#pyre graphics

[vi-pire]

I made a poster for studio investigrave on canva

[appealingtonobody]

get the soundtrack here

[novaursa]

The Silent Pyre

- Summary: It was a rainy night when Blood and Cheese came to deliver you your half-sister’s message; a son for a son.

- Paring: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N. Aegon and the reader have four children, the oldest son named Aeron, a daughter, Daena, and twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon. These events happen after Twin Fires and before The Fire That Binds Us. For full chronological order of these works visit my blog. The list is pinned on the top. Or, you can read it as a one-shot. Anonymous user inquired about these events, and I've decided to post it and share it with you all, it has been stashed away for too long in my file graveyard.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (no adult content, but there are graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore)

- Word count: 5 133

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The night is heavy with the scent of rain, the coolness of autumn seeping into the stones of the Red Keep. The fire in Helaena’s chamber casts long shadows across the walls, flickering as the wind howls faintly outside. You stand by the door, the weight of your crown pressing down upon you as you gaze at your younger sister. Her pale hair gleams like moonlight as she kneels by her children’s cradle, whispering a soft lullaby. Her voice is a quiet, fragile thing, a melody that seems almost too delicate for the world that surrounds you both.

“Helaena,” you murmur, stepping closer. She lifts her head, her violet eyes distant and unfocused, as though she is seeing something far beyond the chamber walls.

“Y/N,” she replies, a small, distracted smile gracing her lips. “Goodnight. May the Seven bless your dreams.”

“And yours, sister.” You reach out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sleep well.”

With one last glance at her serene face, you turn and leave the room, pulling the door shut softly behind you. The corridor outside is eerily silent, the usual clamor of the servants and guards muted, as if the Keep itself holds its breath.

As you walk through the darkened halls, a sense of unease begins to coil in your chest. The silence feels unnatural, like the calm before a storm. The rain patters against the windows, a steady rhythm that should be soothing, but instead heightens your anxiety. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, the chill of the stone floors seeping through your slippers.

Your thoughts drift to Aegon, waiting for you in your shared bedchamber. You picture him sprawled across the large bed, his platinum blond hair tousled, perhaps with a goblet of wine in hand. There is comfort in the thought of him, of the warmth of his body against yours, but it does little to dispel the growing dread that gnaws at your insides.

As you approach the nursery, the unease sharpens into fear. You pause, your hand hovering over the door. The sound of something crashing softly from within reaches your ears—a faint, almost imperceptible noise, but enough to send your heart racing. The shadows behind the door shift, moving in ways that shadows should not.

You swallow, forcing down the rising panic. Your children are in there, your precious sons and daughter. Steeling yourself, you push the door open slowly, trying to remain as silent as possible.

The scene before you is one pulled from the darkest of nightmares. The warm, cozy nursery is cast in a pall of terror. Your eyes first find your mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, bound and gagged on the floor, her eyes wide with a terror that you have never seen before. She struggles against her bindings, her muffled cries like the wail of a ghost in the suffocating silence.

But it is the two men in the center of the room who capture your attention—the one holding your eldest son, Aeron, in his arms, a cruel knife pressed to his throat, while the other stands nearby, his presence looming and sinister. Your son is awake, tears streaking down his face, his small body trembling in fear.

“Do not scream,” the man holding your son whispers, his voice low and threatening. “Or the boy dies.”

Your breath catches in your throat, a wave of nausea rising within you as the reality of the situation crashes down. You force yourself to remain calm, to not give in to the terror clawing at your heart.

“What do you want?” you manage to say, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

“Vengeance,” the other man—Cheese, they will call him, from his size and the rat-like cunning in his eyes—replies coldly. “For son's blood has been spilled. Now, it is your blood that must pay.”

You take a step forward, and the knife digs deeper into Aeron’s tender skin, a small whimper escaping his lips. Your entire body tenses, every instinct screaming at you to protect your child, but you are powerless, bound by the threat that hangs over him like a blade.

“Let my son go,” you plead, your voice cracking. “Please. He is but a child.”

Cheese’s grin is twisted, devoid of mercy. “A choice, Your Grace. You must choose one of your sons. Two to live, and one to die.”

The words hit you like a blow, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your knees threaten to buckle beneath you, the world spinning as the horror of what they ask becomes clear. They want you to condemn one of your children to death. To choose between your sons.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I cannot.”

“You must,” the man holding Aeron insists, his voice a menacing growl. “Or we kill them all three.”

You look between your sons, your heart shattering into pieces. Aeron, your eldest, so brave despite his fear, his wide eyes pleading silently for you to save him. And twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon, still asleep in their cribs, blissfully unaware of the nightmare unfolding around them.

Tears blur your vision, the anguish of the choice tearing at your soul. You cannot do this. You cannot be the one to decide who lives and who dies. But their lives, three of them, hang in the balance, and the choice is yours to make.

“Please,” you beg once more, though you know it is futile. “Do not make me choose.”

Cheese steps closer, his breath foul as he leans in. “Choose, Queen Y/N. Or your precious children will all die, and it will be on your head.”

The weight of your crown feels like a curse as you stand there, trembling, the choice before you too terrible to comprehend. Your hands are shaking, your heart breaking, as the words begin to form on your lips, but they can't leave them.

The world narrows to the unbearable choice before you, every second stretching into an eternity. You stand frozen, the screams of your heart drowned out by the silence that has gripped your throat. Aeron, your firstborn, stares at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, pleading for a salvation you know you cannot grant him. And there, in their cribs, laid Vaelon and Baelon, so small, so unaware, their chest rising and falling peacefully with each breath.

It is the smaller and younger twin’s innocence, his lack of awareness, that seals your fate. If he must die, let it be without knowing fear. Let him slip from this world in the safety of his dreams.

Your decision comes not from cruelty, but from a twisted, desperate kind of mercy.

“Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice a broken thing. “Take him.”

The words taste like ash on your tongue, a confession of the darkest sin. The man holding Aeron grins, his eyes alight with a sadistic satisfaction. But even as the choice leaves your lips, a cold realization claws at the back of your mind—this was never meant to end well. They were never going to let Aeron live.

You see it happen almost in slow motion, the knife glinting in the dim light as it draws across your eldest son’s throat. The sound that escapes him is a choked gasp, eyes widening in pain and betrayal as the blood wells and spills down his neck.

“No!” The word tears from your throat as you lunge forward, but it is too late. The man has already sliced deeper, crimson blooming like a terrible flower. Yet, Aeron is not yet gone. The blade catches as the man’s hand slips, and in that moment of weakness, Alicent—your mother—finds her strength.

With a fury you have never seen, she throws herself against the man holding Aeron, her bound body knocking him off balance. He stumbles, the knife digging deeper but freeing your son from his grasp. Aeron falls to the floor, clutching at his bleeding throat, his small hands stained red.

A scream of pure, primal rage rips from your chest as you hurl yourself at the man, the world around you narrowing to a singular purpose: kill him. You grab for the knife, your hands slick with Aeron’s blood, and wrest it from his grasp. The man struggles against you, but your desperation lends you strength. With a wild, desperate thrust, you drive the blade into his side, feeling the give of flesh and bone as it sinks in.

He gasps, a wet, gurgling sound, eyes wide in shock as he stumbles backward, clutching at the wound. You pull the knife free and stab again, and again, each strike fueled by the agony that has consumed you. Blood splatters across your face, warm and sickening, but you do not stop until he falls, lifeless, to the floor.

In the chaos, you do not notice Cheese until it is too late. He has turned his attention to one of the twins, to Vaelon, your youngest, the one you had chosen to condemn. As your daughter, Daena, screams—a piercing, heart-rending sound that echoes through the nursery—Cheese moves swiftly, seizing the smaller boy from his crib.

“No! Please!” you cry out, scrambling to your feet, but your voice is drowned by the sheer panic that has overtaken you. You are too far, too slow. Vaelon’s eyes flutter open, confusion and fear flickering across his tiny face as the knife flashes once more.

And then it is done. The light fades from Vaelon’s eyes as his small body crumples to the floor, lifeless. 

A silence falls over the room, broken only by the sound of your daughter’s sobs, Baelon’s baby gurglings and the ragged breaths of Alicent, who is desperately pressing her hands against Aeron’s wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Aeron!” You rush to him, dropping to your knees beside him. His eyes are glazed with pain, his breathing shallow and labored. The wound is deep, but he is alive, clinging to life by the barest thread.

Cheese is panicking now, his eyes darting around the room as if realizing for the first time the gravity of what they have done. The plan, whatever it was, has gone horribly wrong. He looks at the bodies—the man you killed, Vaelon’s small, lifeless form—and he falters, unsure of his next move.

“You will die for this,” you hiss, every word trembling with a deadly promise. “You will not leave this room alive.”

Cheese takes a step back, fear flashing in his eyes, but before he can act, you move. Fueled by a mother’s wrath and the madness of grief, you surge forward, the bloodied knife still clutched in your hand. He tries to fend you off, but he is no match for the fury that drives you. With a wild, savage strike, you plunge the knife into his chest.

He gasps, a final breath escaping his lips as his eyes go wide, then glassy. He collapses to the floor, joining his fallen companion in death.

You stand there, panting, covered in the blood of your children’s murderers, and of your children themselves. Your hands shake as you drop the knife, the sound of it clattering to the floor barely registering in your mind.

“Y/N,” Alicent calls out, her voice trembling. “Aeron needs you.”

You blink, the fog of rage lifting just enough for you to focus on your son. You drop to your knees beside him, your hands finding his, trying to staunch the flow of blood with trembling fingers.

“Stay with me, my love,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Stay with me. Please.”

Alicent is beside you, pressing her hands down on the wound with all her might. “He’s strong,” she says, though her voice wavers. “He will survive this.”

You nod, though your heart is breaking. You dare not look at Vaelon’s still form, his twin, Baelon, now wide awake in his crib, or at your daughter, Daena, who is now curled into a ball in the corner, sobbing for her brothers. You can only focus on Aeron, on keeping him alive, as the horror of what has happened sinks into your soul.

The night is no longer just cold and rainy; it has become a night of death and despair, one that will haunt you until your last breath. But you will not let it claim Aeron. Not him, too.

And as the dawn begins to break, casting pale light over the carnage, you hold your son close, praying to the Seven to spare him. To spare at least one of your children, as the taste of your own choice, the bitterness of it, poisons your every breath.

Aegon sits in the dim light of your shared bedchamber, his goblet of wine resting lazily in his hand. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls, but the warmth it offers does little to chase away the chill of the autumn night. He sighs, his thoughts drifting to you, knowing that you will join him soon. The bond you share, forged not only by blood but by a deep, consuming love, is one that neither of you can escape, nor would you wish to. Sleep eludes him without you by his side, as it always has since you were children. 

He takes another sip of the wine, waiting for the familiar sound of your footsteps approaching. The thought of the night ahead, of holding you close, offers a comfort that softens the weariness in his bones.

But then, a scream pierces the stillness of the night—a scream that he recognizes instantly as belonging to your daughter. It is followed by your voice, raw with anguish, echoing down the corridors.

The goblet slips from his hand, clattering to the floor as he leaps to his feet. The wine spills across the stone, forgotten as dread seizes him. He knows something is terribly wrong. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rushes to the door, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Your Grace!” one of the Kingsguard calls as they fall into step behind him, but Aegon doesn’t respond. The only thought in his mind is to reach you, to reach his children.

He tears down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, until he reaches the nursery. The door is ajar, shadows flickering ominously in the light from the hallway. The scent of copper fills his nostrils before he even crosses the threshold, a scent that chills him to the core.

He bursts into the room, but in his haste, he doesn’t notice the slickness beneath his feet until it’s too late. His foot slips on the blood that pools on the floor, and he stumbles, barely catching himself on the doorframe before he can fall.

For a moment, everything seems to slow. He looks down at the blood smeared across the floor, the vivid red of it stark against the stone. And then he sees the scene before him, a tableau of horror that makes his breath catch in his throat.

Two men lie dead on the floor, their bodies twisted in death, blood oozing from fatal wounds. But it is not them that hold his attention; it is the small, lifeless form of Vaelon, his infant son, lying not far from them, his throat cruelly slit. Aegon’s heart seizes, his vision blurring with tears that he fights to hold back.

“No… no, no…” The words are barely a whisper as he staggers forward, his mind unable to fully comprehend the sight before him.

But there is more—your mother, Alicent, is on the floor, her hands pressed desperately against Aeron’s throat, trying to stem the flow of blood. And there you are, kneeling beside your eldest son, your hands covered in blood, your face a mask of desperation and despair as you try to keep him alive.

“Y/N!” Aegon chokes out your name as he rushes to you, his voice filled with fear and anguish. “What… what happened?”

You look up at him, your eyes red and swollen from crying, and the sight of you breaks something deep within him. “Aegon… they… they killed Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “They tried to kill Aeron… we… I couldn’t stop them…”

Aegon falls to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uselessly over Aeron, unsure of what to do. He can see the life fading from his eldest son’s eyes, the pale skin, the way his breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. Aegon feels a crushing sense of helplessness, something he has never experienced with such intensity before.

“Aeron, my boy… stay with us,” Aegon pleads, his voice thick with emotion as he brushes a trembling hand over Aeron’s hair. “Stay with us, please…”

Alicent looks up at her son, her own eyes filled with tears, though she fights to keep them at bay. “We need to stop the bleeding, Aegon. If we don’t… if we don’t…”

“I know,” Aegon says, though his voice is strangled. He tears a strip of cloth from his sleeve, pressing it to Aeron’s wound with a firm but gentle hand. “Stay with me, Aeron. You’re strong. You can fight this.”

But even as he says the words, he feels the cold dread settle in his chest, knowing that the wound is too deep, that his son’s life is slipping away with every passing moment. 

You lean into Aegon, your body shaking with sobs as you press your bloodstained hands over his, trying to help, trying to do something—anything—to save your child. But the blood keeps coming, seeping through your fingers, staining the floor beneath you.

“Please… please…” you whisper, over and over, your voice breaking with each word. “Don’t take him from us…”

Aegon pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you even as he continues to press down on Aeron’s wound. He can feel your pain, your sorrow, as if it were his own, and in that moment, he knows that this night will haunt both of you for the rest of your lives.

The Kingsguard finally arrive, swords drawn, their faces pale as they take in the scene before them. But there is nothing they can do; the threat is already gone, the deed already done. All they can do is stand there, silent and grim, as the horror of what has happened sinks in.

“Get a maester!” Aegon commands, his voice rising with desperate urgency. “Now!”

One of the guards rushes off without a word, the others standing watch as if expecting another attack, though it is clear that the danger has passed. Aegon looks down at Aeron, his heart breaking as he watches the light in his son’s eyes flicker and fade.

“Stay with us, Aeron,” he whispers again, but the words sound hollow, empty, even to his own ears.

Alicent, her hands still pressed against the wound, glances at you, her eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it seems to swallow the room whole. “Y/N,” she says softly, her voice thick with grief, “he’s… he’s still fighting. But we need to prepare ourselves… we need to…”

“No!” You cry out, shaking your head violently. “No, he’s going to survive. He has to. He’s strong. Please, Aegon, tell her… tell her he’s going to survive.”

Aegon swallows hard, trying to keep the tears at bay as he looks at you, seeing the hope in your eyes, fragile and desperate. “He’s strong,” he agrees, his voice trembling. “He’s a dragon. He’ll survive this.”

But even as he says the words, he knows that they are more for your sake than for his own. He knows the truth, as much as he hates it, as much as it tears at his very soul.

And then, as if in response to your pleas, Aeron’s breathing hitches, a faint, ragged sound that sends a jolt of hope through your heart. But Aegon sees the truth in the way his son’s eyes begin to flutter shut, the way his small body goes limp beneath your hands.

“No, no, stay with us, please…” you sob, your voice breaking completely as you try to shake him awake, as if you can keep him from slipping away just by sheer will alone.

Aegon pulls you closer, holding you tightly against him, his own tears falling freely now. “Y/N… he’s…”

But before he can finish, the maester arrives, pushing his way into the room with a satchel of supplies. He takes one look at Aeron and immediately sets to work, but Aegon can see it in his eyes—the resignation, the grim acceptance of what is to come.

Aegon watches as the maester tries to stem the bleeding, his hands moving quickly, efficiently, but it is clear that he is fighting a losing battle. You cling to Aegon, your tears soaking into his tunic as you watch, your breath catching in your throat every time Aeron’s breathing falters.

Minutes pass, each one stretching into an eternity, until finally, Orwyle pulls back, his face pale and drawn. He looks up at Aegon, then at you, and shakes his head, his expression filled with sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he says quietly. “There’s… there’s nothing more I can do.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you cry out, your hands trembling as you reach for Aeron, as if you can somehow pull him back from the brink.

“No… no, please, no…” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you cradle your son’s head in your lap, your fingers brushing through his hair.

Aegon feels his heart shatter completely as he watches you, as he sees the light finally fade from Aeron’s eyes, his small body going still in your arms. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but hold you as you break down completely.

The days following the brutal attack on your family pass in a haze of grief and despair. The Red Keep is draped in a suffocating silence, its once lively halls now cold and empty, as though the life has been drained from its very walls. The horror of that night lingers in every corner, every shadow, a constant reminder of the blood that was spilled and the lives that were lost.

Your remaining children, Daena and Baelon, are kept under the strictest watch by the Kingsguard. No less than two knights are stationed outside their chambers at all times, and they are never left alone, not even for a moment. The memory of what happened to their brothers hangs over the nursery like a dark cloud, and every sound, every creak of the floorboards, sends a fresh wave of terror through the household.

But it is you, their mother, who is most affected. The grief has hollowed you out, leaving you a mere shadow of the woman you once were. You spend your days in a state of numbness, your heart shattered beyond repair. Nothing and no one can console you, not even Aegon, who tries desperately to reach you, to bring you back from the edge of the abyss into which you have fallen. But his attempts are in vain. You are inconsolable, broken beyond words.

Aegon himself is a man consumed by fury. The fire of his rage burns hotter with each passing day, fueled by the sheer injustice of what has happened. He holds a small council meeting in the dead of night, summoning only those he trusts—or at least, those whose loyalties he can control.

In the dimly lit council chamber, Aegon sits at the head of the table, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles are white. His eyes are bloodshot, his face drawn and pale from lack of sleep. The tension in the room is palpable, every man present feeling the weight of the King’s anger pressing down on them like a physical force.

Around the table sit Otto Hightower, his face a mask of stern concern; Ser Criston Cole, his expression grim and unyielding; Lord Larys Strong, who watches the proceedings with his usual calculating gaze; Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, his fingers tapping nervously on the table; Lord Tayland Lannister, the Master of Ships, who remains unusually quiet; and Grand Maester Orwyle, who sits with his hands folded, his eyes downcast.

Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, a low, seething growl that sends a shiver down the spine of everyone in the room. “How did this happen?” he demands, his eyes blazing with fury as he looks from one man to the next. “How did two men infiltrate the heart of the Red Keep, murder my sons, and nearly take the life of my other children without anyone knowing? Where were the guards? Where was the protection I was promised?”

Otto is the first to speak, his voice calm but firm. “Your Grace, we are all grieved by this tragedy, but rest assured, we are investigating every possible lead. The guards who were on duty that night have been questioned, and those found negligent will be dealt with severely.”

“Dealt with severely?” Aegon echoes, his voice rising with incredulity. “My sons are dead, and you speak of discipline as if that can undo what has been done! This was not just negligence—this was treason, betrayal of the highest order!”

Ser Criston Cole, ever the loyal sword, speaks next, his tone as hard as steel. “Your Grace, the Kingsguard were stationed as ordered, but the enemy was cunning. They knew exactly where to strike, and when. We are searching for any who might have aided them from within the Keep.”

Aegon glares at him, his anger still simmering. “You should have been there, Ser Criston. You should have been protecting my family, as you swore to do.”

Criston bows his head, accepting the rebuke without argument. “I failed you, my king, and I will bear that burden until the day I die.”

Larys Strong, who has remained silent until now, leans forward slightly, his voice smooth and unhurried as he speaks. “Your Grace, the men who did this were not acting alone. This attack was meticulously planned, designed to strike at the heart of your family and weaken your claim. There is but one who stands to gain the most from such an act of terror.”

Aegon’s eyes narrow as he fixes his gaze on Larys. “Speak plainly, Lord Strong. Who do you accuse?”

Larys meets Aegon’s gaze without flinching, his voice carrying a weight of certainty. “Rhaenyra Targaryen, and her husband, Daemon. They are the ones behind this atrocity. They seek to undermine your rule, to sow chaos and discord within the realm, so that Rhaenyra might usurp your throne.”

Aegon’s breath hitches at the mention of his half-sister’s name. His hatred for her is no secret, but to hear that she might be responsible for the deaths of his sons sends a fresh wave of fury coursing through him. “You have proof of this?” he demands, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

Larys inclines his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “The men who committed the murders—the butcher and the rat catcher—are known associates of Daemon Targaryen. They were hired by him to carry out this heinous act. The gold they were paid with was traced back to Rhaenyra’s supporters in King’s Landing. This was not just an act of violence—it was a message. Response to the death of Lucerys Velaryon by the hand of Prince Aemond.”

Aegon’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into the wood of the table. “A message? They dare to send me a message by murdering my sons? Two innocent boys?”

“Yes,” Larys replies, his voice as cold as ice. “They wish to show that you are vulnerable, that your rule can be challenged. They wish to provoke you into rash action, to draw you into a conflict that will weaken your position.”

“Rash action?” Aegon scoffs, his anger flaring anew. “They think they can provoke me? They think I will sit idly by while they murder my children?”

“Your Grace,” Otto interjects, his voice measured. “We must be careful. If we move too quickly, without proof, we risk turning the realm against us. Rhaenyra still has many supporters. We must gather our strength, consolidate our power, and then strike when the time is right.”

But Aegon is beyond reason, his grief and rage too great to be tempered by caution. “I will not wait!” he snarls, slamming his fist on the table. “They have taken from me what I hold most dear, and I will make them pay for it, tenfold! If Rhaenyra wants war, then war she shall have!”

The council members exchange uneasy glances, each man aware of the storm that is about to be unleashed. Aegon’s wrath is a dangerous thing, and they know that nothing they say will dissuade him from the course he has set.

Grand Maester Orwyle finally speaks, his voice soft but insistent. “Your Grace, the lives of your remaining children—Princess Daena and Prince Baelon—must be your foremost concern. They are the future of your house, and they must be protected at all costs.”

Aegon’s expression softens slightly at the mention of his children, the thought of them momentarily piercing through the fog of his anger. He knows that Orwyle is right, that the safety of Daena and Baelon is paramount. But even this knowledge cannot quell the burning desire for vengeance that has taken root in his heart.

“I will protect them,” he says, his voice hardening once more. “But I will not allow this attack to go unanswered. Rhaenyra and Daemon will know the price of crossing me.”

Otto inclines his head, understanding that there is no turning back now. “Then we must prepare for war, Your Grace. We must rally our banners, secure our allies, and strike swiftly and decisively.”

Aegon nods, his jaw set with determination. “Do it. Call the banners, prepare the dragons. We will bring fire and blood to those who dare to defy us.”

The council members rise from their seats, each man knowing that the decisions made this night will plunge the realm into chaos. As they leave the chamber, Aegon remains behind, staring at the bloodstained map of Westeros spread out before him. His thoughts drift to you, to the shattered look in your eyes, to the bodies of his sons lying cold in their graves.

He swears to himself, to the gods, and to the memory of his murdered children that he will not rest until Rhaenyra and Daemon are brought to justice. No matter the cost, no matter the blood that must be spilled, he will have his revenge.

And so, the storm begins to gather, the winds of war stirring in the darkness of the Red Keep.

[blooming-violets]

Saints and Sinners || Under the Banner of Heaven

[Jeb Pyre x fem!Reader]

Summary: Jeb falls prey to his darkest temptations while working a case.

Warnings: adult graphic smut, a cheating fic, heavy LDS religious themes and traumas, brief mentions of the murder of sex workers, light fem!dom/male!sub roles but nothing too crazy, brining it back to the religious trauma stuff - a lot of strong feelings of being trapped in a family/religion you don't feel like you belong in, if you are someone who feels offended with merging religion and sexual themes then this is not the fic for you

Note: "Reader" is nicknamed Daisy as her stage name as a stripper/sex worker. She has no physical descriptions apart from having female anatomy/a human body and wearing a sun dress. She can look however you'd want her to which is what makes her a reader character. Apart from that, she is her own character.

Jeb Pyre considered himself to be a decently good man. 

He was well groomed. He was respectful. He loved his family. He gave his job 100% and loved his neighbors. 

He was a devout son of the Heavenly Father. 

Or, at least, he used to be. 

He had been hiding his true self for his family's sake. He was trying, but failing, to keep up his appearance of perfection. Every day was a new struggle to keep up his flawless Latter-day smile. Docile and submissive. Never making waves. Never voicing questions. Day after day, trapped in his own mind, slowly being eaten alive by his ever growing doubt. It was only a matter of time before he cracked. 

She was his forbidden fruit. The temptress sent straight from the devil to corrupt his soul. The snake in his garden. 

His latest case had led him straight to her doorstep. There were sex workers in the city being murdered. A killer who vowed to cleanse his city from their filth. Jeb hadn’t even known there were sex workers living in his area. He’d never even seen a strip club before he was forced to step inside one to investigate. It was a terrifying world he wasn’t sure how to navigate. 

She had taken his hand and led him through the darkness. 

Daisy. That’s what she called herself. Her stage name. She had told him it was after Daisy Buchanan. The paragon of perfection for men to lust after but hiding a sardonic, amoral soul. It seemed to fit. She was the kind of woman he’d leave a green light on for but never be able to obtain. He knew her real name for his investigation but she refused to have him call her by such. She claimed only the people who truly loved her were allowed to utter her true name. To everyone else, she was just Daisy. 

He used to believe that all sex workers were women who needed saving. They had lost their way from God. They were impure. Drug addicts. Abused. Lost souls desperate to be saved. 

But she fit none of those roles. 

She was strong and sure. A business woman. A homeowner. She didn’t need a man to provide for her. Everything she owned was achieved through her own tenacity. When he looked at her, he saw someone who truly enjoyed their job. He struggled to wrap his head around that fact. A woman shouldn’t enjoy having sex for a living. She shouldn’t enjoy selling her body to perverted men. She should remain pure and devout until marriage. He often wondered what her future husband would think of her lewd, depraved acts. 

And then he remembered that she never wanted to marry. 

What an absurd thought. A woman with no desire for a husband? Utterly bizarre. 

She was unlike any woman he had ever met and he was tempted by the wickedness of her world. He knew he shouldn’t be. He knew better than to dance with the devil. Yet, here he was. Allowing her to occupy every existing thought in his brain. She was the one he thought about late at night. She was the name he moaned into his pillow in the early hours of the morning while his wife slept beside him. She was the one he dreamed of being able to touch. 

The one thing he couldn’t have, was the one thing he truly coveted. For Jeb Pyre was a sinner. He wasn't a devout man. He didn’t believe in the Heavenly Father. 

And he hated the life he was forced to be living. 

Everything was an act and he was tired of playing his part. 

So, when a killer murdered two of her work acquaintances, and put her in his targets, Jeb decided to personally oversee her protection. After all, she had been such a help to the investigation thus far. He needed to keep his best informant alive. 

Even if that meant risking everything he had to spend the night in her arms.

Jeb parked his car on the street directly outside of her house. From out here, one would never know what kind of person she was. It looked no different than any other house on the block. He wondered if her neighbors had any idea. He couldn’t imagine if they knew, they would let her stay in the neighborhood without a fight. They’d blame it on the guise of protecting their innocent children from the evil whore but the truth was that they hated anyone who dared to step outside their carefully crafted circle. They hated those different from them. 

But who were her clients then, if not the men who claimed to hate everything about her? 

Everything was a facade. He was so used to hearing people say one thing but act the opposite. The men who would run her from their neighborhood if they knew the truth, were the same men who would cash out their family’s credit card to spend a night with her. Publically, they would denounce her. Privately, they would take whatever they desired from her.

He was no different from them. The perverse thoughts inside his head were just as bad, if not worse. He had seen too much in this job. It had twisted his core. His mind was polluted. He was lusting down paths he could never travel. 

Jeb rapped three, strong knocks on her door. It was later in the evening. He knew she wasn't at the strip club because he had a copy of her schedule in his car glove box. There were other women he had to keep an eye on, too, but she was the one he chose to personally protect. She was the one he feared to lose the most. It was irrational, he knew that. She had no notion of his fantasies keeping him up at night. To her, he was just the lead detective on a case. 

He caught her peeking out the top window of her front door, standing on her tiptoes to reach, and he gave a friendly wave. At least she was smart. She wasn’t opening her door to just anyone. 

He listened to the clicks of two different locks and smiled as she opened to him, “Good evening, ma’am. Detective Jeb Pyre, remember me?” 

She forced a tight smile in return, “Of course I remember you. Do you think I have the memory of a goldfish?” 

He let out a half hearted laugh. She was beautiful but she was scared. Women she had worked with were dying. It was supposed to be his job to keep them safe.

He tried to take a subtle glance down her body. She was wearing a sundress and nothing else. Warm yellow with tiny white flowers dotting the sleek fabric. One of the thin straps was sliding down her shoulder. The dress clung tightly around her torso to highlight her stunning cleavage and flared out over her hips whenever she moved. Women around here never wore clothes like that unless they also donned a buttoned up cardigan and tights. To see her display her body so openly caught his breath in his throat. He had to shift on his feet to readjust himself. He refused to allow her to see how excited his body was reacting to hers.

It was unprofessional. Wrong. 

“Not at all. Do you have a moment to chat?” He asked, doing his best to keep his voice level. 

She gave a sharp inhale, “Is everything okay? Did someone else get hurt?” 

Jeb shook his head, “No, no. Nothing like that. I just wanted…”

What did he want? He wanted to commit a sin. He wanted to see her naked. He wanted to kiss her entire body. He wanted to slide his cock between her beautifully plump lips. He-

He was going to hell. 

“I just wanted to stop in and let you know that I’ll be stationed outside your house for the rest of the night. With everything going on, I thought it would be best to station some people at various hot spots around town to keep an eye on things.” 

Her eyes narrowed, “My house is a hot spot?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Detective Pyre, but I don’t do business out of my own home. No one knows where I live. I use a stage name at work. No one there knows my real name. I’m not a street walker, I’m a stripper who occasionally takes up extra clients in the vip rooms when the money is good enough. My house isn’t a revolving door for men to come and go whenever they please like some brothel. I’ve taken some time off work for the next week to lay low, anyway. A lot of the other girls are doing the same. I think I’ll be alright.” 

Jeb chewed awkwardly on his bottom lip, feeling like he had offended her, “I didn’t mean to imply…anything…” 

This was not going how he intended. He wasn’t used to women talking back to him. He wasn’t sure how to respond. 

“You being stationed out in your car all night, in front of my house, is only going to cause more eyes to look at me. My neighbors already think I’m some crazy heretic for not attending their church. I don’t need them looking further into my life. Thank you for stopping by and offering your support but I don’t need it.” 

As she started to close the door, Jeb stuck his foot between the crack, wincing as it slammed into his shoe. He felt immediate guilt for doing such a strong handed act with her. He just couldn’t bear the thought of being turned away. He couldn’t spend another night laying in a bed next to a wife he no longer loved. 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly added when he saw her look of outrage. “I don’t think you understand how dangerous the man we are hunting is. He could have already followed you home. He probably already knows where you live. I wouldn’t put it past him to break in. I’ve seen it before.” He gave a quiet sigh, nearly begging for her approval. “Please. Let me watch over you tonight. I won’t be able to live with myself if something happened while I was supposed to be here.”

Her shoulders dropped in defeat. He watched her peer side to side down the street, taking in her surroundings for anything unusual. 

“Fine,” she huffed. “But do you have to be parked in the street? Can’t you pull your car into my garage so no nosy neighbors will see and spend the night inside? I have a perfectly adequate couch for you to hang out on.” 

Jeb smiled, relieved, “I can do that. Thank you.” 

He shouldn’t be this excited about being inside her home. 

As he slowly walked through her place, he took note of the items she owned. Her house looked like any others he might enter. There were pictures of her with friends hanging on her refrigerator, a television in the corner of the living room, a brick fireplace with a little ceramic frog on top of the mantle. A cozy, hand knit blanket was draped over the back of the couch. Everything looked normal. He felt stupid for imagining her living inside of sex dungeon. Whatever that might look like. He still had a lot of biases he had to work on.  

She walked into the living room after him with a glass of ice water, offering it to him, “The bathroom is the first door on the left down the hall. My bedroom is the last door. There’s a spare room to the right where I do my step aerobics. I have a basement with some empty rooms down there but I don’t really use them. Then there’s the kitchen and, obviously, living room. The front door and the basement door are the only doors into the house besides the garage. It’s a pretty small house with thin walls so you should be able to hear anything if there’s a break in.” 

Jeb smiled politely in thanks. He knew what he was doing would be considered nefarious in his community. A married man spending the night in a single woman’s home, a stripper, no less, would be the gossip of the town. It wouldn’t matter if he was a detective keeping watch on someone who could be in danger. He was still a man alone with a woman. The first night he was ever alone with his wife was their wedding night. It was no wonder Daisy wanted him to park in the garage so people wouldn’t talk. She probably had a hard enough time as it was. 

“I won’t take up much room,” he said. “I don’t want to be a burden. Only trying to help to keep everyone safe.”

“Isn’t this usually the type of job you give to the rookies?” She asked, taking a seat in an armchair across from the couch. She crossed her legs at the ankles like a respectable lady should and, somehow, she still looked like a seductress doing so. “Does the lead detective usually make overnight house calls?” 

The skirt of her dress was short. It bunched up around her thighs as she sat. He willed himself to only look at her face and keep his eyes from wandering. 

Jeb blushed and perched on the edge of the couch cushion, “We don’t have too many men at the station. I volunteered to lend an extra hand.” 

She leaned back, eyeing him up with a type of bold, observant intelligence he wasn’t used to seeing, “What does your wife think of you spending the night with a whore?” 

He anxiously twirled his wedding band around his finger. She spoke with such brashness it caught him off guard.

“I told her I was spending the night at the office,” he wasn’t sure why he willingly answered so honestly and without hesitation. 

She had that kind of spell over him. He wanted to protect her. Wanted to give her things. Wanted to tell her all his secrets. She was a siren luring him to his destruction and he was willing to sail his ship straight into the rocks if it made her happy.  

A smirk tugged up the corner of her lips, “Ah, I see. So you’re a liar. What else are you lying to her about?”

Jeb choked on the water he was sipping. His eyes widened. 

“I’m not-what-I’m not-” he sputtered out.

She laughed quietly to herself, “Calm down, detective. I was only joking. An LDS man telling his wife a lie? That’s never been heard of before.” Sarcasm dripped from her words. 

He ran the back of his hand over his lips to hide his smile. He liked her. He liked her sass. She didn't care what he thought of her. She wasn’t playing a game like everyone else he knew. It made him want to tell her the truth. Every truth. Everything he had been holding in for the past year. 

He hated his wife. He didn’t just not love her anymore, he despised her. 

Her words had been echoing in his ears for over a year now, “I love you but I can’t struggle through this with you.”

She had left him when he needed her the most. She chose her faith over him. He should have known. He had married her because of how devout she was. Her love for Heavenly Father was what drew him towards her in the first place. Now, it’s what cast him away. 

If he didn’t pretend, Rebecca would take everything from him. She would leave him for nothing if he didn’t keep on impersonating a saintly man. As if they hadn’t spent an entire lifetime together. As if he hadn’t devoted everything to his family. She would rather jump ship than dare to stand by his side when he needed her most. He would have never left her if she had been in his place. He would have held her hand and walked her through her doubts but she couldn’t do the same. Her love was conditional. 

He hated her for that. 

He hated himself for hating her. 

Rebecca’s faith was what kept her moving forward. It was all she ever knew. She lives in the LDS belief that Jeb, with his priesthood, is the one who must usher her through the veil when she passes so she can enter the highest form of heaven. Without him, without his beliefs, she was fucked. 

Jeb smiled to himself. He liked that word. 

Fucked. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

That was his life.

A big fucking lie. A pile of steaming bullshit. 

He had just met Daisy five days ago and she had already pegged him for exactly the kind of man he was. A liar. A stripper knew more about him than his own wife. She could see straight through the fabricated, bullshit act he put on and he had only been inside her home for five minutes. Five fucking minutes and she could already see the depravity leaking out of him. 

God, he was pathetic. 

“I don’t believe in a God,” he blurted out, shocking even himself with the outburst. 

She gave him a few, stunned blinks in response, “...Okay.” 

Jeb cleared his throat, his face heating with embarrassment, “I don’t know where that came from. I deeply apologize.” 

If he was with anyone else, his confession would have been met with gasps of horror. With her, it was nothing more than a passing sentence. 

She was perfect. He wanted her. Badly. That sundress was only working to fuel his indiscretion. 

She leaned her head into the palm of her hand as she rested it on the arm of the chair, “Is this…something you’d like to discuss further, detective? Men seem to enjoy emptying their traumas onto me. I’ve consoled many men over the years. I’ve been told I’m a very good listener.” 

“I-” he stammered, his ear heating up in shame for his actions. “No. I’m sorry. Again.”

She wasn’t his therapist. He didn’t have a therapist. Only crazy people had therapists. And he wasn’t crazy. 

Or maybe he was. 

Life might be easier if he was crazy. 

“I love my wife,” he stated. He only said that to try and convince his brain to stop lusting after the woman he was meant to be protecting. He was here to make sure no one broke in. He was working a case. He was not here to turn to sin. 

She nodded her head, pretending to follow along with whatever obvious breakdown was going on inside his mind, “That’s good. A lot of men love their wives. A lot of men don’t. That’s a part of life.” 

“I love…no…” Jeb sighed. Fuck it. The rant was coming out. He couldn’t stop it. He was already too far gone to keep it repressed any longer. “I don’t love my wife. I hate her. Every time I look at her, all I feel is animosity. I think she’s the dumbest woman I’ve ever met and I know that’s wrong to think. I know that makes me a terrible man. I’m an awful husband. It’s just that she blindly follows whatever the profit says. Whatever a bishop tells her to do, she’d do it without a second thought. They could tell her to get on her knees and suck them off because Heavenly Father commanded it so and she would do it. She doesn’t see anything further than her own nose. She follows and never questions. And, I understand, because I used to be the same. I used to believe because that’s what I was taught to do. Blindly believe. That’s all there ever was. 

“She’s never seen true evil. Not like I have. Because she refuses to look even though it’s all around her. I see it everywhere. She puts on her little Mormon blinders and never dares to take them off. So, she follows. And she makes my girls follow. And she makes me follow or else she will take the girls away from me. I am raising my daughters in a world that hates women. My wife is letting them be preyed upon. She’s happy to let them be squashed into submission. Keep sweet. Pray and obey. Learn to worship your future husband. Never think for yourself.” He closed his eyes and took a deep, shaking breath, feeling himself losing it. His voice cracked. “If I give up, is there no hope for my daughters? Who will protect them if not me? My wife would marry again, quickly, so she can still get into the celestial kingdom when she dies. She’ll marry someone who won’t waver in their beliefs. Another man would raise my girls. He won’t care about them. Not like I do. They’ll be sold off to the first Mormon boy they fancy. They’ll be married at 18. Never attend college. Never think for themselves. Never get a job. Because I won’t be there to inspire them to reach for more. I’ve seen what kind of men are out there. My daughters won’t be safe unless I play the part my wife created for me.”

He opened his eyes to look over at the woman across from him. Her face was neutral but her eyes were burning with an eagerness to know more. His sudden outburst of lament had stricken something deep inside of her. He had captured her interest like he was a strange bug forced under a microscope that she wanted to dissect. His spiel may have exploded out of nowhere but she was already on board to follow along. She seemed like someone who enjoyed a feisty debate. He needed someone who wouldn’t hold back. 

“You claim your wife is the dumb one, yet, here you are, spewing a load of shit all over my living room,” she mused, giving him a snarky grin. 

Jeb’s jaw dropped. He forced himself to quickly regain his composure and took another swig of cold water. The fire behind her eyes was enticing. He desperately wished his wife could show that kind of passion once in her fucking life. He hated the docile, sweet act. He craved raging forest fires not babbling brooks. He licked his lips, ready to swallow anything she threw back at him. This is what he wanted. Someone to argue with. Someone he could express himself with without fear of rejection. He wanted this fierce lioness to eat him alive. 

He just wanted something that felt real for once. 

She stood up to pace around the room in front of him while she spoke, “Do you realize your wife is like that because she knows nothing else? That is her way of survival. She chooses to believe instead of question because questioning is terrifying. Questioning means losing everything and everyone you’ve ever loved. Your entire world crumbles under your feet if you dare to question. Want to ask me how I know?” She stopped her aggravated pacing to shoot him a look of annoyance. “You’re a man. You have so many options still available should you fumble. If she were to question her faith, she would lose her family. Her mother, father, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends. She loses them all. And then she is left with what, exactly? I doubt your wife works? Does she have her own career? Skill sets? Does she have her own income? Does she have her own car? Bank account? She dares to question, she is left with nothing. But you know that already. Obviously. Because you are just as scared to speak your truths out loud. You’re no better than her.”

She stopped momentarily to catch her breath, flipping a strand of hair from off her forehead. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the way her hips swayed when she walked. He adored her temper. It felt so natural. Real. She wasn’t holding herself back to placate him. She acted on her own accord without worrying about how others perceived her. 

He wanted to toss her onto this couch and take her right here. He could only half listen to her rant through his ever growing desires. 

“How do you know your wife doesn’t think the same thoughts as you? How do you know she doesn’t hide her truths locked up deep inside her mind and never dares to speak them? It’s fine to voice your opinions when you’re in the safety of my house. To you, I am nothing, I’m just a stripper. A prostitute. Hooker. Harlot. Whore. Whatever you want to call me. I pose no threat to you because, to you, I am so far below you that my voice does not matter. You feel safe to speak freely inside these walls because you face no real consequences here. You’ve seen evil? Well I’ve lived evil. You’re here because of the evil that wants to be inflicted upon me. Because I think differently from you. Because I use my body as a tool. Because I don’t subscribe to your values. Someone out there thinks I deserve death simply because I exist in a way he doesn’t approve of. You want to blame your wife for your problems. Blame yourself because you’re no better than her. You’re all a part of the same system.” 

Jeb sat there in silence. The condensation from the glass of ice water clutched in his hand dripped down his wrist. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he took it all in. He was torn between fully digesting her words and imagining her naked, writhing body under him as he dragged the ice cube from his glass down her stomach. 

“I don’t,” he whispered. “I don’t think you’re a whore.” 

He didn’t even like saying that word out loud. He felt a dark cloud of shame rain down around him. But was she wrong?  

He had never imagined his wife in the scenario currently playing in his head. He saw Daisy as a sex object willing to be exploited to his darkest temptations.  

She stopped in front of him. She placed her finger under his chin and lifted his head up to look at her. His wide, pleading, brown eyes took her in, silently begging for some kind of clarity to fix his entire life.

“Tell me what you think of me, detective. Tell me the truth. When you look at me, what is it you truly see?” She murmured down at him. “Why are you really here? It’s not to discuss your lapse of faith, or your wife, and it’s not to keep me safe. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me what it is you truly want? Don’t you lie to me.”

The way his world saw it, Rebecca was pure, because she had remained a virgin until marriage. She lived and breathed by the Book of Mormon. Daisy was a condemned sinner, because she sold her body for sex. She was beyond saving. Even the outfit she wore was considered taboo. Modest clothing was the foundation stone to sustaining abstinence. She was the sinner. 

But so was he. 

Jeb was no saint despite the role he was trying to play. 

He took a deep breath and recited the scripture, “He that looketh on a woman to lust after her, or if any shall commit adultery in their hearts, they shall not have the Spirit, but shall deny the faith and shall fear.”

Her eyes flicked with curiosity and a smile tugged at her lips. She caressed her thumb over his cheek, “You lust, Jeb Pyre? For me?”

He licked his drying lips, gently pushing her hand away from his face, “Yes.” 

She nodded, knowingly, “You don’t know what you want. Your mind is in one place but your actions keep you in another. I am not the answer to your problems. Many men have tried but all have failed. The answer is never found between the legs of a whore. Unless, that is, what you say is true and you don’t think of me that way. Something tells me, though, that you’re lying to us both.” She gave him a wink, turning on her heels with her dress spinning out around her, and swayed down the hallway towards her bedroom. “Have a good night on the couch, detective. I’ll be retiring to my bedroom should you decide you need me.” 

She let those last few words linger in the air, the weight of them settling down around him, as the door closed behind her.

The cuckoo clock hanging on her wall let him know that midnight was here. The sudden sound breaking the peaceful silence had caused him to jump up from his spot on the couch and reach for the gun at his hip. Jeb rolled his eyes in the clock's direction and lowered his hands back to his side. He might still have some residual PTSD from his former cases…  

Her house was dark and quiet. 

He liked it that way. Sometimes he missed the quiet. She hadn’t left her bedroom since she entered. Without her in his sights, he could better attempt to control his impulses. He was too weak to be trusted around her. If she hadn’t left when she did, he would have given in. It had taken everything in him to not follow her blindly into that bedroom like a dog on a leash. 

Jeb ran a ragged hand over his face. He wasn’t tired. Late nights were where he thrived best. He hadn’t felt this alive in a long time. She’d awoken his mind in a way he thirsted for. Even just being in her house, prowling silently down her hallway, gave him a thrill. He felt like a naughty school boy getting into mischief after class. He longed to feel something more. His life was full of boredom and she offered him the keys to adventure. He longed to find solace in the arms of a stripper. 

A soft light illuminated from under her door to let him know that she was still awake down there. He wondered what she was doing hidden away out of his sight. She had invited him to join her. She had invited him to relish in his sins. It would be a line that, once he crossed, he would never be able to erase. The second he gave in to her, he wouldn't be able to stop. He was already past the point of saving. One little push was all it would take for him to delve into the madness. That glowing light under her door beckoned him to her like the light of God calling him home.  

He slipped into her bathroom instead. 

He ran cold water out of her orchid pink sink to splash over his heated face. His eyes sought his reflection in the mirror to stare deeply into his own battered soul. This was his crossroads. Whichever path he took would alter the rest of his life. He had already committed adultery in his mind. It was now the act to see if his body would follow or not. 

The sight of a black and golden lipstick sitting on the edge of her sink caught his eye. Jeb reached for it, popping off the cap, and twisting it up. A deep, berry red. A color housewives wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. He brushed his thumb over the top to coat his skin with the color of her lips. The bottom of the stick was engraved with the name of the shade. Walk of Shame. He smiled a wicked smile to himself. 

He knew what road he was going to take. He would take that walk of shame. 

Jeb placed the stick back where he found it. He twisted his wedding ring around his finger, mulling over his decision, then carefully plucked it off his body. He placed the ring around the lipstick, listening to it rattle against the ceramic sink, and gave a long, soft sigh. A weight had been lifted from him. He quickly exited the bathroom and allowed his feet to lead him straight to her door. He stood outside, silent, listening. 

Soft moans floated under the door. Little whines. Whimpers. 

His eyes slipped closed and his lips parted. He knew those sounds. She was putting on a show for him. All he had to do was raise the curtain and let her perform. His hand hovered over her door knob. 

It was okay. She had invited him in. 

“-should you need me.”

He needed her. He hadn’t engaged in sex with his wife in over eight months. He needed her now more than ever. 

He slowly and silently turned the knob. Inch by inch. Until he was able to push open the door. Just a crack. Just enough to peek through. He had to make sure she was safe behind those walls. After all, that was his job. 

She laid across the bottom of her mattress. Her sundress was gathered around her hips. Her legs were parted wide, aimed straight at the door, as if she knew he would show up. He was that predictable. Through her half closed, dreamy lids, her long, elegant fingers drew delicate circles through her glistening flower. His breath caught in his throat when he watched her dip a finger deep inside of her. His cock sprang to life, begging to be touched, pushing at the loose fabric of his dark gray suit pants. 

He should close the door. He should leave. 

This was wrong. He needed to repent. 

“I see you watching me, detective,” she whispered to him as he hid away in the dark hallway, lurking in the shadows like a predator. She let out a soft whine, dragging her soaked finger in circles around her clit. “I know you’re there.” 

Jeb swallowed. She was the devil. A demon. He had no power over her. Heat flushed through his veins. His breath was already coming out in heavy pants. He was chained to the doorway, captivated by her seduction. He couldn’t move away even if he wanted to. 

“Have you ever seen a woman masturbate, Brother Pyre?” She moaned. “Have you ever seen a woman touch herself like this?” 

His fingers wrapped around the edge of the door, gripping tightly onto the wood for support. No. He hadn’t. It would shock him if he found out his wife secretly masturbated in private. She was so well behaved. Masturbation was a sin. She would never dare allow anyone else besides him to touch her, not even herself. 

“Do you like to watch me?” She whimpered, sinking her finger back inside of her. “I was hoping you would come. I know you, detective. I see through you. Your mind is just as perverted as the rest of us. You want to give in. You want to taste what is forbidden to you. It’s okay. I won’t tell.” 

She looked hotly up into his eyes, staring straight into his corrupted soul. He was too weak. He had no resolve. The devil looked too appetizing. The sins of the flesh were tempting him forward as he let the door push open to reveal himself in all his shame. 

She gave him a warm smile, taking in the sight of the bulge below his belt. Her fingers swept through her folds, slippery with her arousal. With the expertise of someone with diligent practice, she used two fingers to part the outer petals of her womanhood to reveal to him the hot, sinking abyss he craved to explore. 

Enraptured, he could not tear his eyes from the slender digit plunging into her soaking depths. His mouth opened and closed, silently, begging to seek a taste of such a treasure. He watched in a starving trance as she anointed her needy pearl, bathing it in her honey, tending to it like a precious garden. Her eyes locked with his, burning, tempting him to join her in her display of debauchery. 

Oh, lord, he was tempted. 

Through heavy, ragged breaths she spoke, “Watch me, detective. Gaze upon the kind of life you were kept from. Look at what you could have been given. See what you missed out on.” 

He was watching. His eyes were padlocked to her dancing fingers. She was beautiful. His heart sought to hold her in his arms while he touched her with a wild abandon. 

“Do you like what you see, Jeb?” She moaned out his name extra low and tantalizing. 

He almost came in his pants at the sound of his name in her mouth. A shudder ran through his tightly wound body. 

“Answer me!” She demanded from him.

He gasped, “Yes.” 

A smile spread across her lips, “Good boy. Men like you work so hard, don’t they? You give and give and give but who ever takes care of you? Let yourself relax, detective. Let yourself give in. Let me care for you. Let someone else take control for once.”

Her eyes closed, lost in the rhythmic tones of her own words, casting her enchantment over them both. She had known he would come seek her out. She had known he would watch. She wanted him here. All he craved was to feel wanted again. 

He took a tentative step into her bedroom, closing the door behind him, and sealing his fate with the click of the lock. 

“That’s it, baby,” she cooed. “Come a little closer. Take a look at your new toy. All for you.”

Jeb held his breath, shuffling slowly forward a few more paces. His heart was racing. His skin was on fire. His mind was made up. 

“Why don’t you let Daisy see what her Gatsby is working with, hmm? Take your belt off. Unzip your pants. Show me.” It wasn’t a request but a demand. 

He swallowed, his nerves sending him into a frenzy, as he undid his belt, lost in her trance. His eyes stayed glued to her hypnotic fingers casting circles of magic around her clit. Subconsciously, his tongue dated out to lick his lips, desperate for a taste. 

His hot, heavy cock fell out into the palm of his hand. He listened to her sharp inhale at the sight. It was followed by a purr of approval. 

“I want you to touch yourself but keep your eyes on my pussy, detective. Watch what I’m doing. Watch how wet you’re making me. Listen.” Two fingers sunk into her, squelching and sloppy, as she pumped them in and out. 

His eyes rolled into the back of his head at the sound and a growl rumbled in the back of his throat. With the tip of his thumb, still stained with her lipstick, he smeared around his own wetness leaking from his tip. He worked it down his shaft, slowly pumping himself through his fist. 

“I’ve been dreaming of this moment since the day I met you,” she breathed, keeping him in her watchful sights, each of them working to build their own pleasure. “I saw you then like I see you now. A lost man in need of guidance. I dreamed of you touching me. That first day, when you called me into your office. I imagined spreading my legs for you as I sat on top of your desk, throwing papers to the floor, while you ate me out in front of the large window. I dreamed of you finding me at my work, paying extra to take me to the back rooms, making me suck your cock while you grabbed my hair and prayed to your pathetic God.” He wanted to eat that arrogant smirk straight off her face. “You like watching me, don’t you, pretty boy? You like hiding here, away from the world, where only you and I can bear witness to the blasphemy of your true self. Show me who you really are.” 

He whimpered, tugging on his cock a little harder. He was a sinner. An adulterer. A pervert. A heretic. A liar. 

“Tell me what you want to do to me, detective? Tell me all the ways you’ve dreamed of fucking me while you slept next to your frigid wife.” 

Jeb stuttered over his words, trying to force them out his tightening throat, “I’ve-I’ve…dreamt of dragging you to temple, b-bending you over the sacrament table, and fucking you in front of the congregation so they could all see what kind of dirty whore you are.” 

Tears pricked in his eyes as the shame battled it out with the unbridled lust. He had never spoken like that in his life. A sense of vitality flowed through him. It made his cock twitch in his hand and he stroked it more fervently. 

She licked her lips, letting out a light, amused laugh, “Such a naughty boy, detective. I know there’s more darkness in you. I want to hear it all. What else do you dream of?” 

“Taking you into my home. F-fucking you-” he stumbled over the word “fucking” as it still felt so forgein on his lips to openly talk this dirty. “In my bed. On my wife’s side. Forcing her to watch while I make you unravel on my tongue. Showing her exactly what she is missing out on. Showing her what kind of man I could be if she’d only open herself up to experiment more.”

He couldn’t believe the filth he was allowing himself to admit. These were his private thoughts. They were never meant to be exposed to anyone. She had that effect on him. His skull was cracked open and his most shameless self was laid bare. 

“You’re poor, poor wife,” she mewled. “She deserves to have someone tend to her needs, too. I know she wants it. All women do. You’ve just never pushed her far enough because you’re weak, Jeb Pyre.” She removed her fingers from her pussy and sat up, letting her dress fall back over her hips. She stared him down with her possessive gaze. “Get on your knees,” she ordered. 

He didn’t even hesitate. He released his hand from his cock and knelt down before her. She slowly got to her feet to take a stand directly in front of him. She was so close he could smell her sex clinging to her skin. 

“Men like you are always searching for something to worship.You told me you don’t believe in God. You told me you’ve lost your way. You have nothing to hold onto.” She trailed her finger, still glistening with her slick, over his bottom lip. “If you’ve lost your God then worship me instead. I’m your new God now, detective. Open your mouth and worship me. Cleanse my fingers with your tongue.” 

His lips parted and she slipped two fingers over his tongue. He closed around her, bathing her clean, tasting the remnants of her devine pussy. She slid her fingers down his throat causing him to gag. 

“Good boy,” she murmured her praises to him. “Sing me your devotions. Relax your throat. Soften your tongue. Take it like a man.” 

Jeb reached up to gently take hold of her wrist. He showered her hand in soft kisses, trailing up her arm and back down again, lapping at the tips of her fingers with his tongue, sucking them into his mouth, moaning as she glided down his throat. 

“Look at how hard you are. Desperate to be touched. Desperate to follow directions. Desperate to pray to anything that will have you.” 

She jerked her hand away from him, leaving him feeling empty and cold. She grabbed his chin in her grasp. Her nails dug into his cheeks. 

“Who’s your God, Jeb Pyre?” She asked. 

“You,” he replied. 

“Prove it. Pray at your altar.”

She lifted the skirt of her dress to expose herself to him. Her foot rested on the edge of the mattress so he could get an eye to eye look with his new lifeline. Jeb let out a shaky breath. His hands extended to wrap around her waist, drawing himself closer to her. He tilted his head to bring his quivering breaths to her heated core. She draped the hem of her dress over his head to curtain him the darkness where he belonged. In the dark, he could worship in secrecy.

His head pushed between her thighs to force her legs to widen for him. Her salty musk filled his senses, hooking him in like a drug. His eyes slipped closed at the first taste of the almighty. She was the bread of life. Honey flowed from the darkness and he relished in every drop. His tongue probed at her entrance, burying between her warmth, reaching deeper depths with lapping rolls. Teasing. Tantalizing. Tasting. He suckled at her clitoris, nibbling softly at the sensitive flesh, swirling her with his tongue. The sounds of her coos were all the praises he craved. He didn’t need practice to know how to please her. Surrendering to her was as natural to him as breathing. 

“A virtuous woman is the crown to her husband,” she moaned, quoting the scripture. “And, yet, your sinning whore is the one who sits upon your head like a crown.”

He shivered at the debauchery of her words. He smiled against her pussy and took his time to savor his meal. She was a blessing bestowed upon him. A crown upon his head. His tongue thrust up inside of her, fucking her slowly and tenderly. He tightened his grip around her waist to hold her closer, a desperate man clinging to his lifesaver, moaning against her heated skin. The way she ground herself against him, thrusting herself deeper against his tongue, was enough to trigger his own needs. He humped his hips into the air, thrusting into nothing. 

“Oh, sweet thing,” she hummed. “Is my favorite detective in need of some more attention? When was the last time you’ve had that gorgeously thick cock buried inside someone’s cunt?” 

He whimpered, not letting up on his assault of her pussy, and clung tightly onto her waist. Eight months. Eight torturous months. 

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” she murmured, her voice thick with lust from trying to control her building orgasm. “I’ll take good care of you. I don’t want you getting too drunk off my pussy. Can’t have you completely let go before I’ve had my fun. Come here.” 

She slid out from his grasp by pulling herself up onto the mattress. Her eyes were glazed over with a needy passion. Glassy and wet. 

“Take your pants off,” she ordered. “I want to see you fully.” 

They were already half way down his thighs. With a little push, they pooled around his ankles, pulled down quickly by the weight of his gun belt. He kicked off his nice dress shoes and stepped out of his pants to leave only his temple garments. 

She smirked at the sight and hopped off the bed to take a step closer. Her hand wrapped around his tie to pull him down to her level. Her lips trailed over his as his eyes fluttered close. She glided her tongue across his lips, cleaning herself from them, with a gentle hum of approval. 

“Who tastes better? Me or your wife?” She asked. 

Jeb flustered in her question, “I-I wouldn’t know. She won’t let me. She believes it’s a form of sexual transgression.”

“Did you think about her?” She questioned. “When your tongue was buried inside of me, did she ever cross your mind?”

Guilt filled him, “Not once.”

She smiled, releasing his tie from her grasp, and began to work on extracting him from his perfectly crisp, white button up until he was left in nothing but his sacred garments. 

She slowly eyed him up and down, “Keep the top on. I want you to remember exactly what your betraying as you fuck me.” 

She sank to her knees, pulling down his underwear with her. His cock sat against his left thigh, hard and in need of attention. Her nails dragged along his sensitive, delicate skin. When she reached the tip of his cock, she carefully pushed a nail into the soft flesh while he hissed in pain. She left a crescent moon imprint behind which she quickly leaned down to kiss better. It was her harsh reminder that even if she was on her knees for him, she was still the one calling the shots.

He quite liked how the pain made him feel but he was too nervous to ask for more.

Her throat relaxed as she slipped him between her lips. He skimmed over her warm tongue with little jerking movements from his hips to push himself deeper into her. He wanted to reach out and grab her hair but was afraid to touch her. Instead, he balled his hands up at his side, digging his nails into his palm to try and elicit a bit more pain. It wasn’t the same as when she inflicted it. 

Her head bobbed with an expertise that could only be brought from years of practice. It made his own oral skills seem novice and weak in comparison. His head leaned back as he stared at the ceiling, looking straight through it, and up into the heavens. There was no celestial kingdom up there. There was no God looking down on him. His heaven was right here in this room. His God was on her knees with her lips wrapped around his cock. This was the true meaning of life.

Jeb moaned out her name. Not Daisy. Not her stage name. Her real name. The one he kept locked up in a file in his desk. The name he would slowly stroke his finger over as he spent his late nights searching through his notes. The name only people who loved her were allowed to use. 

She froze. 

His cock fell from her lips and she stared up at him with a playful vengeance. 

“What was that, detective?” She asked, her voice low and dangerous, but hiding an impish undertone. “I know I didn’t hear what I think I just did.”

He ran a hand over his face, too overwhelmed to be thinking straight, “Daisy. I meant Daisy.”

“You think you know me?” She got to her feet, wiping her bottom lip with her thumb. “You think you know the real me? Because I know the real you, Jeb, but do you know me?”

A heated red tint blushed across his cheeks, “I…don’t know…” 

“Of course you don’t. Are you ever sure about anything in your life?” She raised a curious eyebrow at him. “I’m sure of most things that I do and say and believe. Can you say the same?”

He shook his head, “No. I can’t.”

She flashed him a poignant smile, “Name one thing you are 100% sure of right this very second.” 

Jeb licked his lips. He knew.

“I am certain that I want to kiss you. Certain that I want to tear that dress from your body. And I’m certain that I want to throw you over this bed and fuck you like you deserve.” 

“Then let go, detective. Give in. Become the animal you’ve always repressed. What are you waiting for?”

It was all the release he needed. 

His fingers wrapped around her wrist to drag her against his body. His lips crashed down onto hers as he held her in his arms with a steellike grip. She didn’t kiss him back, so much as, surrendered her mouth to him. Her body went nearly limp and he kept her on her feet with his own strength. Her surrender brought forth a rush of devoted emotions and blind, sexual desire turning him into the beast he longed to become. He seized at her hair, tugging, pulling, wildly gripping, and attacked her mouth like it was the holy spirit he sought to believe in. She shuddered before his onslaught and melted into him. The more he reached for, the more he stole, the more she wanted it. She was driving him insane with an unrestrained passion of pure lust. He pitied any man who didn’t fall to his knees to worship her like the goddess she was. Her mouth was a sin that he wanted to violate. 

Jeb violently grabbed at the straps of her sundress, nearly ripping them off, as he tore them down her body. The dress thumped to the floor to leave her completely naked and exposed. She didn’t flinch away. She didn’t try to hide and play with her coy modesty. She stood proudly before him exactly how a goddess should hold herself before a mortal man. 

He slid his hands up her sides, grazing over the swell of her breasts, feasting on them with his eyes. He ran his thumbs over her nipples, pinching and flicking, while he attacked her mouth once more. She parted her lips to submit his tongue into her depths, sucking on it and twirling it around her mouth. Whenever he pinched her gorgeous nipples between his fingers, she would let out the most delicious moan and thrust her chest against his palms. His heart was racing with a pace that might kill him if he didn’t force himself to breath. His head was spinning in a dizzying whirlwind of thrill. 

Jeb sank down and lowered his head to capture her nipple between his teeth, lashing at it with his tongue, listening to the gospel choir of whimpering moans coming out of her. She had shoved her nail into the head of his cock so he took a mouthful of her flesh, just under her beautifully darkened areola, and bit down hard. He had never bitten his wife in his life. He liked the way it felt as he tumbled deeper into his own carnal depravity. He wanted to defile her body and join her in their mutual corruption. 

She arched her back, letting out a gasping shriek and letting it tumble down into a slurry of cooing whimpers, “Oh, Jeb. Yes. Yes.” 

A circle of intended teeth marks, glistening with his saliva, shone proudly back at him. He liked marking her skin, claiming her as his own. It felt animalistic. Primal. A growl ripped from his throat, he was sick with lust, feverish and sweaty, panting with need. He grabbed at her hips and spun her around, pushing his hand between her shoulder blades to shove her face first into the mattress. Her ankles spread wide to allow him to have easy access. 

He took a stumbling step back to admire the sight. Her pussy was glistening and spread open in wait for him. Beads of sweat dotted along her back down her spine. Her ass was sticking upwards, parted, so he could see her tight, little hole. She looked more ready to be fucked than anyone he’d ever seen. His wife had never presented herself to him like this. He imagined her splayed out in this same position and gave a breathless laugh. He could hardly even create a mental picture in his mind, it was so improbable. 

“Something funny back there, asshole?” 

Jeb gave a dark laugh in response, “Just the neverending joke that is my life.” 

He lined the head of his cock up to her pussy, coating the tip in her slick, and bumping it back and forth over her clit. 

Murder. Denying the Holy Spirit. Adultery. 

Three of the worst things a good Mormon man could ever commit.

He’d already knocked denying the holy spirit off his list…might as well add another. 

He sunk his cock into her. Steady and true. She let out an exhale and he watched her head tilt back to enjoy the sensation. So hot. So tight. Perfection. She was here to be fucked. Here to take his cock.

“That’s it,” he breathed. 

He felt no shame. It was unusual for a Mormon not to feel shame but, tonight, buried balls deep in this woman, he felt nothing but relief. This was everything his body needed. He wanted fast and rough. He wanted to take her from behind with a feral abandon. He wanted to do all the things he wasn’t allowed to do until he was gripped with satisfaction. 

Jeb grabbed her hips for leverage and began his awakening. Tonight, he was becoming a new man. He fucked her with quick, short thrusts that slammed into her. Her ass slapped against his stomach with each pound. She filled the room with the sounds of her gasps and erotic moans. Depending on how hard he rammed into her, she’d even let out little shrieks. He liked those sounds best. They made him fuck her harder, dragging out his full length, then smacking back into her. Possessing her body. Over and over and over.

He didn’t even care that he wasn’t wearing a condom. Those were problems for later Jeb. Present Jeb had everything he could ever need. 

Sweat dripped down his forehead. Ragged, heavy, heaving breaths tumbled from his lips. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerking her upwards, so he could feel her body against his. She arched her back with her head rolling against his. He inhaled the scent of her hair fusing with the musk of their sex. He fumbled his hands around to capture her breasts, feeling the weight of them in his hands, her rock hard nipples dragging across his palm. She reached an arm around the side of his head to hold her steady from the onslaught of vigor his hips were causing her. 

“Oh, fuck, Jeb!” She cried. “You needed this, baby. You needed this to happen. Let go. Let it all out. Give me everything you’ve got. Don’t hold back.”

Jeb whimpered out a sob in response, sounding pathetic even to his own ears. All he wanted was someone to listen, someone to take care of him, someone to understand. 

He tumbled them both against the side of the mattress, falling on top of her. Her head turned, leaning against the covers, so he could shower the side of her face with wet, tear stained kisses. He nibbled on her earlobe, lapped his tongue at the corner of her lips, and dragged his teeth along the edge of her jaw. She was made to be devoured. His hips hammered with an agonizing precision into her heat. They were trapped in a hurricane, holding onto each other for dear life, as the maelstrom of building emotions swept them away. 

He could feel her clenching down around him. He knew she was close. He was, too, but he wanted her to cum first. His goddess deserved to reach euphoria before he did. His hand slipped down her side and wedged itself between her hips and the mattress to find a home between the slick fire of her lips. She whined, bucking her hips, the moment he found her clit, tormenting it with his fingers. 

“Cum for me,” his raspy, lust drunk voice growled in her ear. “Let me feel you unravel on my cock.”

Her body shook. Waves rippled over her skin with each hard pound of his cock into her. He could feel her tightening. Clenching. Gripping. A mangled yelp tore from her throat. When she orgasmed, she gave him everything. Her entire body surrendered to him. It burst from her with everything she could give. Her eyes widened, her mouth parted in a silent shriek, her spine arched. Like a demon possessing her body, she writhed under him with jerking, frantic thrusts. He wrapped his arms around her, collecting her tightly against him, to try and hold her together so she didn’t combust into the flames of Hell. 

He let out a whimper as he desperately tried to hold off his own orgasm. He wanted to let her ride out her ecstasy on his cock without him cumming inside of her. 

Her legs gave out and she sunk onto her knees, letting him slip out of her, “I got you, baby. I’wan’taste you. Use me.” 

Without missing a beat, she ushered him straight out of her pussy and into her wet, waiting mouth. His eyes closed as his head fell back. He let out a long, drawn out moan. His hand found her hair, no longer feeling nervous to touch her or manipulate her how he pleased. He helped push her forward to take more and more of him. He wasn’t going to last much longer. 

She let him slide down her throat, relishing his cock with her tongue, tasting herself on his tender flesh. He balled a fistful of her hair into his grasp. 

“I’m-I’m-I” he stuttered out, not able to finish the sentence, but she got to the hint. 

Her pace quickened. Her suction around him tightened. He felt himself tense up before an explosion of dopamine flooded his brain with a loud cry of pleasure. 

She straightened her back, moaning softly, as she swallowed down the hot spurts of his semen. Her fisted hand continued to massage his shaft while her mouth tended diligently to his crown. 

Jeb’s mouth hung open, tears flowed freely down his face, and he eventually managed to stumble backwards away from her. He crashed into the back wall and slid down to his ass, shaking. 

She crawled across the floor to drape herself into his lap. His arms snaked around her, thankful for having something to hold onto. His mind felt like he was floating away. His body felt amazing but his emotions were in turmoil. She stroked her fingers through his hair and left soft kisses along his neck. 

He had done it. There was no going back now. 

“It’s okay, baby,” she murmured against his sweat stained skin, as if reading his mind. “You did what you had to do. Sometimes your body knows better than your brain. It was telling you what it needed. It’s just like taking a spoonful of medicine to fight off a cold. There are times when you need to give in and give your body what it craves.” 

He craved her. Daisy. And everything that she represented. Even at this moment, after he had already had her, after he had given in, he should be feeling horror, disgust, shame, but he only wanted more of her. That’s why the tears were freely flowing. Not because he was humiliated by his sins but because he wanted more. 

This was the life he wanted to live. He had gotten a taste, a spoonful, of the other side. A side he could never have. A side he would always be reaching for but never able to obtain due to the religion he was trapped in. His priorities had to remain elsewhere. He had family to care for. Children to raise. He was their only hope for a different future. He would never allow Rebecca to take his kids from him. He would do whatever he needed to keep her docile and oblivious. He could save his children from the inside, even if that meant selling his soul to a God he didn’t believe in. 

Everything was so clear to him now. There was no more confusion. No more doubt. 

Daisy and his green light. 

The inability to ever reach what he truly desired. 

A/N: If you dare to ask me to write a part two and you don't reblog detailing in great detail everything you liked and enjoyed about this story, then I will curse your entire family and block you. No one gets to ask for a part two without doing their damn part and reblogging first xoxo

Tagging some people who seemed like they might be interested in this smutty lil fic: @moonyslove78 @raindropsandteaandtears @withahappyrefrain @lxinesux @liz-allyn (i dont care if youre hardly on tumblr anymore liz i will tag you in everything i do until the end of time deal with it)

[cr33dons]

first post that isnt just a repost, but the marble nest was on sale on steam so i got it and while playing through it, i noticed that the pyre by the cathedral (after 6pm) had legs sticking out

(sorry for the poor quality, my pc is akin to a soggy cardboard box and i have to lower the graphics for it to run)

notably the bodies burning in the pyre have the legs of the goose and starling models respectively, aka Marat Ranin and Dora Feugal

the cathedral is locked after 6pm, which is where they are before this point, i js think its a cool detail esp since both of them show up at the beginning in the bachelors residence and are implied to be dead already, or atleast dying of the plague

i js thought that was a cool detail, sorry if its already been said but i noticed it and wanted to say smthn

[mysoncookie]

BNHA Dabi-Centric fic recs

Artificial Parenthood, Affectionate Brotherhood by cereal_whore

Teen & Up, Gen, No Archive Warnings

Available on Ao3, On Going | Wordcount: 208,780

Has an On Going Series Called "Dabi says fuck the human species: artificial natural selection addition"

Summary: 22-year-old dabi switches place with ten-year-old touya todoroki in their timeline Bakugou, a single child with the social skills of an apathetic gamer, runs into a cellular mass of anxiety that vibrates the same murderous rage of a chihuahua. Said kid is as problematic as Bakugou himself, is a ginger, does not fear the laws of this land, and doesn't even seem to be from this land- or more accurately, time. Between Bakugou's homicidal urges, Todoroki Shouto's lack of filter, and God's middle finger, lies the Pandora's Box of the Todoroki's household secrets, in the form of a child named Touya Todoroki, who hates fish and has never heard of Minecraft. Todoroki Shouto just wants joint custody over his own older brother who's now inexplicably ten-years-old. So clearly, the only effective solution would be to force Bakugou to adopt him and all his other siblings. Meanwhile, Dabi, still in a world that never wanted him, learns that maybe an old dog can't learn new tricks (a truth he realises, when he finds himself reunited with a nine-year-old Shigaraki, who might not be past saving, the way he will be a decade later).

Lay Me on a Pyre (Sacrifice me for your sins) by RadioSilencer

General Audience, Gen, No Archive Warnings Apply

Available on Ao3, On Going | Wordcount: 29,126

Summary: “Ah, and I hate to do this to you, but there’s a couple questions we have to ask since you’re awake now. Is that all right?” Wondering why his input was needed for that, Touya nodded. Anything they wanted. Whatever he could do to be less of an embarrassment. “Okay then, tell me if you need a moment whenever,” the woman started, “your name.” “Todoroki.” Even if he wished it wasn’t (and everyone else probably did too). “Todoroki Touya.” (A bystander loses control, and Todoroki Touya opens his eyes to a brighter world than he left behind.)

By Any Other Name by SatelliteBlue

Teen & Up, M/M, No Archive Warnings Apply

Available on Ao3, Complete | Wordcount: 258,617

Has an On Going series called "Will you accept this rose?"

Summary: Through some freak accident of the universe, Dabi has been invited to compete on The Bachelorette. Have they actually seen his face? Surprisingly yes, and they still want him. For this season they apparently need a ‘bad boy’ to both balance out the hero contestant (why in hell is Hawks involved?) and to trash talk the show in interviews to appeal to audiences who don’t like the scripting. Getting sent on a vacation away from his annoying bandmates to complain and eat as much free food as he wants? Sold.

The Difference Between an Heir and a Son by ofHeartmateAndSoulbeats

General Audience, Gen, No Archive Warning Apply

Available on Ao3, On Going | Wordcount: 11,774

Summary: ...because if Enji had ever loved any of his children, it would have been Touya

Brother by Dreamy_Cel_100

Teen & Up, M/M, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Available on Ao3, Complete | Wordcount: 79,561

Summary: Todoroki Touya has never known comfort. He just didn’t realize he wasn’t the only one. Or When Touya runs away, he decides to take his kid brother. And instead of joining villainy he attempts to create the home he never had.

Sins of the Father by kanekki

Teen & Up, M/M, No Archive Warnings Apply

Available on Ao3, Complete | Wordcount: 32,411

Has a Complete Series called "the hellish todoroki family"

Summary: Shouto’s lower lip wobbles as he cries. “M-Momma hurt me and Father sent her away. I m-miss you Touya, please come home. It’s scary without you.”

“Alright,” Dabi says soothingly while he glares at the heroes, “We’re going to my place then. Your nii-san’s going to protect you now, okay?”

Shouto is accidentally rewound by Eri’s quirk in the middle of a villain attack, reverting him to a small child with no memories of his future. Dabi takes the opportunity to bring Shouto with him to the League of Villains headquarters to remove him from Endeavor’s clutches.

little brother, we are all grieving by jurassicqueer (kukurosaki)

Mature, Gen, M/M, No Archive Warnings Apply

Available on Ao3, Complete | Wordcount: 29,561

Summary: When a teenager is dragged into a police station by someone with a self-proclaimed de-aging quirk, it seems too improbable that one of the most notorious villains in Japan could actually be reverted to a scrawny sixteen year old.

But then the blood tests come back, and the quirk labs hand in their results, and it seems that Dabi really is a teenager again- and claiming to be the dead Todoroki Touya, of all things.

OR: Touya never expected to wake up a wanted fugitive, but with his luck, he's hardly surprised.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

as per requested from my previous post I updated my fic recs on dabi and ofc I added the bachelorette au that y'all been talking about tnx to @attackontreason for recommending it ksksks

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia - Chapter 4: The Orange Lily Bends Its Head In Grief (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 4: The Orange Lily Bends Its Head In Grief 

The time comes for mourning, old memories and harsh truths. 

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | 

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist | 

Warnings: Extreme slow burn, angst, mentions of Aemma’s traumatic birth scene, Y/N kinda being a headass, Daemon being an ass, Viserys hate club 

Word Count: 2.8k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: I’m sorry this chapter was later than expected 😭 i got a bit sick after the concert I attended yesterday (1975 was great but goddamn the crowd was inactive asf) I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! 

wonderful dividers courtesy of @firefly-graphics​  !  

The day was beautiful. The sun hung bright and brilliant in the blue sky, and the smell of salt and sand permeated through the air, along with a slight whiff of smoke from the magnificent dragon situated at the top of the hill, its beady eyes cast upon the crowd of mourners clad in black. 

You stared numbly at the raised dais where Aemma’s embalmed body laid. Little Baelon was next to her, and you couldn’t help but wonder how Aemma would have reacted, had she known the life that had been taken from her in the hopes of letting her babe live, was now naught but sand scattered in the wind: utterly useless. 

Rhaenyra stood next to you: the both of you keeping a fair distance from Viserys. Tears were welled up in her purple eyes, but she did her best not to let them fall, attempting to maintain her calm countenance. She reminded you much of yourself when you had lost your mother, mourning, and unsure on how to express your grief. 

Daemon spoke to Rhaenyra hushedly, the both of them conversing in High Valyrian. You did not deign to translate the faint snippets of their conversation that you overheard in your head, despite your decent grasp of the tongue. You barely noticed as Rhaenyra inched forward gingerly. 

“Dracarys!” You kept your eyes fixed upon Aemma and Baelon’s funeral pyre as it was set alight.. The hot whoosh of flames fanned across your face, and everyone took a step back unconsciously to avoid the heat, but you didn’t feel anything, not as you watched the body of your dearest friend and her ill-fated son burn away to naught but ashes. 

Daemon did not know what to make of today. Grief was a stranger to him: even though he had seen the deaths of his mother, father and grandfather, the depth of the feeling eluded him. Mayhaps there was something wrong with him: given how much death there had been in the later stages of his grandsire’s reign, it was a wonder he was unfeeling at funerals. Still, he found no sense in dwelling over the dead. The dead were the dead, and sorrow would not bring them back. 

He was about to depart from the cliffs, and mount a horse back to the Red Keep, when his gaze befell upon a most strange scene. His brother, and…Y/N? 

Rhaenyra had already ridden off on Syrax back to the Dragonpit, and most of the royal retinue had already retreated back to the Red Keep, unable to stand the sweltering heat, but his brother was here, talking to Y/N, who by now, was becoming ostensibly more and more like she would rather hurl herself off the cliffs than suffer in his brother’s presence for any longer. Viserys’ expression was earnest, mournful, and any man would have softened at the pitiful state the King was in, but Y/N seemed to have none of that. He wondered just what was going on, considering how Y/N was always close with his brother. ‘At least, she was always much more jovial with my brother than with me,’ Daemon thought darkly. 

“Brother,” Viserys turned to face Daemon as you breathed out a sigh of relief, glad to no longer be the centre of Viserys’ attention anymore. Try as you may, you could not shake the lingering sensation of disgust in your gut whenever you laid eyes upon Viserys. Your mind constantly kept flashing back to that horrific scene on Aemma’s deathbed, of the incisions and the realisation of what Viserys had ordered dawning on you when he couldn’t quite meet your gaze. What affection you had for your childhood friend was slowly dispersing into rage and grief, as you struggled to reconcile the jovial and amiable man you once knew with the reality of a man who was callous enough to sacrifice his wife to gain a son. 

Startled when you felt a hand placed firmly on your shoulder, steering you away from Viserys’ bewildered form, you glanced up at Daemon, but he said nothing as the both of you walked away from the King. After a while, when you had both reached the ends of the cliffs, he finally let go of your shoulder. The both of you were silent, staring out at the blue sea, as you both awaited for the other to break the silence. 

“Why did you pull me away from the conversation?” you murmured. “I could tell how uncomfortable you looked,” Although his gaze was directed towards the bay, Daemon’s voice was soft. “You were practically begging to get out of the conversation.” “And here I thought my many years at court had made me better at veiling my emotions.” “With how long we’ve known each other, byka zaldrizes, it would be an insult to me if I couldn’t see past your facades,” Daemon remarked dryly. He began strolling along the length of the cliffs, and you quietly followed suit. 

“...thank you. I…he may be my king, but I am of the opinion that if I had to suffer in his presence any longer, I might punch him.” you admitted, gratitude and exhaustion tainting my voice. Daemon let out a soft snort, “I thought you would have learnt that assaulting a royal never does you any favours.” “You’ve known me for so long, Daemon, in the face of anger, I never did seem to possess the ability to think rationally. What’s more, I think Viserys is deserving of it.” You could feel your heart starting to pound furiously again, the scene of Aemma laying in bed, covered in blood…brutally slit open, her eyes opened wide in death and her expression of agony flashed repeatedly into your mind, making your stomach roll unpleasantly. Tears prickled at the corner of your eyes, and. you bit your lip in an attempt to stave them off, tilting your head away to obscure Daemon from the view. He said nothing, only offering you a handkerchief. You took it, dabbing at your tears lightly, trying to calm yourself by inhaling the salty scent of the sea air. 

Daemon watched her with inquisitive eyes. He had heard rumours of how close Y/N was with his sister-in-law, but with the weight of her grief becoming increasingly apparent, he finally understood the extent of their bond. His heart filled with a strange tugging sensation, but he dismissed it as just the oddity of seeing Y/N cry. In his boyhood memories, he always regarded her as this strong-willed, fierce and irritable little girl. To see her cry was…it made him feel strange. The Y/N of his boyhood seemed so contrasting from the Y/N in front of him now. He had seen Y/N’s physical changes since girlhood, and now he was witnessing the emotional changes. Uncomfortable, he fidgeted with his fingers, about to offer his condolences, but he remembered how much she hated it when he professed his grief at her mother’s passing, and stopped himself. The sight of Y/N dabbing at her tears however, became more and more excruciating for him to bear with every passing minute. He longed to do something, anything, to lighten the tension between them, but what could he say? It wasn’t like comforting his niece, with the Queen that she was serving dead, Y/N might as well have been a sailor lost at sea, with no compass. So instead, he had to bite his tongue as he waited for Y/N to snap out of it. 

You clasped the handkerchief tightly between your fingers, suddenly feeling the traces of embroidery on it. You glanced at the handkerchief, and saw a familiar pattern of lily flowers across the fabric, in your stitching. “I didn’t know you still kept it,” you turned to Daemon, surprised. “I thought you would have shredded it years ago.” “Well, it would be rude of me to intentionally ruin a gift, especially one made of a gesture of goodwill, my lady.” 

Your fingers traced the orange lilies, biting back a smile at the memory behind this handkerchief. Once, in your childhood, you had been most wroth to discover Daemon had stolen your favourite doll and ‘accidentally’ ripped it. In retaliation, you had snuck into his room one night and emptied the contents of his chamberpot on him. Aghast, your mother had ordered you to make a truce with him by sending him a gift. Reluctantly, you sewed him a handkerchief, but to add insult to injury, you didn’t embroider a noble or rare flower on it, such as roses or carnations, but rather, you had chosen lilies. Although it was considered a flower of elegance, the colour of the lilies conveyed otherwise. To put it plainly and unpleasantly, they were one gigantic “fuck you” to Daemon. You couldn’t help but snigger as you recalled his reaction to the handkerchief: his face had twisted most unpleasantly, and he’d looked downright murderous, but since Prince Baelon and your mother were in the room, he could only swallow whatever insults he wanted to churn out and grunt out his thanks, much to your triumph. 

The lilies had turned a little yellow with age, regardless, the handkerchief looked well kept. You returned the handkerchief back to him, his fingers brushing against yours in a lingering touch as he took it back. “For what it’s worth…I am truly sorry for your loss, Y/N,” Daemon offered gallantly, “I know how close you are…were…with my sister-in-law, and she was a great woman. She was always kind to me, at least.”. Normally, you would have teased him for his uncharacteristic politeness, but Aemma’s death had drained all the fight left in you. “I thank you, my Prince,” your voice was hollow. 

Your next few moments were spent in silence, as awkwardness ensued. Daemon was nigh close to throwing himself off the cliffs. He was thoroughly unaccustomed to dealing with grief. He wonders if he had made the right decision when he chose to spirit you away from Viserys. At least the royal party had departed now, but it made it all the more difficult for him to leave Y/N alone on the cliffs. 

“Do you know…what he did?” your voice was tremulous, barely a whisper, but it anchored Daemon back to reality once more. His forehead creased, he said quietly, “I’ve heard. It was…dreadful to say the least.” “Truth be told, I do not know if I could ever…bring myself to forgive his act of cruelty.” “He is your king,” Daemon said, an uncharacteristic gentleness in his voice. “And your friend of many years.” "As was Aemma, Daemon,” you said, your voice tinged with sadness. 

Wishing to broach on this topic no more, you turned your conversation to something else. “Now that he killed both his wife and heir, what do you suppose would happen to the succession now?” Daemon notes with intrigue that your tone has taken a sharper tone toward Viserys, and he couldn’t fight the small sliver of smugness he feels at your distaste. Perhaps it was childish…but he always disliked it when you spoke about Viserys with such reverence, like he could do no wrong in your eyes. 

“He still has an heir,” Daemon reminds her, “Me.” 

You scoffed slightly, “I think you’re forgetting Rhaenyra. She is the King’s only trueborn daughter.” Daemon was annoyed, “A brother’s claim triumphs over a daughter’s.” “You’ve never paid any attention to the laws of Andal succession then.” “We are Targaryens, byka zaldrizes, what regard have we for those fucking laws?” Daemon snorted, “Moreover, Rhaenyra is but a child, besieged with grief. The right choice of heir for the stability of the realm should be me.” 

“You’re just using Aemma’s death as a way to further your own ambitions,” your tone was accusatory, and Daemon wanted nothing more than to shove this infernal woman off the cliffs. Why did everyone always think the worst of him? “I can assure you, that contesting the heir to the throne is the least of your worries right now.” 

You narrowed your eyes, “And what is that supposed to mean?” Daemon let a smirk play out on his face, “Now that my sweet sister-in-law is dead, what do you suppose will happen to you?” You blinked, confused by his sudden mention of your future. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Daemon.” 

“You are well aware that since your tenure as lady-in-waiting to the Queen is at an end, you will most likely be sent home to the Reach, do you not?” Your voice grew annoyed, “My focus now is on mourning Aemma, she was my friend, Daemon. As for what the future holds, I do not care about that.” Daemon let out a snort of laughter, “Are you sure about that, Y/N? It might not be the wisest course of action, you know.” 

You stopped in your tracks and gave him a frosty glare, “And since when did you care about my wellbeing, Daemon?” Daemon chuckled mirthlessly, “I do not. However, since my late sister-in-law harboured a form of affection for you, however of an annoying little brat you may be, I believe it in my responsibility to give you a warning.” “I have no need for your warnings,” you said brusquely. 

Daemon leaned forward, his violet eyes gleaming with savage delight, “Perhaps you should think again then.” He drew back, circling around you as his eyes watched you like a hawk. “With the Queen dead, it would be inevitable before you are summoned back to Highgarden. Tell me, what are you to do when you are ordered to wed by your father, hmm?” 

You bit your lip, disconcerted. But it was all the answer Daemon needed to carry on. “You no longer have any reason nor power to retain your status at court,” he mused, looking down at your stiffened form. “And when it comes, your father will summon you back to Highgarden. And you shall be wedded off like a prized pig to some lord, who could be balding, old, or ill-tempered. Or all three. Who knows?” He hears your sharp intake of breath, and he could see it clearly now. Your fear for this sort of fate. 

“Whether you like it or not, you must worry for your political standing. Even if you hate to make merry with my brother, you will have to stomach it.” You finally snap, your eyes ablaze, “I will not. Why should I give a damn about my political standing anyway? Should I refuse to go home, my father will not force me. The King will not force me.” 

Daemon laughed, the sound bouncing off the cliffs. It was a rough, jagged laugh, more out of dark bemusement than of any joy. “Byka zaldrizes, it seems you’re even more of a fool than I imagined. You might have matured in terms of your visage, but I see your immaturity still shines through.” 

Hurt by his words, you could only keep silent. Your mind was racing. You didn’t want to admit it…but you could see some truth in his words. Viserys could heartlessly give the order for his wife to be cut open, he would not defend you from something as simple as marriage. He was after all, a father, and a king to boot. He would sympathise with your father’s claims of duty to your house. 

Daemon’s voice was chiding as he spoke. “There is no doubt my brother will take a new wife after this. After that, there will be a new queen in court, a shift in power. And you?” he reached out to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ears. “Will be naught but a speck in the past. The new queen might be someone you are not acquainted with, and she will surround herself with an entourage she is familiar with. One which you will not be a part of. Who will protect you from your father’s will then? Certainly not my brother, if I know him.” 

You saw the sense in his words, but a certain sort of rebellion still blazed in you. “I would never allow myself to be used by my father this way,” you said, lifting your chin defiantly. “I am a grown woman now, and I can make my choices.” 

Daemon looked down at you, something akin to pity on his face. “If that’s what you think,” Daemon’s voice was soft, “Then you are a naive fool, my lady.” Abashed by his words, you could only look down, feeling lost. It was too much for you to deal with: mourning Aemma and Baelon, your newfound disgust and fear for Viserys, and now, terror for your future. You couldn’t deal with this. Not right now, maybe not ever. You weren’t used to this sudden weight of realisation, of burden on your shoulders, and Daemon could tell. He always could. 

The two of you stewed in despondent silence, before Daemon sighed, “Come, my lady. I should escort you back to the Red Keep.” You have a great deal to think about, his violet eyes seemed to whisper to you, making you feel even more unsettled. You nodded hesitantly, and he offered you his arm, before the both of you walked back to the remaining wheelhouse in a silence that was much colder and contemplative than before. 

Taglist for Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes​ @salembridger

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy​

those who are bolded are the ones that couldn’t be tagged! let me know in the comments or through this form 

and that makes chapter 4! chapter 5 should be released in around 2-3 days time! do let me know what you think in the comments! if you liked this chapter, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated 💗 thank you for reading! 

[blackandwhitemotley]

Top 10 best RotE covers

So my Top 10 worst RotE covers has been making the rounds again, and it reminded me that I had started a list of my 10 favourite covers. NGL it was much harder to find 10 covers I liked than it had been to find 10 really bad ones, but there are still some gems out there 💖

10. Assassin's Apprentice (Brazilian Portuguese)

This is where you can clearly see that I don't have much to work with in terms of good covers for this series. Do I love this? No. Is it generic-looking? Yes, but the stag and font look badass and the result is effective

9. Assassin's Quest (Turkish)

Nice and graphic, I really like the tile effect and this red is very striking.

8. Mad Ship (Romanian)

I'm not sure if the figurehead is supposed to be Paragon or Kendry, but they did take a risk and the result looks cool and very different from every other cover out there.

7. Royal Assassin (Polish)

What I really like about this one is that instead of looking badass and in charge like in most covers, this Fitz looks sad and lost, so the artist got that right. And the cloak that morphs into a trail of blood is 👌👌

6. Fool's Assassin (French)

Bee actually looks her age and there's a heartbreaking contrast between this small and lonely child and the pyre burning next to her. Very good one!

5. Ship of Magic (French)

Althea reaching out to a gorgeous and very dramatic-looking Vivicia with a mysterious atmosphere around them, yessss! Really cool and memorable

4. Fool's Errand (UK)

A classic, and this spot is for John Howe's covers in general. I don't love them all but there's a very unique and ethereal feel to his art, his use of colours is wonderful and there are always a lot of details to look at.

3. Fool's Errand (Japanese)

The Japanese editions for Tawny Man look unreal and it was extremely difficult to pick just one so again, this spot is for the whole set. So, so beautiful and imaginative!

2. City of Dragons (Czech)

I fell in love with this style as soon as I saw it. It looks absolutely fantastic, damn, look at this Alise and the stone statue behind her!! I love that all the covers from this edition of RWC focus on a different character instead of just showing random dragons. The artist has obviously read the books and it shows.

1. Fool's Quest (UK)

I am not just saying that because this is the edition I own, but Jackie Morris is the queen of RotE covers for me. I have nothing bad to say about her covers, they look stunning and they work extremely well as a set.

[marcobodtlives]

Yeah, it’s a very super normal friendship 😁👍

*scores the exact same grades as him for three years straight*

*starts off teasing him then accepts him as a best friend*

*admits that the way he cares for someone ‘so selfish’ doesn’t make sense, not understanding why they’re so close*

*cares about his opinion above all else*

*goes into shock upon seeing his body*

*breaks down for the first time in front of fellow cadets when burning his body at the pyre*

*loses control of himself and beats up a giant rock because the only person who has a clue about Marco’s death is encased within it and doesn’t stop hitting it until the scary captain shows up*

*refuses to let his death go unnoticed, telling Eren in graphic detail how he would have died alone, without anyone knowing or seeing what happened to him*

*has visions of him over four years after his death*

*makes the hardest choices in life just to please the memory of him and make him proud*

*goes into a violent rage when the man responsible for his death tries to apologise*

*has a panic attack in the woods after learning his death was intentional, not accidental*

*talks about him to Yelena and Onyankopon, despite his death being over four years ago and only having known them for a short time*

[randomnameless]

Reverse uno card : Jugdral edition

2014 : "yay, i can't wait for a Judgral remake, with updated graphics!!!"

2024 : "gods please no remake"

What happened in ten years to make me dread the remake I would have sold my soul for back in the days?

Well... IS's policies and new writing, mainly.

While I was joking about "Genealogy of the Holy Self Insert" in 2015, I still had faith in eventual Jugdral remakes. Sure, we were in the big Fateswakening era where the only things I could frown at IS were the "writings" worshipping self inserts (Ryoma being jealous of Corn's talents, when Corn was like, 5?) - but I still had hope for a more "serious" FE, and I first I was very delighted by FE15 - no self insert, a more "serious" setting, no hyperbolic time chambers to try to explain in watsonian words why second gens exist, etc...

But there was still something ringing dead wrong with FE15, which I only noticed thanks to FE16 and its years of discourse - at one point, IS's writing went in a certain direction that makes it impossible, imo, for us to have a "correct" Jugdral remake, as long as IS still follows this direction.

I'm not talking about uwufest - even if it is part of the larger problem - but back in FE15, I remember being really pissed at the schizophrenia of the plot : saying one thing and the inverse at the same time.

The narration reminds us of the classic Kaga lesson : whatever madness exists in dragon/gods, a greater madness/evil lurks in the heart of men.

And yet, we have the Hero (who was so cajoled by the plot that, at times, you have to wonder if Alm wasn't the devs's self insert, he's lavished with praises almost as extensively as Ike was!) saying nonsense - without being contradicted by characters at all (or when Celica does it, she admits later she's wrong) - like Duma being responsible, mainly, for the events that transpired in Valentia and, novelty that wouldn't have been in the original game since the character was made for the remake, Berkut's fall and madness.

By that point in the game, the player saw that Berkut hunts low class people for what he sees and perceives as sport, is the textbook classicist asshat noble, but has a lot of pression on his shoulders due to his role of being the heir of the Empire, pression that isn't alleviated at all by his Uncle who mocks him and refuses to give him a third chance... to fight against a person said uncle very well knows cannot be defeated by Berkut himself, especially as said Uncle pretended to "care" for him, only to pit him against his trueborn son whom he names his heir just before dying.

Point is : Berkut feels betrayed by Rudy and goes mad - because of this betrayal : Rudolph named him heir when he fully knew Alm was alive and was the true heir he always wanted, in Berkut's eyes, no matter what he did, it wouldn't have mattered to Rudolph since Rudolph planned on giving Alm his throne since day 1 - of course, without telling him a thing and making him believe he would one day become Emperor.

Is it Duma's fault that Berkut went off the deep-end in Part 4? Because Rudolph's shit gambit involved playing with the life of his nephew and crush it in a bid to have Alm unify the continent against Duma ? Or... it's just Rudolph being an asshole, not curbing the worst of his nephew tendencies (and in a larger part, of Rigel in general) ?

Now, Rinea. She too, is called one of Duma's victims, and yet, who pushed her in Duma's magic pyre that turns women in witches? Duma himself?

No.

Berkut, who already, when pissed tells her "silence woman" pushes his fiancée and love of his life in a pyre to sacrifice her, because in his grief and rage (caused by Rudy!!!) Rinea is only a pawn to be sacrificed to gain more power to kill Alm. Sure sure, Berkut is redeemed in death and Rinea - in a classic Kaga style writing that wasn't here made by Kaga since this plot is basically new so where the fuck does this sexism come from - forgives him and they both die and ascend to another plane of existence.

The point is, despite what Alm says, Berkut and Rinea's fates weren't caused by Duma's degeneration - but by Rudolph and Berkut's own actions.

Heck, I remember when I was sort of live-blogging my run back then, Desaix's greed and lust for power wasn't fueled by Mila's apathy : it wasn't Mila who burnt Celica's house and tried to cook Conrad, it was Desaix, and why Desaix did it? Because he wanted to become king. That's it, and that's all.

So why FE15 - while giving the Kaga message - still tries its hardest to pin the blame of everything "wrong that happened" on... dragon gods, refusing to acknowledge the own responsibilities of humans in their suffering?

I think we had that lunar dialogue at the end of FE15 (or in part 4?) where Clive (i think?) tells Alm without gods giving their blessings, people in Valentia will starve, and Alm saying that may be so, but ultimately Valentia will survive and work hard through those upcoming harsh times to demonstrate how humans, when they work together, can achieve things without needing to rely on Gods - basically, King Alm tells his people to starve now because Humanity will come out stronger afterwards, since they will have learnt to grow their own food without needing magic dragon blessings to make the ground fertile.

... yeah. That's definitely going to work.

FE15 took the Kaga lesson to try to hammer some "humanity fuck yeah!" Square JRPG message and it completely messed up what FE2 tried to say.

(I confess, retconning Duma'n'Mila in dragon gods like Naga from Archanea was a big part in this shitstorm - that was also retconned to explain Grima from FE13! - i mean Duma'n'Mila have to die because they're degenerating, but they didn't get the memo from Gotoh living overseas that degeneration can be stopped by using dragonstones, instead of being a fatality that must be dealt with death...)

Humans cannot be held responsible for what they did, everything BaD that happened is somehow due to the influence of dragon-gods : even if it means "suffering" and sacrificing a part of your population, this choice is a good one to get rid of the obviously nefarious influence of dragon-gods.

So, is it so surprising that FE16 - the most popular title in the franchise uwu - went in the same direction?

Even if it tried to mitigate the "gods BaD" spiel because the avatar - Billy - is the Goddess reborn, the thing is the CoS - aka the dragon - is blamed for humanity's mistakes through each route (AM dodges the question completely) and all routes end up with the dragon going away (her skull being cracked open, or she retires, or she dies off-screen, or she dies because the plot commands so unless you want, as the player, to shag her).

"But in VW, Claude reconsiders his initial stance!"

And yet, it is only off-screen that he seemingly becomes aware that Fodlan people are not superpals with Almyra because Almyra raids them, not because Rhea told them Almyrans are BaD, that's why he tries to negotiate - off-screen and post-game - some sort of ceasefire between the two parties, or at least make it so Almyra doesn't try to raid Fodlan every Thursday for their weekly dick measuring contest.

No matter the ending, Rhea retires and in the worst support, muses on her failings for "having turned a blind eye" to Fodlan and its people in her quest to resurrect Sothis : aka, Rhea (and the game, since Billy doesn't tell her anything) believes Fodlan's state is due to her inaction and not, you know, the action of the humans who lived in the continent and ruined it of their own volition.

Which is also what fuels the endless discourse about what kind of power she has - or not : Rhea BaD for using her power, but also BaD for not using it and letting humans to their own devices.

Supreme Leader's memetastic line from the trailers ring even more true : in Fodlan, Crusts are to blame for everything. For Adrestian being attracted to young women because otherwise without crests they surely wouldn't seek to bed a 12 years old Doro, for Miklan trying to murder his younger brother (and not because, at least FE16 wise, Miklan is a terrible person who is very jealous and not afraid to kill even a child to get what he feels like he deserves), and for people basically killing their wives/letting their daughters die to get a "suitable" heir.

Humanity/Humans can get a pass for doing horrible things (Berkut burning his fiancée alive) because those horrible things can sort of be linked to "dragon-gods", and so, the blame exclusively lays at their feet.

I am always reminded of that Obi-Wan reply to Anakin when Ani accuses him of having turned Padmé "against" him, Obi-Wan basically tells him he brought this upon himself.

Now, what would Obi-Wan tell a non-recruited Doro who blames the Goddess for the War, the leader she is actually protecting, started?

Billy is no Obi-Wan, so we are left in this limbo where characters are telling you everything wrong that happens in Fodlan is due to "dragon blood" aka their existence and presence, even dragons who blame themselves for "being blind" - but not once do we have the Kaga message, or an Obi-Wan reminding people that they have to take responsability for their own actions : Hanneman will blame crests (dragons) for having killed his sister, but not the man who forced her (marital abuse?) to bear him many heirs until one was "good enough" for him.

Claude blames dragons for creating, both literal and metaphorical walls between Fodlan and Almyra - and it's only in his best ending, after the game credits and off-screen that he seems to realise that those walls were built by Almyrans raiders.

"enough about the fodlan rant, what about jugdral?"

Jugdral was sort of unique for not having a giant eldritch abomination as a boss, unlike the later FE8, we never fight Loptyr in his "original" form, Loptyr is fought through his host, Julius.

And I love Jugdral because unlike Fodlan, the local evil death cult might stage a few skirmishes and manipulations here and there, but Jugdral people are... asses, in general.

Elliot will mount an army to seduce Raquie while Eldie is away - and it's not because Manfroy told him to seduce her, no, Elliot does it from his own will.

Reptor'n'Langobalt'n'Andrei rebel against Kurth and Azmur? Sure, Arvis is pulling some of their strings, but Reptor'n'Langobalt are ambitious, even without Manfroy whispering anything.

Arvis pulls out his gambit... with Manfroy's help (and blackmail?), but also because he genuinely thinks he can sacrifice lives to make HIS world a reality because HE has great ideas about how the world should be and will torch anyone who opposes him.

F!Lewyn, as much as I dislike the character, reminds the cast that while Travant's actions might seem justified to him and to the Thracian people, he is still a man who assaulted a bunch of randoms + non-combattants in a desert, amushed them and slaughtered them : no matter his reasons and how justified he was, Travant is still a criminal to Jugdral people.

In Jugdral, people do things and have to take responsability for it - Oldvis basically dies after losing everything he had - by Seliph's hand (and with his own participation!!) because Oldvis has to take responsability for what he did in Barhara. Ditto for Travant, who accepts to die if it means the peninsula will be united (tfw his son doesn't understand what he meant !).

Dragon blood and Dragon people are never blamed for the shitty state Jugdral is in in the 1st or even 2nd gen, if Danan turned Isaach in giant brothel, it's not Julius-Loptyr who asked him to do so, nor Manfroy.

At least, that was the case for the pre FE15/FEH/FE16 Jugdral.

Now...

While I want to blame FE16 for this shift, I know the roots are more ancient (FE15?), IS's writing seems to favour a certain narrative, aka people having sad and or complicated fates because of their brands and Holy Blood - when the ONLY case of having a fate tied to Holy Blood was the Curse of the Gae Bolg, aka a sibling quarrel between Dain and Noba that will eventually "curse" Noba descendants, but through the events of the game we know that curse is more like a prophecy : Quan doesn't die because he had Noba Holy Blood, Quan dies because Travant kills him in Yied. Why Travant kills him? FE5 reveals Quan and his forefathers are basically letting Thracians starve and refuse to "give" them arable lands, or even export food.

Now, did Travant kill Quan because Quan had major Noba Holy Blood, or because Quan (and his forefather)'s policies made Thracians so desperate that their king feels like he has to resort to murder to "save" his people?

The issue is more complicated than "he has Noba HB so I had to kill him".

Come FEH and we had, in 2018 (before FE16 but after FE15) this :

My blood has granted me gifts, it's true. I have expended every effort to be worthy of those gifts. That same blood makes it impossible for me to live a peaceful life. That's a lesson I learned from my mother...

Now, even if I was dissecting and hc'ing and posting about Saias a lot for 5 years, I fully understand Saias is a character with maybe 20 lines in FE5, so you can only dissect the script and theorise and read between invisible lines to get something about the character.

But this?

It might be a reference to Cowen's last words who basically tells him his job is to "pass on" his Fjalar HB, and how having major Fjalar HB was the reason why Manfroy tried to kill him when he was younger (his mother Aida died to protect him).

And yet, FEH here seems to imply Aida died because Saias had Fjalar HB, and not, y'know, died because Manfroy wanted to kill him due to this HB.

It wasn't HB who killed Aida, but Manfroy!

FE5 never reveals why - but if Fjalar HB was the reason why Manfroy targeted Saias, then why the fuck wasn't Oldvis iced earlier, since he has the same brand and blood?

In a way, Saias blaming HB here as the "reason" why his mother died and why he cannot live a "peaceful life" is similar to a Leif who would blame Quan'n'Ethlyn for being the reason why Travant and the Empire were after his life : what is to blame, their "blood" that makes people want to kill them, or the fuckers who want to kill them?

Granted those lines from FEH completely miss the point of Saias as a character - FE5!wise Saias is in a class that cannot use fire magic, when his HB automatically gives him the highest rank in fire magic, and he is funnily enough the only character who "retreats" in his death quote -> Saias doesn't "expend" every effort to be worthy of HB, he hides and doesn't use the abilities given by said HB!

We can say, mkay, this was just FEH trying to fit their "gods and their influence BaD" narrative and missing the real culprits, aka humans themselves (Manfroy is one!) - from FE15 - in Jugdral, even if it meant retconning a character no one cares about.

But then, last year, we had Galzus' FB :

You speak of the blood of the Sword Saint Od. Perhaps. Is that the reason you have been set on a path of violence and bloodshed?

Nyx says Galzus' "curse" isn't tied to his HB, but it's basically his regret at not having been able to save his daughter.

So far, it's completely the inverse of what I decried, so this was a good FB, right?

:)

There is no doubt that the blood within you compels you to lead a cruel life. However, the loss of your daughter was the wedge that split your life into pieces and let the curse in.

Damn it Nyx, why???

Why Galzus's brand "compels him" to lead a cruel life - when it was just established that Galzus fell to despair and became a mercenary who kills for money after the loss of his daughter?

Before losing Mareeta, Galzus, at least per this FB, wasn't killing people right and left as the merc he now is (or was in FE5).

Now, much like Saias...

Why was Galzus left to roam around Jugdral with a toddler to begin with?

I had a daughter. When my wife died, I brought my daughter with me as I traveled around Jugdral.

This FB establishes that Galzus settled with Mareeta's biomom for a while, but when she died he "traveled around". Why Galzus couldn't return "home" and had to "travel around"?

You know the Ribaut family was devastated by our own House Isaach.

Timeline wise : Ribaut is already demolished during the prologue of FE4, and Mareeta is no older than Leif himself, which means she was born after Galzus' grandfather and Ayra's brother, aka, his uncle, beheaded his dad and demolished his kingdom. Galzus, in exile, had Mareeta, and then had to "travel around" Jugdral because his home had already been demolished by "House Isaach" -

Note how Ayra talks about the Ribaut (i prefer rivough but meh) family when she talks about her very own sister - Galzus' mother. Jugdral family trees being what they are, Shanan, Larcei, Scatach and Galzus are actually cousins, Galzus is Ayra's own nephew, just like Shanan!

Anyways, in FE4, the reason given behind Ribaut's destruction is their attack on Darna, so the Isaachian royals killed them.

Galzus' "cruel life" wasn't compelled by his HB, Galzus' life took a turn for the worst when his Uncle and Grandpa knocked at his door and slaughtered his entire family, destroying their Kingdom.

So why FEH tried to fit his backstory in some sort of "dragon blood is to blame" Fodlan narrative?? They at least acknowledge the bad blood (lel) between Isaach's royal family and Ribaut's, hell, Ayra even wants to say Mareeta is a part of Isaach's royal family in her FB with her son, so it's not to whitewash the Isaachian royal family because their units are more popular and would sell more...

Contrary to Saias, Galzus's writing and his FB seem to have been made by people who cared and didn't completely ignore what the character was about so... why this emphasis on his HB ??

Are we bound in post FE16 releases to have, at least with the current writing team, the excuse of "dragon blood is to blame" ? Galzus cannot blame the Isaachian Royal Family or even the slavers for his (and his daugher's!) fate, but he can blame his HB, aka, a non-entity?

Will HB be now used as a "responsibility free" card, because the fate a character suffers or their actions are only tied to said HB? Arvis will get a pass because his HB compelled him to save the world (tfw Victor prefered to "seduce" women instead), Lewyn will be lightly chided by his mom instead of receiving the beatdown he has in FE4 because his HB now makes him unable to stay in place? Ditto for Ced, Karin won't chew him out for abandoning his mother and sister because his HB compelled him to travel around, so in the end, dragons are to blame for him abandoning his sister and mother?

That's what I'm the most afraid in future Jugdral remakes, that had humans characters with human flaws in a crapsack/shitty verse, the insertion in a future remake of a very Squenix "but aksuhally gods and church bad" when Jugdral is the pinnacle of "the world sucks because people living in this world suck". No need for secret sects manipulating everything in the shadows like FE16's Agarthans, Chagall is a horrible person without needing Manfroy's help, and Hilda will not say "Holy Blood is to blame" when she tortures Tailte to death.

When Tailte is caught and Hilda'd, it's because she participated (or even commited) in parricide, and because her camp/army lost the battle. She doesn't die because of her HB, she dies because Hilda kills her, most likely, for having killed Reptor (Hilda wants to avenge her "father" when fought, i'm pretty sure she means her father in law aka Reptor!).

As befits a game called "Genealogy of the Holy War", people aren't targeted because of their HB, but they are targeted because they are part of a genealogy - see the Leif comparison earlier on : Leif is hunted because he is Quan's son, even if he doesn't have Noba major blood. Seliph is hunted because he is Siggy'n'Deedee's son, not because of his Baldo HB.

In FE4, Manfroy tells Julius Arvis was a thorn at their side because "Fjalar's ways" ran too strong in him - implying he had some moral fiber that would make him oppose the return of Loptyr (but those same "ways" didn't prevent him from torching his own brother and conquering the world...) - I will have to check the translation and og script, but was Saias targeted because he had Fjalar HB, or because he could develop the same moral fiber Arvis does in his later years, or just, because he is Arvis's son? Cowen seems to suggest it is FB, but we know Fjalar HB cannot harm Loptyr so... what was the true reason?

Blaming dragon-gods reduces the complexity of Jugdral's setting and characters - and in a post FEH world where tropes win character contests and sell a lot of alts if they are flanderised enough + a post FE15/16 world where characters, to be likeable enough, have to ditch their responsibilities or at least have the plot elude them to pin them instead on vague and non-important (gacha wise) gods, what is going to happen to Jugdral?

Fanfics are fanfics and people are free to write whatever they want - but I wonder (especially after Nopes and the plethora of 'golden endings' fics that ended up with the CoS as the big bad lol) if fics where Mareeta and Ced blaming their HB for their various hardships is going to become the new canon...

I seriously hope it will never, and it if happens then...

I guess I'll still yell at cloud and nerd about the 1990s versions of those games, completely ignoring the new releases (save for maybe updated artwork).

Tl;Dr : FEH makes me afraid Judgral remakes will borrow the "humanity fuck yeah" page from FE15 and FE16 and put the blame of Jugdral's shitty situation from Jugdralians to... Holy Blood and "dragon-gods", completely missing and rewritting the point of those games. IS already said "fig" to Kaga once or thrice, but this might become the most contentious "fig" they ever give him if they decided to write a Jugdral remake this way.

[meggannn]

Do you happen to know any other games like transistor or Hades? sorry if it's so random but I got into them thru seeing them on your blog and have been looking for something along similar gameplay

if you haven't already, check out the rest of the Supergiant catalogue? they're also isometric action games, and although I haven't played them myself I hear good things:

Bastion—truthfully I tried this one and just couldn't get into it but it does look pretty and has good voice acting like all SG games

Pyre—honestly I've been meaning to play this for a while but I just haven't gotten around to it. it has middle child syndrome in that it gets looked over for its move hyped siblings but everything I've heard about it has been positive

I don't know if I can recommend anything with similar gameplay to Hades and Transistor, because I don't play a lot of roguelites and Transistor was so unique I'm struggling to think of a comparison. Supergiant has been really singular for me in combining storytelling with gameplay, the marriage of the two in Hades in particular I think was a masterclass akin to Portal (which I'd also recommend if you haven't played it). so a lot of these recommendations are just going to address parts of what I liked about Hades and Transistor, but not the whole package, really.

story-heavy RPG-light games with beautiful graphics with no combat:

Oxenfree—supernatural/coming-of-age story about a group of kids trapped on an island when a portal opens to another world

Night in the Woods—the story of Mae, a college dropout struggling with mental health, who moves back home to deal with friend and family problems... and something else that's in the woods

Afterparty—two friends die and get sent to hell. they hear the only way to escape is to challenge the devil to a drinking contest, so they travel the afterlife to do just that

Signs of the Sojourner—this is an interesting one where you travel to acquire goods to sell at your shop, but negotiating is difficult, and the cards in your deck will help you succeed in forging bonds in conversations. the more diverse cards you have, the more people you can interact with successfully, but you also risk losing the cards you started with, which will make your conversations back home difficult when you return to stock up.

action-heavy indie games, usually made me go "just one more map":

Apotheon—story set in a 2D Greek mythology world about a man challenged to take down the pantheon one god at a time

Into the Breach—the only other roguelite I've played, it's a turn-based strategy where you fight aliens on a grid system with robots, very Pacific Rim-esque

Cult of the Lamb—a roguelite about running your own cult full of animals. apparently it's big on the horror elements without being off-putting or too gory due to the cute graphics. I haven't played this but other people have recommended it!

Jade Order—a very short puzzle game with a neat map design

[laurelnose]

a disorganized pile of ninefox ttrpg thoughts

it is HERE! also it was late in shipping by like, a day? or two? so android press sent me the PDF version also, which was very very nice of them. For this I will forgive them the weird jank in the PDF version’s character encoding. (Maybe like 5% of characters consistently copy-paste as different characters. I think they fucked up the font subsetting somehow. It’s fine, it’s just weird. Makes quoting it a little bit of a hassle. Might be less fine if you use a screenreader.)

So pleased with several little random details which are not at all relevant to like, gameplay or the worldbuilding at large but which I just kind of wanted to know. The calendar months! The full set of Kel rank symbols! Signifiers for Kujen and Tseya! <3 Also, an additional set of symbolism for the factions per the calendar months? If I’m reading this correctly it's Rahal/Wood (!?), Andan/Bells, and Vidona/Knives. [We basically knew the other three, which are Shuos/Eyes, Kel/Pyres, and Nirai/Stars.] As a visual artist I am contractually obliged to be hype about all my little guys getting Symbols, they make my life easy and fun.

This is a slim little volume, so it’s light on lore details that you couldn’t find either a) in the actual series or b) on Lee's dreamwidth. That said, one new bit was that it was not previously clear to me that the nominal arrangement of power in the heptarchate was explicitly unequal between the Liozh and the others — I thought the extant six turned on the Liozh as one of their fellows, not that they deposed the ruling faction. Interesting.

Disappointing: there are no mechanics for the calendar besides the ability to tag the current festival/remembrance. :( I wanted to roll dice about calendrical rituals!! Funnily enough there's a whole little caveat section where he’s like, inevitably someone will want to have space battles, which can be accommodated by keeping them character-focused bc this system is not designed for battle sim crunch. No similar apology for those who might want magic system crunch, if anyone wanted any further evidence that Lee and Jedao are the same guy, lmao.

Other than that I’m not actually that much of a crunchy rules guy myself so I like the system itself fine. I enjoy the concept of every check involving not necessarily skills but character traits. And also the commitment to sixes. You need A LOT of d6s for this game.

If you’re really committed I think it would be fun to play with a set of these (normal d6s except instead of numbers or pips they have clock faces showing hours 1-6):

Jedao’s character sheet is so funny. “Complications: I have abysmal taste in lovers.” BE NICE TO HIM LMAO

It’s not entirely clear to me under which circumstances you wind up the Hexarchate Clock. Is it actually only if Kujen is in play? Does that mean he’s literally required if you want to run a long take-down-the-whole-hxx campaign?

The prewritten scenarios are neat! I don’t have a lot to say about them. They look like they would be fun. I like “The Field of Diplomacy” and the concept of the adjacent polity a lot. Oh also the note at the end of “A Heretical Sacrifice” that is just like “if the ‘human sacrifice’ bit is too vague for you and you want to add more torture, here are some ideas!” is 1) funny and 2) appreciably graphic and wince-inducing. HXX-typical gore: delivered on!

This is a petty note, but excluding servitor PCs on the grounds that this is a game about moral complicity and thus only human faction members can be PCs sure is a Statement. I know servitors are slaves and thus the moral calculus is certainly different, but like, the complicity is the entire point of Hemiola’s arc??? And faction servitors quite obviously often consider themselves to be legitimately part of that faction? The one Shuos servitor we meet is as interested in games as any fox, the assault on Shattered Needles is made possible because the Unspoken Law’s servitors consider themselves Kel, the Aerie interlude with sin 𝑥² is about a servitor who considers itself so deeply Kel it wants to go down with the hivemind. I understand they complicate things mechanically but excluding servitors for thematic reasons is silly.

That said, I feel like a servitor hack wouldn’t be too much more mechanically complex. None of the prewritten scenarios work with an all-servitor group, but I think they could all be run with one or maaybe two servitor PCs. You’d have to do some pregaming to figure out how you’d open communication between human/servitor PCs. Lore-wise, the faction traits are clearly not meant to represent the faction exotics or the Shuos wouldn’t have one; they read more like “specialized skills developed as a consequence of picking this faction” than calendrical stuff, so faction servitors could have standard faction abilities, with the caveat that a lot of interpersonal Edges may be hard for Andan servitors to hit on account of social interaction between servitors & humans being, well, you know. Alternatively, no faction abilities for servitors, but all servitors +2d6 to anything involving grid-diving and/or mechanics. Servitors can have ranks just like human PCs, though these ranks are only relevant to other servitors (and possibly moths). Servitors can probably tag calendar traits like humans, they just can’t participate in formations or affect calendrical gradients (neither of which have explicit mechanics in this system anyways). Heresies are the same for servitors as humans.

This really made me want to dig out that calendrical cryptocurrency heist concept I had to see if I can put together a scenario. And maybe also make some cardboard game spinners for a tactile clock experience...

[thedreamlessnights]

Accismus - pt. 4

{previous chapter} || {next chapter}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: Arriving in Novigrad proves to be another adventure as you meet Geralt's friends and family and investigate leads on another djinn.

Warnings: Mentions of previous burnings at the stake, blood and corpses, lots of pining, sexual innuendos and references, graphic descriptions of injuries.

Word Count: 9.3k

A/N: It's finally here, and only took... several months 😬 Seriously, though, I'm so sorry for the wait. I've been dealing with so many things it would take an essay to list them out. I hope the content makes up for it! Thank you all so much for your patience and comments, they've kept me so incredibly inspired, and I can't wait for you all to see the rest of the story. Without further ado, enjoy chapter four!

A glimmering light against the darkness you’ve known of late, the Free City of Novigrad has undoubtedly come back to life.

The sight of it takes you aback; the flourishing businesses, open gates, large crowds chattering about this and that. Even with Temeria reinstated, Velen still suffers greatly from the price of the war, still carries the burden of it all. You’d expected it to be the same here. Why should it be any different?

But with Radovid gone, there are no pyres. No burning books or flocks of witch hunters stalking the streets, nothing but minor conflicts as you and Geralt pass by: a business spat, drunk soldiers wandering the street, a brief argument between lovers. Had you not been explicitly told of it, you’d never have known that mages and nonhumans once burned here. 

Something about that puts you at unease; a complete return to normalcy. It’s as if it never happened, as if that level of suffering and hatred could simply be washed away. But you know better. 

People might pretend that all is normal once more, but beneath the blood and bodies that have been clumsily disposed of, those roots still grow. And if they’re ignored, they’ll take hold once more. Maybe not today, maybe not even ten years from now, but they will. 

It’s a knowledge that fills you with an unshakeable sense of dread.

As the two of you roam the city with Roach and Mead on foot, merchants sing out their various spiels and various taverns rumble with conversation. 

You don’t know this place, but lingering in the back of your mind is the strange sensation that you’ve been here before. And perhaps, in a way, you do know it - through Oxenfurt. 

They smell the same: mud, the reek of piss, the stink of the sea. The stench of beer that hangs on the patrol’s breath. But, just like Oxenfurt, if you walk through the right spot you get the honeyed scent of flowers growing on the vine, the heavenly aroma of baking bread, fragrant meat roasting on the fire. 

The sweetness of fresh air that seems to slip through your fingers.

You really do miss it - Oxenfurt, that is. The memories are muddled and tarnished with pain, but somewhere between them, you still ache.

The lectures, poring over the pages in fascination. Hours spent taking in how every internal system works together, creating movement and balance and life. So complex. So involuntary.

Most of all, though, even more than the lectures, you miss the hope you’d had then: hope that things would all fall into place one day. That it would all turn out right in the end. 

You don’t think that way anymore. That optimism has been washed away now, so strange and foreign you barely recognize it. All you can seem to think now is how everything is bound to go wrong. Even now, you’re anxiously mulling over upcoming situations. 

With every step closer to The Chameleon, that unease continues to grow. Whoever is in there - will they hate you? Will they see what you’ve been expecting Geralt to see all this time, what he’s refused to accept despite your insistence?

You close your eyes for a brief moment and shake your head. It won’t help. But every second here feels like a lifetime. Five minutes and you already want to leave this place. 

When Geralt finally stalls in front of a building, your heart skips a beat. This must be The Chameleon, then. Even just standing outside, it’s obvious that this place is nicer than The Swift Oak. 

It’s well maintained, newly painted, and - by the number of people filtering in and out - it must also be popular. Whether that’s from Dandelion’s reputation or earned through fair business, you don’t know. It could be either way. 

You feel sick to your stomach.

When you and Geralt are done hitching your horses to the posts in front of the tavern, he turns to you and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Gotta warn you…” he says, expression apologetic. “Dandelion can be-”

“Geralt!” booms a nearby voice, cutting off his words. “That really you, ye bugger?”

The two of you turn to see a dwarf with a neatly trimmed beard and mohawk standing at the tavern’s entrance. There’s a grin on his face, an axe slung across his back, and - with a start, you realize you know exactly who he is: even though you’ve only seen him in Gwent cards.

“Greetings, Zoltan,” Geralt replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is Dandelion here?”

“Right inside, the rascal,” Zoltan replies, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning. “He’ll be delighted to see you.” He pauses, giving you a brief look over. “And… who’s this?” 

You quickly introduce yourself, and Zoltan chuckles.

“Ah, Geralt. Always getting around.”

Your cheeks immediately burn, and you pointedly turn your gaze away from him.

Geralt, suddenly looking incredibly awkward, simply glances at you and nods to the door. “We should head in before it gets dark,” he says. 

He isn’t going to correct Zoltan? 

“Ah - before ye go,” Zoltan says quickly, “ought to tell ye that your sorceress was here.”

Your entire body goes stiff, and Geralt straightens a little. He’s never talked very much about Yennefer, and - well, your curiosity has been piqued. 

“Yen was here?” Geralt asks.

“Aye, a few days back,” Zoltan confirms, shifting uneasily. “Askin’ about your whereabouts, whether or not we’d seen you of late. Told her, ‘no, havenae seen our pal Geralt in ages,’ and she argued a right amount with Dandelion. Set off in a storm, told us she’d be back later.”

Oh, Gods. 

“They argued, huh?” Geralt asks dryly, not looking surprised in the least. “What about?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Zoltan replies, scratching at his beard. “Wasnae truly interested, and, well… you know what she’s like, Geralt. Somethin’ about magic, some sort o’ danger, can’t tell you all the details... Dandelion pried, she cursed him, left in a storm. Said she’d be back later.”

“She say how soon?” Geralt asks.

“Nah. Course not.”

“Great,” Geralt says dully. “Knowing Yen, that could mean either a few days or a few months. Thanks, Zoltan. Better get inside.”

“Aye, good to see you again, old pal,” Zoltan grins, shaking Geralt’s hand. “And it’s nice to meet you,” he adds, giving you a nod. “I expect I’ll see you two around.”

He heads off into the crowd, and Geralt makes for the door.

The minute the two of you step inside, you’re overwhelmed. The tavern is warm and lively, flowing with music and mead and chatter. The aroma of cooking food wafts through the door, and your stomach growls hungrily. 

Geralt gives you an amused look, raising a brow. The two of you had eaten not long back, but it seems it hadn’t been enough to tide you over. Before you can respond, the sound of another voice cuts through the noise.

“Geralt! I knew you’d come!”

A man with brown hair, a neatly-trimmed beard, and bright blue eyes has woven through the crowd, beaming as he looks at Geralt. His clothing is finely-made, purple fabric with detailed embroidery that glistens under the light, and a hat with a egret feather on top. The finery makes you feel incredibly out of place in your wrinkled, dirty clothes.

“Dandelion!” Geralt fondly squeezes the bard’s shoulder. “Good to see you.”

This is Dandelion? This well-dressed, bright-eyed, charming man? You’d pictured him older, nothing but tawdry. A senile old man well past his peak with a predatory glint in his eyes and a beer-filled gut. You’d been very wrong - after all, how could a man like that ever be friends with Geralt?

“How are you, old friend?” Dandelion asks with a warm smile. “It’s been ages, truly! You must be hungry - ah, Rosa! A bowl of soup for the witcher, if you please!”

“Make it two,” Geralt corrects, and Rosa, a young woman with thick black hair and rosy cheeks, gives a nod. Then Geralt turns back to Dandelion. “How’d you know I would come?”

“Oh, you know Yennefer,” Dandelion replies, dismissively batting the question away with his hand. “Shows up one day asking where you are, then comes back a week or so later with you in tow.” 

He stops, seeming to finally see you, and a brief quizzicality crosses his face. “Hold on. You aren’t here with Yennefer, are you?”

As he’s speaking, Rosa returns, handing you and Geralt each a bowl of soup. You start scarfing it down like it’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten, and - it honestly might be.

“Nope,” Geralt responds, starting on his soup too. “Was hoping you knew where she’s gone off to.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Dandelion says. “She burst into the inn, asking where you were, and when we told her we hadn’t seen you in ages, she went pale. Kept muttering something about a curse, but wouldn’t tell me anything else. When I asked her what she needed you for, she called me a pest, Geralt, a pest! Can you believe that? Then she stormed off, claiming she’d be back later.”

Geralt’s brows pinch, and he shifts, setting down his now-empty bowl. “Can’t be good if she’s worried.”

“Like I said, she wouldn’t tell me a thing about it,” Dandelion says, rather petulantly. Then he looks over at you. “Oh, where are my manners! Who’s this?”

Once again you introduce yourself, and Dandelion heartily shakes your hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” he says. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Long story,” Geralt says exhaustedly.

“A long story?” Dandelion’s brows rise, and a sly smile paints his lips. “What sort? Action-riddled? Romantic? Oh, I know - a long, twisting contract that led the two of you together!”

Your cheeks go hot, and you set your spoon down next to your empty bowl. This must have been what Geralt was trying to warn you about earlier.

“Dandelion,” Geralt chides. “Anything else I should know?”

“Alright, alright,” Dandelion acquiesces. “And no, that’s all - if you don’t count The Chameleon’s booming business, and Oxenfurt University’s recent reopening.”

“Oxenfurt’s open again?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. Geralt and Dandelion both look at you with varying levels of curiosity.

“It is, yes!” Dandelion says proudly, puffing out his chest a little. “Students and lecturers have been flooding back into the city. They’ve even asked me to give a guest lecture! Why do you ask? Are you interested in attending the classes?” 

You don’t know what to say. “I…”

“Ex-student,” Geralt fills in for you, and you give him a tight smile.

“Really?” Dandelion asks. “Well, in that case, you’d better register quickly. The classes are filling up faster than lecturers could ever hope to teach.”

“Thank you, but I’m not interested in returning,” you inform him.

“Is that so?” he asks. You can tell you’ve piqued his interest, and you wince with regret as he continues on. “Oxenfurt is where I got my master’s degree in the seven liberal arts, did you know that?”

You didn’t know he had a master’s in the seven liberal arts. “Well, I-”

“Oh, what am I saying?” He props his hands on his hips. “I haven’t even introduced myself! I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove - though most know me as Dandelion. You may have heard my ballads?” He gazes at you expectantly.

“I have,” you confirm, pointedly avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

“Splendid! Tell me, which is your favorite?”

“Dandelion,” Geralt cuts in, “stop the bragging.”

“But-”

“We’ve had a long day. Need a room.”

Dandelion hesitates, and his smile falters. “Oh, alright,” he relents. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the gritty details from you later,” he adds quietly. “Two rooms, coming right up!”

You let out a small noise. Geralt clears his throat.

Dandelion pauses, looking between the two of you with widening eyes. “Oh, I see,” he says, grinning coyly. “One room.”

“Dandelion,” Geralt says warningly.

“Alright, alright,” Dandelion sighs, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. “Here. Take the first room upstairs on the left, it’s open. And, Geralt? Try not to make too much noise. We’ve been trying to get the walls soundproofed, but it’s costing a small fortune, and guests are still complaining from the last time you and Yennefer were here.”

Your face feels like it’s caught on fire. You bite your lip until it stings and pretend you’re admiring the decorations on the walls.

“Uh-huh,” Geralt says, tone flat. “Be sure to do just that.”

He places a warm hand on the small of your back to guide you away from the conversation, and you shiver a little under his touch.

“Much appreciated,” Dandelion says with a wink. “Do enjoy yourselves, though - oh, and let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you!”

Geralt moves his hand from your back and heads toward the stairs, and you give a polite nod to the troubadour. “It was nice to meet you, Dandelion,” you tell him.

“Likewise!” he says brightly. Then he lowers his voice. “And tomorrow, I’ll get all those details from you, alright?”

“Heard that,” Geralt calls. 

Dandelion pulls a face. “You won’t let me have anything,” he whines.

You let out a soft laugh and follow after Geralt, legs getting heavier and heavier as the two of you head up the stairs. When he unlocks the room, your heart sinks in disappointment. One bed again. You’d been hoping to sleep on a mattress tonight.

Geralt sets his things down on the bed and sighs, taking a seat.

“Listen… sorry about all of that,” he says, pinching his nose. “Once Dandelion finds out why we’re here, we’ll get stuck answering questions. For hours, most like. Figured it was better to wait.”

“It’s fine.” You set your things on the floor and start unpacking, and Geralt watches you as you pull out the bedroll you’d purchased earlier. His brows immediately pinch.

“Plenty of room on the bed,” he says.

“I know,” you reply softly. “Just…” 

You hesitate for a moment. Explaining this means you’re going to have to confess that you’d spied on him when he was asleep, and you don’t want him to paint you as some sort of creep.

Geralt patiently waits for you to continue, and you let out a frustrated puff of breath.

“I know you slept on the floor last time,” you say quickly, “and I know this whole thing must be extremely uncomfortable for you, especially sleeping in the same bed as me. You’re with Yennefer, and it’s only fair that this time I’m-”

“Hey. Hang on,” Geralt cuts in, sending your rambling to a crashing halt. There’s a pause before he shakes his head, then pats the bed next to him. “Come up here.”

You stare at him for confirmation, and he raises his brows expectantly. Turning your eyes toward the floor, you get up and take a seat.

“Slept on the floor last time because the mattress was too soft,” Geralt says gently. “This one’s a lot harder. That one? Felt like I was sinking into a cloud. Been on the path so long, couldn’t sleep. Didn’t have anything to do with you. As for Yen…” He trails off, shaking his head again. “We... Shit. Don’t know how to say this. Didn’t leave off on the best of terms.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Listen, don’t worry about any of that,” Geralt says quickly. “Won’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

He has a sternness in his tone like he’s expecting you to argue, but you don’t have any desire to.

“If you insist, master witcher,” you reply.

“Mhm. I insist,” he responds, and you move your things off the floor. He seems to relax as you sit next to him. Then he grabs his things and starts getting ready for bed. 

Right, sleep. The thing you’ve been avoiding since last night. In the partial silence that’s disturbed only by Geralt’s breathing, you’re keenly aware of the door at your back, and your heart starts racing like a drum. As you try to get settled in, your hands start shaking. 

Geralt immediately turns toward you, fixing you with that piercing look he commonly wears. “You okay?” he asks. “Pulse just shot up.”

Your mouth is dry when you speak, and your words come out as a hoarse stammer. “Could we… switch sides?” You look pointedly at the bed, and his gaze softens with understanding.

“Sure. Happen to like that side better anyway.”

Despite your fear, his words still pull a weak smile from you. Then you quickly trade sides with him, heart slowing as you settle in and tug off your boots. 

This room has a privacy sheet, which makes things so much easier with your situation. You change into your nightclothes behind it, clean your teeth, then tuck yourself under the sheets, too tired to do anything else.

As you lay down, you realize Geralt is lost in thought, watching you. Still sitting up, hands propped loosely over his thighs. You give him a questioning look, and he stirs and blinks hard, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“The … man you killed,” he murmurs - very hesitantly. “Did-”

“Geralt, I can’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I can’t talk about it.”

He nods. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have pried.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You aren’t angry that he did - you’re angry you can’t seem to tell him.

“You don’t have to be,” you reply after a moment. “I’m not upset.” Then, when he’s silent, you add, “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight,” he says.

You turn over and close your eyes.

Oxenfurt is so very warm in the summer. 

Granted, Velen hadn’t been much better, but it was wet heat, and you’d been used to it - swampy and muggy, boiling you alive. Redania, even along the coast of the sea, is dry.

Too dry. The hot air sears your lungs as you run, legs aching and feet burning like mad. Your shoes have been falling apart for months now, but you haven’t had the coin to replace them. In the midst of everything, your foot hits a stone, and you trip. 

The books you’d been carrying go flying. Your hands throw themselves out to brace your fall, scraping raw against the stone, but they’re still too late. 

The impact knocks the wind straight out of you. 

Your right knee jams into the ground in a blinding flash of pain, and you gasp airlessly, wondering if you’re going to die here until, finally, you can breathe again.

Not without pain. 

Gingerly, you push yourself up into an upright position and look around, trying to compose your rattled mind. Your body aches like the Abyss. 

Shit. 

The notes in your books are scattered everywhere, and you’re already late to class. Your hands are stinging and bleeding, and your knee shoots with pain every time you move it.

But you can’t miss this lecture.

Shakily, you get to your feet, limping around to gather your notes, wincing with pain every time you move. Damned campus. Damned shoes, now broken worse than ever.

As you gather everything into your arms again, a lark flies overhead singing a sweet, cheerful song. You stare at her wistfully for a moment, wishing you shared her freedom, then painfully limp along.

The university always smells of dust and old books, and your footsteps echo in the hall. Somewhere in the distance, there’s the smell of smoke. When you finally make it to class, everyone’s eyes turn to you. 

“Late once again,” Professor von Gratz remarks. “Do not make it a habit.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, ducking your head and hobbling to your seat. If he notices your injuries, he says nothing.

You don’t bother telling him that work held you back, or that someone’s cart toppled over and forced you to take a longer path on your route, or that you tripped. You don’t bother, because you’ve learned they simply don’t care.

Instead, with hands shaking in pain, you sit and organize your books. Just as you’re opening up your notes, the lark from earlier flies in from the open window and lands directly on your desk. 

Her song, which had been so sweet not long ago, is shrill and piercing, deafening this close to you - and no doubt interrupting the lecture. You cast your eyes to the front of the room, worried that you’ll be scolded again, but you find that the professor isn’t there. 

No one is. The room around you is empty. 

Your gaze must sweep the room twenty times before you can finally accept it, because that’s impossible, this isn’t possible. But your eyes don’t lie. The room is empty.

Perhaps you’d somehow injured your head in the fall? Perhaps you’re in the wrong classroom? Surely they couldn’t have all left without you noticing. Could they?

Whatever the answer is, you’ve got to get out of this place.

Gods, your hands are burning. Not stinging like earlier, not even throbbing, but burning. They’d been scraped in the fall but, this… this is not right. 

Blisters are swelling on your palms and fingers, blisters oozing with blood that grow and grow and burn like nothing you’ve ever felt and finally burst, splattering blood on your face. 

Your eyes snap closed and hot bile rushes to your mouth. Gods. You firmly swallow it down, taking a moment to compose yourself. You’ve had worse than this.

With a shaky inhale, you open your eyes again. Breathe. Just breathe.

Still, the bleeding won’t stop. Blood is everywhere - all over your clothes, your skin. When you reach for your things, it gets all over them too. Your books, notes, the desk. All covered in blood. The brooch your parents sent you, a gift for your hard work, is soon doused in it.

Oh, gods, you have to get out of here. Get someone to help you. Where is everyone?

As you helplessly try to gather everything, the lark flies over and firmly pecks at your hand. You hiss in pain but refuse to let go of your books. She pecks again.

“But I need these!” you say. 

Giving a chirp, she hops closer and pecks at your hand, over and over this time until it draws more blood. You’re forced to leave everything but the brooch, which you store safely in your pocket.

Then you follow her out the door.

On the other side, the air is biting. Wind howls in your ears, swirls in your hair, numbs your cheeks. Rain beats down against your scalp and shoulders, and you can’t stop shivering.

Your knee doesn’t hurt anymore. Neither do your hands. The lark perches on your shoulder. The bleeding has stopped. You can’t make sense of any of this.

In front of you lies the mouth of a cave. A deep, dark opening that seems to swallow you even now, where you stand. Your knees seem ready to give out at any moment.

In a flutter of feathers, the lark takes flight again, resuming her song as she circles around the cave’s entrance. 

She wants you to follow, you realize.

But there’s something here, something in the ground that threatens to sink you, something in your gut so dark you can’t stomach it. Evil. Evil that bleeds into your bones, makes your hair stand up, fills your mouth with the taste of metal.

“I won’t go in there,” you say. Your voice is shaky, but your resolve is firm. “I won’t.”

The lark lets out a dejected chirp and swoops inside. You realize something, then. You realize that if you don’t follow her in, you’ll be all alone. And even at the mouth of this horrific place, you can’t stand to be alone.

So you follow.

As soon as you step inside, you find a torch in your hand. The warm, glowing light offers solace, and so does the lark’s song - echoing all around. Still, the evil remains underneath, coating the walls, coating the mud on your feet. The lark is so much faster than you are.

“Wait, slow down,” you plead, trying to keep up. Gnarled roots and broken stones threaten to trip you, and you find yourself stumbling more than walking. The lark’s song is still present, but you’re falling more and more behind.

Then, all at once, the singing stops. It’s just… gone. No echoes. No more feathers fluttering with the beat of her wings. Nothing. You stand there, holding your breath, waiting, praying that you’ll hear her again. But after a terrible moment of silence, your torch goes out.

You’re left in complete darkness. 

Ice floods your veins. Pure, chilling terror that sinks into your chest, your stomach, your legs. Your heart thunders against your ribs, and your breathing is deafening in your ears. The hair on the back of your neck and arms stands up.

Trying your best not to panic - panicking won’t help - you turn around, blindly stretch your hands out in front of you, and start moving. Slow, careful steps. No light to guide you, no sound aside from your heart and your breath. Shaking with fear.

Then something warm closes around your arm. 

Your body reacts in pure, unadulterated instinct, jolting and shoving, trying to get away from the pinned grip that’s now pressing on you, out, out, out. 

For a moment, you’re lashing out in fear, and then… then you finally see a warm pair of honey-gold eyes above you and white hair and-

“Easy,” comes Geralt’s gravelly, sleep-touched voice. “Easy. It’s me.”

You freeze for a moment before letting out a sigh of relief, going limp. It’s him, you’re safe, just another dream. You’ve never had that dream before.

Trembling, you bury your face in your hands. “Geralt,” you say shakily. 

He hesitantly touches you again, soothingly running his hand over your arm, and you have to fight back a sob at the gentle act of comfort. 

“I - I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be,” he says. “Pretty fierce claws you’ve got there, though.”

Despite the humor lacing his tone, horror washes over you. Did you scratch him? You pull your hands from your eyes and look him over, searching for evidence of an injury, and it presents in a scratch against his right arm. There’s a clear imprint of long pink lines dug into the skin, even drawing blood in places.

“It’ll be gone in five minutes,” Geralt says calmly. “My fault. You were having a nightmare - tried to wake you up without thinking. Should’ve gone about it differently.”

“I hurt you.”

The words are raw and pained. After everything you’ve already put him through, you’d not only woken him up but also scratched him. Drew blood.

“Doesn’t hurt at all, actually,” he says. “Remind me to tell you later about how Dandelion and I once had to share a bed. Snored like a log, kicked the shit out of me all night long. Pretty sure I broke a rib.”

The words are clearly meant for comfort, but they don’t make you feel any better. You gently run your fingers over the wound and Geralt doesn’t even wince. It doesn’t change the fact that you still feel awful. 

“I should bandage it up.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, it’ll be gone in five minutes. Maybe even less. Witchers heal fast.”

“I know, but I-” 

You stop mid-sentence, freezing in place.

As you’re only realizing now, Geralt is shirtless. Shirtless and scarred everywhere. Your eyes trail over his torso, taking all of it in - the raised pink lines, rosy strokes against his porcelain skin. You’ve never seen this many scars in your life.

Most are long claw marks, scattered along his torso. There’s a deep imprint of a bite mark where his shoulder meets his neck. His chest has a star-shaped wound on the right side, and there are three diagonal, round imprints stretching across his ribs.

He’s lean, too, lean and broad and just as muscular as you’d imagined, if not more, and - oh, gods, you’re staring again.

“You - you’re shirtless,” you say dumbly. You wince at your own words. Why? Why had you just said that? Why does this man make every ounce of intelligence bleed out of you? 

Geralt looks faintly smug at your shock; a cat-like smile paints itself on his lips, but only for a moment. 

“Yeah,” he finally replies, eyes fixed on you. “Shirtless. You asking me to put a shirt on?”

“A shirt?” you say faintly. “No - I mean… I…” 

He smiles again. It’s quickly replaced by something with more intensity, something still laced with humor and curiosity, but.. different. There’s something suggestive, something warm about his gaze that makes you feel like the floor’s going to fall out from under you. 

You shoot him a glare. “Be quiet and sit still,” you snap. “I need to bandage your arm.” Your cheeks scald from within, and you fiercely ignore his eyes on you.

Geralt lets out an amused hum from deep in his chest but doesn’t protest further. 

You grab some bandages from your pack and return to him, then carefully dab on the celandine salve he’d insisted you take with you this morning. You still despise doing any healing, but this is small enough that it doesn’t do more than lightly tug at your heartstrings.

“There,” you proclaim when it’s done. “I’m sorry. Again.”

He takes two fingers and places them under your chin, tilting it up so you’re looking him in the eyes. Or at least, you would be - were you not stubbornly keeping your gaze down toward the bed. 

“Told you, you’ve got to stop saying that,” he says, voice low. His tone is soothing but it only makes you restless, drives you insane.

You finally look at him and narrow your eyes, heart pounding like mad, and you know he can hear it. “You’re too patient with me.”

His lips quirk into a small smile. “Think so?” 

“Yes.”

“You’re wrong. Too harsh on yourself.”

He’s so close to you now that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him, the warmth that his hands share: rough, callused hands that so gently cradle your chin. He still smells of grass and oud and the sweet earthiness of the outdoors, and his lips look so very soft and inviting and… gods, you’ve wanted him since you first saw him. You can’t pretend anything else anymore. 

Geralt must notice the way you’re looking at him, because something in his gaze shifts - sharpens. His eyes go even warmer than before, and his lips part, and are… are you imagining that he’s leaning toward you? On pure instinct, you tilt your chin up a little further and -

Suddenly wide-eyed, Geralt tenses and looks at the door, clearly hearing something you can’t. Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash from downstairs.

“Shit,” Geralt remarks under his breath and, to your dismay, he quickly drops his hand from your chin. Then he gets up to pull on a shirt - which is also much to your dismay.

“If that’s who I think it is…” he says, not bothering to finish the phrase.

Yennefer, you think glumly. Without another word, you follow him down the stairs. Clearly, there’s some kind of argument happening; voices are flowing up from the first floor.

“Look, I’m sorry about the fuckin’ glass, alright?” comes a voice that is most certainly not Yennefer. “I’ll pay for it, blah blah blah. Whatever you want.”

“Lambert?” Geralt calls, moving partway down the stairs. “Huh. Can’t go anywhere without getting into an argument.”

His words are teasing, and the fondness in them doesn’t pass you by. Another friend? But Lambert turns, and you’re immediately stricken - because he’s clearly another witcher. 

Two swords, thick armor, and, as your wish forces you to follow Geralt further down the stairs, you see the tell-tale glowing yellow of the stranger’s eyes. Just like Geralt’s, only not as warm. 

Something in this Lambert’s gaze makes you wary, and you find yourself shadowing Geralt, hiding yourself behind his frame as much as you can. Luckily, you seem to escape unnoticed, because Lambert just crosses his arms over his chest and grins at the sight of Geralt. 

“Look who it is,” he drawls. “Wondered if I’d see you here, pretty boy.”

“What brings you here?” Geralt asks, lightly clapping him on the shoulder. “Keira with you?”

“No,” Lambert answers tightly. Something pulls at his face before it vanishes, melting into a scowl as he looks around. “Eskel is, though,” he adds. “He’ll be here soon.” 

Geralt’s brows raise. “Eskel’s here, too?”

“Ran into each other on a contract,” Lambert says. “Sort of like me and you with that ekimmara, only this time it was a noonwraith and - well, long story. He’s hitching up his horse. I needed a fuckin’ drink.”

“Geralt, he just broke my best glass!” Dandelion fusses, in the midst of sweeping up the mess a few feet away. You hadn’t noticed him there with Geralt in front of your view.

“And I told you I’d pay for it,” Lambert replies. “Fuck’s sake.”

Dandelion’s eyes narrow. “How many times must I repeat that it was priceless? If you hadn’t waltzed in and served yourself at an ungodly hour, this all could have been avoided. That glass was my prize from last year’s poetry tourney - I can’t simply go and replace it!”

“Boo fuckin’ hoo,” Lambert mutters under his breath.

Dandelion’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth, but anything he’s about to say is swiftly interrupted.

“Geralt, is that you?” chimes another voice. This one is lighter, and with an accent you don’t quite recognize. “Welcome back!”

The source of the sound is a blonde trobairitz with sparkling blue eyes. She gives Geralt a warm smile and pulls him into a brief hug.

How many friends does Geralt have? How many of them are here? 

You don’t like to be envious, but seeing him surrounded by people who clearly know and care for him - and knowing that there must be many, many more out there - it makes your chest ache with a fierce longing. You’ve never had this many friends, not in your whole life.

“Priscilla!” Dandelion exclaims, immediately abandoning his sweeping and leaping to his feet. He gently grips her shoulder, and his gaze clings to her every feature as he beams at her. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you! But… what happened? You weren’t due to be back for another week!” 

“The competition was canceled, love,” Priscilla says, giving a small frown. “No one would tell me why, but - if the rumors are to be believed - someone gambled away the prize money. All of us were sent away before it started.”

Outrage crosses Dandelion’s features. “They had you go all that way only to send you back? And over some gambling fiasco, at that? That’s… that’s entirely unacceptable!”

“And I’m sure you’ll be writing a very strongly-worded letter of protest,” Priscilla replies brightly. You find yourself immediately endeared to her. 

“Of course I will, my dear!” Dandelion says, hopping over the seemingly forgotten pile of glass on the floor. “This world has no respect for artists, I tell you!” 

He scurries away, presumably to grab some paper. Priscilla just shakes her head with a fond smile and takes a seat at the bar.

“So,” she says calmly, framing her hands on the sides of her chair. “Tell me, what have I missed?”

Geralt, in his usual laconic manner, begins to brief Priscilla on what he knows about Dandelion and Yennefer - omitting you and the djinn, of course . You still haven’t been noticed, and the discomfort of the situation is growing more and more. You and Geralt can only delay telling them for so long.

As your mind starts to drift, you take notice of the fact that Lambert has skulked away to the other side of the bar and poured himself a drink. He nurses his Redanian lager with a distant gaze, and you can’t help but think that he looks the way you feel: awkward, out of place, and incredibly lonely. 

He must sense your gaze on him, because he looks up at you and narrows his eyes. You immediately look away.

“…got in some kind of fight with Yen,” Geralt is saying. “Haven’t seen her, though.”

“And why are you here?” Priscilla asks. “I imagine you’ve not come just to visit me and Dandelion?”

Guilt pulls at Geralt’s expression. “Yeah. Sorry.” He shakes his head. “Long story.”

Priscilla raises her brows and perks up - just the way Dandelion had last night - and you want to laugh at the clear similarities between the two. You wonder if Dandelion will remember to ask you about the ‘gritty details,’ as he’d put it.

“Not you, too,” Geralt sighs. 

Priscilla lets out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t write about anything you don’t want me to. Unless, of course, it’s terribly exciting.”

It isn’t, you think. Not the way that the other ballads about Geralt are exciting.

Before Geralt can answer, the door opens, and all of you turn. Another witcher, you realize in excitement. This must be Eskel.

He’s tall, broad, and stocky, with scars that run down the right side of his face and a leathery red jacket rolled up to his elbows. Two swords. Yellow eyes. He grins when he sees Geralt, and the expression melts any initial intimidation he might have given off.

“Hey, Wolf,” he greets, coming closer and shaking Geralt’s hand. His voice is warm, deep, and assuasive. “Good to see you.” 

“You too, Eskel,” Geralt replies. “Nasty wound you’ve got there. That from the noonwraith?”

You hadn’t noticed it at first, but there’s a deep cut in Eskel’s neck, trickling partially-dried blood down onto his shirt.

“Yeah,” Eskel says, leaning against a table. “It’ll heal. Got some Swallow with me. What brings you here?”

“Long story,” Geralt replies. “Listen - I know it’s unlikely, but… either of you happen to hear anything about a djinn lately?”

Lambert snorts. “What the hell is the deal with you and djinns?” he asks. “Oh, wait! Let me guess: you finally got tired of being Yennefer’s lapdog, and now you want to beg another djinn to please take back your wish.”

“Cut it out, Lambert, ” Eskel says. “Besides - they already undid that wish.” 

Your chest wrenches. Geralt and Yennefer undid the djinn’s wish?

“Mhm,” Geralt says tightly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Remember telling you that pretty explicitly, in fact. You drunk already?”

Lambert rolls his eyes. “I forgot, alright? Forgive me if I don’t remember every intimate little detail of your life. Shit, don’t tell me you’re here to redo it?”

“Got nothing to do with Yen,” Geralt insists. “Just need a djinn.”

“A djinn?” Dandelion has returned, paper in hand, and both he and Priscilla are gazing at Geralt with newfound interest - as if they’re already drafting up titles for a ballad in their minds. The bard grins widely and takes a seat on a nearby chair. “What’s this about a djinn?”

Geralt sighs, and you immediately feel awful for him. You know that it’ll be embarrassing for him to tell them the truth, and, well, he shouldn’t have to. You’re the one who made that idiotic wish - it’s only fair that you're the one who has to tell them.

Without thinking, you step out from behind Geralt and, despite trembling, speak as clearly as you can. “I’ll explain. It’s my fault, anyway.”

Poorly chosen words, because Geralt gives you a chiding look, and you can hear his voice in your mind: Gotta stop blaming yourself. 

Too late. At the sound of your voice, everyone’s gaze immediately shifts to you, and all the blood quickly drains from your face.

“There you are!” Dandelion exclaims. “I wondered when you’d be joining us!”

“Been here the whole fuckin’ time,” Lambert points out, pouring himself another drink. “Hiding behind Geralt.”

You ignore them both, swallowing hard and taking collected, even breaths as you try to ground yourself. 

“Geralt is asking about a djinn for… well - because of me,” you continue. Gods, this isn’t coming out right, but you have no choice but to go on. “Not long ago, I came across a djinn, and for my third wish, I asked for protection to be with me always. It… sent him.” 

You pause for a moment, taking in the various combinations of expressions on people’s faces, which generally seems to be a mix of shock and delight - aside from Eskel, who simply looks shocked. 

In their stunned silence, you hesitantly continue on. “It took the always part literally, so… now we can’t be more than a few steps apart, and we need another djinn to undo it.”

There are about ten seconds of sheer, ear-ringing silence before Lambert slams his mug down on the bar. “You’re shitting me,” he says.

The room explodes. 

Dandelion starts firing off questions like his life depends on it, trailing off mid-sentence to jot down ideas. Eskel shakes his head with a grin and takes a seat, pouring himself a drink. Lambert snorts out a joke about ‘Geralt, always having shit like this happen.’ 

Priscilla lets out a shocked laugh before clapping her hand over her mouth - then reaches over to borrow some paper from Dandelion. Geralt, meanwhile, crosses his arms and sighs loudly, bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I’m so sorry, Geralt.”

His expression softens as he drops his hand and looks at you. “Hey. Not your fault. Gonna drill that into you sooner or later.”

You give him a weak smile, still shaking.

“Geralt, Geralt,” Dandelion croons, waltzing up to the two of you. “I’ve been searching for an idea for my next ballad for months now, and the day after you show up-”

“You’re not gonna write about this, Dandelion,” Geralt says. “Promise me.”

“You must be joking!” Dandelion exclaims. “This will be my best ballad yet! Two unsuspecting citizens, bound by fate-”

“Fate?” you exclaim. “What does fate have to do with it?”

Dandelion raises a brow. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming you didn’t specify Geralt for your wish?”

“No,” you say firmly. “I didn’t picture anyone at all. If anything, I just thought I’d have some kind of invisible protection.”

“Then that settles it!” he replies brightly. “The djinn decided - out of every being, every number of things in this vast universe that could apply to your wish - he would send none other than Geralt of Rivia as your protection. Not only that, but he entwined the two of you closely together, unable to be apart. What is that, if not fate?”

“A djinn having a bit of fun,” you reply bitterly. “You can’t think I was destined to find that djinn?”

“Of course!”

You don’t respond. You can’t, because your throat locks up. 

If you were destined to find that djinn, then all of the horrible things that have happened to you over the course of your life were destined as well. It’s an awful thought. 

Were your parents doomed to die a terrible death from the moment they first took a breath? It’s ridiculous to think so. Your parents were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the crossfire of a newly emerging disease. 

But the more you think about it, the more doubt slowly starts to trickle into your mind. 

Your parents were born poor and died poor, and no amount of work they did ever could have changed that. As is common for the poor, they were financially trapped, stuck in the place they were born - a place that would soon become riddled with disease.

If their circumstances guaranteed that they were in that godforsaken town when the plague hit, then… is that destiny? Was fate setting up a long string of events, using the price of their blood to drag you back to Velen? Velen, where you’d built a shitty little life for yourself that got ripped apart again and again? Velen, where you’d finally come across that djinn?

Was it fate that put the words of that wish in your mouth, or was it your own stupidity? 

“You see?” Dandelion says, seeing the expression on your face. “It’s fate, through and through. And, it will be making an excellent ballad. Tell me-”

“Dandelion,” Geralt interjects. “No ballads. Not happening.”

Dandelion sets his paper down with a scowl, crossing his arms. “Geralt, you are a cruel, obdurate man. You’re denying me the best ballad I’ll ever write.”

“That hurts, Dandelion,” comes Geralt’s response. “No more ballads? Don’t know how I’ll survive.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Dandelion sighs, fixing his gaze on you. “Please, try to talk some sense into him. He’ll have to see the light sooner or later.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Sorry, but something tells me that if anyone was going to change his mind, it’d be you.”

Dandelion grips your shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says, a bit slyly. “I see the way he looks at you.”

Your heart skips a beat. Surely Geralt must have heard that? When you turn to look at him for confirmation, he meets your eyes head-on, but… the look on his face is something new. Discomfort, you realize. 

Your stomach faintly sinks, but Geralt simply clears his throat and speaks. 

“Now that that’s dealt with,” he says, “Any of you happen to know where I might find a djinn?”

There’s a long beat. Then Priscilla speaks.

“I can’t say whether it’s true for certain,” she starts, “but during my recent travels, I heard many talk of a djinn in the Blue Mountains, left by a mage who wished to tame it. He was killed before he could manage it.” 

The Blue Mountains. A journey like that would take… you don’t even know how long. Weeks, at the very least.

“Know anything else?” Geralt asks. “Got any specific locations, the name of the mage?”

“They said it was held in a cave near the borders of Kaedwen and Aedirn,” she answers. “But I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

Geralt’s brows pinch. “That border goes on for miles. Lots of caves near there. Long way to travel for a rumor, too.”

“It is. And I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” she replies. “Unfortunately, most of this information came from a plastered troubadour on the street who was using it to compose a ballad. Though, there were others who all said the same thing, and the details were consistent enough that it just might be true. Not that anyone seemed in much of a rush to go get the djinn, mind you.”

Geralt’s shoulders slump a little, and you ache with sympathy for him. None of what she’d just said is exactly reassuring.

“Gotta see if I can find out anything else about that,” he says. “Appreciate you telling me.”

She nods and gives a weak smile, and Geralt’s gaze briefly skims over the rest of the crowd.

Eskel shakes his head. “Sorry, Wolf,” he says. “Haven’t heard anything.”

Geralt shrugs. “Knew it wasn’t likely. Got something to go on, at least.”

“Yeah, good luck,” Lambert snorts, working on his second lager. “Wouldn’t want to be you.”

“Fuck off, Lambert,” Geralt replies, sighing deeply. “C’mon, better see if there are any books about that djinn,” he tells you.

You follow him without a word.

“Nice to, er, meet you!” Priscilla calls. 

You give her a smile and wave before you leave, but your stomach coils with fear. What if you two don’t find another djinn? What if you’re stuck like this forever? How long will it take for Geralt to lose his seemingly endless patience with you?

“Don’t mind Lambert,” Geralt says, interrupting your thoughts. “He can be a prick. Nothing personal.”

“It’s fine.” You don’t particularly feel like talking at the moment. 

His pace slows into a halt. “Don’t have to say that if you don’t mean it,” he tells you.

“I know. It’s really fine, Geralt. I wasn’t thinking about him.”

He gives a nod and starts walking again, and you follow alongside him. “Gonna tell me what you were thinking about?” he asks.

You consider it for a long, vulnerable moment. “Alright, Witcher. But only if you tell me what you were thinking just now, too.”

His brows rise. “Huh. Guess that’s fair.” He rolls his shoulders, hesitating before he answers. “Was wondering about Yen - where she is. That curse she mentioned.”

“You’re worried about her,” you say.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Pretty powerful on her own. Can’t think of why she’d need my help. Doesn’t sound good.”

“Maybe she just wanted an outside perspective,” you offer. “Another pair of eyes to catch something she hadn’t seen.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, though he doesn’t sound fully convinced. “Your turn.”

You let out a puff of air, digging your nails into the skin. “I was worrying about the djinn,”you confess. “About what would happen if we don’t find another one.”

He doesn’t seem at all phased by this. “Wouldn’t worry about that just yet,” he says. “Haven’t even started looking, really.”

“How many djinns have you come across?”

“Two,” he answers. “Think you already know about the first. Helped Yen find the other one.”

“Was it hard to find?”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t say it was easy, exactly. Yen had me searching shipwrecks at the bottom of the ocean for clues. Turned out, the owner died before the djinn fulfilled his three wishes. Ended up having to fight it, make a deal. Wasn’t impossible, though.”

You resist the urge to point out that Yennefer is an extremely powerful sorceress and you aren’t, and instead ask the question you’ve really been wanting to know the answer to. “And you used that djinn to undo the first djinn’s wish?”

He huffs. “Thought you might have caught that. Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, and his expression sombers. “Yen… she was never sure if what we were feeling was real. Could never trust it. Wanted to know for sure.”

 A lost emotion pulls at your chest; grief, perhaps. 

“It wasn’t real, then?”

There’s a long pause before he answers. 

“It was.” 

You understand instantly. 

Your heart squeezes painfully at the memory of Hanna, an old friend. No longer, but that’s not what’s important. She’d been in love with the farmer’s boy, and you’d bet Antoni down the road that they’d marry before spring. 

You’d lost that bet. 

They’d quarreled most days. Rarely was there a day of stillness between them. Still, the look in their eyes had been love, real love - and you’d known that look anywhere, and you’d thought…

“Explain it to me,” you’d asked her one night. “Don’t you love him?”

“Of course!” she’d said, wringing her hands. “But love doesn’t make it right.”

“No? Then what does?”

She’d gone all starry-eyed then, suddenly looking as if she was a thousand years away. “I think… I think it’s peace,” she’d finally answered. “I couldn’t come home to him like that, spend hours arguing, because all it did was drive me insane. I wanted us to be happy, but we weren’t. And love doesn’t change that.”

And just like that, you understood.

There’s no mention of Priscilla’s djinn in any of the Novigrad bookshops - or anywhere else, as a matter of fact.

Geralt spends hours trekking through places, perusing titles and chasing down leads. Each time he sets a book down or a trail goes cold, his expression is nothing short of grim.

You browse through a book or two, but nothing pulls at your interest enough to keep you from your thoughts, which return again and again to that dream - and what happened after. You’re restless in this city, hoping for and dreading an end to all this searching. 

Eventually, when the sun has gone low in the sky, Geralt gives up and takes you back to The Chameleon, where Eskel and Lambert have headed off on another contract, but Dandelion, Priscilla, and Zoltan are chatting at a table.

“There you two are!” Dandelion exclaims. “Come now, have a seat! We were just discussing the new Gwent faction.”

“Never understood it, myself,” Zoltan remarks, leaning back in his seat. “The faction’s shite.”

Geralt pulls a chair out for you, and you take a seat - cheeks going hot.

“Gonna grab us some dinner,” he says. “Want anything specific?”

You shake your head. “Anything’s fine.”

He gives a nod and walks away, and you hear him ordering - just close enough to be in bounds of the wish.

You shift in your seat, suddenly very uncomfortable at the attention directed on you.

“Do you play Gwent?” Priscilla asks. 

“A little,” you reply.

Dandelion grins. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it?”

Priscilla shoots him a stern look. “Ignore him. What do you think about the Skellige deck?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t know,” you admit. “I’ve never played with it or against it.”

“Geralt has a deck,” Dandelion exclaims. “Surely he can pull it out, play a few rounds with you.”

Your heart drops. “Oh, I don’t-”

“Don’t worry,” Priscilla says. “It’s a difficult deck to play against - no one will blame you for losing a round.”

“I don’t have a deck anymore,” you explain. “I can’t play.”

Dandelion leans forward, eyes gleaming. “That wouldn’t have to do with the djinn, would it?”

“Ah, shut your trap, bard,” Zoltan says. 

“I’m only asking!” Dandelion retorts. “Anyway, I’m sure you could borrow the Skellige deck, and play against one of us! I doubt Geralt would mind.”

“Would mind what?” Geralt asks behind you, having returned with your dinner. He sets the two plates on the table and takes a seat next to you.

With the lacking space between the seating, his thigh presses against yours, and you quickly stuff a bite of food into your mouth - an attempt to distract yourself from the heat radiating off of him. Heat that’s slowly transferring to you.

“Oh good, you’re back!” Dandelion says. “You wouldn’t mind lending your companion here your Skellige deck, would you? Just for a few rounds, of course.”

“Sure. Wouldn’t mind.” Geralt starts on his food, brows pinching as he observes you. “Who’re you playing against?” 

“No one,” you say quickly. “I’m alright, really, I don’t need to play-”

“Why?” Dandelion interjects, giving you a sly smile. “Afraid you’ll lose?” 

Unfortunately, if there’s one thing you happen to be competitive about, it’s Gwent.

“Not by skill, no,” you reply, narrowing your eyes. “But I have no idea if the deck is any good.”

“Aye, but a shitty deck doesnae matter when the whole faction is shite,” Zoltan says.

“Hey,” Geralt says, sounding a little wounded. “Happened to win the Toussaint Gwent championship with that deck.”

You let out a deep sigh from your nose and shake your head, setting down your fork. “Fine. I’ll play.”

Dandelion beams and pulls out his deck, and Zoltan snorts in amusement, crossing his arms.

“Hang on. Gotta go get the deck first,” Geralt says. “Might as well finish your food.”

You never get the chance.

Just as he’s spoken, Geralt goes wide-eyed and stares at the door, the way a cat does when it’s heard something you haven’t. The way he had earlier, when Lambert breaking the glass had interrupted the kiss.

A cold wind blows through the room. It chills you deep and down to the very bone, as if ice is seeping through your veins and freezing every inch of you from the inside out. A sharp, deep floral scent accompanies it, fuzzing your mind over with intoxication. 

The door bursts open and silence washes over the room as two women enter rather gracefully - one with ashen hair and a scar on her left cheek, and the other, well… you know who the other is. You’ve read Dandelion’s ballads. 

Raven hair and violet eyes - this can be none other than Yennefer of Vengerberg.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix

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Salem Jacques Le Gris x Witch Reader

Word Count: 23.5k

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Horror Themes. Dark Themes. Graphic Violence. Gruesome Horror. Gore. Guns. Hanging. Burning at the Stake. Old Timey Sexism. Black Magic. Good Times with Witchcraft. Revenge Through Witchcraft. Violence Against Women and Men, but They Deserve It. Light Violence Against Reader. Canon-Consistent Rape, Not by Jacques and Not of Reader. Half-Assed Puritan Values. Virgin Reader. ☠️ Margeurite ☠️

AO3 Link

For Thanksgiving, have a Halloween fic instead! Please enjoy this horror story for I Put A Spell On You Saturday​. Notes of The Witch, Dracula, The Scarlet Letter, and Sleepy Hollow. Edits by the wickedly talented @kyloremus​ 🍂🍁🍂

Salem, Massachusetts Bay Colony, 1692   

The Season of the Witch swept over the New England countryside like a wildfire, catching every leaf ablaze in hues of reds, oranges, and yellows. Autumn was the season when those wise in the ways of the old world knew that the veil was thinnest between the spirit and the corporeal worlds, and October was the pinnacle of devilry and witchcraft. Every good and pure God-fearing man, woman, and child in Salem knew this. They knew that sin and wickedness lurked in every shadow, lying in wait to prey upon the innocent. They knew as autumn bled toward the cold death of winter and the supernatural veil grew diaphanously thin, they must be more pious, more vigilant in the war against evil and those sinful enough to corrupt their very souls.

A darkness as deadly bleak as any ancient curse from Scot’s infamous work The Discoverie of Witchcraft held the people of Salem in its nefarious grip as the leaves began to change colors in the fall of 1692.  Just as every Puritan knew his first psalms, he knew that the Devil Himself walked among them. Sometimes as a black animal -- a cat, a horse, a goat, a dog. Sometimes as a dangerously handsome man or a seductively beautiful woman. The Devil hunted for souls to steal and condemn to the fires of Hell from those weak or impure enough to succumb to his charms. The Devil would use every tool at his disposal in his pursuit of souls, from bargaining to stealing to seduction. It was He who was responsible for every impure thought and impulse that crossed the mind or entered the heart of a person. He was the bete noire who weighed down the shoulders of pious men. Their souls were forfeit as soon as they succumb to their desires, the darker the deadlier.

Everyone knew the most tantalizing souls were those of young women. They were also the most easily corrupted. The weaker sex in body and mind, women were often too frail and meek to fend off dastardly advances, making for succulent and easy prey. The Devil’s influence was easily spotted in tainted women. Women who read and thought for themselves, those who disobeyed men, those who had an affinity for animals, those possessed of superior beauty, and most salacious of all, those who rebelled. These proclivities were all evidence that the woman had turned away from the light in favor of walking the path of darkness. The lefthand path of witchcraft.

Witches were in league with the Devil, gaining their macabre powers from Satan Himself. They were his agents, walking among the good people like wolves amidst a flock of sheep. Their insidious malediction could infect other women and their immoral vices could seduce and corrupt men. Witches and their wicked craft had to be rooted out, a pestilence that must be razed from the community to ensure the safety of those good people who would otherwise become witches’ prey. Sometimes, a pious man could even save the witch herself from an eternity spent in the fires of Hell. Although too late to save her cursed flesh, a witch could save her soul by recanting before she walked to the gallows or the pyre.

It was a curse of its own to be the most beautiful woman in Salem. Instead of being prized and admired, you were shunned and distrusted. Speculation sparked in your wake without you doing a thing to merit it. Men lusted for you in secret and darkness, but in the transparency of daylight, they looked at you with disapproval to appease their women. Women envied you and hated you. They all knew beauty such as yours was unnatural. They all knew your great beauty was granted through dealings with the Devil. They knew you used your spells to put wicked impure thoughts into the minds of men and envious bitter thoughts into the minds of women.

They knew it, even if they could never prove it.

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

The full Harvest Moon hung high in the midnight sky, painting the forest below in silvery light. The icy air that blew through your nightdress and the frosty ground under your bare feet should have made you shiver as you walked through the woods, but you felt toasty warm. Some impulse, dark and fascinating, drew you deeper and deeper into the trees. Feminine laughter, light and lilting, filled the forest paired with the deeper notes of masculine conversation. You were summoned toward the voices that harmonized in your ears like a spellbinding incantation.

A clearing materialized through the trees ahead of you. Moonlight dappled golden leaves that littered the ground like coins in a dragon’s lair, and the flames of a large bonfire licked high into the starry sky. The heady scent of arousal and embers filled your nose, spiced with something exotic you couldn’t place. You stopped dead at the edge of the trees when you were finally afforded a view of the bonfire. Your vision was blurred at first, only pale shapes formed before you with two black figures. A smoky wolf with a coat as black as pitch circled the bonfire like a kill and an equally black hazy goat pranced on its hind legs and shook its curved horns.

Smoke stung your eyes and you rubbed them. When you lowered your hands, the scene before you stood in stark clarity. The shadowy animals had disappeared, but what you saw now was much more disturbing. You stood, hypnotized by the theater of sin playing out before your very eyes.

Completely and brazenly nude, several women danced around the fire. If their lascivious movements could be described as dancing. They writhed and contorted, twisted and shuddered, as they moved counterclockwise around the bonfire. They chanted as they danced, running their hands over their bodies, through their hair and shaking it wantonly. But the women were not who commanded your attention and held it firm. Inside the circle of women were two stark naked men. Both men were tall, broad, and strongly built. One man was adorned with blonde hair and the larger, more powerful man sported a long mane of glossy black and a beard to match. That man was unlike any man you had ever seen or even imagined, dangerously handsome, with firelight gleaming in his lupine eyes. They caressed the women who danced by them, content for now to wait for the women to make the first advance. Their voices were deep and clear as they talked conversationally to each other and offered a woman an occasional laugh or compliment, seemingly unbothered by their full demanding erections that bobbed freely.

Naturally, you had never seen a naked man before except once by accident and then it had been under the stress of extreme embarrassment by both parties. That experience had left you with the notion that the male body was frailer and weaker than it looked when clothed beneath thick layers, and that their appendage that was the subject of so much speculation among girls and duress among women was little more than a pathetic shriveled thing that hid between their legs. You had never imagined a man could grow so intimidatingly long and girthy, like the erection the black-haired man boasted. Muscles you didn’t know existed tightened deep inside you like a cord being wound tight, while other regions within you melted like butter too near a stove.

Two women, a voluptuous redhead and a pale blonde, buttressed the black-haired man. They ran their hands over his body, following the ridges of muscle that were glossed molten gold by the fire. The redhead kissed along his collarbone and across his incredible chest as the man groaned low with pleasure and the blonde dropped to her knees on the ground before him. Even before the blonde’s tongue flicked out to the lick the man’s erection like a hungry dog, you knew that everything you were watching was a felony sin that would send everyone here straight to Hell. Perhaps even you, just for watching. You watched anyway. The heat inside you was now boiling. The man fisted one hand roughly in the blonde’s hair and thrust his hips forward, shoving his cock straight down her throat. He didn’t release her when she choked and her eyes watered and only thrust into her again, but she was soon enjoying herself and bobbing her head to save him the effort. While the blonde occupied herself on her knees, he licked and kissed the redhead’s impressive breasts and then devoured her mouth while his free hand dipped between her thighs to pump his thick fingers into her.

The other man, the blonde, was likewise engaged with a pair of women, another petite blonde and a statuesque brunette. He had the brunette bent over and drove himself into her while he slavered over the tits of the blonde who stood before him. Even in the most compromising of positions and with his features contorted in such a way as to look almost pained, you recognized him. He was one of the most esteemed men in Salem, Magistrate D’Alencon. The thought broke into your mind so intrusively it was like a gunshot on a quiet night.

Your epiphany was so loud it seemed the black-haired man heard it too. His head snapped up to attention, instantly alert, despite the undaunted ministrations of the two women. He spotted you at once where you stood in the trees at the edge of the clearing, and his eyes locked onto yours. His eyes were as ferocious as they were alluring, the force of his gaze so disarming you felt your knees weaken and a swirl of something deep and dark rouse within you. A rush unlike anything you had ever felt consumed you as though you were drowning in sensation. You couldn’t tell if it was from the dashing man or from within yourself. Somehow his scent reached you, masculine and musky with notes of spicy embers and pine. When it filled your lungs, your mind swam with visions of you in the place of those other women, with the man’s attention on you and you alone, giving you pleasure so forbidden that it must certainly be the most terrible of all sins.

The vision of giving yourself to this man was the most exquisite fantasy your mind had ever conjured. But the thought of it repelled you, incensed you until it was anger that burned within you in place of desire. You would never share your man, nor allow yourself to be shared in turn. You wanted this man above all others, but you would have him for yourself alone. Just as that jealous anger flushed through you, so did hatred for those women, those whores, who now received the pleasure you wanted all to yourself. Before you could force the impulse away, you wished each of them dead with a vehemence you had rarely set free.

Did the man hear your thoughts? Surely, he must have because he grinned at you, knowing and wicked, and his eyes brightened with an unnatural amber gleam until they glowed like the fires of Hell as they burned into yours.

Do not see me. Do not see me yet. He willed you with his thoughts, and although his lips didn’t move, you heard the rich command of his voice echo in your mind clear as day. Even as he spoke, the sight of him began to fade, but you pushed back against his will. You clamped down defiantly on the sight before you with your mind, holding it fast and engraving it upon your memory.

You did see him, by God, and he was a sight you would remember until your dying day.

That’s when you awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in your bed. You were alone in the dark of your bedroom with only your black cat for company, who looked up at you with irritation from where she lay curled on your mattress beside you. The light of the full moon shone in through your window, mixing with the dwindling embers of the fire that had burned down in your hearth. Your thin nightdress clung to your body with sweat and your inner thighs were sticky wet. The spiced pine scent of the mysterious man lingered as a faint perfume on the air inside your bedroom, a room in which no man had ever so much as entered during your tenure.

A dream? you wondered, although you had never had such a dream before. A premonition? Had you seen a glimpse into the past or perhaps a window to the future? The thought was both enticing and frightening. A vision? you hoped not because visions were the hallmark of witches and enough in and of themselves to secure you a short drop and a sudden stop. Whatever it was, you recalled every detail in the vivid clarity reserved for life-altering events.

Desire. Arousal. Pleasure. Anger. Jealousy. Vengeance. If this was your first brush with witchcraft and the Devil’s sin, you wanted more. The realization excited you even more than it terrified you.

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

The week passed with uneventful dullness as you went on about your routine, but the scent of pine was never far away. Whenever your mind wandered, it returned to the sinful moonlit clearing and the devilishly handsome man from your dream.

For the good people of Salem, the church service on Sunday was the most important event of the week. Anyone who made it a habit of missing church was noticed by the community, their name inscribed in the town’s collective black book. Your name had a permanent spot on that list, so it was prudent for you to attend church religiously even if it was a pro forma affair.

This particular Sunday, the church house was even more crowded with black-clad patrons than usual. You noticed groups of huddled conversation outside the church as you hurried down the dusty road toward its entrance, hugging your plain wool coat tight around your body to fight against the morning chill. You always drew attention, not just for your beauty but because you walked alone without the company of a man of your own or an appropriate escort. Today, the tone of the looks cast your direction held even more judgement and an added seasoning of malice. On every lip was the whisper of witchcraft and rumors frothed like a bubbling cauldron as accusatory eyes followed you.

From the fragments of conversation you heard as you passed, you surmised that a young woman had been killed in a violent accident just outside of town. A newcomer traveling from New York to meet her betrothed and take her place as the new school mistress. A redhead, allegedly beautiful and pure. A bridge had given way as her carriage had crossed over it, sending the carriage and the woman trapped inside to plunge down into the icy river below. The carriage had trapped her inside as she drowned to become her frozen sepulcher under the current.

It was tragic, you supposed, but accidents happened. Your mind drifted back to the redhead from your dream, the whore who had dared to lay her filthy hands on the man you had decided was yours alone. But you thought little of it other than hearing of one redhead naturally triggered your memory of another.

Salem’s wealthiest and most upstanding citizen, Magistrate Pierre D’Alencon, stood on the church steps, smiling at patrons just as affably as his wife nodded to them sternly. There was more cause for excitement. Pierre announced to several prominent men within your earshot that he had finally filled the coveted position of Minister that had been officially vacant for months. The role of minister had been temporarily covered by a surly stand-in who could barely read Latin, an unpleasant man named Latour. Pierre gave no details about the new minister other than to assure the man had his explicit blessing as both a friend and a pious man after his own heart. You smiled politely at Pierre as you passed him and the smile he returned was warm and brotherly. Try as you might, you couldn’t picture the honorable magistrate engaged in the most wanton of pursuits in the forest with a flock of women, and another man, no less.

Trying to draw as little attention as possible, you weaved through the crowd in search of a seat in the back row of pews. No such luck. The seats you considered best were often snagged early by recalcitrant teenage boys hoping to nap unnoticed through the sermon. The church was nearly full by the time you squeezed down the aisle and took one of the few remaining seats in the front row next to a woman you considered a friend, Marguerite, and her insufferable boor of a husband. His unfortunate haircut could be spotted from a hundred yards away and his intrusive body odor scented from only slightly closer. Perhaps she had been cursed by a witch and destined to live in misery and disgrace with her troll of a husband. She was all too happy to turn away from him to you when you seated yourself beside her. The two of you fell into easy gossip and whispered speculation about the new minister.

You were still whispering with Marguerite, a sentiment partially formed on your lips, when you felt a silent demand for your attention. Mid-sentence, you looked to the elevated lectern at the front of the church. There was no mistaking the tall, broad-shouldered man with long ebony hair who stood behind it. The literal man of your dreams. He was darkly handsome in a way that was both dashing and dastardly. And he looked directly at you, his aurous eyes glinting golden in the morning light when they pierced yours. His mustache twitched with the barest of smirks when he noted the way your eyes widened with surprise. He seemed to recognize you too, offering you the slightest nod of a bow. His gesture went unnoticed by every other patron, including Marguerite, who nudged you with her elbow to finish the sentence you had broken off.

The breath to answer Marguerite had not yet returned to your lungs when the man’s voice boomed throughout the church, captivating every guest and ceasing all chatter. His words were eloquent and his timbre rich and masculine, but you didn’t register the content until he introduced himself and his name became etched upon your mind forevermore. Jacques Le Gris. He told the tale of his journey to New England from France at the behest of his oldest and dearest friend, Magistrate D'Alencon. He regaled how he was looking forward to experiencing the religious freedom the colonies were said to offer, and how he condemned the religious persecution back in Europe.

“Here, nothing prevents a man from exploring the full depths of piety to reach new heights untold.” The echo of his voice off the church walls was mesmerizing. His eyes met yours when he added, “Or a woman from being filled with the glorious reverence she can only experience from the truly devoted.”

A green prong of jealousy pierced your heart when you realized that you were not the only woman who had such a primal reaction to the new minister. Unbeknownst to the husbands, fathers, and brothers who chaperoned the women in attendance, their thighs clenched, they shifted in their seats, their bodices grew tight as their chests heaved, and their skin blushed with embarrassed excitement. And you hated them all for it, for the audacity to desire the man you had claimed for your own in your dreams. Beside you, Marguerite too was affected, biting her bottom lip and rubbing her thighs together. To covet is a great sin, and to even think is to covet. Lust and envy coursed through your veins in every drop of your blood from the mere sight of the man. Jacques Le Gris had done nothing untoward himself, simply give the audience his charming attention. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled when you let your mind wander to thoughts of the other sinful emotions he could so easily arouse in you.

Do not be jealous, belle fleur. You heard his chocolatey voice inside your head as though he whispered directly in your ear. It had to be nothing more than the lascivious voice of your own imagination because even though his eyes held yours, the minister still addressed the congregation. There are far more decadent sins to indulge.

The knowledge that witches heard voices and could be hung for no more than such an admission, intruded into your mind. You weren’t a witch, you decided. You couldn’t be a witch. You tried to force all the sinful thoughts and images from your consciousness. Easier said than done. Steeling your eyes on the minster’s, you mentally slammed the door in his face. He had not been speaking to you through your minds, certainly not, but the mental image made you feel much better about the matter. And the way he jerked his head almost imperceptibly and blinked in surprise, although surely incidental to your inner rebuff, gave you a wicked sense of delight.

After the sermon, Minister Le Gris was swarmed by men who wanted to thank him and ingratiate themselves with him and by women who wanted a closer look at the newcomer. Many of the women had never seen a male specimen as impressive and they didn’t know a man could be so well-built and handsome. While his new acolytes surrounded him, you slipped away through the crowd, unable to get away quickly enough from the cloying populace. With the same intrusiveness you had felt before, you knew that there was only one person Jacques wanted to introduce himself to properly. You. The smell of pine and musk encircled you as you hurried out of the church doors into the fresh morning air.

Outside, Marguerite grabbed your arm. She too had rushed outside like a drowning woman aiming for the surface, while Carroughes had bullied his way into an audience with Jacques and Pierre. The pair of you scurried away from the church to a place you could speak in private against the wall of a blacksmith’s shed. She was your best and most trusted friend, and you had always valued her input on trying matters. When the storm of witchcraft had first cast its shadow over Salem, you and she had each aired your skepticism to one another and your belief that this was all a way for the men of the world to keep unruly women, such as yourselves, subdued. That had been before her terrible misfortune of being married off to Carroughes by an indebted father.

The thoughts that swirled in your mind so excited and flustered you that you didn’t act with the caution a woman in Salem ought to employ as second nature. Before you even knew your course, you were purging your secret fears to Marguerite. Her eyes widened but she didn’t comment when you told her that you thought you may have had a vision, that you had seen the new minister’s face, and naked body, in the woods in your dream. You didn’t mention the unknown redheaded woman you had seen in your dream who died violently only days later or that the other harlot bore a striking resemblance to a mutual acquaintance named Marie. By the end of your story, Marguerite was as frightened as you. But she was your friend, and you knew she would never betray you or your friendship.

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

It so happened that Marguerite had no intentions of betraying you, but her intentions hardly mattered. Innocently but cavalierly, Marguerite gossiped her concerns about you to her friend. Marie was a homely girl with pale lifeless blonde hair, a squat physique, and dull bovine eyes. She had little excitement in life other than to churn the problems of others like butter while making light of her own litany of shortcomings.

Eager to elevate herself above her sinful peers, Marie transformed Marguerite’s concerns into an accusation when Marie relayed them to her old, doddering husband, Latour. Latour, the good and pious man that he was, saw the recounting of your dream for what it clearly was -- evidence that you were a witch in league with the devil. Satan’s whore, casting her spell over the good men and innocent women of Salem.

Armed with this convincing spectral evidence against you, Latour took his concerns to the Crown Prosecutor, who was none other than Marguerite’s abhorrent husband. The circle of treachery against you was complete when the allegation fell into Carroughes’s sausage fingers.

As fast as Carroughes’s horse could carry him, he generated the warrant he had his conniving mother draft on account of his own illiteracy and rushed it onto the desk of Magistrate D’Alencon. Like a black cloud, Carroughes hovered waiting until Pierre begrudgingly signed the warrant out of fear of dereliction of duty should he decline it. One woman, innocent or guilty, was of no consequence to him. Women were frivolous, but an accusation of witchcraft was to be taken most seriously.

Gushing with tears and fraught with guilt, Marguerite ensured a warning reached you before the warrant was formally issued with the Magistrate’s wax seal.

You could think of only one person who could help you, although he could just as easily arrest you on the spot himself. The new minister had absolutely no reason to help you and every reason to see you hang as a witch, both to protect the good people of Salem and to inculcate himself fully into their ranks.

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Pink had just begun to glow in the East as you rode to the church, hoping to find the minister before the rigors of his day began. It was a stroke of good fortune that you found him playing host to Pierre. Instead of being refreshed to begin the day from a good night’s sleep, the unlikely pair of men looked as though they had kept the nocturnal hours of wolves. Their clothes were hastily buttoned, their faces bore the haggard edge that came with little sleep, Pierre’s blonde bob was matted and Jacques’s long hair was in wild disarray. You also noticed the fresh wet mud that still caked his boots, as if he had just returned from a walk, or some other nighttime pursuit, deep in the forest.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” you said immediately upon seeing the state of the men standing in Jacques’s new office. A large trunk half-filled with books sat with its lid open near a commanding desk. Some of the books had already been shelved, the rest still awaiting their new homes.

“Intrude?” Jacques asked with a warm smile, the tiredness leaving his eyes at the sight of you. “You couldn’t possibly.” He glanced sideways at Pierre, flashing a smirk. “We only just returned from a tour of the church grounds and an introduction to some industrious women who graciously offered us breakfast.” You noted that he didn’t volunteer the names of these hospitable women.

“Yes, yes, all the ladies are eager to make your introduction.” Pierre nodded at you as he spoke to Jacques with a note of jealousy in his voice, not unlike a covetous wife.

“I have wanted to make your acquaintance, more than any other,” Jacques said to you, ignoring Pierre as he walked to stand before you. His chest almost brushed yours and his presence was looming and towering as he was. “I fear I was unable to make the impression I desired upon our first encounter.”

He did not elaborate as to whether the first meeting with you to which he referred was his introduction in church, or the prurience you had witnessed in your midnight dream. Nevertheless, he was nothing but a gallant gentleman when he bowed with a magnificent flourish upon learning your name.

“Please call me Jacques. I am a man first before I am a minister.” He took your hand in his strong warm grip. Inclining his head, he regarded you with an unnervingly steady and unblinking gaze. His unspoken demeanor conveyed that he longed to dispose of your every last trouble and hardship, vanquishing them all like a knight slaying dragons for his queen.

Before you could answer, Pierre stated matter-of-factly, “A warrant for the young lady’s arrest for witchcraft came to my chambers only yesterday, brought to me personally by the Crown Prosecutor.” He again shared a private grin with Jacques. “This was the matter that brought me to you last night, before we became embroiled in other, far more pleasant matters.”

You froze. Seeing the terror on your face, they both immediately put you at ease. Keeping your hand in his, Jacques explained, "The good Magistrate here knows that there is no such thing as witches.” His eyes lingered on yours and his lips twitched as they had in church with a barely restrained grin. “Furthermore, I will not allow any friend of mine to entertain the idea that the prettiest woman in New England is a witch.”

“Fortunately for you, my dear,” Pierre addressed you directly. “Before the warrant came to me for a signature, Jacques had already inquired of me who you were.” He laughed and added, “I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I signed a warrant for witchcraft for the woman who has caught his eye.” He forced a serious expression onto his features and told you, “But you should know that first I tried to discourage him from you, I did my very best to poison him against you. Even an accusation is serious. I hope you appreciate that I could not dissuade him in his pursuit of you. Think better of him for it!”

“Nothing so inconsequential as witchcraft could deter me,” Jacques teased and puffed his chest, trying to make light.

“Do not even jest in such a way in Salem, my friend,” Pierre scolded him seriously. “I denied the warrant for this lovely woman solely because she caught your eye, but her warrant was but one of many that crossed my desk only yesterday. One reason I could show a crumb of leniency for one woman is because I signed warrants for three others.” He waved his hand with irritation. “Each was no doubt equally frivolous, but if I deny more than I grant, it will be my neck in the noose next!”

“Frightened men and bitter women wield this hysteria to greater effect than a sword,” Jacques scowled but stroked his thumb soothingly over your knuckles. It was with resolve when he added to Pierre, “It seems I arrived here just in time.” Jacques took your free hand, now holding both your hands in both of his. His eyes seemed to look into the most hidden depths of you, as though he had loved you in another lifetime, when he spoke to you. “But it was you, ma belle, who summoned me here, not the Magistrate. I have spent all my life in search of a woman to elevate herself above all others, but until you, I searched in vain.” He raised your hands to kiss each one, letting his lips linger on your skin. “You did not dream of me in isolation, cherie. We dreamt of each other.”

“Yes, well, all this romantic nonsense aside.” Pierre waved his hand again as if talk of love was a bad smell he wanted to clear from the room. “Jacques is the only man here who may be able to offer you some protection from the persecution you face, for it is far from over.”

“But a warrant was not issued against me and you as a Magistrate denied it.” You looked incredulously from Pierre back to Jacques. “Does that not end the matter?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Jacques answered, shaking his head. “Carroughes, the Crown Prosecutor, is a man I’ve dealt with before. He’s stupid, belligerent, and wholly insufferable, but when it comes to pursuing his prey, he is as dogged as they come. Like a hunter who misses his first shot, he will fire another.” He squeezed your hands more firmly. “And remember, cherie, the evidence needed to hang you can be as tenuous as the strand of a spider’s web. You cannot afford to make a single misstep.”

“Misstep?” Pierre scoffed. “You needn’t even make a mistake at all! So called witnesses against you merely have to say they think you a witch; that they feel ill at ease in your presence; that they’ve dreamed of your wicked ways.” He looked pointedly at Jacques. “The dye has been cast and she is already in Carroughes’s sights. I think you are too late to put up an effective defense.”

“I’m happy to bring the fight to Carroughes.” Jacques grinned like the Devil Himself.

“If you do, your pretty little witch here will get caught in the crossfire,” Pierre replied, raising his hand to ward off an argument. Lowering his hand, he rapped his knuckles on the worn bible on Jacques’s desk. “As the holiest man in Salem,” Pierre’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Your honor is almost beyond contestation. Let your piety be her shield.”

“The role of a minister has never truly suited me until now.” Jacques smiled wide, all but beaming at you. “How could anyone think you a witch when you’re in the company of an upstanding minister such as myself?”

“If I am in your company, it will create gossip about me, will it not?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Let them gossip,” Jacques laughed at the notion. “Let them focus on seeing romance budding instead of witchcraft brewing.”

“Jacques, you old fox,” Pierre affirmed, even though he had been the mastermind. “Chaperoning the most beautiful woman in New England and using your priest’s collar as a cover.”

“Even if you can keep me safe from the hangman’s noose, what of my reputation as a maiden?” you asked, fighting the urge to employ the same level of sarcasm Pierre had adopted. “What will people say of my virtue once they see me gallivanting in your company.”

“Are you worried about it hindering your ability to find a husband?” Jacques asked, calling your bluff. “Rest assured, cherie, that all men desire the woman possessed by another.” He met your eyes and lowered his voice to a rumble. “Should you still find yourself in want of a husband after the storm of witchcraft has passed, that is.”

“Rest assured, mon ami,” you spoke to Jacques in the same lilt he used to tease you and looked pointedly at the mud on his boots. “I will never be in want of a husband who enjoys such rambunctious nighttime outings in the forest.”

“Ah, but I think you would enjoy such outings, provided they were kept between us alone.” He stepped closer to you until you could feel the heat off his body. “Perhaps, I’ll show you how much pleasure one can find out under the full moon in good company.”

“Perhaps, you should decide if you intend to be my salvation or my corruption.” You flashed him a devious smile that would have gotten you hanged on the spot in the wrong company.

“I look forward to showing you how much you’ll savor it when I do both.” He winked at you, and you felt your body begin to respond the same it had on the night of your dream.

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

After spending so much time in solitude, it was a strange feeling to have such a conspicuous escort when Jacques walked you home after your business had been concluded. He chatted with you pleasantly and kept a respectful distance from you, showing you what a fine gentleman he could be. Your cottage was out of town, outside of the protections of the community that many men insisted were mandatory for a single woman such as yourself. Jacques made no such insistences, but only remarked upon the beauty of the wilderness in which your home was nestled and the crisp October breeze that rustled ember-colored leaves along your path.

At the front door to your cottage, he rested his hand on the door frame and leaned toward you. You both knew that to invite him inside without a proper chaperone would be suicide to what remained of your reputation, even if you did nothing more than enjoy a cup of tea together and remarked upon the weather. Inside, your black cat perched on a windowsill, looking out to judge you both with her narrowed emerald eyes.

However, the propriety Jacques had to observe extended only so far. Looming over you as he rested against your doorframe, he hooked you around the waist with his free arm and pulled you to him. It was the first time you had ever been held by a man flush against his body, but you suspected that most men would not feel as powerful against you nor as hard under your hands where you rested them on his chest. Jacques’s hair fell down around his face and yours in a black veil when he leaned in to kiss you. You expected to relish the taste of him, but you didn’t expect your stomach to whirl with excitement or the surprise of his tongue slipping past your lips, hot and eager. His hand splayed wide on your back, pulling you closer, and your arms flew around his neck as he devoured you.

“Do not speak to anyone of these happenings and rumors of witchcraft,” Jacques told you when he finally pulled back. “Do not go anywhere alone without me until this storm passes.”

“That will inconvenience you greatly.” You leaned back in the circle of his arms and looked up at him.

“I’ll happily let a woman as beautiful as you inconvenience me however you please.” He kissed you again as he swayed with you in his arms.

“To the market? To church? Out for a ride on a nice day?” With each of your questions he nodded and smiled, so you added, “What if I feel like taking a midnight walk in the woods?”

“My company is the best you could possibly find for such an outing,” he growled his answer in a voice that all but rumbled through you.

“You don’t deny the scene I witnessed in my dream?” You raised your eyebrows and placed a hand on his chest to keep him from again closing the distance between you. “You don’t deny the wanton carnality I saw you partake in? The sin that would be enough to hang you right alongside me?”

“Why would I deny it?” Jacques rested his huge hand over yours, pinning it to his chest over his heart like a vow. “I want you for my own, so I will never lie to you. My past is lurid, to be sure, and I won’t lie about it to you. But it is only my future I think of when I look at you, and you will be the only woman in it.”

“I saw the women you were entertaining that night.” You pushed yourself back to gauge the truth or lies as they played across his face, and to punish him for his transgression by separating your bodies. “Was the redhead the woman who died while traveling here? And I recognized the blonde as Marie. Tell me I’m mistaken, that you were not having your way with a married woman.”

“No, you are not mistaken on either score.” Jacques held your gaze, not shifting his eyes from yours nor displaying any guilt or lies. “Unhappily married women make for grateful consorts. Also, for silent ones, as they could be hung as adulteresses. Women like Marie are low hanging fruit, easily plucked and discarded.” He pulled you back into his embrace, ignoring the silent protest of the stiffness in your body. “But know that if I am yours, I shall never be another’s ever again.”

“I could report your lascivious ways,” you teased dangerously.

“Ah, but you are a witch, ma belle sorciere,” he replied with a grin. “Who would believe you?”

“Am I?” You still didn’t know the answer to that question yourself.

“I would know you are a witch even without your visions and your black cat.” He grinned wider, giving no hint as to whether he was still teasing or if he was serious, but he was genuine and his eyes glinted gold when he told you, “You have certainly bewitched me.”

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

Another dream came to you that night. Or perhaps it was a vision. The veil separating the two seemed as amorphous as a lingering morning mist.

Clear as a scene that played before your very waking eyes, you saw Marie and felt a hot rush of malice. Far more intense than mere anger, you wanted this vile woman to suffer with all the merciless rage you could contain in your steel heart. She had not only sampled the man you wanted for your own, she had outright betrayed you. Both were trespasses you would never forget, let alone forgive. As you saw her in your dream, going about her dawn chores, you wanted the pound of flesh you were entitled for each of the wrongs she had dealt you. An eye for an eye would not satisfy you, you wanted her head on a platter.

Such are the delicious indulgences one is allowed in dreams.

Marie was in her barn, trying to coax a horse out from its stable to pasture. She shouted at the animal and berated it as she swatted its neck with a coiled rope, each slap landing with stinging force against the horse’s body. You watched, as obscure as a fly on the wall but as omniscient as God, as the horse’s eyes rolled back into its head until they showed only white. Acting like a demon had just jumped inside its skin, the possessed horse reared with an angry whinny and struck out with its front hooves. The horse struck Marie in the face, shattering her nose in an eruption of blood like stomping down on a strawberry. The blow knocked her to the ground, both her hands flying to her nose in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding.

Ordinarily, a horse would either bolt after striking its owner or calm after eliminating the threat against it. Whether from sustained abuse or witchcraft, Marie’s horse was still consumed by white-eyed madness. The horse reared again as Marie tried to push up to her feet, stomping his front hooves down upon her face and chest. Her homely features were crushed beneath the horse’s hooves and her ribs caved inward like a crate splintered with a sledgehammer. Again and again, the horse reared and stomped his front hooves down upon Marie’s squealing twitching body.

Shouting and swinging his musket, Latour, still in his nightclothes, ran into the barn. He tried to shoot the horse, but his shot was made errant by his shaking hands. The horse shook its head as if sobering and bolted away, leaving Marie convulsing in the dirt. Her face was crumpled and distorted, giving her the look of a partially cooked milky pancake with raspberry puree topping, and her breathing was sputtering and labored through the spears of her broken ribs.

There was no saving her, only prolonging her suffering or ending it quickly. Latour knew this. He reloaded his musket and aimed it at the bloody pit of her face, but his hands shook and he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger and give her a merciful death.

Marie doesn’t deserve such leniency, you knew even in your dream. Lying bitch and betrayer that she is. Was.

Latour’s shaking hands dropped his musket as Marie let out a strangled gurgle for help. He ran from the barn in a vain search for help. But with the all-knowing privilege of the dreamer, you knew that death would come slowly and languorously for Marie before her husband could return.

A satisfied euphoria welcomed you when you awoke the next morning. Dawn was bleeding red outside your window and wind whipped through the black trees that surrounded your cottage. Your cat purred beside you on your bed, her green eyes half-lidded and knowingly content. There was nothing like a good dream to start your day, even if it was only a dream and nothing more. You smiled and stretched and went about your day happier than you had been in longer than you cared to remember.

Being gifted with a devilishly handsome and upstanding suitor, and having sinfully fulfilling dreams will do that to a girl, you reasoned.

It was afternoon when your neighbor, a helpful but unappealing man named Louvel, rode to your home at a gallop. Fraught with worry, he asked if you had heard about Marie.

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As he had promised, Jacques arrived with the crowing of the roosters the following morning to escort you about your business. At your door, he greeted you with a dashing smile as he whipped off his plumed hat to give you a gallant bow. He was all smiles and charm, his levity ill-suited to the tragedies befalling the women of Salem. You assumed he must not yet have heard the news of Marie’s violent passing, and decided you did not want to be the bearer of such grim tidings.

“The morning sun is jealous of your radiance,” Jacques crooned as he took your hand and placed a hot kiss to your skin. “But I cannot help but let my mind wander to how the moonlight would become you.”

“I wonder how many other women you’ve practiced that compliment on,” you teased and gave him a judgmentally raised eyebrow.

“Ah, but you mistake my process,” he joked in turn. He took your hand and placed it in the crook of his arm to lead you away from your cottage. “Women pursue me and, on occasion, I let them catch me. But I have not been in the role of the hunter myself for some time. Not until I saw you.”

“And when was it that you first saw me?” you asked, looking at him squarely. “Was it that morning in church? Or one night in a dream?”

“Of course, you are the woman of my dreams, ma belle sorciere!” he complimented you while cunningly sidestepping your question. He led you to your horse that he had caught and saddled for you before knocking on your door. Your golden palomino mare stood next to his enormous black stud, who impatiently stomped the ground. Jacques fondly patted his horse’s neck and introduced you, “This is Black Philip.” The black horse sniffed your proffered hand. “He likes you.”

Your golden mare was more skeptical, giving Jacques an appraising side eye and snorting at him. “Pandora has more discretion,” you said proudly and stroked her blazed face. “At least there’s one female around who is immune to your charms.”

“Give me time,” Jacques laughed heartily. He plucked your hand off your horse’s nose and pulled you into his arms. He encircled your waist in his embrace but went no further, only looked into your eyes while his own gleamed devilishly. “Marie was no competition to you. You didn’t need to eliminate her.” He smiled at the way your eyes widened and added, “Although, I understand the impulse. I would love to tear apart any man who has ever touched you.” His huge hands slid to your waist as he spoke.

“No man ever has.” You looked down at his hands. “Only you. And you do so even though you think me a witch?” He didn’t address your question, but his smile broadened. “Still, I am not a woman who shares. It might lead to chaos should I allow myself to fall for you.”

“If you fall, I’ll catch you.” He wanted to kiss you, but restrained himself. “Think, ma belle, I believe you caused Marie’s death and that of my redheaded consort, and yet I am not running away from you in fear.” He gripped you tighter, reassuringly. “There is no greater proof that my intentions toward you are pure and that my loyalty to you would be absolute.”

“Another fine remark from a silver-tongued devil.” You put a restraining hand on his chest. “But I didn’t kill Marie. I was home all night and in bed when it happened.”

“I believe you were home all night, even sleeping soundly in bed.” He winked at you. “Dreaming sweetly.” Then his features grew somber. “But you must understand that for a witch, her true power lies not in potions and incantations. Her mind is her power, her thoughts spin webs of ether to ensnare her wishes. Some study witchcraft, learn rituals and dogma just as penitents study the Good Word. Others, creatures rarer than diamonds, are natural witches whose gift lives inside them, dormant until it has cause to awaken. There is no potion or incantation to take the place of the natural gift of witchcraft.”

“Are you saying I’m truly a witch?” Looking into his eyes that shimmered with adoration for you in the morning light, you felt for the first time your heart soar at the possibility rather than race with fear.

“I would never say such a thing!” He raised his hand to his chest as if in a pledge, conveniently trapping your hand against his chest. “Not aloud, anyway.” He leaned down close until his breath rasped against your cheek. “Perhaps I would whisper it in your ear in the witching hour.”

Jacques lifted you onto your horse and the two of you rode side by side into town. Gossiping citizens watched you both closely, some admiring the handsome new couple, others wondering how you had bewitched the new minister, and others still speculating as to how the newest man in town had captured the most beautiful woman in Salem so quickly. However inflammatory their assumptions, one fact that was beyond contestation was that you had been vetted by the town minister, one of the most powerful men in Salem. And none but the boldest or the stupidest would dare make an outward accusation against you while in Jacques’s company.

Although the day was beautiful, the perfect weather for a stroll with a paramour, the setting was less so. Half of Salem was gathered in the town square. Families filled the muddy square, men looking on with bloodlust, women with judgement, and children with morbid curiosity. They all watched three lifeless bodies swing on the light autumn breeze where they hung from the gallows. Three women convicted of witchcraft, three corpses swaying in their nooses. The three women Magistrate D’Alencon had signed warrants against on the same day that he denied yours. Neither you nor Jacques could look upon them in any way other than with approval, lest you both be seen as sympathizers at best and witches at worst. Jacques held your hand, squeezing tightly as you walked. The macabre sight reinforced the need to ensure you were not labeled a witch.

To further secure you an innocent verdict in the court of public opinion, Jacques took you to the grandest house in town for a meeting with its most prominent citizen, Magistrate D’Alencon. Pierre’s doors were always open for his closest friend and his table was always set. Every amenity Pierre could offer was always at Jacques’s disposal -- a hospitality, you realized, you would have to regulate should you become entangled with him.

Seated next to Jacques at Pierre’s long dining table, you watched a suspicious number of servant girls bustle throughout the Magistrate’s home. His wife was nowhere to be seen. If rumors were to be believed, she only tolerated her husband to save face publicly. The lack of a hostess was forgiven at the first taste of the fresh venison, cheese, and bread Pierre served. The conversation, however, was not as pleasant as the meal.

“Be on your guard now, my friend,” Pierre said to Jacques, waving his fork for emphasis. “This, ah, tragedy will only serve to inflame Latour. And as one of Carroughes’s desperately few friends, it will make him incendiary.”

“Marie was Marguerite’s friend as well.” Jacques caught your eye and smirked. “She must be quite upset. I’m certain she won’t be in the spirit to indulge her rutting boar of a husband for some time.”

“All the more time and anger he’ll have at his disposal to pursue your fetching sorceress,” Pierre said, for once immune to Jacques’s charm. “Latour could be a witness against her based on nothing more than what Marie told him before her untimely death. To say nothing of what he and Carroughes could conspire together! Perhaps he saw a witch on his property the day before, or he could even have seen her making evil eyes, or any number of other fabrications.”

“I could dispose of Latour,” Jacques mused, leaning back in his chair. “Incite him into a fight and send a fist that was by all appearances aimed for his nose straight into his throat.” He held up his right hand and clenched it into a monstrous fist. “After all, I’m a minister. I’m not a seasoned fighter.”

“And best every man in Salem keeps believing that!” Pierre rapped his knuckles on the wood of his table. “Your position will not be nearly as secure if you become known as the Murdering Minister.”

“I rather like that! It has a nice ring to it,” Jacques laughed. “Still, Latour won’t be making any accusations from six-feet under.”

“No, Pierre’s right,” you said, taking Jacques’s hand much to his pleasure. “We can think of another way to deal with Latour than by getting your gigantic hands dirty. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Perhaps, you’re right.” Jacques leaned toward you and rested your joined hands on your thigh. “For some of us, ma belle sorciere, a will is a way.”

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

Jacques returned you to your cottage that evening with plenty of sunlight remaining to ensure prying eyes could see him walking back alone after merely walking you to your door like a gentlemanly suitor. He bid you good evening on the promise of taking you on a ride and a picnic the following day, something to lift your spirits.

Alone that night, save for the company of your cat, you pondered Jacques’s words. Your own inner stirrings at the thought of visions and spells and witchcraft also danced through your mind. No harm could come from indulging your imagination, letting your mind run wild with wicked thoughts you had been trained to fear and force down. After all, they were only thoughts, and they were yours alone, beyond the scrutiny of those who would seek to judge you. As if in congruence with you, your cat began purring contentedly from her place on your bed.

Mirrors were objects of vanity and not something that a good pious woman should have in her possession. You had never accepted such nonsense. An oval mirror hung above your dresser and the porcelain wash basin that set upon it. After washing your face and hands, cleansing the day from your skin, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair was loose, your eyes lit as though from within by the glimmering golden candlelight that kissed your skin. You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, settling your mind and focusing your thoughts. The purring of your cat gave you a steady cadence, helping you concentrate.

Unbidden, Latour’s nauseating image came to your mind, so clearly it was almost as though you could see his own face in your mirror. At the thought of him, your mind set on its course of hatred and malice; hatred at the man for his sheer repugnance, malice for his role in bringing harm to you and potentially to Jacques. Malevolence welled in your heart, flowing from your very soul into the mirror. With the force of your thoughts, the mirror seemed to dance and ripple like the surface of a crystalline pond.

Convicted witches burned. They were burned at the stake or hung by their necks until dead. Never was mercy shown. Not in Salem.

The thought sizzled in your mind, setting your thoughts aflame until the ripples on the mirror were no longer water but dancing flames. The flames encircled Latour in your mind, in your mirror, closing in upon him until all you could see inside the mirror’s oval frame was fire.

As quickly as your mind had wandered to Latour, it cleared again and the visions vanished from your mirror. You blinked your eyes a few times and looked back at your own reflection, perfectly ordinary, staring back at you from the mirror. A warm satisfaction filled you, nearly an erotic afterglow, and you joined your purring cat on your bed and let sleep carry you away.

You dreamt of Latour.

Unable to sleep, Latour paced through his halls, haunted by the ghost of his late Marie. He struck his walls and knocked over chairs, confusing his grief for anger. Standing in the feeble light of a dying fire, he pressed his knuckles into his eyes, shaking his head. In his same petulant mood, he kicked a fresh log into his fireplace to rekindle the dying flames. Sparks flew when the fresh log slammed into the embers, sending a puff of ash and burning coals into the living room.

A spark caught the hem of Latour’s night shirt, making him jump and swat at the offending ember. In the hearth, the fire roared to life and kept sparking and popping as if he had thrown a handful of corn into its flames. Sparks shot into the room like fireworks, each seeming to aim for Latour, landing on his nightshirt and bare legs. Latour hopped and flapped and jumped in a painful dance, trying to shake the burning sparks free. A spark erupted from the fireplace, arching high, and landed in Latour’s scarce hair. Frantically, he swatted it out with a sizzle just as another fell down his collar. Sparks flew at him like a hundred bees, each more tenacious than the last, each catching flame on Latour’s clothes and skin. The more he shook and patted down his flaming limbs, the more the fire grew, licking up his arms and down his legs until his skin sizzled and boiled like bacon in a pan.

Latour could do nothing but scream.

The painful shrieking scream melted into a wet gurgling whimper as his skin began to melt and peel away from his body, sloughing off in fatty rinds that pooled on the wooden floor in steaming greasy clumps. Death came slowly for Latour, not settling upon him until the sky was beginning to grow pink with the oncoming dawn and what remained of his body lay in a crumpled heap of mangled tissue, steaming and twitching.

Through it all, this dream that entertained your thoughts, you slept peacefully with a beautiful smile curling your lips.

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

The following afternoon found you seated next to Jacques on a blanket spread beneath a fiery maple tree in full October bloom far away from prying eyes. Armed with wine and cheese for your picnic, Jacques had seduced you with good food and good humor into forgetting your strife for the day. You felt warm and giddy from the wine, but it was nothing compared to the touch of Jacques’s hand when he held yours or when his fingers caressed your cheek.

“Am I safe now that Latour is dead?” you asked as Jacques slipped a piece of cheese between your lips. “Without him or Marie, there are no witnesses against me. Unless Marguerite comes forward and tells the authorities what I told her, but then she will have been keeping company with a witch.”

“Carroughes will be after you even more rabidly now,” he told you as he smeared cheese and jam on a piece of bread. “He does not have the depth to appreciate when a vile man like Latour gets his just comeuppance.”

“A just comeuppance that I caused, didn’t I?” You smiled and sipped your wine.

“Who’s to say?” Jacques grinned and stroked his thick fingers across your cheek and down your jawline. “Accidents happen.”

“What can you say, then?” you teased, leaning into his touch.

“I can say that you are a goddess incarnate.” He leaned closer to you as he purred honeyed words. “That your eyes are sparkling jewels and your smile dazzles like diamonds. That you needn’t be a witch to bewitch me.”

Taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted your head into a favorable angle for kissing. He didn’t give you the chance to object before he captured your lips. At the feeling of his plush lips on yours, the tickle of his mustache on your skin, your lips parted in a sigh and he seized the opening to deepen his kiss. He tasted of wine and the same heady musk you had scented in your dream. Now, it was enough to flood your senses into intoxication. Your hands sought purchase on his chest, around his neck, tangled in his long hair, as you lost yourself in the feel of him and let him devour you. Pleasure so exquisite had to be a sin.

“Witch or not,” you panted breathlessly when you used his broad chest to push away and break your kiss. “If I am seen in such a compromising situation with you, I will be labeled a harlot.”

“Still worried about what your future husband may think, are you?” Jacques teased.

“One day, I will meet a tall, dark, handsome devil of a man who will sweep me off my feet,” you said sultrily, feigning desire for another kiss before adding, “When I meet him, I want my reputation to be pure.”

“Amour, you are a vision of purity and wickedness inextricably entwined,” he crooned in a voice as decadently smooth as chocolate. He took your hand, swallowing it in his enormous grip. “Come, be my love.” He deepened his voice with his implore. “And we will all the pleasures prove. That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, woods or steepy mountain yields. And I will make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies.”

“You are too sinful. Quoting that devil Marlow,” you mocked. “Such works are for heathens not pure maidens.”

“Says the pure maiden who knows his words as well as I,” Jacques laughed pleasantly.

“You know I cannot be your love frivolously, nor would I want to be,” you replied seriously. “You’ll be mine entirely, or I’ll never be yours at all.”

“Your terms are those I would dictate as well.” He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your skin. “Be my love, ma belle sorciere. Be my wife. Marry me, amour.”

For a moment you considering declining his offer for his own sake, torturing him with a silent smile as your mind raced. Becoming legally tethered to you would give Carroughes and others the opening to label Jacques a witch alongside you.

“Do not fear for me or for yourself,” he calmly stated as if hearing your thoughts. “I assure you, we will live happily ever after. Better still, we shall live deliciously together.”

“Yes, then. Oh, yes, Jacques!” you exclaimed as elation flooded you.

Smiling like the Devil Himself, Jacques shot excitedly to his feet, pulling you up with him. Taking you in his arms, he spun you around and around, laughing with you and smiling wide, until you were dizzy. When he returned you to the ground, he kissed you again until your head was spinning from his lips and you were far dizzier.

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

Darkness approached when you and Jacques returned to Salem. Candles shone in windows and stars winked to life in the sky as it bled from navy to purple to black. It was not too dark to shield you from the town’s judgement, and eyes peeping out from windows followed you through town. It was not too dark to see the pair of you openly holding hands and smiling broadly as you talked. Such unveiled affection triggered a widely accepted clock. If you did not soon marry Jacques, not only would your reputation be tarnished beyond salvation, but more accusations would fly at you like arrows.

One pair of notably beady eyes that watched you pass belonged to the Crown Prosecutor. His mood was especially foul, given the neglect he suffered from Marguerite since she had been grieving for her late friend. His acumen was meager at best, but even when he could not articulate the foundation for it, he still suspected.

He suspected Jacques had already made you his whore. He suspected you had already put Jacques under your spell. He suspected he could see one or both of you hang before the new moon.

Brimming with petty suspicions, Carroughes watched you through his window. He was backlit by candles inside, giving him an ominous hellish glow. You didn’t need to be a witch to divine his intent, you could feel it seething off him. Jacques felt it too. Although he gave Carroughes a friendly wave, his eyes were dark and his jaw set. Jacques wrapped his arm around your shoulders protectively and pulled you closer to his side.

“Time is not our ally.” Jacques spoke for your ears alone as you walked. “We should leave Salem at once. We can marry in Boston within a fortnight. Then, if we must, we can return here as man and wife. As my wife, even the Crown Prosecutor will be hard pressed to accuse you of witchcraft.”

“I have to get some things in order.” You shook your head firmly. “I’m not running away in the middle of the night and leaving my house to burn and my cat to be butchered as a familiar.”

“Very well,” Jacques agreed, although his brow was creased with worry. “We’ll announce our intention publicly to buy time and leave for Boston as quickly as we can. Get your things together with all possible haste.”

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

The following morning, you had obligations to fulfill. To break your routine would not only be suspicious, it would call unwanted attention to you. You had packed your most important possessions during the night, everything was prepared for a hasty departure. The only things that could not be packed were living, your cat and horse.

Part of your schedule was that you helped Marguerite teach a weekly women’s bible study. This was only normal in Salem, and whether you found validity in it or not, it was expected of you and to decline would make you even more of a pariah. You tried to keep your profile low and your head down as you made your way to the town bakery, which was run by a rotund old widow who hosted the women’s meeting.

Gathered inside the bakery was the usual group of women you expected to see. The air was thick with the smell of freshly baked pumpkin pies, but missing was the normal jovial atmosphere of friendship. Marguerite met your eyes and then immediately looked away, guilty at the events she had set in motion with her simple betrayal of your confidence. You soon realized the source of the tension. There was a spy in your midst.

Like a ghastly raven, Carroughes’s mother, Nicole, hovered at the edge of the room. Her unsightly frown and grim countenance corrupted what should have been a warm and pleasant setting. Beady soulless eyes and a permanent scowl must be a Carroughes family trait that afflicted both mother and son. However, her black eyes saw more than those of her offspring, and her mind was far more calculating.

In a silent but venomous exchange you regarded her, and you knew at once that she was hunting you just as avidly as her loathsome issue. Marguerite was terrified of her as was almost every other woman in Salem. You were not. You waved to the withered hag, a friendly gesture to any onlooker, but she felt the malice you intended behind your false smile.

“My son’s wife,” Nicole spat the word out like bile on her tongue, glaring at you. “Marguerite has made him go soft on you. Jean tells me he knows you are Satan’s whore, but he does not have enough proof. Yet. No witness lives long enough to be sworn in.” She put a hand on her chest in a gesture of purity. “But I have seen worse than you in my day. Witches don’t scare me any more than scandalous and tainted women who flaunt their shame throughout town on the streets at night.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

“If you label it scandalous to walk hand in hand with your husband to be, it is no wonder your own late husband was rumored to be one of the unhappiest men in town,” you quipped back to her, crossing your arms over your chest. “And if you taught your son that to show affection is to taint oneself, it is no wonder he is such a disappointment to his wife.”

Her thin lips spread in a smile that stretched her frail parchment-like skin over her bones, giving her the appearance of a mummified corpse. Raising her crow-like voice for all the women in the bakery to hear, she cawed, “I overheard the witch today as she walked alone to our meeting. She was mumbling gibberish, speaking in the Devil’s Tongue. She was casting a spell, speaking to the Devil like a lover. It is unspeakable what she said, and a good woman like myself could never repeat it. I stand as a witness, and I will swear the same tomorrow before a Judge.”

Trapped in the bakery, you couldn’t run. Save for Marguerite, who was stricken with guilt, the women looked on you with frightened reproach. No one dared speak on your behalf. Seeing no support among the group of women who you had considered friends until that moment, you straightened proudly and left with your dignity.

Walking alone through the cold streets of Salem, you knew what this development meant. With Nicole’s sworn statement, the warrant for your arrest would be signed. All it would take would be a biased trial deemed fair by the masses and you would hang. The men under Carroughes’s command would guard you now, ensuring Jacques would be unable to steal you away to safety and happiness.

A contingent of men followed you home under the guise of guarding you, in reality they were your wardens. They surrounded your house, imprisoning you inside so you could not run away in the night or escape to silence any more witnesses with your witchcraft. They also prevented Jacques from seeing you and entering your house when he rode at a gallop to you after he heard of your de facto arrest. His presence alone offered some support, and his distraught concern gave you some small comfort in the knowledge that his feelings were genuine. The men who marshaled you quickly forced him away at the ends of their musket barrels.

Even though it was only a brief exchange through a window, Jacques met your eyes and gave you a conspiratorial nod. You knew what you had to do.

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

Night fell and darkness settled, giving you a modicum of privacy. You snuffed all the candles in your home leaving only the pale light of the full moon to filter in through the windows. It was easy to see why the full moon was thought to enhance the power of witches and other creatures of the night, with its soft light imbuing everything it fell upon with an ethereal glow.

While your guards thought you were sleeping, you sat wide awake in your bed. Your cat curled next to you and by stroking her fur, you were able to calm your mind and focus on your task at hand. Tonight, you were not playing or dabbling. You wanted to flex your wickedest muscles and see how much devilry you could wreak. With the moonlight dappling your skin and glimmering in your eyes, you breathed deep and pictured Nicole Carroughes in your mind’s eye. It should have been difficult to concentrate, seething with anger as you were, but it came easily, naturally. As your concentration deepened, her image grew more solid and detailed, until you could see her as clearly as if she stood before you. Even Nicole’s movements and behavior was natural, not so much as a construct of your mind but as though you were looking through a window into her house.

Your eyes fell closed, but you were not met with darkness. So clear and vibrant that you could have been living it, you stood in Nicole’s kitchen. You had never been inside her home, but you knew and saw every detail, from labeled spice jars to the old dog curled on the floor to the smell of hearty stew where it boiled in a cauldron in her fireplace. Nicole was unable to sleep herself, not from guilt but excitement. She was elated at the prospect of destroying you. The old crone even whistled a cheery tune while she busied herself with cooking and baking.

The mere sight of her, contended in her betrayal, enraged you. Your blood boiled and your jaw clenched. You wanted her dead. Dead and silenced forever for fabricating lies against you. You wanted her to die painfully, choking on her false words against you.

Nicole pulled a loaf of freshly baked bread from her oven and set it on her table. It smelled delicious even to you through the ether and Nicole smiled and clapped her hands at her culinary triumph. She broke off a piece of the still steaming loaf and tossed it to her dog, who thumped his bushy tail with approval. She took the next piece for herself. Smiling with half-lidded eyes, she savored the taste of the bread as she chewed. A moment passed and her eyes shot open, bulbous and terrified, and she started coughing violently. Her bony hands flew to her throat, clawing at her own flesh as if she could free the spongy bread lodged in her windpipe from the outside. The dog barked frantically, first at his owner and then, he somehow looked directly at you, where your mental apparition stood in her kitchen, and snarled viciously.

Staggering like a drunkard, she coughed harder and harder, wheezing and sputtering. With eyes wide but unseeing, she stumbled, panicked. She collided with her table, knocking it over and sending bread and plates and utensils flying. The dog paced, his tail clenched between his legs, as he whimpered and whined. Nicole grasped for the mantle over her fireplace to steady herself, but tripped over her own feet. She fell face first into her fireplace, her flailing arms finding no purchase until they landed on the scalding black sides of her cauldron.

A scream never came through her constricted windpipe as she fell to her knees, only a violent wheeze, when the cauldron tipped toward her, pulled by her own scorched hands that had melted fast to the iron. The viscously thick stew that had been bubbling and boiling splashed onto her face and chest, sticking to her skin like tar on feathers. Her face was eggplant purple now, what skin could be seen where the stew hadn’t burned her, and her flesh boiled red and white where it had been melted. Her dog shrieked with all the pain she couldn’t voice.

Falling to her back on the floor, Nicole writhed like a hooked fish and her open mouth gaped for air as her eyes rolled back white in her head. Her body began convulsing, splashing in the stew on the floor, until she breathed no more. Her dog licked at the floor and at her face, while she twitched reflexively in her death throes. You knew she wished for death now, you could feel her thoughts, so you willed that the Reaper took his time in coming for her, and smiled as her life dwindled away with unnatural lethargy.

The malice you felt for her did not abate as she thrashed and shuddered, not until she lay still and her corpse grew cold. Then, you felt true happiness, euphoria even. Better still than that glowing jubilation was something else. For the first time, you felt something well within you. Power. Dark, gloaming, delicious power. Like any beast, the more you fed your own power, the stronger it grew.

When you opened your eyes, you were back in your room, in your bed, with the soft moonlight and your purring back cat keeping you company. Outside your window, you heard Carroughes’s men talking amongst themselves, no doubt discussing the witch they had captured. Foolish men. They thought they were safe now, that their town was safe from the witch of the woods who had descended upon their peaceful pious village.

You knew better. You knew the Wicked Witch that lived amongst them was growing stronger by the night. You knew that soon you would have all of Salem held inside your dark grasp. The people of Salem wanted you to be their witch. You would happily oblige them.

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

You rose with the sunrise and, unable to leave your house, you waited for the inevitable. The warrant against you would surely be signed soon, and men would come to arrest you. But as the day drew on, no one came for you. Not even Jacques.

The men who guarded you grew restless as noon came and went, and you could hear their grumbling outside. They, too, wondered when you would be formally arrested so they would be relieved of their post. Hours later, it was Carroughes himself who rode to your cottage and stomped belligerently through your door without knocking. His fists were balled and his trollish face red and enraged.

“My mother!” he screamed in your face, sending filthy beads of spit flying onto your cheeks. “My mother is dead, and I know somehow somehow you are the cause!” He grabbed your arms, shaking you roughly, his breath rancid as he continued to shout inches away from your face. “I have also underestimated Jacques and his devilry. His soul is as black as yours! And you have been whoring with him just like you whore with the Devil Himself. He has an alibi for his whereabouts last night, but the snake Pierre hardly counts!” He shook you again and slammed you against your wall so brutally it nearly knocked the wind from your lungs. “It was my mistake to post a guard here, so they think you were inside your house all night. But I will prove it! I will prove you are a witch, and I will see you hanged on the spot!”

“If you think me a witch who can do such nefarious things,” you sneered at him, showing your teeth like a predator. “It is rather stupid of you to anger me, is it not?” You laughed at him, right in his repugnant face, just to see his anger grow. “Perhaps you’re the witch and you killed your own bitch mother to curry favor with the Devil!”

“Whore!” Carroughes spat and drew his hand back to reprimand you just as your door burst open.

The crash of the door slamming into the wall from the force with which it was thrown open stopped Carroughes mid-swing of his fist. His hand stopped so close to your face that you could see the crags in his dry lizard skin and smell the filth that had turned putrid under his ragged, unkempt fingernails.

“Unhand my fiancée, Carroughes, or the gallows will yet be blooded today,” Jacques growled menacingly from your doorway.

“Swine!” you spat in his face for good measure, hoping he would strike you openly for Jacques to witness. To your disappointment, Carroughes showed restraint.

“Papers,” Jacques announced, waving a rolled parchment in his gloved hand as Carroughes released his hold on you. “Magistrate D’Alencon has dismissed your accusations against this woman. For the second time. He has also provided a sworn statement that he was with me at all relevant times yesterday and through this morning.” Jacques strode to Carroughes until his massive chest threatened to shove the squat man over backwards. “Shall I read them to you? Being as how you’re an illiterate and cannot read them yourself?”

“You’ll pay for this, Le Gris,” Carroughes hissed at Jacques then turned to you. “Once I see you hanged, he’ll be fucking another whore before the sun rises.”

“See to your own house, Carroughes.” Jacques grinned but his lupine eyes glinted ominously. “Your wife might be fucking another man even before you meet with the Reaper’s scythe.”

Possessed of the meager awareness to know that he would fight himself into a prison cell if he bandied more words with Jacques, Carroughes stormed out of your house and off your property as quickly and belligerently as he had come. As he slammed your door behind him, Jacques rushed to you and scooped you up into his arms. Inside his warm powerful embrace, you felt as though nothing harmful could ever reach you. You laid your head on his chest and let his large hands smooth over your back, rubbing away your trepidation.

Taking your hands, Jacques led you to a chair at your dining table then seated himself beside you. His rich voice had a mesmerizing quality as he relayed how it had taken the day to draft your exonerating paperwork with Pierre. Even his scent, that masculine bouquet of pine and musk, calmed you when you breathed it deep. As he talked, your cat jumped into his lap, noting her approval of your intended.

Once your nerves had settled and you were smiling and laughing with Jacques, your hands no longer chilled but warm in his, he retrieved a parcel from his pocket. He placed a bundle the size of a gourd wrapped in cloth on the table and pushed it to you.

“You didn’t need to bring me a gift.” You smiled up at him.

“When you are my wife, I’ll spoil you with gifts,” Jacques promised you, then grinned slyly. “But this is not a gift. It’s a tool.”

Carefully, you unwrapped the parcel to reveal a simple cloth doll. It was a figure only, devoid of clothing or features, save for two thick X’s stitched in black for eyes that gave it a grim expression. It was smaller than a girl’s toy doll, barely larger than your hand. Several pins that were packed with it rolled out on the table.

“A doll?” you asked, surprised. “I hate to tell you this, but I outgrew playing with dolls long ago.”

“Well, I never stopped,” he teased and stroked your cat. “No, this is not a doll or a toy. It is a tool. A poppet. A witch’s tool.”

“I think I’m doing quite well without any witch’s tools.” You smirked mischievously.

“Indeed, ma belle sorciere,” Jacques picked up the poppet. “But should you ever desire a method with more precision, or should you ever want to make your victim’s suffering more poignant and draw out your enjoyment, you might wish to resume playing with dolls.” Seeing the excitement glimmer in your eyes, he pressed his thick finger into the doll’s chest and continued, “Focus your intent on what harm you want to cause, take a pin, and stick it into the poppet with all your wickedest will behind it.”

“Let’s do it together,” you said as you picked up one of the pins. “I want Carroughes to suffer. Poignantly.”

“Then let us take it slowly,” Jacques dropped his voice and grabbed a pin of his own. “Let us savor it.”

Pressing the tip of the pin at the poppet’s heart, you slowly trailed it down the fabric body, down its right leg, as you curled your mind around your intent. When you reached the center of the leg, you stabbed the pin into the plush doll. Jacques put his hand over yours and pressed your hand down more firmly, driving the pin all the way through the poppet’s leg.

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

An early winter storm rolled in during the night, clouds of churning black and charcoal spitting out a blizzard of snow. Dawn was late to come, the sun hidden behind a veil of gray. When the sky finally lightened, the ground was covered beneath nearly a foot of fresh snow. Wind blew frigid, swirling the still-falling snow and chilling to the bone anyone who ventured out into it.

A roaring blizzard was the perfect cover for Jacques to ride with you to safety, to carry you away from the more harrowing storm of witch hunting. He arrived before sunrise in the gray gloom, riding his horse and leading a pack horse to carry all of your life away, all of your things for a lengthy, if not permanent, absence. He saddled your horse and loaded all your pre-packed things onto the pack horse before you had finished your first cup of morning tea.

Jacques wore a long black cloak lined with fur and a tall black hat with a magnificent pheasant plume. Greeting you at your door, he swept off his hat with a flourish, shaking free his luxurious hair and brushing the snow off his shoulders when he bowed. His cape twirled behind him when he came through your door amid a gust of snow that blew in with him.

“Boston will love you, amour,” he said as he kissed you good morning. “Pray our luck holds and this terrible storm blusters throughout the day.”

You were dressed in your warmest clothes and Jacques wrapped your cape around your shoulders, tied the laces at your breast and secured it with a kiss to your throat above the bow he fashioned. Everything that mattered most to you in the world was secured on the pack horse or in your saddle bags. Even your cat was bundled tight and held secure beneath your cloak like an infant. The cat and all three horses must have sensed the danger you were all in and the exigency, because the horses were silent and still and the cat was calm and subdued.

Holding your hand tight, Jacques led you outside through the swirling snow to your horse, rubbing his free hand over yours for comfort and for heat. He lifted you onto your palomino and gave your thigh an affectionate squeeze. The air was chilled with ice and fogged when Black Philip snorted as Jacques climbed into the saddle, but you stayed toasty warm. Nerves, perhaps, numbed you against the cold, but you knew better.

Mist drifted through the forest mingling with the snow to shroud your journey. Only green spruce trees and fiery colored maples watched you ride through their forest. Still, Jacques led you along a path that bypassed Salem. Most rational people would stay inside their homes during such a storm and sit warm by their fires, so even the few houses you passed were blind to you.

Thinking you safe after having left Salem miles behind, Jacques rejoined the snowy Boston-bound road. Even though the wind howled and the snow swirled, his voice still boomed easily above it all as he distracted you with talk of your future together. Unbeknownst to you both, Carroughes had himself ridden to Boston the day prior to obtain a warrant for your arrest from a less reasonable judge. As you and Jacques rode away from Salem, Carroughes returned down the same road, the only road, leading a company of men to enforce the new warrant.

The world had been reduced to a whirling white storm. Through the coin-sized snowflakes that roiled around you in the whipping wind, you could only see a few yards in front of your horse’s ears. Black Philip stopped abruptly, hearing and sensing what a human could not. Looking ahead into the wall of snow, the horse snorted suspiciously and stomped his hoof just as a sorrel horse materialized from the storm.

Jacques and Carroughes locked eyes, each wide with surprise, as their horses blew at each other indignantly from only a few paces apart. Men and beasts were frozen stiff until understanding thawed their senses. Jacques reacted first, yanking the reins on the pack horse to bring it forward and smacking his reins down on its rump to launch it bucking and charging into the cluster of Carroughes and his men as it ran away down the road toward Boston. Carroughes’s sorel horse reared, nearly unseating his dumpy rider, as the pack horse rushed by him.

While the enemy horses were spooked and unruly, Jacques spun his own horse around as he shouted to you, “Ride like hell!”

Kicking your horse into a headlong gallop, you charged back down the road away from Carroughes and his men with Jacques close at your heels. Now more than ever, the blizzard was your ally, swallowing you inside its billows almost immediately. You could safely gallop at breakneck speed even being blinded by snow so long as you stuck to the clear path of the road, but even a blind man could follow you on that course. You knew these woods like your own acreage, having grown up in Salem and riding through them as a child. At a bend in the road, you looked back over your shoulder to see that Jacques still followed you and reined your horse off the road into the woods.

There was a steep bank down into a ravine where you left the road, and yours and Jacques’s horses slid down precipitously in the slick muddy ground. The animals leaned back so far that their tails were pinned beneath their rumps from their docks to their heels on the canted slope. Branches tore your clothing and clawed at your face as you careened down to the ravine below. Your horses couldn’t have slowed their descent even if you reined them with choking force, and they hit the creek in the bottom of the ravine hard, splashing the icy water high.

In case the snow didn’t fall heavily enough to cover your tracks, you would leave none at all in the water. Slowing your horse to a trot she could maintain for miles, you followed the creek back toward Salem, intending to use the denser woods on the city’s northern border to shroud your escape. Jacques rode beside you, keeping pace with you in the creek bed. Carroughes hadn’t seen you leave the road and he rode on ahead, chasing nothing but ghosts in the snowstorm.

“If they catch us,” Jacques whispered urgently to you. “I will fight them off long enough to give you an opening. An opening you must take, amour. Stop for nothing and ride to Boston, or further, until you are safe.”

“You must be a fool if you think I’ll leave you,” you told him with a mixture of anger and fear.

“You’ll be hanged for witchcraft if they catch you! As long as my heart beats, I’ll stand between you and the gallows.” He looked at you and for the first time, you saw fear in his eyes. “Pierre can offer me some measure of protection, but you are now beyond his reach.”

“Wherever we go, we go together,” you returned adamantly, setting your jaw.

“Wherever you go, I will follow,” he argued just as stubbornly. “Run, amour, and I will chase you. I will find you even if I must chase you to the ends of the earth. But first, you must escape.”

The forest thinned as you approached the town, but the snow still swirled around you. You had to rejoin the road briefly to reach the thicker forest beyond that would then keep you hidden for miles and miles. The creek wound in the wrong direction, forcing you to return to the forest that surrounded it. Still at an easy trot, your horses bobbed and weaved between the trees and through the brush. The frigid wind stung your cheeks and your ears had gone numb miles ago. The only warmth in you came from the steaming body of your horse beneath you and her fogged breath that trailed back to you.

From out of the blustering snow, three mounted men, Carroughes’s men, charged you from the side. Carroughes must have suspected Jacques would try to escape with you under the cover of snowfall and sent his men to hunt you down from the opposite side of the forest. As agile as a deer, your mare dodged away, evading the men and cutting through the trees. Jacques ran beside you and a pace behind, his horse’s neck level with the haunches of your mare. The only path open to you was through the forest back toward Salem. The men chased after you, but their mounts were less adroit than yours and less powerful than Jacques’s, and they quickly fell behind.

A shot flew by your ear, so close you could feel the heat from the musket ball kiss your cheek. The boom of the rifle spurred your horse faster into a breakneck gallop through the trees. You reined your horse into a thicket of brush. Jacques grunted as he broke through limbs and boughs in an explosion of snow to follow you. Behind you, the enemy riders fanned out. One chased at your tails, the other two ran wide on either side of the thicket and of you.

“They’re funneling us back toward Salem!” Jacques shouted what you already knew. “They plan to ambush us!”

Even as his words reached your ears, you burst through the thicket into an open field. The blizzard blew around you, but as you galloped across the clearing, the dark shapes of a line of horsemen quickly materialized close ahead. Jacques spurred his horse faster and lunged in front of you, charging straight into the line of men, using his horse like a battering ram. Black Philip bowled through the smaller horses, knocking two of them fully to the ground in a flurry of snow, mud, and flailing hooves. The toppled horses rolled over their riders, crushing the men beneath their heavy thrashing bodies.

Kicking your mare frantically, you ran through the opening Jacques had plowed for you. Your horse jumped over the two fallen animals even as they began to push back to their feet, and you were clear of the line of men. The rider nearest Jacques swung his musket toward your fleeing back. Jacques whipped out his hand, catching the musket barrel in his fist and ripped the gun away from the shooter, pulling the man right out from his saddle with his sheer brute strength. Reversing the musket in his hands, Jacques struck the man a vicious blow to the cheek with the butt of the musket, sending bloody teeth flying into the snow with a sound like pounding a mallet into a ham.

With Jacques’s command for you to escape to safety echoing in your ears, you kicked your horse onward, galloping across the field. Snow kicked up from your horse’s hooves in a flurry as great as the storm that blew around you, swallowing you in powdery white fog. Shouts and the sounds of heavy blows landing in flesh sounded behind you, muffled and dull in the storm. You turned to look back over your shoulder, hoping to glimpse Jacques running after you but you saw nothing through the storm beyond your horse’s tail streaming out behind her.

Suddenly, your horse pulled up short to a stop with a frightened squeal, sliding on her haunches on the slick ground. Ahead of your horse, right between her pricked forward ears, you saw a musket barrel leveled directly at your face from no more than ten paces away. Carroughes’s squinty pig eyes met yours down the sights of his musket. Hatred festered in his bloodshot irises, and you knew that he would relish little more in his squalid life than pulling the trigger and blowing your face away in an explosion of gore right in front of the man who loved you.

“The blizzard you sent to foil me will not avail you, witch!” Carroughes shouted in his belligerent way, blowing fogged snot into the icy air like a hog at a trough. He raised his voice to a strident yell when Jacques rode to your side, pulling his own horse to a hard stop. “Please, witch, give me a reason to shoot you now and your man whore of Babylon alongside you.”

“You have one shot in that musket, Carroughes,” Jacques growled through clenched teeth and pounded his hand against his chest. “Best aim it where it will do the most damage.”

“I am aiming precisely where it will do the most damage, Le Gris,” Carroughes sneered, holding his musket pointed squarely between your eyes. Keeping his barrel in place on you, his squinted eyes drifted to Jacques. “As a man of the law and of the cloth, you knew not to leave Salem with your little whore while a warrant was pending. I expected as much from a witch, especially one with a guilty conscience. But Minister, you ran? Say true, admit you are both in league with the devil and seek forgiveness. It is not too late to save your souls, even though your earthly bodies are now forfeit.”

“Good sir, even you must admit you are impressively stupid!” Jacques declared boldly, imbuing his voice with deep authority. “We are not running. We were on our way to marry in Boston. Forgive me. I assumed that as a man, you would understand the haste a man feels to marry his bride and take her to bed, make her his own. Especially with a bride as beautiful as mine.” His smile dripped of condescension. “I did not think I would have to explain this to you as a man would to a child, or to an impotent.”

A greasy scowl creased Carroughes’s porcine jowls. Safe now with his armed contingent of men surrounding you and Jacques, he stepped down off his horse and stomped to Jacques with all possible belligerence. Although he tried to mask it, he walked with an unmistakable limp in his right leg. He grabbed Jacques’s reins and yanked them roughly, just to wrench the bit in the horse’s mouth and make the animal grunt painfully. “Under my authority as Crown Prosecutor, you and your whore are confined to Salem. You are lucky that the jail cells are already filled to the brim with the guilty. Until the question of your crimes is answered, you are not to leave! Guards will be posted accordingly.”

“And what of our marriage?” Jacques challenged. “Does the Crown Prosecutor have the authority to intercede in such matters? I think not.”

“Since Salem’s minister is now under arrest, another minister must be summoned from Boston soon,” he lied. He looked up at the sky that was darkening to black amid the blinding snowstorm and added wryly, “As the weather permits.”

The ground was slippery and soupy. Hidden beneath the inches of fresh snow, the ground had frozen, leaving a layer of muddy snow sitting on top of ice that was far slicker than ice alone. Turning on his heel to add to his aggressive mien, Carroughes’s right boot shot out from under him. With a crack like splitting timber, his knee twisted and gave way beneath his weight, bending at an unnatural angle as he collapsed upon it to the ground. Thrashing on the ground, he howled with pain and outrage like a swine caught in a beartrap, his right leg twisted uselessly beneath his squat body.

As several men dismounted to help their master, Jacques met your eyes and flashed you a dastardly knowing smile.

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

The people of Salem looked upon you and Jacques as if you were devils incarnate and upon Carroughes as though he were St. George who had arrested two fearsome dragons. You would find no more friends among the townsfolk. Save for one.

To offer what protection he could, Pierre hosted you and Jacques in his own home. He could not quash the warrant that had been issued by a Boston judge, but he could ensure you were both safe and comfortable while awaiting the next phase in the judicial process, and he could vet you both to the best of his abilities while doing so. Also, in Pierre’s home, there were no rules and no decorum by which to abide. What happened within the walls of Pierre’s home, remained locked safe inside. To date, none of his dark secrets or illicit escapades had escaped.

Deaf to any argument, Pierre posted you and Jacques in the same room. “To God, it’s all just a matter of paperwork now until you are man and wife,” Pierre announced with a lewd grin as he closed the door behind him, leaving you and Jacques alone in a large bedchamber with a single large and inviting bed. Candles burned warmly, paired with a fire in the hearth, both filling the room with their golden light. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, falling silvery upon the bed and the fur blanket draped upon it.

Setting down a bottle of Pierre’s wine on a bedside table, Jacques pulled you to him. He spun you playfully, twirling you into his arms in a silent dance, and pulled you to his chest. Lowering his head, he kissed your cheek softly. As he affectionately nuzzled you with his large nose before he brought his lips to yours. Although he kissed you with sweet affection, you felt the sear of his desire for you beneath his restrained veneer. Your desire matched his own. You kissed him back brutally, your lips violent where his had been soft.

The stressors of the day and of the month weighed heavily upon you both, and your futures were uncertain. You wanted to feel anything but worry and terrifying uncertainty. You wanted to feel all the warmth and happiness and pleasure you knew you would have as Jacques’s wife, although you knew that now you may not ever reach the altar.

Jacques’s plush lips moved to your collarbone, making you shiver when he placed his first open mouthed kiss there. You felt him grin against your skin when he felt your reaction, his beard tickling you. He nipped gently at you before kissing you again, making you sigh. A low rumble resonated deep in his chest when he reached the base of your neck, letting his tongue caress you, lavishing your flesh.

When he pulled back for breath, he gazed down at you hungrily, watching you to observe your reaction to him when he spoke to you.

“Let me show you what pleasure truly is,” Jacques said huskily, imploring you. “Let me show you what it is to live deliciously.”

“My honor --” you began quietly.

“Shall remain intact,” he finished for you, halting your concerns, although his meaning eluded you. You knew that you could stop him if you wished, but you couldn’t imagine doing so. Instead, you backed toward the bed, captivated by his own devilry.

Lowering himself over you when you reclined on the bed, Jacques propped himself above you, kissing down your neck, over the bodice of your dress. He kissed his way down your body, without removing your clothing.

Backlit by the fireplace, he knelt before you at the foot of the bed. He ran his hands up the length of your legs, from your calves, up your thighs to your hips, pushing the skirts of your dress up, heating your skin with his touch. Grinning at the sight of you from between your thighs, he hooked his arms under your legs and rested his elbows on either side of your hips. Any shyness you felt should have surely been greater, but the way he looked at you with open desirous hunger, alleviated any thoughts of modesty.

“Jacques, you can’t,” you protested weakly, hoping internally that it wouldn’t deter him in the slightest.

“Can I not?” he teased, bringing his face closer to your body.

“It’s a sin,” your argument came out as a moan when he kissed the inside of your thigh and scratched his beard higher.

“The greatest of all sins. The original sin,” he agreed, kissing higher up your inner thigh. “The forbidden fruit was never an apple.”

Meeting your eyes, Jacques brought his mouth to you, to your very center where no man had ever so much as touched you. Crying out with surprise and intense pleasure, your fists twisted into the fur blanket on which you lay and your back arched off the bed. Grabbing onto your hips, he pulled you even closer into him and his approving growl rumbled right into you. Your thighs quivered on either side of his head as your body ignited under his ministrations, sensation flooding you as he kissed as ardently as he would your lips and traced unspoken adorations into you with his tongue.

Never had you imagined pleasure so consuming, and it took all of your remaining awareness not to scream out as he carried you deeper and deeper into the forbidden realms of ecstasy. Unable to prevent small moans and mews from escaping your lips, you hoped your noises did not pass through the walls of the bedroom. Although, you suspected that Jacques would delight in hearing you shout his name to the heavens.

Your hands twisted into his hair, and you shuddered and bucked when he plunged you into a well of pleasure as hot and soft as a pool of candle wax. You had never known true pleasure before, and you now understood why it was considered sinful, because it was a high you would chase with Jacques to the very gates of Hell.

“I shall live deliciously indeed with you as my wife,” Jacques quipped in a gravelly tone, grinning devilishly. He was in no hurry to remove his mouth from you and he kissed you lazily as you trembled from the rush he had given you. He already knew that he loved you truly, the first woman for whom he had ever felt such adoration. But now, he knew that he loved you in the way he had always believed to be the florid embellishment of poets, in the way that had always seemed like nothing more than a fairytale or a flight of fancy.

Pushing up from his knees, Jacques retrieved the bottle of wine and two glasses, his own prominent arousal painfully apparent beneath his clothing as he walked about the room. He held the wine jug aloft, grinning at you playfully as you readjusted yourself on the bed and your cat begrudgingly joined you.

Once you were comfortable, leaning back against the headboard, Jacques tipped back onto the mattress beside you, laughing playfully. Handing you a glass, he filled both and clinked the rim of his to yours. Wrapping his arm around your shoulders, he hugged you close to his side as you both sipped at your wine. With his free hand, he retrieved the poppet of Carroughes and held it in front of you both.

“How shall we punish him for delaying our marriage and causing us strife, ma belle sorciere?” he asked you with an arched eyebrow.

“Hmmm, where can we hit a man where it would hurt him most?” you asked playfully. Pulling a pin, you hoovered it above the poppet’s groin.

“Vicious, amour,” Jacques replied proudly. “In fact, your thirst for blood gives me an even wickeder idea. Let us hit him in both places that will most injure a man. His cock to be sure, and his heart also. If he has one.” In response to your quizzical expression, he took your hand and explained, “You know of my dalliances with Marie, but she was not the only unhappily married woman who sought my learned company.”

“Not Marguerite, too?” You were aghast.

“Forgive me for my transgressions before meeting my one true love.” He only grinned with unabashed delight at his exploits.

“You had best be warned that from this night forward, I’ll kill any woman you so much as lay a finger upon,” you huffed with an anger you weren’t sure was justified. Meeting his eyes, you narrowed yours and rammed the pin into the poppet’s crotch like you were stabbing your mortal enemy. “And I’ll do even worse to you, should you ever betray me.”

“I believe you, and yet I am not running for the door.” He forced himself to give you a brief solemn nod before smirking again. “There is no finer proof of my devotion to you. But you miss my point, amour. As angered as you are by this revelation, how do you think Carroughes would bear it? To know his innocent, pious wife seduced me?”

“He will suspect her of witchcraft,” you said, concerned for your friend.

“Even better! Carroughes will have to prosecute his own wife! That won’t make things pleasant for them between the sheets!” Jacques laughed richly, bursting with excitement at his idea. “He will be forced to hang her, his own wife, if he wishes to pursue this witch hunt lunacy.”

“He will hang her, if he believes her to be a witch.” You shook your head at the thought. “You know he will.”

“Yes, if he indeed believes her to be a witch, he will surely hang her.” Jacques was still smiling. “But even that would help you. Marguerite could deflect attention from you. It is quite plausible that a jealous witch, such as she, would seek to eliminate you. After casting her spell of seduction over me, she would not want you interceding between us, would she? And if Carroughes hangs his own wife, perhaps he will be seen for the fanatic he is and removed from his post.”

“But I cannot kill her for vengeance against Carroughes!” you protested. “Nor to use her as a scapegoat to clear my name. She is my friend.”

“Is she?” Jacques became genuinely serious. “How good of a friend do you think her? Do you trust her never to betray you? Need I remind you that she is the reason you are in this plight?”

“That was an accident. She made a mistake,” you told Jacques confidently.

“And if she were not your true friend?” He pressed. “If she would indeed betray you if the opportunity arose? If her heart was traitorous?” He held your eyes intently. “If she would still gallivant with me even though I am now yours?”

“She would never,” you stated with a conviction that your intuition told you was misplaced.

“Let us learn the truth about her, and then you tell me how you wish to handle Mrs. Carroughes,” Jacques offered, sure of himself. “I’ll wager that you shall deem her worthy of hanging, even if she is not the infamous Witch of Salem.”

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

A warrant for Jacques had not yet been issued, so he maintained his ministerial duties. His church sermon Sunday gave him access to Marguerite and the opportunity he needed. This Sunday was particularly opportune as Carroughes was too busy overseeing the details of your prosecution to accompany his wife. Although you were to be sequestered pending your trial, Pierre assisted in sneaking you into Jacques’s quarters inside the church. You waited there, alone and hidden with only his many shelved books for company, while Jacques conducted the Sunday service. Even through walls of thick wood, you could hear his deep voice boom as he gave his sermon.

Shortly after the service concluded, Pierre rushed inside Jacques’s office, your hiding place. Without explanation, he took your arm and pulled you behind a dressing partition in the corner of the room. He smiled like a boy in the midst of a prank and held a finger to his lips, gesturing for silence. You didn’t have to wait long to learn why.

Jacques was laughing heartily at some unheard prompt when he opened the door to his office. He quickly surveyed the room, ensuring you and Pierre were hidden from view before holding the door open for the giggling woman who trailed behind him. Your hand flew to your mouth to stifle your surprise when you saw Marguerite through the space in the hinge of the partition. The way she smiled at Jacques through her eyelashes and blushed rosily was like nothing you had ever seen her offer her repugnant husband.

“With my dearest friend soon to enter marital bliss with you,” Pierre whispered to you, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm. “This may be the last opportunity we have to watch the infamous Jacques Le Gris in action. I assure you, his performances are never to be missed.”

“There had better not be much of a performance,” you hissed back. “Or I will be a murderer and not just a voyeur.”

“Ah, but voyeurism can be such delightful fun when you have good company.” Pierre smirked and patted your shoulder as he squeezed close to you, looking over your head and peering through the same narrow gap in the hinges of the partition. “Regardless, I would not be overly jealous of whatever attention your fiancé gives Marguerite. It is fated to be short lived.”

From your hiding place, you gritted your teeth as you watched Marguerite sashay over to the large bookcase that housed a collection of leatherbound volumes. She ran her fingertips along the books’ spines, her eye catching on a title on the top shelf. Jacques glided behind her, his cloak sweeping behind him like nefarious wings. Standing very close behind her, his body almost touching hers, Jacques reached above her to pluck the high book. Jacques backed away as he cracked open the book and read from its pages in his mellifluous baritone. As though Jacques’s words or the tone of his voice cast a spell of his own, Marguerite leaned back against the bookshelf, lewdly arching her back and rubbing back against it like a bitch in heat.

“Have you forgotten that I’m to be married?” Jacques asked in a voice honeyed with seduction, his eyes glimmering. His words, or perhaps moreover the way he spoke them, enticed her further and she ran a hand over her heaving chest, squeezing her breast over her dress. Jacques kept his eyes on the page and his lip curled in amusement when he added, “I’m to be married to your closest friend, no less. Behave yourself.”

Although his words were innocuous and entirely appropriate, you felt the way the thrum of his voice sent the hairs on the back of your neck standing on edge and heat flush across your décolletage. Jacques stood still, save for his fingers caressing the page, yet his presence filled every corner of the room. He was casting a spell of his own, as potent as any potion; a sorcerer of seduction working his magic right before your eyes. You felt the pull of his magnetism even through the partition with Pierre intrusively and quite literally breathing down the back of your neck.

“She needn’t know,” Marguerite entreated as she rushed to Jacques, cloying at his collar. She rubbed her body against him and lowered her voice to a devious whisper. “Besides, if my husband has his way, you will need someone to comfort you after she is hanged as a witch.”

Tall as he was, Jacques easily kept his lips from her reach, holding his head high like a horse refusing the bit. “This is hardly the time or the place.”

“Meet me tonight, then,” Marguerite whined insouciantly as she trailed her hand from Jacques’s collar down his body to rub the front of his trousers.

“What say you, my dear?” Pierre whispered in your ear while Marguerite brushed her lips against Jacques’s throat. “How do you judge Mrs. Carroughes?”

“If I were her judge, I would sentence that traitorous whore to death on the spot,” you fumed, your face and chest hot with rage and your clenched fists trembling.

Jacques could not have heard your words, your voice was impossibly faint. But his eyes snapped to your hiding place as though he could look right through the partition to meet your gaze and he smirked in that diabolical way of which you had grown so fond. He snapped the book closed, the sound very loud in the silent room. Seemingly on command like a hound responding to the snap of its master’s fingers, the door to the office burst open and Carroughes stomped inside.

With a gasp of guilty fright, Marguerite jumped back from Jacques, but Carroughes had seen all he needed. So had the company of several men who accompanied him.

“I’ll gut you for this, Le Gris!” Carroughes sputtered, appalled, shaking and spitting.

“Me?” Jacques asked innocently, his hand flying to his chest. “Whatever do you mean, Carroughes? I was in here only trying to review the notes on my sermon when your wife, poor neglected creature that she is, came into my chambers to seduce me.”

“You try to take advantage of my wife, and now you slander her?!” Carroughes shouted belligerently, rushing toward Jacques, ready to fight. He moved stiffly, with a very pronounced limp.

“To be clear, I slander you, Carroughes.” Jacques smirked from behind the guard of his raised fists, provoking Carroughes further. “Although, it is not slander to speak the truth. You neglect your wife, you are incapable of satisfying her, and you are surprised that she pursues a real man?”

Before Carroughes could escalate the confrontation to the exchanging of blows, Pierre darted out from behind the partition, leaving you alone behind it. With his customary flamboyance, Pierre exclaimed, “I saw it all! Do you dare try to impugn my word, Carroughes? The word of a Magistrate?” Pierre popped his lapels and smiled smugly. “I witnessed Mrs. Carroughes, myself. She pursued Minister Le Gris, ignoring his protestations, and tried to seduce him.” He ignored the tears that now flowed down Marguerite’s cheeks and the look of terror wrought upon her features. “I daresay, she tried to bewitch him with some incantation she uttered in the Devil’s Tongue.”

“Indeed, I felt as though some dark force had taken command of me,” Jacques added, allowing a look of fright to twist his expression for dramatic effect.

“Arrest her!” Pierre commanded the men with Carroughes, the deputies sent from Boston to hunt witches. “Arrest the Witch of Salem!”

Carroughes huffed and cussed and postured, but he could do nothing. And even his weak mind latched onto the fact that if he, as the Crown Prosecutor, protested Marguerite’s arrest too vehemently, he would be arrested right alongside her and charged with witchcraft himself. Watching from behind the partition, a momentary pang of guilt pierced your heart, but you shook it away. She had indeed tried to seduce your husband-to-be and she was wholly unbothered by betraying you. She deserved to die. You hoped she suffered terribly. As the thought, the wish, passed through your mind, so did a frigid gust through the room. Surely, it was nothing but an eldritch coincidence.

The guards clasped Marguerite’s arms behind her. She cried and struggled against her captors, but she was powerless to prevent them clapping her wrists in irons and hauling her away. Carroughes composed himself, by his paltry standards, and followed after her. He not only walked with a pronounced limp in his right leg, but he was vaguely doubled over as though he tried to conceal another pain in his bowels, or perhaps in even lower regions.

When the door to Jacques’s office was again closed, you ran out from behind the partition and into Jacques’s welcoming arms. He lifted you off the floor, spinning with you in his arms and kissed you triumphantly.

“Well!” Pierre clapped his hands and excitedly rubbed them together. “I’d say a celebration is in order! Come! Enough of this dreariness that can only be found inside of churches, it’s time for wine and women!” He looked at Jacques who was still holding you and added, “Stick to one woman if you must, but I certainly shall not on this joyous occasion!”

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

Just as you were, Marguerite was placed on house arrest pending her trial with armed men stationed outside her and Carroughes’s house to ensure she did not attempt to abscond nor cast any spells. Carroughes stayed with her, giving the outward appearance of a concerned husband. Inside their house, the tone was rather different.

“Have you fucked Le Gris?” Carroughes bellowed into Marguerite’s face, his rancid breath fuming her cheeks from a hair’s breadth away where he had her pinned against the wall with his hand at her throat. “Are you the Witch of Salem?”

“I – I have never betrayed you,” she sputtered, unable to draw breath beneath Carroughes’s fist on her throat.

“Lies!” Carroughes raised his fist to strike her lying mouth. “Tell me the truth! Are you Le Gris’s whore? Or the Devil’s? Or both?”

“No!” she cried, trying to prevent a crushing blow to her cheek. “I am not the Witch of Salem, I promise!” She sobbed the truth, choking for breath, before lapsing into lies. “And Jacques, he – he forced himself upon me. He raped me!”

“Why should I believe any of your lies?” Carroughes spat, but his hold on her throat weakened.

“It’s the truth!” she sobbed wretchedly. “Jacques raped me, and his fiancée is the Witch of Salem! And now they have turned you against me.”

“You will have a fair trial,” Carroughes assured her, dropping his hand from her throat. “I will see to that.”

“A fair trial means nothing in Salem!” She was crying uncontrollably, rattled from Carroughes’s attack and her pending doom. “And what if I am convicted?”

“Then I will have to follow my duty.” Carroughes’s voice turned cold, and his perennially dull eyes glowed unnaturally as if another force had overtaken the helm inside his feeble mind. “I had best get some use out of you now. It may be the last night I have female company until I remarry.”

Marguerite cried an embarrassingly weak protest and sank to the floor, covering her teary eyes with her hands. Carroughes still seemed unseeing when he rucked his trousers down his thighs covered in curling simian hair. The odor alone of Carroughes’s lower body would have repulsed most women in itself, but as his wife, Marguerite had been forced to grow inured to such things. It wasn’t until she removed her hands from her eyes that true horror engulfed her. From her place cowering on the floor, Carroughes’s penis was level with her face. It was a rather unimpressive appendage, but she had always considered its laughably small size an advantage that made the event easier to ignore when he forced himself upon her. She could not ignore what she faced now.

Swollen to the size of a distorted squash from the pus and pestilence that welled within, Carroughes’s cock dripped the same jaundiced mixture onto Marguerite’s skirt. Although grotesquely engorged to twice its normal erect size, it was too heavy from festering fluid to stand as it should, so it swung between his legs like a single pendulous udder. The shaft was splotched in diseased hues of yellow and purple, deeper than a violent bruise. The protruding head was as red as a pustule ready to rupture, tinted with the same glossy green shine of rancid meat. The smell was far beyond fetid, having reached the putrid bouquet of a carcass left so long in the sun that the internal organs had burst from heat.

Carroughes in his zombie state didn’t seem to know or care about his gangrenous penis, advancing on his wife with insistent amorous intent. Marguerite screamed, blood-curdling and shrill. She prayed for a death that would not yet come as Carroughes overpowered her and took what he wanted.

Intruding into her mind just as forcibly as her husband intruded into her body was a single thought, repeating over and over like a macabre mantra. It was a sentiment you had spoken of often to her.

The Ninth Circle of Hell is reserved for betrayers.

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

Justice came swiftly for Marguerite. Her trial was held only two days after her arrest. Though, for reasons unknown, she seemed eager to escape the confines of her home, even if it was to trudge to the church to be tried as a witch. Magistrate D’Alencon presided over the proceedings with another two judges from Boston. They all listened raptly to Jacques’s testimony as he stoically relayed how Marguerite had attempted to seduce him and had used witchcraft to sway his conscience.

As a scarlet woman suspected of witchcraft yourself, you were not permitted to watch the trial. It was infuriating to be excluded from the most important trial since the witch hunting madness had begun, all because of an allegation against you. Even if you now accepted the truth of that allegation, it did nothing to lessen your anger. So, you busied yourself by taking that very anger out on the poppet of Carroughes.

Only his testimony could possibly discredit Jacques, so you determined to absolve that concern. You recalled when Carroughes had slammed you against the wall in your own home and screamed at you so belligerently that he had sent spit flying into your face. You pictured his vile testimony against Jacques during the trial. Aiming a pin where the poppet’s mouth would be, you imagined his vile tongue and stabbed the pin into the doll. You stabbed it again and again, taking some small measure of your wrath out on the poor poppet before leaving the pin impaled in the fabric.

Later, you would learn from Jacques that even as Carroughes walked to take the witness chair, he coughed and hacked viscous green phlegm from his throat. He managed to choke out his name with the same wet sputtering of sloughing mud through a drain, and then his voice dissolved into little more than gurgles and grunts. His tongue when it protruded from his mouth was purple-black with white sores and swollen to twice its normal size.

“Being illiterate, Carroughes couldn’t even write when his voice failed him!” Jacques laughed as he relayed it to you over lunch with Pierre. “He was just like a hog, grunting and snuffling and spitting. It took all my strength not to laugh outright.”

Jacques laughed along with you now, hearty and rich.

“Even before he became tongue-tied,” Pierre laughed too, leaning back in his chair. “He looked as if he had aged twenty years overnight when he walked into the church this morning.” He glanced at you then at Jacques. “I must be careful never to cross that little witch of yours.”

“Witch?” Jacques teased. “I’m quite sure I have no knowledge of any witches here.” He winked at you. “The Witch of Salem has been sentenced to burn at the stake tonight at sunset.”

“The other magistrates wanted to send a grand message to other curious ladies who might find themselves wondering what it might be like to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight.” Pierre sighed dejectedly and shook his head. “This is going to be just terrible for my nocturnal recreation.”

“Perhaps, my friend,” Jacques laughed and draped his arm across your shoulders. “But not tonight! Tonight, we shall have a grand spectacle.”

“Are the two of you planning on dancing naked around the bonfire that Marguerite is soon to become?” you asked, trying to moderate the jealousy you still felt over Jacques’s former debauchery.

“Only if you join me, amour,” Jacques returned with a smirk.

“No, no.” Pierre wrinkled his nose. “The smell of burning flesh tends to spoil the ambience.”

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

Plumes of smoke rose into the frosty autumn air, black tendrils blending into the grey clouds that rolled ominously in the sky. You stood close to the hastily constructed pyre, leaning against Jacques, using the heat from his towering body to fight against the chill. His arm was draped possessively around your shoulders as you both watched your accuser struggle against the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles to a tall wooden stake. The fire at her feet had already been lit, the first torch laid by Minister Le Gris after he administered her last rites. Smoke stung your eyes as it thickened, swirling up from below Marguerite’s feet and choking her as it rose upward.

A line of armed guards formed a semi-circle around the pyre, ensuring that no rescue attempts could be made. As the Crown Prosecutor, it was Carroughes’s duty to oversee the execution of every convicted witch. He didn’t allow the inconvenience of being Marguerite’s husband stop him from performing his duty. In the hours since her trial, several of Carroughes’s teeth had fallen out. No doubt the same mysterious malediction that he had contracted in his nether regions had spread to his tongue and then to his gums. The soft tissues of the body are always vulnerable to tenacious putrefaction.

Hunched like a ninety-year-old man, Carroughes shuffled to the pyre, flaming torch in hand. He looked over at Jacques and back away just as quickly like he had been slapped in the face. He knew he had been beaten, just as he knew that if he again tried to come after you or Jacques, that he would be utterly destroyed. Deaf to Marguerite’s cries and pleas, Carroughes threw the final torch onto the already roaring fire at the base of the pyre.

“The perils of crossing swords with a witch,” Jacques rumbled just loud enough for Carroughes to hear when he retreated from the pyre. The swollen pustules on Carroughes’s tongue prevented any retort beyond a sloppy gurgling expletive. Carroughes now knew the truth beyond any doubt, and he also knew he was utterly powerless to do anything about it. Under the scrutiny of so many witnesses, Carroughes could do nothing more than gimp away.

The fire popped and cracked, licking higher and higher up the pyre and up the body of its victim. The hem of Marguerite’s long dress caught fire when the flames washed over the platform on which she stood. Her dress erupted like dry kindling, encircling her lower body in flames so her torso looked like a topper on a fiery tree. The scream that tore from her throat was enough to turn blood to ice. Jacques squeezed you tighter, but you weren’t affected.

It was already too late to save her, but still Marguerite sought your eyes. Through sobs, smoke, and horror, she begged you for help, for forgiveness, for mercy. You met Marguerite’s tortured eyes, and you flashed her your wickedest smile.

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Decadence and ostentation lavished the decidedly un-Puritan festivities Pierre threw to commemorate the burning of the Witch of Salem. It was eclipsed only by the celebration he hosted in his enormous estate on the night of your marriage to Jacques. It was the grandest event of the year, Pierre ensured as much. He even saw to it that the former Crown Prosecutor was included.

Carroughes could no longer walk since he had tragically broken a hip on the winter ice, and he could no longer see after the strange illness spread further upward from his groin and his gums into his eyes, transforming them into blind bulbous abscesses that wept with milky issue. It was no matter. Pierre had sent two of his sons, Charles and Etienne, or perhaps it was one of the others. Once the number of children eclipsed five, they blurred into one squalling horde to him. However, the gaggle of his offspring and the others scurrying about his halls, pleased him that evening. The whelps made good sport of Carroughes by throwing bits of food at him like they would a blind leprous dog. When the children ran out of ideas on how to entertain themselves at his expense, Pierre eagerly supplied them afresh.

Throughout the night, there was not a moment when Jacques’s hand was not holding yours or resting on your thigh, when his arm was not wrapped around you or embracing you close. He made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, twirled you until your head spun, and danced with you until your feet ached. It was all part of his devilish plan. He then had the perfect excuse to sweep you off the floor and up into his powerful arms, sparing your feet by carrying you back to the bedchamber you would share for your first night as man and wife.

Laughter tumbled from your lips as Jacques kicked the bedroom closed behind him before he captured your lips in a spellbinding kiss. His mouth tasted of the same heady scent that had been engraved upon your senses since you first dreamed of him. The feeling of his tongue as it slipped past your lips spread warmth through your body faster than wine on your palette. Moonlight dappled the room in ethereal silver, softly lighting the large bed in its center.

When Jacques returned you to your feet, your hands lingered possessively on his chest, his body that was now yours alone. Jacques proceeded with far more care when you undressed each other. You tore at the laces of his shirt, nearly ripping the fabric in your haste, while he deftly undid your dress and slid it off your shoulders and down your body. His gaze was ravenous when he admired your figure under the caress of the moonlight.

Reaching his hands to touch your bare skin, Jacques knew yours was a spell from which he would never be free. He knew you were the last woman he would ever touch like this. He had known many women, but in every way that mattered, you were the first for him just as he was the first and only man who would ever possess you. He had never loved a woman before, nor had he ever sought a woman’s pleasure above his own. Tonight he would, and every night thereafter with you and you alone.

Even when he caged you beneath him on the mattress and took command of your body, it was still he who was captured like a wolf in a snare. You entranced his every sense until he was intoxicated on love’s potion. Kissing your neck, your scent swirled into his nose, dizzying him even as he held you tight. Grabbing and smoothing his enormous callused hands over your milk-soft skin, he marveled at the way your curves fit perfectly to his muscular angles. Plunging into you, he felt as though the silken heat of you burned through his entire being, arousing a passionate flame inside his heart that would never be extinguished.

Jacques used all of his remarkable talent and his great strength to lavish you with more pleasure than you had thought your senses capable of absorbing. He gave you robust and fiery when you needed it, lingering and sensual when you desired it, carrying you to new heights of ecstasy just as he had carried you to bed. He wanted for you to not only feel the erotic sensations he alone could give you, but also the depth of the love that he had never felt for another. The feeling of you quivering and squeezing around him and trembling in his arms was the finest commendation he had ever received, one he hoped to earn with regularity. He lost himself in you then, riding the warm tide of pleasure with you.

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Hours later, in the darkest hours of the night when witches and demons ran their nefarious errands, you felt Jacques shift beneath you, rousing you from sleep. Raising your head from his pillowy chest, you sleepily teased, “Are you always awake in the witching hour?”

“Inquires the lovely wakeful witch?” He grinned and kissed you until you were fully alert and happy to be so. He rubbed his warm hand along your back when he broke your kiss. “I wish to show you something, amour. Tonight.”

Jacques gently rolled you off of him before rising from the bed. He only pulled on his trousers before offering you his hand and pulling you up from the warmth of the sheets. You shivered briefly in the cold before Jacques draped his heavy wool coat over your shoulders, the garment swimmingly voluminous around you. Taking your hand in his, he raised it to his lips for a kiss before leading you from the bedroom.

Holding a flickering candle, he led you down stairs and through darkened hallways of Pierre’s home until you reached the room you had learned was Pierre’s study. Although it was no doubt past midnight, the sounds of Pierre’s soiree could still be heard echoing through his walls. Laughing men, giggling women, groaning lovers, all keeping their own nighttime vigil.

Jacques led you to the end of the room behind a large desk. Extending his arm high and raising up on his toes, he pushed at a spot on the wall in the upper corner, too high for most people to reach without a ladder. It was indistinguishable from the rest of the wall. At his touch, the wall sprung open like an ominous gate. Jacques smiled at your widened eyes and walked ahead of you. He immediately descended a steep flight of stairs, holding the candle behind him to light your way as you followed.

The room you entered at the base of the stairs smelled of wet ground, candle wax, and leather. It was warm and humid, despite being locked away from the rest of the house. You stood in darkness as Jacques moved throughout the room, lighting a litany of candles in sconces. As the room illuminated, you realized you were standing in something akin to a plush dungeon. 

Dark wood paneling lined the walls, framing ancient looking documents, scrawled on yellowing parchment. Candles were interspersed throughout the room, sitting on shelves built into the walls and upon the one large table that lined the back wall. Littering the table were bottles, knives, things that looked like dehydrated roots and bundles of plants wound together, exotic skulls, and quills and ink. Centered in the table was an immense book lying open, its pages decorated with scrawling lines of beautiful script in addition to sketches and notes.

Jacques stood before you calmly, his hands clasped in front of him, appraising your response closely. Your eyes darted back and forth in a mixture of surprise and confusion between Jacques and the objects in the room, particularly the large open book. Realization was quick to dawn on you and you smiled slyly at Jacques.

“So, I did truly see you and Pierre out in the woods carousing with those women?” you asked. “It was a vision after all?”

“I shall neither admit nor deny such a damning accusation,” he teased you with a wolfish smile. “But I will say that witches have a way of finding each other. I never thought I would find my equal in this world.”

“You are a witch, too?” You almost laughed. “And Pierre?”

“Pierre? He dabbles. He tries. He is one of those hopefuls I told you about who endeavors to learn magic through study.” Jacques took you in his arms, looking down at you proudly. “But you and I are natural witches. Two of a kind. The most powerful of us all.”

“Does this mean you are in league with the Devil?” You smirked as you watched the candlelight dance in his eyes. “It would hardly surprise me.”

“The Devil does not seek my counsel, nor do I seek his,” Jacques teased and kissed you. “I am in league with you alone, ma belle sorciere.” 

“Why did you not tell me you are a witch?” You smacked his chest playfully. 

“Why did you not ask?” he laughed, trapped your hand to his chest, and his expression turned sincere and warm. “It was the first time I looked into your luminous eyes -- how they burned with the brightest fire, the richest magic -- that I knew I had finally fallen under the spell of another.” He kissed you again. “Never release me from your spell, amour.” 

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© safarigirlsp 2022

Tagging some Wicked Witches! 

[bardic-inspo]

Midnight Chimes

Chapter Six: Friend of the Dead

Pairing: Astarion x Cursed! Tav

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Series Summary:

It’s easier for Astarion to believe Naomi tastes so sweet because she was his first. Easier to ignore the fact that every undead in vague proximity yearns for the same blood that’s sated him night after night. Easier to pretend her music is arcane as any other bard’s, and not divine enough to wake corpses from the dirt. Easier to pretend Naomi is simply a bard, and not something more akin to a siren. One that's slowly realized she's not just another sailor, after all. Easier to bury the fact that he's already stupidly in love with her. Like she wouldn't just raise that out of the ground, too. A curse rears its head. A devil comes calling. Astarion fights for his freedom from Cazador. He and the rest of their merry little band fight to save Tav from the doom she feels she's fated for.

Chapter Preview:

He is a vampire. A liar. A terrible flirt. Naomi can do better than Astarion’s easy volleys any day. Except today, evidently. Today, Astarion moves with the gift of her vitality, and Naomi finds herself missing it. Missing her marks more than she should be. Today, he speaks and it melts from her ears into a pooling ache between her thighs. Melts her brain with it, without the tadpole so much as twitching.

Chapter CW: A dead pregnant lady. It’s not graphic, but it’s there. Some canon-typical guts and gore as well.

✨ Click here if you prefer to read on AO3 ✨

Sickly sweetness cloys in the air with the scent of wood and leaves. Naomi’s nostrils burn with it. Fire swells before her eyes. At its heart, a corpse blackens to ash.

“Again?” Shadowheart had sighed, upon Naomi and Astarion shaking her awake.

The cleric surveyed them and their bloodstains with a sour scowl, but rose as they bade her. The others did, too. All came to gather around Lae’zel’s body, just as they do now in the pale gray of morning.

“We could bring her back, right?” Karlach asked softly.

“And give her another go at our necks?” Shadowheart spat. “No. Revivify requires her to choose to return. She would never. Not if she truly believed us doomed. Not unless she meant to finish what she started with Naomi.”

“What do we do with her, then?” Naomi asked thickly.

“Whatever possessed her in her final moments,” Wyll said, “she was our ally. She deserves a respectable rest.”

“I’m not well-read on Githyanki funeral rites,” Gale murmured, eyes distant.

Another voice entered the fray, straining between Naomi’s temples. The tadpole bond drew taut.

“There’s an illithid parasite in that corpse…”

The guardian spoke smooth and steely as ever. In her mind’s eye, Naomi pictures her standing among them in the semi-circle around Lae’zel’s funeral pyre. Lae’zel would’ve killed you, too, if she could have, Naomi thinks. The githyanki always spoke of their dream visitors with more teeth than tongue.

Her own guardian is a drow woman. Older than Naomi, but Seldarine like she is. Her white hair winds in a long braid, plaited in the same style as the matrons in her home temple would wear. Her eyes are warm and earthy like a dark wine, set between crow’s feet and the faint start of age lines.

She looks like what Naomi’s mother might have, had she lived that long. Or, someone’s mother. Naomi never knew her own. Perhaps that’s why it’s so easy to pay the guardian’s entreaty no mind at all.

“We’ll burn her,” Naomi said, after the guardian said her piece.

Only Astarion balked. “With the worm still wriggling inside her skull? Power is just sitting in your palm, waiting for you to close your fist, and you’d waste it?”

Naomi said nothing as her shoulders stiffened. He didn’t come so close as he tends to, not while the others watched. But her neck prickled with his presence all the same, like a backhanded caress.

It brought her back to lying on her back beneath him, stranded in some purgatory between binding pain and numbing pleasure. The inside of Naomi’s cheek still throbs where she made her own bite in a bid to bury the breathless noise Astarion woke in her throat. Astarion himself was anything but quiet. Like an echo, her skin still hums where his moan leaked over it.

“Why not?” Astarion pressed. “You didn’t seem shy about putting your worm to use on the goblins before. Shouldn’t we seize every advantage, now that we’re down in number?”

Then you eat it, she thought. But exhaustion and, maybe, blood loss pushed her to swipe at a lower-hanging fruit.

“Your worm didn’t seem so shy tonight, either.”

“Oh, you can do better than that, darling,” he drawled, beaming wide enough for the moonlight to catch the points of his teeth. Wide enough for the others to catch sight of them, too.

Astarion’s smile evaporated. Naomi offered him the barest of nods. Enough of a nudge for him to square his shoulders.

“Right, well,” he coughed, clearing his throat. “There’s something else, then, I suppose you should all know. How to put this delicately? Hm. Well. I’m a vampire.”

He punctuated his pronouncement with a strangled laugh. Naomi swallowed the urge to strangle him herself. You could’ve done so much better than that, darling, she thought with an inward groan.

Keenly, Naomi is aware that no one else is watching the fire. All eyes stick to the vampire in their midst. Well, the vampire spawn. Wyll was kind enough to corroborate the finer differences as Astarion explained them.

No compulsion. No turning others into blood-sucking beasts. And thanks to the tadpole, no need to worry about the sun. Or find alternate routes across running water. That one has to be annoying. Do bridges fix the problem, or are they a part of it? Naomi doesn’t ask. She realizes, sheepishly, that she should have asked most of these questions before the bite instead of after.

Wyll stands with his hands folded, solemn, but with a scathing side-eye scorching Astarion like holy water. Naomi frowns. Another thing she’ll need to ask him about, later. Karlach is uncharacteristically quiet, but more unnerving, she’s utterly still in the rust-red glow.

Naomi doesn’t dare put her full weight on the tentative trust they’ve all built with each other, lest her threadbare boots break it. Even with Shadowheart on her side, stoic and vindicated by Lae’zel’s betrayal. Even with Gale in her favor, concern deepening the wrinkles near his eyes as they flit to the budding bruises along Naomi’s neck.

They’re a fragile, brittle thing, the six of them. And they’re to take a fortress together today. They need to be forged from something stronger, like the dead woman wreathed in the flames. Lae’zel knew no such thing as hesitation.

Naomi breathes deep, tastes the bittersweet tang of ash against her tongue, and starts to sing.

It’s a Seldarine drow song about a heaven out of reach. Arvandor isn’t for them. Lolth made it so, and Correllon kept it that way, despite Eilistraee’s best efforts. Drow don’t reincarnate like other elves do. Most of the time, anyway.

Maybe it isn’t the best send-off for a githyanki warrior gone before her time, but it’s the funeral rite Naomi knows. If the song doesn’t suit Lae’zel, the fire does. She goes in gold and shimmering scarlet, like the scales of the dragons she so revered. Even a few winking stars remain, despite the breaking dawn muted in cloud cover. Perhaps some semblance of Lae’zel is carried to the astral sea she spoke so fiercely of. Not on dragonback, but furling with smoke and song.

Let her be cast among those silken waves of black, Naomi thinks. Let her bones crumble and set her strength free so that it may find fresh home in ours.

Glittering green flickers in the fire. Magic licks to life with the flame. Fresh vitality floods in the new warmth beneath Naomi’s skin. She feels it percolate beneath her feet, creeping its way towards the others like crawling roots. Under the snap of the logs, she catches a soft sigh.

Astarion’s eyes are round as they watch her. Firelight reflects, glassy, off the sheen of his awe. He doesn’t wear the sharp-eyed surprise she’s seen when her cutting words stop what would’ve wounded him. There’s a distance there, like he’s looking at her through a thick fog. Like he looked when the harpies had their hold on him.

He murmurs beneath his breath, as he did then, “B--”

“--eautiful.”

In her periphery, Naomi catches the toothy edge of Astarion’s roguish grin. Blood streaks his hair, vivid against the bone white of it. An arrow shoots past her like a sudden gasp of breath, cutting through the space freed by the barest bend of her back. It flies into her foe, spattering her in viscera. The goblin gags out a mottled cry and folds to her feet.

A tingling chill strums from the base of her spine where the arrow passed, as if a cool palm had pressed there. She shivers, even as sweat streaks her cheeks. Astarion saunters over, eyes alight with glee.

“Happy to see me? Again?” Naomi pants. Talking was a mistake. She tastes their victory at the corner of her lip, rancid and vile. She grimaces.

Astarion’s head tilts, lips pouting in a pitying frown. “I was talking about my aim, darling. But, oh, you’ve got a little--”

The pad of his thumb presses against her lower lip. Naomi stutters beneath the unexpected touch. Her breath seeps out prematurely, and she lets it go without letting in a new one.

A smooth, alabaster hand comes to cradle her jaw. As if to hold her still. As if she hasn’t already frozen. Her heartbeat bounds, pounding her ribs like a hammer to an anvil. Surely, he can hear it. She can hear it.

Slowly, deliberately, he drags his thumb across. It tugs down slightly near the middle, peeling her mouth open with it. A sear of salt touches her tongue, the faintest taste of his sweat, as citrus swells in her nose.

She doesn’t take him, hungrily, between her lips. She doesn't lap at the tips of those long, dexterous, fingers, where their only roughness lies. Not like he had. So eagerly, he’d sucked her skin clean when she had blood on her hands.

Astarion’s dark eyes flit to her own beneath heavy lids, satisfied all the same. With a flick of his wrist, he wicks the blood away at the corner of her mouth and wipes his hand clean on the side of her jerkin.

“There you are.”

“Maybe I was saving it for you,” Naomi says, softer than she means to.

“How thoughtful,” he hums with the click of his tongue. “But, I do prefer something sweeter. What else have you saved for me, I wonder? Another arch in your back?”

It takes a quick nip to her inner cheek to stop her own reflexive acquiescence. Gods below. She’s sweltering. Sticky with spilled guts and spent effort. So’s he.

He is a vampire. A liar. A terrible flirt. She can do better than his easy volleys, any day. Except today, evidently. Today, Astarion moves with the gift of her vitality, and Naomi finds herself missing it. Missing her marks more than she should be.

Today, he speaks and it melts from her ears into a pooling ache between her thighs. Melts her brain with it, without the tadpole so much as twitching.

Every other muscle in her body aches, too, but not so sweetly. Adrenaline pulses in her limbs, through each stroke of her rapier, each spell strung on a song. Every movement carries the weight of life and death.

But this? This stupid swooning is effortless. Even if she knows better.

Even in gore, he’s gorgeous. The reds of his eyes shine like polished gems as he wades knee-deep in his element. He looks good, happy. His stride’s become a strut that says he knows it, too.

And Astarion’s catlike smirk and trailing gaze have to know, just from the look of her, that it’s been a good long while since Naomi’s arched her back for anyone.

Dear gods, she hopes it’s the look and not some weird vampire smell thing. What if it is a vampire thing? Idly, Naomi rubs the soreness that’s settled on the left side of her neck. No one asked about any lascivious side effects of being bitten during their morning vampire debrief.

If she asks now, it’ll only make him worse. He’ll laugh. She’ll have no choice but to expire alongside their enemies.

“I’m full of surprises,” she says with a shrug instead.

“Aren’t you?” He croons. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep a very close eye. Now, I think I’ve paid you back for your little ‘worm’ comment earlier, though, I do quite like making you blush. I suppose I could do this all day. But we’ve a lot more killing to do, darling.”

He gestures a hand towards the open archway, with the slightest bend in his knees. “Shall we?” He purrs.

Karlach coughs behind her. Naomi shifts her shoulders back, turning her attention towards the others.

“Is anyone else just sweating buckets? Gods, it’s hot.” Karlach mutters, fanning herself with her free hand. The other clenches the haft of her greataxe. The blade drips in a steady, splatting rhythm.

Dror Ragzlin didn’t live up to Volo’s song. He doesn’t live at all now, let alone don a ‘fragulous’ crown or lead anyone ‘galide’. He’s the first of the three Absolutionist leaders Halsin, the druid, tasked them to take out. Of course, the three are hardly alone. Still, his slaying was simple.

Quick, if nothing anywhere near clean. Only Gale stands spotless, swiping himself with a pass of prestidigitation. Shadowheart scowls with an envious eye.

Together, they move with deadly efficiency. Where swords split their flesh, Shadowheart sews them shut with a spell. When foes would rush them, gnarled, eldritch force from Wyll’s palms and thunder stamped from Gale’s feet throws them back. Where Karlach’s axe would slice over empty air, the blade keens with a high note hummed from Naomi’s lips and sinks home where it should.

Astarion is a near-blur. Naomi sees him only in time for him to disappear again, feels him only after he strikes. His arrow shoots between her legs and bursts through a goblin’s knee. Another flies just past her cheek, just after her own riposte, and squelches into their enemy’s eye socket.

Keeping a close watch, just as he promised.

Blood pools in a pond from the feet of priestess Gut’s would-be throne, to the archway where they started their assault. They make a river of it, running through the fortress halls. The courtyard becomes a red lake, bobbing with corpses.

Astarion heaves a momentous sigh when it’s done. “I told you it would take hours.”

“We did well,” Naomi says breathlessly. She sways on her feet, stifling the urge to slump onto the steps and sit. There’s nothing in sight that isn’t wet with something far worse than water. Though, it’s of little consequence. Filth soaks them all, head to toe.

Except for Gale.

“Did we?” Wyll says skeptically. “So much killing. Maybe it was necessary, but it doesn’t seem ‘good’.”

“Shouldn’t you be happy, Wyll?” Astarion scoffs. “The tieflings should be safe now. We’re officially heroes! Isn’t that what gets you going?”

“I’d like to get going away from the sight and smell of roasted dwarf,” Wyll groans.

“Fair enough,” Naomi says. “The druid will speak with us at the Grove tomorrow about making our way to Moonrise.”

Because of course, Halsin couldn’t heal them himself. Of course nothing this fucked has a simple solution, just as she said to Astarion. She holds the ‘I told you so’ to herself for the time being.

“Gale?” Shadowheart says tersely.

“What can I do for you?” The wizard answers with a tired grin.

“Don’t you think the rest of us could do with some tidying up as well?”

“Oh -- right,” he says sheepishly. “Happy to help, of course.”

At the other end of the bridge, they shed their coats of grime under Gale’s magic touch. Now she knows why he was casting the spell so incessantly; sadly, it's only a surface-level sweep. It doesn’t make her gloves feel any less disgusting, even if they don't look it. Wincing, Naomi drags her hands free of the sodden leather.

Her heart flies to her throat and sticks there, sharp as stone.

Inky blackness crawls through the veins of her forearms. She turns them over, only to find more of the same on the other side. As she looks, the darkness seems to swim beneath her skin. The tadpole turns behind her eye in a sick twist of sympathy. Nausea stings in the back of Naomi’s mouth.

“Necrotic stains again. Must’ve come from that blight scroll you used on the ogre,” Shadowheart says, glancing over. “Nettle seed oil should help them fade faster. I have some in my tent that you can use.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“Your skin must be sensitive to necrotic energy,” Shadowheart says with a thin smile. “It’ll pass.”

Naomi nods, blinking feverishly. She can’t seem to clear the fresh sear in her eyes. Only just out of range of the goblins’ stench, a new odor assaults them.

“What fresh hell is that?” Astarion whines through gritted teeth.

“I thought we were full up for today,” Naomi mutters, pocketing her gloves and slipping a hand around the grip of her rapier.

Smoke drifts up from between the trees. With it rolls the noxious smell of rust, oil, and hair singed by stray flame. They don’t have to travel far down the road to find its source. Their path slopes low to the edge of the croaking marsh.

A single tent is pitched just off the water’s edge. Near it kneels a long-haired man clad in modest cloth. No armor. The only weapon Naomi sees is the crossbow strapped to his back. Though, the herbs burning in the bowl before him are their own brand of violence. Her fingers stay folded around the rapier’s handle.

“Ho there, stranger!” He offers a tentative wave. “Might I trouble you for a moment of your time?”

Naomi spares a sideways glance to the others. They stay a half-step back behind her. Except Astarion, who hovers at her side. Even he says nothing, eyes shifting to her, expectant.

Uncertainty knots in her gut at her unceremonious nomination. They talked about her talking for them when it came to the goblins. After all, the wretched things readily deferred to drow without having to say much at all. It seems the party’s preference is still for her to speak first. Naomi clears her throat, but at once, the smoke stings it.

“Forgive the aroma,” the man says meekly, with a smile that crinkles his wind-whipped cheeks.

Perhaps he’s a faith-peddler. She doesn’t see a holy symbol, strung around his neck. Hers still hangs on a silver chain for all to see. The stranger’s eyes dart down to it before they fix to her face again.

“Powdered iron-vine,” he says. “An old hunter’s trick. Most monsters will think twice before making a meal out of me.”

“You’re a hunter.”

“As are you, it seems,” he says, his smile fading as he scans them. “My name is Gandrel.”

“I’m surprised,” Astarion says petulantly, “I thought all Gur were vagrant cut-throats.”

Naomi inclines her head towards the vampire. “What are ‘Gur’?”

Gandrel’s lips twitch wistfully. “A mystical and dangerous people. We travel the land, never settling in one place. We steal your chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters -- your friend here has heard it all, I’m sure.”

He laughs, and it's a tired sound. Like leaves long fallen to a forest floor crunching underfoot. He eyes Naomi intently. “I’m sure they say similar things about the drow.”

Unease prickles her like splinters. Gandrel’s gaze falls across the stains etched on her forearms.

“Are they right to fear the necromancer,” he asks, “or are you merely a well-meaning friend of the dead?”

“I cast blight from a scroll.”

“Simply a scroll, then. And alas, I am but a simple wanderer. And a monster-hunter. But I’m no more witch-doctor or cut-throat than you are a priestess of bones.”

Naomi sweeps her gaze across the swamp, jaw shifting. “What hunt brings you here, then?”

“Something terrifying, no doubt,” Astarion says with a smirk that’s mostly a snarl. “Dragon? Cyclops? Kobold?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” Gandrel replies. “I’m hunting for a vampire spawn. His name is Astarion, but I fear he’s gone to ground.

Oh, I don’t know, Naomi thinks, schooling her expression steady. I know one spawn who can be plenty dramatic.

She feels Astarion’s eyes flitting to her cheek like moth wings. He shifts his weight between his feet, flighty, with his shoulders drawn. It brings to mind a cat, arching its back, hairs standing on end. He watches her, and not the hunter.

She thinks of the way he looked at her last night, settled on his knees, all but begging. Red eyes wide, glistening with moonlight or desperation or both. You need me strong, he said. I need you alive. You can trust me. We don’t have a choice.

It was her choice to offer her own blood, to give an equal answer to the vow Astarion made when he drew Lae’zel’s: I’ll protect you, too.

“I’m hoping the hag of these lands can help me flush him out,” Gandrel says, “if I can afford her blood-price.”

Naomi grates her teeth. Great, there’s a hag here, too. They’d yet to spot her, too busy with the harpies, undead, goblins, and owlbears hanging around. Plus the devil demanding their attention, and the vampire spawn now consuming hers. And surfacers say the Underdark is the place where all the monsters are. They haven’t given their crust half enough credit.

“You’d hunt a vampire spawn,” Naomi scoffs, “but you’d break bread with a hag?”

“Hags may ask a steep price, but it is always one that must be paid willingly.”

“So we agree free will has a function in whether something is truly monstrous? Good. I was beginning to think you might be monstrous yourself. Spawn can’t help but follow their master’s commands. Why aren’t you hunting the master?”

“Spawn set free would only leech of the land and its people as their masters do. As for the hag, surely an Eilistraeean knows the difference between blood freely given and that which is taken.”

Astarion tenses, like a bowstring pulled taut. Naomi’s eyes narrow. “Surely you’re not lecturing me on my faith.”

“Surely you wouldn’t interfere with a calling that you can’t hear -- my calling.”

Sharp, sudden pain plucks between Naomi’s brow. Oh, but she can hear an awful, relentless call of her own. She hasn’t stopped hearing it since she started playing again. Not really. Not for long.

That tossing, stringy melody still roils like a wave in her brain, slipping through her fingers before she can make sense of it. It slaps the back of her skull, resounding through her bones, melding into a single tone as it meets her blood and burns, acidic.

Naomi’s fingers curl at her sides, trembling.

“And if you find this Astarion,” the vampire himself pries, “what will you do? Kill him?”

“Not this time. My orders are to capture him.”

“Oh. And bring him where, exactly?”

“Baldur’s Gate. My people wait for me there.” Gandrel’s brown eyes soften as they resettle on Naomi. “Take heed, traveler. Your pity for the spawn is misplaced. They are only weak when compared to their masters. During the day, we have the advantage. But at night, when they hunt? You will not find a more deadly quarry. The threat is real.”

Like a raindrop into still water, Astarion’s presence ripples across Naomi’s consciousness. Cool. Cleansing.

Yours or mine, darling? He asks through the tadpole.

Her breath flutters in her chest. She can taste the salt and bloodlust on his lips, as if he’s licked them. She stifles the urge it spurs to wet her own.

“It’s not pity,” she says, knuckles flexing. “But you’re right about the threat. I’m quite serious with mine.”

Green light curls between her fingers. Naomi stretches them, and out it lashes. Down come the claws.

A fiddle shrieks in her ears, though there’s none to be seen. Magic gushes from the hunter’s stretched mouth, torn open around an unheard scream, frothing like a cauldron. It pours and dissipates to steam over the earth. His knees buckle and drop. Life leaves him at her feet.

Crows take to the sky, soundlessly. Naomi can’t hear them. She can’t hear a thing besides the shrill ringing in her ears. Her hands fly to cover them just as her footing fumbles.

She sinks a step back into the muck. Others speak. Someone -- Shadowheart -- reaches for her, but their touch is muted and their voices garbled.

Naomi whips her head around, as if tugged by a tether. The peeling noise breaks into a flowing, tinkling melody, like a babbling brook. She sucks in a shallow breath and cages it between her ribs, every muscle in her body straining towards the sound. Her fingers twitch in time with the tune, in the pattern of where they would lay on a flute to mimic it.

That’s it. The ghost in her head -- it’s here. Her pulse skips over every other beat.

She can make it out, now, at long last. But only just. Naomi’s lips drag down with her heart, sinking to her dampening feet. The song isn’t over. She hasn’t heard it all yet. It’s fading far too fast, as other sound starts to filter back in.

“Do you hear that?” The question falls out of her.

“Hear what?” Shadowheart demands, squeezing her arm tightly.

Dread weighs down her boots. Swamp water floods them. For so long, that tune has buzzed in the back of Naomi’s head, stinging like a hornet swarm, but never settling. She conjures what little she could make of it, singing between the waterlogged slap of her own steps.

She can catch it, if she hurries.

A flurry of voices take wing behind her, but her flying feet outpace them.

“Where the hells is she going?!” Astarion squawks.

“Naomi!” Karlach bellows. “Hey-- soldier -- wait up!”

Naomi doesn’t. She takes to the trail of song that grows stronger as she splashes through the wetlands. She weaves through brush and murk, bounding over root and rock, until she comes to a muddy shore.

She’s heard enough now that she can hum the chorus by heart. It simmers sweetly on her tongue. Naomi’s eyes slide shut to savor it, even as her feet still drag along of their own accord.

“H-How do you know that song?”

Naomi’s eyes fly open as she stumbles to stillness. The song stutters to a halt behind the sudden lump in her throat.

Before her hunches a bedraggled young human woman. Her hair could be blonde if it wasn’t caked in filth. Curls spill, unkempt, down past her shoulders. Kohl darkens her eyes and streaks in rolling stains down her puffy cheeks.

“I-I don’t know,” Naomi stammers.

She rakes her surroundings with a wary gaze. Her lungs still burn with the memory of her manic sprint, but the rest of her isn’t so sure of how she ended up here. Only a few feet away, smoke billows from the chimney of a rustic teahouse netted in ivy.

Rickety stairs lead to a rocky ledge overlooking the marsh. Naomi takes them tentatively. Each step utters a low, peeling creak. She comes to the other woman’s side, to the side of a fresh-cut coffin. The planks are clean, bright, and nailed shut. They still smell of sawdust, even as the stench of decay seeps through the cracks.

“He sang it to me,” the woman chokes, chest heaving with a fresh sob. “My Connor. Before--”

Her legs give out, words giving way to strangled, shuddering cries. Naomi reaches. To do what, she isn’t sure. There’s nothing for it. Her hand drops short of the woman’s back.

Static crackles in Naomi’s palms, still sooty in the aftermath of casting blight. She summons the song again, and feels it thrum through her veins. Green light coils down her forearms. The first note quivers from her lips as it comes alive. Alive. Alive.

Wood shatters. Splinters slice past her ears. Naomi staggers back. A gnarled first claws the air from the open bed of the coffin.

“CONNOR!” the woman shrieks.

Fetid flesh smacks the ground. The creature’s skin is paper thin where it still clings to bone at all. He’s more meat than man. More of him sloughs aside as he spills free of the coffin.

He unfurls a one wiry arm towards the woman’s cheek. It hangs there, hovering, as if to wipe the tears of his lover with the brush of his skeletal fingers.

They score across her neck instead. Out pours a curtain of red. Her scream is wet. And then, it’s silenced. And then, he moves.

Naomi’s wrist moves quicker. Sunlight glances off the rapier’s fine edge.

Weight crashes into her chest. Her vision snaps white, the back of her skull cracking against the ground. Warmth spills across her stomach. The dead man sprawls over her and moves no more.

Naomi shoves him aside, grunting as she scrambles away from her assailant. Behind her, she hears her own name being called over a shrinking distance. The cavalry come sloshing.

Fear like lightning flashes on their faces. Naomi flinches to the sudden slam of a door. A guttural voice booms with thunder.

“Ruined. Ruined! You vile harlot! Thieving, underscum!”

It’s only an old, haggard woman storming from the teahouse. Naomi’s chest clenches all the same, as if bound in icy grip. She barely has time to stand before a twisted, knobbly hand clamps around her windpipe. Tears well in her eyes. Her legs dangle numbly over empty air.

The hand’s too large for the crone fuming before her. Too strong. The nails are too dark, too long. The tips dig into her flesh, not nearly so tender as Astarion’s touch of teeth. Blood drips from the fresh divots.

Naomi blinks and sees a different face altogether. Long, tangled hair hangs like frayed yarn from a pockmarked scalp. Yellow fangs glint between black lips with the sheen of slugs. Beady eyes, buried in the depths of wrinkles, bore into her with hatred.

Ah. So, they found the hag.

“You reek of devils, dirge singer,” the hag spits venomously. “Death bringer!”

Her lips writhe, and then twist into what might be a smile on any other mouth. On hers, it’s a sawblade. Her words buzz between her teeth, rolling with sinister snicker. “All that you love withers, just so you don’t!”

Abruptly, the hag recoils her grip. Naomi jerks backwards. From the corner of her eye, she catches the glint of steel. Fire flickers in Gale’s palms. Karlach bears her axe at the ready. The others all brace, near enough to fight, if it comes to it. Still far enough away to flee without one.

She wills them to, through the tadpole bond coiling like a rope in her mind’s eye. Run.

The hag shifts into the shape of an old woman again, hands balled to fists at her sides. “You owe me for what should have been mine!”

Naomi casts a glance to the side, past the dead dead man, to the newly dead woman. Her jaw drops slack with her plummeting stomach. The woman’s belly is swollen with a child never to be born. Gods below.

“How about that pretty little locket, petal?” The hag sneers.

“M-My necklace? This one?”

Instinctually, her hand comes to clasp Eilistraee’s symbol chained at her neck. It’s not a locket, but it’s the only jewelry she has. It was her mother’s, once. It’s all that remains of her, now.

“Yes, yes,” the hag snaps, greedy palm outstretched. “Give it here and go away!”

The tadpole bond balloons like a bubble in the back of her head. She lets it simmer, unpopped, unopened. She knows what the others would shout into her brain if she let them.

She doesn’t need their encouragement. She doesn't hesitate as she unclasps the chain and drops it in the hag’s open hand.

In an instant, the crone vanishes. Her door shudders shut on a sweeping breeze that tosses Naomi’s matted hair with it. Firelight still glows from within the hut. Hesitantly, Naomi peels her eyes away.

“Darling.” The word scalds like a brand. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“It was like you with the harpies.” She says, hard enough to harbor no argument. “Just like that.” It had to be. She’d have to be mad, otherwise, to go blundering about alone, out here.

“Let’s get out of here,” Shadowheart sighs.

Naomi takes a step forward, wincing as her foot sticks in the muck. “I--

She glances down, past the fresh stain soaking her jerkin. Bare, blackened toes wiggle back at her. No more boots. What happened to my boots?

“You lost your shoes,” Shadowheart says, like the flat of a blade.

“I’m honestly surprised they didn’t slough off sooner,” Astarion mutters critically. “Those things were practically scraps.”

Karlach offers her a sympathetic smile. “I’d throw you over my shoulder, but you’d roast in seconds.”

“Well, I suppose, this once,” Shadowheart huffs, “I’ll do as you did for us with the harpies and carry you on my damn back.”

“Thanks,” Naomi murmurs, more to her feet than her friends. ‘Friends’ are what they have to be, to forgive her so fast. At least, some of them.

“The next time you need something, you’d better get on your knees,” Shadowheart says sternly, but beneath it, there’s the faint warmth of fresh-kindled humor. “And it had better not be about a murder in the middle of the night.”

It seems as good of prayer to plead to the gods as any. No more murders in the middle of the night, please. At least, for one evening. Just one night’s sound rest would do wonders for all of them.

She’s acutely aware of the nakedness of her own neck where her holy symbol used to hang. Even without it, she’s been blessed. A sound rest is yet to be had, but aside from noises material and mundane, their trek back to camp is soundless.

There’s no more slippery song stuck in her head. No more of its malignant presence in her mind. After all that, she can’t remember how it goes. She only knows the joy of it being gone.

Good gods, good riddance.

Sound rest spurns her.

Naomi turns with the stew in her stomach. Over and over within the warm sleeve of her bedroll, and then, without it. The canvas of her tent is sheer; she can see the stars between the weave of it. Heat haunts her all the same, a kind she can’t seem to sweat free of.

She can’t free her mind of what the hag said. What she did. What did she want with the necklace, anyway? Somehow, she had to know it was an heirloom. Hags love to bask in others’ grief. Yet, it seems such a small pittance, compared to someone’s firstborn, or a life held dangling in her spindly hands.

Naomi’s fingers fret at the empty hollow of her throat. Her neck’s a wreck, between Astarion’s bite and the hag’s grip. Bruises blossom over it in pretty pinks and blues and purples, like flowers sent for sympathy.

One shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, or a hag in hers once she’s named the price for your life. Naomi’s free of the song. Yet her free mind only fertilizes fresh nightmares.

The ‘thieving underscum harlot’ bit, she understands. The other thing the hag barked, she doesn’t. All that you love withers, just do you don’t. What the hells is she meant to make of that?

Not sleep. Not a wink of it. Naomi rolls over again to lay on her side. A strip of moonlight crosses her nose, slanting in from the narrow slit between the tent flaps.

She could trance. She could see a devil, sewn seamless into a memory she can’t find the thread of. Still, she can’t fathom how he got there. How she got there as a gowned guest in his hall.

She thinks of the meat he sliced, the tender squish of it, juices leaking red and raw. The expert way he wielded the knife. Of pork roasts with apples fitted in their teeth. How the devil licked his lips and as he schemed to gut her of her soul. She thinks of the dead man, risen from his coffin, guts spilling out as he lunged and his lover shrieked and the hag wailed--

Naomi rips upright. Any notion of sleep fully fucked off hours ago. So she does, too.

She doesn’t want to see any more monsters tonight.

Naomi stumbles from her tent in borrowed shoes with too much room in them. She doesn’t mean to go far, even if she trusted herself to. She did mean to be alone.

She only makes it a few steps from the cave’s mouth before she sees Astarion, seated on the ground, leaning against a tree trunk. His head lolls towards her, a syrupy smirk dripping slow over his cheeks.

“My friend,” he drawls, patting the earth beside him.

A/N: Couldn’t help but think of Astarion/Naomi, once again just covered in blood, waking up Shadowheart and saying “Mom, we threw up again.”

Naomi really didn’t need that -1 bloodlessness on a day she had to make so many WIS saves. It’s funny to me to think that if this chapter was in Astarion’s POV, he’d just be having a blast and a Very Good Time for the most part.

Lots of little lore drops sprinkled in here. Rest assured, any details that are super important are gonna come up more than one time. I’m really excited for some scenes coming up next. Lots of private, dare I say intimate, moments are on the horizon.

Thank you SO much for reading, kudosing, and supporting <3 Hope life is being kind to you.

Divider credit for before and immediately after story text to @firefly-graphics. Divider credit for scene breaks and banner below to @saradika-graphics.

[fixfoxnox]

Pyre - Part 2

Description: Roach takes drastic steps to get information on one of his targets.

Warnings: Torture, graphic violence, skinning, breaking bones, blood, mentions of removal of nails

Word Count: 9k

Read it on Ao3

"What rage will usher me swallow the enemy

Buy innocence, buy innocence

Lanterns illumine me incense from memory

Rise innocence, rise innocence"

"Ransom" by Son Lux

Roach shivered under the spray of the cold water. It was almost overwhelming with the way that it bit into his skin, sinking into his bones to chill him to his core. He didn’t dare turn the hot water on, no matter how tempting the thought of warm steam might be. 

He knew what would happen. It always sounded tempting, but then he would turn the hot water on and, with the first pleasant sting of it on his skin, panic would set in. The steam itself didn’t help. The heat would fill his lungs like smoke and he would find himself unable to breathe. It wasn’t pleasant to take a cold shower, but it kept him from spiraling in the way a hot shower would force him to.

He was careful with his hands, running them over the scarred flesh of his arms and legs as slowly as he could. They were long since healed. Long since the blistering charred flesh that they once were. It didn’t matter. He’d learned to be careful with them then and he’d never grown out of it. 

Slowly, the cold water carried away all of the dirt and grime that lay over his skin. The blood that had dried to his arms and hands disappeared with only a little scrubbing. He was careful as he did this, methodical. He made sure to get every last speck of red from his skin. He didn’t want the memory of a man pleading for mercy to linger over his skin in the same way that it seemed to linger over his mind. 

He was long past the days of standing in the cold spray of the shower for hours after an outing, contemplating whether what he was doing was right or not. He was in the right. He’d accepted that. Sometimes it was odd to say…odd to think. Killing people, torturing them on the occasions when he would need information, it all felt wrong when he’d first started. Now…now the end was in sight. Now he was closer than ever to seeing how right he’d been. 

Just like in his first life, all of the men in this life had been just as guilty. Just as corrupt. He didn’t take pleasure in their deaths. It wasn’t who he was. But, when he stood outside and saw the world still moving forward with fewer and fewer issues, a world that wasn’t plagued by the same issues that the world of his first life had been forced to deal with, he knew that what he was doing was right. 

He moved through the rest of his shower quickly, not allowing himself to dwell too much on the sight of the blood and dirt washing down the drain or the events of his previous night. It wasn’t worth dwelling on, it never was.

He dried himself just as carefully as he’d showered, letting the softness of the towel lightly move over his skin, picking up the water in its path. He tried not to look too hard at the mottled pink skin along his body. He tried not to focus too hard on the pinched and puckered skin that covered where two gaping bullet wounds had once been. He knew that if he thought about them too much, he’d be able to feel them again. He knew he’d become enraged again. He didn’t want to be angry. Not now.

Getting dressed was a much easier task than showering. The comfort of a warm pair of relaxing pajamas always seemed to help calm him down after a mission. Loose sleep pants and a long sleeve shirt that was certainly too big for him provided comfort. They hung off of him, but the long sleeves did the job that Roach needed them to. They covered up what he needed them to. 

He could hear Jackson typing away as he made his way into the small den area of their little home. His friend was quick to turn to him with a bright smile, immediately warming Roach’s chest and relaxing him a bit. He trusted Jackson. If Jackson was okay, then he was okay. 

“I made you some coffee,” he pointed toward the small and cracked mug that sat on their rickety table. Roach was pleased to see that his friend hadn’t added anything to it. That and he’d let the cup cool for quite a bit of time.

Roach took several grateful little sips while marching around the living room for several moments. He was trying to shake off that last bit of adrenaline from his mission that always seemed to stick around. As usual, Jackson hardly paid his quick pacing any mind, simply going back to his quick typing on the computer. 

There was nothing wrong with the silence in the small room. There was never anything off with silence lingering between the two men. They understood each other and they understood that sometimes the answer was to allow themselves a moment of peace in the chaos that they called their lives. For Roach, that meant calmly pacing the room while sipping at bitter coffee. For Jackson, it meant typing away at his computer, taking in as much information as he could as quickly as possible. 

The silence was good for them, but it also meant that it was much more noticeable for Roach when his friend suddenly stopped typing. He let several long minutes go by before turning his head to see what was going on, he found Jackson already looking at him with a bright grin on his face. 

“Well,” he took another sip at his coffee, “You look like you’ve just hit something big.” 

“I did,” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest, “I’m good like that, you know?” 

“Good is a strong word,” Roach teased. He made his way over to Jackson’s computer system and crouched down at his friend’s side, letting his eyes trail over the screen carefully. “What am I looking at?”

“What you are looking at,” Jackson clicked on an image off to the side, bringing up a picture of a US military official, “is Makarov’s mole.” Roach froze, his entire body going tense as he stared at the picture in front of him. This man was Makarov’s mole, one of the people they’d been searching for since…well, practically since they’d started this. 

They’d been working their way through their list. They’d kill a lot of big names, people they’d worried about. Al Asad. Zhakaev. Rojas. Any and all of them who were still around to cause trouble and they’d slowly taken them out. They’d been working their way higher and higher in the ranks of their list and, after a year, they were finally down to only a few names left. A few names with a lot of trouble that came with them. 

Philip Graves, General Shepherd, Vladimir Makarov. 

Graves and Shepherd were a simple matter of planning. The men were close with the 141, they were working together. Roach knew that there would be no simple way to kill them and that, as soon as they did, they’d be on the 141’s radar. Which brought him to Vladimir Makarov. They couldn’t risk the 141 catching them before they had Makarov, so they had to know where Makarov was and what he was doing before they could finally move to take out their final three.

It had been months that they’d been trying to track him down. Months of Roach just quietly taking out any terrorists or bad guys who showed up on the news. Months of hunting people down and torturing them for any information they had on Makarov. Months and months until they’d finally figured out that Makarov had a mole within the military.

And now? Now they’d found him. Now all they had to do was take what they needed. Excitement seemed to sear through Roach’s veins at the thought. It bubbled up in his chest and swirled together with a healthy dose of anxiety to pull at his throat. It almost choked him with its intensity. 

“Who is he?”

“Crownover,” Jackson answered easily, “His name is Crownover, and, excellent news for us, he has an apartment that he stays at.”

“Alone and easy to pick off,” Roach nodded his head slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “How long to get me a ticket and a new passport?”

“A day,” Jackson answered quickly. “I’ll get everything settled. You should rest up, you’ve had a busy week.”

“Nothing that I’m not used to,” Roach responded. He stood back up fully, stretching his arms into the sky to twist and let his body pop satisfyingly. “I still have to clean my gear and everything.”

“Well,” Jackson reached off to the side of one of his computers and pulled out a small little black box with a pair of earbuds already attached to it, “Your boys had a mission again. I recorded their comms for you, as usual. You can listen to it while you clean your gear and rest.” 

Roach took the offered player into his hands, holding it gently. “Thanks…uh, just let me know when everything is ready.”

Neither of them said anything else as Roach stepped off toward one of the back rooms, the player still held gently in his hands. It was his most prized possession and he always treated it as such. The little thing had hours upon hours of recordings, all from missions and meetings between the 141.

At times, Roach felt odd about listening to them like he did. At times, he felt guilty and like nothing more than a creep. These people had lives without him, they didn’t know him like he knew them. It didn’t matter. He cared about them and he wanted to be sure they were safe. He also, selfishly, just wanted to have a piece of them. He knew he would likely never get the chance to have them in any other way. He knew he’d already lost his chance to return to Ghost, he knew that his returning crush on Soap meant nothing now. So, he’d decided he would take one thing for himself. 

He unraveled the headphones from around the player and put them in. He hit play before slipping the small black box into his pocket to begin to move around the room. He had things to do. 

There was no sound at first, but he knew from experience that it usually took a few moments before the recording would start. He had enough time to pull his weapons out and sit down at a table to begin cleaning his sniper before the audio finally kicked in. 

“Oh, come on, don’t look too upset LT!”

There was a deep sigh before the familiar timber of Ghost’s voice buzzed through Roach’s ears, “Focus, sergeant. We’re on the clock.”

A small smile tugged at Roach’s lips as he heard Soap snort, “On the clock? We’re staring at an empty field with snipers.”

“Exactly,” Ghost reminded him, “An empty field that we’re meant to be watching. Not chatting.” 

“We can do both.”

“Johnny.”

Roach gave a small chuckle as he worked through methodically taking apart and cleaning his sniper, fixing and tweaking any little things that he noticed as he worked. It was nice like this, in an odd way. Just listening to Ghost and Soap’s voices, hearing them speak so happily to one another.

There was no fighting. Neither of them seemed weighed down by the terror of their pasts. Soap was younger, he hadn’t lost anyone yet. He didn’t have the responsibility of an entire team on his shoulders. Roach was grateful for it. Ghost still had that edge to his voice, the one that told Roach that he’d gone through something, just the same as he had in his first life. Still, though, he was calmer, less weighed down by the rage and terror that had seemed to plague his Simon. 

Roach liked listening to them. It made him happy to hear them being so happy. It reminded him that the men that he cared so deeply for, the men that he…loved so incredibly much, they were alive and happy here. That was important to him. So he would listen to remind himself, even if, on occasion, listening would hurt his heart.

“Oh, come on,” Roach could hear the grin in Soap’s voice, “That’s not fair Ghost.” 

“Seems to be the only way to get you quiet sometimes,” Roach could hear the amusement in Ghost’s voice, it twirled together with a sense of adoration that made his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. His hands froze where they were piecing back together his sniper, he tried to ignore the shake in them. “You’ve gone red, bit hot there Johnny?”

“You’re the worst,” Soap groaned a bit, “I can’t believe I agreed to date you.”

“You’re the one who asked me?”

“That’s not important.”

“It feels important.” 

“That’s just because you-”

“Eyes front.” Just like that, the chatter between the two men went quiet and, with it, the tension in Roach’s chest was allowed to ease. He was happy that the two men had found one another, really, he was, but it didn’t mean that he wasn’t hurt. It didn’t mean that his heart wasn’t broken by the fact that these two men, men who he cared for, didn’t know who he was. They were everything to him and they had no concept of his existence.

Roach knew it was better that way. Knowing didn’t stop his chest from hurting or his hands from shaking. 

Roach tugged at the edge of his face mask, making sure that it was still properly in place, naturally obscuring half of his face. Next was his cap, a simple non-descript blue one that he tugged down to obscure the upper half of his face. He made sure to keep his eyes lowered to the ground, ensuring that his cap would block any camera’s that might catch his face. 

He was silent, leaning against the wall of the subway he was on, his eyes focused on his phone. He couldn’t exactly talk to Jackson out loud in a crowded subway, but he could shoot the man quick messages over his little burner phone. It would be discarded as soon as he finished up the work he had for the day. 

He gave a few quick confirmation texts toward Jackson as the subway pulled to a stop, letting him know that he’d be heading toward the apartment building that his target was in. 

It was only a few minutes of a silent walk to the large and clearly expensive apartments that his target lived in. It was a large building with cameras covering nearly every square foot of the place. Roach didn’t pay them any mind, he knew that Jackson had them on an hour loop. He wouldn’t show up on the footage. 

He just moved up to the front entrance of the building, never hesitating. Hesitating drew people’s attention, he knew that well enough. Instead, he marched up to the building and the little scanner they had. Only people who lived in the apartments could get in, they were given a cute little keycard when they moved in for safety. Jackson and Roach had learned over the years that, if you knew how to do it, getting a keycard wasn’t any sort of problem. 

For this trip, it just meant finding himself an easy mark and picking their pockets in a crowded distracting location, like the subway. 

He pulled the card he’d swiped from one of the building’s residents and gave it a quick swipe before casually moving inside the building. As soon as he did, he pulled his phone out, pretending to be focused on something on the screen as he moved toward the elevator, it would keep the people at the front desks from trying to talk to him. 

The elevator ride up was silent. Roach’s bag felt heavy, it always did at times like this. Times when he would sneak in somewhere in the middle of the night to do things he’d never believed himself to be capable of. Things change, he did too. It didn’t make it any easier for him to accept the guilt that came with what he was doing. 

He couldn’t linger on it. He couldn’t let it stop him, so he brushed it off as the elevator opened up for him, allowing him to move through the hallway of the top floor. He had things to focus on, there was no room for guilt. Not now. 

He walked through the hallway casually, taking in the numbers on the doors as he moved past. He found his target’s apartment relatively easy. Apartment 605. He strolled past it, moving further down the hall until he reached the next apartment. 606. 

He stopped there, moving close to the door casually, his hands quickly pulling the pouch that his picks were in from his pocket. He pulled two things out, he knew what locks were used on the doors beforehand, so he knew exactly which ones to use. He was able to push the door open only a few moments after. 

The apartment was empty. A bare thing that had yet to be rented out for an exorbitant price to some wealthy person who would cover it in minimalistic beige furniture and call it a home. Now, it was just a plain apartment with hardwood floors that gave only a small noise as Roach moved across them. 

Roach didn’t spend too long dwelling on the room. He had a job to do, a job with a time limit. It was already late into the night, he needed to move. So, he didn’t hesitate to move over to the sliding glass doors of the balcony, unlocking and opening them slowly before carefully stepping out. He slid the doors shut behind him.

There was a good four-foot gap between the two balconies and a good hundred-foot drop to the ground if he missed his jump. He focused his attention on the other balcony, keeping his eyes from shooting downward like they wanted to. Seeing the fall he could take would only make him nervous, nerves were killer in a situation like this. 

He was careful as he climbed over the railing of the balcony before turning to face the other balcony. He gave himself a long moment to just look at it, working up his energy silently. As soon as his brain had minimized the gap, he jumped. There was no room for hesitation, no room for him to question his choice as he launched himself through the air and managed to roughly land at the edge of the balcony.

One of his feet slipped as he landed, sending his body dragging downward. His hands managed to just grab tight to the railing and he held himself for a moment just by his arm. He grit his teeth in annoyance, mentally berating himself for his shit landing before pulling himself back up and climbing over the railing. 

He didn’t allow himself a moment to recover from nearly falling, he knew it would only waste his time. So instead his lock picks came back out and, moments later, he was silently sliding the door to his target’s balcony open. He stepped inside silently, his keen eyes trailing across the darkness of the silent apartment. 

He slipped into the shadows easily, keeping his footsteps silent as he trekked his way back toward where he knew his target’s bedroom was. It was easy enough, he’d studied the layout of the apartment before ever daring to even set foot in the building. He had to be prepared and prepared meant doing his due diligence with the research. 

As he moved toward the back room he paused. There was something, a slight noise. His ears picked it up. Movement, a minute sound in the floorboards. Clothes rustling together. He stayed still for a second before continuing forward, down the hall, and toward the room where he knew his target was waiting for him. 

He kept his footsteps quiet up until he got close to the door, then he let himself be heard. One, two footsteps. He paused in front of the door for several moments before reaching forward to begin turning the knob. He did it carefully. Slowly. Finally, he pushed the door open. 

In an instant, there was a bat flying toward his face. He reacted quickly, dropping down to avoid getting hit. He could feel the air from the bat as it flew over his head and he could hear it as it loudly slammed into the doorframe. He moved quickly then, jumping up to shove himself against the doorframe, trapping the bat against his body. He gave a quick kick to the man in front of him, sending him stumbling backward. 

The move was enough to knock the bat loose from the man’s hands. In a moment Roach had turned the bat into his own hands. He didn’t give the man any time to think before swinging it hard, knocking him out with a bad cut on his face and likely a concussion. 

He stared at the man for a long moment before dropping the bat to the ground next to his body. He wouldn’t need it for what came next. 

By the time the man finally woke up, Roach had finished setting everything up.

All the doors were locked with towels shoved into all the cracks he could find. It wasn’t much, but it would help keep the sound from the apartment down. Hopefully enough to buy Roach more time to get what he needed from the man. 

He’d tied his target up. Placed him in a chair and wrapped him tight with rope and knots that would only tighten the more that he struggled. A gag had been shoved into his mouth, just something to help keep him quiet as Roach worked. 

Finally, he’d dragged a table into the room. Just a small table, but one that would work for his display. He’d learned early into what he was doing that half of the battle, half of what made people give in to his questions was the display. If they could see what you had, see what you’d brought to hurt them with, they’d be more likely to start talking before things could ever get that far. 

Roach had laid his display on the table. Simple things, all of it, but frightening if you knew that there was a possibility of torture coming your way. Knives, pliers, a blowtorch, needles, wire, and a revolver with the bullets laid out neatly beside it. There were more things, things that he never really intended to use, but things that he would use if it came to it. After all, he would have the information he needed, no matter the cost. 

He could hear the man behind him begin to struggle as he finished setting up the last of his knives. He didn’t hurry, he didn’t move any quicker, he just kept his pace, making sure everything looked neat and allowing the man to make his bonds tighter with his own struggling. After a long moment of just listening to the panicked noises, he finally turned around to lean against the table and watch the man with careful eyes. 

“You know,” he spoke lowly, finally allowing himself a moment to talk after continuing to watch the man struggle, to watch his binds growing tighter and tighter, “the more you struggle, the tighter those things are going to get.” He tilted his head at the man as he began screaming through his gag. After a moment, he sighed and picked up one of the knives from the table. He flipped it around in his hands for a moment, feeling the man’s eyes follow the movement. 

He was showing just how good he could be with the weapon. Just how much control he had over the blade. Finally, he stepped toward the man. 

He circled him slowly, still flipping the knife in his hand. When he made his way behind the man he stopped. Slowly he started to undo the knot holding the gag in place. Before it could be fully untied, he held the knife to the man’s cheek, pressing it tight to the flesh. Not enough to break skin, just enough to make a point. 

“I’m going to take this off. If you scream,” he pressed the knife just a bit closer, “Well, you understand.” With that, he pulled the gag away from the man’s mouth. Nothing was said at first. Roach just circled back around to the table, dropping the gag next to his knives before turning to once again lean up against it and stare at the man. 

They just stared at one another for several moments before the man broke. He turned his eyes away and Roach could see the way that his jaw clenched before he asked, “Who are you?”

Roach shook his head, “That doesn’t matter.” 

“Alright,” the man shook his head, “What do you want? The numbers to the safe? My cards? What?” 

A low chuckle pulled from Roach’s throat. “Sergeant Major Crownover,” he pushed away from the table, “what I want, is information.” 

Crownover seemed to hesitate at that, his eyes looking over Roach carefully, “Who are you then? AQ? Russian?”

Roach gave a bit out laugh at those words. “Well,” he started carefully, crossing his arms over his chest, “If I was Russian, I’m sure I wouldn’t have to do this to get information out of you. Only offer a decent sum.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” 

“Makarov,” Roach said finally, “I’m here for information on Makarov.” 

Roach could see the brief flash of panic that went across his face. He tried to cover it up, but Roach had seen it. Roach knew. He knew that Jackson’s intel had been correct. He knew that this man was Makarov’s mole. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Wrong answer.” Roach twirled the knife between his fingers again, “Let’s try this again. I know that you’ve been feeding information to Makarov. So what I want,” he tilted his head, “is what you know about Makarov and where you’ve been keeping all of your correspondence with him.”

“I,” Crownover seethed, “am a member of the United States military! You think I would be colluding with a Russian terrorist?”

“I don’t think, I know.” Roach turned and grabbed the gag from the table. In a quick move, he stepped forward and grabbed tight to Crownover’s jaw, forcing it open. He harshly shoved the material back into the man’s mouth before dropping into a squat in front of him. “You might want to bite down on that.” 

In one quick move, he brought the knife down, purposefully stabbing it directly into the wood of the chair, just between the man’s legs. Crownover gave a frightened yelp at the move, his eyes wide and his breathing heavy as he stared down to where the knife was uncomfortably close to his crotch. 

Roach stared for a long moment before moving forward to grab at Crownover’s hand. He pulled it forward harshly, hearing the man gasp in pain as the ropes around him tightened at the movement. He carefully grabbed one of his fingers, pulling it back just enough that the other would know what he was threatening with. “Do you want to tell me what I want to know?”

Crownover watched him with wide frightened eyes, his breathing heavy. Still, he shook his head no. In an instant, Roach jerked the finger back, snapping it backward with a sickening crack. He didn’t react as the man in front of him screamed through his gag at the pain, tears gathering in his eyes. He just watched him carefully, trying to decide what his next course of action would be. 

He decided when the man’s eyes fell to him, glaring at him through his tears. He was still too combatant. Roach reached forward to grab another finger, ignoring the desperate shaking of Crownover’s head in favor of snapping the finger back to join the other. 

He let Crownover cry as he stood from his kneeled position. He didn’t pay any mind to the sobs as he returned to his little table of tools, leaning back against it to watch the man. Once it seemed he was at least somewhat calm, Roach asked, “Ready to talk now?”

To his surprise, Crownover gave a quick and desperate nod. He narrowed his eyes at the man for a moment. He didn’t believe that he was actually willing to give him any sort of information, not yet at least. Makarov wouldn’t have chosen someone who would be so quick to spill. Still, he stepped forward to yank the gag from the man’s mouth. 

“Okay,” Crownover gasped through his tears, “listen, I’ll tell you what I know about Makarov. I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t work with him! I only know what I’m told!”

Roach scoffed at the words, “Liar.”

He stepped forward. “Wait ple-” Roach cut the man off by shoving the gag back into his mouth, causing him to violently gag on the fabric. He stooped down to pull the knife from the chair, twirling it in his hand again before stabbing it down once more. This time, he was aiming for blood.

The knife slid through the skin of Crownover’s hand with sickening ease, pulling a scream from the man’s throat. Roach held the knife there for a moment before beginning to slowly twist the blade, tearing skin and forcing bone to move and scrape against the metal. The response was one that Roach expected, desperate screaming and desperate attempts to pull away, only making the pain worse for him. 

It was a natural reaction, only added to when Roach took a step back before lifting his foot and bringing it down in an arched kick against Crownover’s shin. A small snap filled the air and, though the leg looked fairly normal, Roach could tell from the resulting shriek from the man that he’d broken his leg. 

“You really shouldn’t lie to me,” Roach pulled the knife from the man’s hand, leaving a bloody gaping hole in his wake, “It won’t go well for you.”

He turned back to the table, tossing the knife onto the display before picking up the blowtorch he’d brought with him. With a quick press of a button, there was fire spewing from one end of the little thing. He stepped forward and, before Crownover even had a chance to beg, he spewed the fire out onto the gaping wound in the man’s hand, effectively cauterizing it. 

Even when he was sure the fire had licked every part of the wound, he held it there for a moment longer, letting it bubble and blister the skin in a way that was all too familiar to him. He grew sick at the sight of it, a bubbling of anxiety resting in the base of his throat and threatening to make him keel over with its intensity. 

He turned the flame off and turned back to the table, taking a calming breath as he did and trying to ignore the way that his own body seemed to burn at the sight he’d forced upon himself. He carefully set the blowtorch back down and took another deep breath before grabbing the knife once again and returning to Crownover's side. 

It was going to take Roach time to break him, he had to utilize the time that he had. 

Roach took his time, carefully peeling at the skin on Crownover’s arm. He was cutting in long strips, ignoring the way that the man was sobbing. With every piece of skin that he removed, he made a point to drop it in the man’s lap, letting him see and feel the result of his continued refusal just to tell Roach what he wanted to know. 

It was a slow process, slow and methodical. Roach had to be careful as he carved up the man’s arm, taking him apart piece by piece while watching to make sure that he wasn’t losing too much blood. Roach had to ensure that his cuts weren’t going too deep. The last thing he needed was to nick something important. 

With every slow glide and cut of his knife, he could hear quiet sobs from the man tied to the chair. Roach didn’t pay him any mind, he knew that the pain was necessary for what he was doing. He understood the pain that the man was dealing with. It hadn’t stopped him from breaking fingers and toes, tearing nails from the skin, cutting into flesh, and removing pieces where he saw fit. 

It was a bloody affair, as most things like this usually were. Roach found the crimson staining his arms and his hands. It dripped down his body to splash onto the plastic he’d laid below Crownover’s chair. Roach wanted it off of his skin already. He wanted to scrub himself raw and tear his skin away until it was completely new, until no memory of this would lay over his skin to haunt him. He knew it wasn’t possible.

The blood seemed to seep beneath his skin and take hold in the very fabric of who he was. It dug its claws into his skin and infected him with a deep settling guilt that burned like a blistering fire just next to the anger that had been ignited there so many years ago. As usual, the anger swallowed the guilt whole, using it to stoke its flames. 

The sound of a light buzzing broke Roach from his deep thoughts. He paused where he was, listening to it for a long moment. The knife in his hand didn’t waver, he just kept it still where it was, digging into the skin of the bleeding man beside him. After a long moment of listening to the buzzing, he stood up. 

The knife was pulled from Crownover’s skin and Roach made a point to hardly look at him as he made his way back to the little table he’d set up. The knife was discarded in favor of his little disposable phone. 

He clicked the button to answer but didn’t say anything. He just listened as Jackson’s voice hit his ears, “You’ve got police coming to your location. A neighbor must have heard something. You need to finish up and quick, whether you have the information or not.” 

Roach paused for a moment, “How long do I have?”

“ETA six minutes.” 

“Right.” With that, he hung the phone up and turned back to the table. He had six minutes, which meant it was time for his last resort. He picked up the revolver from the table and a single bullet for it. 

He turned back to Crownover, making sure that the man was watching as he loaded the bullet into the chamber before snapping it closed. He gave the chamber one good spin. He knew the revolver well enough, it was often his trump card in situations like this. Situations where he had to work quick. 

The thing about the revolver, he’d learned, was that there was an extra aspect of fear that came with it. He could use a regular pistol. Just load a few blanks into it and let the men know how many chances they had. It wasn’t like a revolver though. The revolver came with seeing, with watching your chances tick down with every turn of the chamber. Knowing that the next could have the bullet that would end your life in it. 

Fear was Roach’s friend. He’d learned that early on in his new job. Fear was Roach’s friend and a revolver brought fear with it in the form of a ticking clock. 

“You know what this is I assume,” Roach held the weapon up for Crownover to see. “We’ve been playing with knives too long. You still won’t talk. So, this is the deal now. Five chances.” He stepped closer to Crownover and pointed the gun to his forehead. He could see as the man began to shake and panic again. “Five chances to tell me what I want to know. Nod if you understand.”

Crownover gave a shaky nod and, with that, Roach stepped forward to yank the gag from his mouth and drop it into his lap with the pile of skin he’d taken. “Where do you keep your correspondence with Makarov?”

The man gave a small sob and shook his head as he responded, “Please, please I don’t work with Makarov.” Roach pulled the trigger, watching closely as Crownover jumped at the little click that the gun gave. 

He didn’t acknowledge the click, he just raised an eyebrow at Crownover before asking again, “Where do you keep your correspondence with Makarov?” 

There was a short moment of quiet. Roach motioned with his gun, causing the man to jump again before he spoke, “I swear I don’t-”

Roach didn’t even let him finish before pulling the trigger. Another click, another jump. “Lying won’t get you anywhere.” Roach took another step forward before dropping into a crouch in front of Crownover. “This can go so much easier for you if you just tell me what I want to know.” He tilted his head, “I’ll let you live, you can take your money and disappear somewhere where Makarov can’t find you. All you have to do is tell me where you keep your little communicator.” 

He watched Crownover for a long moment. The man avoided his gaze, turning his face fully away from him. Roach could see his lips press close together. He was forcing himself to stay quiet, refusing to answer. Roach gave him another few moments before casually pulling the trigger on the gun twice. 

The move sent Crownover’s head whipping toward him, his eyes wide with fear. “It’s easy. Just tell me what I want to know.”

“He’ll kill me,” the man practically sobbed the words out. Roach didn’t give him any sympathy, he just stood up and leaned closer, pressing the gun tight to the underside of Crownover’s chin before pulling the trigger again. Another click. 

“And,” Roach spoke carefully, “I’ll kill you if you don’t. You can either tell me and have a chance to live, or keep a terrorist safe and die right here as nothing more than a pathetic broken man.” 

The two men locked eyes for a long moment and Roach could see as the man pressed tight to his gun finally stopped fighting. He could see the moment he decided to give in. “My desk on base. There’s a secret compartment with everything in it. Files, my computer, even Makarov’s number.” 

Roach pushed himself away from the man and returned to the table. With quick movements, he started to shove everything that he could back into the bag he’d brought with him. The gloves he’d worn while cutting into the man’s skin were quickly yanked off and shoved into the bag as well. His jacket was thrown on over his clothes to hide any blood on his arms and shirt. 

Next came the mask, then the hat until finally, he could slip his bag back over his shoulders. He gave one last check that he’d grabbed everything before snatching up his disposable phone and dialing Jackson. 

“Thank you,” Crownover gave a small call as the phone was ringing. His voice grated on Roach’s ears and caused him to pause where he was. “Thank you, thank you!”

There was no hesitation when Roach turned, swiftly pointed the gun, and pulled the trigger. He didn’t wait around to watch Crownover slump over in his seat, he knew that the man was dead. Instead, he tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants before moving quickly through the small apartment and back toward the sliding glass door. 

It was as he was locking the sliding glass behind him that Jackson picked up. “The stuff we need is on base.”

“Well fuck,” Roach climbed over the railing as he’d done earlier, but this time he didn’t even hesitate to make the jump. It worked out much better than his last jump had and soon enough he was slipping back inside the dark bare apartment he’d snuck in through, closing the sliding glass behind him. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m going on base,” Roach took the time to sling his bag off and shove the revolver inside, “I need you to erase me from the system after they swipe my card. You know they’ll ping a dead military member suddenly showing up on base.” 

“Easy enough,” Roach could hear the hesitation in his friend's voice around the sound of the police banging on the door next to his, “What about you, though? I mean going on base seems like a death wish, even for you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Roach started toward the apartment door, readjusting his mask and hat as he did, “Just watch the database, yeah?” 

With that, he hung the phone up and slipped it into his pocket. He gave himself a deep calming breath before pushing the door to the apartment open and slipping out. He didn’t try to run, he didn’t even move quickly, instead, he just turned around and pretended to lock the door to the apartment. 

As he’d expected, one of the policemen stopped him, “Sir! Excuse me, sir! What are you doing?”

Roach turned to look at him with wide eyes, he let himself lean around the officer to look at the various police members piling into Crownover’s apartment. “I, um, what’s going on?”

“That’s not important. What are you doing up at this time sir, it’s late.” Roach turned away from the door fully then, facing the officer. He made sure to keep up the appearance of curiosity, looking around the man nervously.

“I’m a nurse,” he explained carefully, “Someone had a family emergency, I’m heading in to cover the rest of their shift for them.” The officer seemed to relax at his words.

“Alright, well, best if you get on then,” with that, the officer guided him toward the elevator. Roach followed but kept glancing over at the other police officers milling around Crownover’s apartment. He knew it made him look less suspicious to be curious. Everyone was curious when they saw police. 

“Thank you, sir,” Roach stepped past the officer into the elevator and clicked the button for the bottom floor, “I hope everything is alright.” With that, the doors shut and Roach was once again left in blissful silence. 

He took the chance to lean back against the wall of the elevator, taking several deep and calming breaths as he did. This was not ideal for how getting the information would have gone, but Roach wasn’t willing to wait any longer. He was ready to get rid of Makarov, he was ready to get rid of Shepherd, and he was ready to finally get rid of Graves. If that meant taking a risk and stepping foot on base? Then he would be more than willing to do it.

“Sergeant Gary Sanderson,” The man at the front gate acknowledged him and gave a quick swipe of his card before handing it back, “You’re here a little late?”

“Just forgot something,” Roach gave the man a quick smile from the driver's seat of his rental, “Flying back home to see family in the morning, last chance, you know?”

The man gave a chuckle, “I get you man, go on in.” With that, he tapped the button allowing the gate of the base to open in front of Roach’s vehicle. Roach gave him an appreciative wave before driving through the open gate and carefully navigating his way into a distant parking spot. He made sure there were other cars around his, knowing that it would make his vehicle look less noticeable. 

As usual, he did his best to move casually, acting as though nothing was out of place as he made his way up to the building Jackson had directed him toward. He’d done a quick look over the layout of the building, but not his usual study. So he could only hope that his memory wasn’t serving him wrong as he swiped his card, stepped into the building, and took a hard left down the hall. 

He felt almost naked walking down the halls without his hat or mask on. He knew that nothing was hiding his appearance from the various cameras placed along the base’s hallway. He had to trust that Jackson had managed to get into the system and loop the camera’s like he normally would. It didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. 

After a long walk of following the careful instructions that were written lightly in his memory, he was able to breathe a sigh of relief as he spotted the neat plaque on a door that read “Sgt. Major Crownover.”

He made his way over to the door, subtly pulling his picks from his pocket as he did. It was fairly easy to get the door to open under his swift hands, something he thought the military should be just a bit embarrassed about. 

Roach didn’t bother to turn on the lights in the room. He knew it would only bring attention to him. Instead, he shut the door behind him and navigated his way through the dark using only the light streaming in through the single window in the room to see his path. 

He moved carefully toward the desk in the room, letting his hand slowly trail across the edge of it, following its turns until he was pulling the desk chair out from under it and ducking down to feel along the underside. He felt around for a long moment, tracing the underside with careful slow strokes of his fingers. After a long moment, his hands felt along the edge of a lip in the wood.

He paused before pressing up against it. There was a click and a small piece of the desk next to him slid out. He stared at it for a short moment before reaching over to pull out the contents of the secret drawer. It wasn’t much, just a few files, a small computer, and a phone. Roach grabbed them all quickly and tucked them against his chest. The phone was slipped into his pocket before he shoved the drawer closed and pushed himself up from the floor. 

He was quick to slip out of the office then, locking it behind him before beginning to retrace his steps toward the front of the building. He kept the vials and computer tucked close to his chest, trying to ensure that they stayed out of sight of anyone whose wandering eyes might fall to him. 

It seemed that luck was, mostly, on his side as he managed to make it out to his vehicle without any problems. He was quick to tuck the things he’d found down beside his seat, ensuring that they wouldn’t be seen in case he was stopped. 

He was quick to begin toward the exit of the base, his hands shaking enough that he forced himself to grip tight to the steering wheel, trying to keep it from being too noticeable as he pulled up to the gate once again. He rolled his window down, meeting the gaze of the man from earlier with an easy smile. 

“Get what you needed man?”

Roach gave an easy nod to the man, “Yeah, like I said, super easy grab.” He gave a short chuckle that the other man matched. 

“Right, well, mind if I see what you grabbed? Just for safety’s sake, you know?” Roach flinched slightly at the words, but he was quick to brush it off. It was a question he hadn’t exactly expected and he wasn’t really sure what to say at the moment. 

His bag had been dropped off at the hotel to avoid any suspicion, so all he really had was what was in the car with him, that of course being the items from Crownover’s office. He cleared his throat nervously, “Sure man.” 

He thought for a long moment before carefully pulling the phone from his pocket. It was the one from Crownover’s office, the one that likely had sensitive information on it. Still, it looked like a regular phone and would hopefully go under the man’s radar without any issue.

He held it up into the light with a slight chuckle, “My phone. Probably didn’t need to go out of state without this bad boy.”

To his relief, the man only chuckled and gave a nod. “I get you man, that wouldn’t have been good.” He reached over and pressed the button, opening the gate for Roach carefully, “Have a good night man.”

“You too, bud.” With that, Roach drove through the gate, a terrible sense of relief falling over him.

His entire body was shaking and he knew from experience that it wasn’t likely to stop any time soon. After all, being back on a military base, especially when he was meant to be dead? It wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience.

“Roach, hey, Roach! Dude you need to wake up right fucking now.” 

The panic in Jackson’s voice worked its way through Roach’s system and, before he could even register what was happening, he was bolting up in bed. He struggled against the covers for a moment before tripping out of the shitty little bed he was in. He nearly fell flat on his face but managed to save himself enough that he only slammed his knee painfully onto the ground. 

He bounced back from it quickly, jumping to his feet and ignoring the dull ache in his knee to rush toward the entrance of the room and follow Jackson’s quick movements into their living room. He did his best to blink the sleep out of his eyes and focus his bleary gaze onto the screens at Jackson’s workstation. 

“Did you figure something out about Makarov?”

“I’m working on that, but we have a bigger issue.” Jackson clicked around a bit on his computer before bringing up a photo of a man that Roach didn’t recognize. 

He stared for a long moment before glancing at Jackson. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

“Major Hassan Zayani,” Jackson turned to Roach, “Your 141 boys are hunting him right now.” Roach stared at his friend for a moment. He still didn’t understand what Jackson was getting at. “He has American missiles. You know I’ve been monitoring AQ’s comms, right?”

“Right,” Roach folded his arms across his chest. He had an idea of where this was going. It wasn’t anything he was bothered by, he’d always be willing to help take out another terrorist. Still, he couldn’t see what about this was so important. 

“They got the missiles from Shadow Company. Shepherd was sending them to Russian loyalists to help against the Ultranationalists. Ultranationalists got wind of it and…now we’re here.” 

Something clicked in Roach’s mind. “The 141,” Roach hesitated for a moment, his heart picked up speed, “They don’t know, do they?” Jackson gave him a careful look before shaking his head. “Shit.”

Roach pushed himself back from the desk and started to pace around the living room, panic flooding through him. Shepherd had betrayed his country. Shadow Company knew. The 141 didn’t. The situation rang as all too familiar to him and he could feel a bubbling of panic rising in his chest. He knew what this was. He knew what this meant. 

“Roach,” Jackson spoke carefully, “We have the information on Makarov. I’m working through it. We’ll get what we need to know.” He paused for a second. The silence seemed to drag on as Roach paced. “Roach…I think it’s time.”

The words froze Roach in his place. It was one thing to know that it would eventually come to this. It was one thing to know that he would find himself here, at the end goal. It didn’t mean that it wasn’t surreal to actually find himself here. Part of him, he supposed, never thought he’d get this far. 

Part of him was still sure he’d died three years back, shot and burned in a hole in the middle of a massacred town. Part of him was sure that this life had ended the same way that his first had. He supposed that it was somewhat true. A part of him had died three years ago. The life he’d wanted ended in the same way that his first had. 

Now he found himself nearing the end. The end of the line. The end of what he’d promised himself while tucked into a chair with blistering burns across his skin. In a way, it was like he was dying again. 

“Where are they going?”

“Mexico. Las Almas. They’re working with Mexican Special Forces.” Jackson seemed to hesitate for a moment before adding, “It seems like it’s only Soap and Ghost right now.” 

Roach closed his eyes at the words, his jaw clenching harshly. He took a moment of quiet to calm himself, trying to focus on the road ahead. He couldn’t let himself think of Soap and Ghost. He couldn’t let himself think of the 141. He knew it would only make him hesitate. There was no more room for hesitation. Not now. Not ever. 

“Right,” Roach turned to Jackson, “Get me into Las Almas. See if you can find where Hasan has the other missiles they’re looking for. As soon as I’m known to the 141 we’ll need to get that information to Laswell.”

“Who are you taking first?” Jackson watched him closely, “I can figure out where Shepherd-”

“No,” Roach shook his head slowly and met Jackson’s eyes, “It has to be Graves. Graves first. Then Shepherd. Then Makarov.” 

There was a long moment of silence that lingered between them before Jackson gave a careful nod, his face solemn. They both knew what this meant. “I’ll get you into Las Almas.” With that, the two men set to work.