#my skull has been shattered by ribs have been torn apart i literally. what

[edgarallanpoestan]

how do i even cope with emily axford, playing a preteen werewolf, persuading a sexy fairy in an orange dress and orange top hat to give her the top hat and then dive into death pages as her husband begs her not to. fate was truly against her, with all three rolls being too low, and she only got it with an 8 on her d8 bardic and im literally about to start screaming what the hell is going on here why is the world still intact i feel like my brain is turning into piss soup

[allyinthekeyofx]

Southern hospitality 1/1

******POTENTIAL TRIGGERS******* 

I’ve never done anything like this, certainly nothing as dark as this and never ever attempted a historical AU.  Thanks to @inkcollectorus @scully-loves-ruthie and @baronessblixen for the encouragement because I was terrified to post it.

This is written in response to the @txf-prompt-box challenge. @today-in-fic

An American Civil war AU 

They advance quietly, bodies weary and bloodied from a battle lost that should never have been fought.  These men in their prime fighting for a cause that has somehow become blurred and confused amidst the stench of death that seems to now be imbued permanently in the very air that they breathe.  

A bloodbath of such magnitude each of the small group wondered if the fortunate ones were actually those who had fallen to the dusty earth, a final howl of anguish as frail bodies - flesh and bone- were torn and ripped and lifeforce was stolen in the blink of an eye as though it had never been.  Those hundreds of bodies who would never again be required to stare the devil in his face and be found wanting.  Fathers, sons, brothers of years past who now would be mourned by loved ones who waited for news behind closed doors amidst an ever-waning hope that things would ever be the same as they had been before.

Before.

He can barely remember.  Can barely recognise the young man in the crisp navy serge who marched so proudly alongside his comrades, waving confidently amid promises that he would be home for Christmas; that this war was as good as won.

How arrogant he had been; how arrogant they had all been.

And now, out of a proud company of almost one hundred and fifty, only five remain, saved by the innate sense of preservation that had allowed them to run, to escape into the woods that bordered the battlefield, never looking back, waiting for the final agonising blow that would drop them to their knees, faces ground into the cool forest floor.

But the bullets had never come and they, amongst all those who had succumbed, had this time, been permitted to keep living in this hellhole that should exist only in darkened rooms, in sweat-soaked fever dreams and childish nightmares that could be soothed by a gentle touch, a murmur of sweet lips against velvet skin, by words of comfort all but forgotten by all of them.

They happen across the small cabin nestled in a small clearing almost by accident, the smell of woodsmoke tickling their weary senses and drawing them closer.  A golden light shines from the one of the few small windows, gingham checked drapes tied with strips of ribbon and for a few seconds he wonders if his mind is playing tricks on him, that finally, his mind is shattering with the horror of all he has seen.

But the way his men stumble to a halt beside him tells him they have seen it too.

His men.

A responsibility that was thrust upon him in the absence of any greater power and one which he now bears because he is, despite everything, an honourable man.  But even honourable men will take what they need in order to survive and never more so when they have blood on their hands and death ingrained upon their souls and he knows that the small cabin represents possibly the difference now between life and death for his band of battle weary soldiers.

Food, water, warmth and rest.

They are all theirs for the taking if he decides to let them take.

Slowly, so slowly, he draws his colt from the holster, holding the comforting weight in the palm of his hand before using the barrel to point towards the three stone steps that lead to the doorway of the cabin, circling it around to direct his men to cover the back of the property lest the occupants within be foe not friend.

He already knows that he will kill if required.  A question he had once asked himself and one which has now been answered a thousand times over on dozens of different battlefields as the stench of fresh blood hung coppery and thick in the air.

A war that has rendered him nothing more than a killing machine even as he himself wishes to be killed.

And it takes every fibre of his being to not tighten his finger on the trigger as the door before him suddenly opens and the golden light spills out to brighten the rough grey stone beneath his scuffed black boots, illuminating the ugly maroon colour of the blood that has washed over them again and again from the killing fields of the virginian countryside, her gasp of shock as she takes in the sight before her and he knows her one instinct is to step back inside and slam the door, denying him the respite he so desperately needs.

So he raises his head and finds himself staring straight into the face of one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen.

Her smooth cafe au lait skin crowned with thick, glossy dark hair neatly captured in two small tortoiseshell barrettes that are just about level with a pair of luminous blue eyes that now regard him with obvious trepidation but a fierce pride that almost burns the skin from his face.

She is small, maybe a little over five feet, her body lithe and compact, perfectly proportioned and despite her stature, she radiates a quiet determination he has seldom experienced.  He drops the gun to hang limply by his side.

“Please…..my men…could we rest here a while?”

He is unsurprised when she nods sharply and steps back to allow them entrance, tears gathering unbidden at the sudden kindness, of the trust of a stranger.  He will not allow her trust to be betrayed.

                                                       ****************

His thoughts are jumbled, confusing imagery that jostles for space amid the sickening pounding inside his skull, the metallic tang of blood on his tongue that makes him gag; wracking pain gathering rapidly along his ribs as he begins to choke.

He forces himself to turn his head to the side, groaning as a wave of nausea overtakes him he forces himself to breathe, to not succumb.

And slowly, slowly, he remembers.

Her face as she gently lifted the squalling infant from the simple box bassinet beside the small fireplace, a mother’s love, fiercely protective of her precious son even as she watched the men warily from across the room as they rifled through cupboards in search of sustenance; his own hunger forgotten as he kept his hand on the colt, placing himself between her and them lest they frighten her more than she was already frightened.

He doesn’t know the men well and he trusts them even less.

“He’s beautiful”

His words had softened her face just for a moment as she lightly ran her fingertip down the downy soft skin of the baby’s cheek, soothing him with a simple touch as he finally began to settle, his cries gradually diminishing until they were nothing more than quiet huffs as he settled back into slumber; protected in the arms of his mother.

“What’s his name?”

A small, sad smile then.

“William.  After his father.”

He had asked her no more, transfixed at the sight of her, his attention slowly switching from the men behind to this tiny woman who had stood proud before him cradling her baby son.  Her William. And as she met his gaze unwaveringly staring back at him with those remarkable eyes, he had felt a sudden connection, a meeting of minds that had literally taken his breath away; this woman who had so willingly given over her trust to him and who he felt as though he had known before in a thousand lifetimes and who now dominated his every conscious thought.

And far too late he had watched her eyes widen, her arms grasp the baby tightly to her breast as she took a single stumbling step backwards, momentum halted by the rough wooden wall at her back.

A moment of confusion before the first blow struck the back of his head, dropping him to his knees and sending the gun skittering across the floor to rest tantalizingly out of reach of his outstretched fingers; his howl of pain as the heavy boot came crashing down on the back of his hand, splintering bone and sending a white heat radiating throughout his now prone body, the howl increasing in volume as he watched as the baby was torn from her grasp by the very hands she had just fed.  Struggling to get to his feet even as the blows came raining down on him, steel toed boots  to his torso, his ribs, his face; trying to crawl toward her as she was thrown to the floor, held down with a knee to her delicate, slender throat, tears sliding down her perfect skin as her eyes closed in the shame of what was being done to her, her body cruelly and viciously exposed as her clothing was torn away.

And a final horrified realisation as he watched as one of his soldiers, one of his honourable men, kneel over her, pushing her legs apart with his knees as he thrust his engorged penis into her, her body arching agonisingly as she screamed in pain and denial before finally, mercifully, the blackness clouded his vision and took him away…..

                                                       *********

He finds her outside, finally finding the strength to get to his feet and stagger to the doorway, the bright sunlight exploding like daggers behind his swollen eyes.  She is seated at the bottom of the stone steps, ragged clothing pulled together in an attempt to cover herself as she curls herself around the bundle she holds in her arms, the baby still and grey within his swaddling and he is overcome with a rage so intense his injuries are forgotten as he throws himself down beside her grasping her arm roughly and forcing her to look at him.

“Where are they?”

Instantly ashamed as she recoils from him, baring perfect white teeth as she begins to cry, high pitched and keening it shatters something inside him he knows he will never regain and he releases her, rocking back on his heels to give her space.

“Please….I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…”

His words are choked from him on the back of a sob as he gently lays his undamaged hand against her cheek, thumb caressing her bruised skin softly, grateful that she even allows him this small contact.

“Tell me where.”

And finally she looks at him, this woman who has been damaged beyond repair by his own stupidity; by his desire to believe in the goodness of men, pointing toward the left of the tiny cabin that he now suspects will become her prison.

She is still sat with her baby when he leaves; after searching for and finding the elusive colt where it had finally rested beneath the tall dresser in the corner of the room he leaves the cabin, gun now tucked at the small of his back beneath the blue coat he once wore so proudly.

But now pride has been replaced with a cold, hard rage that pulses in his veins, a rage that demands justice for her, for the tiny boy who lays lifeless in her arms; a rage which will not be quieted until he demands payment for her loss, for her violation and for everything that has been stolen from her.

And much later, when the five bullets in his gun have become just one and the stench of death is upon him once more, when he closes his eyes and beseeches God to forgive him, and places the barrel of the gun against his temple, Mulder’s only remaining regret is that he will never know her name.

End