain Mayor Jonathan Keppler, for whose diary I spent decades searching, I learned that several years after the founding of the town, the miners accidentally uncovered a long forgotten artifact from the beginning of our world, from before the Wars, before humanity, even. A Portal, leading directly from the Spirit Plane into ours.

“It was not supposed to exist. As you know, the Portals were all destroyed to prevent another war.

“But in finding this Portal, the townsfolk must have woken it, and in doing so, provided the shadow spirits—who had long been exiled to the Spirit Plane after their loss in the wars—the gateway they had been waiting for to infiltrate our world.

“Mercifully, the townsfolk were quick to recognize their mistake. The practice and study of the arcane, you see, was more widespread among the common folk such as yourself back then. The mines were quickly abandoned, and blood magic used to seal off the floors in an attempt to rectify their folly.

“Why blood, I do not know. It is an incredibly crude sort of magic, one that demands a high price. But it is simple and straightforward; it is likely the townsfolk had little time to develop a more thorough solution.

“Regardless, it ultimately ensured that only those who shared blood with those who crafted the enchantment would be able to pass through the trapdoors that separated floor from floor. The shadow spirits, obviously having no relation to any of the townsfolk, would therefore be unable to leave the confines of the bottom most floor of the mines. Trapped forever they were, unable to escape their granite cage. You see, boy, it essentially rendered the Portal useless.

“Stardew Valley was safe. And so, in turn, the entirety of our Plane. A war had been prevented.

“But all magic will naturally weaken over time, if not occasionally renewed. Although the danger had passed, few folks remained in the town after these events, and I surmise that fewer still remembered the stories that their forebears told of the shadow spirits that had once nearly broken through.

“You have been taught that the shadow spirits’ power waxes and wanes with the season, reaching a peak the week of Spirit’s Eve?”

Achilles grunted an affirmative.

“Approximately 40 years ago, precisely on Spirit’s Eve, we wizards heard rumblings of a severe disruption within the Spirit Plane. Something had happened.

“What that something was, we wizards were unsure—but the disturbance was swiftly traced across the sea to Stardew Valley. My work had finally paid off. I was the obvious choice, and was swiftly selected by my guild to leave immediately for Ferngill to investigate further and report back.

Rasmodius’ eyes gleamed—a greedy shine evident even through the spa’s steam. “I was… triumphant. I deserved this. This was my opportunity to demonstrate my worth to my guild once and for all. No longer would they sneer and turn up their noses at my endeavors. No. They would all know my name, now.

“For not only would I locate the information that we sought—I was determined to find the solution to whatever problem had clearly occurred. Singlehandedly.

“But when I arrived, I learned that folks in this simple little town had, to use a common phrase, beaten me to the punch. I speak of course of Marlon. Gil.”

“And Mona.” Achilles had interrupted, his voice biting and low as he watched Rasmodius for any signs of remorse.

Rasmodius did not disappoint. His violet brows drew closely together at the mention of her name.

“Ah. Yes. And Mona. The third member of this so-called ‘Adventurer’s Guild’…”

Here, the Wizard’s voice wavered. A barely imperceptible shake of his head.

“Perhaps it was jealousy. More likely it was pride. But I chose to ignore them.

“Nobody knew spirits like I did, and those three had not spent decades studying the arcane arts as I had. I did not need help, least of all the help of backwards, bumbling young villagers who likely wouldn’t recognize a spirit if one raked its poisonous claws across their face.

“I conducted my experiments away from them. They busied themselves with what was clear to me a misinformed, futile mission in the mines, and for the first year or so, I let them carry on with their business while I carried on with mine.

“But success wasn’t as easily found as I had anticipated. The disturbance was clearly connected to the mines, and, I assumed, to the Portal the mountain housed deep within itself. But from what I could discern, the seals upon the trapdoors were still intact. No shadow spirits had escaped their prison. I could hear their murmurs from deep within the fortress of the abandoned mines.”

Had a breeze rippled across the water? Or perhaps the cold had come from within him, a bone chilling shiver that had sent Achilles’ body recoiling at the memory of those same murmurs.

“I began to second guess myself. I began to miss my books, my mentors, fellow wizard and witches. Perhaps I would, in fact, need reinforcements, to better understand this puzzle.

“But war had just broken out between Ferngill and the Gotoro Empire, and in my willful pride, I had delayed too long. Almost overnight, I lost contact with my guild. I was on my own. It was what I had wanted, wasn’t it?” Rasmodius’ chortle wheezed into a sigh. “No… it was then I finally realized, I could not do this on my own. But too little too late, as they say, is that right?

“If not for Mona…”

Rasmodius stood now, and began again his pacing along the edge of the pool.

“She was a peculiar girl. Not a witch, but common, like yourself, and thus born with the more limited magical abilities of your kind. But she was an incredibly bright young lady—fearless and strong, and a fellow lover of history. A quick learner who had managed to teach herself a number of skills steeped in the arcane.

“She approached me the Spring of my third year in the Valley. The Adventurer’s Guild had approached me before, of course, but only now was I, in my desperate state, willing to hear them out.

“She spoke first of monsters that had been terrorizing the town at night. I had known this, of course, from my own examinations, but I had not given them much thought. Monsters, after all, are not spirits. They are of little danger in the grand scheme of things…”

Fuck you, tell that to all the bruises on my body. But Achilles held his tongue.

“Now the Adventurer’s Guild had originally been working to stem their invasion. But Mona was a highly discerning young lady and she found it highly unusual the rate at which the monsters only seemed to gain strength and numbers, no matter how many they killed.

“For weeks, she diligently traced their tracks back to the Sunspray Mountains, and subsequently surmised there must have been something strange happening down in the mines. Something must have been providing extra power to the monsters.

“That was when the Guild began their subterranean expeditions. And they discovered…” Rasmodius paused. A deep sigh left him, and he sat back down on the bench, hunched again, his forearms resting against his thighs. “And they discovered precisely what I had failed to see.

“The seals in the mines had weakened significantly. The spirits had broken through the bottom most floor and had been spilling into the upper caverns.

“Most were still unable to leave the mountains. The enchainments hadn’t fallen entirely, and only the strongest spirits could fully overcome the residual blood magic as well as the tether of the Portal —but even so. It was enough. The mines—one of the most vital keystones of the Elemental Walls that protected the Valley—had fallen to the shadow spirits. I realized then that the collapse of this first keystone must have been the disturbance we wizards had felt across the Gem Sea that Spirit’s Eve.

“What is more, those spirits who could overcome the tether had already made their way to destroy the second closest keystone. The community center. There are five keystones in the Valley, Achilles. One falling was bad enough. Two would be disastrous. Three entirely apocalyptic. With three keystones destroyed, the entire Wall would fall. We would not be able to recover.”

“How had I missed it? It was right under my nose. I had spent years studying the site, and I had not even an inkling. I hadn’t heard the spirits. Not on the surface—no, I had only heard their trapped screams deep within the crust of the earth.

“I began to question everything. What else had I missed? How had I failed to sense their presence at the community center? Were the other keystones safe? And why had I been so determined to act alone?

“Yes, I had been prideful, yes I had thought myself above the Adventurer’s Guild—but to have been so dismissive, after a year of no progress? Why had I waited so long to have reached out to my guild for help?

“That is when I knew… That, Achilles, is when I knew. I could not trust the voices. I could not trust my own thoughts. The shadow spirits must have infiltrated my mind—taking advantage of my arrogance, twisting my own thoughts to ensure that I did not get in the way of their success…

“That being said, we refused to give up. Mona and I put our heads together, combined our knowledge, our skills. I learned to trust her. She became… like a daughter to me.”

Another sigh. Rasmodius buried his head in his hands.

“Day in and day out, over the course of the Spring, we worked to find a solution in the mines, a way to revitalize the seals or perhaps implement new ones. Anything to keep the shadow spirits from continuing their infiltration. It would be a highly, highly difficult task with such a limited pool of magic—I was but only one Wizard, and Marlon and Gil’s gifts were more grounded in the physical— but we had no choice. We had to think of something, and we spent days and nights brainstorming, but it soon became clear there was only one way forward.

“We would have to destroy the Portal at the bottom of the mines. It would be difficult. It would be dangerous. But it was our only choice. Anything else would be but a temporary solution.

“And so I joined the Adventurer’s Guild. Joined them on their expeditions into the earth, expeditions I had once ridiculed. Our only mission now was to destroy the Portal and save Stardew.

“I found I was able to descend, despite my lack of blood. The weakened enchantments that were allowing spirits through to the surface were of course responsible for my own success here, though of course, at the time, I attributed it all to my prodigious skill and power.”

Rasmodius cleared his throat, and for the first time he raised his head to gaze across the water. But he didn’t look at Achilles—instead, his eyes were glazed and unfocused, frozen as they squinted at some invisible speck in the air.

“For it was remarkable, how much… better everything was, after I joined. We descended faster than ever before. I crafted the elevator system. I found them iridium ore for their blades. I slew monsters and spirits with but a flick of my wrist. Our progress was unprecedented, because of me. Yes, I would be the reason for our success…

“But with every floor, their cries grew louder. I could still hear them. Pounding at the edges of the mind that I had now learned to close. It was difficult, cutting them off—communicating with spirits had always been but second nature to me. I had spent hundreds, if not thousands, of hours in the Astral Plane over the years. As I said, from a young age, I could speak with them… and they with me…

“But I had learned from my previous mistakes. I was on my guard now. I kept my mind closed, and my wits sharp. I knew their tricks. I would outsmart them and destroy them, and once the war ended, I would return to my guild in Gotoro triumphant.

“I just needed to finish this one task…

“How many floors? How many more floors remained? That is what we asked ourselves each and every hour—60, 70, 80, 90—we had to be hundreds of feet deep, and we were running out of time. Winter was just around the corner, and all the hard work, all the progress we had made would be lost.

“Marlon insisted we ought to wait. Typical of him—he was always too cautious, never fully understood the stakes. Everything was just an adventure to him. He said we ought to sit this Spirit’s Eve out and wait for the Winter to roll over with a fresh slate. We would be better prepared this time, he said. What was the harm in waiting another year?”

A dry, hollow laugh.

“Much could happen in a year, is what I said to him in return. The community center could fall. We could not afford to wait, we had to do this now. Strike now!

“Of course, Gil sided with Marlon. And Mona… I was outnumbered. We argued…

“I told them I would do it myself. After all, hadn’t I been doing most of the work up till then anyhow? I didn’t need them. We had only descended so far down the mines because of me—what had they been but dead weight?

“I had nearly one foot out the door when Mona fell to her knees, begging me to reconsider. She had two rules. Never go alone. Never leave alone. And looking at her… I knew she was right. I acquiesced. I promised. We would wait and start anew in the Spring.”

The gleam had returned to Rasmodius’ eyes.

“But the night before Spirit’s Eve, I woke with a fire in me—we were so very close to the bottom, I could feel it. It was now or never.

“I knew the others would never agree, and so when everyone was asleep, I stole away to the mines alone.”

Achilles could see it. A younger Rasmodius slipping out from the Adventurer’s Guild cabin into the dead of night, black cloaks swishing at his heels, hood hiding his violet hair as he skirted through the trees further up into the mountains.

“I took the elevator to the 98th floor. I cleared it myself. I went to the 99th floor. I cleared that myself. It was proof, all of it proof, that I did not need them, that I would secure this victory alone.

“A swarm was waiting for me on the 100th floor. The largest I’d ever seen. But I could handle it— I had to. It was I alone of all the Wizards who studied the spirits of the Ferngill Republic, no one knew than better than I—there had to be a reason. Yes, I had been brought to Stardew Valley for a reason. This was my destiny…“”

A drop of sweat cascaded down Achilles’ neck from his brow.

“That’s what I told myself. Even as the swarms grew larger and larger, and I struggled more and more to stay afloat, I told myself… this is your purpose. This is what you wanted…”

A shadow crossed the Wizard’s face. Rasmodius took a moment to collect himself.

“I would have died that night. The spirits… they became too much for even me. If it were not for Mona, Marlon, and Gil…

“They came. To save me. I couldn’t spare even a second to ask— how? when? why?—but together, together we fought the spirits, side by side, we cleared the floor, but— ”

Rasmodius seemed to stifle a cry. He turned away from the pool, one palm braced against the tiles lining the walls. In a low, flat voice, he continued.

“It was too much. It was Spirit’s Eve, the spirits were at maximum strength. When the dust finally settled, both Gil and Marlon…

“Mona begged me to return with her to the surface, to get them help, but I… I could not. It was them or the Valley. I told her this was our chance. That we were close—so very close. Why else would the spirits be fighting back so hard?

“I pressed her to continue. And to my surprise… she agreed. I have regretted that ever since.

“We left Marlon and Gil behind. We proceeded to the next floor and the next and the next, with little energy to fight, we could focus only on finding the trap doors…

“Then they came…”

The lights flickered—or was it Achilles’ vision? He ran a hand across his brow, felt a cold sweat continue to bead along his temples.

“I felt them clawing at my mind the moment we stepped foot on the 105th floor.

“They charged for us. But it was Mona he wanted, not me. It had always been Mona—I would never have made it to the bottom of the mines, I realized that now. The strongest seal of all had been placed upon its doors, and even in its weakened state, I would not have been able to overcome it. I did not possess the blood. And I did not possess the power…

“But Mona… she had the blood. It was she who had to be taken out, I had been but the bait.

“They wanted to speak with me. The Shadow King. And I… I thought myself ready to receive their message. I do not know, perhaps I believed we could broker a deal. Or perhaps… it was curiosity. Perhaps I was… flattered that the Shadow King themself wanted to speak with me. And so I lowered my mind’s defenses, allowed myself to be transported to the Astral Plane…

“But upon my mind’s arrival, I realized… it was but a distraction. A sham. The Shadow King had been in my mind already, hidden in the corner. It was only now that I recognized their voice.

“They must have targeted me the moment I had stepped into the Valley—because of my work and studies, I had spent much time with the arcane arts, opening my mind to spirits, and they had come to know my scent well on the Astral Plane. It must have been simple for them to track me down during my visits there, to break into my mind and see the thoughts, the desires within.

“But how, you may ask! How… I… I who had thought myself above the spirits, who had closed my mind, who had thought myself well-versed in their tricks, especially after my realization in the Spring… how? How could I have been so deceived, again?

“This is what you must understand, Achilles. This is what I had tried to protect you from. Shadow spirits thrive on chaos and darkness. When they find you, they will infiltrate your mind, will latch onto the worst parts of yourself, feed and grow your darkest thoughts.

“Now they cannot create on their own—no, they will never introduce new ideas into your head. But you see, that is all the more dangerous. For the words they secretly whisper will never seem foreign to you. The strongest spirits are capable of integrating themselves into your thoughts seamlessly. You would never know they were there, in your mind.

“They knew I was weary of them, but they also knew that I thought myself two steps ahead, and they chose to further magnify that belief, until I thought myself so, so far above them that I subconsciously lowered my defenses, thereby allowing more spirits in my mind. A vicious cycle, is it not…

“That night, taking advantage of their powers strengthened by Spirit’s Eve, they made their move. Over the past season, they must have been noting my resentment, my arrogance—amplifying it when needed, fostering it, nudging it until it reached a boiling point that very night, when finally, so sure in my belief I was, that I was the only one capable of saving the Valley, I left my bed. Left for the mines. They knew Mona would follow.

“When I realized I had been so easily tricked… well, I was paralyzed. Who was I? Were my thought truly my own thoughts? Was I even in control of my own mind?

“With my mind occupied, my mortal body was defenseless. I likely would have died—all of us would have died. If not for Mona…

“It happened so fast. By the time my mind had returned from the Astral Plane, it was all over. The spirits were gone. The monsters gone. The Shadow King’s voice no longer whispering in my ear. And Mona…

“She had used all of her strength, all her power, to temporarily send the shadow brutes back to their Plane and seal the trap door shut anew.

“But I told you… blood magic demands a high price. And for a single individual, a common individual, no matter how extraordinary, the extent of the enchantment… the cost was her life. With her last breaths, she made me promise to save Marlon and Gil. Made me promise I wouldn’t leave them behind.

“I obliged. After all…” A raw exhale from Rasmodius’ nose. “What else was there for me to do? With the enchantment renewed, I could no longer pass through the trap door.

“I took the elevator to the 100th floor. Retrieved Marlon and Gil, their broken bodies. Returned to the surface. We had failed. We had failed because of me. Because I had failed. Failed myself, failed my friends.

“Consumed with regret. With self-hatred. You see, our mission was doomed from the start, Achilles. We had no idea how to destroy a Portal. In my arrogance, I had believed I had enough power to destroy it myself. But I knew now, I could never have even descended to the bottom. Our mission… Mona’s death… utterly pointless. A waste. Such a meaningless waste…

“And in the days and weeks and seasons that followed, I couldn’t stop asking myself… Is this what you wanted, Rasmodius?”

*****

Achilles had not moved from his place in the spa during the length of the story.

Though his anger had faded after his earlier realization, it had surged once again upon hearing the Wizard’s tale. But this was a different sort of anger. One that chilled the heat of the spa, cool and and disquieting.

He waited for Rasmodius to continue—he had been promised an explanation, not a history lesson—but it seemed the Wizard had run out of steam, and so he coldly tossed from across the waters,

“Am I supposed to be feeling sorry for you?”

Rasmodius glanced up, as if only now realizing Achilles were still there.

“No. I do not expect you to.”

“Good. Because I don’t. You had all this knowledge, and you didn’t bother sharing it with Abigail and I when you had the chance—”

“Achilles—”

“—That’s why everything was so easy for Abigail at first, wasn’t it? The first 100 or so floors. She was just taking care of your leftovers, wasn’t she? Because any new spirits coming through the Portal were blocked by the new trapdoor on the 105th floor.”

“Yes… that is correct.”

“But you never thought to warn her what might be coming after that? Warn both of us how fucked up it was going to get after that? Didn’t think we might, I don’t know, find that useful? Just sent her down. No problem.”

“Let me remind you, Abigail had been working with Marlon—I had no idea she had been in the mines until the end of Summer—”

“Oh, so you’re blaming Marlon and Gil for keeping her in the dark?”

“No. There is no blame there.” Rasmodius faltered. “Marlon and Gil… they do not know the full events of that night. They do not know what occurred after the events of the 100th floor.”

“You never told them.” Achilles scoffed. “Yoba, why am I not surprised—”

“I was too ashamed. To tell them would be to confirm what I believe they have long suspected. That I was indeed the cause of Mona’s death.”

“And you really felt that your shame was enough to justify sending another girl unknowingly to her near-death?”

“I knew what remained in the mines.” Here, Rasmodius snapped and jumped to his feet, pointing an accusatory finger at Achilles who had seemingly touched a nerve. Nevertheless, he stubbornly remained unfazed and continued to stare the Wizard down. “I knew the danger was insignificant, that Abigail would be fine—she was never supposed to get past the 105th floor.”

“Well, you know, turns out, she did—“

“—the seal Mona placed upon it could never have been broken by someone unable to access the Astral Plane. In short, Abigail would never have been able to pass through without you—

“Oh so we’re blaming me now—”

“And you were never supposed to be down there either. At least… I had hoped you would never have to go down there…”

Sensing another story, Achilles merely raised and eyebrow before burrowing deeper into the warmth of the water. Might as well make himself comfortable. The Wizard, on the other hand, began to once again pace, one hand kneading the layers of his robes, the other his forehead.

“After the events of that night, I swore no one would ever go down those mines again. I worked to find an alternative solution… a way to rebuild and restrengthen the remaining keystones. I thought, perhaps, if I could find a way—then perhaps, with the seal Mona had placed on the 105th floor, that would be enough. That these two solutions combined could keep the shadow spirits at bay just until I could return to Gotoro and seek the wisdom of my guild members.

“I sought to use the third keystone in the Valley. As valiant a fight the junimos have been fighting, the second keystone was too far gone to be saved so long as the mines continued to be in the shadow spirits’ possession.”

So you left the junimos for dead. Just wrote them off. Sounds about right.

“Right. And where is this third keystone?”

“Here.” Rasmodius traced his fingers along the walls. “The hot spring below this spa was the third keystone for the Elemental Wall. Untainted by the stench of shadow spirits, I thought perhaps I could find a way to draw its energy and rebuild.”

Rasmodius turned to face him. “And I had hoped perhaps that one day you could help me with this task. That you could be my apprentice.”

The words came as a surprise. Achilles, who had settled back into his pejorative placidity, found himself breaking his poker face, exchanging it for a deeply furrowed brow of confusion.

“What?”

“The golden scroll in the community center… I told you, it was a test. I needed someone who was capable of communicating with spirits, who was able to access the Astral Plane. For many years I waited. Marlon and Gil’s gifts were, like Abigail’s, grounded in the physical. Yes, yes, it is possible to teach the art, but the difficulty increases tenfold where there is no natural aptitude. I believed it better to wait. Surely someone would come…

“The two of them were unsupportive anyway. They believed I was wasting my time. They still were following Mona’s orders… they still believed destroying the Portal was the only solution… Even I was beginning to lose hope…

“And then you came.

“I could see you were eager to learn. But a task of this importance is delicate, Achilles, and I needed to make sure you were right for the job, especially given your lack of experience with the arcane. I needed time to not only gauge your abilities, but your temperament. Your curiosity. How you approached problems with little guidance and information, how you handled pressure.”

“What is this, a job interview?”

Although in saying that, he supposed that, in a way, it had been.

“I suppose I failed then,” Achilles grunted. “Bitter little bastard that I am…”

“You scared me, Achilles. In studying you, I determined you were… toomuch like me. Eager for greatness, desperate for recognition. The shadow spirits had infiltrated my mind so easily, had taken advantage of those traits of mine, and that had ultimately led to the death of my dearest friend. And had I possessed decades of experience and training that you had not.

“Regardless, I did not want to train you—bring you into the Astral Plane—any sooner than I needed, for the more time you spent there, the more familiar the shadow spirits would be with your scent, and the more vulnerable you would be to their influence. I feared that you would fall prey to the same things that I had.

“Even so… I thought perhaps there was still a chance. I decided I would wait, just a bit longer, to judge your capabilities and your potential, even as Marlon informed me we were running out of time.

“But I refused to see it. What did Marlon know of such things? I was willfully blind to the signs. The community center had lasted far longer than either of us had anticipated. Surely it could stand a few more years.

“Even so, a part of me knew the end was near… I was studying the hot springs day and night, but I needed help and I knew I had no other choice. I would have to train you.

“But then you fell ill, and Dr. Harvey recounted to me your strange visions and hallucinations. It was worrying—how had they found you? And so I put on the brakes. I thought you too vulnerable for training then, your scent was too fresh in the Astral Plane. I would wait again, just a little longer…

“And then you came to me at the end of Summer, telling of a shadow brute on Sunspray Peak who spoke to you of your destiny. And it was exactly what I had feared. They had found you—you, who had spent so little time in the Astral Plane, how had they found you so easily? Already, it was evident, they were taking advantage of your desires.

“And so yes, I enchanted you. I made you forget. I knew that if those thoughts—the thoughts that shadow brute first introduced to your mind—were encouraged, if you continued to think them, it would feed the spirits. It would be an utter frenzy in your mind, you would think of nothing else, just as I did, and it would ultimately lead you to your doom.

“Yes. I made a decision. I would solve this myself, or I would go down the mines myself, no matter the cost. This would be my penance, for what I allowed to happen 40 years ago.

“I did not want anymore people to die, Achilles. That is all I wanted. For you and Abigail to be safe.”

“Funny way of showing it—”

“But then Marlon came to me after Abigail’s accident… he took me to the community center, forced me to open my eyes. I realized then, there was no choice. We would not be able to withstand another year. It had to be done. You would have to descend.

“But I still tried to protect you, Achilles. Sought to shield you the best that I could. You say I taught you nothing, told you nothing—yes. It was for your own good. You lacked the years of training to properly close your mind, there was not enough time—”

“You could have told me they were going to fucking control my mind or inception my mind or whatever shit, you don’t think that could’ve helped me, maybe? Help me be on the lookout—”

“Achilles, did I not tell you that I had fallen victim? I knew already the spirits would try to infiltrate my mind. Twist my thoughts. I knew! I knew everything there was to know, and yet I fell victim to them all the same.

“If you had for even a second considered that you could outsmart the spirits, they would’ve sensed it. They need but the smallest seed of a thought—it doesn’t even have to be serious, it could have been a simple, speculative passing thought and they would latched onto it, grown it, transformed it so that it was all you could think about.

“I knew you, I saw within you myself. You could’ve believed yourself above their control, and the spirits would have sensed this, would have pushed you to take unnecessary risks you were unprepared for. No, the risk was too much.”

“Wow, so does everyone in this Valley think I’m that narcissistic a prat—”

“Think about it, Achilles. If I had told you everything, would you not have thought yourself above it all? For even just a second, would you have believed yourself incapable of repeating the mistakes that I, of whose opinion you had was so low, had?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.”

Achilles bit his lip and averted his gaze. Yes. Yes he would have. He would have thought himself better—smarter. He would’ve sworn he’d never make the same mistakes.

Nevertheless, he plowed ahead, though more so out of sheer desperation to find some sort of fault in Rasmodius.

Typical. Always need someone else to blame—

“It didn’t work, though, did it? You told me to close my mind, but we only won because I opened it, because I went to the Spirit Plane—”

“There is no right or wrong, Achilles! There is no single answer that guarantees success—there are a million different ways we could have defeated the shadow spirits, if we only had the time and resources and the knowledge to find them all.

“You opened your mind and found your solution. Good. If you hadn’t, if you had kept your mind closed, perhaps you would’ve found an alternative solution that also would have worked. I told you what I believed would be the easiest and safest route to take. You adapted, you found something else. I’m glad you did.”

The subsequent silence rang through the tile walls.

“How did he find me?” The question came out soft, like a child. “When I was sick. How did he get into my head?”

“The Shadow King had grown in strength… I was not aware he had become so powerful, that his influence could have reached so far beyond the mines, and to have traced the scent of someone who had consciously stepped foot only once in the Astral Plane…”

“But what I don’t understand is… he made you angry. Back then— he made you impatient, you said he capitalized on your arrogance, that he brings out the worst in us. But he was making me happy. I was feeling good that Fall. And even in the mines, he told… he said hadn’t wanted to kill me.”

Rasmodius’ gaze softened, and with a sigh, he folded his hands into his robes and faced Achilles. “The shadow spirits are not evil, Achilles. ‘Spirits of evil…’ It is a misnomer, given to them after their exile from our plane. They are not harmless, no, far from it—but they naturally err towards chaos and darkness, and that intrinsically puts them at odds with our world.

“But no. They would not necessarily kill you for the sake of killing you. They only needed you out of the way. As I said earlier, Abigail never would have been able to get to the bottom with you.”

But still… “They made me better. At first.”

“No, they showed you that you could be better.

“Don’t you understand, Achilles? The spirits cannot create new thoughts, they can only work with what they already have. You had the capacity to be content all on your own, they only chose to exacerbate that.”

Achilles thought back to the Fall—how motivated he had felt to start his career anew. To return to his old life with renewed energy.

“So advertising… moving back to Hyacinthia… it could make me happy?”

“One single thing isn’t what would have made you happy, Achilles. Yes, you could have moved back to Hyacinthia, back to your old job, and have been happy. You could have also returned and had been miserable.

“The spirits listen to your thoughts, to everything you had ever considered. That includes your hopes, Achilles. You were desperate, were you not? To find something. I suppose you likely considered multiple options, multiple routes that could have potentially brought you the purpose and happiness that you had desired. They just happen to choose one and bring it to the forefront.

“But I must also wonder… what makes you believe it was the possibility of returning to your old life that was making you happy, Achilles? You have been so caught up with your career, did you ever think that perhaps it was something else that was making you content, in spite of these considerations?”

Achilles paused. “I- I don’t know. It’s all… it’s all confusing. The wanting and the not wanting, I don’t… I don’t know anymore. I don’t know if I ever did.”

What do you want? What should you want? What did you ever want?

God, it was all he could think about, wasn’t it? The questions, but never the answers.

Someone answered it for you, though.

“On Spirit’s Eve, in the maze…” His voice was tentative, but Rasmodius was quick to interrupt his hesitance in a tone much sharper than previously used.

“I never should have allowed you into the maze. I had no idea you were there— a careless oversight on my part… You were too raw. Too fresh. Your scent still strong in the air from when you visited the Astral Plane two nights previous, you were but a sitting duck for the Shadow King.”

“The Shadow King. They, ah… they said some things to me…”

Worthless. Pathetic.

Achilles swallowed. “I suppose, from what you said… they were just repeating back to me all… all my own thoughts.”

“That is correct.”

“So this really was all my own fault, then, wasn’t it? Strengthening the Shadow King. These thoughts I had… who I am… how I feel… it’s what I deserved.”

Rasmodius gave him a pitying look that sent him sweeping with nausea.

“Everyone has thoughts, Achilles. You must remember that to merely have them does not make them true.”

*****

After a minute or two, Achilles slowly clambered out of the water and reached for a towel. Rasmodius had returned to the bench and was observing the rising steam until Achilles asked, “The alternate plan you mentioned with the spa? Would it have worked?”

“Given time… perhaps. But we will never know. It does not matter. What’s done is done.”

“What’s done is done…” He swung the towel over his shoulders and stared across the pool to the other side, where Rasmodius continued to sit. “Is it all done then? The Portal’s destroyed—is the danger gone?”

“Hmm. Not quite, though the worst is over.

“The Portal may have been destroyed, but the keystone at the mines will need to be rebuilt, as will the weakened community center. The junimos will likely take care of that one on their own. But after the Elemental Wall is fixed, yes, then we can celebrate.

“That is why I came here today. To ask, finally, if you would like to be my apprentice. You have proven yourself more than worthy. There will be no more secrets, no more lies. Together, we can fix the Walls, and secure a victory for our kind and our names in the books.”

Our names in the books.

But he found the thought, strangely, did nothing for him. Achilles only gathered his clothes, eyes weary. “Why me?”

“Is this not what you wanted? I am offering it to you now. It would be a great honor.”

Achilles sighed, and the words that left his mouth half-surprised even himself.

“You should ask Abigail.”

The Wizard took a step back. “Abigail?”

“Why, what’s wrong with Abigail?”

“Nothing. She… she reminds me of Mona.”

“All the more reason to ask her.”

“Why are you not interested?”

Why are you not interested?

“I… I don’t deserve it. Down in the mines. I just… opened some trap doors and dropped a rock into a box. That was it. It wasn’t particularly heroic. There was no… blaze of glory, it was anticlimactic and it only happened because Abigail was knocked out after saving our asses. I don’t think I deserve the honor.”

“None of us our heroes, Achilles. You’re a writer, you should know this. In real life, things are never quite as… cinematic. Victories and failures alike are more than often unearned and undeserved. Life is oft but a series of coincidences and conveniences.”

Achilles sighed. The Achilles of four seasons ago would’ve given anything for this. But now…

“This isn’t for me. Besides, I think Abigail probably would want it more…”

“And so what is it that you want?”

Achilles laughed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he wiped the remaining water from his eyes. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to answer that all year. To just be… satisfied? Content? I want to stop chasing. I just want to start a new life where I can be content with what I already have and who I already am instead of always focusing on what I should be.”

Rasmodius nodded. There was still a sorrow in his eyes. A deep-set guilt and longing of years past that the day’s walk down memory lane must’ve brought back to the surface. Had he ever learned to make peace with his past?

With a tip of his hat and wave of his arms, the spa’s steam began to turn lavender. It swirled around the Wizard’s feet as he began to transport himself no doubt back to his tower.

“You will be content, Achilles. It won’t be today. It won’t be tomorrow. And it will hard. But remember that you have been before—on your own, before the Shadow King ever took refuge in your mind—and you can be so again.”

*****

Achilles returned home at half past four, the sun already halfway to setting. He was in an odd mood, though could anyone blame him?

Voltaire greeted him with a very dog-like wag of his fluffy tail before settling on his lap as he took a seat on the couch.

“Do you ever get bored in here?” Achilles asked, absentmindedly patting the cat on the head. The living room, though still clean from yesterday’s thorough sweep, was now littered with a scattering of Voltaire’s toys. “I’m scared a hawk will eat you if you go outside.”

“Meow!”

“You never got a ceremony for yourself, after all you did down in the mines.” Achilles frowned, toying with the corner of one of the mismatched throw pillows. Perhaps he should hire an interior designer… though what was the point, if he was only going to move back…

“That’s my fault. I should have brought you to town. You can have my medal, though, if you’d like. I don’t particularly want it. Maybe we can turn the ribbon into a new collar, how does that sound? I’m afraid Lewis has touched it, though…”

“Meow.”

Achilles sighed.

He put his feet up on the coffee table, hands behind his head as he stared without seeing at the black mirror of his television.

The clock above the fireplace chirped five times before he finally shook himself from his reverie.

He shifted his feet, and the pages Alex had stacked just yesterday scattered to the floor once again. With another sigh, he bent down to retrieve them, this time opting to place them back on the table rather than hurling them into the fire. Except for one.

One page he held onto as he curled up into the couch, a pen in hand. He flipped the paper over, now faced with the blank side.

He had been getting better. Rasmodius was right. Before the pneumonia, before the Shadow King. He’d been feeling better all on his own. Or, perhaps, not exactly on his own…

He dug a pen out from the coffee table and began to write.

What Do You Want?

On second thought.

Achilles crossed the question out.

What Makes You Feel Good?

That felt a little cringy… too cheesy, maybe too on the nose…

What Makes You Feel Good? Better?

#llnks #stardew valley fanfic #sdv fanfiction #stardew valley fanfiction #sdv fanfic #sdv fic

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kiisblog · 6 months

Text

Locomotion of Lost Ideas.

I randomly sent a video to my friend of a train passing by outside my balcony without knowing that trains are one of his favourites. When he mentioned his love for trains, I impulsively told him I would write about it. I'm not sure if I made a mistake by telling him that because now I have to whack my brain to find a great idea to write about trains. How am I supposed to do that? Usually, ideas come to me, i don't think about them but now I have to think. However, I cannot engage in all this thinking without a cup of coffee, so I headed to the kitchen, made one, and sat on the balcony, gazing at the railway tracks, hoping they would inspire me but it just ended up being a staring contest.

Oh, that reminds me, when I asked him what he likes about trains, I was expecting him to say something like the journey, destination, or the people, because that would be so easy to write about. Instead, he hit me with - wheels, locomotives, railroads, suspensions, powerlines.

It wasn't really that surprising because, well, I know him, so I actually saw that coming.

Anyways, I sat there thinking about wheels and suspensions, but what on earth am I supposed to write about that? Should I write about the scientific history behind them or How a Diesel Electric Locomotive works? What good would that do? It seems like writing a textbook, and who wants to read one, or for that matter, write one? Maybe I should search for metaphors that connect trains to life? Now, that sounds cliche. The sound of trains is nice, although it was annoying at first when I moved into this house because a train used to pass by every few minutes to hours. There are all kinds of trains that pass by near my balcony—ordinary ones with passengers, metros, coal-loaded trains, and even trains carrying sealed packages.

Sometimes, I watch people walking on the tracks while I sit there sipping my tea. There are also a few dogs. If I were to describe the view from my balcony, there are three large apartment buildings behind the tracks, surrounded by trees and plants. It's no wonder if there's a cozy spot for animals to rest in the midst of the tracks and apartments. I must admit that I've grown quite attached to my balcony, it's very comforting. However, I've never once thought about jumping onto the tracks. I'm not that kind of person. Whenever I mention that I live near the tracks, people jokingly say that their intrusive thoughts would tempt them to jump onto the tracks just seconds before a train passes by. I find that idea rather silly, to be honest.

By the way, this reminds me (again) of that scene in Breaking Bad where they decide to steal a train car chock full of methylamine, swap it with 90% water, and no one would know. The train heist plan was so intense and thrilling, I almost thought they were done for when the whistle blew, and the train started moving without them finishing the task. But somehow, the plan succeeds, and then something really dark happens after that, which my train of thought (pun intended) is urging me to stop to avoid any more spoilers.

Well, I'm nearing the end of my coffee cup, and I still haven't figured out what I'm supposed to write. I guess I'll have to call it a day and let my friend know that I couldn't come up with anything. He'll probably tease me about it the whole day because he's my biggest hater.

#writing #random #trains #balcony #idk what else to tag #writer problems #good afternoon #breaking bad

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sergeant-spoons · 2 years

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From that Strangers to lover imagine of Chuck, I got inspired to ask too🥰🥰 how about Dick Winters and the singing girl at the bar? Like she got the voice of an angel, kinda an angel herself too and Dick just got hypnotised 😍

Hey, Little Songbird

Hello dear Anon! I’m so sorry this took me so long to write, my life is pretty hectic right now and I wanted to make sure I wrote this right. I hope you like it!

Pairing: Dick Winters x Female OC

Word count: 4693

Tone: Strangers to lovers, love at first sight, chance meetings, awkward flirting, fast burn

Summary: She sings like an angel, and the more he gets to know her, the more he feels she’s heaven-sent for a thousand more reasons.

Taglist: @tvserie-s-world @thoughpoppiesblow @victoryrollsandredlips @now-im-a-belieber @50svibes @mgdln97 @tina1938 @drinkwhiskeyandsmile @ask-you-what-sir @indecisiveimpatience @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert @holdingforgeneralhugs @onlyyouexisthere

When Erica Edwards enlisted with the USO, she believed she'd have the chance to travel like never before. She thought she'd finally be able to leave her small hometown in Kentucky and see New York City, the Midwest, maybe even the Pacific Ocean. If she was lucky (perhaps a naive thought), they'd send her overseas. And so she waited, singing herself silly around the house as she waited with breathless desire for the chance to finally go somewhere, do something, live a life worth living. The telegram came in mid-January of '44, ripe with disfavored news. She tried to make light of the disappointment, but it was hard to be happy she would not be going overseas. She wouldn't even be leaving the south. They meant to ship her out approximately 381 miles, which sounded like a great deal of distance until she looked at the map on her father's study wall and realized she was hardly moving two states over.

Her supervisor wanted to send her southeast, to a small town ever so similar to the one she'd known all her life, to perform in the local bars for the soldiers. The only difference from home would be the army base and the uniformity of the audience all garbed in the same shade of drab olive. No matter, she'd go. At least she'd be leaving home. Her parents weren't thrilled, but when had they supported her dreams and aspirations? Someday she'd settle down just like they wanted, raise a family, and keep a cozy home. That was something she wished for, too- just not right now. Right now, she wanted to be young and talented and, for the first time in her life, self-sufficient.

The town nearest to the army base was Spring Lake, which, oddly enough, was nowhere near a lake, nor a spring. The town was named after a small body of water called Spring Lake Pond, which would have been amusing enough had the pond not disappeared entirely, too. The woman who ran the boarding house Erica was staying at, a very chatty and sweet widow, told her where the pond had once been the night of her arrival over a late supper. She took a walk there two days later, following the railroad tracks to the foretold spot. Not even a ditch in the earth remained, no divet or shallow pit. The ground had been filled in to make room for another train platform, halfway built by the time of her coming. She watched the construction crew for a short time until one started whistling at her and she, disgruntled, went home to do the morning paper's crossword.

Her routine over the next few weeks became as follows. Read the morning paper and do her crosswords until the rest of the girls came down the stairs, chattering for their breakfast. Darn, dust, and fold laundry for the missus until eleven a.m. Spend the day from eleven to three in the afternoon doing as she pleased, which was most often visiting the local library, walking through the park, or tending to the kitten she'd found hiding in her bedroom that first night. Three to four, prepare for the evening. Four-thirty, set out for the pub and arrive at quarter-to-five as the first of the dinner and evening crowd began to walk in. Five-thirty to twelve, one, even two a.m., perform for and socialize with the patrons, most especially the enlisted men. Head home, fall asleep, rinse and repeat.

Erica's kitten brought her the most joy that first week as she struggled to find a sense of herself in this unfamiliar place. She named him Claudius for the great Roman philosopher. Her roommate suggested she spell the name as 'Clawdius', and though Erica declared it a swell idea, she privately believed her sweet gentleman did not deserve the caricature of a name. Speaking of, her roommate was quite the talkative woman, the daughter of the missus, and spent most of her time attending social functions and turning the dance hall uptown upside-down. She convinced Erica to come along sometimes, though only to the daytime events. Though she maintained a veneer of calm delight, Erica was often dreadfully bored and lonely at those events. She knew no one save for her roommate, and the few men who looked her way were quickly dissuaded from trying to catch her attention by how she was nose-deep in a novel she'd snuck in her purse.

The first four or five weeks after that first uncomfortable stretch were actually quite exciting and, from a career standpoint, successful. She sang in the pub almost every night except for Mondays and Tuesdays since the establishment was closed on those evenings. She'd begun to make a name for herself among the locals. Soldiers asked her to kiss their cheeks for good luck before shipping to the coast for their overseas departures. Folks recognized her walking through the park and she started to make friends. By the end of June, her supervisor was so pleased that he was considering sending her north if reports kept coming back positive. North meant Boston or New York City, and now, wouldn't that be something?

This Friday evening would be the same as most any night. A new wave of soldiers had arrived just last week. It was always a test to see if the newcomers would behave better, worse, or about the same as the last batch. So far, they'd been the best-behaved of the lot, and Erica was looking forward to her performance tonight. She had two new songs to debut, one from Oklahoma! and another by Henry James and Helen Forrest. It was a Saturday night, so the pub was bound to be packed. She enjoyed it like that, with all the lights turned pinker by all the body heat in the room, the bar stools never unoccupied, the darts game in the back of the room spotting her songs with exclamations of triumph or groans of slim defeat. More people meant more exposure, too, and for a young star-on-the-rise, exposure was a grand old friend.

What Erica did not know was that a certain lieutenant had been coerced out to the pub that night by a friend of his, a lieutenant who had heard of the nightingale of Spring Lake and was interested enough in a night of music to join the enlisted men for beers and song. The bar was hot, though the mid-July sun was halfway done setting, and several patrons had opened the windows, letting in a cool breeze that the quieter folk collected around. Dick Winters was one of such people, and Harry Welsh, though he was more the socialite, deigned to join his friend once he'd fetched them each a beer from the busy bar.

"Phew!" Harry exclaimed, passing Dick the glass with the lesser froth of the two. "Didn't think I'd make it back without somebody hip-checking me and spilling one o' these. This place is packed."

"It is," Dick agreed and held the beer politely in front of him.

Harry, who had forgotten his friend did not drink, downed half his glass in the next few minutes, chatting about this and that to do with the enlisted men, the pub, the night, North Carolina, and anything else that crossed his mind.

"Oh, here she comes!" he exclaimed, cutting himself off mid-story about his uncle's incident with a raccoon on the roof. "The brightest star of the night—more radiant than the North Star."

Dick chuckled, turning the beer in his hands so his fingers smudged new prints in the fading frost.

"What?" Harry nodded at the stage. "They call her the nightingale for a reason, Dick."

"Oh, I believe you-" He passed his beer onto Lewis Nixon half an instant after his friend broke through the crowd to join them. "-I've just never heard you talk that way about anyone other than Kitty."

Harry huffed cheerily. "Well, this is different! Everybody loves her."

"Is that so?"

Dick turned to Nix for affirmation, and Nix glanced between him and Harry.

"Are we talking about Miss Edwards?"

They nodded, and Nix flashed a lopsided smile.

"Then yes, everybody does love her. Funny enough, she's not even a local."

"She's not?" Harry turned his ear toward his right shoulder. "I always thought she was."

"No, she's from further west—Tennessee, I think. Maybe Kentucky. USO sent her out here for us strapping boys in the Airborne."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. The 506th isn't the first to come through here."

Dick's friends turned to him as if remembering he was part of their conversation. He didn't mind listening, and their return to him was a thoughtful thing, in his eyes.

"How about you, Dick? What do you think of this southern belle?"

"I've never met her," he conceded after a second or two of thought, "but I'm sure she's pleasant enough."

"Pleasant," Harry chuckled into the bottom of his beer glass as if Dick had just made a clever joke.

"She's more than pleasant, Dick." Nix tipped his glass towards the stage. "You'll know it as soon as you see her."

They didn't have to wait long. The lights above the small soapbox stage flickered on and off, the doing of an unseen hand. The crowd hushed in a gradient, those closest to the stage going quieter than those at the dartboard in the far corner. Harry went back to the bar to get another beer, and Nix leaned around Dick to speak to another fellow officer, and just as he was left to his own thoughts, the most exquisite woman he'd ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon emerged from the door to the immediate left of the stage. The clapping and cheers of the audience dimmed in Dick's ears; he could not even hear Nix's words, though his friend was hardly a foot away from him. His ears rushed like the ocean waves swelling upon a beach, only ebbing when she took the microphone and laughed a humble laugh, beaming out at her admirers (of whom Dick already counted himself a member).

She did not speak but began to sway, listening to the band behind her, packed into the small space between her and the back wall. They had no soapbox stage but were just as present as their vocalist, who shot them smiles over both her shoulders as they struck up the first tune. Dick liked this nightingale very much already, and then she opened her mouth to sing and he was smitten. By the end of the first verse, he was breathless; by the end of the song, he was in love. The applause cut through the hypnosis and Dick realized as he began to clap along, slowly at first and then quicker, that he was being a fool. Admiration of a person should not derive from immediate physical attributes. Even the loveliest of singing could not reasonably enchant a heart, though this woman's crooning was beyond lovely. "I've Heard That Song Before" had never been sung so sweet, not even by Helen Forrest herself. As the applause soared, the enchantress of the melody dipped her head with a shy sort of pride that made Dick's heart neglect to beat.

"Thank you," she said, squeezing the microphone like the hand of a friend. "Thank you, darlings."

The applause quieted and the woman introduced herself as Erica Edwards to sporadic shouts. She laughed that sweet laugh that first entranced Dick's ears, seeming to recognize a regular supporter, and proceeded to thank the crowd for making it out tonight. They cheered, and Dick was just as surprised as Harry and Nix to find his own voice within the mix. Miss Edward's eye danced across the room, and just as Dick had convinced himself he ought to stop staring at her, she met his gaze.

"Ain't it lovely to see some new faces in the crowd tonight?" she said, her voice low and smooth like syrup, similar and yet altogether different from her singing voice. Crooning that Henry James tune, she'd sounded like sweet hot honey poured over a moist pound cake, the kind of treat you would call breakfast if you felt like toeing the line just a little on that particular day.

What an angel.

She sang again, a song from that new musical George Luz was already stuck on, and Dick couldn't look away, becoming more and more enthralled with every new melody. Soldiers and locals began to make room for a dance floor, moving tables and chairs, and the singer, taking a cue from the crowd, struck up a slow song. Although Dick wasn't much of a dancer, his only wish was that she could keep singing like that in his arms, dancing with him into Eden. She wrapped up the set two hours after she'd begun and Dick only realized it from a glance at his watch. He hadn't meant to stay out so late. Harry reappeared from the crowd, where he'd been dancing with a family friend of his, come south for the summer. He bumped Dick's arm, and by the time Dick looked back up, the nightingale was gone from her nest.

"She's really something, huh?"

Dick blinked.

I shouldn't be falling for a stranger. I should not. Be falling. For a stranger.

"She is."

Goddamnit, Dick, pull yourself together.

"Well!" Harry swigged the last of his third (or was it fourth?) beer and set the glass definitively on the bar. "I'm ready to retire for the night. You?"

"Yeah." Dick smoothed down his shirt, shooting one last glance at the empty stage. "Let's go."

Four days later, Dick had almost managed to brush the nightingale of Spring Lake beyond his memory. Almost. He wrote a letter home and did not mention any angel of the barroom, no matter how much his pen moved to betray his resolve. Most of his duties relieved him from free thought, but the hours running and marching with the men in strict silence gave him little choice in the matter of introspection. Tuesday morning, he woke with the music of a stranger's love drifting about his brain. To chase it away, he took his letter to the post office on the other side of town. His walk had the opposite of its intended effect. Without talkative company to occupy his ears, his mind wandered and he caught himself humming a tune he hadn't known until last Friday. He set his jaw as he started up the steps, looking to his boots in a last attempt to set his thoughts in a direction other than that beautiful, breathtaking, blazing bright-

"Oh!"

Dick stepped back all the way down the stairs. Here she was, the ghost of his thoughts, blinking into the sunshine. He was already staring at her. She patted down her skirt. Dick felt a lump swell in his throat. He took off his cap and held it against his chest.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean- bump into you there- sorry."

She looked pleasantly surprised. "That's alright," she said. "I'm awful sorry for getting in your way, Lieutenant."

He shook his head. He'd been in her way, surely. The right of way should always be deferred to her, in Dick's opinion. He swallowed, and she smiled, and the lump in his throat eased.

"Not at all," he replied, relieved when she didn't seem to mind his hesitation. "Are you alright?"

"Oh, yes." She tipped her head, her lovely curls dancing over her shoulders. "Well, um..."

"Dick Winters," he said, extending his hand before he could stop himself.

Her smile grew and she passed her pocketbook to her other hand.

"Erica Edwards," she said, and even her name had a beautiful cadence to it, like her voice, and her singing, and her face-

"Miss Edwards, would you be inclined to meet me for dinner sometime?"

Erica didn't mean to look so surprised as she did. She'd been asked out here and there by a trooper or two throughout her stay at MacKall, but never so suddenly and so... intriguingly. She had half a mind to think his sparkling gaze was for her and her alone. And the way he'd stumbled over his words to see her face—it was too sweet to deny.

"Yes," she said, coming down the stairs. "Yes, I would like that."

"Tomorrow night?" Dick asked before the astonishment could render him speechless. Now that she stood before him, he was ever the more taken with her. His cap, disheveled by his anxious grip, shifted against his chest, and he remembered to breathe.

"Yes," she agreed. "Tomorrow night."

"I'll pick you up at seven."

"Yes."

They fell silent. Dick was too enraptured by her face to think of saying goodbye. Erica's smile widened.

"Wouldn't you like to know where?"

"Oh- right. Yes, please."

She gave him the address of the boarding house she was staying at, and Dick nearly forgot it when she wished him a pleasant morning and touched his hand just lightly enough to conjure goosebumps to his skin. He returned to the base, dumb with delight, and hardly got a word in before Nix and Harry guessed the source of his happy befuddlement. They called him a tiger, a flirt, a champ, but all Dick felt like was lucky. Alas, that luck would not hold out past sundown. The next morning, during the 7:00 hour roll, Sobel figmented a number of violations by the soldiers of his company. The usual phrase "weekend passes are revoked—officers included" stung Dick's ears. He knew better than to give a physical reaction, but as soon as he was beyond Sobel's (and his men's) view, he let out a sharp sigh and gazed reproachfully at the heavens. Why could things not go his way just for once?

All the rest of the afternoon, Dick tried to send word to Miss Edwards that he would not be able to make it to their dinner date. His anxieties mounted all day until the evening commenced and he was able to sneak off the base for the first time. Nix covered for him, his eyes sparkling with pride at Dick endeavoring something so rash. Dick's heart thrummed heavy in his chest, loud in his ears, until he was well into town. The distance relieved him for a few steps and a few steps only. The sooner he grew to Miss Edwards' lodgings, however, the more out of step became his heartbeat, and he was no less in a tizzy when he started down the long path to the boarding house than he'd been when he stumbled into her yesterday. He held his cap in his hands and fiddled with the brim, forgetting how Sobel would scold if he saw it crimped tomorrow.

But lo! providence came again on his side. A gazebo bathed in the light of the crescent moon a ways off the road. When Dick squinted, he could spy a figure sitting there among the fireflies. She looked content, listening to the river run, watching the blinking bugs.

"Miss Edwards."

She turned about and found him approaching much quicker than he supposed was prudent, but still too slow for his aching heart. Her pretty mouth formed into an 'o'. Dick remembered how it was she sang last week and nearly swooned all over again.

"I'm so sorry," he said, "I owe you a great apology."

"For not showing up."

She looked fairly unimpressed until he went on, explaining about this morning and the roll and his CO. As soon as she heard that last bit, her expression darkened. Dick trailed off, afraid he was in worse trouble now that he'd tried explaining.

"Sobel?"

"Yes," he affirmed and was surprised even further when she relaxed, offering a wry laugh.

"That man is a piece of work."

Before Dick could process her forgiveness, she tucked her arm around his and looked all about the twinkling night.

"Do you see the lightning bugs?"

"Yes," he lied, staring at her and her alone, "they're nice."

"And me?" she asked, her gaze returning to his. "Am I nice?"

Dick could hardly catch his breath.

"More than nice," he said, "so much more."

From that night on, they visited each other often. Dick was utterly smitten with Erica, and she was only a few steps behind on the path to love. The more she saw him, the more she smiled, even when he was not around. She'd never thought she'd find someone this good, someone to bring out the best of her. With him, she was witty, thoughtful, and patient like she'd never been before. He came to see her at the bar every weekend and never left until the show was over, even as it got later and later and she kept on singing. He'd always ask for a dance, just one, and she'd giggle and tell him they needed music for dancing. He'd always smile, say maybe next time, and walk her home with a kiss on the cheek goodnight. Erica couldn't remember a time when she'd been so endlessly happy. It did not take her long to fall deeply in love. She felt like a girl, fawning over a boy, dizzy with the first draws of innocent love, but too, she felt like a woman, reaching for the man whose hand she wanted to hold for the rest of her life.

One sweltering evening at the tail end of spring, they went out for dinner and left town just after sunset. There was a faint uncertainty in the air, for Dick had recently learned his regiment would be relocating again soon. They had arrived at the base in February and it was now May—they had stayed almost too long already. To Erica, it didn't feel like long enough. She and Dick had only known each other for four months. She didn't want him to leave. She knew it would break her heart if he went and left her behind, as soldiers were wont to do. But not Dick, he wouldn't—right? Doing her best to ignore such insecurities as they came to her front stoop, Erica invited Dick in for iced tea. Her heart fluttered when he looked at her that way, his affection set aglow by the fading light. He looked incredibly regretful to decline. When she took his hand, brushing her thumb over his knuckles, he leaned toward her and she almost kissed him. Almost.

"You walked all this way," she said, "at least come in and cool down a bit."

All the other girls were still out for the night, dancing and drinking with their beaus. They were smart, to wait until the night cooled down the sun's blistering rays, even smarter to inadvertently leave Dick and Erica the place to themselves. The only one at home was the woman who ran the boarding house, and she was knitting out on the back porch. She would not come in until eleven at the earliest, and she'd already expressed her approval of Erica inviting 'that gentlemanly lieutenant of yours' to come in and sit for a time, so long as it was not past midnight. Sitting in the parlor, fanning her face with her grandmother's best fan, Erica sipped at the tea and eyed Dick over the rim of her glass. Not once did he look away from her. Music drifted in through the screen door, the radio of a passing car turned up loud, and Dick set down his drink.

"I love your singing," he said, and though Erica had for a moment hoped he might stop at 'you' and neglect any 'your', she still lit up at his praise.

"Thank you, darlin'," she said, positively glowing under his admiration, "I've spent a long time gettin' it right."

"Sing for me?"

"Now?"

He looked guilty, but then she stood and extended her hand. He rose and joined her, accepting her touch.

"I will," she agreed, "on one condition."

"Which is?"

"You dance with me while I sing."

Erica realized only when Dick swept her into his arms that this was the best condition she could have offered. His dream come true, though she didn't know it yet. She began to hum, something slow, and he began to turn them. His hand on her back felt like a pillar, keeping her steady; his other hand in hers was the touch of angels. She leaned into him, singing a bit softer but now adding the lyrics. She could see it now, she'd entranced him with the first note. As they drifted closer and closer, she wished he would just kiss her already. Dick looked at her lips and the last few words of the line fell off as Erica tried to prepare herself to little avail. His kiss was striking in every meaning of the word. Hard and direct and all too fast. It made her heart hammer and her lips burn, and she needed more at once. His shyness made her strong.

"Mmph-"

He made a soft sound as her lips collided with his, a note strangled by desire. She touched his chest with a lithe hand and he was no longer quite so shy. His hand on her back became two, and her arms appeared around his neck, keeping him near. He was polite, and it was nice at first, but then not enough, and it was not long before Erica could feel heat bubbling in her face and her neck and her chest. A part of her very much wanted to press Dick to the wall and kiss him long and slow, but she knew better than to test the endurance of a man already trembling at their current embrace. His breath shook against her lips and she giggled, breaking the kiss to bury her face in his neck. He held her there for a moment, steadying himself, as she listened to his wild heart.

"Marry me?"

Her head snapped up as quick as a leaf tossed by a pre-storm wind. She expected him to look embarrassed or apologetic, but all she could see in his eyes was love and frightened hope. She did not ask what he meant but took a minute to think. He was patient, holding her all the while. His hand played with the back of her blouse, nervous. She pecked his lips over and over until he began to smile, then gasped out her answer as her smoking surprise gave way to blazing delight:

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes! Yes—on one condition."

"Anything," he swore, his voice low and faint as if he was trying to keep himself quiet, afraid speaking too loud would wake him from some perfect dream.

"We wait a bit for the wedding?" She smiled, just as shy as he'd been after he kissed her that first time. "I love you, and all, it's just... I'd like to keep up my singin' as long as I can."

He looked almost appalled at the notion. "Why would you ever stop?"

"Oh, Dick!" She beamed and threw her arms around his neck. "You are just an angel, you know that?"

"No," he breathed, "no, you're the angel. An angel who-" He lit up and embraced her. "An angel who's going to marry me!"

They spun around together, laughing in loving glee, until Dick nearly tripped over something and they stumbled to a stop. It was Claudius who'd interrupted, and Erica scooped him into her arms, never straying far from the loving touch of her newly intended.

"What do you think, Claudius? Am I the luckiest gal on the whole planet?"

She made Claudius nod up and down by bobbing him in her arms, and he meowed, stretching his paws curiously at Dick.

"I think that's a yes, through and through," she decided, and Dick stroked her pet's head as he leaned over the cat to kiss her.

"I think he's happy with your 'yes'."

"He should be..."

She kissed the top of Claudius' furry head and leaned into Dick's arms, content.

"It's the best decision I've ever made."

#request #dick winters #richard winters #band of brothers #one shot #band of brothers one shot #band of brothers fanfiction #hbo war show #hbo war show one shot #hbo war show fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction request #anon request #major winters

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joezworld · 3 years

Text

Bismuth

Bismuth - a harmless metal when consumed by humans, is known to have significant hallucinatory effects when introduced to a mechanobiological system such as a locomotive.

Due to its non-fuel state, non-intentional bismuth contamination is rare, but has been known to occur, especially in instances when impurities from lead refining, which include bismuth, are introduced to locomotive fuel sources such as open coal bins or wood piles.

Introduction to diesel locomotives is more complicated, and typically involves being within close proximity to steam locomotive that is burning bismuth-contaminated fuels, at which point the aerosolized mineral can enter their air intake systems. In some cases, fuel contamination can occur, however most known instances of fuel contamination have involved intentional dosing of fuel stocks with either bismuth or bismuth-derived pharmaceuticals (BDP).

The stomach-settling use of bismuth in humans has meant that most locomotive contaminations occur after a well meaning relative or friend introduces a BDP such as Pepto-Bismol into the locomotive’s fuel or water system.

Of course, intentional/recreational ingestion is a known activity, however all reputable sources (J. Small Berries et al) indicate that the hallucinatory events are notable in their inconsistency. The resulting "bad trips" often deter repeat usage.

- An excerpt from: The ABCs of Locomotive Health Care (10th ed., 1984) - J. Bigbooté, J. Whorfin; Yoyodyne Publishing Laboratories, Grover’s Mill, New Jersey.

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

April, 2000

Nobody’s quite sure how the bismuth got into Sodor - presumably it arrived in the shipment of coal from the mainland. The railway bought coal from a broker in London, and their usual shipment of high-quality coal had been lost - quite literally, as nobody could find it - and therefore the broker had scrambled to find more. A Polish metal refinery was found to have some surplus coal, and it was sent on without informing anyone on Sodor of the change.

It arrived at Tidmouth docks on a cargo ship and was promptly sent out to the big stations across the network - Wellsworth, Knapford, Tidmouth, Barrow, and Crovan’s Gate.

The coal trains ran late at night so as to not be in the way, and it meant that most engines would take on the new coal around midday, as the last of the old stocks in the coaling stages was used up.

It took about an hour or so for the last of the old coal in the engine’s tenders to be used up if they were working hard.

This meant that, as the engines rested in the yards after their noon trains, a lot of things started happening...

Tidmouth

Mid-sentence, Gordon’s eyes began to roll into the back of his smokebox. He was still speaking, but he slowly began to stop producing any intelligible sounds. His words turned into a mushy babel of slurred syllables and stuttering clicks as the men began frantically wondering if a locomotive could have a stroke.

Nearby, Thomas giggled dreamily. The pretty pink unicorns that had suddenly appeared on his bufferbeam were prancing about in a most amusing fashion.

---------

Crovan’s Gate

Percy had been undergoing a pressure test when his smoke started turning yellow.

The men had dropped his fire and immediately began an inspection, but not before Wendell was totally enveloped in the thick yellow cloud.

Percy felt like his boiler was inflating and inflating, as though the pressure test would never stop. The men eventually stopped what they were doing as he began ranting and raving about being turned into a zeppelin.

On the other side of the workshop, Wendell was speaking in hushed, manic tones to no-one. Whoever this “Lion” was seemed to be quite concerned for his wellbeing, even if he thought that they were overreacting.

--------

Arlesburgh

The evil diesels were after him, he was sure of it. Look! There was one there! And another! And another!

Well not today! Try and catch this example of Great Western Metal!

The men slowly backed away as Oliver ranted and raved at absolutely nothing. Duck and the Scottish twins watched from a safe distance, and decided not to get involved.

-------

Barrow Sheds

James was past being concerned about the yellow smoke - the little pixies fluttering around his smokebox said that he didn’t have anything to worry about at all.

Delta, sitting next to him in the cloud of yellow smoke, was much more concerned, but not about the smoke itself.

"Jamie, something's wrong."

"What makes you say that?

"I can hear Jefferson Airplane.”

"What's Jefferson Airplane?"

"I don’t know."

-------

Barrow Yards

“Why are you not fixing this?! Don’t just stand there! DO SOMETHING YOU MEATBAGS!” Bear roared at the workmen from within the yellow cloud. He’d woken up deeply congested, and didn’t understand why they were saying he needed to be out of the cloud of yellow smoke - it wasn’t like he could breathe much to begin with, and Henry was in trouble and he clearly needed help and these men wouldn’t do anything!

“Holy shit Bear I can swim” Henry said from whatever la-la-land state he was in.

“That’s nice dear, NOW ONE OF YOU FIX HIM OR I’LL KILL ALL YOU STARTING WITH THE WEAK ONES!”

On the other side of the yard, the men stared at the Hymek, which was bellowing and screaming at a staffing agency billboard on the side of the tracks while Henry belched yellow smoke over the both of them.

-------

Wellsworth

The rails had turned to jelly some time ago. The crossties had begun speaking in the language of the beast. The sky was a deep blood-gray, and the clouds wept for their lost raindrops. The engine watched as his smoke curled away into letters of an unknown alphabet. He was concerned as to how the menaces had managed this, but he wasn’t going to let them win by acknowledging that anything was wrong.

If he concentrated hard enough, he could just make out the signal aspects behind a curtain of iridescent sounds. That was a little bit too dangerous in his opinion, and he resolved to inform the twins that their pranks should not involve signals.

Across the yard, Bill, Ben, and BoCo watched in horror as Edward puffed out of the yard. His pupils were two different sizes, his tongue lolled out of his mouth, he was mumbling and chittering in an indescribable fashion, and his smoke was thick and turning a worrying shade of yellow.

But he was still pulling his train as though nothing was wrong.

-------

Farquhar

The apocalyptic wasteland spread out on all sides. The sun burned and burned until the land was scorched to a godforsaken ash. The river Els was filled with blood. Roving gangs of madmen patrolled the ruins - their war machines littered with the bones of their victims.

Mad Tobias the Brown, last of the North Shed, protector of the Anopha Stone, keeper of the soul of Saint Pedroc, guardian of the survivors, rattled through the wastes with his precious cargo of human lives.

A cry rose up from his faithful warrior bride Henrietta as she sighted a roving gang approach from the south. Their war wagon was the converted husk of an old railcar that he once called a friend, but that was long ago. Now she was merely a convenient vessel for the beasts.

The war music sounded in the distance, and he set off - a confrontation was inadvisable with his charges aboard. His smoke scudded off to one side in the stiff wind as he charged - he would have to pass them at the old loop if he wished to be avoid being trapped in the Stone Mountain, and speed was key to avoid their wicked bone hand-and-a-halves.

As he approached, he bellowed a warning cry to intimate his foe. The corpse of the railcar stared back at him in a rictus grin, but its crew recoiled - as one should when facing off against him.

Daisy and her crew watched in amazement as Toby and Henrietta, wreathed in sickly yellow smoke, roared towards them with the midday workmen's train. They screamed through the passing loop and disappeared into the distance, incomprehensible epithets trailing in their wake.

Inside his cab, Toby's driver had long since given up trying to stop his engine, and was now trying to reign him in so that he didn’t come off the tracks before the fireman could finish dumping the fire.

Inside Henrietta, the guard pulled back on the handbrake so hard that the lever came off in his hand. It didn't work.

Terrified workmen bashed at the radio with their lunch pails, trying to make the Norwegian Death Metal stop playing, but it was no use. The radio kept bellowing out tunes even after its faceplate was smashed in, and began to get even louder.

Toby was eventually brought to a stop near the Kyndley family's home, but Mad Tobias the Brown didn't stop yelling until the last of the coal ash was cleared from his smoke box three hours later.

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

It took most of the day for the bismuth to work itself out of everyone's systems. Nobody at the railroad was quite sure what was wrong, but considering the dull yellow smoke, it was easy to guess that the coal was bad.

The broker was summoned to the island, and when he admitted that the coal was from a random colliery in Poland instead of the high quality American anthracite that the railroad had paid for, he was quickly sent packing - along with the coal!

A new coal merchant was found, and an emergency supply was bought locally to cover the gap, bringing the saga to an end.

Nobody likes to talk about it - except Daisy, who has no trouble mentioning the tale of Mad Tobias the Brown whenever she wants to bring Toby down a peg!

#drugs #drugs drugs drugs #ttte bear #ttte thomas #ttte gordon #ttte henry #ttte edward #ttte james #ttte percy #ttte wendell #ttte oliver #ttte bill and ben #OC: Delta #Comedy #Have a nice trip!#ttte toby #ttte henrietta #fic

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owlheartt · 3 years

Text

Lost

I stare over the expanse. There is nothing behind me to go back to, and the only path is forward. I turn around anyways. It is blacker and blanker than the foggy ocean ahead of me. It looks like something is draining it away, like something is building it’s own black hole. A black hole... I heard they could swallow anything, and nothing could come back out. That you would be sucked in, and time would slow, and then you’d be gone. Where would that leave me? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad in the black hole. If it is sucking everything up, then maybe I’d find what I had left behind. That might be worse. Do I really want to return? Even if I do, I have no proof that the world I’d lived in would still be there. The space behind me isn’t even a black hole. It is just an expanse.

I turn forward again. Uncertainty claims me, I had always been cautious of the unknown. It’s why I had never left before. But now I have to. Or do I? Am I really willing to enter the pitch black behind me? I make my choice, but I don’t commit. I just can’t. I take a wobbly step forward, and the dreadfully damp mist climbs up my leg like a creeping vine, grabbing me and trying to drag me in. It’s just water, and can’t really do anything. My fear is causing me to hallucinate. I take another step forward, this close to being against my own will. Despite how much my mind rebels against it, I feel beckoned by the fog. It’s almost welcoming.

One last look behind me, and in I walk.

It’s just fog. Fog and fog and fog. It feels invasive and crowding and all too empty all at the same time. I lose track of where I came from, where I was originally going. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know. I should’ve stayed behind. I should’ve let myself be swallowed by the darkness. I should’ve I should’ve I should’ve. Would it have helped? Would it be any better? Or would I be just as lost. Just as scared. Just as empty? Questions swirl. What if’s repeat themselves. My mind is tumultuous and boiling and unceasingly terrified and the fog just. Keeps. Coming.

I stop. I collapse. I cry. What more can I do? I don’t even know where I am.

I guess an hour has passed by the time I get up. My face is wet with the fog and tears, and my eyes are puffy. I feel so defeated, but I need to keep going. If I lay here forever, there’s no chance things will get better. But it would be easier, so much easier, to stay here. To never get up. In the distance, I hear a flute. A mysterious flute. It plays a taunting song, one that beckons me forward. One that won’t stop, one that’s quiet but steady and strong. I hum along with it.

Then I get up and follow it.

The fog clings to me, my clothes are soaked. Then I break through. Beyond the fog -and surrounded by it- lies a forest. A jungle? Does it matter? What’s the difference? The flute is louder stronger, but I can’t find a source in the dew covered foliage. But there’s people. Other people. They look just as lost as me. I can see that others have been crying too. Some look blank. Some look cautious. Everyone’s alone. No one’s speaking. I can hear running water and insects and hidden birds and out of the subtle background noise there’s the flute. As clear and strong as ever. Someone’s humming along. Maybe two people. I stopped humming a bit ago, but maybe I should join back in. It still sounds just as pleasant.

So I do, and I let the warm mystery of the song embrace me.

I wander around the area, up some rocks that could’ve been a staircase, across an almost cleared path, and find a ledge that overlooks everyone. It has a railroad. A rusty old railroad that looks like it fits, squirreled away and spiraling into the brush. Into the mist that’s still holding on. Plants circle it, like it’s a secret that they’re meant to keep. Something’s meant to happen.

So I wait.

Everyone else does too. The very air itself seems to be holding it’s breath, and we all wait. Some keep humming. I do. The more people join in, the louder the flute itself gets. But it’s perfect. The best sound. An owl joins in, singing it’s song along with the rest of us. The insects create a background symphony. Some people sway back and forth, as if they want to dance along. Even with all the noise, the place still seems quiet. Not eerily, even though it probably should be, but soothingly. Like it’s trying to keep the song a lullaby. I see a few children in the crowd. They’re dancing and humming along. Some are getting sleepy. Eyes begin to turn to me, and soon I realize I’m the only one on the ledge. I’m the only one by the tracks. If it didn’t feel so forbidden to speak, I might’ve asked them what I was supposed to do. Because it does feel like I need to do something. I have some sort of responsibility, standing by the tracks.

I open my mouth. I sing louder.

It’s like a beckoning, and out of the bizarre lullaby quiet comes a train whistle. No one looks quite sure what they’re doing, but everyone begins to climb the rock stairs. Everyone comes to join me. I quiet back down to a hum. My mysterious duty is done. A train comes down the rusty tracks. Despite the foliage on the train that otherwise would’ve proclaimed it unsafe, it just looked like it was a part of this magic land. A stranger steps forward. They walk cautiously towards the train’s door. As they near it, the door slides open, and they walk aboard. Everyone follows. I do too.

Once everyone’s on, the train whisks us all away. To a place I know I’ll love more than everything before. To somewhere better. To somewhere magical.

And I know, above all else, that I’ll never go back again.

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whirlybirbs · 4 years

Text

✪ —— 2. OF EVADING ARREST (AND OTHER FORCES)

summary: following the botched kidnapping of the supposed bride-to-be, you and the outlaw you come to know as arthur morgan are stuck wandering the woods along the dakota river trying to evade the o’driscolls. turns out your sister is not longer in van der linde custody.

word count: 3.8k

pairing: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader, turner as a placeholder last-name.

listen to: “trinity: titoli” by annibale e i cantori moderni

a/n: been a bit, hasn’t it? lovely gif done by @muse-of-nightmares as a part their rdr2 scenery series! thank you so much again for reaching out!

PREV. CHAPTER | ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN | SPOTIFY

This isn’t good.

Arthur Morgan realizes, mid-plunge into the Dakota River, that he’d forgotten to ask if you knew how to swim.

Your shrieks on the way down, as the train roars by overhead, give him a pretty good indication of the answer.

(He’s not one to talk. His own screams echo off the rocky walls along the riverbank as the river rushes up to meet him.)

The outlaw hits the water with a hard splash and he hopes, off-handedly, that Sugarcube is alright. She’s a good horse, no doubt quick enough to outrun the iron steam engine. The feeling of the impact alone is like a hammerin gunshot to the chest — the river is freezing, spurring a startling amount of energy into him. Arthur breaks the surface of the water with a fish-like gasp, treading as the sudden current begins to sweep him down-stream. The riverbank flies by on either side of him.

Arthur suddenly feels a bit guilty about hurling you to your potential death.

With a sputtered groan, his eyes dart across the rapids as he tries to keep his head above water.

He sputters, eyes scanning the rapids wildly. “Where are you, lady?!”

“You — ergh! You idiot!”

There you are.

Oop. Gone again.

The panic in your chest is nothing akin to the weight of your skirts— they drag you down, head bobbing beneath the water, and you can’t help but think that this is the last way you saw today going.

Being strangled to death by your dress, beneath the rapids of the Dakota River? Well, that seemed much less plausible than being strangled to death by your own mother, especially considering the rather grand failure of this morning.

Hours earlier, you’d been bound by propriety and politeness to meet with the one Mr. Waylon Robbins... Not by your own volition, of course. Most things nowadays were never on your own accord. With the impending deal — a finely crafted strangulation of your freedom, orchestrated by your father and his greed — of your marriage, it’d been thought best to introduce the two soon-to-be-newlyweds to one another over a breakfast of eggs and biscuits and tea...

Well, Christ, you’ll take this over that anyday. A thousand times over.

Even still, drowning is the last way you’d thought you’d ever die. I mean, sure, Jenny had pushed you through a hole in the ice up at the lake one winter and as horrible as it was, you’d been hauled out by your father and lived. It was cold and horrible but it happened in a blink.

You’re beginning to realize, as you spot the impending rapids down the river, this is just the start.

And Arthur realizes, with an annoyed sense of moral responsibility, he can’t just let you drown. That would just be... unbecoming. And rude. And probably get him chewed out by the likes of Dutch and Hosea. And... I mean, that’s just bad business. You were still worth something, soggy or not.

And, so, he snags a log as he flies by the riverbank, carried by the current, and hauls himself towards you with it in tow.

You bob up finally, gasping for air as the outlaw’s hands find you. They pull you up, knotted in the back of your waist-coat — you claw at the sudden kick of the summer air as you break the surface, hands clinging to his vest as he yelps; your hands plant on his broad shoulders and you push him down in a rush to get your head above water. His blonde head disappears in a flash of limbs, and then reappears with a wet cough. His voice sounds like a deadly bark.

“Quit tryna drown me, woman!” he bites, “Grab on!”

The stray log is damp and soggy and nearly gives way when you grip it tight — but it manages to keep you both afloat; it gives you enough time to sweep the mess of hair that’s hanging in your face aside, catch your breath, count your lucky stars and give the outlaw beside you a look that could kill.

“I oughta kill you!” you seethe.

“Don’t make me regret savin’ you,” Arthur starts, voice rising as he raises his finger as his other arm grips the log tightly, “Do not —”

The sound of the approaching roar sends both your heads whipping to the rapids ahead.

“Just hold on!”

“What the hell do you think I’m doin’?!”

You both hit the rapids faster than you thought.

The ten foot plunge is fast and you both scream on the way down (though, Arthur will probably deny that fact until the day he dies) — right into the plumes of water roaring over the rocks at the high point of the river. Your grip is locked onto the driftwood as you sputter, spitting the water out of your face as you’re hit again and again with the rapids.

“This!” you bellow as you cough, “is all your fault!”

“I am aware!”

Another scream. Another drop, this time cracking the log in half and sending you both down separate trajectories. Arthur scrambles, trying to grab your log but a stray rapid clocks him in the side of the face and sends him reeling as you screech, clawing onto the oak limb for dear life.

It must be rather comical, to see two people clinging to logs as they ride through the rapids. The current is so fast it zips you by a family of deer — they remain undisturbed, raising their heads in question for a moment as you pass.

There’s a break in the rapids, then, water settling slowly as you try to catch your breath — only to be cut short by the outlaw’s panicked bellow:

“HOLD ON!”

Waterfalls.

Beautiful in photos, art, and from a viewing distance.

Terrifying when you’re plunging down one at a breakneck speed.

Luckily, the drop is short enough that you survive, plopping you unceremoniously into a shallow pool at the base of the Dakota. Your dress acts like a parachute and on impact, it nearly drowns you. Amidst the floating skirts, your struggle to tread your way to the surface.

Heaving, you haul yourself from the water and drag you and your skirts ashore — you must look like a drowned rat of sorts, plaits run loose and hair dangling in your face. Your dress weighs a metric ton, bogged down with water and various debris.

You collapse on the riverbank, breathless.

The outlaw follows shortly after.

He crawls onto the shore, braced up on his elbows. You watch, spotting the water running off the beginning of a beard along his chin. His hair, once a lighter blonde, has gone darker from the swim — strands hang in his face as he plants his forehead on his wrist and groans.

For a few moments, there’s silence.

Between the two of you, there’s just the roar of the river and the labored breaths of lungs aching from the pummel of the rapids.

Slowly, you sit up.

“Who th’ hell do you think you are, then?” you seeth, pushing the thick tendrils of hair from your face like a curtain parting a stage show, “Huh?”

You struggle with the weight of your dress. You don’t think you’ve ever been this soaked in your life. This dress... as if you hadn’t cared for it before. Prying at the high collar, you snap the top button off and rub at your neck.

“Right,” the cowboy drawls sarcastically, water dripping from his scowl — he hauls himself up from the dirt, hands pushing back his soaked blonde hair before he momentarily realizes his hat is gone. With a growl, he waves his hands as he speaks and looks around the riverbank, “Sure, lemme jus’ climb up on m’ horse an’ bring y’ right on back t’ ma and pa...”

For a moment, you’re stuck staring at the now maskless stranger before you. Up on the bridge, when he’d pulled that ink black bandana down from his face, you hadn’t gotten a good look at him. Now, you’re staring straight at the outlaw with a slack jaw, trying your best to ignore the blaring reality that he is very handsome.

“You were the one that threw us off a bridge!” you guffaw, throwing your hands as you voice splinters into a shriek.

“Oh, m’ sorry, lady, next time I’ll let y’ get flattened by a caboose. How’s that?”

He’s standing now, long legs carrying him towards the rocks by the shore. As you desperately try to wobble yourself to your feet and wring out what water you can from your dress, you hear him make a surprised snort before drawing out a quiet “there you are”.

When the cowboy stands to full height, he’s got his hat in his hands.

“You best take me back now.”

You spy the wrinkle of his nose as he drops the gamblers hat on his head — dark lashes narrow as his eyes are cast in the shadow of the brim. As he nears, you finally realize how big the outlaw is. He’s tall, and he’s broad. You can see the shape of muscles beneath the dark shirt sticking to him. He rips the bandana from his neck, moving to wring it out as he speaks. There is sun kissed skin there along his neck.

(A part of your brain stutters at the sight — the large rugged outlaw... Surely he’d be the subject of whispered chatter by ladies in parlors everywhere. Handsome, gruff, big... His type was certainly romanticized enough in those books of yours —)

“I could leave y’ here, all alone in th’ wilderness,” he says, tone biting back, “Or take yer high society behind t’ th’ nearest railroad station ‘n’ dump ya...”

He swats the banada against his leg before tying it around his neck once more. His finger darts into your face. He waggles it, emphasizing his point.

“But there’s one thing I ain’t gonna do,” he prods your shoulder, “An’ that’s take orders from some spoiled brat.”

When he pushes past you, you don’t move.

You... well, you’re tied between wanting nothing but to rear up and slap the man and wanting to run.

The running part... it’s not born out of fear. There’s a part of you that’s beginning to wonder how much of this grand plan was his... The outlaw before you certainly didn’t have to whisk you away from the firefight, nor haul you off a bridge to escape impending flattening. Even still, as he digs through his satchel by a nearby rock, you can spy the irritation set in his features. Not anger.

Even more so... running from everything that had happened this morning?

You wonder if your father will even worry.

If this man’s little gang of bandits thought they were gonna get money out of snatching you, well... So be it. You weren’t going to break the news to the outlaw before you until you were safe. Outta the woods.

... Was getting out of the woods even an option?

It’s gonna be a hike.

... Your dress is going to be a problem.

It was a problem this morning, then in the carriage and... Christ alive, it doesn’t even take a moment of consideration before you busy yourself with prying at the sogged woolen bodice at the top of your gown — you can feel that damn crinolette digging into your backside. No doubt the dress’ understructure has snapped... As you wobble in the mud and curse, you can feel the outlaw’s eyes on you.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

In response, you turn and whip the soggy black overcoat at his chest. It hits him square with a hardy slap. He sputters. You move on, digging beneath your petticoat and unceremoniously tearing the already ripped seam where the whalebone of the crinolette had poked through. The charcoal colored heap of a cage is kicked aside by your heeled boots.

Arthur is... well, looking away, but also stuck with a bit of shock on his usually sour expression. The material in his hands is heavy — and well embroidered. No doubt expensive. Your dress was fashionable, seemingly plucked from some Saint Denis mannequin in an attempt to impress. Yet, here you are, shedding it like a snake sheds its skin: with not a care in the world for keeping it.

The summer heat isn’t as bad now — the billowing white sleeves of your white chemise stick to your arms and your corset feels looser than before, but you’re considerably more comfortable in your two layers of petticoats and corset cover.

So, you hike your skirt up, step out of the mud, and begin to walk. Chin high, strides wide.

You spare the outlaw behind you a snarl.

“I am not a spoiled brat,” you say, moving along the sunny riverbank. You blink back at him, not hearing footsteps, and narrow your eyes. He’s standing there, still holding the bodice, “And that isn’t your size.”

He throws the bodice to the mud before cursing; there’s some satisfaction in that, at least.

“Where,” comes the frustrated growl as he throws his head back to the sky, “do you think yer goin’?”

“Downstream,” you throw your hands as you move to hike up the rocks and into the grass embankment overlooking the sandy riverbed, “Someone’s oughta have a farm around here —”

“Right, since you seem to be so well versed in the lay of the land...”

Suddenly there are two hands on your shoulders that abruptly turn you and steer you in the direction of the woods to your left. You snarl. Quickly, you yank your shoulders from his grip.

“Get yer hands off of me —”

“Lady, we ain’t goin’ downstream because th’ O’Driscolls are gonna be lookin’ fer y’ downstream.”

“Who th’ hell are you, again?” you can’t help but turn on your heel. Your words come out as hot as fire, accompanied by the ugly rearing of your own finger prodding his chest, “And remind me why I should listen to a damn thing you say?”

He swats your hand away and tightens his jaw. “Them O’Driscoll’s are bad news —”

“Yea, well you ain’t exactly peachy either, Mister...”

You wave your hand like a water mill, trying to coax the name out of him.

“Arthur,” he narrows his blue eyes sharply, “Arthur Morgan —”

Arthur. He looks like an Arthur. Certainly no Knight of the Roundtable but... Sturdy. Strong.

You drop both hands to your hips. “I didn’t ask for this, Mr. Morgan. Not to be snatched up and dropped in the middle of some Wild West fairytale — dueling gangs and... and wild horse chases...”

You scoff.

You wave your hands and begin to walk. Again.

There’s a gruff laugh behind you that shatters in a pained grumble of cursing. You begin to walk along the riverbank once more, ignoring his direction.

“I assure you, Miss Turner,” comes the biting remark, “This ain’t no fairytale — an’ them O’Driscolls aren’t gonna be as nice as m’bein’.”

“Surely. As you’re the picture of a modern gentleman, Mr. Morgan.”

God almighty, he... All Arthur can think of is of course this is what would come of a simple job the others put together. Of course he’d get stuck with some hoity-toity lil’ lady on the edge of the damn Heartlands. Of course, because when do jobs ever go wrong? Only when he’s there t’ clean them up, apparently.

“Yer testin’ my patience, lady.”

“Th’ feeling is mutual, then.”

“Stop walkin’.”

“No.”

“Yer gonna get us both killed —”

You swat at a bug on your neck and scowl. “I am sure.”

Suddenly, there’s something that loops around your back foot. A sharp tug sends you reeling towards the grass, and you blink down at the ankle of your boot to find it’s a rope — and attached to said rope is one smug looking cowboy.

The look of shock on your face is rather satisfying.

Arthur Morgan then flicks his wrist, managing to tangle your other ankle as you kick your leg.

“I told you,” he musters with a cock of the head, a bit too lighthearted for your liking, as he nears, “That I was bein’ nice...”

In a blink, there’s a loop of rope cast around your arms, halting you from reaching for your ankle. In a flurry of skirts, you wiggle — spitting incredulous curses all the while.

“My, my,” Arthur mutters and rounds your backside, the only sound besides his voice being the tinker of spurs, “What colorful language for a lady.”

He makes quick work of tying your wrists behind your back.

“Let me go.”

You can hear the smugness in his voice.

“I think not.”

He yanks, and the ropes get tight. Tight enough that you can’t move your arms. Tight enough that he helps you up with two hands under your arms before dusting off your shoulders with the smuggest of smiles, and tight enough that when he unceremoniously hauls you upwards and proceeds to throw you over his shoulder, all you can do is curse and wiggle like an earthworm freshly pried from the soil.

“You son of a bitch —”

“I’ve been called much worse,” he offers as he begins to walk towards the wooded area to the left of the river. The shade casts the pattern of the leaves along the back of his charcoal colored dress shirt, “By ladies much nastier than you, Miss. Might have t’ try harder if yer tryna hurt my feelings.”

You grunt, wincing as he readjusts you on his shoulder. His hand is rough on your leg, pinning the limbs in place as your struggle slowly decreases. It’s apparent he’s not going to let up, so you sag in defeat and grit your teeth.

“Where th’ hell are you taking us, then?” you bite, head turned to stare at the back of his head, “Gonna throw me off another bridge?”

“Keep that mouth a’ yours runnin’ an’ I might consider it.”

— ✪

He walks for a while.

Long enough for you to see the same tree three times over, and long enough that your hands have started to go numb from their spot behind your back.

You’re genuinely surprised the outlaw has managed to keep you slung over his shoulder as long as he has with nary a single complaint. It makes you wonder if being this brutish was simply his job within his little gang of ne’er-do-wells.

He passes that same rock — the one that looks like an upside down pony — and you heave a sigh.

“You’re lost, aren’t you?”

Arthur tries not to sound as sheepish as he feels.

The Heartlands are still new to him — it’s been a handful of weeks now that they’ve settled in... With Sean back, and the Micah licking his wounds from his brief stint in the Strawberry jail, this job was supposed to be one that could send them onto the next little pretty piece of land.

Still, Arthur hadn’t ventured this far West of Valentine for anything more than hunting once or twice with Charles. With the looming threat of the O’Driscolls sniffing about South of them, towards the grasslands and open streams... Well, Arthur was mostly trying to figure out what to do next.

Stealing some poor farmer’s horse was probably their best bet. Could get them outta harms way quick enough to dart back up to Horseshoe Overlook...

But with Miss Mouthy over his shoulder, there was no tellin’ she wouldn’t scream wolf the moment the shepherd was within sight.

Arthur huffs a sigh to match yours. Then, he hauls you up off his shoulder and places you gingerly on the ground. It’s a rather comical sight — you sit there, in the grass, glaring daggers into him as he perches himself on a nearby rock and digs out his satchel.

The waterlogged map in his hands flops sadly.

“Why didn’t you use that earlier, then, huh?”

“My hands,” he mutters, “were preoccupied.”

You watch him attempt once more to flip it up and watch it sag with the pulpy disappointment only river water can bring. Your brow quirks.

“Looks like it ain’t legible anyways.”

The ink has run all over the page.

You groan, dropping your head into your lap as best you can. Arthur bites his tongue, swallowing as he shoves the useless little bit of paper back into his satchel and taps his foot. You squint up at him in the afternoon sun, watching a glimmer of hot light flare around his hat like a halo.

“You at least got somethin’ t’ eat in there?”

“Snacks ain’t my biggest concern right now —”

Suddenly, there’s a snapping of twigs.

Both of your heads turn owlishly to the noise.

Arthur is fast to slip off the rock to his knees, his hand roughly seizing itself across your mouth as he presses a quick finger to his lips. Your eyes are wild, anger flashing in your gaze as you tear yourself from his grip. You stare incredulously at him before turning back to the wilderness and listen.

Arthur is quick to brandish his pistol, one hand balancing his low crough on the rock beside him. You watch as he peeks over the rock, only to curse tightly when he spies two O’Driscoll boys wandering —

“Why should I be quiet?”

It’s a whisper, but loud enough that Arthur lunges for you. You kick him in the shin, sending him groaning as he topples next to you in the grass; you roll onto your side, trying your best to wriggle away.

“You untie me now, I’ll be quiet,” you hiss when he hauls you back behind the rock, “If not, I’ll holler —”

“Shut up,” he reaches around, hauling you up against the rock and pinning you there with a hand over your mouth, “Shut up now an’ I’ll untie you —”

You are a damn minx.

Arthur is cursing you six ways to hell when the two near the rock...

“Listen, boss keeps tellin’ us that the girl is worth a lotta money —”

“Yeah, well, if th’ Van der Linde’s were after ‘er too ‘e must be right.”

“Awful lotta work for a ransom if y’ ask me,” mutters the other in an Irish lilt, “‘Specially since Colm is just gonna put a bullet between ‘er eyes once ‘e gets th’ money.”

Your eyes are wider than a mile, Arthur reasons. It’s fear, there. The first time he’s really seen it on your face since this all began... well, save from haulin’ you off the bridge before. Your eyes dart around, like you’re tryna make sense of what you’re hearing.

“We got th’ sister —”

“We find ‘er, it’s double the pay.”

Their voices begin to trail off. Slowly, the conversation drifts into the wind, and you realize the two men have disappeared from Arthur’s immediate sight.

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Arthur slackens his grip on you, exhaling slightly before peeking over the rock once more. When he leans back down, he brandishes his knife from his boot.

He spins you around roughly.

The knife glints in the sunlight.

“You try anything funny, an’ I’ll throw y’ t’ those wolves myself.”

Christ, it feels good when he snaps the rope off from around your wrists.

“Who were they?” you ask, swallowing roughly as you rub the tender skin along your chemise’s lace sleeves; your voice wavers and you regret the way it sounds instantly, “The O’Driscolls?”

“You bet,” he mutters, bending to cut the rope from your ankles, “Like I said, they ain’t nice.”

“The Van der Linde’s, then?” you follow up with, voice leaning high into your curiosity, “That’s... well, you’re the ones who jumped our carriage.”

“S’ right.”

There’s a pause. You furrow your brow.

“They said they had m’ sister.”

Arthur squints down at you, watching worry sweep across your face like the rush of the oceans tide.

“... Seems so.”

And that isn’t good.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 reader insert #arthur morgan fanfic #simpler said aloud #wow a FORMATTED POST FROM ME?#WOOOOW #the effort #truly here i am BEING MY USUAL SELF LMAAOAO

211 notes · View notes

earisu1 · 3 years

Text

“Once Upon a Time” in Jennifer’s Own Words

Original date of the post: 12 of October, 2007.

Disclaimer: this ideas and theories do not belong to me but to PokerNemesis, if the owner wants me to take them down I will.

“This is the complete collection what Jennifer herself says (excluding what is written in documents) in the “Once Upon a Time” (January) chapter of Rule of Rose.

This collection includes five of Jennifer’s memories/comments that were omitted in the GameFAQs game-script faq written by TheSinnerChrono. I marked these with “####” to make them easier to find (for readers only interested in these).

This post does not contain commentaries by me (unless some of my descriptive comments count as being commentary).

If anyone finds anything I missed, or any mistakes I’ve made, please let me know in the comments. Thanks!

Filth Room:

–At the shelf:

“This letter looks familiar… Yes. it’s one of the secret letters that Wendy and I traded.” (reads letters) “Wendy… You were always so lonely. Poor, lonely Wendy… I wonder if my letters ever reached her.”

–At the central pillar:

“Tied to this pillar, unable to move, I was all alone. It took a while, but I finally freed myself. I was always the slow poke… But, that won’t happen again. I’ll never let myself be tied up again.”

–At the suitcase:

“When I came here, this suitcase was the only luggage I had… I lost everything in the accident. My mother, my father, all my possessions, and even my memories.”

–At the sunny window:

“I spent so much time in this room… Who knows how many times I woke up here? The nights were lonely and cold, but you’d always greet me in the morning… Only you greeted me warmly. Thank you so.

–At the rubbish bin:

“It’s the detested rubbish bin. No one ever suspected that something precious was hidden inside it. Nor did they know that it was the only place where I could keep my things safe.”

–At the empty corner (where Bucket Knight had been):

“It feels as if something very dear to me was here. Someone or something that always looked after me… helped me.”

Hallway:

–At the laundry shelves:

“Everyone would put their dirty laundry here, and it was my job to wash it. How ironic… The one they called “filthy” washing their filthy clothes. It all seems so silly now.”

2nd Floor Lavatory:

–At the toilet that has an eye drawn on the toilet lid:

“‘We’re watching you.’ That’s what the picture meant. But it was still scary.”

–At Bucket Knight (by the sinks and mirrors):

“Bucket Knight… A makeshift knight that Nicholas and Xavier used for sword practice. Though they may have forgotten about it, I’ve always remembered. For, I yearned for a loyal knight to come to my rescue.

Hallway (Front Stairway balcony):

–At the empty picture frame:

“There used to be a picture here, of everyone at the orphanage. It was a picture filled with hope, taken the day I was brought here. I was afraid someone would try to steal this precious memory from me…so I took the picture down and kept it safe.”

Sick Bay:

–At the drawers (these look like the same drawers as had the forbidden drawer in the “Unlucky Clover Field” chapter):

“Clara was a quiet person. To me, she looked like just another student at the orphanage…except when she spoke to Mr. Hoffman or Martha. Then, she looked scary. I wonder if I’ll be like Clara when I’m older… Will I enjoy those days?”

Sickroom:

–At the rabbit cage:

“Peter the rabbit… He was the pet that Wendy suddenly decided to take care of. It was the same time I started looking after Brown… I wonder if Wendy really loved Peter… Was she sad when she had to give him up?”

–At the lamp:

“This letter looks familiar. Yes it’s one of the secret letters that Wendy and I traded. ” (reads letters)

Balcony:

–At the birdcage:

“The red bird in the cage… The doll Eleanor treasured. ‘If only we could fly like birds and go wherever we wished,’ she whispered softly. Yet, no matter how much Eleanor wished, she’ll never be able to just fly away from this orphanage. Poor Eleanor… She was burdened by her own frozen heart.”

Play Area:

–By the chair and train-track circle:

“Thomas was always playing with his trains…They were his only friends. There were no final stops on his railroad, for that would be devastating to him. It’s rumored that this obsession had something to do with his birth, but Thomas never spoke about it with anyone.”

####By the blocks:

“No one really played with the toys here because they were all old. Only Thomas was the master of this room. ‘A new girl, a new girl!’ he exclaimed when we first met. He seemed to enjoy teasing me.

Library:

–By the white goat doll:

“It’s a stuffed goat… The white goat Mary. The black goat Sally. When Meg found her letter to Diana torn apart, she was deeply wounded and cried in Diana’s arms, even though she was the one that ripped it up… And, when Meg’s notebook was found all scattered about, Diana made fun of her, saying, ‘Mary and Sally must’ve ate it.’ Poor Meg… She was bound by the shackles of foolish devotion.”

–By the painting of the airship:

“The future that people dreamt of never came and was soon forgotten. From the blue skies of hope, it sank into the depths of oblivion. The new life born from it was an existence devoid of hope. It slowly wriggles its large body and stares at the sky with a remorseful look… That’s its only purpose.”

Sewing Room:

–At the sewing machine:

“Amanda was fond of using the sewing machine. When she got absorbed in something, she’d think of nothing else, especially sewing, which was always on her mind. If we ran out of cloth or thread, she’d just sew rags with an empty needle over and over again… And then she’d smile at the tattered rag with satisfaction.”

Hallway (2nd floor):

–At the graffiti on the floor near the Sewing Room door:

“There are doodles everywhere. No matter how many we cleaned, more would show up the next day.”

Dormitory:

–At one of the two central tables:

“The night was quiet dark and scary. Yet it was a mysterious time that aroused excitement. Some nights, we’d stay awake in secret, hiding from the teacher, and draw pictures by lamplight. It made us feel very much like adults–something not possible during the day.”

–At the other central table:

“A mermaid doll… What a proud and pure creature. Diana yearned to become a beautiful lady, like a mermaid, but as she grew older, she realized that she was straying further and further from her ideal self. Poor Diana… She was trapped by her own ideals.”

Front Stairway:

####At the ladder:

“That day when Thomas couldn’t get down from the tree, the ladder, which had been collecting dust, sure came in handy. Back then, Mr. Hoffman was a kind and admirable teacher.”

Main Hall (first floor):

–At the vase of flowers:

“There used to be beautiful roses here, picked by Wendy from the rose garden. …But, as with all things, they wilted away with the passage of time.”

–At the potted fern:

“Miss Martha used to scold Nicholas for forgetting to water the plants, and then she’d turn her wrath on me, snapping, ‘What are you laughing at, young lady!?’”

Hallway near Classroom door:

–At a bucket-headed construct:

“A silent scarecrow… It stands there quietly, not meddling in the affairs of others. It sways in the breeze, like me…a cowardly girl who was unable to assert her true feelings.”

Men’s Lavatory:

####At the blocked-off toilet stall:

“Once, Susan started a rumor about voices coming from this room at night… It turned out it was only the door creaking in the wind, but one night, sounds came from the room even with the windows shut. Susan jumped out of her bed and screamed. It was really just a prank by Nicholas and Xavier. From then on, the room was believed to be haunted and was considered off limits.”

Classroom:

–At the blackboard (which has written on it: “Hitlerism is a form of government controlled by one man’s will / Democracy is a form of government controlled / Hitlerism is a form of government controlled by one man’s will”):

“I learned many things at this orphanage…The alphabet… words… how to clean and do laundry… But the most important thing I learned… was the lesson I received in exchange for my dear friend’s life… I finally came to understand myself. My beliefs and the will to stand up for them… I don’t want to lose those ever again.”

–At the drawings on the wall (a map of Great Britain):

“The map of this country… That day we flew from England… Those memories were buried deep inside of me… The airship…and the accident… Thereafter, the story of my life became a tale of misfortune. Even when the others played ‘airship’ I couldn’t bear to join them, so I was left out.”

–At the schedule of classes on the wall:

“A brat, a know-it-all, an introvert, a crybaby, and an elitist… I know misfortune, because I tolerated them all. I thought I was the only grown up, but we were all just kids, myself included. But what does it really mean to be a grown-up? Will I ever become one?”

–At the furnace:

“On cold winter days, we all used to gather here and talk… I, of course, couldn’t join in, so I sat off to the side. Even so, it felt so warm.”

Bathroom:

–At the mirror (looking at her own reflection):

“Jennifer, are you happy now, considering how bad it was for you, back then? …That tragedy you wanted to forget. Now that you remember everything, how do you feel? Is the answer inside you? Think carefully Jennifer.”

Wash house:

–At the sinks:

“I came to this room every day to do laundry… The water was so cold, and the soap would sting my eyes, but I didn’t hate it, because clean laundry is so refreshing.”

Kitchen:

–At the table:

“If Miss Martha had disappeared, there would’ve been no one to cook… If Clara had disappeared, there would’ve been no one to tend our wounds… If Mr. Hoffman had disappeared, there would’ve been no one to teach us. You can’t live life eating snacks all day, with no exercise or studying. If you look at it that way, even the Aristocrat club needed adults around… Our world was so small.”

Martha’s room:

–On the bed:

“There are a couple of letters here. It’s a letter from the police… “(reads letter) “It’s a letter from Martha…”(reads letter) “The letter ends there… Perhaps if the matter had been addressed publicly, things wouldn’t have turned out as they did. Adults are so selfish.”

Cafeteria:

–At a fork on the table:

“Olivia, the one who cried all the time, stopped crying completely when all the adults were gone. With no teacher to give her attention and no cleaning lady to scold her, there was no point in crying anymore. …Poor Olivia.”

Inner Court:

–Site of Brown’s burial:

“It all started here, when I dug up the mound… I sensed that something precious to me was buried here… and I couldn’t stop myself… The old me… the one who didn’t understand herself… I lost my friend because of her. If… If I could go back… I’d try to save him… but what has happened can never be undone. I’ll never break a promise again.”

Cell of Remorse:

(nothing)

Cell of Pleasure:

(nothing) film projector

Cell of Repentance:

(nothing)

Cell of Solitude:

–At the central chair:

“One time, Diana was absorbed in deep thought here. She was the prettiest, the most mature of the Aristocrats. She wanted so much to be an adult… and yet she was also afraid of growing up too fast.”

Cell of Bliss:

–At the table:

“The spooky things… The scary creatures that everyone talked about… They’ll come and clean if you don’t, sweeping bad children away like dust… Well, they actually came and attacked me… I knew what they really were… but that wasn’t the problem. The real problem was my weak heart. My weakness was what drew them here.”

Closet Room:

–At the clothes hangers:

“On Halloween, we all dressed up in costumes… Everyone else wore bags over their heads, and stared at me through tiny holes… Their blank faces and muffled voices… It scared me like you wouldn’t believe… ‘Is it really you under there?’ I asked, fearing it was something else. But, no one would answer me.”

–At the mirror:

“Amanda was always more sensitive about her looks than anyone else. One day she was given a severe scolding by Miss Martha. That’s because Miss Martha’s lipstick had gone missing. The lipstick was never found, but I know Amanda took it. I’ve seen her applying it late at night.”

Hallway (ground floor, connecting Headmaster’s Room and Closet Room):

####At drawing on the floor of a big donut-shaped one-eyed person (near cabinet):

“This sloppy drawing must be Thomas’s. See what happens when you give him chalk? The walls, the floors… To him, it’s one big canvas.”

####At drawing on floor of spooky things (nearest the Headmaster’s Room):

“The spooky things… They swept away everything that’s dirty, including disobedient children. It was a scary story that started as a rumor and spread like wildfire.”

####At drawing of spooky things (nearest the Closet Room):

“The spooky things love to clean. That’s why they always carry mops and brooms. They’ll kidnap you if you don’t clean. At least, that’s what everyone says.”

Headmaster’s Room:

–At the PA system:

“Mr. Hoffman loved to broadcast over the PA system… while we were cleaning, while we were eating, and even after we were in bed. He always announced our names in the order of his favorites. We’d try our best to win his approval and be the first one to be called. But he never called my name, not once. I thought it was all rather silly, anyway.”

–At the desk:

“The book is open… ” (reads Hoffman’s diary entries). “At the time it seemed so frightening… Were those scary things that attacked me just figments of my imagination…?” (another entry) “..The diary continues, but the last page is particularly interesting… It’s Mr. Hoffman’s last entry before he disappeared.” (another entry) “…That’s the end of the diary. We never saw Mr. Hoffman again.”

–At the fish tank (a fish swims inside):

“I know you’re in a very stinky place, because that rag Diana put to my face smelled just awful. But, no matter how clever or fast you are, there’s no escaping. You’re like a mermaid in captivity… adapting to a new reality. Leaving your home behind…did you find happiness?”

Headmaster’s Closet:

–At the shelf that has shoes:

“That day, Mr. Hoffman disappeared, like he was running away from something. He had tried too hard to be someone he wasn’t. The expectations were too much for him… and he wanted to escape those restrictions. However, children and adults live in the same world, and we must both play by society’s rules.”

Reception Room:

–At the record player:

“The record player is brand new. Playing a record would fill the room with sweet music.”

–At the fireplace:

“It was a cold, winter night… I had been scolded as usual, and called into the headmaster’s room. I didn’t like being scolded, but I didn’t mind so much when it was in front of the fireplace, which was warm and cozy.”

–At the vase on the central table:

“All of us loved red roses. Even the name of the orphanage was befitting of an Aristocrat… It wasn’t until I swore the oath of the rose that I learned roses have thorns.”

–At the dish cupboard:

“This is Mr. Hoffman’s prized collection of fine dishes. We would sometimes sneak them out and play house with them in the attic, but that’s our little secret.”

–At the graffiti covered portrait:

“This is a picture of Mr. Hoffman when he was a young man. He was so proud when he showed it to us… He never caught the one who doodled on it though. But, I know who did it. I saw Thomas trying to move the ladder on the day it happened.”

Women’s Lavatory:

–Toilet stall with bird drawing:

“Red bird drawings. A red crayon and… a red broach… A red rose and… red blood… Red is the most beautiful color, yet it comes at a price. It is my most favorite color and my most hated color.”

Entrance-way:

–At the lockers:

“It’s a small locker, but it was just for me. My name was even on it. They made me feel welcome. I was so happy… I’d move my shoes in and out, over and over again.”

–At the umbrella stand:

“We never used umbrellas. On snowy days, we’d go out for snowball fights. On rainy days, we’d go out and play in the rain, and get soaking wet. Every time, Xavier would trip and get himself all muddy and we’d laugh. It was so much fun.”

–At the portrait of Hoffman:

“One day, Mr. Hoffman suddenly disappeared. Clara and Miss Martha soon followed, leaving me and the other orphans alone.”

Front gate:

–At the orphanage sign to the left of the gate:

“The Rose Garden Orphanage… That day, I was escorted from the scene by Officer Doolittle. At first, it was reported that there were no survivors… Then, word got out that, miraculously, I had escaped the tragedy… When rumor spread that I was also the sole survivor of a horrific airship accident in which the passengers were all presumed to be dead, the media went into a frenzy. and so, the tragic murder of the residents of a rural orphanage was instantly bumped from the front cover of the daily newspaper to an obscure corner… I’m sorry everyone. You don’t deserve to be forgotten… But I’ll remember you. Thank you all for the precious memories.”

Fork In The Path:

####At the sign:

“The sign has been broken ever since I came here. I guess it doesn’t matter: no one comes to visit anyway.”

Bus Stop:

–At the bus stop sign:

“That bus that brought me here… Should I try to take it the other way? …No, that’s not right. There are still things I have to do here. Wait for me, Brown.”

Outside the rickety shed:

–At the door:

“Please wait for me. I’ll be there.”

Inside the rickety shed:

(Spoken to Brown) “My dear friend… I never want to lose you again. I’ll protect you… forever and ever until I die.” (Writes on chalkboard: “everlasting/true love/ I am yours”) “I’ll protect you… forever until I die.”

Notes: some of this reposts are not showing in the tags sadly. Classic Tumblr.

#rule of rose #rule of rose mysteries #loooong post #cheers to the people that transcribed all this #it's a lot of work

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myhauntedsalem · 3 years

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14 Firefighters Share Their Scariest Paranormal Encounters

The weirdest part of the fire was the 911 call. The callers wife was in the background screaming, “you f**ked him off now, look he’s gone and burned the place down”.

With grit and determination, every day firefighters bravely put their lives on the lines for us, but it seems it’s not just the flames these brave men and women face; from haunted firehouses to ghostly apparitions. Here are 14 of the most chilling paranormal encounters and ghost stories shared by firefighters from across the United States.

1. Guardian Angel

Our firehouse isn’t haunted, at least not on a regular basis, but one of our engines is.

Two examples I have personally seen and experienced are; first, we were responding to a call in a dark, secluded, industrial area one night when the engine suddenly sputtered, stalled, and coasted to a stop right in front of a railroad crossing with no gates. Just as we stopped, a freight train came through. The engine started right up and ran fine after the train passed.

The second example happened one blazing hot summer afternoon when we were called to a highway construction site for a burning shanty. We pulled up and began advancing the handline when it suddenly seemed like the hose became tangled up in the hosebed. We went back to the engine to check, and just then the shanty blew up into thousands of tiny pieces. There were NO tangles in the hose, and it wasn’t caught or hung up anywhere.

2. Mr Jones

Our fire department is haunted by a man named Mr. Jones. The story dates back many years before we built a new station. Mr. Jones died at the old firehouse from a heart attack after battling a house fire.

A chief told me a story once: ‘I went to the restroom which was off the hallway. On my way in, I sat my brand new pack of cigarettes on the file cabinet outside of the doorway. When I came out, the cigarettes were lined end-to-end down the hallway.’

Another firefighter about a year later also had a ‘Mr. Jones Experience.’ He and another guy were watching TV one night when the clock above the TV flew off the wall, landed in the center of the room, spun around a few times, then landed on a book shelf.

All of the ‘haunted firehouse’ stories never really had me believing until Mr. Jones gave me a story of my own. I have this thing about open shower curtains. I notice when they are open and I have to close them. I had walked into the restroom to clean it but forgot a trash bag. The shower curtain was open. When I walked back in, about 30 seconds later, the curtain was closed. That is the only story that is personal. Other than that, we have doors that open and close by themselves, lights that go on and off, stuff like that. So that’s my story and I’m stickin to it.

3. Jesus Christ

About seven or eight years ago, we arrived at a townhouse with heavy fire from the first floor on side one. After making entry, locating the fire in the kitchen, and extinguishing, we set about taking out a few windows for ventilation.

After the smoke had risen, we noticed that the living area to the rear of the kitchen (which was on the right hand side as we entered) had taken significant smoke and heat damage. On the wall was a picture of Jesus Christ, and it was the only object in the room that appeared untouched. Even the wall BEHIND the picture was smoke-stained and blistered.

There was evidence of two streams of water that had trickled from the lower corners of the picture to a point in the middle of the wall where they met and continued down to the floor. The odd thing was that the line had been pulled through this room and was flowing into the kitchen to push the fire out the front, through a large vented window. No water had been flowing in the room, and the steam produced had been pushed out the window. Even the FM was amazed, and we haven’t seen anything like it since. It kinda makes one wonder.

4. Steve

We have a protector. We had a member, Steve that was killed in the line of duty during a helicopter operation. Ever since he died, members swear they can hear him in the building at night. Doors close, open, etc. without explanation. Then one night we figured out why he was there.

One of our members who has been here about 15 years now was on duty. We have bullet proof vests we keep on the units, but in a back compartment. He heard that compartment open and close. He went out into the bay and looked at it, and for some reason he took the vest out and put it in the front seat. He’d never done that before.

Next thing you know, he’s toned out to a ‘sick call’ that after his arrival was deemed a shooting. Nothing happened to him, but the point was made.

Several such incidents have occurred. Whenever something big is about to happen, a unit door opens and shuts or a bay door opens etc. We always know.

5. The Phantom Handprint

On April 18, 1924, a firefighter named Frank Leavy was washing a window at the fire station. For some reason, he paused in his work, his hand resting against the pane of glass, and he told a friend who was standing nearby that he had the strangest feeling he was going to die that day. Just then, the station received an alarm call and the fire fighters were sent to a fire that had broken out at Curran Hall, an office building in Chicago. While fighting the fire, a wall collapsed and killed eight of the firemen… Frank Leavy was one of those killed.

The next day, one of the firemen noticed something strange about the window that Frank had been washing the day before. There seemed to be an unusual stain on the glass…. and it appeared to be the imprint of Frank’s hand at the same spot where he had been leaning the day before.

They tried everything that they could, but they could find no way to erase the strange handprint. It seemed to be etched into the glass!

An expert from the Pittsburgh Plate Glass company brought a special solution to the fire house, guaranteeing that it would remove the print, but it didn’t work. Over the years, there were suggestions that the pane of glass be removed, but many of the firemen argued, saying that it was not right to fool with the unknown. Besides that, it was a reminder, albeit a grim one, of their dead friend. And there was no doubt that the handprint belonged to Frank Leavy! An official from the city had come down with a fingerprint comparison and the prints matched those of Frank’s. For the next twenty years, the handprint defied all explanation and was a common attraction to visitors and other firemen from around the city.

Finally, on the morning of April 18, 1944 a careless paper boy tossed the morning edition at the fire house and shattered the window where Frank’s handprint had been.

It happened exactly twenty years to the date of when Frank Leavy died!

6. “You F**ked Him Off Now”

There was a fire about 6-7yrs ago. The call was weird from the start, the 1st due engine didn’t want to start (it was out on a run bout 20mins before) they get there, the house was fully involved. When they got there, the fire was burning in strange ways… at one point flames were shooting out a window, and taking a ninety degree turn upward. The investigator pictures show the face of the devil in the smoke and flames. I know it sounds BS, but I have seen a few of these pics, and have talked with some of the investigators. They were saying that the basement was rocking, when they went back the next day it looked as though nothing burned downstairs.

The weirdest part of the fire was the 911 call. The dispatcher said the callers wife was in the back ground screaming, “you f**ked him off now, look he’s gone and burned the place down”. These people were said to have been Satan worshipers, everyone in the Dept. is afraid to even go on that road for calls. Incidentally the name of the road is “Angel Hill” hmmm, pretty weird.

7. Footsteps

I worked for a department that had lost a few members in its time. Over the course of the first few months I was there, I noticed strange noises in the bay. Once, I walked in the front door only to hear the back door slam. I walked back to see who it was, and when I opened the back door, no one was there. There was fresh snow on the ground and no tracks.

Another time I went down to the bay in the middle of the night. I heard distinct footsteps walking around one of the rigs on the other side of the bay. I called out but no one answered. I got spooked and crept around the bay with an axe trying to find the intruder. No one there! I also got a really spooky feeling a few times when I was alone in the bay by the back door. Later, I happened to mention to the chief that I had heard some weird stuff in the station at night. He got a strange look on his face and said ‘Let me guess… footsteps behind Engine 3 and a creepy feeling by the back door!’ I got the same story from one of the captains, about hearing footsteps and all that. Guess someone’s still hanging around…

8. The Station in The Woods

Back at my old department before I moved to my current one I was assigned to the farthest southern station by myself with a single engine. The area was in a heavily wooded area of the district. At night it got extremely dark in that area, more so than the other areas of the dist. There were a lot of one lane dirt and paved roads as well as a few meth labs, and no police coverage.

I had had several occasions that I would hear dogs barking at a house near the station, and hear sounds outside the station like thumping noises, usually after 1 AM. I would go outside to look and no one would be there. These noises went on for about a week. Once I had a friend from another station come down to visit me but I was gone, he got scared off when he heard five loud bangs on the wall near the kitchen, of course he failed to tell me this. Another night I was in bed and saw a shadow outside my window walking in the flower bed. The shadow passed my window and then the person kicked the door near the bay. I crawled out of bed and called 911, while I was on the phone the person busted out the bedroom window, half scared shitless I ran to the engine and bailed north to another station with a higher staffing level. The PD responded and 45 minutes later searched and deemed the station safe.

I soon after moved from that station and it is no longer staffed even now 3 years later. I found out from a B/C later on that a previous FF had been attacked in the parking lot washing an engine, and that the station had had several other weird occurrences happen since it was built.

9. The Hose Tower Hanging

I too have heard of the strange noises that occur inside many of our firehouses.

We have a firehouse that late at night, you can hear chains rattling at the top of the hose tower. When you turn on the light and climb the ladder to the platform at the top of the tower, nothing is there. The rumor has it that back in the 50’s a probationer hung himself in the hose tower and wasn’t discovered for a week.

10. The Old Capt.

The oldest station in Lex., KY, is haunted, according to some of the old heads, by an old Capt. who died while on duty in his sleep on Christmas Eve in the 1940’s. He is said to have sat in an old cane bottomed rocking chair, that chair was put in the attic of the station after his death, where it is still heard to be rocking on occasion.

Chiefs have gotten calls from neighbors who were mad because they could see a fireman looking out of the upstairs window, but no one would answer the door. This usually happens when the engine company was out on a fire run or training. Engine started by itself and backed in to the wall one night (std. trans.). Some of the guys who have worked there would not even go in the house alone on payday to pick up their pay checks if the co. was out.

11. The Ouija Board

A fire company that I used to belong to is quartered in a building built in the 1930’s and it is unquestionably haunted. Odd things happen regularly such as bathroom stall doors being locked from the inside, tv and lights turning on and off, footsteps across the floor, yelling when nobody else is there, etc… A few members decided to bring in an Ouija board one night and see what they could find. It turns out that there are two ghosts, one is a past chief and the other is a small boy that used to live in a row of miner’s houses that has long since been torn down.

The chief confirmed his identity by naming other long dead members (so long dead that we had to dig back 50 years in the company’s records to even find their names!). The chief generally drags chairs around the meeting room at night and yells at members while the boy is constantly bouncing his ball on the upstairs floor. All of this only happens at night.

12. The Indian Arrowheads

My father’s volunteer fire company also found Indian arrowheads while they were digging for an addition to the firehouse back in the 50s, but they also unearthed cannonballs and buttons. If my memory is right, some expert said that the cannonballs were from the American revolution and that the buttons were from a Hessian soldier (Hessians were mercenaries that the British used against Washington’s army). BUT – strange things began happening while those items the firemen dug up were in the firehouse.

First off, anyone that touched the items got very ill with high fevers and rash. The guys that actually dug up the items were very bad off; and their feet became swollen and turned black and blue. The door to the firehouse would also swing open just as someone approached, and the doors to the huge cast iron firehouse oven would open and close all by itself. Someone in the company said that they should bury the items; put them back in the ground – and when they did everyone got better, and all the strange things stopped happening.

13. The Fortune Teller

My firehouse has had a run of strange happenings over the years also. Many of us have actually seen a misty figure move through the rec room and out to the apparatus room. Some of the crews have seen the figure together, others have seen him when they were by themselves. The usual doors swinging, chairs moving upstairs, people walking across the floor or up and down the stairs happens occasionally.

The really scary part was when a friend of a friend stopped by the firehouse with her kids for a tour. This woman practices tarot card readings, fortune telling and the like. She had never been in the firehouse before and had never known about any of the instances in the firehouse. After the tour she asked me if the firehouse had “guest appearances” often. I thought she meant the kids and said that we often have children take tours of the place. She corrected herself and asked if we had ever seen ghosts, I said, maybe-I’m not sure. She described our misty figure from head to toe exactly as he appears and said she had seen him. Do I believe, probably not much more than I had before that day but I don’t doubt anything.

14. Standing Behind Me

This story takes place in Fayetteville, NC and the department I used to work for there. When I was assigned to Engine 2, I had heard all kinds of stories of it being haunted. Footsteps, doors opening, writing on the wall, and even a sighting are all the things I was told about.

I heard some things once in a while but the one time I was really spooked happened in late 2000. I was lying in bed, about 2 am when I heard footsteps approach my bunk and stop behind me, between my bed and the wall. The first thing I thought was that I had slept through a call but then I saw that my LT was still asleep and I noticed the radio was quiet. I could feel someone standing beside the bed and as much as I didn’t want to I slowly turned and looked to find that there was no one there.

#14 Firefighters Share Their Scariest Paranormal Encounters #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits

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amelialincoln · 3 years

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Electric Love pt 4

It was hard to keep track of time in the windowless room. The sterile bright light that hung above her was constantly on. After a couple of days she wasn’t sure whether they were bringing her breakfast or dinner. She slept a lot. Sara had warned her that her first trimester would come with extreme tiredness but it hadn’t hit until the day after her initial capture. The symptom brought her relief though, her bruises were still healing and she’d been worried that something may have happened. She was almost happy when the morning sickness returned in full force but knew that it would confirm any suspicion of her condition to her kidnappers. Which also meant all the more reason to keep her here.

She was surprised by how long it was taking Cal to find them. He was definitely out of practice. If the circumstances were changed she’d probably be chuckling at the idea of him ordering guards around frantically in an attempt to rescue them. She found herself worrying for him instead. Other than the manacles that were beginning to open old scars on her wrists, she had definitely been in worse situations. Obviously their bed at the apartment beat sleeping on a floor covered in her own vomit but compared to her former imprisonment experiences, this hadn’t been awful. Until today, when she realized that unlike when she was in Maven’s clutches, she had more than herself to look out for.

“Get up,” Pig ordered from the metal doorway. He’d received his nickname due to his chunky looking appearance and scrunched up face. She’d taken up observing him as he brought her meals. He was the only social interaction she’d really been receiving. He definitely had his nose broken at some point and never got it properly fixed. Mare realized she’d never laid eyes on such an ugly silver in her life. Usually they were mesmerizing. All of the most breathtakingly beautiful people she knew had silver blood coursing through their veins; Pig however, was a disgrace to all of them. “I said, get up.” She took in a sharp intake of breath as he kicked her in the side. He made up for his appearance with his strength. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,” she bit back a groan, “but I’m kind of shackled to the ground.” She straightened her wrists out for him to see.

“I knew that.” He spat, rolling his eyes. He removed a ring of keys from his pant loop and twisted a specific one into the lock on the ground. “Follow me,” he grumbled, allowing the rest of the chain to awkwardly trail along the ground. “The train is almost here.”

“What train?” She knew she was asking herself more than him, not surprised when he didn’t answer. Suddenly the rumbling of the building every hour made sense. They were under train tracks. Where the fuck in Norta were they.

“We're running out of time, they’re going to move her,” Cal argued. Ever since they’d gotten a possible lead on where the rebels were holding Mare it took everything he had not to storm into the pathetic outpost and tear everyone and everything apart. They were lucky that the rebels had a mole or they never would’ve found them. The hiding spot was so good it was almost impressive. The outpost was from a war long before Cal was even born. Built under the railroad tracks, it was a perfect harboring area for anyone trying to have easy access out of the kingdom and into the states. After the railroads started to be outdated and the war finally came to an end, the outpost was abandoned. It didn’t even appear on today’s battle maps. They had gotten too lucky and Cal wasn’t about to let that change. Everything lately was reminding him of the weeks Mare spent in Maven’s clutches and it seemed like now there was even more at stake than there was back then. The other officers didn’t seem to agree. Apparently the couple’s personal reasons weren’t pressing enough to go in blindly in order to get her out as quickly as possible. Cal knew they were just trying to do things properly but if he had to spend one more night glancing at the empty spot beside him in bed, he would probably go insane.

“We’re so close, Calore. We just need one more day to finalize plans.” Officer Leadger was a good man. Cal knew he had a wife and kids at home and could tell he was sympathizing with him but Cal was done with being asked to wait.

“It’s time!” The large concrete doors swung open forcefully as the man that Cal had grown to appreciate over the last week burst into the room. He was sweating profusely as he raced to face the large group of generals. “You can’t wait.” Cal waited for him to say the words that he’d been expecting for days now. “I just got news to prepare for transport. You have two hours tops. I got here as fast as I could and I’m sure my departure raised some flags. If they weren’t on to me before, they definitely are now.”

“Which most likely will cause them to speed up this entire process,” Leadger was flipping through maps of train routes and bases like a maniac. “We were expecting them to move to the closest base near Corvium. Let them go, it’ll throw them off thinking we’re onto them and we’ll send out a message to the Westlakes base to keep an eye out. They won’t get far.”

“What if they aren’t planning to go to Corvium?” Eve stated the obvious. She had been sitting unassumingly in the back of the hall for days now. Not offering a single piece of advice or input the entire time. Cal couldn’t help but wonder if she felt guilty. He hoped she did. “You can’t be sure.”

“We go now,” Cal shouted over the eruption of officers trying to share their thoughts. He’d lost count of how many times he’d said those words since finding out her location.

“For once he’s right,” Eve’s voice rang clearly over the commotion. “Once they’re on a train they can ride it out to Montfort for all we know. You can act like this kidnapping is all an inconvenience but have any of you thought about how the disappearance of Mare Barrow is going to affect you?” You could hear a pin drop in the room. “This little red girl is the face of more than any of us can even begin to understand. For the first time in history our country is not divided and withering in poverty. You let this little rebellion win, you let Mare Barrow die and you are diminishing the hope of recovery and you are asking for another fucking war. Do you want to see what will happen when you have hundreds of newbloods, who are more powerful than any silver in this room, tear this kingdom apart because you destroyed the one person who they could rely on?” Silence hung in the air like a thick wool blanket. “Didn’t think so.”

x Mare probably shouldn’t have electrocuted Pig. It was just that it was too easy. It also felt like a joke because the smell of fried flesh kind of smelled like bacon. It seemed meant to be too since she hadn’t hit so accurately since the baby was conceived. The humor was pretty short lived. The silent stormed into the train car as Mare lay curled up on the ground, letting out occasional groans of pain. She originally muffled the wear sounds by biting forcefully into her sweater. Unfortunately, out of pure distaste, Pig’s little friend had decided to wrestle her into a position where she was lying on her stomach and tied her hands behind her back. “I told you not to move her until I was ready!” The silent raged, shoving Pig’s friend against the wall and wrapping her slender fingers around his neck.

“What did you idiots think was going to happen?”

“Brutus said that we had to move quickly.” Mare was surprised by his lack of fear. “Anthony fled as soon as we mentioned leaving. He’s a traitor.” The man spat. “Brutus just wanted to speed up the process and then she killed him.” His voice was filled with hatred and Mare could feel their eyes on her. All her strength was sucked out of her as she sensed the silent moving towards her.

“You little, red, whore,” the woman glowered as she reaped Mare of any current that she was still clinging to until she could hear her own blood pulsing in her ears. “I’m going to kill you.” The calmness in her voice echoed throughout the train car. “And I will smear your filthy blood all over the kingdom until people like you find their fucking place.”

#marecal #marecalfanfic #marecal fanfic #marebarrow #mare barrow #tiberias calore #red queen

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the-ethereal-serpent · 4 years

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Types Of Hauntings

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Residual Haunting Activity

Residual haunting activity can occur when something traumatic/stressful occurs, such as a murder. Negative energy is literally blasted into the atmosphere, causing the atmosphere to imprint or record the events. Like a recording tape, it will play the events over and over again. The entities involved in this residual haunting activity are unaware of their surroundings. This is not an intelligent haunting, there is no interaction between you and the entity.

Residual haunting activity can also be caused by positive energy blasted into the atmosphere. Many times you have heard ghost stories, where people can hear the sounds of a party. They hear music, singing, dancing, laughter and when they enter the room where they hear the party, there is no one there. Residual haunting activity can be the specters of living beings.

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Poltergeist Activity

Poltergeist is from a German word meaning noisy spirits. Reports of poltergeists date back to Ancient Roman times. The activity that takes place will start off with knocks and bangs, furniture starting to move around by itself. Then the activity will become more intense, manifesting itself through voices and even the appearance of full apparitions. Furniture may slide across the room and beds may shake. Many shows are based on this type of haunting because it tends to be the most terrifying and rarest type of haunting that occurs.

Most of the time, in the case of a poltergeist, the haunting circles around a female in her teen years. Some of these cases seem to be caused by the female unknowingly controlling the energy around herself. Some cases happen around people that are stable and in the right mind space. This haunting is hard to classify due to certain situations. No two are ever really the same. Most of the time you will find that one person in the house seems to be more affected by the haunting than anyone else.

It may seem that most of the activity doesn’t happen unless that certain person is present. Usually , the activity appears to stop when that person leaves the home. The majority of the time poltergeists are experienced by several people, but again they seem to center around one certain person. This person may be highly stressed as of late or maybe this person has gone through some type of extreme emotional situation. If this is the case, see that the individual involved gets some medical care, and soon afterwards the poltergeist will subside.

When it is not the teenager that is manifesting activity there are usually several spirits in the area. The spirits appear to pool their energy together in order to become strong enough to move larger objects and make more noises. In order to remedy the situation, you need to find the root of their anger so that they can pass over and leave you in peace. On most poltergeist cases they will disappear with out any warning, just as they appeared.

Certain times it may stop within a few days, other times it may take years. you may never know the reason that it happened. Most people are just happy to see it go and that’s enough for them. By understanding why it was there in the first place helps you to understand how to keep it from ever coming back again. Knowledge is the key in protecting yourself.

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Demonic Activity

Demons are entities that never had a mortal human form. Origins: Extraterrestrial. Why? If you believe that God and his angels are from the ‘heavens’, that would make them extraterrestrial. If Satan and 1/3 of the angels rebelled against God’s Kingdom, then Satan and 1/3 of the angels that became demons are also extraterrestrial. That is why they never had mortal human form. Einstein said that E = MC2. Energy can be converted into matter and matter into energy. Demons are pure energy entities. They are described in three different ways.

1. As angelic, a being of beauty that will manipulate the person to commit something that is sinful or out of the ordinary.

2. Horrific, evil looking. Some people claim, they have seen demons that are incredibly hideous to look at. I believe demons do this for a scare effect, they know what we fear and this is not their true appearance.

3. Black mist, black fog, black shadow, black smoke. Most demonic hauntings, the occupants claim to be followed by black mist or black fog.

They are usually very easy to identify as long as they are not hiding. When it is a demonic haunting you typically notice a revolting stench similar to rotted flesh or sulfuric acid. They often let loose a growl that sounds like it is coming from everywhere at once. They like to make contact by pushing, shoving, hitting and even scratching. The whole air in the affected area will feel thick like fog and the temperature will drastically change, typically becoming warmer.

These creatures are very strong, unlike human spirits, and they don’t mind showing it. There have been cases where people have been thrown through the air and even attacked. Apparently, their main goal is to break down a person’s free will in order to makeway for possession. This can take days, months or years, but time is of no concern to them. They have a hatred for mankind that dates back to the days of God and Lucifer.

They have lived for millennia and will be here long after we are gone. So, you must understand that though you may be able to get these creatures to leave a dwelling with religious provocation, you will never destroy them. They could go to the next place down the road if they choose, most likely they won’t because distance is not an issue for these creatures. They could go from Maine to California on a thought.

Demons are capable of changing form right in front of you from a human form to an inhuman form. They are neither male nor female, but can change to meet their needs. People mostly see demons as black masses standing in doorways or near rooms. Sometimes they are called shadow devils.

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Intelligent/Interactive Activity

Back to Einstein’s theory. As matter beings, we are all energy beings on the quantum level. We are made up of atoms and neutrons. As matter/energy beings we have intelligence. While we live, we have an energy aura that surrounds our living bodies. This aura is created by the millions of electrical currents that are created through our bodies. Our brains creates brain waves, a form of pure energy that is transmitting our thoughts, what we see, what we feel, etc.

When our mortal form dies, the aura that constantly surrounds our bodies, leaves our bodies. We lose 6 ounces on the instance of death. What is this 6 ounces? Perhaps it is energy leaving our body. Our soul. This energy, the aura, or you may even call it your soul, is carrying the information of what we used to be.

If it can do this, then why couldn’t it also carry our intelligence? If it can carry our former intelligence of our previous life, then it should be able to interact with us intelligently. When we see this aura, we call it a ghost. If this ghost is able to interact with us, is aware of us, can touch us, can communicate with us, then this is an intelligent/interactive haunting.

Some reasons the ghost may be tied to the site or people :

Died as a result of a traumatic event, murder, car accident, etc.

Due to unfinished business.

The spirit may have died suddenly and not realized he/she died.

The living loved ones are so emotionally distraught they can’t let go.

The spirit is emotionally connected to their loved ones.

They cannot rest due to an injustice done to them.

Fear of the other side or judgment

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Shadow People or Shadow Creatures

This is a type of haunting activity that has no real explanation. They are different from ghosts. They are usually shapeless dark masses. Mostly seen with your peripheral vision. They are known to do things that are different from ghosts. They can move between walls, they have no human features, they wear no clothes (except for the hat man/hooded figure shadow creatures). People who encounter them, have a feeling of dread.

Clairvoyants that encounter Shadow People, say they do not feel they are human and consider them non-human. Shadow People have no discernible mouth, noses or facial expressions. Some are seen as child sized dark humanoids. Some people say they seem to be made up of dark smoke or dark steam. At times when they move, they appear to be moving on an invisible track from one place to another, such as a toy train on a small scale railroad track. They have been seen to hop or what appears to be a strange dance. They are known to stare at the floor.

Two common types of Shadow People are the ‘hat man’, that looks like he or she is wearing a 1930s fedora hat and the ‘hooded figure’, which looks like the shadow person has a hood over their head. The hood and hat stand out as clothing, but otherwise, they are not wearing any clothing at all. There are also reports of shadow animals, such as a shadow in the form of a cat, with no discernible mouth, nose or eyes.

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Portal Hauntings

Portals aren’t really a new concept, as we’ve seen them in a lot of sci-fi flicks. But in the real world portal hauntings are considered controversial as there is little known and the idea is mostly theory or speculation. Portals are thought to be doorways to another world or dimension in which entities travel through.

It’s speculated that portals are not limited to one location, region or limited to sacred ground. Typically places that experience a wide array of different types of anomalous activity such as glowing balls of light, odd creatures, strange shapes, or unexplained mists or fog, are suspected to have a portal in which these energies are traveling back and forth.

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Note From Lluna

When it comes to the demon section, I know there are quite a few Pagans that work with Lucifer and demons and believe they are not evil. I don't know much beyond that, but I just want to add that this article is from the writers perspective and other perspectives must be considered as well.

Also, you need to remember that not all spirits are evil or negative. Many are neutral or positive and can assist you in your craft and even protect you from other harmful entities.

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Article Source : https://hauntedoc.com/types-of-hauntings/]

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bvckys-doll · 4 years

Text

Way down under the ground (Hadestown AU)

Pairing: Hades!Bucky x Persephone!reader

Word count: 1.5k

Summary: The king of the Underworld is coming to bring his queen back home.

Author’s note: For this little one-shot, I got inspired by my new favorite musical “Hadestown” and one of my favorite ships; Hades and Persephone. So why not make a nice Bucky one-shot out of it? If you’re also a fan of Hadestown, I hope you get the references! I hope you enjoy it and maybe even reblog it and give me some feedback!

You can find my main masterlist here! (because I’m too dumb to put a link in my bio)

On the road to Hell, there was a railroad car And the car door opened and a man stepped out Everybody looked and everybody saw It was the same man they'd been singing about

“Hey, guys! Take a look at this!“ one of the boys shouted out loud and leaned far out of the window of the bar as he was sitting near the entrance. Hermes stepped over from his place at the bar table and followed the gaze of the man before he turned his gaze to the goddess of spring.

Persephone was sitting in the back of the bar, next to some folks who just got back from work. With an exhausted expression on her face she was tipping down the last sip of her whiskey before the goddess rose from her seat and joined the others.

However, the screeching of the tracks made her pause. Annoyed, she closed her eyes when one of the women asked “It's mid-July. Why's he coming now?“

As Persephone opened her eyes, she caught the gaze of Hermes who was looking back at her before one of the bartenders took her coat from behind the bar and threw it towards her. Lightly she caught it and threw it over her arm as she stepped out of the door followed by Hermes and the rest of the bar's guests – curious to see the train keep moving towards them.

“Every year he's coming way too soon. That was not six months.“ she murmered and put on her thick fur coat as it slowly began to get colder as the train approached. Grey clouds piled up on the horizon and swallowed the sun within seconds. Some guests of the bar slowly withdrew out of fear of the God who honoured them with his presence.

With a shrill squeak the train got slower and slower until it stopped right in front of them. The murmur among the people became more quiet as footsteps were heard from the inside before the door to the wagon opened.

His black gent's shoes stirred up dust as he stepped out of the car and let his gaze wander over the people who had gathered behind Persephone to get a glimpse of her husband, whom they rarely saw. Persephone now noticed that his hair had become a little longer since their last encounter but he was still wearing the same sunglasses as when he entered the world of the living the last time. He couldn't stand the sunlight.

Through his long black coat she could see that he was wearing the suit she loved best. His jacket and pants were pitch black while the shirt he was wearing underneath was dark grey. The top buttons of his shirt were open to show off his neck. But maybe he just wanted to express with all that black why he was called “the man with the black soul“ - Hades, ruler of the Underworld and husband of Persephone. Or as he always called her; (Y/N). His (Y/N).

After he had gained their attention completely to himself, his gaze finally stuck to the woman in front of him. The reason why he had left the Underworld in the first place. Everyone seemed to hold their breath when their beloved goddess opened her mouth.

“You're early“ Persephone raised an eyebrow, just like her head since Hades was still one head taller than her. He lowered his head, looking over his sunglasses with his piercing blue eyes, slightly smirking “I missed you.“

Slowly a smile spread over her lips as he reached out his hand to her. It was still as cold as it was a few months ago when she let it go. He gave her hand a light squeeze as she layed her hand in his. It was so good to have her back.

One last time he let his gaze wander over the mortals while giving Hermes a nod as a silent greeting. Hermes replied in the same way without showing any kind of emotion. He knew that there was a hard time ahead of them as autumn and winter would come even faster than previously thought.

Hades gently drew his wife to him, who looked up at her husband for a moment before she understood and boarded the train. Still standing in the door, she turned around and waved back to her friends who called out to her and bid her farewell before she stepped through the narrow corridor into the wagon cabin as Hades followed her and closed the door behind him.

The train slowly started rolling as her husband sat down opposite her and watched (Y/N) as she looked after the mortals until they disappeared from her field of vision.

“How long have I been up here now? Maybe five months?“ (Y/N) leaned back in her seat and looked at her husband, who took off his sunglasses after he had lowered the roller shutters at her window. Nevertheless, the light of the lamps in the wagon still let a soft light shine down on the couple.

“Imagine, my love, even the God of the Underworld has a heart. After the last summer, which felt like ten months, I figured it wouldn't be a problem if it was a little shorter this year“ he took the glass of whiskey from the table that seperated them and took a generous sip before adding “But my main reason was you anyway.“

“I'm honoured, but Demeter won't be pleased. She might tell your brother“ She watched him grimace as she mentioned Zeus. He never liked it when she talked about one of his brothers. Grumbling, he put the glass back on the table and looked at his rings which decorated his fingers before he replied “Your mother, sunshine, made this pact with my brother. Why would he change that? He'd only risk a war if he tried to change anything about the deal.“

“Does that mean you would go to war for me?“ (Y/N) smiled at him, flattered as he leaned a little bit closer while replying “I would start thousands of wars if someone tried to take you away from me. You're the only thing stopping me from not totally going crazy down there“

(Y/N) rose from her seat opposite him and watched as he followed her with his gaze with every move she made as she walked around the table and settled on his lap. He leaned back in his seat as she stroked a strand of his dark hair from his face and smiled down at him “I'm flattered how you speak of your love to me, my darkness. You should know that I'd eat thousands of pomegranates just to be with you, Bucky.“

Bucky – a name only she used. He would never allow someone else to use that name except for her. (Y/N) found out about that name in one of her books. She liked it so much and turned it into her new pet name for her husband. At first, Hades wasn't very happy about his wife using the name he only used to use when he walked among the mortals in the world of the living. But after a few weeks, he got used to it and let her be.

“You ate those pomegranates on purpose back then, we both know that, sunflower. And nobody wanted to understand why a beautifully, lively goddess like you wanted to stay with a god like me – who is so cold-hearted. Not everybody is as lucky as we are when it comes to love.“ He put his arms around her waist as she put her arms around his neck and looked into the eyes she had fallen in love with years ago.

With a gentle smile on her lips, she bent down and kissed him on his cold lips. Slowly he raised his hand and stroked her cheek as he returned her firey kiss. A warmth spread in his heart that he hadn't felt for months. The months without his beloved goddess by his side were pure torture for him. She was his home and he never felt at home when she wasn't there.

Before he could shower her with kisses any further, she detached herself from him with a laugh on her lips as he looked at her in confusion “What's so funny, doll?“

Giggling, she buried her head in his neck before laying her head on his shoulder while replying “I just imagined how we would throw all those people into the depths of Tartarus who had condemned us for our love for each other. We'd dance to the sound of their screams of their torments. More than half, if not all of Olympus would be down there.“

“Did I ever tell you that I love your way of thinking?“ He smiled to her as she straightened up again and kissed him rough while biting his bottom lip a few times as he buried his hands in her hair.

He would always wait for her.

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Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!

God, this song will be stuck in my head forever. Give me some feedback and have a great night/day/morning! Love you!

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shipyard98 · 4 years

Text

“The Cigarette Book” - Chapter 4: Neon Moon (Josuke’s Story)

Fandom: Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure

Pairing: Josuke Higashikata x Reader

Word Count: 1926

Rating: T for Teen (swearing and alcohol usage)

Summary: You're about to go out in the world and pursue your dreams. That means leaving Josuke Higashikata, your beloved boyfriend, behind in Morioh. Despite it all, he seems to be taking it well during the last date you two will be having in a while. He seems to be taking it almost too well...

Author’s Note: Heyo! I just made a Ko-Fi page! If you feel like supporting me and my works, feel free to buy me a Ko-Fi! It’s not necessary, but it does help. Anywho, onto the story!

(link to story)

The summer sun made a faint glow as it set over the horizon. It made the hills and trees of rural Morioh to cast shadows wherever it could reach. Stars peeked through the veil of twilight, just barely visible next to the full moon.

It was the perfect night to be out.

Your eyes darted from left to right along the railroad tracks. Nothing was coming from either side, and no train whistle could be heard for miles.

Quickly, you skipped over the tracks and made your way towards the run-down bar ahead of you.

It was one of those old-fashioned places, with cracks forming in the outer wall and a big neon sign hanging on the front of the building. The sign spelled out “Neon Moon” in big bold letters. Meanwhile, it made a soft buzzing nose every time the light flickered, like it was threatening to switch off at any second.

Your arms reached forward and pushed the door to the bar open.

A quick look around told you everything.

The place wasn’t too popular, but there were plenty of patrons around the bar this evening. Some sat in the bar stools, chattering with each other over large glasses of spirits. Some took to the dance floor and rocked with each other while the small band on the low stage played a funky number. And then some were sitting at the tables, either all alone or with a date.

One lone person at these tables stood out to you. How could he not stand out, with his push-pin pompadour and his piercing blue eyes that shined as soon as they laid their focus on you.

This guy stood up and made a beeline towards you, shoving past a few people in an impatient rush. Of course, he was apologizing as he shoved past the other patrons, but only halfheartedly. He just wanted to get to you.

“Babe!” he bubbled out the minute he threw his arms around you. “You came!”

“Of course, I came, Josuke,” you giggled into his chest. “Why would I not come to see you tonight?”

“I got worried that you might’ve left early or something,” he said as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “If that ended up being the case, I would’ve dashed to the airport in a heartbeat. Like one of those super cheesy romance movies, you know?”

You craned your neck up and gave Josuke what was intended to be a peck on the lips. He smiled and let himself melt into your kiss, turning the peck into a near make-out right there at the entrance of the bar.

Judging by the taste on his tongue, you knew he had started drinking before you got there.

“C’mon,” he took you by the hand. “Let’s talk for a bit, huh?”

It was a blessing that Josuke was taking the lead, as he was a bit of a gentle bulldozer. He could easily push past the small crowd, but he was still apologizing left and right as he did so. The whole time, though, he didn’t let go of your hand. Holding your hand had to be one of his all-time favorite things to do, after all.

He had to let go of your hand the minute you reached the table he was sitting at.

As soon as you sat down, you noticed that there were quite a few empty glasses on the table. It made you kind of sit back and stare in awe at your boyfriend. You knew he was soft hearted and somewhat of a “diamond in the rough”, but you never thought for a second that his alcohol tolerance would be that high. He was gracious enough, however, to leave you a glass of your go-to alcohol in front of you.

He plopped down in the seat across from you and took a hold of the only other full glass on the table.

“Might as well do a toast, right?” he declared. “Well, here’s to you! Here’s to a bright future up ahead! May your endeavors be fruitful and all that jazz.”

He obviously wasn’t too good at making toasts, but the effort was enough to get you to smile. You brought up your glass and clinked it against his.

While you just took a sip of your drink, Josuke downed his in one fell swoop.

Watching him power through his drink, it dawned on you that he never drank that much. You had been on a few dates with him to the Neon Moon, and every time, it would end up with lusty, make-outs and going back to somebody’s place for a night of private fun. In all of those dates, never had you seen him drink like that. As a matter of fact, you were both usually pretty sober at the end of those dates.

Something was wrong here.

A blush spread across Josuke’s cheeks, and he chuckled a little to himself before continuing.

“Yep, you’re gonna be out there, making a name for yourself. You’re gonna go out there, leave this little town behind, and become a shining, sparkling diamond amongst pebbles. Just like you were destined to. Finding things that are greater than here. Greater than m-.”

You put your glass down.

“Josuke, are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” He put his glass down next to the other three empty glasses on the table. “Psssh, of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay? I think the alcohol’s gone to my head a little, but it’s not a big deal.”

“You’ve never let the alcohol get to your head. You’re acting really funny, and I’m worried about you. Please, babe, tell me what’s wrong.”

He stared at you for what felt like an eternity. There were sounds coming from every direction, but none from him. If you looked hard enough, you probably would’ve noticed that his lower lip was trembling a little bit.

“Josuke?”

Tears streamed down his face like a waterfall. His face contorted into a deep, sorrowful expression and he

“I can’t keep it down anymore,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry, babe. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He lurched forward with his face in his hands and he wept like a baby.

You started to get up so you could go around and comfort him, but he whipped his head back up to look you in the eyes before you had a chance to.

“I know I should be happy for you.” He choked between his sobs. “I really, REALLY should be happy for you. You’re going to go do something you’ve always wanted to do, and I just want you to be happy. But in all honesty, I’m scared. I’m so damn scared that you’re just going to leave me here and never ever come back. I mean, you know that I’m a true love kind of guy, so I don’t fall in love all that often. You’re the first person I’ve ever really fallen in love with, you know? But now that I’ve fallen, I don’t… I don’t want to lose it. Without you here, I’m just going to sit here alone and think of you, and spend every night doing just that.”

You reached over and patted him on the hand.

“Hey, hey,” you cooed at him. “It’s going to be okay. There’s nobody in the world that could replace you, and that’s how it’s going to stay. Besides, I’ll come back one day.”

“One day may be never! One day, you might decide that you don’t want to be with someone like me.”

“Don’t say that!” you grabbed his hand with both of yours. “You have my heart forever and always.”

“… I do?”

“Yes, of course, you do.”

He wiped the tears off his face with his free hand.

“If that’s true, then…” He bit his lip in that way he always did when he was unsure about something. “Do you think you could make me a promise?”

“What’s the promise?”

Without letting his hand free of yours, he got up out of his chair and reached into his coat pocket.

“I was planning on being a little sober for this, but I got super nervous all of a sudden. But I have a clear mind when I ask…”

He dropped down on one knee.

Out of his pocket came a little golden ring, endowed with a few small but sparkling diamonds. He held it up lose to your hands.

“Will you marry me?”

One of your hands flew up to your mouth in surprise. The beat of your heart was like that of a marching band drum, and a flurry of different thoughts and emotions flashed in your head.

“I mean, we don’t have to get married right this minute, but when you get back, you know? Ever since we started dating, I kept thinking about making you my wife. How we could get out of here and move to a bigger city. Maybe start a family or something, but that’s just me daydreaming. Look, I’d give you the whole world if I could, and--!”

You dropped down and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face into his chest again. His shirt was very quickly soaked by your own tears. All he could do was sit there in a shocked silence, his mouth hanging agape.

“Yes… Yes, of course, I’ll marry you,” your muffled voice swooned.

Josuke snapped out of his dazed confusion and grabbed you by the shoulders so he could look you in the eye.

“You… You mean that?!”

The huge smile on your face and the nod of your head were indicator enough for him that you were completely serious.

“When I come back next spring, I'll bring you with me. We can live together and do all those things you dreamed of doing.”

He slipped the ring on your finger and quickly pulled you into a deep kiss. You accepted it and kissed back with a greater passion than ever. Some of the nearby patrons who had been looking on applauded the engagement.

“Hey fellas!” one of the patrons called to the band. “Why don’t we get some slow dance music for these two?”

The guy with the bass guitar nodded, and with a silent count off, they played a soft, slow beat.

Some of the couples already assumed position and danced with each other to the steady beat of the music. Even the lights dimmed so that people were just dancing amongst a blur of shadows.

Flattered by the Neon Moon’s kind gesture, you both stood up hand in hand and made your way over to the dancefloor.

The patrons parted way for you and your boyfriend, making a circle around you.

Josuke held you close to him as you both swayed to the beat of the music. Your head rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his proud and swelling heart.

The two young lovers were free of the rest of the world for a little bit. There was nowhere to be, nothing to fight for, nobody who could stand in between you. It was just him and you in that little, run-down corner of the world, dancing to the dreamy music that floated in the air and between bodies.

For a second, you looked up at him, your eyes half-lidded but sparkling.

“How’re you feeling now?” you mumbled.

He looked down at you and smiled hazily.

“I think I’m going to be alright, as long as there’s light from the Neon Moon.”

41 notes · View notes

eeveevie · 4 years

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Salvation is a Last Minute Business (3/18)

Chapter 3: People Who Do Things

The Valentine Agency duo visit the Memory Den where Madelyn engages with a mysterious stranger in exchange for information about the Railroad. An old friend helps Nick discover alarming evidence that could crack the case against Eddie Winter wide open. Later, Madelyn returns to Boston Common to ‘follow the Freedom Trail’ and bumps into a familiar face.

“I admire people who do things.” - Bruno Anthony as played by Robert Walker (Strangers on a Train, 1951)

x - x

Art for this chapter by @its-sixxers :D

[read on Ao3] ~ [chapter masterpost]

January 15th, 1958

“You can’t trust everyone.”

Madelyn spoke the words aloud, gauging Nick’s response. They were on their way uptown, trying to drudge up any leads they could on Montrano’s assassination. The last few days hadn’t managed to secure any valuable information, even from their most trusted of sources. Even their newest recruit, MacCready, had nothing to offer. The streets were quiet—gripped by fear—just the way Eddie Winter wanted it. Now they were switching tactics and stepping directly into enemy territory by visiting the very institutions run by the Winter crime family. It was a dangerous game, but somebody had to play it.

“Is that what that note says?” Nick asked in response, flicking his gaze to her as he drove. Madelyn was alarmed for all of a few moments—he was a detective, after all—it was his job to figure things out. “You’ve been worrying over that piece of paper for weeks now.”

She looked over the words and the well-worn creases where she had folded and unfolded it, even though the words had been seared into her mind the first time she read them. “I received it on New Year’s Eve, at Faneuil Hall. I don’t know who it’s from. I—I meant to tell you about it.”

He looked amused, which she took as a good sign. “No skin off my nose. Looks like you were following its advice,” he teased. “Pretty enigmatic, if you ask me.”

Madelyn was in full agreement. “Do you ever get the feeling that you’re being followed?”

“Comes with the territory,” he replied before realizing her genuine unease. “Hey doll, if you’re really that concerned, we can—”

“No, no,” she shook her head, snapping herself away from the lingering fear. “I’m sure I’m overreacting. We’ve had some run-ins lately that have me spooked, is all.” She tried to lighten the mood. “You never take me anywhere nice.”

Nick’s brows stayed furrowed, hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel, her joke soaring right over his battered fedora. “Don’t remind me. Jenny is still cross that I took you to a crime scene.”

Despite the tension, or maybe because of it, Madelyn laughed. “Well, we didn’t know it was one before we got there. She should be more upset about the blood on your socks.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”

At first, when they reached their destination, Madelyn wondered what they were doing at the Olympia Theatre. As far as she knew, it was a reputable establishment, with no known ties to the mobster families in Boston. She stared up at the marquee through the window as Nick rounded the car to her side, opening the door and offering his arm. She took it graciously, still fixated on the theatre signs until he nodded towards a side street with a single, burning red bulb as a guiding light. Luckily, he was just about the only man she trusted to lead her down a darkened alleyway, daring to laugh at the absurdity of it all. At the end of the cobblestone path there was a red painted door with a golden placard that read—The Memory Den.

“You’ve been here before?” she assumed in a playful tone.

Nick looked noticeably uncomfortable, reaching up with his free hand to adjust his tie. “Uh, Jenny brought me here once. We were younger, and Winter didn’t own the joint. It’s not your typical dance hall.”

Madelyn didn’t know what to expect, but when they finally entered she was overwhelmed, all her senses overloaded at once. The music was loud and infectious, crowds of couples dancing close—very close—to the up tempo sounds of the live band. There were sparkling, strung up lights that dangled from the ceiling making her feel like she had stars in her eyes—and what was that glorious smell?

“Blueberry pie,” Nick commented, reading her mind as he took her coat, handing off their belongings to the coat-check boy with a generous tip. “But that’s not what we’re here for,” he quickly reminded. She blinked hard, snapping herself free of the club’s distractions so she could focus on his instructions. “Let’s split up. You work the crowd, see if you can find anybody that knows what’s been happening on the street. I’m going to see if I can find Irma.”

“Irma?” she questioned, with an arched eyebrow. “Looks like I’ll miss out on that sweet-talking that you do.”

He shook his head with a soft, albeit nervous chuckle. Was the illustrious Nick Valentine blushing? “Don’t tell Jenny.”

They separated, Nick disappearing into the crowd as he made his way towards a back rooms, looking for the management who ran the Den. Meanwhile, Madelyn slowly surveyed the room, keeping a mental note of anyone that looked questionable as she gravitated towards the bar. The dancing, however, proved to be mildly distracting, bordering on erotic with the way some couples pressed up against one another. A glimpse of her past—dancing with Nate in a similar fashion when they were young and foolish lovebirds flashed through her mind while her ears burned hot. A tingle crossed over her skin and she practically swallowed the entire first glass of whiskey whole before ordering another.

Madelyn decided cooler heads would prevail and braced herself, letting out a calming exhale as she glanced around the club once more. As far as she could tell, there were no obvious signs that Winter’s men were present. If they were, it was likely they were holed up in the back where Nick had wandered off to. It was her every intention then, to charm the bartender into divulging information when she noticed a man sitting at the end of the bar—somebody who looked suspiciously familiar. Yet, she couldn’t place the man with the dark glasses and black, quaffed hair, or the immaculately tailored suit he wore. He wasn’t a mobster but didn’t look like a regular patron either. Still, she had the overwhelming feeling she had seen him before, racking her memory to figure out when and where.

The stranger didn’t seem to notice her staring but if he did, didn’t seem to care, continuing to nurse his bourbon in that little corner of the bar. And then, he flashed the tiniest of smirks, tilting his glass in her direction. Suddenly a shiver ran up her spine and the anxiety she had been carrying since Faneuil Hall blossomed in full force. She gripped her whiskey tight, shooting back the rest of the contents with only one thought—she needed to find Nick, and get out the hell out of there. Without another moment to lose she moved away from the bar, blending into the crowd of dancing bodies as she made for the back rooms. When she glanced over her shoulder, the man from the bar was not far behind.

Rather than fear, Madelyn felt a rush of annoyance and decided to act. In one swift motion, she whipped around, pinning the much taller man to the nearest wall. One arm pressed across his chest, her other hovering near his throat where she held the end of the hairpin she had yanked free from her curls. With a flick of her thumb, the small blade clicked free, now shimmering in the darkness—a wonderful little present from Nick.

She pushed her stalker a little harder against the wall, boxing him in. “Why are you following me?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up over his darkened shades as he choked out a startled laugh, hands raised in defense. “Maybe I just need to use the can!”

He pointed with both index fingers to the doors just beyond her field of vision, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. She pressed again, harder against his chest. “Who are you?”

“A priest.”

Madelyn was incensed. “Bullshit.”

“A sailor’s mouth? Adorable,” he commented whimsically, almost as if he wasn’t being held at knifepoint in a dim club hallway. Then again, Madelyn wondered how easy it would be for the man to quickly turn the tables, considering their size difference. The thought had her easing the sharp end of the hairpin a little closer to his skin. He let out a meep. “You sure know how to charm a man.”

“Who are you really?” she asked again.

He wiggled his fingers where his hands were still poised mid-air. “Somebody with secrets to share.”

Well now, that was awfully convenient. Madelyn narrowed her eyes, still skeptical even as she relaxed, leaning away from him. The stranger sighed in relief as she lowered her arms, tucking her hair back into place with the deadly flower pin and stepped away. She looked him over as he straightened his tie, letting out a little cough as he cleared his throat.

Finally she asked, “What kind of secrets?”

“Ah, information isn’t free, my friend,” he replied. When she didn’t say anything, too frustrated by his sudden appearance, he continued with an amused expression. This time, he gestured towards the main room where the live music had grown louder and faster. “I’ll give you everything that you want to know for a dance.”

“No!” she instantly rejected.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Madelyn hesitated over the man’s proposal in her mind and the mere second thought had her heart racing. What was she thinking? She couldn’t say yes. But wasn’t this all part of the job—the dangerous game her and Nick had agreed to? They weren’t going to corner Eddie Winter if they didn’t take risks, and right now, all she had to do was participate in one dance—not jump off a bridge. An entirely new set of nerves overtook her with the way the man was grinning at her, as if he could sense her inner turmoil. It was all made more difficult by the fact she couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, her own reflection shining back.

“Fine.”

He chuckled, beckoning her to follow. “Come on snake, let’s rattle.”

Madelyn ignored the jolt that shot through her when he gripped her hands, pulling her into the crowd of dancers as the music intensified. She hadn’t allowed herself to be manhandled since Nate’s death. There had been no intimacy, no flirtatious touching and certainly no dirty-dancing in an uptown speakeasy. Being escorted like a lady by Nick around town while they investigated cases certainly didn’t count. But now, she blamed it on being touch-starved and reeled in her focus. If she was going to do this, she might as well do it properly.

As the two fell into the rhythm of the music, she committed to every placement of her feet, every twist of her hip, every movement of her hands as they slid across the man’s shoulders and arms, the two of them gliding through the crowd as the music blared. He snaked an arm around her waist, palm flat along her lower back while he held her other hand in the air near their heads.

He was still wearing the same, fascinated smile. “Well Charmer, what do you want to know?”

“Do you work for Eddie Winter?” she asked bluntly, ignoring the pet name. Even if she had her assumptions, she still needed to ask.

The man guffawed, spinning her in time with the beat. “If I did, would I tell you?”

“Fair enough.”

“Who do you work for?” he asked, the two splitting apart for a brief moment to circle around one another.

Madelyn didn’t lift her gaze from his face, and she could only assume he was staring right back. She decided to be honest, hoping to catch more flies with honey, so to speak. “Valentine Detective Agency.”

Not the whole truth, but what the nameless man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He pulled her back, hands like fire as they glided along her waist to keep her close to him as they moved. She steeled herself, resisting the urge to pinch the nerve in his shoulder and have him writhing like a baby on the floor—Piper had taught her that trick.

“Going after the big dog, hey?” he questioned, not bothering to wait for her response. “Not surprising you’ve run into some dead-ends with all those disappearances. Now with the floaters showing up in the Harbor? Phew. Can’t catch a break, am I right?”

Madelyn wanted to know how he knew about her and Nick’s string of bad luck. She supposed if he knew about the agency, it was easy to hear about the rumors of their constant failures as well, set on by the Boston Police Department. She wanted to know a lot of things, but as the man mentioned the disappearances, she decided to change her approach.

“What do you know about the Railroad?”

The man flashed a low, alluring grin. “That old myth? Everybody knows they’re just a ghost story.”

She wasn’t convinced, especially by the way he seemed completely charmed by the very mention. “I’m not so sure,” she disputed. “What’s this I hear about ‘following the Freedom Trail’?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“From a very reliable source,” Madelyn answered, almost defiantly. “Somebody I trust.”

“Here’s some advice, Charmer.” He spun her away at arm’s length before twirling her back just as fast, this time so her spine was flush against his chest. The stranger’s breath was hot against her ear as he let out a soft chuckle. “You can’t trust everyone.”

Madelyn’s brain didn’t catch up fast enough. By the time she registered the words, he was gone, disappeared into the sea of people. She spun around on her heels in an effort to catch one last glimpse, to shout a response, but there was no sight of the mysterious man. Unnerved, she found refuge away from the crowd, holding a hand to her chest as she steadied her breathing. It wasn’t just coincidence—he had to be the one who sent her the note on New Year’s Eve. More questions raced through her mind, sending her spiraling. Just how long had he been following her? And for what purpose? Was she in danger?

“Hey doll,” Nick found her near the lobby, his expression shifting into one of worry when he sensed her bewilderment. With him was a voluptuous and beautiful, icy-blonde haired woman, dressed in a red-sequenced dress with a slit that rested high up her leg. Madelyn could only assume it was Irma. “You alright?”

She shook her head and then nodded, before shaking her head again. “I’m not sure.”

Irma let out a hearty chuckle. “Looks like you met Deacon, sugar.”

“De—who now?” Nick questioned, clearly confused. “Madelyn?”

She decided this was neither the time nor the place to have the discussion with Nick. At least now, she had a name—something else to go on. Instead of responding as expected, she glanced between Nick and his lady-friend. “Did you get what you need?”

“Sure, sure,” he responded, taking her subtle hint. He tipped his head towards Irma with an appreciative smile. “Thank you, for all the assistance.”

“Don’t mention it, Mr. Valentine,” she purred. “Just don’t let your big, softy-self get hurt, all right? And please say hello to Jenny for me.”

Outside, Nick didn’t immediately press for details, taking the time to look over her demeanor to gauge her emotions. Surprisingly, Madelyn had mellowed out, attempting to rationalize her encounter and determine the next best step. Only then did he dare to flash a sideways smirk. “Make a new friend?”

“Find us a new lead?” she deflected, humorously.

Nick laughed, escorting her to his parked Cadillac. “What do you say to more of ‘walking into treacherous lands’?”

Madelyn flashed Nick a teasing grin. “Lead the way, Mr. Valentine.”

January 16th, 1958

Precinct 8 was the closest police department to Valentine Detective Agency, and it just so happened to be the only precinct in Boston with a somewhat friendly face. Marty Bullfinch—he and Nick used to work together, the closest thing Nick had to a partner before Madelyn came to the agency, and before Marty began hitting the bottle a little too hard. Their last case had them hunting down some golden grasshopper—more of a legend than anything tangible. By the end, the two had gone their separate ways, disgruntled and untrusting of what the other had to offer. It seemed that fate saw fit to bring the two back together at least one more time.

“What is this, some kind of joke?”

Marty’s disposition was alarmingly harsh when he saw the two enter the bullpen, standing up from his desk to sneer at Nick. He looked worse for wear, black hair greying at the sides and thin at the top. He looked haggard, dark lines under blue eyes indicative of a man who hardly slept and drank far too much. Madelyn stepped away as he quickly circled around to where they had been approaching but were now considering high tailing it out of there. Before either of them could take another step, Marty had snatched Nick’s hand in a firm shake, yanking him forward into a tight hug.

He laughed. “Ah Nicky, you old bucket of bolts. It’s good to see ya!”

Madelyn struggled to understand if it was a term of endearment or some in-joke between old friends. Either way, Nick appeared relieved by Marty’s true reaction to their presence. When they separated, the police detective eyed Madelyn with a surprised arch of his brows.

“You replace me with a dame?”

She took no offense, smiling as she extended her hand politely. Marty held it far too delicately, as most men did, sure they were going to break her if touched too roughly. “Miss Madelyn Hardy. Attorney on loan from the D. A’s office.”

“A little more than just a dame, Marty,” Nick said, amused.

“Right,” he nodded, grin a little more nervous as he adjusted his blue patterned tie. “What are you doing here? You know these guys that I work with all hate you, right?”

Nick didn’t waste any time, removing a tattered note from his coat. “Leave this behind at the Memory Den?”

Madelyn resisted the urge to laugh at the way Marty practically leapt to snatch it out of his hands, carefully confirming the paper’s contents before crumpling it up and tucking it into his jacket. Nick had shown her the letter the evening before, or what remained of it—a torn sheet of what read like instructions, signed by Eddie Winter himself. The only problem? A clear evidence marker that showed it should belong in Boston police custody. Irma had informed Nick that Mr. Bullfinch had been at the club, asking too many questions, but ultimately couldn’t resist the lure of a good drink and got careless.

“God damnit Nicky! Are you tryin’ to get me fired?” he snapped in a sharp whisper. “Worse yet, killed?”

“I’m trying to get you to tell me what’s going on,” Nick replied. “Why does Boston P.D. have evidence of organized crime perpetrated by Winter that they haven’t done anything about?”

Marty’s face scrunched up, clearly discomforted with the entire conversation. “Couldn’t you have come here asking for a drink?” he muttered, shifting his eyes around the room. Madelyn noticed that a few detectives and uniformed officers had begun to look their way. “Follow me.”

“Valentine, you aren’t going to get anything from coming here,” he announced, clearly putting on a show as he led them down a hallway out of sight. When the coast was clear, he ushered them into a cramped storage room with a single, low hanging light.

Nick had the foresight to wedge himself between Marty and herself, glaring at the other man. “This better be worth it.”

“Listen, I don’t know who to trust anymore. All the evidence that we collect from low-level busts, from these hits and murders? They keep disappearing. Changing hands. Sent to different precincts for ‘further analysis’,” Marty rambled, pupils blown wide. He was either paranoid or had seen a pattern so startling it could only be true. “When I ask, they say they are trying to match up handwriting samples, that it will take some time. I say, fuck ‘em!”

Madelyn leaned away, startled by his tenacity. “That sounds like a cover-up. A conspiracy to let Winter get away with his crimes!”

“Nothing concrete. I can’t tell who’s on the payroll,” Marty continued, voice atremble. “If somebody ain’t, they’re too chicken-shit to ask the tough questions. But we’re still sent to keep up appearances. Clean up the scenes, make sure to the people, we’re trying to make Boston a better place.”

Nick remained quiet, jaw locked in silent ferocity. Madelyn knew he wanted nothing more than to see Eddie Winter off the streets—by any means necessary. His eyes darkened, narrowing as he focused in on Marty’s jacket. “So there’s more of these self-incriminating notes, you say?”

The other man was just as good as picking up on Nick’s intentions, shaking his head and hands wildly. “Oh no, Nicky. Don’t get it in your head that you’ll be able to get any of these away from police custody. Got em’ locked up real tight across the city. You think you can walk in here because you know me but what are you gonna do in Quincy? Waltz in there and just…” Marty waggled his fingers for dramatic effect. “Five finger discount the joint?”

Madelyn’s chest tightened at the serious expression Nick wore, his intentions clear as day. “Nick…” she warned. “I—we can’t.”

“Yeah Nicky, listen to the lawyer broad,” Marty said in a panicked tone. “Is going after Winter really worth the trouble?”

“Right now there’s smoke burning all over Boston, clouding her in a thick sea of ash. And where there’s smoke, there’s sure to be fire,” Nick described, more determined than ever. “Do you really want to be here when the house burns down?”

His former partner swallowed hard. “God damnit—no,” he finally relented, rustling through his jacket pocket to return the scrap of evidence. “I’ve told you everything I know but—if I find out more, you’ll be the first to know.”

Nick nodded, finding the agreement acceptable. “Good. We’ll do our best to keep you safe, Marty.”

As Madelyn and Nick made their way from the hallway closet, down from the bullpen and into the precinct lobby, they heard Marty Bullfinch call out to them again in his ragged voice. “For shit’s sake! Next time, bring be a bottle of whiskey—or else!”

January 17th, 1958

Boston Common.

Madelyn once promised herself she would never return to the lakeside park or the surrounding neighborhood where her husband had been murdered. She didn’t need to walk the snow-covered streets to relive those moments—every agonizing second still etched into her mind each night when she closed her eyes. It hadn’t gotten easier, even a year later, even with the distractions that life had tried to provide her. She wondered if it ever was going to be any easier, or if she was meant to carry around that pain and guilt forever. Her chest tightened, body going numb as she stared down at the very spot, envisioning the stain of blood and the last flicker of life she saw in Nate’s dark green eyes. Quickly, before she succumbed to her grief, she reminded herself that the past was not the reason she was there.

That morning, Nick had finally confronted her about what had occurred in the Memory Den and she came clean about her suspicions that she was being followed. Madelyn couldn’t determine for how long, but between New Year’s Eve and that evening uptown, it wasn’t a fluke. He raised the same concerns that she did, wondering if there was an underlying danger, but after analyzing the circumstances a little more rationally, it didn’t appear so. The two agreed that if anything, somebody or something was trying to convey a message. While Nick worked in the shadows, tracking down Winter’s evidence files, they decided Madelyn would follow-up on the mysterious stranger. What she didn’t tell her partner, however, was where she was going that Friday evening.

The Common park stood empty, frozen still in the dead of night. Madelyn stood in the chill of the icy winter wind, watching as the hands on her watch signaled midnight. She used her shoe to scrape the snow away from the bronze placard on the ground—The Freedom Trail. Boston. Hundreds of tourists flocked to the site every day, but tonight, she was the sole visitor, searching for a clue. Curiously, there was a small smudge of red paint on the corner, something that looked like an arrow. She slowly moved to the nearby fountain that had been frozen over since Christmas, a low light emanating around the cobblestone. A second sign read—At Journey’s End Follow Freedom’s Lantern—more red paint covering some of the letters.

She was so engrossed with the thoughts of where the red brick pathway led—the graveyard next or was it the statehouse—that she barely registered the quiet footsteps and shadow approaching before it was too late.

“Dame like you shouldn’t be out this late.”

Madelyn swiveled to face the familiar taunting voice, briefly alarmed to find the man from the Memory Den leaning against a nearby light fixture, hands leisurely tucked away in his pockets. He was dressed in the same well-tailored suit from before, albeit with a winter coat to combat the chill in the air, and those damn sunglasses.

“You might be the next disappearance that private dick of yours ends up investigating,” he continued with a smirk.

She knew that it would be a battle of wits with his kind, shaking away any trace of anxiousness from her stance and expression. It would take all the field experience she had—or perhaps just pure instinct to handle the likes of him. At least now she knew his name. “Is this you threatening to snatch me away, Mr. Deacon?”

His lips flattened into a straight line before he let out a hearty chuckle. “How formal! Mr. Deacon, she says,” he shook his head and approached. When he noticed her apprehension, he kept his distance. “Just Deacon, Charmer.”

Madelyn found it peculiar but said nothing. Instead, she focused on the non-use of her name. Her need for pleasantries outweighed the minefield of red flags her mind set up. “Please, call me—”

“Charmer,” he interrupted, repeating the nickname with a grin. “Were you going to say Miss Hardy? Yeah, we don’t really do that.”

Of course he knew her name—Madelyn had to wonder what else he knew, and how much of an advantage this Deacon fellow had over her. When it came to information, she didn’t like it when she was left out of the loop. Rather than expressing her frustration, she peered at him curiously. “We?”

Deacon nodded, removing his hands from his pockets to gesture towards himself. “Me, and my many personalities,” he said with such certainty, she couldn’t quite tell if he was joking. He then tilted his head, jutting his thumb over his shoulder. “Follow me.”

Madelyn hesitated, knowing full well she had no reason to trust the man. A similar feeling to one she felt in the Memory Den washed over her and she stepped forward—be it bravery or impulse, she needed answers—and as Deacon mentioned before, he was willing to provide them. A voice in her mind reminded her that the knowledge she sought wouldn’t come so easily. Information wasn’t free. Still, she wouldn’t have come to the Common that evening if she weren’t looking for something, and she wasn’t about to return to the agency empty handed.

Instead of walking the Freedom Trail proper, Deacon led Madelyn up the streets into the North End neighborhood on the banks of the Boston Harbor. He was quiet, keeping a careful watch on their surroundings—at least that’s what she assumed he was doing, still questioning the purpose or usefulness of wearing such darkened shades at nighttime. Eventually, they came upon the Old North Church, the centuries old building damaged by a nearby property fire a few years prior. She stared up at the impossibly tall steeple and noticed that on the railing there sat a small, burning lantern.

“Freedom’s lantern,” she spoke.

Deacon was impressed. “Now you’re getting it.”

He withdrew a key from his pocket, using it to unlock the rusted chain that would otherwise bar entry to the church. Madelyn took the time to read over the faded plaque set into the red bricks—one if by land, two if by sea—the building was more than a historical site, it was holy ground, offering many heroes of the American Revolution their final resting place. Fitting that it would also be a safe haven for some secret organization. As she followed Deacon inside, she moved her hand over her chest to form a cross—half out of respect at the destruction she saw, half out of the embarrassment she felt for not stepping foot inside a church since Nate’s funeral.

“Ah, et spirtus sancti hmm?” Deacon questioned, his lighthearted tone bordering on offense. She shot him a silent frown, urging him to lead on. It was surprising that after two years, the interior had yet to be refurbished, many of the pews still showing signs of the fire that had swept through. A portion of the upper floor had collapsed, partially blocking the doorway that led to the basement and catacombs, but it didn’t deter Deacon. He waved a hand, motioning for her to move ahead of him. “Ladies first.”

Madelyn shook her head. “Priests first.”

“Oh, I’m going to like you.”

Deacon crouched to avoid knocking his head against the low beam, obliging her request to walk ahead of her down the darkened, narrow stairway. She braced herself along the wall as she followed, watching his every move, suddenly very aware they were surrounded by the dead. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, an irrational thought came to her, telling her this was all an elaborate ruse and she was about to be butchered and encased away in a tomb, never to be seen again. The sheer thought sparked a shiver to run up her spine and she inhaled a sharp gasp.

He glanced back at her, eyebrow raised. “Need me to hold your hand?”

Madelyn was sure she’d ever met somebody so insufferable. Despite herself, she forced back a smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than showing me a collection of dead bodies, Mr. Deacon,” she said the name intentionally, earning a rise out of him. “Been there, done that.”

“I know,” he answered, walking the two a few more paces towards a larger bronze plate, a replica of the ones that lined the city’s Freedom Trail. Wires connected the plaque to a mechanism beyond the brick wall and the further she scrutinized the space, the more she realized there was a room beyond. Deacon flashed another grin as he maneuvered the seal until it clicked a release. “I give you, the Railroad.”

Beyond the false wall was darkness but before she could move forward, Deacon caught her elbow, saving her from falling off the ledge. She was about to say her thanks when the room was flooded with light, Madelyn raising her arm up to shield her eyes. She squinted through the blinding spotlights to the other side of the gutted tomb to see three figures—two women and a man who looked suspiciously like her neighbor, Robby. Before she could speak, the woman in the center called out.

“Deacon, where’ve you been?”

He added his hand to Madelyn’s in a futile attempt to help block out the brightness. “Jesus, Dez—I said no intimidation tactics!”

With a snap of her fingers, the lights dimmed to a more reasonable setting, allowing Madelyn to readjust her sight. She pinched the bridge of her nose, wincing as the dark spots slowly faded away. Only then did she realize Deacon had yet to release his grip of her arm—she decided to say nothing about the infraction, for now. What she needed was answers—now.

“Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?” she asked, emphatically.

The woman across the way nodded, signaling Deacon to escort Madelyn across the way to where they could have a more civilized conversation. The others loitered nearby, listening on. Even there, Deacon held onto her and she wondered if he was doing so to keep her put, or to offer her some semblance of familiar comfort in a strange place. Either way, she didn’t bat his hand away, focusing on the red-headed woman as she spoke.

“I’m Desdemona, and I’m the leader of the Railroad.”

She said it plainly, as if it was of no consequence. But there it was—the truth. The Railroad wasn’t some fairytale, made up by Bostonians to scare each other in the night. They were real and apparently operating out from the ruins of the Old North Church. One question nagged at Madelyn’s mind—were they friend, or foe?

Desdemona continued before she could ask. “We went through a lot of effort to arrange this meeting with you.”

Madelyn shifted her gaze to Deacon, to her neighbor Robby, to the silver-haired woman standing guard, and back to Desdemona. “Why? You clearly know where I work, and where I live. A simple hello didn’t suffice?”

“I assure you, you have nothing to fear. In a world full of suspicion, treachery, and hunters—our organization must play our cards close to the chest. In our line of work, we have made many powerful enemies—you never know who you can trust.”

Deacon’s fingers tightened along her arm and she thought about the note—his note and words. Madelyn was only beginning to understand. “What exactly is it that you do?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard rumors,” Desdemona replied, resentfully. “That the Railroad are the perpetrators behind the many disappearances in the city.”

Madelyn nodded, knowing full well she and Nick had added that very theory to their case notes. It was one of the many reasons she had decided to follow the lead downtown in the first place. Desdemona sighed, shaking her head as she pulled a lose cigarette from her jacket pocket.

“There is some truth to the matter,” she continued, the smolder of her smoke casing an eerie glow on her face. “We seek to help people leave the city of their own volition. Battered women unable to divorce their husbands, unlucky bastards who can’t repay their debts to the loan sharks, or sometimes, just a person who wants to get away and begin again.”

“It’s all kosher,” Deacon quipped, as if sensing Madelyn’s tension. “New identities in new towns—and we have an agent within the Boston P.D. who clears the files for us.”

Madelyn was still skeptical of their intentions. “Are you saying you had nothing to do with the last twelve disappearances?”

“That, or the murders,” Desdemona shook her head. “We’ve ceased all activity to switch focus on gathering intel. Haven’t harbored anyone in months. Our main focus now—rather it was—is on dismantling the web of lies being fed to this city. The disappearances, the murders—we might be the only people stupid enough to fight back.”

Madelyn’s heart warmed at the idea, thinking of herself and Nick before focusing on the bigger picture. “Was?”

“We aren’t hiding out in an underground tomb for kicks,” Deacon remarked. “Two months ago—do you remember reading about that gas leak in Lexington that left a bunch of people dead?”

Desdemona hushed him with a wave of her hand, choosing to fill in the remaining details herself. “The media covered up the deaths, as expected. But it was no accident. We were targeted.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Madelyn asked.

“Likely the same people who are out to see that Eddie Winter does not spend another night in prison. The same people who are responsible for making so many Boston citizens disappear in the night, and perhaps the same people who have given you and your detective a string of bad luck.”

Desdemona’s claims were powerful, if true. She motioned to the very man at Madelyn’s side. “What remained of us were lucky to survive, thanks to Deacon. Now that our resources are limited, we have not had as many chances to help those in need or track essential people down.”

“Except for you,” Deacon mused, leaning close to her ear. At that, she finally wiggled herself from his grasp, ignoring his quiet chuckle.

“Why me, exactly?” she questioned. “Despite your limitations, your theory isn’t any different than the agency’s. I’m not sure how we can be of any help.”

“We won’t lie to you,” Desdemona voiced, eyes sharpening as Deacon made a small disagreeing sound. “Your name had come up in our intel too many times for it to be coincidental. So we sent out a few agents to ensure you weren’t a threat. Signaled Deacon to make contact and, well, now you’re here.”

Madelyn wasn’t pleased. “I still don’t appreciate being stalked.”

Deacon shook his head. “Don’t call it stalking. I’d call it…social distancing. Except, well, without the social part.”

“Where is this intel coming from? Winter’s men?” Madelyn asked. If so, she needed to follow-up with Nick, immediately. However, the uncertainty in Desdemona’s expression gave her pause. “Do you not know?”

“We were still in the process of decoding what we had when we were forced to find a new safe house,” the other woman explained. “Many of our resources were left behind.”

“That’s where you come in,” Deacon chimed in.

“Excuse me?”

Desdemona sighed, flicking her cigarette to the ground and extinguishing it with the sole of her leather boot. “Consider this your formal invitation to join our organization.”

Madelyn was caught off guard. She knew immediately what the dangers of joining a fringe, underground society would bring—the unknown frightened her and thrilled her all the same. Yet, she was also aware of how Desdemona and her fractured group were likely the last people left in Boston willing to take a stand against the darkness that threatened to envelop it whole. If she offered a lending hand, it could make all the difference.

“Okay,” she finally agreed with a nod. “I’ll join.”

“Now we need to know what to call you. Secrecy keeps us alive, and code names are a part of that,” Desdemona explained before Madelyn could interject—why couldn’t she just use her own name? “What’s yours?”

She ignored Deacon’s overjoyed expression as he leaned closer. “She’s already got one, don’t you, Charmer?”

Desdemona looked between them curiously, waiting for Madelyn’s approval. With a sigh, she nodded, agreeing to the moniker. At least it was fitting. The expression on the other woman’s face told her she thought so too.

“Welcome to the Railroad,” Desdemona offered a fleeting smile. “Agent Charmer.”

#fallout 4 #fallout au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #madelyn hardy #nick valentine #ENTER DEACON STAGE LEFT #marty bullfinch #desdemona #waiting 13k words for Deacon is worth it for this #but he was there all along #👀#this is my favorite chapter so far ;____;

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