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monstersandmaw · 5 years

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Male uruk hai (Mauhír) x reader - Part Three (sfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

(mostly sfw/very very light nsfw) It kicks in almost immediately, hence the super short preview...

Whoop! Who remembers Mauhir? Well, in case you don't, here are Parts One and Two. My patrons over on Patreon have already devoured this, so if you want to be a part of everything before it happens over here, as well as having access to exclusives (this month it’s a naga boy!), then why not sign up to my Pixies and Goblins tier?

Hope you enjoy this - don't forget to let me know if you did by reblogging, dropping a like or even leaving me a comment/ask. I can't tell you how much that means to me when you do, but I don't necessarily expect it. I just hope you enjoy it - that’s the most important thing! :)

Content: 6048 words, some blood/conflict (not particularly explicit), death of a very minor character, a bit of angst, and lots of fluff (because it's me!).

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The morning after Mauhír and Okash had had their vicious fight over you, the Uruk stirred early, as usual, and grunted softly. You had been awake for only a short time, having warily watched the chief rise and leave the tent from the other side. Okash was nowhere to be seen, and you’d guessed she hadn’t returned last night. You honestly hoped she was lying passed out in a ditch full of warg shit.

You shifted slightly and realised that Mauhír was still pressed up close against your back, only now, his hips ground ever so slightly against you, and his left hand twitched suddenly, knuckly fingers clenching as his weighty arm lay draped across your waist. His hard length pressed against you too, and you felt a stirring of heat in your own groin that was most unexpected, given the circumstances of your captivity.

You rolled over just enough to be able to look at him and lay there a while, simply watching his sleeping form. Every now and again he let out a deep, guttural grunt which usually coincided with a sharper roll of his hips. His face was still puffy and tender from the blows his sister had dealt him, and his purplish brown skin had darkened under the bruises which covered his scarred face. As he slowly climbed to the surface of consciousness, his eyes opened and he blinked, looking straight at you.

“Pleasant dreams?” you asked coyly, and his tusked smile made you snort with laughter. He wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed about the nature of his dreams.

“Yes,” he rasped, deep voice made even thicker than usual by the extensive swelling and bruising. “You want… I stop?”

Crushingly, you didn’t get the chance to say one way or the other, because the chief re-entered, striding across the hide-strewn floor, and yelled something at Mauhír without looking at him, grabbing his huge war axe from where it rested beside his own sleeping furs.

“What is it?” you asked as Mauhír levered himself upright, still sporting an impressive hard on that was visible through his underclothes, though for how much longer you weren’t sure because the war horns were sounding, harsh and cruel on the morning air. He dressed hurriedly into his leather and fur wrappings.

Mauhír grunted in pain as he straightened and prepared to head out. “War band,” he said. “Centaurs.”

“Centaurs… You think…?”

“I think your friend is stupid,” he growled.

If Erica had convinced the centaurs to come raiding against this belligerent band of Uruk Hai, then she was indeed foolish. “She wouldn’t…”

“Stay here,” he snarled, grabbing his own war axe and hefting its weight in his scarred hand.

When you scowled at him, he leaned down and grabbed your tunic by the collar, hauling your whole body up off the furs by at least a foot and leaning in close to snarl in your face.

“Stay. Here.” His voice was threatening in a way that you’d not witnessed before and he shook you emphatically with each word as though you were a disobedient pup.

“You’re frightened,” you whispered, seeing a new light in his puffy, golden eye.

“For you,” he said, dropping you unceremoniously back into the furs. He strode away, whistling to Avhundas, who was already pacing in the main space of the tent, ears pricked and her ugly face alert and wary.

He didn’t look back at you as he made his way to the tent flaps, and you sat up sharply and called after him, “Mauhír!”

Only then did he pause, and he squinted, clearly having a hard time seeing you with his one remaining, bruised eye. He looked honestly incredible; his dark, purplish-brown legs built like tree trunks, powerful thighs barely covered by the leather wrapping he wore around his hips like a gladiator, his torso covered only by his scars, and his long hair hanging down his back in a bead and bone studded braid.

“Please be careful,” you whispered.

He grinned at you, scars stretching on his face, and nodded once before striding out into the daylight.

Beyond, the camp seemed to have exploded.

Tramping feet, clanking weapons, blaring horns and the yipping and yowling of wargs formed a chaotic backdrop to your own fear, and you crept closer to the tent flaps and peered out.

Okash was there, yelling at a group of Uruks who had just mounted up onto their own wargs. Avhundas was one of them, and Mauhír kept her at the back until Okash jabbed a finger at him and then pointed at the main camp gate. He simply nodded, no sign of their previous feud in his features, and dug his heels into his warg’s side. She sprang away at a gallop, large as a horse and muscular as an ox, and the pair had vanished through the camp gates in seconds.

“Be safe,” you prayed aloud. He was clearly a scout and had been sent to recce the situation.

A while later, Okash and the others followed him, with seemingly all of the other orcs in the camp proceeding on foot behind them. The excitement in the air was palpable, and you felt sick from their collective blood lust. You couldn’t help wondering that perhaps if you’d gone with Erica you could have stopped all this from ever happening.

The appearance of a figure right in front of you made you jump and you startled backwards into the tent before realising it was another human. Simon, the blacksmith’s apprentice from your village, had been sent to work the forge fire with the Uruk smith, and he crouched down in front of you and hissed, “Relax; it’s only me.”

“What’s going on?” you asked, recovering quickly.

“As far as I can tell, a group of centaurs was spotted not far off wearing war gear and carrying spears. Ghorga seemed to think they were only scouting though, not intent on raiding…”

“Ghorga?”

“The smith,” he explained. “How have you been? I haven’t seen much of you around the camp, except at mealtimes when you serve the orcs their food…”

You shuddered, recalling hands on you in places you really didn’t want Uruk hands. Well, save perhaps for Mauhír’s. The thought so startled you that you nearly didn’t reply, but you cleared your throat and said, “It’s… It’s been better lately. Mauhír has sort of taken me under his wing a bit.”

Simon smiled. “Good. Ghorga’s kind of done the same with me.”

“Is she out with the others too now?”

He shook his head. “No, but she let me go see what was going on. Listen, I heard Erica escaped?”

Cold fear shot through you as you recalled the events of that evening, and you nodded. “Yeah. She ran away while Mauhír and his sister were fighting last night.”

“You think this has anything to do with that? You think we could escape too?”

You shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t see how we can…”

“We could drug their food…” Simon suggested.

The thought had occurred to you, but you didn’t have access to any poisons.

Glancing across the courtyard, you saw that Argash’s hut seemed abandoned and quiet, and you’d glimpsed a number of plants growing which might be useful in concocting a poison that would render them unconscious if slipped into their wine. “They’ll want to celebrate tonight when they get back,” you said, thinking on your feet. “They’ll all be drinking. If we can poison their wine, then the humans can escape the same way Erica did while they’re all unconscious.”

“You wouldn’t kill them?” he asked darkly.

“I don’t think there’s going to be enough poison for that,” you said carefully. “If I can even find any at all…”

After a little more discussion, you and Simon decided that you would head over to Argash’s hut and see what you could find. If you could prepare the poison and slip it into the wine casks on the far side of camp before they returned, you stood a chance of escaping. It was a slim hope, but it was all you had, and you didn’t intend to spend the rest of your life as a slave in an Uruk war camp. You also decided to keep this between you, in case anyone squealed in the hopes of getting preferential treatment from their captors. Plus, if it failed, no one’s hopes would be dashed but your own.

You walked carefully but confidently over to Argash’s little hut while Simon headed to the edge of the encampment to keep an eye open for any remaining orcs. Most of them seemed to have charged out onto the plains with only the thought of bloodsports in their minds, but if Ghorga had remained, then others would probably have done so too.

At the tent flaps of Argash’s home, you paused, straining all your senses. You couldn’t hear anyone stirring within. You hovered there, tense and frightened, before taking a deep breath and stepping inside. It was dark and your eyes took a while to adjust, but when they did, you almost screamed with shock. Sitting in the centre of her hovel was the old, gnarled, white-haired Uruk.

And she was looking straight at you with suspicious, red eyes.

“What are you doing in here, human?” she growled without getting up.

“I… um…” Your heart thudded so hard against your ribs that its frantic rhythm was all you were aware of until you croaked, “Forgive me for intruding. I thought… since I was a healer in my village, that I might be able to… help you… when they get back… in case anyone is injured…”

A slow, cruel smile spread across her gnarled face. “Really,” she said sarcastically. “And why would you want to do that?”

You shrugged, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile. It looked more like a nervous twitch than anything else. “Figured I might as well offer. If you don’t need another pair of hands, I’ll take my leave.” And you bowed awkwardly, hoping to back out of the entrance before she could decide that you’d been there for more nefarious reasons.

“Wait,” the old Uruk snarled, rising stiffly and grabbing a knotted walking cane from nearby. Her knuckly hands gripped it and you realised with a jolt that it was made from the horn of a huge creature, perhaps an aurochs, and was carved with a repeating design of skulls.

“Yes?” you croaked, mouth completely dry, throat constricting with fear.

“Come here…” and she shuffled to the back of her round yurt and drew out a bag of tools which she unrolled with relish on a table. “You know how to stitch a wound?”

You nodded.

“And you know what these are?” she said, waving a surprisingly steady hand over an array of pots and salves on the table beside the tool roll.

You shook your head this time and she smiled that yellow smile again. “Come here then and tell me.”

You worked out that most of the salves were made with honey, to help with healing and to prevent infection, and as you worked your way through them, sniffing and inspecting, she seemed quietly pleased with your knowledge.

“I don’t know what that one is though,” you said, pointing at the last one in the row.

Her nasty smile told you that it probably wasn’t a pleasant concoction. “It’s made of naga venom and the sting of a giant wasp,” she said, “Among other things. I use it most commonly on amputations after cauterising the stump.”

“Right,” you said, feeling a bit faint. There hadn’t been much call for amputations in the village where you’d lived before the Uruks had razed it to the ground.

“Works a treat on burns, though the pain is ten times worse than the burn itself for a while. I think I can use you,” she added, apparently satisfied.

She kept you there until the sound of returning Uruks heralded the end of the fighting, hours later. They were laughing, jeering, and whooping, and singing some kind of terrible song that made your bones crawl at the sound of it.

Argash stepped outside, leaving you alone in her tent. On the table before you were dried seeds which you had identified as henbane. Perfect. While these were poisonous to humans, they had the effect of rendering larger creatures like orcs and Uruks unconscious for hours, sometimes even days. You bit your lip and carefully slid them into your pocket with the blade of a knife, mindful not to touch them with your bare skin.

You followed Argash outside a moment later and gasped when you saw what the returning Uruks had with them. Between three wargs, none of which you recognised, a centaur was being dragged along the ground by the hooves, and he was dead, no mistaking it. Looking away from the gruesome sight before your stomach emptied itself, you scanned every face, searching for Mauhír, but there was no sign of him. A frantic fear bubbled up your throat like acrid bile and you stepped forwards unthinkingly, drawing Okash’s eye as you did so.

She laughed as she swung down off her own black warg and said, “Don’t worry, little human, your runt will be coming soon.”

Relief washed through you and your knees wobbled. Argash caught the reaction and tilted her head slightly but offered no comment on her private thoughts.

A moment later, a screaming neigh split the air and six huge Uruks appeared in the gateway to the camp with cruel lassos lashed around a centaur who was thrashing and kicking, bleeding and screaming. He was covered in bite marks and gashes, but even bloodied he was not giving up. Four wargs prowled, one on each side, one in front and the last behind him, and the one at the rear was Avhundas. She had blood on her muzzle and one of her ears was ripped, but sitting astride her was Mauhír.

When he saw you standing with Argash, his eyes lit up with fear, but he quickly masked it. He was carrying his arm awkwardly in his lap, and you realised his shoulder was dislocated. He was also cut on his ribs by what looked like a glancing kick from a centaur’s hoof.

He swung down off Avhundas’ back and strode over to Argash, who shook her head, tutting, and handed you her walking cane. It was heavier than it looked. The gentleness with which she put his shoulder back into place surprised you, and he only grunted his thanks and looked at you.

“I said stay there,” he said petulantly, jutting his blunt chin at his father’s tent.

“I came to see if I could be of any help to Argash,” you countered with a hot snarl, and the orcish healer laughed, ruffling your hair with her leathery hand.

“The human is knowledgeable, Mauhír,” she said before turning to you and added, “Perhaps you should have seen to your master…”

“He’s not my master,” you snarled, but Argash only snorted and shook her head, the bone and metal beads clacking in her hair.

Mauhír’s expression seemed proud at your defiance beneath the bruises on his face. “Come,” he said. “You heal these,” he grunted, pointing to the bleeding cuts on his body, “Then drink.”

You nodded, guilt blooming in the pit of your stomach.

As you walked behind him towards the main tent, you caught Simon’s eye and nodded once. He flashed a grin and turned away.

Mauhír’s dark growl made you look up at him, and you realised that he’d seen your interaction with Simon and misread it completley. When you smiled and made to follow him inside the tent, he sneered at you and brought the flat of his hand to the middle of your chest and pushed you backwards, hard. You landed heavily in the dirt, winded and confused, and he looked down at you with disgust in his eyes. “You are not mine.”

“Mauhír,” you said, but he rounded on you and spat his words out as though they were nightshade.

“Not speak my name,” he snarled. “Go. Go him…”

With a heavy heart, you realised that now was the perfect opportunity to poison the wine, so you picked yourself up and headed away from Mauhír towards the stores before they could begin to crack the casks open and start celebrating. Everyone was preoccupied with either tying up the captive centaur in the middle of the camp, lashing his hooves to four posts driven into the ground so that he had to stand with his legs splayed and his wrists tied to the front two posts, or with dangling the corpse of the other centaur off the palisade wall as a sick trophy.

You didn’t linger to watch either.

With the seeds administered equally to each cask, all you could do was wait. You prayed it would be enough. It wasn’t exactly as though you’d had time to measure out doses after all…

The celebrations began not long after that, with some orcs taking turns to sit on the centaur’s back as though he were a wild horse to be broken, degrading him and humiliating him while he could do nothing but stand there while they sat astride him until his legs shook. His shame was enough to turn your stomach. You decided that once the orcs were asleep, you would free him too.

‘If’ the orcs fell asleep…

For the first hour, they showed no signs of being affected in even the least little bit by the narcotic. They grew rowdier and rowdier by the minute, though you were pleased to note that Mauhír was nowhere to be seen. You assumed that he had remained in his father’s tent, but you weren’t about to go and check. If he didn’t want to see you any more, well, that just made leaving all the easier.

When the first orc went down, it was met with a cheer and a round of fresh drinks.

When the second and the third collapsed a few minutes later, the others began to look nervously around and reach for weapons. You stayed silently out of the way, sitting with Simon in the lea of the small forge, watching the orcs stagger and sway and finally hit the dirt.

When all of the orcs around the fire were finally down, you and Simon nodded at each other, and he handed you a dagger from Ghorga’s collection.

“I’ll free the centaur,” you said. “You start gathering the others. I’ll meet you outside the gate.”

He nodded once and set off at a run.

As you approached the centaur, he looked at you with wary, white eyes rolling and his chest heaving. He was exhausted but clearly his adrenaline had spiked again at your appearance from the shadows.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you said slowly, showing him the dagger. “I’m going to cut you loose. Tell me, did a woman named Erica find your herd last night?”

He nodded, tapering ears pressed flat against his flame-red hair. “Yes,” he croaked. “She said more humans were captured here.”

“Is that why your war party rode out?”

Again, the centaur nodded. “We were only scouting. They must have seen us in the distance and decided to attack.” He tossed the unconscious Uruks a disdainful look and turned back to you. “Was that your doing?”

You nodded and got to work on the ropes without waiting to see his reaction. Sawing through the thick ropes was slow going, even with the sharp blade, but eventually he was free and he staggered slightly before skittering out of the crude holding pen, haunches tucked nervously and dancing round in an apprehensive circle.

Simon appeared a second or two later with a group of humans following him like nervous ducklings, and you looked around and nodded. Everyone was here.

Turning back to the centaur, you said, “Will you take us to your herd?”

He nodded. “You can’t stay with us though,” he said. “You bring too much attention from these bastards. My name is Iarla, by the way. Come on, we shouldn’t hang around.”

You corralled the others into a group and turned to go, knife still in hand.

As you brought up the rear, something made you halt in the gateway and you turned to see Mauhír standing at the entrance of his father’s tent, holding the flaps to one side with his left hand. He was the only one who had not been present at the festivities, and he watched you and then nodded once, disappearing back into the shadows and letting the flap drop.

A hand on your shoulder made you jump, but it was Iarla. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You nodded and set off.

The trek to the centaur’s camp wasn’t all that arduous, but your feet still felt bruised and your legs like lead by the time you got there. Erica met you with a shriek of delight, and to your immense joy, you found that your older brother and the other humans who had been sent to the neighbouring Uruk tribe as tribute had been rescued perhaps four days earlier and were recovering well.

The reunion festivities were tempered however by the other centaur’s death and, more personally for you, your deception of Mauhír. You felt honestly terrible about it, but he had seen you go - let you go, even - and perhaps he was glad that you were out here, safe, and away from them.

You made plans with the centaurs to ride south in the morning, some of them even offering to let you ride on their backs to speed you on your way. Iarla was particularly grateful to you, and honoured you by offering to let you ride on his back. You accepted, despite not being particularly familiar with riding equine creatures. When you admitted as much, he just tossed his ginger head and laughed. “You let me do the work,” he said. “You just hold tight, and I’ll take care of everything.”

You curled up in a canvas tent that night and dreamed of Mauhír. You remembered in astonishing detail the way his body had felt against yours, the way his heat had seeped into your skin, the hardness of his muscles and of his morning wood against your body, and the gruff kindness in his voice. You missed him. And you worried for him.

Your brother woke some time after midnight and found you sitting up, hugging your knees, staring off into the darkness, and he touched you lightly on the shoulder. “What’s up, kiddo?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said, and as the lie rolled across your tongue, an alarm call went up from the centaur on watch.

You and your brother shot out of the tent and, illuminated by the moonlight washing over the cool, whispering grasses, you saw the figure of a warg walking slowly over the grasslands, up the rise towards the camp. At first you thought she was alone and when you rushed forwards crying, “Avhundas!” you were immediately held back by two centaurs, one of which was Iarla. “Let me go!” you hissed. “That’s Mauhír’s warg!”

“I don’t care who’s filthy animal that is,” Iarla growled. “I’m going to kill it!” There was an ash spear in his hand already.

“Wait!” you yelled, seeing something slumped over the shoulders of the warg. You wriggled free of the centaur’s grasp like a rabbit and shot forwards over the scrubby heathland towards Avhundas, calling her name in the hopes that she would recognise you and not attack.

She did recognise you and yipped softly, and as you drew level to her you saw that the figure draped across her shoulders was Mauhír, and that he was in a terrible state. He had an arrow sticking out of his ribs, and he was cut and bloodied beyond what you’d seen him endure at the hands of his sister.

“Come on, girl,” you said, turning around and leading the anxious warg into the camp. “If anyone hurts this warg or Mauhír I will kill them,” you said, the warning flashing in your eyes. The centaurs saw the sincerity in your words and nodded warily, though in truth there wasn’t much you could have done to stop them if they had turned on him. “He kept me alive, and he let me escape. Let me help him,” you demanded quietly.

Iarla snorted and stamped a hoof, coming closer, rearing and plunging. “That bastard is one of the ones who brought me in, bound with lassos like a common plains donkey!” he whickered.

“Did he lay a finger on you?” you countered hotly. “Did he hurt you?”

Iarla’s ears went back. “No,” he admitted. “But inaction is the same as action when it comes to injustice.”

“What was he supposed to do? Fight his entire clan singlehandedly for you?” you shouted. “He let you go, Iarla. He watched you leave tonight and did nothing to stop you. He as good as set you free. Will you deny him aid?”

“No,” the centaur scout said sullenly. “And neither will I stop you tending to him. But he leaves with you in the morning, or he dies here tonight.”

You nodded gruffly and signalled Avhundas to follow you, which she did.

“Lie down, girl,” you said, pointing at the ground at your feet. She got the message and carefully lay herself down. Despite the efforts she took not to jostle Mauhír, who was still draped across her shoulders, he slid onto the ground beside her, mercifully not onto his right side where the arrow was lodged. That was going to be a bugger to get out cleanly.

You used every ounce of your medical training that night in stitching him up and cleaning the wounds. The centaurs refused to help in the surgery, but they did provide you with silk and a needle, clean water and bandages.

He had clearly been beaten within an inch of his life before he’d managed to escape on Avhundas. It was only as you finished with Mauhír that you noticed the gash in the warg’s hind leg. She hadn’t even limped. You cleaned that, not without her snapping at you, but after a stern bop on the nose, she had behaved herself and allowed you to tend to her as well.

Simon came over when you were just bandaging the still unconscious Uruk up - with some considerable difficulty, and he looked at you with confusion and hurt in his eyes. “You’d treat one of them?” he asked harshly. “After what they did for you?”

“Mauhír protected me from his sister,” you said. “He fought with her to keep me from being humiliated and used and hurt, Simon. I trust him. I don’t trust any of the others further than I could throw them, but I trust him. Why else did Avhundas bring him here? He means us no harm.”

Simon just shook his head and stalked off.

It was another tense hour before Mauhír regained consciousness. He swallowed thickly and sat up, grunting, before you could stop him.

“Careful!” you yipped. “Fuck, Mauhír, you nearly died. Are you alright?”

“Where…?” he asked.

“Avhundas brought you to me, to the centaurs. You’re going to be alright, Mauhír.”

He nodded and brought his hand to the thick bandages around his ribs. “Thank you,” he said and then looked up at you. “Is that right? ‘Thank you’?”

You smiled and took his jaw in your palm. He leaned into it, closing his eyes. “Yes, Mauhír,” you said. “That’s right.”

“I cannot… go back,” he said. “I go… for you.”

“I know,” you said. “Thank you. It’s going to be alright.”

He sighed and his eyes fluttered as he fought to remain conscious. His blind eye drifted slightly when he was tired, and you smiled at the unexpected softness in him. “Sleep now, Mauhír. We have to leave in the morning. They won’t let us stay here any longer than that.”

The Uruk nodded and lay back, staring at the sky above him and the canopy of stars. You lay down on his uninjured side and snuggled close while Avhundas curled up behind his head and set herself on guard duty for the rest of the night.

You let your hands play over the solid, iron muscles of his abs and stomach, and he smiled, growling softly in pleasure like a big cat as you eased him towards sleep.

When dawn came, he woke suddenly and sat up, unceremoniously dislodging you from your perch on his shoulder. You expressed your displeasure with a curse and a light smack on his forearm, and he grinned playfully at you, tusks glinting in the dawn light.

The rest of the temporary camp was stirring and beginning their usual morning routines, and it wasn’t long before Mauhír was on his feet. The centaurs had no food for Avhundas, but Mauhír shared with her the hunk of bread they tossed him, and when you had all eaten, the humans and Mauhír gathered at the edge of camp, preparing to ride out with the centaurs.

Iarla gave Mauhír such a look of caustic hatred that you thought the two might come to blows, but Mauhír only ducked his head and mounted Avhundas, wincing as he landed gently on her back, clearly jolting the arrow wound in his ribs. Uruks healed quickly, but not that quickly.

You rode with the others in silence to the edge of the centaurs’ usual territory, and then further into the lusher, verdant valleys you knew from childhood.

“We’re almost home,” you said to Mauhír as you recognised the old lightning-blasted oak tree on the hill outside the remnants of your town.

“What will you do?” Iarla asked when he saw the blackened shells of the buildings, cold now and lying in disarray along the hard-packed dirt of the road.

You sighed. “I suppose they’ll rebuild…”

“And you?”

You looked over at Mauhír, riding silently on the edge of the cavalcade. “I suppose we’ll see…”

The Uruk managed a weak smile and you thanked Iarla for letting you ride him. “It can’t have been easy for you,” you said carefully in a quiet voice that only he could hear, “After what they did to you…”

He laughed wryly. “It was only too easy,” he said lightly. “You, I owe. Them… Them I’m going to make pay.”

“Take care of yourself, alright?” you said as you slithered off his back, steadying yourself on his warm, chestnut withers.

He nodded. “You too.”

The centaurs left and the humans headed off to pick through the remnants of their houses, but you remained with Mauhír on the outskirts of the former village. “What will you do?” you asked him.

He looked at you and blinked slowly. “I…” he shrugged and looked away. “I can fight,” he said. “Someone pay me… fight for them…”

You scowled. “You’re no mercenary, Mauhír. Stay with me.”

He shook his head, looking down at you from Avhundas’ high, sloping back. She carried herself like a hyena, and had the jaws to match. Now, however, she wagged softly, the wound in her flank seeming to trouble her not at all.

You nodded at the warg and said, “Avhundas seems to like it here…”

At the sound of her name on your lips, she swivelled her head to face you and whined once, stepping closer and nuzzling at your palm, tame as a princess’ lapdog.

“You want to stay here, girl?” you crooned patronisingly and she wagged her stumpy tail again. “Is that right? You want to stay with me?”

More wagging.

Mauhír rasped a laugh and slid carefully down from her back. He patted her rump and she took it as a signal to wander off and nose about after game trails in the long grass.

The Uruk took your hands in his and stared down at you with his mismatching gaze. His blind eye and extensive scars seemed starker and more out of place here in the softer terrain of the valley where you’d grown up, but you loved him no less here than you had out on the plains. “What… What you want… for me?” he asked awkwardly.

“For you to learn more Common, for a start,” you grinned, and he smiled good-naturedly, twin tusks gleaming. “And… to stay with me, I suppose.”

He jerked his chin over his shoulder towards where the other humans had gone, and said, “They… They not like Uruk here…”

“True. Perhaps we should hit the road together… you know… travel a bit. Just you, me, and Avhundas?”

“You… You leave…” he looked around him and gestured with his rough, scarred hands, “You leave this… for me?”

“Sure,” you shrugged. “There’s nothing much here for me now.”

Your brother called your name before Mauhír could respond, and you looked around to see him jogging over. He eyed Mauhír warily and hung back. “Can I talk to you for a second?” he said, and you nodded, letting go of Mauhír’s leathery hands and stepping away.

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m… I’m not going to stay,” you said. “I can’t.”

He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I didn’t think you would,” he admitted. “I saw the way you look at him, and the way he is around you. He’s different, isn’t he?”

You nodded.

“Fine,” he said with obvious difficulty, “But you keep in touch, you hear me?”

“I will.”

You hugged your brother and promised to visit, and then turned back to Mauhír who was watching you unblinkingly from a polite distance.

He cut a strange figure in the strong sunlight of the fertile valley, with his mottled purple-brown skin and deep scars, but as Avhundas trotted back over to him and bumped her forehead affectionately against his hip and as he fondled her ears the way a lord would fuss a beloved hunting hound’s ears, you smiled.

He looked back to you and suddenly seemed so vulnerable for all his steel muscles and intimidating looks.

“Let’s go,” you said as you walked back through the long grass towards him.

Mauhír had only his war axe on his back and his warg by his side, but in that moment he knelt before you and bowed his head. He said something in the harsh, guttural dialect of the Uruks and took your hand in his. Something told you that the words he spoke were an oath. He pressed your knuckles against his forehead with great solemnity and then rose. “I… I am… yours…” he said falteringly, embarrassed.

You smiled and reached your hands up around his neck, more pulling yourself up to meet him than tugging him successfully down to meet you. You pressed a kiss against his lips, avoiding his jutting tusks, and laughed as his eyes went wide with surprise. His hands grabbed your waist and then the curve of your cheeks, and he hoisted you unceremoniously up around his waist, heedless of his injuries, and he kissed you back, his hands holding you firmly in place.

You caught him wincing, and you said, “Put me down you big idiot. When you’re better, we can do this and much more, but not til then, alright?”

He growled wordlessly, nuzzling kisses against your neck, but eventually acquiesced when you continued to protest. He then set you up on Avhundas’ back and then hopped up behind you, holding you tightly.

He had no reins to control her, relying on his voice and his legs to guide her, and the three of you headed out of the village and down the road, still heading south, towards a new life together and towards whatever your new road would bring.

His warm weight was a comfort behind you, and as the day wore on and your legs began to get sore from riding so long, you let yourself lean back against his bare chest. He kissed the top of your head and pressed on, leaving his clan and everything familiar behind.

And it was all for you.

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weaselle · 5 years

Text

COMPLETE SHORT STORY

WRITING-PROMPT-S.TUMBLR.COM/POST/175961780920: PROMPT: YOU ARE A CREATURE WITH A FAERY MOM AND A VAMPIRE DAD. FROM YOUR MOM’S SIDE YOU’RE ALLERGIC TO IRON. FROM YOUR DAD’S SIDE YOU NEED BLOOD.

(special thanks again to desertskald for this drawing, which touched my heart)

A few days after your birth, your condition is diagnosed by an old gnome that makes house calls, who tells your parents that their daughter may not survive the week. Your vampire dad stays up all day in a sunless room researching. By evening he has a list of animals with blood that carries oxygen utilizing hemocyanin, similar to hemoglobin, but copper based. These creatures are all sea creatures, so your family moves to the shore.

The blood of various mollusks, crustaceans, and cephalopods is enough to keep you alive, but not healthy. Your father, obsessed with finding a way to de-ironize human blood, becomes a vampiric mad inventor, sort of a Dr. Frankenstein meets the Dad from Honey I Shrunk the Kids. He’s constantly coming to you with his latest experimental invention - homemade alchemical tablets that are supposed to dissolve in blood and turn iron molecules into gold (but half the time they change it to silver, which is equally problematic) fang tip filters that fit over your teeth and screen the blood (which actually works, they’re just so delicate they constantly break, often in the biting process, rendering them useless) heavily altered summoning rituals (if I can summon the whole demon, why can’t I summon just its blood?) various magic potion additives for mixing into blood (okay but you have to follow the recipe EXACTLY or you’ll leak all your minerals out of your eyes, and your bones will melt. You know what? never mind, give me that back) centrifugal devices featuring magnets (that one had a lot of promise, but none of the models ever quite did the whole job, and they weigh a ton)….

While your father is determined to discover a process that will allow you to feed on humans, your mother focuses on fairy magic hacks - she teaches you how to set circle traps, and syphon health from people, but, like all fairy magic, there is a trade off. The more health you syphon, the worse your health the next day when it wears off; it’s like a hangover. And, like with a lot of the darker magics, it becomes a little less effective each time you do it, requiring more and more health be syphoned to achieve the same gain. So she teaches you more things, how to use glamor to seem convincingly healthy, how to float instead of walk, how to ensnare the minds of mortals to use them as temporary servants if you need things. How to temporarily access various kinds of life force from forests, from the wind, from the creatures of the local biome, etc,. Standing next to you on the beach at night, she shows you how to pull power directly from the magic of the full moon, and use it to experience a brief respite from your sickliness… which grows slowly worse.

It’s all so tiring. You spend more and more time on the beach, sitting in tide-pools, staring out to sea, motionless. Time flows by without touching your immortal parents, and hardly anything changes. Your mother wanders off to follow her self interest, as fairies are wont to do, but she visits often. Your father is obsessed as only a vampire can be, and barely remembers to get enough to drink; many nights you have to ask him “Dad, when is the last time you exsanguinated anyone?”

Years pass.

One night as you are sitting on a rock amid the rising tide, idly draining crabs of their blood while lost in thought, you finally notice that every time you reach down into surf, another crab is put into your reaching hand. Looking down into the water, you see the laughing face of a playful young woman, and that’s how you meet Neera.

Neera, you learn, is half werewolf. Every full moon she must turn into a wolf, and so she can’t live in Finfolkheem, the crystal-halled deep sea home of her mother’s people, which is a three week journey from the nearest beach. And she can’t live with her father on land, of course. She doesn’t even know where he is, or if he’s alive. On her mother’s side, she’s finfolk, and part ceasg, part selkie, which somehow has something to do with her mother’s family and their ancient tradition of vacationing along the shores of Shetland. “I’m a total mutt,” she says, laughing, and you can’t help but smile. Her eyes are like black opal. She’s beautiful. Neera spends a lot of time alone. “Feral,” she grins, but, while loneliness has made you quite and shy, it seems to have had the opposite effect on Neera. She’s an amazing shape shifter. She can have a lower half that is plush-furred and flippered like a seal, or jewel-scaled and finned like a fish, and she can magically remove her fur or scales like a thick skirt, to reveal human legs. And while she is helpless to be anything but a wolf for three days out of the month, she can choose to be a wolf anytime she wants. “And I can be like, part wolf part human, like this” she shows you. “AND I can almost change into a whole seal, like great-gran, she’s a selkie, even though her daughter and grand daughter, that’s my mother, can’t do it” she tells you excitedly, “probably because of my were-blood; great-gran thinks selkies and werewolves may have been related way back when, that would kind of explain why I can take my scale-tail off the same way selkies change, so I think I’ll be able to go full seal. I haven’t quite got the trick of it yet, but soon I think. Mother hates me trying; when I first started I would turn into a wolf instead, and I almost drowned a couple times.” “My mother’s people don’t really like me” she confides one day, “most folk are frightened of me, because of my father; I even scare my siren cousins a little” she says, looking at you out of the corner of her eye in a rare moment of vulnerability. “Don’t worry, my dad’s a vampire,” you say, baring your fangs at her, “no werewolf is going to make me nervous” But she does make you nervous. But not, like, scared nervous. You still can’t believe she wants to keep hanging out with you. The two of you are soon spending almost all your time together, down on the beach. When your mother visits, she is glad her daughter has found “some fey creature” to be friends with, and you father is happy that you’re happy. “That’s great! My little fruitbat has a friend.” He looks up sharply “does she have red blood, or does she bleed blue?” “NO, Dad, I’m not going to eat Neera” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees “seal and wolf, that’s a lot of mammal anyway, probably hemoglobin all the way…” he trails off as he resumes tinkering with a ferrous gel he’s trying to entice a half-tame poltergeist into possessing. Neera tells you about her ceasg family members “They’re basically Scottish mermaids closely related to the finfolk, they can live in lakes, rivers, seas and oceans; My grandmother was a full blooded freshwater ceasg, my mother is half ceasg, half finfolk and selkie. Have I told you about the time I met some oceanic ceasgs? The saltwater ceasgs can grow monstrous big, like if a whale was a mermaid!” Her stories are captivating, like everything about Neera. You grow more and more sickly, but you hardly care, spending your time on the beach watching Neera frolic in the waves and listening to the stories of her adventures. She discovers that your vampire heritage means that breathing is optional for you, and she guides you carefully to some nearby underwater caves. It’s the most beautiful adventurous thing you’ve ever experienced, until later that night, when you return to the beach and lay on your back in the surf, looking at the stars with Neera, and she reaches over and takes your hand in hers. ... “What would happen if you drank my blood for real?” She asks one evening as the two of you watch the waves. “Well, I’d have a terrible reaction to the iron in your blood, and I’d probably die.” “I thought faeries and vampires were immortal though.” “SOME faeries are immortal, others just live for thousands of years.” “Yeah, but, wouldn’t your vampire blood tip the scales there, make you true immortal?” “Probably,” you shrug “Actually yeah, Dad is pretty sure it would.“ “That’s cool,” she ruffles then smoothes the fur just below her hip; she’s been working on her selkie form. “Mermaids and werewolves and everything I am don’t really… I’ll probably only live about 200 years. I wish I had that vampire thing going on” Your compromised immortality is an uncomfortable subject for you, but the thought of Neera dying fills you with horror “It wouldn’t save me from death by iron though; faeries and vampires can be killed, they just don’t often die of old age. I might though. I keep getting worse” “Oh,” she leans against you for a moment, and kisses your shoulder. “But what if you weren’t allergic to iron?” She’s asking a moment later - nothing keeps Neera down for long - “What would happen if you drank my blood then?” “Well,” you say, playfully, “If I didn’t drain you empty, you’d be my thrall; You’d be under my spell, and you’d do anything I told you. For a while. It would wear off eventually.” Neera wiggles deeper into the sand “Your servant? Could be fun. But I thought I’d become a vampire too.” “No, for that after I drank almost all of your blood, you’d have to drink mine. If you could stomach it.” “Oh, come on,” she says, smiling with a mouthfull of teeth like piranha “you know I’d eat you right up” making you blush and change the subject. By the time you realize how deeply in love you are, it is obvious that you are dying. Vampires can’t live long on the blood of crustaceans; you’ve been dying this whole time, and the only reason you are still alive is because your fairy blood has made dying take so long. At least your own research in your fathers lab has turned up some information worth sharing with Neera. “Hey, I figured out what would probably happen if we did the blood exchange ritual” you tell her one morning, squinting in the glare. Neera looks up from her sunbathing, and flips seawater at you with her tail “Yeah?” “Yep. It doesn’t happen with finfolk or werewolves often, and, of course, I couldn’t find any literature on someone with your exact pedigree. But from all I could tell, you’d get the immortality at the price of blood dependence - the two are strongly linked. Your supernatural origins would probably cancel out most of the rest of it, so you wouldn’t even have to give up all this,” you say, waving your hand vaguely at the bright unpleasant sunlight. The sun didn’t do to you what it would to your father, but you don’t enjoy it the way Neera does. “You’d have to drink someone’s blood pretty often though, it’s a high price.” Neera laughs, a loud and shockingly happy sound that bounces around the cove “I’m finfolk and werewolf” she reminds you, still laughing “I lure men into the sea and drown them for fun, I snatch men off the side of the road and eat them for dinner at least once a month - I don’t think I’d be too broken up about a little change in diet like that.” For some reason it makes you love her all the more. One night the two of you are walking along the beach together, hand in hand, and you see a glint of a metal ring half buried in the sand. You both reach for it, then jump back exclaiming “Silver, YUCK!” in unison. You collapse on the sand together, laughing. “Oh what a shame,” Neera pouts, “I was looking forward to some new jewelry” You feel your breath catch, your sickly heart leaps and stutters. You reach into your pocket, for the ring you’ve been carrying around in cowardice for so long. You’ve only been waiting for the right moment, you’ve told yourself… but if this isn’t the right moment no moment ever will be. “Well,” you try to drawl casually, but your voice breaks “I’ve got this one made of gold. Has a diamond on it.” Neera looks at you with wide, wide eyes as you turn awkwardly in the sand and raise up on one knee. “Neera, you know I’m dying, and I have no right to ask you..” You can’t talk for a moment, and you see tears brimming in Neera’s eyes. That’s no good, if she starts crying you definitely will. You clear your throat “Neera, I… without you, my life wouldn’t…” all your carefully planned speeches are forgotten and useless “Neera, I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?” She leaps onto you and kisses you deeper than you’ve ever been kissed. Somehow her tongue nicks a fang, hers, yours, impossible to tell - a single drop of her blood slides down your throat; you feel the small pang from the few molecules of iron in it, but you don’t care, you would suffer much worse for her to keep kissing you like this. The kiss comes to an end, but before you can remind her that she hasn’t actually answered yet, she says softly, lips still brushing yours “if” she kisses you again and then gets up, stepping back as you lay there on the beach, a strange look in her black eyes. “I love you so much,” she whispers “and yes,” her voice gets stronger “yes I’ll marry you IF” she takes another step back, swinging her scaled skirt/tail over one shoulder, “if you CATCH ME!” and with that she starts sprinting toward the water. Up to mid thigh in the ocean, she stops to put the skirt back on, where it transforms into her fish tail once more. “It won’t be easy!” she yells back at you as you climb to your feet “Show me how much you want to marry me!” and she disappears into the sea. Are you heart broken? The most excited you’ve ever been? Confused, that’s for sure. “Yes if??” What the hell is that?! And you’re still just standing on the beach! Concentrating, you summon your faery magic, casting a functional glamor that lets you move easily despite your sickly condition. Entering the water, you stop breathing - your vampire nature serves you well in this. You cast a spell similar to the one that lets you levitate, and you begin sliding through the water at a rapid pace. The blood, that single drop of her blood you swallowed, it gives you a faint sense of what direction she went. You follow quickly. After a few hours your glamour wears off. You are out deep in the ocean, and no closer to catching Neera. You are… angry. What the fuck. Who does that, just runs off and tells you to chase them? Is it a werewolf thing? Because the ocean makes that extra fucked up. You reach deep inside and connect to the old magic. Broadcasting it, you draw life-force from the local sea life. Of course you’ll pay for it later, and weak as you have become that will be especially hard on you, but you don’t care. Is she playing with your heart? No, your love is mutual, you trust her, something else is going on. You have to catch her. Burning up your borrowed energy, you surge through the water. After 24 hours, you are desperate. You’ve never used the fairy magic this heavily before. You’re in deep crushing blackness, but you utilize your vampire powers to counter it, seeing in the darkest dark, transmuting your flesh to mist to avoid being compressed like an empty can. Where IS she? After three days, you are more frightened than you’ve ever been. You’re not sure you’ll survive this. Your tenuous blood link to her indicates she still lives, but at this point you are scared for her too. You thought the blood link would wear off, but it seems to you that the intensity of your hunting is keeping it engaged. Engaged. Is that what you are now? Is this a selkie engagement ritual? You won’t get much further without at least a little blood of some sort. You latch onto a 6 foot humboldt squid like some kind of freakish remora. It fights you at first, tearing at you with all its arms but you drain it with such rapid savagery that it dies before it can do you much harm… A full week now, you’ve been zipping through the ocean. Periodically you cry. Sometimes you laugh. You’ve leaned on the old fey sorcery so hard that death seems the certain trade off at this point, and you are determined to look into Neera’s eyes one last time before it claims you. Fuck it. You were dying anyway. This has been the biggest adventure of your life, of most people’s lives. You’ve seen secrets no human has ever known, met demonic giants of the deep, passed by mysterious crystal cities on the lowest ocean floors, witnessed creatures thought extinct by even the long-lived and nature-sensitive fey. Only your love for Neera and your desire to see her one last time keeps you going, pulling a little life from every living creature within ten square miles of you with the darkest magics you know. The trail, blood link growing ever fainter, seems to indicate that Neera is heading for shallower waters. Suddenly it occurs to you: the full moon - she has to return to land, the ocean is no place for a wolf. It’s the third and final night of the full moon’s effects on her… how is she still in the water? Summoning your vampiric flavored fairy powers, you launch upward through the ocean and burst skyward, letting your emotion fuel a pull on the forces around you strong enough to put you up among the birds. You assess the blood link as you waver there, your outer body numb as it has been for days, the very blood in your veins vibrating painfully, your soul drained as a broken bottle. There, the beach of a small island, hardly more than a sandbar. You don’t think it’s on any map, but it has to be the place, the moon is out, Neera will be swimming as a wolf, as she has been for three days and nights, she has to be exhausted, she must be headed for that tiny strip of land. The magic falters, but you are so close, you grit your teeth and pull, and every seagull near falls dead from the sky as you use their stolen life to hurtle toward the beach. It isn’t going to be enough though. You aren’t going to make it. So close, but you start to fall. It’s too bad, because you can see a dark canine shape dragging itself painfully from the ocean. NEERA As you tumble through the air, you remember your mother, standing next to you on the beach at night, arms raised… …pulling power from the full moon. Crying, desperate, you try. The moon is sinking below the horizon as you make the tenuous connection. It’s just enough. You crash down onto the sand mere inches from a very wet and weary wolf, one hand closing around her hind leg. The magic is gone. Time to pay the price in full. To call it a hangover would be to laugh in the face of certain death, and you haven’t the strength. Your head bumps and shifts, and you open your eyes to see Neera, beautiful Neera, cradling your head in her scaled lap. You feel peaceful. You’ll die. It’s okay. “N…eera..” you manage, “dy… dying.” With great effort she pulls your torso upwards to embrace you. “No,” She whispers, clearly near the end of her own strength “you’re not going to. Remember I told you my gran was a ceasg?” Oh. It’s story time. That’s nice. Good way to go. Her voice is beautiful, even when strained from your shared ordeal. “Here’s something about ceasgs… sometimes they marry. Even mortals, if they are caught. And when you catch them… They can grant you wishes.” You thought you were paying attention before, but now every part of your brain that isn’t dead already is concentrating on her words “My gran, was full ceasg, when she was caught, she could grant three wishes,” Neera says, huskily, tears leaking from her inhumanly black eyes, “My mother was half ceasg,” she continues “and she was able to grant two wishes, but the chase had to be extra difficult, that quid pro quo all magic has… and it doesn’t work if you let yourself be caught” Neera starts to cry harder “Oh my love, I had to be sure, I had to be so certain, I had to try my very hardest. I pushed myself until I didn't know if I would make it” she sobs “I was so scared… but I knew you would catch me. I knew. And after a chase like that… I should be able to manage one single wish.” She leans down, resting her forehead on yours. “Don’t fuck it up,” she whispers, voice breaking “don’t wish to live… wish away your iron allergy” “…but…” It doesn’t make sense. The iron allergy doesn’t matter at this point “… die any… anyway.” “Sshhh. No you won’t. Because then, once you’ve made your wish, my sweet, my dearest… you’re going to drain me of blood” What? No. “… you… you die” Neera laughs through her tears “Me? Oh no my love, not me..” she brushes one thumb across your cheek and bares her fangs in a lewd and loving grin “Don’t you know? I’ve always wondered how the rest of you tastes…” Yes. YES. You close your eyes, and make your wish. Her blood is the sweetest most pure thing you’ve ever drunk. Life, stronger than any life you’ve lived before, floods your whole being. After, her fangs buried in the artery on the inside of your thigh, you feel an ecstasy your vampiric heart never knew it needed. Later, the two of you explore your new vampire selves together; never having drunk real blood, the experience is as new for you as it is to Neera. As the sun rises you dig a hole in the sand and cover yourselves in it, wrapped around each other to sleep. It just feels right. Laying in the cool dark underground, Neera snuggles against you. “SO," she asks mischievously, “what do you think of a deep-ocean marriage ceremony?” You laugh, “Wherever you want, my love; you already know… I’ll follow you anywhere” ________________________________________________________________

more fiction and other WIPS on my website Moulin Noir

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chilly-territory · 5 years

Text

Uchouten Kazoku 2, chapter 2 (part 1 out of 4)

Not a word on the Nidaime or tengu in this whole chapter... but lots of tanuki and shogi.

The Eccentric Family: The Nidaime’s Homecoming (Uchouten Kazoku: Nidaime no Kichou) by Morimi Tomihiko

Chapter 2 (part 1/4, pages 69-83) Gyokuran of Nanzenji Temple

When a male and a female tanuki fall in love, it's said that they're tied with the red fur of fate.

There was no end to tanuki whose hearts were set aflutter by that fishy myth prompting them to search every nook and cranny of the body in an attempt to pick out the precious single red hair. While they were busy with that, in the shade of trees in Yoshidayama, on the premises of Koujin-sama[*1], and in the greenhouses of the Kyoto Prefectural Botanical Gardens, a discreet furry friendship between tanuki gentlemen and tanuki ladies was steadily deepening. 'There is only one tanuki like you in the whole world,' he says. 'No other tanuki is like you in the whole world,' she says. Lovey-dovey on display!

On that note, there was one particular deep and furry love story.

Once upon a time, in the Tanukidani-Fudou forest, located in the Ichijouji district of Sakyou-ku ward, there lived a certain tanuki girl named Tousen, as juicy and fresh as a peach and as nimble and agile as an enlightened mountain sage [*2]. From morning to night, she played on the stairway that counted 250 steps leading to the shrine. A single shout of 'Drop dead' was enough for her to repel any halfwit that dared make light of her. The little tanuki in the neighborhood called her 'Tousen the Stairs-Wanderer' out of respect and reverence.

One day, a group of unfamiliar tanuki kids appeared in Tanukidani-Fudou. Inspired by the tsuchinoko boom that was taking the tanuki world by the storm at the time, they were the self-proclaimed Tsuchinoko Expedition Team, a bunch of mischievous boys who wrought havoc on many nearby mountains. The brats started climbing the stairs, singing as they did, and met Tousen on the way; unaware of her fame and courage, they took the high-and-mighty attitude with her.

"Hey, you shortie over there." "What did you say, you jerk?!"

Tousen flew into fury and beat the mischievous invaders to within an inch of their life. "Drop dead!"

That was the start of a battle between the little tanuki of Tanukidani-Fudou and the Tsuchinoko Expedition Team with the long stairs to the temple on the line. Tousen fought bravely and protected their turf.

Time passed, and Tousen descended down the long stairs counting 250 steps that she'd defended in the past in a white kimono. Leaving Tanukidani-Fudou behind after her marriage, she set out to her new home in the Tadasu forest.

What she was remembering with fondness at the time were the mischievous boys of the Tsuchinoko Expedition Team, singing at the top of their lungs as they climbed the stairs, and herself as she stood in their way. The leader of the Tsuchinoko Expedition Team that called her shortie on that day was Shimogamo Souichirou, that is, our father. Needless to say, the tomboy who responded with a 'What did you say, you jerk' was none other than our mother. Were it not for furry love in this world, not a single tuft of fur would have existed of the Shimogamo brothers.

What preceded the birth of the round, little furballs was a furry love story.

〇

In the beginning of June when the rainy season had started, I sat in a cage in Kyoto City Zoo.

Kyoto zoo was located near Heian-jingu shrine in Okazaki, and the premises surrounded by a brick wall were lively with cries of birds and wild animals. Between the cages with such dignified creatures as elephans, lions, giraffes and hippopotami, there was a cage with tanuki, too.

That said, for tanuki being put in a cage was their greatest fear. And that was because our specialty, that is, shapeshifting, had a close connection with the idea of freedom; if thrown into a cage and robbed of their freedom, tanuki wouldn't be able to shapeshift. You won't find a tanuki who would like to be confined and rendered unable to shapeshift.

For that reason, from long ago, it was customary for the role of captive tanuki in the zoo to be played in shifts by the Okazaki tanuki who were professionals at that. When they needed to go out on an incentive trip, there was no choice but for other tanuki to stand in for them, but it went without saying that this job was not popular. The reason why I had accepted it was because the pay was high.

When I signed up for it, first of all, I was given a thorough crash course by the chief of the Okazaki tanuki on the correct way to conduct myself as a proper zoo tanuki. The Okazaki tanuki took pride in the activities of enlightening ladies and gentlemen of Kyoto on the subject of what a proper tanuki was.

"What's most important is charm. However, do not butter up to anyone." The Okazaki tanuki chief narrated their philosophy. "We play tanuki with pride. That's the trick to it. You can't just spring the raw realism on your visitors. If you do that, all our efforts will be for naught. You've got to catch the moment when you become more tanuki-like than a tanuki without exposing the truth. This constitutes one of shapeshifting techniques, too."

Naturally, being locked up in a cage felt very eerie, so I spent my first day in restlessness. To a tanuki not accustomed to having your shapeshifting powers sealed, denied the very possibility to go out and play mindlessly and with someone staring at you around the clock, it was an extremely exhausting ordeal.

Worried about how I was doing in a cage all alone, my mother dropped by in the evening to see how I was faring. As was in her habit, mother assumed the form of a handsome young man, Takarazuka Revue-style, which was already conspicuous, and an emerald frog riding on her shoulder didn't help to alleviate the effect at all. Said frog crawled into my cage through a crack.

"You won't feel lonely if you're with Yajirou," mother said.

And so, from my second day on, I had the company of my second elder brother, which made me feel at lot better. When I paced to and fro in my cage with a frog on my furry head, children that gathered in front of it were flabbergasted, "A frog is driving a tanuki!"

"You sure have your finger in many pies, huh. I'm so impressed," my brother confessed. "I just have nothing better to do." "Speaking of which, have you caught tsuchinoko, in the end?" "Oh, come on, nii-san, as if I'd be idling away in a place like this if I'd caught it. I'd be busy with press conferences and celebration parties and stuff right about now."

Later that night, my brother sat motionlessly in a corner of the cage, apparently thinking about something deep and hard.

"What are you up to?" When I peered closer, I found that he was solving shogi problems.

The Tanuki Shogi tournament, sponsored by Nanzenji temple, was scheduled to take place in the middle of June, and apparently, my brother was going to participate in the preliminaries.

"A bad bush is better than the open field," my brother said. "Not many tanuki like shogi, and I would feel bad for the Nanzenji family if it ended up being an empty tournament." "What a strange event our father came up with, I gotta say."

Our father, Shimogamo Souichirou, was an ardent shogi fan. As his love for shogi grew in intensity, he collaborated with the previous head of the Nanzenji family to start the Tanuki Shogi tournament, but tanuki were reluctant to even memorize the shogi pieces, and having to sit still before the shogi board made the fur on their butts itch. Our father's wish for shogi to stick in the tanuki worlds was fruitless, and then he fell into a tanuki hot pot, so the tournament had to be discontinued for the time being. It occurred to me that our eldest brother must be very proud of himself since it was him who brought it back to life.

That reminded me of something else, and I asked, "Come to think of it, father had a shogi room, didn't he?" "Ah, yes, yes, he did. Father's secret base, a fun room, indeed." "What became of it?" "It has to be somewhere in the Tadasu forest, but I don't know where."

Hiding away in the shogi room whenever there was a break in his bustling activity as the head of the tanuki world was father's cherished relaxation time. The room in question was a four and a half tatami mat chamber, filled with a collection of old shogi boards and shogi instruction books, and sometimes he taught shogi to us siblings there.

I recalled what that nostalgic room was like.

Surrounded by massive shogi pieces, almost as big as one whole tatami mat, that I had no idea what could be used for and shogi boards of curious shape, father looked happy, sitting there cross-legs on a zabuton. The room had a large skylight. Beyond it, the blue sky, clear and high, stretched, and overhanging branches bearing ripe persimmon fruit were visible. I remembered father's unease when I said I wanted those persimmons.

Oddly enough, father always made us wear blindfolds whenever he brought us to that room.

What I remembered with clarity was the sensation of jumping off to the bottom of a hole where wind whistled.

"Our eldest doesn't know where that room is, either?" "No, apparently not," my brother replied. "It appears he'd searched the forest high and low but found no hole resembling it. Father hid it really well." And then my brother added in a murmur, "I'd like to go back there some day."

〇

An unusual guest appeared on my last day of zoo life.

On that day, it was somewhat cloudy since the morning and from time to time it rained, so the zoo was mostly deserted. The choo-choo train with a red chimney running with clangity-clang and the small Ferris wheel both looked dreary drenched in the ashen rain. On such days, no matter how great my acting performance of playing a tanuki-like tanuki was, very few people paused in front of my cage. As such, it wasn't worth it to try hard.

I was yawning, bored out of my mind, when a little girl came. Her stature was small, like a kindergartner's, and the red of her umbrella and rubber boots was vibrant. Not showing the slightest bit of interest in the choo-choo train or the Ferris wheel, she headed toward the tanuki cage in a straight line while spinning her red umbrella and stopped in front of it. She must have loved tanuki a lot. Her red umbrella pressed against the cage, she watched me pace exultantly to and fro in my cage with big eyes. Soon, though, she started giggling.

"You give a marvelous tanuki performance, Yasaburou-chan."

Startled, I stopped dead in my tracks.

My brother, sitting on my head, said, "Oh, it's you, Gyokuran. What brings you here?"

"I heard Yasaburou-chan was standing in here, so I thought I'd show my support." "Hmph. I play the role splendidly, don't I, Gyokuran-sensei?" I said, to which Gyokuran smiled wryly, "Drop the sensei title, would you."

The tanuki known as Nanzenji Gyokuran was the younger sister of the head of the Nanzenji clan, Shoujirou.

In the past, when I was one of the Akadama tanuki pupils, Gyokuran already had both wisdom and good sense and was Akadama-sensei's favorite. A few honor roll tanuki from among those who studied under sensei were tasked with helping sensei. Nanzenji Gyokuran, along with our brother Yaichirou, served as Akadama-sensei's assistant, herding and controlling the furry mischeviuos boys bustling beneath the teacher's platform like a dog at a sheep farm. That's why I called her 'Gyokuran-sensei'.

Standing in front of my cage, Gyokuran gushed about how much she looked forward to the Tanuki Shogi tournament. Apparently, she dropped by on her way back from inspecting the preliminary tournament venue with her brother Shoujirou.

"You're coming to watch, right, Yasaburou-chan?" "I'm not sure. I have no interest in shogi, you see," yawned I. "Yaichirou-san worked so hard to bring the tournament back, but you're not coming? You shouldn't say such cold things. If you come, you'll find it fun, I'm sure." "Well, it's fun for you, Gyokuran."

Gyokuran was a known shogi enthusiast even as a child.

To begin with, the Nanzenji clan were always a family of shogi fans, but Gyokuran's love for the game stood out even among the rest of them, and numerous tales such as her never stopping solving shogi problems even when she fell into the Biwako Canal, or her loving shogi so much that she would even eat shogi pieces, or her sleeping every night with a shogi board, circulated about her as if they were true. According to Gyokuran herself, all of them were nonsense, but I knew for a fact that back when she was one of Akadama-sensei's pupils she did force innocent little tanuki to play shogi, and I was among those who ran around trying to escape from her as she chased us with a shogi board in hand yelling, "It's fun! It's really fun, you'll see!" Because of her excessive love for shogi, Gyokuran was unsuitable for shogi promotion activities. The numerous legends about Gyokuran circulating in the tanuki world were spread by the annoyed tanuki kids she had chased in the past.

Suddenly, Gyokuran said, "Yaichirou-san still won't get back to playing shogi, huh?" "Our big brother doesn't play shogi," my second elder brother said in a soft voice. "And you know that better than anyone else, don't you, Gyokuran?" "For how much longer does he plan to let it bother him? Even though he's turned into a fine capable furball already." "Did you tell him that?" "I can't. ...I'm not sure why, but I just can't."

In the Tadasu forest, there was a certain shogi board left by our father, and our eldest brother cherished it as much as he did the automated rickshaw. Although that shogi board was carefully stored in a box of empress tree, its surface was marred with deep teeth impressions. Those marks were left on it by our eldest brother who turned into a tiger in a fit of anger and bit into it. When he was little, he had a bad tendency to shapeshift into a tiger whenever he got angry because of finding himself at a disavantage in shogi. The reason why he quit playing shogi was because he started deeply hating losing control of himself like that. Playing against a girl his own age, bursting into tears from frustration and then biting into the shogi board were all memories hurting his honor, no doubt.

Eventually, Gyokuran said, "See you at the shogi tournament" by way of goodbye and went back to the Nanzenji forest, hazy with the rain. As she walked, she was spinning her umbrella like a real child. Seated on my head, my brother murmured, "Were it not for furry love in this world..." "What is it, nii-san?" "...No, it's nothing." "Being a tease, huh." "Even a frog at the bottom of the well has an obligation to keep a secret."

〇

On a certain evening in the middle of June when it was getting quite late, our whole family went out, heading to Nanzenji.

The sky was concealed behind bulky clouds, and not a single star was visible, with only moist night wind blowing. My little brother Yashirou took the point, his face lighting up in pride and elation as he hoisted a paper lantern with our family crest on it, looking like the leader of a drum and fife band. Passing through the dark town with its endless line of fences surrounding big mansions, we entered Nanzenji-keidai that was crawling with Kyoto's tanuki holding paper lanterns.

The reason was simple: tonight was the day when the Tanuki Shogi tournament organized by the Nanzenji family was to be held.

Mother was impressed as she looked around. "Look at that crowd." "That's because this tournament was on a hiatus for a long time ever since father's death," our eldest brother sounded boastful. "It was worth every effort I've invested. I'm sure father would be pleased, too." "If nii-san wins today, father would be even more pleased," I said.

My second elder brother riding on my shoulder stirred. "I don't know. Don't get your hopes up too much." "Don't say such fainthearted things, Yajirou. Protect the honor of the Shimogamo family," our eldest instructed. "Hold it, hold it, nii-san, I don't play shogi for the sake of protecting our honor." "I know you're capable of giving Gyokuran a run for her money." "I don't know about that," replied our second elder. "I'm sure you can win," joined in mother. "Though winning and losing are both down to luck."

Majority of the the tanuki assembled on the premises were hopeless at shougi, unable to tell a rook from a bishop, and they only came for the chance to gamble and party. Beneath the black towering gate of Nanzenji temple surrounded by pine trees, the owner of bar 'Akegarasu' on Teramachi-doori street was consulting with his friends on the matter of betting. For betting on all and every kind of competition was their raison d'être.

I walked up and called out to him.

"Hey. I can't believe you bothered to come when you don't know squat about shogi." "Do your worst for us, Yasaburou, because we're counting on seeing some fighting outside the shogi board, too." That was a scandalous thing of him to say. "Out-of-the-ring action is your forte, yeah?"

When I was about to retort, my kid brother waved the paper lantern with our family crest.

"Yasaka-san is here!"

The Yasaka tanuki sounded their trumpets shortly in a modest fashion and set foot on the Nanzenji temple grounds. Nise-emon Yasaka Heitarou expectedly wore an aloha shirt.

Noticing us, he passed under the temple's triple gate and clapped my eldest brother on the shoulder in good humor.

"Oh, Yaichirou-kun. It makes me so happy to see tanuki shogi revived."

Since spring, Yasaka Heitarou had been steadily advancing his preparations to retire, little by little transferring his Nise-emon work to my eldest brother. Despite my brother grumbling about how he had no time to even sleep, he didn't at all look dissatisfied, swimming energetically all around Kyoto like a furry fish that had found water after making a show of downing a dodgy energy drink procured in the Shinkyougoku shopping district.

Yasaka Heitarou chatted up my second elder brother squatting on my shoulder. "I gotta say, I was surprised that you survived the preliminaries, Yajirou. I had no idea you were so good at shogi." "Father taught me well. Besides, there is hardly anything else to do at the bottom of the well." "You, too, learned all the dubious entertainments from Sou-san, eh. I'm the same. When we were little, it was tsuchinoko hunting, and when we grew up, it was shogi, sake and Hawaii. All the good-for-nothing things that earn you no squat but are most fun in the world. That said, Sou-san was always good at everything he did."

Mother snickered at that. "And you, Heitarou-san, was always so clumsy." "Okay, wait, that's quite the comment to make, you know." "Oh? Well, even if you're clumsy, being able to always have fun no matter what is an admirable quality and what really counts." "You just say whatever you want, huh. I'm no match for you," said the Nise-emon in his aloha shirt and laughed.

T/N:

[*1] Koujin-sama 荒神様: a god of fire, the hearth and the kitchen (wiki); in Kyoto, Koujin charms and talismans are often put up in the kitchen. In this particular context, however, 'Koujin-sama' is a pet nickname for Gojoin temple (same as Kiyoshikojin temple jp wiki), used by locals (jp article on it). [*2] Tousen 桃仙: this name consists of the kanji for peach (桃) and the kanji for what is known as sennin (仙) or xian in Taoism (wiki), that is, a mystical enlightened mountain sage.

#uchouten kazoku 2 #uchouten kazoku nidaime no kichou

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vintagediavolo · 5 years

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The Firewhisky Incident

After the positive feedback from the oneshot I posted yesterday, I’ve decided I’ll be uploading more of the ones I write 😊

I’ll also be open to any prompt requests!

The interior of the Graves’ estate was silent; a silence that some might’ve found discomforting, but Newt sat on the living room couch in one of Percival’s sweaters that was too big on him, hanging off his shoulder in a way that his boyfriend loved. Niffler sat in his lap, soft snores emanating from his little snout as Newt absentmindedly stroked a hand over its dark fur, and Pickett was using his limbs as a jungle-gym, climbing up his long legs and using Newt’s hair as a rope to help him to the top of his head. He nearly succeeded in his hatched plan of waking Niffler up on his way to Newt’s head, but the man caught on to his antics and quickly squashed them. “Now Pickett, what are you doing?” He had asked, catching sight of the bowtruckle with its arms outstretched toward Niffler’s nose. “None of that. Along you go,” he ordered, ushering him along with the back of his hand. “He’s just sleeping.”

Newt, with the two of his creatures, had a book propped open with his right hand and read through the pages. It was something about creatures in North America, for his newfound relationship rendered him stationed in New York and he didn’t think Percy would like if he embarked on a trip away from him for too long. He couldn’t blame him; the anxiety the man developed after being held captive by Grindelwald for months on end was nearly crippling at times, and Newt was one of the only things that could make him feel like himself. Oftentimes, after the man would come home from a long day at the Congress, he’d crawl on top of Newt whether he was on the couch or the king-sized bed in their shared bedroom—after making sure there no creatures on top of him, of course—and cuddle into his chest with a big huff. This is when Newt would ask how his day was and the man would usually go into a tangent or two before seeing how Newt was listening intently and melt under his eyes, continuing to press a small kiss on his lips before taking back his place on his chest, usually falling asleep after about an hour if Newt couldn’t coax him back to consciousness with dinner.

This night wasn’t going to be any different, Newt thought as he glanced at the magical clock on the wall, checking the time to see if his boyfriend would be coming home soon. The time was in fact near that time, confirmed by the sound of the front door opening and closing. He nearly stood to greet Percy, but something told him something was off as he listened to the man’s footsteps against the hardwood floor. They were staggered. Immediately thinking that the man had been injured, for his line of work wasn’t exactly the safest, Newt scooted Niffler off his lap and Pickett buckled down into his hair as he shot off the couch and down the hallway, nearly running into the wall due to his speed but not daring to slow down. “Percy?” He called out, voice near-frantic as he came to the man who was struggling to take off his jacket. “Are you alright?”

Percy staggered as he turned too fast to greet him and the jacket that was half off his shoulders was forgotten as he darted forward, engulfing Newt in a hug so tight that he nearly had to gasp to draw in a breath. “I’m jus- fine, darlin’,” he lilted, and Newt figured out the man’s problem as his breath hit him, smelling of some acohol.

“Are you drunk?” He asked, not mad but not particularly joyful about the situation either.

“Drunk off you,” Percy slurred, sloppily kissing Newt’s neck. Newt turned red at his words, but he brushed them off and forced the man to take a step back.

“Okay. Let’s get you ready for bed. Does that sound good?” He offered, moving behind Percy so he could help the man get out of the jacket he trapped himself in.

“Only if you come with.” It was like dealing with a child, Newt humoured to himself as Percy tried to turn to him with his arms held together at his back by his jacket sleeves.

“Of course I’ll come with you, but you need to get out of your jacket first. Stop struggling.” With a grunt, Percy complied and he was finally able to get the jacket off him to hang it on one of the hooks just inside the front door. “So how did you get drunk?”

“One of my jackass Aurors spelled some firewhisky to taste like coffee.” As soon as his arms were free, he had turned and wrapped himself around Newt again, much like the way Dougal did when the demiguise hadn’t seen him for a while. He now understood why the man was so intoxicated; Percy ingested coffee at what had to be inhuman rates. He could only fear what this Auror had in store for himself tomorrow, because not only will he have to deal with Percival Graves, but he’d have to deal with an angry, hungover Percival Graves.

“Okay, Percy. I can’t get you to the bedroom with you wrapped around me like this.”

“Just carry meeeeeee,” he whined, rubbing his nose against Newt’s and looking at him pleadingly. He didn’t know what the man was getting at, because even though he was taller than him, Percy definitely weighed more.

“It’s not that I don’t want to carry you, Percy. I just don’t think I have the strength for that.”

“Are you calling me fat?” The funny situation mixed with the affronted expression on Percy’s face reduced him to a laughing mess and he slowly sank to the floor, bringing the man with him as he could feel his eyes well up from the exertion. “Newwwwwt,” Percy complained as he straddled Newt’s lap in the middle of the entrance hallway. If someone were to walk into the house right now, what a sight they would receive. Some of the workers at MACUSA had caught them in questionable positions in Percy’s office, but they’d always been able to play it off; only the Goldstein sisters and Jacob knew of their relationship, so for the whole department to find out they were dating and living together, it would be the gossip of the year.

“O-okay, sorry,” he was able to say once he caught his breath. Percy leaned forward and kissed the tears that still lingered on his cheeks before moving back to see him properly.

“You’re beautiful. Like... really. And freckly,” he spoke like someone appreciating a piece of artwork, which he definitely wasn’t.

“And you’re still drunk, so let’s go.” Newt grabbed Percy’s hands that were on his face and dragged him up to a standing position. He nearly leaned too far to his left, but Newt prevented him from falling with a hand around his shoulders. “Woah there. Steady.” It reminded him of the time he helped deliver a baby hippogriff with his mother and had to help the baby walk for the first time. Percy didn’t speak again, too focused on his footing to form words in his inebriated state.

When Newt finally had the older man on their bed and away from the many hazards the house could pose for someone drunk, he sighed with relief and moved to the base of Percy’s neck to untie the Windsor knot in the black tie so he could remove it from under his collar. The man looked nearly unconscious now, but he guessed this would make his job a little easier as he began to unbutton his white dress shirt from top to bottom, revealing the toned body underneath. Percival Graves was definitely not fat. “Percy, can you sit up for me for a moment.” The man just grunted and heaved himself up, allowing Newt to slide the shirt off his arms and leave his top completely bare. Face now dusted with a light pink, he pushed Percy back down before moving to the foot of the bed to take of the man’s black dress shoes so he wouldn’t be too uncomfortable, placing the shoes in their space within the closet on the left side of the bedroom. He pondered on whether he should take Percy’s pants off too, but that was a little too much for him to do and so decided against it, instead drawing the blankets out from underneath the man and crawling under the blankets with him.

“Nox,” he whispered, the magical lamp on the bedside table turning out and leaving the room dark. Closing his eyes, he relaxed in the silence before he felt the mattress shift from Percy moving.

“Newt?”

“Yes, Percy?” He answered as he felt something sift through his hair (probably Pickett moving to the little bed Newt fashioned for him out of a tea cosy on the table next to the lamp).

“Can you hold me? I don’t like the dark. It makes me think of when I was in...” The man didn’t need to finish his explanation because Newt had already moved over and drew him into his chest, kissing the top of his head.

“Of course.” As they drifted off, Niffler jumped up onto the bed and situated himself at the top of Percy’s head. “I will always be here to hold you. And so will Niffler.”

Already half gone, the man managed a chuckle before falling silent, a content smile blessing his features.

“I love you,” Newt spoke even though the man had fallen asleep, or so he thought before a quiet response was spoken into his chest that nearly made him cry.

“I love you, too.”

- BelovedBey 💖

#fantastic beasts and where to find them #newt scamander #newt #scamander #percival graves #percival #graves #oneshot #fic #gay #gay ships #gramander

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stereksecretsanta · 6 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @dontgostakinmyheart!

Read on AO3

*****

Always be there

“I knew it was a terrible idea to go in here. I fucking knew it”, he murmured to himself, a slight trace of tension in his voice. The young man also knew that he should better be quiet in a deeply haunted place like this. But the fear loosened his tongue in a poor attempt to try and deal with his running mind.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do it any longer.

Stiles stared down to his bluish fingertips and white knuckles, the firm grip which held the wand. His robe’s end was already wet and cold sank into his shoes and socks, making him chatter his teeth uncontrollably. Still Stiles didn’t want to stop making his way through the ankle-deep snow. Every few steps he saw drops of blood covering the pale white landscape that lay in the darkness before him, rendered by dark and rotten trees.

No, he had to fucking move on.

“Did it ever come to your mind that this injured dog-wolf-thing possibly went crazy and might attack you? No? Good. Why should it Stiles? Go in the middle of the night into the Forbidden Forest to hunt a wolf thing and tell nobody about it. Great idea .”

Sarcasm, his only defence besides some magical abilities, wouldn’t save him either. He was also skipping Potions right now, just to follow this dog - or wolf, whatever - which would certainly get him into trouble.

And yeah, Potions class. In the middle of the night .

Maybe the injury was caused by one of the hippogriffs , he wondered. But the hippogriffs looked unharmed. And why, Stiles added in his thoughts, why would a single wolf attack a herd of hippogriffs, which are way too strong for it? It made no sense. What if it attacks me out of pain? On the other hand it didn’t look like it could do anything anymore.

Stiles pushed his thoughts aside.

“Focus, Stiles. It’s going to be fine.” He knew that Mrs. Lovise, one of Hogwarts Gamekeepers, would take care of any harmed animal. Even a wild wolf… or maybe even a grim.

Well, maybe not a grim...

Suddenly, he heard a low crackle to his left and froze before he turned around slowly to face whatever he could possibly face. A loud, pounding noise hammered unsteadily in Stiles ears, but it didn’t come from outside because it was his own heart beat.

Blood drained, black fur and a pair of glowing wolf eyes stared directly at him. Stiles swallowed. He hadn’t thought about what he would do if the wolf was still able to move. It had looked so injured in the meadow, right beside the big lake. Stiles had seen this wolf vanishing into the forest, in an almost crouching manner. But this specimen, in an indescribable way, still looked majestic and more than able to kill him in one strike.

Shit.

“Hey little grumpy wolf.... I’m not here to hurt you, okay…?”

Stiles raised his wand to slowly cast the levitation spell – nope, he wouldn’t even try to carry a hundred fifty pound animal on his shoulders.

“Just let me-...”

But right before he could say the first syllable, the wind carried a deep growl towards him and sharp, white teeth appeared in the darkness. Within seconds the boy felt fear flood his mind, right before the wolf jumped.

“ Shit .”

__________________________________

Pain rushed through his head, filling his mind with terror. He couldn’t be dead, right? It was too painful for being a dead corpse. Stiles’ head felt like syrup, dull pain hammered down his spine and caused a low, painful moan.

Where am I? Fuck...

Whatever was underneath him, Stiles could recognize that it was too warm to be snow. It was too soft and cuddly, like a pillow. Weird.

“Wha… nh …?” Stiles whispered slowly, he felt so damn weak.

“Shht, shht. Easy. You are safe now”, a calm female voice filled his mind with peace, just for a moment, but...

The forest. The wolf! Stiles’ eyes opened rapidly. He slowly tried to sit up and moaned quietly, but he did recognize the room as his sight sharpened.

He was in the Hospital Wing, but how the hell did he end up here?

“Where’s the wolf, what-”, he was so confused. Stiles remembered the wolf attacking him before he passed out, but it didn’t explain why he was still alive? It didn’t make sense.

Slowly and cautiously Stiles began to move - It felt like a flashback to his first Quidditch lesson. When he got hit in his face by a quaffle, the pain was quite similar to what he felt now. He bent his fingers and his toes, he just wanted to make sure, that he wasn’t missing some parts of his body. But nothing of him was ripped out by sharp wolf teeth.

You lucky one.

“Mr. Stilinski, please lay down. Everything is fine. Mr. Hale brought you here and-...”

Stiles tuned the nurse’s voice out instantly, his thoughts exploding in surprise.

What did she say? Hale?

Derek Hale ?

It didn’t make any sense why he would have carried Stiles back. How did he even find me?

Derek Hale was a Gryffindor and a sixth year. He was famous - well, according to the hand full of students who always were around him. They were even calling themselves the Hale Pack – and he’d never looked at Stiles once.

Ok. Well, he actually did look at me one or two times in his entire school career, but his gazes always were darting and sharp, Stiles thought.

He felt dizzy and so his thoughts stumbled back and forward uncontrollably.

Stiles was a fifth year and he never thought about forcing himself through the wall of people that encompassed the Hale Pack. Okay, he’d often thought about it. But he kept those thoughts secret. Derek had everything he didn’t have. He looked like a greek god, was big and strong, he was the cool guy everyone wanted to be with.

He had everything.

Almost .

A pointy voice inside his head reminded him, of what Derek had lost a long time ago.

He was an orphan, he didn’t have parents like Stiles. Well, Stiles at least has his dad and… he would see him soon because of the christmas holidays.

Derek would stay here. Possibly all alone.

Instantly Stiles felt bad for his selfish thoughts and looked up to a worried face right above him. It was the nurse. Right, she was here, too.

“Where is he?” Stiles asked, furrowing his brows. The only answer he got back was a mug of fluid he couldn’t identify. It smelled sweet and spicy at the same time.

“Drink this. It’ll help to get you back on your feet”, she added gently.

Stiles sighed and emptied the drink hastily. “Where... is-...” he coughed. It tasted terribly! Did she want to burn off his tongue? For God’s sake! “...is he?” Stiles finished hoarsely.

In a sadistic way she looked pleased, due to the fact he'd almost died because of the drink. “Mr. Hale is lying just next to you. He is fine. And you, Mr. Stilinski, should thank him for what he did. The tebo could have killed you. Both of you!”

A tebo? He had heard about this boar-like creature, but a tebo, in Hogwarts ?

“What is a tebo doing here?” he couldn’t resist to ask. Tebos were dangerous, he could imagine that it might have found use in Care of Magical Creatures.

“It escaped its cage and Mr. Hale, who was around when it happened, rushed out to capture it…” Stiles heard a sigh.

“I’m so glad that both of you weren’t badly injured. The tebo is gone, no one knows where it went. But more important: What were you doing out there?”

“Ehh…” Damn it.

“I saw this wolf, and… I was on my way to potions, really. I just wanted to check on the new hippogriff foal. Did you see it? It’s a sensation to breed hippogriffs in captivity successfully. Well... When I saw the injured wolf, I had to follow it. I thought, maybe it was harmed by the tebo…? I couldn’t ignore this…. So… Umm… Yeah. I should look for my saviour now. I have to thank him, right? So… ehm.”

He gesticulated excessively with his hands before he started cautiously to stand up. Stiles avoided the nurse’s gaze and hoped that he was owing her no more explanation.

The boy sneaked silently to the bed next to his own.

Derek seemed as if he was sleeping. Two long scratches were marking his cheek and a thicker scratch ran down his throat. He looked terrible, but he wasn’t in critical condition.

And how did he save me? What is with the wolf? Was that Derek?

Stiles didn't understand, his mind began circling unsteadily around itself. Underneath Derek’s terrible appearance, an indescribable softness covered his face. Stiles couldn’t even tell why he noticed that.

“Was that you?” Stiles began to speak in a low voice.

On one hand he didn't want to wake him up, on the other hand… He had to know.

“I mean”, he continued slowly. “The wolf in the forest.” He had no other explanation for what had happened. If Derek really was the wolf he had seen…

A memory struck Stiles’ mind and he gasped for air.

“A wolf saved me in the forest from freezing when I was a child”, he started to tell him the story from a time when everything was bright and fine.

“That... was also you, wasn’t it?”

He recognized this pair of bright golden wolf eyes, their stare. But if Derek was not the wolf, he’d made a total fool out of himself again. But hey, it was a familiar feeling.

A long time ago he had been a young boy, lost in a forest. Not the Forbidden Forest, but it was winter and only a few days before christmas. He hadn't been able to find his way back, and had almost frozen to death until a big, black wolf showed up and led him back to civilization.

He’d never forget that.

“Idiot”, a raw voice broke through the silence and Stiles froze.

Shit. Did Derek hear everything the Slytherin had said?

“What?” Stiles repeated raising his eyebrows. He suddenly felt insecure about this. He never really talked to Derek before.

“Wandering alone into forests every time… What the hell was your business out there?” Derek snorted and Stiles’ eyebrows rose further upon his forehead.

“Are you telling me that you were worried about me?” He was kidding, right?

But the glint in his bright green eyes told Stiles in a silent manner, that Derek was fucking serious. He also didn’t answer him, and with that, he confirmed Stiles’ suspicion.

“I just wanted to help the injured wolf”, Stiles repeated quietly after a while. He didn’t know that the wolf was also Derek fucking Hale, but even if that had been the case, for him it didn’t matter… The Slytherin kept this thought for himself.

There was complete silence for one or two minutes.

“Thank you. For… well. Saving me. You’re going to be okay soon, right?”

Silence again, but then Derek nodded slightly and Stiles wondered what his facial expression could possibly mean. He looked somehow… lonely.

Where is his pack? Stiles wondered and sat down on a chair next to the bed, his legs felt still weak. He wanted to accompany him. By this time all other students were already back at home to celebrate the holidays. Scott, Stiles’ best friend, included.

And so time went on, silent but not uneasy or awkward.

Stiles gaze wandered through the room. Christmas decor was floating in the air, even some of those moving portrait figures were wearing Christmas clothes.

What a picture - ha, what a pun …

“Why did you save me? I mean...”, Stiles slowly began to talk.

“It’s my fault. I didn’t expect to be attacked, it was stupid to go into the Forbidden-...”

“Shut up, Stiles”, Derek cut him off. It seemed that he wasn’t the most patient guy in the world.

“Hey”, he began, but a few seconds later he realized that Derek had called him by his name.

“Why do you even know my name?” Stiles added after a while, sceptical and shoving a chocolate frog - found a few minutes ago, abandoned in its package and in an empty bed next to Derek’s - in his mouth.

“Mh, these are so good.” He saw Derek's expression of distaste, guessing he didn’t like them.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Disgusting.”

“Well, grumpy wolf, I asked you a question. And I will not stop talking until you answer me”, Stiles smirked and a low, dull croak came from inside his mouth. It was the chocolate frog.

“Our mothers were friends.”

Silence.

“She wanted me to watch over you”, Derek added.

“What?” He didn’t say more than that. Stiles was speechless. His mother knew Derek’s mother? They were friends? Inside his chest, Stiles’ felt an edgy but warm tingle. He wanted to know more about their friendship. He definitely would ask Derek about it soon.

“You heard me,” he remained silent a moment, “but I don’t do this just because she wanted me to.”

Stiles wondered what that could possibly mean and furrowed his brows. “Why else would you unless… you… actually like me?”

Derek frowned and Stiles closed his mouth at this sight to prevent himself from babbling or saying anything more - at least for now. Except… his mind was racing again and he couldn’t be quiet.

“Not that it matters in any way. Um. I just… I thought you hated me, okay?”

He saw how Derek furrowed his brows and how his eyes dared him to go on.

“Yeah. Gazing at me like that… that's why.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“What? Why? That’s not really gentle either, ok? Don’t be such a sourwolf. And yeah, I know that you were the wolf in the forest. And you know what? It didn’t matter if I knew it at the time or not, I’d have followed you anyway.”

Stiles took a deep breath, he wasn’t finished yet, but...

“Shut up.”

Again his lips shut together and heated, unspoken words turned his face into a pout.

The silence that followed his outburst was only disturbed by Derek, sighing quietly.

“I don’t hate you.”

#dontgostakinmyheart #stereksanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

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meganhodgkinsonfalmouth · 4 years

Text

Self-Evaluation.

The intention for my current work was to create a large life-size sculpture made from plaster. It would take the form of a leopard. The catlike figure, rendered in patterns resembling bacteria cells that looked as though it was made from white coral. It was full of holes meaning it had none of the distinctive features or details associated with big cats, such as eyes, teeth and fur. I planned for the leopard to be gazing down from an elevated position at a box, similar in size and proportion to the animal itself. The box would be made from plywood and its exterior would have been completely white, to match the white space of the room this work would be situated in. I wanted my audience to discover a slit in the box where they could view its interior. This would display an explosion of colour and life. I hoped for the inside of the box to look like a mystical utopia of coral-like forms crawling around the insides and spreading like bacteria. My reference for this work is the magical forest land from James Cameron’s (2009) movie ‘Avatar’. My concept was to breakdown current stereotypical ideas and prejudices of bacteria by glamorising their gruesome form into something regal. This is why I chose a leopard. Mental health is a very important subject to me. I chose a white box to demonstrate the idea that we never really know what's going on inside someone else. We all have our own individual struggles. I wanted to propose the idea that beauty comes from within and that the exterior does not define everything there is to know about a person. I also have a personal connection to making a statuesque mythical creature. One of my vivid significant memories of my late father is that he loved his sandstone gargoyles in the garden and I wanted to recreate these weathered beings as a tribute to him on a personal level to make him proud. A leopard is also covered in camouflage and this is what my father, who was a fisherman, used to wear all the time. A leopard is known as a symbol for trusting your instincts to lead you in the correct direction. I wanted my creation to be inviting and an interactive experience. People would be invited to stroke, rub and touch the work. It would be a like a massage having the texture of a shell.

This term, I made complete use of the mold making facilities I wanted to try out all sorts of mediums to create weird and wonderful abstract forms that resembled bacteria. I explored this theme by making oddly textured blobs with an amorphous shape and I added beauty to them with crazy colour combinations (the more outrageous the better). I created large screen prints of cells. The images were made from reacting chemicals and capturing the reactions and bubbles on a sheet of paper. The outcome looked like an image from a microscope. I also made three-dimensional resin crystals that looked like clear glass bacteria that you could hold in your hands. One of my ideas that I never got to complete was to make my bacteria forms into squeezy stress balls that were filled with jellied balls consisting of different dimensions of spheres to look like a miniature universe in your hands. I wanted to play around with perspective and make people's minds wonder to places they have not before. I experimented a lot with texture and colour, my two main factors to making my work. I experimented as much as possible from modelling clay around recycled objects to look as if bacteria were growing into the material to creating the giant leopard structure from plaster, metal and wood. Before university shut down, I had many works in progress left in the workshops that I was unable to access. Therefore, I had to create work that I was able to make at home. I made what I would have created in the workshops which consisted of similar sculptures but with different materials. I couldn’t make more resin crystals so I created identical ones out of foam, PVA glue and acrylic paint.

Throughout the project, I have been investigating ideas to experiment with how our brains react to visual stimuli. I wanted my work to be playful and to have a positive atmosphere for the viewer, where they could escape real life momentarily. I began this year producing explosive, abstract paintings, before then choosing to focus more on the creation of my 3D blobs. From there, I further developed my work by beginning to sculpt pieces that increasingly took on the forms of real animals. My final piece idea stemmed from playing around with clay, creating repetitive textures on its surface that could be used to produce a tactile experience. The shapes I made were to have no identity and one had a tail, inspiring me to look at animals and creatures as well as natural forms, such as shells. I decided to challenge myself and I knew I wanted to have a stand out sculpture for my degree show. I wanted something big and powerful, this was a huge risk and I'd have to spend as much time in the workshops as was available, but I knew this is what I wanted to do. I got past the hardest stage, constructing the armature of the body, taking the precise measurements of its skeleton and positioning it so that it would be stable on its own. I created a few practice pieces. One of these was made from clay that, when dried, caused the sculpture to lean forwards. Meanwhile, white clay would be too expensive, so plaster became my best option. This was more of a challenge than a normal sculpture because it had to have a sturdy skeleton as the plaster would become heavy very quickly. However, I could not use too much paper to form lightweight padding around the animal's skeletal frame. This was on account of the deep holes I would have to drill into it, which would risk exposing the leopard’s paper padding if it came too close to the surface. Furthermore, the structure would have to be strong enough to withstand a heavy mass on top of it and not break, crack or be pulled down with gravity. I got to the point of transporting it home, however, I wasn’t able to complete it at home with no access to a ventilator or tools such as sanders and drills or space to work in.

Ever since I found Dan Lam I have fallen in love with her work. She is what first inspired me to create a piece of work that confuses the viewer as it exhibits both contradictory qualities of beauty and grotesqueness, on account of its theme being the glamorisation of bacteria. She creates this concept by making slime-like sculptures, adding feminine and iridescent colours which render the sculpture no longer repulsive but captivating. Lam also makes alien creatures that have no identity and encourages viewers to make their own mind up on what they are viewing. Her work is what inspired me to create mythical dream-like sculptures. After my dissertation on Yayoi Kusama I became very fascinated with her obsessive practice that utilised polka dots which made me think how everything in the world is made up of something smaller, like bacteria cells. She creates work simply from dots taking over a space, oozing and crawling with repeated circles in abundance. Kusuma inspired my admiration for a simple shape and how it can be made to transform into a reoccurring pattern, making something simple become complex.

The Rorschach test has been a big influence on my artwork as it encourages a viewer to use their imagination when looking at the art presented to them. The test is dependent on the audience participating, who are free to interpret any image in any way they want. It does not purposefully present literal or realistic imagery, which makes it intriguing to look at. This is the reaction I want for my own artwork. Abstraction is a distinctive feature of my work. I investigate this, by looking into the forms of bacteria that produce a dreamlike world. Bacteria links to both death and life which are part of an unending cycle. I wanted my viewer to experience something surreal. I give bacteria an enchanting vibe to look at death in a light-hearted way. The super bright colours of my work are important because, after looking at the effects of colour on the human mind, I want my work to be explosive and full of life, on account of the importance of aesthetics bringing out positive changes in mood.

To keep myself on track, I made a timeline so I knew how long I had left until the deadline. There were only so many hours the workshops would be open for, so I could only work limited hours with the technicians’ support and facilities. I planned each week with realistic expectations of my final piece progression, mapping what I could get done. As a whole, the leopard would take at least a month to create. This plan was going to be challenging but I knew that everything was going to be finished for the exhibition. I made sure I was in university every day and this represented not only a piece of artwork, this was more to me, it was a tribute to my father. I wanted to produce the very best outcome I could. When us students were sent home to finish our degrees in isolation, I made up a small studio space with my housemates. I had group critiques with the two third year illustration students I was living with in lockdown. Hearing someone else's opinion on my work helped me to better understand how I could improve it and, as students, we motivated each other to treat the house studio as a workspace.

A lot of my work was locked away in the studio due to COVID-19. I had six finished molds of sea life inspired sculptures in the casting workshop, ready for me to fill them with resin, creating crystal bacteria. I was unable to finish my work as it was impossible without the facilities. If circumstances were different and there wasn’t a pandemic, I would have been able to finish my 80cm plaster leopard and have a box filled with a precious crystal cave inside. It would have been a lot more immersive due to its large size. I wanted my work to be interactive and the viewers reaction to be part of it. I intended for it to be a stand out piece and for it to bring joy to the families that would see it.

In the future I plan to focus on making and selling animal-like sculptures. I am also interested in prop making for film sets and technical roles including art fabrication. I am open to anything and excited as to where the next part of my journey will take me as a graduate.

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adventuresinlibraries · 4 years

Text

Baby Monkey, Private Eye

Baby Monkey Private Eye

Written by: David Serlin

Illustrated by: Brian Selznick

Scholastic Press, New York, NY

2018

Lexile Score: 210

Reading Level Grade: 1.5

Guided Reading Level: F

It's a picture book! It’s a graphic novel, It's a chapter book! It’s a mystery book, It’s an easy reader!

WAIT!

It’s all of the above!

This genre-smushing spectacular should be pictured in the dictionary if “sophistacute” ever becomes a word.

It arrived in the mail, and the envelope thudded onto the table with all the heft of a novel. I opened it and withdrew a tiny hardcover. And Baby Monkey waved at me from the cover, holding a magnifying glass bigger than it is.

Baby Monkey has big wide eyes and looks as cute as most baby monkeys do. My first surprise was how head over heels I could fall for a hand-drawn creature. Selznick uses his characteristic detailed pencil drawing to carefully shade in the monkey on the cover. The tiny strokes that make up its fur render an incredible level of complexity to the creature. Red letters announce the title and contrast with the cute big-eared main character. I opened the book, intrigued.

From the heft of the novel I expected a chapter book and found my second surprise.

The font is enormous.

It stands in stark, easily discernable contrast, black letters on a blank white page. The words are always on their own, never obscured by the illustrations. This effective use of white space makes it easier for young eyes to track the letters and young minds to grasp the meaning of the words.

The first word is WAIT!

I held my breath.

Then the heading for the prologue appeared,

“Who is Baby Monkey?

The prologue asks and answers that question using only 16 words.

In this way, the book successfully fulfills the requirement of an early reader and introduces the main character at the very beginning. Between the cover art and the introductory information, we know quickly that Baby Monkey is the heartbeat of this mighty book.

After the prologue is the table of contents. The reader can see there are five chapters, a key, an index, and a bibliography.

The font on the table of contents subtly reminded me of the font in other easy readers, most notably, Frog and Toad. Its smaller size contrasted with the giant letters in the prologue. This makes the tiny table of contents easy to breeze through and drives more page turns Before a young reader has time to get intimidated they flip the page, looking for our hero. And, Selznick and Serlin get down to business.

Each chapter follows a formula. The mystery is introduced. Baby Monkey offers to help. Baby Monkey looks for clues. Baby Monkey writes notes. Baby Monkey eats a snack. Baby Monkey puts on pants (this part is difficult and pretty silly.) and Baby Monkey solves the case! Towards the end of the book, Baby Monkey gets tired and needs a nap.

The text in this easy reader is simple and repetitive. Suited to ages 4-6 the large font and fomulaic plot may be simple but the illustrations keep will keep readers entertained. It carries a predictable rhythm from one chapter to the next and children will be thrilled to fly through the 191 pages in this book. (Have I told you about how much I love chapter books that inspire confidence in readers and help transition them to longer stories? No? Well, consider this your notification.) This is in some ways a transitional chapter book because of its length even though the text is still very simple.

The final chapter has Baby Monkey searching for a baby. This high-stress scenario is different from most of the other cases Baby Monkey has worked but has a surprise ending reminiscent of other books young readers may have loved.

This book does what Brian Selznick did best in Hugo Cabret. It transcends its genre with every stroke and shadow of the detailed and masterful illustrations.

The illustrations provide really interesting clues to the action. A careful reader might notice that the pictures of Baby Monkey’s office change to foreshadow the client who needs private eye services. The first client is an opera star and the pictures on the wall are all opera-themed.

The next client, a pizza chef, walks into an office festooned with pictures of the “Mona Lisa”, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, a map of Italy, and a movie poster for “The Italian Job.”

Any guess as to the third client?

This device encourages analytical thinking and close “reading” of the pictures, a great skill for beginning readers to practice. The key at the end offers the titles and metadata for the paintings, sculptures, and photographs decorating the room. Also, in each office photo, right before the client enters, Baby Monkey is reading. These books are listed in the bibliography and the author’s names are a hoot.

Now, I have heard the book described as a graphic novel. I don’t know if it completely fits because the illustrations are not in panels. But the entire story is told primarily through the drawings. So, in this case, it is an illustrated novel. Each time the thief is caught Baby Monkey identifies them through a speech bubble, a graphic novel convention, and the illustration is the only clue to their identity.

Another aspect of Baby Monkey Private Eye that was captivating was Selznick’s development of suspense to encourage the reader to keep turning pages. He consistently used the point of view of the characters and their expressions to point the reader toward the material on the next page. Baby Monkey and the clients are often looking of leaning toward the page turn. In the middle of each chapter, before the antagonist is revealed, Selznick draws a trail, of footprints heading off the page toward the end of the book. This is just one example of the way the image can push the reader while providing key information at the same time.

Baby Monkey is a character children can empathize with. I mean, not much is cuter than a baby monkey. In addition, Baby Monkey’s gender is generic. It is always “Baby Monkey” and never “he” or “she” so all children can secretly picture themselves in Baby Monkey’s story.

It was hard to find read-a-likes for Baby Monkey. This book was so very unique. But I found a few tie ins: similar subjects, similar illustrations, and a genre spin-off.

An obvious pick was the Babymouse series.

Babymouse #1 Queen of the World

Jennifer & Matthew Holm

December 2005

Random House Books for Young Readers

Ages 7-10

Lexile Level- GN (Graphic Novel) 470L

Babymouse is a fun little series for kids who like cute creatures. In this book, Babymouse wants to attend the slumber party of the super-popular queen bee, (um,, excuse me, queen mouse) Felicia Furry Paws. Babymouse must negotiate her way out of a movie marathon with her best friend, Wilson. This fast-paced little book is funny and sweet and full of literary allusions. The text is tiny so readers who are just beginning might have a little trouble. But this is a great book to read alongside a guide. And, Babymouse, with her wild imagination and even wilder whiskers, is sure to inspire a giggle in anyone who reads along.

Night of the Gargoyles

Written by Eve Bunting

And illustrated by David Wiesner

Clarion Books,

1999

Lexile Measure 910

This creepy book about gargoyles will satisfy older children who enjoyed the pictures in Baby Monkey but who are looking for content that is more mature. The illustrations of the highly detailed creatures who come to life have some of the qualities of Selznick’s images and do a lot with tone, shading, and contrast. So much can be done with a pencil, and the gorgeous descriptive language used in this book only adds to its complexity. This book is also a lot in common with Where the Wild Things Are by Sendak.

Taking the theme of mysteries a little farther you could point younger readers at

Enigma- A Magical Mystery

By: Graeme Base

Abrams Books for Young Readers; 1st edition

September 2008

Grandpa Badger is a magician but his props and bunny have gone missing. Kids who liked Baby Monkey will appreciate the signature style that can belong to no one but Base. The pictures have lots of things to find and the busy pages and extensive picture puzzles will keep kids busy until the thief is caught.

And, if your kids just want to monkey around, there is always

Grumpy Monkey

By Suzanne and Max Lange

Random House Books for Young Readers

2018

The title character in this New York Times bestselling book explores why he is feeling grumpy. The other characters in the jungle try and help him cheer up by systematically working through solutions and reasons that Jim might be cross.

Happy Reading!

#picture-book easy reader

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lokifiction · 7 years

Text

Run to Me, Runaway

A life on the run can make you do the most mindless things for a way out.

Eighteen-year-old Camryn had been fleeing from faceless family enemies for five years, torn between the actions of escape and gaining vengeance for the abduction and possible murder of her mother and father. In her travels, she happens to run into Loki, who promises her everything she’s ever desired and more, so long as she serves him in his questionable cause of saving the world through global domination. Upon her hesitant agreement, they begin to realize that their fates are entwined in every way possible, and become closer than they had ever intended.

Category: Fanfic

Rating: Mature

Notes/Warnings: No warnings for this chapter. Believe it or not, the major conflict of this fanfic has not yet been introduced in previous chapters, but it is at the end of this one, so strap in for the real ride, folks!

Masterlist

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, the steady thump of Loki’s heartbeat greeted me from slumber, so comforting that it almost lulled me back to sleep. With a broad grin, I propped myself up on my elbow and studied his sleeping face. He looked much different than in waking hours; more peaceful, features that were usually pragmatically held softened into complete relaxation, his breathing soft and deep. It was in his sleep I got a glimpse of what he might have looked like as a worriless child, before his corruptions. In cherishing the image, I couldn’t resist leaning down and pressing a kiss to each of his closed eyelids, and, as I predicted, they fluttered open.

“Good morning, love,” he greeted in a thick, husky tone, almost appearing confused as he slowly made his way into a sitting position. His waking state was perhaps the most innocent I had ever seen from him.

“Morning, darling.” I placed a quick peck on his lips. “How did you sleep?”

“Better than I have in a long while.” Loki tucked stray strands of my hair behind my ear. “And yourself?”

“Very well, thank you,” I replied almost playfully.

In my current position, my head propped up on my elbow, the covers falling from my shoulders, I became very aware I was naked, and the cool air filtering in from the open window chilled my exposed skin. Shivering a bit, I rolled out of the bed and crossed over to the wardrobe, pulling on an undershirt of Loki’s and a sheer emerald dressing gown with black fur cuffs.

“Are you sore?” Loki inquired as I tied the velvet belt, noticing my slightly halting gait.

“A bit, but I’ve had worse,” I replied, tumbling back down into my previous spot while Loki harrumphed as if disappointed.

“What was that for?” I exclaimed.

“I wanted to render you utterly unable to walk.” In a swift motion, he had me flat on my back and hovered over me. “Why don’t I fix my mistake, hm?”

“Last night you were all about being gentle, and now you want to hurt me?” I joked, playacting at some tears. “How could you be so cruel to me?”

“We’ll see just how far my cruelty can go when I start teasing,” he assured, but when the tall clock in the room began to chime out nine ‘o’ clock, he groaned and rolled off me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, sitting back up.

“Today’s a big day. I would love to stay here in this bed with you for hours, but we have to get going.”

“What’s the big event?” I waggled my eyebrows coyly. “Since we’ve already done it the traditional way, are we going to go to the dining hall and rut in front of the servants?”

“If I knew having sex with you would make you so cheeky, I would have done it much sooner,” Loki chuckled, reaching around and squeezing my backside.

“I’m sure you would have.” I giggled. “But really, why is today such a big day?”

“It’s the day we’re going to stage Odin’s death,” he replied, tone darkening to one of solemnity.

“Well that dampens the mood.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I had planned to do it soon, but that vendor’s comment yesterday made me want to prove to the people of Asgard that I will not be the wretched king they think I’m going to become.” Loki sucked in a breath. “I sent out a decree for a public announcement at four ‘o’ clock, open to every citizen that wishes to attend. At that hour, you and I, along with a regiment of guards, will emerge on the balcony overlooking the most public courtyard of the palace, and announce that the man is dead. Shortly afterward we will host his funeral, burning a false body I will produce, then attend the feast honoring his name, a much more exclusive affair. I will likely get chided for having the funeral so soon with such hasty preparations, but I have a plan for an excuse that’s not ‘I wanted to do away with this situation as quickly as possible’.”

I swallowed, contemplating the small timeline from when Loki first took Odin captive to now.

“This is all happening so fast,” I whispered.

“It will slow down soon, I promise. Then we can fully enjoy ourselves.” Loki cupped my cheek before rising from the bed, his armor materializing onto his previously naked body. “Now, I must go deliver the news to the old man.”

***

“Loki, is that you?” I called out as I heard two doors open and shut, preceding the sound of footsteps into the bedchamber. When he answered in the affirmative, I stepped out of the wardrobe and away from the full-length mirror, presenting myself to him.

“Am I dressed appropriately?”

I had selected an unadorned black velvet gown with a moderate train, the straight neckline resting above my collarbones and the long sleeves coming to a point just below my knuckles. On top of the modest updo of my hair I wore the circlet, and over that I draped a sheer black veil that brushed the floor both in front of and behind me.

“Very appropriate,” he appraised. “I never thought I’d find a mourning habit becoming.”

“You never thought a lot of things before you met me,” I reminded with a cheeky wink, then cast a glance over at the clock. “It’s almost time. I know for a fact the guards have gathered the citizens, because I’ve been able to hear them since this morning, all crowding in and clamoring over the situation.”

“Well, I suppose we shouldn’t delay any longer.” Loki, already seeming worn out by the day’s events, draped a luscious black fur over his armor. “The sooner we get on with things, the sooner we get these unwanted guests away from the palace.”

“I just have one more question before we go,” I said just as we were about to cross the threshold of our chambers. Loki looked at me expectantly, and I continued. “The people have never seen me before; they have no idea who I am. Surely they’ll be curious to know who that woman standing awfully close to the king is. Do they know I’m Midgardian?”

“My guess is that, for today, at least, people will be so preoccupied with Odin that they’ll hardly notice you. However, I know your presence will draw attention when people reflect on the day’s events. If anybody asks, I’ll tell them that you’re my courtesan, a duchess from Niflheim. We’re quite disconnected with that realm, yet they have a feudal system similar to ours, so the story should be plausible.”

I cocked an eyebrow to lighten the mood. “Isn’t ‘courtesan’ a polite term for a prostitute or paramour?”

“Well, after last night, I suppose you are my paramour.” To my relief, Loki played along. “I’ll make sure it’s understood that our relationship is very proper, and not at all scandalous.”

“Thank you very much. I’d hate to be ostracized before I was even really introduced into society.”

“Well, being connected to me, you might be ostracized regardless.”

I opened my mouth for a reproach, but a guard approached the scene, looking at the two of us expectantly. Loki hardened back up immediately. Almost robotically, he extended his arm for me to take and led me to the complete opposite side of the palace, marching down several flights of stairs before we emerged on a balcony, which jutted out considerably far from the building and hung quite low over a courtyard just outside of the palace gates. The balcony was enclosed by a sturdy gold dome that parted as Loki and I began to walk towards the railing, a hush falling over the crowd as our forms were revealed. I wanted to look out and observe every one of their faces to see what more of the non-royal life of Asgard was like, but I forced myself to avert my eyes to the ground, assuming that it would be more appropriate for announcing the death of a king, no matter how much I despised that king.

“The Allfather is dead,” Loki called out in a sonorous and solemn tone. A wave of whispers washed over the space that soon escalated into a cacophony of shouts, wails, and thousands of voices all speaking at once, causing Loki to have to make a big effort to talk over the din.

“He was lost to the illness that has plagued him for many months now,” he continued, hair blowing back behind him in the cold breeze that snapped almost painfully at my cheeks, making him appear more regal than ever. “His funeral, a celebration of his well-lived life, will be held tonight.”

Once he finished speaking, Loki observed the crowd, lip eventually curling upwards in distaste at the melodramatic reaction from the people, who were showing fierce dedication to a despicable man. I felt the same thing Loki did, yet was less adept at concealing it, for I gnawed on my lips, clutched so tightly at my skirts that I nearly ripped them, and visibly shook in anger. Loki turned his body to shield me from the view of the crowd, wrapping his arm around my waist and speaking with his lips against my temple.

“Come. There’s no further reason for us to be out here.”

He turned and led us back inside, the dome coming down in equal time with our exit from the balcony, and when we entered the palace, he slammed the door behind him so hard it rattled. With gritted teeth, he hurried us back up to our bedroom and left me to plop down on the bed, absentmindedly passing me a handkerchief and beginning to pace along our parlor.

“Just need to tune it out for now,” he whispered shakily, more to himself than to me. “They’ll see soon enough. They’ll all see.”

***

When the time for the funeral ceremony arrived, the common citizens migrated to a prepared spot by the sea overlooking a waterfall that filtered into nothingness, the nobility following in horse-drawn carriages. In mine and Loki’s, I sat with one hand intertwined in his and the other cupping my chin, my elbow resting on the sill of the opened window. Appropriately, it was an excessively cloudy night, so I could not even have the enjoyment of observing the beautiful night sky that Asgard had, displaying millions of other stars, planets, moons, and galaxies, giving one a true estimation of the vastness of the universe.

When we arrived at the location, Loki and I took our places towards the side of a slightly raised section of ground at the fore of the group. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, who had agreed to perform the ceremony in place of Loki, stood in the center. I gripped Loki’s hand under my black muff, and the two of us watched emotionlessly as the pyre carrying the decoy of Odin’s body was burned and cast into the void. Once the short ceremony was over, a few citizens, some weeping and some stoic, approached us to pay their respects before returning to their homes, and the nobility began to file back towards their carriages to return to the palace for the feast.

The dinner was a heartier environment, and the hall was filled with loud voices and laughter. As the guests ate and exchanged glamorous stories about Odin, Loki sat at the head of the table and I at his right hand, both of us remaining completely silent, staring at either our food or each other, communicating our disgust through tired facial expressions.

Praying for the event to be over soon, throughout the feast I only gulped down two goblets of wine and picked at a dinner roll that had long since gone cold. The entire day, I had felt a bit lightheaded and strangely hot, and the feelings only increased as the night went on. I wanted to stay and support Loki in his struggle, but when I reached the point where I couldn’t see straight and was swaying in my seat, I knew I needed to go lay down. I whispered a brief explanation of the situation in Loki’s ear, and he sent me off with a kiss to the hand and the promise of joining me soon. I sluggishly stood and dragged my feet out of the dining hall, utterly unnoticed by the nostalgic crowd.

The reason for the sudden bout of sickness worried and eluded me as I trudged to our apartments, but I stopped caring when I entered the bedchamber, my mind occupied with only the thought of changing out of my gown and collapsing onto the bed, laying there in a half-awake state without even getting under the blankets.

Loki returned from the feast just as I was drifting off to sleep, the sound of his exhausted sigh preceding his entrance. He tutted a bit at my situation, picking me up and placing me in a more comfortable position before draping the covers over my body and sliding into bed behind me, kissing the crown of my head and wrapping his arm around my waist.

“It’s finally over,” he murmured against my ear, and with that, I sank into the curves of his body and fell asleep instantly.

That night, when I dreamt, it wasn’t of Frigga.

Instead, an enormous, violet-skinned man appeared before me, with a menacing grin and a gravelly voice.

“Remember me?” he sneered, his sadistic chuckle rumbling throughout the room. “My name is Thanos. You may not have met me directly, but I’m the one you’ve spent the past five years running from. You were never of much interest to me, and the ruining of your life was a simple yet necessary task, so I practically forgot about you. However, you’ve become of interest to me once again, and you’re just in the right place for me to snatch you This is an opportunity I simply can’t pass up.”

Images suddenly began to flash behind my eyelids rapidly, too fast to make out any bit of what they displayed, the montage blending into a terrifying mess of black and blue and white. The man’s cruel, lifeless laugh echoed in my ears, sending me into a fit of trembling and causing me to smash my hands over my ears and press as hard as my body would allow, and I began to shake my head with crazed fervor, squinting my eyes shut in an attempt to stop the flashing that absolutely refused to slow down.

I woke up screaming.

Next Chapter

#loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki laufeyson

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dinosrpg · 7 years

Text

Nerevarine: The Reprise - Chapter Eight

With a hot meal in their guts and ample supplies in their packs, Sheev-La and Sevana made their way toward Bleak Falls Barrow, a mountaintop tomb looming over the village of Riverwood. The Argonian couldn't help but wonder why anyone would settle with such an imposing piece of architecture so close by, but she supposed the village's namesake was profitable enough to live off of for generations.

The midday sun warmed the furs Sheev-La had lined her armor with, helping her recover more of her energy especially as her lunch settled in her belly. Warm in every sense for the first time since she'd come to this place, the Argonian walked with a graceful, powerful stride. Sevana couldn't help but admire both the shape and movement of her companion's hips and thighs, not even the fur-lined armor able to hide Sheev-La's mastered gait and fitness.

As they trekked up the mountain path, the evergreen mountainside slowly turned to gray and white, to stone and snow. The road seemed abandoned, for which Sheev-La was thankful as her careful eye kept watch.

"Now that we're back on the road," Sevana started, casually perusing an instructional spell tome she'd purchased in town, "maybe we can talk about more positive things. Like... what did you do before arriving in Morrowind?" Sheev-La laughed, her breath pillowing forth in a puff of vapor.

"Gods, I was a gutter-snake."

"You? A troublemaker? No," Sevana teased, her heavy cloak billowing slightly with a stiff, chilling breeze.

"Oh, yes. I was brought to Vvardenfell on a prison ship. Before then, I was doing time in the Imperial City Prison."

"What'd you do?"

"I was a second-story woman. 'Acrobat' was my official, not-criminal title, but I hardly ever used that. Being an orphan and a problem hatchling, I tended to lean away from people. Made each encounter with the guards a puzzle to solve, just like figuring out how to get into a house to nick valuables." Sevana smiled and laughed both in shock and amusement; the notion that such a hero had once been a struggling thief was something straight out of fiction.

"Hard to believe you were a common burglar before you became a historical figure."

"Oh, I was no common burglar. Before I got used to boots, I could hang from roof tiles by foot and pick the lock of a window upside down. I was an enigma until someone caught me in the act."

"A shame it's so cold here."

"Maybe I'll get used to it here. I plan on settling down in Whiterun when I have the money to get a house, since it's warm and seems economically lively. Well, when dragons aren't about, at least."

"I would hope so. But while we're on the topic of your past, what did you do before you jumped into the House politics? You came out of nowhere, it seems."

"Honestly... I was captivated by the land. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep doing what I did in Cyrodiil there, since the architecture was so drastically different. I mean, even if I tried, it would've taken weeks, maybe months to get it right. With barely two coins to rub together, I had to learn how to survive on my own. An outlander, one of the 'slave' races of the time, a former criminal... I didn't have anyone to count on but myself. So, I spent a long time traveling the island, learning its ebb and flow firsthand. I'd never embraced nature so wholly before."

"Sounds like you fell in love with Vvardenfell."

"I did. I didn't realize it until much later, but it had always been home to me. Even though I kept to the outskirts, I ventured into the cities and towns with regularity to peddle my spoils. And, as cold toward me as the Dunmer were, I came to admire them. I sympathized with their struggles. And then... I learned about what was really happening at the heart of it all."

"What changed once you learned about the prophecies?"

"Everything. I started paying attention. I started seeing the Blight's impact. And while I grew as a person, Morrowind was growing weaker. I was no healer, but I did what I could to help those who could offer relief. I spent weeks gathering ash salts and scrib jelly to donate to the Temple."

"How did you learn about the prophecies? From the Ashlanders?"

"That... is a long story. One that will have to wait, it seems," Sheev-La remarked with a frown, lowering her voice. Nodding toward the slowly-approaching barrow, the Argonian slowed her pace and widened her stance, her keen, clouded eye spotting movement. "I see three. An archer, a fur-wearer with a big axe, and one with a sword and shield." Sevana nodded, putting away her tome for later.

"Something tells me they're not friendly," the Dunmer mused, gathering a swirling mass of power in her clenched fist. As though on cue, the archer shouted to their companions, nocking an arrow to launch at the pair of intruders.

Sheev-La didn't budge, or so Sevana thought until she looked to her side to see that the Argonian had taken cover behind a rock ahead, unsheathing a throwing knife from her bandolier. How had she moved like that?

That line of inquiry didn't last long as Sevana refocused herself, channeling her power into a ball of liquid between her hands. With the berserker and warrior making their way down a set of stairs heading straight for them, the Dunmer funneled the liquid toward them, forming a huge, deadly spear of pure ice. It flew straight and true with a frightening speed and purpose, anchoring the berserker to the ground by way of his leg. Though resistant to the icy spear's chilling nature, the Nord that had fallen victim to it still howled in agony, blood pouring from his leg with every unintended motion.

The warrior, startled by her companion's injury, didn't even get a chance as a sliver of leather-corded steel buried itself in her neck. She slumped, dropping her shield and sword before succumbing to the darkness. Again, Sevana hadn't even seen the Argonian move, but she had noticed the knife was no longer between her fingers.

The archer loosed another arrow, the shaft whizzing toward the Dunmer but ultimately landing in the tree trunk Sevana ducked behind, her assailant seemingly competent in at least leading their target. Sevana waited a few more breaths, her heart pounding in her chest as she waited for the telltale impact of another arrow. But the sound never came.

"You can come out," the Argonian called to Sevana. "They're not going anywhere for a bit."

Leaning from her cover, Sevana spotted the archer clearly poised to loose another arrow... but they were laid down on the stairs, their joints locked in place. "Did... did you paralyze that one?" she asked, a bit alarmed. Only after she'd asked did she notice the Nord was down as well, having not even noticed he'd stopped screaming about his leg.

"Yeah. She's going to have a lovely conversation with us about her friends," Sheev-La replied, grunting as she lifted the archer up by the waist and set her down. The Dunmer's jaw was agape as she made her way to the stairs; she had expected Sheev-La to be competent in combat, but this was more frightening than she could've imagined.

The snap of the arrow nocked in the archer's bow brought Sevana back to the moment, Sheev-La rendering the weapon harmless for the time being. Within seconds, the Khajiit girl regained her body's freedom of movement, eyes wide in terror as her bow twanged ineffectually. "K-Khajiit will tell you anything, if you spare her!" she blurted out quickly, her accent thick and nigh on unintelligible to the Dunmer.

"Good, you know how this works. I have three questions for you. After you've answered, you're free to go. First: what were you doing here?" Sheev-La started, her tone understanding and oddly comforting despite the dead bodies mere feet away.

"We were just raiding the tomb. The locals have no idea the treasures they threw away, and their dusty dead have no use for them." The Argonian nodded.

"Second: how many of you are here, discounting yourself and your former comrades here?" Sheev-La continued, gesturing toward the bodies.

"Eight. Th-there are eight more in the tomb."

"Good, good. Last question: I'm not going to catch you tomb-raiding anymore, am I?" the Argonian inquired, holding up a small pouch and dangling it before the Khajiit. It jingled with promises of enough coin to at least buy food and shelter for a couple days.

"N-no, miss! Khajiit thanks you!" the former bandit almost squeaked.

"Excellent. The road to Riverwood is clear. Get out of here," Sheev-La ordered her, dropping the pouch into the archer's hand. The Khajiit gladly obliged, sprinting for town to preserve her own hide.

"Ancestors' mercy, what was that?" Sevana asked, offering a hand to the Argonian. Sheev-La gladly took the hand, clasping it tightly and taking her assistance to stand with a soft grunt.

"What? You know I've been at this for a long time."

"I know that, but damn... I barely saw you move. You were like an illusion."

"Precision and patience will outdo pure strength and cunning, in due time. Stealth changes the pace of combat by forcing your opponents into an uncomfortable situation before they can adjust. Everyone is their most vulnerable when they are unaware of important variables."

"I'll say... I'm surprised I got a spell off before you were done with 'em."

"Don't sell yourself short, Sevana. You've got weapons and tactics I don't, and you know how to apply them. I'm sure you'll be saving my ass more than a few times before this is over," the Argonian told her, patting the Dunmer's shoulder and comforting Sevana for a change.

#Nerevarine: The Reprise #Elder Scrolls #Morrowind #Skyrim #Sheev-La #fanfic

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clarenecessities · 7 years

Text

The Dread Pirate Ladybug, Ch 10

Chapters: 10/13 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Implied death, may contain horses

Chapter Summary: have you ever gotten the impression that everything around you is trying to kill you? if you’re not australian, you may be in a fire swamp Chapter Warnings: Actual violence, blood tw, blade tw, attempted murder, animal death, fire cw, poorly written romance

AO3

Marinette held her sword in one hand, and Adrien’s clammy palm in the other. She tightened her grip in reassurance as she peered into the twisting maze of the fire swamp.

The trees were everywhere, massive and gnarled and growing so close together that walking beneath them felt like descending physically into night. The vegetation was scant, but a thousand varieties of fungi curled and sliced from every surface, and lichen draped itself from the cathedral of branches overhead. A reek of sulfur and smoke lingered in the air. The ground wasn’t very swampy at all, hard and dry and carpeted with fallen leaves and an inauspicious bramble or two. A faint orange glow suffused the entire forest, but it grew more concentrated beneath this crust of debris.

Marinette pushed a small patch of blackened and decaying leaves away, revealing a network of phosphorescent fungus that seemed to pulse under the toe of her boot.

“Foxfire,” she said aloud, looking to Adrien. He was watching the ground with fascination, his bright green eyes shining in the reflected light. The eager curiosity on his face, which had been reluctant and heavy with fear mere minutes ago, filled Marinette with a fresh rush of affection.

“There’s an oxidative enzyme in the fungus,” she explained softly when he turned to her, unable to restrain her smile as he watched her with undisguised interest. “It’s the same process as fireflies. Don’t eat any of them though; a crewmate of mine did once thinking they were chanterelles, and regretted it… rather fiercely.”

Adrien pushed at the leaves with his own foot to expose a larger swath of the underlying variegation. The patterns shifted as he swept his sole across them, dancing like light reflected off of water. He gave a small laugh of delight, beaming at her.

“You’re right,” he told Marinette, a little breathlessly. “We can do this.”

“And what makes you say that, all of a sudden?”

“We’re standing in the middle of the Guilderian Fire Swamp, surrounded by poisonous fungus, and, quite likely, snow sand, spurts of flame, and smoke cats.”

“So we are,” she said cautiously, more than a little concerned about where he was going with this.

“In less than a minute, you’ve not only rendered the fungus harmless,” said Adrien, stepping closer to her, “you’ve made it beautiful. I don’t know how long we’ll be in here, and I honestly don’t think it’s going to be much fun, but we can at least survive. You, evidently, can survive anything.”

“Death cannot stop true love,” she repeated, with a wry smile. “And if I survive, I’m damn well taking you with me.”

He chuckled and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead that warmed Marinette to the tips of her toes. She’d never get tired of those kisses, of these moments. She felt as though she’d been in a blizzard for five years, frozen and frostbitten, and she’d finally been welcomed back inside. The small and tender gesture was a warm drink pressed into thawing fingers, and her earlier rush of affection became a torrent.

He loved her.

He loved her and he hadn’t forgotten her, he hadn’t given up on her or found someone he preferred. He had been swept up by circumstances outside his control, as she had been, but he still loved her. In spite of—well—everything. Just about everything. She was honestly having a hard time understanding what she’d done to deserve it, given her behavior in the past 24 hours alone.

“I love you,” she told him, because it was the most important thing in the world that he know that. She couldn’t remember if she had said it earlier—she certainly hoped the kissing had been a clue—but even if she had just finished saying it, it wouldn’t have been soon enough. So she said it again, for good measure. “Adrien, I love you.”

He drew back from her forehead and looked at her with so much raw emotion that she wondered how she could ever have doubted his feelings for her.

“I love you too,” he whispered, “Let’s kick the fire swamp’s ass.”

They set off at a slow pace, Marinette slightly ahead as she was the one with the sword, their hands still tangled between them. Adrien wove as he walked, stepping on the patches where the foxfire glowed brightest, still excited by the phenomenon and the caustic ripples he could elicit. Marinette swept lichen and vines from their path with the flat of her blade, watching carefully for movement ahead. She sawed through an especially long and sturdy vine with the knife at her side, winding it around herself like a rope. It seemed a handy thing to have, given the circumstances.

Almost immediately, they discovered the flame spurts. Preceded by a low rumbling, the ground would break apart from below, and instantly erupt into a blazing column of fire, spewed from the crack for anywhere from a few seconds to longer than Marinette and Adrien waited around to see. The sulfurous smell intensified as these spurts roared to temporary life, revealing the flammable gasses that were their source.

Skirting one of these pyrophoric vents, Adrien began to look nervous again. His eyes watched the flickering geyser and he strayed a little closer to Marinette’s side, his free hand reaching out to clutch at her forearm.

“So,” he began, in a failed attempt to sound casual, “Dread Pirate Ladybug, huh?”

She smiled at him, the same smile she’d given him when he’d first made that connection.

“The one, if not the only.”

“…You lost me.”

“Pop quiz,” said Marinette, “how long has Ladybug been sailing?”

“Twenty years, give or take a few—” Adrien paused mid-sentence, frowning. “Wait a minute.”

She continued to smile, letting him work the timeline out on his own.

“So you’re… not Ladybug?” he asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Oh, I am,” said Marinette. She released his hand to wave her own through the air, gesticulating vaguely. “Let’s start at the beginning, I guess. I did promise you an explanation.”

Adrien kept one hand on her elbow, his eyes fixed on her with burning curiosity instead of watching where he was going.

“What I told you earlier—that was all true. And at first it didn’t really make a difference.” Marinette continued to sweep and slash the lichen and vines from their path as she spoke, watching where they were going so Adrien wouldn’t have to. “Ladybug was fairly apologetic, but still very firm: I had to die. Matter of principle, you know.”

“What changed?”

“I started talking about you,” she told him. “I don’t know that she felt guilty so much as she wanted to hear more, to be quite honest. She didn’t really believe me. Although I can’t blame her: You are a bit too good to be true.

“She had me go on describing you bit by bit—‘Eyes the color of summer,’ I said, ‘and hair like the autumn sun.’ I mean, you know me, I’ve no great gift for words, but I could wax poetic about your face for years.”

“See, I could probably, uh—wax pathetic about it. It’s more trouble than it’s worth,” said Adrien good-naturedly, tossing his short hair as dramatically as he could. “Wait! Wane pathetic. Final answer.”

Marinette laughed, curling her wrist so they walked just a bit closer together. Even this, simply talking, felt somehow more complete with him at her side. There were no awkward little gaps in the conversation, no haltingly explaining a joke that had failed to land—he encouraged her to speak the way he did everything, gently and earnestly, and what she had been sure ten minutes ago was the strongest love she’d ever felt now seemed only a vague fondness compared to the depths of her current affections.

“Anyway,” she continued, rolling her eyes at him, cramming her emotions away for a more appropriate time and venue, “she was interested now, at least a little, and by the end I knew I had her. She was unfortunately still pretty set on murdering me, as a pirate really can’t afford to let people think they’ve gone soft—particularly a pirate whose whole spiel is ‘No Survivors.’

“So I said, ‘I swear I won’t tell, that seems a pretty fair price for the whole not dying thing,’ or something to that effect, ‘and if you let me live, I will be your personal valet for five full years, and if I ever once complain or cause you anger, you can chop my head off then and there and I’ll die with praise for your fairness on my lips.’ And, you know, she seemed pretty interested. I don’t think anyone could frame five years of captivity and servitude as soft. She didn’t give in immediately, of course—she said, ‘Go below, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’”

Marinette stopped talking abruptly, and pretended to clear her throat to cover it up, not wanting to alarm Adrien or alert him to the enormous smoke cat she had just spotted following them.

Smoke cats, while rumored to be incorporeal and thought by some to be a will-o’-the-wisp variety of apparition, were unfortunately very real. They were named as much for their exclusive habitat—fire swamps—as for their coloration. With dusky fur that paled to silver at the roots, and a coal black marbling along the lengths of their bodies, they haunted the fire swamps like living shadows. Though it was often said they grew to be as large as lions, most were only the size of an especially big dog. They were principally ambush predators, drifting across the flickering forest floor or lurking high in the treetops as they stalked their prey. They almost exclusively had bright yellow eyes, and it was these that alerted Marinette to their presence as they watched she and Adrien pick their way through the swamp.

They glowed like embers, intent on their quarry, as the smoke cat sat perched on the bough of massive tree, its tail—the same length as the rest of its body—swinging like a pendulum beneath it. Though solitary creatures by nature, smoke cats had a deep partiality to fresh blood, and a tendency to frenzy. Marinette looked at Adrien, inspecting the healing wound on his temple to insure it had scabbed enough to keep him safe. Her wrist had stopped bleeding, and would be safe for a while, but she could protect it more easily than someone else’s head.

“Go on; what happened in the morning?” he urged, meeting her eyes.

“I cooked the crew breakfast,” she said simply, pulling him along so that she was in between him and the smoke cat, but still leading. “Their previous chef had been using pepper instead of salt, so they were thrilled with some reasonable pancakes. Ladybug ate seven of them and thanked me, said she’d most likely kill me in the evening.”

“But she didn’t,” said Adrien, smiling again.

“No,” she confirmed, smiling back. God, he was adorable. He was so excited. “By evening I had found ways to make myself useful. I reorganized their storage room, and fixed up a very poorly patched sail, and had a talk with the chef about seasonings. I worked out a plan for cleaning the whole ship, so the rest of the crew could cut back on time spent doing chores.”

“And that’s when she decided to let you live?”

“Honestly, I think she decided that the minute she didn’t kill me outright. But she kept saying that to me for years—‘good work Marinette, delicious pancakes, I’ll most likely kill you tomorrow.’ Except eventually I ran out of things to do to improve the ship, so she started me on ways to improve myself. Taught me how to fence, and sail, and somewhere along the way, we became friends.

“And then one day, she called me into her cabin. I was half-convinced my luck had run out and she was finally going to kill me, but instead she told me there was something about her that no one knew yet: She had a secret.”

Adrien squeezed her hand, his eyes sparkling and wide as dinner plates. “What was it?” he whispered, as if the fire swamp was full of eavesdroppers.

“’I am not the Dread Pirate Ladybug,’” Marinette told him, biting back a giggle at his enormous gasp. He clapped both hands over his mouth, and she thought it was only half theatrics—he seemed as genuinely shocked as she had been.

“She said, ‘My name is Bridgette. I inherited this ship from the previous Dread Pirate Ladybug. She wasn’t the real Ladybug either; her name was Jeanne, and she’d inherited it from a woman named Hippolyta. The real Dread Pirate Ladybug has been retired fifteen years and is living like a Queen in Kaokoland.’”

“But—why?” asked Adrien, lowering his fingers from his face only slightly.

“The thing about piracy—for-profit piracy anyway—is if you’re good at what you do, and you don’t get caught, it’s a very lucrative business. I mean, I barely keep anything, and I’m richer than our whole hometown combined. Bridgette went after a different class of ship than I did, and she got even richer even faster. And once you’ve made your fortune, why bother, you know?” She shrugged as she walked ahead, peering contemplatively up into the dense branches overhead. “They were all fairly eager to enjoy their spoils, but a reputation’s a difficult thing to come by. No one is going to surrender to the Dread Pirate Marinette.”

“I mean, I might,” said Adrien, chuckling at her heels.

“You’re biased,” she told him with a laugh. “You’d surrender just for a shot at flirting with me.”

“Well, true,” he agreed, a crooked grin splitting his face, “but I’d just as soon surrender out of blind terror. You’ve quite a temper, my lady, and…”

“And?” she prompted, tilting her head expectantly.

He didn’t answer.

“Adrien?” she asked, turning around to look at him.

Where he’d been standing a moment before, there was a blank expanse of sand.

Marinette swore loudly, ripping the vine off of her shoulders and tying a swift knot around a tree, wrapping the other end around her wrist and clenched hand, springing immediately into the bare earth.

Snow sand, a variety of dry quicksand, is found only under very specific conditions.

The Guilderian Fire Swamp has these conditions in abundance.

The finest grains of sand, silky and innumerable, were tossed and tumbled by the jets of marsh gas that wove under the hardened crust that composed the majority of the surface. Anywhere the ground was looser or lighter, it was fluffed up by these vents—anywhere it was thicker, they tended to result in flame spurts.

Moving through the snow sand didn’t feel like swimming, or even falling; it felt like floating. Eyes squeezed shut, a sailor’s lungful of air to hold, vine wrapped around her wrist, Marinette moved blindly through the powder. She’d dived in like an arrow, and though Adrien had doubtless been vertical while entering, he would know to spread himself flat as quickly as possible—or at least, she hoped he knew.

She swept her arms wide, feeling desperately for the slightest hint of her beloved. Did he have enough air? Had he kept his eyes shut? What if she found him and he couldn’t be saved? Had she come so far just to lose him now?

Her fingers brushed something hard and smooth, and she reflexively snatched it up, only to drop it as though scalded.

It was a hand, distinctly human, desiccated and detached from whatever pour soul had fallen into the snow sand’s pitiless grasp.

Gross. Gross, gross, gross gross gross.

She had to find Adrien. Immediately.

As though summoned by her renewed resolve, Marinette’s searching hands found something soft and warm, heavy and familiar. She drew him to her chest, pulling the vine in her other hand taut, wrapping it around her forearm as she hauled them both to the surface.

She broke into the open air with a dry gasp, Adrien’s head slightly ahead of hers. She pushed him onto solid ground as her legs kicked uselessly for traction, eventually flipping herself onto the mulch beside him. She brushed the sand impatiently from her eyelashes, breathing hard through her nose to dispel what had accumulated around her nostrils.

Adrien was lying still, his entire face caked in snow sand.

Marinette swore again, swiping what she could from his eyes and nose with one hand, while the other felt for a pulse at his throat. She sagged in relief when she found one, and felt the ragged breath in his chest.

She opened his mouth to check for any sand, finding it mercifully empty, though she could see a few grains in the back of his throat. He must have inhaled through his nose at some point, which explained the sound of his breathing.

She bent his left knee, drawing his left arm up towards his face, and rolled him gently onto his side, thumping him between the shoulder blades with the heel of her hand.

Adrien came awake with a deep cough, a plume of sand blossoming from his mouth as he hacked and convulsed with the effort. He opened his eyes as it subsided, a sliver of green amidst crusty blond lashes, a muddy tongue flicking over his chapped lips.

“Marinette?” he croaked, reaching for her automatically, his hand shaking as it curled into hers.

“Shh,” she hushed him, brushing the hair away from his face. “You’re alright. I’ve got you. Can you close your eyes for a minute?”

He did as she bade, probably more out of exhaustion than compliance, and she drew the canteen from her belt, pouring a slow trickle across his face. His expression screwed up as it passed over his eyes, and he licked his lips again on instinct. Without the sand in the way, his face was pale as a sheet, and Marinette rubbed comforting circles on his back as he wheezed on the ground.

“Thirsty,” he managed after she had finished cleaning his face. She helped him sit up, and after having him gargle and rinse, he took a long draught of water.

“Alright?” she murmured as he lowered the canteen. He nodded in response, dull eyes flickering to hers. He lifted his hands to her face, brushing the sand from her cheeks with shaking fingers. She laughed at him for being worried about her when he’d almost died, but closed her eyes obligingly beneath his ministrations.

“Thought I’d lost you,” she told him while he swept at her jaw, pressing her forehead against his with a small sigh. Her heart rate was only just beginning to slow.

“Doesn’t feel too great, huh?” he rasped, his voice still raw from the sand and coughing.

She felt a fresh wave of remorse for her actions over the past few years. “I’m so sorry I put you through that,” she whispered, opening her eyes. “I thought… I thought you loved her. I thought you were happier without me. Marquis of Carabas, free of his childhood fling, off to conquer the world. I couldn’t begrudge you that, no matter how much it hurt.”

“Chloé came to me and said I could either marry her or die,” said Adrien. “Honestly at that point I was pretty ready to die, but she set your parents up with a castle in Carabas, and I never had to pretend I cared about her or anything, so I figured hell, why not? Just because I’d never be happy again didn’t mean I had to take everyone else down with me.”

“I had my parents moved yesterday,” Marinette confided with a small smile. “I sent some of my crew to pick them up. They’re all set up with a little house in Guilder, never have to work a day in their lives again. Provided they believed I was alive, I guess.”

“I’m sure they did,” said Adrien, returning her smile. “They never really accepted it. We got the news and I just sort of… shut down, but they didn’t buy it. Your mother especially.”

“We’re a stubborn sort,” she said softly. She didn’t like the way he was talking; he was blaming himself for believing she had died. “Adrien, listen: It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. You did the best you could, you stayed alive—I’m the one who jumped to conclusions and left you all to fend for yourselves while I was off gallivanting across the seven seas.”

“You say that like it was easy,” he whispered, “but I can’t even imagine… if I had been in your place, and—and I came back to find you’d all moved on, that you were engaged to someone else—”

His voice broke, and she pressed her forehead into his more firmly.

“It wasn’t easy,” she admitted, because he needed to know that she cared. That she hadn’t just run off and abandoned him like his father, or gotten over him as quickly as she’d assumed he’d gotten over her. “When we got the news, I… it felt like I might as well have died, like what was the point? If I wasn’t doing anything worthwhile, if no one needed me, if I was just existing to be forgotten—”

“No one could forget you,” he broke in.

“That’s sweet,” she told him with a smile, “but grossly overestimates my significance. Not everyone is as aware of me as you are, you know.”

“They should be,” said Adrien, unapologetic, “but I’m sorry, I interrupted.”

“Well, I decided I was just going to be the best pirate I could be.” She shrugged, trying to play it off in spite of herself. He needed to hear it, and she probably needed to say it, but—it was hard to talk about. Just thinking about it had put a weight in her chest. “It was really the only way forward I could see. I’d… if I was never going to be with you, then I’d just take whatever road was at my feet. I had informants keep an eye on you, and my parents. I did what I could to make sure you were all safe. I hadn’t needed to get involved personally until yesterday.”

“You didn’t give up,” he murmured.

“On you? Of course I did,” she disagreed with a small, bitter laugh.

“No,” said Adrien, “on… living. On finding a way for yourself. I just did what other people told me, but you kept moving and learning and getting better and better. I only got prettier, and sadder.”

“It helped that I could still look out for you,” Marinette admitted quietly. “That I could still do things for you. Even when I was hurting, when I was so mad I wanted to turn up at the palace and scream at you—it helped that I knew I could. You didn’t have that.”

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes, swallowing thickly. They were so close she could hear the rasp in his throat.

“Besides,” she went on, voice growing a little stronger, “from what I hear, you were learning quite a lot. You weren’t just getting prettier and sadder. They were teaching you etiquette and politics and all that.”

“It’s not like I cared about it,” he laughed. “I know like six different ways to bow. It’s useless.”

“I certainly didn’t care about the things I was learning,” she told him. “I think we both did our best with our worst case scenario. We believed terrible things of each other, and—well—went a little off the rails, emotionally speaking, but we did our best. We tried our hardest. Sometimes all that meant was getting up in the morning, or eating enough, but… we did it. We made it, and now we have each other.”

The smile he gave her was radiant.

“We have each other,” he echoed breathlessly, returning her earlier pressure on his forehead. His eyes were half-closed, and Marinette’s own were having a hard time remaining open. Her blinks were slow and languid, lids heavy simply from his proximity.

The second kiss since their reunion was unlike the first, which had ultimately been a joyous affair, overflowing with emotion and affection and a fair amount of tears.

The second was slow, and sad, and carried the weight of what they had been through, the sharing of a burden they could never fully express.

Remorse heavy on the back of her tongue, Marinette pressed against Adrien’s chapped lips with a wordless catalogue of her every transgression. The years she’d spent doubting him, or cursing his name, or even wishing they had never met at all. The lies she had told him through her silence, the fate she’d led him to believe she’d met, the blindness she’d inflicted on him under the hands of his kidnappers.

This kiss was a question, an appeal for forgiveness she knew she didn’t deserve.

Forgiveness she received anyway.

Adrien sighed into the kiss like he was the one who needed absolution, so ready to welcome her back with open arms and an open heart that still showed the scars she had left. Her guilt beat into her with each thrum of her pulse, eating away at her, pulling her away from the beautiful creature before her. He deserved so much better than what she had put him through on the basis of an assumption—she left him with his own assumptions, to believe her dead and gone.

She began to draw away, opening eyes that had fallen shut and meeting Adrien’s gaze. She stilled at the weight of it, at the guilt she saw mirrored there, the desperation for her understanding, the strangled adoration he could never suppress. He followed after her, asking his own questions, seeking his own forgiveness.

She was only too ready to give it.

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“I’ve had it,” Chloé announced, reigning in the great white horse beneath her.

“Had what, Your Highness?” asked the Countess, almost absently. Her eyes were trained on her hounds, milling about the corpse they’d discovered.

“It,” said Chloé, throwing her hands in the air. “We’ve been at this for hours. Do they have the scent or not, Lila? We’ll never find him at this rate!”

“They have the scent,” said the Countess. She dismounted to inspect the body alongside her dogs, pulling off the silver cowl to reveal a shock of silver hair, and blue eyes clouded by death. “So this is the great Papillon. He’s not much in person, is he?”

“He looks to have been awfully tall,” said one of their guards, when she looked to him for an answer. He seemed nervous to even speak in the presence of the Countess and Princess Chloé.

“No one’s tall when they’re laid out,” said Countess Rossi with a disinterested sigh. “It’s a pity. I would have liked to take at least one for questioning.”

“There’s still whoever’s got my fiancé,” Chloé supplied with a sour pout.

“True,” the Countess agreed, brightening. “And if the forensics are to be believed, they’re even better than those we’ve passed. We might be in for a truly glorious bout of scientific discovery, Your Highness.”

“Let’s focus on catching them first, shall we?”

The Countess hummed thoughtfully.

“They’re heading into the fire swamp,” she said, pointing ahead of her baying hounds where they whined and paced to resume the chase. “Take a portion of the guard around to the other end.”

“Excuse me?” said the Princess, voice dangerously sweet. While the Countess was the closest thing she had to a friend, station was not to be forgotten, and she was not to be spoken to that way.

“I humbly suggest,” said the Countess, with a bow a little too elaborate to be anything but sarcastic, “that Your Highness and the most dedicated of her retinue move to cut off the escape of the fiend which has most recently stolen her beloved.”

“You should learn to curtsey,” said the Princess, signaling the guard to accompany her as she wheeled around to face the far end of the Fire Swamp. The Countess smiled. The Princess tended to criticize that sort of thing only when she had nothing else to complain about.

“I know how to curtsey,” said the Countess, “but it’s rather difficult when one’s not wearing skirts.”

“Perhaps I’ll have some better dresses made for you,” said the Princess.

The Countess stayed a while with her hounds, sousing out the order of events. Whoever they were tracking, whatever their motive: They were a fearsome warrior.

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“Ow!” said Marinette, clutching at her forehead where it had banged painfully into a low-hanging branch.

“Are you okay?” asked Adrien from behind her, chuckling. She turned a half-hearted scowl his way, sticking out her tongue.

“I’m fine,” she grumbled, “just got a bit distracted, is all.”

“By?”

“I was… checking for snow sand.”

The look he gave her was deeply skeptical. “Be honest: Were you thinking about me?”

She blushed in spite of herself. “No.”

“Oh my god, you were,” he said delightedly, brightening.

“Nope! No!”

“My lady, I’m flattered, but do watch where you’re going, won’t you? You can’t very well kiss me if you’ve knocked yourself unconscious.”

“Can’t very well kiss you if I’ve knocked you unconscious either,” she threatened weakly, laughing as he wrapped his arms around her waist. She leaned back against his chest, looking up at him over one shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though he grinned unapologetically in her face, “I didn’t think you were really thinking about me. I was curious.”

“You know what they say about curiosity,” she muttered, poking his nose with her own.

“Well hey, if it can kill smoke cats, we’ve got it made.”

“Maybe we won’t see any smoke cats,” Marinette suggested hopefully. The one she’d seen earlier could have been a fluke. “Maybe they’ll know better than to bother with us.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky!” said Adrien, almost as if he believed it.

“When have we ever gotten lucky,” she groaned.

“We’re together again, aren’t we?” he pointed out with a grin. “That’s all the evidence I need.”

“Well, if that’s luck, I think it’s safe to say we’ve taken more than our fair share,” said Marinette. She stretched up, kissing his chin before wriggling free of his arms, walking a few steps ahead of him.

“Considering all the bad luck, I’d say we’ve yet to break even,” he disagreed with a faint chuckle. “I suppose meeting each other at all was quite a stroke of fortune, but the things we’ve had to put up with…! It’s ridiculous. We’re owed a bit of a respite from bloodthirsty wildcats, don’t you think?”

“The way we’re talking, it’s more likely we’ve jinxed it,” said Marinette, laughing.

“What, like I’m just going to turn around and there’ll be a smoke cat?” he scoffed, spinning on his heel and swinging his arms in an exaggerated double take. He then paused, doing an actual double take. “Oh. Uh.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“We might have a, uh—problem.”

Marinette sighed, turning back, find Adrien locked in a staring contest with a reasonably small smoke cat, the former grimacing, the latter bristling.

“Shit, are—are you not supposed to look them in the eye? Is it like a dominance thing?” he asked Marinette, taking a nervous step back but not breaking the stare.

“I don’t know!” she groaned. “It doesn’t seem to be attacking, so maybe it’s just gonna let us pass? I’m sure it doesn’t want trouble any more than we do.”

“It’s so little… It’s like actually cat-sized. I thought they were supposed to be as big as lions,” murmured Adrien, edging back closer to her side.

“Yes, it’s adorable, now let’s get out of here before—”

Marinette’s words broke off in a startled yelp as she was suddenly pitched forward, twisting awkwardly mid-fall so that she landed on her left shoulder instead of her sword. Her back erupted in pain as something hooked and long and sharp sliced through her shirt and skin. Hot blood ran down her spine like sweat. She skidded across the crust of leaves and fungus, leaving a trail of smooth orange foxfire to illuminate her assailant: A colossal smoke cat, as long as Marinette was tall, with blazing yellow eyes and a furious snarl contorting its face.

Adrien squeaked, half a step closer to Marinette than he had been. The smoke cat’s glare flickered to him, and then back.

“Okay,” Marinette breathed, now locked in a staring contest of her own. Very, very slowly, she began to lift herself up with her free hand, turning so her saber was between her and the smoke cat. “Don’t move.”

The smoke cat hissed and spat, swiping at the toe of her boot. Every piece of fur on its body was standing on end, its bottlebrush tail out stiff behind it.

“Are you okay? What do we do?” Adrien whispered, frozen as he awaited instructions.

“Check and make sure your face isn’t bleeding.”

“What?”

“Please!” she pleaded, rocking slowly onto the balls of her feet, her knees resting against the ground with the barest pressure.

He obliged, his fingers coming away a little sandy, but dry. “Okay, I’m not bleeding. Now what?”

“Now go stand by that tree,” breathed Marinette, pulling a dagger about the length of her forearm from her baldric with her left hand. It glistened in the light of the foxfire too, much cleaner than her saber, which was coated in grime from their journey. Her back burned as she moved, muscles stinging where claws had torn through. “And maybe cover your ears.”

“What—” he started to ask, but Marinette lunged before he could finish, slashing the smoke cat’s parrying swipe with a backhanded twist of the dagger, what would have been a clean slice turning ragged at its recoil. Screaming in pain and fury, the smoke cat reared backwards, momentarily bipedal as it lurched away from a low thrust of the saber. Marinette swore as, having committed to the attack, she stumbled forward, losing precious seconds regaining her balance.

She struck again with the dagger, carving another piece of the smoke cat’s forelimb away. Tatters of bloodied skin and flesh dangled like ribbons from the joint of its wrist, and Marinette saw the white flash of sinew as it continued to hammer feverishly against her. She rolled her own wrist, securing her grip on the saber for another attack, eyes flicking to Adrien to make sure he was safe.

He hadn’t moved to the tree.

…She had gotten a little too used to people following her orders.

She let out a frustrated huff of breath as she rammed the saber forward and upwards, into what would have been the smoke cat’s ribcage—if it hadn’t sprung over her head.

It twisted acrobatically in the air above her, dripping gore across her outstretched arms, and landed on all four paws, only for its front right to collapse under the strain. It didn’t cry out, but the dulling of its eyes betrayed the pain. Marinette flashed it a fierce, victorious grin, daring it to attack again.

The smaller smoke cat, the one they had first seen, was now at the larger’s back, and was watching with wide yellow eyes, kneading at the branch it was perched on with eager claws that looked more like talons against the pale wood.

Marinette swore again, taking a pace to the right to get between the smoke cats and Adrien, who was watching somewhat anxiously, unwilling to cower but unsure how to help.

“There’s too much blood,” she told him, voice strained. “There’ll be more.”

“More blood?” asked Adrien, audibly gulping.

“More smoke cats,” she corrected. “Any of them that can smell it. They frenzy. Like sharks.”

“At least they’re not like eels,” he muttered. She heard him shift behind her, but couldn’t afford to turn around and see what he was doing.

Her shirt was sticking to her back as the blood soaked through the fabric, and her baldric sat heavily against the edge of one wound, chafing the broken skin. It’s just pain, Marinette reminded herself, settling lower into her fighting stance, it’s just your body complaining. She buried the sensation in the back of her mind, focusing instead on the memory of Adrien’s touch, gentle and soothing. Her heart was still beating frantically in her chest, but her breathing was deep and even. Panic and adrenaline made for clumsy mistakes, which she could ill afford.

The smoke cat tried to circle her, but as it moved she lunged once again, unwilling to make Adrien a closer target, even if the smoke cat wouldn’t attack him. It leapt onto its hind legs as she approached, surging forward with its claws splayed wide.

They met over the bare patch of foxfire where its initial pounce had landed her, the already disturbed leaf litter flying under their feet as they collided. Rather than using her saber, she pressed her advantage, slamming into the smoke cat with the full weight of her body. It yowled at the unexpected move, and they tumbled to the ground with their arms on either side of one another.

Marinette’s saber was jarred from her grip as her elbow hit the ground, but she kept a hold of the dagger, which had buried itself partway in the ground. As she yanked it free a spurt of flame burst into life, and she and the smoke cat instinctively rolled away from it, putting her saber out of her reach.

The smoke cat was slashing uselessly at her shoulder with its ruined paw, its left pinioned between them. As they rolled it managed to work it free, immediately scouring the side of her arm. Marinette bit down on the scream, forcing the pain away again; her left arm still worked, that was all that mattered. They stopped rolling as the flame spurt died, the smoke cat pinning her with its weight, snapping awkwardly as it tried to work its neck into a manageable position to rip out her throat.

With all the strength she could muster lying on her back, Marinette slammed the dagger in her hand into the smoke cat’s stomach.

It choked above her, yellow eyes widening as it wrenched away, taking the dagger with it. She struggled under its weight, still pinned, her right arm burning and numb all at once, her left still free. She pounded its side with a fist, trying to find the hilt of her dagger without being able to see it. The smoke cat reared its head back like a serpent poised to strike, and Marinette reached up to squeeze its ruined forearm, trying to loosen its hold as its teeth flashed above her.

There was a horribly wet tearing sound, and suddenly everything was hot and coppery and dark, and she couldn’t breathe—

“Marinette!” Adrien’s voice broke through, hoarse from stress and their earlier misadventures in the snow sand. The weight of the smoke cat vanished abruptly, and suddenly she could breathe again, and see again, and Adrien was kneeling over her and his hands were covered in blood, and he looked so distressed that it might well have been his.

“Please,” he was saying, begging, and she blinked up at him, “please, Marinette—”

“What?” she whispered, struggling into a sitting position, pushing herself up with her left hand, mindful of her wounded back. “What is it? Are you alright?”

He relaxed immediately, closing his eyes as he let out a shuddering breath. He bowed his head to press against her hand, which he clutched with both of his, and through the icy coldness of her fingers she felt the warmth of his breath.

“Am I hurt,” he murmured into her palm. “You’re lying on the ground, half ripped to shreds, and you ask if I’m hurt.”

“Are you?” she pressed, anxiously, fingers flexing weakly against him. She could feel the agonizing burn in her upper arm, but if she compartmentalized it, she wouldn’t be able to feel his hands around hers.

“I’m fine,” said Adrien, a little miserably. “I’ve never been so scared in my entire life, but I’m not actually injured.”

She looked around, piecing together what had happened as she scooped up a handful of dirt and began rubbing it vigorously into her wounds. The smoke cat lay a few feet away, her saber buried in its ribs, the smaller smoke cat cautiously circling as it tried to decide whether or not to approach the carcass.

Adrien had recovered the saber while she was pinned.

Adrien had saved her.

“Thank you,” she told him, looking back to find him frowning at her arm.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, ignoring her gratitude. She grabbed another fistful of mulch and rubbed it into the fabric of her shirt itself. “You’re going to get an infection!”

“Better than bleeding to death,” she countered with a breathy laugh. “Besides—we can’t walk around here reeking of blood.”

“Oh,” said Adrien, releasing her hand and getting to his feet, moving behind her, “the frenzying.”

“Right,” she said, fighting not to twitch as he began to press dirt into the wounds at her back. “That smoke cat should distract them for now.”

Adrien made an unpleasant noise in the back of his throat, dusting off his hands as best he could and standing back up. He helped Marinette to her feet more delicately than strictly necessary, steadying her with a hand against the small of her back. She rolled her eyes at him fondly, earning a broad wink in return.

Adrien set about dislodging her saber and dagger while Marinette scrounged up some lichen from a nearby tree, scrubbing halfheartedly at the drying blood on her uninjured skin.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Adrien asked softly, returning to her side with blades in hand. He’d wiped them somewhat clumsily on the fur of the dead smoke cat, but it was enough that she could clean them with the lichen and sheathe the dagger. “We can rest a while.”

“I’ll be alright,” she promised, smiling up at him as reassuringly as she could. “Besides, I don’t want to wait around and watch them cannibalize each other—or be stuck here when it gets dark. We should keep going.”

“Alright,” he murmured, eyes lingering on her injuries. His eyes were duller than usual, though not as dull as they had been when she’d first seen him that morning. He looked sick and scared and haunted, and it pulled at Marinette’s heart in unexpected ways.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” she said, stepping in closer and wrapping her arms around his waist. She pressed her face into his chest, breathing in the smell of him, avoiding his eyes with renewed guilt. Was she ever going to stop breaking his heart?

He leaned his forehead against the top of her head, arms hovering carefully over hers to avoid her injuries. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—that I didn’t—I’m so sorry. I couldn’t protect you.”

“Could too,” she mumbled into his shirt, rubbing her nose playfully under his vest. “That would have gone much worse without you, Adrien.”

“I’m still sorry,” he said.

“Me too.”

They walked in silence for a time, Adrien taking the lead now that Marinette was injured, following her directions through the swamp. They were filthy and exhausted, but Marinette hadn’t been so optimistic in years; they were together again. Nothing could stop them if they were together.

They reached the edge of the fire swamp in the early evening, before the sky darkened but after the temperature had cooled, and together breathed a sigh of relief. The trees began to thin, and the reek of the marsh gas dissipated, and the world seemed somehow lighter in the balmy air.

“My ship is waiting in the bay,” said Marinette with a weary smile. “Admittedly I was planning on going around, but we did alright, all things considered. Didn’t we?”

“We lived,” he acceded, laughing faintly. He was swaying on his feet, still staring at her like she was the only thing he wanted to look at. Her smile widened, and she leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek.

“Excuse me!”

They sprang apart at the sharp shriek, Marinette pointing her saber automatically at the shrill sound, Adrien reaching instinctively for a sword at his empty belt. Marinette, searching for the source of the noise, found herself facing a small army, headed by two very fine women, in very fine dress, on very fine horses.

The first, evidently the originator of the scream, was sitting sidesaddle on an enormous white stallion, and looked absolutely furious. Her long blonde hair was pulled into an elegant braid, her blue eyes were flashing with rage and indignation, and her lily pale hands were clutching the reins so hard her knuckles were white as bone. She wore a dress of loose, flowing gold that accented the color of her hair, and shone in the sunlight against her horse’s fur. Even in this alien setting, she looked like the princess she was.

The second was significantly calmer; the only indication of displeasure was her pursed, painted lips, and a disdainful light in her eyes. Where the first woman’s face was soft and even naïve under her fury, this second woman was sharp and keen and intelligent. Marinette perceived more of her countenance than her outfit, registering only that she wore browns and reds, practical breeches, and leather gloves over six-fingered hands.

“You’re excused,” said Marinette to the first woman with a genial smile. She did not lower her blade. Her free arm (the injured one) snaked around Adrien’s waist, drawing him closer to her side protectively.

The Princess’s eyes bulged. “That happens to be my fiancé you’ve got your grubby little hands on!”

“Oh, really?” drawled Marinette. “And here I’d scooped him off a bloodthirsty crowd of criminals. I would expect one to keep a better eye on their fiancé than that, wouldn’t you?”

“Surrender,” hissed Chloé from her seat, face beginning to turn red. “Or prepare to die.”

Marinette laughed. “Die,” she said back, her left hand flexing around the saber’s hilt, “Or prepare to surrender.”

She heard more than saw the archers taking up a flanking position; the sound of crossbows cocking was unmistakable, even over the distant sounds of the fire swamp. Beside her, Adrien was looking around wildly, but Marinette kept her eyes trained on the Princess, watching the Countess in her peripheral vision.

“I will not repeat myself again,” said the Princess, in her shrill, angry voice, “Surrender!”

“Nor will I,” said Marinette, “Die!”

“Wait!” yelled Adrien beside her, his voice cracking at the sudden volume. Everyone—Pirate, Princess, and Countess alike—stopped and looked at him. His face was drawn with anxiety, his scab from the eels crusting over, particles of sand still dusting his scalp—and, as ever, he was beautiful.

“For what?” demanded the Princess, scowling down at him.

“Will you—will you promise not to hurt her?” croaked Adrien.

“What?” asked Chloé.

“What?” asked the Countess.

“What?” asked Marinette.

“If we surrender,” he clarified, licking his lips, “if I go back with you, will you promise not to hurt her?”

“She kidnapped you!” said Chloé, gaping between them.

“She rescued me,” he corrected. He leaned further against Marinette’s side, his warmth radiating throughout her—almost enough to thaw the chill of her disbelief. “Please, Your Highness—we were children together, and she means a great deal to me, and I ask your mercy. As—as thanks, for my safe return.”

Chloé frowned down at him, looking Marinette over as if trying to come up with a way to articulate her disgust.

“The Princess is not renowned for her mercy,” said the Countess, raising one eyebrow.

“All the more reason to exercise it here,” said Adrien. The desperation in his voice was palpable. “It’s—it’s a great story, isn’t it? The noble princess following her fiancé across the channel, rewarding his rescuer? The commoners would think so highly of you, Your Highness.”

Chloé looked pensive. “They would love that,” she mused, smiling faintly.

“There’s a hitch,” Marinette interjected, heart pounding in her chest. “You can’t very well bring me along, Adrien. I’m a pirate.” To say nothing of the romantic competition she so obviously posed.

“You’ll be safe,” said Adrien. “They’ll get you some medical attention. You will, won’t you?” He turned pleading green eyes to Chloé, swallowing thickly. “Promise?”

“Of course,” she said primly. “We wouldn’t want our dashing friend here to succumb to her injuries.”

Marinette narrowed her eyes.

“They’ll take you back to your ship, and—and grant you a pardon,” Adrien continued, looking back to Marinette. He looked so scared. “You’ll be safe.”

“And what about you?” she asked softly. “You’ll go back to Florin City and marry the Princess? We’re speaking of love, here.”

“I can live without love,” said Adrien. He pulled away from her grip, crossing the short gap to Chloé’s side. She helped him climb in the saddle behind her, smiling primly, her earlier rage vanished.

“See to it that her wounds are tended immediately,” she bade the Countess.

“Of course, Your Highness,” said the Countess, bowing her head respectfully.

“I thank you for the return of my fiancé,” said Chloé to Marinette, her eyes flashing so smugly and victoriously that Marinette felt like the smoke cat she and Adrien had defeated earlier. “You are of course invited to the wedding.”

They rode away, most of the horsemen following in their wake.

Adrien didn’t look back.

Marinette’s shoulders slumped as she watched them go, all the fight running out of her, her heart chasing after the fading silhouette of everything she’d ever wanted.

“Well now,” said the Countess, her sharp voice piercing Marinette’s reverie like a blade. “Come along. We must return you to your ship.”

“Spare me at least your lies,” said Marinette, rolling her eyes. “You’ve about as little intention to return me as I have to buy them a wedding present.”

“Truth, then,” said the Countess, spurring her horse forward a few paces, so that Marinette had to tilt her head back to keep her eye. The black and tan hounds swarmed around them, some whimpering excitedly. “I hope you enjoyed your time in the Guilderian Fire Swamp. I guarantee you that you’ll soon look back on it fondly as a deeply relaxing experience.”

“Are nobles naturally this dramatic, or do you have to take a class?” Marinette asked innocently.

The Countess gave an audible sigh, and clubbed Marinette with the pommel of her sword.

Her vision swam, and Marinette swayed on her feet and crumbled backwards into darkness.

#miraculous ladybug #clare's writing #the dread pirate ladybug

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